#barometric pressure changes are my enemy

[samiholloway]

In my quest to figure out my non-migraine(?) Headaches I still keep getting whenever the weather changes*, I found these earplugs** that claim to control the air pressure change between the outside and the inside of your head. I'll let you know if they work, but there's a free app that tells you when the barometric pressure is shifting and when to put them in, so that's nice.

*weather is my mortal enemy now, apparently. It also ruins my attempts to get my breathing under control. So of course I live in the time of crap weather, when all the systems are going haywire.***

**it's called weatherx, the plugs and the app. The plugs are like less than 18$ on Amazon, less on their own site but you have to pay shipping, sooo.

***climate change is gonna be hell on us headachy, wheezy types. Pray for us.

[kuklamarzanny]

I really don’t need prophetic powers that give me headaches on days it will rain, I’d really rather not get headaches

[wrenhavenriver]

let’s give it up for day 3 of this headache

[hannagoldworthy]

Renegade 6

(So, some filler. Barriss and Merrin are starting to hash out their relationship, peace between Death Watch and Black Sun is hard-won through an act of chemical warfare, Savage has a truly awful, no good, very-bad day, and Feral has given up on trying to understand anything that's going on by this point. There is talk of interaction between pregnancy hormones and Falleen pheromones, but nothing terribly explicit.)

For a week, the two organizations of Death Watch and Black Sun danced around each other, setting and breaking camp, squabbling over tent space, trading baubles for alcohol, eying each other distrustfully over cultural disputes involving masks.

Thankfully, Barriss seemed largely forgotten in the hubbub. And that was good, because she wanted to be left to her own devices as much as possible; it was hard enough to adjust to a medical swing-shift schedule again without being watched as if she was in a fishbowl.

She tried not to stomp as she finished up the last few duties before she was allowed off. Her feet were killing her after twelve hours of standing, and she just wanted to curl up on her cot in the storage corner of the med tent and go to sleep. However, she only managed an hour’s nap before she awoke again, shivering violently after a vivid dream of the Geonosian hive tunnels as they had been at night, cold and still. Barriss frowned; those nightmares were triggered either by an intense feeling of chill or exposure. And, as she was on a warm jungle planet, she had to feel exposed, which rang true, considering she was also in a camp full of potential enemies. Stars, but she missed being in the middle of a cuddle pile; she’d always felt safe when with her family.

Well, she was still exhausted, but she wasn’t getting back to sleep anytime soon…the tiny Ahsoka Tano in her head whispered that she might as well check what was cooking in the mess hall. Barriss swung her legs over the edge of the bed and inserted her feet into her boots, only to find that her boots were uncomfortably tight. With a sigh, she rubbed her feet; her extremities had always had a tendency to swell up a little under barometric pressure changes, so, on top of everything else, a storm had to be approaching. Grand…just grand. She tied her laces loosely, and set off to the mess tent, hoping they had something warm that she was permitted to eat so she could grab something and return to bed before any torrential downpour hit.

When she arrived, Merrin sat alone at a table, nursing what appeared to be a cup of hot cocoa and a massive headache. Barriss kept an eye on her as she went through the serving table, getting a promisingly spicy-looking vegetable soup and her own mug of cocoa, which proved to be the real kind, made with rich, ground cacao beans and not the instant stuff the Jedi Temple had had to make do with…where were they getting this stuff? Sliding into the seat across from Merrin, Barriss said her customary prayer, and began eating, knowing that Merrin would be willing to share if she wanted.

“…I don’t know how you can eat, with the rain coming,” the girl groused after a moment.

Barriss shrugged. “I weather storms better when I eat something hot.”

“You must file your horns, then,” Merrin replied miserably, pressing the side of her cup against her forehead instead of drinking it. “Must be nice…”

Barriss tried to wrap her head around the logic of that statement. “I don’t…have horns?”

Merrin seemed to be trying to understand her. “You don’t, because you file them. Obviously.”

“I’ve never had horns. Mirialans don’t have horns, we just have hair.”

The girl searched her face for evidence of dishonesty; upon finding none, she smirked, and then winced. “You would be considered a rare paragon of beauty on Dathomir. A select few women of my race are born without horns; the rest of us either file them down to nubs small enough to be covered by hair, or have them removed at birth.”

Barriss stopped moving in the middle of a mouthful of soup, suddenly feeling as if her stomach was full of heavy stones. “And which of those two are you?”

Moments later, the two hurried over to the medtent as thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. Barriss ushered Merrin into a cot and drew a curtain, sending a medical droid to fetch what she needed as she began to gently palpate Merrin’s head.

The girl had a circlet of eight tiny gray scars where horns should have grown, concealed in her white hair. The wounds had delved deep into the bones of her skull; judging by the nature of the damage, Barriss thought that they had been plucked or pulled out, like a dentist might do with teeth or a torturer might do with fingernails. Horror pooled in Barriss’s gut…someone had done this to Merrin when she was a baby.

“I was used to fighting through this on other planets,” the girl said by way of explanation. “It snuck up on me here, but I promise I won’t be as childish as I was being when you found me. I’m sorry that you had to see…”

Seized by a sudden maternal impulse, Barriss pressed a kiss to one of the worst scars, allaying the pain with a subtle application of Force Healing. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” she said, hoping her voice wasn’t too harsh from the onset of tears. “This is…where I come from doing this to a child at that age would be considered an unforgiveable cruelty. You deserve so much better than to have to feel like this for so long.”

