#a single minute of energy spent on safety concerns is a waste to them

[britcision]

Okay but the cult vibes of “this event was super great, I had a lovely time, met some great people, also a lot of us might have permanently damaged vision” though?

“For communication and awareness reasons” please let people know how to get medical attention for the serious risks you exposed everyone to, through what is most charitably described as negligence

How did the electrical team doing set up not catch this? The boxes should have contained the safety instructions given that, yeah, This Is Dangerous Equipment You Should Receive Training On Before Using

They didn’t just pluck these bulbs from the shelf at Walmart and toss them in without any warning; this is a known carcinogen, you can’t sell them in the US without serious certifications and warning labels

You aren’t supposed to be in the same room as these things without PPE, the UK has a standard hazard time to describe exactly how long you can be exposed (around 8 hours/day at a specified distance) and the effect is cumulative with more than one bulb - look at that stage, count them

It��s not even remotely surprising that people were seriously injured, the bigger surprise is anyone who wasn’t

Everyone who stood under those lights for even an hour should be booking a checkup, even if they’re not in any pain

You would not pour boiling water in your eyes

So... a bunch of NFT grifters threw a party in Hong Kong this weekend and reportedly a bunch of attendees are now at risk of permanent eyesight damage because the promoters used unsafe lighting, and people are going to the ER...

[animetrashlord-007]

M.I;; Chapter Six

Word Count;; 1.7k

Genre;; Fluff, Suggestive, Eventual Smut, Slowburn

Pairing;; Oikawa x Ushijima

Side Pairing;; Kuroo x Sugawara

Summary;;

Them boys got beef.

Published;; 08.03.18

Notes;; 

My Masterlist

Mutual Interests Masterlist

   “What the hell happened?” Suga gasped as soon as the door opened, his concern increasing his impatience.

   Ushijima yawned and rubbed his temples, providing a small shrug as his only response before ushering the small setter inside. Sprawled across the bed on the left side, Oikawa pretended not to notice the others as he glared at the wall with his back toward Kuroo. Kuroo was sound asleep on the other side of the room, his mouth hanging open with a content smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

   “Oikawa-san, what happened?” Suga frowned, taking a step toward Oikawa before halting. The brunet didn’t acknowledge him in the slightest.

   Taking a deep breath to calm himself, irritation seeping into his blood from being ignored (and so obviously - the audacity!), Suga walked over to Kuroo. With the back of his hand placed on the blocker’s forehead, Suga checked his temperature. It was no hotter than usual. Shaking his shoulder, he tried to wake Kuroo but to no avail.

   “Kuroo-san, please, I’m worried.”

   After what felt like an eternity, he gave up and faced Ushijima instead. The ace had slumped down on a chair in the left corner of the room, his tired, blank eyes staring out the window. He didn’t seem to notice Suga waving at him. Dark rings encircled the eyes he was fighting to keep open. He was battling off his need for sleep tooth and nail, and every so often his head would bob as he regained consciousness just as quickly as he lost it.

   “Wakatoshi-san, what happened?” No response. “Are they okay?” A nod. “Can you explain what happened?” No response. “Literally anyone can say anything… Why are you all ignoring me?”

   More silence plagued Suga. No one would look him in the eye. His anxiety started to ebb away as his irritation morphed into anger. It was his concern that led him here and not a single one of them cared. His impatience swelled until he couldn’t hold back any longer. Grabbing a water bottle from the nightstand, he poured the contents onto an unsuspecting Kuroo before throwing the empty bottle at Oikawa.

   “I ASKED YOU A DAMN QUESTION!”

   Eyes snapping open, alarm written plain as day across his features, Kuroo was the first to react. Sitting up straight, he stared at Suga as one would a ghost; complete disbelief with a side of utter terror swirled in his eyes. His usual messy, black hair flopped down and stuck to his face. His bottom lip quivered. Wiping off some of the water with the bed’s linen, he was in state of total shock and couldn’t process what was happening.

   On the other side of the room, Oikawa yelped in indignation. The bottle had hit its target square on, bouncing off the back of Oikawa’s head before falling to the ground. His waves swayed in a quick blur of colour as he swivelled around, eyes narrowed and accusatory. Jabbing a finger toward Suga, his voice rose with every passing word.

   “What the hell was that for?!”

   “Take a guess, you idiot!”

