#Carbon Steel Shell

[sramfact]

Activated carbon filters are porous materials used to purify air and water by trapping and removing contaminants through adsorption. They consist of activated carbon particles with a high surface area, providing an effective means of removing impurities such as chemicals, gases, odors, and organic compounds. 

The activated carbon filters market size is projected to grow from USD 267 million in 2020 to USD 330 million by 2025, at a CAGR of 4.4%. The activated carbon filters market has been gaining significance with its major application in water treatment and air purification; the duo being its major applications. Stringent government regulations implying directives for industrial water pollution and quality drinking water have led to fast growth and acceptance of activated carbon filter products. These regulations are being implemented in the regions of Europe and North America and also gaining importance in the APAC region. The policies and regulations implemented by different authorities for supporting the use of activated carbon filters are attributing to the growth of activated carbon filters market.

[bunjywunjy]

Is spider silk being as strong as steel another lie from childhood? Bc you're able to break it pretty easily on accident. Genuinely asking.

spider silk IS actually significantly stronger pound-for-pound than the same amount of steel, but only in one direction! and coincidentally, it's the same exact direction that got a bunch of people killed in a submersible last month.

see, when people talk about the "strength" of spider silk versus steel, they're specifically talking about tensile strength:

which is specifically the measure of the strength of a material when two forces are pulling at it from the ends, like when a steel cable is holding up a bridge support, or crane cargo:

or like when a strand of silk is supporting the entire spider.

that's tensile strength, baby!

but there's another type of strength that's very important to take into consideration when you're actually building things like bridges and submersibles, and spider silk and similar materials like carbon fiber are absolutely garbage at it! and that's compressive strength.

this is basically the inverse of tensile strength, where instead of being yanked at from both ends, the forces are crushing inwards at the material from both directions instead.

you can expect to see these kinds of forces involved in road surfaces, vehicle engines, and again, submersibles.

now steel and its more competent cousin titanium are fucking GREAT at compressive strength! the harder the outside forces are compressing them, the stronger the metals get.

NOT TODAY, FUCKERS

but strand-based materials like spider silk and, again, carbon fiber, are fucking garbage at this. they can take a certain amount of pressure, but each round with compressive forces snaps some of the strands that makes up the material! and those don't grow back, so basically you're just gradually reducing your poor overstressed carbon-fiber hull into a completely useless shell of shattered thread fragments over time as the strands of fiber that actually give it strength die off one by one.

and eventually, something's gotta give! and then people die about it.

this is why, even though spider silk IS stronger than steel in one specific way, we're never going to stop using steel in industrial applications and switch over to spider silk or carbon fiber full time. these materials all have their areas of use, and steel just covers a wider base of applications.

and don't even get me started on shear strength. we'll be here all damn day.

[alnilaem]

a toxic ghoap wip i had in my drafts from months ago but will no longer be continuing. i just wanna dump it here lol

cw for misogyny, smut, (internalized) homophobia, hedonism, sacrilege, prostitution mention, ghost is an ass

pls heed all tags, this was a vent fic, and also bare in mind im never gonna finish this lmao

-

Johnny's world is asymmetrical.

His world. His beginning and his end. Humvees and Dauphin 2 helis and deployments around the globe. Undercover operations, saving women and children, the comforting carbon steel of a rifle in his hands. 

It’s an unspoken stigma, but it’s there. Materialising as insults while his lads take the piss out of each other, and in the form of dishonourable discharges. 

The stigma has always been there. It has no start and no finish, so Johnny can’t remember where it came from, but he knows it was there since primary, where boys would kick girls at the bends of their knees and yank on their pigtails, squatting to the floor to get a look-see up their chequered skirts and cackle, all while Johnny stood off to the side, overtly uncomfortable. 

Mum’s complained. Teacher’s were involved. Dad’s simply said, “Boys will be boys,” and the situation was brushed under the carpet.

The stigma tailed Johnny into secondary school. His older cousin lent him a suit for formal, which prompted Johnny awkwardly standing on his doorstep with his date—a pretty lass named Rory—as his mam snapped a spate of photos. 

Johnny’s disposition was a grave juxtaposition to Rory’s. She was all grins and giggles, cantered into Johnny’s arm, while he was inelastically poised with tight lips. 

His mam wouldn’t stop pinching his supple cheeks, trying to shepherd a smile out of him. She gave up, throwing her hands in the air and wheedling them off the porch, tacking on an ornate, “Have fun, kiddos!” as they pooled into Johnny’s scrap metal car. 

Johnny felt as if he was lacking something. As if his wings had been clipped by the world a little too soon. It’s always been like that. A piece of him plucked from his wracking ribs and stolen, ever since he was a little boy. So in a lapse of judgement, in order to prove himself, to shatter the bubbling stigma, Johnny sought out the most masculine thing to offset his failure: follow in the steps of his cousin, and enlist. 

It was a rashly undertaken decision, but a decision he stuck with, because, for the first time in forever, Johnny’s old man clasped his shoulder in pride. 

But stigma was an incessant little thing. Because even in military school, it followed him closely. As Johnny’s school brothers had Playboy rafts and pin-up girls folded into their pillow cases, he would blunder upon being asked, “Who’d ye shag?” by his mate. 

In boot camp, he was a lowly private, whose hands would jade and cramp from cleaning rifles. They gave him blisters. And so his bunkmate—a nice lad from Glasgow with a crooked nose—would tend to his fingers during their lunch routine. Hidden somewhere in the corner, making jokes about their Drill Instructor. Callum, was his name. He’d swathe Johnny’s hands in gauze and garnish it with a lopsided smiley face. It always sucked, fell apart half way, but he did it anyway. 

That’s when Johnny started blistering his hands on purpose. 

Wedging his thumb in the dip of a garand and not pulling it out until it was swollen. Then he’d snivel, seeking Callum out in their barracks. There was a pull in Johnny’s stomach, half of an ebb that finished Callum’s flow. It would give him rashly undertaken ideas—such as fixing his hand in the lid of an armoury shell—for Callum to fix up. Johnny would find him among their other friends, beseeching with his cobalt eyes, holding out a hand.

In enlistment, his confusion ripened into a gravely miscalculated realisation. That it wasn't an affinity for men Johnny wanted to be—to attract ladies with his chest candy and the brandished title of military man—no, it reared its ugly head when Johnny finally became his own private. Grinning, at the time, clean-shaven and giddy as his mother snapped a spate of photos of him saluting in his new uniform, plaintively whining when she reached out to adjust his garrison cap because “It’s lopsided, pumpkin!” To which Johnny, under the searing gaze of his fellow privates, would clip, “‘Cos it’s meant to be like tha’, ma!”

Johnny didn’t know when it started. He just remembered realising how good Callum looked one day at the range—sweat sluicing down his pale neck, disappearing behind his lapels, ass filling out the space of his pants as he would squat to the ground and aim for the faraway target. Before he knew it, Johnny was seizing lights out. Using the time to sneak off to the bathrooms and cramp a fist around his leaking cock, beating his dick to the thought of him. Him, him, him. 

Johnny’s sordid thoughts didn’t emulate what his granny had planned for him—to pass down her old wedding stack once he “Found the right lass,” to bring home to her; it wasn’t what the Orthodox spiels of sermons and hymns and praise on Sunday’s drilled into him; it wasn’t what his uncle was anticipating—“Got a girlfrien’ yet, Johnny-boy? Ah, why’re ye frowning! Soon enough, ye will.”

His fantasies rivalled those of his squadmates. Because on his first tour, a summer ten years ago in the chilly expanse of Northern Ireland was a woman that approached them. Denim skirt and a mulberry red halter top. Kitten heels, sunglasses. Shiny lipgloss. She tried to ply them by batting her eyes, offering her services. She was smart. Military men always paid. It’s the desperation that got to them most of the time, a tinge of worry, and a hint of entitlement. They took the bait. Rode her back to camp and took their turns with her.

When it was Johnny’s turn, he listlessly declined and hung his head. He said he had a lass waiting for him back home—Rory—that’s the first name that popped in his head. His secondary school girlfriend in which he sobbed on when he tried kissing her. Johnny said he had a bird, just like all his other lads, with pictures of their wives and girlfriends pinned to the massive cork board in the middle of their camp. But they had no problem indulging themselves. 

They were shoving him around, calling him all sorts of names, bullying him into following them. And that’s when Johnny caved. A cacophony of hollers flared out around him as he ducked into the tent where the woman lay, thin bed sheets hiked up to her collarbones, her previous lipgloss smeared over her chin.

Johnny said, “Hi, how are you?” Because that’s what his mother taught him. She softly giggled. 

Not at him, but with his overdue respect.

Johnny shucked off his uniform with trembling hands, mounting her with his dick flaccid and stomach flipping. He remembers ruminating, “Why don’t you like it? You should like it. Love it,” but his heart leapt to his throat and his navel twisted, heart seized as the head of his cock kept slipping around her messy opening, poking her thigh. His throat constricted, dry, then slackened. A muffled sob wracked through him. Barely concealed by the threshold of his thin lips. He pushed his tongue into the roof of his mouth and buried his face in the crook of her neck, collapsing into her bare chest, furiously wiping his tears into the inflatable mattress.

Then, the body beneath him quivered. Johnny hoisted himself up, a spiel of apologies curling off of his tongue, when he realised she was crying too. The same type as him—wrung out, jaded, tired. She blindly reached out for him and pulled him close. Not reaching for his dick nor biting sensual whispers into his ear. They held each other for a little while, coalescing as their cries muffled into each other’s skin. Then, she pushed him off. Slid off the mattress and snaked her into her clothes. 

They both left the tent shaking. She was still sniffling. His lads cheered as she walked away and clapped him on the back. 

That’s when Johnny realised there wasn't a place for him in his world. Johnny shrunk himself, half the light he used to be, pushing himself into a little box as his world around him clipped off his wings. 

Now, Johnny’s world consists of something a little different. 

Something sinewy and rough around the edges. Gruff, but tactical. Calm, akin to the placid sea, but could flip a switch and emulate its choppy waters if he wanted to, too. Big, striking, with eyes that could kill a sailor. A deep timbre mandated by Manchester. Wide-set shoulders but a willowy waist, hips that sway as he walks. A macabre mask and skeletal gloves—ones that have Johnny wrapped tightly around his fingers.

Johnny grew into himself between serving in the parachute regiment to selection for the SAS. He got rougher. Learned how to hide himself better. Perfectly fit himself within the Task Force, around men who would become his best friends and brothers. He’s otherwise your normal guy. Goes to the bar with the team when they’re able. Shooting darts with Gaz (“You’ve got a Marksman badge but can’t score more than two points? C’mon, mate…”); pool with Price; and drinks with Ghost.

Beer always sloshes over the lip of Ghost’s glass when they clink their drinks. It crashes up and over the Brit’s fingers, dripping down his hands, between his thick fingers. Johnny always resists the urge to lean in close and lick the wash of alcohol glistening Ghost’s knuckles. 

But they’re just friends. Apparently. Because friends don’t fuck.

It started way down in Chicago’s heart, after another op. Gaz—ever the exploiter of his puppy eyes—managed to ply Price into stopping at a bar instead of heading straight back to base for paperwork. So they stopped at a little hole-in-the-wall, still rife with adrenaline, spreading out and all doing their own thing.

Johnny and Ghost were sat around a rickety table with wobbly legs. A spread of peanut shells around them and sticky rings of alcohol from their glasses glossing the surface. Ghost raised an arm to wipe his eyes, knocking over Johnny’s beer in the process. An expletive crossed the Brit’s tongue and he apologised, grasping a fistful of napkins and scrubbing it over Johnny’s soaked shirt. 

It ebbed and flowed in long, rough strokes. Ghost’s hand gliding over Johnny’s legs, Ghost’s middle finger and thumb snapped around Johnny’s thigh, his grasp cutting into the sinews. 

It wasn’t that different from suturing a teammate up after a mission. But with the unsaid admiration Johnny had for him, tempered by the hint of alcohol on the roof of his mouth and the hazel canopy of Ghost’s lashes, over his focused eyes, arousal quickly seized Johnny.

Ghost’s hand brushed over a tent on Johnny’s jeans. One that hadn’t been there before. He cut his next stroke from the root, pausing, and blinked up at his friend. 

The Scotsman felt a wound up spring in his stomach. He turned away, smacking Ghost’s hand, and ran a hand through his black tuft of hair, slapping both sides of his shaved heads. He felt his lungs betray him—squeezing like dried fruit and refusing to expand—to yield to his sudden heavy breathing and quick succession of heartbeats.

Johnny shook his head. Sputtering. “Lad, y’know, sometimes we can’t control ‘em–” 

The words died on his tongue when Ghost flattened hand against the bend of his knee. He was testing the waters. 

Johnny looked back, gulping, and took the bait. He inched his knee closer, until it met with Ghost’s thick leg. It’s something he’s done so many times. When he was starved for friction but couldn’t make it overtly obvious—grazing Ghost’s hand passing him a flare; knocking his foot under the table during debrief (“Sorry, lad,”); applying extra gauze to a slice in his torso just to feel Ghost’s chest throb below his fingers a little more.

But this is different. Something Johnny’s chased for so long. A tangible ghost on his tongue for a flavour he’s longed for with just fantasies while he fucked his fist late into the night. 

Ghost tightened his hold on Johnny’s thigh. “Sons of bitches, ain’t they?” 

His voice was taut. As was the muscle between Johnny’s shoulders.

They exchanged a glance. Soundless, but not wordless. Then Ghost slunk his hand down and wrapped it around Johnny’s swelling cock. 

The feeling of it—a sensation so foreign, so yearned for—penetrated Johnny’s core. It made him yelp and jerk his knee into the table, sending more beer spilling over the rim of his glass and onto his pants. 

Ghost hummed, shook his head. “C’mon, Johnny, let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” And he inclined his head towards the bathroom in the back. 

Johnny blindly nodded, yielding to Ghost’s hold as he hoisted him from his seat. Ghost directed them through the sea of gyrating bodies and towards the toilets. They bursted inside, and the Brit pulled Johnny into the last stall. A seedy little thing, with graffiti and the ash of cigarette butts welded into its walls. 

The succeeding acts were a blip in the streamline of Johnny’s memory. He remembers Ghost shucking his pants down, then settling himself behind him. He remembers Ghost’s gloveless hand reaching around and working over his drooling cock. He remembers a voice in his ear, “What the fuck are we doing,” and a bulbous cockhead poking his ass. He remembers the shrill rattle of the stall hinges as he withered against it, trembling under Ghost’s deft hands, the finger that swept over the slit of his cock and slipped down to fondle his balls. 

Before white-hot pleasure seared his vision, Johnny remembers emptying his come into the crotch of his denims, shaking, as it dampened his pants and as Ghost commanded him to pull it back up. 

They left the bar alongside each other, meeting everyone else on the pavement. Johnny’s lips were popped open and swollen. Peeling, from how his teeth had sunk into them. His eyes were glossy and his hair was tousled in the middle of his head. He had a wet patch on his jeans.

“Oh, you are pissed, mate,” Gaz exclaimed, “I– that’s pee?”

“Spilled some water,” Ghost lied to the other teammates, “had to sort him out.”

They made it back to base within hours, signing off to their quarters. 

The next day, Johnny didn’t see him at all. 

The day after that, too; Ghost didn’t even spare him a glance.

He tried reassuring himself. Ghost hadn’t talked about men before—not in this calibre—so Johnny told himself it’s because he was digesting what rashly happened in Chicago. 

That was, until, he was paged one night. A command from Ghost to meet him in his quarters. The message was succinct: one sentence, leaving no lines to be read between. Johnny walked ambled to his room with his heart in his stomach and his blood rushing to his ears. Nudging the door open, Ghost was on the edge of his bed, legs parted, smarting denim-washed jeans and a black pullover. A simple, soft gauze balaclava. 

His eyes slid upwards first. Then the rest of his head. Ghost pinned Johnny under his smouldering gaze, then beckoned him forward with the tilt of his head. No words were swapped. Ghost simply tugged Johnny forward, between his thick thighs, and bullied the Scotsman to his knees with a hand splayed over his half-shaved head. 

