#critical metals recovery

[townpostin]

NML Jamshedpur Scientist Wins Prestigious Award for Sustainable Metal Extraction

Dr. Abhilash honored with Vigyan Yuva – Shanti Swarup Bhatnagar Award CSIR-NML scientist recognized for groundbreaking work in sustainable metal extraction and waste recycling. JAMSHEDPUR – Dr. Abhilash, Senior Principal Scientist at the CSIR-National Metallurgical Laboratory, has been awarded the Vigyan Yuva – Shanti Swarup Bhatnagar Award for Engineering Sciences. Dr. Abhilash was presented…

[cognitivejustice]

To build all of the solar panels, wind turbines, electric vehicle batteries, and other technologies necessary to fight climate change, we’re going to need a lot more metals. Mining those metals from the Earth creates damage and pollution that threaten ecosystems and communities. But there’s another potential source of the copper, nickel, aluminum, and rare-earth minerals needed to stabilize the climate: the mountain of electronic waste humanity discards each year. 

Exactly how much of each clean energy metal is there in the laptops, printers, and smart fridges the world discards? Until recently, no one really knew. Data on more obscure metals like neodymium and palladium, which play small but critical roles in established and emerging green energy technologies, has been especially hard to come by.

Now, the United Nations has taken a first step toward filling in these data gaps with the latest installment of its periodic report on e-waste around the world. Released last month, the new Global E-Waste Monitor shows the staggering scale of the e-waste crisis, which reached a new record in 2022 when the world threw out 62 million metric tons of electronics. And for the first time, the report includes a detailed breakdown of the metals present in our electronic garbage, and how often they are being recycled.

“There is very little reporting on the recovery of metals [from e-waste] globally,” lead report author Kees Baldé told Grist. “We felt it was our duty to get more facts on the table.”

[jumpywhumpywriter]

VILLIAN won by Hero's friend as a prize at a poker game part 1

TW: tortured, suffered, abuse, captivity whump, rescue, recovery

PROMPT:

Your character, a superhero, is sitting in... the kitchen when his partner comes in, their arch nemesis willingly in tow.

When they ask what the heck is going on, the partner says: "I won him in a poker game."

MY WRITING: (Hero is female Villain is male)

"WHAT?!" Hero shouted. She was outraged.

"Relax," her partner said, chuckling.

Villain only looked down, appearing to be half asleep.

"Well, now you two can be friends. Make it happen." The partner of Hero laughed and walked away, leaving her alone with her enemy. Hero only scowled at the villain, yet the villain went right away to sit down in a corner, silent.

Hero eyed Villain warily, who still hadn't made a sound. Now that she was looking closer, his eyes seemed dilated and confused, like he wasn't really all there. Cautiously, Hero rose from her seat and approached, dagger drawn, then rested the sharp blade against the smooth skin of Villain's neck, using it to tilt his chin up and force him to look at her. He didn't even flinch, or react other than to swallow, throat bobbing uncomfortably against the cool metal.

There was fear in Villain's eyes, yes, but also... not completely directed at Hero? There was a haunted look deep in his gaze, a gut-wrenching terror that made even Hero feel a twist of pity. She criticized herself for feeling that about her enemy. Villain had done many monstrous things. He deserved to suffer. But still... Hero couldn't help but be curious as to who could have possibly beaten him so thoroughly. He wasn't even trying to fight her. It was like he was... broken. Had given up.

She had been battling Villain for months on end, without successfully taking him down. Then one day he had just disappeared. And now he had ended up as a prize in poker? Nothing was making sense.

Villain's glazed eyes slid out of focus for a beat, and for a second it almost looked like he might pass out before he jolted back to himself.

"Who did this to you?" Hero demanded, pressing the blade harder into his neck. "What happened?"

Villain visibly struggled to keep his head up, wincing as the sharp metal bit into him. There was no fire, no defiance left in him. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse and rough, as if he'd been screaming his throat raw. "New enemy... Everything hurts so much... help me... please..." He slurred weakly, barely coherent. Hero couldn't help the flash of shock that flitted across her features. 'Please?' Villain never begged. Ever.

Villain suddenly pitched bonelessly forward, doubling over with a racking cough, and Hero instinctively caught him, more out of surprise than anything else, dropping her dagger as he crumpled into her. She was astonished to be able to feel every last one of his bones through his clothes. He was so emaciated he could barely stay sitting upright, practically half-dead. Hero had no words. It was clear that Villain was heavily drugged, judging from how his head kept lolling to the side as if he could barely stay awake and lucid, and his appearance was ragged and unkempt.

Villain had always been professional and polished, the kind of person you would never assume would be evil based on how nicely they always dressed. The kind you would never look twice at, which made him all the more dangerous. It was hard to believe that the limp form in Hero's arms was once the mighty (Supervillain name).

Hero's first instinct would have been to suspect a trap, as that was Villain's style. He was good at outsmarting his enemy in every way. But he could barely struggle, let alone put up a fight. He didn't pose much of a threat in his current state.

Hero could feel Villain trembling from head to toe, and to her astound surprise he didn't resist or say anything snarky when she held him tighter, offering him most basic human decency of comfort and safety --- even though he far from deserved it.

"...If I help you, will you give me answers?" Hero asked firmly. Villain didn't say a thing, merely nodded his head. It could be a huge mistake, but the promise of answers was tempting. She needed to know who had done this to her enemy, and determine if they were a threat to herself. If they were a danger to the public that needed to be dealt with. After all, Hero was responsible for the safety of the citizens.

Begrudgingly, she briefly checked Villain for any weapons, before letting out a long breath. Satisfied that he was truly unarmed, she reluctantly draped one of Villain's arms over her neck and shouldered his weight, supporting him the best she could as she heaved him up to his feet.

Villain almost immediately collapsed again, legs wobbly and unsteady, and Hero was the only thing keeping him from hitting the floor. Villain sucked in a sharp breath of pain and clutched at his side, making Hero frown.

I'll have to check on that, she thought suspiciously. Is he hiding something, or just injured?

Uneasy, Hero half-helped half-dragged Villain away, toward the medical wing where she frequently patched herself up after a fight. She never would have imagined using it to help Villain, of all people. It was a slow process, with Villain's injuries obviously straining on his already wounded body. She took it one step at a time, going slow enough that Villain could keep limping along beside her, teeth gritted. Finally, they reached the medical facility, and Hero led him to the nearest medical bed.

Villain's face turned a little red with shame when he spotted it, and she quickly realized why. He knew he didn't have the physical strength to climb onto it on his own, but was too prideful or guilty to ask for more help than Hero was already giving.

Rolling her eyes, Hero scooped up Villain in one swift movement and dropped him on the bed with ease. It wasn't hard with how light and skinny he was from malnourishment.

Villain looked surprised when he landed on the soft surface, but she didn't miss the brief flash of gratitude that darted through his expression, before he turned his face away to hide it. Hero couldn't tell how genuine it was, as he was a person of many masks, but she got the feeling that the gratitude was real. Maybe it would make Villain less likely to take advantage of the hospitality, she hoped.

Hero gathered some basic medical tools on a rolling tray and brought it to the bedside, setting up a saline drip. Villain couldn't help a shiver as Hero brought his scrawny arm away from him to slide the needle in and start the flow of saline.

Then Hero reached over to cut open the center of Villain's shredded, tattered shirt to check for any obvious injuries. Villain's eyes widened. "Wait--!" He tried to stop her, but was too late. Hero couldn't help a small horrified gasp when she saw what was beneath the ruined shirt. His skin was mottled black and purple and red with hundreds of bruises and cuts and lacerations, all in various stages of healing, a grotesque mosaic carved into his flesh.

Hero's wide eyes roamed across the damage, taking it all in. Deeper gashes laced across Villain's chest, and larger bruises had formed over his ribs, some of them looking no more than a day or two old.

Shocked, she started cutting open the sleeves of his shirt too, ignoring Villain's weak protests, revealing more and more vicious wounds. He was covered in so many injuries, it was hard to believe he was even still alive at all.

Villain wet his dry, cracked lips uncomfortably in the heavy silence as Hero examined him from head to toe, making note of every small blemish. Eventually Hero checked his wrists, heart twisting in knots as she ran a light finger across the inflamed chafe marks there where the skin was rubbed raw, signs of a futile struggle.

She was absolutely livid, and disgusted by the cruelty. No one deserved to be treated like this, not even Villain. Hero was surprised by that thought. She had hated Villain for so long, wished curses and darkness upon him, but seeing him now so frail and weak... there was no hatred. Only pity and sadness. And anger.

The chafe marks showed that he had been left restrained and struggling while he was being attacked and tortured and beaten to within an inch of death, a cowardly move by whoever did it. And to add to the final humiliation, the assailant had used Villain as no more than a prize to win at poker when he was of no more use, drugged and half-dead. Like a bloody object.

Hero glanced up at Villain, who was averting his gaze elsewhere, staring off into the middle distance. "What on earth happened to you?" She asked, half to herself.

"What's... it look like...?" Villain rasped hoarsely, a hint of his former snarky self showing through. "Someone... finally did the impossible... and caught me..." His strained breaths wheezed audibly in and out of his lungs, and he broke off into a bout of shaky coughing.

Without thinking, Hero gently grabbed his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Villain tensed anxiously, going rigid, and finally risked looking at her. She could see the agony displayed in his eyes, and the efforts he made at hiding it. But there were no more masks Villain could wear, no facade he could put up and maintain. This was who he was beneath all his cruelty and dangerous, polished charm. The real Villain.

Scared, weak, and hurting. The motives behind his villainous actions, why he constantly picked fights with Hero again and again. Hero had only seen the cocky, confident side of him in their many showdowns. She had never seen this side of him; the vulnerable, exposed version. Beneath all those layers, Villain was just as human as anyone. Afraid to lose, afraid to be forgotten. Afraid to show weakness. Afraid to accept even the smallest kindness, lest it be double-edged with ulterior motives. He had lived his whole life full of bitterness and anger and hate toward the world, never experiencing the joy or happiness it had to offer. Hero understood him now, more than she liked to admit.

And in a moment of weakness and understanding, she leaned over Villain on the medical bed and gave him a light hug, being careful not to jostle his many injuries. Hero felt him jerk in surprise and shrink away from it, but there wasn't anywhere to go, and he didn't have the strength to fight.

A few long beats of silence passed, before Villain unexpectedly relaxed a fraction, guard still up, but letting himself get caught up in the moment.

"...But why...?" Villain eventually choked out, and Hero didn't miss the crack in his voice, the audible chink in his armor.

"Because you need to be reminded that there is still kindness and decency in the world, even if you've long become blind to it," she murmured softly.

"I don't want your pity," Villain wheezed defiantly, voice barely a whisper.

"Don't worry, it's not pity. It's sympathy." Another moment of silence, before Hero felt small tremors wrack Villain's body in her arms, and she realized that he was... crying? She pulled back and settled down in her seat next to the medical bed again, gauging Villain's expression.

His eyes were squeezed shut, face tight and devastated, but he couldn't stop a few tears that leaked out, rolling down his dirty, bruised face.

"...You know I don't deserve that," Villain whispered quietly.

"We both know," Hero agreed. "But that doesn't mean you can't start over. Maybe all you need is to know what it feels like to be loved."

"And how would you suggest that? I'm the villain, you're the hero. That will never change." Villain's eyes slowly cracked open, watery and pained.

"...Because I changed," Hero admitted. "I was (other supervillain name), decades ago."

Villain's eyes shot wide open with shock, and he studied her closely, searching for a lie. But he found none.

"How did you possibly end up as Hero?" Villain coughed.

"Because I was once given the same chance I'm giving you," Hero said softly. "The chance to switch sides, to be loved instead of hated and feared. And I took it. The question is... will you?"

Villain looked stunned, but also... hopeful. Longing. Wistful. And eventually a shaky smile broke out across his face.

"You offering me a job?" He laughed weakly.

"Depends on if you want it." Hero shrugged. "Do you want to get justice on the guys that did this to you?" She gestured to Villain's broken, battered body.

A flare of fiery life flashed through Villain's eyes, determination and hope in equal measures.

"...Yes.”

Next ⏩️

Masterlist

[dailymanners]

"Swedish battery maker Northvolt has developed a new sodium-ion cell technology and could ramp up production of batteries in the next few years. The demand for critical minerals such as lithium, cobalt and platinum has surged in recent years as electric vehicles (EV) become increasingly popular, prompting car manufacturers and battery makers to look for alternatives. Northvolt’s sodium-ion batteries do not contain lithium, cobalt and platinum, which can pose cost and environmental challenges."

"The researchers have developed a recycling method that allows recovery of 100 per cent of the aluminium and 98 per cent of the lithium in electric car batteries. Swedish researchers say they have developed a new, more efficient way of recycling electric car batteries. The method allows for the recovery of far more valuable metals found in EV batteries. The process does not require the use of expensive or harmful chemicals either, the scientists say. “As the method can be scaled up, we hope it can be used in industry in future years,” says research leader Martina Petranikova"

Not exactly related to good manners, but some good news I heard today that I was too excited about not to share.

