#fire alarm components

[quickshipfire]

Fire Prevention Tips for Construction Sites

Fires at construction sites present unique and dangerous problems when this type of emergency occurs. This type of fire situation is unique, so you need to know fire prevention tips for the construction site.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Fire Development

Recognizing each stage allows you to describe with accuracy how a fire can quickly increase; later we will discuss fire characteristics, which will provide you with an opportunity to describe accurately the visual features of a fire scene.

THE 4 STAGES OF FIRE DEVELOPMENT

Incipient Stage

Also known as ignition.

This first stage begins when all 4 components have resulted in a fire starting.

Easiest to control and extinguish, and given the right circumstances, may possibly burn out on its own accord before it has a chance to reach the second stage.

Growth Stage

Shortest but most sudden of the 4 stages.

Combination of oxygen and any nearby combustible material will fuel the fire.

As it progresses, gases will rapidly increase in temperature, resulting in a build-up of pressure in the room.

Fully Developed Stage

When all the combustible materials have been consumed, the fire is at its peak and will be fully developed.

At this stage, the heat will be immense, and because the room will be engulfed in flames, there will be little hope of escape or survival.

Decay Stage

If the fire is left, then this final stage will be the longest, as the fire gradually finishes its consumption – think of a bonfire that is left to burn.

The heat still remains intense, and will do for some time, which is why firefighters remain so long at a fire scene even after the flames have been extinguished.

The fire may continue to smoulder and there is a risk of pyrolysis occurring, which may result in a secondary fire.

Source ⚜ More: Writing References

EDIT

Stage One: Ignition

When the 3 elements of the fire triangle (heat, fuel and oxygen) are involved in a balanced chemical chain reaction, a fire begins.

Can also be classed as the incipient stage if the reaction is unbalanced, leading to smouldering, low temperature fire with no visible flames. This type of fire still gives off toxic gases.

The fire easiest to control and extinguish, or as close to this stage as possible.

Stage Two: Growth

The fire begins to consume the available fuel in the area or compartment.

Heat rises rapidly, and in an indoor fire a smoke layer forms at the ceiling, descending as more fuel burns.

Where present, active fire protection systems such as sprinklers or smoke alarms will activate, and passive systems such as self closing fire doors will protect escape routes. An escape should be made in this stage, as the fire will reach lethal temperatures during the growth stage.

Once the fire reaches a hot enough temperature, a transitional event called Flashover occurs. Flashover is where the heat of the fire is enough that all fuel in the room reaches a combustible temperature more or less simultaneously, including the particles of fuel in the smoke layer.

Essentially, the room erupts into a fireball all at once and if you're still in the room when it does, you've caught fire too.

Demonstration of a "Flashover" [video]

Stage 3: Fully Developed

Now all fuel elements are combusting, the fire is at its peak and is considered fully developed.

At this stage, the heat is lethal without specialist equipment to survive it.

Stage 4: Decay

This final stage will be the longest, as the fire gradually finishes its consumption – think of a bonfire that is left to burn.

The heat still remains intense, and will do for some time, which is why firefighters remain so long at a fire scene even after the flames have been extinguished.

The fire may continue to smoulder and there is a risk of pyrolysis occurring, which may result in a secondary fire.

Sources & additional resources: 1 2

Thank you so much to @hypocriticalhypothetical for the added information and corrections!

[rwby-encrusted-blog]

(Based on an ask for @pilot-boi About a Wall-E Whiteknight Au, and given Wall-e was instrumental to my childhood, I cannot help but write something for it. Because it's an AU, and they're both Human and not Robots, I took a few Liberties with the scene in the movie.)

~~~~~

Weiss was beyond frustrated. Nothing, after nothing, after nothing - no signs of life aside from the most extremophile of bacteria, protozoans, insects, and the occasional mold on fecal matter to imply the continuation of species on this gods-forsaken ball of mud.

She slammed the door of the cargo ship she was investigating shut, the rust sticking to her now dirtied gloves. Ugh.

She drifted by the crane of it, not noticing the creaks as it followed her, eventually ripping her back onto the magnet that hadn't fallen in the centuries of just sitting there.

And so Weiss snapped.

She whipped Myrtenaster out, igniting the plasmic blade and slicing the disc that held her back to pieces, before using her energetic glyphs to shred the the hulking metal antique, making it into even more scrap than it already was.

It toppled into the next ship, and then the next one, like dominoes. Deep, resonate bellows of creaks from the sudden movement after centuries of dormant stillness shook Weiss to her core.

She watched them fall, and for the time since her landing, let her feet settle against the ground. It was hard, dry, and barren, like the rest of this abandoned home. Weiss sat against an anchor, the fire and sparks filling a growing void in her chest, not unlike the one meant for plant life in her pack.

She sat there in silence - something the Passengers spoke of when in the few times she was allowed to meet them crossed her mind - A campfire. Whatever that was, it was meant to be shared with Family, something she'd been missing for a long time, her siblings being designated to different vectors of maintenance and service.

"AHem?"

Weiss reeled, drawing her sword once more, and startling a nearby person - A Person?!?

"Wer bist du?" She asked on high alert - this planet was meant to be dead, she was meant to find life here - who or what was this ... Person?

The person didn't respond, shaking violently at the sight of her blade - they appeared masculine, broad shouldered with dirty-blonde hair, though it was difficult to tell if that was due to genetics or living situation.

"Quis es?"

No Response.

"你是谁?"

No Response, but they did seem slightly less frightened given the lack of aggression.

"Chi sei?"

Their shaking slowed as they looked more inquisitive and confused than scared now.

"Qui es-tu?"

"OH! Je- Je M'appelle 'Jaune.' Vous parlez Anglais?"

"Yes I speak English."

"Oh, good!"

'Jaune' continued glancing at the glowing rapier. They seemed frightened of it still. Until he drew his own Weapon.

It wasn't as elegant as Myrtenaster, clearly older and having been used more - an old working tool for scrapping large objects, the thin, yellow sheen of plasma raced across it's edges.

"This is my Cutting tool. Your's is cool to!"

Weiss, once again, was thrown for a loop. He had drawn a dangerous device and waved it like it was a piece of extra piping.

"Jaune? Do you have a title or last name?"

The (boy?) seemed to flush at her pronunciation at his name.

"Jaune, of the A.R.C. Ministry"

"Arc?"

"Allocators of Recycled Components."

"How are you alive? Are there others like you?"

"Oh yeah! A lot, like, two hundred, three hundred others in the Bunker? Primarily we survive on Spirulina Compound. It provide most of our Oxygen and Food stuffs."

Weiss stood for a moment, deactivating her sword and pondering this - They'd been living in space for centuries. Earth was dead, barren, she was only barely able to survive due to advanced CO2 recycling.

"Have .. have you been following me?"

"Yep! You just seemed so pret-"

He was cut off by an alarm in his overalls. He lowered the visor to the helmet he wore, staring past her Weiss's shoulder.

"We need to leave Now." Jaune said, grabbing Weiss' wrist with a surprising amount of force, which she took none too kindly.

She reactived her Blade as she tore her hand away from him. "WHAT make you think You can grab me-"

"SANSTORM!" Jaune shouted, pointing past her "WE NEED TO GO, FOLLOW-"

Before he could even move to grab Weiss again, he slammed a massive tower shield in to the ground, covering himself from the blast of sand that tore at her skin and suit -

Weiss was whipped away, barely able to keep upright against the torrential winds, her Glyphs her only saving grace.

She Called out for the boy, anyone, frightened and alone, her suit's helmet the only thing allowing her to keep her eyes open even as it because scratched and muddled.

A hand found it's way to her wrist again, a dim yellow glow standing out against the violent dust letting her know she'd been found by Jaune.

It gave her some small comfort to not be alone as he dragged her somewhere, hopefully safe.

~~~~~

I fucking LOVE Wall-e. I made my First OC for Wall-e (Not that I knew what that meant at the time.) I had the Three-Disc Special edition, the Movie and it's Featurette Presto, The Second Disc with a gallery of the Bots, the Lots of Bots read-along, Burn-E (Who I imagine to be Qrow with his luck) and all the other special features, and the Digital Copy Disc to download it onto a Laptop or P.C. back when owning a digital copy of a movie was something special, and that's not even halve of it!

[pinkkittysaw]

pairing: mike schmidt x gn! reader

summary: you save the holiday with some chinese food

word count: 1,864

content: fluff, established relationship, reader is celebrating american thanksgiving, no use of y/n or gender specific pronouns. pure self indulgence due to the stress that the holidays give me

a/n: based off an hc i had where mike can’t roast a turkey to save his life. this was written, edited and posted all in the same day so PLEASE be kind 😔 i watched the fnaf movie twice in three days i think i have a problem. anyway ty josh hutcherson for ending my writing slump DJDJDJJD 🙏🏻🙏🏻

dividers by @/firefly-graphics

"Shit," Mike hissed through his teeth, hastily pulling out the very well-done turkey from the oven and placing it aside on the counter as a bloom of gray smoke erupted and filled the kitchen air.

A muffled "swear" is heard from the living room, a faint pout forming on the young girl's lips. Her bouncy brunette curls are tossed from side to side as she peels her eyes away from the Thanksgiving parade on TV to peer over her shoulder and chastise her older brother for his "transgressions". 

"Sorry," he grumbles, pulling out a dollar and sliding it into the lid of the makeshift swear jar Abby had made. The money will end up back in his wallet at the end of the week anyway, so he offers no pushback against the girl.

More smoking from the oven ensues, flooding the kitchen and living room in an ashen veil. It's only a few seconds later that the grating beep beep beep of the fire alarm begins to go off, the noise ringing all throughout their home.

"Too loud!" Abby yells, covering her ears with both hands as she bounds toward her bedroom to try and escape the noise.

When you roll up to Mike's house, pushing through his front door with both hands occupied by the plastic bags of processed carbs and fat you bought for the night, you're greeted to him bouncing up and down on a dining room chair, one of his ears tucked into his shoulder as an attempt to spare his eardrums from the blaring sound as he wildly reaches for the smoke alarm stuck to the ceiling. 

You're quick to place the bags down on the kitchen table, doing your best to avoid inhaling too much of the smoke. With the oven already turned off, you rush over to the windows, opening them up, and grabbing a discarded shirt that was left on the couch to air out the two rooms as best as you can. 

You smile up at him, and after a few more attempts, he successfully snatches the alarm from its place on the ceiling, unceremoniously pulling out the batteries as he hops down from his elevated position, then tosses both the alarm and its components onto the counter, alongside his multiple failed side dishes. 

