#and probably Mechi too actually

[pushing500]

Welcome to Sparks, Ivy. Kwahu has been looking forward to meeting you properly, and don't worry about Mechi. I'm sure he'll warm up to you in time.

Ah yes. Babies cry and vomit. Delightful. At least little Ivy has been healed of her grave infant sickness now! Thank you, Healer Mech Serum!!

Kwahu carried his new ward to her lovingly constructed bedroom and fed her some of our yak's milk. No more lattes for a little while, sorry boys. You understand how it is.

Ivy is going to settle in well here, I think ❤️

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[emotionally-starved-archive-2024]

*Spring. A wonderful time. A time of blooming flowers. A time of rain. So much rain. And yet, Tracker wouldn't be awake to feel the drops hit his skin. Frankly, it's probably for the best. Now, he didn't need to listen to Jeremy's constant chatter. Or Jane's loud orders. Or Ludwig's... well, Ludwig was always rather quiet, actually. Outside of battle, the doc usually kept to himself. Regardless, Tracker didn't have to hear it. Not anymore. Hey, at least he finally got some sleep like Pyro wanted...*

...

*PYRO! Aw damn it, they'd be worried sick. Poor mann's gonna search half the barracks before they even think of searching the woods. Even then, he was in pretty deep... Doubt anyone would find him. No, this was a break, yeah? A permanent one, but still. All Tracker had to do was lay here. He didn't have to worry about whether or not Ludwig took his kidney in his sleep because he was dead. Medic could take all the kidneys he wanted, for all he cared.*

. . .

*Speaking of Medic, was Otto alright? It wasn't like he could check, but it was for the best. Arther, too. Eh, the two were probably catching up with Mechie. There's nothing to worry about.*

. . .

*The announcement. Right. Mechie's probably on the run. Arther and Otto, too. Eh, they have Engi.*

. . .

*Goddamn it, Engi's probably on the run, too. Engi was like an uncle to the bots. He even claimed one as his son.*

. . .

*Gah, who was he kidding. Shit's all hit the fan, and where was he? Dead in the fuckin' woods. Each and every person he cared about was on the run. He couldn't take a break now. He wouldn't take a break now. Get up.

. . .

*Get. Up.*

. . .

*Get. Up!*

. . .

*I said get up!*

...OW.

*Tracker slowly rises. Hunger. Food. He frantically looks around to find a pouch of quarters on the floor near him. Without a second thought, he pours the entire thing into his mouth. Now that's done... where was he? Oh, right. On the hunt for Otto and Arther. How long had it been since he... well, died? Judging by the fact it's rather wet, it's probably spring. Meaning it's been at least a month. Something's wrong. He should be dead, but he isn't. Why? He scratches at one of his rust spots and ponders... wait, where did the rust go? Sure enough, some of the rust had given way to show holes plastered all over his hull. Were those... there before? Obviously, otherwise, the rust would have nothing to congregate around. But what did they do? As if to answer his question, spouts of seam began to flood out of him. What the...*

Cooling, standby...

WHAT THE [Fifty percent off all [sandvitch.]]

*...Well, that was weird. That didn't sound like his own inner monolog. So, there's something else in here with him. Weird.*

Cooling completed. Steam levels at 20%. Consume water immediately.

*Ah. That made sense. Not only did he need to scarf down quarters, but he also needed to slurp down water. There's a lake nearby. Surely, he could just drink from there. Alright, he'll drink some water, then head back to base. The team probably didn't even notice he was gone.*

[mechidraws]

Saw your tags saying you got a youtube channel, do you mind linking it?

Oh yeah, actually forgot to link it lol

https://youtube.com/channel/UCxOJsImeQHd5xfTrHvUwRBQ

I probably won’t use it a lot but who knows, the pico is lost vids up over there too

[theawkwardterrier]

things left behind and the things that are ahead, ch. 39

AO3 link here

He’s gotten pretty settled in with his coworkers at Stark Industries a month into the job, and it’s absolutely stunningly hot, like the air’s drenched, woolen, nearly physical as it fills every little space, but Bucky finds himself going out for lunch. That happens to him sometimes, the need to not be around people, forced to make conversation, to joke and be fine. Because sometimes, still, he isn’t fine; he came home with a weight on his shoulders that can be lighter certain days and heavier others but which is always there, and he’s trying, still, to be okay with that.

He usually eats on the later side, so the afternoon concert is already nearing its close though the music is still apparent from the spot he’s chosen. The file he’s brought with him is only a prop. He keeps it open on the bench beside him but doesn’t really look at it, staring around instead as he unwraps the sandwich he bought.

He’ll try to remember to call Steve tonight, because his best friend made him promise to phone when he feels like this, but he already feels a little guilty about it. He knows that Steve’s got his back, the same way he’ll always have Steve’s, but the Carters are working on adopting their little girl next month - Rose is her name, Steve said - and he can tell that the two of them are stretched pretty thin so he doesn’t want to add on. He has an appointment with his shrink next week, and he could probably make it sooner if he needed it, but this feels like the sort of thing he should be able to handle by himself.

Despite the time that’s passed - six years since Steve and Peggy brought him back, more than ten since whatever happened down in that lab - he hasn’t quite grown used to the ways in which he came home different. If anything, he’s reached a point of annoyance with himself that he’s had all this time and all this help, and nevertheless can find himself overcome by something as simple as a crowd, a noisy room. He remembers by now being the life of the party, ready with a quick remark, lighting girls’ cigarettes with a flick of his wrist and a flash of a grin. He remembers following Steve’s good-hearted, hairbrained schemes throughout their childhood, coming up with schemes of his own, talking their way out of trouble with teachers or the cops on the beat (even if he had to rest his whole weight on Steve’s toes to keep his big mouth closed). But that doesn’t feel like him anymore, and it grates on him that he can’t figure out how to make it be.

He shakes his head at himself, picking a couple of fallen scraps of roast beef from the sandwich wrappings before balling up the wax paper. If he still feels like this at the end of the day, he has the number that Charlie Gibbs gave him before he left Washington, the one answered by a man Charlie describes as “someone who saw a thing or two over there” and who can gather more like them to drink a beer and talk things over if they need to.

In the meantime, there’s still fifteen minutes before he has to get back to the office, and he tips his face upward, limbs sprawling out a little in relaxation as he soaks in the sun. It always makes him feel sort of stupid to have these sorts of moments, the overwhelming of his mind, during the summer, as if the sunshine and freedom should drive them away. But the warmth feels so good, too, that he tries not to think about that, tries to just lean back and enjoy.

When he brings his chin down again, his gaze catches on the bench across the plaza from his. The woman there - one hand holding open a book, the other her own sandwich, a thumb that he can’t quite track wiping away a drip of mustard from the corner of her mouth - is familiar. He stares awkwardly for a moment, trying to place her. She glances up as she tries to flip a page with a thumb (he assumes her clean one) and gives a slight raise of her sandwich in his direction in recognition.

He can picture, like a photograph, the smile he might have given her before the war, cocky, glinting sideways and a bit suggestive. Now he settles for a nod and a tip of his hat, tucks his hands in his pockets and starts walking back.

It’s only as he pushes through the glass doors into the Stark Industries building that he remembers where he’s seen her before: lab coat and safety glasses on, silky dark hair (longer than was truly fashionable) pinned back, in one of the labs during his tour of the building. “The chem fellas, for what they’re worth,” said the guy showing him around, swaggering onward with barely a glance. But Bucky had looked back, caught a glimpse of a raised middle finger.

He sort of wants to ask her whether it was for the “fellas” when she was clearly standing right there, or if she just feels that strongly about chemistry.

