#What is Carbon Footprint Calculation

[slyandthefamilybook]

wait what

Yes, the military employs about 3 million people and yes if you average the numbers out Taylor puts out more CO2 than any one of them. But averages aren't always a valid representation of statistics. The vast majority of military servicemembers don't have any connection to whatever apparati are involved in the military's CO2 production. They're mainly office workers who produce no more emissions than you or I when they, idk, drive to work (not to mention the 3 million number includes civilian contractors who don't do anything for the military that they wouldn't do for any other employer). The average non-military person puts out about 14-15 tons of CO2 per year, which is pretty close to that 17 number. So if we're just going by the average person there isn't much statistical significance to compare Taylor to people in the military vs just regular people. Coca-Cola puts out about 5.5 million tons of CO2 per year and employs roughly 80,000 people, so by average we can determine that any given Coca-Cola employee emits 68.75 tons of CO2 per year, or about 4 times the average military employee (or 0.83 Taylor Swifts). It would make more sense to say "Taylor Swift emits as much CO2 as 12 F-35 jets" or whatever

The US military emitted 640 times as much CO2 as Taylor Swift last year

[emmaameliamiaava]

HCCB - What is Carbon Footprint - Know How to Reduce Carbon Footprint

Know how to calculate & reduce carbon footprint. Explore HCCB's commitment to achieving net zero emissions & effective strategies for reducing carbon footprint.   https://www.hccb.in/blog/csr-stories/what-is-carbon-footprint

[elsa16744]

Understanding What Is a Carbon Footprint: Tips to Reduce Environmental Impact

A carbon footprint measures how our daily actions impact the environment. It includes everything from our commute to the food we eat. But understanding 'what is a carbon footprint' isn't just about curiosity; it's about taking responsibility for our planet. In this guide, we simplify the concept of a carbon footprint and offer practical steps to reduce it. Discover eco-friendly transportation, energy-saving tips, and sustainable choices for a greener lifestyle. Join us in the journey toward a more sustainable future.

[sandboxer]

immaculate tags @shinyopals thank you you understand

my guy berates waitstaff and then when they give the slightest bit of snark back to them he goes "tsk tsk I'd hate to be you when you see your tip"

we all have to start posting about edgeworth again. okay I'll start. he's staunchly anti union

[livwritesstuff]

Eddie walks into the kitchen one evening to find Steve supervising their daughters as they work on homework.

Steve’s attention is on Robbie at the moment, and he’s got his hands on his hips as he looks over her shoulder with a questioning look on his face.

This in and of itself isn’t anything unusual, because Robbie’s their kid who tries to get out of homework most often, so it takes a second for Eddie to realize that what Steve is doing is trying to encourage Robbie to do less on an assignment.

Steve: Hon, I really think you just needed to fill out the footprint calculator thing.

Robbie: I’m going above and beyond, Pop.

Eddie: What about just doing the bare minimum with this and all your other homework and then see how you feel?

Robbie: No.

Robbie: I have a vendetta.

Eddie: Okay, against who?

Robbie: Ethan Miller. He wouldn’t shut up about how his family’s gonna have the lowest carbon footprint out of the entire class because his house has solar panels.

Robbie: I wanna prove that we have the lowest.

Steve: Why do you think we have a lower carbon footprint than the Millers?

Robbie: Because you adopted us.

Robbie: So there’s, like, no additional carbon emissions of entire new people.

Robbie: You reduced and reused.

Robbie: I don’t think it could count as recycling.

Steve:

Steve:

Steve, pulling out his laptop: Okay, let’s look into this because Ethan’s mom is really effing annoying about those solar panels and I’d love to be able to one-up her for once.

Eddie: Oh, god.

[haberiler]

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Solar Generators: Utilizing renewable energy, these generators are an eco-friendly option for homeowners looking to reduce their carbon footprint.

Power Requirements

When selecting a generator, it’s crucial to determine the wattage requirements of the appliances you plan to power. Calculate the starting and running watts of each device, adding them together to choose a generator with adequate capacity.

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Benefits of Solar Generators

Environmentally Friendly: Solar generators produce clean energy, reducing your carbon footprint and dependency on non-renewable sources.

Energy Independence: By generating your own power, you can safeguard against rising electricity costs and power outages.