Johnny’s eyes widened. He popped his lips open to speak—lips Ghost whispers his thumb over to seal shut, uprooting his words from its step. Ghost shook his head, undid his belt with a single hand, and shucked down his jeans. He palmed himself for a while, watching Johnny’s eyes sheen over, before pushing his boxer-briefs scarcely over his meaty thighs, pinching the head of his cock. 

Ghost didn’t even bother pulling his balls out. Just his dick—long, thick, a comely vein running beneath it—better than anything Johnny’s ever wanted. Better than the images he’s fucked his fist to, memories of Ghost, freshly out of the shower after sparring, his thin towel outlining the barest hint of his dick. 

Johnny reaches out, but Ghost swipes it back. He tuts and softly smacks his cock against Johnny’s ruddy cheek, watching as a string of his precum connects to Johnny’s face. 

“How bad do ya wan’ it, Johnny?” Ghost had prompted, swiping his cockhead over the Scotsmans lips, then pulling it back whenever his jaw readily slacked. 

“Real… real bad, Lt.” He breathed. 

Ghost tapped his cheek again. “Open.”

And so Johnny did. Like it was second nature, like he’s been wanting for so long. Waiting for so fucking long. 

Johnny’s lips popped open and closed around Ghost’s wet tip. He swirled his tongue around it, clumsy in his movements, teeth grazing Ghost’s skin.

He winced. “Easy…”

Johnny blinked in a rapid succession, nodding, sucking him in a little deeper, mindful of hollowing out his cheeks and relaxing his jaw. Ghost’s eye twitched, hands digging into his tuft, hanging his head back, softly bucking his hips up into Johnny’s mouth. 

“Atta boy, Johnny, fuck– where the fuck’d you learn this, eh?”

Johnny replied with a gargled purl of precum and saliva coalescing in his mouth, gagging over the wide girth splitting his jaw open. Ghost laughed, his gloved hand settling on the scruff of Johnny’s neck, pulling him a little closer; sinking his cock a little deeper, rutting his pelvis into his squadmate's pliable mouth.

Ghost cums. Johnny laps it all up. And in an undertaken lapse of judgement, rises to his feet, puckering his frosted lips, ready to hike Ghost’s balaclava above his nose and share his taste with him. But Ghost set a hand to Johnny’s face, shaking his head. He tucked his softening cock back into his pants.

That was the first instance Johnny disregarded. One he ignored in favour of indulging himself in something he yearned after for years. He didn’t realise his grave digging began there—when he witlessly nodded in response. 

And from there, it became a cycle. It was always on Ghost’s call. Never Johnny’s. When Ghost wanted his dick sucked; when Ghost wanted a wet and tight hole wrapped around his cock. Johnny knew better. He knew he was being shepherded into something bad, but he couldn’t help himself.

Trembling under Ghost, his whole world encompassed by the Brit’s towering stature, was all that mattered to him. Getting spread over a cock he’s wanted for so long, a long ways from the taboo fantasies that’s collected cobwebs in his thoughts for so long.

Johnny was less of a teammate, more of an outlet for Ghost to exhaust his frustrations into. Even then, it was a pill Ghost had trouble swallowing. As if he’ll acknowledge it, and a relationship will materialise. So he stays still—fucks Johnny like a dirty little secret then turns the other way. 

Johnny tries talking to him. Tries telling him he struggled with the same thing. That he isn’t alone and that he belongs here. That there’s no shame in it. 

Simon collapses Johnny’s pleads with a final, resolute bark. “I ain’t gay, mate. You’re a friend helping a friend.”

-

basically it ends with Simon shepherding Johnny into some hedonistic, one-sided relationship. Johnny just accepts it bc if Simon wont love him, he’ll do it by proxy, because hes all fucked out and desperate for him🖤🖤

[macbethsymphony]

The Swordsman and the Blacksmith | Chapter 5

Roronoa Zoro x Reader

Chapter wc: 3.1k

Chapter rating: SFW

Content/Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Fem!Reader, Enemies to lovers, SLOW slow burn, Eventual smut

Summary: Your skills as a blacksmith have made you desirable to both the government and pirates. You know you have to leave this island if you want to escape your fate, but that doesn't make the choice of leaving any easier. Roronoa Zoro is intrigued by your skills as a blacksmith. Your work is like nothing he's ever seen before. Unfortunately, you're hot-headed and he's rude and you both definitely hate each other.

Chapters [1] [2] [3] [4]

Masterlist

Slowly crossposting from AO3 Feel like binging the rest of it? it's all there!

Chapter 5: The knife

The gentle caress of the sea breeze tousled your hair as you savored the rich aroma of your morning coffee. You’d woken up unusually early today, the prospect of getting your hands on steel again, to start creating, firing your spirit. Something had shifted in you after that argument, you felt free. No one had admonished either of you for the outburst, laughing and teasing you about it instead. It felt as though they were happy you’d finally let go of your reservations and let your true self peek through. You leaned on the railing of the quarter deck as you observed the activity below you.

Your eyes couldn’t help but follow the shirtless swordsman as he practiced his forms. You may hate the man, but you could see why Sandai Kitetsu had chosen him. It pissed you off to admit it, but you were sure he also had every right to Wado Ichimonji and Shusui. There was a rugged elegance to his movements, raw power that demanded attention. The fluidity and control of his haki coursing through the blades was incredible. You were more than certain he was deadly in a fight.  

“Hey! Asshole! Show me your swords.” You called out to him.

He glanced up at you, a scowl forming on his features at the interruption. “No,” he shouted back.

Rolling your eyes, you leaned further against the railing, your irritation mounting. “Aw, come on. Don’t be such a fucking prick about it.” You retorted, your words laced with frustration.

The swordsman’s only response was his middle finger before he turned back to the movement he was trying to master.

You scoffed. Didn’t matter, you’d decided today was going to be a good day. You pushed yourself away from the railing, heading towards your forge with a spring in your step. The fires had to be hot enough now to get started. You hummed to yourself, smile bright on your face.

The heat of the forge enveloped you like a warm embrace as you stepped into the small workshop aboard the Thousand Sunny. Beads of sweat formed on your brow, a testament to the intense heat radiating from the roaring flames. With a determined expression, you approached your sturdy workbench, where a stack of raw steel awaited your skilled hands.

Your eyes wandered across the multitude of options presented before you. They stopped on a smaller slab, it seemed to call to you. Taking a deep breath, you picked it up. The familiar coolness of the metal felt nice in your palm.

“What will you be?” You asked the bar, eyeing it gently.

You closed your eyes, feeling the weight in your grasp, finding its core, its essence. You turned it a few times in your hands, feeling for its quirks, its personality. You smiled as a picture formed in your mind.

“A knife, huh?” you said to the steel. “You want to be useful, don’t you?” You could honor that. “Don’t worry, I’ll find you a most passionate owner,” you told it, Sanji passing your mind.

You examined the steel more thoroughly. It was mild steel, its low-carbon content would make it perfect for the outer shell of a kitchen knife. You’d still have to reinforce it with a high carbon core to ensure durability over the years. Good. It wouldn’t be too hard, the perfect project to test this new forge.

You donned on your leather apron and gloves, taking a long linen cloth to cover your hair so it didn’t burn at the contact of the imminent sparks that would scatter in the workshop. The steps were now clear in your mind, you wasted no time in getting started, eager to craft a blade worthy of the chef’s culinary skills.

With a steady hand and focused mind, you retrieved a length of high-carbon steel, feeling its weight and potential beneath your fingertips. You immersed it into the searing heat of the fire, precision and purpose in your quick movements. The rhythmic cadence of the flames cast a familiar warm hue on your face as you impatiently waited for the steel to turn from a dull gray to a glowing fiery orange.

When the steel attained the desired temperature, you carefully took it out of the fire, setting it on the anvil with care. Your hand went to the hilt of your hammer, its familiar weight feeling like an extension of your very being. You closed your eyes, letting go of the turmoil of your mind. You took a deep breath in as you drew from the strength of your soul, allowing haki to flow through you, infusing your tool with power. As you exhaled, a sense of calm washed over you, your focus honing to a razor-sharp point.

With a resounding clang, the first strike of your hammer against the hot steel sent a shockwave of power rippling through the air. Sparks erupting in a dazzling display, mingling with the crackling dark spirals of your haki as they danced around you. Each strike was a symphony of strength and skill, the metal yielding beneath the relentless force of your blows.

 Once you were satisfied with the core’s shape, you turned your attention to the mild steel. As you worked, the heat of the forge faded into the background, replaced by a singular focus on the task at hand. Time seemed to blur as you lost yourself in the rhythm of the forge, outside world melting away until only you and the metal remained into existence.

With a final strike on the combined metals, the shape of the knife was complete. It was time to start the grinding process. You allowed your eyes to look out the door momentarily, eyes squinting against the brightness of the midday sun. A tray with a pitcher and some food had been left on a small bench, you realized with a start that you’d missed lunch.

As you devoured the offering hastily, you couldn't help but feel slight anxiety at the hope the cook would like this gift. The scorching heat of the forge brought you back to reality. You were ready to lose yourself in your work again, eager to see how the patterns of the steel would show up as you would grind away the scales that had formed on the surface of the cooled steel. With renewed vigor, you turned your attention back to the knife in progress.

With a flip of a switch, the grinding belt hummed to life, its rhythmic whir echoing in the confined space of the workshop. You took a moment to admire the patterns emerging on the surface of the steel as the scales were meticulously ground away. Each pass revealed the intricate layers, a testament to the fusion of high carbon and mild steel. The blade began to take on a life of its own, its unique design coming to fruition under your skilled hands.

Hours passed, the repetitive sound of grinding becoming a soothing background melody as you lost yourself in the meditative process. The knife, once a mere slab of metal, now started to embody the essence of your craftsmanship. The curves and edges spoke of precision, a harmony born from the dance of the forge.

With the grinding phase completed, you moved on to the critical step of heat-treating the blade. You carefully heated it until it glowed a vibrant red, then plunged it into a quenching oil bath, the sizzle and hiss filling the air. The transformation was underway, the blade evolving from raw potential to sleek excellence.

As the knife cooled, you couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. The next steps involved the delicate processes of polishing and etching, adding the final touches to your creation. The blade was brought to a fine shine, and you meticulously etched a decorative mermaid pattern onto its surface, a subtle yet captivating addition that shined when the light hit it at the perfect angle.

Now, the knife was ready for its handle. You sifted through your collection of materials until you found a rich, dark wood that complemented the elegance of the black blade. With practiced hands, you shaped and polished the handle, ensuring a comfortable grip for its future owner.

The final assembly brought together the blade and handle in a seamless union. You marveled at the completed knife, a fusion of craftsmanship and passion. It held a story within its layers, a narrative of hours spent in the forge, shaping not just steel but a piece of your soul.

As you cleaned and arranged your tools, you noticed the sun beginning to dip below the horizon. The workshop was now bathed in the warm hues of the sunset. You couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment as you wrapped the finished knife in a clean linen cloth. You wondered for a moment if it was too late in the day to present your gift to the cook but the echo of laughter coming from the galley told you otherwise.

Your feet carried you to the door of the kitchen eagerly, anticipation making your hands tremble in the slightest way. You stopped in front of the door gathering your courage as you listened in on the loud conversation.

“Did you see the way (Y/n) was handling that hammer? It was like magic!” Luffy exclaimed, his voice full of excitement.

You shifted awkwardly at the praise.

Usopp chimed in, his tone filled in awe. “Yeah! And did you see the sparks flying everywhere? It was like she was conjuring magic right before our eyes!”

Sanji’s smooth voice drifted through the air. “Ahhh, (Y/n) may have been covered in soot and sweat, but the elegance she was exerting was as captivating as a siren’s song.” He mused.

“I have to admit, I knew you weren’t lying Luffy” Nami said taking a pause to find the right words. “When you said she was impressive, I didn’t doubt it, but I never could have guessed it would be so extraordinary.” She finished, tone stunned in awe.

Your hand stilled on the doorknob, blush heating your cheeks at the words of admiration.

Robin’s gentle laughter followed. “Indeed, she possesses quite the unique ability. Watching her work is delightful.”

Franky’s booming voice resonated next. “I’ve seen my fair share of blacksmiths in action, but none compare to (Y/n)! Our little firecracker’s skills are really SUPER!"

Chopper’s enthusiastic squeal added to the chorus of praise. “I can’t believe how talented (Y/n) is! She’s like a superhero! I wonder what she’s been making.”

You took that as your sign to come in, opening the door.

“Oh! (Y/n)! You’re finally out!” Brook said delighted by your presence.

“You’re just in time for dessert,” Sanji said with a smile.

You cleared your throat. “Uhm actually Sanji, I have something for you.” You said. He turned back to you, curiosity in his eyes. “I really want to thank all of you for taking me on, I just… guess you’re the first person to receive my appreciation.” You continued shyly as you handed him the wrapped blade, apprehension keeping your body taut.

Sanji’s eyes widened as he unwrapped the finely crafted knife. The black blade gleamed in the warm light of the galley, mermaid pattern glowing in a purplish hue. Sanji gave it an expert twirl in his hand, feeling the balance of the blade. The handle, polished to perfection, felt smooth and comfortable in his grasp.

“For me?” Sanji asked, his usual playful demeanor momentarily replaced by genuine surprise. The crew fell silent, their eyes fixed on the knife, its aura demanding all the attention.

“I know you already have amazing knives, but I thought maybe you’d have some space for one more?” You said nervously.

“(Y/n)! This is incredible! I’ve never seen anything like this. Thank you so much!” Sanji exclaimed with a childish smile.

You couldn’t help but smile at his reaction, all tension leaving your shoulders.

“Let me see!” Usopp said excitedly.

“Me too!” Chopper chimed in. Everyone fighting playfully to see your hard work for themselves.

As you settled into your chair, weariness seeped into your bones, a heavy weight after a long day of forging. The lively banter of your crewmates provided a comforting backdrop, but you couldn't shake the sense of exhaustion that washed over you like a tidal wave.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the swordsman's gaze lingering on you, an unknown intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. Yet, in your current state of fatigue, you lacked the energy to address the unfamiliar tension. With a resigned sigh, you loosened the bindings of your hair, allowing it to cascade in soft waves over your shoulders, a small act of surrender to the fatigue that engulfed you.

Just as you began to sink into the solace of relaxation, Nami's voice pierced through the tranquility of your mind, jolting you back to the present. "By the way, (Y/n)," She said. "We've spotted the next island today. We'll probably make a stop tomorrow, but it looks like a Navy base," she informed you, her tone laced with a hint of concern. "We're getting pretty low on food, so we'll have to steal some from them. The whole routine is pretty standard to us, but we were wondering... Do you know how to fight?" She asked.

Her question hung in the air, casting a sobering shadow over the jovial atmosphere. It was a stark reminder of the choices you’d taken. And yet, amidst the uncertainty, there was a glimmer of trust in her inquiry, a silent acknowledgment of your role within the crew.

You paused, considering her words carefully. “I’m not a fighter, if that’s what you’re asking.” You said. “But I know how to defend myself.”

“Good! We’ll add you in the roster then!” She responded. “We usually let chance pick the different teams for those missions, so don’t worry too much about it! You might even get to stay on the ship!” She smiled at you.

You smiled back. A navy base, huh? That would prove interesting.

Roronoa Zoro couldn’t help the irritation stirring within him as the shitty cook unveiled the knife. His brows furrowed as he watched the genuine expression of delight on the chef’s face as the man twirled the blade skillfully in his hand.

He scoffed inwardly at the display. The blade was black, haki infused. His fingers twitched. He hated to admit it but how he longed to hold the blade. He shifted uncomfortably, his scowl deepening at the excitement around him. His gaze wandered to the door, contemplating slipping away unnoticed.

But then, his eyes landed on you.

