#Factory Drop In Anchors

[miscelliteeous]

My Arcane S/I

Name: Marina

Age: early-40s

Height: 5' (taller in her heels)

Biography: Marina worked in a factory in Zaun and befriended Silco and Vander when they were about teenagers, quickly getting very invested in Silco's ideas, though she was much more of a free-spirit pacifist type with a naive belief that anything could be achieved peacefully and through working together, the kind of person that's full of too much hope and cheerfulness for her situation, partially because it was really all she had at the time. Eventually, she started to date Silco, which unfortunately put a major target on her back. So, in her early 20s, she went missing for a week, and was dropped of a week later, missing two fingers, four teeth, and an ear, badly beaten, and sliced up. After she eventually healed, she was able to confess that her kidnappers had taken her to 'teach Silco a lesson' and get him to give up. She didn't talk much, and couldn't leave her apartment for over a month before she and Silco reluctantly decided the best thing for her to do would be to leave and get as far from Zaun and Piltover as possible, breaking up. Marina promised she would return someday, and she left to travel the world.

For well over a decade she traveled and saw many beautiful and exciting places, but she never felt like she really belonged in any of them, never staying for more than a few months. While a lot more guarded than before, she was still mostly friendly and kind, and even wound up with a small fortune on her hands when an elderly friend she had made during her travels passed away. Despite it all, she still felt like something was missing, she wasn't happy.

She returned to Zaun, realizing that despite all her travels, her heart had remained in Zaun and she needed to find him. After searching a few days, she finally found Silco at the exact worst, or possibly best, moment: right after he had become a father. Marina was worried he wouldn't still want to be with her after such a long absence, but he needed her then more than ever and she was more than willing to step in and help him raise Powder into Jinx.

Other Info:

Has silver dental implants replacing her pulled canines.

Marina has a prosthetic ear on her right side anchored to her skull and wears silver attachments over her missing fingers.

Good at working with metal and made all her jewelry, but jewelry is all she wants to make after spending her youth in a factory.

Very good with children but can't have any biologically.

Wasn't as close to Vander in her youth, she found him very intimidating since the guy was huge and his, at the time, well deserved reputation as a big scary fighter. But she still considered him a friend.

Took about a month after she returned to find out what exactly went down in her decade+ long absence.

Doesn't smoke but does drink occasionally. Despite not smoking, she does find it to be ridiculously hot when Silco does and she has to leave the room to calm herself.

One of her favorite morning routines is styling Silco and Jinx's hair, though it happens less the older Jinx gets.

Still does not personally partake in violence but is less bothered by the violence of others. Whatever Silco does is his own business.

If she dies, she wants it to be sudden and unexpected.

Enjoys dancing and singing, though she doesn't do them often.

Silco thought she was cloying and naive when they first met, while she had a crush from the get-go. She grew on him over time, and she's always been loyal.

She doesn't take her gloves off around anyone except Silco and Jinx, and only Silco gets to see any of the massive scars she's hiding under her clothing.

Squeamish, can't watch Silco get his injections, it makes her feel guilty for not being there to try and save him.

Vision wasn't too bad when she was younger, though she always wore her sunglasses, and she started wearing glasses in her thirties.

Can't bring herself to say no to Silco or Jinx, she caves and gives in immediately.

Despite trying to be a kind and caring person, she can turn into a real bitch fast around topsiders. Does not like them at all.

Has a sweet tooth and is constantly bringing desserts to Jinx and making sure Silco doesn't skip meals when he's busy.

Okay and as thanks for reading through my cringe here's a drawing I spent about 10 hours on:

[saintsofwarding]

WE SHALL BE MONSTERS

Header by Keltii-tea

Chapter 17: A Little Back Alley Surgery Never Killed Nobody

The thing clung to the reactor like a vast, pallid slug, stuck to its side with what to Heisenberg looked like a layer of thick mucus. This dripped slowly into the boreshaft, droplets black and almost as noxious-looking as the runoff in the main cavern of the factory above.

Heisenberg tilted his head, trying to get a sense of the thing. A translucent membrane covered it, and inside this sac, movement fluttered, pulsating and writhing against the membrane like some fetal thing struggling to birth itself. Long tentacles trailed from the membrane, furling and unfurling slowly, a calm, dreamlike movement. That was all it did. For now.

Heisenberg sniffed, then clicked his fingers. A piece of scrap flew to his hand; he paused a moment, then sent it clanging against the far wall of the shaft. The sound echoed through the darkness. In response, the thing shuddered. Its pearly flesh rippled; a bass rumble shook the air.

It still didn't stir.

"Fan-fucking-tastic," Heisenberg muttered. The second he went up there, turned the reactor on, this thing was sure to wake up. And then? Well, he'd had practice going toe-to-toe with big bad monsters that weren't him, but he didn't have the necessary scrap in here to mutate. And the air was cold now; he suspected that was why the thing was staying so dormant. After all, the Cadou didn't like the cold, went all sluggish when the temperature dropped.

This chamber wouldn't stay that way for long. When the reactor turned on this place was gonna heat up something fierce, send a plume of superheated steam down into the borehole.

Huh. Maybe...

"Mia," he said into the radio.

"Here."

"You get ready to activate the power."

"What do you think I'm doing?"

"Just get ready. Only when I say. You hear me? Not a second before."

"Got it." To her credit, she sounded absolutely serious. No more mocking tone. This was life or death to her as much as it was to him.

Without delay, Heisenberg leaped. A subtle application of magnetism sent him soaring over the abyss; with the clang of his boots against metal he landed on one of the reactor's water ducts.

Another twitch from the creature; he heard it now, a deep, liquid inhale and exhale. Under that membrane he now made out the shapes pressing against the translucent tissue. Slender, attenuated, bunched together like a bundle of sticks, some of them twisted as if they'd partially melted and re-formed into a new, exciting shape.

Ah, shit. Limbs. He realized it as a hand feathered against the membrane, pressing against it as if against a drumhead. Five clawed fingers, strangely delicate. A big, distended sac of lycan limbs, hibernating here, clamped to the reactor.

"Shit, this place got fun while I was gone," Heisenberg muttered.

"What was that?"

"Just admiring the wildlife, sweetheart." He climbed onto the reactor itself. His teeth grit, his power keeping him stuck on the thing like a lifeline, he edged around it, looking for the worst of the obstruction. He found it fast- a mass of the thing's black mucus sticking one of the ducts shut. He pressed his hand to the metal around it and concentrated. The metal began to vibrate, humming in the backs of his teeth, faster and faster. It sparked; the mucus slithered, then disintegrated, slopping from the duct and dripping down into the abyss below.

Heisenberg hazarded a glance at the creature. Was he imagining things, or was it pulsating faster?

Another glob of mucus went out the same way, electrocuted into liquid with his power. The last one was just above the creature itself, a main anchor point the thing was using to keep hold, like a mussel against a rock. One boot braced against a strut on the reactor, the other in a narrow niche barely big enough to force his toe into, Heisenberg set both hands on the metal around the mucus. This time, he increased the strength. That was a lot of matter he had to dislodge.

The buzz filled the air, like the hum of Dimitrescu's daughters' weird-ass fly swarms, and as the blue glow around his hands strengthened the mucus began to run off the metal like hot grease.

"Heh," Heisenberg muttered to himself. "That's it- almost there- Mia, get ready-"

The rumble cut off the end of his sentence. A piece of machinery? Some kind of quake?

Ah, shit. Of course not.

Force slammed into him; he was torn off the reactor and into midair, bitch-slapped aside so fast he only had time to register a pallid blur, a wet, high-pitched shriek, before he smacked into the side of the boreshaft.

Agony cracked through him; he slid, leaving a streak of blood on the concrete, and collapsed to the catwalk below.

Breathing hard, his vision panging, Heisenberg flipped onto his front, lifting his head to squint at the thing unfurling from the reactor, now very, very much awake. It reared, unsticking from the metal with a slick crackle, strings of mucus snapping from its membrane. As Heisenberg watched, a split appeared down the middle of the membrane, and out of it, reaching toward free air-

Hands. Dozens and dozens of glistening, pallid hands and arms, clawed and wet with more of that mucus shit, grasping and quivering as more of the protective membrane slid from around the thing, revealing its body. Long, trailing tentacles, like a tail; four misshapen legs, made, Heisenberg registered, from yet more limbs, pressed together into form. Arms sprouted from the thing's back and headless forequarters, like some kind of mane. That was what it was- a headless slug-lion made from dozens of fused-together cave-lycans.

Fucking incredible. Heisenberg let out his breath, transfixed, his mind churning with the possibilities. Had the remaining lycans fled down here? Made their own kind of bizarre society? Had they still retained the colony urge the megamycete had fostered, had seeded into the deepest whorl of their mutant brains? Ooh, he'd love to get some scalpels in that, see if the lycans' organs had fused together, too, if their brains had remained separate or if they'd all been blended into one giant cerebral soup. Their continued mutation must have produced a communal urge so powerful there was no other option but to meld together, to become literally one entity.

But there would still need to be a signal for that. With Miranda gone, or dormant in Mia, and their Black God blown up, what- or who- had become the main host?

The monster clung to the side of the reactor with long, hooked claws, the mane of hands raking at the air. A slit slavered down its front end, lined with rows of milky eyes. Black saliva rained into the boreshaft as it swung from side to side, hands reaching out as if to grab Heisenberg.

Searching for him.

He flattened to the catwalk as the monster swung right over his head, lycan claws nearly snagging his hair.

Thing must be blind, or near to. Sure as hell didn't see him now. He'd disturbed it with his power; use it again, and it would know he was there. Make a sound-

The radio crackled.

"Heisenberg? What the hell is going on?"

The monster screamed- a hybrid bellow, the shrieking roar of an entire pack of hunting lycans. Heisenberg shoved to the side as one of the tail-tentacles whipped round and sheared straight through the catwalk, smashing it from the wall and into empty air; Heisenberg flung himself to his feet and sprinted toward the control panel, tearing the radio from his belt.

"Told you to wait for my goddamn signal!" he yelled.

"You went dead! What in-"

Another shriek cut her off; Heisenberg felt as the thing leaped from the reactor, its peeled-away protective membrane trailing behind it like a burial shroud. It slammed into the wall and clutched on, talons digging deep into the concrete.

Shit, it was fast. It scuttled toward him like some gigantic lizard, leaving a slick trail on the wall behind it. Heisenberg pelted toward the control panel, the switches and button that would activate the reactor-

Lycan hands grabbed him and yanked him bodily into the air. Pale hands, slick as a corpse's just past its sell-by date. Smelled like one, too; Heisenberg raked out for the switches as he soared off the catwalk; his fingertips brushed the switch, and then it was gone, out of reach.

Corpse breath blasted him, and a shriek that drew rusty nails down his brain. He twisted as the thing's mouth flew closer, the eye-lined slit, and in its depths roiling mandibles, dozens of lycan tongues lining a mold-black gullet dripping with slaver-

"Oh, you want a kiss, sweetheart?" He whirled his hand through the air. The scrap he'd sent flying earlier buzzed in his periphery. "See if this gets you going!"

` Blue-white streaked through the darkness, carving an arc of light in its path. It sliced through the knot of lycan arms clutching Heisenberg's shoulder. He plummeted; the catwalk rushed past. He grabbed hold with his power and yanked, rocketing upward, soaring up and over the railing.

His boots slammed to the grate. Severed lycan hands still held fistfuls of his coat, claws bit deep into the thick canvas. The monster's howl of agony shook the whole borehole, shook the reactor, sent it creaking on its scaffolding of cables and chains.

It gathered itself to leap.

"Now!" Heisenberg grabbed at the control panel. "Hit it now!"

He flipped the switches and slammed his fist into the button so hard he felt its plastic covering crack. Behind him-

A sound like a coming freight train. A rumble to his core. Water blasted through the ducts, setting them to vibrating, and fed into the reactor; Heisenberg whirled as its core glowed a dull cherry red, then orange, then tinged with yellow, hotter and hotter, the warmth reaching him like the sun on his face. Smoke curled from under the monster's feet. Its roar curdled to a shriek, and it shoved off the reactor, toward him, toward the source of all this annoyance.

A change in the reactor's pitch.

