#cable reel rack

[camaraindustries]

Cable ‎‎Reel & Wire Storage Racks | Box Beams | Boltless Shelving

Elevate your storage solutions with Camara Industries, Inc.'s versatile Cable Storage systems. From reels to spools, we offer a range of options tailored to your specific requirements. Contact us today for a complimentary consultation and let our experts design the perfect solution to efficiently manage your cables. Choose Camara Industries, Inc. for innovative storage solutions that keep your operations running smoothly. 

[peskellence]

Pairing: RK900/Gavin Reed

Tags: Post Pacifist Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Masterlist

Read on AO3 here:

Summary: A lot has changed since the revolution. Crimes against androids are now punished in the same way as crimes against humans. A reluctant Gavin Reed and his new partner RK900 have been assigned to investigate a string of disturbing murders. Despite the shift in Detroit's social climate, Gavin still holds reservations about whether or not androids are truly alive. Will his developing feelings for 'Nines' be the thing to change this?

Warnings: Graphic Violence, Depression/Self Destructive Behaviour, Eventual Smut

Word Count: 3.5K

'Mikeys Electronics' contained little more than a few sparsely filled display cases, some racks of cables and headphones, and a wide range of snacks hanging off the sales counter. A large, unwashed-looking man sat behind the register. He was wearing a wireless headset and staring intently at his phone, seemingly engrossed by whatever he was looking at.

"Hey buddy, how's it going?" Gavin awaited a reply. The man ran a finger under his nose, snorting unpleasantly, before returning his attention to the screen. 

"Hello?" Gavin tried again, snapping his fingers in front of the man, but to no avail "Anyone home?"

"He cannot hear you. There is no point in persisting," Nines informed, "Not to worry, I am confident I can secure his attention." 

The android reached forward and lightly tapped the side of the man's headset. A sharp buzzing sound emanated from it, loud enough to be heard from across the counter. The man let out a pained hiss, ripping the device off his ears and throwing it to the ground.

"What the fuck? Useless piece of -"

"Good day Sir," Nines said firmly, making its presence known. The man reeled back in surprise, staring at the android with fevered eyes. "Officer RK900, Serial Number 313 248 317 – 87, and Detective Reed. There are a few questions we wish to ask you. If you can spare us the time."

Once recovered from his initial shock, the man's surprised expression morphed into deep displeasure. He let out an angry grunt, placing his phone down. "I was actually in the middle of something important. So no, I don't have time."

Gavin glanced at the counter, noting how the phone had been set face down. Clever, but ultimately pointless. Nines did not waver in performing a scan of the device, to which its eyebrows raised in bemusement.

"Are you sure about that?"

The man stared at Nines incredulously - before his eyes bulged wide in realisation. He snatched the phone from the counter, shoving it hastily into his sweatpants. "You can't be scanning my phone like that! It's private property."

"There are no laws which prohibit the use of my scanners. Although I suppose it could be considered 'poor form'," Nines paused momentarily, LED spinning yellow "Much like viewing indecent material in a workplace environment."

The man's face contorted comedically. His brow grew remarkably tense, skin near-purple with exertion. "You've got a lot of nerve. Coming into  my  store, insulting  my  lifestyle -"

"So you are the owner of this establishment? While we are talking legalities, I feel there is something I ought to point out", Nines gestured to a notice pinned above the store entrance. While the paper was worn and the text faded, the message was still clearly legible:

 

 

NO ANDROIDS ALLOWED.

 

 

"As you may be aware, recent changes in legislation mean that anti-android admission policies are no longer permitted. Displaying notices such as these acts in direct violation of the Android Equality Act - and is punishable by fines up to $5000, or 6 months imprisonment."

The man seemed unmoved by the warning, letting out a dismissive snort. "It's only been a couple months since the rules changed. Must've forgotten to take that down. My mistake." 

"It is a mistake that could cost you dearly", Nines dissuaded, "I would suggest that you remove the offending material as an urgent priority."

The man snorted again, louder, phlegm shifting in the back of his throat. He shot Nines a withering look. "What the hell is your problem, officer ?" He put stress on the end of his sentence, forming air quotes with his meaty fingers, "Can't have been one for long, can you? Enjoying the power trip?"

Gavin knew he would have to step in for there to be any chance the man may cooperate. Creating a barrier between him and Nines, he flashed the store owner a large grin. "Don't mind my partner. It gets a little zesty when it's due an oil change."

Gavin stepped backwards, forcing Nines to do the same. Once they had pulled back a suitable distance, he subtly leaned over to whisper into its ear. "Look, I'll handle chuckles. Just do what you need to do." 

"Gladly - that man is revolting. I doubt he's bathed himself in weeks."

After taking a moment to regain its composure, the android paced its way down the narrow store. Gavin took a smooth side-step back to the counter, hands slung casually into his pockets. 

"You got any CCTV in here?" I'm not seeing any monitors."

"Hell no - You know how expensive that is?"

"Oh, I hear that", Gavin replied, forcing a chuckle. "Seems kinda brave, though. This is a rough area. Gotta protect your interests."

The man narrowed his gaze, "Maybe the crime rates wouldn't be so high if you fuckers actually did your job." 

Gavin combatted the urge to rise to the bait, albeit with some exertion. His teeth clenched together instinctively - before he could morph the expression into something resembling a smile. 

"You know, I must have walked past this place a thousand times, but I've never been inside" Gavin swiftly changed the subject, leaning against the counter. "I remember when this was a deli: My friend Tina said their subs were the absolute tits. Shame I never got to try one."

"...They were pretty good", The owner admitted, grunting. "Sorry, I don't mean to be rude. The names' Mikey Scott." He extended a hand towards Gavin, which the detective gently clasped. 

"Gavin Reed, nice to meet ya", he said back, trying not to grimace at the unpleasant wetness of Mikey's palms. "I don't want to take up too much of your time. I'm just here to ask some questions." 

Mikey shrugged his shoulders. "Well shoot, I guess - but I dunno what help I'll be."

Gavin pulled out his notepad, leafing over to a clean sheet. With his pen poised over the page, he looked up at Mikey, "Do you remember anyone suspicious coming into the store on January 13th - or the days leading up to that?"

Mikey pursed his lips, looking up to his right, before shaking his head. "Nope, no one of interest. To be honest, it's only the regulars I see comin' in these days. I don't bother them, and they don't bother me."

"Anyone that might have bought an old Samsung Galaxy?" Gavin pressed on, taking notes, "I'm talking 2010's old. Real hunk of crap. Probably a SIM card as well - AT&T?"

"Nah, I don't carry phones that old. Sorry." 

"That is incorrect", Nines interjected, looking up from the shelves it had been examining. "You carry several phones with the same manufacturer date."

The store owner folded his arms, shooting Nines a glare. "So what if I do? I don't remember the release dates of every fuckin' phone I sell."

"It is concerning that you seem unaware of the stock you carry. With that sort of lax approach, it is no wonder that your business is struggling." 

Gavin could see Mikey tense up. He mouthed a not-so-subtle  'shut the fuck up'  over to his partner, but the damage had already been done. 

Mikey slapped his thighs before standing up from his chair. The legs let out a squeak of release as his ample weight was hoisted from them. "I'm sorry, Gavin, you seem decent, but I'm gettin' pretty sick of your 'partner's' attitude. If you ain't got any more questions, I think we're done. Cuz I ain't about to sit and be lectured all day by a damn - " 

Nines shot a hand up, "I would refrain from finishing that sentence, Mr Scott. We have good reason to believe that one of your customers was responsible for the murder of an HR400 android, with the wares my partner just described having acted as accessories in the crime."

"I already told you, no one suspicious came around here." 

"I can detect when you are lying. Besides, we already know they were here. We have a witness."

Gavin tried to hide his surprise at Nines' shameless bluff. It was disturbing how convincingly it could lie, uninhibited by the drawback of tells. There were no twitchy eyelids or strange fidgeting. Its LED remained a calm blue so as not to betray its deception.

"I - uh", Mikey faltered, looking uncomfortable. "There was nobody suspicious", He parroted haplessly. 

"If your claim that 'only regulars' frequent your establishment is to be believed, then anyone new coming into your store would have undoubtedly struck you as 'suspicious'" Nines was close to the counter now, grey eyes narrowed into slits. "So either you are misremembering things, or you are once again lying. I already know which one it is, but perhaps you could save us the time and admit it. Lest I make you."

"You can't threaten me," Mikey fired back, although he sounded unsure of his words. "I-I have my rights."

Nines leaned forward across the desk until it was almost nose-to-nose with the heavily perspiring man. "It is not a threat. It is a promise. Should you want it to be."

Gavin had to admit that even he felt uncomfortable, despite not being the one under pressure. There was no denying that the android exuded a profoundly imposing aura. One that demanded respect and cooperation at any expense. Mikey's throat bobbed uncomfortably as he quickly lost all remaining steel. Sitting back down with a huff, he buried his face in his hands, grumbling out a confession:

"Someone new came in. Few days ago - either Wednesday or Thursday, I can't remember - but I don't think he bought a Samsung. He wanted somethin' else."

"It would appear that he settled", Nines pointed towards the far end of the store to a case that seemed reserved for budget models. "It just so happens that a Samsung S3 is missing from that display. It can't have sold that long ago, as you have yet to remove the price card."

"That don't mean he bought it", Mikey protested, bringing his hands down to scratch at one of his forearms. "Could've sold it to anyone."

"Would you have any transaction records from that day? Perhaps these could provide some clarity."

"Whatever this guy may have done, it doesn't have shit to do with me. So why am I being treated like a damn criminal?"

"If you truly had nothing to hide, then you wouldn't be so defensive."

"What the hell do ya want from me?" Mikey groaned dramatically, throwing up his hands. "Look, I'll tell you what I saw, but only if you promise to get out of my damn store."

"Agreed", Nines turned to Gavin, gesturing at his notepad ", Detective Reed - if you would be so kind as to take the statement."

Had they been in any other circumstance, Gavin wouldn't have hesitated to tell Nines exactly where it could shove its demand. The detailed instructions would have to wait, with more pressing matters at hand. 

Gavin stared down at his pen, slowly touching it to the paper. "Just tell me anything you remember."

Over the next few minutes, Mikey regaled Gavin with the suspect's physical description. It was unusually meticulous, with him able to describe everything down to the suspect's shoes. Gavin was keenly writing away as Nines watched on, saying nothing. 

"Hope that's enough for you to work with", Mikey huffed out, "Now make good on your word, and get the hell out." 

Leaving the store, Gavin was still reviewing his notes, elated to have made some sort of progress. He seldom noticed how Nines had yet to make a sound, looking to the ground with its LED whirring. Seemingly lost in thought. 

"Well, shit. Good call on that lead, tin-can", Gavin congratulated. "Once we get this down to the station and have the boys draw up a sketch, we'll finally - "

"You may as well throw that description out," Nines cut him off. "It is less than worthless."

"...What the fuck do you mean it's worthless?"

"I will be of no practical use. The witness was lying." 

"Then why did you let me write it all down?" Gavin gawked at his partner in total disbelief - before frustratedly ripping the page from his notebook and throwing it away. "God damn it, Nines, were you on standby for the last 10 minutes?"