She’s there again the next day, sitting on the same bench, holding a different book, Frances Parkinson Keyes’s The Royal Box. He’s actually read this one at Peggy’s recommendation, but he doesn’t say anything, just touches the brim of his hat when he stands. She’s wearing a hat today too, a wide tan straw thing that shades her face, and she touches her brim back at him.

He finds himself grinning as he stuff his hands into his pockets and starts heading back.

He’s actually feeling better on the third day after a night out with Charlie Gibbs’s friends (well, they might even be his friends at this point) and an invitation from Becca to come over to her place for dinner Saturday. He’d wondered when he moved back if being around his family, especially the new generation and their energy, might be too much. But it’s actually invigorating to be around them, to be used as a climbing structure, given random hugs and sticky kisses to his cheeks. He never laughs as hard as he does when Jimmy tells some story about the indignations of his school day or Baby falls unconsciously into an impression of her grandmother. And the youngest is nearly four months now, and Becca swears he smiles all the time, so that’ll be nice to see.

So there’s no real reason he strolls out into the July heat instead of staying in his office, no reason his feet lead him once again to Bryant Park. No reason he stops for only a second, then keeps walking over when he sees a familiar figure sitting not on her regular bench, which is empty across the path, but instead on his.

“I thought that if we were going to keep meeting like this, we should at least know each other’s names,” she says, squinting up past him as he stands over her. Her voice is even, confident, but not strictly businesslike; there’s a smile at the edge of her words. She extends her hand to him. “Layla Mansour.”

He shakes, sits down beside her. “Bucky Barnes.”

“Really?” she says, so dubiously that he actually laughs.

“It’s the name I’ve got.”

“I seriously doubt it,” she says, “but there’ll be time for me to figure out the truth later.” And with that she unwraps her sandwich and takes a bite.

Three weeks later, Peggy requests that Howard send over a chemical engineer and a mechanical engineer to SHIELD headquarters at Camp Lehigh. Bucky’s an easy pick for the mechie considering they won’t even have to go through any extra security rigamarole, and when he hears they’re looking for someone else, he knows right away who to recommend.

Bucky’s never learned to drive, never had to and at some point decided he never really wanted to, so he’s particularly impressed by the ease with which Layla directs the borrowed Stark Industries sedan. She brought gloves with her, a crisp pair, white with bleach, but they’re draped over her handbag in the backseat. Her fingers on the wheel are not long, but they’re easily capable, with short, even nails.

“Where are you from?” he asks like clearing his throat, because he has the feeling that staring at her hands is not an entirely normal thing to do, and because he realizes that he actually doesn’t know. They’ve been talking over lunch for weeks now, but it’s been about preferred sandwich spots and the best things on the menu there, about work, and about her endless books. (She brings a new one nearly every day, and he has no idea how she’s able to read them all. Her library card gets more of a workout than anyone else’s he knows.)

Her mouth tucks in at the corners for just a second, then she says, too brightly even for her, “My grandparents were from Syria. Well, I suppose it would probably be Lebanon now, though, what with the borders shifting and all. And at the time that whole area the Ottoman Empire, but...Now you have the general idea of it, I imagine.”

“Oh,” he says. “No.” Not that he hasn’t noticed her dark, dark hair and intense eyes, but… “I meant, not too many people learn to drive in the city. And um—” He glances out the window, taps a finger on his knee, tries not to mumble. “You have a little bit of an accent. Only sometimes. You drop your r’s, and you’re the only person I’ve ever heard pronounce the number four the way that you do.”

A laugh startles out of her. “I’m from just outside of Boston. Watertown.”

“Don’t know it,” he says, shrugging, turning over in his head the way she says it: Watatown, Watuhtown. “The only thing I know about Boston is the Red Sox.”

Again, he’s impressed as she manages to execute a smooth turn off the main street even while eyeing him sharply. “Be careful what you say. I might live in New York now, but I’ve been going to games at Fenway since I was a kid.”

Bucky lifts his hands in defense. “Hey, they might not be here anymore, but I’m still for the Dodgers. We can hate on the Yanks together.”

“Excellent,” she says, with a grin. “That’s all I ever need,” and she pulls up to the guardhouse at the edge of the base.

He’d expected to be directed to whichever scientist they’d be working with, but Peggy’s actually there to greet them herself.

“We’re honored,” Bucky says, leaning to kiss her cheek.

“You had better be,” she responds. “Good to see you, Barnes.”

“You too, Carter.” He hasn’t seen them in probably a month and the reason why is written in the exhausted lines of her face. It strikes Bucky as a little odd that he hasn’t gotten to meet his friends’ child yet, doesn’t even know what she looks like, but it’s easy to tell how overwhelmed all the Carters are - perhaps the newest one most of all - so it just hasn’t been the right time. They hadn’t even made it into the city for Bucky’s mother’s Labor Day dinner, and Bucky knows how Steve feels about Labor Day and Winifred Barnes. That same exhaustion from Peggy’s face is obvious in Steve’s voice when they talk on the phone these days, catching up late at night when Steve has a minute between cleaning up whatever messes Rose had made during the day. Bucky hadn’t thought Steve could get tired like that since the serum, but apparently kids really do a number on you, or maybe it’s just Rose.

As evidence, when Peggy turns to introduce herself to Layla, Bucky spots a small patch of oatmeal dried onto the shoulder of her blouse. It’s just a little thing, the cream of it blending into her shirt anyway, but it’s large on Peggy Carter; he doesn’t know that he’s ever found her so disheveled, and he’s seen her in the middle of battle and during the frigid center of the winter and after days without a real bath. He’ll point it out to her later - hopefully she’ll have enough brainpower to care.

Still, when she puts out a hand and says, “Peggy Carter,” it’s with that familiar firmness.

“Dr. Layla Mansour.” He can see that Peggy appreciates that she doesn’t shy away from using the title she’s earned, or from shaking back with an equally firm hand. “What can we help with?”

Bucky likes that, himself. Still, when Steve calls that night and waits a whole five minutes before asking casually about Bucky’s new friend that Peggy told him about, Bucky pretends not to know what he’s talking about.

“We just eat lunch together sometimes,” he deflects, and decides he’ll overlook the way Steve’s “hmmm” sounds knowing and just a bit suggestive.

And they do eat lunch together, two or three times a week, sometimes more. As the autumn grows cooler, glancing quickly around before they bring up their favorite and least favorite colleagues, the projects that they’re working on, what they’re most excited about starting next. Inside the newly opened diner down the street during the winter, talking about what brought them to the careers they have now, finding out that Layla went to CCNY too but only for her PhD and a couple years ahead of Bucky - they never came across each other there.

(“Lucky thing we met each other now,” she says around the bite of chocolate cake she is pretending she hasn’t just stolen from him. He smiles, sideways and then more, and echoes, “Lucky thing.”)

They continue into the spring, eating as they walk beside each other in the blossoming warmth, trading stories about how things were for them growing up, about their families, about how home doesn’t feel quite the same when you come back all grown up. Hearing her talk about Ted Williams and Jackie Jensen, her hands flying as if she might snag a baseball out of the air at any moment while he grins at her side, he actually has to hold himself back from gaining some affection for the Red Sox.

(Once, in May, he asks her about her weekend plans and she says briefly that her mother's set her up with a date, the son of a friend of a friend, before turning to toss her bread crust to a couple of squirrels. He doesn't ask more, or mention that the few times his own mother has urged him to go out with nice girls from church or the daughters of her sewing circle friends, he's walked away thinking that somehow they were perfectly nice and normal and somehow not quite right. The next week, she tells him, a bit pointedly, that she's going to see 12 Angry Men over the weekend with some of the other girls from her rooming house.)

He brings her to Steve and Peggy’s for dinner in July. Though he’d seen her not even two weeks ago, at the barbecue that was allegedly for Independence Day (Steve was meant to have a different birthday now), Rosie drags him into the house as soon as they arrive, then squints at Layla, coming through the door behind him.