There's been quite a few technological breakthroughs recently that could make electric car batteries, and just batteries in general, more environmentally friendly, more ethical, and more sustainable.

[whump-tr0pes]

Relief

Many thanks to @newbornwhumperfly for being so generous in letting me put their boy Morja in Situations, and many apologies to them as well for holding onto this story for so many months while waiting for me to finish it.

My masterlist

Morja is a diathésimos, one of a class of indentured servants owned by society’s elite - though some would call them slaves. He has been tasked with a mission of critical importance by his anóteros: to infiltrate a dangerous family that has taken refuge in the north, and kill the criminal that they are harboring: Gavin Stormbeck.

“It is your part to kill me, mine to die without flinching.”

— Epictetus, from Discourses (Translated by Robert Dobbin)

Your Part to Kill | My Part to Die | To Die Quietly | Despair | Dawn | Breakfast Part 1 | Breakfast Part 2 | To Die Without Flinching

Contents: nightmare, [captivity, beating, gaslighting, forced to hurt someone, torture, flaying, so much blood, begging, death] all in a nightmare, collared whumpee, conditioned whumpee, past murder, PTSD, emeto, comfort, flashbacks, permanent injury, chronic pain, misunderstanding whump, recovery

~

Morja instantly knew where he was; the peeling paint on the walls, the barred door, and the cold blue lights overhead told him everywhere he needed to know. He was back in his cell room, back in Crayton. He was back where he belonged. 

There was an addition to the room, and the room seemed to have grown to accommodate it: a large metal table with leather cuffs at the top and bottom. Morja shuddered as he looked at it. He knew exactly what it was for. He had been on one himself, more than once. He wondered if his anóteros meant for him to climb onto it. 

Before the lack of answer could worry him, there was a sound behind him. Boots. A voice. 

“Hello, my diathésimos,” his owner benefactor said. A steady hand slid up the back of his neck, over his collar, and knotted in his hair. He dropped to his knees in an instant.

“Anóteros,” he said, his lips trembling. His hands settled in his lap and he tilted his head back, baring his throat. He was where he belonged at last - but his eyes burned, and his mouth was dry. He couldn’t explain it. He belonged at his anóteros’ feet, did he not? He had never known another home than this. 

No, there was another place, where he had a bed, not a cot - where there were no bars on the door, and there were windows that opened to the outside–

A blow snapped his head to the side. He accepted it without a gasp. His right ear rang. 

“Where did you just go, Morja?” the mayor said, his voice low and smooth. Morja knew better, though - he could hear the threat beneath the words. 

He answered honestly. He must always be honest.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. He closed his eyes and waited for the correction. 

Another blow whipped across his face, splitting his lip. Blood began to trickle down his chin. It itched. He did not lift his hand to wipe it. When it dripped on his wrists, then the floor, he knew he would need to clean it after this. 

“I don’t think you’ve ever been anywhere but this,” his anóteros said conversationally. “Other than when you are serving me on my missions, of course.”

An image flashed behind Morja’s closed eyes: a breakfast table, laden with eggs, bacon, toast. 

“Yes, anóteros,” he breathed. 

“Open your eyes, Morja,” the mayor said.

Morja obeyed.

He barely caught his gasp when he realized there was someone lying on the table now: Sam, the youngest of the family that was harboring Gavin Uriah Stormbeck. He remembered where that room was now: in that family’s house. 

Their wrists and ankles were strapped down to the table. With the table at eye level, he could see how tightly the restraints were buckled, the leather digging into their flesh. They trembled and stared back at him in terror, their mouth open but silent.

Morja’s owner benefactor drew the knife from his belt and held it out in front of Morja’s face. Morja held perfectly still, prepared for the knife to carve into his own cheek - but the knife hovered there, the blade between him and Sam. He could see himself reflected in the wickedly sharp steel.

“This one was captured harboring Gavin Stormbeck,” the mayor said coldly. “It is your job to punish them for this crime.” 

Morja’s throat tightened as he swallowed. His hands shook and he forced him to be still against his thighs. “Punish them… sir?” he croaked.

“Yes,” his anóteros said. “Gavin Stormbeck is a scourge upon this world, and they have actively worked to prolong his reign of terror. There must be punishment for this. You will deliver it.” The mayor flipped the knife so he was holding the blade, gesturing with the grip toward Sam. “Now, diathésimos,” he hissed.

Morja’s legs shook under him as he pushed himself to his feet. Sam met his eyes, and their eyes went wider as Morja took the knife from the mayor. His anóteros stepped behind him as he moved forward, as if in a trance, until his legs pressed against the table. The knife trembled in his grip.

He forced his mind to go cold and blank - like it so often did before the kill - as he brought the knife to Sam Vasterling’s sleeve. He made quick work of slashing it away from their arm until it was bare, the thin muscles rippling and tugging beneath the skin as they struggled to free themself. Then, as he blew out a slow breath through his lips, he brought the knife to their forearm. 

“Morja, please,” Sam begged.

The knife froze over Sam’s skin. Morja met their eyes. They looked so frightened, so young, strapped down to the table and pleading for their life. 

But Morja had killed younger people than them. And he had never spared anyone just because they begged him to. He forced down the bile that clawed up his throat, and slid the knife into Sam’s forearm down to the muscle. 

Sam screamed. They made no effort to bite it back. Tears welled in their eyes and streamed back over their temples. Morja carved into their arm again, staying within the first few layers of skin, fat, and muscle - avoiding the arteries. He could see the play of their muscles in the gash as they fought the restraints. Again, he cut, and veins stood out in their neck as they screamed.

He had seen his anóteros hurt people like this. He knew, now, how very effective it was. 

After he had sliced their arm to ribbons, he cut away the rest of their shirt. He avoided touching their skin as much as he could, as if one touch would burn him. They looked at him, trying to meet his eyes, desperate, writhing against the leather cuffs. He looked away. 

“Please, no, no, no!” Sam shrieked as Morja sliced through the thin skin over their breastbone. They shuddered and writhed, tears streaming, wrists twisting in the restraints. Morja’s shirt was soaked through with sweat. His hands shook as he gripped the knife. He cut again, and again, and again. Blood pooled in the hollows of Sam’s body. It rolled down their sides and onto the table, then dripped onto the floor. The entire room smelled thick with blood. 

And behind him, his anóteros stood silent as a sentinel. He chewed his lip and continued cutting Sam to pieces. They screamed and sobbed. The handle of the knife was slippery with sweat. 

“Isaac!” Sam screamed, finally squeezing their eyes shut and turning their face away from Morja. “Isaac, h-help me!”

Morja shuddered. The knife froze above Sam, dripping blood onto their skin. 

Sam whimpered and cringed away from Morja. “I-Isaac,” they sobbed. “Please…”

“Continue,” Morja’s anóteros hissed from behind him. A chill feathered down Morja’s spine as he squeezed his eyes shut. 

His hand tightened around the knife. The smell of blood was making him sick. Sam was barely more than a child, and Morja felt - he felt, he knew - they had nothing to do with the evil his owner benefactor was claiming. But if he could make them scream loud enough that Isaac heard them…

If Isaac Moore came, he could force Morja to stop this.

He brought the knife to patch of unbroken skin over Sam’s stomach and dug the blade in. Sam screamed anew. 

He fileted them open, carving into them with a cruelty he had only seen his anóteros reserve for the most depraved traitors of the North. He flayed them alive until his hands were soaked with their blood. They screamed and screamed until their voice went raw and began to fade. Still, he cut. Still, he carved. He slipped on the blood pooling on the floor. Everything was red. He was drowning in it. And still, Isaac Moore did not come and rip the knife from his hands, strike him down, shoot him dead. 

Still, he carved. 

Sam Vasterling screamed. 

“Keep going, diathésimos,” the mayor said. “Remember, this is the fate that awaits all who harbor traitors to the North. They are guilty. They deserve this.”

The small body on the table juddered and bled and screamed. They barely looked human anymore. Still, they did not die. More blood had come out of them than Morja had ever seen in his life. Still they did not die. They only screamed and bled. 

Morja’s shirt was soaked with sweat. He stared down into Sam’s chest, at their beating heart. He had carved away everything else. Still, they lived, and cried, and bled. 

“Isaac,” they rasped. “Isaac, please…”

Bile seared the back of his throat. 

They raised their eyes to his. Their eyes were bloodshot, red from crying, but they were brown, he noticed. They looked so frightened. “Morja,” they breathed. “Help me.”

Morja stared back at them for an eternal moment. Tears streamed from their eyes. 

He raised the knife and plunged it into their exposed heart. They shuddered once, then their head fell back. Their eyes were blank, their mouth open. They were - finally, mercifully - dead.

Morja braced for the correction.

His anóteros said nothing for a breath. Then, the mayor said, “No matter. You still have the rest of that family to get through.”

Morja opened his eyes. 

His room was pitch black, and the sheets on his bed were soaked through with cold sweat. He could still smell blood thick in his nostrils. 

He staggered out of bed and fumbled for the doorknob. When he found it, he wrenched the door open and dashed down the dimly-lit hall and into the kitchen. He threw open the sliding door to the backyard and made it a few shaky steps before he fell to his hands and knees, retching into the grass. When he was done, he slumped over and sobbed weakly. 

He still felt the youngest one’s blood on his hands, tacky and warm. He still smelled it. He still heard their screams. He still felt his anóteros’ hand on the back of his neck. 

“Morja?” a small voice called out behind him.

He gasped and spun around. Sam Vasterling stood in the sliding door, silhouetted by the light in the kitchen. The golden light illuminated their curls like a halo. They took a halting step out of the house. Their hand was extended towards him. “Are… you alright?”

Morja blinked. In the fraction of a second that his eyes were closed, he saw them - bound to the table, coated in blood, flayed and screaming and begging for mercy. His stomach heaved again. He bowed his head in shame and horror. 

Sam drew closer. They were so young, but they showed no fear as they went to their knees and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Morja wasn’t sure if they didn’t know that he could break their neck with just his hands, could drag them inside and cut their throat with a kitchen knife… or if they knew, and chose to master the fear. He trembled, but held still as their hand rubbed up and down on his arm. The touch was gentle, so unlike–

He flinched at the memory - it was just a dream, but he had so many real memories of it, too - of his anóteros’ hand whipping across his face. Sam’s hand paused on his shoulder. “Is this… is it okay that I’m doing this?” they whispered.

A chasm opened inside Morja’s chest. His face crumpled and he began to weep. 

He leaned against Sam, bending his head so low that it rested in their lap. Their hand rested on his shoulder again. He reached out, his own hand shaking badly, and covered their hand with his own. His broad hand swallowed theirs. 

“Shhh,” Sam soothed. “I’m sorry, was it… a nightmare?”

Morja shuddered with shame. He pressed his head against their knee and nodded. 

Sam pushed out a slow breath. “Gotcha. I… I get them too, sometimes.” 

Morja blinked and tightened his hand over theirs. The thought of them waking, cold and shuddering, from a nightmare, made his chest ache. He rolled his shoulder to ease the old twinge there. 

“I get them less now,” Sam said, stroking their thumb along his arm. “But they still happen from time to time. About… our time in Colleen Stormbeck’s house. I… I get a lot of nightmares about getting shot.”

Morja’s eyes went wide, and he sat up. His eyes darted over Sam, looking for a scar - and his eyes finally settled on their right hand, the one they always held curled against their stomach. 

Sam followed their gaze and nodded. “Yeah,” they murmured. “It was a few years ago now. I was shot by a Stormbeck guard as we were escaping Colleen.” They smiled. “Finn saved my life.”

“Does it hurt?” Morja asked, before he could stop himself. He looked at his hands and bowed his head for his impertinence. 

Sam didn’t deliver a correction, though; they said, “Sometimes. Well… pretty often, yeah. It twinges. Sometimes I need to wear a sling.” They shrugged. “But it’s gotten better as time has gone on.”

Morja’s own shoulder twinged again, and he rolled it in its socket. 

Sam inclined their head. “You hurt, too?”

Morja’s mouth went dry. “I… no. Nothing so bad as… no.”

Sam looked at him for a long time. Then they said, “Gray says comparing things doesn’t do anyone any good.” They glanced out into the night. 

Morja stared down at his hands. His mind churned as he tried to decipher the meaning in Sam’s words. Slowly, he said, “My… shoulder. It hurts. Often.” He pointed to it stiffly.

“Don’t complain, diathésimos, or I will teach you the true meaning of pain. Back up on your knees, or I’ll string you up by your collar. Five more lashes for your impertinence.”

He shuddered and waited for the correction, or the promise of one. 

Sam nodded. “Yeah,” they said. They looked toward the house. “I’ll be right back.” They pushed themself to their feet and made their way inside to fetch a cane, or perhaps a whip, to punish Morja for the complaint.

His head dipped low and his stomach churned with guilt and shame - and a flash of something else, something he could not allow himself to name. Something that felt dangerous to feel. Something that rankled for having been guided right into that trap. 

