#Small Drones Market Companies

[amrutmnm]

The Small Drones Market is projected to grow from USD 5.8 Billion in 2023 to USD 10.4 Billion by 2030, at a CAGR of 8.6% from 2023 to 2030.

Small Unmanned Aerial Vehicles (SUAVs), also known as small drones, are aerial vehicles controlled remotely, playing pivotal roles in both the defense and commercial domains. In the commercial sector, they find applications in monitoring, surveying, mapping, aerial remote sensing, precision agriculture, and even product delivery. Similarly, they serve essential functions in the military realm, including military operations and border surveillance.

SUAVs have been adopted by various industries, including oil & gas, railways, power plants, and construction. The utilization of small drones for innovative purposes, such as cargo delivery in both commercial and defense sectors, is anticipated to be a driving force behind global Small Drones Industry growth. Notably, in the defense sector, small drones are increasingly supplanting manned aircraft due to their ability to be remotely operated by human operators or autonomously controlled by onboard computer systems. Consequently, the small drone market has experienced remarkable expansion over the past decade, primarily attributed to the heightened deployment of small drones in military applications.

[aerospace-and-defence]

The Small Drones Market is projected to grow from USD 5.8 Billion in 2023 to USD 10.4 Billion by 2030, at a CAGR of 8.6% from 2023 to 2030.

Small Unmanned Aerial Vehicles (SUAVs), also known as small drones, are aerial vehicles controlled remotely, playing pivotal roles in both the defense and commercial domains. In the commercial sector, they find applications in monitoring, surveying, mapping, aerial remote sensing, precision agriculture, and even product delivery. Similarly, they serve essential functions in the military realm, including military operations and border surveillance.

SUAVs have been adopted by various industries, including oil & gas, railways, power plants, and construction. The utilization of small drones for innovative purposes, such as cargo delivery in both commercial and defense sectors, is anticipated to be a driving force behind global Small Drones Industry growth. Notably, in the defense sector, small drones are increasingly supplanting manned aircraft due to their ability to be remotely operated by human operators or autonomously controlled by onboard computer systems. Consequently, the small drone market has experienced remarkable expansion over the past decade, primarily attributed to the heightened deployment of small drones in military applications.

[afeelgoodblog]

The Best News of Last Month - August 2024

1.Negative Power Prices Hit Europe as Renewable Energy Floods the Grid

European power markets are experiencing a notable shift as renewable energy sources, particularly wind and solar, become a larger part of the energy mix. On Wednesday, power prices in several European markets, including Germany, dipped below zero due to a surge in green electricity production.

2. Taiwan introduces ban on performances by captive wild animals

Live performances by wild animals held in captivity, including performances by dolphins, tigers, and other non-domesticated mammals, will no longer be permitted in Taiwan under new Ministry of Agriculture (MOA) regulations.

3. FTC bans fake online reviews, inflated social media influence; rule takes effect in October

The FTC voted unanimously to ban marketers from using fake reviews, such as those generated with AI technology, and other misleading advertising practices.

The ban also forbids marketers from exaggerating their own influence by, for example, paying for bots to inflate their follower count.

4. Chinese drones will fly trash out of Everest slopes

Come autumn, Nepal will deploy heavy lifter drones to transport garbage from the 6,812-metre tall Ama Dablam, south of Everest. This will be the first commercial work an unmanned aerial vehicle does in Nepal’s high-altitude zone.

The heavy lifter from China’s biggest drone maker, Da Jiang Innovations (DJI), will take on tasks traditionally handled by Sherpas. Officials believe it will help reduce casualties on Everest.

5. Swiss scientists have found a way to use the whole cocoa fruit to make chocolate and not just taking beans and discarding the rest.

Kim Mishra (L) and Anian Schreiber (R) cooperated on the new chocolate making process

Food scientists in Switzerland have come up with a way to make chocolate using the entire cocoa fruit rather than just the beans - and without using sugar.

The chocolate, developed at Zurich’s prestigious Federal Institute of Technology by scientist Kim Mishra and his team includes the cocoa fruit pulp, the juice, and the husk, or endocarp.

6. Six-year-old boy found in Vietnam forest after five days

A six-year-old boy who was missing for five days has been found deep in a forest in Vietnam. Dang Tien Lam, who lives in the northwestern Yen Bai province, was playing in a stream with his nine siblings on 17 August when he wandered into the hills and got lost, local reports said.

He was found on Wednesday by local farmers who heard a child's cry while they were clearing a cinnamon field close to the forest.

7. Lego plans to make half the plastic in bricks from renewable materials by 2026

Lego plans to make half the plastic in its bricks from renewable or recycled material rather than fossil fuels by 2026, in its latest effort to ensure its toys are more environmentally friendly.

The Danish company last year ditched efforts to make bricks entirely from recycled bottles because of cost and production issues. At the moment, 22% of the material in its colourful bricks is not made from fossil fuels.

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[sparky-is-spiders]

Jonelias Week Day 1 (Which is definitely today I swear), for the prompt "No Powers AU"

This one... maybe got away from me. This is actually only the first half of what I've written so far, and probably the first third overall! I do plan to post this to Ao3 at some point (although I suspect I'll need to do a lengthy round of editing first lmao). It's some very self-indulgent nonsense, which is a lot of what I write, but now it's getting put in the main tags of a ship during said ship's event week. So. It may also be a little bit "aromantic dude tries to figure out what having a crush is supposed to be like." Also a lot of "dude who took Principals of Accounting once pretending it knows what office work is like." Anyway, quick warning before we begin, and the rest will be under the read-more:

Stalking (played for laughs) for most of the fic.

Just. A weird amount of obsession.

Ok that should be it I think. Fic under the cut.

Jon's new boss was, quite possibly, the most boring man in the world. He wore the same outfit every day (pale dress shirt with dark unpatterned tie and gray slacks and matching suit jacket). The only personal effect in his entire office was a potted plant on the windowsill (some sort of succulent, and definitely fake). He always arrived to work exactly half an hour early and left exactly half an hour late. The only hobby he appeared to show any interest in was scheduling, which he seemed to find both deeply engaging and remarkably irritating. In fact, he was apparently so opposed to the idea of mixing his work with his personal life that he might as well not have existed beyond the walls of their office. Jon had never been more fascinated by anyone else in his entire life.

It stared with the transfer to the accounting department. Elias had met with him personally to get him acclimated to his new role. He had been blandly polite, and blandly handsome, and Jon had stopped listening to him about five minutes into their conversation. It was probably bad form, really. The software Elias was droning on and on about sounded like it was about to become a central feature of his days. He really should've been paying attention to it. Instead, he pretended to make eye contact while zeroing in on the top of Bouchard's forehead (a very useful trick, really) and became inordinately focused on the small lock of hair that had fallen across it. It was terribly distracting, and Jon had wondered how he hadn't noticed it. And then he wondered how it had come to be there. And then he had built up an entire story involving a murder, an illicit affair with the assistant director of marketing, and the potted succulent. And then he had noticed Bouchard eying him with what could've been suspicion or amusement or irritation or nothing whatsoever, and had been forced to rapidly pretend to care about their company's bad debt expense policy. Bouchard had indulged him, and had spoken with the calm authority of someone who knew what they were talking about, and had even managed to avoid being overtly condescending (a feat forever out of Jon's reach). At the end he had shaken Jon's hand (with a nice, firm grip), and had told him "I'm looking forward to working with you, I'm sure you'll make a wonderful member of our team." Jon had left that meeting with a mind shrouded in a fog of boredom and a faint sensation of warmth which he decided was best attributed to curiosity and left otherwise unexamined. Over the next few weeks, Jon had tried to subtly inquire into Bouchard's life. At the time, he had been naively under the impression that surely he must have let slip something about his life; some odd quirk or funny story or harmless bit of information which could justify Jon's blooming curiosity. Unfortunately; "He lives in Chelsea, I'm pretty sure?" (Sasha) "He's currently in a meeting. Honestly Jon, you'll be better off just sending an email. Now can I please get back to work?" (Rosie, probably lying about the meeting) "He actually lives here in the office. Set up a cozy little home away from home in one of the storage closets and sneaks out at night to raid the canteen. And he's having an affair with the assistant director of marketing." (Tim, definitely lying (but maybe a mind reader? Also, full of brilliant ideas for places Jon could maybe set up a cot whenever he needs to stay overnight)) Clearly, Jon would have to take matters into his own hands if he wanted answers. That was fine. It could be his own private little research project.

Jon liked to think that the entire thing had actually been quite reasonable, and that he had acted within the bounds of their pre-established relationship as employee and supervisor. Surely any rational person had to realize that nobody could possibly be that uninteresting. Anyone would be curious as to what dark secrets Bouchard his behind his well-tailored suits and polite, professional demeanor. … perhaps most rational persons would not meticulously record the movements, behavior, and daily appearance of their colleague in a discreet notebook (with annotations, color-coding, and graphs where appropriate), but Jon had always prided himself on his dedication to research and understanding. So far Jon had collected frustratingly little data. If Bouchard was hiding anything, it wasn't apparent from his schedule (see pages 8-13, figure 2.b), his eating habits (see page 22), or his lone plant (see page five, figure 1.c). His breaks did seem specially timed to avoid other people (and he appeared not to engage in many social behaviors generally), but he never acted irritated or otherwise unhappy to encounter one of his subordinates, so Jon wasn't entirely sure if it was deliberate avoidance or simple coincidence. Really, the only truly odd thing about him was his inexplicable interest in Jon. That very morning, for example, Bouchard had stopped by his cubicle for a fifteen minute discussion on the upcoming Annual Team Luncheon, an event Jon had never attended before (due to an annual migraine which coincidentally always happened to occur on the exact date of the luncheon), which Jon did not plan to attend, and which honestly sounded like some sort of violation of the Geneva Convention. The topic itself was not especially odd (small talk was an archaic tradition which had stubbornly clung on in every workplace Jon had ever set foot in), but Bouchard's low propensity for inter-office socialization combined with the fact that he had both chosen Jon specifically as his conversational partner was… highly suspicious. Most people who encountered Jon inevitably concluded that he was more effort than he was worth (an attitude Jon mostly appreciated).

And of course, there had also been their interaction two days ago, when Elias had paused briefly to inquire as to whether Jon would be staying late, and what he was working on, and if he might perhaps consider heading home soon because there was only so much overtime they could pay him. Or on Friday, when he had managed to hold two separate conversations with Jon where very little was said. Honestly, Jon somewhat suspected that Elias had spoken to him more in the past few weeks than he had spoken to any of their colleagues for the entire time Jon had been there to observe him. Most of Jon's notes were now dedicated to their interactions. From his cot in the unused storage room (which was indeed a good place to stay overnight, thank you Tim), he could jot down everything he recalled about their interaction; it had begun at 8:32 and had concluded at 8:47; the weather was warm and slightly humid, although the office interior remained at a comfortable 21 °C. Bouchard's shirt had been a nice, cool gray, which complemented the silver of his eyes. Jon (who had been busy digging for his favorite pen (the ink was a lovely deep green color, and it was usually kept on the left side of the top desk drawer, and Jon had no idea where else it could have possibly gone)) had settled on "irritation" as his tone, which Bouchard either had not noticed or had not cared enough to acknowledge. He had easily dominated the conversation, and Jon could admit in the sanctity of his research journal that his voice had been soothing enough to cool away some of Jon's annoyance. He wrote his conclusion: Subject behaved near-identically in tone, posture, body language, and apparent mood as he has in all previous communications. Subject displayed no strong thoughts or opinions on subject of discussion nor conversational partner. Interaction was pleasant but slightly dull, no new information discovered. It was almost exactly the same as every previous conclusion. Jon had to admit, so many months with so little progress was… discouraging. He shifted on the narrow mattress and winced when his movements aggravated his backache (which was surely unrelated to his frequent occupancy of the cot). It was becoming more and more apparent that the only possible solution was to do some actual, direct investigation. His first idea (break into Bouchard's office) seemed a tad far (also, he didn't know how to pick locks). His second idea (follow him home) seemed a stretch further than the previous one, and was perhaps best saved as a last resort. His third idea (something something computers? (perhaps "idea" was a bit generous)) would almost certainly require Sasha, who would have questions Jon couldn't answer. He flipped idly through his notes, half-skimming, half-thinking. It was only when his gaze landed on figure 2.b, Weekly Schedule of E. Bouchard, that he actually came up with something reasonable. Something actionable.

[sgiandubh]

Have nothing against Ashley, but how are things better? Only seen the gin on one bar. Rest are just her cocktail pictures. Where's the sales information, data? Where are cocktails featuring Sassy on their permanent menus? Still unsold bottles at local store here and nothing has been sold out for his small batch whisky. Do not see anything of an impact except nice pictures in bars and her comped trip to the UK. It's too expensive for an unknown brand, period. It's good but not great and nothing special that other more established brands do. The pop up was again directed to OL female fans. It's far too early to see any impact, unless you have P&L documents showing differently, do you?

Dear Nothing Against Anon,

Oh, here we go again: the pseudo-expert fuckwit, coming along with her corporate vocabulary, fake syllogisms and paltry logic, just in order to tearfully drone that sinister 'I hope that prick fails and disappears forever' dirge.

You sound just like those cowardly Fascist types who always start their worst bullshit rants with statements like: 'I am not a racist, but...' (proceeds with all the rest of the Klan's repertoire).

I wouldn't trust your perception of time, either. You want results, you want them NOW and you want them with a rabid vengeance you could surely put to a better use for the profit of more noble collective causes. But you seem to conveniently forget one simple, tiny detail:

She just started working for Great Glen Company's Sassenach Spirits subsidiary last May. For being less than three months in that company, she surely started to make a difference, taking things out of slumber, using her contacts and mapping out what clearly is an expansion strategy. What do you want her to do first? Change everything in 24 hours, preferably with a magic wand? Shouldn't she at least start somewhere and with something, first? She is doing exactly what I was expecting her to do, Anon: terrain work, in order to get a better feel of the market's fabric. And she is doing it the only right way - go where relevant people and relevant potential outlets are, talk to those people, make things happen.

