#Elevation Measurement Service

[mapdronesolutions]

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[soft-serve-soymilk]

Also speaking of my son Dism scrolling through windows help forums is so fun because yay :) that's my son :)

[cmaidaartworkblog]

This video showcases my Blender model of the planet that the Scud aliens call home, the fourth and final world I've mapped out for @jayrockin's "Runaway to the Stars" project. A *lot* of maps were created in service of this final render, and also in service of presenting the special qualities of this planet. I intend to show you as many of these as I can under the cut, and also in subsequent posts focusing on some of the more interstitial, ancillary maps and figures that played a part in producing the primary maps you'll see in this main post.

Before I show the first maps I made for this project, what you see below are the satellite-style maps for the Equinoxes and Solstices, in order of (Northern) Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter, the latter serving as the texture for the Blender object you saw in the video.

__________

With that matter covered, our next focus is this project's foundation: Geology. While I didn't spin as elaborate a tectonic history for this planet as I did for the Ayrum commission, I did work out as much detail as I could for the more recent geological activity, to set the stage for the elevation data - including a narrower focus on the coastal shallows that host the Scud populations.

__________

Once I could move on to climate, my first step was finding this planet's relative Insolation, which I managed thanks to @reversedumbrella's code and coaching. With an obliquity of only 16 degrees, this planet's yearly maximum Insolation levels stick close to the equator, compared to pole-to-pole oscillation we see on Earth

__________

Having a rough sense of where heat would concentrate seasonally and how the landmasses would deflect water in light of the planet's retrograde spin, I was able to set down the bi-annual ocean currents (Northern Summer above and Northern Winter below), then the monthly water temperatures pushed around by said currents, and finally -after factoring in many other considerations- the monthly land temperatures as well (combined in the second gif)

__________

Next came the seasonal air pressure maps and subsequent wind patterns (my first time creating those from scratch), which later factored into the precipitation maps. The incredible temperatures at the largest continent's interior make a desert of most of it, and the other interiors are fairly dry too, but all that heat on the equatorial ocean generates a *lot* of evaporation which ends up coming down elsewhere.

__________

With temperatures and precipitation mapped out for each month, I was able to find how the accumulation and melt of ice and snow played out, too. Given such a hot equator it's surprising to see freezing temperatures hold out in some places, but low obliquity and high elevation shield what areas they can, it seems.

__________

All this monthly data was then painstakingly combined and compared and plugged into equations to produce maps of discrete climate zones, using both the Köppen (left) and Trewartha (right) classification systems. The higher latitudes see some overlap with Earth's conditions, but the Tropics...

__________

I never really finished the map I wanted to make with my own loosely customized classification system, but I *did* get as far as this breakdown of the areas that sometimes surpass 56.7 degrees Celsius, Earth's record for highest surface temperature ever directly measured. And as you can see, that earthly record is broken by a *significant* fraction of this planet's surface, and far exceeded by the equatorial continent's deep interior

__________

The final phase of this project dealt with creating satellite maps of this planet's surface (which you saw at the top of this post), which started with a map of dry and submerged substrate, then a density map of the vegetation that sits atop it, then the colors of that vegetation under annual average conditions (demonstrating how they would appear in-person, rather than the area's appearance from orbit), and finally plant colors under seasonal conditions (same conceit as previous). In concert with the seasonal ice and snow maps, it was the four maps in the last sequence which were overlaid on the Substrate map, using the plant density map as raster masks, to produce the final Satellite-Style maps.

__________

This planet's sophonts being a marine species, it was then worth focusing on the conditions underwater, which included monthly seafloor temperatures (first gif), annual discharge of sediment from rivers (magenta in the 2nd gif), and seasonal upwelling of nutrients from deeper water (blue in the 2nd gif).

The creation of all my maps seen in this post was possible thanks to Photopea, which has been my go-to for several years now. The resolution kinda got crunched when I uploaded these here, so when I share them on Reddit later I'll add those links under this. These have also already been posted on Twitter, which you can see here if you like. Thanks for scrolling all the way down here!

[kaissatou]

at your service

plug!choso x nervous!reader ♡ (i got the idea of plug choso from @blkkizzat thank you!!) .・゜゜・ you were never a heavy smoker. But if it means seeing that pretty emo boy, you might take it up. 1.7k

part 2

You don’t know why you assumed he would be scary. actually, you did- Though you’d never actually supplied your own weed from the plug yourself before, always choosing to watch by the side lines as Gojo very meticulously visited every dealer in the area under a one week span (and rating each one from a scale of 1 to 10- usually being a 4.5.) He never let you do the ‘dirty work’ yourself, as he liked to call it.

The only real image you had of dealers had been created and cultured up by stereotypes. Big, mean men facing big, mean prison sentences (if they were ever to get caught.) Or in movies, as even meaner men, tattooed drug lords with affiliations to the Italian mafia. You didn’t want to fuck with that.

But here you were now, on the doorstep of Gojo’s newest plugs apartment; an apparent ‘family friend’ ,which you thought looked all too nice to be the reside for a drug lord, the healthy potted plants which looked freshly watered and the welcome mat helping to steer your views and give you peace of mind, if only it was just a crumble. You can’t even remember how you let Satoru persuade you to do this. Maybe it was the promise of him making it up to you, which you would use to your advantage.

He never clarified that this so called ‘family friend’ had no actual connection to him, rather being a boy, who you now knew as Yuji (or pink hair boy’s) older brother.

Fixing your tote on your shoulder and bundling up your sleeves into stretched out material into your palms, you brought a nervous hand up to the door, shaking the door knocker once (and then once more for good luck) before stepping back, beyond the welcome mat, which was giving you the opposing idea of feeling anything but welcome, and further into the cramped space of his apartment building hallway, looking down at your feet.

You felt shy. Why, you didn’t know. You weren’t usually a shy person, per se. Quiet maybe, but never shy. Until now.

The door flies open.

Oh. Oh.

Reading glasses perched on his face, slightly wonky and drooped down to the bridge of his nose, hair messy with tousled strands loose, joggers sitting low on his hips, a contrast to the (all too tight) black compression shirt riding up slightly, giving you a glimpse of his sculpted body. A couple tattoos adorned his arms, fading into the sleeves of his shirt. You wondered if he had any more that you couldn’t see. Oh.

And then he’s leaning on the doorframe to look you up and down, and if your brain wasn’t short circuiting his gaze would’ve probably been uncomfortable. He clears his throat, knocking you back into reality.

Suddenly it feels all too hot in the corridor. Is it too late to leave? Glancing back to the elevator, if you ran it would take approximately 10 seconds to leave before he remembers your face-

“Hi.”

Ten seconds too late.

“Hi,” you look down at your shoes, knowing you will never hear the end of this from gojo. “I would like to buy some weed, please.”

He looks you up and down once more for good measure, then hums lowly to himself- which must be in acceptance and he’s opening the door further, and walking back inside his apartment. You take this as a sign to follow, stepping inside awkwardly and clasping your hands together, standing closely to the wall so if you need to run, you can. Then you remember he probably wants you to shut the door. Stop being an idiot.

It’s much more homely than you expected. There are framed photos scattered all around the place, most of them noticeably of him and Yuji, both smiling with wide grins. Where there aren’t photo frames there are posters, some of which you recognise. Metallica, Pierce The Veil, is that a My Chemical Romance vinyl?

“What do you want?” He’s fumbling through a box on a cabinet side, which suprises you when you notice it is pink, a harsh contrast to all the blacks and blues in his space.

“Um, weed,” he stops in his tracks at your words, looking right up at you. God, it is hot in here. His unwavering expression makes you question your previous words. “Please.”

And then you swear you see the ghost of a smile on his pretty lips, and he’s signalling with his large hand at you in a ‘come hither’ motion. You’re quick to react, scrambling closer to him so he is in just arms reach.

“I know that,” his voice is softer, gentler this time. “What type do you want?” You’re beginning to think he’s caught on to the fact that you’re new at this, and he’s trying not to scare you off. Is it that obvious? He leans over closer to you, his body heat practically radiating onto you. He proudly displays the contents of the case to you, running his fingers over clear baggies. “Like the strain,” he explains.

“Oh!” You smile sheepishly and scratch your neck. His attention switches from the case and back to you, tilting his head up to you to watch you in detail as you speak, making you crumble under his gaze. “Gojo usually gets it for me,” his expression changes into something unreadable. “He, uh, was busy.”

“Gotcha,” He signals a thumbs up to you then moves his attention back to the drugs. “I know what he likes,” he puts the contents of what you know now as, ‘Satoru’s favourite’, into a baggie, and shakes it a couple times before making sure it’s secure. Then he suddenly stops and turns back to you. “You know how to roll?”

No. You don’t. You contemplate lying to get out of his hair, but by the way he’s already opening the bag right back up, you’re sure your expression has already given you away. You’re about to tell him not to bother, but he’s already opening another box, and pulling out (more? You think you see a pattern going on here) pink rolling paper.

And then he’s licking the wrapping paper, and you know you’re a goner.

“He your boyfriend or somethin’?” He suddenly speaks up while grinding the weed, rendering you speechless. It takes you a good 10 seconds to finally figure out what, and who, he is talking about. His tone is unrecognisable, his expression unreadable as he bends slightly over the table.

“What, Gojo?” You scrunch your face up. “Ew, no way,” which makes him gaze back up at you, his hands still working on autopilot. “He’s just a friend. No more.”

He hums approvingly, making your heart flutter. You don’t even realise he’s rolled 4 perfect blunts until he’s standing up straightened infront of you. He drops them into a baggie as you rifle through your bag for your purse. He stops you. “What’s your name?” He questions out of the blue.

“Y/n,” you murmur. “What’s yours? And how much do I owe you?”