Merrin stared at her with the same look on her face that Maul could get when abruptly shown affection for no apparent reason. “It is a warrior’s burden. I am not weak. I can handle it.”

“A warrior has enough burdens without having to endure needless suffering,” Barriss replied, taking the tube of gel she had sent the droid to retrieve. “I’m going to rub in a little of this on each scar, and you can take the tube with you and do the same when they ache again. Come to me when you are almost out, and I’ll get you more.”

Merrin allowed her to work for several minutes in silence. Then, her poor little shoulders shook with a sniffle she could not repress, and she clutched Barriss’s, stifling the sound of her sobbing in her waist.

Barriss stiffened at the unanticipated contact – Merrin never touched anyone if she could help it – but ran her fingers through the girl’s hair. “Shh,” she murmured, hoping she was doing this right. “You can stay here for the night on observation; I won’t leave until you’re feeling better.”

“Thank you, Mother…I mean…”

“It’s all right.” She’d been hesitant to let the child call her that, since she had failed so many others under her protection; but, for all her failings as a student, a general, and a doctor, she was fairly certain that she could not accidentally harm Merrin as much as Merrin’s former leaders and parents had purposefully. And, well, Barriss had somehow acquired a husband and in-laws almost completely by accident and still managed to do right by them as much as she could; she might as well lean into this relationship as well. “You can call me Mother if you want…just, not in front of anybody else, for now.”

Merrin smiled tearfully against her navel. “Mother Barriss…it has a nice ring, no?”

***

“This segregation is completely unnecessary,” asserted one of the larger Black Sun wives, bursting into the command tent in the middle of a strategy meeting, one week after the crime syndicate had been recruited into this shared enterprise.

Ziton Moj, the former captain of the guard and only active Black Sun Vigo, glared at her hard enough that his normally green face became blue as she stormed up to the table. “Ziidra, it is pouring rain outside! You should have more consideration for your delicate condition…”

“Shut it, squirt,” she spat, plunking what appeared to be a gigantic perfume bottle down right in front of Savage and shoving her index finger into Viszla’s visor. “You are the one who insists that we stay in separate camps for fear of pheromone contact. I can tell by the cowardly way you hide your face behind that metal, even though you have obviously been informed that we don’t gas our own people if we can help it.”

Maul found himself barely holding back a laugh at the perplexity with which Viszla stared at the large, pink-painted claw in his face, and received what appeared to be a look for his quiet entertainment.

“I have been told you consider it rude,” Viszla stated in the diplomatic way one would address a precocious child. “But, my lady, you’ll forgive me if we aren’t willing to trust the honor system on that.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort. Has anyone told you why we consider it rude?”

Moj’s eyes widened. “Sis, please tell me you aren’t…”

“I said shut it.” Ziidra gestured to the bottle. “This is eau du Falleen, no doubt a rare sight in your prudish little beskar republic. It is made by distilling our pheromones considerably, to the point that they would have absolutely no effect on us during mating season. Outside of mating season, however…”

“Ziidra NO!”

The painted claws depressed the spritzer on the bottle before any further objection could be made, and chaos reigned in the command tent.

***

They were all of them disallowed from the medtent, save only for Moj, his closest lieutenants, and Savage, who had violently emptied the entire contents of their stomachs over everyone around them and who were currently being dosed with anti-emetics. Viszla, who had been directly across from Savage and thus took the worst of the barrage, folded his arms as the rain gradually rinsed his beskar, glaring at Maul, who had experience in dealing with the Black Sun and who had thus remained clean of both perfume and vomit.

From inside her ornamental, pink sapphire-encrusted re-breather, Ziidra grinned like the tooka that ate the songbird. “As you can see, dear sir,” she said, imitating Viszla’s patronizing tone perfectly, “Falleen pheromones cause immediate nausea in anyone who is biologically unreceptive to breeding. This includes Falleen outside of mating season and mammals which are with pup.” She nodded cordially to Maul. “Congratulations, by the way…both on the impending babies and the fact that you were able to land that gorgeous broad.”

Maul blinked. “Who?”

Ziidra frowned. “The yellow and black one? Is she not your woman?”

“He is my brother.”

“Aw! It’s sweet that you’re supporting him through his transition and his pregnancy!”

“MY WHAT?!” Several crashes rang out in the medtent as Savage got up in a panicked frenzy.

“Sit back down!”

“WHICH ONE OF THOSE WITCHES GOT ME PREGNANT!?”

“…What? Savage!” Barriss’s voice was steady. “Calm yourself, I’m sure that’s not…”

“YOU CALM YOURSELF! I’M NOT READY TO BE A MOM!!”

As a medical droid sailed bodily out of the medtent to land dazedly seven meters away, Ziidra regarded Maul closely. “I thought sexual dimorphism was expressed in your species by skin color and height.”

“It is, to a certain extent. Savage has a normal male color pattern, and the height is the result of…”

“KARKING WITCH MAGICK!” Savage thundered out of the tent, dressed only in the largest examination gown they could find. “Where the KARK are my clothes?!”

“Being laundered because they are saturated with the perfume,” Barriss replied, sounding every bit as weary with the situation as Maul felt. “Get back in here!”

“If they didn’t want me running around the camp BARE-ASSED to get some EXPLANATIONS, they would not have GOTTEN ME PREGNANT!” Savage roared hysterically. “MERRIN!”

