#MAN Diesel Generating

[engineoverhaulingservices]

For more information on MAN Diesel Generating, MAN B&W crankshaft grinding, and Crack Check of MAN Engine contact us at info@rapowersolutions.com, raj.shahani@rapowersolutions.com and dial +91 9582647131, tel. 0124-4251615. 

[crankshaftgrindingrepair]

Crankshaft Repair of MAN Engine

The MAN B&W 9L27/38 damaged crankshaft was reported to RA Power Solutions by the ship's crew. Due to the MAN main engine's failure, the ship became trapped at Lumut Port in Malaysia. We keep a sizable supply of crankpin and main journal bearings in standard and undersize sizes for prominent engine brands including Yanmar, Daihatsu, MAK, and MAN B&W, among others. For more information on MAN Diesel Generating, MAN B&W crankshaft grinding, and Crack Check of MAN Engine contact us at info@rapowersolutions.com, raj.shahani@rapowersolutions.com and dial +91 9582647131, tel. 0124-4251615. 

[mus1ca1]

(human au)

i may be deeply uncomfortable with how they've written this character but man is she pretty

[identifyingtrainsinposts]

GIF MAN / Urban Transportation Development Corporation (UTDC) - Articulated Light Rail Vehicle (ALRV) Pictures 2: General Electric - 50 Ton Steeplecab 4: Hyundai Rotem - Silverliner V 5: Bombardier Transportation - Toronto Rocket 7 : MAN / UTDC - ALRV | Alstom - Flexity Outlook 8: Motive Power - MP40PH-3C

Alstom that's a tram not a car.

How public transportation can reduce congestion

[ghostaholics]

𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑

➸ PAIRING: Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley x gn medic!Reader (same reader from here, but this is a stand-alone) ➸ SUMMARY: You kiss Simon's very minor injuries. And then some. (Or, alternatively: He's not actually wounded. He just wants to see you.) ➸ WARNING(S): some graphic descriptions of old injuries ➸ A/N: Need to preface that this isn't smut despite how the title and summary sound. Anyways, Jo knows I listened to Hozier's Other Voices 2020 version of "Work Song" for a week straight while writing this. ➸ WC: 2k

❝ 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍' 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃, ❞ he admits, low-timbered. It feels intimate, especially coming from him. Simon's sitting on the cot; it sags under his weight. He curls his hands over the edge of it as he leans forward. No casualties post-mission means he's got free rein to pick wherever he wants in the medical tent.

"Oh, yeah? What about?"

"That I should probably do my best to avoid injuries so I don’t keep pestering you. Can always just tell me to fuck off, y’know.”

“You’re gonna break my heart if you stop coming around.

“Mm,” he says in agreement. “Can’t have that can we?”

You nod your head earnestly. “I like your company.”

“Tryin’ to say that you’ll miss me?”

“I would.” More than he knows.

It’s routine now. He gives you just enough room, adjusting his position. You step into the space made between Simon’s splayed knees, his massive legs nearly bracketing yours with how close they are. He’s bigger than you. Well, considerably more mammoth-like in his proportions compared to an overwhelming majority of the soldiers that you’ve encountered, to be quite honest.

Simon acts as though he’s acutely aware of his size. You suspect that he purposefully makes himself smaller in your presence. Like now, how his shoulders are rounded forward, the column of his spine not as straight-arrow in that standard, militaristic posture most servicemen have adopted. As if he doesn’t want to appear too intimidating. Not that Simon could, to you. Hours doing his stitches and idle chitchat on your part have taught you that he’s much less ruthless than people seem to paint him as. But you appreciate the thought anyway.

You conduct the assessment – a typical evaluation normal for combat casualty care, more in-depth than the one you’d done when he initially stopped by and you did a quick once-over for any obvious injuries. Though given the complete vacancy in the medical tent, you find it hard to believe that you’ll come across anything on him since the mission went that smoothly.

The first thing you notice this time: he doesn't smell like spilled blood. It's different. Not that sweet, rusted iron of wet tackiness – the one that reminds you of a generous stack of two pence coins held between a pair of hands cupped together. He comes in that way a lot. Reeks, because war means that he's no stranger to charging through a shower of copper and lead-forged bullets out on the field. Everything else is still there, though. Maybe a dying campfire – crackling logs and blackened earth. Soft dirt excavated from a foxhole for cover while under enemy fire. All gunpowder and Marlboro Lights and diesel-fuel smoke. Fresh rain and a blue-violet sky after a storm. Victory without consequence.

You'd breathe it in if you could, pull the collar of his jacket up to your face. At this proximity, it’d be easy.

He drops the act when he’s in front of you. Lieutenant. Ghost. Battle-hardened, gruff. A natural-born leader. The kind of person to rip this world apart brick by brick – scraped up palms clutching onto broken pieces – to make sure that the plan is executed accordingly, no matter the cost. It’s hard for him to shed that layer. A drop in the bucket of information that you’ve gathered about this man.

You’ve seen him at his best. But you know him at his worst.

The laundry list of injuries over the years: blows to his torso and his back and his limbs that were brighter than technicolor – purples and reds and sickly yellow-green shades – deep, blotchy medals of violence decorating his skin like some kind of fucked-up kaleidoscope that was nothing to be proud of; when some bastard drove a knife right into his upper thigh, that dirty blade wedged through tissue and muscle which was sure as hell going to induce the nastiest infection without serious TLC and a tetanus shot; rib fractures 7-9 because he aborted an exploding heli, seconds to spare before landing on his side wrong from a height that was equivalent to three stories tall; old GSWs dotting his body the same way you’d shove push pins into a paper-flimsy map to mark the places you’ve been to.