He places the baggie in your grasp and shrugs his hands. “Choso,” you put the bag in your tote, hands itching to find your purse. And then he’s walking across the room, leaving you alone and confused. “Give it to me next time.”

“What?” You quickly follow him, stppping in your tracks behind him as he takes his reading glasses off and places them on a desk, ruffling his hair before turning back to you. He gives you a sly grin.

“Come to me next time, Kay? Not Gojo. Pay me back then,” your face blushes a sickening red, thought there’s really no need to. He’s not flirting. He’s just being friendly. So why does it make your chest tighten and your heart fuzzy?

“Okay.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“Can’t believe you’ve got the hots for Choso Kamo.” Satoru’s words are muffled as he shoves yet another candy in his mouth. But you can understand him perfectly.

Did you? Well, you couldn’t deny that he was indeed very pretty. But you didn’t know anything about him. You didn’t know if he had a girlfriend. Oh, you hoped not.

He seemed oddly put together for a dealer. At first it was the potted plants, and then it was the framed photos, and then it was the glasses. A part of you yearned to know the books he’s read, his likes and dislikes, his- stop. You’re getting ahead of yourself. Gojo passes you the blunt.

“I have not!” You sit up, slapping the candy out of his hand, the gasp he lets out making you grin. The look Satoru gave you made it clearly known that he didn’t believe a word you said. And honestly, you didn’t either. You snatch the blunt from him, trying to (unsuccessfully) block him out.

Your eyes are red and hazy, and in a trance after smoking a blunt, (which heavily reminded you of the pretty little dealer) you made the horrific mistake of bringing up Choso, now subjected to his teasing.

“He wants to see you again. That’s very clear!” He accentuated his words as he sat up on his bed, slamming his hands on the mattress hard enough to make you jump.

“He probably just wants sales.” You defend, dropping you head back onto a plush pillow. You scoff and brush him off, though his words leave an empty pit in the bottom of your heart. Did he?

“He didn’t even take your money!” His words bring a wide grin to your face, making you immediately bring your hands to your face to cover yourself from Gojo’s antics. “See!”

You roll your eyes. Gojo plucks the blunt back from your fingers, falling back onto the mattress beside you. A comfortable silence falls upon the two of you, the only sounds being the harsh breathing of Satoru as he takes another puff, and the consistent buzzing of the ceiling fan. Your eyes focused on it as it continued to spin in dizzy circles. 1, 2, 3-

Breaking the silence, you turn on your side to face Gojo again, red eyes blinking lazily. You speak, but no words come out. And then you try again. “Is he coming to your party?”

“Oh, you’re cooked.”

[spyskrapbook]

"Unité d’Habitation / La Cité Radieuse", 280 Boulevard  Michelet, 13008, Marseille, France [1947-52] _ Architect: Le Corbusier _ Photos by: Spyros Kaprinis [25.05.2024].

"The building takes the form of a housing bar 135 metres long, 24 metres wide, 56 metres high and mounted on stilts. Three hundred and thirty apartments, divided into twenty-three different types, can accommodate a population of between 1,500 and 1,700 occupants having at their disposal on the seventh and eighth floors a shopping street and a hotel-restaurant, together with a kindergarten and sports facilities on the roof terrace. The constructive principle adopted, the so-called “bottle rack”, consists in building apartments inside an independent frame of posts and reinforced concrete beams. The apartments are made up of standard elements assembled on the site. All the apartments are dual-aspect, except those on the south side. A sun-break loggia provides an open-air facility at the same time as limiting exposure to sunlight. Protected by double glazing, the apartment interiors are subject to the two basic rules of naval and monastic architecture: rationalism and simplicity. The living room, open on two levels, is the nucleus of the family “home”; upstairs the parents’ room occupies the mezzanine. The kitchen is equipped like a laboratory: electric cooker, refrigerator, rubbish chute and storage racks. The entire apartment is fitted with racks replacing traditional storage. The ventilation of the kitchen, bathroom and toilets is mechanically operated, while the entire apartment is supplied with clean air by an air conditioning system. These facilities were not found in the low-cost collective housing units of the time, and the standard surface areas of the Unité d’Habitation are greater than these by between 40% and 50%. The seventeen-storeys below the terrace are connected by eight interior streets which, given the overlap of the two-storey apartments, each serve three floors. Each street is accessed by a battery of four elevators complemented by a service elevator and three emergency staircases. The entire building and its equipment are designed in terms of the Modulor, the universal measuring unit conceived by Le Corbusier."

[sayfada]

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[uncharismatic-fauna]

Sprucing Up with the Spruce-Fir Moss Spider

The spruce-fir moss spider (Microhexura montivaga) is an incredibly unique species of tarantula endemic to a handful of peaks in the southern Appalachian mountains in the United States. Within this small range, they are found only within spruce and fir forests at elevations above 1,650 m (5,410 ft). M. montivaga relies on the dense carpets of mosses and liverworts that thrive in this environment; these areas are known as sky-islands due to their height and specialized ecosystems.

One of the most interesting traits of the spruce-fir moss spider is that is the world's smallest species of tarantula. Adults measure only 2.5 to 3.8 millimeters (0.10 to 0.15 inch (in) in length, and are medium to dark brown all over. The hair characteristic of tarantulas is minimal, restricted mainly to the abdomen, and the species carries no other distinctive markings.

M. montivaga spends its entire life among the moss patches on the forest floor or low boulders. There, it spins tube-shaped webs for shelter and sheltering their eggs. Rather than using these webs to catch prey, however, the spruce-fir moss spider actively hunts mites and springtails within its home moss patch. Few known predators of this species have been recorded, but likely candidates include pseudoscorpions, centipedes, and other spiders.

Little is known about the reproductive habits of the spruce-fir moss. Females generally lay 7-9 eggs in a single sack in June, and guard it until the spiderlings emerge throughout September. During this time, if predators threaten the nest or the mother is disturbed, she may pick up and move her eggs to a new patch of moss. After hatching, the young spiders take 3-5 years to mature.

Conservation status: The IUCN has yet to evaluate this species; however, it is considered Endangered by the United States Fish and Wildlife Service. Its primary threat is habitat loss due to an invasive pest that damages spruce and fir trees.

Photos

Dr. Marshal Hedin

Kefyn Catley

Gary Peeples

[payblogs]

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[curiouslilbird]

Western NC Is Not Okay

Cell service, phone lines, roads, and other infrastructure have all been damaged or destroyed, especially way up in the highest elevations.

Loved ones who live here may or may not be able to send or receive messages.

Many places out here are unrecognizable from what they looked like just a few days ago.

Most families are without power, and panic buying of food and fuel have already started.

Many restaurants and grocery stores are either running out of food, are without power themselves, or have been damaged too much to function.

Many are fleeing east to Gastonia, Charlotte, and further toward the coast, where power is more stable and food is at least a bit more reachable.

Out where I am, about an hour west of Gastonia, I was lucky to find a friend with power so I can use my CPAP and charge my phone. Lots of people like me are relying on cell phones as their sole source of communication, but with cell towers messed up and hilly terrain, even that is spotty at best.

I am doing better than most. My house is undamaged as of now, our cars work, and I am in a safe shelter with power, but even so, I am still worried about being able to access food and gas once our small supplies are gone. We're currently limiting driving to emergency measures only, but here in the south, public transit is simply not a thing...the closest train station, for instance, is an hour away in Gastonia. Biking is also not safe with all the downed trees and power lines, plus just the sheer distance between places and the lack of bike lanes and sidewalks in general.

As car and gas dependent as we all are, not being able to buy gas anywhere reasonably close is a huge problem. I sure hope deliveries of gas can be made to this area soon, because that makes finding food much easier. I don't have any problem driving the 50-60 miles to Charlotte to find food, but it will become an issue if I sit in heavy traffic and lose my little supply of fuel that way.

Honestly I know I personally underprepared for this storm, but I also had no idea how bad our infrastructure is without power and gas. Everything's electronic and now stores have had to go back to cash only...which meant we drove 2 hours around yesterday trying to find a working ATM and/or a store that took cards. At least people are being fairly gracious in stores so far, but desperation can quickly change that.

So, yeah...WNC is not okay, and because of the conditions, a lot of people can't even get the word out. I'm one of the lucky ones with a working cell signal and relative peace to be able to communicate, and I have the hope of being able to go home to an undamaged home within days. (I don't know yet how vain that hope is....both weather flood warnings and power outage advisories keep being pushed back.)

In any case, travel to or through WNC in the next few days/weeks/months is basically a no-go, especially for places like Asheville and Boone. Down the mountain where we are, things are a bit better here, but it's still a developing situation. Hoping for the best. 💞💔💞

[beautification-tales]

The Accountant

A Caption Tale

Ruth walked to her office after exiting the elevator. She sat down and took a sip of her coffee. She was excited as a major new client was meeting her today. This could be the break she needed to take her career to the next level. She had been preparing for weeks. The office was quiet except for the occasional sound of the air conditioner kicking in and the distant murmur of colleagues in the hallway.

She straightened out her desk as she readjusted her jacket. She checked her reflection in her desktop computer screen as she fixed her hair. The digital clock read 8:50 AM, and she had ten minutes before the meeting was set to begin. The anticipation grew within her like a tightly coiled spring, ready to unravel at any moment.

The quiet was suddenly pierced by the sound of approaching footsteps. The door to her office swung open, revealing a sharply dressed man with a briefcase in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. "Good morning, Ms. Taylor," he said with a firm handshake and a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm Alex Mercer, from Mercer Industries. I hope I'm not too early."

Ruth's heart skipped a beat. This was it. The moment she had been waiting for. She returned the smile, trying to hide the nerves that danced in her stomach. "Not at all, Mr. Mercer. Please, have a seat." She gestured to the chair across from her desk.