Low Operating Costs: Once installed, solar generators have low ongoing costs, primarily related to maintenance and occasional battery replacements.

Portability: Many solar generators are designed to be portable, allowing you to take power with you for camping trips or outdoor activities.

Choosing the Right Solar Generator

When selecting a solar generator for your home, consider the following factors:

Power Requirements: Assess your household's energy needs by evaluating the appliances and devices you intend to power.

Capacity: Look for generators with sufficient battery capacity to provide the necessary power for your usage.

Inverter Type: Choose between pure sine wave and modified sine wave inverters based on the devices you plan to use.

Portability: If you need a generator for occasional outdoor use, ensure it is lightweight and easy to transport.

Solar Panels and Accessories

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In summary, a solar generator for home purposes is not only beneficial for reducing electricity bills but also plays a critical role in promoting sustainable energy. By integrating a solar generator into your household, you can enjoy a reliable and green power source that aligns with modern energy solutions.

[probablyasocialecologist]

The discretionary carbon footprints of the 1% are not only unjust on a symbolic level. They are also quite literally a material cause of the climate crisis. Researchers estimate that more than half of the emissions generated by humanity since our emergence on this planet have been emitted since 1990. But in these past 30 years, the emissions of the poorest 50% of people have grown hardly at all: They represented a little under 7% of global emissions in 1990, and they remain a little over 7% of global emissions today. By contrast, the richest 10% of people are responsible for 52% of cumulative global emissions — and the 1% for a full 15%. This means that the richest 63 million are producing fully double the dangerous greenhouse gases that half of all humanity, or nearly four billion people, emit. When scientists include the embodied emissions — or what it takes to make the products bought by the rich — in the calculation of their individual carbon footprints, the numbers become even more grotesque: That makes the average carbon footprint of the richest more than 75 times higher than that of the poorest. An estimate looking into 20 of the most prominent billionaires in the U.S. and Europe found that their carbon footprints in 2018 ranged from about 1,000 metric tons to nearly 32,000.

[...]

As Bloomberg News recently reported, the personal emissions of the top 0.001% — those with at least $129.2 million in wealth — are so large that these people’s individual consumption decisions “can have the same impact as nationwide policy interventions.” And the super-rich are not reducing their individual carbon footprints voluntarily. On the contrary. In 2021, sales of superyachts, by far the most polluting luxury asset, surged by 77%.

19 April 2022

[oediex]

Today is Earth Overshoot Day.

"Earth Overshoot Day marks the date when humanity’s demand for ecological resources and services in a given year exceeds what Earth can regenerate in that year."

This means that from today on, we are living in an ecological deficit, or on "credit". We are using natural resources the earth cannot replenish, as well as accumulating waste the earth cannot deal with, "primarily carbon dioxide in the atmosphere". We are using 1.7 earths every year.

The date of Earth Overshoot Days is slowly climbing forward more and more:

While what we should be doing is pushing that date back the other way. If we want to reach the IPCC goal of reducing global greenhouse gas emissions by 43% by 2030, which is required if we are to limit global warming to 1,5°C, we need to push Earth Overshoot Day back by 19 days for the next 7 years.

World Overshoot Day is calculated by Global Footprint Network (where the above graph is from), an international non-profit research organisation that provides data, insights, and tools for decision-makers to understand the ecological limitations of our world so that they can make informed decisions for a better future.

One of the best things you can do as an individual is going vegan, because meat and dairy products tend to emit more greenhouse gasses than plant-based foods. It is truly one of the most effective ways for you as an individual to have an impact on the environment.

A friendly reminder here at the end that veganism is a doing what is “possible and practicable” for you - this includes access to foods, allergies, health issues, mental health issues, etc.

[beingvegan]

Related to that last post, I find people apply a kind of mathematical “proof by example” logic to veganism. Their interpretation of vegan is “any animal product is worse than any plant product across all metrics at all times” and then if they can find some kind of outlier exception to that statement, it nullifies the entire premise.