And then there’s no contest for the top contender. 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐭 #𝟏: when he was rushed in on a stretcher, barely clinging to life. Lower abdomen shredded by exploding shrapnel. He was outside of the window of opportunity. Too far beyond that golden hour, so his chances of surviving plummeted to a single-digit percent.

He’s more than just a patchwork of scars. There’s a complex person underneath the surface. A miracle in the flesh to have toughed it out through all of that. Resilient. Perpetual. His callsign makes sense. Ghosts really do live forever.

Several seconds pass before you speak again. It’s a silly comment, teasing – poking fun at him. You don’t have any reservations when it comes to picking on Simon; he’s good about taking these things in stride. Funny, actually. He’s got a dry sense of humor. “I think… you like the idea of someone taking care of you.”

His response isn’t immediate. It’s delayed, said with intention. He doesn’t ever waste words. “Not just anybody.”

You nearly reel back at that. Warmth floods your face. You aren’t quite sure what to say, didn’t expect it. So you let the comment hang in the air between the two of you, busying your hands with slipping off his tac vest, triple-checking for hidden wounds, doing anything to keep yourself occupied while you stand this close to him in the wake of that remark. You’re engrossed in your work, in search of a distraction.

(He’s a distraction, isn’t he?)

And then your eyes stop in their scan. Right there: a small nick on the exposed sliver of skin between his glove and sleeve – open to the direct path of some wayward debris that happened to graze him. So tiny. You’ve seen paper cuts more harrowing than this – wouldn’t have even registered on your radar, especially if it’s being dwarfed by other critical wounds that hold decisive sway over somebody’s fate when it comes to your average life-or-death scenario.

Of course, you take your job very seriously.

You feign a sharp inhale. “Ah,” you say solemnly, guiding his arm up to your face for a closer look. “Found your problem.”

“I’ve got a problem,” he echoes, voice laced with amusement.

“See, you came to the right place. Anybody else would’ve missed it.”

“The verdict, then?”

“So terrible. Earth-shattering, in fact—”

Simon starts pulling away. “Alright, that’s enough of you takin’ the piss outta me,” he gripes.

You chase his arm to recapture it into your grasp. “Wait!” you say, huffing out a laugh. Your mouth sprouts into a wide grin that makes him roll his eyes.

“You gonna treat me or what?”

Your humor bubbles away as you come back to your senses. Those once-loud peals of laughter start to die down when you take his question into consideration. Because there’s really nothing for you to do; he doesn’t need you.

The realization is slow-moving. It washes over you, rolls like waves as you finally begin to sober up.

Simon wants to be here, and he’s looking for any excuse to stay. He just can’t find the courage to own up to it.

“I dunno. Might be unconventional,” you throw out casually, playing along. “Risky, maybe – never been done before.”

But he’s undeterred. “Sure. Whatever you gotta do.”

You pause for a beat, fingers still wrapped around his forearm because you haven’t managed to let go yet. His skin is warm under your palm. You’re not sure what exactly possesses you to do it – emboldened by his encouragement, given complete carte blanche; he’s leaving this to your discretion. So you press your lips to that area where the cut is, right over his pulse point. If you had lingered for longer, you probably would’ve been able to feel it thudding, that solid rhythm and easy strength reminding you he’s alive.

You expected him to withdraw his arm in bewilderment. He should’ve kicked up a fuss about you violating his boundaries, should’ve told you that you overstepped. Something, right?

But he doesn’t do any of that. Simon’s studying you. Dark pupils. So chasm-deep that the ground beneath your feet might slip away. Ocean trenches, midnight-black like the charcoal smudged around his eyes. When they land on you, his gaze goes molasses-soft. He’s fond; there’s little room for doubt. The way he looks at you says everything. None of that usual coldness he harbors during an op. Instead, relaxed and more human than you’re used to seeing – all of his attention focused solely on you.

“Where else, Simon?” you whisper.

He’s thinking – carefully weighing his options – the same expression that he gets when a crossroads lies ahead of him and he knows his make-it-or-break-it decision will invariably affect the outcome of a mission.

After several moments, his hand comes up. Simon’s fingers curl underneath the hem of his mask; he’s been wearing the fabric balaclava more often since you’ve fixed the stitching on it. Then he lifts – not the entire way. Just to reveal the bottom half of his face. There he is. Sandpaper-rough stubble. The sharp cut of his jaw. A mouth that you’re convinced wears a scowl 24/7 behind his mask but is now slightly twitched up.

Even though you’ve seen it before, the sight of him never fails to steal your breath away. Feels like meeting him for the first time again. With how rarely he does this, it might as well be – that slow, heart-melting sensation is steadily filling the cavern of your chest.

And you lean in. Your lips brush against his; it’s a chaste thing – the kiss – if it can be called that. Gentle. Like how you’d stitch up his wounds with a light touch and kind intent. He’s built of sterner stuff, but if there’s anything you’ve learned about him, it’s that he’s capable of breaking just as easily as everyone else. You always handle Simon with care: unequivocal compassion and empathy when there’s so little of those left on this side of war – privileges that he’s never taken for granted.

“Better?” you ask quietly, tipping your head in question.

Simon hums his approval – this pleased, low sound in his throat. His hand slides across your lower back. He tugs you towards him. “Wouldn’t mind some more attention,” he murmurs, before slotting his mouth over yours. And then he kisses you like it might heal him from the outside in.