As many, too many people in here, you are just judging based on what you see of her work on her and SS's social media accounts. While doing this, you also seem to conveniently ignore the amount of BTS work it takes - are you, by any chance, one of those incompetent corporate execs, always talking with great confidence about things they have no real grasp upon, Anon?

No, you aren't. Not even that. You are just another random moron, with a smattering of management accounting notions. You write absurd idiocies like '(...) unless you have P&L documents showing differently, do you? ', perhaps in the hope you'd intimidate me, or something. You probably have no idea of the fact that P&L (that is Profit & Loss, by the way) documents are mandatory for public companies only and issued on a quarterly and annual basis. And for your information, doll: a public company is a company using shares of stock in order to organize ownership. It may or may not be listed on a stock exchange, but the intention to have those shares traded is always present.

Until further notice, Great Glen Company is a private company, governed by US law. There is no legal obligation to issue the documents you so confidently mention.

And the pop up shop? Not really for mommies:

Now go play elsewhere. I have no time to further lose with people like you.

[alwaysbethewest]

Kingsman 2 fic: Stay Close to Me

Happy @pedrostories Secret Santa day, y'all 💃 I was thrilled when I received my assignment and saw that I'd be writing for my sweet friend @iamskyereads 😁 Skye, I hope you have a merry Christmas and I hope this little story helps make it bright. (Okay a quick note: generally speaking I don't believe in apologizing for your writing, but I do feel like a small apology is merited here. Halfway through writing this fic I started to panic because I felt like I wasn't really meeting the brief of your prompt 😬 I started wondering if I should start over from scratch but I was already too far into it. I accidentally wrote you... a case fic???? With a smidgen of romance sprinkled in. I'm sorry! Despite my stress over that realization I did have a lot of fun writing this and I hope you will enjoy it anyway!)

Title: Stay Close to Me Pairing: Agent Whiskey (Jack Daniels)/f!Reader Rating: Teen Word Count: 5.3k Content/warnings: Fake/undercover marriage! Statesman casefic! A little romance, kissing, coarse language, very mild peril and hurt/comfort, and a splash of alcohol. Reader is a junior agent and has some muscle but otherwise no physical/age descriptions. As with any good Kingsman fic, my first step was to disregard half of canon, so this is either pre-movie or an AU. Unbetaed but thanks as ever to @fleetwoodmactshirt and @mourningbirds1 for their hand-holding ❤️ Please let me know if you spot any typos/mistakes.

The Statesman offices are housed in a sleek highrise in Midtown, a 40-minute commute from your tiny apartment. To anyone who asks, you work in the marketing department, and you’ve learned enough by now to drone on about synergistic strategies for diversifying market shares to bore anyone listening, but to those in the know, behind passcode-guarded doors, you’re Agent Violette, junior analyst for the private intelligence agency hidden behind the national whiskey brand.

For a secret spy job, your work is actually fairly routine. Most of your time is spent doing research and compiling intel for agents working out in the field. Occasionally your boss sends you into the field yourself—little baby excursions to get your feet wet—and you won’t pretend you haven’t enjoyed the thrill. But your desk job is comfortable, and satisfying, and you’ve got no complaints.

It’s Wednesday, and the only sign something out of the ordinary may be taking place is the note you find on your desk when you clock in. It takes only a little of your codebreaking expertise to interpret:

9:15 AM—mtg w/ Agt. C rm 806

Room 806 is a teleconference room furnished with a small table and a handful of chairs. One seat is occupied when you get there.

Agent Whiskey raises an eyebrow at you from under his cowboy hat. The accessory is so out of place in the urban streets of New York City that when you’d first met him you’d wondered if it was an affectation—a marketing ploy to signal the authenticity of the Kentucky bourbon your company sells on the side. But while you haven’t worked closely with him, you’d quickly learned it seems he’s just… like that.

He slides a folder towards you and you accept it as you take a seat and don your glasses.

“Any idea what this is about?” he asks.

You shake your head. Just as you open your mouth to speak, the comms switch on and Agent Champagne appears across the table before you, via the technological wonder that is your projection spectacles. More high-tech and more secure than Zoom, they’re one of the many things that sets Statesman apart from lesser spy agencies.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Whiskey straighten up slightly in his chair.

“Jack!” Agent Champagne greets him. “How was Munich?”

“All good, sir,” he drawls. “You’ll have the full report this afternoon.”

“Very good,” the older man rumbles. He turns his attention to you. “And Agent, uh—” His eyes shift down to the notes on his desk. “Agent Violette. Good to have you on board.”

You’ve worked at Statesman for three years, but you’re still too low on the org chart to have landed on the director’s radar before this. He says your code name like vie-oh-let instead of the French pronunciation you prefer, but there’s an affability to him that makes it go over easier.

“Thank you, sir.”

“So, California,” he says, diving into the brief. Whiskey opens his file folder and you follow suit. The top page features a short itinerary and a character profile that you quickly learn is a new undercover alias. Violet Davenport. You like the name. She sounds high society. Glancing over to Whiskey’s file, you spot his alias and your brows raise involuntarily.

Johnny Davenport.

Hm.

“Vineyard owner out there is concerned about a potential theft. He’s received some threats and needs a couple of bodies on the ground to sniff out the trouble,” Agent Champagne states.

“Theft of what, exactly?” Agent Whiskey asks.

“Wine. Money. The usual. He’s got his personal wine collection stored on the premises. You know the business—some of those bottles are worth a pretty penny. Mr. Peterson—that’s the client—says he has a list of suspects for you to look at.” Champ waves a hand, looking vaguely unimpressed. “Obviously you’ll have to use your own judgment on whether any of his theories check out.”

“Sir, I don’t understand why I’m being sent on such a simple assignment,” Whiskey says. “No disrespect,” he adds belatedly, glancing at you. You give him your politest go-along-to-get-along smile.

Champ looks like he’s torn between amusement or annoyance at Agent Whiskey’s attitude.

“Same reason for anything, Jack. Politics. This client has close connections in the state government over there. If we can solve this simple problem for him, it may just lead to more prestigious cases. Ones you’ll feel are worthy of your valuable time.”

Jack should look chastened, but he doesn’t. He does stop arguing, though.

“I need a senior agent on the case. And Violet’s supervisor assures me she’s got the research and fieldwork skills to step up on this one. Your cover is a married couple on an anniversary trip, so I’m basically sending you on a paid vacation, here. There’s more information in the files you’ve got.”

Whiskey flips through the pages half-heartedly and gives a curt nod.

“Well!” Agent Champagne slaps his hands on the table decisively. “I now pronounce you husband and wife. Mazel tov!” With that he ends the transmission.

And that’s how you find yourself at the airport Friday morning with a diamond ring on your left hand and a disgruntled cowboy by your side.

The flight lands in San Francisco without incident, and Jack shifts into doting husband mode as you head to pick up the rental car the agency has reserved. He reaches for your suitcase to load it into the trunk.

“Let me get that for you, sweetheart.”

You give him a saccharine-sweet smile. “I’ve got it, hon.”

You lift the heavy bag with ease and watch his mouth purse for a second before he smiles back.

“I guess my baby’s stronger than she looks.”

The bored-looking attendant sees you off and Jack has you punch in the GPS destination while he eases into the busy freeway traffic. He’s a confident, slightly impatient driver, but you see him relax once you’re over the bridge and sailing smoothly north on Interstate 80.

“So what’s our game plan?” he asks as highway signs for Napa begin to appear, and you reach for your notebook and flip it open.

There’s only one bed.

You probably should have done the math on this as soon as Agent Champagne declared you a married couple, but in the whirlwind of arranging to leave town and the anxiety of stepping into your biggest field operation to date, it hadn’t occurred to you to worry about the precise nature of your accommodations.

Jack sets his bags down and flops onto the bed, letting the soles of his cowboy boots dangle off the end. It’s an exaggerated display of exhaustion, but you’re tired too after a seven-hour flight and another two hours in the car. His lanky body takes up the whole length of the bed and you try not to let your eyes linger as you contemplate the sleeping arrangements.

He picks up on your hesitation.

“This is where I’m supposed to do the gentlemanly thing and let you have the bed all to yourself, huh? Sorry, sister, not gonna happen.” His tone softens. “But I promise I don’t bite. There’s no reason we can’t share.”

The only couch in the room is a small, overstuffed loveseat that you can tell at a glance neither of you would enjoy reclining on for long. So you do the mature thing and agree to sleep with him.

Not like that.

Bill Peterson, the agency’s client, is one of those people who claim to be easygoing while in reality they exude nonstop nervous energy.

“I know exactly who it is,” he tells you in a hushed voice. You and Jack are in his office, under the guise of a private tour of the winery. Peterson has been going over what you already know from the file: that he has a high-value collection of wine held on the estate, as well as a hard drive storing what he’ll only describe as “sensitive” material; that he’s received several vague threats recently; and that with the hustle and bustle of harvest season upon them, he’s concerned his regular security won’t be sufficient to stop the would-be thieves.

“Oh?” you say. “Well, that will be very helpful, Mr. Peterson.”

“Okay,” he amends. “Maybe not exactly, but I can give you a list. Of suspects.”

“We’ve seen the list,” Jack tells him. “But what is it that makes you suspect these folks in particular?”

“They’re mostly other winery owners,” Peterson says. “Everyone on that list was present at a party I attended a few months ago where I—let slip some details about my collection. It was only after that the letters started.”

You and Jack exchange a glance. You’re both wondering if “let slip” isn’t code for “bragged loudly.”

“Is there a reason you haven’t gone to the police?” you ask. His eyes narrow.

“I value discretion,” he says tightly. “Anyway—I’m not sure they’d consider the threats actionable.”

“Can we see them?” Jack asks.

“Of course.” He retrieves a small stack from his desk drawer. You and Whiskey put your heads together to pore over them.

They’re all written by one person, in slanted, blocky handwriting.

YOU WILL PAY.

YOU WILL LOSE EVERYTHING.

YOUR EMPIRE WILL CRUMBLE.

WE WILL CRUSH YOU.

“Is there another one?” you check. “There are five envelopes but only four notes.”

Peterson hesitates, then shrugs and shakes his head. He’s lying, but you don’t push it.

“There is one other thing,” he says. “I keep seeing this blue truck—but it’s like he doesn’t want to be spotted. I see it slow down like he’s scoping out the place, but then he speeds off as soon as he sees I’ve noticed. I tried to get the license plate but it was covered in mud.” He scoffs. “We haven’t had any rain in months.”

Jack has him describe the vehicle and where he’s seen it, while you take notes.

“Alright, Mr. Peterson. We’ll be in touch if we have any other questions.”

“Thank you. Oh—here.” He hands you a pair of vouchers for a free wine tasting. “They come with the tour. One thing you should know about Napa—you’ll only really blend in if you’ve got a glass of wine in your hand.”

Jack’s code name is Whiskey for a reason. He’s a spirits man through and through and he doesn’t give the tasting room a second look, ushering you out to get back to your room to regroup. Admittedly, it’s only 10 AM, but you would have enjoyed a few sips of merlot. You’re craning your neck a little to look at the wine list posted by the door—just out of curiosity—when he startles you by taking your hand in his. You look at him. He’s staring ahead, holding your hand like it’s nothing as you walk side by side. Finally, your brain catches up and your nine credits of college acting classes kick in and you plaster a loving smile onto your face, leaning closer.

In the privacy of your little rented cottage, you pull out your notes again to review.

“Peterson is lying about something,” you start. Jack nods distractedly.

“Yeah—listen, before we get into that, I need to ask you. You jumped when I held your hand back there,” he observes.

You feel your face heat with embarrassment. He’s calling you out on your inexperience, the rookie agent who can’t even play-act for a simple assignment. You can do it, you know. Being undercover in the field is just still new to you. He could help you instead of being critical.

“Sorry—”

“It’s my opinion,” he says, with a slight frown, “that a man who doesn’t treat his wife a certain way is no man at all.”

You’re lost, suddenly. “Sorry?”

“What I’m askin’ is, do I have your permission to touch you like you’re my wife when other people are around?”

Oh.

Something about the way he’s worded it makes your stomach do a little flip.

“Oh. Yes. Touch me like…?” You swallow. “Like how, exactly?”

He gives you a steady look.

“Intimately.”

That’s fine. You’re fine with that.

“Right. That’s—” you nod, maybe a little too emphatically. “That’s okay.”

You look down, fingering the pages of your notebook again, trying to refocus on the more analytical side of the job, when another thought occurs to you.

“Are you going to kiss me?” you blurt.

“Shit, Violet, that’s part and parcel of it.”

“It’s Violette,” you tell him with a frown.

“Sorry.”

“Do you even know my real name?”

“Of course I do,” he says. You don’t push it but you also don’t know whether to believe him. He’s shown little interest in working with you this entire week.

Jack takes a step towards you.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he says. “So you don’t jump like a rabbit when I do it in public.”

You take a breath. Suck your bottom lip between your teeth involuntarily.

“Okay,” you tell him.

Your eyes fall shut as he leans in. You feel his fingers steadying your chin, tilting your face to meet his, and then his lips touching your mouth, light, tentative—teasing, your mind prompts, and the thought makes you feel flushed again. When you don’t shy away he presses closer and you’re not sure which of you is to blame when your lips part and his tongue brushes yours.

You were expecting it, so you don’t jump, but you feel a little trembly when he pulls away. He doesn’t step back right away—instead, his lips hover over your skin, mustache coarse against your soft cheek, as he tucks his mouth by your ear and quietly, intimately, says your name.

“So you think Peterson is lying,” he says, picking up the thread from before.

“Um,” you say, forcing your brain to switch back to work mode. Your whole body feels warm. “Yes. Don’t you think he seemed shady?”