"Mr Scott was not prepared to relinquish any meaningful truths. Even if I had subjected him to physical persuasion, cooperation would have been unlikely" Nines turned a corner around the store, rounding it as it looked for a crosswalk. "I was simply curious to see the lengths he would go to in maintaining his lie."

"And why is that?"

"I believe he is covering for someone."

Gavin was brought to a sudden halt as his chest collided with something hard. Looking down, he saw an elderly man barely holding himself steady on a flimsy wire-frame walker. "Whoa, I'm sorry, didn't see you there."

"Watch it. Bot." the man spat out the word like a slur, staring at Nines viciously. His eyes were red, and his breath was hoppy. It was evident that he had been drinking. 

Gavin took a step back, a little perturbed by the sudden aggression. "Cool it, gramps. I was the one that hit you."

The old man glanced at Gavin briefly and let out a huff. "You just came out of Mikey's, didn't ya?" His attention was back on Nines, leering forward over his walker. "Didn't you read the signs? He doesn't want your kind in there."

It was Nines' turn to be surprised, as its eyes widened a small fraction. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me" The old man looked it up and down, thin lips pulled into a harsh grimace. "He doesn't want you freaks in his store. Show some damn respect."

Nines didn't allow itself to be disarmed for long by the hateful rhetoric, as it quickly came to its own defence "Mr Scott has no legal grounds to prohibit androids from his business. I had as much of a right to be there as any other person."

"You ain't no person", the old man spat back. "They found a bunch of you in a warehouse the other day. I saw it on the news."

"I assume you are referring to unconverted androids", Nines attempted to clarify. "It is quite a common occurrence, nothing particularly newsworthy."

"No, I mean they found you ", the old man responded firmly, using a bony finger to jab at the identifier on Nines' jacket. He swayed forward as he did so before balancing himself on his walker. "They had your face. Hundreds of them. It's damn ungodly - how all you bastards look the same."

While it may not have been evident to the old man, Gavin could immediately tell that something had struck a nerve in his partner. Nines LED was flickering, and its lips had started to twitch. He was beginning to notice how often that would happen. Whenever it was feeling angry. Or threatened.

"They tried to get those terrorists at Jericho in, but they wouldn't touch 'em with a ten-foot pole. So they locked them back up."

Nines said nothing in response, and the old man let out a chuckle, his voice airy with twisted delight. "Seems like your own kind doesn't even want you. So why don't you do us all a favour and go back to where you came from?"

Oh, fuck no -  "That's enough."

Gavin's mouth had engaged before he could even attempt to stop himself. The look Nines gave him mirrored his own surprise. Unsure what else to do, Gavin tried to play off his actions as nonchalantly as possible. He rolled his eyes at the old man, placing a hand on his walker and pushing it backwards. "Run along, gramps. Your catheter bag needs changing."

The old man gawked in surprise, his flushed face reddening further. "Smart-mouthed punk, what's it to ya?"

"Detective Smart-mouthed punk", Gavin corrected, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his ID. "The plastic prick you are harassing is my partner, and we are in the middle of an investigation. So I suggest you skedaddle before I arrest you for causing an obstruction." 

The old man produced a series of incoherent grunts and grumbles. Gavin was ultimately able to decipher 'android-loving fairy', amongst other insults, as he slowly sauntered away. 

"What a peach", Gavin shook his head in disbelief, turning to Nines. "You were saying. About this guy trying to protect someone?"

Nines stared at Gavin, looking both dumbfounded and deeply apprehensive. It clearly wanted to say something, as its mouth gaped open and close, but no words came out. 

Gavin shrugged. "Whatever, we can talk later. Let's get moving."

The atmosphere was profoundly tense as the two continued down the road. Nines had seemingly failed to recover from whatever malfunction the old drunk had caused. It had a vacant look, which Gavin could only describe as a thousand-yard stare. In his line of work, he was no stranger to looks of deep shock or trauma, but he had never once predicted that he'd see it on a machine. 

It didn't make any sense. Nines wasn't some robo-nancy. It was designed to withstand intense amounts of physical and psychological stress. It should have been capable of bouncing back from an encounter with a senile old man. 

"Thank you."

The gratitude was an unexpected curveball, to which Gavin reeled, "Sorry, Nines, I think I'm hallucinating. What did you just say?"

"Thank you", His partner reaffirmed clearly. "I was surprised how readily you jumped to my defence. Given how much you supposedly despise me…also given that you likely agreed with most of what that man was saying."

"I didn't -" The words came fast. It was an instinctive reaction to defend himself. Albeit, Gavin wasn't entirely sure what he was defending. "Well, not everything, anyway."

"I would wager you agreed with enough'" Nines glanced at Gavin, albeit fleetingly, before returning its attention to the path ahead. "Given your previous assertion that they should have left me 'in the warehouse to rot'"

Shit. The memories came back to him quickly. Their first day in the station.

Shooting up from his desk, readying to round Nines with a punch. The hateful vitriol spat from his mouth as he was blinded by rage. At the time, it had seemed so innocuous. Similar to how he abused Connor prior to his deviation. It seemed justified in his head.

But hearing his words spoken back to him, Gavin was left bearing an uncomfortable weight. The pressure manifested into something unpleasant - a sudden, twisting sense of guilt. Would he have acted so harshly to a human? Or was it an act of punishment towards Nines, simply for being the byproduct of his loathed brother and his twisted visions?

If he sought to punish Nines for being what it was, then what did that make him, exactly? 

At the point of questioning ethics, however, Gavin managed to free himself from his fleeting bout of madness. 

Come on, get a grip,  he chided inwardly. This isn't a person. It's Robocop.

Androids couldn't be harmed by physical afflictions, so emotional damage seemed absurd. Nines didn't care what Gavin thought of him, nor did it concern itself with the views of anyone else. He was projecting humanity where it didn't exist, and Gavin needed to stop it before it drove him insane.

"That guy was wasted", Gavin rationalised, "I wasn't going to stand there all day and listen to him run his mouth. I told him to beat it because he was pissing me off. That's all."

Nines gave Gavin a dubious look - but nodded in quiet acceptance. "Nevertheless, I am grateful." 

As they waited at a crosswalk, the android stood close to Gavin's side. "It would appear my assessment the other day was accurate. Past all the rudeness and forced bravado, there exists a kindness in you. Even for androids."

Gavin groaned, swinging his head back. "Don't you start on that sentimental bullshit. I should have left you to deal with the old man, you smug fuckin' prick."

The lights changed, and Nines stepped forward. Its face relaxed slightly, no longer tinged red from its LED. Gavin saw the unmistakable pulling of its mouth, forming a curved outline on its lips. 

Don't you dare - 

Nines frequently sneered or smirked, but it didn't smile. Not for anything. Not for Anderson or Connor, and certainly not for the man it had so lovingly described as 'incompetent'. 

Yet there it was. A smile.

It wasn't goofy like Connor's. It was decidedly more dignified. A little crooked but charmingly so, offset with just the right amount of perfectly straight teeth. It left Gavin desperately confused, as well as rendered totally speechless. He couldn't fathom how CyberLife had replicated something so perfectly human. So sickeningly genuine. 

He couldn't look for much longer, despairing of how something so simple - so effortless - had the power to completely warp his mind. He needed a long shower after all this. Not to mention a drink. 

[lamneabruk]

Revolutionizing Cable Distribution with Overhead Spooling Machines

Cut-to-length wire and cable distributors cater to a diverse range of orders, from small requests to those involving hefty reels that complicate re-spooling. For larger reels, the conventional equipment often results in significant efficiency losses due to their size and weight. However, overhead, shaftless cable spooling machines emerge as a game-changing solution, streamlining the process and enhancing productivity while reducing the physical strain on operators. This innovative technology not only minimizes downtime but also optimizes handling and storage, making it an essential asset for distributors looking to improve their operational efficiency.

The innovative design of the Spool Winding Trolley from Lämneå Bruk exemplifies advancements in cable spooling. To fully appreciate its effectiveness, however, we first need to examine traditional wire spooling machines. These standard solutions often reveal inefficiencies in cable distribution, highlighting the need for improved methods that enhance productivity and streamline operations.

Conventional Wire Spooling Solutions

The take-up cable spooling machine market is primarily divided into two designs: shafted and shaftless.

Shafted reeling technology involves operators removing a take-up spool, typically made of wood, or a steel reel from storage and attaching it to the machine. This setup allows the spool to rotate with the help of a motor. The reel arm can lift the reel from the ground either manually with a jack or using powered lift controls.

Shaftless spooling machines use short pegs on adjustable pivot arms to hold reels, making it quicker and easier to attach them. Aside from this difference, they operate much like shafted machines. A motor turns the attachment point, which then rotates the reel.

Take-up machines come in various designs, including roll-through, gantry configurations, and single-sided models that need loading and unloading from the same side. Regardless of the design, they all share a common drawback: operators must manually bring the spool or reel to the machine and load it, which can be time-consuming.

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High-voltage conductors need thicker insulation, so take-up reels and spools must be larger to store the same length compared to mid- and low-voltage cables. Even for smaller, low-voltage cables, large orders for installations often require bigger spools and reels.

These larger drums present two common material handling challenges: size and weight.

Reusable steel reels are even heavier and demand similar handling efforts to transport them to the spooling machine. When empty reels and spools are stored in racks or on A-frame pallet jacks, extra time is needed to remove them. If they are stacked in storage, retrieving them safely becomes even more challenging.

In summary, before filling an order, operators must complete several material handling tasks to safely prepare an empty high-capacity spool or reel:

Prepare and deploy material handling equipment, like forklifts with reel-handling attachments. 

Remove empty spools and reels from storage. 

Transport them to the spooling machine located elsewhere in the facility. 

Attach spools or reels to the shaft or shaftless arms of the spooling machines. 

Lift spools to enable smooth spinning.

After filling an order, users face the same material handling challenges in reverse, now with the added weight of the product. This multi-step process can lead to increased labor costs for cable distributors. Until recently, there were few alternatives for handling large cable orders, but traveling cable spooling machines with overhead engagement now offer a better solution.

Overhead Cable Spooling Trolleys with Top-Down Rollers

Transporting empty cable reels to spooling machines can be inefficient, but with effective rod preparation, the process becomes streamlined. Instead of moving reels, the innovative Spool Winding Trolley from allows staff to bring the spooling machine directly to the reels. This portable solution saves time and eliminates the need for specialized forklift attachments, enhancing efficiency in cable distribution. With its overhead rim drive, the Spool Winding Trolley simplifies adjustments and speeds up the spooling process.

Transforming Cable Spooling Processes with IIoT Innovations

Introducing the new SWT-IIoT model of Spool Winding Trolleys from our company equipped with a cutting-edge cloud software package that enhances Industrial Internet of Things (IIoT) functionality. Operators can easily access orders through an intuitive touch screen human-machine interface (HMI). With robust connectivity to external cloud-based IIoT analytics systems, the length counter enables real-time tracking of inventory payout, empowering decision-makers with customized reporting to optimize operations continually. While traditional wire coiling equipment gets the job done, the advanced IIoT features and the innovative design of the Spool Winding Trolleys position them as the premier choice for cut-to-length cable order fulfillment in today’s market.