Heisenberg flung out his hands as he scrambled aside, as the monster hit the catwalk right where he'd been standing. The reactor began to shake, spitting loose grit, showering dust; it groaned. Then it tipped. The whole thing began to swing upward, like a shift in gravity, like the boreshaft was a child's toy tilted sideways, the vast machine and its ventilation duct lifting to aim straight for the monster.

Electricity crackled and snapped; Heisenberg knelt, shaking, his grin massive, the strain channeling shoots of white down his nerves- inside him, his Cadou struggled and pulsed, giving him power, feeding him, more and more-

With a shoom, a column of superheated steam shot toward the monster. It was flash-cooked. Obliterated. Its pallid skin curled from its mangled amalgam skeleton; its arms twisted and writhed like the tentacles of a beached squid. With a final teakettle squeal it tipped backward and into the boreshaft, plunging into darkness, gone in an instant.

Heisenberg released the reactor. It swung back down, chains rattling, its heart operating at the max. He dragged himself upright, winced at the grating-shaped bruises on his knees, and limped to the control panel. With deft movements, he centered the output, balanced the water input, brought all the levels steady.

As he worked, he sent out his awareness. He listened. And his factory gave him everything he needed to know. It began to wake up. The rumble of machinery. The chuntering and whirring of vast mechanisms stirring to life. He hummed as he worked, a dancing-song. Ribbons and lights. He'd crashed a few village shindigs in his day, basked in the fear and adulation, the dancers dropping to their knees to mumble Lord Heisenberg and bring him offerings until he was so drunk off his ass he'd end the festivities with screaming, violence, explosions.

That was what he could do. Show me what you can do, Karl. This was what he could do. Was there ever hope for more?

There was always so much more to save. Was he a part of that? He pressed his hand to the wall, the familiar thrum in his bones, like it would never leave him, like it had always been there, like it had been waiting all these years for him to return, for it to sink its claws into him once again.

***

Mia spun to face him as he shouldered back into the workshop.

"You changed," she said.

"Oh, no thanks for risking your ass?" He peered at her over the rim of his fresh dark glasses with a wide grin. "You should be grateful, Mia, I didn't just lock you in here to starve."

On his way back he'd unearthed a storage room, its two-decade-long door seal preserving a roomful of the spare clothes he'd dug up from various war graves. Now, he looked much as he had during his years in the village.

Thank fuck. He was getting sick of his clothes being shredded.

Mia looked momentarily unnerved at his grin, but blinked and became businesslike. "Let's just get this over with," she said.

She'd set the workshop to rights in his absence. Now, the furnace roared, painting the dusty darkness with its orange glow. She'd scrubbed a surgery table clean, gathered an array of sharp objects into a stack of kidney dishes, tied back her hair. Her neck was long, delicate-looking, breakable. Heisenberg looked it, and her, over for a long moment, then stripped off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and faced the furnace and the lab equipment thereabouts.

Synthesizing chemicals only occupied his hands. Over the years, making the artificial blood and other bodily fluids for his soldaten, as well as the necessary chemicals for his experimentation, had become nearly as second nature as using his powers. As he worked, he couldn't keep his mind from wandering, whirling off into tangents.

Thinking about Rose.

Where was she now? With Redfield? Or had she murdered him, run off on her own? Better that way, that was for fucking sure. Just like he'd taught her. Any other possibilities- that the BSAA bastards had decided she was more trouble than she was worth, and had executed her like a decommissioned BOW- weren't even worth considering.

But still. All he could see as he mixed and measured, as he weighed ingredients and adjusted the burner settings so the flames burned with a steady yellow-white glow, was her sprawled still and cold, her skin already crackling to crystal. Something gone, and gone forever.

"This isn't gonna be a walk in the park, Mia, you ready for that?" he said.

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"If you survived Cadou implantation, I can survive this."

Heisenberg chuckled. "That's the spirit. Makes me almost wish you hadn't tortured and poisoned me. We could make quite a pair, you and I."

"If it wasn't completely childish to say you did it first, I would point that salient little detail out." He heard the faint rustle of fabric.

"Yeah, yeah, well, water, bridge, blah blah."

"You know, I got it."

Heisenberg paused. "Got what?"

"Why you didn't help me escape Miranda, back then." A soft exhale. "I would have done anything to stop Ethan from finding out what I did. Even after three years under Eveline's control, three years forced to do-"

Her voice cracked a little. "-To do unspeakable things, once I regained my memories and made it out thanks to him, even when I was laying in a BSAA hospital crazy with nightmares and pumped with so many anti-mutagen drugs I didn't know up from down, the thought stayed with me stronger than anything. One thought. Don't tell Ethan."

She gave a little laugh, soft and bitter. "Disgusting, huh? He saved me. He saved...everyone. Freed the Bakers, freed me, saved anyone who might have stumbled over Eveline's little trap in the future. And all I could think of was myself. Surviving. Because...if I told him, maybe- maybe it was real, then, maybe he'd never look at me the same..."

Her voice was tight, now, like it had been in the hold of the Osiris. "That was freedom to me. That someone out there still thought I was- good. That someone out there still thought I was worth the effort of rescuing. But it didn't work. All I could think of, every time he looked at me for the next three years, every time he told me he loved me, was how much I wished he'd left me there in that black pit to die-"

She cut off. She didn't speak again.

Heisenberg didn't turn to look at her.

"She took your memories?" was all he said, after a long silence.

"Yes. Part of Evie's control. So we would never leave her. So we would never stop loving her." She was crying now. He heard it in her voice, in earnest. "God, she was so lonely. Poor thing. Poor, wretched, pathetic little thing."

His own cluttered memories clung onto him like shame. Reaching out for Miranda. Her claws in his cheek. Loving the lash of her scorn, because what else was there? Heisenberg thought of the E-001, made from spare parts of the long-dead, made to be a weapon and still craving love so bad she'd destroyed dozens of lives to feel it, even if it was pretend, even if she had to make it herself. Dolls in a dollhouse. The echo of her own voice in an empty room.

Who could blame her. It was all she knew. Pathetic was right, every single one of them. Eveline and Miranda. All his siblings. Mia, and him. So desperate for that which had been taken from them. What else did it do but destroy? Better to end it first- that was his way, wasn't it? Get it before it gets you. Stamp it out, before it could ever turn on him again.

He'd tried it once, and look where it had got him.

But, with Rose-

For a moment, didn't you feel-

For the first time in a long time, wasn't it good again?

There were no answers. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Heisenberg finished up. The necessary chemicals were ready, smoking slightly in their dingy, age-spotted beakers. He floated the tongs up, gripped the beakers, turned with them drifting in midair before him.

Mia stood in front of the surgical table in only a sweat-stained white camisole. She'd taken off her sweater and folded it, neatly, over the back of a chair. Heisenberg made out the faint tremble of her hands, the gooseflesh on her skin, despite the heat of the furnace. The glitter of salt on her cheeks. She watched him as he stood before her, as he surveyed her, unmoving.

"On the table," he said. "Lie back."

She climbed onto the operating table, her cheek twitching as her bare skin made contact with the cold steel. Her eyes were still bright, and when Heisenberg approached her and brushed his fingertips down her collarbones, her sternum, she flinched.

"It's fine," she said quickly.

"Won't be for long," he told her. "I'm gonna open you up. Make an incision-" His fingers drifted lower, down to the V of her ribcage. "-down here. See what's going on."

"I'll survive?"

"Survived worse," he said, the corner of his mouth hitching into a grin. "So I hear."

He brought out the syringe, a massive thing like a horse needle. Its tip glistened, growing a bead of painkillers. "Now, this is a little cocktail I made myself. It should deaden you well enough to make this easy."

"Then you'll get her out," Mia said. "Right?"

"That's the plan."

He hooked her to a tangle of dusty IV tubes and fed in the painkillers. A stabilizer, too, to keep her heart going; a shot of anti-mutagen to keep her healing factor from overwhelming his efforts to dig out the source of her possession; artificial blood, which had in his soldaten kept the Cadou from attacking him when he had to some maintenance. Mia didn't have the Cadou, but he didn't want Miranda making an appearance before he was finished.

Mia shuddered as the chemicals hit her bloodstream; her knuckles pressed white through her skin as her hands curled to fists, as her eyes focused on the ceiling. Her pulse fluttered so fast Heisenberg could scarce feel individual beats. It was all a hum, like a rabbit caught in a trap.

"Scared, Mia?" Heisenberg said. He crooked a finger; a scalpel spun into the air, hovering over his palm. It winked in the firelight.

She gave her head a quick shake. "Not of this."

"Yeah, you are. Don't lie to me."

The corners of her mouth twitched. "Just cut me open, Heisenberg, it'll be less painful."

"On that subject-" He clicked the rusted-up old recording device near the surgery station and heard the crackle of its mechanism whirring to life. "Almost forgot, Mia. I like to record my experiments. All in the interest of scientific advancement-" So you don't forget, he told himself. So she can't take it away. "Attempt one-"

"One?" Mia interrupted. "How many times do you expect-"

"-of Operation Kill That Bitch," Heisenberg interrupted. "An inelegant title, I know, but I'm on a tight schedule here, cut me some fuckin' slack. What follows will document the excision of a never-before-seen form of parasitic possession in which an avatar of the hitherto-thought-destroyed megamycete fungal colony's implanted tissue has induced partial control of the host body's cerebral functions and, indeed, physical appearance...mmm, wonder if Miranda's shape-shifting abilities, not unlike the highly-adaptive skin cells of a cuttlefish, had anything to do with-"

"Heisenberg," Mia said. "Come on."

"Fuckin' killjoy." He cleared his throat. "How do you feel?"

"I-"

"Into the recorder."

She glared, then exaggeratedly tilted her head so her mouth was aimed toward the device on the cart. "Bad."

"More specific?"

"Everything below my collarbones is numb. Cold and heavy. Some kind of staticky heat in my neck and face."

"Excellent. Excellent. All as it should be. A question, before we get going."

"Yes?"

"What was the plan?" He revolved the scalpel around his hand, peering at her over the rim of his glasses. "Indulge me. I'm curious. When you and Ouroboros got Ethan back, when he was in your clutches again. You gonna figure out a way to resurrect him? Fine, fine, but what then? 'Cause I know Rose, and I know Ethan. They sure as fuck wouldn't agree to be your family again, not after they figured out what you did to get them back."

The look in her eyes hardened. "Ethan did a hell of a lot to get me back, once upon a time."

"Yeah, Mia. He did hero shit. Battled scary monsters, tromped through the swamp to save the damsel in distress. He didn't pull human experimentation and fall back into the bioterrorist circuit for a chance to mack on your hot lips again."

"God, you're so juvenile."

"Juvenile," Heisenberg agreed. He gently brushed hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "And holding a sharp object."

She didn't stop him. She shifted, slightly, leaning her head against his palm. "Maybe I thought he'd forgive me. Guess that makes me delusional, doesn't it?"

"Heh. You tell me."

"I guess I-" She took a short, jagged breath. Heisenberg saw the effects of the drugs in her eyes, the glazedness entering her gaze, the way her body relaxed in that familiar boneless slump. "I guess I didn't care. Even if he hated me, even if Rose never spoke to me again, even if I destroyed everything in the world to do it, I didn't care. I just wanted them again. I wanted them back, and it didn't matter how, because if they were-"

He finished her sentence for her. "-Everything could be all right again."

Her eyes found his, holding his gaze. "Pretty much."

"It doesn't come back, Mia."

"I know."

"But you'd try anyway."

"Anything."

"Heh. Good."

Her hand came up, dragging the IV tubes with it, faster than Heisenberg would have expected. Her fingers snagged his wrist, weak and quivering with the effort of fighting against the drugs. "Heisenberg," she said.

"Yes?" "If this goes badly-"

"So little faith in me?"

"If this goes badly," Mia insisted, "you will find him."

He scoffed. "Mia-"

"You will." Her grip tightened. "You'll make this...right. You'll...you'll help her too. From this mess I made. Both of them. All of it. Promise me."

He smiled down at her, bitter and crooked. "Anything," he echoed.

Her returning smile was exhausted, small, but it made something deep inside him shiver, and crack.

"Okay," she said. "Now I'm ready."