   Tension engulfed the room as the two setters glared at one another, neither willing to yield. Ushijima raised his hand, words of protest on his lips, but decided the energy required to calm either party down was too great and chose to close his eyes and rest instead. Oikawa folded his arms in front of his chest, his eyes trained on Suga’s, but didn’t say anything. The room was silent and still, frozen in time, as everyone waited for the first strike. Taking a step forward, ice-cold fury dripping from his every movement, Suga opened his mouth to speak, every filter torn off with only brutal honesty left behind, he was going to let loose and give them a piece of his mind-

   “I’m soaked!” Kuroo whined, snapping out of his stupor but remaining indifferent to the argument happening mere feets away. He stumbled out of the sterile white bed, knocking over the metal table that stood beside it. It clattered onto the cement floor, two distinct, cold and unforgiving materials clashing against each other. The sound reverberated throughout the entire room, slipping past the ajar door and drifting out the window. A roll of bandages unraveled, rolling across the floor until it hit Suga’s foot.

   It served as a big enough distraction to gain the attention of the setters, both now focusing their scornful gazes on Kuroo. After a quick stretch, Kuroo flashed his usual lopsided grin before collapsing back onto the bed. Oikawa rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in the air, grumbling something along the lines of ‘predictable’.

   Before they had a chance to resume their stare down, the door flung open. A small but stern woman entered, her voice shrill as she turned to each of the boys in turn, punctuating her words with a pointed glare.

   “This is the infirmary, keep your voice down!”

   Suga bowed to the nurse and, unlike his comrade’s mumbled ‘sorries’, his tone was sincere when he said, “We apologise, ma’am.”

   Once the nurse left (after a lengthy lecture about respecting other’s privacy and rest, and instructing them to clean up their mess before they were discharged), all smiles were dropped. Ice gripped the room once more as Suga spoke, his lips pulled into a thin line, tapping his left foot at a rapid pace. “Whatever. Rest for now, but I’ll be back and you best be ready to talk.”

   “Wow, so scary, Mr. Refreshing!” Oikawa pulled a pillow to his chest and pouted, avoiding direct eye contact with the seething setter and his almost tangible aura of rage.

   With that, the door slammed behind Suga as he stormed out of the room, abandoning the helpless situation inside in hope of regaining his sanity. Regardless of how the other’s felt, he considered each to be his friend. When he received the text from Ushijima that a fight had broken out during the night, he wasted no time rushing to check on them. And for what? Suga sighed.

   Making his way to the scene of the crime, he entered the shared dorm of Kuroo and Ushijima. Bed sheets, torn pillows, textbooks and pieces of wood littered the ground. The nightstand that once stood beside Ushijima’s bed was destroyed, presumably after someone fell on it. The shelves on Kuroo’s side of the room had collapsed and while the majority of his chemistry books were on the bed, some had made their way onto the floor and their pages were now crumpled. Suga sighed again.

   It wasn’t his room so he had no reason to clean up after those ungrateful buffoons, but he knew that Ushijima would do the same for him and he’d hate to see that giant try to balance tidying up, repair work, and smoothing over the argument that had led to all this in the first place. An argument Suga didn’t have a scrap of knowledge about. Because no one had the decency to say anything. Not even Ushijima. His knuckles paled under the force of his grip as he picked up the remnants of the nightstand. Sighing with a bit more force, Suga continued his self-appointed project.

   He piled the textbooks onto the bed. He set aside the nightstand and shelves, deciding he didn’t like Kuroo or Ushijima enough to trouble himself with trying to fix their furniture (he wasn’t a handyman, afterall). He stripped both beds down to the mattress and tossed the bedding into the corner before grabbing the spares and refitting the sheets. Grabbing the sewing kit from Ushijima’s emergency supplies, he stuffed as much of the loose feathers and downy he could back into the pillows before sewing them shut and replacing their covers with fresh, clean ones. Once the room was in a somewhat presentable state, he took the bedding to the school’s laundry room and started a load, sending a text to Ushijima with the machine’s number and the approximate time it would finish. Brushing his hands together while trying to shake off his exhaustion, Suga sighed.

   Even though his body was tired from the hard work, his mind was still racing. With his project completed and his mind free of distractions once more, the residual anger from his earlier outburst began to gain traction, growing as he wandered through the campus grounds. How hard would it have been to just say, ‘hey, don’t worry Koushi, we’re fine. We’re just dumb as all hell’? He ran through multiple scenarios in his head, all of which would have been more considerate of his legitimate concerns for their safety and wellbeing, as he stalked down a lush, green hill. When he snapped out of his daze, he was standing on a small, rugged path next to a pond that he didn’t recognise.

   Where the hell am I?

   Suga sighed in resignation.

   There was only one person who could bring him clarity at this point, only one person that could offer him sensibility. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone and searched through his contacts. Upon finding Daichi’s number, he shot him a brief text then sat down on the embankment. Minutes trickled by as he waited for a response. It wasn’t until he had given up and allowed his mind to go blank, troubled sleep threatening to swallow him whole, that his phone rang. Sitting up straight and confirming the caller to be Daichi, he answered with a cute greeting, shuddering at how strained he sounded.

   “Sorry, I was studying and didn’t see your message.”

   “Ah, Sawamura. You didn’t have to call. If you’re busy, just text me when you have time.”