"Hey," he finally greets and exhales, letting go of the breath he was holding while he wipes his brow, small droplets of perspiration accumulating on his forehead from the impromptu workout session.

It was clear that he was having quite the day. With Abby having the better part of the week off from school and Mike wanting to prepare all of Thanksgiving dinner himself, to say he was a little stressed would be an understatement.

"Hey," you respond back,  grinning as he runs his fingers through the dark curls that sit atop his head, similar to those of his younger sister.

You peer over his shoulder at the mess of dishes and other burned food before making eye contact with him once again, nudging your head toward the bags still on the table.

"Got the Chinese food."

A look of relief washes through his face as he makes his way over toward you, cupping both cheeks in his palms and pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead.

"You're a lifesaver," he mumbles into your hairline. 

A giggle worms its way from between your lips when you state, "Always am."

It's not like Mike was a bad cook, per se. You've witnessed him cooking for Abby on multiple occasions, even sometimes for yourself as an apology on nights he came home later than expected, but to say he was a good cook was also a bit of a stretch, at least when it comes to meals made solely from scratch.

His specialties were breakfast foods and simple meals, ones that don't require more than five steps, like tomato soup, mac n cheese, frozen pizza, grilled cheese, and so on and so forth, with his best dish being spaghetti and meatballs. Though you were determined to sit him down and go through the step-by-step recipe for your homemade meat sauce so that he wouldn't have to keep buying the store-bought crap. 

Regardless, when discussions of Thanksgiving plans arose, Mike suggested getting Chinese as an absolute last resort. So you were prepared when you eventually received the phone call from him earlier on that day "to resort to Plan B" as his "cooking endeavors kept going from bad to worse."

You could tell he was anxious about the whole thing. It was your first Thanksgiving together as a couple after having been Abby's sitter for a few years. He wanted it to be perfect. He and his sister never had much time or drive to celebrate the holiday as "families should", (his words), due to his work and money situation. It just didn't make sense for him to prepare a huge feast for the two of them and put more than a minimal amount of effort into cooking when most of the food would end up in the fridge for weeks on end. Uneaten due to texture changes after the food had been cooled, refrigerated, and then eventually warmed up again.

Ever since, their tradition has been Chinese food, something they both enjoyed and could get delivered if need be.

You reassured Mike over the phone earlier that morning, while twirling the spiral cord of your landline around your finger, that it didn't matter what type of food you ate, whether it was roasted turkey and mashed potatoes or crab rangoons and fried rice, it was about being together.

Abby peeked out of her room a few minutes later as you and Mike set the table, laying out three paper plates and setting the various dishes in the middle of them. The young girl is quick to crash into you, pulling you into a bruising hug—a bruising hug that a ten-year-old girl can manage. 

"Hey Rugrat," you chuckle, ruffling her hair. "Got your favorite."

"Really?" she beams, bouncing on her heels slightly as she peers up at you with big eyes.

You kneel down til she's at eye level with you and whisper in her ear. "Don't tell your brother, but I got an extra order of crab rangoons just for you." She tries to stifle a giggle at the shared secret between you two, barely able to contain her excitement as you rise to your full height once more, sending her off with a wink and a tap on the back to wash up before dinner, taking note of the extravagance of her cute little outfit as she bounces down the hall to the bathroom. She was always the little fashionista, as you frequently compliment her on her choice of color blocking, but it's only when setting up the table for dinner that you notice that both Abby and Mike are dressed up as well.

He's sporting one of his "nicer" sweaters. It's a deep maroon color, one that's most likely been stashed away and hidden in the back of his closet for occasions such as this. The sweater is coupled with a pair of his least faded jeans.

Despite the earlier frazzles, Mike looks good, all things considered. He appears significantly less tired; his umber eyes are bright and attentive, the dark circles are subdued. Even his hair was styled, his curls set in a distinct pattern rather than ruffled and combed through with his fingers five minutes before walking out the door to go to work. It was cute how much effort he was putting in to make this holiday special for the three of you. Something that you wouldn't let go unnoticed.

While Abby is taking her time washing her hands, you round the table to where Mike stands, cup his cheeks, and pull him in for a sickly sweet kiss. His lips are chapped, but only slightly, due to your insistent scolding of him for never using enough lip balm.

His eyes are slightly glazed over when you pull away.

"You look handsome," you tease, giving a light pinch to his cheek as he continues to gaze upon you with a lovesick look.

"Don't you start," he smirks, removing your hand from his face and placing it back by your side.

"What?" You feign innocence, shrugging your shoulders while raising your palms in defense.

"I can't compliment my own boyfriend now?"

"You know what you're doing," he chuckles, shaking his head from side to side as he pulls down three cups from the kitchen cabinet, filling each with the soda you bought alongside the food.

You're about to retort when Abby makes an appearance in the dining area once more, eagerly sitting down at the table in anticipation while Mike finishes with the drinks. 

You sit down beside her and admire the cute Thanksgiving decorations that are plastered all over the fridge. Various multi-colored feathered turkeys, along with a multitude of autumn plants and vegetables, are hung amongst her other drawings with random letter magnets.

You had become a big feature in her regular artwork alongside her brother. The pictures often depict the three of you together, with her in the middle and you n Mike on either side of her. You always took the chance to marvel at her artwork whenever you could, always commenting to Mike that he's got a talented little artist on his hands whenever she was within earshot. 

You're amazed at how quickly the three of you became a little family, a welcomed addition to the two of them despite your worries early on about how Abby would react to you having a different role in her and her brother's lives outside of being her sitter.

Although it wasn't verbalized as articulately as she would've liked, she was glad that her brother had someone to look out for and care about him as he did for her. It also helped that you were way more fun than he was.

You're pulled out of your thoughts when Mike plops down in his seat across from the two of you.

"Still can't believe you don't like egg rolls," he mutters, motioning in the direction of his sister before taking a huge bite of the eggroll in his hand, leaving a satisfying crunch in his wake as his teeth sink into the fried food.

"And I can't believe you have such bad taste," she sticks her tongue out at him playfully as he scoffs and rolls his eyes.

"She's still young, Mikey. Her palette still has time to develop."

"Mikey?" Abby quips, quirking a brow toward her brother.

"Eat your food or you get no dessert." His skin turns a slight tinge of pink as the blush crawls up his neck and blooms over his face, clearly embarrassed at the discovery of his petname.

Abby gives you a knowing look, and the rest of dinner is spent trying to muffle your giggles and snickers. Despite the laughter being at his expense, Mike wouldn't have it any other way. The mess in the kitchen would be cleaned up later; right now, he just wants to cherish the moment.

[blackmetalbats]

Dies Irae

I am so sorry but i did a deep dive on the Dies Irae because of the last malevolent episode and now its gonna be all of you's problem.

one of the oldest and most frequently borrowed of all melodies is the ecclesiastical plainsong to the sequence 'Dies Irae', because of the theme's intrinsic merit, but also its liturgical associations. No record of its origin remains, but both words and melody appear to have been suggested by a passage from the Respond ' Libera me, Domine', which follows the Requiem Mass (catholic mass for the dead) on solemn occasion.

SOURCE: Gregory, R. (1953). “Dies Irae.” http://www.jstor.org/stable/730837

the Requiem Mass contained several special components; the Dies Irae was one of these, formally added to the Mass in 1570. Its text was penned by Thomas of Celano during the late 11th or early 12th century, and it offers a graphic depiction of the horrors of Judgment Day for sinners. the New Catholic Encyclopedia states that

"The medieval Sequence stresses fear of judgment and condemnation."

SOURCE: Brooks, E. (2003). "The Dies Irae ("Day of Wrath") and Totentanz ("Dance of Death"): Medieval Themes Revisited in 19th Century Music and Culture." https://scholarworks.uark.edu/inquiry/vol4/iss1/5

Centre panel from Memling's tryptich Last Judgment (c. 1467–1471)

the text contains three basic references:

(1) Zephaniah 1:15,16

That day is a day of wrath, a day of trouble and distress, a day of wasteness and desolation, a day of darkness and gloominess, a day of clouds and thick darkness, a day of the trumpet and alarm, against the fortified cities, and against the high battlements.

(2) II Peter 3:10-12

But the day of the Lord will come as a thief; in which the heavens shall pass away with a great noise, and the elements shall be dissolved with fervent heat, and the earth and the works that are therein shall be burned up. Seeing that these things are thus all to be dissolved, what manner of persons ought ye to be in all holy living and godliness, looking for and earnestly desiring the coming of the day of God, by reason of which the heavens being on fire shall be dissolved, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat?

(3) finally, the judgment portion of Matthew 25 is cited as part of the scriptural basis for the "Dies Irae."

THE TEXT, in an english translation from the original latin

Day of wrath and doom impending, David's word with Sibyl blending! Heaven and earth in ashes ending!

O, what fear man's bosom rendeth, When from heaven the Judge descendeth. On whose sentence all dependeth!

Wondrous sound the trumpet flingeth, Through earth's sepulchers it ringeth. All before the throne it bringeth.

Death is struck, and nature quaking, All creation is awaking. To its Judge an answer making.

Lo! the book exactly worded. Wherein all hath been recorded; Thence shall judgment be awarded.

When the Judge His seat attaineth, And each hidden deed arraigneth. Nothing unavenged remaineth.

What shall I, frail man, be pleading ? Who for me be interceding. When the just are mercy needing?

King of majesty tremendous, Who dost free salvation send us. Fount of pity, then befriend us!

Think, kind Jesus! my salvation Caused Thy wondrous Incarnation; Leave me not to reprobation.

Faint and weary Thou hast sought me. On the Cross of suffering bought me; Shall such grace be vainly brought me ?

Righteous Judge! for sin's pollution Grant Thy gift of absolution. Ere that day of retribution.

Guilty, now I pour my moaning. All my shame with anguish owning; Spare, O God, Thy suppliant groaning!

Through the sinful woman shriven. Through the dying thief forgiven. Thou to me a hope has given.

Worthless are my prayers and sighing. Yet, good Lord, in grace complying, Rescue me from fires undying.

With Thy favored sheep O place me, Nor among the goats abase me. But to Thy right hand upraise me.

While the wicked are confounded. Doomed to flames of woe unbounded. Call me with Thy Saints surrounded.

Low I kneel, with heart submission. Crushed to ashes in contrition; Help me in my last condition!

Ah! that day of tears and mourning! From the dust of earth returning, Man for judgment must prepare him;

Spare, O God, in mercy spare him! Lord all-pitying, Jesu Blest, Grant them Thine eternal rest.

the first six stanzas describe the Judgment. the other stanzas are lyric in character, expressing anguish of one of the multitude there present in spirit; his pleading before the Judge who, while on earth, sought him unceasingly over the hard and thorny ways from Bethlehem to Calvary; and now, in anticipation of the Judgment, pleads before a Savior of infinite mercy, who, on Judgment Day, will be a Judge of infinite justice, before whom scarcely the just will be secure.

