#maximizing office space

[interiorergonomics]

Functional Workstation Desk Clusters

In what ways can functional workstation desk clusters be thoughtfully designed? Being that they create ergonomic workstations which enhance productivity, they also promote employee well-being by;

addressing individual comfort

Increasing Workspace Capacity

Boost office aesthetics

reducing physical strain

supporting healthy posture throughout the workday

Read More on different office workstation layouts and shapes trending in modern office furniture industry.

[nirvanabuilders]

Maximizing Space and Layout in a Modern Garage Conversion

A garage conversion can breathe new life into an underused space, turning it into a stylish and functional part of your home. Whether you’re creating a home office, guest suite, or cozy living area, a smart approach to layout and space optimization is key. Here’s how to make the most of every inch during your garage remodeling & conversion, ensuring a space that’s practical and welcoming.

Plan for an Open Layout An open layout can make a converted garage feel more spacious and inviting. By minimizing walls and partitions, you can create a versatile space that accommodates different activities. For example, an open-plan living room can double as a home office or workout area. Open layouts are perfect for maintaining a modern aesthetic, allowing light to flow throughout the space and making the room feel larger.

Focus on Multi-Functional Design When space is limited, every feature should serve more than one purpose. In your garage remodeling & conversion, consider incorporating multi-functional furniture like fold-out sofas, Murphy beds, or built-in desks. These pieces allow you to adapt the space based on your needs, whether it’s hosting guests or creating a quiet work-from-home corner. By prioritizing flexibility, you’ll maximize the functionality of your converted space without sacrificing style.

Use Smart Storage Solutions Storage is often a challenge in garage conversions, but with some creative thinking, you can keep the space organized and clutter-free. Consider adding built-in shelving, wall-mounted cabinets, or floating shelves to maximize vertical space. A custom storage wall can hold everything from books to workout gear while keeping the floor area clear. These solutions not only help optimize the layout but also maintain a clean, modern look that’s ideal for any garage remodeling & conversion.

Maximize Natural Light Natural light can transform a garage conversion from a dark, enclosed space into a bright, welcoming area. During your garage remodeling & conversion, consider installing large windows, glass doors, or even skylights to bring in as much natural light as possible. A bright space feels larger and more open, making it ideal for a modern design. If privacy is a concern, opt for frosted or tinted glass to maintain a balance between light and seclusion.

Define Zones Without Walls To keep the open feel while still creating distinct areas, try using design elements like rugs, furniture arrangement, or partial dividers to define different zones. For instance, you can use a sectional sofa to separate a seating area from a workspace, or a bookshelf to create a subtle division between a bedroom nook and a living area. These techniques help maintain flow while giving the space structure, making your garage remodeling & conversion more versatile.

Invest in Proper Insulation and Ventilation Comfort is key when converting a garage into a living space. Since garages are not usually built for living, adding insulation to walls, ceilings, and floors is crucial to maintain a comfortable temperature year-round. Proper ventilation is also important, especially if the space includes a bathroom or kitchen area. A well-insulated and ventilated space not only feels more like home but also ensures that your garage remodeling & conversion adds value to your property.

Choose Space-Saving Fixtures and Appliances If your conversion includes a small kitchenette or bathroom, look for space-saving fixtures that keep things compact without compromising functionality. Wall-mounted sinks, compact appliances, and corner showers can fit seamlessly into tight areas. These choices help free up floor space, allowing you to create a modern, uncluttered look that aligns with the rest of your home’s design.

Blend the Design with the Rest of Your Home For a smooth transition between your converted garage and the main house, use design elements that match your home’s overall style. Whether it’s matching the flooring, paint colors, or hardware finishes, these small touches make the space feel like a natural extension of your home. This attention to detail ensures that your garage remodeling & conversion doesn’t just add space—it enhances the overall flow and aesthetic of your property.

Make It Your Own with Personal Touches Ultimately, your garage conversion should reflect your unique style and needs. Add personal touches like artwork, plants, or custom lighting fixtures to make the space feel warm and inviting. A few well-chosen decorative elements can transform a practical design into a room that feels truly special, making your garage remodeling & conversion a success.

By focusing on layout, storage, and smart design choices, you can turn your garage into a space that’s as functional as it is stylish. With the right approach, your garage remodeling & conversion can provide the perfect blend of modern design and everyday practicality. Ready to start transforming your garage? Begin planning today, and make the most of this exciting opportunity to expand your home’s living space.

[mtcremovalsposts]

[seosubmissions4343]

https://www.3delevate.in/space-interiors-pune.php

[dalehughes6785]

Exploring the Benefits of Claiks L Shaped Electric Desks

Hello everyone!