Her hand dropped from his arm. Heisenberg caught the scalpel and set it to her skin, preparing to make the first incision. He paused for a moment, watching the faint shiver of her skin, feeling the strange pressure of a body under his hands. The electricity generated by all living things. The familiar heat of another person, too close, too real. His Cadou shifted inside him, and it felt like the weight of decision.

He pressed the scalpel down.

An alarm blared through the workshop. Heisenberg flinched; a gash bit deep into Mia's skin. Blood welled, thick and dark with mold. The alarm went on, and on, rusty and screeching; Heisenberg sent the scalpel spinning into the kidney dish.

"Fuckin'-" He glared at the speaker grille mounted in the workshop corner. "Gimme a sec, Mia-" The grille crumpled like an empty tin can, cutting off the wail with a sharp crackle, but the alarm kept going, echoing on and on through the factory.

Nah, it couldn't be, there couldn't be anyone in the village who'd still be sentient enough to-

Ah. Fuck.

"What is it?" Mia said from the operating table.

"Wait there," Heisenberg ordered.

"As if I can move!" Heisenberg stomped across the workshop and ripped a heavy canvas curtain away from a door painted scabby green. He broke the lock and shoved into the hallway beyond, a narrow, dank space now buzzing with caged lights. Up a flight of steps, another door. Echoes fanned away and away from his footsteps in the dusty darkness on the other side.

An arc of great glass windows looked out over a shadowy abyss, the vast central cavern of the factory, now alive again with light and mechanical movement, down and down all the way to the runoff channel far below.

The factory's control room. It was cluttered with junk, and that junk was now choked with a decade and a half's worth of dust and grime and cobwebs, rats skittering from his boots as he went to the back wall, shoving a dead hauler out of the way.

Dozens of shelves of television screens stared back at him, caked in dust and connected to a snarl of wires like snakes in a barrel, all leading to the monitoring system he'd rigged throughout the village.

It still worked; when he gave the machinery a kick the televisions flickered to life with their pallid light.

He squinted at the hazy images on the screens- he'd had to make do with what he found in the junkyard and what the Duke had smuggled to him from the outside world, and the cameras were low-res as all shit.

He could still make out enough.

"Well," he muttered, sinking into the desk chair. It squealed. He desperately wanted a cigar. "Fuck me."

The massive crater blasted into the village was wild enough. So was the tangle of calcified mold-trees growing over the rest, like a thicket of enchanted thornbushes in some schmaltzy fairy tale. But he made out lycans in the grainy camera feed, the white points of torches lit around the village, the monsters congregating around the Maiden of War, around the great overgrown gates of the castle, still standing in its familiar place, undamaged by the blast.

Was that- no, that wasn't more calcification- was that some kind of slime growing over the castle?

The lycans didn't look like they were on the hunt, nor were they fighting amongst themselves. A huge throng of them was gathered before the castle, armed with torches and makeshift weapons, all of them staring up toward the massive structure as if in anticipation. Heisenberg made out their tinny snarls over the blaring alarm, and in the distance, a deeper bellow, almost too loud for his speaker system to handle.

He switched feeds, tossing the other camera views up on other screens, trying to get a look at what the lycans were so damn excited about. The factory exterior camera flashed up, and Heisenberg stopped short.

Ragged breathing interrupted him. He whirled around, on his feet and scrap orbiting him as movement staggered into the doorway. Mia. She leaned on the doorframe, blood oozing down her chest from her puncture wound, hair stringy with sweat.

"S...something's wrong," she said. "Isn't it."

"Sure as fuck." Heisenberg pointed back toward the monitors. "Fuckin' alarm should have tipped me off. Someone's found their way into the factory."

[adultswim2021]

Robot Chicken #72: “We Are A Humble Factory” | July 26, 2009 - 11:30PM | S04E11

Hey guys, it’s time for 9 straight posts about Robot Chicken. Am I looking forward to it? Of course not. But I will do my best to talk about this show I hate. 

There’s a Ranma sketch with the nerd. I didn’t like it, because I hate that character and I hate that voice. There was a M.A.S.K. sketch which was inoffensive enough, mostly just that thing of doing observational jokes about how a show from your childhood didn’t make sense. It didn’t kill me but there’s a bit where it seems like they left in an audio outtake and animated to it and that made me, well, not smile, but my eyes sorta got slightly wider and I thought “hey, that was something.”. 

Then there was a sketch about the monster cereals, which I guess I have enough of a fondness for to sorta care about this, but I didn’t. It has the Creature from the Black Lagoon trying to make his own cereal and it does not work out. The last sketch worth mentioning is a Star Trek sketch about how people hate Wesley, and as much as I’d like to spitefully enjoy this sketch based purely on how much of a stupid re-re Wil Wheaton is, I simply can’t. Hey Wil click this, bitch. HAHAHA FUCK YOU. 

There’s also a Star Wars sketch in here, that I think was used in the extended version of Robot Chicken Star Wars Episode II, which is the kind of shit I usually point out on these things, so I’m doing it for this show even though I hate it. 

The worst sketch, and it’s a short one, is where a whale is given the death penalty for some kind of whale crime, so he’s sent to be beached. A woman on the beach sympathizes with the dying whale, and he says, in subtitled whale language: “come closer so I can rape you”. Because I guess the whale is a rapist. I’m not an anti-rape-joke absolutist, but that’s just so fucking gradeschool I can’t stand it.

MAIL BAG

I do think squidbillies' biggest liability might be unknown hinson. Dude ain't funny enough to anchor a show!

I would agree that he isn't funny enough to anchor a show, sure, but I do like Unknown Hinson enough to think that putting him on television is at least novel. He has his own sorta charisma, and there's not a whole lotta voices like his on TV. A singular talent, I would say. I don't think I really care that he has bad political opinions, either. He's old and weird, who cares

I only recently started watching aqua teen after a friend sent me a short story about three brothers, Franklin Donnie and Matthew who live in filth and squalor in New Jersey. It was incredibly sad and they tried to kill each other and their neighbor got raped by a dog and only after I said I enjoyed it did she drop the reveal it was aqua teen fanfiction.

That rocks. I'm not sure I believe you are telling the truth, but I'm choosing to believe it because it's just so wonderful. It's real to me, dammit.

[itsyourdistraction]

Gentle Guide to Navigating NaNoWriMo

It's that time of year when the leaves are a symphony of crimson and gold, and our hearts are ablaze with the daunting yet thrilling prospect of National Novel Writing Month. Whether you're a seasoned novelist or a first-time writer, the journey of crafting 50,000 words in a month is nothing short of epic.

But before you dive into the sea of storytelling, here are some quick, gentle tips to keep your creativity blooming and your spirits buoyed through the highs and lows of NaNoWriMo:

🌱 Embrace Imperfection: Your first draft is the clay, not the sculpture. Allow it to be wild, untamed, and imperfect. Remember, you can't edit a blank page, but you can always polish a rough draft.

🌻 Set Small Daily Goals: Instead of the daunting 1,667 words a day, break it down further. Write in sprints—15 minutes here, a half-hour there. It's like gathering drops of rain; eventually, you'll fill a bucket.

🍂 Cultivate a Writing Ritual: Light a scented candle, play some ambient sounds, or sip your favorite tea. Anchor your writing time with something comforting—it can make all the difference.

✨ Stay Connected: Join NaNoWriMo forums, follow writing hashtags on Tumblr, or team up with a buddy. Sharing the journey makes the load feel lighter and the experience richer.

📚 Feed Your Creativity: Your brain is an idea factory, and like any factory, it needs raw materials. Read a poem, watch a quirky short film, or take a nature walk. Inspiration is everywhere.

💤 Rest is Productive: Never underestimate the power of a good night's sleep, a cozy nap, or simply lying down with your eyes closed for ten minutes. Rest rejuvenates your creative energies.

💬 Use Dialogue to Push Through: If you're stuck, jump ahead and write a conversation between your characters. It's a great way to learn about them and can often lead you out of a corner.

🎈 Celebrate Small Wins: Every word you write is a victory. Celebrate milestones, whether it's hitting a word count or nailing a tricky dialogue. Dance it out, post about it, eat some chocolate—whatever brings you joy!

🔮 Stay Flexible: Your plot may change, your characters may surprise you, and that's okay. Writing is a journey of discovery, not just a destination.

🧘 Breathe: Whenever it feels overwhelming, take deep breaths. Remind yourself why you're doing this—it's for the love of storytelling, for the characters speaking to you, for the worlds only you can build.

Remember, NaNoWriMo is a marathon, not a sprint. It's okay to pause, to breathe, to reflect. The pages you fill this November hold the whispers of something incredible, a story only you can tell.

[lairofdragonagelore]

Through the Crossroads [DLC Trespasser]: The Darvaarad - Part2

The Darvaarad [Qunari term for a magical quarantine site] is a Qunari island fortress controlled by the branch of Ben-Hassrath called “Dangerous Purpose” who are lead by Viddasala. The Qunari in the Darvaarad investigate inner workings of the eluvians and brought in, catalogued and studied various artefacts, including red lyrium, astrariums, ocularum, ancient elven statues and murals. They stockpiled knowledge and power, which allowed them to open several mirrors.

This place is divided in the exterior areas:

Fortress Approach

Courtyard

Research Tower

And the interior areas:

Darvaarad Barracks

Study

Gaatlok Factory

Venom Extraction Chamber

[This is part of the series “Playing DA like an archaeologist”]

[Index page of Dragon Age Lore]

Darvaarad Barracks

As we continue exploring this place, we see that they have a Vault door system that made me remember the Dwarven engineering we saw in the Awakening expansion when we reached the gates built by the dwarves under Vigil's Keep to keep the darkspawn at bay.

Cole drops here one of his lines, implying what we will know by Solas' words: the energy of the Anchor is the energy of the Veil, accumulated by millennia, so this piece of energy that the Anchor is and the Veil try to be together.

The exploration of the barracks have not much to offer. 

There is a unique statue that according to the book Art of Inquisition, they belong to Ferelden art, even though I was a bit inclined to think these were part of the Qunari decoration. Of course, there are banners of the Qun everywhere.

The interior architecture of the fortress keeps showing Ferelden style. Haven had a lot of these details, specially in its basement.

Study

We find a study room where more artefacts can be seen:

We find elements that we had seen a lot in DAI, DA2 and even DAO, like these books with the windmill drawing. There is an elvhen artefact, and a very strange ball which glows in green and one may suspect it related to the Fade.

In this study we read several codices: Letters and Replies, where we see a series of letter that Josephine sent to the Triumvirate of the Qunari, who claims that the Viddasala took her own initiative to lead the operation of Dragon Breath without their approval. We also find the Dragon Breath Plan  and Orders Posted in the Factory where we learn the recipe for the primers of gaatlok [big secret along the whole series of DA games].

On the main desk of the study we see a Tevinter mini-Inspector in front of the skull of the dragon.

Leaving the study and heading to the Factory of Gaatlock, we see along the corridors some side cells where we find objects like “injectors” which glow with a yellowish energy, so they may have still some kind of power, and Dragon skulls.

Gaatlok Factory and Venom Extraction Chamber

At the end of the corridor, we find a big room where a dragon is kept prisoner. Close to this place we find  Animal Handler's Logbook: written by a human woman recently joined to the Qun. Here we learn that one of the components of the Gaatlok is dragon venom. We see again that the qunari appreciate the dragons, calling it Ataashi, as Iron Bull did in the game.

Once we deal with the Dragon, we cross the bridge where we find the Viddasala and several qunari in front of the eluvian that will direct us to the abandoned elven City. Behind the eluvian there is a Golden Ring and a pair of mosaics of Fen'Harel.

Here, we realise that the Qunari think that Solas is an agent of Fen'Harel. It's interesting that the Qunari know that agents of Fen'Harel gave Corypheus the access to the elvhen orb.