SOURCE: Demaray, D. E. (1965). "Thomas of Celano and the" Dies Irae". https://place.asburyseminary.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=2018&context=asburyjournal

[batneko]

Here's an idea I originally planned to write as another Bowuigi scenario post, but I decided to turn it into a ficlet because it would be too short. Now it's about 2000 words, lol.

It had been clear from the beginning that something as simple as a "Science Expo" wouldn't be simple at all in the Mushroom Kingdom. Luigi had been braced for disaster from the moment he heard about it, and Bowser's attack almost came as a relief.

No, his mistake had been un-bracing after Bowser was captured and locked in a cage one of the scientists had invented.

Sure, it looked sturdy. Sure, the scientist assured Princess Peach that the cage was completely indestructible. Sure, the only key had been moved from the display table to a security toad's neck after Bowser gave up on trying to bend the bars and started sneakily (as sneaky as anybody his size could be) reaching for it instead.

None of that was the problem. The problem turned out to be another experiment all the way on the other side of the hall that collapsed and caught on fire. That toad scientist said he wasn't even sure how it caught on fire - there weren't any flammable components! About half a second before the blaze spread to the next table, which happened to be full of chemicals, and turned into a giant green fireball.

"Okay, everybody out!" Peach exclaimed, calmly but firmly. "Evacuate the building. Walk, don't run!"

People tended to listen when the princess talked - Luigi supposed that was a skill you had to pick up when you ruled a country. But the fire was pretty eye-catching, and panic set in before he and Mario could start working on crowd control. There was screaming, running (what did Peach just say?), scientists attempting to pack up their exhibits, and for some reason several people tried to head for the same exits that the fire was creeping toward.

"Doesn't this place have sprinklers?" he heard Mario ask.

"I thought so," Peach said. "I don't know why they're not-"

An alarm started to blare, and then they all felt the sudden downpour of the sprinkler system. There was a mass exhale, relief settling in, calming the crowd.

And then something new exploded into flames.

"My elemental sodium!" a toad exclaimed.

Memories of 8th grade chemistry flashing through his mind, Luigi clenched his teeth and got back to guiding the evacuation. There was nothing he wanted more than to head for the exits himself right now, especially with the added discomfort of water dripping off his hat onto his nose, but a hero had responsibilities - and besides, he was the second tallest person in the room.

It only took a few minutes, nobody exactly wanted to stay, and then Luigi was safely outside and wringing water out of his hat. A disaster, but one in which no one got hurt. About the best he could have asked for.

The security toads were doing their jobs now, keeping the crowd away from the merrily burning building. The one with the key around his neck was explaining to a very distraught toad that if the fire didn’t ruin his cardboard model of a bathysphere, the water would. Which was probably ironic in some way.

Wait a minute.

Luigi lunged forward and grabbed the toad’s arm, startling both of them with how fast he’d moved. “Did you let Bowser out?” he asked.

The toad took a second to register what he’d said, glancing down at the giant key as long as his chest. “Oh! Uh, no. I didn’t think-”

“Give that to me.”

The toad obliged, struggling to get the chan over his head until he managed to pop the clasp in the back. Key in hand, Luigi took a step toward the building… and stopped. He looked back over the milling crowd, at Peach’s head of blonde hair. She was the only one tall enough to see, but Mario was rarely far from her. He could find him, ask him to…

No, there was no time. Gritting his teeth, Luigi ran back toward the expo hall to the sounds of several panicked shouts.

The heat was like walking into a wall. Since the fire started on the opposite end from Bowser’s cage, Luigi didn’t have to worry about actually dodging flames, but he could feel the heat and the smoke getting into his lungs. Pulling his shirt up over his nose and trying not to cough, Luigi made his way to the corner he’d been trying to avoid before.

Bowser was still sitting there, arms folded, scowling. He was looking at the floor when Luigi ran up, and Luigi tried to focus on getting the key into the lock with wet gloves on as an excuse to not meet his eyes.

“What are you doing?” Bowser asked.

“Getting you out of here,” Luigi said. Luckily the lock opened smoothly, and Luigi threw the door open so hard it clanged against the bars. "Come on."

The cage was too small for him, Bowser had to duck to get out the door, and as he straightened up to his full height for a second it felt like he was blocking out the sun. Luigi was very, very aware of the difference in their sizes.

He swallowed, forced himself to say, "This way," and tried to ignore the way it came out as a squeak.

"You're an idiot," Bowser said.

Luigi hadn't exactly been expecting to be thanked, but the insult didn't seem necessary. Just because they almost forgot him didn't mean they did.

But arguing would waste time, and the fire was still creeping along the walls where the sprinklers didn't reach. He adjusted his shirt again and turned toward the door he'd come in through, still open and still safe.

He hadn't taken two steps before a wooden beam crashed down in front of him. Luigi yelped and jumped backwards, hiding behind the first large object he saw - which turned out to be Bowser.

"Uh… sorry."

Bowser just shook his head.

There was more crashing, and the crackle of flames was a lot closer than Luigi liked. Had it spread to the ceiling already? If the walls weren't safe and the open spaces weren't safe, what were they going to do?

If anybody had remembered to let Bowser out in the first place they wouldn't be in this mess. Unfortunately, Luigi counted as "anybody," meaning this was as much his fault as anyone else.

"I'm sorry," Luigi said again. "Let's just make a run for it."

Bowser reached behind him and grabbed the back of his overalls, hoisting him into the air like a toy in a claw machine. Luigi heard himself squeak, then he was thrown back into the cage Bowser just left.

The door clanged shut, and Luigi’s heart sunk into his shoes. He was locked up. Just like Bowser had been, behind bars in a burning building, soon to be abandoned. Okay, they’d forgotten him, but did it really deserve this? Did Luigi really deserve to die over it?

He saw Bowser bend over next to the cage, grip the bars with one hand, and then he picked the whole thing up off the platform. Luigi toppled over onto the side, then back again as Bowser balanced the cage on his shoulder. What was he doing?

They turned back and forth. Luigi could see the fire creeping toward all the doors now. If they ran, and rolled as soon as they got outside - but the ceiling was still falling in too.

Bowser turned completely around, facing the back wall now. There was a small door near the middle, but the rest of it was nothing but windows. There was no safe path unless…

“No,” Luigi said, softly.

Bowser chuckled, and charged straight ahead.

For a few horrible seconds Luigi was aware of nothing but the smoke-filled air rushing past him as the wall got closer and closer. Glass shattered around them as Bowser kicked out a window and leapt through the frame, cage and all.

Bumping, rolling, and finally stillness. Luigi took a deep breath of still-smoky but much cooler air. He was tempted to scream. It wouldn’t accomplish much at this point, but it would make him feel better.

He yelped, at least, as the cage was picked up again. The door popped open and the box turned, and Luigi was shaken out onto the ground like the last penny in a piggy bank.

“Ow,” Luigi said.

“Wimp,” Bowser said. But his tone was light, and when Luigi looked up he saw him smiling.

He chucked the cage back over his shoulder, where it landed on the ground with a heavy thud and a gouge driven into the dirt. After a moment’s consideration Bowser threw the key in the same general direction, then turned back toward the expo hall, folding his arms and watching it slowly burn.

“This science expo thing’s more fun than I thought,” he said. “Maybe I’ll have one.”

Abruptly, he leaned over Luigi, really blocking out the sun this time. They were all alone out here, Luigi realized. Everyone else had evacuated out the other side of the building. If Bowser wanted to do anything to him, there was nobody to stop it.

But… he wasn't. And he hadn't. Right now he was just staring at Luigi with something like confusion on his face.

"You break anything?" Bowser said.

"No…" Luigi said. He'd been thrown around a lot, but he was used to that now. He probably wouldn't even bruise.

Carefully, Luigi climbed to his feet and brushed off any bits of broken glass or charred wood that had stuck to his clothes. Bowser quickly scrubbed a hand through his hair to do the same.

"Grazie- I mean, thank you for getting us both out," Luigi said.

Bowser rolled his eyes. "Don't do that. It's gross."

"What, thank you?"

"Ugh," Bowser said, so that must have been it.

Was that not what he'd been waiting for, then? Why did he keep looking at Luigi like that?

"Did you have to throw me in the cage, though?" Luigi asked.

Bowser shrugged. "That Poindexter said it was indestructible. You're not fireproof or roofproof, so I figured it'd help. Or whatever." He frowned, slightly. "Roof-proof. Roof, proof. That's a hard one."

While Bowser seemed interested in the pronunciation of the word he'd just invented, the specifics of what he'd said were sinking in for Luigi.

"You… are fireproof," Luigi said slowly.

"Ye-up," Bowser said.

"And roofproof?"

"Dunno about that one, but I've survived bigger buildings than this falling on me."

"And the cage is indestructible."

"Yyyyup."

Luigi buried his face in his hands. "I didn't need to go back for you at all, did I?"

"Nope," Bowser said, almost cheerfully.

"I'm an idiot."

"I told you you were."

Luigi groaned.

He ignored the guffaw of laughter next to him, and the massive hand that slapped his back. It was only when Bowser muttered something that Luigi forced himself to look up again.

It had sounded like, "Not like I don't appreciate it."

"What?" Luigi said.

"Nothing, shut up."

"I didn't-"

"Shut up," Bowser repeated firmly, and turned away from him to watch the burning building once again. One of the windows collapsed inward, and Bowser pumped his fist and gave an only slightly forced cheer. "Whoo! Good one."

For a while they both stood there, Luigi regaining his breath, Bowser apparently entertained by destruction. Bowser had said not to thank him, had told him to shut up, but Luigi had this feeling like… he was more bark than bite right now.

“Welp, I’m out of here,” Bowser said after a moment. “Much as I’d like to stay and watch the fire work, I’m not letting anybody lock me up again.” He gave a low growl. “Had enough of that for a lifetime.”

“Ah… take care getting home.”

Bowser gave him another odd look. “I don’t get you.”

“Don’t you?”

“I didn’t need saving. I don’t need your niceties.”

“It’s not for you,” Luigi said, “it’s for me. I’m doing - and saying - these things because I’d feel wrong if I didn’t.”

Bowser shook his head. “Like I said, I don’t get you.” He took a step in the direction his airship had gone when the crew abandoned him. “But uh… grazie, or whatever.”

Luigi blinked. “Prego,” he said, automatically, but Bowser had already started moving.