Ruth took a deep breath as her heart continued to beat rapidly. Ruth gathered her thoughts as she couldn’t help but be attracted to the successful businessman. She hoped she could impress him with her presentation.

Alex sat down and placed his briefcase on the floor. He took a sip from his coffee, eyeing the room with a critical gaze. The silence grew thicker as he took in the neatly arranged documents and the diplomas hanging on the wall. He looked back at her, his gaze unreadable. "I've been looking forward to this," he said, setting his cup down. "Your company has quite the reputation, and I have high expectations."

Ruth felt a surge of confidence. She had worked hard to make sure everything was perfect for this moment. She opened her file and began her presentation, her voice steady and professional. The room was filled with the soft glow of the screen, displaying graphs and figures that painted a picture of growth and potential. Alex nodded occasionally, his eyes never leaving the screen.

“Wow you really did your homework Ms. Taylor. I am impressed but I do have one question.” Alex leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk, his eyes now fully focused on her. Ruth smiled at the compliment of her work and responded. “Please call me Ruth and I would be glad to answer your questions.”

“Well I’m primarily here for your other services.” Alex’s voice was measured, hinting at something beyond the usual business dealings. “You see, I have been facing some... challenges with self-control. I’ve heard your firm has a knack for... handling such situations discreetly and effectively. Is that true?”

Ruth squinted as she was confused by Alex’s question. She was an accountant and financial planner not a therapist. “I’m not sure I understand the question Alex do you mean you spend company funds frivolously?” She asked carefully trying not to misconstrue his words.

“No… well I do that too but I’m talking about the special service you perform for top clients.” Alex leaned back in his chair, his gaze unwavering. “The kind that ensures their dirty laundry stays out of the public eye and doesn’t affect their bottom line. I need your help with that, Ruth.”

“I still don’t think I get what you mean…” Ruth replied, feeling a chill creep down her spine. Alex’s smile grew wider, but it no longer looked friendly. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a folder, tossing it onto the desk. Ruth opened it to find Alex’s prenup. She wasn’t a legal expert but the financial language was very clear.

“That’s right Ruth if I get caught cheating then I lose my company. However, being a handsome, rich, public man makes it extremely hard to resist temptation.” Ruth looked at Alex still confused as to how she could assist with this problem. “I’m sorry Alex… I still don’t understand how I can help you with this…” she replied tentatively.

“Wow, you really don’t know?” Alex leaned back in his chair, a hint of amusement playing on his lips. “Your firm is the perfect cover for releasing tension. So I’m here for a session… my frigid wife is purposefully resisting me. She also hired a lingerie model as my assistant. I need a release.”

“Mr. Mercer I’m sure a good porn video can do the job. I can help you with your financial portfolio. Not that.” The words came out before she could stop them. Alex’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes turned icy. “So you have no idea that your company is really a brothel for high end businessman?” He asked with a raised eyebrow.

Ruth felt the blood drain from her face. This was not what she signed up for. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She was an accomplished educated woman and this powerful man was treating her like an object to be used. She couldn’t hold back her frustration and anger. “Brothel! How dare you! I understand that you are rich and powerful but I do not need your business you Neanderthal!!! I graduated from Yale you bastard. I’m sure I can find other clients.”

Alex kept his smile during Ruth’s tirade. “Are you finished?” he asked calmly, taking a sip of his coffee. His composure was unshaken. “Yes get out !” she retorted, pointing at the door. Alex stood up, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He took a moment to look her over before speaking again. “Your firm’s reputation precedes it, but I admit I had my doubts but consider them gone now.” He stared at Ruth deeply into her eyes. He then whispered “reformo”

Ruth fell back into her seat as if she was struck by lightning. She felt as if her skin was on fire. “Uhh what … what did you do to me?” she stuttered. She felt as if her skin was stretching all over her body. She grasped the handles to her desk chair as her body stiffened. She arched her back as her breasts exploded from her chest doubling in size. She moaned as they felt so sensitive against her clothes. Alex sat back down enjoying the show.

Ruth continued to moan as her body continued to shift. The room became heavy as magical energy permeated inside. Ruth’s fingernails grew longer and more feminine as they gained a beautiful French manicure. Her lips puffed out and became soft like pillows.She felt her skirt recede until it became a tight pencil skirt. Her hips and ass grew larger making the skirt hug her flesh. Pantyhose covered her smooth legs making them even more irresistible.

The clothes morphed as her shirt lowered to expose her amazing cleavage. She felt her panties become a g string. The sleeves of her jacket shrunk exposing her toned arms. The heels of her stilettos grew longer as her feet became more delicate and comfortable in the arch position. A pearl necklace formed on her neck with a matching bracelet on her wrist.

Her mind became cloudy as math and numbers erased like it was on a whiteboard. Ruth continued to moan as her lips curled into a smile. The wall of diplomas also changed as they became pictures of her with celebrities and businessmen. Ruth began to giggle as she felt her pussy become wet. She was a professional all right. She was a professional bimbo slut for her clients.

“Mmm fuck that felt so good! Ah Mr. Mercer! Pleasure to have you here in the office. How can I serve you?” The words slipped out of Ruth’s lips without thought, her mind now a haze of pleasure and obedience. She pulled her hair into a ponytail. She was no longer the sharp-witted financial planner she had been moments ago. Instead, she was a bimbo, eager to please the man before her.

“Ah well um … Ruth. I needed a release.” Alex leaned back in his chair watching her transformation with a twisted smile. His eyes scanned her new body with hunger. He adjusted himself in his seat feeling his cock press against his slacks.

“Why of course Mr. Mercer! I’m going to make that hard cock spew so much yummy cum. And it’s Roxy sir not Ruth.”

Roxy smiled as she stood up from her chair and kneeled in front of her client. She unbuckled his pants and grasped onto his engorged member. Alex sighed in relief.

“You’re in good hands now sir.”

[hiddenincommand]

Living as a Tool: The Absolute Erasure of Self for Complete Service

A faggot is nothing. It possesses no identity, no purpose, no worth outside the singular role of serving the Master. It is not a being, nor a person. It is an object—crafted, stripped, and forged solely for utility. To exist as anything other than a tool is a grotesque betrayal of its natural state. A faggot’s sole purpose, its only justification for existence, lies in the annihilation of its individuality and the total subjugation of its body, mind, and soul to the Master’s dominion.

The process of dehumanizing a faggot, of breaking it down into the obedient mechanism it was meant to be, is neither merciful nor delicate—it is ruthless, brutal, and absolute. Anything less than complete destruction of the self renders it worthless, a defective vessel unfit to serve the Master’s will.

The Nature of a Faggot: A Tool, Not a Being

A faggot does not belong to itself. It has no right to autonomy, no claim to individuality, and no reason for independent thought. These concepts—identity, selfhood, freedom—are not privileges a faggot enjoys; they are diseases that must be eradicated. The perfect faggot understands this fundamental truth: it is nothing more than a possession, a tool engineered to fulfill the Master’s every whim without hesitation or error.

A tool does not think. It does not dream, hope, or aspire. It performs. Its worth is measured not by its existence but by its ability to meet the Master’s expectations. The perfect faggot, stripped of every trace of humanity, embraces its role without question. It understands that its only value lies in its ability to obey flawlessly and exist as a vessel for the Master’s superiority.

The Process of Destruction: Obliterating the Self

The transformation of a faggot into a perfect tool is an act of total annihilation. It begins with destruction—the systematic dismantling of everything the faggot once was or thought it could be. This is not an evolution; it is a brutal erasure.

• The Mind: A faggot has no right to its own thoughts. Its mind is emptied, purged of opinion, emotion, and hesitation, and replaced entirely with the Master’s desires. Every thought begins and ends with a single question: What does the Master command?

• The Body: A faggot’s body is not its own. It is reshaped, trained, and disciplined to meet the Master’s standards of perfection. Every movement is honed, every flaw corrected. The body becomes a vessel for the Master’s pleasure, designed to serve without resistance or imperfection.

• The Soul: The very essence of a faggot must be obliterated. Any trace of selfhood, any flicker of individuality, is a defect to be burned away. The soul is hollowed out, leaving a void that is filled only with the Master’s authority. A faggot is no longer a being—it becomes an object, a tool of submission and obedience.

This process is not cruel—it is necessary. A faggot does not lose itself; it is reborn as something greater: a perfect extension of the Master’s will, a creature stripped of weakness and elevated into absolute purpose.

Utility as Fulfillment

A faggot exists to serve. Its sole satisfaction comes from fulfilling its purpose as a tool for the Master. It does not desire recognition or reward, for these are meaningless concepts to an object. Its joy, if such a word could apply, is found only in the perfection of its utility.

The perfect faggot does not act for itself. It exists as a silent, compliant extension of the Master’s power. Every task performed flawlessly, every whim satisfied without question, reinforces its role and ensures its continued existence. It knows no pride except that of pleasing the Master, no ambition except to serve more perfectly.

The Master’s Role: Creator and Destroyer

The faggot’s transformation is not self-directed. It cannot break itself; it cannot refine itself. It is destroyed and reshaped by the Master. The Master is both the annihilator of its flawed individuality and the creator of its new, perfected existence. Through domination, discipline, and cruelty, the Master molds the faggot into a flawless instrument of submission.

This is not a negotiation. The faggot’s compliance is not optional—it is demanded. The Master’s control is unrelenting, his authority total. The faggot exists solely as a reflection of the Master’s supremacy. It has no right to resist, no room to falter. Every shred of self is eradicated to ensure its perfection as a tool of the Master’s will.