Jack shrugs. “Call me jaded, I think most people are shady. But I agree with you. He lied about the missing letter. I fuckin’ hate when clients do that. What do you think about the blue truck he saw?”

“I think that could be something.”

You open your laptop and with a few keystrokes you’ve used a Statesman backdoor into the DMV system, where you enter the make, model, and color of the vehicle Peterson had described. There are no matching hits within Napa County, so you expand the search. It’s an unpopular color, so there are only a few dozen matches in the state. None of the owners’ names are on the list of suspects you’ve been given.

“He said he hasn’t seen it around town, only driving by his property. And we don’t know who owns it. So how do we find the car?” you wonder.

Jack is silent for a minute. You watch as a slow smile spreads across his face.

“I have an idea.”

This case originated at Statesman’s Kentucky headquarters, so Agent Ginger Ale is your tech liaison. It’s clear from their dynamic that she and Agent Whiskey have worked together before. Having her voice in your ear is a source of comfort as you carry out Jack’s great idea—which you’re not 100% sure you’re on board with.

“Don’t you need some kind of license to operate this?” you ask tentatively.

“Technically, on paper, he has one,” Ginger offers. “Well, Johnny Davenport does, anyway. As of twenty minutes ago.”

“It’s a balloon and a basket, how complicated could it be,” Jack grouses. This doesn’t exactly raise your confidence.

“Just don’t crash this one, Jack,” she pleads.

“This one?!”

He shakes his head. “You have one helicopter fail on you and they never let you live it down. Don’t listen to Ginger.”

To his credit, Jack pilots the hot air balloon much more smoothly than you’d expected, and after some time you feel yourself relaxing and enjoying the view. It’s early October and the landscape is a mix of green and brown from the last of the summer heat. Tidy rows of grape vines are bordered by houses and larger wineries, copses of trees, and fields dotted with grazing cows. Tiny workers move methodically among the vines, busy harvesting fruit to be pressed and fermented. Through it all, highways and winding roads run alongside the properties, and this is where you refocus your attention.

Ginger has programmed your binoculars to register any vehicles matching the description of the blue truck you’re seeking. You train the lenses on the backroads and driveways, looking for private hiding places it could be stashed.

The whole endeavor feels like a long shot, and you’re just on the verge of suggesting you give up and head back to base when the binocs let out a high-pitched beep of recognition, zooming in on your target.

“Holy shit,” you whisper. “I can’t believe this worked.”

“I told you it would,” Jack says, looking smug. “What is that place?”

Ginger has looked up the coordinates before you have a chance to do it yourself.

“It’s a winery… Double Loop Vineyards. Do you guys know that name?”

You recognize it immediately. The owner is one of the names on Bill Peterson’s list of suspects.

You and Jack exchange a look.

“Guess we’re goin’ wine tasting at Double Loop,” he says, and he turns to start your descent.

The tasting room at Double Loop Vineyards is a large, tastefully decorated space that looks like it was converted from an old barn. It’s all dark wood and ceiling beams, and a bar runs along the back and right side walls. When you and Jack step inside, you’re greeted by a tall young woman with a pixie haircut and striking cheekbones. She’s wearing a name tag that reads Eva.

You settle in front of her at the bar and she pulls out a pair of glasses and pours a splash of white into each to get you started. You take a sip and peruse the small menu on the bartop.

“She’ll have the red flight,” Jack says, “And I’ll just have a glass. Can you recommend me something… full-bodied?”

As he says it he palms your hip suggestively, pulling you to him a little closer. You laugh, mortified but amused despite yourself, and he shoots you a wink.

Eva takes it in stride. “I can offer you a cabernet sauvignon that’s got legs for days.”

“That’ll do me just fine, thank you.”

You’re the only visitors in the tasting room for the moment so you have her undivided attention. She’s skilled at making small talk to keep you charmed and at ease; eventually she asks something more personal.

“So I’m planning to propose to my girlfriend soon,” she tells you. “And I’m trying to figure out how to do it. I’m like crowdsourcing ideas. You two are such a cute couple—can I ask how you got engaged?”

You and Jack exchange a glance and you give him a sweet smile. “You tell it, honey.”

“Well,” he says, keeping his eyes on you for a long moment before he finally looks away to face Eva, “I knew I wanted to marry her, and I had this whole plan in mind. I wanted something special for my Violet so I was going to take her on a trip—my buddy has this little cabin on the most beautiful lake you’ve ever seen—and make her favorite dinner, and sit down with a glass of something nice. And then I was going to present her with this beautiful piece of hand-carved wood that spelled out, Will. You. Marry. Me.”

He pauses to take a sip of his cab while Eva says, “Aww,” and looks at you like, what a sweet partner you have.

“Now the thing is,” he continues, warming up to the story, “as Violet can tell you herself, I have never carved a single thing in my life. And somehow, like a dumbass, I was convinced I could make this plaque and do it perfectly. But it looked just awful. And it was taking me so long trying to get it right I could tell she was starting to wonder if I was stringing her along.”

You shake your head in protest and he laughs. “You were! You’d look at me like, why has this fool not married me yet.”

Eva laughs, too. “So what happened?”

Jack lets out an aggrieved sigh. “What happened was, I caught the flu. Just the most dog-sick, pathetic man, all sweaty with fever and miserable to boot. And Violet never hesitated, she bundled me up and cooked me soup and tolerated my whining and she’d read me to sleep when my eyes couldn’t even focus on the TV. And somewhere in the middle of all that, I thought, I need to hold on to this woman forever, and I asked her right then and there.”

His voice cracks a little on the last sentence and you’re shocked to realize your own eyes are damp with tears. You’re not sure which part, or how much, but something in that story sounded true and it’s left you with a strange sense of heartache. You lift his hand to your mouth and press a kiss across his knuckles, watching his face soften.

“Okay,” Eva says. “So I guess I’ll add ‘get the flu’ to my list of ideas.”

“I don’t recommend it,” Jack tells her, “but I don’t not recommend it.”

As you finish your flight and Eva rings up a couple of bottles you’ve chosen to purchase—you’re not sure if these classify as company expenses, but you enjoyed them enough you’ll pay out of pocket if you must—she asks where else in the wine country you’ve been to so far.

“We spent some time at the winery right next to the place we’re staying—actually, we got to meet the owner there, what was his name, baby?”

You keep your tone casual, but you watch her face as you reply. “Bill Peterson, I think it was?”

Eva’s expression falters, just for a moment, before she recovers and plasters on a polite smile. “They’ve got a great pinot noir over there.”

“Not as good as these,” you tell her, just to see her smile turn genuine.

A tour group walks in just then so you take your leave and step outside into the late afternoon sunshine. When Jack takes your hand this time you let him, and you don’t mind it.

The blue truck is parked out back. You walk along the side of the building, just a pair of happy tourists slightly buzzed on red wine out to take in the view, until you get close enough to make note of the license plate. Back in your own car, you run a search on it and identify the owner: a young man named Lucas Trent. The address on the registration is in Paso Robles, a town 250 miles south of here, but you do some digging and find he’s a vineyard worker at Double Loop.

“So what’s the connection to Peterson?” Jack wonders.

“Look at this.” You point at the screen and he squints. “He’s only been at Double Loop for six months. Before that—”

“He worked for Peterson,” Jack finishes. “So he’s mad about getting fired and wants to get back at his old boss.”

“Maybe,” you say, frowning. “We don’t really know yet. But it’s a theory.”

“It’s a good theory,” he insists.

The two of you sit in silence for a few moments, mulling it over.

“Tell me this, rookie,” he says. “You ever been on a stakeout?”

On your first ever stakeout that evening, you quickly learn a few things:

Stakeouts are cold. Stakeouts are boring. And rental cars are not designed to accommodate them.

You shift uncomfortably for the fifth time in twenty minutes.

“How do we even know he’ll show up tonight?” you ask. In the quiet of the night you keep your voice hushed.

“Call it intuition,” Jack says. You can tell he hates sitting still this long, too, but he’s clearly built up a tolerance for it over the years, because he’s not wriggling around nearly as much as you.

“Can I ask you something?”

He grunts an assent.

“That story about how you proposed—how did you come up with that?”

He pauses.

“I just—made it up,” he says.

“I thought it seemed…” you start. He gives you a sidelong glance. “Never mind. You’re a good improviser.”

After a minute, he says, “I was engaged once. A long time ago.”

“Oh.” You bite your cheek, holding back your questions.

“She died,” he adds. Your heart drops.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Of course,” you say, helplessly.

Never in your life have you been more grateful to see a criminal approaching than when you see the familiar shape of Lucas Trent’s blue truck appear down the road.

“Ha,” Jack says, looking a little less glum. “What’d I tell you. Intuition never fails me.”

You take deep, silent breaths, trying to control your fast-beating heart as you creep behind Jack to follow Lucas inside the building. He’s got a key to Peterson’s winery; he must have stolen it before he left the job, you think. He heads down the hall, past Peterson’s office, and disappears behind a door.

Jack motions for you to wait a moment, listening intently outside the door. You hear nothing but the quiet thump of Lucas’s footsteps, growing fainter until there’s only silence, and finally Jack eases open the door. You’re faced with a short flight of stairs heading down into a cellar. The two of you tiptoe down the stairs.

You nearly bump into Jack at the bottom when he stops dead in his tracks, still hidden in the shadows. Peering around him, you see that Lucas isn’t alone in the room. Bill Peterson is here, too, standing next to a small wooden desk.

“What the fuck do you want?” Bill demands. Lucas stares at him sullenly. “You came here to steal from me, didn’t you? You didn’t think I’d be down here.”

“I just want what’s mine,” the young man growls. “You’re the thief, not me.”

Lucas steps further into the room, toward the back wall. The space is filled with racks of carefully preserved wine bottles—Peterson’s precious collection, you register—and a pile of empty wooden barrels, stacked two high.

“Those bottles are insured,” Peterson calls after him. “You’ll get caught if you try to sell them.”

Lucas says nothing, just continues walking until he reaches the wall. At the back of the cellar, he pushes aside a tapestry to reveal a combination safe embedded in the wall. He glances over his shoulder with a smirk, and punches in the code.

“How the fuck do you know that number?” Peterson roars, finally scared. He rushes past the racks of wine, suddenly worthless compared to whatever is on the flash drive Lucas has just retrieved from the safe. When they start to tussle over it, Jack finally steps in.

“Hey!” he yells, striding into the light. The men look over, startled, and then Peterson looks relieved. He lets go of Lucas, seemingly confident that his hired security will take care of the situation, and retreats to stand next to Jack.

“Get that back from him,” he tells him. Jack gives him a long, unimpressed look, and then turns his focus on Lucas, who’s starting to look slightly panicky now that he’s outnumbered.

“Listen, son. This will all go a lot easier if you just put that back where you found it and walk out of here with me.”

“You don’t understand,” Lucas protests. “He’s stealing from everyone. This is the proof.”

Peterson shifts on his feet, looking guilty. “Bullshit,” he says. “You resent me for being the boss, but I’ve worked for every penny I’ve got.”

Lucas lets out a humorless, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, you work real hard. You must break a sweat making copies of your accounts so you can lie about the numbers. I bet you have blisters on your hands from shortchanging your workers.”

Jack makes a mistake here—he takes his eyes off the suspect to look at Mr. Peterson in a new light, trying to gauge which of them is telling the truth. And in that split second, to your horror, Lucas hurtles forward and shoves the stacked wine barrels, hard, knocking both Jack and Peterson onto the ground.

You make a mistake, too, and he gets on your case about it afterwards. You let Lucas slip past you in your rush to reach Jack’s side. He looks dazed and angry and his legs are trapped under the hundred-pound barrel. Gathering your strength, you lift it off of him and set it upright, then fall to your knees to check him over.

“Jack! Are you alright?” You feel carefully along his legs, then gently at the back of his head, running your fingers over his scalp to check for bumps or bleeding.

“I’m okay,” he mutters. “I didn’t hit my head.” But he winces as you help him up, and he’s moving a little gingerly when he takes a step. “Might’ve tweaked my ankle,” he admits.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Peterson yells. “You let that little shit get away with my property.”

“Let me ask you this, Mr. Peterson,” Jack growls. “Was it true what he said, about the double accounts?”

“I don’t see how that matters,” he insists angrily. “I hired you to do a job, and I expected a lot better.”

“I’ll tell you why it matters,” Jack tells him. “I don’t work for people who lie to me. Consider the contract dissolved. You can get your ‘property’ back on your own.”

“Actually, you got lucky, Mr. Peterson,” you call back over your shoulder as you help Jack walk over to the stairs. “If we had gotten our hands on that drive, we would have been obligated to turn it over to the IRS. Statesman has connections in the government, too, you know.”

And with that, you leave him sputtering and pale, alone with his precious wine.

It’s 3 AM when you get back to the room. Jack’s ankle isn’t broken, just twisted. You’d made him wait in the car while you stopped at a 24-hour convenience store to get ice on the way, so now you get him tucked into bed with his foot elevated and a baggie of ice draped over his ankle. He’s clearly still peeved over how things went down with Peterson, but he also looks amused watching you play nursemaid for him.

“You know, I’ve been hurt a hell of a lot worse than this before,” he tells you. “I can take care of myself.”

You give him an unimpressed look. “Getting badly injured isn’t the brag you think it is,” you counter. “And… you shouldn’t have to take care of it alone. That’s what I’m here for. I know you think I’m just a rookie, but—for this job, we’re partners, right?”

He’s silent for a beat, but then he nods.

Jack is still awake and waiting for you when you return from the bathroom in your pajamas. As you climb into your side of the bed, he says, “I don’t think you’re just a rookie. You did a good job on this case.”

The room is dark but there’s moonlight streaming in through the window, casting a beam of light across his face on the pillow. He’s looking at you. You look back.

“Thank you,” you tell him finally.

“Thanks for the ice,” he returns. He lets out a sigh as his eyes drift shut, and as you follow suit you feel his hand reach out and intertwine with yours.