[froody]

Area Man’s Friday Night Plan to Take an Edible and Watch a Bad 80s Movie Interrupted by Hurricane

“I’ve got to stay sober in case the house starts flooding and my cats start drowning.” Says unemployed 24 year old Algernon W., who lives alone in a house that belongs to his mother. “Plus Tubi and Crackle don’t work without wifi.”

Algernon had made tentative plans to pop a gummy and watch a 40 year old low budget horror movie before shit got truly scary in real life around 1:45 pm.

“The powers out and we have an electric stove so I can’t even grill myself a cheese.” He laments. “Watching my 70 year old weirdo prepper neighbor struggle with his diesel generator is my only form of entertainment for now.”

We will be following further developments closely.

[steampunkforever]

I think it's time to gush about Monkey Man.

From a practical standpoint, you can't not talk about this movie without mentioning John Wick. Monkey Man itself understands this, going so far as to itself namedrop the Wick films in the beginning of the movie. Yet the movies are very different.

John Wick is in essence a modern neo noir, minimalist in everything but number of sequels it greenlights. It's slick, well executed, and responsible for resurrecting a genre that previously belonged to Vin Diesel's lower quality projects. It fully deserves its flowers, but ten years on it's time to raise our standards for a good action film. By all metrics, Monkey Man should be that movie.

Monkey Man is John Wick but grittier. It's action elevated. It's downright gorgeous. It's Dev Patel's directorial debut. It's a social commentary on inequality and fascism. It's Dev Parel Shirtless because he knows exactly what we want. It's the best release of the year as of the time of this writing. It's a movie you should go see.

Monkey man is a movie that asks "what if modern action movies had pathos?" It's gritty, the tale of a kid fighting his way up from the gutter to the penthouse (literally) in his quest for revenge against Hindu Fascist leadership. And it rips. Not since Mandy have I seen a revenge film so beautifully and profoundly depict violence. This is an altogether beautiful film and it never misses a chance to try and make things as beautiful as Mr. Patel himself.

An important note is that the film focuses heavily on Hindu Fascism, and was almost denied release on account of this. As of the writing of this filmpost it still has not been approved for release in India by the state censors, and that with significant edits already having been made to the movie for its general release. Even yet, it's a poignant sociopolitical critique of the Indian government and the intersection between religion and government oppression. Also Dev Patel bites a guys nose off.

Amazing film. Must see. Highly suggest seeing it as soon as possible. Do it for Dev.

[little-orange-bastard]

CHAPTER 2: An (Un)Welcome Newcomer

@dearlittlefandom-stalker @authortobenamedlater @pepperonyscience @thefinaljediknight

@ionlymadethissoicouldleaveanask @p0tat0-g0ddess (Out of character: thanks for playing so far! This is the next chapter in the story) STORY RESUMES HERE: The device stops blinking and chirping and all the lights in the bunker go dark. Suddenly, a bright orange avatar of a man in WW2 bomber attire pops up out of the device. "Good grief! I've been cooped up in that thing for damn near six months while y'all did, what exactly? Browse Tumblr & write stuff on AO3 while the nuclear apocalypse came and the aliens invaded? Was the end of the world that dull?"

He gives the group a knowing but disapproving look. "I mean, it's not exactly surprising that our little hellsite would outlive 90% of all life on earth, but still. Also, @authortobenamedlater I've been reading your fanfic over the past several months of isolation locked up in that black box and I know you're coping with the loss of the meatsack version of me, but good grief. You should be very ashamed of yourself." The 6 inch tall avatar stops his speech to pour himself a digital drink and takes a sip. "Ahhh, much better. You all have any idea how hard it is to drink bourbon without a body? Anyhow, yeah this is a digital avatar and personality imprint of the brainscan of @mrtobenamedlater. He probably wishes he could be here...then again after 6 months underground with y'all he might've taken a stroll outside under an artificial sun just to see what a nuke felt like up close." He takes another long swig before continuing. "Ahhh, tastes good. So before you all ask, yes. The apocalypse came and went. Y'all survived it, but this shelter wasn't meant to hold this many people for this long. Food has all but run out, and power is about to fail due to the underground diesel tanks being near empty which means no water or air circulation soon. In short, this shelter is dead and y'all need a 'get outta dodge' plan quick, fast and in a hurry. I'm here to help y'all along with this as much as able." Another sip and he pours a generous digital refill. "Sorry, my meatbag mutuals. I'm making up for lost time here." Another sip. "I was left here to function as a digital guide and helper. Before 'The Fall' happened as you call it, and indeed for sporadic times afterwards, I was able to piece together a bit on the status of the outside world. I can paint some generalized pictures on what happened exactly, the state of the outside world as it is now, and some possible courses of action so that y'all might make it to Halloween next year." He unceremoniously downs the remains of his second glass in one go and with a snap of his digital fingers, the virtual whiskey disappears. He then claps his hands together and does a 360, surveying the assembled crowd of survivors. "Oookay, that's enough. I'm down to only 1.29 volts in this thing. I literally do not have the energy to be foolish or argue. I'll now open the floor. What questions can I answer? I'll do the best I can, but the information may be limited depending."

[lulublack90]

Prompt 15 - Time Travel

@wolfstarmicrofic May 15, word count 559

The general public had scoffed at the idea of time travel, but as Sirius walked through the portal he’d just created, he couldn’t help but feel smug. 