There you stood, a faint smile playing on your lips as you watched Sanji’s reaction with a mixture of relief and nervousness. Your hair was wrapped in a white linen cloth, soft strands had escaped the confines of the binding, opting to cling to your sweat covered skin. A soft blush of happiness adorned your rosy cheeks mixed with streaks of ashes. You hadn’t really bothered cleaning up before coming in, your eagerness to give the knife surpassing all else. Your eyes met his briefly as you let the bindings of your hair go. Zoro couldn’t help the strange flutter in his chest, a strange sensation he couldn’t quite place. His irritation redoubled, ready to fight. You were lost in a conversation with Nami.

With a scowl Zoro stood up, grabbed a random bottle of booze, and escaped the cheerful ambiance of the galley for his usual peaceful nook in the crow’s nest.

That morning, they had all been surprised as the first clank of your hammer against steel had resonated in the air. A wave of energy had coursed through their bodies, Zoro’s concentration shattered instantly. The air had felt thick, the wind had halted, it was as though time had stopped. Then your hammer had hit steel once again and existence had resumed.

He had been caught so off guard by the display of power that he hadn’t been able to get his concentration back for the rest of the day. He’d sheathed his swords and headed to the crow’s nest with every intention of sleeping the day away. But like everyone else he hadn’t been able to resist the temptation to observe you in your mastery. His eyes had remained glued to your form, observing you from high up.

With a frustrated groan, Zoro took a swig from the bottle of booze he’d taken with him. The familiar sharp bite of the alcohol burning his throat in a comforting manner. He leaned back against the railing, his gaze fixed on the twilight sky as he attempted to push aside the turmoil of his thoughts.

The wind ruffled his short hair as he attempted to draw out his haki, trying to mirror the way you inexplicably had done earlier in the day.

“Damn it,” He muttered under his breath as he let go in failure, taking another swig out of the bottle as if to drown out his thoughts.

But try as he might, he couldn’t shake the image of you standing there amidst the chaos of the forge, soft strands of hair plastered against your neck, face streaked with sweat and ashes. The raw power dancing around you had been mesmerizing.

Zoro watched as one by one, the crew went to bed. He itched to see the knife for himself.

Giving in to the temptation, he entered the kitchen. His gaze immediately caught the knife. The black blade glinted in the soft light of the moon. As he approached, he could feel the subtle hum of haki emanating from the metal. His hand hesitated momentarily before picking it up.

His rough fingers traced the edge of the blade, the smoothness of the black steel beneath his touch sending a shiver down his spine. For a moment he was lost in the intricate patterns etched on its surface, the mermaid design captivating his attention. He gave it a hesitant twirl. Once. Twice. The balance was stunning, the sharpness of the edge deadly. It was a blade born not just from skill but from passion, a fact that irked him more than he cared to admit. He let his hand clench around the handle of the knife. The shape was perfect, it felt like an extension of his arm.

“It’s a stunning blade, isn’t it?” Robin’s voice shattered the silence.

He let go of the knife in surprise. The clank as it fell back down on the counter, loud in the stillness of the night.

“It is,” he admitted turning to face her.

“Sanji’s a lucky man,” she said with a soft smile, taunting him.

He didn’t answer.

Robin rolled her eyes at his stubbornness.

“Why don’t you let her look at your swords?” She asked as he was about to pass her. Zoro stopped in his tracks. “None, of your business,” he snapped, irritation lacing his words as he left the galley.

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Masterlist

[cipheramnesia]

Vivisection

I sloughed the shell in a flourish of our shared sweat, blood, and mucus. Cold on the steel-grated floor lift, tech eyes wide over me as my psyche twitched itself back together from the needles. My eyes said you must be new but my mouth spoke in thick puked up fluid whilst my sopping slick shuddering fingers clawed nerve pads off my tits and slid catheter from my dick. All of us nerves had little twitches of pleasure as we found ourselves whole, and made it to sitting.

"Towel," I found language, and the tech handed it, eyes carefully elsewhere at the pink and red cockpit still quivering in urgency, wet with quenched desires. Methodically cleaned under the wet warm terrycloth ministrations, top to standing, adjusting to eyes and ears 'side skin and taste. The hangar was all echoes of more experienced crew on the teardown fifty feet up and down the shell, didn't need the look I turned anyway at my love, the crab. Rested claws in bands of carbon, four squat legs and rolling condensation off the quieting spiracles. Charred, twisting armor coated over with clotted brown patch like scabs and fading blue drips of other less evils' blood, sparkling at places from shattered refractive layers, spongy intrasteel glistening through here and there. Below it discharged glutinous tar from the trap, all spent oil and shock fluid plus shells and fused filters, burned heat hexes all and all bound for the reprocess, someone else's hand-me-down armor or shoes.

The wasp staggered past us to its own home sweet safety net so I hung the rail in a gentlemanly way and bade our tech meet my goddess in crime at her door. "They have their own lift," the tech observed. My goosebumps agreed, emphasizing the questionable temperature, but a lady must pay her respects. "I don't care," I suggested so we went.

Parked up under those gangly legs adripped with the glow and silver of thirty confirmed kills and gored holes through musculoskeletal tubing told the tale, I held my arms in chivalry as the mandibles underside the shell parted ways and dripped Ari into my embrace along side her own deluge of girl-juice and veined amniogel shreds. Knees buckled as my stomach protested my lack aforethought, but no one could dispute the benefits of a girl pressed against my breasts, slinging her long arms around me. She barfed over my shoulders, warm and phlegmy.

Ari'd pulled her cords in the shell like a good girl, still shook gainst my skin as she stuttered, "fuh- fuh- fuh-" while I jerked my head at the tech who shrugged. Outta towels, well my bad. Leaned us on the railing and thought about tonight, you know the human body's pretty heavy all said? "Your... skin is... freezing!" she articulated, not a request mere observation, but my arms acquiesced nevertheless. We leaned on each other watching black muck drain from the wasp's thorax, standing around naked in a pool of shell vomit. "Yer dumb," she added, hocking up more phlegm. "Now're both shlimy." The other shells crawled in with the tide, blasted with sterilizing powder and steam, various scorpions and mosquitos and spiders seeking succor as we finally made our way down the textured rubber steps.

"Fuckin so hungry," Ari slurred, dribbling blood and saliva while my own stomach answered midst shouts of our squad as they were reborn, crawling free and bloodied from the shell, some still babbled nonsense, tried to move limbs no longer bodied and no shame to them. "You threw up so much, 'spected," I said. Watched Spinning Jenny shaking mucus off his head, snapping teeth together.

"Gonna eat three horses," Ari added. "Fuck potatoes, my dick can fuck a pile of potatoes I'm starving." She shook my shoulder, my legs wobbled in tune, "Clingy bitch." But her hand stayed, fingers digging the tense muscles in my back, mine squeezed her hips. "Casey I want you to hold me down and force feed a gallon of cheese into me." Managed to cross the whole hangar naked, didn't eat shit. Techs hooted appreciating and I tried to bow but just did a cockeyed vanity wave. Brain twitched but kept my cool, remembered I don't see in sonar. "Maybe later tonight," I murmured sotto voce. I cleaned the fresh blood from my ears with a pinky finger.

Lockers, showers, Ari always liked when I soaped and dried her, little bit of a tease, ease of limbs back into bodily limits. She was wiping gunk from her eyes, still going, "I fuck shit swear I'm getting mission reruns in my sleep now. Bullshit we don't hang on to PDN memories, I've deffo had the same shit we throw at the elves in my head at night."

"They're not elves," I said.

"Whatever, magical monster tree bugs, I dunno, are you getting shell feedback?" I was toweling her thick curls, my own short hair dried sweet quick. Threw on those almost paper scrubs. Sexy. "Babe, we all got feedback, I'm not even sure how much me is in my mind."

She grabbed my hair and gave my head a little shake, "Lucky you, I'll fuck your brains out anyway," and blew my hair out my eyes. I grabbed her hand and pushed back, she swooned, we crushed hard as team shelled and molted, in bed or in field. Just a way to anchor, comes with the piloting, nothing new. Lots of pilots fall in twos and fours of strange bedfellow - gets you back in mind after so long parted. "Shut the fuck up," she said to my smile, shoved back, I reeled her in and smiled more til she punched my shoulder. "Fuck you, feed me." We joined the aching crowd clustering to the mess hall.

Slammed our piled trays on a table, minutes later. Scatter Hawk had beat us there somehow, last in the bay, first to the hay per usual. Jelly was still in their hair and they were tearing into a pile of beef flavored protein patties they'd slathered with garlic chili sauce and pickled carrot chips. Shoved it in their blood-smeared face with mixed results twohanding a fork, missed the target 30% of the time. "Glad you're a better shot with the 40," I suggested and they replied, "Slip your own dick sideways fish brisket," spittle and snot sprayed with each word, language not quite in the altogether I guess. I slapped some nerves back into their shoulder and they grunted wetly and appreciatively.

Ari pushed me onto the bench and dropped down, catted up against me and chugged hot sauce from the tube, followed by a fistful of fake bacon and chips dripping with jalapeños. "Thid fit gess weeper effy dah" she spat out with a mouthful of half chewed food, elbowing my ribs in the process, so I slipped my hand over her thigh and gave her a reassuring stim. I was busy with whatever passed for kimchi and pork flavored protein while the table started filling up with other pilots eating an entire day's worth of food in one sitting, trying to feel and speak and touch and taste all at once with mixed successes, all of us trying to pick our nerves up from the sludge being in the shell made out of our bodies. DeeDee shoved a fork at us and said, "Fuck were you, suckin dick? Tank's supposed to keep hits off."

"Yeah, take many hits?" I wiped the dribbled of blood off my lip.

"Like ten! Two in a lung!" He jabbed a beef patty for table wobbling emphasis.

Barely audible Ari whispered, "You're alive aren't you?" Head was drooped under her curled hair near to my level, flying below table radar, still about hit direct to a nerve with DeeDee's bloodshot eyes going big and Hellis beside scooting its flat ass away but none of us got further into what manner of dicks weren't or were sucked (my carefully planned speech - about the pincer move we broke while I was still jamming longways thanks and the relationship of DeeDee's dick being vaporized vis a vis our suckage - wasted). Squad command rudely storming our table with the demand: "Death Claw! Kill Strike!"

Silence resumed in sudden shock as he stood authority thrust chinward, all our eyes tracking the table. He repeated the command, "Death Claw! Kill Strike!" Silence abounded, roamed the plains, handed him a look of weary resignation as his lips, with all the distaste of gingerly dropping a dead rat into a toilet, formed, "Kitty Candy and Raccoon Enchantment," he struggled to recover his momentum but the wind was dead, "I need to speak with you both." Tablewide "ooooo" and Spinning Jenny added "someone's in trouuuble," as we took our ways in the talking wake of the baron of bluster.

Followed breadcrumbs of wet bootie prints and bloodsmeared walls back to the old bay so he could scream at us with an echo. "You semen stains mind explaining what the fuck you were doing back in that shitshow?"

Her nose was bleeding heavily again and I could feel Ari's arm spasm as she pushed close behind me, whispering without sound. I had answers mercifully drowned in a wad of spit and phlegm suddenly dumping into my mouth and down my chin.

"Gods you're all fucking sick. Disgusting. Got nothing to show for it?"

I swallowed another gob of something unpleasantly solid which mercifully shot from my lungs into my mouth giving moments for me to think forward. Rare enough, I treasured them. Figured best not mention what was the thing, blowing the drop bolts early cuz she wanted to try and fire the primary on the wasp from directly above a banyan whilst midair, sans stabilizers, which for the record she hit the thing but caught an extra eighth mile sky above the crate.

"Listen," I gurgled, wiped off my face. ("Listen SIR," he interjected, so I waved indulgently.) "Hurgle. My decoms pinged a hostile lake, looked like a stand of banyans an' a anthill so we bailed at drop beta." Ari's fingers drug out blood from under my paper sleeve, fuck ridiculous she's like eight inches taller trying to make my ass into partial cover.

"Drop beta," he repeated the words to emphasize their unwelcome intrusion to his shriveled brain. I realized the part of my memories with this squad commander's name got sliced in the shell. His face was twitching as bad as mine ever has. "There was no drop beta! There was one site, slash and burn, the end!"

"Well lucky you! We set one up before that swampfire cut our lines up, no thanks necessary please, you know we do it for the love of our jobs."

He looked at the melted up muscle and vatsteel carapace curves of my beloved crab and wasp. Some mirror shaved surfaces, bug blood all black where it congealed. "Fuckin trannies, disgusting, undisciplined- Why we hire so many I don't even-"

"C'mon, you know we're your best guys."

"You're literally my worst guys! If I had anyone else fucked in the head enough to shove into those- those fucking meat grinder abominations, I'd dump your freakshow asses so far in the back beyond you'd fart just for the conversation!"

I elbowed Ari in the gut before she said something dumber than I had in mind. "You know the old saying, a tranny in the shell will give em all hell."

His face snapped shut like crab's load-in maw. Gritted teeth rumbled, "Scrape duty for the next two hours." He shoved us out of the way off to ruin someone else's sex lives, his own probably.

Two hours and two trays of congealed processed protein with vinegar and hot peppers, we trudged down the narrow hall to bunk. The ganglia stopped twitching but it'd been a minute last I had this much elf blood under my nails and my hair reeked of burned polyfilament lubricant.

Ari stretched her arms back because the ceiling was too low for up grumbling, "Don't wanna spec nother fuckin face for a whole shift." I shrugged half drop slept and headed my roomways, brought to heel with her hand on my wrist. "The fuck you think you're going, you promised." Her, lips, just as crusted with blood and snot as mine still a cute pout in dire times.

I gauged my cramping stomach up against that hand and those lips. We hadn't been on-mission for a sec, and fuck for the moment I'm only human and very horny. Still. "You said-"

"People, I mean people." She punched the latch and I let her reel me into her narrow cabin, coming attractions you could call it. I said, "Babe, you gotta pick up your underwear - or anything - sometime." Ari grabbed a bottle of the rancid wine someone was making from cooking oil and caramelized vinegar. She put it against my chest, and put us against the stowage wall, and put her tongue into my throat. Her lips were gunpowder nachos, burning hot, both of us careless to chapped cracked open blood. I took a slug of the wine, with its notes of artificial PTSD raspberry flavor, as she pulled the bunk from the wall. I held up the bottle, tipped it to her lips, spilled it into her mouth, on her face, down her bare flesh and cheap scrubs.

Ari yanked it away and tossed it to the refuse under her fully unused sliver of a desk. I grabbed her by the front of her scrubs, they tore, so I grabbed her arm and fumbled us against the edge of the cot, struggling with my pants and paper booties. "Fucking elastic, now it works?" Ari tried to rip the pants off, snapping a yelp and a shock outta me when she snapped the band on my stomach, so I pushed my hand into her pants and grabbed her dick, hip checked her onto her back on the cot, then furiously yanked both our pants off. We smashed tongues and lips again, her guided by my fingers in her hair, me by her nails on my back, furrows through the grime mottling my acne scarred skin. I clambered onto her, a full tangle of legs and elbows with the sweet serenade of the cot, joints protesting weight and unwelcome thrashing. But I had hold of her now, me and my little growls, her softly repeating "please," as I pressed our hips, tits, lips together. Teased and pinched on and around her nipples, scratched the welcome back real world long her ribs, pulled myself to myself with her rhythmic panting breaths. Shudders passing through from her to me, traded in kind as we reminded our bodies and each other of the dwindling human embers in our chests, the dregs of what once was bright and happy in the world still enough between us to reignite into the shape we suffered through bereft of shells. A minute for our hearts to hammer together, to take in the mossy dried blood scent, the reek of sweat and metal, both of us hard and slick against one another.

When she murmured, we gingerly squirmed our legs and arms around and across each other til Ari lay on her stomach, the pathetic, thin excuse of a mattress rolled under her chest and arms. Lube was spread over her ass and my fingers with wasteful urgency. I worked my hands slowly down her back, gently caressing her sync ports with my thumb, watching them contract and gape with her moans. The lips of them tingled and sent pulses of pleasure through my hands from lingering protonerves. Moved downward to her ass and sliped in one finger at a time, stroking inside her folds, touching her walls, three in and rhythmic spreading and relaxing as she sucked in air, so I leaned up close and slipped my tongue into her neckport, the sphincter closed tight and opened wide and I could feel my ports sympatic response, taste her tasting tasting her. She twisted her pillow into knots and I pushed my cock into her as my fingers slipped out, slowly, feeling her tense up and relax.