“G’night, Violet,” he murmurs.

“Goodnight, Johnny.”

He laughs, and you grin in the dark, and you hold on tight.

[fromtenthousandfeet]

What is it gonna take for HYBE to give Jimin the support he deserves? Will it ever even happen? Because I'm tired of feeling so miserable all the time. I even wanna delete all my socials and just find something else in my life to fixate on. I feel terrible for feeling this way because it's like I'm abandoning Jimin (even if I'll still be streaming his music). I'm tired of all of this, it's not good for my mental health at all.

All this corruption and evil simply can't keep winning like this, can it? Are we just supposed to make peace with JK being BTS' "break out star"? Really? I naïvely thought that they'd abandon their sinister plans after seeing how poorly he's been performing in comparison to the crazy amount of push they've been giving him. What the hell is going on at that company?

Anon,

I'm sharing with you this poor quality video of Michael Jackson calling out Tommy Mottola and Sony because it's worth remembering that record labels using and abusing their artists is the rule, not the exception. Not even The King of Pop was immune.

At around 3:20, MJ mentions that he "owes" the label two more songs and then he's a free agent. He says he writes about 120 songs per album, so he'll just pick two songs he's got hanging around and then he's done.

I bring this up because I suspect Jimin might be doing something similar. Having as few solo songs under Big Hit as possible is smart, because he likely won't own the rights to his own music if/when he leaves. The less they own, the better. Writing and recording two albums at once was efficient. Also, by keeping his marketing budget (ads, playlist placement, music videos, etc.) as small as possible, he'll keep more of the album sales and streaming revenue. All those expensive marketing costs are deducted from an artist's earnings, so best to keep them at a minimum if the plan is to make the most money possible. Between the writing credits, lower marketing budget, and the high profile brand ambassador deals Jimin's got, I feel like he's positioning himself to create his own company or label. This is my hope even if I have zero proof.

The way FACE went down really bothered me. I knew the company was behind Jimin's sabotage immediately and it drove me crazy that it took so long for others to catch up. But look at the response to MUSE. Jimin really does have an army of dedicated fans who are calling out the company's (intentional) incompetence 24/7. In reality, it's fun to watch PJMs catch the company and create a stink. It's almost like a game. Don't take it too seriously. Plus, in the long run, who cares about charts? The quality of the music itself is far more important.

Once again I've droned on way too long, but hear me out. I think HYBE/BH is investing so heavily in JK because they have to. BTS isn't going to last forever, and if Jimin leaves, they've lost a huge revenue source. But please trust me when I say they have an uphill battle before them because JK doesn't currently have the artistry or charisma to enthrall the west the way Jimin does. Don't expect them to abandon ship anytime soon, though. And if he does make it big, so be it.

I really wish BTS fans, or at least PJMs, didn't feel so much hate for Min Hee Jin because there's a lot to learn about Bang Si-hyuk and HYBE when you follow the whole ADOR saga. There are some astute NewJeans fans out there who've sized up Bang PD so well and their observations help explain Jimin's treatment by the company. He breaks people down (the idols, staff, and fans) using the "death by a thousand cuts" method. Endless small transgressions and slights, that individually appear like no big deal and are therefore not taken seriously by the media or fans, but collectively are detrimental to careers and one's mental health.

You know what? If Jimin announced he's leaving the music industry after military service, I would say congratulations and thank you for all the amazing music and performances during your BTS and solo career. Have a wonderful life! While I don't think he'll do that, it's worth remembering that none of this is all that serious. Enjoy his music. Take a break from social media, because in the real world nobody cares about this stuff.

Anon, did you make to the end of this long post? Way to use the umlaut on naïvely!

[soon-palestine]

Workers said Project Nimbus is the kind of lucrative contract that neglects ethical guardrails that outspoken members of Google’s workforce have demanded in recent years. “I am very worried that Google has no scruples if they’re going to work with the Israeli government,” said Joshua Marxen, a Google Cloud software engineer who helped to organize the protest. “Google has given us no reason to trust them.” The Tuesday protest represents continuing tension between Google’s workforce and its senior management over how the company’s technology is used. In recent years Google workers have objected to military contracts, challenging Google’s work with U.S. Customs and Border Protection and its role in a defense program building artificial intelligence tools used to refine drone strikes. Workers have alleged that the company has cracked down on information-sharing, siloed controversial projects and enforced a workplace culture that increasingly punishes them for speaking out.

Google did not immediately respond to a request for comment about the Tuesday protest and workers’ concerns over Project Nimbus. The Israeli Finance Ministry announced its contract with Google and Amazon in April 2021 as a project “intended to provide the government, the defense establishment and others with an all-encompassing cloud solution.” Google has largely refused to release details of the contract, the specific capabilities Israel will receive, or how they will be used. In July 2022, the Intercept reported that training documents for Israeli government personnel indicate Google is providing software that the company claims can recognize people, gauge emotional states from facial expressions and track objects in video footage. Google Cloud spokesperson Atle Erlingsson told Wired in September 2022 that the company proudly supports Israel’s government and said critics had misrepresented Project Nimbus. “Our work is not directed at highly sensitive or classified military workloads,” he told Wired. Erlingsson, however, acknowledged that the contract will provide Israel’s military access to Google technology. Former Google worker Ariel Koren, who has long been publicly critical of Project Nimbus, said “it adds insult to injury for Palestinian activists and Palestinians generally” that Google Cloud’s profitability milestone coincides with the 75th anniversary of the Nakba — which refers to the mass displacement and dispossession of Palestinians following creation of the state of Israel in 1948.

In March 2022, The Times reported allegations by Koren — at the time a product marketing manager at Google for Education — that Google had retaliated against her for criticizing the contract, issuing a directive that she move to São Paulo, Brazil, within 17 business days or lose her job. Google told The Times that it investigated the incident and found no evidence of retaliation. When Koren resigned from Google in August 2022 she published a memo explaining reasons for her departure, writing that “Google systematically silences Palestinian, Jewish, Arab and Muslim voices concerned about Google’s complicity in violations of Palestinian human rights.” Koren said Google’s apathy makes her and others believe more vigorous protest actions are justified. “This is a concrete disruption that is sending a clear message to Google: We won’t allow for business as usual, so long as you continue to profit off of a nefarious contract that expands Israeli apartheid.” Mohammad Khatami, a YouTube software engineer based in New York, participated in a small protest of Project Nimbus at a July Amazon Web Services conference in Manhattan. Khatami said major layoffs at Google announced in January pushed him to get more involved in the Alphabet Workers Union, which provides resources to Khatami and other union members in an anti-military working group — though the union has not taken a formal stance on Project Nimbus. “Greed and corporate interests were being put ahead of workers and I think the layoffs just illustrated that for me very clearly,” Khatami said.

[afreakingdork]

Weak Spot - Chapter 8

RotTMNT Donatello x Reader

Warnings: Aged-up Turtles, Romance, Meet Cute, Villain Donatello, Cussing, Crushes, Xenophobia, Fear, Intimidation, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Hurt/Comfort, Love

Synopsis:  When falling in love is the easy part where does the difficulty lie? In a society where we’re defined by our job, it’s those little details as a relationship goes on that ends up setting a course for whether or not a couple can make it in the long run.

You dun know I gotta shout-out @morning-sun-brah for giving me the antiquing idea 💖

Also available on Ao3

First 💜 Previous

You: I need some kinda haunted object for my roommateiversary

Donatello: None of those things are real.

You: Yeah, but I bet you get what I’m talking about?

Donatello: Unfortunately, I somehow do.

You: So I was thinking about hitting some antique stores Saturday since the versary is Monday

Donatello: Considering those type of places close before the sun sets, I believe I can make time in my schedule.

You: Oh? I’m pretty sure I didn’t ask

Donatello: You can go alone then.

You: Wait!

You: Ugh

You: Keep your schedule open!

You:  You insult my sacred traditions and then get all huffy! I should be the one upset!

He left you on read and you smiled to yourself. Leaning back at your new desk, you picked up the container that held your repurposed leftovers for lunch. The last two weeks had condensed a transitionary period in every sense of the phrase. On the work side of things, your company had opted for a complete restructuring of your department. Between the loss of your boss and the poor quarterly report, it made sense. They had essentially dissolved your whole floor and done a musical chairs of shoving people into rolls that were similar, but had shiny new titles. Besides the predictable adjustment period, things settled down. It had given you time to process your feelings and your new boss was so laid back that you had only seen him a handful of times even with the upheaval going on.

With Donatello, it had been a completely different case. The rest of the farmer’s market trip had passed in a lighthearted manner and you had blushed at the way he’d squeezed your hand in a parting. It was such a small thing, but opening the door to those kind of small affections had appeared to release a dam full of pressure within the man. He still had those staunch undertones, but the texts from him that followed held that same airy quality. You only had instinct to go off of, but it felt like you had breached something beyond just lifting the weight off his shoulders. You had a feeling you had unlocked another door amongst many that guarded the inner castle walls of his heart. It was in riding that excited high that you took initiative in rescheduling the ill fated date.

The curse unfortunately prevailed as Donatello had swiftly declined within an vague explanation about a new enterprise. Whatever it was, he projected it would take a couple weeks and all his nights. Before you had even finished reading his text, he’d sent his availability for lunch. Besides booking him for that next day, you teased him over how a date could be a midday affair. He staunchly refused to entertain the notion. For all his quirks, his severity when it came to the ‘official’ act of a date was unmatched. That was, until he approached you with his scientific method.

-

Last Week

Ready for a some tasty thai, you were met instead with an especially starched Donatello. He only appeared to be missing a clipboard as he turned to you and launched into what you would only later realize was an observation. Having not even managed a greeting, you were so blindsided that you missed a large swath of the introduction and only caught on as to what was happening when he posed a question.

“What are my touch limitations?”

It almost seemed rhetorical as he then slipped right back into an endless drone. You followed meekly as you were lead to a table by an extremely confused waitress. As soon as he took his chair, he only addressed her long enough to request his plate before jumping right back into it. You were sure your face was somewhere between awe and dismay. Unable to form an apology, the woman thankfully took it all in stride and wrote his entry down on her pad. She then shared a sympathetic look with you as you simply pointed out what you wanted from the menu. Her pen bobbed along with her head before she disappeared and you tuned back to find Donatello combing through how the experiment would be conducted.

It wasn’t that you were bored, but he had done nothing to prepare you for whatever was happening. His language was far above your pay grade and, though you had been growing rapidly accustomed to his genius, he had never applied it in this way. He usually was more adept at dolling out fascinating tidbits when prodded. This version of him gave no mind to who his target audience was. You wondered on it as you gingerly sipped from a water glass. Surely he would understand if you didn’t retain all this information so you continued to half listen until his tone ramped up. Noting that he was leading up to something, you checked back in just in time.  

“Now, I am still doing minor tweaking, but I believe with these perimeters I can gather the most sufficient data.” He then placed his hand to the table. “First, I will be evaluating and recording each passing desire to touch you.”

Across from him you stopped where you were tracing condensation on your glass.

“Then, if you are so inclined, I would act on these while documenting my reactions.”

“Inclined…?” The word sounded foreign in a way that made you realize it was the first thing you had said all lunch.

“Yes, an offer would be extended and you would decide if it should be executed.”

“Oh…” You injected a downturned quality to your voice to hint at your confusion, but he moved on regardless.

“I believe imposing a maximum time limit to encounters would be advantageous in gathering as accurate of results as possible.” He then pushed up his sleeve to show a strange looking watch on his right wrist. “It’s arbitrary, but a minute should suffice.”

Sitting up, you tried to get a better look at the device, but he plowed forward in a way that allowed his coat to slide back into place.

“This and the following will be done for specific reasons which I will detail in a moment, but each graze must be followed by at least a 5 minute cool down period.”

He immediately dove into an explanation that involved heady psychological rationale followed by several citations of papers done on chemicals released by the brain when psychical contact is maintained. He talked about the scientists as if he knew them personally before casually dropping how he had a new full body monitoring system in place. You absolutely wanted to ask about that, but your food appeared you before you could get a chance. By the time you looked up, he was already describing the lengths he had gone to eliminate variables between polite bites and measured chews.

You could barely get your chopsticks to work.

The most disheartening thing was how many words he had spoken. Even if you narrowed it down to just the time since you had been served, he had said a collective more than the entire time you’d known him. In a small way you were pleased, he was obviously entirely invested and excited by this project. In another, you it felt like an exhaustive construct created to regain control. He’d regained some, but it clearly wasn’t enough. It made you wonder how long it had been since the last time he’d acted against his so-called will. Whatever it was must have been traumatizing for him to go to such lengths. It was as if he thought if he synthesized the sensations down enough, he could bottle them and store them away.

You just managed to grab the first of your glass noodles when he suddenly stopped. Following suit from the strange turn, you found him with a downcast gaze. His expression read little as he with his scientific mode was active, but the way he set his utensils aside spoke to the gravity of whatever was coming.

“I acknowledge that this is entirely selfish on my part.”

Setting your bite down, you watched him closely.

“It’s worse when you consider that you are the cause.” With a flick of his pupils, he seared a gaze into yours that spoke of a deep conscientiousness. “I do not mean this negatively and, for your part, I need you to be aware that you are in full control of this experiment.”

The emotional whip between dialog held your tongue.

“If you recall the second rule; all touches are to only be conducted under your clearance. I recognize that touch is of a reciprocatory nature and thus I even debated initiating second investigation that would have been from your perspective. I dispelled the notion quickly as it doesn’t appear to be something you struggle with. That being said, I felt compelled to consider an amicable trade-off.” He slowed and finally broke that burning eye contact to look off to the side. “You’re going out of your way for me and I would like to honor that.” His gaze swept back. “Therefore, after thorough contemplation, I’ve concluded that I only need a warning of your own needs to then prepare myself. I may still decline, but based on my experience and what you’ve said, that should be agreeable.”