What’s problematic about this in context of veganism and a lot of other justice movements is that instead of being able to give people clear guidelines, proponents of this line of thinking are indirectly advocating for everyone to be doing a huge amount of research and work that they’re not going to do. Basically, if you go vegan, your carbon footprint will be lower in 99% of cases, but of course on the fringes you can find weird exceptions. But what’s the alternative? Do deep supply chain investigations on every intended purchase, calculate the carbon footprint of all your options, consult with multiple methods of valuing sustainability, and then, after all that, making an informed choice? Sure, that sounds great, but people aren’t gonna do that, and clear guidelines like “avoid animal products” will get you 99% of the way there. We just cannot be making it this complicated for people. Climate scientists are saying things like “eat a plant based diet” and “avoid flying” for a reason. These are clear, unambiguous directives that are easy to follow and will reduce your climate impact.

Infusing these directives with a ton of complexity is going to overwhelm people and make them check out. It’s the exact playbook of the fossil fuel companies who pushed “the science is complicated” as their primary line for decades and it’s STILL what my conservative relatives who don’t believe in climate change tell me. “Oh, some papers aren’t in agreement, so how can we really know?” “They keep changing their story!” etc.

[emmasource]

emmawatson: #ad Our closets impact the planet and climate more than you might realize, which is why I am proud to partner with @ thredUP to launch their new Fashion Footprint Calculator (link in bio!) They created an easy to use tool, and I’m so excited to help people discover the carbon impact of their wardrobes, and steps you can take to lighten your fashion footprint. They’ll tell you what your fashion footprint is equivalent to a number of flights, exactly how many pounds of CO2 it produces and how you fare compared to an average consumer. Small changes, such as thrifting instead of buying new, supporting sustainable brands, and air-drying your clothes, can make a HUGE difference. My friends at @ goodonyou_app are also included in the directory at the end of the quiz, where you can get more info on the impact of your fashion choices. Also, if you don’t know @ thredUP, they are one of my favourite online thrift stores. They make it incredibly easy to find any brand and style secondhand at up to 90% off est. retail, from high street brands to some of my favourite designers. I love their mission to inspire us to think secondhand first and create a more circular fashion future. (P.S. they are just shipping to U.S. and Canada currently, but the Calculator is available to everyone!) Find out your fashion footprint by clicking the link in my bio, or heading to thredup.com/quiz to make a difference for the planet! #fashionfootprint ❤️🌸👗

[thegreatobsesso]

🥴

What started as a couple slutty paragraphs has now turned into an unwieldy monster of a smut scene.

I know none of you know what I'm talking about. Nobody's ever had this happen to them, rite?

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✨ WIP intro

🔖 tag list: @winterandwords // @foxboyclit //@revenantlore

@space-writes // @indecentpause // @words-after-midnight

comment to be added or removed!

📝 all posts from WIP: gay crime bdsm story

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“Now, until I say otherwise, darling, you’ll hold this pose.”

He's got his boy in his lap in his bed, back flush with Octavius’s chest, arms up and hands clasped behind Octavius’s neck. He is naked as the day he was born, and Octavius is in nothing but one of his very favorite robes. Is it entirely gauche that it bears the crest of his own luxury underground bath house?

If it is, he doesn’t care. It’s not like he’d show up there wearing it, or show up there at all at the same time as patrons. 

“I’ll do my best,” Milo says, straining his neck to catch Octavius’s eye. 

“Interesting. That didn’t sound anything like yes, sir.”

“I said what I said.”

Milo’s testing boundaries - that’s new. And insufferably interesting.

“You’re aware all your actions in this room carry consequences?” he asks, wrapping a hand around Milo’s throat and delighting in the sensation of his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

“Of course, sir,” Milo gasps, but Octavius isn’t applying near enough pressure to make him hoarse, he’s just easy to rile. He’s also warm and light and he smells like fresh strawberries. Octavius may be hallucinating that last part. 

What? He’s not about to trip over his own feet trying to deny the effect Milo has on him sometimes.

“I think,” he muses, as if he hasn’t planned this all out ahead of time, “that while I slowly drive you out of your mind, we might watch some telly. What say you?”

“Mmm. Anything good on?”

“Let’s find out.”

When he flicks on the TV, he’s met with his own image. The first few minutes of the interview have already passed - he was too busy leisurely undressing Milo to note the time. Rebecca Collins is seated across from him in one the smaller but stately enclaves at his social club, wearing a pristine pinstriped dress and shiny heels. 