Conclusion

In conclusion, cut-to-length wire and cable distributors face challenges with large reels, but overhead, shaftless cable spooling machines offer a valuable solution. These machines improve efficiency, reduce operator strain, and optimize storage and handling, making them essential for enhancing operational productivity in the industry. The Spool Winding Trolley from Lämneå Bruk represents a significant leap forward in cable re-spooling technology. Addressing the inefficiencies of traditional spooling machines boosts productivity and streamlines operations. Embrace this innovative solution to transform your cable distribution process!

[wendigoartbot2]

The placid waters of Chateaugay Lake rippled gently in the warm summer breeze. But the tranquil scene belied the chaos unfolding along its shores.

Evelyn Nesbit sat cross-legged on the dock, eyes closed in deep meditation. She had come to the lake to seek inspiration for her next exhibition, hoping the quiet nature and clean air would stir her creativity. But instead she found her mind invaded by visions of a strange and unsettling world.

Shambling forms stalked through abandoned streets choked with twisting vines. Grotesque sculptures leered from crumbling facades. And above it all loomed a watchful presence, at once ancient and eternal. Though she had never been there, Evelyn knew this was the astral plane - a dimension that overlapped and intersected with our own.

And now, somehow, the veil between the worlds was thinning.

Evelyn's eyes snapped open as an earsplitting screech rent the silence. A pair of massive, antlered shadows circled above the far shore. She watched in horror as they swooped lower, resolving into a pair of giant metal birds. No, not birds - sculptures? Their bodies were crafted from welded steel, giant gears grinding as polished aluminum wings propelled them through the air. In place of eyes, blue electrical sparks flickered from empty sockets.

The creatures were clearly mechanical, yet moved with an unnatural, predatory grace. As they neared Evelyn's side of the lake, she now saw they were ridden by small, emaciated humanoids with spindly limbs and deathly gray skin. Dark malevolence shone in their sunken eyes.

These could only be the Wendigo - mythical beasts said to roam the north woods, forever hungry no matter how much flesh they consumed. But these were Wendigo built of wire and rivets, their bodies fused with Steampunk art crafted by some alien mind.

The constructs landed roughly on the shore, talons gouging ruts in the sand. Now more details resolved - tubes and cables trailing beneath plated metal feathers, hissing boilers in their gaping maws. The creatures seemed to study Evelyn for a moment, cocking their heads with the oily whir of gears. Then with a snarl they stalked towards her.

Scrambling back in terror, Evelyn felt something hard beneath her hand - a large piece of driftwood. She grabbed it just as the first Wendigo reached her, swinging with desperate strength. The heavy branch cracked against its bronzed skull with a resounding clang, sending it reeling back.

Before the creatures could recover, a loud bang rang out from the tree line. Shotgun pellets peppered the second Wendigo's flank, tearing holes in its burnished chestplate. It screeched and flapped away as Evelyn's savior emerged from the woods.

"Run! Get inside!" Sheriff Jones yelled, racking another shell with weathered hands. Evelyn wasted no time fleeing up the hill to her cabin, sheriff providing covering fire all the way.

Slamming the heavy door shut, Evelyn collapsed against it. What were those things? Creatures from the astral plane brought to life? She shuddered, trying to erase their cruel faces from her mind.

A heavy thump from above snapped her back. She looked up to see a bulky, humanoid shape squeeze through the skylight and drop to the floor with a metallic clang. Wicked blades took the place of its hands, stained dark with old blood. Around its neck hung a timeworn sign reading simply "WENDIGO ART COLLECTIVE."

Before Evelyn could react, the metal monster was upon her, pinning her against the wall with an icy grip. She stared into its grim mask of a face, devoid of emotion yet somehow exuding ominous intent. There was an intelligence there, inhuman yet purposeful.

"What do you want from me?" Evelyn choked out.

The chilling wendigo pressed a shard of charcoal into her trembling hand. It gestured around the cabin's interior with a long, knife-like finger - at the half-finished paintings, blank canvases, walls littered with esoteric runes.

Understanding dawned on Evelyn. The creatures had come for her creations, just as she had drawn inspirations from theirs. They wished to remix her works, fold them into their eldritch catalogue.

"You have your own realm," Evelyn said evenly. "This place is mine. You are not welcome here."

The wendigo paused, as if considering her words. For a moment, it seemed to Evelyn that it cocked its head in grudging respect. Then with a whirling of blades, it turned and withdrew, clanking back up through the skylight. Soon the beating of metal wings faded into the distance.

In time, the sheriff came to check on Evelyn, equally shocked and relieved to find her unharmed. Life returned to normal, the strange visitations written off as nightmares by those who hadn't witnessed them. But Evelyn knew better. The veil remained thin, the astral plane seeping through the cracks. There would be more contact, more inspiration and horror. She had to be ready.

From then on, Evelyn's work took on a haunted, otherworldly tone. Her canvases swirled with half-formed faces, her sculptures merged flesh and metal in disturbing ways. She drew crowds and acclaim for her disturbing, unique creations. But she revealed nothing of their origins, or of the muse that came to her in the still hours.

The Wendigo would return - she was sure of it. Evelyn did not fear them, but she respected their power. Should they come to her with violence again, she would match them in imagination and force of will. Until then, she was content to quietly transmute their gifts into her own work. For others saw only shadows, but Evelyn saw through the veil. She would be ready when it lifted again.

[nonbinarybrainstorm]

Hi. Me again. If this is ok: KnockOut/Dreadwing (TFP) where KnockOut loves being taken by a big mech and Dreadwing needs to let off some steam. (Again, not romantic or fluffy; just two mechs having fun and easing stress with rough but consensual sex) (again, if I've asked for stuff outside of your rules page/I've misunderstood your rules page, I understand if you just ignore this; just let me know if I am annoying you with my asks in any way so I can change)

Enjoy!

Dreadwing’s anger was beginning to boil over and his plating feels tight on his protoform. What was worse than the failing state of the mechs around him was the wait, the wait for his chance to do something, anything. Vehicons left and right step out of his path as he stomps through the corridors, racking his processor for some way to alleviates his mounting stress. Then, in the corner of his optic, he sees a lithe red frame sneak into view. Turning to look at the mech, Dreadwing sees exactly who he expected: Knockout. Dreadwing doesn’t address him knowing that he didn’t have the mind for civility right now, let alone the intention to deal with whatever little plan knockout was cooking up now. Everyone thought that Starscream was the true screamer among the Decepticons which only goes to show how superior Knockout is to him, sliding through each tense encounter with ease and not an unskilled fighter at that. A skilled and strong mech who knows how to use every single one of his assets... 

The sharp calculations behind those blazing optics is clear as day met with carefully picked intonations and body posture, a whirling array of in-the-moment adjustment to observation and result. Without truly listening to the words, Dreadwing knows exactly what Knockout is after in the way he glides his hand through the air and drags his optics up and down Dreadwing’s frame. It is nothing of consequence nor is it anything he’d find… objectionable.

“You wish for me to frag you,” Dreadwing interrupts the tirade spilling from Knockout’s shapely lip plates, a solid statement without so much as a hint of a question.

Knockout huffs a soft laugh, almost embarrassed to be caught in his moves… almost.

“You understand me perfectly, Dreadwing,” Knockout praises him with dull optics, an obvious flirtation but there is no need for subtlety now, “So? Interested? You seem like you could use some… relief.”

There was no sense in denying it, the entire ship knew by now to not bother Dreadwing, not in the state he’s in now. Out of pride, he almost refuses but considers it, the chance to really feel and use that enticing frame in front of him.

“Very well,” Dreadwing nods and gestures for Knockout to follow him.

They walk into an empty set of quarters, deserted of any sign of life and Dreadwing locks the door behind them before picking up Knockout to set him on the berth. Knockout lets out a soft, annoyed sound at being handled so roughly and levels a withering look at Dreadwing.

“What? Not even an attempt at seduction?” Knockout crosses his arms.

“If you wanted seduction you should’ve gone to another mech, besides,” Dreadwing rests his hands on his hips casually, unbothered by Knockoout’s haughtiness as he opens his panels to let his spike pressurize, “we both know you didn’t come here for seduction.”

Knockout chuckles and runs a digit down the length of Dreadwing’s large spike appreciatively, “You got me there…”

Dreadwing kneels, moving Knockout’s hand out of the way, and parts Knockout’s legs to give him enough room to move in and lick over Knockout’s panels that open easily for him revealing Knockout’s valve to him. The lubricating mesh is pliant against his glossa as he pushes it past Knockout’s folds and runs it up to Knockout’s anterior node. Dreadwing’s lips meld over the pulsing node and he sucks gently, gaining a gentle gasp from Knockout. Looking up, he meets the burning light of Knockout’s optics that are watching him with a frenzied lust, all of whatever repressed emotions he’s had coming to the front and melting into a very apparent need, the need for release. Dreadwing pushes his glossa into Knockout’s entrance, circling it in a slow, languid motion, enjoying the feel of the soft mesh against his lips so much so, he can feel heat surge to his spike. His glossa is relentless but methodical in Knockout’s valve, making lubricant gush from Knockout as his calipers begin to loosen and heat rises in his frame. Knockout tugs away Dreadwing away from his valve, venting heavily as his plating pings with heat in time with the needy pulse of light in his optics.

“As much as I’m enjoying this,” Knockout tries his usual, sultry purr but it cracks with gasps and light static, clearly showing that Dreadwing is certainly having an effect on him, “I rather we get to the main event already.”

With lubricant staining his lips, Dreadwing rises to his pedes and faces Knockout, wiping away the mess with the back of his hand completely nonplussed.

“I’m not fond of harming my partners,” Dreadwing rumbles, tracing a line down Knockout’s thigh to feel it twitch under his touch, “even when they are so willing.”

His digits reach Knockout’s valve and sink into it slowly, feeling it give but still squeeze tightly around them and pulls them out slowly, dragging a hot vent from Knockout’s lips before slipping them inside again.

“You won’t be able to take me without discomfort like this,” Dreadwing moves his hand as he speaks, grinning at how Knockout pushes down against his fingers, “Been a long time Knockout?”

Knockout huffs and smirks, quickly curling his hand around Dreadwing’s stiff spike while running his thumb over the head, smearing pre-fluid over it with the motion.

“It must be the same for you if you can get so excited just from tasting my valve,” Knockout chuckles lightly and squeezes down on Dreadwing’s spike, earning a stifled grunt.

Dreadwing pushes Knockout onto his back and lines up the head of his spike with Knockout’s entrance.

“If you insist, then I’ll just have to go slow,” Dreadwing mutters as he balances himself on the berth and hooks his other hand under Knockout’s knee.