“Who is that?” she asks, not quietly. “Who are you?”

“We told you that Miss Layla would be coming,” Steve says, striding over, drying his hands on a towel. “Be polite, Rose.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, Rose.” Layla steps forward, puts out a hand, doesn’t waver as she is eyed suspiciously and for a nearly uncomfortably long time. Finally, Rose shakes briefly before darting back off into the dining room.

Steve sighs. “Sorry about that,” he says. “I’m certainly happy to finally meet you.” His polite smile turns somewhat more broader and more youthful, teasing, as he catches Bucky’s glare that means don’t say something like—

“Bucky talks about you all the time,” Steve finishes angelically.

Layla looks over her shoulder at Bucky. “All the time, hmm, James?”

Her hair, normally worn back, is down around her face for dinner, set and curled up at the bottom. Bucky shrugs. “Maybe once or twice. He can’t count very well.”

“Perhaps you should move this conversation toward the table,” Peggy calls. “I think Rose is about to dig into this delicious meal herself, and I might join her.”

Steve and Bucky, mannered as they are, both gesture Layla ahead of them. Once she’s passed, Bucky punches Steve in the shoulder, hard enough that it might even bruise.

All the time? he mouths. Jackass.

Steve tucks his hand in his pockets, raising an eyebrow and mouthing back James?, grinning as they walk in together.

They don’t leave until nearly eleven, after they’ve eaten Steve’s delicious dinner (seriously, when did Steve learn to cook? Bucky can remember when he could practically only boil water, though that might have been because there was barely more in the house than that) and the absurdly rich chocolate mousse tart he made for dessert, after Rose had tucked herself into the chair in the living room where she could still listen to them and fallen asleep, after Steve’s told half a dozen stories to embarrass Bucky and Bucky had given just as good back and Peggy had topped them both.

Layla’s laugh is even lower than her speaking voice, Bucky’s noticed. He can recognize the start of it now, when it’s still a barely audible chuckle, and it makes him smile.

It’s a good night. He’s feeling good, even as he shifts the muscles of his back and shoulder a little. The arm isn’t as heavy as most, and it supports itself pretty well, has control nearly the way a flesh and blood one would, doesn’t just hang from his sleeve as a placeholder - Howard actually started a medical technology division after he worked with it. Still, when he wears it for this long, the discomfort becomes more and more obvious in the later hours.

“You can take it off, if you’d like,” says Layla.

He hadn’t even realized she’d noticed that little movement. Honestly, he hadn’t even realized she’d noticed the arm at all, which is stupid - she’s got two perfectly good eyes, she sees him nearly every day, but she’s never stared or asked prying questions or even looked purposefully away, making unwavering eye contact the way some people do to avoid seeming rude.

There had been that first day they were working at Lehigh, when one of the others on the team was walking across the lab to show them a delicate instrument, holding it carefully and eyeing Bucky’s hand where it was visible past his shirt cuff. “You sure you can handle this?” he’d said, like Bucky was going to thank him for his concern, before he’d crashed to the ground right as he passed where Layla was standing. Even Bucky’s eyes hadn’t tracked her foot flicking out across the floor, just catching the very end of the movement as she set it innocently back where it had been. “Goodness,” she’d said, tilting her head in pity. “Are you certain that you can handle it?” But that’s the only acknowledgement that she’s ever given.

“I’m fine,” he tells her now. “It’s fine.”

She makes a low hmmm sort of sound. “Maybe,” she says. “But it’s also fine to sometimes not be fine.”

“Not for me, it isn’t,” he says, the words out before he can check them. He’s been doing pretty well in the months that he’s known her, talking to Steve and Peggy and the shrink and guys who served, spending time with his family, getting good sleep when he can and taking long walks in the night air when, however increasingly rarely, the nightmares mean he can’t. He doesn’t take time off from work if he can help it, and he’s mostly been able to help it. But he knows that his healing is a slow process, inches and years, that he has to do his best to keep a good face through it all.

He doesn’t know how to explain that to her, really, to tell her that the version of him that she’s spending time with...it hasn’t been a show, but it hasn’t been all of him, either.

“All of us,” she says with conviction, as if she can read his mind, as if she already knows, as if he’s already told her everything and she doesn’t care. “All people are allowed to not be fine sometimes. And you count in that too, whatever you might think of yourself.”

And as she drives them back, soft darkness and the sounds of crickets around them, he tries to let himself believe her.

She gets promoted late in October, which she’s proud of but also finds irritating - it means a lot of extra paperwork and administrative duties. They don’t get to eat lunch together as often now that she has a heavier schedule of meetings. He takes to staying a couple hours later, turning up by her desk around 7 to make sure that she wraps up for the day. They usually go out to supper together after, sometimes even a picture if there’s something good playing.

One frigid night in February, Bucky holds Layla’s coat out for her, trying to douse his nerves by listening to her complain grouchily once again about how the new position means that she’s down to reading a book every two days or even every three.

“The librarians probably have you in their prayers,” says Bucky once again as they wave to their favorite waitress and head toward the door. Before Layla can push it open, Bucky puts a hand to her arm.

“Wait,” he says. “I just wanted to—Well, it’s Valentine’s and you’ve been working hard so I—Here.” He pulls from his coat pocket the little pink case, watches her pop it open to examine the pink rose inside nestled amidst baby’s breath and a sprig of greenery. She’s practical, doesn’t really go for elaborate things, but he’s seen the little flashes of prettiness in the glint of jeweled pins and flowered clips when she has her hair pulled back or up, the various necklaces he’s only caught glimpses of, hidden as they are beneath the necklines of her dresses and blouses. He thought she would like this, and he doesn’t tuck his head but instead watches as she smiles, removes the flower and takes in the scent, runs a gentle finger over the petals.

“Thank you,” she says, tucking it back inside and closing the little case with care. “It’s lovely.”

“I’m glad,” he says, letting out a quiet little breath. He’d searched around during his lunch hour for something remaining at the florist in good shape and kept it in one of the cool rooms at work, waiting for the right chance to give it to her. Feeling lighter, he reaches for the door, only to have her stop him this time, a hand on his forearm.

“Are you ever,” she says, “going to ask me on an actual date?”

“Oh.” For all the nights he lay with his hands behind his head and imagined saying those words, he finds that he can’t manage them now, not right away. He almost wants to look away, to gather his head, but he breathes deeply, watches the calm in her brown eyes, the patience there.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” he finally says. “Fair Game’s at the Longacre; we can see if there are tickets. Or West Side Story, if you’d rather. Or The Music Man - that’s supposed to be good too, if they’re not sold out.”

“Marian the Librarian?” He can hear that sound, the very beginning of her laughter. “I’ll see if I’m available.”

“You will, huh?”

“I think I can probably make the time,” she says archly. “For you.” And she holds out a hand to him, waiting as he secures his fingers gently between hers, before opening the door.

More chapters here

[same-side]

I’m sorry if this is too personal but your bio says mechanical engineer and I just think that’s so freaking cool especially being so young and I was wondering what’s that like? (Please dont feel pressured to talk about this if it makes you uncomfortable!)

Hey there! No worries, I don’t mind talking about it)

this is pretty broad so i guess i’ll just ramble a bit. You’re welcome to ask me any more specific questions you might have! Thank you so much for checking in and just. being curious! c:

“young” omg

I suppose I am. Usually, here, engineering takes five years to get the B.S. because it’s such an intensive programme with so many classes to take. I overloaded myself with credit hours so I could get through school faster. I graduated about a year ago and honestly I do not miss school at all; the working world is so nice!! I was the kind of person that was in student government, several clubs, and interning all on top of classes, so when I got into the working world it was like… I finally had time to breathe and do things I enjoy (like art!).