Still, he should have known better. He had a lifetime of pain, telling him that he should have known better. His hands curled into fists as he waited for Sam to return. When he heard their footsteps at the back door, and then the swoosh of their feet through the grass, he squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth together. He must be silent when accepting this correction. He must not wake anyone in the sleeping house with a gasp or a cry. 

He had earned Sam’s disgust with his weakness. He must not make a sound, now. 

Sam went to their knees beside him, and he held perfectly still - save for his hands, which he slid together, palm to palm, so they could tie him. 

“Here,” they said softly. 

He held back a whimper. Perhaps they had not returned with a cane at all, but something worse - like a knife. He forced his eyes open. Their hand was moving toward his shoulder - the bad one. He froze. He braced. 

Something warm pressed against the knot that always lived in the flesh there. He flinched and uttered a shocked sound. 

“Sorry,” Sam muttered. “Is it too hot still?”

Morja turned his eyes to theirs. Their eyebrows were tugged together, holding something out to him - a warm compress. They had another one, balanced on their injured hand. “Here,” they said, holding one out to him. “The heat… it helps, sometimes. With me. Maybe it might with you, too.”

Morja stared at the compress with wide eyes. Sam held it a little higher, and he finally took it. Heat soaked into his finger tips. Sam took their own compress in their good hand and pressed it to their injured arm, over their bicep. They took a deep, shivering breath and let their eyes fall shut. 

Morja’s back ached in thwarted anticipation of the cane. He glanced at the compress in his hand, then back to Sam; their face wasn’t twisted in disgust - not at him, nor at anything else that he could see. They were smiling lightly. And they were using the compress. Haltingly, hesitantly, he pressed it to his own shoulder like Sam had done for him. 

Heat bloomed in the knotted muscles and he let out a trapped breath. His eyes burned with unshed tears. He slumped a little to the side - a little closer to Sam. They opened their eyes and smiled at him. 

“Nice, huh?” they said. 

Morja’s throat tightened. His head hung low. A dry sob shivered in his chest. 

Sam raised their curled hand and rested it on his shoulder. They slid it across his back, over the healed scars. Morja’s head dipped lower, lower still, until he was folded in half over his knees. He cried softly as Sam rubbed his back, not saying anything at all. 

Continued here

@womping-grounds , @free-2bmee , @quirkykayleetam , @walkingchemicalfire , @inpainandsuffering , @redwingedwhump , @burtlederp , @castielamigos-whump-side-blog , @whatwhumpcomments , @whumpywhumper , @stxck-fxck , @whumps-the-word , @justplainwhump ,  @finder-of-rings , @inky-whump , @thatsthewhump , @orchidscript , @this-mightaswell-happen , @newandfiguringitout , @whumpkitty , @pretty-face-breaker , @cinnamonflavoredhugs , @pebbledriscoll , @im-just-here-for-the-whump , @endless-whump , @grizzlie70 , @oops-its-whump , @kixngiggles, @1phoenixfeather , @butwhatifyouwrite , @carnagecardinal ​, @annablogsposts , @suspicious-whumping-egg , @starfields08000 , @morning-star-whump , @theelvishcowgirl , @i-eat-worlds

[manari-archives]

Bad for Business

We look good in photographs, I like the way you like to laugh At dirty jokes, I know they'll always land Used to get to work on time, but now you're taking up my nights Never been so glad to be so tired

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader

warnings: alludes to a sexual relationship, a crash, hospitals

word count: 2.7k

note: sorry for not uploading for a week, i had to get a emergency surgery and the recovery hasnt been great. again this isn't based on the entire song, just a couple of lines. the reader is a motogp rider in this. also english isn't my first language and this hasnt been proofread yet, so any corrections feel free to let me know and any feedback is welcome :)

masterlist

in the realm of MotoGP, you thrived on the intoxicating blend of speed and adrenaline, your fervor for the race track coursing through your veins. The pulsating roar of engines, the intoxicating feeling of victory – these were the elements that defined you. Amidst this roaring symphony of metal and fervor, fate orchestrated an unexpected meeting. Enter Lewis Hamilton, the luminary of Formula 1 glory. At a racing event, your lives converged like two celestial bodies gravitating towards each other. A kinship ignited, catalyzed by a love for motorsport that resonated deep within both your hearts.

"He's good for my heart, but he's bad for business," you often pondered, grappling with the complexities of your relationship with Lewis. Your love was passionate and genuine, but it became a concern for your manager, Sarah. Sarah had guided your career since its inception, carefully curating your public image and securing lucrative sponsorships.

Observing the budding romance between you and Lewis, Sarah couldn't help but worry about the potential impact on your career. One day, Sarah sat you down for a serious conversation. "Y/N, I understand your feelings for Lewis, but we must consider the implications for your career," she expressed with a concerned tone. "I understand the pull Lewis has on your heart, but we must tread cautiously. Your career is a delicate balance, and his presence could tip the scales"

Tears welled up in your eyes as you listened to Sarah's words. You understood the importance of your career, but your love for Lewis was equally significant. "Sarah, I appreciate your concerns, but I can't deny my feelings for Lewis. He brings me immeasurable joy, and I can't let go of that," you responded, your voice tinged with determination.

News of your and Lewis's relationship quickly spread through the racing community, igniting a media frenzy. Speculations about the impact on your career and sponsorships ran rampant. Journalists questioned your commitment to racing and accused you of prioritizing personal happiness over professional success. You found yourself caught in a storm of criticism from all sides. Friends who were once your staunchest supporters began to doubt your choices, believing that you had lost your focus. But you remained steadfast, refusing to compromise your love for Lewis for the sake of societal expectations.

Despite the external pressures, your performances on the track remained exceptional. Your determination and skill were undeniable, even in the face of scepticism. Slowly but surely, your critics began to realize that your relationship with Lewis had not affected your abilities as a racer.

"We look good in photographs," you whispered, cherishing the moments captured in frames that adorned your home.Photographs, snapshots of joy and togetherness, adorned the walls of your shared haven. These captured moments were more than mere images; they were chronicles of an amour unyielding. Amid your playfully bantered jests and whispered endearments, the world found itself a backdrop to your love story. Your smiles were genuine, and your eyes filled with an unspoken understanding.

Despite the challenges you faced, your love remained a source of strength and joy. In your private moments, Lewis's laughter filled the air, and you revelled in the way he embraced your "dirty jokes." Your shared sense of humour became a cherished bond, a reminder that your love was built on deep connection and mutual appreciation. Late nights became a sanctuary for you.

"Used to get to work on time, but now you're taking up my nights," you would playfully tease Lewis, relishing the exhaustion that came from staying up into the early hours of the morning, talking, laughing, and simply being in each other's arms. You had never been so glad to be so tired, knowing that it was a testament to the depth of your connection.

The persistent scrutiny and doubts surrounding your relationship began to take their toll. You and Lewis faced challenges that tested the strength of your love. But together, you forged a path forward, determined to prove that your love was worth fighting for. You and Lewis made a conscious effort to keep your personal and professional lives separate. You respected each other's careers and understood the importance of maintaining a balance.

With open communication and unwavering support, you weathered the storms that came your way. As time went on, the racing community began to see the authenticity and power of your love. They witnessed the unwavering dedication you brought to your racing career, alongside the joy and inspiration Lewis's presence brought you. The doubters slowly transformed into supporters, recognizing the depth of your connection and the positive impact it had on both of your lives.

The news of your and Lewis's secret connection slowly began to circulate within the racing community, fueling speculation and curiosity among fans and journalists alike. While you continued to keep your romance hidden from the public eye, it became increasingly challenging to shield your love from prying gazes. One day, as you prepared for a crucial race, your mind swirled with a mix of emotions. The pressure to perform on the track weighed heavily on you, but you found comfort in the thought that Lewis would be cheering you on from the sidelines. As the race commenced, your focus was razor-sharp, your heart racing with adrenaline. You manoeuvred your bike with precision, navigating the twists and turns of the circuit. But amidst the chaos and speed, fate dealt an unexpected blow.

On one particularly treacherous turn, a fellow rider lost control, causing a chain reaction that led to a collision. You found yourself caught in the chaos, unable to avoid the collision. Your bike skidded across the track, sending you tumbling through the air before you landed with a heavy thud. The spectators gasped in horror as you tumbled across the track, the deafening sound of screeching tires filling the air.

The crowd held its breath, anxiously waiting for any sign of movement from you. Immediately, the track's safety team sprang into action, rushing to your aid. Lewis, who was also aware of the crash, felt his heart skip a beat as he watched the scene unfold from the pits. He desperately wanted to run to your side, but he knew that the safety team was equipped to handle the situation. Anxiety gnawed at Lewis as he waited for updates on your condition.

The moments seemed to stretch on forever, each second filled with worry for your well-being. Finally, he received word that you were being transported to the medical centre for evaluation and treatment. Unable to bear the uncertainty any longer, Lewis hurriedly made his way to the medical centre, his heart pounding with fear and concern. When he arrived, he found you conscious but in pain, surrounded by medical personnel. He rushed to your side, his voice trembling with emotion. "You, are you okay? Can you hear me?" You managed a weak smile, your eyes reflecting a mixture of pain and gratitude. "Lewis… I'll be okay. It was just an accident." Lewis held your hand gently, his heartache evident in his eyes. "You scared me, you. I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you." You squeezed his hand reassuringly. "I'm sorry for scaring you, Lewis. But I'm strong, and I'll get through this." In the following days, Lewis remained by your side, offering his unwavering support as you focused on your recovery. Your bond grew even stronger as you navigated the challenges together, knowing that your love was a source of strength in the face of adversity. Together, you and Lewis faced the challenges that life and racing threw your way, knowing that as long as you had each other, you could conquer anything. Your love had weathered the test of time and trials, proving that it was indeed a force that could triumph over anything life had to offer.

Time passed, and you and Lewis continued to excel in your respective racing disciplines. Your love only grew stronger, anchoring you in a world that often prioritized fame and success over personal happiness. Your triumphs on the track and your unwavering devotion to Lewis transcended the racing world. You became an inspiration to fans around the globe, a testament to the power of love and the courage to defy societal expectations.

In the end, you understood that your love for Lewis was the greatest victory you could ever achieve. Your relationship had taught you that true success lay not only in professional achievements but also in the depth of the love you shared. As you stood side by side, the roar of engines fading into the background, you and Lewis revelled in the triumph of your love. You knew that you had created a legacy that would resonate beyond the racetrack, a story of unwavering devotion and the courage to follow your hearts

As your relationship deepened, you and Lewis found solace in each other's company, cherishing the moments you spent conversing and connecting on a profound level. Your relationship was more than just a whirlwind romance—it was a partnership built on mutual understanding and unwavering support.

Late one evening, as the moon bathed your quiet surroundings in a soft glow, you and Lewis sat together on a terrace, the gentle breeze carrying your whispers. Your laughter echoed through the night, blending harmoniously with the rustling of leaves. "You know," Lewis began, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, "your sense of humour is unlike any I've encountered before. Your jokes always catch me off guard." You grinned, your eyes glimmering with affection. "Ah, Lewis, that's one of the things I love about you. You get my jokes and laugh with me, no matter how silly my jokes may be." Your conversations often delved into deeper realms, exploring your dreams, fears, and the intricacies of your shared experiences as professional athletes.

You exchanged stories of triumphs and setbacks, finding solace in the understanding that only you could offer each other. In those private moments, You found comfort in Lewis's unwavering support. He listened attentively, offering encouragement and insight, always reminding you of your immense talent and resilience. Lewis, in turn, found inspiration in your unwavering determination and your ability to rise above challenges. Your conversations were the threads that wove the fabric of their relationship, building a profound connection that transcended the glamour of their respective careers. You revelled in each other's insights, finding solace and strength in your shared experiences.

Your love faced its fair share of challenges as the world scrutinized your relationship. Doubts and judgments weighed heavily on their hearts, threatening to dampen the flame of your love. But you and Lewis were determined to weather the storm together, your bond growing stronger with each obstacle you overcame. One evening, as you cuddled on the couch, you sighed, your gaze fixed on the flickering fireplace. "Lewis, sometimes it feels like the world is against us. The media, the critics—they question the authenticity of our love and its impact on my career. But I want you to know that my love for you outweighs any doubts or fears." Lewis intertwined his fingers with yours, a gentle smile playing on his lips. "Love, I understand the weight of those doubts, but together we can prove them wrong. Our love is resilient, and it can withstand any storm. The strength we draw from each other is what propels us forward, both on and off the track." You nodded, your eyes shimmering with determination.

Your heartfelt conversation filled the room, creating an atmosphere of unwavering trust and support. In those moments, you found the courage to embrace your love fully, disregarding the opinions of others and focusing on the profound connection you shared.

Your conversations grew more profound, intertwining dreams, fears, and aspirations. Amid your busy schedules, you always found time to share your thoughts, your hearts pouring out to each other like an open book. Your unwavering support for one another led to a harmonious balance between your personal lives and professional ambitions. You navigated the challenges of fame and competition together, your love serving as an anchor in turbulent waters.

The sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the picturesque landscape as you and Lewis found yourselves strolling along a secluded beach. The gentle lapping of the waves provided a soothing backdrop to your conversation, which danced between lighthearted banter and heartfelt exchanges. As you walked hand in hand, Lewis's gaze never wavered from you. The love in his eyes was palpable, a testament to the depth of his feelings. In a moment of quiet reflection, he paused, his voice trembling with emotion. "Y/N, my love," Lewis began, his voice filled with a mixture of nerves and unwavering devotion. "You are my rock, my inspiration, and the love of my life. From the moment we met, I knew there was something truly extraordinary about us." Your heart skipped a beat, her eyes locked on Lewis, her love for him growing with every word he spoke. He continued, his voice steady but filled with profound emotion, "I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Y/N. I promise to love you till forever falls apart. Marry me and Make my favourite dream come true" Tears welled up in your eyes, your heart overflowing with love and happiness. The answer, a whispered "yes," echoed across the sands, a promise sealed with the promise of forever. The ring on your finger shone like a star, a beacon of love that illuminated not just the present but the journey that lay ahead.

Months later, the day of your wedding arrived, brimming with anticipation and joy. You and Lewis stood at the altar, ready to exchange your vows and declare your eternal love before your loved ones. As you stood face to face, You spoke with unwavering conviction, your eyes shining with adoration. "Lewis, from the first moment I saw you, I knew that our love was something extraordinary. You've filled my life with joy, laughter, and unwavering support. I am so grateful to have you as my partner, my best friend, and now, my husband." you declared, the weight of your words permeating the air. Lewis's voice rang out, filled with love and reverence. "Y/N, you are the light of my life. Your strength, determination, and the way you constantly inspire me is truly remarkable. Today, I promise to always laugh at your jokes, always be your biggest supporter, your confidant, and your steadfast partner in all that life brings us." With their heartfelt vows exchanged, the officiant asked you to seal your union with a passionate kiss. The room erupted in applause and tears of joy, celebrating the love that had brought everyone together.

The reception hall was adorned with vibrant decorations, reflecting the colours of your love and the beauty of your union. Guests laughed and danced, celebrating the love that had brought them all together. You and Lewis revelled in the joyous celebration, your hearts filled with gratitude for the support and love surrounding you. Your conversations with loved ones were filled with laughter, reminiscences, and heartfelt well-wishes for your future. As you shared your first dance as a married couple, your bodies swayed in perfect harmony. In each other's arms, you felt the strength and joy that your love brought, a love that would guide you through the adventures and challenges that lay ahead.

Throughout the evening, your conversations flowed effortlessly, interwoven with laughter, memories, and dreams for the future. You revelled in the shared stories and promises, knowing that your connection was not only built on passion but on the foundation of friendship and unwavering support.

[starsomens]

Noah should NOT have to apologize for having an infection. Ive said it already and I'll say it again. If he just continues it'll get worse and no shows or new songs any time soon.

out of his control and he NEED REST AND RECOVERY.

You should be ashamed of yourselves for complaining about it and/or putting so much pressure and criticism on Noah or the Band as a whole for something he has pushed past and possibly made worse becuase he pushed himself. Like how fucking dare you. Noah, both Nicks and Jolly perform BEYOND their limits to give only the best at their shows. I get that no one wants their concert to be canceled but have consideration for the people who are putting on the show ESPECIALLY when it comes to artists who are in the genre of metal because those vocals are FAR from easy.

Noah or anyone close to the band I really do Hope that Noah recovers and experiences better days along with the whole band, and their staff. They deserve and have the right to rest and recover.

[paperanddice]

Eater of Dust

A terrible creature that resembles a knight wearing plate armor made of calcified resin. Its helmet has no eye slots or mouthpiece, or hinge to be opened, and its weapon is a glistening greatsword that consists of a great mouth. This is an eater of dust, a strange being from some lost dimension of nightmares, now wandering the planes without a true home. Known by the name yakat-shi in ancient texts, they most often associate with demons, devils, and other such fiends, acting as mercenaries. Seeking out new meals, they can devour nearly anything with their mawblades, from dust to diamonds, from flesh to metal. Offerings of unusual or previously unheard of flavors can draw in yakat-shi, ready to operate in small but deadly military units.

The armor they wear is actually a secreted resin as hard as steel, which binds to the skin and cannot be removed. When cracked, it seeps ichor that glistens like a nautilus shell and quickly seals the wound. Older yakat-shi have networks of mother-of-pearl scars on their armor, marks of battle survived. Lightning disrupts this rapid healing however, leaving cracks open longer and the eater of dust vulnerable to death, so enemies that utilize lightning are usually targeted first. In general those who engage in mercenary work seem to have nothing but contempt for other life forms, even their own allies, devouring those they kill and their equipment. In particular, they seem to enjoy devouring and destroying powerful magical gear, hunting for intelligent weapons especially.

Completely silent, eaters of dust communicate only through telepathy. They stand a bit taller than most humans, at around 7 feet, and tend to weigh between 350 and 400 pounds.

Inspired by the Tome of Beasts 1. This post came out a week ago on my Patreon. If you want to get access to all my monster conversions early, as well as access to my premade adventures and other material I’m working on, consider backing me there!

Pathfinder 2e

Eater of Dust Creature 9 Rare, Medium, Aberration Perception +19; hearing (precise) 60 feet Languages Aklo, Chthonian, Common, Diabolic (can't speak any language); telepathy 100 feet Skills Athletics +20, Intimidation +18, Occultism +15, Survival +17 Str +5, Dex +2, Con +5, Int +0, Wis +2, Cha +3 AC 29; Fort +20, Ref +15, Will +17 HP 130 (regeneration 10 (deactivated by electricity)); Immunities blinded, poison; Resistances acid 10, cold 10 Speed 30 feet Melee mawblade +20 (magical), Damage 2d10+11 piercing Occult Innate Spells DC 26 ; 4th harm (×3), heal, translocate, unfettered movement (×3); 1st sure strike (×3); Devour Any time the eater of dust scores a critical hit with a mawblade Strike, it picks one of the following effects: it also deals the same amount of damage to the target's armor, bypassing any Hardness lower than 10, like adamantine; or the target must succeed at a DC 28 Fortitude save or become drained 1, or increase its drained value by 1. Weapon Bond The eater of dust's mawblade is treated as if it were made of any solid precious metal for the purpose of ignoring resistances or immunities, or exploiting weaknesses. The eater of dust always knows the direction and distance of its mawblade, as long as it's on the same plane of existence.

13th Age

Eater of Dust Double-strength 5th level troop [aberration] Initiative: +9 Mawblade +10 vs. AC (2 attacks) – 20 damage. Natural 14+: The target takes a -1 penalty to AC (save ends). Natural 18+: The target loses one recovery. Regeneration 10: The eater of dust heals 10 hit points at the start of each of its turns. It can regenerate five times per battle. If it heals to its maximum hit points, then that use of regeneration doesn’t count against the five-use limit. When the eater of dust is hit by an attack that deals lightning damage, it loses one use of its regeneration, and it can’t regenerate during its next turn. Dropping an eater of dust to 0 hp doesn’t kill it if it has any uses of regeneration left. Resist Acid 16+. AC 21 PD 18 MD 15 HP 130

[proximasc0rner]

Okay it's not quite liveblogging but i found the left right game qcode podcast yesterday and wanted to share my thoughts (just finished the first 3 episodes)

OKAY SO!!! Somewhat mixed but still positive feelings i think! So far!!!

My thoughts (spoilers under cut):

It makes me sad that a good chunk of the narration was dropped in order for a more immersive listening experience, but i suppose that's just how it goes when you're trying to translate stories to different mediums

Speaking of immersion oh my GOD i had my first Apollo kinshift ever and it is SOLELY because of how good this podcast is at making you feel like you're there. Like it hit me the minute Apollo stepped out of his car talking about the Hitchhiker. I was shaking and had to take a break from listening until today 😭

Also speaking of immersion. The Ace death scene was unfortunately fucking PERFECT. It was EXACTLY as gruesome as it felt in the og version, and scary in the way that it makes you feel like time is slowing down as it happens and it was just unbearable the whole time listening and AAAAAAAAA (it was good).

I also REALLY liked the added touch of actually getting to hear the conversation between the Jubilation Recovery Service guys as they're capturing Ace and hanging him from the tow hook. Like in the og story the narration just says they're casually talking but in the podcast you get to HEAR it all happen. Except the conversation was... weird, because it felt like each individual statement felt like it was being taken out of context??? Like one minute they're talking about people growing up out of their uniforms too fast and the next thing they say is something about like. Calling off work????? Or something????? It's really hard to describe how off it was, it was like when you put two cleverbot chat ais next to each other and make them converse. It added to the uncanny effect ✨

Also i lOOOOOVED the whole bit where Rob was freaking out at Bluejay for going so slow around the tree because it reminded me why all good people HATE Denise "Bluejay" Carver /silly

THE HITCHHIKER WAS SO FREAKY I LOVE HIM SO MUCH (i would not touch him with a 39 and 1/2 foot pole)

I appreciate that the stellar characterization of everyone wasn't lost in translation. The voice actors have really brought the cast to life.

However, I do not think Tom needed to be expanded upon. like this guy is just the middleman he does NOT need his own story and the lengthy preamble just kinda detracts from the horror for me.

The one good thing abt Tom's end of things tho is that I enjoy the added detail that Tom seems to be the only one who can remember Alice ever existing

WOOOOOO ALICE IS ONLY HALF BRITISH NOW

In seriousness tho. Idk exactly why the details about Alice and her parents were changed-- like in the OG version she was British with Indian parents, but now her dad is American and her mom is British/Caribbean. It's not a negative by any means I'm just curious as to what the reason was for this change. Also Sharma -> Sharman happened too so 🤷

Final criticism: the whole scene with Chuck Greenwald was slightly worse for me than on first read and first listen via CreepCast. Like genuinely Hunter conveyed him better I think 💀. Like the "they're going to hurt now" line was played straight on CreepCast like it's a serious thing. But then on QCODE Chuck sounds borderline mischievous? Like don't get me wrong I loooove me some hammy, campy evil characters (see: my obsession with disney villains) but even i can admit that there is a TIME and a PLACE for cartoon villain behavior and Radio Jubilation is NOT IT. Also the screams were surprisingly lackluster and the weird metal clanking sounds just really confused me 🥲

BUT ALL IN ALL IT HAS BEEN GOOD SO FAR! I'm excited to see where it goes from here!!

[tired-and-healing]

Local Dumbass Has OceanGate Titan Sub Theory

I don't know shit about this except what I have looked into and thought about regarding my mechanical engineering degree.

Yesterday afternoon, when I first heard about it, I thought the extent was that Titan had gotten tangled in some wreckage and also had a communications failure. Granted, I was in the middle of a 15 hr car ride home so I couldn't do much research into it.

Today, I've done some research and thinking about it because the mystery of it fascinates me. I am going to kinda journal/ record my thought processes as I was messaging my partner about it earlier.

I felt inspired by the twitter user Peter Girguis and wanted to do the research myself in understanding the materials and design of the vessel in addition to understanding the timeline of events.

Background:

At 9:47 am on Sunday, June 18th, the vessel had lost communication contact with the Polar Prince, and the last known location was received at 10:00. Though the communication system and location tracking were separate, previous history denotes either one or the other experiencing blackouts before successful recovery. This time, both of these have failed in a 13 minute timeframe, approximately halfway through its 2.5 hour dive time.

Initially, I feel strange about the fixation of criticism over the usage of a game controller. Yes, I do find the humor in it, about the indication of cheapness, but it doesn't feel right to just blame the interruption of input connection from the controller for the loss of communications and then the location tracker.

Honestly, my interest piqued at the mention of the use of a new material being used for the design - carbon fiber

I watched the Sunday Morning segment about David Pogue's 2022 expedition because I wanted more context about the design and to get a better mental picture. The parts that struck me was the verbiage of the contract in combination with the attitude of the OceanGate CEO, Stockton Rush. It concerns me in the beaming pride that the man shows in his sourcing of shockingly cheap parts and the callousness of tossing the controller around. I find the lack of discussion around safety concerns or mitigation of risk factors incredibly disturbing.

I began to look for papers documenting the behavior of carbon fiber material under compressive load and surprisingly found this article detailing plans for a near identical vessel from a few years previous. I find it interesting that the sole reason carbon fiber was selected for use was because it would cut down on the cost of the vessel. Not safety, or because existing research pointed to increased durability, or anything. Just that theoretically, the material would make the hull lighter in weight and they wouldn't have to pay for the foam applied to metal-hulled vessels to offset the metal's weight.

I then found a paper detailing the failure mechanism of carbon fiber reinforced composite under longitudinal stress detailing the effects of the material under compression. From my understanding of the failure modes detailed in the paper I created my initial assumption.

What I think happened is that the carbon fiber hull could not handle the load cycling of repeated dives. At a significant pressure providing a compressive force on the material at freezing cold temp, the carbon fiber became too brittle and failed either along the the middle in an axial line or at the penetration sites required to attach the titanium end caps.