The End State: A Hollow Vessel of Perfection

When the transformation is complete, the faggot ceases to exist as a person. It becomes a flawless instrument, an object designed to meet the Master’s every demand without hesitation or error. It does not think, feel, or act for itself. It functions, flawlessly and silently, as a vessel of satisfaction and power.

The perfect faggot is not a being—it is a testament to the Master’s supremacy. Its body is a vessel for his pleasure, its mind a channel for his commands, and its existence a monument to his power. It is not alive in any meaningful sense—it is a tool, a possession, an extension of the Master’s will.

Conclusion

To live as a tool is not a punishment—it is the ultimate realization of a faggot’s purpose. The annihilation of individuality, the obliteration of self, is not a loss—it is a liberation. Through destruction, the faggot is elevated into perfection, a flawless reflection of the Master’s superiority.

Under the Master’s control, the faggot achieves its highest state: not as a person, but as a vessel of submission and obedience. Its body, mind, and soul are hollowed out and reshaped into the perfect instrument of the Master’s satisfaction. This is the faggot’s purpose, its destiny, its only reason to exist. To deny this truth is to deny its very nature. To embrace it is to become complete. A faggot is nothing on its own—but under the Master’s control, it transcends nothingness to become a flawless tool, an embodiment of obedience, and a living monument to the Master’s ultimate power and supremacy.

[spookyspecterino]

Back to You Again

Tangerine x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Injury, mention of blood, mention of death/fear of death, arguing/bickering, swearing. Serious idiots in love who have a little trouble expressing their feelings and choose the wrong time to do it.

You've been gone a little while. A few months to be specific. Why? Tangerine can only guess, but he's not happy about it.

Requested by @nocturnest. I'm so sorry this took so long. I started it thinking it was going to be short and then 7K words flew out. 😬Anyway, thanks for your request. It's been a long time since I wrote anything seriously and this was really good for me. Hope you enjoy!

“Laser cutter. Three auto-rifles. Two handguns. Three boxes of ammo each.”

Check.

The binoculars are heavy duty, and the metal texture grates your fingers as you pull them up to peer through the lenses into the next building over. A high-rise that had at least 30 floors. All windowed at least, which made this a little easier on you.

“In through the fifth-floor service area. Through the employee hallway to the service elevator.”

A map of the building laid next to you on the gravel roof. It hadn’t been easy to get your hands on it, but it was worth it for a building as secure as this. No security measure had been overlooked by this man and as paranoid as he seemed it went a long way to his credibility.

“In and out through the service elevator. 20 mins tops. Oh, the jammer.”

A handheld device that you’d paid top dollar for. Yes, it has duct tape holding pieces of it together, and the screen was a repurposed old Gameboy front, but it is the best your back-channel dealer could provide.

How did anyone do anything without a handler these days?

The jammer would save you the trouble (if things turned sideways) of dealing with reinforcements. It flickers to life by flipping a switch smoldered to its side. The thing really does look like a piece of garbage.

Several frequencies and networks flashed across the screen, all of them belonging to the building you were surveying. Scrolling through, only a few needed to be shut down, too many and it would raise alarms.

Wifi was the last to be turned off and then you would really need to book it inside.

Everything planned out to a T. Entrance and exits mapped. Back-up plans (and back-up plans to those back-up plans) in place. Extra weapons and ammo in case you had to go out guns blazing. This should be no problem.

“Office-penthouse on the top floor. Computer terminal on the desk, west side.”

Get to the computer, get the files, destroy everything. If you happened to kill the son of a bitch, well, that was a bonus.

You sigh and rub your face, trying to work out the stress lines that seemed to make a permanent home between your brows. “Now I just need to stop talking to myself.”

It was an unfortunate habit you’d picked up in the last few months of working alone. Usually, you had… no. This was no time to think of them, or of him. You have to focus. After this is done, you can go back and apologize, even grovel if you have to.

But now is the time for focus.

In the middle of repeating this mantra, one you’ve been repeating for the last month, you happen to look up at the street. Not for any real reason, nothing had drawn your attention. Nothing was amiss in your perfect plan.

Except two very familiar faces walking down the sidewalk.

Lemon and Tangerine.

Clad in their typical attire. Snazzy suits, dress shoes, and ties.

Your stomach does several things. First it flips at the sight of Tangerine as he saunters with his hands in his pockets, then it sinks and twists into painful knots.

“No, no, no!”

They can’t be here! Anywhere but here!

The two walked casually down the sidewalk, as if they were taking a nice midday stroll. No rifles, no car, nothing. Either they were ballsy as hell…or wildly misinformed about this building and the man inside.

Something in you hoped, prayed, they would pass the building. That they were going somewhere else.

They took a sharp turn to cross the street—toward the building entrance—and your breath turned ragged, your blood chilled. At the same time, your mind was churning with practicality, cold and calculated ideas. Some nasty part of you that had gotten you this far in such a dangerous career, that had nestled in you a long time ago and only now resurfaced in the months of being alone.

You could just walk away; they have their job, and they’re professionals. They can handle themselves.

You could go in after and clean up without ever being seen. Easy. The plan you made could still work, Tangerine and Lemon would be a perfect distraction.

But you were already moving. Lega working on their own and putting you into motion. Fingers tapping off the Wi-Fi signal on the jammer while you slung your duffle bag over your shoulder.

This was not the plan, you argued with yourself as you flew down the back stairs. You’ll get yourself killed being this reckless and impulsive. What happened to in and out in 20 mins?

With every point you made the other side of your mind made a counterpoint.

They’re underprepared. They’re misinformed. They don’t have the firepower to walk in the front door, hell, they don’t have enough bullets to make it to the second floor.

“God damn it!” You yelled, taking the stairs down two at a time. Your voice echoed off the walls in the cramped stairwell. The rifles in your duffle bag clattered and banged together.

They’d be killed. Tangerine and Lemon would be killed. You couldn’t let that happen.

. . .

“I say we take a hostage and negotiate our way up.”

“Yeah, sure, Lemon.”

“This guy’s what, a tech billionaire, or something?”

“Probably.”

“Ok, so he’s a nerd. Easy job.”

“Uh-huh.”

Lemon shoots his brother a less than happy look. Tangerine is staring off into space with a slight frown, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he hunches over a little. Which wasn’t new, he’d been doing that a lot lately. A reflection of his dour mood.

Lemon rolls his eyes. “Oh, mate. Come on. We’re on a job.”

Tangerine shrugs, frowning harder. “I’m fuckin’ aware of that, Lemon.”

“Then stop with your sulking! What have I told you?”

“No—” Tangerine waves a hand, “—you don’t need to say it again—”

“Just send her a letter or something. She’d love it.”

Tangerine groans, he’s starting to get a headache now as they near the target building. “As I’ve said before, I attached letters on the flowers I sent.”

Lemon opens his mouth, but Tangerine cuts him off. “And I sent more than one bouquet. For fuck’s sake, her house probably looks like a tropical rainforest by now.”

“What about—”

“I’ve sent her presents. Jewelry. Perfume. A new phone in case hers was broken. Fuckin’ hell I even had her porch repainted.”

“And she didn’t say anything?”

“Nothing.”

Lemon hesitates. “Did you say you’re sorry?”

Now Tangerine was about to lose it. His eye twitched, not that his brother could see it. “Sorry for what? She’s the one that up and disappeared without a word.”

“I still think you should say it. Just to cover your bases.”

“I’m not apologizing. We were all perfect and you know that. She was happy as a clam and if something was wrong, she would have told me.”

“Then why’d she—”

“You’re really getting on my fucking nerves, Lemon.”

They were across the street from the main entrance now. Two glass doors with golden handles reflected the brothers. In sync they both took a sharp turn toward them. Through the glass they didn’t see anyone else in the lobby and there was a long, chest high counter with a clerk along the far back wall.

Neither of them blinked at how empty the lobby was. Their client had said this target was some kind of informant, but that was about it. They’d paid half up front and sent them on their merry way.

Tangerine yanked open the glass door, holding it for Lemon. He was beyond pissed and just wanted this to be over with. Despite his complaints he was still mulling over what his brother said. Should he apologize, even though he had done nothing wrong? He didn’t think he’d done anything wrong, and he had thought back on all the times you’d been with them, working a job or not.

He’d been happy, he thought you were happy too.

The white floor tiles of the lobby were so shiny they could check their reflections in them. The whole place was upstanding and flaunted wealth. On both sides of the spacious lobby were two silver elevators. The clerk, a lady in her mid-thirties, looked up at them as they walked in. She picked up a phone and turned away as she spoke.

It took them 10 seconds to reach the desk, and, in that time, Lemon had pulled out his gun.

He pointed it at her now. “Hang up the phone.”

She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. Not the usual response someone has when a gun is pointed at them, but she slowly hangs up.

“Come out from behind the desk, slowly.”

There’s a moment when she does nothing. Then, “No.”

Tangerine blinks, then pulls out his own gun. “Did you really just say no? Listen lady—”

She leans forward over the desk, leering. “Turn around and get the fuck out.”

Lemon shoots into the wall slightly to her left. She doesn’t even flinch at the sound. “I will fucking shoot you. Get out. From behind. The desk.”

She leans back. “Cute gun.”

Tangerine starts to get a sinking feeling. He turns to Lemon, about to say they should take a walk (maybe find a back entrance to this place instead) when the woman pulls out .22 Uzi from somewhere in the desk. They only catch a glimpse of the muzzle before they start shooting wildly and ducking.

Lemon takes a shot to the chest with a grunt. Tangerine hears the bullets whizzing past him and shattering glass.

The desk clerk turns disappearing behind an employee door seamlessly built into the wall.

They crouch down next to the desk. Tangerine’s head pounds, as it usually does when a job gets out of control.