I’m a mechanical engineer, but we’re a really versatile class of engineer. Our educational and professional scope covers everything from materials engineering to programming. A huge percentage of mechies are design engineers; you would probably assume given my art hobby that I’m a design engineer. Ironically, I don’t find much enjoyment in CAD (computer aided design, 3D) modeling and design work; I’m much more adept at taking a look at problems, analyzing them, and fixing them. In fact, all of the positions I’ve had have been in the testing realm. 

I actually got my undergrad specialization in propulsion; that means I’m really heavily focused on understanding flowpaths and how fluids and heat interact with components. For example, studying and reducing drag on a car, making aircraft faster by controlling the airflow, making an engine more efficient with hotter combustion, or creating piping systems. I plan on getting my masters in fluid mechanics as well, though it will have to wait a few years.

I’m legally not allowed to discuss my current position, but I can tell you about some of what I used to do! 

When I was in college I interned with NASA JPL on the Mars2020 rover team. I was then picked up full time on the Europa Lander team, where I worked for a full year before switching to my current employer.

For the rover teams I worked in testbeds. Simply put, testbed engineers break things. Usually what happens is you have a prototype - in my case, I worked in mobility systems so I was usually testing parts of the robotic arm for the 2020 rover. You look at the specifications and what that prototype is supposed to accomplish, you design different series of controlled tests to push it to its limits, find out where it succeeds, where it fails, etc., and then you design and build the accompanying machinery (testbed) necessary to do so. Oversee the tests, analyze the data, then redesign the components to better succeed at their intended purpose. I really like working in testing because it sees the full scope of engineering. I get to dabble in design work and programming and robotics and materials science and technical writing and hands on building. I get to do all of it, not just the same thing day in and day out. Oftentimes I worked on legacy hardware from the Curiosity Rover; so basically I would take component designs from Curiosity, redesign them, test them, then pass them along to that subcomponent team for review.

For the lander team, I worked cradle-to-grave on the lander’s drill mechanisms. I led a team of three other engineers and we designed, built, tested, and rebuilt the drill for the lander from scratch. It’s important to note here that this was the prototype, non-flight hardware. So what happens now is they’ll take our design and physical drill prototype, rework it a bit, and then very, very carefully make the one that will go on the real lander that gets shot into space. This is to avoid any kinds of contamination and to ensure precision machining of the parts.

My brother is also a mechie and I actually chose to be one because of him. My parents were always super supportive and proud of him, and I wanted that support, too. they. did not believe women should do math or science. So it was a constant struggle of my parents telling me to change my major to something more acceptable. It was also a struggle of oftentimes being the only woman in my classes, not having female professors, things of the sort. I used to do a lot of outreach with children, prospective students, families, corporations, charities, etc. to make sure other underrepresented individuals didn’t have to go through the same scorn I did, and knew how to combat it when they did face it. That’s probably. the only thing I really don’t like about being an engineer, but with each year it gets better.Anyway, I hope that gives a little insight into my life and what I do! Have some pictures!

[fullstop-official]

A Hellish Freak Disaster with Burning Rubble and No Survivors

AKA: Chapter One - July 18

In three days, everything will change.

But right now, Travis Longfield is swatting his free hand at my shoulder as punishment for having my feet up on the space above the glovebox in the Gator – his Wrangler nicknamed aptly for its military-appropriate paint job. I have to laugh a little at his feeble attempt to keep straight on the road and hit me at the same time, more to mock him than anything else. But I finally give in and give up my recline before he takes his chance at the next stop sign to go for the ankles.

“You care about this thing too much, dude,” I tease, “I’m not allowed to sit comfortably – Jesus, I can’t even eat in here!”

“Do you want her to end up like Cole’s car?” The Gator, of course, has always been a her. “He wrecked that Cherokee. It can’t be saved. They should write it off for internal damage.”

“Yeah, okay. Sorry I upset your girlfriend here. I won’t dirty her up.”

“I’m not really worried about that,” he says with a smirk. “You’re not even the one dirtying up your own girlfriend.”

His comment makes my mood immediately plummet, and, as we pull into the Mechis’ driveway behind a sleek, black Lexus, my mood suddenly becomes a satellite that drops from the stratosphere, falling down, down, down toward the earth at thousands of miles per hour and on fire. Travis parks the Gator and we both climb out. He takes a moment to pull his guitar case from the back seat before we go about picking our way around the aforementioned Lexus and Cole’s hopelessly-stained, wrapper-littered Grand Cherokee to reach the side door to the garage.

We enter, and we’re the last two to arrive. Cole is sprawled out on the duct-taped loveseat by the wall that’s way too tiny to fit all of him. He looks over and his shaggy and badly-highlighted hair flips naturally as his head turns. Still, our appearance isn’t enough to steal his attention away from loudly strumming a progression of power chords on his guitar in order to mess with Matt. Matt is attempting to tune his bass on the other side of the room in spite of the noise, but probably isn’t having an easy time without anything that resembles quiet. Bryson is on the beat-up couch opposite of Cole, scribbling in a binder that’s full of schedules, sets, general to-do lists, and other notes that he says are necessary and need to be kept – though the entire thing is so crammed with papers that it will explode one day.

My satellite mood fails to brace for impact and crashes against the ground, colliding in a hellish, freak disaster with burning rubble and no survivors when I see the Lexus’ owner practicing the screeches that she calls “vocal warmups” by her mic stand, front and center. Saying she’s my mortal enemy undoubtedly makes me sound like some sort of comic book supervillain, but I’ve never come up with anything more accurate and less theatrical and childish to describe what we have. Our rivalry would probably take an entire war map with battalions and flags to comprehend.

I met Selena Walton when we were in seventh grade – briefly – but truly got to know and dislike her the following year when our feud officially ignited. It was just shortly after that, during the same year, that the rest of us really jumped on the idea of forming the band and, by the end of eighth grade, we’d seen it through.

There was just one problem. I play the drums. Travis is lead guitar, and Cole is on second. Matt plays bass. Bryson covers keyboard when we need it for certain songs, but otherwise acts as our manager. We were good on our own, just the five of us, but when things started getting more and more serious, we had a debate about lyrics.

Cole is an incredible singer – when he’s singing unclean vocals (the screamo parts). When it comes to singing regularly, he may as well just strangle a bird on stage; the sound it would make is more or less the same. Our preferred genre of punk and its “close-enough” offshoots (we’ve found that a healthy mixture brings in a bigger audience) are starting to blur the lines a little, but we all agreed that we wouldn’t be a full-fledged screamo band. We resolved to use his talent conservatively. The rest of the guys couldn’t carry a tune to save their lives.

I can sing, but drummers stay at the back of the stage, and squishing the two roles together makes the show lose a certain kind of energy. The audience generally likes to see the singer while they’re singing. I can sing backup, but there needs to be someone up front. A hype man.

Enter Selena Walton. Unwelcomely welcomed to the band after our first five months of minimal lyrics with a three-to-two vote.

And whom I hate more than anyone else in the universe.

And maybe it would be slightly better if she didn’t front our band. I have nothing against female punk singers, or really just female singers in general. Many of them are good, even pretty great. Selena, however, is an exception. She hates the vast majority of the music that we perform. And, though what she does is technically considered singing, she is an alto who thinks she’s a soprano, which is the worst kind of alto and does not make for a spectacular – or even subpar – show. Her signature style is going up a few too many notes at the end of nearly every line, regardless of whether or not she can hit them, and it is such a pain to listen to that I’m surprised my head hasn’t shattered like glass, or exploded like Bryson’s band binder is going to do. This is all in addition to her entitled, annoying, spoiled brat attitude which is all wrapped up into one short, oblivious, bitchy, brunette package.