“Savage, the weather could drown a…Savage!” As the incensed Nightbrother barged off without care for the mud or his bare feet, Barriss stared Ziidra down with a truly magnificent ferocity that Maul felt privileged to see. “This is your fault. You did this. And if you do it again, I will remove any and all significant Black Sun tattoos from your person when you go into labor, my gods as witness!” And then she trudged after Savage in the rain, muttering the entire time.

The Falleen noblewoman shot Maul another look. “That’s…actually a fairly creative, and serviceable, threat. How much would it be to buy her off of you?”

“She’s not for sale.”

“That’s a wise decision; she’d be worth a lot more than I would be willing to pay.” With one well-pedicured foot, Ziidra nudged Viszla, who had collapsed silently into the mud, the jolting of his body indicating he was laughing uproariously with his external vocoder muted. “Now do you see why we try not to do this to each other?”

Viszla held up an index finger, coughed a few more times, and then removed his helmet, revealing the redness of his face. He tried to keep his face sober for two seconds before falling onto his back, crying with laughter. “How is this my life?”

Ziidra rolled her eyes. “You’re lucky we aren’t in mating season, or else we’d have ended up in a territorial bar brawl with a body count,” she said, stumping over to where Viszla lay. “As it is, we are trying to avoid pheromones almost as much as you are. We are not going to try and control you…can you trust us at least that far?”

Viszla studied her extended hand, and slowly took it, allowing himself to be hauled to his feet. “For now. I’m still instructing my people to shoot to kill in the event that you betray that trust.”

She smiled predatorily. “Smart boy.”

Of course, that had to be the scene when the Pyke Syndicate envoy Maul had been expecting for days touched down just outside the camp. The odd little Oba Diahans filed carefully out of their ship, bowed low in greeting, and blinked owlishly when they did not get a direct response.

“Have we…missed something…?”

***

“I thought the greenie was a vegetarian,” drawled Gillespie, the old Mandalorian cook.

Merrin bristled, her hands lighting with green flame. “She is not a greenie, she is a Mirialan, and her name is…”

Feral laid a hand on her shoulder before she could do something irreversible to Gillespie’s innards. “He?” That earned a shake of the head. “She?” Another shake of the head. “Uh…they?���

“Close enough.”

“They, know her name, Merrin,” Feral continued. “And they know she never eats the meat, but she does eat the eggs.”

“Said vegetarian, not vegan.”

Feral winced in a way that he hoped looked like a placating smile. “I’m a carnivore; it’s all the same to me. Anyway, we were hoping that some more nuna chicken could be served instead of the mystery meat. Barriss can only eat meats of very specific animals if they are cooked in a certain way…”

“She slops down the beans and fruit and coffee just fine…I ain’t changing the way I cook for some prissy lady with expensive tastes.”

“MERRIN!!” Both Dathomirians jumped, and Merrin clambered behind Feral, putting him in between her and a thoroughly soaked, utterly irate Savage Opress, who for some reason was in a medical examination gown and nothing else. He jabbed a finger at Merrin, who gaped in horror at his state of undress. “You little…explain to me, RIGHT NOW, just WHY I am PREGNANT.”

Feral’s brain was kind enough to halt the flashback to Savage’s lecture when he had tagged along on a rancor hunt at the age of five. It was not kind enough to supply anything else to fill the resulting void. “…What?”

Merrin seemed just as confused. “Beg pardon?”

Gillespie threw a handful of some aromatic herbs in the air like confetti. “Congratulations, it’s an offspring. Get out of my kitchen.”

“I AM NOT LEAVING THIS KITCHEN UNTIL SOMEONE TELLS ME WHY I AM PREGNANT!”

Rook Kast chose that precise moment to enter the mess tent, raised her eyebrows, and brought up her commlink. “Hey, Saxxy, way to go!”

“What’d I do now?”

“Your boyfriend’s…”

“I DON’T HAVE A BOYFRIEND!” Savage squished the commlink on her wrist just enough to stop the conversation without hurting her. “BUT I WAS RAISED IN A CULT OF MEDDLING WITCHES WHO WOULD LOVE AN OPPORTUNITY TO SCREW WITH MY BIOLOGY!”

“Savage, for pity’s sake…lower your voice,” Barriss groaned, rubbing at her temples as she, too, entered the mess tent. “You are not pregnant.”

He stared around him, wild-eyed. “You heard what she said…”

“She was mistaken. Falleen pheromones have a violent interaction with Humanoid Growth Hormone, which is, yes, something that occurs naturally in pregnancy, but it can be produced at other times as well.” Barriss laid a hand on his arm, and moved so that her face would be the nearest thing he could focus on. “Whatever the Witches did to you made you overproduce HGH…nothing more.”

Savage took a deep breath, glanced around him, and cringed. “I’m…I’m sorry.”

“Nah…I’d have probably reacted the same way, to be honest,” said Gillespie.

Barriss turned Savage, glowering at Kast as she unsubtly checked out the large Nightbrother’s displayed behind, and positioned herself to preserve his modesty. “Let’s just get you back to the medbay, Savage; you’re going to need another shower.”

“Don’t like showers.”

“Really? You’ve been taking a long one since you stepped out in this deluge. I’d think you’d be half drowned by now.”

Rook watched them go, and when they were out of earshot, she pulled out a backup commlink. “False alarm. Your boyfriend’s not knocked up, he’s just on steroids.”

“…Kast. I was brushing my teeth.”

“Oh good! That’ll make you a little less unappealing!”