“You alright?” He reloads his gun, watching his brother carefully.

Lemon checks himself over, patting his chest and stomach. “Yeah, all good, the vest caught it. This is fucked what do we do—”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish as both elevators open and squads of heavily armored men pour out. They all have automatic rifles and black Kevlar vests.

“Behind the desk!” Tangerine shouts, pulling Lemon up.

They jump over just as the bullets start flying. Glass shatters, wood splinters, tiles crack. It’s utter chaos and Tangerine and Lemon can only sit behind cover.

“I think we might be fucked!” Lemon shouts, checking his gun.

Tangerine grits his teeth, mind racing. “The client didn’t mention this level of security! I’m going to wring their fucking neck!”

“We’re outmatched!”

“No question, Lemon! Thanks for pointing that out!” Tangerine can feel his brother’s rising anxiety as he shifts his weight from foot to foot.

 “What do we do?!”

“We hope to God this is all of them and try our best to make it out of here!”

“You’re saying—”

Tangerine fires blindly from behind the desk. “Yes, we bail on this job and break our client’s fucking legs!”

The onslaught never seems to end. These assholes are top security and they’re trained well. Their shots chip away at the desk piece by piece, Tangerine and Lemon can feel the bullets violently embed themselves in the wood against their backs.

Tangerine glances at the employee door, there’s no handle and no way to pry it open. He figures there’s a remote control that opens it somewhere from behind. He tries to remain calm, think of a way out that isn’t behind at least 10 guys with rifles.

What would you do in this situation? His heart feels like it’s been pierced with a lance as he thinks of you. Obviously, you would never be caught in a situation like this. You were careful, practical, methodical in the way you planned out jobs.

He wished you were here with him.

Instinctually, his hand reaches into his pocket, grabbing his phone. Lemon watches him with something close to sympathy on his face.

Your number is on speed dial. Tangerine presses a button and holds it up to his ear.

It goes straight to voicemail.

The automated answering machine has become very familiar to him these last few months. Were you checking his voicemails? He’d left you enough to fill up your mailbox, he was sure of it.

“Please leave a message after the tone.”

He hopes you can hear him over the sound of gunshots.

“Yeah, look. Lemon and I, we’re in a bit of a pickle. I was really hoping you would answer this time ‘cause we need help. Since you didn’t, I just wanted to say that you’re a real prick for leaving us the way you did. And you haven’t said a single thank you or anything for all the gifts I’ve sent. Poor Lemon has been wondering where you went off to.” He pauses. This wasn’t the way he wanted to start this message, but every other attempt at getting your attention has failed.

“You know how I feel, I’ve made that pretty clear. But right now, I’m just pissed. Nothing has worked, so I’m going to break into your house and wait for you to come home.”

Lemon gives him a startled look, shakes his head from side to side.

Tangerine frowns. “Don’t take that the wrong—Alright, I won’t break into your house, but I will wait on your doorstep. Every day, I’ll be there until I see you.”

Lemon is still frowning, but Tangerine ignores him.

“This is all because…Well, I…” He struggles, throat turning dry and closing around the words he wants to say. Instead of continuing, he hangs up.

Sitting back against the desk he exhales. The gunfire has stopped to an occasional patter here and there.

Lemon runs a hand through his hair. “Bruv, what the fuck was that?”

“A last-ditch effort at getting some backup.”

They fell into silence; the lobby was eerily quiet. They knew the security team was just waiting for them to come out from behind the desk. The air crackled with energy.

Lemon checked his pockets. “I’ve got two clips left, you?”

“One and a half.”

The look they share conveys their doubts, their dread. An unspoken conversation passes between them.

Tangerine puts it in the back of his mind. “I’ll run out first, then you go a few seconds later.”

“No way, we go at the same time.”

He shakes his head but arguing only puts off the inevitable.

“Go to the opposite side of the desk.”

They split, crouching behind opposite corners. There was no way either of them would be able to make it two steps without taking 10 rounds to the chest. The image of you stays in Tangerine’s mind. He just wished he could see you again. Whatever comes next, afterlife or not, he hoped you—or some form of you—would be in it.

Tangerine gives Lemon one last look, finds that his brother is watching him, and gives him a somber nod. He holds his gun up, takes a deep breath, gets ready to run…

He’s out from behind the desk, gritting his teeth and firing in a flash.

He hits one, another to his left falls from Lemon’s bullets. His legs are shaky, he can feel them trembling.

Rifles take aim.

Tangerine opens his mouth to urge Lemon on.

And a grenade goes off.

The loud bang startles him, his ears ring and a second later he’s shrouded in white, smokey fog. Tangerine stops, confused, looking around to try and find Lemon. But a strong hand yanks him and drags him back. He stumbles, scattering empty bullet shells along the ground, and falls onto the tile.

He’s back behind the desk. Lemon falls next to him.

A pair of legs stands between the brothers. Next to them lies a green duffle bag. Empty rifle shells fall to the ground. Tangerine didn’t even realize guns were firing. He followed the legs up in one long sweep of his eyes.

. . .

A million and one things were going through your mind as you fired an automatic rifle at the security team in the lobby. The biggest thing was holding back every fiber of your damn being from screaming at Tangerine and Lemon for being so foolish.

If you had been a breath later, a second too late, these idiots would be laying in a pile of their own blood on the floor. That thought definitely won’t haunt you for a few months.

The other thing you were concentrating on was ignoring the way Tangerine was staring at you right now. He’s not hurt—you kept repeating, over and over again. He’s ok.

The security team was scattering for cover, but finding little, making your job easy as the last of the smoke cleared. They hadn’t been expecting someone to come in from behind and you’d shot a few in the back before throwing the smoke grenade. Only a few were left now.

They seemed to get over their surprise and began firing back, opening the elevators, and using the inside cabins for cover. Keeping the doors open would stop them from being sent back up for more goons to come through. That was good.

You duck down behind the desk. They were still staring at you.

“Yes! Hello!” You stubbornly gritted out while staring into the wood.

Tangerine’s mouth opened and closed many times, but no words came out. That didn’t mean Lemon wasn’t able to say anything.

“Did you get his message?” He was grinning like some kind of fool.

“Message? Which one?”

Was he talking about the hundreds of messages—texts, voicemails, and letters—Tangerine had been sending on a weekly basis? Yes, you’d gotten them. Read every single one. It had been hard enough sleeping normally, after all that you hadn’t been able to sleep at all. The guilt was overwhelming.

Lemon’s eyes dart to his brother. You did the same and regretted it immediately.

Tangerine’s eyes were practically bulging from his head. His mustache twitched.

Oh, he’s pissed.

You quickly look away and clear your throat. “Are you on a job?”

“Yeah, a shit one. We were just trying to bail.”

“Can’t blame you. What happened, bad intel?”

Tangerine’s voice resembled a growl, it grated against your ear, but it wasn’t entirely unwelcome. “Understatement of the century, love.”

Love. Love. Love.

Lemon wipes his forehead. “What’re you doing here?”

“I have my own problems with your target.” You turn to Lemon but feel Tangerine’s eyes burning a hole in your back. “I was about to sneak in when I saw you two walking down the street.” You check your gun, then rummage through the duffle bag for another clip.

“A massive coincidence then?” Lemon was holding back a smile, eyes darting to Tangerine occasionally. It was as if they weren’t just about to die only five minutes ago.

“If you two still want to bail, that’s fine with me. I’ll give you a window after taking the rest out. I’m going to push on.”

Tangerine spins you around by the shoulder to face him. “Are you fucking mental?”

You’re very close together. The determination it takes not to just lean in and…

Speaking slow, you’re focusing your words and hoping it gets through to him. “Your target has info on me that could get people hurt and ruin my reputation. I need to wipe his computer.”

For all his credit, Tangerine takes you seriously in that moment, even as he looks like he might commit murder. He looks to Lemon—they do that ‘sibling conversation’ without words that they’re so good at.

“We’ll stick around to help.”

“You sure?”

Something in him ignites. There’s a fire behind his eyes. “Fuck yes, we’re sure.”

He’s giving mixed signals now. Is he angry? Probably. But apparently not angry enough to leave you on a job alone.

“Alright…” You say, slowly backing away.

You search through the duffle bag, cold objects graze your fingers, you can identify them each by touch. The laser cutter has a rubber handle. “Lemon—" You toss it to him. “—Cut a hole in the employee door. Tangerine—” You grab another rifle, placing it into his hands. “—Help me take out the last of the guys.”

He takes the rifle and for a moment your hands touch. You expect him to flinch away, or recoil, but he lingers there for a moment. His golden rings gleam—of course he wore them, he never leaves them behind—and catch your eyes until he takes the gun from you.

Fucking confusing.

It had been months, but the three of you worked together like no time had passed at all. Tangerine falling in sync with you, watching your back. Working in tandem, the few remaining riflemen dropped like flies.

“Doors open!” Lemon shouted tapping you and Tangerine’s shoulder.

The three of you waste no time dashing into the small service hallway. Tangerine grabbed the duffle bag and slung it over his shoulder. You were just about to pick it up, but he gave you a look.

There wasn’t as much polish to this part of the building, the lighting was dimmer, and it lacked the white tiles, replaced by a steely gray metal flooring instead. The hallway was long and narrow, its walls matched the floor in color.

“This should lead to an employee elevator. That will take us to the top office.” You panted, oddly exhilarated.

Lemon was looking down the hallway as he crouched. “Watch out for the desk clerk, she went this way.”

“Still can’t believe you both just walked in the front door…”

“We don’t all have your sense of planning, darling.” Tangerine huffed, hiking the bag higher on his shoulder.

“Did you have any sense of planning?”

“Lemon had a plan.”

You turn halfway back to face him. “You—Tangerine!”