[finiffy]

This is really rough draft and just the starting setting up scene so hopeful this is not too confusing. Despite the premise of GoI-shipping this is currently really tame and mostly word vomit for visuals. It's not too cursed so it can work for Fin (and any other anons that also forgot about this) to slowly re-acclimate to more cursed content later on.

~~~

This wasn't the first time, and most likely not the last time either, that the GOC found themselves in one of the Foundation's meeting rooms.

All things considered it was a nice one at that, large room with a oval shaped wooden table that could comfortably hold six to eight people, decent device charging ports on the side if you trusted it, the walls where a solid light blue grey, wood flooring was a newly polished, and purposeful lighting from above casting the whole room in a slight yellow tint. It was definitely better than the average interrogation, unused testing, or office concrete boxes with blinding fluorescent strip lights and a gag worthy strength smell of bleach they usually get shunted into for these kinds of visits.

The Foundation placed him here as some kind of pity gift didn't they? The primary reason the GOC came over here, almost choking while swallowing his pride, holding back hexing the fucker on the spot while being looked straight in the eyes by a shit eating grin silently communicating the idea of 'I knew you would come around to our ways, in the end you always do' was because the Chaos Insurgency thought it was a great idea to raid one of his weapon storage facilities taking a large number of weapons, ammo, missiles, reality anchors, and fucking leftover radiated toxic waste for the sake of the gods… and some agents and staff as captives but he was currently dumbfounded by whatever CI was going to do with the barrels of tar that was just killing the Insurgent's agents just by touching it than a temporary drop of people on their payroll.

The room was well insulated from the noise of the pure chaos that was the Foundation's daily operations, couldn't even tell someone was screaming for their life right outside the door. Pure silence creating good old blissful ignorance. It was actually starting to annoy them, if the doctor wanted to sensory deprive them at least make it obvious.

Gods why did he have to be so punctual. He'd said he would attend at 11:15, it was 11:12 right now, and the Foundation was going to be right on the dot. Always had the day planned to the minute, wanting to have be a well oiled machine, but he's not The Factory with a horde of zombie slave labor, he's not Anderson with his ai pipeline, and he's not a mechanical hivemind like the Broken Church, he's human and a human with a schedule that gets fucked with every single time one of his little ornaments try to run away. Goc wished for once the Foundation would just get something done and over with before things became a larger problem.

___

The Foundation was moiling over the security cameras settings triple checking that everything was still working.

Video feed? Streaming smoothly, lens clean.

Sound recording? Clear, but muffled. Put in a note to keep an eye on the microphone if it starts to become more dysfunctional.

Access to feed? Temporary denied to anyone without O5 clearances.

Storage backup? Looked in order. Not that it was overly necessary for handing over papers and a thumb drive.

They decided to look back at the feed one more time before heading down the hall. Everything was the same as minute ago as expected however they took note of detail that they had overlooked. The Coalition was messing about with his gun. Not cleaning or checking the mechanism of the weapon kind of messing around. No they'd say more of fiddling kind, opening and closing the ammo chamber, flicking the safety switch on and off, twirling it around like spin the bottle. Abnormal behavior from him, Goc's trigger happy not irresponsible with his weapons. He's also never sitting in the position he's currently in, learning forward posture be damned. He's usually laying back to the point physics is about to chuck him to the floor or just standing against the wall. Stressed perhaps? Well more stressed then he is on average.

{TBC... maybe}

~~~

~ Mold Anon

This is a very palatable fic surprisingly, good build up for the setting and confrontation if you ever continue it

[theghostpinesmusic]

I guess the band felt as strongly about 4/7 as I did, because there are three songs on their channel from the show. And, apparently, I'm going to write about all of them.

The second one is the "Pancakes" from early in the show's second set. While the "Drive" I just posted about is clearly the anchor for the first set (it also features some great straightforward takes on other songs and two new song debuts), the second set is a consistently improvisational monster, starting with a spacey intro jam that flows into a cover of The Who's "Eminence Front," then this tune, then Cotter's first "Creatures," then a massive "Everything Must Go," (which I'll write about next), then a slightly expanded "This Old Sea" that segues perfectly into "Factory Fiction." "Factory Fiction" for Cotter's first-ever show blew my mind. But. "Pancakes"!

I already wrote some about this tune's background awhile back, and if you're interested in those ruminations, they're here.

This version, like most, starts with Peter clapping along with the audience during a spacey intro section before we drop into the song proper.

One thing I've noticed in going back to some '22 shows lately is that they used to play this song really fast. Despite the new drummer, this version is still at the modern, slower tempo. It's played straight until 4:40, when the composed outro gives way to the jam on the heels of some chimes from Jeff.

Like with the "Drive" jam, things initially go mellow here. The entire band kind of dances around the song's outro melody and Peter and Rick throw some melodies back and forth. Trevor joins in. Again, it's fun here to listen as they take their time to find their footing and dig into a particular idea instead of just jumping immediately to shredding. Not that I'm against shredding, mind you.

Things coalesce a bit at 6:30, when Rick starts to take a slightly more assertive soloing role, but then he actually backs back off for a minute, letting Trevor step up.

The space the band ends up settling on at 7:30 is notable because nobody is really controlling the direction. Everyone is just listening to each other and they're actually all pulling the weight together with no clear leader. Anarchist jam?!

Seriously, though, I've noticed them doing this more and more since Cotter joined the band and I love it. It's something I've only ever really heard Phish do consistently (and JRAD very occasionally), and it's my favorite "type" (?) of jamming because it sounds and feels the most collaborative and least hierarchical. There are times I've heard Goose do it before, too (though no particular examples come to mind right now), but it's been rare...suddenly in 2024 it almost feels like a switch they can flip on whenever they feel like it, which is awesome.

Anyway, my preferences aside, Peter starts to throw out some interesting ideas on piano at 8:15 or so. Rick lays down a foundation underneath them, and Jeff and Cotter link up in a cool, layered way on percussion. Somewhere in there, a minute or so later, Rick starts to take the reins a bit more assertively and Peter goes over to the xylo patch. Lots of xylo in the jams today!

The resulting section sounds a bit like the first half of the "Drive" jam, but is differentiated for me by the heavy drums that makes it feel more like a groove than an ambient space.

Peter hits the synth/siren a few times at 12:00 and man, am I sucker for the siren.

I also love the weird rainbow-y lights during this section.

The band actually stays in this space for a long time, and to me it really resembles something you might hear on a Ted Tapes release, which is pretty cool.

Around 15:30, momentum starts to build a bit, and it feels like we're pulling away a bit, and then at 16:00, Cotter adds more cymbal crashes, driving the band out of the mellow jam space into something that's more straight-up rock.

By 18:00 Cotter's added a huge, driving beat and Rick has responded. And there are...smoke machines, I guess?

This is a great "Pancakes" jam that only pales in comparison to the "Drive" earlier on in the show, but I do wish Peter had done something other than played the xylo patch in almost the same way for almost the entire time. Fortunately, you can just focus on Cotter going absolutely nuts in the last few minutes instead if you want.

If you're a huge, obsessive Goose nerd you can hear Rick set up the return to the "Pancakes" outro with the note he plays at 20:46. Brilliantly, the rest of the band hangs on to the jam until 21:15, when they all transition together into the end of the song.

Another 4/7 jam that focuses on slow, patient development of ideas instead of exploring lots of different jam spaces. As you surely know by now, I like it all, but it's neat to revisit some of these more deliberate jams from this run in particular.

[developerwith1]

From Wikipedia to Google Rankings: The Strategic Impact of Backlinks on Your Website's Visibility

Ever wonder how some websites seem to magically appear at the top of your Google search? It's not Hogwarts at work but rather the strategic use of backlinks, particularly those from a powerhouse like Wikipedia. Before we jump into dreams of skyrocketing our website's visibility, let's get one thing straight: the journey from Wikipedia to Google's first page isn't about finding a shortcut or looking up how to buy Wikipedia backlinks. It's about understanding the art and science behind backlinks and using them wisely. Ready to become a backlink wizard? Let's dive in!

The Magic Behind Wikipedia Backlinks

Wikipedia backlinks are like secret passages that lead directly to the treasure trove of your website. They signal to Google that your site is a credible source of information, worthy of being ranked higher in search results. But remember, true magic requires skill and ethics, not just a wand wave (or a credit card swipe).

Why Google Loves Wikipedia

Google has a crush on Wikipedia, and who can blame it? Wikipedia is the encyclopedia of the digital age, respected and trusted. When your website is linked from Wikipedia, Google sees it as a nod of approval, boosting your site's credibility in its eyes.

The Ethical Path to Backlinking

Walking the ethical path to backlinking means contributing valuable content and knowledge to Wikipedia, not just sneaking in your links. It's about being a good citizen of the web, not just hunting for SEO gains.

Crafting Content Worthy of Wikipedia

Creating content that Wikipedia will love is like preparing a gourmet meal for a top chef. It needs to be rich in information, impeccably sourced, and relevant. Serve up a dish that Wikipedia can't resist, and you might just earn yourself a backlink.

Navigating the Waters of Wikipedia Submission

Submitting to Wikipedia is akin to navigating a ship through stormy seas. You need to know the rules, understand the etiquette, and sail with precision. It's about making contributions that matter, not just dropping anchor anywhere.

The Guardian Role: Protecting Your Backlink

Once you secure a backlink from Wikipedia, your job isn't done. You need to monitor and protect it, ensuring that your content remains relevant and your link stays intact amidst the waves of edits that Wikipedia pages often see.

Decoding Google's Backlink Algorithm

Understanding how Google views backlinks is like unlocking a secret code. Google values quality, relevance, and trustworthiness. A backlink from Wikipedia is like having a VIP pass in Google's eyes, giving your site a boost in the rankings.

The Dos and Don'ts of Acquiring Backlinks

Do: Focus on creating quality content that naturally earns backlinks. Don't: Fall into the trap of buying backlinks, which can do more harm than good to your site's reputation and rankings.

The Power of Visibility: Beyond Wikipedia

While Wikipedia backlinks are gold, don't put all your eggs in one basket. Diversify your backlink portfolio with links from other reputable sites to maximize your website's visibility and authority.

The Perils of Purchasing Backlinks

Thinking of taking a shortcut and buying backlinks, including those from Wikipedia? Think again. This practice is fraught with risks, including penalties from Google that can send your site plummeting in the rankings.

Building a Natural Backlink Portfolio

The best backlink portfolio grows organically, nurtured over time through quality content and genuine engagement with the web community. It's a garden, not a factory.

The Synergy Between Wikipedia and SEO Strategy

Incorporating Wikipedia into your SEO strategy should be done with care and respect for the platform's guidelines. When done right, this synergy can propel your website to new heights in Google's rankings.

Success Stories: The Wikipedia Backlink Advantage

Many websites have seen their visibility and authority soar after earning backlinks from Wikipedia. These success stories are testament to the power of ethical engagement and quality content.

The Future of Backlinks in SEO

As Google's algorithms evolve, the importance of quality backlinks remains constant. The future of SEO will continue to favor websites that earn backlinks through credibility and valuable contributions to the internet.

Conclusion: Your Next Steps in the Backlink Journey

Embarking on your backlink journey with Wikipedia is a step towards greater visibility and authority for your website. Remember, it's about contributing value, not just seeking gains. Start by enhancing your content, engaging ethically with platforms like Wikipedia, and watch as your website climbs the rankings, propelled by the strategic impact of backlinks. Forget the notion of trying to buy Wikipedia backlinks; the real magic lies in earning them through merit and contribution

[jacks-tracks]

Covid March 2024

Covid? Really? After dodging this disease since it began through 4 countries , I got it on a mexican plane. Only one on the plane wearing a mask, which proves the conspiracy theory.. Masks give you Covid.

I had no symptoms until arriving in Corozal, then accelerating from a dry cough to sneezing, low fever, lethargy. Hard to tell lethargy from laziness, but the fever was the tell tale. Tested positive(hot red lines instantly 2 days in a row), rats. So, self isolate for 10 days from 1st symptoms, which may be more than needed, but folks here are mostly not vaccinated, so best be safe.

Luckily I'm staying in a little house, with hot plate, tiny fridge, and choice of fan or AC. Comfy bed, airy porch with Adirondack chairs, hot shower. Air B&B, and the landlady lives in the big house, so she checked on me daily. She runs a dog rescue center here, currently 6 dogs as well as her own fat German shepard and even fatter Staffordshire. These are all friendly dogs and I'm one of the pack, giving neck rubs and pets equally. like all tropical dogs, they sleep most of the day, saving up for the nightly barkfest, when all the dogs in the neighbourhood(and everybody has at least one dog) bark out the news, scaring imaginary thieves, making a racket and generally having dog fun. Earplugs.