I recently discovered the amazing range of L shaped electric desks by Claiks, and I couldn't be more excited! These desks are designed to transform your workspace into a more efficient and comfortable environment. With their sleek design and adjustable height features, you can easily switch between sitting and standing to promote better posture and productivity.

Not only do Claiks desks offer functionality, but they also come in various styles to match any office decor. Whether you're working from home or in a corporate setting, an L shaped electric desk can maximize your space and keep you organized.

Have any of you tried the Claiks L shaped electric desk? I would love to hear about your experiences and any tips you might have for setting it up!

[productiveandfree]

Optimizing Your Home Office for Maximum Productivity

Nearly one-third of the U.S. workforce works remotely at least part of the time, which means nearly 91 million people are in need of a workspace in their homes. Suffice it to say that if you are trying to fit a home office into your living space, you aren’t alone.

Your home office doesn’t have to be expensive or extravagant — but it does need to be effective at helping you focus on your tasks. Here is how to put together your home office to maximize productivity:

Choose the Right Space

Ideally, your home office will be quiet, private, and comfortable. The best option for a home office is an unused guest bedroom; the second-best option is another closed-off space away from your home’s high-traffic areas. If you don’t have a bedroom to spare, you might consider transforming a shed or garage into your dedicated workspace. As a last resort, you should carve out a corner of your bedroom, where you have total control over the décor and can close (and perhaps lock) the door against interruptions.

You need to think critically about a space before you select it for your home office. How much time and effort are required to make the space livable? Are there enough outlets to power all your work-from-home tools?  Can you envision yourself happily spending hours on end in the space? If you can, you might try experimenting with different locations, working from a mobile device or laptop, to make sure you fully understand the advantages and disadvantages of each potential home office area before making your decision.

Equip Your Office

Once you have a space picked out, you can begin acquiring and arranging your office furniture. You will need a desk that can accommodate the equipment you regularly use to complete your work, and you will need a desk chair that provides appropriate support for your frame. Likely, you will also need storage solutions to organize paperwork, gadgets, or other bits and bobs necessary to your work.

You might be tempted to invest in office furniture that is trendy or aesthetically pleasing. While the look of your office does matter somewhat — you should strive to create an office space that suits your taste as you will find more enjoyment while working — you should avoid sacrificing function for form. Your objective in acquiring office equipment is to ensure your furniture and tools support your workflow.

Clean and Declutter

A cluttered desk is the sign of a cluttered mind, as the saying goes. Efficiency experts agree that a messy work area impedes one’s ability to focus on the tasks at hand, so when you are setting up your home office, and regularly afterward, you should take the time to clean up.

It should go without saying that you should keep your home office clean with regular chores like vacuuming and dusting. You should also engage in weekly decluttering: primarily filing or throwing away documents and returning gathered objects to other rooms in your home. You should try to keep your desk free of anything you do not need consistently, like a coaster for your beverage or a calendar.

Reduce Distractions

You chose a space far from the hubbub of your home, and you are relentless about reducing clutter — but these aren’t the only distractions that can prevent you from being productive in your home office. If you want to make certain that your mind will focus only on your work, then you might want to consider the following:

Sound. Being physically separate from others doesn’t fully prevent them from interrupting your focus. You might consider soundproofing, especially if your office is in an uninsulated space like a garage or shed. In addition to acoustic panels, you might lay thick rugs and cover windows with heavy curtains, both of which will absorb excess sound.

Air. When you are in a closed room, the air can quickly become stale and polluted by contaminants. You might consider placing an air purifier somewhere in your home office, so you can reduce the likelihood of respiratory irritation, like asthma or allergies, and neutralize irksome odors, both of which might take your mind off your work. Living plants can also help keep your air fresh and clean, though you should try to avoid cluttering your windows or desk with excess greenery.

Media. Your computer, television, and phone are distraction machines. If possible, you should prevent yourself from using these tools in non-work capacities during working hours, perhaps by installing apps that limit your access. If necessary, you may need to store your phone and TV away from your workspace while you are on the clock.

You aren’t the first remote worker to struggle with productivity at home. With tools and strategies to help you focus on your work — and with plenty of practice — you should be able to find a way to function productively in your home office.

Katie Brenneman

Katie is a passionate writer specializing in time management, marketing, and education-related content. When she isn't writing, you can find her with her nose buried in a book or hiking with her dog, Charlie. To connect with Katie, you can follow her on Twitter.

Share in the comments below: Questions go here

[storekar4]

Storekar: Revolutionizing Self-Storage in India

Explore Storekar's innovative self-storage concept in India, offering secure and affordable storage units to maximize your living area. From cherished and valuable items to office documents and fine art, tackle space crunch with nominal monthly rents, end-to-end logistics, and optional packing and pick-up services. Experience clutter-free living in metropolitan cities while ensuring tax compliance. Discover the convenience of Storekar for efficient and secure storage solutions.