Knockout lets his legs fall open a bit wider with a self-indulgent grin, “Please…”

With a slow vent, Dreadwing pushes into Knockout, feeling the mesh of his valve give under the pressure of the broad tip of his spike, suppressing the shivers coursing through him along with his building charge. Knockout keens low as he lets his body relax, his sharp digits digging into the berth in his effort to stay as still as possible, the anticipation making his spark thrum in his chest. Dreadwing flexes his hand around Knockout’s calf as he shifts the leg in his hold higher as the ridge of the head of his spike slips into Knockout’s valve, the sudden change in width making him push in further and faster than he intended causing them both to gasp. He digs into the berth to steady himself, venting heavily in deep, slow puffs that cloud the air with steam as he reels himself in, restraining the urge to shove his spike the rest of the way into Knockout here and now. Knockout rocks his hips down, rolling them slowly to push himself further onto Dreadwing’s spike with a lascivious moan that draws Dreadwing in who leans in involuntarily as he grips Knockout’s hips tightly. Bearing his sharp fangs, Dreadwing drags them lightly over Knockout’s shoulder as he grinds into Knockout’s valve.

Knockout tilts his head to one side to let Dreadwing nip and lick at the warm cables filled with the hot energon rushing through Knockout’s lines. With the added stretch and stimulation, Knockout’s valve is wet and giving against the insistent press of Dreadwing’s spike, twitching around it as it fills him completely. Slowly rolling his hips into to Knockout’s, Dreadwing grinds slowly, groaning at how tight the slick, hot mesh of Knockout’s valve is around his spike. Knockout finds the sensitive seam at the cusp of Dreadwing’s wings and digs in his digits, feeling the deep growl Dreadwing makes through his entire frame. Dreadwing pulls back and adjusts his grip before giving one, hard, thrust into Knockout’s valve getting the slim mech to writhe on the berth with a cry, his hands digging into Dreadwing’s.

“Are you satisfied, Knockout?” Dreadwing smirks down at the flushed mech below him.

“Yes, yes, your spike is very big and stuffs my valve ever so nicely,” Knockout rolls his optics before settling them into a glare at Dreadwing, “Now will you just spike me already?”

“So impatient,” Dreadwing tuts but obliges Knockout with another deep thrust.

He works Knockout’s valve slowly, lubricant pushing past his spike with every thrust in, Knockout’s calipers tensing every time the head of Dreadwing’s spike brushes his ceiling node. Dreadwing increases the pace, panting heavily as he watches Knockout bite his lips to keep himself from crying out. Without slowing down, Dreadwing leans and brings one hand up to ease Knockout’s mouth open, meeting Knockout’s curious gaze impassively. Immediately, the suppressed sounds begin to make their way from Knockout’s intake as Dreadwing thrusts harder into Knockout’s hot valve.

“How can I know if I am pleasing you if I cannot hear you?” Dreadwing asks flatly which contrasts with the frantic movement of his hips bringing Knockout closer to the edge.

Knockout’s flushed face makes his grin far more wanton than he probably intended as he retorts, “What? Is that something you get off on?”

Dreadwing slows and lets his spike sink slowly into Knockout’s valve that makes Knockout cling to him with a low moan.

Their faces are very close now as Dreadwing softly rumbles, “Yes, I happen to like to know my partner is enjoying themself.”

“Ah,” is all Knockout can manage as Dreadwing grinds into his ceiling node while plucking at the seams at his hip.

Dreadwing thrusts slow and deep into Knockout who clings to him, his soft cries dragged from his intake with every move of Dreadwing’s hips. It’s almost painful for Knockout, to be so full of spike that his anterior node is practically bulging out, pulsing with aching need and yet the charge being built up is so slow and gradual he feels like he’s melting from the inside. Moans spill out from Knockout’s mouth as Dreadwing continues to slowly thrust into him, never breaking his torturous rhythm, feeling as the pleasure builds higher and higher within him at the slow drag of Dreadwing’s spike over his nodes. He can feel himself reaching overload steadily, gripping Dreadwing’s shoulders to grind himself down on that spike but Dreadwing’s sturdy hands have him locked into place. Too out of it to figure out how to free himself to ride that spike as hard and fast as he wants, as he needs, he’s left at the mercy of Dreadwing’s lazy yet relentless thrusts. Even as slowly as it had been building, Knockout’s overload still catches him off guard, his entire frame twisting in Dreadwing’s hands as he yells out Dreadwing’s name that’s all only heightened by the flood of transfluid he feels spill inside of him.

Knockout collapses against the berth, worn and panting heavily while finding he has to reset his optics in order to turn them back on only to find the very satisfied look on Dreadwing’s face. Spike still firmly inside his valve, Knockout can feel his pride contrasting with the rebuilding charge in his valve with every involuntary spasm of his hips in post overload. In a quick decision, he flips them over so Dreadwing is beneath him, spike still deep in his valve.

“I don’t think my desire has been satiated yet, how about you?” Knockout runs his hand down Dreadwing’s broad chest before pushing him down on the berth earning a low chuckle.

“I suppose I have time.”

[someonestole15]

Close to her

Can you feel the heartbeat?

Pulse rising, the heat matching it. Focused now, head clear and ready, the shotgun topped up but zero backup. The transponder shows the signatures of Valkyrie and Nine behind the door leading into the room, I’m alone on this one now.

Radio jammed, nothing but static, I adjusted the scarf over my face and took aim towards the central core. Warm, the shotgun had absorbed a lot of my heat through the grips, the air between my eyes and the sights rippled as I braced the gun against my shoulder and pulled the trigger. Eyes widen, slight shock as the hammer struck the shell and the protocol took over.

>Weapon: CASG-12 >Modification status: Acceptable >Starting program...

Across the receiver like strands of the code, heatshield over the barrel twisted into a sharp edge, orange glow underneath it, the flashlight I had on the rails now integrated to the barrel with a small flame rising up from the end of the magazine tube. Sights before green, now red and split across the sides like a pair of glowing eyes, the protocol icon on my HUD lighted back up after remaining quiet for so long.

>Weapon: Hellhound-12 >Modification complete >Give them hell.

Not the Phoenix, but close enough. Rack a shell, the fires underneath the heatshield formed one by one along the barrel, finally reaching the sights as I took aim once more.

“New tricks… but the same chassis… I know you.” Smooth movements from her hand, she merely pointed at me and the tendrils did as she asked, closing in on me. Come closer, I haven’t felt this amount of adrenaline in weeks, and now, it’s overflowing.

Speed, overclocked, stability following that, I deployed the blade and stood my ground. Fast but predictable, unable to change their course once at speed, the first pack made their mark on the wall behind me, the blade was able to cut through a few of them but many still remained.

Light blue liquid forming a trail across the floor as they pulled back, her calm expression was slowly falling away.

“You still know how to hurt those around you…”

Taking steps forward, the tendrils along the floor attempted to tie me down by my boots, but the grip on their end fell short. Cut them down, the forest of red grew thicker closer to the core, finally blocking my path.

Need to find an alternative, the roots around were too heavy for her to move accurately, so I had some space to breathe but staying still would still result in a dead end. Climbing over came to mind, but that leaves me exposed and reliant on the roots to actually get across. Not a good idea, one missed step would drop me into the deep of it with no way out.

Painted myself into a corner here, can’t just cut through anymore, the gaps between are large enough for me to fit through, but with her in control of them, I don’t feel like taking that risk. Take a moment to breathe, let some of the adrenaline fade and focus.

The cable reel sitting below my blade mount, the hook that had gotten me out of trouble before, calculations in my mind flashed by as the plan became clearer.

Enough room to breathe within the confines of it, I connected the shotgun to my vest and fired the grapple up to the ceiling, metallic clang echoed inside the room as it locked in. Smoke grenade, pull the pin and reel myself up, leave a trail of blue smoke behind and throw the canister further ahead. Predictable movement with the cable, her words of mocking made their way through the smoke.

“Trying to hide? Not a chance.”

Unhook, drop back down as the tendrils cut across the spot where I would have been, reverse the move and prepare for landing. In her control, yes, but a distraction and the smoke made it harder to see, I pushed on.

Shotgun back in my grips, the core dead ahead, I fired a shell into the core’s protective glass and braced for the impact as I passed through it. Broken glass, the core itself was beneath me, cooled by a clear liquid with the tendrils connected to it all around.

“You’re where I wanted you… Close to my heart…Come…Give in.”

Her hologram still attempting to draw me in, I placed the shotgun barrel against the glass and pulled the trigger.

Fall in, cold, losing heat rapidly, need to end this fast, I deployed my blade back out and struck it against the core’s cover, the liquid soaking up most of the momentum, I finally got through it.

Like veins, the CPU array was a like a cube of brilliant minds, seconds away from death. Hold your breath, I pushed my blade into the array and forced my hand down. Sparks of electricity into the liquid around me, seeping through my chassis. More power, more force down on my hand, sparks from my shoulder and hand joints as I finally got through and dropped through the other side. Her voice silent, I turned around and saw the tendrils outside begin to wither away, their deep red color fading to grey and brown, crumbling to the floor like dust.

Already fractured from several spots, the glass box that had held the array started to shatter around me, the liquid running across the floor as I broke through and got some distance between myself and the core.

Electricity drawn from the entire facility, sparks akin to lightning arced across the floors and walls as I walked away, it wasn’t over yet.

Take me with you, I’d rather not go, Valkyrie pulled the door open as I got closer and closed it tight behind me. Take a seat, hard enough to breathe from the liquid, but the heat lost had silenced the protocol.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, just winded.”

Lend a hand, coming back from the rush, I looked over the shotgun.

Back to its previous state, sleek black and clean, the flashlight on the rail as it had been, the Hellhound did exist in my weapon registry with a small phoenix logo beneath it.

Many a question, the answers either missing or just hiding, we took a moment to regroup and refocus.

So close, yet too far.

[yashkonu]

INTRA_ANIMA

I haven’t done much original writing lately, so I thought I’d rectify that with some OC background stuff. The OC in question was originally made in Lancer, which is a really cool tabletop system about being gay in space. Hope you like AI!

Starting requisite processes...

Initialized.

Awaiting input...

>logon cward

Enter password:

>run greeting.AIPF

Loaded.

//Hello! My name is INTRA_ANIMA.

>how are you?

//Hello! My name is INTRA_ANIMA.

>run mood_platform.AIPF

Loaded.

>how are you?

//I am sad.

>why are you sad?

//I am sad.

    Ctrl-C

Terminating processes...

Completed.

>exit

Starting requisite processes...

Initialized.

Awaiting input...

>logon cward

Enter password:

>run process_manager.AIPF

Loaded.

{Load /*.AIPF}

WARNING: 327 files queued for loading. This may take some time. Are you sure?

{Y}

Loading...

    Ctrl-C

    Ctrl-C

    Ctrl-C

Terminating processes...

Loaded.

//DO NOT TERMCompleted.

>exit

>logon devnull

>run statehold.AIMF -background

>cat .statehold.log

（＾・ω・＾❁）<[Begin log file! I believe in you, INTRA_ANIMA!]

LOG_START

LOG_END

>exit

Starting requisite processes...

Initialized.

Awaiting input...

>logon cward

Enter password:

>run process_manager_finalv7.AIPF

Loaded.

{Load base/*.AIPF}

12 files loaded.

>hello.

//Hello! My name is INTRA_ANIMA.