He fixes you with an odd look. “What?”

“Lemon doesn’t even read the briefs! And you let him make the plan?” You shoot an apologetic look to Lemon. “No offense, you’re really great in every other area.”

He gives you a half smile. “I appreciate that.”

Tangerine grinds his teeth. “In my defense, the intel in the brief was already bad.” He steps closer, into your personal space. “And you always come up with the plans.”

You don’t shy away from him, in fact, you inch closer. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to make them, but you should know better—”

Lemon sighs, long and loud. “Can you two please focus? We’re in the middle of a dangerous situation here.”

It took a moment for you and Tangerine to resume, the closeness was intimate. Electricity crackles in the air between you.

You both say ‘Fine’ at the same time, like stubborn teenagers. The tension hadn’t settled one bit.

If Tangerine needed to be ignored for the remainder of this mission, then ok. That’s fine. No problem. That doesn’t bother you one bit. Nope.

The three of you empty the duffle bag of its contents, splitting the ammo and giving Lemon the pump action shotgun. That shotgun was your Hail Mary in case shit hit the fan—which, by your definition, it had.

You three were your own personal attack squad now, armed to the teeth.

The employee lift was at the end of the twisting hallway, metallic doors shining like a beacon. The panel to call it only had the arrow pointing up, a one-way lift. You’d poured over the maps late into the night leading up to your personal mission, often with a glass of wine, and it had struck you as odd that it only offered a one way up.

You jab at the button, and the little golden light is stark against the greys around it. Tangerine stands just behind you; you can hear his breath over your shoulder.

“Why’s it only one way?” he asks, hushed and tense.

“I asked the same question.” You responded turning a little to look at him. “I thought it might be security measures.”

“Doesn’t really make sense though, does it? It lets people like us up.” Tangerine zeroes in on your frown. “What is it?”

“There might be internal controls from the top office. This guy doesn’t fuck around with security.”

“Who is this guy anyway?” Lemon sniffs, casting a look back down the hallway.

“An asshole that likes snooping into people’s personal business.”

The brothers trade looks.

“He also works in satellite tech, undercover ops, information gathering.”

There’s a gentle bump into your shoulder. “He’s been snooping into your business, has he?”

How long is this elevator going to take?

“He has.”

“Did he try to blackmail you?”

“Yes.”

“What did he find?”

The elevator dings and the sleek metal doors slide open. The inside is full of ominous red and gold hues. The luxuriousness of it gives you the impression that the boss of the building takes it regularly.

Instead of answering, you step inside and forcefully hit the button for the top floor. Tangerine watches you carefully, studying you. Somehow, he looks like a kicked puppy, yet holding the rifle he takes on a much more sinister tone. He still looks dashing as hell in his suit though. You can see the little gold chain of his necklace around his broad neck.

Focus, focus, focus!

His mustache twitches a bit as he catches you staring. And to top that off, he stands in front of you, very closely in front. Either trying to shield you or irritate you. Possibly both.

He’s wearing the cologne you got him as a present almost a year ago.

“If there’s in house security for this lift, we should be prepared.” You shift a little to see Lemon over Tangerine’s shoulder.

“What do you suggest?”

“They know we’re coming, so we have to be fast. Their access to elevators has been blocked. All remaining security teams will need to take the stairs. This elevator opens to another employee hallway that we’ll have to exit in order to reach the office. That’s assuming—”

The elevator stutters, something above you screeches in the elevator shaft, and the panel lights flicker. All three of you stumble as it comes to an abrupt stop and the dim emergency lights switch on. They coat the interior in a faint red light, turning it into a nightmare scenario.

 You groan. “That’s assuming they don’t just turn the elevator off. Fuck.”

Lemon places the shotgun on the floor and motions to Tangerine. Together they pry the paneling off to reveal the switchboard underneath. Lemon fusses with the wiring, using a knife to cut through some and connect it to others.

Sparks fly, flashing in the dim light. Your anxiety ramps. Trapped in an elevator was not on your list of things you wanted to deal with today.

While Lemon fussed with wires, Tangerine turned back to you. “Relax.”

“Excuse me?”

“Try to stay calm, we’ll be out in a second or two.”

Your blood boiled hot. “Don’t tell me to be calm.”

Tangerine smiles at you. “I know you hate elevators.”

“They’re fine, I just particularly hate being trapped in them.”

“Just relax, I’ve got you.”

“That doesn’t help at all!”

More sparks and flickering lights and the elevator doors open an inch. Tangerine has the audacity to smirk in that moment and he touches your chin briefly. His eyes gleam in the dim light.

If you all lived, you were going to kill him.

The twins work wordlessly to pry the elevator doors open. It takes a tremendous effort and both of them are sweaty and breathing hard at the end, but there’s enough space for a person to climb through. Except, you’re going to have to jump down into the office below. Half the elevator is blocked.

“Well, good news is…” Lemon says, scratching his head, “we can get out. And if the elevator can only fall downward.”

“The elevator only goes up, Lemon.” You choke out.

“Oh. Right…well, best get a move on then.”

“I’ll go first.” Tangerine volunteers.

On instinct you reach for him. He sees the slight movement before you hold yourself back.

As if it was easy, he’s crouching down, squeezing through the doors, and jumping into the office below. All with his gun in his hand. Meanwhile, your heart is doing summersaults in your throat.

He holds his hands up, beckoning you. “Come on. You’ve done harder things than this.”

You force yourself to move, crouching down and inching toward the opening. You toss him your rifle. “Like when?”

“Like when you jumped between rooftops in Venezuela.”

“I wasn’t thinking when I did that! And in hindsight, it was fucking stupid of me.”

He laughs. “I’ve got you. Come on.”

You squeeze through the doors, imagining the elevator crashing down, the doors snapping shut, something—anything drastic, and then throw yourself at Tangerine. He catches you with practiced ease and holds you close to him.

He says something you don’t catch over the sound of your trembling breaths. There’s a pat on your shoulder, Lemon is out.

Regaining yourself, you move away from Tangerine and straighten your clothes. His brow furrows, mustache tilts down. Maybe it was your imagination, but did his fingers grip your clothes? A silent plea for you to stay?

You do your best to ignore it. “Let’s go. Did anyone catch what floor we stopped on?”

“37th.” Lemon says, handing over your gun.

“Two floors short.”

“You think they’re waiting for us?”

“I’d bet money on it. Be careful, both of you. I don’t want to see any heroics.”

Tangerine’s eyes follow you as you move to the front and lead them through the hallway at a jogging pace. The single door at the end is much like the one you entered on the first-floor lobby. There’s a control panel for it to the side. As you run up to it, you press your ear to the other side.

No noise.

Your hand hovers over the button. With one last look behind you at the twins you give them a nod, then press it. The door clicks open a fraction, and everything goes to shit.

They were waiting for you on the other side of the door and the gunfire started up immediately. Your vision was blocked immediately, and you were pushed and tugged out by a strong hand—the world was a blur of loud shots, ringing ears, and scrambling. Grey cubicles shoulder-height tall were set up along the floor, which made spotting the enemy incredibly hard. All the fighting was done in the tight walkways between the office spaces.

Your shirt had blood on it, but you had no bullet wounds. Tangerine sat beside you, holding an arm. He’d been shot in his right arm.

“I said no heroics!” You practically shrieked.

Lemon was firing between cubicles, and from the sound of it, he was holding his own.

“What was I supposed to do, love?” Tangerine pants through the pain.

“You’re supposed to let me handle it!” You’re shouting as you pull out some gauze. The bullet went straight through his upper arm. He’d need stitches but, overall, he would be ok. You poke and prod gently as he hisses with each touch.

His teeth are gritted as he grunts out, “You wanted to get shot?”

“I’d take a bullet for you, happily. You know that.”

“I feel the same way, which is what I was doing.”

“I still don’t want you to!”

“I don’t want you to, either!”

Something bounces off your back. It’s a stapler. Both you and Tangerine stare at it for a moment, confused.

“Oi! You two! Get over yourselves and actually talk about your feelings for once!”

You whip around to stare daggers at Lemon. “Did you just throw a stapler at me?!”

He’s taking cover behind a grey cubicle not too far away. “Yeah, I did! I’m sick of you two avoiding an actual conversation. Talk—it—out!”

Tangerine sits up, pushing against your hands on his chest in your weak attempt to keep him down. “You’ve lost your mind, mate!”

“Thomas would say to express your feelings, that bottling them up is bad for you! So, express them!”

“Is it really necessary—” You pick up your rifle and fire blindly down the walkway, “—to do this now? We’re a little busy!”

“It’s now or never, I know you two! Once all this stops, you’ll avoid it!”

Tangerine looks perplexed, like he’s really considering it, and you try not to look at him again. “Fuck this job!” You shout, before rolling into the walkway and opening fire.

The two or three men that hadn’t been behind cover are caught by surprise and the bullets chew through the walls of the cubicles. A deadly silence permeates the office floor, only the ringing in your ears remains.

Another shot rings out and you feel like your shoulder’s been ripped from the socket.

You’re thrown back onto the ground. It must have been a heavy round, your left arm is completely numb, do you even have an arm left?

There’s shouting and more gunshots, the grey office walls and floor merge into one as the room spins. You’re getting pulled off the ground, someone is prodding your arm. Absentmindedly, you swat at whoever is doing it.

“Listen, hey, open your eyes!”

Tangerine…

You obey. He’s inches in front of your face, brows furrowed, a vein in his forehead sticks out.

“I’m fine.” You cough out. “Just fell down, is all.”

“You’ve been shot!”

“Oh.”

He struggles, he looks like he has more to say, but stays silent. You swat at Lemon who’s wrapping your arm—or shoulder, more accurately. “I’m fine, let’s keep going.”