“I am replacing your armor with the haunted beskar from my mother’s side of the family.”

Feral rolled his eyes and leaned on the table in front of Gillespie, intending to bring out the kicked-rancor-kit expression that had won him many extra meal portions as a boy. However, Gillespie shook their head fondly, and patted his shoulder.

“I can manage a bit more poultry…didn’t realize this was the sort of crap she puts up with.”

“Thanks.”

[grasslandgirl]

oooo i sent it more as a fix prompt but also from one adhdhead to another i’m glad we agree!! thinking about sam and peter study dates

ahhhh fvbjsjvkbjf im so dumb i’m sorry i saw “adhd sam” and my brain just yelled YEAH. RADICAL. and that was it kjdvskfj 

that being said i’ve been haunted by ricky montgomery’s Line Without a Hook + eldonado since yesterday so........ hmmm.... (oh no this got wildly out of hand)

-----------

Peter threw himself wholeheartedly into anything he worked on. It was just how he was built. Peter was either on or he was off, and it was hard to get him to change course once he was en route. Head down, eyes narrowed, his whole body angled down at his computer like if he got his face close enough to the screen, it would start streaming information right to and from his brain. His hair would flop, unnoticed, into his eyes and he would shove his glasses so far up his nose that Sam would worry he was going to bruise his nose. 

All this to say, of course, that study dates were something of an occupational hazard when you were best friends with Peter Maldonado.

And also secretly in love with him.

Well, mostly-secretly. Secretly to Peter, and probably only Peter, because Sam was 90% sure everyone else was in on the secret and knew how hopelessly gone Sam was for his oblivious best friend. Gabi was the only one who ever said anything to him about it, though. So, little victories. 

Finals were looming over their heads like a dark storm cloud. Looming on the horizon, fucking with barometric pressure just enough to make everyone jumpy and nervous. Peter worked well under pressure- which was a good thing, because Sam knew Peter put more pressure on himself than anyone else did- but he would always show up the night before a big exam and demand that Sam help him study. It was so commonplace after seven years of friendship that Sam didn’t question it anymore. Mostly.

There was always that small, hopeful, and nervous voice in the back of his head asking why Peter always studied with Sam when he studied just as well on his own. The only answer he could think of was that Peter knew Sam studied better with him there. But that wasn’t- that couldn’t- Sam always shut that annoying little voice down before it spiraled any further.

It didn’t do anyone any good to overcomplicate things that were objectively very simple. Peter liked routine, they were best friends, Sam was the only one who could talk Peter down from an academics-induced panic attack at 2 in the morning the night before a final exam. 2 + 2 = 4. Simple math. 

Sam was slumped on his back, halfway falling off his bed with his head and shoulders draped over the side of his mattress. The notebook he was supposed to be reviewing was abandoned, sitting on his stomach. Peter was sitting at Sam’s desk, leaned over and scowling at his laptop. 

It was unfair, really, how pretty Peter looked illuminated by the blue-white light of his notes document. Sam had the perfect view of Peter’s upside down profile, all furrowed eyebrows and clenched jaw and dark hair that’d had hands run through it too many times. It was late and Sam’s brain was wrung out and exhausted, only able to focus on Peter’s expression as he mouthed whatever obsolete moment in history he was trying to commit to memory, and the looping chorus of a Carly Rae Jepsen song he’d had stuck in his head for the last two hours. 

A big part of being friends with Peter Maldonado was knowing when to draw the line. 

“Pete, dude.” Peter looked up, blinking away the lines of notes Sam could almost see in his eyes. “It’s the middle of the night. Either we know it or we don’t at this point.”

“You think we should cut our losses?”

“I know you can survive on three hours of sleep and five cups of coffee, dude, but I can’t.” Sam tapped himself on the forehead. “This baby needs r&r or I can’t fucking function.”

“Right, right. What time is it?”

Sam sat up- an impressive showcase of his abs that Peter didn’t notice, of course- and dug around in his rumpled comforter for his phone. “12:30.”

Peter sighed heavily, tipping his head back against the headrest of Sam’s computer chair. “I should go home.”

“Dude. Just-” Sam was his own worst enemy sometimes- “just spend the night.”

“Yeah? Your moms won’t mind?”

“Nah, I’m pretty sure they assumed that’s what was happening when you showed up after dinner.”

It was probably just a weird reflection from the computer light on one of Sam’s posters onto Peter’s face. There was no way that Peter was blushing. 

“Anyway,” he continued, shoving his textbook and notes off of his bed instead of looking at Peter, “I’m gonna drive you tomorrow anyway, right? Saves me a trip.”

Peter closed his laptop with a soft click. “Yeah, sure, if it’s not-”

“It’s cool, dude, don’t be weird. Just two bros-”

“Chilling in a hot tub?”

Sam prayed Peter couldn’t see the hot blush he felt rising to his cheeks. Five feet apart cause they’re not gay. “Whatever you want, dude.”

Peter knew Sam was gay. He was the first person Sam had come out to- followed closely by Gabi and his moms. But there was a difference, Sam was sure, to having your best friend be gay versus having your best friend be gay and in love with you. An invisible line in the sand that would shift their relationship forever. Sam didn’t want to test how that shift would happen. Didn’t want to risk losing his best friend on the off chance that he wasn’t alone. 

“Right.” Peter repeated. 