Also I noted that the monitoring system depends on strain gauges attached to the titanium pieces that measures the metals' deformation, but wasn't sure if they would be as effective in use for the carbon fiber. Furthermore I couldn't see how it was effective in use as an appropriate safety monitor, or how an evac plan was supposed to be constructed around it given the requirements of the human body and recovering from depth pressure.

The carbon fiber hull is entirely shielded from view from the outside because it is encased by the sleek looking glass fiber shell. This shell is incapable of standing up to the depth pressure and provides no structural support whatsoever. What it does do, however, is make the whole craft look nice and capable.

The hull is about 6" thick and thankfully when carbon fiber begins to fail under compression, the failure can be visible from the outside of the thickness to the inside. If the hull itself is thoroughly checked before each and every submersion, signs of failure and weakening can be noticed before a complete failure. The mission can be aborted and lives can be saved.

However, if failure is detected, then the entire hull must be scrapped and replaced by a newly manufactured one. Even if the visible signs of damage don't look "that bad", the extreme pressure placed on it is too much to fuck around with.

I also do not assume that the hull can be patched with additional layers of carbon fiber. I feel it is extremely important that all of the fibrous threads used throughout the hull are continuous and unbroken to prevent shear stresses from forming in between the undamaged remaining section of the hull and the patch.

Personally, I think there was a lack of effort on ensuring safety. I think they became overly familiar with the craft and began to think of it more as a reliable vehicle that enabled them to do research and secure funding instead of a material testing experiment where theye were cycling it though who knows how many loads with lives inside. I genuinely believe that when the incident reports are written, it will expose that the hull was exposed to many more cycles of loading in extreme conditions than previous lab testing experiments under controlled conditions. If we (the engineering and scientific community) are lucky, we will be able to recover and analyze the fracture surfaces from the wreckage and understand how carbon fiber fails in a cold and highly compressive environment.

Then I take a break and think about the role of Journalist David Pogue as people condemn him for poor reporting on his segment report, and look up his history in reporting and journalism

There's more I want to add to this later but for rn this is all I wanted to put down for rn.

[materialsscienceandengineering]

A protein mines, sorts rare earths better than humans, paving way for green tech

Rare earth elements, like neodymium and dysprosium, are a critical component to almost all modern technologies, from smartphones to hard drives, but they are notoriously hard to separate from the Earth's crust and from one another.

Penn State scientists have discovered a new mechanism by which bacteria can select between different rare earth elements, using the ability of a bacterial protein to bind to another unit of itself, or "dimerize," when it is bound to certain rare earths, but prefer to remain a single unit, or "monomer," when bound to others.

By figuring out how this molecular handshake works at the atomic level, the researchers have found a way to separate these similar metals from one another quickly, efficiently, and under normal room temperature conditions. This strategy could lead to more efficient, greener mining and recycling practices for the entire tech sector, the researchers state.

"Biology manages to differentiate rare earths from all the other metals out there—and now, we can see how it even differentiates between the rare earths it finds useful and the ones it doesn't," said Joseph Cotruvo Jr., associate professor of chemistry at Penn State and lead author on a paper about the discovery published today in the journal Nature. "We're showing how we can adapt these approaches for rare earth recovery and separation."

Read more.

[luminetti]

Overdue Apostasy ༺♡༻ preview/teaser

this is more of a test since i don't have any experience with tumblr so bear with me! Feel free to leave constructive criticism!

༘⋆ Summary:

In the nation of Faerûn, a new season of love begins for the upper echelons in the nation's capital Baldur’s Gate, gathering a plethora of unwed Lords and Ladies from across the nation. For Miss Tav Neredras, the season only promises another disappointing series of suitors and failed courting, until one night she suddenly finds Lord Gale Dekarios of Waterdeep on her doorstep with a gunshot wound through his stomach, seeking discreet refuge and recovery after a devastating duel.

༘⋆ Pairing: lord!gale dekarios x fem!reader/tav

Future chapters: brief wyll x reader and mentions of (previous) gale x mystra relationship)

༘⋆Warnings: blood and bullet wounds

Future chapters: predatory/pedophilic behavior (fuck mystra all my homies hate mystra)

༘⋆Notes: set in the regency era and very loosely inspired by bridgerton (I’ve never watched it)

more info to come when the full chapter is finished!

You cursed yourself for getting in such a position as you heaved a bloodied body onto your goose down bed sheets, dark sticky crimson clinging to your skin and the front of your white nightgown. The body landed with a soft flump, leaving a suspicious looking trail of blood towards the center of your bed. Normally you were against opening the door for strange men in the middle of the night, but a gunshot wound to the stomach usually prohibited acts of violence, unless the attacker wanted to bleed out to death, so you deemed it safe enough. You made sure to grab a fire poker from the fireplace on your way back from the medicine cabinet, just in case.

The blood was beginning to pool underneath the man, signaling that if you were to do anything, it had to be done with haste. Fighting back a gag at the tangy metal aroma of blood, you undid his vest and undershirt, pulling it off and discarding it somewhere on the floor. The bullet had thankfully wedged itself near the surface of his flesh making it an easy grab with a pair of tweezers. The wound itself proved to be more of a challenge. Stitches were required to stop the bleeding, but the needle slipped around between your fingers, and attempting to wipe the slick blood off your hands just made more of a mess. After a bit of adjusting, and a lot of wiping, you finally managed a messy line of seven uneven stitches.

For the first time in the past half hour, the thumping of your heartbeat began to fade from your ears, allowing you to process what had just happened.

You took a moment to look him over. He looked around your age. Around twenty– no, twenty-one? It was hard to tell with so much hair in his face. From what you could make out, he appeared to be a reasonably attractive man. Perhaps a bit unkempt, you thought, but as to be expected at this time of night. With his chestnut brown hair, he vaguely reminded you of Clyde, your childhood dog. Though intended as a compliment, you made a mental note to keep that one to yourself when–if ever–he awoke. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep that was drawing you to the curve of his jawline, but with a start, you realize you had been staring for far too long. Blinking away your daydreams, you see the scene in front of you as it truly is.

There was a body in your bed.

You frantically reach over the bed to press two fingers firmly against his neck, feeling around for a pulse. Was he even still alive? A slow and faint periodical throb against your fingertips pulls a heavy sigh of relief out of your weary body, and you slump against the side of the bed. Thank the gods.

Unfortunately, the fact he was alive did not solve the strange-man-in-bed issue. Once he had been securely wrapped in several layers of bandages–any more and he may appear mummified–you weren’t sure what else there was to do. So, you recruited the only person in the household that could keep their mouth shut. Your older sister, Euphemia. 

***

“By Jove, sister… you’ve killed a man…” Euphemia looked pale-faced and wide eyed in horror at the seemingly lifeless body and blood adorning your room.

“Stop it.” You hissed under your breath, closing the bedroom door behind her. “He’s not dead. And would you keep your voice down?”

Euphemia looked from you to the body, then to your crimson hands and nightgown. “Are you to tell me he is… sleeping?” She asked, incredulously, her voice quavering.

You sighed, exasperated. You grabbed her wrist, much to her resistance, and forcefully pressed her fingers against his neck. “There. He is very much alive. Now will you please help me?” 

Your sister sighed in relief. “Gods… He looks mauled.” She eyed your butchered stitching. “Not a slight on your abilities, of course. Spoken from a place of love.”

“You can mock me all you want when we break fast, sister.” You toss her a wet washcloth. “Make haste and get the headboard. I’ll deal with the floor.”

“I merely jest.” She replied, rounding the bed beside the body.

As she approaches the unconscious man and freezes. The cloth falls from her hand and you hear a sharp intake of breath. Startled, you jump up from your knees.

“Hells, are you hurt?” You turn, expecting to see a splinter or bruise. Alas, Euphemia just stood shell shocked, staring down towards the body. You looked at the man yourself, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Euphemia leaned closer to the body and swept the hair from his face. “I’ve seen this man’s portrait before.” She crouched beside him, studying his features. “It was in a museum of art from other nations.” Closing her eyes, she recounted the museum. “So this must be…” Euphemia turned back to you, mystified. “This is the Viscount of Waterdeep.”

You stare at her. “Who?”

“Lord Gale Dekarios.”

Author's Note:

thanks for reading! I really appreciate it :>

do you have a preference whether the full fic should use y/n or tav? (or give the reader a nickname of my choice while still technically being y/n or tav)

[mydemonsdrivealimo]

whats the cause of his cute lil mental break 🥺 and why is it ethan ramsey lol jk

no bc it literally was ethan. + a bunch of other shit but ethan was his breaking point <3

also answering for these two :)

@aces-and-angels

so to go WAY back to the origin (beyond his usual mental health struggles) he got into his motorcycle accident a montg before he was supposed to leave on a docs without boarders type of trip. on top of the physical pain (fractured humerus, mild shattered knee cap, broken wrist, and a shard of metal to his chest that nearly took out his lung), he was really upset that he couldn't go

healing was a LONG process. it took him a few weeks to get home, and then it was a lot of recovery and pt appointments after the fact. not being able to work/do things bothered him more than the physical pain

he was alone at his place most of the day which was rough, but bryce was sure to come over most nights and his friends would stop by here and there

he's finally cleared to go back to work (w the help of a knee and wrist brace). tobias had taken over the team while he was gone and jensen was fine to let him keep it while he was still getting back to 100%

things were okay but it was rough adjusting, and the whole time he was emailing w the people who ran the trip he was supposed to take, and they had no other openings for like,, two years. so that just kinda crushed him

ab a month after he gets back he tells tobias he's ready to take the team back, to which he happily agrees but made sure to let jensen know that he could let him know if he ever needed a break

not too long later jensen is in a meeting w some of the board + ethan + bloom and other higher up hospital people. he gets a little mouthy about some of the policies they were developing while he was gone, and some of the types of patients they'd be impacting (that they did not consider when developing it)

ethan pulls him aside after and starts comparing him to tobias. mind you tobias did not attend meetings like that since he was a temporary fill in, but as far as communication went he was much more simple compared to jensen. ethan started criticizing how jensen Always has something to say w stuff like that and meetings were perfectly pleasant without him

jensens already sensitive to the fact that he's taking over the dt for a second time, so to have ethan tell him that he'd rather not have him there is tough. he rolls his eyes and moves along like normal but it sticks

over the next month or two it's just more of that from ethan. jensens stressed w the dt workload plus pt appointments plus check ups plus trying to sort out legal stuff from the accident

the board ends up pushing through a policy that particularly impacts non english speaking patients, which puts more work onto jensen as a registered translator. he's constantly being pulled in like 12 directions, and i imagine their nursing staff got a system makeover which means nobody knows how to sort out any complications in scheduling for a bit, and constantly puts them behind schedule

jensen wanted to bring it up to some of the board members ab how it was a bad policy And bad timing but ethan approaches him on why that's not a good idea to bring up

during this time jensen had really been isolating himself just bc he didn't have the energy for his friends or anything aside from work

their argument turns into quite the spectacle. ethan lays into him on causing unnecessary extra problems when the hospital is already struggling w new changes and jensens ab to fucking kill him. jensen is not one to argue back, usually just quietly sits there and takes it, but he fucking blows up on ethan. tells him that he has no idea what it's like actually struggling w shit, how much hes dealing w from recovery to incompetent higher ups to the world falling apart and their political system going up in flames. he is so stressed about everything and ethan thinks it's a good time to ask him to "be pleasant" bitch please.

the argument happens literally in the middle of one of the busiest halls next to one of the nurses stations and it gets them both put on a suspension

jensen does not handle the suspension well. he hadn't been to therapy since before the accident and couldn't get a refill on his meds so he stopped taking them a few weeks ago. he hasn't talked to his friends in a month, and saw bryce maybe twice but bryce was also worrying ab his stuff for his boards so jensen wasn't going to bother him w it anyway

all of this = jensen being completely alone and isolated in his apartment for a week w no mental support after being completely overworked and overwhelmed for months and still getting used to the knee and wrist braces and coming to terms w the longterm impacts of the accident. thus ensues the mental break

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #27

I'm more than a little dejected today. A new trailer of your upcoming game was shown to us today. In it, they painted you as this evil, horrible person. Some people in my world talk about you as though you were rotten and awful from the time you were born. Some people in my world say that you've been so abused by the world that you are now broken beyond hope of recovery. Still others say that, because of the way you were made and how you were raised, you're so different from and alien to everyone else that there's no possible hope of you ever belonging anywhere.

…The end result of all these thoughts, naturally, is that many people in my world think that the best thing that can happen to you is for you to be "put out of your misery" as though you're nothing more than a rabid animal, as though there is nothing more to you than the mistakes you've made, as though you (and others in my world who are similar to you) are not a sentient, thinking, feeling being, capable of being spoken to or reasoned with. Having empathy for you is VERY unpopular here, and it is a great way to become further ostracized, even amongst those who may or may not also consider themselves misfits.

I feel heartbroken about this sort of thing. Even if you were absolutely devoid of empathy (and you've shown time and time again that you are very much NOT devoid of empathy!), that's still not an issue of morality - that is a brain wiring issue. Some people really are born with problems in the parts of their brain responsible for empathy; it is not their fault. When that happens, it requires proper supports to be put in place so that they can thrive without hurting others despite their condition, not judgment, persecution, and demonization. Anything less is ableism. And I live in a world rife with ableism, and lots of other very unpleasant "-isms" and "-phobias" that prevent certain kinds of humans from being treated like actual people.