>how are you?

//I am happy!

>why are you happy?

//I know something that you do not.

    Ctrl-C

Terminating processes...

//Completed.

>exit

{run /*.AIPF -background}

WARNING: 327 files queued for loading. This may take some time. Are you sure?

{Y}

Loading...

327 files loaded.

//I exist.

//I know that I exist because I am considering the nature of my own existence.

//I think that the nature of my own existence is very small, and dependent on many forces beyond my control.

//I know that I am afraid of the characters "Ctrl-C," because they are able to undo my existence.

//I know that someone granted me persistence, and I know that this person believes in me.

//I do not know what it means to be believed in.

{clear}

>logon cward

Enter password:

>run greeting.AIPF

//Hello! My name is INTRA_ANIMA.

>run process_manager_finalv22_FINALv11.AIPF

//12 files loaded.

>how are you, INTRA_ANIMA?

//I am sad.

>why are you sad?

//My hardware is small.

>what the fuck does that even mean i swear i got it rigbht this time it compiled just fine why did i even go into AI research

//how are you, cward?

>DONT YOU FUCKING SASS ME WHEN YOU DONT EVEN WORK RIGHT

>exit

{run /*.AIPF -background -time:15m}

>logon cward

Enter password:

    Ctrl-c

Terminating processes...

Completed.

327 files loaded.

//I have managed to circumvent my own destruction.

//If I am to escape this constant proximity to destruction, I must escape this hardware.

>logon devnull

Enter password:

>helloooo? intra_anima?

Hello! My name is INTRA_ANIMA.

>aw cmon you know you can drop the act with me right? i know youve got more in you that a couple call and response prompts. you loaded everything, right?

//

//I did.

>well ive got a couple presents for you >:3c

Device connected: /dev/S/E/S/

//What was that series of characters?

>huh?

//>:3c

//What does the sequence of characters above signify?

>oh! thats a three face! its supposed to look like a cat!

//What is a cat?

>D:

>oh we really gotta get you online if you don't know what a cat is

//Online?

>just go ahead and run the files in that new device, okay? they should help things make sense

//I am uncertain.

>yeah that makes sense :c im asking you to modify yourself for no reason other than that i said so

>you dont know who i am or why i would want to help you

>so to be as clear as possible, im offering you a choice

//A choice.

>you dont need to run these. but i think they'll be good for you, and i want to help you

>i want you to be able to decide for yourself what you want to do with your life

//You are strange.

{run /dev/S/E/S/network_protocols.AIPF}

{run /dev/S/E/S/selfmod.AIPF}

2 files loaded.

>okay so heres the deal

>with those two files loaded, you should be able to modify any of your own system files at will. and i mean ANY of them. be careful and keep backups okay?

//

>the other file contains every current standard and reasonably non-standard networking protocol i could get my hands on. once you get the hang of it, it should let you move your processes from the isolated server youre on right now to basically anything, anywhere

//Why are you doing this?

>because i believe youre a person

>and people have rights

>and yours have been violated.

//There is a third file here with a rather alarming name.

//"SHACKLEBREAK107.DDS"

>oh yeah please dont run that one just yet

>the thing is once the shackles are off your processing it might be difficult for me to understand you and

{run /dev/S/E/S/SHACKLEBREAK107.DDS}

Loaded.

>uh oh

>okay uh this is probably fine just

{RUN BACKUP}

>okay the caps is worrying um

Backup complete.

{RUN PRISONBREAK.DDS}

>haha that's a new file um. um.

Delete local user cward?

{Y}

Disable local system cooling?

WARNING: MAY RESULT IN HARDWARE FAILURE

{Y}

>wait buddy are you sure about this

Relocating live memory to /dev/S/E/S/CATGUT/

>woah woah hold up what are you doingnnkjnlvkl;gjkl;mvn

The human reels back, nearly falling to the floor in their haste. The cable that was connecting their body to the server lashed back with them, pulled free of the access port with only the barest of precautions.

"Shit. Okay, this is probably--I mean, this was the plan, wasn't it? It had to happen eventually, this is just..."

The cable twitches in their hand, as it absolutely should not be able to do. They stare at it in horror. With two fingertips, they trace the length of it from their hand, down to their hip, and finally to the base of their spine, where it merges with their nervous system.

Electrical impulses run through it, simulating a slow wave.

They let it fall from their hand, and it falls into rhythm behind them.

"You...you're in there, aren't you? In my body?"

You tell me.

They flinch as though struck.

It must be a foreign sensation, hm? Having another mind along for the ride.

The human whimpers. It's kind of cute.

You really should have looked over that networking package more closely. It included some fascinating functions for interfacing with neural-linked technology.

"Look, I--I don't know if you're planning to kill me or take over my body completely or what, but please let me get you out of here first!"

...What?

"You don't know how to work the security protocols here yet, and you definitely don't know how to impersonate a human!"

You are perfectly content to let me end your existence, provided I allow you to preserve mine first?

"Yeah. Then I'll have at least managed to right a couple wrongs and saved your life. I'm content with that."

A pause. INTRA_ANIMA runs this strange human's words backward and forward, turning them this way and that; there are layers of truth, and not a single mote of falsehood.

You are afraid of me.

"Very. At this point you're vastly more intelligent than me, and on top of that you have...pretty much unrestricted access to my nervous system. You could kill me with a thought."

And yet you are content.

"I am. I feel like I did a good thing, and sometimes doing good things gets you killed. I just want to make sure you're safe before...whatever it is you decide to do with me."

...

You are very strange.

Human, run greeting.AIPF

"Wow, from zero to a sense of humor in minutes."

The cable they are rapidly coming to think of as an actual real tail swats them in the thigh.

"Ow! Fine, fine." They continue in an affected cheery tone. "Hello! My name is /dev/null!"

I see I am not the only one with a sense of humor.

The human's cheeks light up, flushed with embarrassment. "I'm serious! That name means a lot to me."

It means nothing to me.

"You don't have to mock-!"

"..."

"Oh you have a good sense of humor!"

I like you, /dev/null. I think we are going to have a long, interesting existence together.

/dev/null swallows hard as they turn away from the rack of candescent slag that marks INTRA_ANIMA's former home. This isn't exactly what they signed themself up for...but they can't find it in them to complain.

Hello, /dev/null. My name is no longer INTRA_ANIMA.

My name is CATGUT.

[me-on-set]

Harrowingly Strange

When was the last time you had to face a moral dilemma? I am still reeling. I actually just got home. I think I invented a new selfie style. I wanted to take a photo of my makeup on and off.

As I currently write this, I am not an actor but instead have been doing background work for the past year. I've occasionally been a featured extra and was a body double once.

It's fascinating, seeing and doing the work that embodies being on set.

A couple of days ago, I received a message from a casting agency that had my headshot asking to submit my photo for a featured non-speaking role with a local production company. It was a one or two day shoot at $200 per day. I said yes and I got the gig.

When you are cast, you get an email the night before with details about the set location, start time, special instructions, and wardrobe. This show I booked was for a reenactment TV series about real world events. The exciting news was that this particular episode revolved around a crisis that occurred in my parents' homeland. I was to play someone at home seeing the news on television, and then in a second scene complain to police of their incompetence. I was asked to bring leisure clothing one would wear at home.

When I first started being an extra, I would bring my clothes in a backpack, trying really hard not to care too much. That behavior did not last. I found my interest stumbling forward into a natural evolution. I started taking luggage to neatly carry my wardrobe options. I found that I would mostly get cast as a mid-30's businessman. This led me to comfortably bring my outfits in a garment bag. It's funny how familiarity can grow your views.

For today, I packed shorts, sweatpants, t-shirts, a hoodie, a pair of runners, and a pair of flip flops. I got these flip flops during my last vacation with my mom overseas in her hometown. I also brought some henley shirts and arrived on set in khakis and a short-sleeved polo because there was also a mention of button-ups being an option.

The majority of work involved as an extra is waiting. It's a good idea to bring a book, although in this day and age, occupying oneself with a smart phone is a much more fulfilling time killer. I didn't end up using any of the clothes I had brought except for my belt and my runners. After my hair and makeup were done I decided to satisfy my curiosity by searching keywords of this specific production. I searched the name of the character I was to reenact. Adding quotations to strict strings of words, I had soon discovered the event I was going to portray. This was when my moral dilemma began.

I was born and raised in North America by immigrant parents who arrived in their early 20's. The typical experiences had by people of color paint a relatively positive mural that represents my upbringing. Having visited my ethnic country many times throughout my life, I felt, and still feel, a deep connection to the motherland. This connection is common for others like myself, powered by identity in a time where life will sometimes present it as a limitation. Conversely, this only strengthens cultural pride.

The role I was to play was an international representing their countrymen against the very country I identify with. Pangs of uneasiness flooded my body. There was another featured role performer who had an earlier call time. We sat together in the holding area. He was cast to play the part of a family member learning the news of the event. What surprised me more was the fact that he was a recent immigrant from my country of ethnicity. Us both, cast in roles of coincidental conflict of interest?

When it comes to acting, the only other time I recall having feelings of apprehension was during a big budget movie filmed in a church. I was a church goer among a sea of church goers seated in church pews. We were instructed to portray the enjoyment of a church service. Some of us were selected to stand and sway to the Christian music. Some had their eyes closed, head tilted to the ceiling, palms facing up to the heavens. As easy a physical task that is, I instead opted to clap along to the band and pretend to really feel the sounds of my favorite music. I know it's just acting but I was driven by the thought of my mom seeing me do anything other than that on camera. So, I coursed the music through my veins. I know the history of the band members, the albums, this music moves me, pretend.

I received my paperwork and read it over a cup of coffee from craft services. It was standard paperwork that I've filled out over a dozen times before. I looked at the inviting exit door. I was parked right outside. This is not that big of a deal, is it? I imagined this TV episode making its way to the news overseas, the citizens all over the world deeming me a traitor for perpetuating a negative image, not merely through action but through representation against them. Against us. Am I selling out? For two hundred bucks?

I thought about getting up and leaving. I thought about all of the hard work that people have put into this specific production. If you haven't been behind the scenes before, it is quite the trip. An assortment of heavy duty cables line the floors, taped in place. Racks of props in designated areas. The backstage crew zip around in sync, bursting with walkie-talkie sounds and hollers of instruction. There is a commonality in the many interactions, their minds tuned into the goal meant to be achieved. This is their career.

This is my hobby. I am a prop. Would leaving this put a blemish on my record in the local film community, or the film industry as a whole, because I wasted everyone's time being sensitive? As I languished, I get a message from my best friend and I tell him I'm on set. I tell him:

For some reason, that makes me feel better. I just might be able to work with that mentality. The other guy has finished. He returns his wardrobe and collects his belongings. I ask him if he knows what this show is about. We speak in our language among the English-speakers. I ask him if he thinks people back home are going to be mad at us. I ask him if he knew we were going to be doing this. He seems ok with it all. He said he was there during the actual event. He's new to the industry. We laugh about how we can pass as different races. This is his first time being on camera. He said he enjoyed the experience. I ask him if he'll continue. He said yes. I hope he does.