Slivers of amniogel squished against my cock in her ass, protonerves shot echos of her through me, flaring and then crushed between us. We pressed ourselves closer, trading pulses back and forth, that one flashing minute of her ass against my hips and one hand on her dick, my face in her hair, one hand pressing into jer back ports, letting her suck the lube from my other hand. It was almost the ecstasy of feeling our minds dissolve into one another. Then we moved again. Hours or minutes, I felt her cum trickle over my hands and wiped it on her thigh as I kept going. Mucus spilled from her contracting back sphincters and my own. Fucking the trace of vat grown life to death until we might have a hope of sleep tonight.

It was humid and reeked of sex, everything about Ari barely fit, except for me, so we stole away these moments from each other to remember and forget. It was nothing in the world, but it was better than dying alone. My leg hung off the bed when we had rolled free of one another, too filthy to breathe and too wasted to shower. My elbow and hip hurt from banging against the wall. Her legs were curled up and her left knee jabbed painfully into my thigh, I couldn't find a place to put my right arm and it was falling asleep but the tingle felt better than trying to stand up. Head was jammed into my neck, couldn't be comfortable, I brushed tangles out of her hair. Muffled, she said, "You smell bad."

"You love it. You missed my pit stank, my demure little corpseflower." She made gagging noises into my clavicle. "I'm gonna have to go back to my nice bunk where the floor is clean, can't stay under my wing forever birdie."

"Whatever," I felt her lips mashed against me with each word, and braced for her to shove me off bed, but her arm just squeezed me closer. "Can so stay f'rever," she sounded almost asleep, her head pushed closer to me and she muttered something like "glove mew bits."

Rolled eyes, but pressed a little closer. "Sure, marinate some new strain of bacteria, they can spatula us out the morning." Unprepared by her momentary snuggle, my ass hit the floor in a pile of unwashed tanktops with a sleep slurred "fuck off."

I left my dignity in the laundry and blew a kiss. "You're gonna hate you in the morning if you sleep that way," she made and grumpy noise and wrapped herself around the rolled up mattress, trying and failing to fit on the metal cot. I tripped a little on the way out the door, on my half naked way to a luxury five minute hot shower to a low bid bargain cold sleep.

Dreams told tales from the shell. Techs all swore in the slice nothing transfers. True enough we lost a short term or three but that's the balance to cost against feedback, they said. Dreams were my four legs crushing earth compact from the drop jump as my decoms rolled over the banyans and bugs slinging spells, my nightmost terrors unfolding from the PDN and flooding their foci and fetishes. In the mindscape ground ran fluid under mechanized polyplastic muscle, the world putty with my gargantuan claws. Chaff launched from deep inside my chambered shell to spark the incoming green, a deathly spray to casual sunblock rads, no mind to armored skin.

Myriad wave of banyans moving, windblown, roots crawling, but there she is, my darting wasp hurling her thousand stings, finding targets in my trackers n hackers through the grassfield bugs. Their blood glows blue, all the work of their spells to brittle silver threads that fall to pieces. She lands and I bathe the hill in freaks, veritable fog of messy tracking til her thorax slides open and erects its throbbing, winged main gun, legs planted, struts in, and a hurricane throws banyan trunks to shreds, clears a canyon of death, and she screams, and I see the branches from the earth tearing her apart, I am slow, bogged in sudden mud, green spears her, the angry earth rips her legs from limb, black ichor and green coolant and I wake up screaming as she shouts for me to go. Clutching the metal edge to my cot, seeking my body again, for a moment unable to hear or see, I exist only as pounding blood and raw nerves til each flexed muscle brings me to human.

Some time passes to rise, rollout hours more hence, I spent time to feel my body, put on shorts and t-top and try to forget the dream and Ari's voice screaming for me to leave her.

I tried to sleep the echo away, then folded my cot and dug the glass bottle of beauties. Rattled a couple hatch-down to flatten it out. Nothing doing, no washing or wiping or jerking off removed the unwelcome night haunt, so I made my soft shod way down to mess.

Rigs like these, there's never quiet. Air cycles, night crew, the odd distant clatter we all always hoped wasn't the seconds off warning of full breach. I paused by Ari's door, halfway to clacking it, but moved counterspin towards mess. No sense both of us losing sleep over one misfire of psyche. Half light in the mess, couple plotters and binders poked listless fried protein and I took my separate peace with a cup of the juice. Sick sweet chemflavor kicked caffeine to my heart and guts enough to winnow away the hours trying a dozen different flavors of artificial spice on artificial food, feeling artificially alive.

DeeDee showed in first after rollout, guy was never not angry at me over some shit, angry at something, put a lot of that through the lines good for us. Hellis always hung round, I specced on their afterhours but never pried the privates. Wouldn't have minded a bunk with either, but oh well. Shadow Jumper and Stepper and Jenny and so on filing their way through gallons of sickening juice and overcooked daybreak. Ari was last in, skulking through the rising shine and din of the mess, caught a tangle of her eyes but crowds were parting our ways.

"See how long you last without that filter, you'd hurl minimal," Jenny kept prodding at Scatter Hawk putting away more forkfulls than any two of us, just grunting back, while DeeDee yelled down the table at Stepper over horrendous and audible farts. I couldn't find a minute to catch Ari's eyes, roll em back and forth with mine, she was digging a hole through her tray.

I spent a frustrated week shipping past her nights. Some asshole I learned was apparently in charge of the squad demanding press-ups and running laps spin wise. Got mad when I said we don't use any muscles and I had to do extra sit-ups, and I threw up and didn't see Ari in the lockers. Tear down on the crab, coming and she was on her grease stained way showers, grimacing. Asleep when I catted around her doors at the odd hours. Anxiety in my spare space left my skin crawling. Ran into her at the psyche cracker and said hey, how you doin? Ari said, "Fine," with those tangled up eyes.

"You okay? I do something you wanna talk?" Whatever was left inside my skull felt like it wanted me to vomit it through my ports. My intestines wanted my skin rippled.

She shook her head. "It's not. You're good, you're good, I just." She shook her head again, tugged the hem of her shirt. Bless I was horny as fuck but just wanted to untangle her eyes, please.

"Listen, I got-"

"Casey!" The skull breaker slid its door up. Check-in time, its glassed eyes and masked mouth glittered, jovial work for a septic system.

"Ari, one second doc. Hey."

Backing down the hall, miming apologies. "I'll see you around Case."

I got a good grade from the psyche. "Very little degradation today," it exclaimed. "Your connectivity must have been quite well balanced! If you maintain this synchronization, we can expect to keep memory and autonomic function nearly optimal. Please ensure you take your supplements to maintain neural plasticity, excellent work!"

It always ignored my questions so I didn't ask anymore but one time I looked up "autonomic" and I was not very excited about the implications. Clacked Ari's door on the way back roomwards, to no result. Shut my door hard, rattled more beauties down my gullet and lay on the floor, tossed aside my psyche chart with all its healthy green and admonishing yellow. Degradation did not feel minimal, I was fragile with worry and my body wanted to fly apart, uncontained by the shell and trembling with skin crawling fear. Nothing flattened, the spin felt too fast, and I wiped confused wetness off my face. I clenched fists to my sides and shook uncontrollably. When would the drop would come?

Rolled out and rounded up came down soon enough against my liking. Marched our asses cross to the bay and posted us up. The squad leader looked uniquely miserable for each syllable of "Kitten Candy! Raccoon Enchantment!" He might actually kill me if he figures out how I changed our call signs.

Ari lurked behind me, sleep deprivation coming off her in radiant heat. I'd woke on the aching floor to rollout chimes, back still sharp from the sleep I should've skipped. She'd been doing teardown some long hours fore we got the callout. "Since you two reliably fuck up anything more complicated than bright colors and shapes, you're doing drop targeting. Three sites, think you can handle it?"

"Probably not, SIR!" I said, and he was not amused, Ari flopped hands affirmatively over the task a drone could do.

"Get synced up because that's the mission. Fuck off, the adult pilots are talking."

Could've argued, didn't, not with the halides in my skull and Ari walking away for the wasp. "Hey! Hey." Caught up around and walked with her. "Lotta radio silence, you good? I mean, girl, you look like shit, but you good?" We reached the lift. My hand was more tentative on her shoulder than my first time trying on a bra. "Are, like, are we? You know, did I say something?"

"Shit, you're fuckin impossible," Ari pulled a smile from an awful place. "Never said nothing except all I wished-" She started climbing. "Ah, fuck off, you know you're good. So good I want... like, fuck. I'm good. Had feedback something fierce this week. Hcch." I walked behind her, hand at her back and lifted, she grabbed my wrist. "C'mon, bitch, gimme a boost up."

The tech up top had the wasp open, long tongue dangling, pink, dripping ready to enfold. The mandibles were an umbrella over us, the whole cockpit slung between a sensaray and fire platform up front and the main gun taking up most of the thorax, flightless wings for short jumps and bristled with beams and missiles webbed into veins and live nerves. Ari stripped off her clothes and I helped her with the mass of thick tubes dangling from the soft flesh of the wasp's underbelly. Gentle with the catheter while she gripped my shoulder, taping the skin contacts on, then slipping the fat red sync cables and their gently writhing filaments into the sphincter along her neck and spine.

"Hey." I looked up from making stirrup hands and Ari's fingers lifted me from kneeling. "You be here when we come back, kay? I don't wanna open this cage if I don't see your ugly mug waiting."

"You fuckin wish," I said. "Believe, I'll be here, I got nothing better to do."

She had that smile, eyes almost past her tangle. "Yeah, what the fuck do I care, you're just, like. Well fuck you, anyway, you better be here, no excuses."

I put my hands together and knelt. "No excuses, bitch." She stepped into me and I hoisted her up until the closing mandibles caught her and pulled her the rest of the way in. The wasp began to breathe, the metal and polymer exoskeleton tightening as it straightened. The multiplicably enfolded legs flexed all their joints. I made my way from Ari's lift to my own, perspective and spin distorted neath my crab all encompassing the view and my world. The stairway to its cockpit was considerably longer, but no aid was needed. Sixfold mandibles waited for me, tubes lay cross the steel grate for my own administration. That same tech still couldn't look as I stripped and strapped. Didn't need help with my ports, just held crab's feelers up and they squirmed their way to the intimate fibers of my spinal cord. I sighed and my ports contracted to pull the connections deeper to the nerve.

The tech muttered, "I can't cope with the freaky shit," stepped off lively. Probably thought I couldn't hear as I wound myself into the folds of the crab's intimacy, and was encased in the dark. The peristaltic folds squeezed and swallowed me into the wet warm depths in the heavy polycombine plate armor of our turret. Impact gel, amniogel, blood and mucus flowed over my feet and hands, the added nerves and plasm more deeply fusing us. I felt my vision shriveling through a tunnel, my gritty eyes black in my skull, each muscle of my limbs unfurled from bones to thread themselves into the limbs of a colossus. My spine grew through my skin to blossom across a carapace and turret, flexed my claws and the wide flat armor wings across my back, felt the hangar through its myriad complex electrical systems and programs running in constant state of adjustment. I could smell the synapses of the crew inside the rig, all the redundant added systems, multiple layers of security, still so vulnerable inside this soft underbelly. My web crackled and fluttered along my body. I could kill everyone around me with a thought and leave only my fellow, slumbering shells for company.

I vacuumed air through my body and filters, hundreds of pounds in a breath. Piece by piece I cut my mind free of its cage, each part of it a point in a web of a thousand stars to guide my way. How had I ever let myself believe I could be human? How could I be when I was this, so much more, the parts of my mind I never before realized were incomplete. Destroy me, I urged the crab. Consume the last of my flesh and bones, and let me free once and for all. I slipped my claws out of their bands and tested link with wasp - with Ari. She vibrated enthusiasm, her stimulant chemicals were flooding overtime, and I selected the clam path of her many input and system indexes to aid her, grant her focus to the still before the burn. The dropship waited and we obliged, neither of us patient for departure and planet fall, once again to taste the alien atmosphere and feel true gravity pull at our tissue and joints.

Countdown for slow minutes, and we jammed to our sync. I felt at peace, each part of my psyche sliced from itself, and we lay distributed across our body, through small cortexes fired with the parts of my consciousness. We ticked through systems and my subconscious night terrors spooled into projectors while my self sense expanded to the decom in preparation for target tracking. Ari and I could feel one another as we synced, her slender body and long legs torquing their secondary legs into alignment. Her deepest horrors became a narrow band of foci, accompaniment to each one of her eight gun placements

We swayed for a minute as the drop slid out through the bay doors til thrusted still in a white noise of rocket and atmosphere. Open doors spilled a flurry of blinding light and boiling air. We cut the cord and took flight. Fission cycled to jets and Ari soard around my less graceful lander module decel, both flirtatious and efficient. Earthshaking on point, I breathed in the beacon for the first drop target, then pulled myself free of deeply fertile soil, felled the odd red thornbush in the way of our determinedly stealth free journey. Ari was more nimble in her travels, caught us both up fair to the prep kit. My decom swept all sides of the range for crevices of organized blue, and looked through my wavspec for tattletale knurled arms and segmented torso trunks.

"Whistle clean," I thrummed to Ari and she slipped up through to the prep barely shifting a twig. My hearts beat in time to her showy work then my pace crushed the evidence in passing. Exultation flooded my glands and fluttered my filtration, we set to the lungs of the future. My claws could lift and move enough whilst Ari's more dexterous complex digits hooked in power, nutrient starter, bacteria loads. All color coded and writ large enough couple pilots couldn't fuck it up, track records notwithstanding. Few hundred and we'd be able to turn the toxic swamp of atmosphere to nearly breathable. Plenty for firsts, let them deal with the messy genes for the twenty-threes to come later. Not us, not our yards and acres of lungs filtered enough to breathe near vacuum. Minutes confirmed the bactomix was good, and we beamed our confirmation.

"Nice and tidy," Ari observed the dirt churned circle round the target. I tasted the ground, messy but starter ready.

"Good enough. It'll be dust in a year anyway. Grab a ride?" We're supposed to march it point to point, no riders no passengers, but it's slow n tedious. She grappled to my exo instead. Put a safe-ish distance from the drop target, hunkered. Earth churned to mud and boiled around my feet as we sank down, I wrenched all I could from dirt rocks clay, sprayed hot waste out my vents, and we exploded into the air on jets carved from living thorns and earth, second drop in record time. Nothing rumbled I could spec but still. "Tastes sour," I trembled contact to contact. Ari slithered down and crouched near my shoulder.

Moments she said, "It's stilled air, might be some action crosswinds." Her wings flexed a bit and we looked for the petrichor druid chemsign. At range I could pick out just the echo of their craft, the sizzle of their spells registered a bare zero zero DV scale. "Specced it, action's noways near," I thrummed between us. "Sus, though, we're ahead of schedule, let's walk it." She affirmed, and we moved like glass, opened the target pack and specced every step.

Thorns still, sharp rocks earth clay uphill still, air still, but the maddening aquamarine fuzz of rain cluttered my sights. Ari flexed her wings on her thorax again, rocket platforms twitched nervously. "There's too much fizzing," she hissed, picking up my discomfort. Gauss guns on her sensary pointed hither and yon. "Fuck it," I thrummed, "Bact's good, bail." She mounted me from behind and we dug in the dirt, boiled and processed and locked. Branches burst up from earthbound as every spec greenlined on me, and I screamed in sickeningly fractured agony.

I could feel my exo cracking where the branches of an Atlas banyan crushed around three of my legs, pain and fluids pouring out of my body. Had to be a twin trunk, at least. Even my spiracles bled. Jagged shapes stung my left claw and numbed one of my injured legs. I could hear Ari's screeching and felt her weight shift from me to the ground. My specs were greened out in swampfire, I could taste the ozone and my own charred exo, but I was blind.