   “No, no! You’re the same as always, Koushi. It’s been too long since we’ve talked. Besides, I could really use a break right now.” Suga smiled. Warmth enveloped him as he listened to his long-time friend, fond memories embedded within his voice that pulled Suga back to the summer days spent playing volleyball in the school’s gym, the door open and a cool breeze caressing his heated skin while he set another toss for Asahi as Daichi cheered them on. “How has school been treating you?”

   Daichi reminded him of home, secure and welcoming and permanent, something Suga didn’t realise he was missing, let alone that he needed.

   With a sigh of relief, Suga relaxed and laid back down on the lawn, watching the clouds as they crawled across the vibrant blue sky, all of his worries dissipating as he spoke, “Funny you should ask, that’s exactly why I contacted you…”

[ariadnelives]

Chapter 15 -- The Recovery

[Missed earlier chapters? Go catch up here! Otherwise, welcome back! Oh, and make sure to join our discord server! Chapter can also be found @ ao3”]

It had been two and a half weeks since ViLaz had come aboard. Deathsbane had kept her on a steady drip of her regenerative catalyst, which was a world of help integrating the new cybernetic parts Ariadne and Alicia had built to replace what she'd lost in the fire.

It was physically easy to treat her. She seemed conscious, but somewhat unresponsive. She stood when left standing, she sat when offered a chair, she would take no initiative to feed herself, but when food or water was placed in front of her she seemed to know what to do with it. She offered no resistance and followed instructions when Ariadne attempted to recalibrate her new legs, or when Sasha attempted to sponge-bathe her.

She did not speak unless spoken to, and when giving a response, she didn't waste words. Her tone was flat and vacant, as though her mind had left her body to attend to some other business, and in her place was a completely thoughtless AI who'd been given the sole directive to keep her from dying, so long as it wasn't too much of an inconvenience.

After a few days, she seemed to come out of her shell a bit. It was clear that she was, in fact, present and alert, although she was also experiencing some of the most profound grief imaginable, and the consensus on the ship was that “on this ship, that's saying something.”

She was cautious and guarded, and she wouldn't talk about herself, but she found something comforting about eating next to other people, especially other teenagers. There was an energy that came with being around people her own age that she didn't realize she'd been craving until she was surrounded by it. She'd spent pretty much her entire life eating flavorless meals alone, and she only had her father for company.

She avoided this line of thought. Her father was probably furious with her for defying the will of the Red God. She hoped he believed her to be dead, because she figured if he knew she was alive, he'd be along any minute to finish the job.

Deathsbane had been shocked, when examining her, to find a piece of cybernetic equipment that they had not installed at the base of her skull. It was no larger than a fingernail and had been heavily damaged by the flames, but Ariadne and Alicia were hard at work trying to divine its purpose.

Sweettalk had been a great help in showing her around the ship, getting her well-acquainted with the crew, and getting her settled in her very own quarters. Her condition had improved enough that she would no longer need to stay in the infirmary, and they'd made it clear she was welcome to a bed and a roof for as long as she needed one.

Of course, Sweettalk was one of the few people who could comfortably have an entire conversation with someone who didn't respond once, so ViLaz felt more comfortable around her. It helped that Sweettalk was close with the girl who'd healed her burns as well. ViLaz had never experienced people being so welcoming before. This was a group who took shock and offense when someone was ashamed of themselves, and not one of them ever told her that she deserved it for being a sinful, wicked child.

The sight of her cybernetics was still somewhat jarring. The serum managed to prevent scarring on the parts of her body that had not been removed, but her prosthetics were not at all subtle.

To start, Ariadne had improved on the life-support system they'd initially developed and constructed new, more stable, permanent replacements for her vital organs. Then, she and Alicia moved on to replacing her lost limbs. It was easy to use the tech behind Ariadne's mechanical legs to make metal skeletal structures that responded to ViLaz' thoughts as well as her original limbs, and bionic eyes were common enough that she could be fitted with one almost immediately. They even knew how to synthesize self-repairing fibers that could be woven into new muscles, and with some effort, they even developed a form of synthetic skin with artificial nerve endings, so her prosthetic limbs had a sense of touch.

The problem was the appearance of these modifications. They were sleek and modern and they felt so organic that if she couldn't see herself, she might have never realized she ever lost a part of her body. They were also a stark, metallic white and had electric blue accents.

“I'm sorry about this,” Ariadne said the first time she saw herself, “these are just prototypes so you can get a feel for them, we didn't have time to make them look realistic. We're working hard to get you a better model, okay?”

ViLaz told her not to rush, and that she wasn't really concerned with her prosthetics looking realistic. She didn't tell her that her whole life her appearance had been strictly controlled. The acolytes who cut her hair would actually measure the length, before and after, every single time, and she had no say in how it was cut or styled, or what she wore, or whether or not she wanted intricate red patterns drawn on her face. She actually kind of liked looking like she was half-machine, there was a certain freedom in knowing she was so far outside how the acolytes wanted her to look.