They went to bed in pieces: Sam pulling on an old pair of sweatpants and throwing one to Peter, Peter neatly stacking all his notes on one corner of Sam’s desk, Sam kicking all his schoolwork to the edges of his bedroom floor as opposed to the middle of it, Peter brushing his teeth with the same toothbrush he’d kept in the Ecklund house since they were ten, Sam turning off all the lights, Peter wandering back into his bedroom, Peter’s hair turning to gold and ink in the faint streetlight coming in from the window, the two of them curling up back to back in Sam’s bed just like they always did.

And then it was dark and quiet and all Sam could hear was the faint sound of Peter’s breathing beside him. The warmth from Peter’s back mere inches from Sam’s. They’d fallen asleep next to each other a million times, but Sam still felt electric with the proximity. How easy it would be to just- stretch his legs out and wind his feet with Peter’s, to flip over and press his nose into the soft place where his hairline met the back of his neck, to whisper something hopeful and mortifying into the still night air and hear Peter’s breath catch in silent response.

Sam stayed still, held himself perfectly motionless lest he finally show his hand. And eventually, they both fell asleep.

-------------------------

Peter woke up surrounded by Sam. The pillow he’d pressed his face into smelled like Sam’s hair and the sheets on his bed were the same tacky Star Wars ones he’d been so proud of in the seventh grade and the bed was warm with Sam’s body next to him. For an instant, Peter let himself consider it: waking up next to Sam like this every day. Falling asleep with his arms wrapped around Sam and waking up with his head on his chest. 

He squeezed his eyes shut against the glaring dawn light, and against the daydream that quickly threatened to spin out of control. He could still hear Sam’s sleep heavy breathing behind him.

Slowly, Peter sat up in bed, pushing his hair out of his face and scrounging the nightstand as quietly as he could for his glasses. He allowed himself a single glance at Sam- sleep soft and sprawled out on the bed, his hand inches from where Peter’s shoulder had been, like he’d been reaching out in his sleep- before standing up and grabbing his phone from where he’d left it charging on the desk.

“Sam.” Peter poked his shoulder. “Sam.”

He groaned incoherently, but rolled over, which was a good sign. 

“You have to get up, dude.”

“Breakfast?” Sam mumbled.

“Yeah,” Peter laughed a little, “I’m sure your mom’s making breakfast.”

“Urrgghhh.”

Peter grabbed the clothes he’d left in the corner the night before and pulled an old t shirt out of Sam’s closet. “I’m stealing a shirt.”

“Oh,” Sam said, half sitting up and blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “Yeah- good, okay.”

“I’m gonna go-” Peter gestured weakly towards the door, and beyond it, the bathroom. Sam peered up at him, the light from the window hitting his face in a single pane, like something out of a sun-soaked French movie. Like this was the moment where one of them broke the uncertainty, the silence. Peter could see the scene unfolding in his mind’s eye, like he’d seen it a hundred times. He’d say something like, did you sleep well? And Sam would answer, better with you here, and Peter would oh-so-slowly close the distance and drop his jeans to the floor and Sam would arch up and meet him halfway and the camera would pan away, leaving them both washed in the golden early-morning light. “Bathroom. I’m gonna go to the bathroom.” Peter said, and closed the bedroom door behind him. 

He splashed water on his face and combed through his hair with his fingers, throwing on yesterday’s jeans and Sam’s t shirt under his sweatshirt and hoping it wasn’t obvious to anyone else how badly Peter wished every morning could be like this. 

He left the bathroom quickly and perched on the edge of Sam’s bed, scrolling through twitter while Sam did his hair in the bathroom. 

Breakfast was quiet and normal and filled with the usual mini-dramas in the Ecklund house. Kara didn’t want PB&J for lunch and one of Sam’s moms left the flat iron on in their bathroom and Leah almost burned the eggs and Sam spent half of breakfast finishing the math homework he’d almost forgotten he had. 

Sam drove them both to school early for the Morning Show, laughing and singing along to his “perfectly composed drive to school playlist,” and the rest of the day went on normally. He took his history test and saw Sam in math class and they sat with Ming and Randall and Phil at lunch. 

But all the while, Peter couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. He’d had... feelings for Sam for a while, unquantifiable and nebulous. He’d categorized them all: the way his stomach twisted when Sam smiled at him crookedly, the skipped beat of his heart when Sam slung his arm around Peter’s shoulders, how his hands got clammy when he caught Sam watching him out of the corner of his eye, how he always found ways to hangout during and after school. But he’d never dared to name the feeling. Defining it meant- meant he should do something about it. Made it real. 

But that morning, waking up next to Sam, borrowing his t shirt to wear to school, falling asleep next to each other- they were all things they’d done a million times before. Peter’s chest ached with the normalcy, the domesticity of it. 

Peter’s fingers itched to try and piece it all together, his feelings and Sam’s and their history together. String it all together on a corkboard until it made sense. But Peter knew it wouldn’t work. Not without Sam there to see the bigger picture in the first place. It’s why they worked so well together; Peter would gather and organize all the information, but Sam was the one that knew how to put it together, knew how to see the forest from the trees in a way Peter never could on his own. Even if he tried to map out the snarl of feelings in his chest, Peter knew he’d be left with a labyrinth of post-its and red string without Sam there to untangle it for him.

Dramatic irony, he supposed.

Peter caught the bus home, Sam had something for theatre after school, and spent the entire ride with his music turned as high as it would go, trying not to think about Sam as he stared out the window. 