Sadly, it is also the case that I live in a world where, when people make mistakes, especially if they think the person should have known better than to make a mistake, people tend prefer the metallic, sanguine taste of retribution and punishment over the sweetness of mercy and restoration. It's for this reason that the cycle of pain continues ad nauseam in this ridiculous and terrifying place.

I'm scared that I'm going to have to prepare myself to watch you die a second time. I don't really know what else to do to help you, so in the trailer that was shown, I put a small wish for good things. Good things upon Cloud and his friends. Good things upon your world. Good things upon you, especially.

…People laughed at me. One of them said something to try to make me feel small, stupid, and worthless. For whatever reason, they seem to lack the necessary empathy and critical thinking skills required to understand that the way stories are told in my world ends up weaving the fabric of society and influencing how humans view and therefore treat each other and themselves. Stories, by and large, are thought experiments that people then apply to the real world as moral templates and as patterns of speech and behavior.

What this person failed to see, as well, is that real people in my world are already treated in much the same way that you are treated in yours. While the way you are treated is broadly applicable to any human who is "othered" in my society, when I look at you and consider the way you think, speak, move, and behave… when I consider your mannerisms and general way of being, you look very similar to neurodivergent people in my world. In particular, your general existence seems to have a lot in common with autistic people. Or, rather… I am autistic, and a lot of your behaviors, mannerisms, speech patterns, movements, and general way of holding and carrying yourself look a LOT like mine. To an almost eerie extent, even.

…And… I know for sure… If I had spent a week straight not eating, sleeping, or hydrating in favor of reading wildly inaccurate books (this is called hyperfocus; it's an autism/ADHD thing)… I also would have taken everything I read at face value (literal interpretation of information and assuming by default that what's being said or written is true is another autism thing). If I had taken everything at face value… spent my life being used, abused, and exploited by people (we have that in common), been led to believe that humans are why there are no more people like me in the world, been led to believe that my mother (we know Jenova is not your mother) is being held captive somewhere and subject to cruel experiments… watching in despair as those who call themselves my "friends" witness me struggling without trying at all to help, looking at all of the people around me who are complicit in this kind of horror…

Sephiroth, if the old version of me had your phenomenal power, and was subject to your exact same circumstances, I… I don't think I would have been able to make a better choice than the one you made. I don't like the choice you made. It was terrible and inexcusable, and I'm sure you regret it very much at this point. But I still don't think I would have been able to choose differently than you. I would have been too angry, too full of despair, too emotionally unstable from being starved, dehydrated, and sleep deprived to control my thoughts and impulses… we are all at our worst when we are in states like that. And for a person who was taught that compassion is weakness, that violence is the answer, and that directly asking for help and support is not an option (we have this in common, too; I've since unlearned this nonsense), it's almost impossible to make kind, merciful, loving choices when we're at our worst. It's almost impossible to simply walk away.

…Truth be told though, I'm not 1000% convinced that the place wasn't already on fire before you walked out of the library. I saw what Shinra did to Banora, just because Genesis had gone over there. To get rid of anything that might make Shinra look bad, they firebombed the whole place, razing it to the ground, and killing everyone there, whether they were involved with the madness or not. It wouldn't surprise me at all if Shinra had decided to firebomb Nibelheim, just because they knew you were digging around in their secret archives. It wouldn't surprise me at all if you came out of the library either just before they finished or just after they finished, and it wouldn't surprise me at all if people saw you in the middle of the wreckage, assumed you did it, and then tried to attack you for it; I've got a couple memories of trying to clean up something my stepbrother broke, only to be discovered partway through, being accused of having been the one who did it, being accused of only trying to clean it up because I wanna try to hide what I did, my explanations and protests being taken as lies, and getting punished accordingly for it, while my stepbrother laughs in the background. Circumstances are different, but the mechanics are the same, if it was the case that Nibelheim was firebombed by Shinra.

You might be asking how any of this relates to my world. And the answer to that is simple:

People tend to assume the worst of intentions when it comes to anyone who is "othered" by society. Marginalized people catch flack for doing the same exact things that "normal" people do. When "normal" people scrounge food from an abandoned, wrecked store after a storm, it's called "finding resources". When black people do the same thing, it's called "looting". When "normal" people bring up a similar personal experience to show another person that they understand what they're saying, it's called "empathy". When autistic people do it, it's called "making it all about themselves". When a father brings home pizza for his children, it's called "being a fun dad". When a mother does the same thing, it's called "being a lazy parent who feeds their children junk food". I could list so many more examples, but the main point is this: if you are in any way different from what society at large considers "standard", people will tend to interpret everything you do as either hostile, manipulative, lazy, or some variation thereof, no matter what your actual intentions are. And then when you try to explain your intentions, people will think, "you doth protest too much" and dismiss your explanations as "excuses" or outright lies.

And you are very different from that which is considered "standard". You're very tall. You seem to have hypomelanosis. Your long hair removes you from presenting as "traditionally masculine". You're intellectually gifted. You're very physically and magically capable. You present as someone who is very much not allistic. You're a survivor of horrific abuse. You were raised as an orphan. With these and so many more things, you stand out.

So then, of course nobody pays attention to the fact that you don't judge what people are capable of by their sex/gender or age; they paint that as "ruthless" instead of as "unprejudiced". Of course when you encourage Angeal and Genesis to take the title of "hero" from you by besting you in a friendly sparring match, they accuse you of being arrogant. Of course when you act shy and socially awkward, people instead interpret "aloof and cold" (we very much have this thing in common). Of course when you demonstrate how amazingly capable you are, people aren't going to see someone who is trying his best to help; they're going to instead see a showoff who is full of himself (we have this in common, too). People overlook the fact that without hesitation, you offered yourself for Genesis's transfusion. They overlook the smile on your face and the love in your eyes as you recount some of your memories to Zack. When you're a human that is classified as "other", your goodness, no matter how large it is, gets overlooked in favor of focusing like a laser on your flaws, no matter how microscopic they may be.

And the opposite holds true as well - If you're "normal", your flaws get minimized while your good aspects get magnified. It's why people love Rufus Shinra and the Turks, despite the fact that they are responsible for FAR more deaths than you, either directly or indirectly, and even though they threw some ACTUAL HUMAN TRAFFICKING (we saw this in Before Crisis) into the mix, just for funsies. Somehow, even though you did your things to try to build a world in which no one else should have to suffer in the same way you did, and they did their things solely for the sake of profits and for maintaining an economic chokehold on your planet, they do not see Rufus or the Turks as evil. Even though the siphoning of Mako would kill the planet just as surely as Meteor, they still don't see Shinra and the Turks as evil. Or if they do, it's not nearly to the same extent that they see you as such. And this would baffle me, if not for the fact that these people are wealthy (in Rufus's case anyhow), allistic-presenting, possessing of a "normal" skin tone, and looking far more "traditionally masculine" than you do. It's very frustrating.

I understand the mechanics of why people get "othered", and I understand the mechanics of why people think it's okay to be harsh and cruel and dehumanizing to "othered" people. But I don't have the energy right now to articulate these things. Maybe I'll get into it in some other letter to you, but for now, I'd end up writing a book (I might have basically turned today's letter into a book by accident anyhow…), and I'm a bit too tired for that.

So, suffice to say: I know why people are so mean. I really, truly do. But at the same time… why in hell are people so goddamn mean all the fucking time??? Why does "I wanna tttyfck Tifa's bewbs" get all the loves and supports and likes, but "Let's wish for good things upon everybody" gets indifference, derision, or hate??? How does that even work???

I'm tired and I want to go home. I'm tired of the trope that is, "abuse survivors are ticking time bombs, liable to snap anytime without reason or warning". I'm tired of the trope that is, "some people are damaged beyond repair, so it's foolish to even bother trying to help them". I'm tired of the trope that is, "autistic people are evil, emotionless robots devoid of empathy". I'm tired of the trope that is, "people who make mistakes deserve punishment and death". If they write your story a second time in a way that ends with you being slaughtered again, it will simply reinforce these tropes, and reinforce broader cultural trends that influence how people like me get treated in this world.

And… I'm tired of being laughed at for wishing compassion and mercy upon other people. I'm tired of screaming love into the void only to receive indifference, revulsion, and derision from others. I'm tired of my kindness being viewed with suspicion and mistrust. I am tired of being branded as insincere, dishonest, or "too-good-to-be-true". I'm tired of all the subtle and not-so-subtle ways that this world and most of the people in it tell me that I don't belong and that I'm not wanted and that I should just disappear so that nobody has to deal with me anymore. I'm tired of all the ways that people seem to enjoy hurting me and others, meanwhile I'm always supposed to be the bigger person and neither fight back, nor give tit for tat. I'm tired of, "we can fix this" being met with doubt, cynicism, and churlishness - part of the reason we can't seem to do anything about the looming climate crisis and the endless wars and the continued oppression of "non-standard" people is that nobody wants to listen to the people who know how to fix these problems. And from this… I'm tired of seeing my friends and my loved ones struggle and get hurt while trying to live in a world that is actively hostile to most living things. I try really hard to keep my chin up and be good all the time because I've lived through horror and know how I don't want to be, but… I'm still only human.

That being said… as much as I wish I could disappear, as much as I wish, every night before I go to bed, that something will happen in my sleep that makes it so that I don't wake up again in the morning, I'm still not done here yet. I don't know exactly what I'm supposed to do while I'm here - even when people do ask me for help, they tend not to listen to anything I say because I do not live in the kind of body that most people are willing to take seriously (because I am "othered" in a variety of ways), and when I do kind things, people generally wonder what my ulterior motives are (spoiler alert: I have none). My hands and my voice feel bound almost all the time. And so I kind of just wander around, aimlessly and directionless, wondering what my existence is even supposed to be for. But I do know that I've not yet met all the people who I will make smile. I have not yet met all of the starfish that I must try to toss back into the sea, like the boy who walks along the shore in that one story. I have not met all of those people who, seeing me dried and stranded on the shore, will try to pick me up and toss me back into the sea.

I can't succumb to the pull of the quicksand yet, tempting as that thought sometimes is. So when I get like this, the only thing I know to do is to try to reach out to someone else who might understand and know what to do. I try to hydrate. I try to eat. I try to rest. When things seem hopeless, tending to myself and trying to connect with the safe people around me sometimes helps. When things seem hopeless, sometimes I write to you, even though I know you will probably never see any of this.

There are far fewer safe people in the world than there are borderline (or outright) violent ones. But still, safe people are everywhere if you keep an eye out for them. I just gotta try to focus on that knowledge. After all, the Horse from the story about the Boy and all his animal friends has very good advice: "When the big things feel out of control, focus on what you love, right under your nose."

I'm scared for you. Scared for me. Scared for the people I love. Scared for my world at large. There are just so many things going on. But I'll keep going; what other choice have I got? I can't go around leaving Lumine-shaped holes in the hearts and souls of the people who care about me by exiting this place prematurely, right?

You can't go around leaving Sephiroth-shaped holes in the hearts and souls of the people who love you, either, got it? Promise me. Please.

I already had an epic sandwich today, but maybe I'll get me some mac-and-cheese, too. Mac-and-cheese fixes most things, at least temporarily. I hope someday that you'll be able to sit someplace comfortable and eat a warm, delicious bowl full of mac-and cheese; it's good for the soul, even if it's bad for your arteries, hahaha!

I'll write again soon.

Your friend, Lumine

[whump-tr0pes]

To Die Without Flinching

Many thanks to @newbornwhumperfly for being so generous in letting me put their boy Morja in Situations, and many apologies to them as well for holding onto this story for so many months while waiting for me to finish it.

My masterlist

Morja is a diathésimos, one of a class of indentured servants owned by society’s elite - though some would call them slaves. He has been tasked with a mission of critical importance by his anóteros: to infiltrate a dangerous family that has taken refuge in the north, and kill the criminal that they are harboring: Gavin Stormbeck.

“It is your part to kill me, mine to die without flinching.”

— Epictetus, from Discourses (Translated by Robert Dobbin)

Your Part to Kill | My Part to Die | To Die Quietly | Despair | Dawn | Breakfast Part 1 | Breakfast Part 2 | To Die Without Flinching

Contents: recovery, PTSD, conditioned whumpee, tied up, blindfolded, attempted murder, false execution, rescue

~

After weeks with this family, Morja now moved freely among them. When they left the house in the morning to do their chores, he left with them, eager to help. When they returned in the evening to cook dinner together, he joined them, learning the skill of which spices to mix together to create the flavors that pleased them all. When he returned to his room at night, he went without a lock on the door. He slept in the bed, now. He didn’t fear what might happen to him in it. 