When her mind went down this road she was struck with a pang of shame. She'd disappointed the acolytes. She'd failed her father. She'd committed blasphemy against her lord. She had sinned and she had escaped the flames of righteous punishment the Red God had intended for her and he would be at her doorstep any minute to cast her into the pit of fire where she belonged.

She often wanted to hit herself, quite literally as she'd been taught self-flagellation as a form of penance her whole life, for having such sinful and rebellious thoughts. Ariadne and Pilar, however, would often sit with her late into the night just to make sure she was okay, and for some reason she couldn't stand the thought of hurting herself in front of people who'd gone to such lengths to ensure her safety.

There were other days when she found relief in the idea that the Red God made it clear that she'd failed her final test, lost any chance of salvation, and that she'd be sent to hell no matter what she did now, so she might as well have fun in the meantime. These were the relatively good days, which Ariadne found incredibly disheartening, because that's still a pretty negative outlook on life.

“You know,” Sweettalk pointed out from the next bed in the infirmary, popping red candies into her mouth while Sasha checked the progress of ViLaz' burns. There was absolutely nothing medically wrong with her, but she was off-duty and liked to spend her downtime with Sasha. “You fit in here a lot better than you think you do. I mean, we've all got some pretty heavy baggage.”

“I didn't bring any baggage,” ViLaz replied, confused.

“Emotional baggage,” Sasha explained, “she means that you're not alone, and everyone here knows what it's like to be in a hopeless situation or they wouldn't have ended up here. Lift your arm, please.”

ViLaz lifted her arm.

“Yeah, exactly,” Sweettalk continued and ate another candy, “I mean, hell, my shitty past is strapped to the bed right over there.” She gestured across the room at Prescott. “Yeah asshole, we're talking about you.”

“Hey, how come I don't get fancy bionics like her?” asked Prescott, who had long since given up struggling against his restraints.

Sweettalk spat back, “she's a teenage girl who got set on fire through no fault of her own and needed life-saving treatment. You're a 20-year-old conman who lost three fingers when you got caught robbing a church.”

“Also you tried to bite the doctor after she reattached your original fingers,” Sasha added helpfully. “If you wanted bionics so bad you should've left them on the ship.”

The side of ViLaz' face that still had organic skin turned red. “It was my fault,” she muttered.

“Hey, I don't want to hear that,” Sweettalk said flatly, “that's my friend ViLaz you're talking about and she's done nothing to deserve being set on fire, you hear?”

ViLaz did not agree with this sentiment but it was clear that Sweettalk could argue that water was dry and win, so she didn't press on it.

“Anyway,” Sweettalk went on, shaking a handful of candies out of the bag, “if you're worried about those church guys coming to find you, you're in the right place. This place was made for kids who need to hide from bad people. Like, literally. You should've seen the people Ariadne was hiding from. Oh, and what happened to them when they tried to track her down? Basically what I'm saying is, if someone tries to hurt you here, they're the ones who are gonna get hurt. Candy?”

Sweettalk offered her the handful of red candies and ViLaz saw that they were in the shape of small fishes. They were made of a gel that looked medicinal to her, but she politely took exactly one and popped it in her mouth.

It was overpoweringly sweet and sticky. “It's delicious,” ViLaz gasped, “is all candy this good?”

Sweettalk sat up sharply. “Shut up! You've never had candy?!”

“Shut up” was not a phrase ViLaz realized could be said in a friendly tone of voice and she flinched upon hearing it.

“I'm sorry!” She whimpered, “I'm sorry, I'll be quiet, I'm sorry.”

Sweettalk was shocked by this reaction and adjusted her voice to be almost too friendly in an attempt to compensate. “Hey, it's okay! It's just a figure of speech, I don't actually want you to be quiet. I was just surprised you'd never tasted candy before, okay?”

ViLaz sat silently, embarrassed beyond belief.

“I think I know what we've got to do,” Sasha said, placing her hand softly on ViLaz' shoulder, then turning to Sweettalk. “Call Cookie. Get her to send up three of every kind of candy we've got. We're having a tasting.”

“Can I—” Prescott began to ask from across the infirmary.

“NO.” Sweettalk and Sasha snapped in unison.

“I'm hungry,” he whined, “and you won't let me go to the mess hall myself.”

“Yeah, we tried that and you tried to steal all our food and hijack a shuttle.” Sasha replied.

“So, what, everyone's allowed to come and go as they please but me?” Prescott asked incredulously.