The problem, Peter realized, with being a self-professed movie lover, is that your brain starts to treat life like a movie. He could imagine a dozen different ways his life could spiral out from this moment, a dozen different movie time-lines he could find himself in. The tragedy, where he never tells Sam and lives his entire life in uncertainty. The drama, where he tells Sam and it tears their friendship apart. The tragic love story, where he and Sam are together and happy until they’re not. The comedy, where Sam laughs him off and they go back to their friendship with a tiny crack between them, spackled over with laughter that’s just a little strained. 

The romantic comedy, where everything goes perfect and they ride out into the sunset. 

Life wasn’t like the movies, though, nothing ever went as simple or as straightforward or as cinematic. There isn’t a director behind the camera who can call cut and change the scene halfway through. There aren’t any sweeping cinematic shots with atmospheric indie pop playing in the background.

It was just Peter, and Sam, and the creeping uncertainty hanging between them. 

Right before dinner that night, Peter got a text from Sam.

sam: thanks for the study help last night, felt good about the test today

sam: don’t stress i know youre freaking out about it too

sam: you did great on the test pete i know it

Peter blinked at his phone, at the unspoken I know you hidden inbetween the lines. Sam knew him better than anyone, knew his habits and his worries and his annoying little tendencies. And he was still there. 

And that, Peter realized, said more than anything else.

Love wasn’t a panoramic of a passionate kiss at sunset. It was knowing someone, learning them backwards and forwards, all the good and the bad pieces of them. It was staying, not despite everything, but because of it.

Peter loved him. It was as simple and as complicated as that.

--------------------

The doorbell rang at the end of dinner. Sam rushed to get to the door before his sisters- if he was lucky, it was their batty old neighbor Mrs Gorschtt and she would prattle on for fifteen minutes about her cat, shove a cake into Sam’s hands, and get him out of having to help clean the kitchen.

But when he opened the door, it wasn’t Mrs Gorschtt standing on the front porch, it was Peter. 

“Hey, dude, what’s up? We don’t have like a math test tomorrow I blanked on, do we?”

“Huh?” Peter blinked at him, “No, no.”

“So, what’s up?” Sam stepped out onto the porch beside Peter, closing the front door behind him. Maybe he could still get out of washing the dinner dishes. 

“Uh- so, the thing is-” Peter muttered, twisting one of the strings from his hoodie between his fingers. Sam’s stomach dropped; something was wrong. Peter was nervous, uncertain about something. He wasn’t looking Sam in the eye, and he had one arm wrapped around his stomach like a shield. His head started spinning with a million different things Peter could be upset about, but the thing Sam kept coming back to- he knew.

Somehow, Peter had finally figured him out. And he was coming to tell Sam- what? That they couldn’t be friends anymore? That Sam had made it weird? 

“Pete-” Sam started, trying to cover his bases, trying to fix this before his best friendship in the world went up in flames.

“You’re the only one who calls me that.” Peter interrupted, finally looking at Sam.

“What?”

“Pete. You’re the only one.”

“I- we’re friends, dude, I’m allowed to have nicknames.” Sam tried to laugh, but it sounded forced, even to his ears.

“I- I know,” Peter’s eyebrows were furrowed, and he was staring at Sam like he was a page of history notes he was trying to memorize. “I got your text.”

“Oh, uh okay.”

“Sammy, I uh, I have to say something, and I want you to promise you’ll let me finish.”

Sam’s stomach dropped even further. Here it was. The end of everything. “Right,” he tried to smile at Peter, “sure dude, whatever you need.”

Peter nodded. “You’ve been my best friend since the fifth grade. You know all of my secrets, all the bad things that I don’t tell anyone else. You know that I don’t like orange-flavored things because I had too much orange-flavored medicine as a child and that I stay up too late studying the night before a test and I panic after I finish taking it. You watch movies I recommend, even though you think High School Musical 2 is the best movie ever made, you- god-” Peter scrubs his hands through his hair, clenching his eyes closed briefly- “this would be so much easier if I could just- you can see the big picture. Like with this you could just- take the words, the discrete pieces of data and put them together. Make it cohesive, coherent. I’m not making sense,” he muttered.

“Pete-”

“I don’t want to just spend the night after study dates.” Peter blurted out abruptly. His face froze, like he wasn’t sure what he just said, like he was terrified Sam was going to misunderstand. “I- I mean. I want to do real dates. With you. And spend the night and wear your clothes and have my hoodies smell like you and watch you spin around in the morning show chairs without having to worry about you catching me and I want to see you without gel in your hair and I want to lean against you when we have movie nights and-”

“Pete.”

“Sammy,” Peter said, kind of breathless. “Go on a date with me.”

“Like a study date?” Sam said, also kind of breathless.

“Like a date-date. Please.”

“Yeah. Yeah, just- come here-” and then Sam’s hands were on either side of Peter’s face and his fingers were in his hair and Peter’s hands were caught in Sam’s sweater and then-

Peter kissed like he didn’t know all the answers, for once, and he was okay with it. Peter kissed like he was memorizing everything about the moment. Peter kissed like he was planning on replaying it like an old video tape, over and over until the tape wore thin and tore. Peter kissed like he could hear the orchestra playing behind them, like they were in some cheesy made for tv rom com and were about to get their happy ending.

Peter kissed like Sam was his happy ending.

Finally, they broke apart- more to catch their breath than anything else. 

“Hell of a study date,” Sam breathed, unable to stop smiling.

“Shut up.” Peter was smiling, too.

And, leaning back in, Sam did.