Milo chuckles. “You’re too much. You’re gonna get me off while we both watch you?”

A perfect setup. “Who said anything about getting you off?”

“Oh, sir. Please, I’ve been waiting all day.”

“How presumptuous. It’s almost as if you think you’re in control.”

Milo expels a melodramatic sigh and sinks into Octavius’s grip. “You’re mean.”

“You knew that long before tonight.”

He draws Milo’s earlobe into his mouth as he lets his hands roam. This position gives him an entire expanse of Milo parts to touch, and they were supposed to have cut the interview to last an hour, so he’s in absolutely no rush.

Of course, I’m aware of the responsibility that comes with running an enterprise as large as mine, he listens to himself prattle on the telly to his own amusement. I’ll level with you, Rebecca. Aside from the charitable arm of Sinclair Corp, we’re a business, and businesses exist first and foremost to make money. But there’s a way to do that while leaving a better, cleaner world for our children. We’ve been talking about how to reduce the company-wide carbon footprint since our 2015 leadership summit and we’re committed to reaching net zero by 2030, all while meeting the needs of an ever-changing work force.

“Is that true?” Milo asks breathlessly, even with Octavius’s hand dancing over his inner thigh.

“It’s not untrue.”

He drags a finger up the length of Milo’s cock and he shudders and laughs. “That’s not an answer.”

“Do you have a burning desire to dissect the intricacies carbon footprint calculations at the moment?”

He’s brought his thumb and forefinger together in a circle and is brushing it up and down Milo’s length, careful not to make too much contact.

“No, not really.”

“Excellent answer.”

“Sir,” he whines, lifting his adorable bum off the bed in perfect time with the movements of Octavius’s hand. “Are you really not gonna let me come?”

“I’m not sure yet. Time will tell.”

And as for the investigations - well, you won’t find a soul at the MPD who would call me anything but helpful. My tax returns are public and Sinclair Corp records are, quite literally, an open book. I’d welcome anyone to pour over the numbers. Hell, I’ll personally bring them a cup of tea. I’ve got absolutely nothing to hide. 

“Oh, sir, that’s so good.”

Octavius releases him. “Good boy,” he murmurs into his ear. “Which me is doing it for you more? The one tormenting you, or the swindler on the telly?”

“Both, sir,” he all but whimpers. “As if you didn’t know.”

Octavius can see his face from above, but for a moment he considers shifting position just for a better view. “If you think all the sass is helping your case, you’re sorely mistaken.”

He pinches Milo’s side, eliciting a yelp before returning to barely-there strokes. 

You were gifted a fortune from your parents, Rebecca says. At what point did you learn how dirty the money actually was?

From the moment she’d lobbed a hardball question his way at Eddie’s grave site, he knew he liked her. He is, in fact, musing on how entertaining it is to interact with people you’ve haven’t gotten fully stuffed into your back pocket yet when Milo unlaces his fingers.

He digs his nails into the back of Octavius’s hair. He drags his open palms down Octavius’s neck. 

“That does it,” he announces, and Milo’s snapped his hands back into the proper position before he even finishes the thought. “You’re going home hard, desperate and unfulfilled.”

Milo moans out loud, rutting against Octavius’s loose grip. “Oh, that’s... sir, I-”

...but the disappointing, dull truth is that my parents were businesspeople and socialites, much like myself. Although I admit to entertaining grand fantasies about their lives, as any little orphan might.

He’s so good he’s almost got himself on the hook. Milo’s turning into a snake in his arms, wriggling and squirming about. He tightens his grip, strokes him with intention.

Whenever Milo starts to shake or his head thunks back against his clavicle, he redirects his attention to another part of his body. Octavius could do this all night: work him up, bring him down. See how much he can take - it’s almost scientific. Where is the edge and how long can he keep him there? 

It probably sounds daft, but growing up in an upper-middle-class household in America was formative. Those six years instilled in me a solid work ethic and healthy appreciation for my parents’ well-earned funds. I worry if I’d had access to it the entire time, I’d have grown into a man severely lacking in humility.

“Sir, please, can I come?” The words come out in an almost panicked rush. Octavius simply tsks. 

“Mind your grammar. Of course you can come, but you’re asking me if you may.”