Being sick away from home is boring. There,s nothing to do except watch old movies and veg out. I do have a food delivery service, ordering on Whats app and getting stuff dropped off by motorcycle courier. Small fee, and way easier than shopping my self in a series of tiny stores. I can get lots of fruit, especially citrus for vitamin C, and chicken fully frozen. All commercial chickens in Belize are factory produced and frozen. Sanitary I hope. Potatoes, onions, peppers, all are here. There is a tiny fruit stand one half mile down the road who had one of the best papayas I,ve ever tasted. So, eat, doze, internet. Sounds like a winter at home except it's 32 degrees.

Bloody hot,pretty humid, with a strong trade wind to stir the air. Days a re 12 hours long, with happy mosquitoes at night (screens) which means no sitting out in the tropical evenings. That's a travel agent myth. Everyplace I,ve been has mosquitoes, from Bali to Hanoi, Costa Rica to Mexico. That's how Dengue spreads as well as Malaria. Never had malaria despite so much tropical traveling, and never want it!

Corozal is flat, hot and boring. there are no beaches, just muck, and no scenic attractions. There are some tiny ruins, but having climbed most of the pyramids in CA, so what. Seems like a place where weary travelers crossed the Mexican border and stalled. Mostly blacks with some chinese, and an increasing population of Mexicans and central americans,. Supposedly an English speaking country, lots speak only Spanish, and the locals have an accent that needs google translate. Friendly enough, but crime is rife, and there,s no safe nightlife. A typical 3rd world mix of very poor and very rich with a thin layer of rising middle class. The traditional wooden homes raised up on pilings are being replaced by the more durable, bug proof cement block shacks. These vary from simple cubicles to 3 story palaces, depending on the owners wealth. The handyman here tells about earlier times when he had a Dory(rowboat) on the New river which divides Belize from mexico and had a thriving trade, moving bales of grass into Mexico and illegal immigrants into Belize. Boats would anchor offshore to drop off goods. Were there police? Yes, he said, but only 3 of them, and they wanted no trouble. Then came cocaine, big money, gangs, and cartels.Guns and gang wars. He quit in time, but now there are shoot outs, contract killings, and , trouble. Parts of the highway are no go zones at night, and chopped up bodies get dumped into the cane fields to be burned beyond recognition. Ugh!

I recall 20 years ago meeting a nice local guy in Placencia who had built some beautiful hardwood cabins for rent. Financed by bale fishing. What's that i asked? Drug runners chased by coast guard boats would dump their sealed bales of pot(50 pounds each), and locals would recover some for resale. my friend found 3, and sold the first one to the dealers for $5000. Second time they told him 2500,and when he brought the 3rd one they flourished guns and said he had to work for them. He said take this one for free and I no longer have a boat, goodbye.. Made enough cash to build his resort and retire. While we were chatting a gorgeous woman came bleary eyed out of the cabin, Miss Belize 3 years before. She was there with her boyfriend, shaved headed and wild eyed. Just out of Belize prison, one of the worst in the world. He did 4 years for manslaughter. Hey, my friend asked, how's Jimmy doing in there? Oh said Mr convict. He got the chop! What? Yah mon, we standing side by side in the morning count line when somebody behind him reach around and cut his throat. Nobody say nothing. Literally: Hey mon, how Jeemy do dere? Oh, heem. He done got da chop.Say wha? Yah mon, we all standin in da mawnin count line and some foker dey reach about and slash him troat. Nobody say nuttin, yo knaow?

I do meet interesting people! Makes covid sound like fun!

[swldx]

RNZ Pacific 1306 9 Mar 2024

7390Khz 1259 9 MAR 2024 - RNZ PACIFIC (NEW ZEALAND) in ENGLISH from RANGITAIKI. SINPO = 55445. English, s/on w/bellbird int. until pips and news @1300z anchored by Vicki McKay. Two Christchurch-based after-school care programmes are closing at short notice, leaving panicked parents scrambling to find alternative arrangements for their children next week. Parents arrived at one school Friday morning to find no one to look after their children, while others were contemplating dropping working hours or study and worried they would not get refunds for prepaid care. Drug company Pfizer gave Pharmac two years’ notice that it would stop supplying RA-Morph liquid morphine, as it was closing the Perth factory that makes it. However, Pharmac failed to secure a replacement supply in time. Another company, Bridgewest, took over Pfizer’s factory and RA-Morph production, but can’t supply New Zealand until June. Opposition leaders are opposing layoffs at NZTV, especially for the news program staff saying it is an affront to democracy in New Zealand. Former Labor Party MP and advocate for public media, Jonathan Hunt has died at 85. Sports. @1303z trailer for RNZ "Media Watch". @1304z Weather Forecast: partly cloudy, showers, then fine by morning. @1305z "All Night Programme" anchored by Vicki McKay. Backyard gutter antenna, Etón e1XM. 100kW, beamAz 35°, bearing 240°. Received at Plymouth, MN, United States, 12912KM from transmitter at Rangitaiki. Local time: 0659.

[roxanedrawing]

For years Dutch farmer Maarten Bus saw ships coming and going from his farm in Oostknollendam, in the North of Holland, and he drew them. I'm so, so delighted by their simple, chunky shapes. Whoever scanned these probably meant well, typing up the details written in cursive so folks online would be able to read them easily, but it's a shame the handwritten text is fully cropped off everywhere. Look at this gem: 1930s German coaster "Heinrich Grammersdorff".

(my translations from the Dutch website, who seem to have quoted the original artist)

Ponza: built 1940 in Zaandam, sailed from Finland, got stuck in ice for a bit in January '41, transporting wood for the Germans. In the following months, another seventy-four ships sailed the Baltic, until Russia joined the war and the route became too dangerous.

Ossian: Swedish steam coaster, built 1900 in Arendal-Gøtenborg. Crew of ten, dropped anchor to ride out severe weather between April 7–9, 1941, but broke loose and floated down the Waddenzee for a bit. Delivering wood – Sweden stayed out of the war!

Sil: Swedish steam coaster, built 1898 in Malmø. Swedish ships ran as much risk as any others despite Sweden remaining neutral in WWII – the first ship torpedoed on the first day of the war, September 3rd 1939, was Swedish.

Koophandel IV: Dutch inland cargo ship, built 1904 in Monnickendam. On January 27th 1945 the ship lay docked at factory Drie Meren in De Rijp, carrying 100 tonnes of grain to be processed. That was the last remaining store of grain in North-Holland at the time, on its way to the starving population of Amsterdam; organised by the Underground resistance!

Anne Martha: Built 1934 in Papenberg. The ship flying the swastika was a motorized German coaster, apparently one of the very few in Dutch inland waterways. The ship had been degaussed to neutralise against magnetic mines. Its name was "Anne Martha" but was called "Waaghals" (or Daredevil) locally. English fighters shot at it mid-'43, but the artist was unable to learn what, if any, damage had been done.

Wilpo: motorized coaster, built 1941 in Zaandam, crew of 12. Shot at repeatedly during its construction by English fighter jets. Frozen in place in the Swedish Väner lake in July of '42, and remained stalled in the area until the end of the war.

link

[weyrwolfen]

Eidola: Chapter 04 - CT-5040 Factorial

Rating: T

Characters: Gen, Clone Trooper OCs, Captain Rex, Ahsoka Tano, and other canon members of the 501st/332nd

Warnings: canon-typical violence; references to self-harm, injuries, and substance abuse; PTSD; it’s post-Order 66 and nobody is having a good time (but they’re all working on it)

Summary: The mission was never to bring down the Empire. Not really. The mission was to save every single one of their chipped brothers. But if doing do helped break the Empire’s stranglehold on the galaxy? Well, that was just a bonus.

Factor, and Tech whenever he was around, had been granted one terminal in the base’s command deck, but that workstation had grown over time, spreading across a good fifth of the room. Not that anyone complained much. Now most of the base’s functions were automated or could be run remotely from synched datapads, so it wasn’t like they were taking over space anybody else was actually using.

Today, Factor and Tech were setting up a secondary terminal, eating up just a bit more space, but this one was just as important as their previous expansions had been. Maybe even more so. This terminal was going to host their Imperial intelligence station.

Tech was installing a modified docking station for Shark’s datapad while Factor worked on the new scomp jack. He was positioning it higher up on the workstation than usual, on top of the desk rather than low on its side. After all, they didn’t have too many droids on base, but they did have Echo. Sometimes. Whenever Clone Force 99 decided to drop by.

“Factorial, let me know when you reach a good stopping point,” Tech said without looking up from his own work. “I find myself in need of a second set of hands.��

Tech was one of only a handful of people who called Factor that. When the two of them had been introduced, Tech had taken one look at the mathematical notation painted in orange-gold on the side of Factor’s helmet, tapped something into his highly customized datapad, and said, “Your designation number is the factorial of seven. Your real name is Factorial, is it not?”

Which yes. Yes it was. Or, at least, it had been. Factorial was the name he’d selected back on Kamino, but once he’d been deployed into an active combat zone, his commanding officers had shortened it, probably because two syllables were easier to shout over the sound of blaster fire than four. It was okay, really. He didn’t mind being called Factor, but it was nice when somebody got the joke.

“Yup, one second,” Factor replied, easing the freshly wired jack into its job box and threading the first of four anchoring screws into place.

His designation had kick-started an interest in numbers as a cadet. His instructors had allowed the little quirk, even encouraged it when he’d started applying his interests to astrogation and coding. Maybe he hadn’t been decanted with the same inborn intelligence of someone like Tech, but Factor had applied himself to his extracurricular studies with a passion. He enjoyed the predictability of the calculations and codes; they were like little puzzles he could pick apart in his downtime.

That interest had transitioned into wanting to better understand the computers he was using, which had ended up getting him dumped more and more into the intelligence and communications side of things. By the time the war had ended, he’d spent more time in grays, handling encrypted data and sensitive transmissions, than he had in plastoid, handling blasters.

Not that he couldn’t handle a blaster anymore. He was still a clone trooper, after all.

And then his chip had activated while he’d been stationed in orbit, above Utapau. After that, his fragmented memories only ever seemed to involve blasters.

“Done,” Factor said, tightening the last screw and then folding up and clipping his multitool back onto his belt. “What’s the problem?”

Tech was craning over the desk, holding the boost mod with one hand and digging around behind it with a pair of long-handled tweezers with the other. “Hold this steady, and give me some light inside the access panel,” he said without looking up from his work, joggling the mod a little to make his point.

Factor pulled a small flashlight off of his utility belt and took the mod, craning to see what Tech was after. Ah, right. The internal wiring in the station was an absolute mess. He’d been cleaning it up in their existing workspace whenever he didn’t have anything better to do, bundling wires, strapping them together, and pinning them down in orderly bunches, but he hadn’t made it to this station yet. Tech picked up his own multitool with his newly freed hand, flicked out a probe with his thumb, and used it to push the loose, tangled wires aside, revealing the unused ports beneath. Factor angled the flashlight to better hit the ports, and Tech finally managed to plug the cord into place with an audible click.

“Got it,” Tech said, pulling both tools out from behind the mod.

Factor eased the device down, where it could rest awkwardly on its bed of wires for a moment. The whole process would have been a lot easier with a slightly longer cord, but they didn’t exactly have the supplies to get picky. Everything they did on this base was kriffing jury-rigged to within an inch of its life.

Meh, as long as the end result worked.

Tech typed something into his personal datapad and then started securing the mod into place, so Factor gave the rest of the workstation a once over, looking for anything else that needed doing. They’d worked around the existing terminal adding a dock and other extra ports, the scomp jack, some mods to help boost the datapad’s speed and storage capabilities, and a slicing scrambler of Tech’s own design, just in case any Imps noticed their backdoor data feed. Highly unlikely. Their code was solid, but you couldn’t be too careful.

He could pick up the wire clippings and other detritus of their work. Add a kriffing caf coaster. Honestly, all they really needed to do was fire up the terminal and see if everything was working properly. But to do that, it’d be better if they had–

“Echo is on his way,” Tech said distractedly, sitting down in the chair in front of the main terminal. He gestured to the freshly installed datapad dock. “Do you want to do the honors?”