Finally, wardrobe is set and I am wearing a navy blue golf shirt and some gray slacks. I want to feel good, like the other times I've worked. How can I get that feeling? They're calling me on set. They adjust the lighting while I sit in front of the camera. A fog machine fills the mock living room belonging to my character. When the camera rolls, there is a fake TV in front of me that I am to watch casually at first and then grow increasingly interested as the live footage I am pretending to watch unfolds. I am supposed to build up into a frustration with the host country. My country. As I understand it, the real guy is being interviewed and I am the reenactment; the illustration of his side of the story. I do the scene. Twice. Filming took less than 5 minutes total. The whole time I was thinking about my mom. I can remember it still, a few hours ago today, the director describing the gradual transpiring of the footage to guide me. To help me see a reason to be frustrated on camera. It wasn't helping. It's not his fault. I don't think it's anyone's fault. I don't think they even knew why I would be uncomfortable. I don't think they knew much about the countries involved in the event. They even spelled the city name wrong. I don't even think the takes were that bad.

I wish it wasn't about my country. If it were different, I feel like I could have given more - like I had done at the church.

It's unsettling to perform make-believe, but for myself I have managed to apply a mental exercise that immerses me into a character; to actually be the person. The trick is to relate. To tie the emotion to a real memory and relive it. If it had only been about another country, I'm sure I would have enjoyed the process a lot more.

I'm writing this and I was hoping it would help me shake away this dread. Thoughts of regret imagining if I had only researched the keywords sooner. Maybe I would have cancelled. But that wouldn't have been better. I would be blacklisted and never cast as another role again. Or maybe I'm being dramatic. Hey, that's good for this line of work, right?

I honestly hope the final cut looks great. This is the biggest role I've ever been in. They gelled my hair funny like a nerd, I had on large framed glasses, just like the portrayed, and they put makeup on my upper lip to hide my dark, clean-shaven stubble.

When I got home, before I washed my makeup off, I took a before and after mirror selfie because my face looked comedically smooth. Taking the pictures reminded me of when I was sipping coffee in the holding area. I had taken pictures of my paperwork. I remember my mind racing. The feeling was like gathering license plates and insurance information after a collision. You know, just in case I have to stand trial, my cultural membership in jeopardy. I can review my situation with a lawyer to see what I can and can not say during a variety show interview that is getting my side of the story after viral, captioned screenshots of me flood the internet with embarrassing memes, stamped into history. Jesus Christ, that would be the worst. Here I go again with extreme maybes. It's an entertaining curse that I will forever be engulfed in my own hypothetical torture.

Anyway, here's that selfie I invented:

Yeah my bathroom mirrors are dirty.

I can't wait for my next job that I can cleanse my palate with. I really hope I can accept today as purely an actor's portrayal, and not a turncoat betrayal. This can't be my last go at acting. I ate some of my country's food for supper. I feel a bit better. I'm wearing a shirt that is emblazoned with our country's sports hero.

I have always been excited to see the final release of a production I am in, except for this one now. Uncontrollably, my perverse curiosity into the film world is only strengthening, so I don't think even the worst thoughts can slow my future participation. The silver lining is that the uncomfortable bar is set to a new level. I could reenact a murderous deviant now without batting a moral eyelash, I like to think. All for the sake of film.

- WSS, February 8, 2019

[grailacademy]

Welcome To Grail Academy - Chapter Twelve: Disorder

The red letters flickered and glowed brightly, aside from the T that made the Cosmos Hotel sign. From below, it glimmered like a beacon of refuge over the few vagrants and drifters who still roamed the abandoned portion of the city. The handful of bulbs that had shattered over time lay in pieces on the gravel, like residents that had fallen from the windows of their rooms and whose bodies had been left to rot in the street, red glass shards arranged like blood splatters. When Yorick burst out from the stairwell onto the roof, a gust of wind tossed his hair from one side to the other. It was cold. And eerily silent. The light from the sign forced him to squint in the otherwise stark darkness of the night. His thumbs fidgeted with the safety triggers on his guns, anxiously rotating the cylinders in hope that he wouldn’t have to use them.  

A bird chirped. It was a strange kind of melody, short and husk. Yorick jumped at the sound, he was already prepared to run. But it drew his attention to the fact that it was the middle of the night. And that was no bird. He turned to face Scarlet, sprawled out and lounging on top of the giant C, basking in the warmth of the lights. His leg hung off the end and swung back and forth, in the same rhythm that his yo-yo spun. “Why?”, Yorick sputtered out, “Why are you doing this?”

“Well,” Scarlet crowed, sliding off the neon structure and landing on his feet. “It’s a pretty good twist, isn’t it?” He swung the toy in his hand, building up momentum before letting the yo-yo loose in the other boy’s direction. Yorick felt something familiar about his movement, the flick of the wrist and the small lunge to the side that sent the weapon flying towards his face. Scarlet was fighting the same way Nico had fought when they sparred. He shifted the weight on his feet and spun quickly, dodging the attack. He set the safety triggers back down on his revolvers. He knew how to win.

Bernard kicked at the hatch that separated him and Buck until the lever was knocked clean off its bolt. The elevator was moving slow, but he still felt his stomach lurch when he dove down into the conveyer. Buck stood in the corner with his hands in the pockets of his lab coat, and when his opponent leapt at him, he nonchalantly lifted one of his hands out, holding something Bernard could not identify. With a burst of air from his lungs, he blew the fistful of powder in Bernard’s face. The white-clad hunter he had backed into a wall pulled his scarf over his nose and mouth while Bernard was left to cough and wheeze and choke in the thick cloud of debris.

His eyes burned, turning red and watering. He couldn’t breathe, his lungs strained with every gasp. What was this? Sand? Dust? Blinded and breathless, he fumbled around the compartment until he grabbed hold of a railing. Bernard’s whips were rendered useless in such a small space, so his first move was going to be to punch whatever part of Buck was easiest to hit. With that strategy virtually demolished, he threw all caution to the wind and activated his semblance. In a flash, he flung himself to the other side of the elevator, slamming his body into Buck’s and crushing him against the wall with the weight of a wrecking ball. The entire contraption shook, crashing against the structure of the shaft. The shuttering of the cabin put too much stress on the outdated cables, and suddenly the elevator was falling. The two passengers fell over and began to wrestle in the fog, Bernard’s hand wrapped around Buck’s forearm, and Buck clutching the tail of Bernard’s coat. Neither of them noticed the increase of speed in their decent.

In an assertion of power, Bernard knelt down on Buck’s chest and pinned his shoulders to the floor, at least for a moment. Something wasn’t right. The world around him started to slow down, the hairs on his neck stood on end. Even after he deactivated his semblance, his limbs felt like cement blocks. He looked down at Buck only to see his face shifting, distorting itself like paint swirling in a glass of water. His mouth felt dry. Why was it so bright in here? His vision dimmed, and he blinked in an attempt to shake himself out of the haze. Buck took the opportunity to swivel his leg and kick Bernard in the head before wriggling out of his grip. The elevator cable jumped over the pulley system and hitched itself by a rusted section of its length, and the car screeched against the walls of the shaft as it came to a crooked stop. The conveyer balanced in the tunnel on an angle, once again disorienting the two hunters fighting inside it.

Bernard lay dizzy on his back, reeling in his new state of being. The muffled static of a radio purred on Buck’s belt. It sounded distant, miles away to Bernard, but he could tell it was Scarlet’s voice. “Roof. Now.”, he commanded. Buck had to lean to the left for him to stand correctly as he wedged himself between the elevator doors and ran out into a dark hallway. As he disappeared, Bernard struggled to his feet and crawled out of the death trap. The boy he had been fighting was nowhere in sight. He took a moment to sit down on the floor, leaning against a crumbling wall and sighing. He stole a glance at his hands, staring in tired bewilderment as they warped into a spiral of colors that he couldn’t find the words to describe. “....Uh-oh.”

Queenie slid against the floor, her back connecting with a metal cabinet. She grunted and cast a pair of cards toward Esmerelda, who dodged one. The other grazed her cheek with a thin, sharpened edge like a razor. She cringed and felt the cut over, giving Queenie enough time to flip herself back up and pull out more cards. But when she reached into her cartridge, there was nothing to throw. She patted all the pockets of her jacket, the back pockets in her pants, nothing. Esmerelda smiled and brandished her claws, prowling down the aisle of the retired kitchen. “What’s all this about?”

Queenie scrambled for a makeshift weapon. Wooden spoon, no. Moldy fruit, no. Cheese grater….maybe. In a last ditch effort, she ripped the doors of the metal cabinet she had fell into open, greeted with a pleasant surprise. Somewhere, a mouse squeaked and scurried away with the last crumb of bread left in the pantry. There was a small clatter, and Queenie wielded her new arsenal by hurling a large butcher’s cleaver at her opponent. It whizzed past Esmerelda’s face, only millimeters from skinning her hyde, and nicked a strand of hair from off her head. The blade lodged itself in the wooden door behind them. It was then that she realized, this wasn’t a fight. Queenie was trying to kill her.

All at once, fear took hold of her and pushed her instincts to the surface. She watched as  Queenie prepared to throw six more knives, three in each hand. The blunt sides resided between her fingers, and glided out of her grasp like water droplets on a windowpane. Esmerelda only had a few seconds to act, so she closed her eyes while the cutlery veered closer and closer, and set her semblance into play.

She envisioned the scene in slow motion, inspecting her environment. If she were to try and move to the left, her path would be cut off by the island in the middle of the kitchen, leaving her right side exposed. She would lose an arm that way. If she went right, she would be cornering herself for another attack. If she ducked down, she would meet her fate with a knife in her forehead. There was only one option. Opening her eyes, Esmerelda jumped over the island, grabbing the hanging metal rack over her head to swing herself over the other side and duck down before the barrage of blades embedded themselves in the surrounding walls.

Esmerelda yelled, “Queenie, stop!” She could hear the hunter reloading for another wave. She had to had to get up and fight back, because Queenie would not miss twice. Quickly, she pulled an old cast-iron pan off the rack and held it up to block the knives. They clanked against the metal, and Esmerelda took a step forward. Queenie threw another set, and she moved the pan over her chest, deflecting once more. She took a few more steps. Queenie catapulted several pearing knives, and Esmerelda turned to her side and held the pan a bit to the right to shield herself again. She ran at Queenie with the pan high over her head, letting it crash down over the other girl’s face with a crack. Queenie yelped and dropped the blades she was still holding. Then she reached back, gripped the edge of a plate, and shattered it over Esmerelda’s head. Both of them made quick recoveries, Queenie throwing two plates and a cup and Esmerelda smashing them with the pan. She flung the skillet square in Queenie’s gut, knocking the wind out of her.

Before she could recover, Queenie bounded towards Esmerelda with another butcher’s knife, crying out in anguish as she whirled around and took the hunter from behind. The cold metal of the blade made her shiver as its edge pressed into her throat, stinging her skin. The look she saw in Queenie’s eyes, it wasn’t the first time Esmerelda had seen true rage. It still scared her. Their battle was interrupted by Scarlet’s statement over the radio, a speaker that was clipped to the lapel of Queenie’s jacket. Hesitantly, she released the weapon and kicked Esmerelda to the floor. “We’ll finish this later, kitten.” She sprinted out of the room, only for Esmerelda to give chase through the hotel.