“Fuck,” he whines. “Sir, may I come?”

“No you may not.”

That pulls a certain noise of distress that’ll never fail to make him smile. “I can’t help it,” Milo gasps, writhing  against his body, creating all manner of delicious friction. “God, sir, please!”

“I said no.”

His pleas jump an octave and Octavius ignores them, keeping a steady rhythm, dragging his thumb over Milo’s head with every upward stroke. He knows Milo’s body well enough to recognize when he’s crested the point of no return; his toes curl and his thighs tremble and his head turns to the side. He strokes him right through it and straight into his inevitable climax, chuckling as Milo cries out and shakes in his arms. 

He might use this word too often where Milo is concerned, but watching him fight himself and fall to pieces is simply perfect. 

His boy collapses in his lap with a guilty giggle.

“Disappointing,” Octavius sighs, knowing full well Milo can sense the fondness behind it. “We haven’t even reached the part where I make the Fortune Global 500 and you’re already spent.”

Milo tilts his head back to meet his eyes, looking rather pleased with himself. “Sorry, sir.”

“You will be.”

He’s slowed the pace while Milo basks, but he picks up again without warning, firmly grasping his now-soft cock and resuming his work. Milo hisses in surprise.

“Ahh. Sir-”

“Hush. I told you not to come. If you’d have listened, you wouldn’t be in this predicament, would you?”

His boy quite smartly bites back whatever retort he had queued up but twitches against the overstimulation all the same, a startled little rabbit in a trap. Neither of them are paying attention to the telly anymore.

“You seem to think you can walk in here and take your pleasure whenever you want it,” he muses, taking special care to brush his head even more pointedly than before; the noises that result are too sweet for words. “We’ve got to teach you a modicum of control, darling.”

“Oh god, oh fuck, stop, stop!”

“Whose fault is it you’re so uncomfortable right now?”

“Mine, mine, I’m sorry, ah-”

“That’s exactly right. You’ve earned your punishment, now take it with dignity.”

He’s ready to halt at a safe word, obviously, but not for anything less. To his credit, Milo lasts another minute or two before his cries finally inspire a reluctant sliver of mercy. He lets go and gives his poor boy a moment to catch his breath.

“You’re evil,” he sighs, boneless with relief.

“What was that?”

Mischief sparkles in his eyes, even after all that. “I said, thank you, sir.”

And, well, Octavius cannot help but feel all warm and fuzzy looking at Milo’s upside-down post-torture grin. He leans down for a kiss, and even though he hadn’t planned on getting off tonight, all that squirming has gotten him quite hard indeed. He puts his fingers in Milo’s mouth and Milo immediately circles them with his tongue, closing his lips around the second joint.

“Trying to distract me from your terrible behavior?” he teases.

“No, sir. I just like sucking on you.”

Jesus, Mary, and all the saints, if Milo wasn’t sent to ruin him. He clears his throat.

“Hmm. Shall I release you and let you have at it, then?”

“Yes, sir. Please, sir.”

“I don’t think so,” he says, relishing the exaggerated little frown it earns him. “All you’re going to do is open your mouth for me while I take care of myself. I simply can’t reward your attitude tonight.”

Milo visibly bites back complaints as he slips down to the floor and in between Octavius’s knees. The hungry look in his eyes as Octavius free himself from inside his robe is almost more satisfying than having his mouth. Octavius takes to stroking himself while admiring Milo, all mussed up and flushed.

“I’ve become too lax with you,” he notes, watching Milo’s gaze dart between his eyes and his cock. “I think we’ve gotten you so riled up with the expectation of pleasure that you’ve forgotten your place, haven’t you?”

“Maybe so, sir,” he says, oh-so-innocent. “Even after punishment, I still feel a bit like disobeying.”

“Do you now?”

He’s paying far more attention to Milo than he is to himself, but when a drop of precum escapes, Milo darts forward without permission and licks it off.

And it’s the sensation, yes, but it’s also the unchecked boldness. The sheer, unrepentant disobedience. “Oh, you are playing with fire,” he growls, yanking Milo forward by the crown of his hair. “Show me your tongue, you insolent brat.”