[unlucky-words]

A theory on the genetic impact of the hero drug, or: an idea about boost varieties

(tldr; i think abilities are grouped by the number of chromosome pairs added to the body by the hero drug, specifics of them determined by a random (think fingerprint-like) development unique to each person, and this is why boosts kids get so fucked up.)

PART 1: kinds of boosts

one pair (tensile): muscle and skin durability. the addition of a ‘mesh’ over the top of or replacing the skin, and/or internal membranes to diffuse and repel applications of force, this is intrinsic to most boosts, though only slightly. an example of a purely tensile boost is anathema, prior to the second dosage.

two pairs (strength): a rare and often fatal variant of the first pair, these fast and strong enhanced are often mistaken for tensile boosts. the body however cannot support this increase of bodily energy, and will tear itself apart with time. the los diablos villain red behemoth is a living example, surviving by means of armor, constant skin and muscle grafts, mods, and steroid intake.

three pairs (material production): the body creates something, from a fluid secreted through the skin, to body armor and new limbs. an example would be anathema’s acid ability, or the mantis-like arms of the regene that attacks psychopathor

four pairs (extrasensory): increased functionality of the senses. another trait present in most sucessful boosts, but those with this set only posess a far higher degree of change. eyesight may sharpen to be able to focus on objects near invisible to the naked eye, and can do so from 100 meters away. hearing becomes so acute that the heartbeat of enemy soldiers aboveground may be detectable from many meters underground, and through solid bedrock. (it has been debated if these ought to be categorized with telepaths, or vice versa, but the difference is currently accepted as an extrasensory boost modified existing organs. a telepath grows an entirely new sensory organ.)

five pairs (environmental manipulation): ability to change barometric pressure and alter thermodynamics. an example would be sentinel, who was skilled in air current manipulation (presumably done with a combination of the above abilities). most with electric and heat based abilities fall into this category.

six pairs (telekinetic): any ability to change forces applied to objects. an example would be herald, who’s abilities are very strong (high output of newtons) but limited to acting in a very small range around himself, functionally limiting the use to flight. this category covers most with any kind of force field,

seven pairs (telepathic): possesses an entirely new organ in the head like the ampullae of Lorenzini in sharks, to pick up on the electricity in brains, and the ability to interpret the information gleaned from humans and higher vertebrates. telepaths are a security breach waiting to happen at best, and a living atom bomb of secrets at worst.

THEORY PART 2: so i think the reason boosts struggle to have kids, even when they’re don’t appear very altered (like herald) is because of the chromosome thing. mules (born from a donkey and a horse) are harder to breed because despite being very genetically similar, the chromosomes of a donkey and a horse don't match up! they recieve 31 from their father (the donkey) and 32 from their mother (the horse).

applying this to humans, you would have a much harder time getting a kid with each extra chromosome. this assumes two things; that boosts with the same number could produce a healthy, unboosted child (i’ll explain why in a moment), and for the same reason, a child with either two differently boosted parents or one boosted parent and one unaltered parent, are liable to be two things: sterile (like a mule, due to reproductive cells not aligning correctly), and born with defects.

so. going the the why of all this. malin has said regarding kids of boosts: powers aren't passed down, and there’s often birth defects, sometimes fatal. here's my theory why both of those happen: in cases of different boost level couples, the modified cell of the one parent is detected by the cell other parent in utero, and like the cases of babies blood cells fighting the mothers, one understands that the other is wrong. so it tries to self-repair, just like the body fighting off a fever, or when a blood transfusion has the wrong blood type and the antibodies don’t correspond. unfortunately for them, the boosted chromosomes are unstable. if the number is uneven, the additional boosted chromosomes will overflow, so to speak, and damage the base 46, causing moderate to severe developmental disorders depending on how great the difference is. these often are new and undocumented, and thus hard to treat or accommodate. in a boosted couple with the same number, however, this isn't an issue! as they will take each other out and leave an unboosted, undamaged child behind, just like if the couple hadn’t been boosted at all.

[tarazizari]

barometric pressure changes are my enemy

acetaminophen is my bestie

[english102-1031-blog]

Hello Fellow Argumentarians! Are you ready to rumble, err argue? Let’s chat a bit about Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy (HBOT).

First, let us look at a quick overview of HBOT:

The term hyperbaric literally means higher pressure (hyper means over, above, or beyond; baric means of or concerned with weight, especially that of the atmosphere as indicated by barometric pressure).2 According to the Undersea and Hyperbaric Medical Society (UHMS), HBO2 therapy involves breathing 100% oxygen while within a treatment chamber that has been pressurized to a pressure higher than sea level (ie, >1.0 atmosphere absolute [ATA]). This type of therapy has various potential mechanisms of action, the most important of which may be its ability to increase partial pressure of oxygen in the tissues of the body to a degree several times greater than that which can be achieved by breathing pure oxygen at a normal atmospheric pressure.3 The increased atmospheric pressure also increases the amount of oxygen in blood plasma, which has greater bioavailability to the tissues than does oxygen in hemoglobin. Breathing or exposing parts of the body to 100% oxygen alone does not constitute HBO2 therapy; the oxygen must be received via inhalation within a pressurized chamber, typically pressurized to 1.4 ATA or higher.3

HBO2 therapy can be delivered in one of three chamber types: high-pressure multiplace, high-pressure monoplace, or low-pressure monoplace. The most commonly used of these in medical settings are the high-pressure chambers, which are designed to hold either one person (ie, monoplace) or multiple people (ie, multiplace) at one time. In monoplace chambers, the entire chamber is pressurized with 100% oxygen and a single patient breathes the oxygenated air directly, whereas in multiplace chambers, several people sit within a chamber that is pressurized with compressed air and breath pure oxygen via tightly fastened masks, hoods, or endotracheal tubes. Multiplace chambers enable a higher volume of persons to receive treatment and are adaptable for more critically ill patients, as attendants may be present in the chamber during therapy to address patient complications or concerns. Alternatively, monoplace chambers are often found in smaller facilities and chronic wound treatment centers, and allow for more individualized therapy.