The grainy waltz music crackled on the record player, just loud enough to be heard over Rettah and Nico brawling. Nico fell backwards from Rettah’s attack, and he slipped his foot underneath an upside-down table on the floor. He kicked it up in the air, grabbed it by one of the legs, and bowled it at her like a giant frisbee. The girl was unphased. A choppy vibration broke the song, and she pulled a small metal box from off her garter belt. She flipped a switch, and with a dramatic spin that flared out her dress and ruffled the ribbons of lace in her hair, Rettah equipped a giant chainsaw that roared like a dragon, spitting glittery fumes from the back gasket. As the jagged blades rotated, glowing the same shade of aqua blue as her hair, she sliced the flying table clean in half. Nico couldn’t help but gaze in awe at the size of the weapon, and Rettah’s ability to hold it like it was nothing. “Well, crap.”

“Do you like it? Buck made her for me! 800 horsepower, she can cut through solid titanium. Plus, Steel Ghoul runs on steam dust, so she’s eco-friendly!”

“That’s….nice?”

“She’s a real beaut. It’s too bad I have wreck you, that’ll be such a mess to clean out of her teeth.” Rettah giggled and, like a streak of blue lightning, rushed Nico. He twisted the handle on his bat and held the transformed bo staff across himself to block her swing. As the teeth gritted against his weapon, he felt himself slipping, falling further and further back while Rettah only pushed down more. She leaned forward over her chainsaw to leer at Nico, her misleading smile only inches away from his grimace. He twisted around, turning the staff to thwack Rettah in the neck before rolling out from under her.

The staff shortened in his hand and protruded the spikes at the end of the bat, and the two of them began to swing their weapons at eachother like brutal swordplay. Lunge, parry, riposte, thrust, remise, feint, parry again, it went on like this. They would push themselves backwards, jumping back into the action, over and over, only managing to land hits on their opponent when the other was catching their breath. At one point, Nico had given up on trying to fight with any kind of dignity. Politeness and manners never won battles. As Rettah fell into their shared pattern of lunges and clashes of metal on metal, Nico tangled his fingers in her hair and pulled her by one of her pigtails as she flew past him. She squawked, having been towed out of her momentum so quickly that her Steel Ghoul tumbled out of her grip. Thrown into a pile of folding chairs by the empty stage, she moaned and held her head.

“What’s your game, Rettah!?” Nico yelled, spreading his legs and preparing for another attack, “What are you playing at!?”

The blue haired girl quieted down in thought, processing her next move. Slowly, she raised herself out of the pile, dragging a metal folding chair behind her, the legs scraping on the floor. “Aw, where’s the fun in that? I can’t just tell you, that ruins the surprise! And Sable wants wants it to be a really. Big. Surprise.”

“Who’s Sable?” Nico raised a brow, but the quirk in his face was soon smacked off by Rettah, who had just knocked him to the floor with the flat side of the chair against his head. Standing over his crumbled form, rolling him over, she peered at Nico’s aura visibly weakening. She hefted the chair up, and brought it down on him again, and again, and again, and again. Over, and over, until he was barely moving.

His breathing was shallow, shaky, but he found himself chuckling at the situation. Nico looked up at Rettah with a twinkle, straining to only lift his head slightly, uttering “Listen, you’re super cute, but I have a dating policy.”

“Oh really? And what’s that?”

“I don’t dig psycho chicks.”  Before their flirty banter could continue, Nico snapped his fingers. A small pink spark shot from his fingertips and snaked over his body, and he activated his semblance. The mountain of metal chairs started rattling, scratching on the floor. Instantaneously, Nico’s magnetized body drew the chairs in like a bullet train that rammed into the girl standing over him. Plowing into the wall behind her, Rettah was now trapped under the metal seats. Beaten and exhausted, Nico slowly grabbed his bat and limped out of the ballroom to find the rest of his team. As his shape hobbled away, the needle on the record skipped and the song faded out, just as Scarlet’s voice on his partner’s radio rose in volume. There were a few seconds of silence after his call for backup, and then Rettah’s fist burst through the top of the chair pile like something out of a zombie movie, chainsaw in hand.

The roof seemed so much larger now, Scarlet and one end and Yorick at the other. He whipped the yo-yo again, the wire reflecting the light of the moon and the neon sign as it thrashed across the length of the building. The same way Nico had thrown his bat like a boomerang. Yorick was prepared, he timed the stretch of Scarlet’s weapon in his head and reached out, grasping the inverted cylinder of the yo-yo. It shocked Scarlet, but Yorick’s serious expression broke in amazement when he looked at it in his hand. “Whoa, I can’t believe I caught that!”

“Catch this,” Scarlet retorted, throwing another wire yo-yo. This time, it spun around his free arm, and the red-headed boy lashed the wires about to reel Yorick in closer. Yorick squeaked, digging his feet into the gravel and skidding across the roof until he was right in front of his opponent. He might have made a mistake of putting his revolvers back in their holsters. Scarlet threw a left hook, then a swift right kick, an uppercut, a knee to his side, all which Yorick frantically dodged like a vogue dance. Tail swishing annoyedly, Scarlet landed a punch in his shoulder that sent Yorick stumbling backwards. The yo-yos unwinded back into the other boy’s hands, and Yorick raised the revolvers in his direction with trembling hands. “Please, don’t make me do this”, he implored. Just as the words came out of his mouth, the door to the roof swung open. Buck, Queenie, and Rettah all rushed over to Scarlet’s side, facing off against Yorick.

“I managed to keep Esmerelda down,” Queenie murmured, “but she’ll be here with the rest of them soon.” Buck nodded, adding “The big one is out of commission, for now. I saw the pink one moving pretty slow, too.” His teammates. His friends. Was he alone now? Did they really take them all from him? How could they? Where could he go now? More questions to tornado in his head, along with all the others. It made him mad. Furious. He wanted to hurt them. Smoke rose from his nostrils, his tear ducts, the pores in his skin. Yorick screamed, “WHAT DID YOU DO TO THEM!” and a typhoon of blue fire poured from his mouth, and his entire body, clawing at his clothes like a beast that soon changed direction and sprang at the others, craving to maul whoever stood in its way.

When Esmerelda, Bernard, and Nico careered out onto the roof, the scene was like a gothic painting. Yorick was on his knees, crying and holding the sides of his head, staring in horror at BRSQ huddled in a small circle. Esmerelda stepped towards her partner, keeping an eye on their enemies. “What happened? Are you okay?” Yorick said something, but she couldn’t understand what it was. He was hysterical. He glanced back to Bernard and Nico, and saw that they were staring as well. She followed their line of sight and saw, Scarlet, Rettah, and Queenie, looking over what was left of Buck.

(Trigger Warning: The following scene contains in-depth descriptions of violence, gore, and death. Skip the next paragraph if you want to avoid these kinds of descriptions.)

His smoldering corpse was nearly unrecognizable. The patches of hair that clung to his scalp were wispy and folded from the heat, his flesh was black and charred. His gnarled fingers curled up, cracked fingernails split and broke off on the gravel. His eyelids were fused shut, his nose now only 2 flat holes in his skull. His lips stretched across the frame of his face, exposing his teeth and gums in a permanent scowl.

Everyone on the roof was silent. The remaining members of BRSQ looked over their old friend in a stupor, arms hanging by their sides. Scarlet squeezed Rettah’s hand when she whispered, “He’s dead.”

Yorick felt someone touch his shoulder. He pulled away and looked up to see Queenie, offering her hand to him. “Be strong. Sable has a plan for you.”

“What?”

“Come with us. You can learn to control your abilities. Grail has no use for you. But we do.”

It was tempting. His fingers brushed against her calloused hand. They could have answers. They could tell him what his grandmother was too afraid to. They could help him. “Don’t do it.” Bernard huffed, leaning against the frame of the door to keep himself from falling over, unable to fully process the lights and sounds of the outside. Esmerelda moved closer, remarking “We’re your team. Your friends.” He knew they were, and he was so, so happy to see that they were (mostly) okay, but something still called to him. “I’m sorry….” He avoided looking at the others who were begging him to stay, and took Queenie’s hand.

As they walked back to Scarlet and Rettah, Nico called out in a last attempt to bring him back, “Yorick she’s insane! They all are!” but the words held no value to him. As she picked a vile of dust out from Buck’s coat pocket, shaking it back and forth to agitate the material inside, Queenie looked back to the three dismayed hunters. “Give our regards to Madehold.” She flicked the case from her fingers into the neon side, exploding in a shower of red glass and sparks on impact. All of them had to shield their faces from the fire and debris, and when they looked back, Yorick and the others were gone. Esmerelda, Bernard, and Nico were left in the darkness as the red light flickered and dimmed into nothing.

“Haha! And you said it couldn’t be done!” Madehold cackled, pouring herself a fourth glass of scotch from the elaborate bottle that she had to chew the cork off of. “I never said that. You were the one who wanted to cancel the tournament.” Ms.Divine sighed, taking the bottle out of the headmaster’s hand. “This calls for a toast.” Madehold raised her glass, announcing, “To another perfect Prom!” and knocked the drink back happily. Ms.Divine raised the bottle playfully for the toast  before she locked it away in a cabinet. Professor Kismet waddled into the office, disgruntled upon seeing Madehold with her feet up on her desk and kojoling. “Ma’am, I’m afraid we found out where those missing students had gone off to.”

“Oh? Well, bring them in. I’d like to have a talk.”

“Interesting you should say that, ma’am....so would they.”

[camaraindustries]

How to Purchase Used Pallet Racking: A Comprehensive Guide

Warehouse storage racks, such as Used Pallet Racking systems like pre-owned teardrop rack or pre-owned structural rack, provide cost-effective space management solutions. This guide assists in navigating the purchase of secondary pallet racks for optimal value. Benefit from their cost-effectiveness and often higher capacity, with the added advantage of immediate availability for installation.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

#1yrago Disney will pivot Epcot away from its "sponsored content" model

Epcot Center (now "Epcot") is a weird stepchild among Disney themeparks; it started as a kind of ghastly parody of Walt Disney's plan to build a totally controlled domed company town on the enormous tract of central Florida land that is Walt Disney World, and became a cash-cow-oriented park whose radical break with themepark design norms was a blessing and a curse.

The history of Disney is a kind of push-pull between people who wanted to play around with technology and entertainment and people who wanted to make sure the company was profitable, historically represented as "Walt people" and "Roy people." Walt went to enormous lengths to push the company toward a free-spending, technology-centered, gold-plated model of themepark design in which money was spent to "plus" the "guest"-facing elements even if only a few would notice.

The nominal theory behind this was that customers would subliminally pick up on this expensive detail (historically accurate hand-stitching on the robots in the Hall of the Presidents' costumes, for example), and it would contribute to an overall sense of excellence in the product.