“Awww, you've finally grasped the concept of being held captive!” Sweettalk crooned sarcastically, as though she was talking to a baby. “But, we technically shouldn't let you starve, so I'll tell Cookie to whip you up a nice bowl of plain oatmeal and a glass of water in case it's too spicy.”

Several minutes later, Cookie filed in with two full carts of various candies and a single bowl of lukewarm oatmeal. Prescott's restraints were loose enough that he could move his arms to feed himself, and he briefly considered throwing the oatmeal against the wall to prove a point, but upon considering how many people in the room he'd thrown under various buses, he decided they would be unlikely to provide him with a replacement meal and opted instead to eat it.

For the next hour or so, Sasha took a break from inspecting ViLaz' progress and the three girls all sat on the same bed, trying different kinds of candy. It was the first time ViLaz had ever truly felt what it was like to have friends, and for a moment she forgot about all of the grief and shame she'd been carrying since she arrived. It was, up to that point, the single best experience of her life.

It was to be short-lived. In the drowsy, saccharine haze of their candy feast, known to most as a “sugar crash,” they heard Ariadne’s voice crackle over the intercom.

“Sweettalk, Deathsbane, you’re gonna want to get up here on the double. Bring ViLaz, she should see this too.”

After checking that Prescott’s restraints were extra-tight, the three girls hustled up to the War Room and found Ariadne and Spacebreather sitting around a hologram of a young girl standing on a stage in flowing robes.

“Is that me?” ViLaz looked puzzled. “Before… you know…”

“Really seems to be you, doesn’t it?” Ariadne asked, “problem is, this hologram was taken an hour ago.”

“I don’t understand…” ViLaz struggled to process this news.

“Sweettalk was right,” Deathsbane muttered.

“Confirms a working theory we had before your rescue. You’re not the only girl they’ve been using as a mouthpiece. One of your sisters, or half-sisters—”

“I don’t have any sisters,” ViLaz couldn’t make sense of what she was hearing. “I’m the sole scion of the Zealot.”

“What do you mean?” Pilar asked.

“My father’s bloodline was chosen as the vessel of the Red God on our plane, but his body was flawed and impure. He couldn’t contain the power of the Red God, and he was to be the last of his bloodline, but by His providence, a daughter was born. I was to be the Red God’s vessel, but in my weakness I rejected his glory and he…” ViLaz could not continue.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Honey,” Ariadne said, “did your dad tell you all of that?”

“No,” ViLaz responded, “the Red God did.”

“Come again?” Pilar asked.

“The Red God. He appeared to me regularly in my chamber, to prepare me for his coming. He spoke through me and spread his word to the people of Mars.”

Pilar and Ariadne exchanged a glance and Ariadne shuffled through a few papers. “Your chamber, suge, did it look anything like this?”

Ariadne held up the schematics of the immersion pod they’d picked up from La Pesadilla.

“That’s it. How did you get this…?”

“Did the Red God ever appear to you outside this pod?” Ariadne asked.

“No, we’d converse in the chamber and he’d speak through me when I left it.” ViLaz was shocked to see her chamber, where she’d grown up, laid out as a blueprint in front of her.

“Hon, this chamber is a highly advanced piece of technology. They use it to put thoughts in your head, control your dreams. I suspect the Red God was nothing more than one of those Acolytes trying to program the hell out of you, pardon the pun.”

“You’re wrong,” ViLaz said, knowing somewhere in the back of her mind that Ariadne was not wrong.

Ariadne tried to keep her tone slow and gentle. “We got these schematics from a lady who’s had run-ins with your daddy before. He uses these pods to show people visions of whatever it took to get them to join his church, be it dead relatives or Jesus himself—”

“Who’s ‘Jesus?’” ViLaz asked.

“I… have no response to that,” Ariadne said calmly, “but I want you to think rationally for a moment. What’s more likely, that your dad bought up a bunch of brainwashing beds and mind control chips, then you just happened to grow up in a bed that showed you visions of god, and occasionally someone else took control of your body? Or is it more likely that those things are connected?”

ViLaz knew the correct answer but felt unable to acknowledge it. “You’re wrong, I can’t explain it, but—”

Ariadne looked exasperated. “If you can’t explain it then why do you believe it?”

“Vi,” Deathsbane cut in as calmly as she could while still making it clear it was her turn to talk, “we removed a computer chip from the base of your skull when you got here. It was too damaged to recognize at first, but I’d bet it lines up to the schematics we’ve got for this mind control device.”

ViLaz rubbed the back of her neck, knowing that any surgical wounds were healed by now. “There … was a chip in my skull?”

“Occam’s razor,” Pilar pointed out. “Someone else was able to override your free will. The Zealot is known to be in possession of mind control devices. You had an unknown device lodged in your brain. Seems silly to assume those three things are just coincidence.”