He stood there, alone, watching Bowser leave with nothing but the crackling of the fire to accompany the thoughts swirling in his head. Did Bowser know he’d just thanked him? He must, right? Luigi had said it right afterward.

Come to think of it, he’d have expected Bowser to be offended that Luigi thought he needed rescuing. But he wasn’t. He returned the favor, thanked Luigi, and walked away without causing any more trouble.

Was Luigi losing his mind? Was this smoke inhalation?

“Luigi!” he heard his brother cry out, and turned around to see Mario running at full-tilt across the grass. He braced himself just in time for Mario to grab him in a bone-crushing hug. 

He knew he’d done the right thing, and he knew Mario would agree once he heard the story, but he still felt a little silly that he’d rushed into danger for the sake of someone who was danger-proof.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Luigi said. He glanced back over his shoulder, even though he knew Bowser was long gone.

Maybe that was it. Maybe so many people knew Bowser didn’t need rescuing that no one ever did it.

Maybe… Bowser had liked having a hero, for once.

[acourtofladydeath]

Hello all and welcome to the depths of depravity my masterlist! Here you will find all of my fics to date, which are available to read on AO3. While most of my work is currently ACOTAR based, I write for multiple ships across many fandoms and will happily hear your requests!

✍🏻 indicates a WIP

🌶️ indicates spice

🗡️ indicates depictions of violence, battles, and/or injuries

📚 indicates a multichap fic

💞 indicates fluff

❗ indicates heavy emotion/emotional trauma/death, however this may not be inclusive as every person experiences and reacts to emotions differently.

💤 indicates a hiatus

Please be sure to check all fic tags on AO3 as well as these initial indicators! Many of my fics include explorations of physical and/or emotional trauma.

Azris

All Things End ❗ This fic has an immersive, direct read playlist component that you can read about here!

The Soft Heart & The Shadow 🗡️❗

The Soft Heart & The Little Fox 🗡️❗

One Bed, One Bond, and a Pair of Wings

Enter: Uncle Autumn 💞

Fighting Fire with Fire 🗡️❗

And So Our Life Begins (ASOLB) ✍🏻📚💞

A Second Chance, *part of the ASOLB series

Finding His Shadow: An Azris Peter Pan AU **please note this fic is very aged up from the original material 📚🗡️🌶️ in Ch. 2 only

Fire Alarm

The Wall Comes Down 🗡️

All I Want For Solstice Is You, part 1 of the Winter Cabin series 💞

Forest Fever, Soothing Shadow 💞

To Speak Through Smoke, part 2 of the Winter Cabin series 💞

Pieces of Us, part 3 of the Winter Cabin series 💞

A Wound So Deep 🗡️❗

The Song of Azris series ✍🏻📚🗡️❗

Nessian & Nessriel

In Due Time 💞 (Nessian)

What Happens In The Night 🌶️ (Nessian)

Complications Arose, Ensued, Were Overcome 🗡️ (Nessian)

Take These Broken Wings ✍🏻🗡️❗📚 (Nessriel)

Just One More 🌶️ (Nessriel)

Hold Me Close, Hold Me Tender 💞 (Nessriel)

Our Greatest Adventure 💞 (Nessriel)

Multi-Ship or Other ACOTAR

3 Jewels In The Hewn City 📚🌶️ (Feysand, Nessian, Azris)

Lovers Live & Die Fortissimo (LL&DF)💤✍🏻📚 (Azris, Nessian, Feytamsand, Elucien, HelionXLOA)

Publicly Pleasing, Silently Drowning 🗡️❗ (Eris Vanserra)

How I Met Your Fathers 💞 (Feytamsand)

Stairway Snoops (Azris X Nessian polycule)

Into the Fire 🌶️ (Feytamcien/Lufeylin)

Return to the Hewn City ✍🏻📚 🌶️(Azris X Nessian swinging)

Welcome to the Family, part 1 of the "To Become A Vanserra" series 🌶️ (Elucien, Berlain, Erislain, Elain X all Vanserra Brothers)

Rules are Rules, part 2 of the "To Become A Vanserra" series 🌶️(Azris, Berzriel)

The Clause, part 3 of the "To Become A Vanserra" series (Azris, Elucien, Erlain, Luzriel) 🌶️

Birth of an Empire, part 4 of the "To Become A Vanserra" series (Beron X LoA, LoA X Beron's father and brothers) ❗🗡️🌶️

And So We Danced (Nesta/Eris friends, Azris, Nessian) 💞

A Walk In The Park (Casris) 💞

ACOTAR Drabbles

The Fawn, The Fox, & The Fiend 🌶️(Eltamcien)

Live, and Be Happy ❗ (Feytamsand)

The Wall Comes Down 🗡️ (Azris)

Just One More 🌶️(Nessriel)

The Empyrean

The Quiet Game 💞 (Tairn/Sgaeyl and Andarna)

Baby's First Birthday 💞 (Tairn/Sgaeyl and Andarna)

Last One Standing 🗡️❗ (Tairn/Sgaeyl, Andarna, Violet/Xaden)

Other Universe Fics

A Place Eternal 📚❗🗡️🌶️ in Ch. 5 (TSOA/The Illiad/Greek Mythology: Patrochilles, Hades X Persephone)

Reunited (Dr. Who: Amy X Rory)

The Final Moments ❗ (Torchwood: Jack X Ianto)

The Days We Thought We'd Never See 💤📚 (Spartacus: Agron X Nasir)

Event Week Masterlists

Poly+ ACOTAR Week 2024 🌶️💞

Azris Week 2024 🌶️💞

Eris Week 2024 🌶️💞🗡️❗

[docgold13]

Batman: The Animated Series - Paper Cut-Out Portraits and Profiles

Lock-Up

Lyle Bolton was a military veteran who went on to become a corrections officer.  He was tasked as head of security abroad the USS Halsey when the decommissioned naval ship was used as a temporary prison during the construction of Blackgate Penitentiary.  Thereafter Bolton was hired as the chief security officer at Arkham Asylum.  

Arkham was renown for its lax security and the alarming pace at which inmates were able to escape.  Bolton was brought on board to address this matter. He issued severe, draconian measures to ensure the patients of Arkham stay in line.  Bolton’s authoritarian regime over the asylum caused great duress among its patients, so much so that many sought to escape just to get away from Bolton’s intolerable treatment.  

Batman took note of the terror The Scarecrow showed toward Bolton when returning the villain to Arkham.  To further investigate the matter, Bruce Wayne asked for a board review to assess Bolton’s efficacy as the asylum’s chief of security.  The review descended into chaos when the inmates began to complain about Bolton’s treatment and Bolton lost his temper. In a violent rant, Bolton expounding on how the inmates were mere animals and should be treated as such.  He was promptly fired.

Several months later, Bolton resurfaced as ‘Lock-Up’ a masked vigilante looking to bring about a more permanent type of justice.  He had decided that the root cause of crime in Gotham was the inept politicians, the liberal media and the permissive psychiatrists... all of whom neglected to see criminals as mad dogs needing to be put down.  As such, Lock-Up’s initial acts were to kidnap Mayor Hill, television journalist Summer Gleeson and Arkham’s chief physician, Dr. Bartholomew.  He kept his hostages on the now-abandoned USS Halsey.  The Dynamic Duo were able to track them down and Robin tended to releasing the hostages whilst Batman took on Lock-Up.  

Lock-Up was greatly disappointed Batman did not share his vision and attitudes toward criminals.  He thought they were of the same clothe, men fed up with the broken system and willing to take the law into their own hands.  Batman could catch the criminals and then Lock-Up could put them down.   For Batman, however, the sanctity of life and the belief in a person’s ability to change were essential components to his notion of justice. In some ways Lock-Up’s moral skepticism was exactly what Batman had dedicated himself to fight against.  

Batman ultimately triumphed over Lock-Up. In an ironic twist, Lyle Bolton ended up incarcerated in the very asylum he had once been hired to secure.   

Actor Bruce Weitz provided the voice for Lock-Up with the authoritarian villain appearing in the fourteenth episode of the second season of Batman: The Animated Series, ‘Lock-Up.’  

[cloaksandcapes]

Yesterday we showed you Bork 2.0, and now we have the final form. Bork 3.0, Mightiest Protector. One day we might combine them all into a Vestige-like Artifact!

Bork 3.0 Mightiest Protector

Wondrous Item, legendary

“A perfected and larger version of Bork, the Mighty Protector. This version has been fully enchanted with magical runes, and equipped with all manner of healing aid to make sure that not a single friend falls on the battlefield.”

This magic construct serves as a familiar and acts independently of you, but always obeys your commands. In combat, it rolls its own initiative and acts on its own turn. Bork can't attack, but can take other actions as normal.

Bork has an AC 17, 50 hit points and a movement speed of 30. It has resistance to all damage, and is immune to poison and psychic damage. If reduced to 0 hit points, Bork ceases to function but will repair itself back to perfect working condition after a long rest. If reduced to 0 hit points it must be retrieved.

Bork cannot be surprised, gains a +5 bonus to initiative and has advantage on Wisdom (Perception) checks.

Bork can cast the alarm, dispel magic and faerie fire spells once per day without requiring material components. Once each of these spells has been cast Bork must finish a long rest before casting them again.

Healing Salve. Bork can use a bonus action to administer a healing potion to a creature with 0 hit points. That creature regains 2d4+2 hit points. Bork can use this property so long as there is a healing potion in its keg. Its keg can hold up to three healing potions. It takes 1 minute to fill the keg with healing potions.

Helpful Hound. If Bork lays next to a creature making saving throws, they make the saving throws with advantage. For as long as Bork is next to them, failed death saves do not count against them. If Bork is by their side for at least 1 minute, the creature stabilizes.

If you enjoy our content, please support our team of four on Patreon. Get access to over 700+ Magic Items, monsters, tokens, subclasses and more.

[crying-fantasies]

Terraformer AU: Basic 1

Masterlist

When I think of the techno-organic sparklings in my AU, one that takes places after the end of Lost Light were everyone gets their happy ending, I think about Sari from tfa in some way, when she first appeared in the show as what she really was it was so incredible that I, as a child, couldn't stop myself from thinking how cool was that, same with the Terrans from tfes.

She didn't need energon in all her life, she grows up just like a human and could look human while also looking like a cybertronian, Sari is, in some way, a part of evolution of her whole race, just like the Maltos, since they don't really need energon, they just drink water to keep going and that is also a form of adaptation to their surrounding.

With the sparklings in my AU since they are a mix, a protoform that scanned human DNA and cybertronian CNA, it gets to look more like the latter, but so still have some particularities of the organic/human side.