"I can't scope!" Ari's panic crackled and echoed through my body, fuled the rush of toxic stims and lit up my heat sinks bright from overclock. "I'm on it, I've got guidance," I lied, throwing a narcofilter into com. I dialed in broad spec and fired a wave of chaff, unspooled PDN for mass nightmare. Swapped high-speed into UV infra sonic organize scope range til I could line out the elves. Ari's screeches spiraled in time to hits I felt in my neuron clusters, dirt and rocks rattled from being skywards. Contermanded a second hit of stims in my system, cooled collect.

Instant recovery between the chaff and PDN. The stinging cold geometry faded its intensity on my exo. I experienced the reward of disrupted Atlas' soundscreams enduring the mortifying ordeal of being scoped. Shortburst the dial range to Ari. Caught backflow of her relief. Found the seconds we needed to move.

The Atlases were over halfway out of the soil, still partly wrapped their heavy branches over Ari and me. Quad trunks, fuck. Druid support, double fuck. The fully exposed organizing casters ways off, spec a kilo or two, but their alien decoms were holding up to the PDN. I pulled back to Ari and my pain receptors shut off the instant my legs twisted and shed broken exo like ice, steel grinding itself each movement. I checked her stat. Half a leg and one wing had been torn off. Her body was coated with slick black and green fluid, mixed with white foam. Her secondary leg was intact and functional, but I could see six bad hits from those light spears.

I cut loose a second wave of chaff, narrowed for the type-beta shieldworks from the druids, scattered an arch of green spears - I put my wings and claws out front to do their job just in time to take the secondary hit of jagged blue geometry. My back legs twisted excessively past their limit. The tri-polyplate claws held, mostly, some smoldering layers blasted free and others melted. I tight focused neural disruptors at the Atlases, cut more chaff, joyed at their screams of fear and agony. "Ari, my target." She swayed but unfolded her stabilizer struts, hit one of them with three rockets, a particle shot, and a full sec from the gauss, frosted it's decom and tore up the left half of its body. Glistening dark blue blood exploded across the other two and it laid out, alive but no threat. Heat fins spread wide open white hot underside her wings, her legs. "Casey your fuckin legs they-"

I flickered low beams at the druids, didn't connect but gave em a minute to think, redirected a broad neural disrupt at our six, more encouraging screeches, I filled the crab with the worst of my mind to saturate multiple kilometers in the PDN of my own fears and nightmares. "Ari, not now, cover."

Even on a wing and half a leg she was a beautiful flower of agony, spread of rockets, heavy beams, blistered depslugs streaking from her to seek the druids proved weakest by their alchemical conversion to bright blue explosions of blood and bone. Steamed heavy off her sink. The second Atlas was fighting up through my disrupt. I hit it with a PDN flare mix, and didn't catch the green blue spellwork shield crackling twixt its bark til I had to duke it.

The Altas caught a claw with one limb, put two more into my main body, right center, and I was overwhelmed by the vomit stench of my tissue and exo and endo rupturing, polymuscles shredded, but I boiled my feet in deep with stage one for jump, and got my other claw on its middle trunk. My com was choking garbled but I said, "Ari-" before I felt the left rear third joint sheer and snap.

She was to me before I could waver with her forelegs' high beam up to max in its face. Light hotter than stars burst the banyan into three flaming pieces, sheer through the trunk, bloodless, charred beyond recognition in a second. She buzzed me. "We can't stay." The last of the Atlases was pulling a highdef organized multiplier out of the earth. Looked like pine tree trunk but carried in a single limb. I specced another Atlas closing. One good HDOM shot would dust my armor. One bad shot would vaporize Ari. "You're right."

I tried to spool up, but the PDN was dead, so I blasted chaff along the ground in front of the Atlas. Give it some hot shrapnel to work through, dialed the rest for max dispersal, and cut three quarters skyward. "Grab a lift," I snarled and she was on me. "And set your main."

The earth churned and my legs threatened to give, but held. "Case. I tried that last week, rec? I couldn't hit shit."

"Yeah. You tried it. We didn't." I hit the jump, we caught sky.

Ari's limbs folded around my body, and her remaining claws clamped, support struts pierced my exo secondary limbs unfolded to add more stability. She shifted the main rifle forward from inside her thorax and opened the remaining wing, heat vents fully extended, coolant spraying out of her wounds as it pumped triple time through her sinks. Her thorax flexed heavy with breath and the gun's wiring and nerve rigs flushed the scent of her excited musk around us. I wrapped my three remaining legs up over my body and clung to her, spun us with my wings on our axis. We had a beautiful aerial view of the remains of our own ambush, our legs fallen close like hands of dying lovers.

The main gun of the wasp would not be possible to see if we had human eyes. A three stage system requiring the finest care with aiming and multiple stabilizers to the firing platform ensuring a clean hit, combined with full heat dispersal for blowback. It would break up shield and decoms, disruptors and polyplate, followed instantly by a particle beam depslug mixture.

I wrapped my claws over her cockpit segment and she fired. The slug obliterated the Atlas, its multiplier detonating and spraying organized green spears haphazardly with blue geometry. The drop target went up and threw a cloud of concentrated bacto over what looked like eight kilometers. I saw the beam digging a canyon through the earth moments before the bacteria and debris blacked the site.

We were thrown, I lost a second leg and both wings. Deaf to coms. My chaff clattered off us, shredded our armor. The full thorax and both of Ari's rear legs were torn away by recoil and a furnace blast of overheating power couplings as I held fiercely, even when my left claw was cleanly severed by the last flash of the beam and my main body punctured and boiled by her shrapnel. I realized I wasn't deaf, I simply was unable to hear anything except Ari screaming and lost valuable seconds - nothing to see but sky and only rushing air over our spinning bodies.

I jetted waste from my secondary vents, they spat angrily but caught air. Risked it, held Ari with my only two legs and put my claw between us and the freight train rush up on drop target three. I hoped enough was left of her to hear me shout, "Impact Impact Impact!"

The ground was very wide and very fast and black. It was-

Nothing. Black.

Casey. Casey. You need to get up.

"Casey," Ari's hiss was a near inaudible comm. "Casey please... I can't move my legs."

I specced, half blind, dialed it through. There was a flicker of distant green. Move. I felt joints and plastic muscle, raw tissue and white foam dig the earth, I moved in a little circle. The drop ship was waiting - no pilot, just auto for a grunt mission in and out.

"I'm up," I lied to Ari. She hissed, "I know you aren't." I specced myself. One leg could move, claw somehow intact, thank you polyplate. Other legs just partial joints, trailed their hydraulics and burned nerves. Quarter chopped off the rear platform. "Am so," I thrummed and put my claw in the ground, levered. Slid my partial legs underneath and my one good one up. "I'm up." I started pushing myself along the earth.

Felt like dragging the big protein drums on kitchen duty, couldn't lift much as rock myself back and forward one side at a time. I found what was left of Ari.

"How's it look," she hissed. One of her two remaining legs was shattered in half a dozen places, congealed foam doing nothing for the fluid leaks. Her other leg might last. Sensary might even be salvageable. There were holes gaping in her deformed cockpit, gel and blood oozing through cracks. "Looks great," I thrummed. "You lost so much weight."

Her laugh wheezed. "You got one good leg Ari, I need you to hitch a ride." She fumbled in the mud and found the tattered edge of my exo, dragged herself half onto what was left of my main body, and I pushed. Her voice was distant now, "Hey Case, remember that night fight, we jumped a bunch of elves with a flashblind."

Just a few meters. "Yeah, pretty funny. Guess they remembered us." She wheezed again, her comm was rattling. "And that time we used ice for heat sig?" My claw hit metal. I strained on the loading ramp without traction. "That was pretty good too, yeah." Fuck it. I grabbed one of the less important control struts and heaved, pulled. Felt my innards and Ari slither along metal, almost home. One more pull. "Hey Casey, hey. Remember when the fuckin elves ambushed us with our same dumb ideas and you thought I should shoot em on the jump."

I punched the recall code, the hatch cranked shut, dumped the tangled mess of our bodies into the drop bay. Acceleration crushed us. "Yeah Ari, that wasn't the best idea ever." The rig loomed up. "Right Ari? I'm an idiot." The comm was quiet.

We were in the bay and I was in a pool of sludge. I could feel my legs and arms and bruises and my own real blood on my face. I could walk and and almost stand, crawling clambering falling down the lift stairs before the tech could say anything. He slipped after me, clutched railing and tried to keep his footing in the mucus as I went sidewinding to our sad and shattered shells, tech prying open the jaws of Ari's with hydraulic levers.

I shoved through as the seal cracked, reek of poisoned atmos and stagnant amniogel, the snap of bone and it fell open, pouring Ari onto the hanger floor, washed up against me. I was on my knees, she was in my arms. Bone showed through one of her broken legs and a bloody hole in her ribs frothed blood. Her bottom lip split so bad I could see her shattered teeth sticking through it. Blood from her ears, nose, eyes, whole body a contour map of bruises.

Ari's one good eye cracked and she gurgled wet and rough, "You look like shit, Case." She spit blood.

"Told you. No excuses bitch."

"Fuck. No exchs." Nitrile gloved hands pulled us apart, and meds were shoving tubes into her, slapping dermals on her. They had a stretcher. Someone shone a light in my eye, I felt the cold slap of a dermal on my shoulder blade. "No excuses," I slurred as loud as I could. He said, "You shouldn't be standing up." I didn't know if Ari could hear. "I'm gonna be waiting!" They hit me with another dermal and goodnight.

It was like that for awhile, before I could go back to my bunk. Lot of debrief, I got a commendation, which mostly meant some extra cash in my account if I lived to spend it. Some looks. DeeDee came by and said "Mad respect." Scatter stopped in with some nearly not paint thinner whiskey. Squad leader came in and chewed me out. Then some days in my smaller, worse bed. I lay on my clothes and punched back painkillers and beauties, then got out of my space and flipped the latch on Ari's room to get into hers.

It looked the same. Laundry unlaundered, whiffs of fermented sweat and sex, crumpled up wrappers for hot sauce, thermalprint hentai, congealed shampoo and soap blocks. I held a tanktop to my face and inhaled, poked around her trash listlessly til I saw a scrap of print. Her last psyche, pages of red and yellow, warnings cautions, parts of it printed red on black. I banged out of her room with it clenched in my hot fist, storming along the counter spin corridors to Ring 2.

Medical. Deep breath. I pushed the door in and gave Ari the biggest smile I could muster and she asked, "Oh no. What's wrong," from where she was still ensconced in tubes to keep her lungs working while the biogels slowly closed her skin over. "What do you mean, what's wrong," I forgot to separte teeth for talking. Maybe a couple weeks before she was walking wounded. "You got a smile like you dropped a battery pack on your foot."

She looked better with her lips stitched back together. Her new front teeth were steel. I blinked and shook and pursed my lips so I wouldn't snarl when I unfolded the psyche chart she'd left balled up under her desk. Needles prickled along my feverish forehead. Tried to find words as she shifted her eyes away from mine and just said, "Oh. That."

I dropped it on her stomach. "Why? You could've- It... Why?" I've been called poetic in my time.

Ari started to bite her lip then stopped. Rubbed her eyes with her palms. "Ow. Everything hurts - Casey, what are you gonna do when you get outta here?"

"Because you can- Huh?" I blinked several more times rapidly. "Uh, I dunno. Little place with some twenty-threes? Maybe a dog? Nothing too special, just wanted a shot at like... living yeah?"

"But you think about it and... y'know, you see something?"

"Yeah, I guess, I mean a little. Who knows?"

She shut her eyes. "Well I didn't see anything." Squeezed her eyes. "I didn't think I'd- Case, I didn't come here for a shot at living. I... didn't see that. That idea." Tears slipped out of her eyes and she grimaced, shoved her hands against them. "I never planned to live that long," her breath hitched.

I didn't know what to do with my hands, whether to move over to her, or what. I nodded to her closed eyes, felt stupid. "Ari, I'd, uh, like it if you did."

She let out a long breath and opened damp eyes. "That's what, I mean, I met you. It's been good, and like. I realized I had started thinking about it."

"Thinking about it?"

"About being alive. Somewhere there, I mean, like, I thought about that I might want a future if it had you in it. And I guess I freaked about the idea it might not happen, and I wanted to keep you somewhere safe where I wasn't going to mess that up."

I folded my arms. "Ari, I fucking swear." She looked back at me. "I don't care how much it hurts, move the fuck over right now, I'm gonna hug you so bad you break another four ribs."

She slid a bit, and I managed to half lay in the bed around the IV tubes. I managed not to break her ribs. Big, stupid and hot tears dripped down my cheeks and nose as I squeezed, then grabbed her hands in mine. "Every day you wake up. I'll give you that future. You might not see yourself and that's okay because you'll see me, and I hope that's enough."

"I kinda kinda love you bitch," I clutched her tight. She kissed me, stitches rough against my lips, and smiled as she did. "You can stay," she said.

"I'll stay." And I did.

[mybeingthere]

Designs and colours of shells are wonderous - a true mystery of nature.

Here the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute explains the technology of shell-building. Yes, I understand everything, but it is still a wonder. Images are from various internet archives.

"Where do shells come from? The animals make them. Mollusks have an outermost layer of tissue on their bodies. Called the mantle, this layer connects the animal to its shell. The mantle also creates that shell.

Specialized cells in the mantle build the shell using proteins and minerals. These are secreted—released into the space outside the cells. There, the proteins create a framework that provides support for the growing shell. The proteins in the framework also determine which minerals are used in specific parts of the shell.

Calcium carbonate, the main mineral found in shells (including eggshells), binds to the protein. If you have ever seen construction workers build with concrete, this is similar. The protein is like the steel rebar that gives shape and support. Calcium carbonate is like the cement that fills in all the gaps.

Calcium carbonate can form two different types of crystals. One is called calcite. This incredibly common crystal can be found all over the world. Calcite makes up chalk, marble, coral, limestone—and seashells. The other form is aragonite. This crystal has a different arrangement of calcium carbonate. Both calcite and aragonite are found in seashells.

A mollusk’s shell has three layers. Each is made up of similar materials. But how those materials are arranged gives them each a different look and feel. The outermost layer is mostly protein. It’s often rough and may have bumps or spikes. Proteins in the middle layer cause calcium carbonate to form calcite crystals. These fill in the spaces, making the shell tough to break.

The innermost layer is the one in contact with the mantle. It’s a smooth, iridescent layer called nacre or mother-of-pearl. Nacre is made up of protein and calcium carbonate. But it looks and feels completely different from other parts of the shell. That’s because the mantle secretes different proteins for different layers. Different proteins cause calcium carbonate to crystallize in different ways. Those used in the middle layer create calcite. Those used in the innermost layer create aragonite.

As the animal grows, its shell must grow along with it. This happens along the outer edges. A snail adds to its shell around the opening, where it pokes its head out. For a clam or mussel, it’s the outer edges where the two shells separate. The result is growth rings, like those in a tree, that allow us to measure a mollusk’s age.

When the animal inside dies, its shell is gradually pounded against the rocks and sand. Over time, shells break down. They become part of the sand. White beaches have sand made almost entirely of tiny bits of shells."

[hirocimacruiser]

Thorough comparison of JGTC vehicles

M・S war in the GT300 class

Mitsubishi and Subaru continue to engage in a fierce battle in the WRC, but there is a feeling that a new battle will take place at the JGTC, which has moved to the circuit. Cusco Racing entered the GT300 class a little earlier than last year with the Impreza, which has poured its know-how into building dirt trial class vehicles. On the other hand, Mitsubishi has started entering entries this season with FTOs made by Ralliart, with engines by HKS and chassis by Nova. Let's do a thorough comparison.

Photography: Shinji Takizawa/Takahito Naito/Satoshi Kamimura Interview cooperation: Cusco/Nova Engineering Photography cooperation: Fuji Speedway

The Mitsubishi/Subaru war breaks out even at JGTC, which is currently the most popular!

The most interesting race in Japan today is the GT Championship. In this year's GT

championship Mitsubishi and Subaru face off.