“It does…” ViLaz sighed. “But I never knew about any sisters. He told me I was his only child… the only hope for the Red God’s rebirth …”

“Pressure trick,” Ariadne offered. “He made you think everything was riding on you so you’d be extra scared to fail.”

ViLaz looked ashamed.

“Frankly,” Ariadne said, “I admire you for finding the courage to do what you did. I know you might feel like a failure as a daughter right now, and believe me, sugar, I’ve been there, but I hope you know we’re all very proud of you for asserting your free will, and I want you to know that we will do whatever we can to win the freedom of every other man, woman, and child under his control.”

ViLaz looked at Ariadne, then around at a room full of friendly faces, which was something she’d never seen before arriving at Ship Trap. “You’re proud of me?”

“Of course we are,” Sweettalk said, “you totally saved our butts back there, and you had everything to lose. You’re a badass.”

ViLaz gave a hint of a smile, but then furrowed her brow. “What’s ‘badass?’”

[newstfionline]

A Personal User Manual?

Leah Fessler, Quartz, August 09, 2017

Here’s a funny thing about work: We spend more time with our colleagues than with our friends and family. Yet more often than not, we don’t really understand our co-workers--because being honest with one another is scary.

When a teammate’s lack of organization annoys us, we vent to others. When a boss says “this is fine” (not “this is great”), we wallow in anxiety. Many of us figure out our colleagues’ personalities, preferences, and dislikes through trial and error, not through explicit conversation.

This strikes me as a colossal waste of time, productivity, and happiness. Ignoring these issues just leads to confusion and frustration, and, in time, can wind up threatening your job performance (and your paycheck).

Thankfully, there’s a tool that every team can use to bypass workplace miscommunications and angst, helping to amp up every employee’s potential and morale from day one. It’s called a user manual.

In 2013, Ivar Kroghrud, co-founder, former CEO, and lead strategist at the software company QuestBack, spoke with Adam Bryant at the New York Times about his leadership style. Kroghrud revealed that he had developed a one-page “user manual” so people could understand how to work with him. The manual includes information like “I appreciate straight, direct communication. Say what you are thinking, and say it without wrapping your message,” and “I welcome ideas at any time, but I appreciate that you have real ownership of your idea and that you have thought it through in terms of total business impact.”

Kroghrud adopted the user manual after years of observing that despite individual dispositions and needs, employees tried to work with everyone in the same way. This struck him as strange and inefficient. “If you use the exact same approach with two different people, you can get very different outcomes,” he says.

The user manual aims to help people learn to adapt to one another by offering an explicit description of one’s personal values and how one works best with others. This shortens the learning curve for new employees, and helps everyone avoid misunderstandings.

Kroghrud says his team’s response to his user manual is 100% positive. “I think it just makes them open up. And there’s no point in not opening up, since you get to know people over time anyway,” he explains. “That’s a given, so why not try to be up front and avoid a lot of the conflict? The typical way of working with people is that you don’t share this kind of information and you run into confrontations over time to understand their personalities.”

Reading the interview, it struck me that it’s not only leaders who ought to write user manuals. Having worked at Bridgewater Associates, a hedge fund notorious for creating “baseball cards” for every employee--which list each individual’s strengths, weaknesses, and personality test scores--I know how helpful it can be to have a user manual of sorts for everyone on a team. So my editor and I decided to test it out.

I followed the structure Abby Falik, founder and CEO of Global Citizen Year, used to write her user manual.

On LinkedIn, Falik describes how she “sat with questions like: Which activities give me energy, and which deplete me? What are my unique abilities, and how do I maximize the time I spend expressing them? What do people misunderstand about me, and why?”

She synthesized these answers into a six-section manual:

My style What I value What I don’t have patience for How to best communicate with me How to help me What people misunderstand about me

Each section contains four or five bullet points. While points may overlap between sections, the goal is to stay succinct and specific. Given many workplace conflicts stem from differences between employees’ personal styles, these categories help ensure your colleagues (and you) understand not just who you are, but how to engage with you most productively.

While filling out my user manual, many responses felt run-of-the-mill: Interviews, first dates, and a life-long obsession with personality inventories have prepared me to recite how much I value honest, explicit feedback; personal relationships; and providing support for those I care about. And how little I can tolerate lying, pretense, or discrimination.

Fittingly, my editor (whom I chat with all day every day) wasn’t surprised by my “resume level” responses. Nor was I shocked by hers, which included collaboration, humor, courage, specificity of feedback, and tight deadlines. Obvious as these core values may be to those we spend significant time with, documenting them gives colleagues a mental rubric to check when confusion or conflict--like a blunt statement or missed deadline--arise.

But sections like “How to help me” and “What people misunderstand about me” pushed both of us to go deeper, acknowledging the insecurities that colleagues may not notice on a daily basis. These insecurities--the ones we’re good at hiding, and hesitate to probe in others--are the root of most workplace and personal struggles. While somewhat uncomfortable to document, sharing these descriptions was the most relieving and rewarding aspect of writing the manual.