They need less energon to live on but they also have something similar to human taste buds, and so energon sometimes can be described as bland in flavor and they prefer flavored options, they like human food but they can also consume living matter, (quite upsetting for some cybertronians since what they are eating was once ALIVE), they don't excrete since their bodies consume to the last atom of organic matter, worst case escenario they will throw up what can't be digested (and also learn not to eat it again, kind of get an stomachache)

Funny thing, they also produce oxygen and nitrogen to some degree (Perceptor noticed when Sunset catched fire in outer space) having something similar to a little atmosphere around them but they don't rust when exposed to water or oxygen, Brainstorm had the brilliant idea of calling them Terraformers, since, well, they could terraform the original environment around them (Mariah stayed in a planet with an atmosphere rich in methane and where she stayed the most started to have more oxygen, living and organic matter expanding around) with the given oxygen and the radiation of their sparks (the degree is optimal to the development of microorganisms) they are quite well looked and welcomed back in Earth.

It's good, but not for the organics with bodies that react aggressively bad to this components (there are planets or sectors that the kids can't go without being taken as biochemical weapon or an intent of colonization), since many species are afraid of cybertronian mechs the news of these hybrids are quite an alarm.

[thoraeth]

Words: 2830

Summary: Everything seems ready to take the Challengers' new technology to the next level. However, the only way to move forward is coming to terms with the past.

Chapter5(P.1) - Clockwork

<CH4(PT2) CH5(PT2)> | Read on Ao3

The sun rays of a new morning cast their dim light over the boots and uniforms scattered on the floor.

“Daisy daisy give me your answer do

I'm half crazy all for the love of you…”

Buggy lays on Ava's chest, breath slowing down into tiny clouds on his lips. He indulges in the familiar humming, in the comfy feeling of her fingers running through his hair. 

“You really like that one, uh?” he yawns.

“Yes. It's quite sweet.” 

Struggling, the pirate rolls next to her. 

“Damn, these beds are too tiny. We're joining modules tonight.”

“Are we?” Ava laughs. “Couple of weeks ago you didn't want to share a boat. Is this… a change of plans?”

“Maybe. Sort of. I gotta admit it: you've dragged me into something interesting and now I wanna see what else is there.” 

With a gentle rustling of sheets, the jester brushes his toes along her legs. 

“Wouldn't be the first time your follies click with me, after all...” he adds.

Ava sits up, smiling softly. “In Fugu we’ve got hundreds of stories about pirates: deranged creatures who roam the world, only caring for ale and adventure. Lives so full… Not in my wildest dreams did I imagine I could click with one of them.”

The blue-haired man reaches out to cup her cheek, when Ava’s nose wrinkles up and one big sneeze catches her off guard.

“Ew!”

“It’s getting colder, isn't it?”

A sudden knocking makes Ava and Buggy turn their heads towards the doors.

“Oi! You guys awake? Open up!”

Leaning against the corridor’s wall, Romi is shouting in a slurred voice. She massages her nose under the round lens, a box in her arms.

It seems like an eternity, but eventually a messy blue mane appears behind the sliding doors.

“About damn time.” The Captain says, squinting her eyes. 

She stares at the men blankly, wondering whether or not he's wearing a bedsheet. Must be another hallucination from the horrible hangover that's ravaging her, just like the sneezing blanket next to the window.

“I had the fire alarm restored!” She continues. “I’m telling you, jester: move a single bolt on my ship and I’ll fly your ass to Karai Bari!”

A heavy box lands in the man’s arms as Romi digs her fingers into her temples.

“Here’s some winter gear. It's already snowing and we're not even close to Karakuri.”

“Never heard of that.” Buggy shrugs. “Well, thanks and see y-”

The blanket sneezes again. This time it's loud and clear.

Romi looks around the room, perplexed, when she meets Buggy's guilty look and everything gets plain as day, even for her intoxicated brain cells.

“Ok…I guess I’ll leave you guys to, uhm, whatever this is.” she says, adjusting her glasses slowly.

The Captain turns around and walks out of the room with a cunning smile on her face. 

“This is one hell of a 164!” She chuckles, stumbling under the deck's light arches.

As the hours pass, a thick fog rises over the Grand Line. The Challenger comes out of the Belts, sailing across the dark waters under a storm of chunky snowflakes. On its weather deck, the crew is wrapping up in white camo suits.

“We take the icebreakers’ path to Karakuri, then dock at the farest end of the harbor.” 

Romi turns the Drifter on and gives her orders.

“Meg,Torres, Allen, you're hiking team. Go straight to the lab's ruins. If the machine is still there, we take it apart and bring it aboard piece by piece.”

As the engines hiss louder, the Captain raises her voice. “Buggy, Ava, you're on supply duty: we need fuel and components for the assembly-lines.”

“Two-sided?” the blonde asks, shivering.

“Yes, as in the blueprint I gave you. Now, go and be discreet.”

The anchor drops in the water with a low grumble and everyone zips their collars up, ready to disembark.

“First time in weeks we set foot on land and it had to be winter wasteland.”

Buggy frowns at the map in his hands, stumbling in the snow repeatedly.

“I had never seen this much before!” Ava giggles, kicking up the snowdrifts on their way.

“You what? I can't hear shit with these things on.” 

Tugging on her sleeve, Buggy pulls her close, reaching for the soft collar that's covering Ava's face. 

The woman jumps back, though, hands clenching on her suit. 

“No! Someone will see them!”

“You ain't exactly in a bikini, doll, it's kinda hard to see any…Oh, you mean the teeth.”

“They may think I'm a fishman. What if these people… were hostile?”

“Hostile! Why, ‘cause you're grocery shopping?” Dramatically, Buggy leans over the woman. “Are you afraid they'd go tell Meara you’re, god forbid, having fun?!”

Ava chuckles, playing with the puller of her zip.

“Take it easy! No one knows you outside your stinky island. It's a good thing.” The jester gently presses his forehead against hers. “And speaking of which: since there is someone on this team with a worldwide known face… you better be prepared to do the talking here.”

“Are you serious?!”

As the two of them keep arguing and plunging their feet in the snow, the town square appears before them. 

The fog is gradually lifting, revealing little shops and chatty people all around.

“Apologies. Coming through.” 

A stiff voice startles the two foreigners and their eyes widen at the sight of a tall iron doll. 

It is approaching at a painfully slow pace, rocking in jerky movements. 

“It’s an automaton! Just as Romi said!” Ava whispers, excited.

The town of Karakuri is indeed swarming with dolls, robots and mechanical animals who seem to be busy helping the locals with their chores.

After some wandering around the square and its unusual residents, the two stop in front of a rundown shop. The place looks almost abandoned; no one in sight behind the broken windows.

Ava steps in first and a soft chime comes from the ceiling. 

“Umh…good morning.” 

“Good morning, customers. Your faces are not registered as you may not be from Karakuri Island. Please, identify yourself.”

Jumping out of the shadows, a squared robot reaches Ava’s feet. It wobbles on its tracks, circling the woman and beeping persistently. 

“W-w're shipbuilders from Water 7. We stopped for r-replacements and supplies.”

They’ve rehearsed that story for hours, and yet Ava’s sweating. “What if Karakuri robots can read minds?” She thinks as a tiny blue beam starts running up and down her body.

“Water 7, shipbuilder. Female. Five foot two. Blonde hair. Green eyes. Sharp teeth.” 

The robot hasn't finished scanning Ava, when she steps out of its light. “What do you care about my teeth.” she states in a cold voice.

“Distinguishing marks are part of my protocol, customer. Please keep still.”

“I have a damned piece of metal in the middle of my face, what more do you need?”

“Stop it.” Buggy growls, underneath his hood. He briskly nudges his companion and shoves a scribbled piece of paper on the robot’s front camera. 

“We cast off in an hour, can you pack these quickly or shall we go elsewhere?” he insists.

The robot bleeps something about completing its protocols but a human voice shuts it up, echoing from behind a wall of boxes.

“Ugh, get to work, you stupid can! Ya gonna lose me another sale.”

Downhearted, the automaton unleashes its mechanical arms to gather the ingredients on the list. 

Ava, however, goes roaming around the shop in search of that raspy voice.

Peeping out of a stack of bags, she spots a wrinkly woman standing by a mechanical firefly: the granny is curved on a compact mirror, drawing shapes on her eyelids in the dim light.

“Ya foreigners never seem to get it, uh? Just ‘cause they’re speakin’, doesn't mean they’re thinkin’.” She grumbles as Ava gets closer. “Ya walk in with a harpoon through your head? Robo-clerk beeps bops and settles ya bill.  That's all.”

“Mh, I see.”  

Leaning over the old woman, the blonde’s attention gets caught by some black powder in her hand. “Do you… sell this, by any chance?”

The granny nods and points at a wooden box on the ground, filled with small round tins. 

“Oh, these are perfect!”

Ava runs back to the counter, hands full of tins whose label reads ‘herbal pigment’. 

She puts her loot down and pays for their shopping by shoving a bunch of Berry banknotes into the Robo-clerk. 

“Deliver to pier 32, as fast as possible. Have a nice day, madam!” She shouts happily, then drags her companion out of the shop.

The two steps in the freezing air outside, but once they're far from the crowd, Buggy plants himself in the middle of the street.

“You almost got us in trouble.” 

“And yet, all's well.”

“Well my ass. Stop giggling like an idiot, what the fuck is that?”

With her hair blowing in the wind, Ava is holding a tiny box in front of the man's face. He snatches it and unscrews the flat lid, struggling in his thick gloves.

“I saw the shop owner doing her makeup with it, just like you do.” 

Both lean closer, observing the black powder in the container: it’s slightly shimmery in the daylight, a deep black with blue and purple reflections.

“Herbs should be safer than charcoal, right?” Ava adds softly.

Buggy grabs the shortie by the waist and sweeps her off her feet for a moment.

“That's fucking great!” He laughs. “Actual makeup, God, I can't believe it! Didn't they have coloured ones?”

“Shoot, I didn't ask!”

“Nevermind. Best gift ever!”

He shoves the box in his pocket and rests his arm on Ava’s shoulders as the two go back to exploring the small town. 

They idly walk amongst little houses and market stalls, commenting on the automata around them. 

After a while, Ava looks up at the pirate:

“We'd better return to the ship, we've been wandering for a while now.”

“I'm not done yet.”

“Did we skip something from the list?”

“Yes, your gift.” he mutters happily.

“You don't-”

“It has to be fucking grand, like a platinum tiara or something! That is, if there's anything valuable in this place...”

“A tiara? Who am I, Princess Shirahoshi?” Ava laughs.

“C’mon, it's flashy! You'd rather get a necklace? Earrings? A ring, maybe.” 