Factor couldn’t hold back a surprised glance. Granted, working with Tech never failed to be interesting. Factor always left their work sessions with half a dozen newly acquired bits of useful knowledge. But he’d also had to learn to let a lot of things slide. Tech had… issues with most of their brothers on base, including Factor.

It didn’t take a genetically-manipulated, hyper-intelligent super soldier to guess why. Being a visibly non-standard clone with a semi-permanent posting on Kamino had to have been a special kind of torture. The pressure to conform – to match perfectly to an idealized mold – had permeated every aspect of the clones’ indoctrination. It had taken Factor being deployed out from under the long necks’ thumbs before he’d had some of that osik forcibly kicked out of him.

So yes, he understood Tech’s often suspicious, stand-offish behavior. Factor didn’t like it, but he got it. At the end of the day, Tech was still his brother though, which put him lightyears ahead of some of the more charming, non-clone officers Factor had been forced to work with in the G.A.R.

Why he was suddenly okay with some reg “doing the honors” on one of their projects was an entirely other matter. Something had changed, Factor just didn’t know what.

“Uh, sure,” Factor said, stepping forward to pick up the datapad in question. It fit easily into its cradle, power and network hookups snapping snuggly into place.

The terminal’s main screen flickered to life.

Tech stretched his hands over the keyboard, fingers curling over the keys in a moment of hesitation. Then he was off, letters and numbers flashing up on the screen as he typed, lightning-fast.

Factor leaned his hip against the desk and crossed his arms, watching the screen with interest as Tech put their new toy through its paces.

“Network connection is stable,” Tech reported distractedly, almost as if he was talking to himself. Probably because he was. “Clearance seems to be mid-low level, but Echo will handle that with minimal effort. I’m not detecting any security alerts.”

He paused for a moment, and Factor glanced away from the screen to see if anything was wrong. Tech’s head was cocked to one side in apparent thought.

“Any search requests?” Tech asked.

Factor’s eyebrows rose a little higher. Tech’s offer had been downright solicitous, and again, wholly unexpected.

Factor thought for a moment. “Any records of this base’s existence?” he asked. If the Empire knew anything about who was residing here now, they’d have come knocking months ago. But there might be some mention of a Death Watch outpost lurking around in some archive somewhere.

Tech’s fingers flashed over the keyboard. Factor watched the queries and results scroll down the screen:

<<< reports of a Death Watch raid on a lapis shipment from Draboon IV >>>

<<< refueling stations along the hyperspace routes in Mandalorian space >>>

<<< abandoned mining interests in the outer Draboon system >>>

“Nothing particularly obvious,” Tech said, tapping through the schematics of what appeared to be some civilian class of Mandalorian satellite array.

Then he was typing again, entering names of people and places, some of which Factor recognized, most of which he didn’t. Tech seemed to be particularly interested in lists of known Jedi informants and maps of Imperial troop movement around the Mid Rim. But he lingered over the deployment records of a particular clone trooper, designation “CT-9904,” before moving on to other subjects.

Factor didn’t begrudge him any of those searches. They had all left people behind in the Empire, batchmates and other brothers with whom they’d been particularly close. Factor had every intention of performing a couple of discreet searches of his own once he got the terminal to himself.

He’d never ask Tech for details though. They definitely weren’t on that level.

Echo did arrive fairly quickly, but he didn’t come alone. He was flanked by Captain Rex and Commander Tano.

That was a bit much for Factor, who was still intimidated as all kriff by the Commander and the Captain. He backed up to make room for the new arrivals, but he also wasn’t about to let his discomfort chase him away from seeing their new project’s test flight.

“I’m not worried about taking a base,” the Captain was saying with a scowl as they all approached. “It’s holding it afterwards that’s the issue. The Empire would rather glass a whole planet from orbit than let it slip from their control. We can’t go up against that kind of firepower.”

Maybe Factor hadn’t seen it in person, but the Reapers had told enough stories around the base that, by now, everyone knew what tended to happen when locals got uppity and thought that banding together and kicking out the five, or ten, or thirty Imperials stationed on their piece-of-nothing backwater planet meant they’d defeated the Empire.

It was never pretty.

“So we find an ally instead of a target,” the Commander said. He gestured vaguely towards the screen. “We fought alongside some of these officers. Some of them were sleemos, but a lot of them weren’t. There have got to be a couple good ones, still in the ranks somewhere.”

Tech sniffed at that. “Not for much longer,” he said, standing up from the workstation to make room for Echo. “The Emperor has been quite efficient at flushing out his political opponents.”

“Well, you’re going to need to give me something,” Echo said, nodding a greeting to Tech and Factor as he took the seat. “Unless you just want me to go on a fishing expedition. But that could take a while.”

That set off a round of speculation, points made and immediately struck down.

Factor kept one ear open, but his mind was elsewhere. It was an interesting puzzle. Numbers were numbers; they didn’t change. But people…People were always the wild cards, and Factor had ended up working with a lot of non-clone, non-Jedi, normal kriffing people in naval intelligence and communications. Probably more than these four ever had, truth be told.

So an officer with no love for the Empire, but who was still, somehow, alive and well in the service…

Factor had seen the inverse of this often enough in his old position. Bad officers – selfish, incompetent, and even malicious ones – who seemed to thrive in the ranks anyway. He’d seen enough of their files to start being able to read between the lines.

“Retracted insubordination complaints,” he said, almost to himself.

The room went abruptly silent.

Factor looked up, finding a room full of eyes pinned on him, including two sets from the highest-ranking officers on the base. Real smooth.

He took a deep breath, because he wasn’t going to quail under the hard looks he was receiving from the Captain and the Commander. He wasn’t.

“Anybody who doesn’t like the Empire, but who’s also survived the purges this long has a protector,” Factor explained, addressing the Captain directly. Between the two officers, he could face a brother, even this brother, more easily than a Jedi, ex- or otherwise. “Maybe a high-ranking mentor, maybe family in the Senate, somebody who has the power and influence to make complaints filed against them disappear.” He’d subconsciously fallen into parade rest, but at least that hid his hands behind his back where he could clench them together without anyone seeing.

Maybe he should have picked the Commander instead, because he could recognize every twist and turn in the Captain’s mental calculations, starting with surprise and ending on sharp speculation. “Your personnel file said you were a computation specialist,” he said, but the leading statement was clearly also a question. And an order.

How the Captain remembered them all was anyone’s guess, but he seemed to have the name and service record of every clone on the base memorized. It was still disconcerting, being the target of that knowledge.

“I was,” Factor said, feeling more than a little defensive. “Somebody had to keep the spooks’ networks up and running.”

The Captain closed his eyes and rubbed them, forehead knitted.

Factor was expecting something scathing to come out of his mouth, but instead the Commander cut in, sounding amused. “And we’ve had you updating the life support systems?”

“The old life support system was a Hutt’s breakfast,” he said sharply. In fact, that had been an absolute nightmare piece of work, and he didn’t appreciate the effort he’d put into it being belittled. Then he remembered who he was addressing and felt himself pale a little. “Uh, sir,” he amended, wishing the floor would just open up and swallow him.

He was saved from whatever her response might have been by Tech, who drew everyone’s attention by making a sound like someone stepping on a tooka.

From the look of things, Echo had poked Tech in the ribs, in the narrow gap between the cuirass and plackart, with the flat blade of his scomp link.

An entire conversation passed in charged silence between the two clones. Tech looked indignant and threatening, eyes narrowed dangerously behind his tinted goggles, while Echo looked like he was moments away from bursting into laughter, his unnaturally pale, gaunt features pulled even tauter with the effort of it.

“If you’re quite done,” Tech finally hissed. “Maybe you could run the search Factorial suggested.”

Echo swiveled his chair to face the Captain, who had been watching them both with an amused, if long-suffering, expression of his own. After receiving a deceptively casual ‘be my guest’ gesture, Echo spun back around and leaned forward slightly, plugging his cybernetic arm into the scomp jack socket.

Factor had no idea what was going on, but he wasn’t exactly upset that the entire exchange had pulled some of the heat away from him.

Echo’s pupils dilated far beyond normal limits, and his eyes started to flick back and forth rapidly, like he was reading something beyond the now incomprehensible jumble of symbols appearing on the monitor’s screen. “Let’s see what we’ve got to work with,” he said to himself.

The whole process was fascinating, in a terrible kind of way. The way gossip spread around the base, most everyone knew that Echo’s cyborg status was basically the result of Separatists not liking the fact that they couldn’t torture intelligence out of the captured ARC trooper. So, they had turned to technological methods instead. Factor wanted to ask him… oh, all sorts of things. How did it feel to be able to dive into all of that information directly? What did it look like? Or was sight not the right descriptor, despite the twitching eye movements?

Did it hurt?

But those lines of questioning were pretty kriffing personal and therefore absolutely none of Factor’s business. So he held his tongue and just watched.

“Looks like we should have done this seven months ago,” Echo said distractedly.

The Commander leaned forward, obviously trying to make sense of the parade of text and symbols across the screen. “Why seven months?” she asked, resting her hand on Echo’s shoulder right above the juncture of his prosthesis.

“Because we would have had a lot more options,” he said, eye movement pausing for a moment as several death certificates appeared on the screen. “A bunch of speeder accidents, some unsolved muggings, one incident involving catastrophic cabin decompression in hard vacuum. That’s an awful lot of convenient accidents, and that’s not even including the unexpected cardiac events.”

The Commander frowned, eyes darkening.

The screen switched back to its previous indecipherable state, and Echo’s eyes were moving again. “Do you want ships and space stations included, or only planetary installations?” he asked.

“Just planets and moons, for now,” the Commander said.

The Captain, hovering behind them both, added, “And exclude anywhere in the Inner Core.”

“Already assumed that,” Echo said, and then he pointed to the unused ports on the terminal with his organic hand. “Tech, hook up your datapad. I’ll send you the most promising ones of the lot.”

Tech didn’t have to be told twice. As soon as he connected the hard line from the terminal to his datapad, a similar pattern of jumbled text took over his screen as well. He didn’t look terribly concerned about it, though. Factor assumed that was just normal, or at least normal for Echo.

Were those his actual thoughts the computer was trying to translate? It definitely wasn’t anything like the coding you found in droids, even the most advanced artificial intelligence units.

Nope, none of this was Factor’s business. He needed to stay on task.

“You’re good to unplug, Tech,” Echo said without turning his head. “Anything else, while I’m still in here?”

“Are there any Imperial records about this base?” the Captain asked.

Factor wasn’t exactly surprised to hear his own question echoed by the Captain. It was the obvious security question anyone would have.

Tech, on the other hand, looked like he wanted very badly to butt in. For once though, he managed to restrain himself and let Echo do his work.

Not that it took long.

“Nothing significant,” he said, head cocked to one side. “Just a couple notes about Death Watch activity in the system. But we’re in the Mandalorian sector, so that doesn’t exactly set off any alarms. There just isn’t anything out this far that’s of any interest. Probably why they chose it in the first place.”

“Tech, could you share those files with us?” the Commander said, framing it as a question instead of an order.

“Already done,” Tech said, nose buried in his datapad. “You will find them waiting for you the next time you log into your personal terminals.”

“I think you’ve given us enough reading for one night, Echo,” the Captain said, and the Commander gave Echo’s shoulder one last squeeze before releasing him and taking a step back.

When Echo disengaged his arm from the socket, the screen flickered back to something more legible. But there were lines of code present that hadn’t been there before. Lots of lines. Factor found himself leaning closer to get a better look while Echo tilted his head from side to side, stretching his neck until something inside – impossible to tell if it was a joint or circuitry – popped softly.

The code was downright interesting.

“You know, Factorial,” Echo said with a touch of dry humor. “I’ll give you the chair if you’ll just let me out of it.”

Factor abruptly realized that he’d kriffing near crawled over Echo to get at the screen. He pulled back, embarrassed by the lapse, and started to apologize. But, Echo was already standing up, brushing aside the stuttered words with a dry, “I live with Tech, I’m used to it.”

“I hardly think that’s–“ Tech started to say, but Echo just eyed him and interrupted.