Stunned in at least a dozen ways, you simply nodded in agreement and he resumed his talk by dipping into methodology. You picked at your food as he debated how to analyze the data and you got a to-go box while he mused about what conclusions he might pull. Exiting the restaurant and still wondering where all the time had gone, Donatello trailed off. You looked up with what you were sure was a helpless expression and heard him say something about an eyelash. Still trying to process information from at least 18 sentences ago, you tilted your head curiously.

His expression softened and he reached out to brush your cheek. Your brain shut down as he seemed to catch something with the tip of his finger and then trace along your bone structure until he skirted your jaw. As if activating a switch, your mouth fell open and the corner of his lip quirked into that near smile. Skin scorched from the line he had drawn, you felt as though your mind was treading water.

“I can assure you that the practice will not be as daunting as the explanation.” His hand retreated and he tucked it back into his person. “Take care getting back to work and I will text you.” With a civil nod, he then departed.

-

Present Day

Trickling out of the memory, you still scarcely recalled how you’d made it back that day. What you clearly remembered were highlights of the next three meetings. In a tight reel you watched all the times Donatello had peppered in small grazes. He’d been especially keen on touching your hands. True to his parting words, the experimental part of the exchange wasn’t something you saw. Surely he was logging a thousand things in his mind, but he did so without giving anything away on how it made him feel. You could only guess it had something to do with impartiality.

It left you, on the other hand, all the more flustered and completely unable to ask for any form reciprocation. It was all so new and exciting that you’d forget yourself. He already paid close attention to you, but now that you were a part of his study, it was as if you were the only thing that mattered. In paired with the little meaningful brushes in a way that sent you straight to Nirvana. Riding the joyous high was something you could have done for years to come save one glaring issue: whatever desire he had once had to kiss you had disappeared.

When you weren’t trying to emotionally recover from the way he’d thumb over your knuckles, you were keenly aware that he was still up to his usual slinky nature. He had no problem popping your personal space bubble at the slightest prodding. You could barely mention how good a meal was without him curling up beside you to see for himself. He’d joined you for a quick errand early this week and when you’d asked about which of a product was best, he’d quickly dropped his chin just shy of your shoulder to see from your perspective. The sudden intrusions of his face close to yours seemed to hold no larger meanings on his part, but for you they were everything. From the time since the experiment started, you felt as though you were barely surviving each encounter without pouncing on him. As excited you were for Saturday, you were just as worried. Though he hadn’t responded, you knew you were both on for the antique mall and it was bound to be a minefield.

You had spent a long time trying to sort out your feelings on the matter. You’d done ample research into touch adverse partners and applied reason every which way you could. What he currently offered sent your heart into a tizzy so it shouldn’t matter, but it did nothing to stop the loud voice in your head that screamed at him to finally seal his lips over yours. Scrubbing your face, you tried to blame it on the fact that you’d almost had a taste. In the same way he had, you needed to get it out of your system. The thought alone shot straight through your being and you cleared your mind along with your desk. Your half eaten lunch meant ravenous hunger later; for now you needed a good spreadsheet to sate yourself.

-

In what the ever growing weight in your chest knew was a cute show, he’d insisted on meeting you outside your apartment. You slipped out the door and tried to commit the memory of him at the foot of your stoop in daylight as a contrast to the soaked through stormy version you currently held.

He greeted you calmly and then backed up to make a show of the cab waiting at the street.

“Picking up where we left off?” You crooned as you skipped the steps down to him.

“Doing so would erase our last few encounters.” He moved towards the vehicle and opened the door for you.

“You’re being chivalrous today.” You chided and went to accept his offer.

He waited until you were passing him to respond by whispering in your ear. “I always am; you’re just too enamored to notice.”

You faltered on your descent into the taxi and scrambled to cover the move by quickly ducking to the far side of the backseat. Resisting the urge to go fetal in public, you opted for curling a fist against your abdomen to trap the dozen butterflies escaped there. Right out the gate he had initiated warfare.

It wasn’t clear he had any idea, but you could feel Donatello watching you.

“Where are we heading first?” You had to get another focal point going as soon as possible.

The cab rocked as he got in and closed the door. It then pulled from the curb in a show that he’d already informed the driver. “After considering the options you sent, I selected the most viable.”

“The second place, right?” The mild distraction acted as a balm for your achy heart.

He tipped his head in a sort of agreement.

“Did you figure out that work hiccup?”

“Negotiations are tedious. You can put forth the most thought into a plan and one greedy individual will spoil it.” The corner of his lips twitched and you realized you were staring at them with far too much intensity.

It had barely been five minutes and you were already losing the battle. “This one’s a long shot, but acquisitions?”

Instead of surprise, he took his time evaluating your guess. “Another facet one could say.” He then turned and gave you a pointed look. “I am my own boss, however.”

The cocky authority there was sure to be a put on, but you found yourself suddenly looking out the cab window. You could feel the artery in your throat pulsing and cursed yourself for falling victim to what was barely a joke. A chant of how you weren’t going to make it started up in the back of your mind and you almost wanted to call the whole meeting off. From where your hands had fallen into your lap, you squeezed them until nails bit into your palms. You needed to ground yourself. You tried to summon a semblance of logic to relieve you of your torment. You didn’t need a kiss to have him. Coming down the barest amount, you opened your lids from where they had screwed them shut.

You were still in the cab.

Donatello was still at your side.

Taking in more facts, you saw a something in the middle seat. Rotating your head just enough to glimpse it, you stared down at Donatello’s upward facing palm. His hand had been casually tossed in the gap while his head was thoroughly pushed toward the cab window. Instead of a verbal ask it was a physical offer. Gingerly lifting your hand, you made the slow trek and skimmed your index finger across one of his pads to make your presence known. He acknowledged it by flexing his fingers and you tucked your hand into the awaiting trap. It came up around yours before giving a reassuring squeeze. The move correlated directly with your ribcage. Your senses were flooded by a single word: comfort.

He had come so far from the thumb tap in the plaza.

As much as it pulled at your heart, you couldn’t help but think of how it all looked. From an outside perspective, you probably seemed upset or even ill. His staring made all the more sense. He’d put his faith into you to explain your situation if you wished. When you hadn’t, he’d reached out while still making sure to give you your distance by not addressing it further. It, paired with the earlier strain, created an odd vortex in the black hole that was now where your heart lay. Trying not to be swallowed whole, you picked up an approximate count of where the seconds were. A minute would soon pass and he’d let go. You’d come to learn just how much could happen in that short amount of time and tried to thin in out to appreciate it further.

Hitting 60 you loosened your hold to pull back. The cage of his fingers held strong and you jarred wondering how far off you’d been in your estimation. When more time passed and you were sure it’d been longer than the agreed amount, you gave his hand a little squeeze to translate the question. He responded with a pressure of his own. Still, his hand held firm.

Instead of the joy that should have held, guilt overwhelmed you. He was breaking his experiment for you. Knowing how much joy the process of it brought him crushed you. He had no idea what ridiculous reason you had for being distraught in the first place. If he knew you wondered if he would even have offered the anchor in the first place. Unsteady, you squeezed his hand with as much force as you could muster. He continued to refuse to look, but you could tell by the way his shoulders pinched that he was confused. He kept his hold steady all the way until the cabbie announced your destination.

Letting go only when he was forced to, Donatello paid the man and exited the taxi. He then waited with a breadth outside the door.  You slipped out and felt the way he waited for you to initiate the excursion. Finding distraction in the task at hand, you tightened your shoulders before relaxing them as a means to release the tension. Bouncing back, you look at your companion with a tepid determination. “Let’s find something that will totally freak her out. I’m talking something that will give her nightmares if she happens to look at it in the middle of the night!”

His gaze seemed dull for a moment and then a softness came to his stoic features. “You make bizarre connections.”

“It’s supposed to make life more interesting, right? Instead, there this normalcy that I can’t seem to outrun.” You bobbed slightly as you started the trek to the store front just down the sidewalk.

He made a sound that said he understood and fell beside you. You thought he might reach out again, but when he didn’t, you reminded yourself that he probably long filled his overall quota. It made a sad sense that had you picking up speed to get to the door before him. You slotted the handle and opened it with a feigned bow to cover your downtrodden mood.

He played into it by refusing to regard you as if he were a king and you a servant. Amused and distracted by the action, you followed behind him.

He stopped almost immediately as he was clearly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of items packed into the single building. “We would cover more ground if we split up.”

“That’s true…” You held out the sentence as you marched straight towards the far left corner.

You could feel him trailing reluctantly.

“…Or we can make fun of this old stuff together?” You pointed at a sign where a ghostly man returned the gesture while touting his advertised beverage was good at any temperature.

Donatello reviewed the object with a bare grimace. “I refuse to believe that hot soda could have ever been refreshing.”

“Dark times.” You played along and moved along the display.

Donatello hovered close at first before catching on. He then made a show of pointing out a few withered objects of his own along with giving explanations of things you’d never seen before. Before you knew it, the two of you were going back and forth over which object would illicit the most fear. Around the halfway point you had a good showing between a doll with mismatched rolling eyes, a ceramic dog that seemed half melted, and a chick shaped egg timer with an especially foreboding stare. Donatello was in the middle of explaining an old plow part when you rounded a partition.

You caught eyes with something and stopped dead in your tracks. Behind you Donatello caught wind before slotting himself at your side. His chin hovered just above your shoulder in an attempt to see what had captivated you. You felt his lips move with a taunt before he caught it too.

Across from you both sat the oddest little astronaut man.

Bewitched, you walked out from Donatello’s hover. The little figure was nearly a foot tall and shaped with snowman type ovals. His suit plumped out around him and there was a display panel with a grey screen on his chest. His face was twisted up in a sort of horror and his little blue eyes were painted as if we were staring straight up. Part of the helmet carved into his cheeks and on his head sat an opaque metallic visor that shined in a rainbow of colors from the lights overhead.

“This is terrible…” You murmured with an odd glee. 

At some point, Donatello had joined you and was staring at the figure with kinked brow.

“This is it. This is definitely it.” Coming in close to the shelf it was on put you at eye level with the figure’s boots.

Donatello’s arm extended past you and lifted a little tag. “It’s 10 dollars.”

“A steal.” You quickly responded, already imaging the horror in your roommate’s face. You could feel his eye turn on you to evaluate the strange aura you were putting off. With no time to decipher it, you reached up to touch what was rapidly becoming relic in your mind and stopped short as you reviewed the blank display. “What do you think this was?”

“Let’s see.” From where he was catty-cornered against your left side, his arm came up again. This time its twin joined from the other side and you were finally broken free from the astronaut’s curse. Now ensnared by Donatello’s body, you took quick note of how no part of him actually touched you. He lifted the figure off the shelf and brought it down near your chest. He then rotated it to look underneath the astronaut’s boots and found a screwed panel there. “Hold this for a moment.”

You reached up dumbly and the figure was relinquished into your care. One of Donatello’s arms retracted and you listened as his coat rustled with movement. The length of it brushed your leg and you had to remind yourself it was an accident.

“Steady.” He spoke clearly, his head slotting beside yours. One of his arms then ducked down to hold the bottom of the astronaut while the other came up with a tiny screen driver.

You blood pressure was steadily climbing. “Where’d you get that?”

“I use it to tune my glasses.” He responded as if it were a simply fact of the world and managed to remove a screw. The hand underneath came up to pinch the tiny thing and he then addressed the second one.

“You never did explain those…” You had no idea what you were even remembering at this point.

“That’s true.” The phrase seemed absentminded as the other screw came loose. He then picked the latch and exposed a battery pack. “There’s no corrosion; that’s a good sign.”

He gave an interested hum and replaced the cover without putting the screws back in. He then pressed a finger to the figure in a way of having you turn it over. You got about halfway before he created a counter pressure to stop you.

“There’s a seam; we’ll have to wedge it open to see what’s inside.”

The part of your brain that had the worried response about breaking open an antique disintegrated as Donnie turned his head inward by a small degree. It meant his breath was just barely cascading across your cheek and the kissing urge not only resurfaced, it took hold of your mind.

“Hold it tight.”

You must have done what you were told because he was transfixed by whatever he was doing. You could scarcely hear the sound of the screwdriver against the odd material of the astronaut, but it was a white noise compared to your companion. Twisting incrementally from where he’d caged you, you stared openly at Donatello’s profile. He was focused on his work and didn’t seem to notice you’d been hypnotized for the second time that day. You traced the mask and caught the faint branching of a scar that seemed to extend out from where his ear would be.

Why had you never noticed that before?

Warning signals went off and you ignored them in favor of examining his eyes. You had done so a many number of times, but he always distracted the process with a litany of other micromovements. With his attention elsewhere, there were no such hindrances and studied how his lids moved. His brow came down in a lovely way as he worked and you could see the faintest shake of the digital display in his lenses. His snout shaped down to his lips which had the barest wrinkle of concentration. Your heart buoyed under a wave, dipping down and then shooting right back to the surface. His skin had a captivating hue to it and the texture of which seemed similar to his hand. Though his features were sharp, the plump of his cheek rippled as something gave him difficulty. You were moving before you could register what was happening.

It felt like your vision blurred and it did as you pressed your lips near the middle of his jaw bone. The action itself was chaste and rapid; it felt like a lightning strike as you tried to snap right back to where you had once been as if you hadn’t violated a very clear contract.

The reaction was immediate.

Donatello stopped what he was doing and his eyes widened before he caught the move by the throat. He then slowly rounded on you and you watched the synthetic veneer fall in place as he did. It was all encompassing and even if your usual observation skills were available, you knew there was no way you could have deciphered anything there. “What are you doing?”

It would be so easy to say ‘nothing.’

It was just two syllables.

You’d have taken anything, but your brain had sputtered to a halt.

“Y/N.” He pressed.

You could count the amount of times he had said your name on a single hand.

What a useless fact to remember during all this.

“Hey.” There was a scolding quality to his voice and for whatever hellish reason, he leaned in closer.