I wish that was the end of it, but, devastatingly, having Selena as our lead singer isn’t even the terrible part. I can deal with that. But about a year ago, band practice went from being the few hours a week that I had to tolerate the fact she exists to my own, personal hell.

Bryson’s managerial skills are sharp, but PR-wise he tends to run things like a scripted reality TV show in order to make us stand out from other local acts so people can invest in our “personal” lives. I don’t know what celebrity dating scandal gave him the idea, but a fake inter-band relationship was proposed and, by some weird misfortune, not immediately vetoed. After a ton of arguing, I literally drew the short straw.

Selena Walton is my fake girlfriend.

And I hate her.

At the very least, after a year of playing pretend (and having her hang off of me during shows after spitting in my face behind the scenes), I haven’t actually been forced to kiss her or anything yet. I think I’d have to tear off my lips and cauterize the wounds if that happened.

Bryson still sticks to his delusional claim that having us fake date is a good thing for the band, even though it causes more drama when we’re alone together than it ever does when we’re out in the public eye. I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be able to keep it up because Selena only acts like she’s staying faithful to me when, in reality, she’s probably slept with every guy who’s ever looked at her for more than five seconds. Pretending that I tolerate her is a tough challenge, but I deserve an Oscar for acting like I love her.

And so, when Travis and I walk in, she pretends to ignore me, but I watch her in my peripheral when she thinks I’m not paying attention. She gives me a look; it’s a spiteful, almost disgusted scowl. For what it’s worth, I’m glad she can just barely endure my mere presence. It’s the one thing about this entire situation that makes me feel all happy and light inside.

Travis sets his case down to take out his guitar, and I go sit on the arm of the couch next to Bryson. Since we cleared out his garage to act as our rehearsal space, my setup has lived here permanently and I’m the only one who ever touches my drums. They only move for gigs, and I don’t have much to prepare before practice.

Cole gives me a subtle nod, but doesn’t stop strumming one of our originals. “S’up, Scott,” he greets me. He uses my last name instead of my first. Bryson, Matt, and Cole have all done that as long as I’ve known them – apparently, the single syllable of my surname is easier than having to waste energy saying the two in Morgan.

I glance over Bryson’s shoulder after nodding back. The paper he’s mentally wrestling with has July twentieth – Friday’s date – and the time of our show at the top. The rest is the final setlist he’s been compiling that has only just been finished. It takes us a long time to decide which songs we’ll be playing, and in what order. (I blame Selena.) The one thing that Bryson has left blank is the space after encore:.

We always do an encore. And it’s always a Paramore song because they’re the only non-objectionable option Selena likes. Paramore is an amazing group, and I do like their music, but if she doesn’t learn to like literally anyone else, I’ll start to lose my goddamn mind.

Bryson taps his pen against the paper for another minute, and then grabs the list and, leaving the space empty, shuts the binder. Our logo is on the front of it, slipped into the plastic cover. It’s just a black circle with our band name, Full Stop., inside of it in an all-caps, blocky, white font. We let Cole design it – we’d said we wanted something simple, and, though it looks like something that was created in Microsoft Paint (and it probably was), he’d delivered. Selena thinks it’s too plain, which is why I think it’s the most wonderful graphic in the world. I wear one of our T-shirts as much as possible and I’m met with her judgy glare each time.

I watch Bryson set the binder aside and look over the setlist another time before rising. “I guess we can start,” he announces. Cole’s instrument abruptly stops. The garage, however, is not entirely silent. Matt and Travis use the absence of guitar riffs to actually tune their instruments. At the very least, Selena shuts up.

I proceed over to my kit, and purposefully bump Selena’s shoulder with my arm as I pass. She’s about five-foot-four – about a head shorter than me – and it irritates her when I “accidentally” run into her. It makes my whole day. I sit on the stool and the others slowly start to claim their positions. Cole drags his amp over from the loveseat, and Travis pulls the elastic from his hair so it falls just to his shoulders. He claims having it loose helps him rock harder. I fail to see the correlation, but he’s a damn good guitarist, so I try not to question his methods.

As Matt takes his place, and Selena taps her microphone to make sure no one (me) has muted it behind her back again, I put my earplugs in and grab my sticks. They feel like an extension of my body when I hold them – like having just a little bit more to my arms. My nerves begin to hum with anticipation. I saw the first song and I’m pumped to play it.

Bryson gets started and reads the set from the paper like always: song title, and then the artist for Selena’s music-illiterate benefit. He only skips the artist if it’s one of our originals – at least she knows the titles of those. And she seems to tolerate singing them. Sometimes.

“Okay, open with This Could Be Anywhere in the World – Alexisonfire. Selena will take a sec to introduce everything, then Silver Bullet – Hawthorne Heights, right into Bring Me To The Light. Selena can improvise something after that. Green Day’s Holiday smoothly into Boulevard of Broken Dreams, then You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid – The Offspring, and this is the working title for the story of two crazy kids.”

“We never really found a title for that, did we?” Travis says teasingly. He throws a small smirk my way.

“No,” I agree in a similar manner, “We really didn’t.”

If he’s going to make fun of me, I’m taking it in stride. I wrote that particular number, and a fair chunk of our other originals. I think that sometimes my titles are pretty good, even when they’re just chorus lyrics. But sometimes – well, they’re that.

“Selena improvises something, and then we go to the Red Block,” Bryson continues without missing another heartbeat. I’m pretty sure I hear his voice raise a little to grab our focus again. “Red Flag – Billy Talent, Red Sam – Flyleaf, and Something Different – Red As Dusk. Selena says stuff. Changing – Saosin. Pressure – Paramore. Selena talks. Be Like The Zeros. Kiss Me, Kill Me – Mest, and Selena introduces the final song. Strong finish with Postcards – Amber Pacific. Got it?”

Four of us nod, or make our brief sounds of agreement. Selena ruins the unanimous confirmation.

“And my encore?”

“If I keep thinking about that, I’ll have a fucking aneurysm,” Bryson says with a straight face. He passes her the setlist. He knows if we start having that discussion now, this won’t be a rehearsal, it’ll be a homicide. “Just run through what we’ve got. We can look at that when I know this set is okay.”

She mutters, “Well, for once I’d like to know what we’re doing before the night of the gig.”

“Yeah, then maybe we could do something other than Misery Business, or Still Into You, or Rose-Colored Boy, or – no, wait. That’s about it, huh?”

She doesn’t turn, but she does stick her middle finger up at me. I hear Travis try to softly suppress amused laughter; a small, entertained huff escapes him. She hates me. It’s so great.

“Please just practice the damn set.” Bryson’s voice has shifted to something like exhausted pleading. He’s not in the mood to break up a fight today. I mean, he’s going to have to anyway – there’s not a single doubt in my mind there – but he doesn’t want to. He always gets this way so close to a show. The stick doesn’t come out of his ass until the stage lights go off.

To ease his stress a little, we do as he says.

This Could Be Anywhere in the World is one of Cole’s favourites to perform because nearly half of it is unclean vocals. This means that it’s one of my favourites to perform because Selena’s unstable wailing only has to pierce my auricular space half as much.

And it’s a ton of fun to play on drums.

Once she’s butchered her way through Silver Bullet and one of our originals, I’m introduced as the representative from California by one of Travis’ very few spoken contributions during Holiday. Even though its absolutely necessary, Selena hates the fact that I’m the best she’s got for clean backup vocals that won’t make our audience’s ears bleed. She especially despises this brief part Matt and I share – my voice and drumming and his iconic bass line – simply because it takes the attention off of her for nearly a full bridge. I sing the rebellious lyrics with a smirk shot her way. She flips me off.