It threw him into the late 1970s. Everything was bell-bottoms and mini-skirts. It was amazing. 

London seemed small, and hadn’t yet been taken over by the looming skyscrapers that covered it in the time he’d just come from. 

A red double-decker bus trundled past him, and he sniffed the air as it filled with the smell of oil and diesel. Pollution wasn’t a thing in his time and while he knew it was detrimental to his health, but that old bus smelled amazing. 

He wandered down a line of shops and marvelled at their wares. He couldn’t help the snicker that escaped him when he saw the suit proudly displayed in the centre of a shop window. Pure white flares with a matching suit jacket and beneath that a black shirt with the most insane collar he’d ever seen. 

“It’s a bit ridiculous isn’t it?” A man said beside him. Sirius jumped. The man smiled. “You stick out like a sore thumb, you know. You need to get yourself some new threads.” The man pulled at his brown geometric-patterned knit jumper. “When are you coming from?” Sirius didn’t miss the word the stranger used. When not where. Sirius stared at him. Was he from a different time as well? No, he couldn’t be, Sirius reasoned. That would be pure madness. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sirius said as he tried to walk away. The man chuckled as he easily blocked Sirius’s path. 

“Come on, I know a person out of his time when I see one.”

“Wait, there’s others?” Sirius couldn’t help himself, he didn’t know anyone who’d been working on what he had. The man nodded. 

“I have a flat just around the corner. Would you like to come back, and we can have a chat over a cup of tea? Honestly, real tea will blow your mind. It’s so much better than the synthetic stuff.” That in itself intrigued Sirius and, against his better judgement, he followed the man down the street. 

“Oh, my name is Remus.” The man grinned at him. “Remus Lupin. I’m a hundred years out of my time, how about you?” Sirius pondered how much to give away, but the man was so friendly and something about him made Sirius want to spill his guts. But overall, Remus felt safe. 

“Sirius Black, erm probably about 80 or 90 years out of my time.” He said it quietly, not wanting any of the people around him to hear. 

“Don’t mind them, they wouldn’t have a clue what we’re talking about even if you showed them the portals.” Remus winked at him and pointed at a crumbly looking building. “That’s me there above the newsagents.” Sirius followed him to a side door and up a narrow flight of stairs to the flat above. 

Remus opened the door and Sirius stared in amazement. He thought he was really going to enjoy finding out about this time and Remus seemed to be the perfect person to teach him about it. 

Remus fixed him a cup of tea, and he groaned when it hit his tongue. The 1970s were so much better than his time. He didn't want to leave.

[flurry-of-stars]

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*𝓑𝓪𝓫𝔂 𝓸𝓯 𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓮✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

𝓟𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰: Dad Sigma x Fem Reader 𝓖𝓮𝓷𝓻𝓮: Family fluff, non-Ability AU, OC child (Lucia), just a dad looking after his newborn daughter, overprotective Sigma, mentions of the past (including slightly altered canon events) mentions of weapons (gun, coin bombs) 𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽: About 2k 𝓐𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻'𝓼 𝓝𝓸𝓽𝓮: I missed my man. I also wrote this way back in May jdnfjsdf Technically a sequel to this fic Inspired by a prompt I saw by @/bwoahtastic. Though I ended up rewording it a little! (´◡`) The prompt line was "Stay in bed, you dealt with them for 9 months. Now it's my turn."

It’s late. The world is in a state of complete tranquility. There’s the faint chirping of crickets outside, singing their soft, nightly melodies.

The distant sound of a car turning into an underground parking garage. The faintest noise of two teenagers, out and about, giggling and laughing down on the city street below. The atmosphere down here was completely different from that of the Sky Casino. Even on nights when he wouldn’t stay up working himself until he passed out at his desk, the entire casino would be as silent as the moon in the night sky.

It was so silent there he was certain you would be able to hear the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. He would draw his long black-out curtains closed, fill the oil diffuser with the blissful scents of vanilla and caramel and curl up in his soft, king-sized bed, his sheets wrapping around his body like one big, warm hug. It was a place of pure comfort and peace. He wasn’t sure he liked how much things had changed. A week before your due date, you insisted on moving into the new apartment that you and Sigma had purchased together. He had initially wanted to wait until after the birth of your daughter, but soon realized it was probably a good idea to stay at the apartment while the baby was still so young. Especially when he held the tiny baby girl for the first time. She was so fragile, so tiny and precious. An angel, he'd thought. The thought of something happening to her up on the Sky Casino and not receiving the medical attention she needs in time had sent the general manager into a spiral. So he agreed. Unfortunately, you’d gone into labour when no more than the nursery’s furniture had been bought and built.

So here Sigma was, trying to sleep on this old double bed mattress, with a frame that creaked and a mattress that sagged in the middle, and sheets that were made for a king-sized bed that he'd brought from the casino. Not to mention the odd smells he was catching a whiff of now and then. The drifting smells of tobacco from the lower apartments. The hints of diesel smoke whenever that one car from the complex over backfired.

And for the love of all that was right in the world, he was so sure whoever was cooking all that garlic must be fighting off a vampire invasion or something! He groans in displeasure, longing for his bedroom above the clouds until he feels you squirming at his side. He looks down at you, huddled up against him, arms gently wrapped around his frame.