As a chronically anxious person, I shared that I’m bad at compartmentalizing, so occasionally, personal struggles overwhelm and distract me at work. One way to help me is to create an environment where it’s okay for me to admit I’m anxious and ask for some space. Flexible deadlines are also useful, as is knowing that I can occasionally leave the office early to rest. Upon reading this, my editor validated these feelings, saying she too struggles with anxiety. She gave me permission to step out whenever things get over my head. Simple as this sounds, I felt a massive weight lift.

I also wrote that I’m an intense over-achiever, and tend to excessively critique myself when I feel my work isn’t up to par. To help, though it felt indulgent, I asked for praise when I do really well, as it motivates me to stay ambitious, and to be called out when I’m hating on myself. My editor admitted that she’d noticed this tendency, and would take a stronger stance next time I spiraled, as she knew I’d appreciate it, not be offended.

Lastly, as a naturally blunt person, I shared that people often perceive me as cold or single-minded. To help, I asked that colleagues let me know if I’m too brusque, and share their counterarguments, as the real sign of intelligence is “strong opinions, weakly held.” After reading this, my editor shared a concern that she wasn’t blunt enough with me. This was an excellent opportunity for clarification, as I told her I wouldn’t want her to change her communication style to match mine, and that I valued learning from her softer approach.

While my editor’s personal manual points are hers to share, they also facilitated invaluable clarity. For example, she wrote, “Help me protect my time. I have an easy time saying no to pitches, but when it comes to people asking for my help, I always want to say yes--so I can wind up overextended and overwhelmed.” Given I Slack her at least hourly, reading this point pushed me to inquire whether the frequency of our conversations is overbearing--a worry I’d always held. She assured me that it wasn’t, and we agreed to let each other know when we need space.

If anything, this process highlights the importance of including a call for feedback at the end of your manual. It’s essential to acknowledge that this is a living document, to be adapted as you get to know yourself and your colleagues better. I pulled from Kroghrud’s manual, which ends with: “The points are not an exhaustive list, but should save you some time figuring out how I work and behave. Please make me aware of additional points you think I should put on a revised version of this ‘user’s manual.’”

Fun and cathartic as our manual writing experience was, my editor and I couldn’t help but wonder how much time and stress we could’ve saved by writing and sharing these manuals seven months ago, when we began working together. What’s more, we considered how little we knew (and how much we wanted to know) about the dispositions and preferences of our coworkers.

Psychological safety--the ability to share your thoughts and ideas openly, honestly, and without fear of judgment--has been repeatedly proven the key to innovative, happy teams. Whether you’re a manager or young employee, writing and sharing a user manual has a clear business payoff. The better a team knows one other, the easier it will be for them to navigate conflict, empathize with one another, and feel comfortable sharing, critiquing, and building upon one another’s ideas.

Thirty minutes spent writing a manual can save hours analyzing and predicting what your colleagues like and hate. What’s more, if my experience is anything to draw from, sharing manuals with your colleagues will build connection, and make you feel less alone. I know I’ll take any opportunity to celebrate the fact that on the inside, we’re all a little bit crazy.

[kootenaygoon]

So,

Steph’s hair was the colour of a midnight sky on fire.

Most of the time she had it pulled back to reveal her red dreadlocks but as we hiked across the Shambhala grounds she let the blackness reign, sweeping freely past her shoulders. She looked the part of a festival kid, with an extravagant mess of necklaces and one of those utility belts she wore low-slung to one side of her skirt. It was hot enough that we were both shirtless, but the air was grimy too. I’d brought along a ventilation mask to deal with the smoke, the type construction workers wear on a job site, but quickly felt silly when I saw all the naked faces around me. They weren’t scared of this forest fire, so neither was I — though I kept close tabs on what was going on via Twitter.

“You have a fucking press pass, do you know what that means?” Steph asked, grabbing ahold of my lanyard. “We can go backstage pretty much anywhere we want with this.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know any of these artists, though.”

“Doesn’t matter. That’s where all the best parties are. And it’s the only place on the ranch where they’re allowed to serve alcohol,” she said, pulling me around by the neck. “This festival’s gonna be next level.”

Steph had proven repeatedly to be the perfect party companion. Earlier that summer we’d connected at Unity Festival in Slocan, which was more family-style but still covertly debaucherous for the older crowd. She’d brought Maya along and we spent the day chilling on beach blankets and napping in her trailer, listening to an electronic didgeridoo bounce sound in ways I didn’t realize were possible. She was game for anything, never high-maintenance, and could keep up a conversation no matter how high she was. I always wondered how well she’d known Ryan Tapp, before he died, whether she knew any more about the circumstances of his death than I did. She was friends with everyone and enemies with nobody, except maybe her shit-head exes. But even then, it was clear she pitied them more than anything.