Selena hates singing You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid, and sings this is the working title for the story of two crazy kids terribly in an attempt to annoy me. She makes it painfully obvious that she’s suffering through the Red Block, and gets a smidge better during Changing because a Paramore song follows. She always complains that I use too much cymbal during Pressure. I wonder if she’s actually listened to the song, or if she’s just deaf.

I watch her reach for the list again as it comes to a close and beat her to it.

“I Love How You Say We Can Be Anything But Treat Us Like Shit.”

“That’s not what it’s called!” she snaps.

“Sorry. Be Like The Zeros, parentheses: I Love How You Say We Can Be Anything But Treat Us Like Shit.”

She turns a bit just so I have the luxury of seeing her roll her eyes.

“What? Do I need to say it backwards too?”

I can visibly see the rage manifest inside of her head and, with another smirk that I can’t help at this point, and that I can’t say is innocent, I launch into a hidden talent that frustrates her to no end. I don’t know exactly how I came across it, I just know that I’m able to do it and she’s not. Travis can do it as well, and he watches me with amusement as I drive Selena up the wall. I picture the smoke coming out of her ears as she glares at me.

“Tihs ekil su taert tub gnihtyna eb nac ew yas uoy woh evol I,” I recite. “Bryson knows the title – he wrote it!”

“Just start the damn song, Scott,” Bryson sighs rather than taking a side, even though I’m right.

I don’t give Selena the chance to have the final word. The crash cymbal screams beneath my stick in the intro. Thankfully, Bryson purposefully wrote this song in the right key for her alto voice, so I don’t have to hear her try and fail to sing outside of her vocal range.

 “My mind is clouded like a smokehouse / I think I need a light to find what I was gonna say / My body’s numb and feeling funny / Lost here in a strange place / Just another average day.”

 I’m sure Bryson is relieved when we finally make it to the end of Postcards without another interruption. The first hour of practice ends with our finalized setlist played in full and no unstoppable brawls.

“Can we talk about my encore now, Bryson?” Selena demands at the final note, ever the princess.

Bryson starts to look as if he would rather eat his own hand than discuss the encore and incite her wrath, but also that he knows if we don’t talk about it beforehand, we’ll have to pick ten minutes before the show and we’ll end up doing Let The Flames Begin again.

“Okay, fine,” he relents. “Band meeting.”

I set down my sticks and pull out my earplugs as the guys put their guitars on the assorted stands. Selena leaves her mic and goes to take a seat. She hates sitting on the furniture because everything in here is a relic too shitty for a thrift store; it’s all either tearing, patched with duct tape, or just too stained or dusty to be used by anyone other than a semi-successful garage band in LA. Selena’s in one, but she doesn’t act like it.

We make it a habit to sit as far away from each other as possible. Matt and Bryson take the loveseat where Selena’s perched herself on the one not-duct-taped arm that’s probably going to need a layer of the stuff in about a month. Travis, Cole, and I take the couch.

“Thoughts?” Bryson asks. I can tell he’s bracing himself.

I am too, but I keep my mouth shut and wait for Selena to get her terrible idea out of the way first.

“We should do Ain’t It Fun,” she pitches. “It’s always a crowd-pleaser.”

“It would be if our regular crowd hadn’t already heard you sing it a hundred thousand times.”

“What’s fucking wrong with that?” Her angled eyebrows raise, and I can already see her pupils filling up with fire. If anyone else had said it, she wouldn’t be as pissed off, and that simple fact alone is why I argue in the first place.

“Should I say it forwards or backwards?” I demand. She scowls. “They’re getting bored! If we lose the audience at Underground, we won’t get gigs, and Full Stop. is just fucked! Back me up here, Bryce.”

Selena whips her head around to glare at Bryson so fast that I expect her to break her neck, and I’m almost disappointed when she doesn’t. Bryson’s biting into his cheek, not wanting to say that I’m right in order to avoid her fury, but not denying it either. The others show their agreement plainly – Matt’s mouth takes on an uncertain slant, eyes bright, and Cole can’t stop himself from nodding subtly. Travis wears a smirk. He always takes my side in this war.

“Oh, fuck you guys!” she spits. Her defeat is a delicate sound. It’s like music to my ears.

“What do you want to do, Scott?” Bryson asks. His voice is calm, a mediator.

“We already have a Paramore song in the set. We can’t do another. We need to try something new this time. An original, or–” I rifle through my mental music library. I know which songs we’ve done, and all of the options we haven’t ever tried because Selena is a brat with bad taste. “Maybe actually try some My Chemical Romance for once? They’re a fucking staple to the punk-pop genre.”

“Ew, no,” Selena interrupts. “Veto.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Where do I start? They’re terrible.”

“First of all, how dare you.”

“Here we go,” Bryson sighs. He goes unheard.

“Second, do you have a better idea?”

“Yeah, like fifty! We should do something by The Chainsmokers.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“What? They’re good!”

“No, they’re overplayed! The crowd will be asleep before we even start. They’re not even punk!”

“You’re such a fucking snob!”

“Wow! Look, everyone! The pot is calling the kettle black!”

“Guys! Holy fuck – calm down!” Bryson’s voice cuts through us both. He’s rubbing his temples to curb the migraine Selena’s clearly bringing upon him. “Can we all remember that music is subjective?”

For a moment, the silence rests. Travis is clearly entertained and firmly stuck on my side. Bryson’s trying to fight off that brain aneurysm he promised himself. Cole and Matt are somewhere between rolling their eyes and coming up with an excuse to leave.

Selena is on the brink of completely detonating. Her jaw is set, posture disturbed and rigid. She doesn’t remove her beady, flaming eyes from me, and looks like she’s trying to murder me with her sheer force of will. In her imagination, she’s probably stabbing me with one of my drumsticks. Her tiny fists are clenched.

“Marianas Trench,” she says through her teeth.

“Are you joking? You’d need a church choir just to sing half their crap,” I say. “Dead Kennedys.”

“Veto. Ed Sheeran.”

“Worse than The Chainsmokers. Jimmy Eat World.”

“What? With their one fucking song? Vance Joy.”

“Who?”

That one really makes her mad, so I grin as I say it. She knows I know who Vance Joy is – if only because she’s mentioned him four million times and butchered one of his stupid indie songs over and over again with her shrieking.

“Good Charlotte,” I suggest.

She rolls her eyes. “Twenty One Pilots.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Really?” For a brief moment, I watch her little, round face light up.

“Yeah, as soon as you can rap, feel free to buy us all synths and ukuleles. I’m sure your Daddy can afford it.”

She’s so angry that I can nearly see her brain boiling. There are a few Twenty One Pilots songs I would willingly relent to adding to a Full Stop. setlist, but at the moment I know she’s too pissed off to even name one. I almost want to laugh.

“Taylor. Swift,” she hisses, enunciating every single syllable with a seething staccato. She knows I would never agree to it and that’s the only reason why she suggests it. Everything she ever does or says is designed to make me mad. In this way, we’re one and the same.

So, I mimic her tone. “Fuck. No.” And I’m just about to throw out The Gits – not that Selena could ever dream to live up to Mia Zapata’s legacy – when–

“Wait!”

The single word from Cole breaks our staring contest. I still feel my blood thundering from the rush of adrenaline that comes with pushing Selena to her breaking point, but I turn my attention on him. Cole’s straightened up from his lax slouch and, even though he’s sitting, he’s still a human tower – it’s no wonder the football coach spent nearly two years trying to recruit him. His eyes are stretched wide with an idea.

“What?” Travis asks.

He takes the question, but turns to me. His massive hand is slapped against his forehead, an indication of an epiphany. “Punk Goes Pop.”

“Excuse me?” Selena demands. Her teeth are clenched, and her brows are high.

Cole doesn’t need to explain it to me – I’ve caught onto his idea the second my mental music library dredges up the collection. He elaborates for everyone else.