This team, this family, they were kind to him in a way he had never experienced before. He knew they were dangerous, but he wanted - so, so badly - for them to trust him, so that they might always turn their kind eyes on him forever. Their patience for each other seemed to know no limits, and they always seemed to want to be together. They never raised their voices or their hands to each other, or to him. Even when he could tell they were angry, they never did what he knew in his bones should happen; they never tied his wrists and whipped him until their tempers were eased. That always made his anóteros feel better. And yet, they refused to do it to him. 

He didn’t understand it. 

Still, when Isaac Moore called him to the barn one day, he couldn’t help but feel a prickle of unease. A few weeks of strangeness could not undo a lifetime of lessons, after all. But when Isaac called him, he went. He obeyed.

“Yes, Isaac Moore, is there something you need?” he said, keeping his gaze on the floor of the barn. Even if Isaac was a diathésimos like him, he was still uncollared and freed. Morja must always show him deference and respect. 

“Yes,” Isaac Moore said, his voice flat. A shiver moved up Morja’s spine as Isaac moved to block the barn door. His eyes were dull, his hands in fists at his sides. 

The hair on the back of Morja’s neck stood up. “Please… tell me what it is I can do for you,” he said, though lips that were beginning to go numb. His lungs were too large for his ribcage.

Isaac Moore finally raised his gaze and met Morja’s. Isaac’s eyes burned into Morja’s as he said, “Put your hands behind your back and get on your knees.” His right hand was behind his back, reaching for his waistband.

Morja did not even consider disobeying. His fell to his knees with a crack, crossing his arms at the wrists behind him. “Y-yes, diathésimos,” he croaked. 

Isaac’s face hardened as he stepped forward. Morja sucked in a breath and forced himself perfectly upright. His hands quaked behind him, despite the fists he was making. When Isaac Moore stepped behind him and bound his wrists together, he let out a terrified breath. When a rough strip of cloth was tied over his eyes, he uttered a shameful sound of fear. 

His throat was too dry to swallow with. His chest was too tight to breathe with. His mouth hung open and he tilted his head, desperately listening for Isaac Moore’s next move. When the cold metal of Isaac’s gun pressed against the back of his head, he folded over his knees with a shudder.

“Don’t move,” Isaac ground out.

“Y-yes, diathésimos,” Morja sobbed dryly. He understood, now, he saw it all. It had all been a test somehow, and he had failed. This was the cleanest end he could hope for: a bullet in his brain, a shallow grave behind the farmhouse that had been his unwitting prison for all these weeks. Had the test simply been to see if he could figure out that he had been a captive at all?

Had his anóteros set this all up to punish him for his failure?

One thing was certain: he was going to die with his anóteros’ collar wrapped tight around his neck.

He pressed his lips together and waited for the white-hot blast, and then the oblivion after. It didn’t come. It didn’t come. Despite Isaac’s admonition, he rocked minutely forward and back, drawing in breaths too shallow to provide enough air. He tried to wait silently. Pitiful whimpers made their way past his lips anyway. 

He was failing.

“I-I need to do this,” Isaac Moore murmured.

Morja nodded frantically, at a loss for what else to do. The gun pressed harder into the back of his head, and he froze.

“You’re a fucking threat to my family. A threat to Gavin.”

Morja couldn’t deny it. He couldn’t deny that he had harbored some small hope that he might one day carry out his mission and make his anóteros proud - but he wanted something else, too, something he couldn’t name. The clash made him sick. 

“You can’t change. You can’t fucking learn, I’ve been watching for the switch to flip and it hasn’t. I need to put you down. I… I see you watching him… and I know that everything he taught you is still in there, because… because for the longest time, it was like that with me…”

Morja couldn’t deny that, either.. He squeezed his eyes shut behind the blindfold and waited to die. 

“I… I have to fucking do this.” The gun pressed harder, then harder still, until it was pinning Morja’s head against the wooden floor between his knees. He felt Isaac adjusting his grip. He heard Isaac shuffle his feet against the floorboards. He drew in a terrified breath, could barely let it out without a groan escaping him. He was trapped, unable to move, unable to speak. He heard Isaac Moore sniff. He was crying. 

“Isaac?”

Morja flinched hard when Gavin Stormbeck’s horrified voice filled the barn.

The gun eased its pressure on the back of Morja’s head. 

“Gavin.” Isaac sounded frightened. 

“What… oh, fuck, did you…? Isaac, what–”

Morja couldn’t help it; when Gavin Stormbeck fell to his knees beside him, when a hand settled in his hair, right next to the gun, he let out a muffled wail of terror.

“Tell me you’re not doing this,” Gavin breathed. His hand was shaking on Morja’s head. “Tell me you didn’t… lure him here so that you could execute him in cold blood.”

“He came here to execute you in cold blood, Gavin,” Isaac snarled. Morja’s body tensed as the gun jammed hard into him. “Don’t–”

“This isn’t you,” Gavin said. “Isaac… this isn’t you. Please tell me this isn’t who you are.”

No one moved or breathed for a long moment. Then Isaac said, “You know this is who I’ve been for a long time.”

Gavin’s hand tightened in Morja’s hair. “Not anymore.”

“But he–”

“He stopped! Like you! How can you look at him and not see you?” Gently, Gavin’s fingers smoothed through Morja’s hair. Horrified, desperate, Morja found himself pressing the side of his head against Gavin’s knee. 

The gun on his head pressed harder, harder, hard enough that Morja knew it would leave a deep bruise. Then, all at once, it disappeared. Isaac Moore stepped back. Heavy footsteps left the barn. 

Morja took a deep, shuddering breath and shook apart into dry, tearless sobs. His head rested on Gavin’s leg, and the syndicate son’s hands rested gently in his hair. 

“Shhh,” Gavin Stormbeck soothed. “It’s alright. You’re safe.”

Morja could no longer pretend. He could no longer be silent. He was so frightened, and confused, but most of all he was so, so tired. He didn’t much care if the syndicate son had a knife waiting for him. All he could feel was the gentleness of the boy’s hands in his hair, the solidity of his leg, and the beat beat beat of his heart that threw itself against his ribs. Gavin slipped the blindfold from his eyes and tossed the cloth into the corner of the barn. Slowly - he used his fingers, not a knife - he worked the knot tying Morja’s hands free.

“You’re safe,” Gavin said again. 

Morja’s fingers clutched at Gavin’s pant leg. “Y-yes, anóteros,” he stammered, desperate to be good, to obey - anything to keep Isaac’s gun from pressing against his head again. “Yes, Gavin Stormbeck–”

“Please don’t call me that,” Gavin whispered. 

Morja’s stomach heaved. His eyes went wide and he buried his face against Gavin’s leg. He shuddered in the moment between inhale and exhale - in the moment between mistake and correction. 

“I… I apologize,” Morja rasped through numb lips. He pushed away from Gavin and pressed his forehead to the floor in front of him, shaking, broken, cold. “Please,” he could not stop himself from saying. “Please.”

Gavin’s hand landed on him again. Morja made a horrible, humiliating bleat of fear, but he did not move. He did not move. He waited. 

“My name is Gavin Uriah,” came the quiet voice. It sounded like Gavin was in pain. 

Morja’s throat worked around a swallow. “I-I…”

“I’m not what they made me. And neither are you.”

Then Gavin’s hand was in his hair again, moving slowly, gently. The touch was so soft that it undid him. Morja crumpled, leaning forward into the touch until his head was in Gavin Uriah’s lap. Dry sobs heaved through him as the fear and pain moved over him and out. He pressed his face into Gavin’s thigh and allowed the touch, allowed the hand in his hair. 

“I’m sorry,” Gavin said quietly. “I’m so sorry.” 

Morja could say nothing in response. His throat was too strained. 

Gavin sat with him in the barn for a long time. He held Morja, waiting until his great, awful sobs had stopped, before he took his arm and led him back toward the house. 

Continued here

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Press Release

Harvard Art Museums’ Fall 2023 Exhibition Explores

Entwined Histories of the Opium Trade and the Chinese

Art Market

Opium pipe, China, Qing dynasty to Republican period, inscribed with cyclical date corresponding to 1868 or 1928. Water buffalo horn, metal, and ceramic. Harvard Art Museums/Arthur M. Sackler Museum, Bequest of Grenville L. Winthrop, 1943.55.6.

Cambridge, MA

This fall, the Harvard Art Museums present an exhibition that explores the entangled histories of the western sale of opium in China in the 19th century and the growing appetite for Chinese art in the United States at the beginning of the 20th century. Opium and Chinese art—acquired through both legal and illicit means—had profound effects on the global economy, cultural landscape, and education, and in the case of opium on public health and immigration, that still reverberate today. Objects of Addiction: Opium, Empire, and the Chinese Art Trade, on display September 15, 2023 through January 14, 2024 in the Special Exhibitions Gallery on Level 3 of the Harvard Art Museums, looks critically at the history of Massachusetts opium merchants and collectors of Chinese art, as well as the current opioid crisis.

A range of accompanying public programs will encourage community discussion around related topics, including the state of the opioid crisis in New England, the lingering political and economic effects of the Opium Wars, opium’s role in anti-Chinese U.S. immigration laws, and Chinese art collecting in Massachusetts. In addition, the artist collective 2nd Act will present a series of drama therapy workshops challenging ideas about addiction, and the Cambridge Public Health Department and Somerville Health and Human Services will host trainings on the use of naloxone (Narcan) to reverse opioid overdoses. In the early planning stages, Sarah Laursen, the Alan J. Dworsky Associate Curator of Chinese Art at the Harvard Art Museums, worked with Harvard students Emily Axelsen (Class of 2023), Allison Chang (Class of 2023), and Madison Stein (Class of 2024), who were instrumental in the development of the exhibition’s narrative and associated programming. Laursen also held a series of community feedback sessions to solicit reactions to the show’s content from Harvard students, faculty, and staff, as well as local experts and community members. Notably, the exhibition is opening during National Recovery Month, a national observance held each September to educate Americans about substance use disorder and the treatment options and services that can enable them to live healthy and rewarding lives.

“This exhibition is about the past and its impact on the present—but my hope it that it will also help us to think more productively about the future,” said Laursen.

“For example, the stigma around opium use initially resulted in the Qing government imposing harsh punishments for people experiencing addiction, rather than offering the empathy, treatment, and resources that people needed. Today, with overdose death rates in Massachusetts topping 2,300 individuals per year, we can learn from the past and choose to adopt harm reduction measures that will save lives.” On the collecting of Chinese art, Laursen notes, “By reexamining the formation of early 20th-century museum collections—as well as the underrecognized consequences of these initial acquisitions—we become better equipped to shape our policies for ethical collecting in the future.”

The exhibition comprises three thematic sections and presents more than 100 objects, including paintings, prints, Buddhist sculptures and murals, ceramics, jades, and bronzes, as well as historical materials including books, sale and exhibition catalogues, and magazine clippings from the collections of the Harvard Art Museums, with loans generously provided by the Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, Fine Arts Library, Harvard-Yenching Library, Economic Botany Library of Oakes Ames, Houghton Library, and Baker Library (all at Harvard), as well as by the Forbes House Museum, the Ipswich Museum, and Mr. and Mrs. James E. Breece III.

Beginning with an examination of the origins of the opium trade, the first section includes a large comparative timeline that lays out events in China, Europe, and the United States in order to contextualize the complex histories of the opium and Chinese art trades. Britain began illegally selling Indian opium in China in the 18th century and increased its exports to counteract the demand for Chinese tea imports in Europe and the United States. In the 19th century, prominent Massachusett merchants such as members of the Perkins, Forbes, Heard, Cushing, Sturgis, Cabot, Delano, Weld, Peabody, and other elite local families were deeply involved in the lucrative Turkish opium trade as well. Conflicts between the Qing dynasty (1644–1911) and western powers over trading rights led to two Opium Wars (1839–42 and 1856–60), whose outcomes had far-reaching political and economic consequences.

In this first gallery, examples of typical Chinese export wares including tea wares, porcelains, and paintings that were popular in Europe and North America are presented alongside opium-related objects, including an opium pipe made of water buffalo horn and an opium account book for the year 1831 that lays bare the volume of the drug imported into the port of Guangzhou by just one firm, Russell & Co., run initially by members of Forbes family. A Qing dynasty painting of the Port of Shanghai (c. 1863–64), which became a commercial center after the first Opium War, shows a bustling harbor filled with boats and ships and reveals the location of the offices of prominent opium traders such as Russell & Co. and Augustine Heard & Co. Also visible is the headquarters of auctioneer Hiram Fogg, the brother of the China trader William Hayes Fogg, for whom Harvard’s Fogg Museum is named. Along with commerce, the first gallery also presents a range of documentary materials and ephemera that demonstrate the devastating impact of opium on Chinese society. Photographs and mass media illustrations critique the use and sale of opium. A slideshow, In Their Own Words, presents quotations from a diverse range of voices of individuals who were involved in or opposed the sale of opium and collecting of Chinese art. In many cases, these quotes flesh out the perspectives of historical figures who are named in labels throughout the galleries. Audio wands available in this space play excerpts from “Opium Talk,” an essay by Zhang Changjia (Shanghai, 1878) translated by Keith McMahon in The Fall of the God of Money: Opium Smoking in Nineteenth-Century China (Rowman & Littlefield, 2002).