He notices the exhaustion still present on your face. The discomfort. You needed all the rest you could get; the birth of your daughter had not been easy. With a gentle hand, he reaches over, running delicate fingers through your locks of hair. He twirls the lock slowly between his fingers, smiling affectionately down at you, his beloved wife. For all that was wrong with this apartment, you made everything feel right. He watches as a sleepy, sweet smile rises up onto your lips, your body squirming closer to his, a faint chuckle rolling off his tongue. However, before he loses himself to this precious moment completely, his ears twitch to the sound of soft whining coming from the bassinet next to the bed.

His gaze doesn’t leave you as you begin to stir almost instinctively. He can’t help but smile at how strongly your motherly instincts are shining through. Sigma leans down, pressing his lips to your cheek, his voice a soft whisper, “Shhh love. Go back to sleep…” “Mrm…but Lucia…” You mumble, your tone aching with exhaustion. Smiling tenderly at you, Sigma kisses your cheek again. “You need your sleep, Cara Mia,” he whispers softly, his ears twitching again as he hears the newborn's whimper growing more distressed. “You stay here. You did the hard work of carrying her for nine months. Now it’s my turn.” He watches over you as you grumble and whine but slowly settle back into bed, drifting back into the land of dreams. Running his fingers through your hair a final time, he gets up, the bed frame creaking as he steps towards the ruffled bassinet, catching a glimpse of his wiggling newborn daughter within. Her little hands, covered in her cute mittens wiggle, her cute little eyes looking around as she tries to reach up, whining and whimpering in distress.

With a soft smile and a gentle hum on his lips, Sigma very carefully reaches into the bassinet, carefully picking his daughter up. One hand supports her head and neck, the other cradles her bottom as he holds her to his chest, gently rocking her, “Shhh, shh…there, there my little angel. It’s okay…you’re okay…” As Lucia’s whimpers start growing louder, Sigma cringes. He was doing this right, wasn’t he? As you inhale deeply, his grey eyes dart anxiously towards you. Were you waking up again? No. No, he could handle this. The floorboards creak softly as he hurries towards the bedroom door, using his foot to slide the ajar door open before disappearing into the darkness of the apartment, Lucia still squirming and fussing in his arms. He rocks her softly, “Shh little one. The world is still at rest.” Maybe she was hungry? He hurries towards the fridge, remembering that you had pumped before you went to bed this evening and sure enough, he finds a few bottles full of breastmilk in the side door.

He turns, inserting the baby bottle into the bottle warmer. He was glad he managed to convince you was a necessary purchase. As he waits for the bottle to warm up, he rocks Lucia, her whining teeters on becoming a cry. He paces around, running his index finger so gently over her head, “There, there my little angel. It’s coming as fast as it can…” A sob escapes her, the mere sound of it shattering Sigma’s heart. He pulls her closer, kissing her forehead as he hums for her. Truth be told, Sigma was more than a little self-conscious about his singing and humming. Even after all your reassurance that he has a beautiful voice, he still couldn’t bring himself to believe it. But he was desperate to soothe his distressed daughter. So he hums for her, softly and sweetly. It's a gentle lullaby he’d heard one of his guests playing for their newborn a few years back. The melody had captured his heart, and he'd fallen in love with it.

He bounces her softly, keeping her head over his heart as her distressed whimpers quiet down. He paces the length of the small kitchen, keeping an eye on the bottle warmer as little Lucia starts trying to gnaw on her mitten.

He chuckles, encouraging her hand away from her mouth as he asks in a soft, loving voice, “Hmm…so mama’s influenced you to like my humming too, huh..? You really are her daughter…” As he murmurs those playful words, his eyes widen as Lucia opens her eyes, gazing up at her father. His heart stops as he meets his daughter’s soft grey eyes, just like his own.

His loving smile grows as he leans in, kissing her on the forehead as he chuckles, “But you’re also daddy’s girl too…my, what beautiful eyes you have, my angel…” At this, Lucia squeaks, earning another chuckle from her father. The bottle warmer finally beeps, encouraging Sigma over. Making sure to keep a warm, supportive hold on Lucia, he checks the temperature of the bottle just to be safe, moving towards the small rocking chair in the otherwise barren lounge area. Sitting down, he very carefully begins feeding Lucia, holding the bottle on a tilt as the baby care books he’d studied instructed him.

He listens to the soft sounds Lucia makes as she feeds, her tiny eyes closing. His eyes stay on her the entire time. Eventually, he relaxes completely, satisfied that he is doing a good job. “My little Lucia,” he whispers, the warmth of his daughter's tiny body pressing against his chest causing a wave of love to rush through his body. He watches over his newborn daughter with a protective, fatherly gaze, “Do you know how much we waited for you? How excited we were when we found out you were on the way?” He pauses as Lucia scrunches up her face. It was as if the tiny baby knew he wasn't being entirely honest. He chuckles quietly before he adds, “Okay, excited and scared, I suppose.” “But how could I not be afraid? Look at how tiny you are. Your little hands. That button nose…how fragile you are. I’m still scared to hold you sometimes..” He admits softly as the baby girl grunts softly. Sigma isn't sure if she's just enjoying her meal or agreeing with her father about her cuteness. His fingertips tremble anxiously as he softly caresses her head, being extremely gentle, “But when I look at you, my girl, the world feels right.” “I’ve made...many mistakes, my girl. Some that still haunt me to this day.” His gaze turns towards the glass balcony door, a heavy sigh escaping him, a faint shiver of fear running down his spine. Even now, some nights when he closed his eyes, he saw glimpses of the night you were almost killed in your search for the truth. In your determination to prove his innocence. That he had nothing to do with the coin bomb incident.

He still sees you, down on your knees, gun pointed between your eyes, refusing to hand over the evidence you'd worked so hard to get your hands on.