Suddenly, Buggy's attention is drawn to the main street. “I could make an honest woman of you.” he continues, absent minded.

“As if we hadn't literally met at the altar. It takes an honest man to make an honest woman, you know?”

The jester brings the woman's hands to his lips, a sinister light in his eyes. 

“We must be hopeless, then.”

Before Ava could say another word, he's gone.

The pirate hides behind a stream of people who seem to be headed towards a tall building, the town hall. As the crowd gets nearer, Buggy notices that a number of guards and marines are patrolling the area attentively.

All citizens are asked to get in line in front of a sturdy automaton and, in turn, they place Berrys and shiny objects inside a small vault built into its torso. 

Stealthy, the jester moves away from the crowd and sneaks around until he reaches the building's backyard. 

The windows there are dusty and chipped, and yet he manages to spot a wooden chest, filled to the brim with gold and jewels; only a young marine to guard it. “Ka-ching!” Buggy grins, ominously. 

His pinky travels from his palm to a creak in the window and, one after the others, the pirate's fingers all creep inside the room. They open the window slightly and let his arms, legs and torso in too. 

As the cadet paces back and forth at the door, the jester’s pieces smuggle behind the chest, unseen. Or so he thinks.

“Intruder alert. Launching safety recount: two billion, three hundred thousands…” 

As the chest snaps close, a loud cry descends from the ceiling: a mechanical snail, like Buggy’s never seen before, is glowing red and shouting numbers full blast. 

“W-who's there?!”

The young marine searches the room trembling, gun at the ready, when a hooded figure jumps out of nowhere and knocks her off. 

Buggy doesn't even have time to think, before the room’s doors slam open and a multitude of guns’ barrels and white uniforms comes pouring in.

“Hands up! You’re under arrest in the name of celestial dragons.”

The pirate steps back from the unconscious marine and turns around, slowly raising his hands: he's surrounded and a massive man is pointing a rifle at him. 

“Take that hood off his face.” The officer shouts. “And you, keep those filthy hands where I can see them.”

A short soldier approaches and Buggy notices it is made of scuffed metal. His cold claws pull his hood away and the fuzzy blue hair bounces out. That and his big, round nose.

“You better pray Private Tin Head here is better than that.” the jester growls, hinting at the cadet on the floor.

“I know that nose.” the officer squints his eyes as a nervous buzz rises through the soldiers.

“What is an Emperor doing in this area?”

“This is a disaster. They can’t live to tell they saw me here, it’ll all go to fucking hell…” Buggy breaks into a cold sweat. “That’s what you get for playing prince charming, idiot!” 

Tension is bolting through his body as he's ready to burst in a million pieces.

However, just as he's about to snap apart, the sound of a familiar voice in the distance weirds him out: a short woman dashes through the soldiers, sobbing loudly.

“Don’t shoot! It’s just my husband!”

“Step back, miss. How did you even get here?”

An agitated Ava emerges from the crowd along with two mechanical cadets.

“My husband went missing and your…men helped me find him!” She whines, big tears streaming down her eyes. “He needs his pills, please!”

“Cadets, debrief.”

“Foreigners, shipbuilders from Water 7, sir.” one explains in a flat, neutral tone. “Here for replacements and supplies. Male went missing. Six feet two, blue hair, blue eyes, big round nose. On pharmacological therapy.”

“Hey!” Buggy shrieks outraged as the blonde runs past the big officer and clings to him.

“He’s convinced he’s the Clown Yonko. He was never the same after the incident…Please, sir, let us go back to our ship.”

All soldiers put their arms down, looking at one another confused, but the officer is still aiming straight in front of him. 

“Nice acting, miss, but I still don't buy it. You're under arrest too.” 

“Let your soldiers scan him, then.” Ava replies, cold. “Wasn't the Yonko a former warlord? You must have datas, somewhere.”

The officer grunts his orders to the automata in the room and flickering light beams fall on the blue haired man. After a long moment, the verdict arrives:

“No match found. Height, eye color incorrect.”

Ava squeezes Buggy a little tighter.

“Can we go now, sir? I'm taking him straight to our doctor.”

“Friggin’ foreigners, just wasting our time.

You two, get them out of town. Now!”

In a blink of an eye, Buggy and Ava are kicked out of the building and escorted by the two mechanical cadets. The pirate has put his hood back on and keeps staring at Ava, the same face he'd made for a cat with five paws.

As soon as they reach the foggy woods and the automata march back to the village, both snap at once:

“What. Was. That.” 

“You tried to steal from Celestial Dragons?!”

“Only a few coins! It was supposed to be your gift, anyway, so…your loss.” Buggy shrugs.

“I want nothing but a little gratitude for saving your ass.”

“Shouting from the rooftop that I'm a lunatic loser? Oh, and those fake, fake tears. What happened to miss ‘I'm scared to talk to people’?”

“She didn't want to go to jail!” Ava cries out. “On that note, I hope they won't find out about the robots.”

“Why, what did you do to them?”

“Well, I mean, if they're speakin’ doesn't mean they're thinkin’, right? I saw their power buttons and… took the opportunity to scramble the local archives a bit.”

“Don’t worry, we'll be gone soon.” Buggy smirks, “You’re right though, your smart ass deserves something.”

A gold necklace appears before Ava's eyes, dangling from the jester's fingers. 

She takes the jewel in her hands and runs her finger along the round pendant.

“It’s a locket!” she exclaims, gently snapping it open. “Wait, why is there a portrait of a man?”

“What do I know? Must be that cadet’s sweetheart. I took the necklace from her neck.”

“A stolen gift, uh? Thank you.” Amused, Ava sighs loudly.

She keeps fidgeting with the jewel at her neck as they walk away in the freezing wind.

“If they both fit...” she thinks. “I could finally take them with me.”

[clever-fox-studios]

Free Runner CH 1: Alarm Bells (eyestrain warning)

Got a little carried away with splash art for the first chapter, whoops

White.

… White?

That was wrong.

Fluttering, heavy and pained, he opened his eyes to the white light overhead, his processor humming incessantly as it fired to life in his head. An alert came and went–location data unknown–but he didn’t care. Everything felt… heavy. Had he been sleeping?

No, this wasn’t sleep.

Slowly, carefully, Moon sat up, feeling something give slightly underneath him, creaking as his weight shifted on it. The hum quieted down a bit, but still sounded like it was struggling in his head–a headache, if he ever thought he could get one. Another alert as his system caught up to his waking mind–location data unknown. Yellow eyes found focus on the wall, a white but beaten block of metal that had seen better days; the spot he found appeared to be… scratch marks?

He barely had time to consider why that was strange before the flood began.

//SYSTEM ERROR//

/DEVICE TAMPERING DETECTED_

/Unauthorized user attempted to remove vital component_

/System crash detected_

/TM_moon10300.sys corruption detected_

/NF_moon00010.sys corruption detected_

/System stability corrupted_

/Tower data not accessible_

Clawing at his head, Moon doubled over, the errors ringing internally and externally like ripping metal–he felt himself rocking, the flurry of errors and feedback becoming nails against his shell. Wires twisted, diodes burned, everything was too much–too much–

Something moved.

His attention ripped itself from his inner display to his outer awareness, following the flicker of orange and gold until he recognized what–or rather, who–he was looking at, laid out on a table a few feet from him, moving slightly as if coming out of a deep sleep but not fully awake yet. Sun. Yes, Sun! But he was bare, stripped of his clothing save for a blanket of some sort draped over his groin.

That was wrong.

Looking down, he realized he also had a blanket, but nothing else.

That was wrong.

Why was that wrong–

//HOST ACCESS GRANTED/

/SYSTEM PRIORITY OVERRIDDEN_

/COMMAND: clear errors_

>Errors cleared.

/COMMAND: run diagnostics%background_

>Running diagnostics…

/COMMAND: ping nearest tower_

>Searching for nearest tower…

…

>Tower located: WARNING_

>>Third party tower detected.

>>Compatible system shields not available.

>>Secured network detected.

>>//Status: Private//

/COMMAND: Check memory_

>Checking Memory…

…

…

…

/ERROR: Memory Discrepancy Detected_

>Cause: System Crash.

>>Notes: Area of minimal activity detected; last active hour log does not match last dated memory file; flagged as potential tampering by system host.

>Diagnostics completed.

>>NO ERRORS.

A matter of seconds passed, Moon’s system settling itself forcibly as he commanded it to ignore the errors, to push through the processes and quiet his grinding components so he could think straight. This room was not familiar, but he didn’t know how he got there, or when. Everything was fuzzy, foggy and mixed up in his mind, a nagging feeling of wrongness wasn’t out of place if he had to consider everything up until that moment.

My memory was tampered with, he affirmed, giving it the credit for the unsettling wrongness in his guts.

Systems?

He could eat, so perhaps “guts” wasn’t incorrect, though his last meal was…

//REMAINING BATTERY: FULLY CHARGED/

How could that be?

Looking to Sun again, the navy robot realized his companion–his brother–was awake, sitting up and holding his head as the lights that encircled his cranium shimmered to life, organizing themselves into the elaborate radial pattern Moon knew so well. The familiarity did little to temper his unease, though.

“Oh…” Sun groaned, eyes squeezed shut. “My head…”

“Sun?” Moon finally croaked, sounding strange in his auditory sensors as if he hadn’t heard his own voice in a long time.

Sun’s eyes snapped open, teal illuminations under softly glowing lashes standing out brightly in the whiteness of the odd room. “Moon!” he said with relief and confusion. Moon pulled himself over the edge of his table, still feeling heavy, confused at the sight of grass instead of tile for the floor. He almost didn’t catch Sun yelping. “Why are you naked–” The brightly colored bot looked at himself, voice shrill with concern. “Why am I naked???”

It was a valid question. One he didn’t know how to answer.

Finally, Sun looked around himself. “Where… are we?”

Moon felt his internal system suddenly run cold. “You… don’t know?”

Faintly, Sun shook his head, one foot sliding off the table as he sat up more. “We were outside…”

Not good. Not good. Not good.

Sun’s line of sight went somewhere to his left, drawing his attention that way until he saw a small end table of sorts with neatly folded fabric and glittering wire jewelry that looked painfully familiar to him. He knew those were his clothes–the answer to the lingering question neither had spoken regarding their mutual nakedness–but hesitation froze his hands from daring to try and take them. Even Sun didn’t move to collect his things, stuck in place, gaze focused on the fabric and jewels yet also a thousand miles away.