“Are you telling me the two of you aren’t going to spend the next six hours reading back through my code?” Echo asked. Now it was Tech’s turn to look a little embarrassed. Echo glanced over his shoulder at Factor and continued, “And forget to eat? And complain if we drag you away long enough to force some calories down your throats?”

Factor rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. Yeah, guilty as charged.

Echo clapped Tech on the shoulder. “I’ll comm at 19:00 if we haven’t seen you by then,” he said. Then he began eeling his way out of the ring of observers. “Nice not having to squat in the floor,” Echo muttered to himself, rolling his shoulder above the prosthesis. He nodded towards the Captain and Commander in an obvious invitation for the three of them to step aside.

Factor could tell from the shuttered expression on the Captain’s face and the way the Commander’s shoulders tensed that whatever this was about, it was personal. He looked back at Tech, trying not to pry, and found him already leaning against the side of the desk rivetted to his datapad. He’d lay credits to caf Tech had already copied the lines of code from the main workstation to his screen.

Factor wasn’t about to turn down the chair, since Tech surprisingly wasn’t already monopolizing it. He sat down and started scrolling back up the lines of text until he found something familiar and then started to read.

It didn’t take very long before he stumbled over something that made his brain want to melt. “What the kriff?” he said to himself, leaning forward as if proximity would make the code more comprehensible.

Tech shifted, glancing up at Factor’s screen, and after a moment said, “It’s a logical paradox.”

No kidding. If any computer tried to actually run that dormant chunk of code, surrounded as it was with garbled nonsense, it’d get stuck cycling through it.

But… Echo wasn’t a computer, no matter how he interfaced with them. He wouldn’t get hung up in this kind of an infinite loop.

“That’s smart,” Factor said, not that he had any idea how to deploy something similar himself without the system he was using also getting stuck in the trap.

“As best as we can tell, that’s how Echo’s desire to not get caught slicing into a system translates,” Tech shrugged. “That’s the only way he’s been able to describe the process, and with everyone responsible for his condition being dead, we don’t exactly have anyone else we can ask.”

“All of them?” Factor asked, before realizing that the question was probably tactless.

“Every single one of them,” Tech said flatly. “We made absolutely sure.”

So, definitely tactless then. At least Echo wasn’t in hearing distance at the moment. “I’m, uh… I’m sorry,” he mumbled, looking back at the screen awkwardly.

“Why? It is the obvious question.”

Force, it was like talking to a droid sometimes. “They tortured him,” Factor said quietly, not knowing how else to put it.

“Yes,” Tech said distractedly, eyes focused on his datapad. “We weighed the hypothetical value of the potential intelligence they were carrying. But…” and then he paused, looking behind Factor to where Echo was still talking with the two officers. “It was Echo.” Tech said these words with finality, as if they explained it all. “Besides, now they can’t do the same to anyone else,” he added after a moment of silence. “Ever, ever again.”

Tech was usually so relentlessly logical that it was weird hearing him speak this way. It was a side of him Factor hadn’t been expecting.

Then again, they were also discussing what clearly must have been a series of off-the-books, premeditated murders. Was it bad that Factor fully understood that, too?

“Good,” Factor finally said, when the silence had stretched out long enough to get a little uncomfortable.

Tech, who was reading through the code again, made an indistinct noise of agreement in the back of his throat, seemingly unfazed by the entire exchange.

“Tech, 19:00, food,” Echo called from the back of the room, suggesting that whatever covert conversation he’d been having with the officers had come to an end. “And bring your friend. What do you call him, Factorial?”

Wait, what?

“Stop trying to bait me,” Tech said testily. “You know perfectly well that Hunter said we should work on integrating with the regs for Omega’s benefit.”

Factor swiveled around in his chair to stare at both Tech and Echo, because he could read perfectly well between those lines, too. He just didn’t have the first idea where to start responding.

Echo was wearing a lopsided, conspiratorial grin. But it was the Captain who spoke.

“You’d better start training up someone else on your systems, Factor,” he said with a smile so small and fleeting, Factor almost missed it. “Because it’s clear we’ve been underutilizing you.”

Kriff.

AN: Other chapters are available here

[brews-and-pubs]

Downtown by Beer Tree, Binghamton NY

16 June 2023

This is Beer Tree's third location, but in my opinion, not their best.

Two years ago, I think, I stopped at their Farm location and loved it. The menu was small (although I think they may have increased it by now) but the food was very tasty, and the beers were enjoyable.

On the tail end of that trip, I stopped at their Factory location and have been back there a couple of times since. It's quite large as they've taken over what might have been an anchor store location at a small mall. The food is mostly wood-fired pizza, but it's very good.

Now they've opened Downtown in Binghamton. Parking isn't horrible, but it isn't super convenient although there is a parking garage not far away. There's what looks like a large rooftop deck although I couldn't look at it because of rain. Inside was interesting but not as large as I'd expected.

The food menu is small but decent -- and different from the other two locations -- and the beer list is definitely smaller than the list at the Factory. Still, the beers were worth the visit and I started with a flight:

Tree Light (far left, 4.2% Cream Ale) - I really liked this one (and took a crowler of it to enjoy during the evening). It's light but with just enough Cascade hops flavor to make it interesting.

Any Day's Haze (6.3% NEIPA) - Of the three NEIPAs in the flight, this was my favorite. They call it a "crushable every day beer" and I can't find any fault with that statement.

ROYGBIV (6.8% NEIPA) - There are a lot of bright, tropical fruit flavors in this one and it has a distinct pineapple finish. It's really refreshing and was a very close second for me to the previous NEIPA.

Tangerine Sunrise (7.1% NEIPA) - And here's where things got weird (for me). I loved the color; the taste, on the other hand, was way too heavy-handed with tangerine sweetness. I wanted to like it, and it was enjoyable, but I could never do a pint of it. Even finishing this size was harder than it should have been because it was so sweet.

After I finished eating, I opted for the 10 ounce pour of their Morning Timber - Blueberry (9% Coffee Stout) and it was ... interesting. I did enjoy it and I'm glad I ordered it, but I'd have to be in the right frame of mind to do it again (not to say that I wouldn't!). Rather than try to describe it, I'll just copy what they say about it and let you imagine it for yourself: "Maple, freshly roasted coffee, and blueberry all unite to create Morning Timber Blueberry -- the MOST robust, delicious Breakfast Stout." It's definitely a solid coffee stout with excellent mouthfeel, smooth as anything I've ever had.

I'm glad I checked out Beer Tree's new Downtown spot, but on future trips through here, I'll drop into either their Factory or Farm location and give this one a miss.

[redeyedroid]

This week saw the 80th anniversary of one of the most famous and heroic deeds of the Second World War – 617 Squadron’s attack on the hydroelectric dams of the Ruhr.

Flying at extremely low level in 4-engined Lancaster heavy bombers, the men of 617 Squadron displayed extraordinary skill and courage in the attack, using specially designed bombs, codenamed UPKEEP to strike at the dams. The bombs were large, drum-like in construction and spun up before being dropped. The spin caused them to skip like a stone across the waters of the reservoirs and hold close to the walls of the dam before exploding. Because they had to be at an altitude more precise than the instruments of the day could measure, the Lancasters were equipped with spotlights that intersected at the correct height, a weaponisation of maths as old as war itself.

The stone walls of the Möhne and Eder dams were breached that night, though the earthen construction of the Sorpe resisted.

617’s commander, Guy Gibson won a Victoria Cross on the mission, repeatedly circling round to make dummy attacks on the Möhne and trying to draw flak away from other planes as they made their runs, then flying to the Eder and doing the same. Gibson would be die in 1944. Having finished his tour and been removed from operations and used as a popular hero for propaganda purposes, he would return to ops and be killed when the Mosquito he was in was crashed in the Netherlands.

Leonard Cheshire – also a holder of the VC - became commander of 617 Squadron and led it through the rest of the war and it’s later successes such as the Limoges raid, where he flew over a factory at 20 feet to give the French workers inside warning before the bombs fell; and the sinking of the German battleship, Tirpitz, capsized by 12,000lb Tallboy earthquake bombs. After the war, Cheshire would found a charity that helps disabled people live independently and which still bears his name.

The dams raid itself was a propaganda and political success. The dams were repaired in short order – the RAF did not follow up the raid and refused the opportunity to harass the repair work, but the work cost a huge amount - billions in today's money. The Upkeep bomb was never used again. A smaller version, intended to be used against ships like the Tirpitz and which was codenamed HIGHBALL was never employed, either.

8 aircraft were shot down on the raid. Only 3 of the 56 aircrew on these machines were lucky enough to survive the high speed, low-level crashes. Around 1,600 people were killed in the floods caused by the breached dams. Over 1,000 of them were POWs and slave labourers, mostly Ukrainian and Russian women from the Nazi-occupied USSR.

A lot of resources were expended on a mission that probably had a noticeable impact on the German war effort. The price paid in lives was low, considering the slaughter in Russia, China and the Pacific. It was the very essence of the Allies philosophy of using technology in place of humans. Steel not flesh.

But if we're being honest, the raid’s fame today derives mostly from the film.

There are many British movies about the Second World War. We’ll probably never stop making them. But those made in the 1950s and early 60s often shaped the consciousness and understanding of the war in the public’s imagination. They often star men who had served, and fall into two groups: stories written and made by people who were there that are entirely fictional; and fictionalised accounts of real events.

The best of them is The Cruel Sea which was based on a novel by Nicholas Monsarrat, who served in the Royal Navy during the Battle of the Atlantic. Anchored by a magnificent Jack Hawkins, it tells of the men and service of the fictional HMS Compass Rose, a Flower-class corvette on convoy duty, played in the film by the actual Flower-class HMS Coreopsis on which much of the film was shot.

The most famous, though, is The Dambusters, which is a remarkably accurate representation of the attack, has an all-time great theme tune and a strong central performance by Richard Todd as Gibson (Todd, a paratrooper during the war, was among the first men to drop on D-Day as part of the amazingly named Geoffrey Pine-Coffin’s 7th Parachute Battalion. He found Gibson’s closing line in the film of “I have to write some letters [to the families of the dead] first” very hard to deliver, having done it himself, for real).

Yet the film, in it’s original cut, is today unwatchable.

The problem is the dog.

Like many squadron commanders, Guy Gibson had a pet dog. And like many of these, the black labrador became a mascot for the whole squadron and was spoiled rotten. It was knocked down and killed by a car the morning of the raid, and it’s name was used as a codeword for the successful strike on the Möhne, ringing out across Europe that night and making the dog and it’s profoundly offensive name a part of the story.

Because the name of the dog was the n-word. It’s use peppers the original cut of the film, because the dog is in many scenes (equally horrifically, the dog that appeared in the film had the same name. You wonder how many homes in 1950s Britain had pets with astonishingly offensive names) and this means that multiple edits and overdubs have been shown down the years (I recently discovered the one on Amazon Video in the UK is the original, which is how I know it’s unwatchable). Peter Jackson floated the idea of a remake after making The Lord of the Rings. The project never went anywhere and I have to think that the problem of the dog was part of why (also, it’s a struggle to make American money men cut loose for movies that don’t tell stories of American heroism, but that’s another thing entirely).

James Holland and Max Hastings – white Englishmen both - have written books about the raid in recent and both have wrestled with the dog devoting pages to the issue and pointing out that, yes it’s very offensive, but it was a long time ago and it’s part of the story. Then they use the name repeatedly throughout their books.

(To be clear, I like both historians and they have done very good work, but, to me, it’s very unconvincing to write about how bad the name was without then making any effort to avoid using the word. Though I don’t think I do much better when all is said and done).

Today, because everything is terrible, it has become a front in the culture war. A few years ago, during the BLM protests of 2020, the RAF changed the dog’s gravestone (because yes, they buried it at 617’s wartime base of RAF Scampton and gave it a gravestone) so that it no longer features the name. They were immediately accused of rewriting history and how dare they bow to the woke BLM snowflakes it’s part of the story it’s just a name and how offensive can a dog be anyway. Someone started a petition trying to get Parliament to debate it and have the original headstone put back.