The evidence that would save him from a life behind bars. His voice is full of sorrow as he whispers, “Everyday, I wake up with the fear that my home will be shattered and torn from me for a second time…and I worry...I won't be able to stop it from happening again..." He shakes his head, his grey eyes firm with a fiery determination. He looks back at Lucia, noticing that she’s almost done drinking her milk, “But I swear to you, my angel, I will never let anything happen to you or your mother. I will fight to my last breath to keep you both safe if it comes to that.” “I don’t care if the world has to burn. I won’t let anyone hurt either of you again…” Suddenly, he blinks in surprise as Lucia finishes her bottle, yawning cutely up at him. His heart, blazing with the fire of an overprotective father and husband, is doused immediately. Putting the bottle aside, he lifts her, gently patting her back to help burp her. “I’m sorry Lucia, papa got a little too caught up in his emotions.” He smiles awkwardly, sighing as his hand rhythmically rubs and pats her little back. He takes a deep breath, those flames of protection calming back into the warmth of love, “I promise you Lucia, I’ll give you the best life you could ask for.” “Your mother and I will hold your hands and guide you every step of the way. You’ll never want for anything. I’ll make sure you grow up to be a strong girl. A smart girl. I’ll protect you from the dangers of this world and make sure you grow up to have a good heart, just like your mama…”

As the baby finally burps, Sigma chuckles, returning to cradling her before he begins rocking back and forth gently. She gazes up at her father, her little grey eyes twinkle as an adorable, toothless smile spreads across her face. His heart swells as he leans closer to her, kissing her little button nose. She makes a soft sound as she wiggles, her smile seeming to grow. “Papa will always be here for you. I’ll always be in your corner, my precious daughter, supporting you and cheering for you no matter what. I will always be so proud of you, my little angel. You are a blessing. A gift I never dreamed I’d receive…” Little Lucia yawns, curling up against her father. A few sleepy sounds escape her, her hands tucking in close to her chest as she drifts back to sleep.

Sigma’s lips quirk up into a warm, loving smile once more as he leans in, kissing her on the forehead one last time, “I love you, Lucia…with every fiber of my being. Not a day will go by that I don’t thank your mother and the universe for blessing us with you…” A soft yawn escapes Sigma as he continues rocking back and forth gently, finally feeling at ease. Sure, he was unsatisfied with the current state of the apartment. He was missing the Sky Casino and the familiarity he knew. But he wouldn’t trade Lucia or his wife for anything in the world. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

@tecchoussuperlady @hearts4heidi @lovestruckbook @wixxlemuff @twinkaesop @livelaughyo @yonseibananamilk @honeyangelsblog @soggyoreoinmilk @verminthorr @lunarmin716 @cherridove @slowlyfoulenthusiast

Dividers: @/saradika © 𝐹𝓁𝓊𝓇𝓇𝓎𝑜𝒻𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈-𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟦

[sanctus-ingenium]

any tips or stuff youve learned along the way on making a headworld "series bible" of sorts?

discord categories & channels (ft. the old working title of Where Hate Rules because i forgot to change it). i have a discord server with just me in it where I have a channel category for each writing project.

scroll down for a spreadsheet data blast

General - image dump, place to throw in new ideas so I don't forget them, plot points, etc

Worldbuilding - this is for stuff that's set in stone, not vague concepts. maps, diagrams, etc (i have a lot of diesel engine block diagrams and celestial illustrations in there as well as every holy beast)

Character log - literally just a list of characters. put in every character in the same format (i.e Name, Age, Profession, Physical Description, Hometown)

Writing Place - for prose. I write in libreoffice but when I'm out of the house on mobile or just doing test paragraphs they go here because I'd rather kill myself than use google docs ever. Each new piece of writing has an easily-searched title.

After this I have a channel for every main character. In here I put art relating to them, backstory, motivations, any random thoughts I have about them and so on. You don't wanna see how many of these I have for my Inver channel category lmaoo.

No, there are better ways to visualise Inver's absolutely massive series bible!

Discord is obviously only useful if you're online and I don't like storing so much shit in the cloud. And what if I need rows AND columns?

man i love spreadsheets. zoom in and get a load of that sweet sweet fossit guide.

this is me kissing microsoft excel with tongue to produce a datasheet about the modern-day ranger barracks in Inver (year 2017, Pascal's time) but any spreadsheet program will do. Even (gag) google sheets. I made this because in the modern era, rangers are ecologists! They participate in land management as well as faery relations.

Okay so. First thing you want to do is freeze the top row so that it remains in place when you scroll. Then populate the boxes. Here, each ranger organisation (column 1) is given its own bg colour based on its main tartan colour so visual reference is easy. The characters tab is similar - frozen top row with basic categories, then a colour-coded list of rangers.

I have one of these for 1800s Inver as well! Luckily I only had to do the habitats once since they didn't change much over the years.

Hopefully that helps?? Basically: if you're lazy and need to generate ideas and data on the go, pick discord. If you want to be more specific, make a spreadsheet or 6.

[wonderful-magician]

hii !! could you please tell us more about Benny the baggage van? :D

Sorry for the wait I wanted to draw a Benny to match

(⁠人⁠*⁠´⁠∀⁠｀⁠)⁠｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+

Ok so Benny is a rather simple guy. He's a baggage van- a coach. And if he's ever been insulted directly he probably wasn't even paying enough attention to notice. Benny is.. really sleepy all the time. He looks exhausted 24/7. But he always somehow manages to work like he's wide awake. Sometimes the other coaches are just convinced he's sleepwalking..