The seeping, creeping, dreadful feeling tickled down his back and neck like the tips of unwanted fingers–Sun’s ventilation system heaved his chest in a facsimile of a human breath, even having the wherewithal to shudder slightly at the peak of his inhalation–as he stared at the familiar silks and golden threads that shimmered from the light his radials exuded. As much as he hated the idea of being skyclad–let alone without his permission–the idea of donning those things now that they were gone from him was, somehow, worse. Tensions twisted through his inner parts, shuddering and shaking his joints faintly until he was finally able to snap out of his stupor at the sound of his brother saying his name.

“Sun? What is it?”

Moon’s voice seemed hoarse, but still soft and gentle as it had always been…

No. Not always.

Closing his eyes, Sun rubbed his forehead. “I’m… sluggish, I think? My battery… It was so low before.”

Concerned, Moon pressed, “What about now?”

He turned inward.

//REMAINING BATTERY: FULLY CHARGED/

“I’m… charged.” Confusion tinged his voice as he understood his system was shaking off the fatigue and priority shuffle from what he could only assume was the first time he’d ever drained himself dry of any power.

Moon’s background systems came back to full faculty as Sun spoke, which sent a shock through his awareness, making him jump up as he finally gained some sense of situational awareness. “Sun–get up. Quickly.”

A bit startled, Sun picked himself up, holding his blanket to himself where Moon simply let his fall to the ground–he looked down as grass tickled his haptic sole sensors, baffled. “What–what’s wrong?”

Moon’s body language as he yanked the navy and night colored silk to himself, the wire jewelry falling to the ground somewhere behind the nightstand, was slightly uncertain, his yellow eyes flashing with his own intense confusion. “What do you–we don’t know where we are! Grab something, we need to go!”

“Wait, h-hold–” Sun could barely keep up as his own system was still rebooting, Moon dragging bolts of fabric off the table and shoving it in Sun’s hands, the blanket falling to the ground at Sun’s feet, until the golden robot found instead, tucked into the alcove under the silks, two rough-hewn cloaks of muddy gray.

Their cloaks.

Dropping the silk in hand, Sun knelt and pulled the knitted, itchy fabric out and offered the darker one to his brother. As if glad to have another option, Moon ditched the blue and silver wrap for the plain, woolen weave without hesitation and shrugged it onto himself, tying it closed while urging Sun to hurry. He tried, he really did, but Sun’s internal system was taking its sweet time sorting itself out after being drained to zero; wistfully he wondered if this was why others often commented about regularly shutting their companions off on occasion and if that somehow made it easier for them to restart later? Neither of them had ever been shut off since first being turned on, that he could recall.

Tying the cloak on, Moon didn’t wait for him to even fix himself to be presentable before telling him to cover his radials and grabbing his arm, pulling the gangly bot to the open doorway that had been there at his back the entire time. Barely through the threshold, hood half on his head, Sun bumped into his brother as Moon came to a sudden, dead stop, nearly toppling over. The jolt seemed to finally knock his system into place as Sun came-to fully, the weight of their situation finally coming into full focus as he found himself staring alongside his brother at a moderately sized creature the color of rust and mud that stood at attention a few lengths away.

It had gruffed at them, a deep, warning rumble, and halted Moon in his tracks; one ear and the opposite foreleg of the beast stood out in oxidized green from the rest of its body, each eye shining a different color in a way that felt incorrect. Had it not been metal, Sun would think it was mismatched like fabric–stitched together parts from different things that wouldn’t otherwise be together. Yet this was a machine.

One of them.

Four legged with pointed ears–the green one flopping at the tip–and jaws lined with small teeth, a pair of canines visible as its lip curled; threatening was definitely applicable, though aggressive didn’t readily come to mind as Sun stared at the creature. Moon’s body tensed against him, pressing Sun back as he took a half step away, though the only place they could go was back into the strange, white room.

The thing matched Moon’s pace, faintly stepping forward and gruffing again, its tail at attention.

Something inside Moon’s messy, corrupted coding urged him to be ready–to crouch–to run. Not away, but at it. A desire to fight, to use what he had at his disposal to remove the threat and make a break for it. It wasn’t fueled by fear, however, as much as he felt he should be afraid of this unknown thing, but simply a calm, decisive, simple notion that he could. That if it was blocking his exit, he should simply remove it.

He knew he could do so.

Somehow.

The chance was short-lived however, as the creature–Moon’s system finally pinged a possible match as a Sirius-class Stellaris unit–managed to draw attention from another metal thing in the area. It drifted down from the sky, golden and glittering, to roost in a tree nearby, its magenta eyes piercing over the distance and making them both feel very, very exposed. This one was also unfamiliar, though if he had to guess it was some sort of Cygnus drone, but one that had far more agency than to just look pretty and pretend to be a bird. No, this one was very much aware of them and had purpose in its gaze.

Sun’s hand squeezed his bicep worriedly, voice weak, “M-m-moon?”

“I know,” he replied, feeling in his core that these were decorations or simply pets roaming the estate.

These were guards.

“Ah.”

The sound nearly made them both jump out of their shells, heads whipping up to the left where more branches twisted well above them.

“So you’re finally awake then.”

It took only a second for the pair to register the human presence that observed them from a platform in the branches; blue eyes peered down at them, cool and unbothered, while their owner leaned their elbows on a railing crudely covered in vines and leaves by overgrown shrubbery. Their hair was a messy clump of ashen blonde, stained deep blue at the tips but partly shaved at the sides as if it had been flocked but grown in over the weeks, with a white tank top and powder-teal shorts barely visible from this angle behind the leaves–hardly the garb of someone intending harm, and yet it took less than a second more for the brothers to notice this person wasn’t simply a human passerby.

Sun’s gaze fixated on the white and blue gleam of ceramastic plating that covered–or made up–their right arm while Moon could only focus on the long shaft of white-stained metal made to lean on the rail, right within reach–he knew it was a gun before he even fully comprehended its shape. A rifle.

He’d never seen one up close before, yet he knew without a doubt it was just that.

“How’re you feeling?”

They were still speaking, their voice flat but polite; they didn’t wait for a reply as they grabbed their armament and descended a staircase the pair didn’t previously notice. As they came closer, the boys noticed they were barefoot and their attire was more appropriate for sleeping or lounging than wandering around outside. Both of them immediately felt their default program trying to register the human presence before they could consider an answer.

//HUMAN DETECTED: SCANNING/

…

/IDENTITY NOT FOUND/

>>Name: unknown_

>>Body data: Female.

>>Age: Unknown_

>>Height: pending_

>>No history of interaction detected.

Stranger.

Stranger.

Moon moved his body to block Sun entirely from their–her?--approach, which gave the stranger pause, seeming to acknowledge his protective intentions.

Ever the affable one, Sun finally answered, “We’re… alright, I think?”

“Good.” The stranger stopped fully next to the mismatched Sirius that hadn’t budged an inch since its warning step. “Now that you can talk…”

She hefted the rifle into her arms and made a very decisive clatter while loading the chamber, her eyes never breaking contact with them.

“You wanna tell me a good reason for landing in my front yard?”

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

Ozone Hole Continues Healing in 2024

A hole that opens annually in the ozone layer over Earth’s southern pole was relatively small in 2024 compared to other years. Scientists with NASA and the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) project the ozone layer could fully recover by 2066.

During the peak of ozone depletion season from September 7 through October 13, the 2024 area of the ozone hole ranked the seventh smallest since recovery began in 1992, when the Montreal Protocol, a landmark international agreement to phase out ozone-depleting chemicals, began to take effect.

At almost 20 million square kilometers (8 million square miles), the monthly average ozone-depleted region in the Antarctic this year was nearly three times the size of the contiguous U.S. The hole reached its greatest one-day extent for the year on September 28 at 22.4 million square kilometers (8.5 million square miles).

The map above shows the size and shape of the ozone hole over the South Pole on the day of its 2024 maximum extent. Moderate ozone losses (orange) are visible amid areas of more potent ozone losses (red). Scientists describe the ozone “hole” as the area in which ozone concentrations drop below the historical threshold of 220 Dobson units.

The improvement is due to a combination of continuing declines in harmful chlorofluorocarbon (CFC) chemicals, along with an unexpected infusion of ozone carried by air currents from north of the Antarctic, scientists said.

In previous years, NASA and NOAA have reported the ozone hole ranking using a time frame dating back to 1979, when scientists began tracking Antarctic ozone levels with satellite data. Using that longer record, this year’s hole ranked 20th smallest in area across the 45 years of observations.

“The 2024 Antarctic hole is smaller than ozone holes seen in the early 2000s,” said Paul Newman, leader of NASA’s ozone research team and chief scientist for Earth sciences at NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center. “The gradual improvement we’ve seen in the past two decades shows that international efforts that curbed ozone-destroying chemicals are working.”

The ozone-rich layer high in the atmosphere acts as a planetary sunscreen that helps shield us from harmful ultraviolet (UV) radiation from the Sun. Areas with depleted ozone allow more UV radiation to reach Earth's surface, resulting in increased cases of skin cancer and cataracts. Excessive exposure to UV light can also reduce agricultural yields as well as damage aquatic plants and animals in vital ecosystems.

Scientists were alarmed in the 1970s at the prospect that CFCs could eat away at atmospheric ozone. By the mid-1980s, the ozone layer had been depleted so much that a broad swath of the Antarctic stratosphere was essentially devoid of ozone by early October each year. Sources of damaging CFCs included coolants in refrigerators and air conditioners, as well as aerosols in hairspray, antiperspirant, and spray paint. Harmful chemicals were also released in the manufacture of insulating foams and as components of industrial fire suppression systems.

The Montreal Protocol was signed in 1987 to phase out CFC-based products and processes. Countries worldwide agreed to replace the chemicals with more environmentally friendly alternatives by 2010. The release of CFC compounds has dramatically decreased following the Montreal Protocol. But CFCs already in the air will take many decades to break down. As existing CFC levels gradually decline, ozone in the upper atmosphere will rebound globally, and ozone holes will shrink.

“For 2024, we can see that the ozone hole’s severity is below average compared to other years in the past three decades, but the ozone layer is still far from being fully healed,” said Stephen Montzka, senior scientist of the NOAA Global Monitoring Laboratory.

Researchers rely on a combination of systems to monitor the ozone layer. They include instruments on NASA’s Aura satellite, the NOAA-20 and NOAA-21 satellites, and the Suomi NPP satellite, jointly operated by NASA and NOAA.

NOAA scientists also release instrumented weather balloons from the South Pole Baseline Atmospheric Observatory to observe ozone concentrations directly overhead. The 2024 concentration reached its lowest value of 109 Dobson units on October 5. The lowest value ever recorded over the South Pole was 92 Dobson units in October 2006.

NASA and NOAA satellite observations of ozone concentrations cover the entire ozone hole, which can produce a slightly smaller value for the lowest Dobson unit measurement.