Noda. Subaru started accepting entries last year with the Cusco Subaru Impreza.

The vehicle uses a 2-door coupe body. Since Cusco (Carrosse) specializes in producing dirt track D vehicles (unlimited modification class), they utilize their D vehicle know-how and develop their own machines, although the engines are supplied by STI. Mitsubishi, on the other hand, is the Taeivon FTO, which has started entry from this year. Basic design by Mitsubishi modified by Ralliart. HKS, which has been working on Mitsubishi's motorsports engines for a ling time was in charge of the engine, and Nova Engineering, which has worked on race cars in all categories including top formulas, was in charge of the chassis. As you can see from this, the Cusco Impreza is a pure privateer, but the Taeivon FTO is a private car with factory support.

-The dark brown color is very strong.

Now, when I compare the construction of these two machines, I notice something interesting. Both have a normal FF or 4WD drive layout from factory. However, the drive layout chosen for each GT model is FF for the FTO and FR for the Impreza. If both had around 300 PS of horsepower, they would have chosen the lightweight and simple option over 4WD traction. However, since the FTO is a horizontally mounted engine, unless you choose 4WD, the only option is FF. How much is 300PS?

However, FF, where steering and drive transmission are handled by two wheels, and rear drive, where each wheel is separate, are at a considerable disadvantage in terms of tire wear.

However, knowing this, FTO chose FF. On the other hand, Subaru's horizontally opposed 4-cylinder FR engine is longitudinally installed, so it easily becomes an FR engine that is not found in production cars. Furthermore, the engine is compact and has a low center of gravity, so the layout clearly gives the Impreza an advantage in terms of balance.

As for the engine, both are 2L turbos.

FTO is handled by HKS, but basically WRC for group A. Since the Impreza is also supplied by STI, its performance is probably quite similar. By the way, the nominal values ​​from each team are 300 PS/40 kg-m for FTO and 320 PS or more/35 kg-m for Impreza.

However, when it comes to the chassis, both cars have been created using different approaches. As I wrote earlier, the Cusco Impreza was built using the know-how of dirt trial D-class vehicles. There are no restrictions on modification of D vehicles. At Cusco, we are using this unlimited know-how to run on dirt to create vehicles that fit within the framework of the GT Championship. The chassis is mainly reinforced with pipes. Rather than a monocoque frame, it is more appropriate to call it a pipe frame covered with a steel shell. The structure is such that all suspension input is received by the pipe. That's why there are pipes running along the floor.

On the other hand, the Taeivon FTO is naturally reinforced with pipes, but it is also connected to the normal monocoque with steel plates, making it a semi-monocoque, and adding carbon to increase body rigidity. This area is circuit racing, and it is unique to Nova, which handles formula racing.

Suspension is according to regulations

Although no changes are allowed, other modifications may be made.

You can call it freedom, and both cars have completely different suspension systems from the commercially available cars. In order to accommodate the huge 18-inch tires and to keep the vehicle height as low as possible, the wheel house was changed to something completely different, and the engine was mounted as low as possible at the rear. Naturally, the members are also original and produced. Therefore, the mounting position, or geometry, of the suspension arm can be changed freely, and It has been moved to a position suitable for running on the circuit, and of course the arms and uprights have also been made specifically for it.

Now, which of these two cars is faster? Looking at the first round of this season, Suzuka, the FTO showed a fast run that would be hard to believe in its debut race, and managed to finish in 3rd place (Round 2 at Fuji canceled). Objectively, FTO, which is participating in the race for the first time this season and can be called a works model, has an advantage.

Perhaps, but with Impreza's good balance and Cusco's vehicle manufacturing know-how, we can expect a heated battle in Future GT.

I can't take my eyes off the championship.

_____________________________________________

CUSCO SUBARU IMPREZA

ENGINE & DRIVE-TRAIN

①The huge aluminum core is arranged in two stages, with the intercooler on the top and the radiator on the bottom. The thickness of the radiator in particular is surprising when compared to the stock one. (2) The right-hand light serves as an air intake, and the air is guided through a duct to the turbine set in front of the engine. (3,4) If you look closely at the piping, you can see the aluminum pipe extending from the radiator to the bulkhead. This is led through the interior to the water-cooled transmission and differential oil cooler. Incidentally, the engine control unit is installed indoors together with the data logger. (5) the transmission is Hewland's sequential gearbox. Even though it doesn't have a bellhousing, it's very compact.

⑥ When you remove the rear suspension arm and brake, you'll see a reinforcement made of a lot of aluminum, and behind that you can see the differential.

AERO PARTS

① The front spoiler is the type that has recently become mainstream, with large side gills that generate downforce. The air intake has slits that distribute air to the radiator and intercooler, which have two upper and lower stages. ②The front hood is dominated by a huge air outlet. ③Equipped with a huge slitted wing on the rear that combines two wings. ④The rear bumper appears to be of normal shape, but you can see the aluminum vertical plate of the diffuser underneath.

SUSPENSION & BRAKE

①The front wheel house has a huge Brembo caliper and rotor that makes the suspension almost invisible. The arms are of course remade with pipes, and the links are rose joints. ② The rear is the same, but the shock and the parts that connect the shock and upright are compared to those on the market.

It looks like it's strangely sturdy. ③④ The front stabilizer is installed above and behind the engine (perhaps this is a measure to mount the engine low?), so the input from the suspension is via a long rod.

COCKPIT

① Increase body strength by creating a semi-pipe frame with a roll cage. Therefore, bars are not only strung above and along the sides, but are also set along the floor and welded at strategic points. ② The transmission is sequential and has a special lever (maybe the linkage has been removed due to maintenance?). ③Switches and indicators are arranged on the center console that protrudes according to the seat position. ④The seat is moved back considerably and fixed in a very low position. The instrument panel itself remains normal. ⑤ The meter is equipped with a digital type on the steering wheel column. The steering wheel and pedals are also selected to match the seat.

_____________________________________________

The Mitsubishi/Subaru war breaks out even at JGTC, which is currently the most popular!

The most interesting race in Japan today is the GT Championship. In this year's GT championship Mitsubishi and Subaru face off.

Noda. Subaru started accepting entries last year with the Cusco Subaru Impreza.

The vehicle uses a 2-door coupe body. Since Cusco (Carrosse) specializes in producing dirt track D vehicles (unlimited modification class), they utilize their D vehicle know-how and develop their own machines, although the engines are supplied by STI. Mitsubishi, on the other hand, is the Taeivon FTO, which has started entry from this year. Basic design by Mitsubishi modified by Ralliart. HKS, which has been working on Mitsubishi's motorsports engines for a ling time was in charge of the engine, and Nova Engineering, which has worked on race cars in all categories including top formulas, was in charge of the chassis. As you can see from this, the Cusco Impreza is a pure privateer, but the Taeivon FTO is a private car with factory support.

-The dark brown color is very strong.

Now, when I compare the construction of these two machines, I notice something interesting. Both have a normal FF or 4WD drive layout from factory. However, the drive layout chosen for each GT model is FF for the FTO and FR for the Impreza. If both had around 300 PS of horsepower, they would have chosen the lightweight and simple option over 4WD traction. However, since the FTO is a horizontally mounted engine, unless you choose 4WD, the only option is FF. How much is 300PS?

However, FF, where steering and drive transmission are handled by two wheels, and rear drive, where each wheel is separate, are at a considerable disadvantage in terms of tire wear.

However, knowing this, FTO chose FF. On the other hand, Subaru's horizontally opposed 4-cylinder FR engine is longitudinally installed, so it easily becomes an FR engine that is not found in production cars. Furthermore, the engine is compact and has a low center of gravity, so the layout clearly gives the Impreza an advantage in terms of balance.

As for the engine, both are 2L turbos.

FTO is handled by HKS, but basically WRC for group A. Since the Impreza is also supplied by STI, its performance is probably quite similar. By the way, the nominal values ​​from each team are 300 PS/40 kg-m for FTO and 320 PS or more/35 kg-m for Impreza.

However, when it comes to the chassis, both cars have been created using different approaches. As I wrote earlier, the Cusco Impreza was built using the know-how of dirt trial D-class vehicles. There are no restrictions on modification of D vehicles. At Cusco, we are using this unlimited know-how to run on dirt to create vehicles that fit within the framework of the GT Championship. The chassis is mainly reinforced with pipes. Rather than a monocoque frame, it is more appropriate to call it a pipe frame covered with a steel shell. The structure is such that all suspension input is received by the pipe. That's why there are pipes running along the floor.

On the other hand, the Taeivon FTO is naturally reinforced with pipes, but it is also connected to the normal monocoque with steel plates, making it a semi-monocoque, and adding carbon to increase body rigidity. This area is circuit racing, and it is unique to Nova, which handles formula racing.

Suspension is according to regulations

Although no changes are allowed, other modifications may be made.

You can call it freedom, and both cars have completely different suspension systems from the commercially available cars. In order to accommodate the huge 18-inch tires and to keep the vehicle height as low as possible, the wheel house was changed to something completely different, and the engine was mounted as low as possible at the rear. Naturally, the members are also original and produced. Therefore, the mounting position, or geometry, of the suspension arm can be changed freely, and It has been moved to a position suitable for running on the circuit, and of course the arms and uprights have also been made specifically for it.

Now, which of these two cars is faster? Looking at the first round of this season, Suzuka, the FTO showed a fast run that would be hard to believe in its debut race, and managed to finish in 3rd place (Round 2 at Fuji canceled). Objectively, FTO, which is participating in the race for the first time this season and can be called a works model, has an advantage.

Perhaps, but with Impreza's good balance and Cusco's vehicle manufacturing know-how, we can expect a heated battle in Future GT.

I can't take my eyes off the championship

_____________________________________________

TAEIVON TRAMPIO FTO

FISCO race information

I photographed these two cars on the practice day for the second round of the GT Championship, which was held at FISCO on May 3rd. By the way, the next big race to be held at FISCO is the third round of Formula Nippon on May 31st. This year's F Pon competition is fierce. Let's go to FISCO to watch the heated battle. Inquiries: Fuji Speedway ☎03-3409-2365

AERO PARTS

① The outer shell of the Taeivon FTO was designed by the designer of the commercial FTO car. The original FTO design was utilized, such as using the hole for the turn signal as an air intake for the brake, and the design was made more functional. ②The front hood outlet is also well designed. The opening is small, but it seems to come through easily. ③Although the rear wing is large, it looks like it could be attached to a production car as is. It will also be equipped with the Delta Wicker found on the Lan Evo. ④⑤ The underside of the body is covered with an all-carbon undercover, and the rear under spoiler finally functions as a diffuser to increase down force.

SUSPENSION & BRAKE

①②③The front and rear brakes are Brembo, which is standard for GT cars. Although it is a FF, the rear brake capacity is also quite large. The suspension is formally the same as normal, but the mounting position, arm shape, and upright are completely race-specific.The shock with reservoir tank is a double spring specification with a helper spring. (4,5) Inner Fender has been completely rebuilt to accommodate the huge tires. Also, the reinforcement near the strut upper, which is the apex, is like a semi-monocoque made of iron plates, and it seems to be extremely rigid.

ENGINE

(1) There have been some modifications such as cutting the flange, but a normal EX manifold with a heat shield is included. The turbine is also basically normal. This is because the engine itself has a displacement of 2026 cc, which is essentially a WRC Group A car engine. A wire mesh is placed over the right headlight, which serves as an intake to the turbine. Since the nose is low, the intake cooler and oil cooler are mounted horizontally. The engine control is surprisingly Motech. The unit is fixed near the footwell on the passenger side (right side). You can see the machined aluminum stay behind the piping to mount the engine, and the finish is very beautiful.

COCKPIT

① Although the roll cage has a large number of bars, different pipe diameters are used to prevent unnecessary weight increase. (2) However, for the part that needs to be strong, from the roof to the A-pillar, the roll cage and body are connected with a steel plate and made into a box shape to increase strength. ③ Since the vehicle height is low and there is an undercover, the thick exhaust pipe for the turbo has nowhere to go and is pushed up towards the floor. Nearby again! Car is equipped with ballast that takes into account weight balance. ④ Switches that match the receding seats are housed in the carbon center console, which also includes switches for the electric mirrors and power windows. (5) The carbon door has a normal lining...

[hemipenal-system]

Valor

Everyone gives Pilots and Handlers all the credit. I mean, obviously. They're the ones on the front lines, behind the guns, on all the propaganda posters and in the movies. When people think of Front efforts, they think of a Pilot in a snappy skintight jumpsuit and a Handler with an earpiece working together to control the massive machines.

In the mistranslated words of Sun Tzu, "The line between order and disorder lies in logistics." That's where Scuttlers come in.

Sure, the Handlers protect and maintain the Pilots, but someone has to take care of the actual mech itself. Someone has to unscrew, buff, and replace its damaged armor plating. Someone has to load another set of shells into the main cannon, each shell weighing more than the average Pilot. Hell, old mechs have top-access cockpits. Someone has to climb onto the mech and extricate the poor broken thing, holding it delicately in external manipulators, silicone fingertips caressing its forehead and telling it that it's okay while scaling down the mech to deliver it to its waiting Handler.

Scuttlers work behind the scenes, keeping everything running. No dopamine conditioning, no mental linkage, just a quadruple set of four foot industrial arms worn like a backpack, connected through a tiny neurosleeve plugged into a port in the left armpit.

Arms is a loose term. The external limbs react entirely to the wearer's brain, no onboard system necessary, but that's where the similarities end. Each limb is carbon steel, able to lift upwards of three hundred pounds and precise enough to stack dominoes and play cards with. The hands are entirely swappable, too, and some Scuttlers just keep their auxiliary tools on all the time, using the welders and cutting saws enough to justify it.

Scuttlers don't get any conditioning – only a three day instruction course on how to use and care for their external limbs. In theory, this makes them less dangerous than a Pilot or its Handler, but anyone who thinks that hasn't ever pissed off one of them and woken up at night to a foot on their chest holding them down, circular saw spinning at full speed an inch from their throat. Human brains, unaltered, don't necessarily take stress and disrespect any better than Pilots do.

Scuttlers love Pilots, though, just as much as they absolutely despise Handlers. They see the similarities between themselves and Pilots. Just as a Pilot looks for a targeting interface when they're out of the mech, Scuttlers often find themselves reaching for something with a hand they're not wearing. Pilots, for the most part, see Scuttlers as a sort of caretaker, repairing their second bodies, and are fascinated with their ability to control all the arms without any machine assistance. Handlers practically never remember they exist.

The rare Handler who remembers the Scuttlers exist and treats them kindly quickly becomes a favorite on the company, finding snacks and flowers and sometimes even love notes on their desks when they arrive for work. Should they pursue said notes, they find out quickly how close the Scuttlers all are with each other – and how versatile those external hands can be.

[rwby-encrusted-blog]

RWBY vs KRML

Ruby: *Twirls CR* Well Hello There~

Meliny: *Loading Budge* Um. Hi?

Ruby: Oh! Sorry, I was talking to the Gun!

~~~~~

Meliny: Does that thing get heavy?

Ruby: Nah, my Baby it perfectly weighted~

Meliny: Cool.

~~~~~

Weiss: *Cycles Dust* Hello Remington. You seem well.

Remi: *Flourishing Levy* I am Feeling Better. It is a Pleasure to see you again.

Weiss: That is excellent News. I ... I had missed you. It's good to see you as well.

~~~~~

Remi: *Loading his Revolvers* Hey, Weiss, I want to apologize for being so Abrasive when we last saw each other. These guys have really Helped me come out of my shell.

Weiss: *Curtsy* Yeah, My team has tdone the same for me. You're forgiven.

Remi: I'm Forgiven? That Easy? Alright then! Let's Roll!

~~~~~

Blake: *Swings in* You must Be Marigold. I've heard a fair amount about you.

Marigold: *Stands Tall, Points sword at Blake* Aye! And a little Birdie told me you were one them Belladonnas! Seem our Reputations precede us.!