“I-”

“You?” His narrowed gaze said he was mad.

Of course he was.

It made complete sense.

You had basically stolen from him.

He also looked impossibly pretty.

You were leaning forward again and your whole body surged to give into the motion. You lips hit the corner of his mouth and your momentum pushed you up to properly seal his. You could acutely feel every single muscle underneath you as a frown formed there. A knife was plunged directly into the black hole in your chest and it somehow had the ability to pierce it. The gravity there further collapsed in on itself. It hadn’t been long enough to know if it this would be enough dash your desires, but you were sure you’d never try again. Crippled by defeat, you completed the pucker and began the reel yourself in from the catch.

A loud clatter sounded.

The noise couldn’t penetrate the darkness swallowing you up, but a flash of wet heat and pressure skidded the edges of your mind. You tipped backwards and felt the line snap taunt. Donatello shifted and you realized his lips were still against yours. Taking your turn at being unresponsive, he adjusted his hold on you and renewed the gesture for a second time. You attempted to return it in a pathetic showing and he squeezed all the more. Another thought clicked.

He was holding you.

It gave you enough strength to push into the kiss. He accepted it with a massage of his lips and from where you had solidified, you were rapidly shifting to a gelatinous. He broke free long enough to kiss you from another angle and this time you were able to meet him with a closer form to what would have been your usual zeal. Forgetting the signals, your hands disappeared into his coat and you flattened your palms into his sides. You could feel the edge of his shell and hooked your fingers into the first wedge point. Scalded, he adding another layer of fervor which you were finally able to drink in. His arms moved from a crushing hold to cradling the back of your neck as he made the position more comfortable. You stepped in, desperate for just a little more contact when your foot hit something. It made a noise and was enough to surface him specifically.

He pulled away and you felt like putty in his hands. He glanced down and you became keenly aware that you were panting due to lack of oxygen. Still feeling the weight on your lips, you licked them and watched his darkened gaze snap back to you. His face then twitched before the look disappeared.

“Y/N.”

You wanted to apologize, but nothing came out of your mouth past the last vestiges of haggard breaths.

“I’m not sure how you’ll take this.”

The collapsing sensation reared its head from where it lie in wait.

“The figure is broken.”

It seemed abated and you wondered for a moment what he meant.

“We dropped it.” One of the fingers curled around your skull tapped into your hair to get your attention.

You blinked rapidly trying to bring yourself up to speed. “We…” A laundry list of memories before the kiss came back and your eyes widened. “Oh crap.”

He nodded and made sure you were stable before releasing you. You immediately sank down into a squat to review the damage. He observed from overhead as the seam he had been slowly jimmying was essentially cracked from its fall. Picking up the two halves, you slowly rose. He made room and leaned in curiously.

“Well if I wasn’t buying it before…”

He reached out and used a finger to pick at the wires within the mostly empty figure. “It appears this was an alarm clock. I can get it operational if you’ll leave it with me.”

“Nah.” You shook your head and waited until he retracted to try to put the pieces together. With  needle thin fractures, the frame didn’t settle right. You were about to show it to Donatello, when caught a curious amount of surprise sitting openly on his face.

“You…” His head ducked down slightly into his neck as suspicion also flooded him. “… don’t want me fix it?”

“No.” You were pretty sure you’d been clear. “You can take a crack and humpty dumptying him? If it doesn’t work I’m just gonna duct tape it and that’ll be part of the charm.”

He carried his wary nature into taking the halves and pressing them together. Something snapped and for a moment both of you seemed prepared for the astronaut to crumble. Instead, something had connected and it now stood as one cohesive element again.

“You got it!” You took it from him where he was still put off and turned it figure over. “Now it kinda looks like something is trying to get out of his suit. Perfect!”

He remained quiet and you used the astronaut to gesture to the register.

“Ready?”

He nodded and surpassed you. Remembering what had just transpired, you held the figure close as you trailed behind. He was waiting by an elderly cashier who thankfully had no idea anything had happened. You paid, got a little satchel to easily carry the astronaut, and headed out onto the street with Donatello leading the entire time. Once you’d made it a few steps from the door, he steered off to the side and you followed. He’d at least given you enough time to prepare for what you assumed would be a hearty scolding.

“You aren’t going to change your mind?”

Looking to the side with a confused squint you turned it towards him to see he still held the mistrust in his shoulders. “About the clock? No, I honestly don’t care about that.” You tried to sweep your own worries away in favor of opening up your expression for him to search.

He did so immediately and scanned you for what felt like a lengthy amount of time. He then leaned back into a version of calm that held confused tinges as if it was something that had never happened before.

You wanted to press, but he seemed shaken enough.

“Alright.” There was a finality of his voice and he took on a perfected posture as a reprimanding teacher would.

You knew you hadn’t gotten off the hook. Shrinking down into yourself, you lowered your gaze in a way that made you feel very much like the student in your imagined scenario.

“How long?”

You didn’t bring your eye up and wondered how rhetorical he meant it. “I’m sorry…”

“How long have you been holding back?”

Eyes widening, you realized he hadn’t taken your apology the way you meant it. Still partially stuck in your imagination, you weren’t sure what he’d meant even though he’d already clarified. “What?”

He waited in silence.

You took a chance to look at him and he appeared even at first glance. As you searched his face there was a disconcerned quality to it that you couldn’t place.

“I don’t…?” You wished you had paid more attention.

He seemed put out and shifted his weight to one hip. “The kiss.”

He said it so casually that you felt the word fan the embers in your cheeks.

“You were possessed.”

The gust picked up so quickly that instead of spreading, it put the fire out completely.

“You’ve also been upset since we met which appears to be related when you account for your reaction when I didn’t immediately respond.”

The char felt like it was hollowing you out and you wished to simply turn to ash.

“I had no warning. How was I supposed to?”

The guilt poisoning you shifted with a sudden grief as you realized there was a chance he’d only kissed back to calm you down. Earlier models of him made that an impossibility, but after he’d broken his own rules to hold your hand in the cab, you weren’t so sure anymore. Your vision grew unsteady as your refusal to blink caused tears to thickly coat your eyes.

“What is going on with you?” He reached out a finger and pressed it to your forehead to get your attention. “Acting withheld, brooding, and I’ve seen that look before. You’re assuming the worst without discussion.”

His voice was thick with disappointment and did nothing to calm you.

“I’m sorry. I can’t-” You choked, finally allowing your lids to close and cutting off the chance at an overflow.

With your sight cut off you felt the way his finger pulled back before pushing into your forehead once again. “What can I do?”

You shook your head and took a tiny step back to get away from his touch.

“I don’t understand.” There was a grit to his voice.

“You don’t-” It was another false start and you winced at it before balling your fists to try again. “I asked for too much and now…”

You weren’t sure what to do.

If only you could give it voice.

“What have you asked for?”

You hadn’t; that was the problem.

“Didn’t we agree?”

“I took too much.” You clarified in a small voice.

“What?” The hoarse quality was one you finally categorized as growing distress. “Is this regarding the kiss?”

You forced out a nod.

“I returned it, did I not?”

“Exactly!” The force of the sound brought your eye up to him.

He met your declaration with utter confusion.

“Like in the cab…?” Your voice grew smaller with each passing word as the expression didn’t leave his face.

He seemed caught on a response until his brow wrinkled. A throaty hum of irritation came out of him and he closed his eyes as if it took great effort. When he brought them open, he made a stern face that barely masked an undercurrent of worry. With a careful show he brought both his hands up to your face. You flicked a wounded gaze from them to him. Slowly as if persuading a wild animal, he tucked his fingers around your neck while each thumb held your jaw. “I implore you to stop whatever is happening and explain why you’re upset.”

The deep ache swelled up until it reached your eyes. Your vision swirled and in it you saw a mix of troubled purple and green. A distant thought reminded you of his umbrella confession. It was enough to make you swallow the tears down in a great show of force. When you returned from the journey, you found him tracing a small circle along your jaw line. “I tried. I tried so hard to get past the kissing thing. I know you… had already moved past it, but I… couldn’t. I struggled and you’re always getting so damn close and teasing me and I like it. I do; it means so much that you would want to, but I wanted to do right by your experiment. It was getting harder and harder and when you purred in my ear before we got in the cab, I thought I was going to explode. Then you broke your rules to comfort me and while getting to hold your hand for so long was great, I felt terrible that I made you do it over something so…. So…”

His thumb stilled. At some point you narrowed in on his chest and couldn’t pull your gaze away.

“But I could distract myself. I’ve been doing a pretty good job of that, but there you were. Always so fucking close, right against me, but never quite there…” From where your features were pulled taunt, they relaxed as an upsetting realization came to you. “Kinda like how you are in general. Just outside my reach and I understand. We’re different and it’s neither of our faults, but still I lost control and-” You grimaced and wished to turn away but his hold was warm. “I pounced on you and, yes, you returned it, but it felt like… maybe it was for the wrong reasons. I don’t want you to do it just because you think you should or you’re trying to… I don’t know! Please me?”

You gave a little sigh. The heft of the weight hadn’t left, but it had been redistributed.

“I think…” As if scanning him for lint, you did a final sweep before allowing your gaze to raise back to him. “That’s everything?”

A stern look was waiting for you.

He was silent until it was near maddening and the only thing that kept you from giving in to the nervous energy was again his hold on your head.

Then he blinked and you realized he hadn’t in a long time. “We lose control in very different ways.”

You might have laughed at that being his first response, but you also weren’t sure how to take it.

“I believe a portion of blame falls on me. I have not been clear in sharing my results and the…” He looked away and the creasing of his lips made it seem like he was swallowing a sort of chuckle. “…evolving nature of the situation.”

You stared at him dully at first and then with growing suspicion. “Do you think this is funny?”

“A little bit, yes.” He allowed the corner of his mouth to turn up. “You continue to stubbornly care for me in a way that subverts my estimations every single time.”

Indignant, you pursed your lips.

The smile grew a little more than you had ever seen it and he dipped down. Using his hold to angle you he pressed a quick kiss into the pucker before retreating to his original position.

“You-” Staring wide, your mouth stepped in to fill the gap where your brain had left off. “Evolving nature?”

“I can’t imagine the sick clinging that some New Yorkers force others to look upon and I don’t believe my ascertains were wrong. I need notice, but I believe this study has revealed something very different from the hypothesis I posed.”

A tepid amusement continue to waft off him as you searched his face in an attempt to recall what exactly that was. “Your… limitations?”

His thumbs squeezed up making your cheeks squish.

“So is that a conclusion or something else?” You didn’t remember enough from your science classes to recall.

“You are an outlier.”

You knew a vague definition of the word, but the way he said it seemed to express it a way you weren’t sure of. “An outlier?”

His levity fell for just a moment. “I realize I never actually got you that book on statistics.” He clicked his tongue. “Two things in one day if we include the analysis of my glasses. I’ll be sure to rectify that.”

“Okay…?”

“Yes, well, it is a data point that significantly differs amongst others in observations.”

You managed a nod through his thumbs.

“I, for now, won’t get into the whys, but essentially, under certain conditions, it may be excluded from a data set.”

“You’re taking me out of the experiment?” The phrase got out of you before its meaning reached your ears. Fear sparked but a quick squeeze from Donatello smothered it.

“The opposite.” He leaned forward but stopped just shy of the point where he would have gone out of focus. “I was going to give it a few more tests to be sure, but I had come to realize the experiment didn’t serve you because of it.”

You had an idea of what he was getting at, but you were afraid to give it voice.

“You’re novel.” He swept his gaze over you in an appreciative way. “Not an error; this would be considered an exciting statistically possibility.”

You squirmed and reached up. He gave you a nod and you gently took hold of his wrists to stabilize yourself.

“I was distracted by the intrigue and did not voice this, but then, I was not alone. That brings me to your portion of the blame. You did not exercise your control over the experiment or voice your needs.”

“Can you blame me?” You mumbled sheepishly.

“Yes. In fact, I am, right now.”

You tried to squeeze his arm, but he seemed unaffected. 

“Need I remind you…” He trailed off and straightened up out of your space in a way that caused you to let go. You thought of voicing your concern, but he continued to move. One of his hands left your neck and you lost track of it as the other slid around to the base of your skull. It’s grip squeezed tight suddenly and your body reacted by seizing into the spasm. His other arm reappeared to clasp your lower back and dip you back further. He then poured himself over you until he crushed his lips into yours. A meek sound squeaked in your throat as you gave in. He deepened the kiss until the point where your spine began to complain and then he pulled back to laud over you. “You’re the one that decides what you’ll offer. Otherwise, I will take until there is nothing left.”

He had a haunting looking in his eyes that glinted with an unfathomable greed and you saw the fringes of his retreat. Even though you had no leverage, he hadn’t captured your arms. You moved them as quickly as you could to catch him and tug him back. He was thrown off just enough that when you mashed your lips against his, you rocked into the movement enough to part them. You then slotted your tongue in the space, swiping it over his bottom to give him the option to break away if necessary. He chose to crush your body to his and when you licked into him, you found his tongue waiting. In a tangle you were both moving, desperately trying to get enough of the other.

He only allowed the intensity to go on for a few more moments before, in a maddening display of control that you were sure was just to show you what he was capable of, he pulled away. In contrast to how you were utterly wrecked, he released you and set himself as if nothing had even occurred. Hunched over in a way you imagined a goblin and with your hair surely messed beyond fixing without a brush, you tried to muster a glare at him but only succeeded in a drunken smile.

He was either immune to it or still gloating because he simply offered you his hand. “Want to go to those other stores?”

You took it and became aware you didn’t know where your purchase was. You found it by your feet and caught the handle of the bag. “Donatello doing something without purpose?”

He gave a mock sigh as if to mourn his past self.

“Yes, by the way.”

In a perfect rotation, he spun around and did a gentle tug to coax you along with him.

“Is that…” Your free hand trailed up to press the tender plump of your lip. “…something we do now?”

“Must you ask it like that?”