“That is well below the 225 Dobson units that was typical of the ozone cover above the Antarctic in 1979,” said NOAA research chemist Bryan Johnson. “So, there’s still a long way to go before atmospheric ozone is back to the levels before the advent of widespread CFC pollution.”

View the latest status of the ozone layer over the Antarctic with NASA’s Ozone Watch.

NASA Earth Observatory image by Lauren Dauphin, using data courtesy of NASA Ozone Watch and GEOS-5 data from the Global Modeling and Assimilation Office at NASA GSFC. Story by James Riordon, NASA’s Earth Science News Team.

[justforbooks]

The new tool in the art of spotting forgeries: Artificial Intelligence

Instead of obsessing over materials, the new technique takes a hard look at the picture itself – specifically, the thousands of tiny individual strokes that compose it

In late March, a judge in Wiesbaden, Germany, found herself playing the uncomfortable role of art critic. On trial before her were two men accused of forging paintings by artists including Kazimir Malevich and Wassily Kandinsky, whose angular, abstract compositions can now go for eight-figure prices. The case had been in progress for three and a half years and was seen by many as a test. A successful prosecution could help end an epidemic of forgeries – so-called miracle pictures that appear from nowhere – that have been plaguing the market in avant-garde Russian art.

But as the trial reached its climax, it disintegrated into farce. One witness, arguably the world’s leading Malevich authority, argued that the paintings were unquestionably fakes. Another witness, whose credentials were equally impeccable, swore that they were authentic. In the end, the forgery indictments had to be dropped; the accused were convicted only on minor charges.

The judge was unimpressed. “Ask 10 different art historians the same question and you get 10 different answers,” she told the New York Times. Adding a touch of bleak comedy to proceedings, it emerged that the warring experts were at the wrong end of a bad divorce.

It isn’t a comforting time for art historians. Weeks earlier, in January, the Museum of Fine Arts in Ghent, Belgium, was forced to pull 24 works supposedly by many of the same Russian artists – Kandinsky, Malevich, Rodcheko, Filonov – after the Art Newspaper published an exposé arguing they were all forged. Just days before, there was uproar when 21 paintings shown at a Modigliani exhibition in Genoa, Italy, were confiscated and labeled as fakes. Works that had been valued at millions of dollars were abruptly deemed worthless.

The market in old masters is also jittery after an alarming series of scandals – the greatest of which was that paintings handled by the respected collector Giuliano Ruffini were suspect. A Cranach, a Parmigiano, and a Frans Hals were all found to be forged; institutions including the Louvre had been fooled. The auction house Sotheby’s was forced to refund $10m for the Hals alone. Many experts are now reluctant to offer an opinion, in case they’re sued – which, of course, only intensifies the problem.

Adding fuel to the fire is another development: Wary of being caught, more and more forgers are copying works from the early to mid-20th century. It’s much easier to acquire authentic materials, for one thing, and modern paintings have rocketed in value in recent years.

For many in the industry, it is starting to look like a crisis. Little wonder that galleries and auction houses, desperate to protect themselves, have gone CSI. X-ray fluorescence can detect paint and pigment type; infrared reflectography and Raman spectroscopy can peer into a work’s inner layers and detect whether its very component molecules are authentic. Testing the chemistry of a flake of paint less than a millimeter wide can disclose deep secrets about where and, crucially, when it was made.

“It’s an arms race,” says Jennifer Mass, an authentication expert who runs the Delaware-based firm Scientific Analysis of Fine and Decorative Art. “Them against us.”

But what if you didn’t need to go to all that trouble? What if the forger’s handwriting was staring you in the face, if only you could see it? That’s the hope of researchers at Rutgers University in New Jersey, who have pioneered a method that promises to turn art authentication on its head.

Instead of subjecting works to lengthy and hugely expensive materials analysis, hoping a forger has made a tiny slip – a stray fiber, varnish made using ingredients that wouldn’t have been available in 16th-century Venice – the new technique is so powerful that it doesn’t even need access to the original work: A digital photograph will do. Even more striking, this method is aided by artificial intelligence. A technology whose previous contributions to art history have consisted of some bizarre sub–Salvador Dalís might soon be able to make the tweed-wearing art valuers look like amateurs.

At least that’s the theory, says Ahmed Elgammal, PhD, whose team at Rutgers has developed the new process, which was made public late last year. “It is still very much under development; we are working all the time. But we think it will be a hugely valuable addition to the arsenal.”

That theory is certainly intriguing. Instead of obsessing over materials, the new technique takes a hard look at the picture itself: Specifically, the thousands of tiny individual strokes that compose it.

Every single gesture – shape, curvature, the velocity with which a brush- or pencil-stroke is applied – reveals something about the artist who made it. Together, they form a telltale fingerprint. Analyze enough works and build up a database, and the idea is that you can find every artist’s fingerprint. Add in a work you’re unsure about, and you’ll be able to tell in minutes whether it’s really a Matisse or if it was completed in a garage in Los Angeles last week. You wouldn’t even need the whole work; an image of one brushstroke could give the game away.

“Strokes capture unintentional process,” explains Elgammal. “The artist is focused on composition, physical movement, brushes – all those things. But the stroke is the telltale sign.”

The paper Elgammal and his colleagues November 13, 2017 examined 300 authentic drawings by Picasso, Matisse, Egon Schiele, and a number of other artists and broke them down into more than 80,000 strokes. Machine-learning techniques refined the data set for each artist; forgers were then commissioned to produce a batch of fakes. To put the algorithm though its paces, the forgeries were fed into the system. When analyzing individual strokes, it was over 70% accurate; when whole drawings were examined, the success rate increased to over 80% . (The researchers claim 100% accuracy “in most settings.”)

The researchers are so confident that they included images of originals and fakes alongside each other in the published paper, daring so-called experts to make up their own minds. (Reader, I scored dismally.) One of Elgammal’s colleagues, Dutch painting conservator Milko den Leeuw, compares it to the way we recognize family members: They look similar, but we’re just not sure why. “Take identical twins,” he says. “Outsiders can’t separate them, but the parents can. How does that work? It’s the same with a work of art. Why do I recognize that this is a Picasso and that isn’t?”

The idea of fingerprinting artists via their strokes actually dates back to the 1950s and a technique developed by Dutch art historian Maurits Michel van Dantzig. Van Dantzig called his approach “pictology”, arguing that because every work of art is a product of the human hand, and every hand is different, it should be possible to identify authorship using these telltale strokes.

The problem, though, was that there was too much data. Even a simple drawing contains hundreds or even thousands of strokes, all of which needed to be examined by the human eye and catalogued. Multiply that by every work, and you see how impractical it was.

“It just wasn’t possible to test it,” says den Leeuw, who first became aware of pictology as a student. “I saw many attempts, but mostly it ended in ideas that would never be.”

But can AI now do what humans failed to, and give an art historian’s trained eye some sort of scientific basis? “Exactly,” says den Leeuw. “Very often it’s a gut feeling. We’re trying to unpick the mystery.”

Though Mass says she’s unlikely to throw out her fluorescence gun just yet, she admits to being impressed. “A lot of people in the field are excited by AI It’s not a magic bullet, but it’ll be another tool. And it’s really valuable when you’re dealing with a sophisticated forger who’s got everything else right – paint, paper, filler, all the materials.”

There are issues. So far, the system has been tested mainly on drawings from a handful of artists and a brief time period. Paintings, which generally contain thousands more strokes, are a tougher challenge; older paintings, which might contain numerous layers of restoration or overpainting, are tougher still. “It’s challenging, but it doesn’t mean we can’t do it,” Elgammal says. “I’m confident.”

What about style, though, particularly where an artist changes over time? Think of Picasso’s wildly varying periods – blue, African, cubist, classical – or how in the 1920s Malevich abandoned the elemental abstraction of his black squares for figurative portraits that could almost have been painted by Cézanne (pressure from Stalin was partly responsible).

Another expert, Charles R Johnson, who teaches computational art history at Cornell, is less persuaded – not so much by the AI as by the assumptions that lie behind it. “A big problem is that strokes are rarely individualized,” he says. “Overlap is difficult to unravel. Plus, one must understand the artist’s style changes over their career in order to make a judgment.”

In addition, Johnson argues, many artist’s brushwork is essentially invisible, making it impossible to unpick; it might be better to focus computer analysis on assessing canvases or paper, which can be more rigorously verified. “I remain quite skeptical,” he says.

Elgammal and den Leeuw concede there’s a way to go. Currently they’re working on impressionist paintings – infinitely more complex than Schiele and Picasso line drawings – and hope to publish the results next year. Even with the drawings, the machine can’t yet be left to learn on its own; often the algorithms require human tweaking to make sure the right features are being examined. Artists whose output isn’t large enough to create a reliable data set are also a challenge.

Asking Elgammal if he’s worried about being sued. He laughs, slightly nervously. “That’s something I think about.”

It’s a reasonable question, particularly pressing given the number of fakes that are circulating: What if your database accidentally becomes contaminated? Many people argue that the art market is hopelessly corrupt – so much so that some economists doubt whether calling it a “market” is even fair. Could the algorithm become skewed and go rogue?

“It’s like any system,” Mass agrees. “Garbage in, garbage out.”

Does she think that’s a possibility? How many fakes are out there? “Put it this way,” Mass says, “when I go into auction houses – maybe not the big ones, but smaller, local ones – I think ‘buyer beware.’ It might be between 50 and 70% .”

Rival solutions are coming down the road. Some have proposed using blockchain technology to guarantee provenance – the history of who has owned a work. Others have called for much greater transparency. Everyone agrees that the system is broken; some kind of fix is urgent.

Of course, there are big philosophical questions here. When someone goes to the effort of finding exactly the right 17th-century canvas, dons an antique smock, and paints a near-flawless Franz Hals, it should perhaps make us reconsider what we mean by the words “real” or “fake”, let alone the title of “artist”. Yet the irony is inescapable. It is hard to think of something more human than art, the definition of our self-expression as a species. But when it comes down to it, humans aren’t actually that good at separating forged and authentic in a painting that has all the hallmarks of, say, a Caravaggio but is merely a stunt double. Relying on our eyes, we simply can’t tell one twin from the other. We might even ask: Why do we care?

Forget cars that pilot themselves or Alexa teaching herself to sound less like the robot she is – AI seems to understand the secrets of artistic genius better than we do ourselves.

The irony is that, while machines might not yet might be able to make good art, they are getting eerily good at appreciating it. “Yes, it’s true,” he says thoughtfully. “When it comes to very complex combinations of things, humans are really not so good.” He laughs. “We make too many mistakes.”

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