“Yeah, okay, so Fearless Records has this series where they have punk bands cover pop songs, and, like, they’ve done some Taylor Swift stuff. Uh, You Belong With Me, Trouble – oh!” – he claps abruptly as the next idea enters his head and, again, his eyes turn on me, full of excitement and what appears to be an ego boost due to his own perceived genius. He’s gesticulating with the approximate energy of a German Shepherd – “Blank Space from the volume six rerelease! Dude, I Prevail goes so fucking hard on it! I had it on repeat for a month, and I can do Eric Vanlerberghe’s parts no problem!” He’s practically already playing air guitar.

“There. See? It’s a compromise,” Matt agrees.

And maybe it seems too good to be true…

Because it is.

“Yeah, too bad we can’t do it,” I object. Bryson sighs audibly and mutters under his breath. “If we let her sing the clean vocals, it won’t sound anything like a punk song! She’ll just try to sing it exactly like the original and fuck it up!”

“Fuck you!” Selena fires at me.

“Then you sing it, Morgan.”

I give myself whiplash turning to look at Travis, and the energy of the garage turns palpable – a thick, stunned tension that I could slice through with a razor blade and a ton of effort. Arms crossed over his chest, Travis shrugs, completely relaxed and completely, unbelievably serious.

In an instant, the initial surprise melts away, and I’m more confused by his proposal than I am shocked – or maybe it’s just an intense mixture of both. But the point is that I can’t sing it! I’m a drummer! That’s the only reason she’s even here in the first place!

“What?! No!”

“Yeah! ‘What?! No!’” Selena parrots me. For once, we’re actually in agreement on something.

“Why not? You’ve got a good voice, and I know you know the song.”

“Who’s going to play the drums?!” I reason. “That’s why she’s here!”

“I suggested Taylor Swift! I don’t want him singing it!” Selena protests.

“Exactly! Then she can’t hog the stage and be an attention whore and has to settle for being a regular–”

“Morgan,” Travis interjects (scolds), still calm despite presenting me with an insane idea just a moment ago. Selena flips me off with a look of pure hatred. I generally don’t like to push it that far, but I stand by what I was about to say. Her name is synonymous with it.

“I’ll find someone to drum for you,” Bryson says.

I scoff. “What? Am I that easily replaceable?! You’re all fucking ridiculous!”

“Scott,” Bryson starts in his middleman voice. I look at our manager and lift a brow. He seems to wait until everyone has copied me and all eyes are on him.

And then he supports Travis’ idea.

Using some of the most glorious words I have ever heard in my life.

“If we can just get this over with – pick the cover of Blank Space with you on clean vocals so this discussion will fucking stop – you can dump Selena.”

I have no idea what to say.

So it comes out unfiltered.

“Oh, screw you, Bryson.”

Not meant to be hurtful. Just… I can’t even explain it – just some sort of instinctual, astonished reaction.

I would be free of Selena Walton. And I would get to steal her encore.

But I would have to sing front-and-center. Even though it’s a cover, it’s still a Taylor Swift song. I wouldn’t have to sing all of it – about half the vocals in I Prevail’s version are unclean, so Cole would take them. But it’s still a tough debate.

I can’t really feel my body. I guess the shock is still settling in. Or it has settled in pretty deep and fried my nerves or something. But, while I’m internally wrestling against my own opinions, I dare to steal a look at Selena that ends up lasting longer than just a glance. Her eyes are narrowed, her jaw is tight, and her back is rod straight. She’s still inconsolably pissed at the idea that she could end up without an encore even though she’s had plenty already, but I see something else underneath that.

She wants me to take it. She doesn’t want to have to pretend to be shackled to me any longer. The feeling is mutual.

They’re all staring at me as I weigh the pros and cons a few more times.

In the end, I look Bryson dead in the eyes using what I can only describe as a defeated, cold glare.

“I want it in writing.”

Chapter: 2

[booknerdmechi]

Book Review of the week: After by Anna Todd

10/10

I can't even begin to express what I'm feeling right now with this book.

Probably I'll just say that this is one of those books that I can't stop reading, like literally. About 1, 280 (in my reader) pages and I can't even put it down. I have read it for 15 straight hours (Now, my eyes are sore and I don't care 'cause who doesn't love Hardin Scott, right?😂).

The After series is all about Tessa, the perfect innocent girl with an on point planner of her life, who met Hardin Scott, the tattoed bad boy who has issues and dirty secrets. To find that they are constant fighting and bickering in the beginning of this book then falling in love unexpectedly is, if you will think, is some sort of common story for novels with this type of genre.

However,

Though it is somewhat a common storyline, but the chills and feelings the characters show off is so unnatural, you'll forget the word oxygen. Somehow, Anna Todd manage to put all the emotions of her characters into words that's why it is so easy to dive in to Tessa and Hardin's world, the main reason why I gave this a perfect score.

There's also no part of this book that is dull, every chapters are either intense, hot or will put tears at your pillow. I fell in love with Hardin Scott eventhough I'm not a fan of bad guys that much.

He makes me want to go and find a boyfriend with a lof of tattoos and piercings, and whose twisted in his own ways😂

To be honest, this series has been stucked in my shelf for months now yet I decided to re-read it just now. Yep, re-read is the term bros and girls! This story was actually posted in wattpad app before (I'm not sure if it's still up there until now) where I first encountered this. And no offense miss author and the other fans of this story online... but I didn't like the wattpad version that much. I sort of hate it, I did not even finished its second book. The wattpad version is too redundant for me. HOWEVER, I am very thankful that they published this book and I am able to re-read it in its edited version. Because now it is one of the best!😭❤

Thank you so much❤

Lastly, (because this is now getting too long, ugh the effect of Hardin Scott in me) I have yet to see the movie adaptation of this. What do you think guys? Any thoughts about the movie? Someone give me a heads up pleaseee! Anyways, it's 10:35 pm here and now I'm going, not to sleep of course, but to start the 2nd book to this series. See you!

-mechi

[hilmihisham]

#96 : Full of nothingness but not really..

Hmm, well first of all, Selamat Berpuasa to all that celebrates it, I guess.. It’s already Ramadan after all. It is a month to celebrate, I believe - we fast, we do tarawih, we do more ibadah, and so on and so forth - so in a sense, we do celebrate this month full of blessings in one way or another.

Also, since I finally finished with all my finals and projects (class related), I guess I can finally write once more over here.. Yeay for that, no? Hahaha..

(Well, surely it’s a yeay for finishing another semester hahaha.. Not graduated yet tho so that’s a bit sad tbh)

Testing my new keyboard too, in a sense.. While I do have been using it for quite a while, typing some codes and projects intensely on this keyboard, but using it for writing does give a different sense to it.. How? Well, I can’t really put it into words honestly.. maybe it’s just me.

Giving this keyboard a bit of an introduction, it is a keyboard made by a crowdfunded company Lofree. You can read more about the keyboard itself if you just search for Lofree Four Seasons Mechanical Keyboard (yes, I got a thing for mechy keyboard now) but long story short, they used Gateron Blue switches (and not Cherry MX. Feels alright, although sounded just a tick lower than Cherry MX Blue) and made to looks exactly like an old typewritter.. I never use a typewritter before so I don’t have any experience to compare but these rounded keycaps does take a while to get used to (around 20 minutes to me tho haha) and after I did got used to it, writing on a normally-shaped keycaps does feel slightly weird for whatever reason lol. And what makes me getting one of this is that it can be use via bluetooth! Yeah I already have 1 mechanical keyboard but that one is wired, so it’s a good enough reason to get another, no?