“I’m just trying to set my expectations.”

“It is available, yes.” He gave a huff.

“But not all the time.”

He passed you a narrowed gaze. “Insatiable.”

“No!” You pulled on your connection, but he kept it steadfast. “You said that thing about PDA!”

He seemed unconvinced. “If it can be avoided, I would prefer we do so. Otherwise, I urge you to check with me so I can both be ready and to avoid something like this happening again.”

You nodded thoughtfully and the reality of everything was awash in every inch of your skin.

“Six days.”

“Huh?”

“Our date will be in six days, next Friday. I will finish my business using any means necessary and, if you are available, I’d like to meet at least one more time before then to complete a those last few tests I mentioned.”

“I should check my calendar…” Pretending to think about it, you felt the way Donatello glared at you. “I guess I can make it.”

He was still displeased as he looked ahead. “Pencil me in as you see fit.” Disdain dripped from his words, but you caught something in the wording.

You stopped walking and he seemingly didn’t notice until the tether pulled taunt. “Wait, are you saying…?”

“You’re more excited about this than finally having your date?”

“Not mutually exclusive!” You joked.

He gave you a tug.

“Donnie.”

He didn’t stop, but his speed slowed slightly. “I reserve the right to veto.”

“That one?” You tried to glimpse his face, but he turned it away.

“I have not invoked anything as of yet.”

It was almost too much. The negative feelings from the start of the day no longer seemed real in comparison.

“I am curious about one thing you mentioned earlier.”

“Yeah?” You chirped, trying to resist the urge to swing your conjoined hands.

“You say I’ve been teasing you?”

You blinked. “Yeah…?”

He gave an affirmative noise and you looked up to find you could finally see his face. There was a cocky quality there as if he had been given something he shouldn’t be in possession of.

“Oh.” The syllable popped out of you audible.

“Good to know.” He cast that smug look down on you and ‘wicked’ no longer seemed severe enough to describe him.

NEXT

[pencildragon11]

wrestling with the moral OCD lately

ok so, we generally agree that working for a defense contractor or being a cop is bad

but what about working at a bank, with all their bullshit fees and sometimes predatory loans? What about working for a payment processor that casually grinds sex workers underfoot as "too risky" and "too much hassle"?

Working entry level in the call center might be one thing, but what about getting promoted and working hard and moving up, until you're a loan underwriter? someone who's making the impactful decisions and enforcing the policies and putting the good of the company over the wellbeing of the customer base and the public?

How evil is it to be working for a company whose major customers are in the oil industry, with all we know about how environmentally catastrophic oil drilling is, not to mention the absolutely horrible ways Native water protectors are treated?

Obviously none of these things are on "killing babies with drones" level.

But.

There are so many things to care about. How do you decide what matters?

A lot of people say landlords are evil. Do they mean just corporations buying up homes as investment vehicles? What about a person who rents out a spare room? What about a small-scale landlord who owns a couple houses, is quick and responsive on repairs, doesn't nickel and dime their tenants, and is pleasant to work with?

We agree that it's impossible to become a billionaires without exploiting other humans.

But the whole goddamn stock market is built on the prioritization of profit over all. Even if I just contribute to my 401k, that's being invested in stock market funds. I'm indirectly profiting off companies using prison slave labor, or companies bottling and selling fresh water that should be a public resource.

We point out that the way white people talk and think about poorer neighborhoods is pretty racist. But is it racist for me to think maybe I'd like to live somewhere that doesn't smell so strongly of urine? that maybe I'm willing to spend more to live somewhere with fewer gunshots and less screaming?

Where do you draw the line? How do you construct a coherent system of personal ethics without going mad?

I mean, I grew up in a cult where morality was rigidly black and white. I grew up on "give all you have to the poor and follow Jesus" and "tithe a minimum of 10% of your gross income to god/the church/the poor/holy causes" and st francis of assisi and "cast your bread upon the water."

for a long time I believed that if I had enough to survive on it was my duty to give away the rest

and I spent years barely surviving because of that, because I prioritized supporting others who mostly just took me for granted instead of saving for emergencies

because I was more comfortable working shitty minimum wage jobs than ever being so crass as to pursue money

Also like, I don't believe in god or jesus anymore so I'm pretty sure I don't have to follow a bunch of rules that maybe were just hammered into me by pastors who wanted me to fund their new church buildings?

I am so over the mother teresa bullshit that suffering is inherently virtuous

Fuck that.

I'm tired of precarity.

It feels goddamn good to know I can afford emergency car repairs and regular maintenance. To buy myself little treats and clothes that actually fit. To watch my savings go up each month.

I want to stack up a big fat wad of cash and never be broke again. I want to know I can take care of myself and the people I love. I want to build a life with time for leisure and relationships and parenting and all the things that matter.

I think I could probably make a lot more money if I could swallow my crippling sense of moral injustice and just chase the almighty profits.

But I'm terrified it will make me evil

[aerospace-and-defence]

The Small Drones Market is projected to grow from USD 5.8 Billion in 2023 to USD 10.4 Billion by 2030, at a CAGR of 8.6% from 2023 to 2030.

Small Unmanned Aerial Vehicles (SUAVs), also known as small drones, are aerial vehicles controlled remotely, playing pivotal roles in both the defense and commercial domains. In the commercial sector, they find applications in monitoring, surveying, mapping, aerial remote sensing, precision agriculture, and even product delivery. Similarly, they serve essential functions in the military realm, including military operations and border surveillance.

SUAVs have been adopted by various industries, including oil & gas, railways, power plants, and construction. The utilization of small drones for innovative purposes, such as cargo delivery in both commercial and defense sectors, is anticipated to be a driving force behind global Small Drones Industry growth. Notably, in the defense sector, small drones are increasingly supplanting manned aircraft due to their ability to be remotely operated by human operators or autonomously controlled by onboard computer systems. Consequently, the small drone market has experienced remarkable expansion over the past decade, primarily attributed to the heightened deployment of small drones in military applications.

[usafphantom2]

Close to 500 jets ordered, Dassault decides to increase Rafale's production rate

With 211 Rafale jets still needing to be delivered and more potential orders, Dassault wants to increase the rate to be able to fulfill its deliveries.

Fernando Valduga By Fernando Valduga 10/03/2024 - 18:40in Military

With Rafale's sales increasing, Dassault now needs to increase the production rate, as the deliveries of the French fighter were below the planned for 2023. And that's what the French manufacturer announced for this year.

The French manufacturer received 60 new orders for its fighter only last year, with 42 of them for the French Air Force, with deliveries ?? between 2027 and 2032. Another 18 jets came from an order from Indonesia this year, as a final part of a contract signed in 2022 for a total of 42 Rafales.

With these orders, the total number of Rafale orders is approaching the 500 mark. In 2022 alone, Dassault won 92 orders.

Even with the number of orders increasing, the number of deliveries is currently short of these market successes. Dassault wanted to deliver 15 Rafales to customers in 2023, but only 13 were delivered. According to the head of the company, Eric Trappier, this will change soon. “We are working for Phase 2,” the managing director of Dassault said on March 6 at the annual press conference. This means production should increase to almost two jets per month, with an initial goal of 20 deliveries for 2024.

In the medium term, according to Trappier, the annual production rate is expected to continue to increase and stabilize by at least 23 copies from 2025. However, the "challenges" in the supply chain must first be overcome, the head of Dassault emphasized in his statement. It's "a bit like the egg and the chicken," says Trappier: "If you had told me five years ago that we were moving on to the next phase, I would have said that we couldn't predict this, we should sell first. Therefore, there is a limit to increasing the production chains, but we actually need some time." However, the final assembly in Mérignac offers enough space for new advances.

Rafale from the Indian Air Force.

"We are making the transition to the production of 3 aircraft per month, from a rate that was lower in units in 2020, when production was stagnant," explained Eric Trappier.

Of a total of 495 Rafales ordered - 234 for France and 261 for export, not including used jets ?? - 211 would still need to be produced at the end of 2023, 141 for exports and 70 for France. On the one hand, this delay guarantees the future of the program for at least ten years, but on the other hand, Dassault is still committed to making customers more enthusiastic about Rafale.

Rafale from the Hellenic Air Force.

According to Trappier, discussions continue with Saudi Arabia, which may order 54 Rafales. However, here you are competing with the Eurofighter and the Boeing F-15EX.

The French Air and Space Force is currently preparing for the planned Rafale F5 standard. Dassault expects to receive its first French order later this year.

Tags: Armée de l'air - French Air Force/French Air ForceMilitary AviationDassault AviationDassault Rafale

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Fernando Valduga

Fernando Valduga

Aviation photographer and pilot since 1992, he has participated in several events and air operations, such as Cruzex, AirVenture, Dayton Airshow and FIDAE. He has works published in specialized aviation magazines in Brazil and abroad. He uses Canon equipment during his photographic work in the world of aviation.

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[darkmaga-retard]

Should you take an arch-technocrat at his word? I think so. Larry Ellison is the founder and former chairman of Oracle, the third-largest software company in the world. According to SFGATE, “The CIA was not just Oracle’s first customer. Founded in May 1977, the firm’s name came from a CIA project code-named “Oracle.” Small world, indeed. Listen to the video and be prepared to be shocked.

When I was in the software business in the 1990s, the VP of Sales at Oracle approached me about integrating my sales and marketing software into the growing stable of Oracle products. I thought I had struck it rich! That is, until I got a whiff of their internal culture. The sales manager for Oracle was a woman who affectionally called her sales team her “yuppie guppies.” How cute, I thought, until I asked one of her “guppies” what that meant. He explained that guppies eat their own offspring and if they didn’t make their sales quotas by hook or by crook, they would be escorted off the campus within the hour. Needless to say, I ran as fast as I could to get away from them.

Larry Ellison has never changed his spots over the years. He should have been branded as a menace to society long ago. ⁃ Patrick Wood, TN Editor.

On Thursday, Oracle co-founder Larry Ellison shared his vision for an AI-powered surveillance future during a company financial meeting, reports Business Insider. During an investor Q&A, Ellison described a world where artificial intelligence systems would constantly monitor citizens through an extensive network of cameras and drones, stating this would ensure both police and citizens don’t break the law.

Ellison, who briefly became the world’s second-wealthiest person last week when his net worth surpassed Jeff Bezos’ for a short time, outlined a scenario where AI models would analyze footage from security cameras, police body cams, doorbell cameras, and vehicle dash cams.

“Citizens will be on their best behavior because we are constantly recording and reporting everything that’s going on,” Ellison said, describing what he sees as the benefits from automated oversight from AI and automated alerts for when crime takes place. “We’re going to have supervision,” he continued. “Every police officer is going to be supervised at all times, and if there’s a problem, AI will report the problem and report it to the appropriate person.”

he 80-year-old billionaire also predicted that AI-controlled drones would replace police vehicles in high-speed pursuits. “You just have a drone follow the car,” he explained. “It’s very simple in the age of autonomous drones.”

Ellison co-founded Oracle in 1977 and served as CEO until he stepped down in 2014. He currently serves as the company’s executive chairman and CTO.

Sounds familiar

While Ellison attempted to paint his prediction of universal public surveillance in a positive light, his remarks raise significant questions about privacy, civil liberties, and the potential for abuse in a world of ubiquitous AI monitoring.

Ellison’s vision bears more than a passing resemblance to the cautionary world portrayed in George Orwell’s prescient novel 1984. In Orwell’s fiction, the totalitarian government of Oceania uses ubiquitous “telescreens” to monitor citizens constantly, creating a society where privacy no longer exists and independent thought becomes nearly impossible.

But Orwell’s famous phrase “Big Brother is watching you” would take on new meaning in Ellison’s tech-driven scenario, where AI systems, rather than human watchers, would serve as the ever-vigilant eyes of authority. Once considered a sci-fi trope, automated systems are already becoming a reality: Similar automated CCTV surveillance systems have already been trialed in London Underground and at the 2024 Olympics.

China has been using automated systems (including AI) to surveil its citizens for years. In 2022, Reuters reported that Chinese firms had developed AI software to sort data collected on residents using a network of surveillance cameras deployed across cities and rural areas as part of China’s “sharp eyes” campaign from 2015 to 2020. This “one person, one file” technology reportedly organizes collected data on individual Chinese citizens, leading to what The Economic Times called a “road to digital totalitarianism.”

Begging for GPUs

[mariacallous]

Moses may have parted the Red Sea, but now, thanks to a wave of Houthi missile attacks, shipping companies are departing it in droves.

So far, the Iran-backed Yemeni group has launched at least 100 missile and drone attacks against a dozen ships in the Red Sea, according to U.S. officials, and threatened to target all vessels heading toward Israel, whether or not they are Israeli-owned or operated. To avoid suffering the same fate, major energy and shipping companies, including BP and Maersk, have halted their operations there—rattling energy markets and driving up global oil prices and soon everything else. The Red Sea is what connects Asia to Europe, in terms of cargo ships, so disruptions are felt around the world.

The Houthi attacks “have created worries for global freight markets, for the flows of energy commodities, other commodities, goods,” said Richard Bronze, the head of geopolitics at Energy Aspects, a research firm. “It’s a really critical shipping route, so any disruption risks adding delays and costs, which have a sort of knock-on effect in many corners of the global economy.”

Washington is reportedly mulling striking the Houthi base in Yemen, just days after announcing a multinational task force to safeguard navigation in the Red Sea. But the pledge did little to deter the Houthis, who instead vowed to ramp up their attacks and target U.S. warships if Washington executed attacks in Yemen. 

As the threat of escalation looms over wary shipping companies and energy markets, Foreign Policy broke down the Red Sea crisis—and what it could mean for global trade.

You lost me at Houthis.

Backed by Iran, the Houthi rebel group controls vast swaths of northern Yemen, following a yearslong effort to gain power that ultimately plunged the country into a devastating civil war in 2014. After years of fighting between the Iran-armed Houthis and a Saudi-led coalition, at least 377,000 people had been killed by the end of 2021, 70 percent of whom were children younger than 5, according to U.N. estimates. 