Blake: ... And Now I've heard From you. Hi.

~~~~~

Marigold: *Accidently sets off Hookshot, retracts it* Heya Catsup! How's the Family?

Blake: I could ask you the same question, Privateer.

Marigold: ... So that's how We're going at it, Aye?

~~~~~

Yang: *Punches Knuckles, Burn ignites* Wil, Wil, Wil, Look Who we've got here!

Wilhelm: *Nocks Bolt* Oh? Xiao-Long You been hanging onto that one?

Yang: Haha! Looks like we got a fight on hands!

~~~~~

Wilhelm: *Raps Crossbow against Shield* Come and GET SOME BLONDIE!

Yang: *Riding in on Bmblb* WITH THIS ENERGY! GLADLY!

Wilhelm: THIS BATTLE SHALL BE ONE OF LEGEND!

~~~~

Bonus

Ruby: *Petal bursts in* Ooh! Are those Dual Chamber Dust infusion Revolvers?

Remi: *Loading Revolvers* Yep! That's a custom scythe, yeah? That Blade collapsing mechanism seems really tough for how thin it is!

Ruby: Ah, Thank you! My baby is my pride and joy!

Remi: Yeah, Well my pals here are some of my finest work - the most consistent and versatile tools I have! Carbon steel blade edge-

Ruby: With a custom Steel/Aluminum mixture for Weight, Strength, and-

Both: Heat sinking, because repeated firing increases weight of wear and results in damage to the edge of the blade unless the barrel is properly cooled ...

NO CONTEST

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

NASA's Roman space telescope's 'exoskeleton' whirls through major test

A major component of NASA's Nancy Grace Roman Space Telescope just took a spin on the centrifuge at NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center in Greenbelt, Maryland. Called the Outer Barrel Assembly, this piece of the observatory is designed to keep the telescope at a stable temperature and shield it from stray light.

The two-part spin test took place in a large, round test chamber. Stretching across the room, a 600,000-pound (272,000-kilogram) steel arm extends from a giant rotating bearing in the center of the floor.

The test itself is like a sophisticated version of a popular carnival attraction, designed to apply centrifugal force to the rider—in this case, the outer covering for Roman's telescope. It spun up to 18.4 rotations per minute. That may not sound like much, but it generated force equivalent to just over seven times Earth's gravity, or 7 g, and sent the assembly whipping around at 80 miles per hour.

"We couldn't test the entire Outer Barrel Assembly in the centrifuge in one piece because it's too large to fit in the room," said Jay Parker, product design lead for the assembly at Goddard. The structure stands about 17 feet (5 meters) tall and is about 13.5 feet (4 meters) wide. "It's designed a bit like a house on stilts, so we tested the 'house' and 'stilts' separately."

The "stilts" went first. Technically referred to as the elephant stand because of its similarity to structures used in circuses, this part of the assembly is designed to surround Roman's Wide Field Instrument and Coronagraph Instrument like scaffolding. It connects the upper portion of the Outer Barrel Assembly to the spacecraft bus, which will maneuver the observatory to its place in space and support it while there. The elephant stand was tested with weights attached to it to simulate the rest of the assembly's mass.

Next, the team tested the "house"—the shell and a connecting ring that surrounds the telescope. These parts of the assembly will ultimately be fitted with heaters to help ensure the telescope's mirrors won't experience wide temperature swings, which make materials expand and contract.

To further protect against temperature fluctuations, the Outer Barrel Assembly is mainly made of two types of carbon fibers mixed with reinforced plastic and connected with titanium end fittings. These materials are both stiff (so they won't warp or flex during temperature swings) and lightweight (reducing launch demands).

If you could peel back the side of the upper portion –– the house's "siding" –– you'd see another weight-reducing measure. Between the inner and outer panels, the material is structured like a honeycomb. This pattern is very strong and lowers weight by hollowing out portions of the interior.

Designed at Goddard and built by Applied Composites in Los Alamitos, California, Roman's Outer Barrel Assembly was delivered in pieces and then put together in a series of crane lifts in Goddard's largest clean room. It was partially disassembled for centrifuge testing, but will now be put back together and integrated with Roman's solar panels and Deployable Aperture Cover at the end of the year.

In 2025, these freshly integrated components will go through thermal vacuum testing together to ensure they will withstand the temperature and pressure environment of space. Then they'll move to a shake test to make sure they will hold up against the vibrations they'll experience during launch. Toward the end of next year, they will be integrated with the rest of the observatory.

IMAGE: This structure, called the Outer Barrel Assembly, will surround and protect NASA’s Nancy Grace Roman Space Telescope from stray light that could interfere with its observations. In this photo, engineers prepare the assembly for testing. Credit: NASA/Chris Gunn

[theoutcastrogue]

7+1 Classic American Pocket Knives

1) Toothpick, slipjoint folding knife, white plastic scales (shell knife, aka Handle Knife Patent), nickel silver bolsters, slender clip-point blade a.k.a. toothpick (not to be confused with the Arkansas toothpick, which is an ironically named humongous knife). Tang stamp "COLONIAL PAT No. 231064", 11 cm closed, 20th century (mid-20th, maybe?)

2) Fish knife, slipjoint folding knife, cracked marble celluloid handle with a fish-shaped shield, nickel silver bolsters, carbon blades: 1 clip-point and 1 saw/hook-remover/bottle-opener. Tang stamp "Imperial PROV. USA", 12.5 cm closed, c. 1946-1956.

3) TL-29 a.k.a. electricians knife, linerlock folding knife, rosewood handle with brass inset "TL-29" and lanyard ring, nickel silver bolster, brass liners, carbon steel blades: 1 spear-point and 1 wire-stripper/flat screwdriver. The name stands for "Tool, Lineman, number 29", originally from the U.S. Army Signal Corps. Tang stamp on the ricasso "CAMILLUS NEW YORK", and on the blade "TO RELEASE PUSH CENTER LOCK TO LEFT", 9.5 cm closed, circa 1960s.

4) Trapper, slipjoint folding knife, dark red bone (peach seed jig) handle with nickel silver shield "CASE", nickel silver bolsters, brass liners, chrome vanadium carbon blades: 1 clip-point and 1 spey. A Case model #31950 CV. Tang stamp on main blade "CASE XX" and 8 dots for date, and on the spey blade "USA 6254 CV), 10.5 cm closed, 2022.

5) Engineers knife, slipjoint folding knife, jigged bone handle with steel shield "USA" and lanyard ring, steel bolsters and liners, carbon steel blades: 1 spear-point, 1 bottle-opener/flat screwdriver, 1 punch, 1 can-opener. Identical pattern with an ubiquitous camping knife, later adopted for the U.S. Army Engineers. Tang stamp "CAMILLUS CUTLERY CO. CAMILLUS N.Y. USA" (4 lines), 9.3 cm closed, 1942-1945.

6) Buck 110 a.k.a. "Hunter", lockback folding knife, ebony handle, brass bolsters, stainless steel blade. Tang stamp "BUCK 110 USA" and date symbol, 12.3 cm closed, 2018.

7) Barlow, slipjoint folding knife, derlin (synthetic) handle, nickel silver bolster with fancy scroll work, carbon steel blades: 1 clip-point and 1 pen-blade. A Schrade #206, a.k.a. "Grand-dad's barlow". Tang stamp "SCHRADE USA 206", 8.5 cm closed, 1976-1983.

+1) Hunting knife or "Bowie knife", full tang fixed blade knife, jigged bone handle, carbon steel blade. The outlier, neither American nor a pocket knife, but made for the American market and advertised as a "bowie-knife" *, with its iconic clip-point blade. Tang stamp on the ricasso "ALFRED WILLIAMS SHEFFIELD ENGLAND", and on the blade "EBRO" between two Maltese crosses, 22 cm total, circa 1890-1920.

* For collectors, a "bowie" is a knife made for carrying (as opposed to keeping in your kitchen or toolshed), for the American market (regardless of where it was manufactured, the most famous ones are indeed from Sheffield), and somewhat arbitrarily, from 1827 to 1865 (from the Sandbar Fight to the end of the American Civil War). A more generous date range goes to the end of the 19th century, from 1827 to 1900. Everything else is up in the air: it can be big or small, simple or fancy, fixed blade or folding, with a clip-point or dagger or any other blade pattern, and of any materials. Today most people associate the term with a large fixed blade knife with an intense clip-point blade, regardless of when and where it was made.

P.S. I'm missing a stockman knife, and I want very specifically a Case medium stockman with clip, spey and sheepfoot blades, and a nice bone handle (pattern stamp 6318SS).

[bouncinghedgehog]

DID YOU KNOW? This is what an oil platform looks like before being submerged in the ocean.

The largest object in the world is made of concrete.

Wonders of engineering.

The record-holding largest object in the world is built of concrete. It is the Troll A marine platform, which extracts gas in the North Sea.

It is owned by Shell Oil and is the heaviest object ever transported by water from where it was constructed, on the coast, to its final location in the sea.

It was completed in 1991 and was moved by 10 ships over several days. It weighs 1,050,000 tons, and its construction used 245,000 cubic meters of concrete and approximately 100,000 tons of reinforced steel.

The Troll A in the North Sea is located 80 kilometers offshore northwest of Bergen, Norway. The platform is the largest ever transported, weighing 683,600 tons and standing 472 meters tall. The Troll A belongs to the gravity base foundations, meaning it rests on the seabed due to its weight. The construction of the platform cost $650 million at the time.

The Troll A platform is a milestone in engineering and has set several records in the Guinness Book. In 1996, it set the record as the largest oil platform in the world, a record later surpassed by the Petronius platform. In 2006, singer Katie Melua held a concert at its base, setting the record for the deepest underwater concert, 303 meters below sea level.

The Troll A platform has contributed to Norway's economic development, as the country is one of the world's largest exporters of natural gas. Additionally, the platform has helped reduce carbon dioxide emissions and improve air quality, as natural gas is a cleaner alternative compared to coal or diesel.

The technology used in the construction and operation of the Troll A platform has been revolutionary. Shell has developed technology to produce, liquefy, store, and offload gas onto floating liquefied natural gas carriers (FLNG) at sea. These advanced technologies allow access to remote natural gas fields and serve larger fields with various FLNG installations.

The environmental impact of the Troll A platform has been minimized thanks to directional drilling, which has played a crucial role in accessing the Troll field while simultaneously reducing environmental impact. Directional drilling tools provide real-time data to guide the drilling process, ensuring precise well placement.

In summary, the Troll A in the North Sea is a natural gas extraction platform owned by Shell that has contributed to Norway's economic development and helped reduce carbon dioxide emissions and improve air quality. The technology used in its construction and operation has been revolutionary and has minimized environmental impact.

Credtis to the rightful owner

[tojskfarnijler]

Apocalypse Jargon: So we're actually making this a series now?

The sky, an ultramarine blue, and the clouds, a rusty red. She saw two endless forces at each other's necks. Lightning and optics, mains hum. Pained wails and a bruising pain, taos hum. At some point it all turns into green noise, one she'd never heard before. Emergence in her dreamscapes, she saw objects in fractions of dimensions, peril with comfort.

Tall lycophytes filter the solar light. The buzz of a giant mayfly. Spoon on a boat made of trilobite shells, it's Basho. The swamp forest was rather shallow, Spoon could see the life beneath the boat. The ride was a first in a while, Spoon was relaxed.. until Lunae came running on water with a freshly caught akmonistion whilst being chased by a giant levitating psionic phantom nervous system. When it got close to Spoon's range, it immediately dissolved into the air. Following O'Donnell's first law, Lunae fell into the swamp's shallows and grabbed a couple extra lungfishes. They were really generous at giving Spoon more food, but always argues between each other on how much they should have. A carbon steel scythe interrupts their lunch. A lower elven deity of death has been mutated, and releases long threads of fate. The surrounding forest cut down in a sweep. Lunae tried to enclose it inside a cavitation bubble, but there isn't enough pressure difference. She grabbed a piece of loose trilobite shell and rocked the boat into the water, utilizing buoyancy to shoot the mutated reaper, cracking its skull. She repeated, but the reaper has tied its thread of fate on her, and she had lost control of her corporeal form. Attempting to drown herself, Basho scoffs at the idea, since she is already a Foraman, she is largely capable of absorbing oxygen in water. Basho realizes that the threads of fate means that it is a deterministic deity, which is his territory. He pulls out carved obsidian and schist coins, and prayed with it. The threads of fate begin to weaken to the point of tangling between trees, causing the reaper to get stuck. The physical tension releases the spiritual bind Lunae was in. Lunae climbed the swamp floor towards the reaper, slightly weakened from reverse osmosis. She yanked one of the threads of fate and began puppeteering the reaper around to smash into the trees and the ground. As she is closer to the ocean, the presence of beach sand become more apparent. She souldrives the sandy loam to crush the reaper's form. This demanifests the lower deity, and leaves behind mutivine bones. They repurposed the scythe into the world's first tumbler. The threads of fate and mutivine bones were perfect for making a soul lantern, Basho was very excited to perform improvised witchcraft for the first time, but Lunae seems to be rather curiojealous. Spoon has been mystified this entire time...

Despite that, her unconscience senses dread again, this time at the zenith. A dwarf planet has been transported here this entire time. Basho was extremely terrified and asked why Lunae did not warn him, she simply thought it was no big deal. The ocean is now visibly meniscus. They were then greeted by the sudden appearance of a Necrozoan knight, an armor made of coal, a body made of extracellular polymeric substance. They telepathically apologized for the inconvenience of the mutated reaper, and vanishes before Lunae can snatch more material. Basho found that habit of hers, impolite. They are now scrambling to find safety, but at this point, the dwarf planet will likely contact the earth in a matter of hours if not minutes. Spoon's electrozom brain has been on overdrive for enough time for her cancerous neurons to develop logic gates baked into her axons. Electroweak nerve cells allowing muonic transmission. This causes her to develop a pathway directly into her unconscience, allowing her to use a larger range of enermotion. While this situation is a checkmate, she found out that the same way she was brought through to here from the escher dimension, she could do the same now. The abundance of curse in the region coupled with her ragement and the untouched qi ocean surrounding them allows her to ignite and conduct a pathway in mid air to a random liminal dreamscape. Lunae and Basho says their goodbyes to that world of theirs, with a slight longing look.

They enter the realm of Child's Play. A favourite spot for witches and wizards to traverse to other dimensions due to ease of access. Paislefishes and Flakinons populate the marinile surfaces. Clocks, sextants, astrolabes, teddy bears, alphabet cubes, compasses, sundials, calendars, festival dolls, miniature houses... They walk across the many carpeted corridors littered with toys and antique items, sometimes meeting with windows of various designs to a sky peppered with clouds. Lunae hates the fuzzy textures, but Basho is in complete awe. They were then greeted by the witch of insanity, this time she promises she means no harm. It advises on the presence of paislesharks as they can deconfold you in a cinch, but also the extremely dense mixture of universe energies and entropies in the air. Lunae proved right, she feels an immense cold feeling, she complained to Basho as to why he didn't tell her of the turbulence, and he thought it was no big deal. They both fought each other as Spoon tuned in. The witch of insanity then grinned, cheshire. She... gave Spoon another problem in her unconscience. She is afflicted with the presence of aqueous mana and crystalline magic in her brain. A third ailment. Lunae and Basho were already at the witch's neck, but Spoon relieved in a better mental clarity. However, something began to rapidly transmute her electrozom skin to form patches of soulburnt blood skin. The witch clarified that such phenomenon is only natural as her body begins to evolve. Her grin is ominous, yet the three aren't able to feel the presence of ill intent. The witch then guides them through the endless corridors.