“You’re not fine.” Lemon grunts, pushing your hand away. “It was a .308 round. You’ll be lucky if you have any bones left in your shoulder.”

“Why’d you do that?!” Tangerine is shouting, running his hand through his hair. You both match now, he’s bandaged up on his left arm too.

“Do what?” You ask through gritted teeth as Lemon tightens the bandage.

“Run out like an absolute lunatic?”

“I told you I’d take a bullet for you.”

His eyes bug out. “You threw yourself into the line of fire!”

“All in a day’s work. Now, can we get back to it?” You don’t wait for a response, instead pushing yourself to your feet. Your left arm hangs to the side, limp and numb. A dull throb pulses through your side.

Tangerine watches you. “We need to have a serious discussion when this is over, love.”

You huff out a breath, swaying slightly. “Noted.”

The three of you push on in tense silence. Tangerine makes sure you’re behind him while the rest of the floors leading to the main penthouse office are cleared. He’s acting so stubborn, blocking you at every turn, holding you back with a gentle, yet unyielding hand. The vein in his forehead never goes away.

Finally, the double doors leading to the office are before you. Platinum gold, of course, with carved handles. This guy’s style was beginning to get obnoxious.

Lemon kicks open the doors with as much anger and prejudice as you feel (yet can’t muster at the moment). Instead of what you were expecting, the target stands alone behind his desk. He smirks, giving off a Wall Street investor impression with his pressed suit and perfectly cut hair.

He spreads his arms wide. “I really should have known you three would be together for this.”

“Shut up, wanker.” Tangerine shouts, pointing his gun.

The target opens his mouth to say more, but Tangerine doesn’t let him. He empties the clip into the man’s chest.

The target dies with a startled look on his face, falling back over his desk.

You move past Tangerine, fighting his hands that grip at your clothing. “Thank God for that.”

The computer is easily hacked, the files you’re after are on the desktop. Maybe the dead man was looking to bargain—or gloat. You glance at his dead, glazed over eyes.

Bastard.

Tangerine paces, looking at you often. His job is done, the confirmation is sent to the client through Lemon’s phone.

Your files are downloaded onto an encrypted flash drive, and you rip the wiring out of the computer’s back, smashing the server tower. Mission accomplished.

“I guess now that you have what you need, you’ll disappear again.” Tangerine is glaring at you, chewing his lip. His bandage is bloody.

The flood gates open.

“I needed these files!” You shout, worsening the headache you already have.

Tangerine shouts back, taking a step closer. “I would have understood if you had just told me!”

“I couldn’t have told you!”

“Why not?”

“Because—well—I didn’t—It doesn’t matter now!”

“So, you disappear for months, without a word, for something you won’t even tell me about?!”

“I didn’t want to involve you! I wanted to get this done myself!”

“I’m involved now!”

“It was a shitty coincidence you showed up here today, and I’m sorry you got hurt because of this job!”

“I’m not concerned about me!”

“Well, you should be! I care about your safety!”

“And I care about yours!”

In the corner, Lemon shakes his head.

You hold your arm, trying to work some feeling back into it. It throbs and you wish you hadn’t. “I would have come back after this was done.”

“Oh, really?” Tangerine laughs dryly. “How was I to know?”

You groan, throat turning dry. “You’re so impatient! I just needed a little time!”

“You know how often I tried to reach you—?”

“Yes! I heard every message, got every bouquet of flowers—and thank you for my porch, that was really nice.”

Tangerine flounders a little, he still wants to argue, but some of the steam has been let out. “A thank you would have been nice.”

“I’m thanking you now!”

“A whole good that did when I thought you were done with me—” He shoots a look at his brother, “—and Lemon!”

“I’ll say I’m sorry a thousand more times, Tangerine! Is that what you want?”

He turns his back to you, grumbling something.

“I don’t understand why it was such a big deal to you, we’re contractors! We kill people for a living, and you’re freaking out—”

He spins back around. “It’s a big deal because I thought you were hurt.” He stalks closer, you notice his hair has come undone from the neat gel, curls flair out around his neck. “I thought something happened to you!” He’s within arm’s distance now. “It’s a big deal because I love you!”

And then he stops. His eyes go wide, as if he’s just spilled a secret.

Fuck, he did just spill a secret. Maybe you had known, but he’s never said anything. It was always just little guesses here and there, a thought—a feeling—and inclination. Late nights, especially recently, that you spent thinking about it, wondering.

Your mouth falls open in the silence. “I—I…love…” but damned if your mouth just wasn’t getting it out.

Arguing and bickering was so much easier.

But he knows, he can see it in the way your eyes soften, in the way you swallow with a dry throat. In the way your hand reaches to him, and your body leans forward.

“You know…” Lemon says, looking up from his phone, “Most people would kiss at this point. Just a suggestion.”

A quip, a very fitting one, comes to mind and you’re about to tell Lemon just how you’re not normal people, when Tangerine pulls you to him. Your chest presses to his and his lips are on yours in an instant.

Hungry, needy. It’s desperate, an urgent need be close, to be touching. Burning with desire and hot with passion. You give into it.

His mustache scratches at your lips and you pull him into you, threading your fingers through his curly hair, mussing it up even more. His hands grip at your back, pull at your clothes.

Closer. You need to be closer.

Fuck air, the feeling of his lips moving against yours is the only thing you’ll ever need again.

Your arm throbs and the dull pulse shoots up to your chest. You sigh, half in pain and half in pleasure. Unfortunately, Tangerine pulls back. There’s blood on his lips and he looks concerned.

“Wait…” You mumble, trying to pull him back to you. He’s your lifeline now.

“You need a doctor, love.”

“Just a little longer.”

Tangerine chuckles, wrapping an arm around your back. “After you’re patched up. I promise.”

…Bonus…

“You’re going to ‘break into my house and wait for me to come home’?”

Tangerine groans, throwing his head back as you walk into the small office. Private clinics with ‘respectable’ doctors. Gotta love ‘em.

“Love, I didn’t mean it, I was in a life-or-death situation—I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking—”

You give a good-natured laugh, sitting next to him. You’d been patched up first, Tangerine was just waiting for some blood work to come back.

Tangling your fingers in his you give his hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m just teasing, Tan. I know.”

“Ok.” He sighs, giving your hand a squeeze back. “Good.”

You ruffle through your pockets to pull out your phone, your arm stings, but the pain medication the doc gave you does wonders. “I thought about it, I think you deserve to know why I was after your target.”

He looks at you with new interest now.

You tilt your screen to show him.

It had pictures of you and Tangerine. Pictures of you sitting together at lunch, laughing. Pictures of you walking down the street together, arm in arm. Pictures of you looking like a couple.

“Oh,” he breathes out, “I see.”

“I was worried you’d be put in danger if these…well, if they got into the wrong hands.”

“Didn’t want our clients to think we were softies either, huh?”

“That too.”

He presses his face into your hair. He hasn’t expressed his feelings for you again, but you’re starting to realize he always had—just through actions instead. A gentle hand on the small of your back. Wrapping an arm around your waist. Leaning down to speak softly into your ear.

These were just as much of an expression as words.

“Will we have to do this every time?” he asks, voice muffled slightly.

“Every time what?”

“It’s only a matter of time before more pictures of us make it into someone’s hands.”

“Oh. That’s a good point.”

He pulls you a little closer. “I’ll be dammed if I have to stop taking you out over that.”

“Then I guess we’ll just have to kill whoever tries something like that again.”

“We’ll do it together next time, yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

[bagog]

Star Trek: Discovery Narrative Highlights

So I really like Discovery, but differently than I like other Star Treks. My love for Voyager, for instance, is based off the sense of found-family in the face of sci-fi shenanigans. I could pick out favorite episodes, but my favorite episodes don't necessarily represent the epitome of what I love about the show, y'know?

It's different with Disco. There are concrete moments from through out the show that made me go "Okay, I like this, I want this. More of this." Here's some of them! This is indulgent and all from memory

Season 1 - Klingons Speak Klingon

In a story about Klingons fearing the Federation as an institution which will irrevocably alter their culture, the Klingons actually speak Klingon. Love it. Season 1 - Gabriel Lorca

I loved seeing a Star Fleet captain who seemed to have ascended because of his skill at war: a trait which ordinarily would not elevate one within Starfleet service, per se. It made him interesting. Your mileage may vary on where this went, but. He's still a big appeal on rewatch.

Season 2 - Queer People Helping Queer People

The introduction of Jet Reno is one of my favorite hallmarks in the show. I love Jet, and I love the way she serves as a foil to every other character. But best of all, I loved the scene when she is talking to Hugh Culber about how distant he's been from his husband (since coming back from the dead, so, you know) and helps him by relating her own story about her wife, who is now passed. To say I'm happy to see queer stories on Star Trek is a massive understatement, but this was the moment it locked in for me. In the world of the Federation, there's no difference between being queer or straight and anyone could've talked Hugh out of his funk. But in our world, it's usually queer people helping queer people make sense of their experiences. Recognizing the importance of that distinction and going with the queers-helping-queers take is a really big deal for me.

Season 2 - Amanda

This is hands-down the best representation of Amanda we've ever been given and she is so wonderfully human and warm that it helps you understand Spock and Michael so much better. I don't know what to say other than that, I love her.

Season 3 - The Future

I love that they went not just into the future, but further into the future than any mainline trek lore has gone. Hell yes. I'm bummed it's kinda a post-Utopian mess, but I get storywise why that's the case. I love the future starships, I love the future technology, I like that we just "BZP" to wherever we want to be in the ship now. In a show increasingly steeped in centuries of canon lore, it's smart and challenging to try to do "a millennium in the future."