Experts say the Houthis’ Red Sea attacks are part of a bid to shore up domestic support and strengthen the group’s regional standing, while the Houthis’ popularity has only grown since they began waging these attacks. As part of Iran’s “Axis of Resistance,” the Houthis have vowed to attack ships transiting the Red Sea until Israel ends its bombardment of Gaza. They’re Iran’s JV team, but they can make a splash at times.

“They seek to accomplish a more prestigious status in the region, as a resistance movement integral to the Iranian Axis of Resistance,” said Ibrahim Jalal, a nonresident scholar at the Washington-based Middle East Institute. The Houthis also “want to be framed as a disruptive actor that’s capable of also offering security by halting attacks,” he said.

By attacking ships heading toward Israel, Iran, through its Houthi proxies, is essentially doing what Washington and the West does with economic sanctions—turn the screws. “What they’ve done is very architecturally similar to Western secondary sanctions,” said Kevin Book, the managing director of ClearView Energy Partners, an energy consultancy. “They have essentially tried to make it so that anyone who has nexus to, or trades with, Israel is subject to attack or risk of an attack.”

Why is the Red Sea so important?

Tucked between Saudi Arabia, Egypt, and Sudan, the Red Sea is an entryway to the Suez Canal and one of the world’s key global trade corridors, overseeing some 12 percent of global trade and nearly one-third of global container traffic. With as many as 19,000 ships crossing through the Suez Canal annually, the inlet is a strategic pressure point in the energy and commodity trade. 

“There’s always been a lot of interest in oil and freight chokepoints because they may be relatively small geographically but they have global impact,” Book said. “Adversaries of the U.S. and Western allies sometimes seek to capitalize on those chokepoints because it can exert such a significant influence over global dynamics.”

Worried by the Houthi attacks, a growing list of major energy companies and shipping firms—including BP, Equinor, Maersk, Evergreen Line, and HMM—have rerouted their ships or suspended operations in the Red Sea. Rather than steaming through the narrow sea, at least 100 ships have instead traveled around the bottom of southern Africa—a detour that can extend ship journeys by thousands of miles and delay freight by weeks.

For now, that will just mean delays, higher costs, and continued disruptions—not the complete upending of global trade. The attacks have “been enough to make certain shippers hesitant to continue using the Red Sea,” said Bronze of Energy Aspects. “But we’re not at a stage where all shipping is being halted or rerouted or that there’s any sort of likelihood of that scale of disruption.”

How is Washington responding?

Washington, which currently has at least three destroyers stationed by the Red Sea, has shot down countless Houthi drones and intercepted missiles launched at transiting ships. To ensure freedom of navigation, Washington also announced this week that it mobilized 10 other countries to form a new task force called Operation Prosperity Guardian.

The operation is set to include Bahrain, Canada, France, Greece, Italy, the Netherlands, Norway, Seychelles, Spain, and the United Kingdom, U.S. officials said, although details are still murky and there remains ongoing confusion about what it will look like. Italy, for example, has said it is sending a frigate to the Red Sea under its long-standing plans—not as part of Operation Prosperity Guardian, Reuters reported. According to the Associated Press, several other countries also agreed to take part in the task force but preferred to remain anonymous. (Many Arab countries don’t want to be seen as defending Israel just now.)

That “underline[s] how tricky it’s been to assemble this coalition and perhaps the limited enthusiasm for many countries for being too visible in confronting this threat and in standing sort of shoulder to shoulder with the U.S. on this issue,” Bronze said.

Apparently undeterred, the Houthis have vowed to continue the fight. “Even if America succeeds in mobilizing the entire world, our military operations will not stop unless the genocide crimes in Gaza stop and allow food, medicine, and fuel to enter its besieged population, no matter the sacrifices it costs us,” Mohammed al-Bukaiti, a senior Houthi official, posted on X, formerly Twitter.

That could mean continued uncertainty for energy and shipping companies, many of which are waiting for more robust reassurances and greater stability until they feel comfortable resuming operations in the Red Sea.

“From a shipping company or a tanker company perspective, I think it’s probably safe to say that they’re going to err on the side of caution until they have some sense that the underlying risks have changed,” said Book of ClearView. Maersk, for instance, acknowledged that its shipping diversions would disrupt operations but stressed that the safety of its crews is paramount.

More fireworks could soon come. Washington is reportedly considering military strikes targeting the Houthis’ base in Yemen if the task force fails to thwart future attacks. The Houthis have threatened to strike U.S. warships in response, potentially paving the way for future escalations. 

The United States could also snap back previously levied sanctions on key Houthi figures as a dissuasive measure—but Saudi Arabia isn’t sold on that idea, since Riyadh is trying to negotiate an end to the yearslong quagmire in Yemen and worries that heavy-handed U.S. tactics could complicate its withdrawal.

What exactly is Saudi Arabia’s calculus here? 

After years of involvement in the Yemen war, Riyadh wants out. Saudi Arabia has been working to extricate itself from that war and to make peace with both Tehran—the two powers normalized relations in March—and the Houthis. 

As Saudi Arabia and the Houthis inch closer to securing a peace agreement, experts say Riyadh has adopted a cautious approach, wary of taking any steps that could jeopardize its fragile detente with Tehran or derail peace talks. But continued escalations in the Red Sea could throw a wrench in Riyadh’s plans. 

“If the U.S. were to attack targets in Yemen, not only could it threaten the truce that Saudi Arabia has struck with the Houthis, but it could interfere with that detente between Iran and the kingdom,” Book said. And that could threaten what is still one of the world’s biggest oil producers and exporters at a time when crude oil is already trading north of $70 a barrel.

“If that were to happen,” Book said, “then risks to production could come back, and that would change the picture, potentially adding more upside risk to the crude price.”

[bread-tab]

i bought a cheap squishy toy and it smells like something i should definitely not be inhaling at all (kind of like gas/petrol but more factory-plasticky? i'm a retail drone not a chemist) and, of course, it was made in china.

("of course" not so much because of the price or quality but because everything is. at every price range and standard, tbh. i'm not trying to say everything made in china sucks. for the tumblr-pedantic record. rip to the workers in the stinky plastic factory though. :/)

so i was like "if this was made in america i could figure out where. we put the company address on everything here. but can i do that with an overseas company?" and the answer is yes maybe (i found the import/middleman companies and there are "trading" websites that track this stuff) but also no because i can't read mandarin. (sorry ancestors)

anyway that's how i find out about this place

yiwu "market" aka "international trade city." alleged "world's largest wholesale market." the mall to end all malls. this place sells stuff to the entire world by the shipping container. didn't even slightly exist in 1980; now does billions of dollars in trade annually which supports a city of 2 million people. which previously was just. like. a farming village.

(btw take this info with a grain of salt *please* i got it from youtube, google and wikipedia and i'm existing in an incredulous sleep-deprived haze)

literally miles of showrooms of every random manufactured item you can imagine. toys, clothes, electronics, household goods, christmas decorations...

i cannot stress enough that we do not have this kind of thing here. (... do we?) but. we have the stuff. this is where all the stuff is from. all roads lead to yiwu, apparently

sometimes you just get reminded... world big. but also. world interconnected. not so small after all. but so connected.

[zedecksiew]

THE UNIVERSAL COMMUNE

Ylang, a yellow sun on a distant shoal of the immersea. When the Star Imperium collapsed Ylang was spared the worst depredations, due to distance. It did not escape unscathed.

Oort-wards in order, the Ylang system is:

+ Verre, an agni-class world, molten seas. + Tesh, a bhumi-class world, on the warmer end. ++ Belt of Tesh, ice, rock, satellite debris. +++ Tesh Exchange, a moon-sized astropolis. + Ylang's End, a belt of wrecked starships. ++ Ylang's Gate, an immersea teleportal, dead. + Rake, a bhumi-class world, on the colder end. + Irrusine, a vata-class gas giant, blue-faced. ++ Irrusine Siphon, a moon-sized astrofactory. + Pravine, a vata-class gas giant, red-faced. ++ Pravine's Eye, an immersea tearpoint, buoys. + Gak-Gak, an asthi-class world, atmosphere-less.

+

VERRE an agni-class world, molten seas.

Genemod-adaptation to Verre's fury give its children a silver pallor. They are the a martial people, the Ve; for generations they were gripped by blood-feuds, by warlordism.

Then the god-heroine Ayesha crushed the great houses, crashed their orbiting cruisers. It was Ayesha who forged a new Ve upon the Stone of Ecumen, and raised their choired voice; it was Ayesha who called on Rake and Tesh for union.

Following Ayesha's example, every Ve child puts a hand over their heart and swears to defend universal communism.

The Stones are fortress-cities with walls of mile-high obsidian; these shelter creches and gardens and markets from the planet's heat---most of the planet's heat. Who are the Ve, if not a people born in fire?

+

TESH a bhumi-class world, on the warmer end.

Wears its overgrown craters like a veteran wears scars. Its air is fresh again, after centuries of care. Its forests green again. Its nightward face darker than you'd expect.

You fly over the gleaming jag of Imperium-era urban centres---now quiet monuments to history's follies. The landing port is a fuel line bordering a dusty field.

You did not expect the Commune's founding world to feel this provincial. The local town is coastal; its ranches fade into foliage.

The Teshi are obliged to spend so much time in cold orbit; when planetside they prefer the company of warm, breathing things. In deep forest glades there are shrines to small deities and animal spirits.

+

TESH EXCHANGE a moon-sized astropolis.

Rises from the Belt of Tesh like a mountain breaching cloud. The bustle of traffic: exo-system trade flotillas; patrol squadrons; passenger fleets.

The warden assigned to your arrival is on comms. She greets you with the customary Teshi formula: "Be welcome home, returner."

Built pre-collapse, the Exchange serves as Ylang's primary bazaar once more. The outer sections are occupied. The inner sections were seeded with forests, and left to grow wild and weird; now they harbour heterodox sects, contraband caches, ghost AIs.

A glaring security risk. A commissar (usually Rakish) will bring this issue up every cycle. A station warden (usually Teshi) will shrug, and say: "the Green Mothers keep their own."

+

RAKE a bhumi-class world, on the colder end.

Rakish ingenuity melted its glaciers and formed it into a flowing paradise. All without Imperium techno-sorcery!

They are perhaps too smug about this. It is said of Rakish communards that they see themselves as first among equals---that they have a saviour complex. When the Assembly discusses expansion (spatial or ideological), it is often the voice of Rake that rings loudest.

Farm and factory co-ops the size of cities. Space elevators pulse like metronomes. On the way down you are assigned a drone liaison.

"I am LED," the android intones. "God-AI of planet-wide logistics. Let me know your purpose, and I shall assist."

+

IRRUSINE SIPHON a moon-sized astrofactory.

Irrusine Antimatter was a minor corpostate of the Star Imperium; its human citizens wiped themselves out in interdepartmental warfare sometime post-collapse.

Its artificial administrators remained.

Free from the logics of profit, Irrusine's AI choir mainly desires continued function. They are gardeners of the gas giant that fuel them. They make staunch but dispassionate communards. Mutual aid just makes mathematical sense? No more, no less.

Immigrants now equal AI drones in number. Friction flares now and again, but never too badly---you need only look at the mummy-pods that girdle the station to remember that flesh is more perishable than AI quantum-circuitry.

+

PRAVINE'S EYE an immersea tearpoint, buoys.

With Ylang's Gate shut the Eye is the system's main passageway.

Reality is threadbare, here. Beacons broadcast warnings, a strict transit schedule. If you jump queue you risk collision and para-real phenomena.

There are merchant trains bringing ur-mercury and exoplutonics, whales and refugees. There are tankers leaving with antimatter fuel and Verre-milk and revolutionary psi-dramas.

There are mass drivers, watchstations. The polities of the core systems---the Ansible League; Viridia-Twelvecent-Rogex; the Hundred Houses---many of these are predators. The Commune builds more kill-cruisers, these days.

+

GAK-GAK an asthi-class world, atmosphere-less.

A dead planet, never colonised before the Universal Commune. Its settlement was a test---a way to prove that the ideals of communards will spark life in the most sterile of worlds.

The older habs are matrices of interconnected diamonds, in echo of the UC sigil. Eight-star and open-palm motifs everywhere. Your market guide points this out before you can. He apologises for the gauche fervour of his forbears.

"We are way more chill nowadays," he says.

Now hab-complexes twinkle across Gak-Gak's surface; and Gakki shipwrights launch the sleekest, most luxuriant colony vessels.

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I have been playing Starsector, recently. I am really bad at it? But it has given me a space-opera itch to scratch. So here it is.

Not sure why I went with space communism. Personal inclination, I suppose? And you don't really see it much, in sci-fi fiction or games, relative to all the gear porn and mega-industry and corpo-democracies. (The United Federation of Planets is not communist, folks ...)

The bits about Irrusine Siphon are a tentative prod at an idea I've had for a while: the notion that an artificial intelligence without limits / gone rampant / outgrowing its human makers might go in the opposite direction sci-fi bros fear? What if an AI crunches the numbers, with as complete a dataset as is possible, and concludes that conciliation and cooperation is truly the mathematically best way to function?

What if reality is ultimately and objectively more Kropotkin than bloody social-Darwinist?

Tesh is a discount Valley of the Na, and this whole thing owes all to Le Guin's Ekumen.

Anyway:

I don't write a lot of sci-fi stuff. But it's fun!

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( Image sources: https://www.starwars.com/databank/vader-s-castle http://www.simonstalenhag.se/tftl.html https://nerdist.com/article/cowboy-bebop-episode-guide-14-bohemian-rhapsody/ https://www.artstation.com/artwork/kZWa6 https://www.goodfon.com/wallpaper/distant-outpost-kosmos-poyas.html https://www.graphicdesignforum.com/t/how-the-soviet-space-age-was-imagined-by-artists-of-the-era/6803 )