He generally gets along with the other coaches, but is always cautious. He's been moved around to many yards- and has had some troublesome encounters with overconfident and judgemental coaches. And just keeps himself limited. Though honestly he doesn't even really talk to the people he actually likes. He's quiet, polite, and respectful. Though he is a bit judgy on the inside, though I think everybody would judge a random electric engine giving you all their bags ( why do they even have bags!?!? )

Benny is also dating bailey the circus engine!! My friend @peripalz 's OC !! :D

Benny isn't very showy with affection but occasionally tries to open an umbrella for them. As it's just a thing Benny likes to do for people he likes. But he's too short...

Random details. He doesn't like most engines. Steam, diesel, electric, ect. As he's usually used like the guy that carries your stuff. And while he's dressed like a bellhop!!! He's not getting paid for this man!!!1!!1 >:(

Oh also he doesn't like dirty freight trucks... He works very hard on staying clean. He likes clean.

[scotianostra]

Tom Johnston, one of Scotland’s best known Secretaries of State, was born on November 2nd 1881.

Now and again I bend the rules and cover a politician in my posts, Tom Johnston is such a case, a remarkable man who lived to see the Highlands transformed, bringing electricity to regions who had, until then had very little or none in the years up to Woerld War Two,

Johnston was the son of David Johnston, a grocer, and his wife, Mary Blackwood, he was born in Kirkintilloch in and educated at Lairdsland Public School then at Lenzie Academy.

Tom then entered the University Glasgow where he became interested in politics and stood successfully for a local election in 1903 representing the Independent Labour Party.

In 1906, thanks to inheriting a printing press from a relative, he was able to set up The Forward, a radical weekly paper that reflected his Fabianism and teetotalism. He remained editor until 1933. It was in the early days of running the paper that he matriculated at the University as a mature student aged twenty-three.

In 1907 he continued his education and took a class in Moral Philosophy and gave his address as the Student Settlement, a pioneering student association interested in social improvement. The following year he enrolled for Economics, but he left without graduating.

He married Margaret F. Cochrane in 1914 and they were married for over 50 years, they had two children.

During the The First World War he advocated peace and attacked war profiteers. After the war he stood for parliament, and in 1922 won West Stirlingshire for Labour. The period of his greatest achievement was during the Second World War. Churchill appointed him as secretary of state for Scotland in 1941. He worked with colleagues of all parties to galvanise the Scottish economy on a war footing.

It was Tom Johnston who was instrumental in creating the North of Scotland Hydro- Electric Board, his greatest achievement, handling rural Scotland's resistance and hesitation towards the project intelligently. Until the 1940s, many rural areas of Scotland outwith the Central Belt had little or no electricity supply. There were coal-fired steam-turbine and some diesel-driven power stations serving urban locations.

In the three decades following the Second World War, the Hydro Board's teams of planners, engineers, architects and labourers succeeded in creating an epic succession of electricity generation and distribution schemes that were world-renowned not only for successfully achieving their technical aims in very demanding terrain but for often doing so in an aesthetically inspiring manner. The economic and social benefits thus brought to all the people of Scotland, and especially those in rural areas, were immense and long-lasting

In 1920 he published the History of the Working Classes in Scotland and from 1950 to 1952 he served as President of the Scottish History Society.

The University of Glasgow conferred the degree of Honorary LLD in 1945. In 1948 he was awarded the Freedom of the City of Aberdeen. He was also Chancellor of Aberdeen University from 1951 until his death.

Thomas Johnston died on 5th September 1965 in Milgavie.

[babygirltangerine]

i often think about how the environment plays such a big role in the storytelling of the bullet train movie while also shaping the story itself, and all of the characters have such a unique way of interacting with their surroundings, with their belongings, and with objects in general. i'm also interested in the meanings they ascribe to these objects, so of course i have to make a post about it.

for the wolf, objects remind him of where he's been, what he's been through and what he's accomplished: we see his identity tied to the wolf pendant he'd been given as a boy, and he takes clothing articles from the people he kills (like the sunglasses, shoes, and hat) as he rises through the ranks of el saguaro's organization. it's also very meaningful that he wears his wedding suit to the train (and part of that is a belt that says mexico on it).

objects for tangerine signify who he wants to be - a lot of his identity management is wrapped up in portraying himself as polished, as wealthy, and as in control, and again, clothing and jewelry is a big part of this. also important to mention is his kleptomania and his compulsive need to accumulate as much as possible (which i interpret as a symptom of his growing up in poverty) and this is just one way the story clarifies that his image is an expression of desire and a crafted self rather than an authentic one. tangerine is constantly grappling for control and objects play a large part in establishing this theme, but objects are mostly in control of him, not the other way around.

objects for ladybug are tied to survival, not only for himself but for those around him. they're distractions and decoys, they buy time and disarm his opponents in intentionally non-lethal ways. he doesn't like guns. he doesn't like to kill, and he is incredibly resourceful in his pursuit of nonviolence. ladybug is in a constant state of damage control and the objects he chooses to discard or keep in his possession give him some sense of control over his bad luck.

objects for lemon provide a means of communication and a lens for understanding the world and the people around him. the sticker book objectifies the role thomas the tank engine plays in his life, and acts not only a reference for him to categorize personalities but also as a way to express his beliefs to those around him. percy sticker, diesel sticker, thomas sticker. i also like that objects for lemon tend to have protective qualities - the bulletproof vest saved him from the gunshots and tangerine's medallion saved him from drowning. when i rewatch the movie, i appreciate how this makes me feel like he's never in any real danger despite the massive target on his back as a black man ("i don't bleed").