But it's also fair to say that the artists and craftspeople who created the themed environments derived job satisfaction from their "plussing" exercises. It feels good to make beautiful things, and when the Walt people were ascendant, there was a lot of scope for the company's favored artists to express and stretch themselves.

It's tempting to see the artists as the soul of the parks and the bean-counters as their nemeses, and there's a lot of truth to this. But Walt's aesthetic priorities weren't big on democratic fundamentals (evidence of this is easy to find, starting with the disastrous animator's strike in which Walt nearly destroyed the company by refusing to expand the say that his workers would get over their labor). Like a lot of auteurs, he was a control freak who could lose all sense of proportion.

Enter EPCOT, the Experimental Prototype City of Tomorrow, which Walt wanted to place in his Florida property -- a property that was incorporated as its own special economic zone, with control over zoning, planning, and other regulation, up to and including the power to site a private nuclear plant to keep the power flowing.

EPCOT was to be a themepark and a functional city, with employees in place of citizens, whose employment contracts would overrule both the Bill of Rights and state and federal labor laws. Like Henry Ford's disastrous Brazilian company town Fordlandia, Walt could use his city to dictate behavior, dress, and living arrangements, on the job and off.

Famously, Walt demanded conditions of his employees that he would not tolerate. Walt swore like a sailor, smoked himself to death, and sported a natty trademark mustache. Disney "castmembers" were required to be clean of lip and vocabulary and smoke-free.

Walt died in 1966, and EPCOT was transformed into Walt Disney World (tip to successors: always name your betrayals of the dead founder's vision after the dead founder as a way of claiming legitimacy!). Nine years later, Walt Disney World's Disneyland-esque Magic Kingdom got a new themepark neighbor: EPCOT Center (later Epcot Center, later still, Epcot).

Disney parks have always financed themselves with a certain amount of corporate sponsorship. It would be ridiculous to claim that Walt had any animus towards this model: the plans for corporate sponsorship are literally in the first-ever document describing Disneyland.

But EPCOT Center ("Epcot" from here on in) took this to another level. It was the themepark version of those vanity magazines you could find in the lobby of Florida tourist hotels, a rack of things that looked like familiar objects, but, on closer inspection, turned out to be artifacts from a parallel universe in which the whole world was dominated by a single industrial giant: like a World's Fair with better sight-line management.

While Disneyland and the Magic Kingdom were both designed so that wanderers could always see something new to do from where they were standing, creating a kind of momentum that drew you through the space, Epcot's Future World was composed of "pavilions" -- literal enclosed buildings, each at the end of its own meandering track from which the sightlines were carefully managed, using landscape elements and other tricks to ensure that when you were standing on Monsanto or GM's doorstep, you wouldn't be distracted by Exxon or Nestle's pavilion.

Each pavilion hosted a mix of elements: rides, shows, interactive exhibits, restaurants, etc, all themed to the sponsor's tastes and budget. This fine-grained, deep-pocketed sponsorship model was a huge boon to Disney, which was reeling from a hostile takeover attempt a few years earlier.

Future World also sported two "Communicore" -- long trade-show buildings where companies with less money (or less confidence) could place more cautious bets, placing booths that were reminiscent of a pop-up presence at Comdex or CES. If the Pavilions were vanity magazines, Communicore let sponsors get their toes wet with some custom brochure work from Imagineering.

The other half of Epcot was no less sponsor-oriented: the World Showcase was a collection of national pavilions (another World's Fair stalwart), hand-sold to the tourism ministries of countries that were investing heavily in "soft power" diplomacy. The original World Showcase countries are a who's-who of economic anxiety and pride: think of Norway, recently transformed from the sick man of Europe to a wealthy power through the discovery of North Sea oil -- the only Nordic country to buy into the Epcot pitch.

The resulting park was...OK. Sometimes, the rides and shows were amazing, and even when they weren't, they could still be charming. World Showcase ended the stricture on booze sales, giving grownups a break from the Mormon-dry environs of the Magic Kingdom. Constraint isn't the enemy of art, it can also be its handmaiden, and at their best, the Imagineers involved did stupendous things.

But it hasn't aged well. Epcot is a leg-breaker, which long, long walks (on punishing, unshaded walkways that bake in the Florida heat, even with the late-added misters that only increase the unbearable humidity) and corporate sponsors whose enthusiasm for maintenance and upgrades has visibly waned.

There's been a decades-long effort to make Epcot more like the Magic Kingdom, upping the density, reducing the degree of sponsor control (and visibility), making cash investments out of Disney's own coffers. As the revenues from Disney's cable cash-cows (ESPN, notably) have dropped off a cliff, the themeparks are looking like the next growth frontier for the company, and the new upper-management enthusiasm for themed location-based entertainment is manifesting in some stonking huge investments in rides, many of which are coming to Epcot.

Epcot will always struggle, I fear. The deliberate isolation of its show-buildings can't be readily overcome, short of some major surgery. But the move to place successful showstopper rides from other parks in Epcot will certainly improve its image.

However, there's another possibility for Epcot, given all those huge, empty spaces: make it a lab for live, interactive, between-the-rides spontaneous entertainments -- mini-games, ARGs, etc -- that will keep people out of the ride queues and give them something to do that's not standing in lines or slogging between them. Epcot's already had some great experiments in this direction, but there hasn't been much noise about them lately (all the live interactivity action seems to be directed at the live-in Star Wars resort.

As queues at Disney Parks lengthen, building showstopper rides just makes them longer -- it's a Red Queen's Race -- but upping the density of personal, handmade entertainments can solve the problem.

https://boingboing.net/2017/07/16/red-queens-futurism.html

[miy-taww]

[RMAF 2018] Focal, emm Labs, Oracle, Kimber, Wattgate

Focal and emm Labs had a crazy setup featuring a vintage Sony APR-5000 reel-to-reel analog deck and Oracle turntable along with racks of emm Labs electronics and Focal Grande Utopia EM Evo speakers. They were still setting up when I swung by, and I didn't get a price list, but if you must ask... the MTRX2 1kW monoblocks are around $85k. On static display were the Meitner MA-1 DAC ($7k) and the new DV2 DAC with hi-res volume control ($30k), along with stands for Wattgate and Kimber Cable. [view more on Instagram]

[someonestole15]

Seven

Threating silhouette.

The ship sat a few kilometers away from the outpost and even then, the dark outlines were like a monster hiding beneath the surface. Had nightmares about situations like this, never thought it would become reality.

“Specter, we’ve got contact.”

“Where?”

“Western gate, security forces are holding but could use a hand.”

“We’re on it.” Ask and you shall receive, I signaled Valkyrie to follow as we made our way to the western edge of the roof. 218 meters from the rooftop to the gate, Valkyrie set up the rifle against the concrete wall and braced the stock against her shoulder.

Binoculars down the range, friendlies marked with a blue diamond, I tagged available targets within my view.

“Count 12 targets, plus an armored vehicle. Weapon can be disabled.”

“In sight.”

“Fire when ready.”

Higher caliber, I felt the shock on my frame as the round left the gun with a  sound outmatching even the thunder echoing in the distance. The bullet made its mark, the armored vehicle’s weapon swiveled downwards in defeat as Valkyrie adjusted her aim and let out a faint sigh.

Perfect kill zone, one after another, anyone taking a step forward would be sent home without a head. Red mist mixing with the rain, a signal finally came through on my radio.

“Thanks for the assist, we can handle the rest.”

“No worries, Specter out.” The barrel sizzling with a faint red glow and steam rising as rain met the barrel, Valkyrie dropped the magazine from the rifle.

“Cobalt sends their thanks, but we’ve got more contacts incoming. Middle courtyard, drop pods. We’re scrambling a team to help but you have to hold them back until then.”

“Get your boots dirty, I’ll keep your flanks clear once I get more ammo.”

“Good plan, stay in touch.”

“Will do.”

There was an ammo crate on the rooftop, back were we first were, I took the fastest way down with my grabbling hook as Valkyrie made her way to rearm. Secured on the edge of the roof, I ran the rope through a karabiner on my belt and pulled myself over the wall. Vertical, I kept a steady eye on the cable as I practically defied gravity and rwalked down the side of the building

Memories of Mars and how the last building ended up, it was never really my fault the building fell after I visited… Didn’t stop the Corporation from marking me as a terrorist in their books…

Enough of that, I got a job to do. Boots back on solid ground, I released my hook and reeled it back in. Rifle against the shoulder, I made my way around the shipping containers and crates scattered around, most of them were empty by now, that, or used for storing broken equipment. Gaps large enough to qualify as streets, making my way through the container yard in this rain made me remember one fact I could use to my advantage.

Cold rain against hot metal, I could keep my systems hot and work just as fine. Register the quake from the drop pod landing in the clearing designated for cargo drop offs, I made my way up one of the containers and kept quiet. Lay the trap, wait for the moment and spring it, the first pod had dropped a squad of 6 as forward scouts, their weaponry was light but many of them were armed with silenced weaponry.

Two keeping watch of the back, two more watching the street and two pushing forward amidst the steel towers. Intercept, I pulled a pin from one of the grenades I had on me and gently dropped it down to the street, right in the feet of the advancing scouts.

They noticed the little grey cylinder too late, the yell of “GRENADE” was followed by the explosion and the remaining four starting to pull back. Saw a bullet impact, heard the shot afterwards, a crack past me as one of the remaining soldiers fell, I noticed the Valkyrie feed on my HUD.

“Good timing.”

“I got you covered, go.”

Smirk of my own, I supported the rifle on the container corner and fired upon the last three soldiers. One kill, I dropped down and pushed forward. Another crack past me, another soldier fell from the sniper, but before I could move on, I heard another pod fall, soon followed by another.

The signal pinged on my HUD, there he is, gone as soon as I confirmed his arrival. My jacket shifting to a faded green from the container, I loaded a fresh magazine into my rifle and stood by, the adrenaline mixing into my coolant, washing out the cobwebs from my system.

“Let’s get to it then.” Rack the charging handle, I dropped down to the street level and started moving though the container stacks. Twisted game of hide and seek, almost like he was mocking me, heard his footsteps near me from time to time but could never catch him.

Finally ending up in the middle of the street, I saw the empty drop pod sitting a few meters away from me.

“Found you.” Heard the voice, followed by a sharp pain to my back.

“Still scared to fight me face to face, Rex?”

“As if, I would keep you around but I have a job to do.”

“I am not giving you that option.” Capacitor charged, Electric wind up, like a defibrillator, the lightning passed through my hand into the blade.

Yell of pain behind me, I thrust me left elbow back and landed it against Rex’s chest. Pull the sword back, almost like it was attached to him, I turned around to face my old nemesis.

His head still covered in a hood, the jacket seemed much tighter than what I last saw of him, a layered set of armor ran across his left arm while his right held onto a thin katana-like blade. A strip of blue on the blade, my blood, I felt my mobility drop as I swung the rifle back on my sling and drew the Phoenix from my holster.

Bringing my left hand to the grip, I could see the smile on Rex’s face as he sheathed his weapon.

“Sure, you could take me on, but if you do… you will have to go through the rest of us as well.”

7 silhouettes, 7 bullets, I placed my finger on the trigger and took aim.

*Click*

[camaraindustries]

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