Most chambers are designed to operate at a pressure in the range of 2.0 to 2.5 ATA. Newer low-pressure monoplace chambers operate in the 1.2 to 1.3 ATA pressure range. These chambers are more frequently used in homes and spas, and are also employed to improve postoperative recovery from plastic surgery. Low-pressure monoplace chambers tend to be attractive in situations that require portability, lower cost, and increased availability. These chambers are relatively new and differences in therapeutic benefits compared with their high-pressure counterparts have not yet been researched; however, improvement is still seen in tissue oxygen delivery with a low-pressure unit—even though it might not be to the same degree as seen with high-pressure units.

https://www.managedhealthcareconnect.com/article/hyperbaric-oxygen-therapy-brief-history-and-review-its-benefits-and-indications-older-adult

As previously discussed in class, HBOT works and helps with cognitive function associated with Traumatic Brian Injuries (TBI.) Dr. Paul Harch, M.D., is a leading expert in the field of HBOT.

Here is what Dr. William Orrison, Jr., M.D. stated about HBOT:

Many of you had the good fortune of seeing Dr. Orrison's neuro-radiology presentation on December 5th at the "HBOT in TBI" Consensus Conference. Others have seen Dr. Harch's SPECT brain images of patients he has treated over the past 18 years. The quote below will be of interest. At Dr. Orrison's presentation, he showed 3 patients' whole brain CT scans, from his practice, who had been treated with HBOT 1.5 by three different physicians. All patients had major recovery of brain function.

Here is his quote regarding Dr. Harch's SPECT brain images:

"Dr. Harch's use of SPECT brain imaging to examine the changes in the brain before and after hyperbaric oxygen therapy is scientifically accurate and valid. Multi-detector SPECT imaging is one of the only neuroimaging methods with sufficient utility to allow this type of longitudinal evaluation.

The improvement in brain perfusion demonstrated by Dr. Harch pre and post HBOT is impressive and objective evidence of improved cerebral blood flow in these patients. This is the same type of change that we have recently demonstrated using the new method of whole brain CT. In addition, the clinical observations and neuro-psych testing done by numerous physicians at different locations further verifies Dr. Harch's results and correlates with the objective findings observed on the SPECT images."

http://www.hbot.com/article/quote-dr-william-w-orrison-jr

A Single Photon Emission Computed Tomography (SPECT) scan is a Computed Tomography (CT) –like technology applied to Nuclear Medicine that measures blood flow. With measurement of blood flow it becomes an indirect measure of brain function that can be used to study any brain disease, including decompression illness, trauma, stroke, carbon monoxide, cerebral palsy, near-drowning, multiple sclerosis, etc. SPECT brain imaging began nearly 40 years ago and has been available to physicians clinically ever since.

http://www.hbot.com/spect-scan-single-photon-emission-computed-tomography-brain-blood-flow-imaging

One example of the effectiveness of HBOT is:

19 year old Male, motor vehicle accident, ejected at 65 miles per hour, major head trauma, unconscious and placed on a ventilator. CT scan revealed diffuse edema, midline shift, petechial hemorrhages, subarachnoid hemorrhages, small subdural hematoma, basilar skull fracture. HBOT initiated within 19 hours of accident. After initial treatments, patient became conversant and independently ambulatory with slight spasticity. Within eight weeks of accident, patient went from ventilator to walking and talking. You can review this case and a few others at

http://www.hbot.com/sites/hbot.com/files/downloads/HBOT_May0202_LHE2.pdf

Also, look at the embedded picture of a patients SPECT Brain Scan. It’s an Amazing difference! The weblink in the paragraph above also has the 2 images that are on the next page. Here is a weblink to another embedded image.

I wholeheartedly agree with HBOT and its effectiveness. HBOT has been proven over and over the help with TBI, other illnesses, and injuries. The proof is in the pudding, as indicated above.

Big Pharma “aka Big Brother” doesn’t want HBOT utilized. Why, you might ask? Because it works! It rids people of aliments, injuries, and diseases the Big Pharma provides medication for “sickness management!”  HBOT is a mortal enemy of “Big Pharma!”

Don’t get me wrong, “Big Pharma” and modern medicine has it place. “Big Pharma” has overstepped its boundaries over the past few decades, just my humble opinion. There is a “happy medium” and “moderation” aspect that has to be taken into consideration. Yes, there have been so many amazing and inspiring modern technological advances in the medicine world. Finding the right balance between modern medicine, holistic medicine, and spiritual wellness is of paramount importance.

Do you think you have what it takes to argue with me? You better bring your “A” game! You’ll need to pull out all of your intestinal fortitude and resilience to argue the effectiveness of HBOT! Don’t be brain washed! Don’t be a Sheep! Don’t just ‘go with the flow!” Do your homework, I did!

Until Next Argument!

 -Eric M.