History is messy and many, if not most, of our nation’s heroes do not stand up to scrutiny, but the feelings of people complaining about a headstone that should never have been put up in the first place can get in the fucking sea. Like statues, it’s not rewriting history to say that something or someone does not deserve that place in society today. The feelings of RAF servicepeople of colour over the 75 years the original headstone was in place were never considered, but that doesn’t matter to these people. Nor that people knew it was horrible and offensive at the fucking time, but didn’t care, because it was a word and attitude that was socially acceptable. Hammering on about it does distract from the story of the heroism of 133 men, 53 of whom never came home that night in 1943. But there's no way round it. The heroism and racism go hand in hand.

(As an illustration, I’ve written more here about the fucking dog than I did about the actual raid).

Most recently the raid has been back in the news, because our authoritarian, fascist-leaning Conservative government have decided to dump shipping containers all over RAF Scampton and use it as housing for asylum seekers. The worst people in the world are crawling out from whatever fetid sewer they exist in to complain. Housing these people at Scampton would be a disgrace to the memory of the raid, they say, trying to turn it and the raid into a symbol of xenophobic nationalism, no matter that the RAF had men and women from all over the world in it during the Second World War. Adding to it, there’s a proposal to move the dog’s grave to 617 Squadron’s current base at RAF Marham so it is not damaged by the inmates of our new concentration camp.

Opposition to this plan mostly hinges on there being an existing plan to use the airfield as part of a regeneration scheme, bringing jobs and money to an area that desperately needs it. Left out of the argument is that people will be housed there is abominable conditions, dehumanised and misrepresented, their very existence treated as criminal. And this will happen because the government’s asylum policy is a fucking obscenity, in flagrant opposition to international law, and – much like the attacks on the rights of trans people – a crisis artificially created by the Tories so they can distract us from how fucking terrible they are at running the country, the continuing destruction of public services, and the enrichment of their friends.

People use the Second World War to make political points. They always have. History is written and then rewritten again and again. Myths die hard – even today the idea the German Army was supreme and only lost because it sabotaged by Hitler’s incompetence is still taken at face value; while the myth of the clean Wehrmacht, separate from the crimes of the Nazi regime and SS, persists. Both come from the self-serving memoirs and testimonies of German generals. History is always rewritten and the people who oppose the changes are the same who complain about statues being removed or talk about Britain's role in the slave trade. They want history to be a monologue of the bits that make them feel good. They don't want to engage with the uncomfortable and and bad things that were done by this country, or it's racist heroes. They don't want history to be a dialogue where they have to listen to the people on the other end of the discrimination, or the imperial repression. Or the bombs.

And it is hardly new for dickheads to repurpose it for their own ends. In a couple of weeks politicians with fake tans and faker teeth will task their interns with posting social media tributes to the D-Day landings. A few will use images of German soldiers, betraying the performative hollowness of the public face. Other, less famous blue tick accounts run by truly fucking awful human beings, will make shit jokes about there being no safe spaces on the beaches, or drag BLM. Transphobia will run rife in the hashtags, possibly alongside the odd WWG1WGA. Tankies will make fanposts about the war’s other great mass murderer, Joseph Stalin and assert that it was the USSR which really won the war and diminish the contributions of the USA and Britain.

And I will look at it all, and think about it all, and be angered and saddened. When I can find something worth fact-checking, or think of a funny and/or interesting dunk to make, I’ll probably post about it. Because what else is there when the most complex events in human history are distilled down to the worst people in the world standing up for a dog’s hideously offensive name?

[90363462]

10. “Jack,” Hardy

Country music has a rich history of drinking songs, from breezy celebrations (Toby Keith’s “Red Solo Cup”) to despondent confessionals (Merle Haggard’s “Misery and Gin”). “Jack,” a new single from the fast-rising country star Hardy, sits somewhere in the middle, and provides several compelling twists on the well-explored subgenre. 

First, it’s written from the perspective of the bottle itself, as it tries to win over a new convert. Second, its metal influences lend it a bracing forcefulness akin to slamming an empty shot glass onto a wooden bar. Third, it engages in none of the blind devotion, self-pity, or moralizing that plagues many drinking songs, instead telling a straightforward and true story about both the heroic and demonic aspects wrought forth by liquid courage. Hardy isn’t afraid to find the gray within difficult topics—see his murder ballad “Wait In the Truck”—and “Jack” is a prime example of his developing craftsmanship.—Andrew R. Chow

9. “Kind of Girl,” MUNA

Though the indie pop group MUNA scored plenty of buzz this year for their Phoebe Bridgers collaboration, the queer love anthem “Silk Chiffon,” it’s their plaintive rumination on self-love, “Kind of Girl,” that’s the glittering crown jewel of their self-titled third studio album. Fresh off a new deal with Bridgers’ Saddest Factory Records after an unceremonious break with RCA, the trio’s hope for the future shines bright on the song, an acoustic track rippling with emotion that evokes a heartfelt country ballad. 

Teeming with tender vulnerability and radical kindness, the song is an earnest ode to the power of love, both given and received over the course of a lifetime, where change is not only inevitable but necessary. Amidst growing pains, the song is a missive to be gentle with everyone, especially ourselves: “Yeah, I like telling stories/ But I don’t have to write them in ink/ I could still change the end/ at least I’m the kind of girl who thinks I can.”—Cady Lang

Read more: The Best Songs of 2022 So Far

8. “Unholy,” Sam Smith ft. Kim Petras

Sam Smith and Kim Petras both scored their first no. 1 hits on the Billboard Hot 100 with “Unholy,” a lusty, sinuous song about the forbidden fruit of a married man’s illicit affair. Smith and Petras’ history-making feat at the top of the charts (they’re the first openly nonbinary and trans artists to nab the peak spot) has also translated to TikTok, where the certifiably provocative chorus (“Mummy don’t know daddy’s getting hot/ At the body shop, doing something unholy/ He lucky, lucky”) has become a viral soundbite. The song’s commercial success is absolutely well-deserved—anchored by a haunting Arabic scale progression and a throbbing bass, the synth-heavy track is a little dark, a little campy, and 100% a very good time, whether you’re sweating it out on a dance floor or giving it a casual listen.—C.L.

7. “Finesse,” Pheelz ft. BNXN

There’s a reason “Finesse” became a TikTok sensation in February: its chorus is one of the catchiest of the year, an unfiltered ray of sunshine. Pheelz, a sought-after Nigerian producer who has worked with Afrobeats superstars like Olamide and Tiwa Savage, trades effortlessly cool verses with the rising singer BNXN. And the song isn’t played out yet: expect to hear it plenty during the World Cup, as the song made the FIFA 23 soundtrack and name-drops the footballers Joseph Yobo, Daniel Owefin Amokachi, and Mo Salah.—A.R.C. 

6. “ChevyS10,” Sudan Archives

The main hook of Sudan Archive’s “ChevyS10” doesn’t drop until three minutes and forty-five seconds into the song. Up to that point, a whole lot has happened: a journey from the Bronx to the ‘burbs; some pointed class commentary; autotuned harmonic fireworks; a little tri-state drag racing. But not until the hook hits does the song really kick into high gear, and become an avant-garde dance-pop treatise for the ages. As Sudan Archives—real name Brittney Denise Parks—chants the deceptively simple refrain (“cruising in a Chevy S-10”), the musical walls start to move around her: there’s a springy bass line, then a vicious kick drum made only for the sweatiest of nightclubs, then a cranking violin. It’s a living, breathing, flow state; a passage of sweet, unhinged release.—A.R.C. 

5. “Bad Habit,” Steve Lacy

Steve Lacy’s quiet ascent to the top of the charts with “Bad Habit” this year evoked the same feelings that the song did: pure, euphoric joy. The track, a single from his second studio album, the aptly named Gemini Rights, is a soulful, mellow melange of wistful longing, playful flirtation, and straight-up vibes. While the lyrics sound like cheeky ad-libs, tailor-made for TikTok soundbites, Lacy’s songwriting packs a deeply emotional impact, musing on both yearning (“I wish I knew, I wish I knew you wanted me”) and boyish desire (“Can I bite your tongue like my bad habit?/ Would you mind if I made a pass at it?”). Though the song is lo-fi easy listening at its best, don’t be surprised if it gets at your feelings with each listen.—C.L.

4. “FNF,” Glorilla

On the streets, the undeniable song of the summer was “F.N.F (Let’s Go)”—and for good reason. The track, a breakout single from Memphis rapper Glorilla and producer Hitkidd, is a boisterous and thrilling crunk anthem for single ladies everywhere and a sparkling addition to the Southern rap canon. Over a menacing beat, Glorilla, a former church girl (she was born Gloria Hallelujah Woods) turned gangsta rap darling, offers a bombastic and unabashed celebration of the newly single life, her husky voice reaching a barking timbre when she talks about her newfound liberation. 

While it’s no doubt a breakup song, “FNF” is also an ode to female friendship; indeed, the song’s most exhilarating moments come when Glorilla gives a shoutout to her girls during a spelling lesson in the song’s now-TikTok viral hook: “I’m F-R-E-E, f-ck n-gga free/ That mean I ain’t gotta worry ’bout no f-ck n-gga cheating/ And I’m S-I-N-G-L-E again/ Outside hanging out the window with my ratchet-ass friends.”—C.L.

Read more: The 10 Best Podcasts of 2022

3. “Part of the Band,” the 1975

“Part of the Band,” the gorgeous, lush lead single from the 1975’s Being Funny in a Foreign Language, marks the band’s return to music following 2020’s Notes on a Conditional Form. Frontman Matty Healy sings this self-aware, stream-of-consciousness track with the help of some background vocals from producer Jack Antonoff. The song features a sweeping string section and Healy’s charming vocals, which propel the listener forward even if the lyrics don’t always make sense. Even Healy admitted he barely knows what it means: “As a narrative, I don’t know what the song is about,” he told Apple Music. “It was just this belief that I could talk, and that was OK, and it made sense, and I didn’t have to qualify it that much.” Whatever it means, it sounds great.—Moises Mendez II 

2. “Delincuente,” Tokischa

While the thundering beat and the raunchy lyrics are enough to get your heart racing, the real star of “Delincuente” is the unabashed and fully assured confidence of Tokischa, the Dominican dembow artist who’s been making waves as a queer, sex-positive provocateur disrupting her genre, one hit at a time, respectability politics be damned. The track, which also prominently features Anuel AA and Ñengo Flow, is filled with racy and at times ludicrous double entendres which create an intoxicating romp, driven in turn by a bouncing and infectious rhythm. But it’s Tokischa’s irrepressible, irresistible energy and powerful, rock-influenced vocals that make the song a standout, the liberated anthem of an artist who answers to no one but herself and her pleasure.—C.L.

1. “Titi Me Pregunto,” Bad Bunny

For the four years I’ve been writing TIME’s year-end music roundups, my colleagues and I have enforced a self-imposed rule to never feature the same artist in both the song and album categories. To do so felt narrow-minded and redundant, and we felt it important to spread the love around with the few slots we have. 

But we had to break tradition for Bad Bunny, who lands on the top of both our albums and songs lists. Un Verano Sin Ti is an unimpeachable collection top to bottom, and “Titi Me Pregunto” is its crown jewel: a speaker-rattling, tightly-coiled whoop-ass can of boisterous exuberance. Bad Bunny wields his malleable, magnificent voice in all of its forms, through dextrous rapidfire verses and sludgy singalongs; he makes even his gasps for breath sound sexy. The song’s aesthetics alone pushed it toward complete cultural domination. It hit the top 10 in 13 countries, and when I went to see a concert by the DJ Sofia Kourtesis, all she wanted to do, instead of play her own songs, was sing “Titi Me Pregunto.”

But like all great songs, “Titi Me Pregunto” is much more than its sheer sonic brilliance. While the first two verses show Bad Bunnyplaying the carefree, chauvinist playboy, he eventually confesses that it’s all a shield for his emotional fragility. “I’d like to fall in love but I can’t… I don’t even trust myself,” he sings despondently. “I don’t want to be like that anymore.” Just another day in the office for the biggest pop star in the world—A.R.C.

Correction, Nov. 22

The original version of this story misstated the name of a Hardy song. It is “Wait in the Truck,” not “Wait in the Car.”

Write to Cady Lang at cady.lang@timemagazine.com and Moises Mendez II at moises.mendez@time.com.

Sent from my iPhone

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

China Factory Drop In Anchors Zinc Plated

Click here to see more of this product