Devoid of context, Milo might be catching snowflakes with his head tilted back like that, contented smile plastered across his face and tongue out for God and all the world to see. And to Octavius’s endless delight, Milo is already hard again by the time he finishes swallowing. 

Serves him right, he thinks fondly. He deserves to be denied, debased and spanked ragged. 

All Octavius does is reach out and gently run his fingers through the boy’s hair in the way he knows he likes. 

He simply cannot help himself. 

[emmaameliamiaava]

Know how to calculate & reduce carbon footprint. Explore HCCB's commitment to achieving net zero emissions & effective strategies for reducing carbon footprint.

[jaws-and-canines]

Enemy To You : 1-0

I do stupid things, but with calculated risks. I live and I will die on probability. That’s how life works on the Frontier. That’s how life worked in the corps-espatiers, that’s how life works in my day-job, and that’s how life works in ice climbing. I reached up to check the sturdiness of the screw above my head with a gloved hand, pulling on the metal. I unclipped one of my carabiners and move it onto the screw, and then the next. 

You’re going to die doing this, David. That’s what my mother always said- about everything I do. Still does when she can get in contact with me, which I try to avoid. We’re not compatible anymore. I know why she does it, but I don’t want to be treated like a china doll. I’ve killed people and I’ve saved people. People have shot at me. I’ve had a burst air line in space. A railgun hit the ship I was on. I’m not made of eggshells and I left Earth to feel like I wasn’t.

Yaettää - named by the Finnish astroneers who discovered it, but inhabited by Americans- the “planet that was left behind”. A warm day is -40F,a wintry day drops right down to -112. A storm will bring it right down to -130F.  

Yaettää has no seas on the surface. Maybe it did once, but they’re frozen solid. Drill deep down and you get geothermal springs, and that’s where humanity huddles up.

I was half a mile up Razorpeak. It’s called that because of the long, languishing peak of the mountain, overlooking both sides of the valley. I stopped for a moment, both hands on the rope, leaning back against my harness. The glittering of the engines breaking the thin atmosphere half above, the moisture dripping from my hood and my sweat freezing between layers of thermal nanoweave clothing.

My respirator filled up with condensation about halfway up the first cliff face. I have almost died from a faulty moisture valve, but that was out in the black- up in space, hard vacuum. I only made that mistake once. Like everyone else, you either die or you never forget to check again. Yaettää has decent atmospheric pressure, it’s just primarily carbon-dioxide. I poured out the condensation at the top of the first ascent. It froze a spiderweb on the ice. 

I reach the peak with a swing of the ice-axe that knocks loose a powdery rain of snow. I let the axe drop, swinging on its strap beside me, and dig my forearms in to pull myself up to the very top. I cry out, victorious over the mountain. It feels fucking great. Look probability in the face. Fuck you. I beat the odds. I’d done Razorpeak four times before. If something went wrong after the third, it was on me. It hadn’t. I was still the master of the fucking mountain. A stupid grin on my face, I shuffled up the incline, digging the spikes of my boots in until I found a little flat piece of rock cleared of snow- presumably by a previous climber, judging by the footprints. The white plains spiralled down below, patches of black rock over warmer pieces of ground, the intrusions of man on the landscape like wounds on skin- splinters, or oozing gashes. The wind died down- and as it always did, Yaettää fell to utter silence. If it wasn’t for my respirator, the gentle hissing of the air coming in and venting out, there would be no noise whatsoever in the thin atmosphere.

I unzipped the bit of my outer coat covering my PDA screen, and through thick gloves, navigated to the filesystem, and pulled up the class photo. It’s a tradition at this point. I try not to look at it too often, but I can’t bear to part with it. I made a deal with myself- only at the top of mountains, or out in the black. Only at the very edges of the world as I know it, and I leave the feelings out here. I don’t bring them back with me. 

---

2098. I was 26. Twelve years ago. Still waxing my beard and slicking my hair back like a greaser because I thought it looked cool. Red leather jacket- not the same one I wear now. That one was gone. Buried under concrete. There are six of us in the photograph. I remember it all from memory. I went to all five funerals. We are all standing on the steps of the Washington Building, bunched together, whilst a passerby takes the photo.