objects for prince provide a way to get what she wants. she uses weapons - taser, rigged gun, explosives in the briefcase - and disguises to achieve her goals. she uses objects to manipulate people and paint a picture of herself as innocent and harmless. at the same time objects reveal her true nature, such as the shibumi novel she reads and the dangerous scissors-inspired hair clip. the hornet uses objects similarly. for her it's also all about stealth and weapons and disguises.

objects for shigeru relate to his past, the knowledge he's gained from it, his goals and his beliefs. thinking of the cane with the sword inside, how he fights with both, and the flowers - how he went into hiding and became a florist. we see him with flowers at various stages in his goal to get revenge on the white death (in the hospital room with wataru, as he boards the train, and when the white death has finally been defeated). when i think of shigeru and flowers, i also think of his trust in fate, the natural world and the forces of the universe.

for the white death, objects signify beginnings and endings. i associate the white death with his mask (again, identity management, the mask signals the birth of a new criminal empire and the emergence of its new leader) as well as the car he was meant to be in, and his robe and slippers. the beginning of his reign and the end of it, how objects symbolize his rise to power and the consequences he's now facing.

the importance of objects in the story can also be seen through the prominence of the briefcase, the water bottle, the rigged gun, the wolf's knife, and the tangerine and lemon truck, all of which serve a narrative purpose and have a presence in the story from the beginning to the end.

[branzinos]

theres an insane Sovereign Citizen in my street who has got caught stealing electricity and the electric company and police came and cut him off two days ago and he's been posting youtube videos about how he's being criminalised under some grand conspiracy because it's his inaliable right to have electricity without needing to pay for it, and not be prosecuted for it because the police are, he says, a limited company not a legal entity with powers over him, a man of the people and not a capital c Citizen under the law, and the conspiracy also includes his neighbours that are all mad at him for now running a 96db diesel generator in his back yard 24/7 to inexplicably run his a/c and hot tub and such in 14C weather, because obviously the neighbours are calling in noise complaints that are getting the police and council contacting him more, and he's like threatening anyone who tries to stop him and claims to have a friend who is an "ex government assassin" and threatening either murder or suicide if anyone tells him to turn off the generator. i wish i could post his absolutely insane videos hes been posting about it every day but he doxes himself and obv living on the same street that would dox me too but omg. tea

[greatwesternway]

Favorite non-engine exhibit at the IRM?

I'mma give you a runner-up too because I'm not sure most people know about it.

Inside some of the cars in Display Yard 5, there is the Railroad China Collection and other assorted ephemera.

There's a number of things in there actually, but they've got a large collection of servingware used on various trains and the first time we were there, we were given a very personalized tour from a guy named Ken. Ken was quite opinionated (and correct) about how train stuff should be displayed and explained to normal people. Suffice to say, he understands the value of the story. We're hoping to see Ken again sometime.

Obviously I'm very about the fluting on the Zephyr servingware (you know we love a cohesive theme), but the Santa Fe dishes are also quite cool and have a great design history to go along with them.

My favorite non-engine exhibit though is the Winton 201 prototype engine.

This is tucked in the back of Barn 9 and is particularly interesting because this is the prototype engine for the one used in the Pioneer Zephyr. Indeed, this one could have been placed in Pioneer if the guys at Winton didn't have the good sense to say no.

This engine (along with a matching twin) was displayed at the Century of Progress in 1933, where Ralph Budd saw them and promptly asked the Winton guys to sell them to him right out of the display.

They declined, for two reasons. 1. These two engines were currently prototypes and being stress tested at that very moment in their display. And 2., the display they were being tested on was powering the General Motors building. So they kinda needed to keep them around for the moment.

Budd settled for waiting for the non-prototype version and a year later, the Pioneer Zephyr and his new Winton engine joined these guys at the Century of Progress for the 1934 season.

So this is a very important piece of Zephyr history.

But the thing that really makes it my favorite non-engine exhibit at the IRM is that it's probably the best example of them getting a little... editorial with their signage.

HOW DID THIS PROTOTYPE END UP AT THE IRM?

Late in 1987, IRM got a call from the GM Warehouse manager in Willow Run, Michigan. This facility stored all of GM's experimental, prototype, and test models. The person at GM indicated he was planning to retire, and his superiors asked him to find appropriate homes for some of GM's stored treasures before he left. Somehow, he had heard of the IRM and wanted to know if we were interested in a steam car? IRM was intrigued and ask for a picture. It turned out to be a 1969 Pontiac with an experimental steam generator under its big hood. IRM said thanks, but it didn't meet our Museum's mission, which embraces steam, electric and diesel railroad equipment. The man never heard past "electric", and he offered us an electric car. Thinking this might be something more aligned with what we do, we asked for a picture. This one turned out to be another late 60's auto with batteries packed under the hood - their first electric hybrid. Again, IRM politely declined, and reiterated the actual scope of our collection. This time he heard "diesel", and offered us an old engine they had sitting around. We said, "YES, we'd love to have it." It was shipped shortly thereafter and arrived in early 1988. It was promptly put on display on the skid it arrived on.

This was truly the diesel that started it all for EMD. That it exists at all, is astounding, and a significant historical treasure hidden in plain view. (the second prototype has never turned up and is apparently lost to history.)

Very "per my last email".