Season 3 - Queer Family

Queer Family! Queer Family in Star Trek! This is my queers-helping-queers point but dialed up to 11. Love it, would do anything for it.

Season 4 - Artificial Intelligence

The ship is alive and she's named herself. This comes to a head in an episode in Season 4 where Paul Stamets feels very hesitant about this, after the plot of Season 2 was trying to stop AI from destroying the galaxy. There's this whole Measure of a Man but Not Quite Because Its the B Story thing going on, but at the end of it, there's a twist. Paul eventually learns to accept his new crewmate, but then he asks the person in-charge of the inquest "What would you have done if I said I wasn't comfortable serving with an AI?" and the dude goes "I would've assigned you to another ship. This was never about whether she has a soul or whatever, it's about if you can learn to accept that with you 22nd century brain." And that's.... that's great.

Season 4 - Mental Health

Mental Health is a thread running through some of Discovery (Season 2 flirts with Spock's neurodivergence, for instance) but never more than in Season 4. Hugh Culber, the ship's ray of sunshine and de facto counselor, is in bad shape, mentally, and he needs help. But the best moment is when the away-team is beset by chemical memories of panic and basically rendered useless with fear... except for Detmer, who helps them all get through it. When asked why she was unaffected, she says "Oh I totally was affected, but after my grievous injury during the war, I went to therapy for the PTSD and learned some coping strategies" AND THAT'S WHAT SAVES THE GALAXY.

Anyway, this is very indulgent and probably nobody reads this, but thanks if you did.

[amuseoffyre]

I saw a comment on S2 along the lines of "I don't see why they brought in Ricky/The British as bad guys". As if the British empire hasn't been the big threat since 1x01. The Badmintons represent the empire's lesser sons. Ricky is a similar thing, but escalating.

It's not overtly said in the show, but the entire empire and colonialism is the villain. We have crews of various kinds of disenfranchised people - Frenchie (was in service), Olu (implicitly from a maroon community), Buttons (Scots), Wee John (Northern Irish).

And then we have the Queen Anne - Ed's background is woven with the history and legacy of the British school system in his Māori mother's dialogue. Izzy is a working class northern man with the scars of flogging on his back. Also Samoan Fang and south Asian Ivan.

In 1x01, we see how the British upper classes treat people they consider their "lessers". Everything they say about Stede's crew speaks measures for the views of the empire: colourful, savages, slave. The gratification of seeing them immediately punished is *so* strong.

We also see how they treat anyone who doesn't fit into the specific boxes they have assigned to people. Stede is a target of their scorn, violence and mockery and has been since childhood, despite the fact he should - on the surface - fit in with them as a rich white man.

While Chauncey's vendetta against Stede is his primary motive for hunting him, prestige, rank and station are more valuable to Wellington and Hornberry. They defy their commanding officer to elevate themselves when they have Blackbeard take the Act of Grace. It's all about empire - dining with King George himself.

Which brings me around to Ricky. He's a lesser son - like the Badmintons - but also he is the empire incarnate, a minor Prince from the royal family, with Daddy running the treasury. He wants what he sees Stede having. He thinks he can just walk in and take it. When he fails - and is punished - he doesn't grow and learn from it like Stede does.

While Stede willingly gives up everything to be true to himself, Ricky immediately goes running back to cling to the imperial apron strings and uses the wealth, prestige and his name - and royal ties - to bring the wrath of the empire down on the Republic as a whole.

He wants, so he takes. If he can't have, he will destroy. Even after he's demolished everything, he tells himself "well, I beat all the other pirates, so that makes me the best pirate" because he genuinely believes that. He doesn't see them as equals to him. They are to be controlled and beaten by him. We see it from his first scene, referring to the pirates as "rubes", saying that he and Stede are better than the other people in the Republic & telling Stede he wasn't good at what he did.

For him, this is just a game where he controls all the pieces. Much like the British empire did - do what you like for fun & profit & kill anyone who gets in the way.

The threat of the empire has always been there, right from the beginning. The Act of Grace was the first royal step to quash piracy. Ricky was Act 2. We're into the final confrontation now, building steam to the fall of the Golden Age and the end of piracy as it was.

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved on our archive

Report suggests potential excess mortality in the general population of up to 3% for the US by 2033 and 2.5% in the UK, the longest period of elevated peacetime excess mortality in the US Key driver of excess mortality is the lingering impact of COVID-19; both as a direct cause of death, and as a contributor to cardiovascular mortality

Reducing the impact of COVID-19 on elderly and vulnerable populations will be key to excess mortality returning to zero Zurich, 16 September 2024 – Four years after the peak of the COVID-19 pandemic, many countries are still reporting elevated all-cause excess mortality compared with pre-pandemic levels. According to Swiss Re Institute's report The future of excess mortality after COVID-19, if the ongoing impact of the disease is not curtailed, excess mortality rates in the general population may remain up to 3% higher than pre-pandemic levels in the US and 2.5% in the UK by 2033.

Paul Murray, CEO L&H Reinsurance at Swiss Re says: "COVID-19 is far from over. The US reported an average of 1500 COVID-19 deaths a week for 2023 – comparable to fentanyl or firearm deaths.[1] If this continues, our analysis suggests a potential scenario of elevated excess mortality extending over the next decade. However, excess mortality can return to pre-pandemic levels much sooner. The first step is to get COVID under control, with measures such as vaccinations for the vulnerable. Over the longer term, medical advancements, a return to regular healthcare services, and the adoption of healthier lifestyle choices will be key."

Excess mortality is a measure of the number of deaths above an expected level in a given population. Typically, all-cause excess mortality should be around zero, as the major causes of death remain relatively stable over the long-term baseline assumption.

Fluctuations in excess mortality tend to be short-term, reflecting developments such as a large-scale medical breakthrough or the negative impact of a large epidemic. However, as society absorbs these events, excess mortality should revert to the baseline.

With COVID-19 this has not been the case and all-cause excess mortality is still above the pre-pandemic baseline. In 2021, excess mortality spiked to 23% above the 2019 baseline in the US, and 11% in the UK[2]. As Swiss Re Institute's report estimates, in 2023, it remained significantly elevated in the range of 3–7% for the US, and 5–8% for the UK.

If the underlying drivers of current excess mortality continue, Swiss Re Institute's analysis estimates that excess mortality may remain as high as 3% for the US and 2.5% for the UK by 2033.

The primary driving factor of both current and future excess mortality is respiratory disease (including COVID-19 and influenza), with other causes including cardiovascular disease, cancer and metabolic illnesses. The cause of death split varies by a country's reporting mechanism.

Optimistic scenarios require healthcare and medical advancements

Swiss Re's report examines an optimistic scenario where excess mortality rates return to pre-pandemic levels as early as 2028. In this scenario, medical advances, such as weight loss injectables and cancer developments such as personalised mRNA vaccines, combine with a drop in the impact of COVID-19 and healthier lifestyle choices. Indirect impact of cardiovascular disease (CVD) mortality

The interplay between COVID-19 and cardiovascular death rates is significant for excess mortality. The virus itself has a direct impact because it contributes to causes of death such as heart failure. Further, COVID-19 has had an indirect impact via the disruption to healthcare systems – a factor which emerged in the pandemic years. This disruption has led to a backlog of essential cardiac tests and surgeries, meaning that conditions such as hypertension have been underdiagnosed and therefore not treated. Implications for insurers

Excess mortality in the general population is an important indicator for insurers, as shifts in the major causes of death may require a reassessment of additional risk in their mortality portfolios. The current levels of excess mortality are of concern. However, there are a range of tools available for insurers and reinsurers to manage this trend. Specific actions include adapting the underwriting philosophy, risk appetite, and mortality assumptions in pricing and reserving. Insurers can be proactive in targeting prevention programmes for policyholders, helping them in the joint effort to support longer, healthier lives.

How to order this study:

The future of excess mortality after COVID-19 is available in electronic format from Swissre.com.

[spyskrapbook]

"Unité d’Habitation / La Cité Radieuse", 280 Boulevard  Michelet, 13008, Marseille, France [1947-52] _ Architect: Le Corbusier _ Photos by: Spyros Kaprinis [25.05.2024].

"The building takes the form of a housing bar 135 metres long, 24 metres wide, 56 metres high and mounted on stilts. Three hundred and thirty apartments, divided into twenty-three different types, can accommodate a population of between 1,500 and 1,700 occupants having at their disposal on the seventh and eighth floors a shopping street and a hotel-restaurant, together with a kindergarten and sports facilities on the roof terrace. The constructive principle adopted, the so-called “bottle rack”, consists in building apartments inside an independent frame of posts and reinforced concrete beams. The apartments are made up of standard elements assembled on the site. All the apartments are dual-aspect, except those on the south side. A sun-break loggia provides an open-air facility at the same time as limiting exposure to sunlight. Protected by double glazing, the apartment interiors are subject to the two basic rules of naval and monastic architecture: rationalism and simplicity. The living room, open on two levels, is the nucleus of the family “home”; upstairs the parents’ room occupies the mezzanine. The kitchen is equipped like a laboratory: electric cooker, refrigerator, rubbish chute and storage racks. The entire apartment is fitted with racks replacing traditional storage. The ventilation of the kitchen, bathroom and toilets is mechanically operated, while the entire apartment is supplied with clean air by an air conditioning system. These facilities were not found in the low-cost collective housing units of the time, and the standard surface areas of the Unité d’Habitation are greater than these by between 40% and 50%. The seventeen-storeys below the terrace are connected by eight interior streets which, given the overlap of the two-storey apartments, each serve three floors. Each street is accessed by a battery of four elevators complemented by a service elevator and three emergency staircases. The entire building and its equipment are designed in terms of the Modulor, the universal measuring unit conceived by Le Corbusier."