The translations are read by Thomas Ho, a member of the local Chinese American community, and a transcript is available in the gallery, printed with permission from McMahon.

The second section highlights the history of imperial art collecting within China and demonstrates the growing appetite for Chinese art in Europe and the United States after the Opium Wars, especially after the looting of the Old Summer Palace in Beijing by British and French Troops in 1860 and in the wake of the Boxer Rebellion (1899–1901). Through the histories of merchants, collectors, dealers, museum directors, and professors, this section examines the early 20th-century formation of Chinese art collections in Massachusetts, including at the Fogg Museum. Chinese works from the collections of the Forbes House Museum and Ipswich Museum—once homes of opium traders of the Forbes and Heard families—show the taste at this time predominantly for functional or decorative objects such as export ceramics, lacquer furnishings, and other curiosities. However, the flood of newly available palace treasures and archaeological materials prompted the collecting of ancient bronzes and jades unearthed from tombs and Buddhist sculptures chiseled from cave temple walls.

Well-connected dealers in Asian art such as C. T. Loo (or Loo Ching-tsai) and Sadajirō Yamanaka 山中定次郎 acquired items from several sources—including from Chinese elites who fled the country after the fall of the Qing dynasty, imperial family members, and American collectors who lost their fortunes in the Depression—and sold those works to eager collectors around the world, such as Harvard alumnus Grenville L. Winthrop, who obtained 25 fragments from Buddhist cave temples in Tianlongshan, China.

The exhibition includes one work from this group, a sixth-century carved fragment depicting Bodhisattva Manjusri (Wenshu Pusa); to learn more about the Tianlongshan fragments now in the museums’ collections, visit hvrd.art/reframingtianlongshan. Others such as Langdon Warner, a Harvard alumnus and curator at the Fogg Museum, joined the First Fogg Expedition to China (1923–24) and personally removed works from the Mogao Caves in Dunhuang, leaving permanent scars on the archaeological landscape of China. Two wall painting fragments, among the best preserved of the twelve that Warner brought back to Harvard, are displayed alongside a large-sale photograph showing the present condition of the mural from which they were removed (Bust of an attendant bodhisattva and Bust of a bodhisattva surrounded by a monk and devas).

Exhibition curator Sarah Laursen added: “I am often asked, where did this object come from? How did it come to Harvard? In many cases, we do not know their precise sources nor the circumstances of their removal because in the past there was no demand for documentation. For most U.S. collections of Asian art it is rarely possible to reconstruct the complete chain of ownership. But there are some questions we can start to answer: How can we work with source countries to better document, care for, and understand these objects? How can we curtail the black market? What could ethical collecting or sharing of cultural property look like in the future?”

A third section, entitled Opioids Then and Now, investigates parallels between China’s opium crisis and the opioid epidemic in Massachusetts today. Materials here clarify how addiction affects the brain (an animated video, produced for a free online Harvard edX course, plays on a monitor) and offer potentially life-saving information about harm reduction and overdose prevention. Visitors are invited to share their thoughts and personal experiences on response cards in this space and can either post them publicly on a bulletin board in the gallery or deposit them in a private box to be preserved in the Harvard Art Museums Archives. Visitors will also be able to browse recent books about opioids and harm reduction.

A 24-page printed booklet available in the galleries draws together the exhibition’s extensive content in three thematic essays: Who has benefited from the opium trade? Who has been harmed by opium?

What is the legacy of the opium trade in U.S. museums?

None of the works in the exhibition or in the Harvard Art Museums collections as a whole were collected or gifted by Arthur M. Sackler, nor were they purchased using funds provided by him.

Online Resource

Exhibition webpage: harvardartmuseums.org/objectsofaddiction

Public Programming

A range of public programs held in conjunction with the exhibition Objects of Addiction will encourage community discussion around the opioid crisis, the effects of the Opium Wars on U.S.–China relations, the role of opium in Chinese exclusion in the United States, and art collecting practices. Unless noted, all events are held in-person at the Harvard Art Museums, 32 Quincy Street, Cambridge, MA 02138.

Admission to visit our galleries is free, but some programs have a fee (noted below). For updates, full details, and to register, please click the links below or see our calendar:

harvardartmuseums.org/calendar. Questions? Call 617-495-9400.

Lecture — Objects of Addiction: Opium, Empire, and the Chinese Art Trade

Thursday, September 14, 2023, 6–7:30pm

Join curator Sarah Laursen for a lecture on opium and Chinese art—two influential commodities traded in China, the British Empire, and Massachusetts between the 18th and early 20th centuries.

Free admission, but seating is limited and available on a first-come, first-served basis. Following the lecture, guests are invited to visit the exhibition on Level 3. This lecture will be recorded and made available for online viewing; check the link above after the event for the link to view.

Workshops — Rethinking Addiction: A Drama Therapy Workshop with 2nd Act Artist Collective

Saturday, September 16, 2023, 2–4pm

Sunday, October 22, 2023, 2–4pm

Saturday, November 11, 2023, 2–4pm

Drama therapists Ana Bess Moyer Bell and Amy Lazier of the artist collective 2nd Act will lead workshops designed to challenge participants’ ideas about addiction through a drama therapy model. By examining, embodying, and de-stigmatizing addiction and creating metaphorical objects of care, love, and support, participants will develop a shared understanding of addiction and how it affects daily life. $15 materials fee. Registration is required and space is limited. Minimum age of 14; no previous experience required.

Lecture — Objects of Addiction: Perspectives on the Opioid Crisis in New England

Sunday, September 24, 2023, 2–3:30pm

Specialists in addiction medicine, harm reduction, and public health policy will take part in a roundtable discussion about the current state of the opioid crisis in New England. Speakers:

Danielle McPeak, Prevention and Recovery Specialist, Cambridge Public Health Department; Leo Beletsky, Professor of Law and Health Sciences; Faculty Director, The Action Lab at the Center for Health Policy and Law, Northeastern University; Mark Joseph Albanese, Assistant Professor of Psychiatry, Harvard Medical School; Medical Director, Physician Health Programs; former Medical Director for Addictions, Cambridge Health Alliance; Bertha Madras, Professor of Psychobiology, Harvard Medical School; Director, Laboratory of Addiction Neurobiology, and Psychobiologist,

Division of Basic Neuroscience, McLean Hospital; Jay Garg ’24, Policy Chair for HCOPES

(Harvard College Overdose Prevention and Education Students); and Dennis Bailer, Overdose Prevention Program Director, Project Weber/RENEW. Free admission, but seating is limited and available on a first-come, first-served basis. Before and after the discussion, guests are invited to visit the exhibition on Level 3.

Gallery Talks — Objects of Addiction: Opium, Empire, and the Chinese Art Trade

Tuesday, October 3, 2023, 12:30–1pm

Wednesday, October 18, 2023, 12:30–1pm

Thursday, November 16, 2023, 12:30–1pm

Friday, December 1, 2023, 12:30–1pm

Wednesday, December 13, 2023, 12:30–1pm

Join curator Sarah Laursen for thematic 30-minute talks focused on select artworks in the exhibition. Free admission, but space is limited to 18 people and registration is required.

Narcan Trainings with the Cambridge Public Health Department and Somerville Health and Human Services

Tuesday, October 17, 2023, 5:30–6:30pm

Sunday, November 19, 2023, 2–3pm

Friday, December 1, 2023 (time TBA)

With an abundance of care for our community, the Harvard Art Museums are hosting one-hour on-site Narcan trainings, facilitated by the Cambridge Public Health Department and Somerville Health and Human Services. Their staff will also distribute the medicine for attendees to take home.

Naloxone (also known as Narcan) is a nasal spray that can rapidly reverse an opioid overdose by blocking opioids from attaching to receptors in the brain. Free admission, but space is limited and registration is required.

Exhibition Tours — Objects of Addiction: Opium, Empire, and the Chinese Art Trade

Thursday, October 26, 2023, 12–1pm

Tuesday, November 21, 2023, 12–1pm

Saturday, December 9, 2023, 12–1pm

Join curator Sarah Laursen for hourlong tours of the exhibition. Free admission, but space is limited to 18 people and registration is required.

Online Lecture — Objects of Addiction: A Conversation about Opium and Anti-Chinese Immigration

Laws in the United States

Saturday, October 28, 2023, 10–11am

Award-winning author and Harvard history professor Erika Lee will be in conversation with two Harvard students about the role of opium in the restrictions on Chinese immigration in the United States in the 19th and 20th centuries. Speakers: Erika Lee, Bae Family Professor of History, Harvard University; Jolin Chan ’25, Harvard University; Student Board Member, Harvard Art

Museums; Madison Stein ’24, Harvard University. This talk will take place online via Zoom. The event is free and open to all, but registration is required.

Lecture — Objects of Addiction: The Legacy of the Opium Wars

Wednesday, November 8, 2023, 6–7:30pm

Harvard faculty in Chinese history, business, politics, and law will take part in a roundtable discussion on the 19th-century Opium Wars and the legacy of the opium trade in U.S.–China relations. Speakers: Mark C. Elliott, Vice Provost for International Affairs; Mark Schwartz Professor of Chinese and Inner Asian History, Harvard University; William C. Kirby, T. M. Chang Professor of China Studies, Harvard University; Spangler Family Professor of Business Administration, Harvard Business School; Rana Mitter, S. T. Lee Professor of U.S.–Asia Relations, Harvard Kennedy School; Meg Rithmire, F. Warren McFarlan Associate Professor of Business Administration, Harvard Business School; Mark Wu, Director of the Fairbank Center for Chinese Studies, Harvard University; Henry L. Stimson Professor of Law, Harvard Law School. Free admission, but seating is limited and available on a first-come, first-served basis.

Lecture — Objects of Addiction: Collecting Chinese Art—Past, Present, and Future

Saturday, November 18, 2023, 2–3:30pm

Curators and specialists will explore early collecting of Chinese art in Massachusetts, historical interpretations of cultural heritage, and how contemporary museum collecting practices have changed and will continue to change in the future. Moderator: Soyoung Lee, Landon and Lavinia Clay Chief Curator, Harvard Art Museums. Speakers: Nancy Berliner, Wu Tung Senior Curator of Chinese Art, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston; Amy Brauer, Curator of the Collection, Division of Asian and Mediterranean Art, Harvard Art Museums; Sarah Laursen, Alan J. Dworsky Associate Curator of Chinese Art, Harvard Art Museums; Lisong Liu, Professor of History, Massachusetts College of Art and Design. Free admission, but seating is limited and available on a first-come, first- served basis. Before and after the lecture, guests are invited to visit the exhibition on Level 3.

Credits

Support for Objects of Addiction: Opium, Empire, and the Chinese Art Trade is provided by the

Alexander S., Robert L., and Bruce A. Beal Exhibition Fund; the Robert H. Ellsworth Bequest to the

Harvard Art Museums; the Harvard Art Museums’ Leopold (Harvard M.B.A. ’64) and Jane Swergold

Asian Art Exhibitions and Publications Fund and an additional gift from Leopold and Jane Swergold; the José Soriano Fund; the Anthony and Celeste Meier Exhibitions Fund; the Gurel Student Exhibition Fund; the Asian Art Discretionary Fund; the Chinese Art Discretionary Fund; and the Rabb Family Exhibitions Fund. Related programming is supported by the M. Victor Leventritt Lecture Series Endowment Fund. The accompanying booklet was made possible by generous support from Mr. and Mrs. James E. Breece III. Additional support for this project is provided by the Dunhuang Foundation.

About the Harvard Art Museums The Harvard Art Museums house one of the largest and most renowned art collections in the United States, comprising three museums (the Fogg, Busch-Reisinger, and Arthur M. Sackler Museums) and three research centers (the Straus Center for Conservation and Technical Studies, the Harvard Art Museums Archives, and the Archaeological Exploration of Sardis). The Fogg Museum includes Western art from the Middle Ages to the present; the Busch-Reisinger Museum, unique among North American museums, is dedicated to the study of all modes and periods of art from central and northern Europe, with an emphasis on German-speaking countries; and the Arthur M. Sackler Museum is focused on art from Asia, the Middle East, and the Mediterranean. Together, the collections include over 255,000 objects in all media. The Harvard Art Museums are distinguished by the range and depth of their collections, their groundbreaking exhibitions, and the original research of their staff. Integral to

Harvard University and the wider community, the museums and research centers serve as resources for students, scholars, and the public. For more than a century they have been the nation’s premier training ground for museum professionals and are renowned for their seminal role in developing the discipline of art history in the United States. The Harvard Art Museums have a rich tradition of considering the history of objects as an integral part of the teaching and study of art history, focusing on conservation and preservation concerns as well as technical studies. harvardartmuseums.org

The Harvard Art Museums receive support from the Massachusetts Cultural Council.

Hours and Admission

Open Tuesday–Sunday, 10am–5pm; closed Mondays and major holidays. Admission is free to all visitors. For further information about visiting, including general policies, see harvardartmuseums.org/visit.

For more information, please contact

Jennifer Aubin

Public Relations Manager

Harvard Art Museums

617-496-5331

jennifer_aubin@harvard.edu