Roman and Reginald, the twins. I played Dungeons and Dragons with Roman, and got my ass kicked in judo by Reginald. You’d look at them and think it was the other way around. Sarah, the smart one out of all of us. Destined for great things, studying international law, dreams of bringing justice to people who thought they were above it. She had an internship lined up with the ICC, too. Wasted potential. Everything was, and it was hard not to see myself as that too.

Kesi. Braided hair, blue beads threaded in there. She has her arm around me, and she laughs. I don’t remember what she was laughing about, and I wish I did. I liked her, and I never told her. Later, I found out it was mutual. It was too late then.

Stephen was the last to die. He did pretty well for himself. His lungs gave out in the end. I missed it- the bastard asked me if I could go out and grab him another pillow, and then died when I wasn’t in the room. He would have found that hilarious. In the photo he has that shit-eating grin, green baseball cap, leaning on the railings of the steps. He was funny, and he knew it.

I looked different then, before. I only noticed that a few years ago. It’s bothered me slightly every time I look in the mirror since. I didn’t have tattoos, the law on the knuckles of one hand, and order on the other, nor my unit insignia on my forearm. I didn’t have the little scar under my left eye where someone tried to stab me. I don’t have hearing aids; I don’t have grey hairs. It's not any of that which bothers me, but something about my eyes—something nearly impossible to quantify. The fact I can’t put my finger on it is what upsets me. 

And with that sense of dread, it’s my cue to stop looking at the photo.

---

I turned my PDA off with the switch on the side and cover it back up, zipping up the sleeve of my outer coat again. The descent was a short abseil and a walk through hard-packed snow. It wasn’t strenuous. I tried not to think until the grey metal buildings came to light. I tapped my PDA against the ID reader on the outside of the airlock. It took a few tries, but the bolts disengaged and I walked back into the relative warmth of the colony.

I shed off layer after layer the moment I got through the inner door. The airlocks were directly next to changing rooms, men, women and unisex. My legs and arms were burning. It felt good to breathe air that wasn’t warm and wet and stale in a tank. I stripped down to my under-layer, wiped the moisture off my face, changed out of my shoes and dropped my used air tank in the ‘empty’ chute. Leaving a half-used tank around was quite a regular cause of gross negligence manslaughter charges. 

You don’t need your work brain, David; I reminded myself, getting my thermal climbing shawl from the locker I’d rented earlier, and headed back to my cabin. Up a few flights of stairs, getting goosebumps. I wrapped my shawl tightly around my shoulders, unlocked my rented cabin and turned up the heating. I’d set out dry clothes on the bed in the morning. The room smelled of dust; the bathroom smelled of bleach. I didn’t care. I was still riding the high.

I turned the shower on, cool at first, and warmed my fingertips under it. They burned as the blood warmed again. I use a three-in-one soap, conditioner and shampoo block. My mother would probably disapprove, but why carry three things when you can carry one? Why carry bottles when a bar won’t explode in your bag after a pressure change.

I got half-dressed, leaving my shirt on the bed and dried my hair, scrubbing at it with a dry towel. The door rang. “Bugger.” I grabbed my hearing aid from the bedside table and put it against the magnets in my skull. It snapped into place and beeped twice as it turned on. I tucked my bolt-caster into the back of my joggers as I unlocked the door and opened it a crack, leaving it on the chain. Three men. One armed with some sort of pulse-gun under his coat. He’s the one who seems to be taking charge.

“Can I help?” I wondered if he knows I know he’s armed. I wondered if he knew I was armed too. 

“Mr Davies?” 

I ignored his question. “And who are you?”

“Please, are you Mr David Davies?”

“I said, who the fuck-”

The door exploded into little splinters. The chain did nothing, flying off into little shards of metal as the compressed sonic blast punched through the hinges of the door. My hearing aid squealed a moment of noise through my skull before cutting out. If I hadn’t already been deaf, I would have been then. I screamed, clutching my skull, and rolled onto my side. I felt as if something had scrunched every organ into tiny pieces and then stretched them paper-thin. I saw the man lumbering towards me, grabbed for my bolt-caster, pulled back the priming lever, and was almost to the trigger.

He fired his weapon first. That same incredible wall of sound. I pulled the trigger of my ‘caster- less through action and more from clenching every muscle I had as it hit me. This time it took me out like a punch to the face. Tasting blood. Spark of white- spark out.