“So what do you think they’re going to do about this forest fire?” I asked. “I mean, this smoke is getting out of control.”

She shrugged. “I heard it’s like 10 clicks away or something.”

“But that isn’t even that much? I mean fires move over distances like that all the time, right? All it takes is the right kind of wind. Can you imagine?”

“I guess I trust Jimmy to make the right decision.”

I told her about Andrew Bellerby, the representative from the RDCK in charge of overseeing an evacuation. He would be battling with Chris Armstrong, who was officially in charge of safety at Shambhala. Jimmy would be in the middle of the battle, keeping in mind the millions of dollars it would cost him to shut down early. I wished I could be a fly on the wall while that conversation was going on. Ed was texting me routinely for updates and I didn’t know what to tell him. I was having the time of my life, pretending like it wasn’t happening. 

“Even if they cancel, it’s not like they can just herd everyone out of here immediately,” I said. “Most of these people need at least 12 hours to sleep it off. If you can even wrangle them at all.”

“Yeah, but maybe they have designated drivers.”

I shook my head. “I think you’re over-estimating how prepared your average raver is for this shit. People don’t come to Shambhala to be a designated driver.”

Eventually we worked our way to the Grove Stage, where I ran into my friend Astra. She was sweat-slicked and marching in place like it was her job. I knew the performers, this local band named Moontricks, and we shouldered our way to the front to fan-girl. When I reached the stage I looked over to see Joe Nillo, hooded and intensely focused on the canvas in front of him. He was working on the same painting from Kamp, the one of Chelsea’s roommate, and I waved Steph over to come check it out. I couldn’t understand how he could work in these conditions, getting jostled and banged against, but most people gave him a healthy distance. He was feeding off the energy of the crowd, detailing the woman’s palm as it transformed into a small tree.

“That’s the tree of life in her palm,” I told Steph. “And she’s Mother Nature.”

“That’s dope.”

I slapped Joe on the shoulder. “Happy Shambs, man!”

He glanced up, concerned, then gave me a half-smile before returning to work. Nobody was going to interrupt his flow. I stood there for a few more minutes, amazed at his delicate line work.

“Home!” Moontricks sang, with electric distortion. “I’m coming home!”

After that we headed out to the medical area to hang out with Lyra. She had a giant trailer stocked with goodies, parked right next to the entrance, that she was sharing with her son. We lounged on camping chairs in the grey, shifting sunlight. I told her that I was aspiring to write about the medical team for the Star, and I needed her to find me somebody to interview. Maybe the person in charge? I didn’t want to do it right then, but maybe during a quiet period on the last day?

“I know exactly who I’ll introduce you to. Come back tonight, we’ll be having a special party here for our leader. His name is Dr. Brendan Munn and he’s absolutely incredible. Like there’s nobody in the world doing the sort of harm reduction work we’re doing here” she said. 

“He’s been doing this work, developing best practices and compiling data, for the past four years. That means he can look at the larger trends of mass gathering medicine in ways that nobody else can.”

“Mass gathering medicine,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s what they call it.”

Lyra promised to connect with us that evening, once her shift was over, so Steph and I worked our way back into the throbbing chaos of it all. I couldn’t keep up with the sensory input as we worked our way from one stage to the next. We took a break by the Salmo River and smoked her skinny hand-rolled joints, pleased with our lot in life. I started to monologue, watching the smoke swirl across the orange globe of the sun. It made me feel like I was Daenerys again, hiking through the Red Waste with my Dothraki.

“You know, you could come to Shambhala every year. You could party every single day. You could try to experience every little thing. But you’d still only see a tiny fraction of what it is,” I said. 

“Lyra and Dr. Munn get to see the dark side, I get to see things from a journalistic angle, these party kids get to see their favourite DJs. You can do drugs, or do it sober, or you could just sit in your trailer and listen to the music from afar. It’s like this big throbbing ball of chaos, like a God.”

Steph took the joint. “Shambs is magic.”

I frowned, scanned the mess of floaties drifting by us, then gazed out at the raw forest on the opposite bank. When I was younger my friends would journey out to Shambhala from Vancouver, but it was never my scene. Instead the universe had brought me here, in my 33rd year, for my third time at the festival. I had the feeling that there was something I was meant to see here, something in the numbers, something I was meant to experience. I also had the sense I wouldn’t be coming back. 

“How many Shambhala’s have you been to?” I asked Steph, as she passed back the joint.

“Seven, maybe? Eight?”

“Do you ever get sick of it?”

She smiled. “Sometimes I think I’m over it, you know? I’ll leave one summer and go ‘I’m never doing that again’. But once a year’s rolled around I feel different. Say whatever you want about it, there’s really nothing like it.”

The Kootenay Goon