Spoon is dizzy.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

SWORDTEMBER '24, DAY 19: MAGNETIC

Item ID: JQ-2419 Item Name: Saber of Recall/Gauntlet of Recollection Category: B-5 Origin Point: Aldentium Maxus, Industrius Sector Owner: Morriette Winchest (C), Naomi Winchest (O) Description: A curved blade, single edged, paired with a single gauntlet. Attached to the gauntlet is a 1st place prize for a junior science fair. The blade is made from damascus steel, and is approximately 85 cm long with a 20 cm hilt. Wiry metal forms a guard around the front of the grip. Encasing the handle is a carbon fiber shell, fitted in place with golden rivets. Hidden beneath the shell are some sort of electronics, as well as a magnetic plate, activated by the paired gauntlet. The gauntlet can be adjusted to fit larger hands, but is designed for usage by a left-handed human or near-human. Although it provides light protection, the armor is primarily meant to house the technology for the item’s gimmick: A blade that the user can recall at will. As the FPA is not allowed to dismantle the item, we are unable to determine exactly how it functions, and must instead attempt to interpret the original owner’s explanation. For a detailed overview, including excerpts from the OO’s submission, see supplementary file JQ-2419-A. In summation: Intricate usage of electromagnetic fields pairs with item-specific radio waves to create powerful, heavily localized attraction, allowing the saber to be retrieved from up to 15 m. Furthermore, the user can activate a lesser form of the magnetic force to prevent the blade from being separated from the gauntlet. Acting Supervisor’s Notes: Hold up… this was somebody’s SCIENCE FAIR PROJECT? Guess the Winchest family is filled with technological troublemakers. Geniuses, admittedly, but the kind that tend to do more harm than good, in the end. Here’s hoping that the next generation learns from the mistakes of their father.

-----

Technically, Supervisors (acting or otherwise) at the FPA don’t normally get involved with the routine testing of confiscated items. At most, they supervise the testing of particularly dangerous materials. Some of the previous supervisors have had specializations, such as a background in biochemicals, that led to them occasionally getting more hands-on with testing that involved their field of expertise. For Cynthia, it’s literally her hands that have allowed her to test today’s item.

Of all of the 13 employees at this branch who can technically wear the gauntlet, she’s the only one with a dominant left hand.

After watching one of her employees fumble around for a bit too long, she offered to step in, and was quickly ushered to the locker room to don the appropriate attire. Now she’s back in the WTC (Weapon Testing Center), facing off against everyone’s favorite sparring partner: A scrawny looking automaton affectionately referred to as JAXSON, official designation J4-X50. The metal lad is more than happy to pull their metaphorical punches, their programming preventing them from actually hurting anyone, but it certainly feels like a real match to Cynthia.

It’s after two minutes of sword fighting that JAXSON finally makes a move that would have killed her in an actual fight. As it is, the capped tip of their blade stops a centimeter away from her throat. A beat passes. JAXSON pulls away their weapon, stands perfectly straight, and gives a bow before returning to standby mode. In an instant there’s awkward, scattered clapping from the observation deck above, from the handful of employees that were watching the match. The sound snaps Cynthia out of her post-adrenaline haze, her eyes shooting up to her audience.

Their reaction confuses her, at first. Then she remembers that she’s the only employee here with any formal melee training- at least when it comes to blades- and suddenly it clicks that she must have put on quite the show. Were her skills really that impressive? Compared to either Naomi or Yusuke, she hardly feels like anything other than a complete novice. But to a group like this?... Well, she supposes it feels like a nice enough confidence boost, regardless of whether or not she has an actual talent.

A shame they were too distracted to record any data, though… guess she’s in for another demonstration.

[redtail-lol]

Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth Chooses Death

Yeah so I wrote heavy angst. @snowkit-and-blackquill wanted to read it so here. You are tagged

CONTENT WARNING: Attemped suicide and mentions/mild descriptions of (non-physical) child abuse. You have been warned. Story below the cut

Miles Edgeworth sat in his office. It was late at night and the lights were off. He should have felt better, after Phoenix had acquited him, but he just continued to feel worse. He had to accept the fact that he had followed in the footsteps of Manfred von Karma, the man who killed his father. He betrayed everything Gregory Edgeworth was, to be a spitting image of the man who took his life. That fact was even further cemented earlier that week, when he learned he had convicted someone using forged evidence.

He really was Manfred von Karma.

He couldn't accept that. The man who killed his father, who put him and Franziska through years of emotional abuse, who cared little for truth and justice and only for his win record... He became him. He became him because he didn't really know who he was. He was just... A shell, molded into Manfred's image. And now he didn't know who he should be.

Miles had everything ready. He couldn't write out his feelings in a suicide note, because he didn't want anyone to know how weak he was. He had written a simple one: "Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death." He had the gun, loaded. He didn't even notice he was crying until he reached for it and felt the tears land on his hand. He grabbed it, and looked at it for a while. His mind kept flashing back. The day his dad died... The feelings he'd had for years, believing he killed Gregory... Manfred fueling that belief... Him and Fran, being screamed at, shamed, humiliated, and hurt through the things they loved... He still remembered Manfred burning Franziska's favorite stuffed toy and destroying his steel samurai collection when she had got in a fight with her father and Miles stood up for her, and Manfred shredding a picture he had of him and his father and snapping Franziska's phone in half when he found out both kids were gay. He remembered all the ways he'd turned into his mentor, putting his most loyal detective well beneath the poverty line, being ruthless and borderline cheating in court, and viewing a guilty verdict as a win for him, and a not guilty verdict a failure, rather than both being the truth being found and justice carried out. Miles put the barrel in his mouth, ready to finally die. He accepted that he really died back when he was 17, and after years of being a shell, he was ready to join his father. He went to cock the gun and heard a click.

The door!

"Hey, Mr. Edgeworth, are you still here sir- M-Mr. Edgeworth!"

Gumshoe.

The detective ran to his boss, who slowly pulled the gun out of his mouth. He couldn't look him in the eye. Gumshoe took the gun, unloaded it, and slightly kneeled down so he could be on Edgeworth's level.

"Mr. Edgeworth... Are you okay, sir?"

"Of course not, you imbecile..!"

"Sorry! Stupid question, I know... But what's going on, Mr. Edgeworth, sir? Why... Why would you have that gun in your mouth? Why would you want to die...?" There was sincerity in the detective's voice. He felt cared for, and he wanted to sob and tell the detective everything he was feeling... But he couldn't. He couldn't let anyone know the pain that weighed so heavily in his heart. He could hardly stand that anyone had caught him so weak...

"I don't know who I am," the words fell out. "I'm just a carbon copy of Manfred von Karma. I hate him and yet... I cannot deny that I am him."

"Nonsense, Mr. Edgeworth! You're nothing like von Karma!"

"That's complete and utter bullshit. In every way, I became him. And now, my whole view of the world has been turned upside down by Wright, and I..." his voice faltered, and he could do nothing but sob. He felt so ashamed, crying his problems onto poor detective Gumshoe. "...Now I don't know what to do. I'm lost. I... It's too late to go back and honor my Father. But I don't want to continue being Manfred..."

Gumshoe gave him a sympathetic look and helped him stand. Miles nearly collapsed in the detective's arms, feeling so weak and vulnerable already.

"I'll dispose of this here, and then we can take a month off. Just you and me, on a nice vacation... And while I will have to come back, you can have as much time as you need to help discover yourself, okay?"

"Discover... Myself?"

"Yeah! I mean, just because you can't be Gregory Edgeworth don't mean you gotta be Manfred von Karma. You can be Miles Edgeworth! He's still somewhere, deep inside your heart... You just gotta find him again!"

"...There's a lot more than just my identity crisis that I have to sort through, detective..."

"Well, I'll be there for ya if you need me. Come on, let's go. Let's get you home."

Edgeworth left with Gumshoe, looking back on the dark office where he almost ended his life. He felt... Strange. Hopeful. And incredibly grateful.

"Detective."

"Hm?"

"...Thank you."

"...Oh, uh, of course Mr. Edgeworth! I- I couldn't just leave you there, y'know."

He smiled at Gumshoe, despite the fact tears were still streaming down his face. He wasn't ready to tell him everything yet, but perhaps he would tell him during their vacation. He was scared of the unknown future ahead of him, but he was glad he had one at all. Everything is gonna be okay for once...

Phoenix hadn't heard from Edgeworth in a week. He figured he'd drop by his office, to see if he was swamped with work or needed help with anything.

"Edgeworth?"

The office was vacant and silent. He started snooping around, as Phoenix Wright would do, and found a note left on his desk. Dread filled his mind and he read the words:

Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death.

[ultfan]

aesthetic.

what are your muse’s aesthetics? BOLD any which apply to your muse! remember to REPOST! feel free to add to the list!

[ COLOURS ]  ~  burgundy. red. crimson. scarlet. maroon. mahogany. copper. amber. chocolate. brown. tawny. tan. bronze. brass. orange. gold. saffron. yellow. chartreuse. spring green. lime. mint. green. olive. forest. turquoise. teal. cerulean. blue. navy. cobalt. periwinkle. indigo. pewter. plum. purple. magenta. fuchsia. lilac. lavender. pink. coral. peach. ivory. cream. white. silver. grey. smoke. charcoal. ebony. black. pastels. vibrant. matte. metallic. muted. dark. light.

[ BODY ] ~ mutations. claws. fangs. wings. tails. feathers. webs. spikes. scales. fur. stripes. spots. freckles. acne. bruises. scars. scratches. gashes. lashes. wounds. amputations. burns. brands. teeth. gums. tongues. lips. beards. mustaches. cheeks. noses. ears. eyes. eyelashes. eyebrows. hair. heads. neck. shoulders. collar bones. arms. elbows. wrists.  hands. fingers. breast. back. ribs. abs. belly. hips. curves. butts. legs. thighs. knees. shins. ankles. feet. toes. nails. sweat. spit. tears. blood. heart. stomach. lungs. liver. veins.  guts. bones. spine. muscle. skin. feline. canine. masculine. feminine.

[ WEAPONS ]  ~  bites. fists. sword. dagger. spear. arrow. bow. crossbow. hammer.  shield. poison. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays. tasers.  machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. mud balls. bombs. missiles. boomerangs. lethal pets. lasers.

[ MATERIALS ]  ~ metal. gold. silver. platinum. pewter. titanium. iron. steel. copper. bronze. brass. tin. bismuth. diamonds. pearls. rubies. garnets. sapphires. emeralds. jade. peridots. alexandrite. opal. topaz. jasper. quartz. rose quartz. smoky quartz. amethyst. citrine. fluorite. amber. malachite. turquoise. lapis lazuli. sodalite. pyrite. labradorite.  moonstone.  petrified wood. wood. paper. parchment. hemp. canvas. burlap. oils. skin. muslin. rayon. faux. wool. fur. lace. leather. skins. suede. corduroy. silk. satin. chiffon. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. rocks. flint. asphalt. brick. granite. marble. dust. rust. glitter. sand. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. carbonate. rubber. synthetics. nylon. polyester. plastic. glass. porcelain.  bone. shells. coral.

[ NATURE ]  ~ grass. leaves. trees. bark. flowers. roses. daisies. forget me nots. tulips. lavender. petals. thorns. seeds. hay. roots. ocean. pond. river. stream. waterfall. creek. meadow. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. rain forest. tropical. jungle. marsh. moors. swamp.  plains. hills. highlands. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space.  clouds. mountains. fire. lava. ice. frost. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun.  heat. cold. steam. lightning. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise.  sunset. dewdrops. shadow. tornado. hurricane. water spout. thunder. hail. twisters. humidity. dryness.

[ ANIMALS ]  ~ birds. penguins. eagles. owls. falcons. vultures. hawks. swans. parrots. parakeets. doves. pigeons. ducks. robins. cardinals. blue jays. bluebirds. blackbirds. crows. ravens. magpies. mockingbirds. flamingos. ostriches. seagulls. albatross. peacocks. condors. finches. pelicans. chickens. geese. quail. bats. sheep. cows. buffalo. deer.  hedgehogs. elephants. horses. giraffes. cats. lions. tigers. pumas. cheetahs. jaguars. foxes. dogs. wolves. coyotes. bunnies. mice. rats. monkeys. apes. bears. pandas. polar bears. snakes. iguanas. chameleons. alligators. crocodiles. turtles. lizards. frogs. toads. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. stingrays. octopus. lobsters. crabs. bugs. spiders. ants.  moths. butterflies. flies. maggots. roaches. ladybugs. beetles. cicadas. dragonflies. fleas. termites. leeches. worms. snails. mosquitoes. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dragons. dinosaurs.

[ FOODS/DRINKS ]  ~  pepper. salt. sugar. honey. syrup. caramel. candy. bubblegum.  mints.  candy canes. gumdrops. lollipops. chocolate. vanilla. cinnamon. ice cream. cake. cookies. brownies. biscuits. pie. tarts. lemonade. soda. champagne. wine. brandy. rum. whiskey. vodka. tequila. sake. beer. soju. gin. crema de cacao. cocoa. latte. coffee. tea.  spices. herbs. fruit. apples. oranges. lemons. cherries. strawberries. blueberries. raspberries. cranberries. watermelons. cantaloupes. bananas. coconuts. grapes. kiwi. pomegranates. tomatoes. vegetables. potatoes. cucumbers. carrots. turnips. onions. leeks.  celery. broccoli. cabbages. lettuces. roots. nuts. white meat. red meat. raw meat. veal. pork. chicken. beef. venison. fish. lobster. oysters. pizza. ambrosia. pasta. sandwiches. soup.

[ HOBBIES ]  ~  music. piano. flute. woodwinds. whistles. drums. guitar. cello. synthesizer.  violin. lute. harp. fiddle. harmonica. trumpet. brass. singing. composing. folk.  classical. bluegrass. blues. jazz. big band. pop. country. rock. punk. metal. electronica. hip hop. reggae. ska. rap. vinyl records. cassettes. cds. soundcloud. itunes. spotify. art.  sculpting. pottery. painting. watercolour. drawing. pastels. charcoal. sketching. graffiti. printing. inking. collecting. fighting. martial arts. self-defence. boxing. fencing. sumo. wrestling. jousting. paintball. lazer tag. duelling. hunting. fishing. climbing. weight lifting. training. sports. football. football (usa). rugby. baseball. cricket. lacrosse. volleyball. basketball. tennis. badminton. skating. cycling. sailing. rowing. hiking. running. gymnastics. dancing. ice skating. hockey.  reading. writing. cooking. sewing. acting. photography. video games. horseback riding. gardening. smithing. shopping. traveling. movies. theatre. libraries. books. magazines. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. science.

[ STYLE ]  ~ nudism. perfume. cologne. piercings. tattoos. henna. body paint. war paint.  make up. lipstick. mascara. eyeliner. eye shadow. powder. beauty marks. blush. nail polish. lingerie. fishnet. pantie-hoes. socks. stockings. leggings. long johns. under armor. corsets. sports bras. bustles. camisoles. blouses. button ups. tunics. vests. waistcoats. leather jackets. ponchos. sweaters/jumpers. hoodies. skirts. jeans. kilts. breeches. scarfs. cravats. ascots. belts. sashes. gloves. heels. sandals. platforms. tennis shoes. penny loafers. jordans. slippers. boots. cowboy boots. rain boots. army boots. armor. justaucorps. trench coats. capes. cloaks. burqa. suits. tuxedos. kimonos. saris. sun dresses. gowns. jewelry. earrings. nose rings. lip rings. tongue piercings. belly rings. gauges. eyebrow rings. necklaces. pearl strings. leis. bracelets. bangles. cuffs. watches. friendship bracelets. rings. pendants. lockets. broaches. boutonnieres. pocket watches. cuff links. hats. crowns. circlets. flower crowns. helmets. hijabs. turbans. baseball caps. cowboy hats. brocade. doublet. gorget. bracers. masks. cowls. braces. glasses. sun glasses. eye contacts. pyjamas.

[ MISC ]  ~ balloons. bubbles. candles. battle. war. diplomacy. peace. money. power.  clocks. photos. mirrors. pets. diary. fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. happiness. optimism. pessimism. loneliness. family. friends. assistants. co-workers. enemies.  loyalty. smoking. drugs. kindness. love. sex. hugs. duality. sin. lust. greed. wrath. envy. sloth. gluttony. pride. virtue. chivalry. honour. piety. charity. diligence. chastity. gentleness. aggression. romance. hatred. grief. pity. success. bitterness. sorrow. joy. fear. anger. good. evil. relativity. vampirism. sapphism. life. birth. time. death. illusion. silence.