(Welp, that’s too long for a keyboard description.. For those that haven’t any interest in mechanical keyboard in a slightest, sorry)

If you wanna buy this keyboard right now, I suggest maybe not ‘coz the current price is damn crazy expensive.. I was lucky to pre-order it back when they still campaigned this on Indiegogo (had to wait for around 6 months to finally get it tho).

Right, enough about keyboard.. Hopefully there’s still people reading up to this point tho (still doubt anyone reading even one word of this text post in the first place).

Ramadan during (almost) Summer is hectic tho.. Long duration is one thing, but sleeping time is another.. Maghrib starts at around 7.50pm, then all stuff and shenanigans, solat, terawih, (proper) dinner, yadda yadda and by the time it’s all done, it’s already 12am. With Subuh starts in just another 4 1/2 hours, I then had to make a decision whether to sleep (and possibly miss sahur) or not.

Right now? Hmm it’s 2.21am as I write this and currently watching F1 (Practice session at Monaco GP)..

I actually dunno what to write tho hahaha..

Oh well.. with nothing worth to write about, I guess let me just dropped some bombshell to end this lah..

Living alone is tough.

Responsibility is something that you can’t run away from, and everyone does have it no matter who you are and what you do (you could forgot it sometimes tho and holy cow how that will eat you after).

I am quite sad.

I probably will pick those up in another day (or as always, I probably jinxed it up in this sentence)..

Only time will tell..

[stepbytinystep]

In Hindsight

About to clear 3 months worth of backlog, but i really need this right now. Head’s a mess, emotions everywhere. Feeling so overwhelmed, but right now at this moment i have nothing to do. So it’s good to clear my head, think about what went well and what went completely wrong last semester. 

So i had the most amazing winter. With the people i love the most, i had the best birthday, christmas and new year. We honestly didnt do anything special at all on those occasions, but my heart was full and my smile was wide. For that good one month, my loved ones were no longer pixels in the computer screen. It wasnt completely smooth, naturally, but im sure it brought our family closer. San Francisco holds so many memories for my family, adil and i. It’s now more than just a city. Yosemite and canyon was nothing short of beautiful. The theme parks was surreal and it’s been so long since we were so light-hearted. I didnt enjoy Vegas that much tho, with no money to gamble and to indulge in pricey, there was nothing much to do but to shiver in the cold and sleep. 

Seeing my family and adil was so surreal but the goodbyes were so hard to say. As much as i am filled with homesickness right now, and everything in berkeley and in my room reminds me of them, i am so thankful that it even happened. And for them, i shall keep my chin up and not mope it the longing to go home. Meeting sici was so sweet. If only we had more time together :( Funny how our take away from our exchange is some what similar. 

HAWAII <3 This trip with the mechies was by far the best friends-trip. It was so nice to return to a tropical island, although we really gorged our faces with food. (All the Ahi, Poke, Pork and KOMBUCHAAAAA) Travelling with 9 guys really makes you fat for sure. The vibes of the trip was so good as everyone was really just set on chilling and taking our time. We paddle boarded in the pacific ocean, against a paddlepop sky lit up by God’s rays and we snorkelled in the freezing Pacific ocean. To be honest, i was completely terrified. But it was a great trip with many firsts, and i am indeed blessed with such great bros who i can really count on. 

BRIDGE AND STACKS || Stacks really pushed me so hard this semester. The desire to do my best and it was really inspiring to see everyone so determined and dedicated, despite work, school and commitments. I have learnt to open up, to listen and to be comfortable. Stacks really taught me how to search my soul. And Bridge was a dream come true. I actually performed on one of those youtube-famed stages, watched my idols live in action. 

Well, bridge week was hell week too. There were way too many project commitments that were due. But BI was a good run. Working with these like minded, honest, sincere and efficient girls turned out so fulfilling and fruitful. My other projects gave me so much design exposure too, but there were so many things that i would have done differently if i could turn back the time. Well, i guess all i can say about projects here is that expectations and reality is actually worlds apart. But it’s always a learning experience right. 

Solo trip was Fauzi started out so well. It was my first legit white winter. Treading on frozen lakes and ankle deep snow, venturing off the trails to see the best views and long car rides with beautiful views. However, things changed with the CO incident, falling sick with the worst bout of food poisoning. Although suffering alone overseas is probably an experience i never want to go through again, Im really did pull through. And i am so thankful for this great friend, who really companied me through the good and the bad. Really couldnt have done it without him. 

All in all, the reason for the post is for me to really reflect and think about what i want to this semester. I did so much last semester, yes, i had happy moments, but i remember feeling sad, overwhelmed and panicky most of the time. How should i do things differently this semester? I have got great friends here with me, that fill our conversations with laughter. I have got great travel opportunities, however, i have great learning, design and dance opportunities too. I have reached this crossroad where i know that i cannot do everything all at once, otherwise, one or everything will eventually be compromised. 

GOAL FOR THIS SEMESTER: TO EXPERIENCE EXCHANGE AND TO LIVE IT FULLY AND HAPPILY. TO BE PROUD OF WHO I AM, WHO I HAVE BECOME, WHAT I SAY AND WHAT I DO. 

P.S. THANKFUL FOR FRIENDS WHO KEEP ME SANE REGARDLESS. 

[pushing500]

So i was looking into the canon romworld lore and, learning that spaceships cant do any warp speed travel bc they never developed it immediately had me thinking of mechi and his sister :(. Like, i'm just imagining the angst of mechi going home with kwahu, thinking its only been like 10 years and its actually been 100 or something bc cryosleep.... could definately be a reason why the two would go for the ideology or anomoly ending

Yeah, it would make for a very heartbreaking story if Yamka wasn't every bit as stubborn and reckless as her brother. She followed him all the way to the Rim and dragged their parents along as well. They're on the planet somewhere, but as Mechi and Kwahu aren't particularly inclined to build hotels for interaction with other factions, it may take us a long time to encounter them (if we ever do).

I'm sure Mechi imagines that their reunion will begin with a long-awaited hug, but Yamka is absolutely going to punch him first. She was not happy that he decided to go galavanting about the galaxy without her, and she'll probably be torn between yelling and crying when (if) they do meet again. Mechi will be suitably chastened, I'm sure. Maybe Kwahu, too, even though he technically never did anything wrong.

[pushing500]

The votes are in, and it looks like Kwahu will be learning how to play the violin! Mechi has banished him outside in the rain to practice until he's gotten better (it's a bit ear-bleed-y at the moment 😬).

Mechi is also now officially famous, thanks to a freelancer gig to make a mobile game. Good job, Mechi. Also, Kwahu wiped out in the mud, and it was very funny.

We also have a new addition to the household in the form of our new mini goat, Acorn. She's precious, I love her, and she will probably be screenshotted A LOT (observe: the next seven images)

She smol, she sippy the water on the path, her lil' hooves click-clack on the floor ❤️❤️❤️

She is angry sometimes (I was a bit miffed listening to Kwahu's violin playing, too, Acorn. Don't worry. He'll get better soon I hope)

Mechi has yet to actually interact with Acorn. She's definitely Kwahu's pet.

"Get better at playing your stupid violin! It screeches louder than I do!"

I also think fainting goats are hilarious, Kwahu.

She sleeps on the kitchen floor. She's so tiny. I love her so much.

One of the useful perks of living in a micro home is the fact that skill gain is extra fast, so after only a few hours of solid practice, Kwahu is allowed to come back inside with his violin. Keep up the good work, Kwahu! It's marginally less awful now! ❤️

Saw your sims stuff and now have the ultimate nightmare idea:

Poor Mechi and Kwahu being stuck in The Sims.

Or something like that.

I have actually made Mechi in The Sims 3 before, but that was before Kwahu existed, so...

Voilà! The Jones twins, à la The Sims 4!

The first thing they did once I finished building their house was to rush inside and drink coffee. How very on-brand!