[sightseertrespasser]

Odds of Survival part 10 Finale

First contact, take two.

Go check out @keferon as the creator of the AU!

———————————————————————

Prowl stared at the lifeless body on the floor.

Visor dim, chest closed. Were it not for the absolute silence it offered, one might, without listening closely, assume it was merely an unconscious mech.

He ran the numbers again.

Odds of Survival 17%

The edge of his desk pressed a hard line against the backs of his legs and the palms of his servos. A steadily growing back log of frantic comms messages plinked across his processor like marbles rolling down a flight of stairs.

Red Alert: 13 messages and counting.

Velocity: 2 messages.

Elita One: 3 messages. . . 4 messages.

Odds of Survival 15%

Knocking- no, banging at the door. Red Alert, 76%.

Muffled, “Prowl open the door!”

“Answer your comms!”

“What’s happening in there?!”

Red Alert, 99%.

Slowly, Prowl moved his doorwings in a slow arch, quadruple checking that everything in his office was exactly where he needed it to be. Maximizing his chances.

“Open the door. Now.”

Elita (98%) was still speaking to him and not physically breaking into the room by force.

Odds of Survival 20%.

Without looking away from the body, Prowl unlocked the door to his office.

Guarded and cautious, the captain and security officer entered the room. Elita had a weapon drawn, but kept her blaster aimed at the floor, locking onto the body with an iron focus.

Conversely, Red Alert sucked in a vent at the sight, immediately raking his optics over every visible surface, searching frantically for signs of danger.

“What happened-how’d he get in here-who’s he work for-why’d you stop responding-where has he been-WHAT HAPPENED?!”

The mech was practically bouncing off the walls, static crackling with enough excess charge to diffuse the room with a heavy scent of ozone. The only reason Red Alert wasn’t currently tearing the place apart already was the way he looked at every object like a potential improvised explosive.

Ignoring the smaller mech, Elita ordered an answer, “Prowl. Explain. Now.”

His fans were audibly running high. Prowl did nothing to mask the obvious sign of stress. He carefully recited his script.

“Roughly one cycle ago, I rescued an unconscious mech from deep space after he’d fallen from a quintesson gate tear. He was friendly, albeit very unfamiliar with his surroundings. Including some of the very common alien species on board our transport.”

Calmly, Prowl looked up to read the other mechs reactions so far. Elita was remaining mostly focused on the body, but sent a sidelong glance aimed towards the tactician. Meanwhile, Red Alert looked ready to burst, about to interrupt Prowls script.

“You may search my office as I explain.” The security chiefs engine practically growled by the fourth word of being given permission, and dove behind Prowls desk for frantic inspection.

The captain nodded her head for Prowl to continue.

“Over the course of our short time together, I collected more unusual details about this mech. Compiling them in an effort to better understand “Jazz” as he refers to himself.” With a flick, Prowl brought up the conspiracy board for Elita Ones review.

The blue glow helped illuminate the dimmed office interior.

The alternate Functionalist Creation Theory was already deleted, leaving just the alien theory.

“On route towards the pick up location, Jazz, through somewhat clunky common, explained he was built specifically to fight quintessons. This claim immediately became verifiable when we were attacked by a not inconsiderable quintesson force.”

His doorwing twitched another scan.

Without turning around, Prowl knew the exact moment Red Alert discovered Jazz’s shoulder piece he’d stashed in his desk to be found. The sound of sudden disgust followed by a dropped clunk was reassurance enough.

“He then saved my life, multiple times and at significant injury to his own frame, as you are no doubt aware of Captain.” She did in fact look more closely at the fresh welds along the shoulder she’d seen barely clinging on not forty breems ago.

“After sustaining these injuries, I assisted Jazz with some basic field repairs. During which I discovered they had no previous experience with anesthetic and generally seemed to expect significantly harsher treatment than what I would consider “normal or ethical” medical care.”

Prowl vented, nodding towards the screen. “Bluestreak can verify the accuracy of these statements. There are some transcripts of our conversations on the board as well.”

Faintly, Prowl could hear Red Alert mouth the words, “ -don’t always die either, sometimes they just go crazy??” in quiet horror.

Odds of Survival 25%

The increase steadied Prowl slightly as he continued. “On our way to the medbay, Jazz expressed some anxiety over being treated by a professional. He-“

The praxian swallowed.

Prowl couldn’t really act, but luckily he didn’t have to. “He requested not be restrained or sedated, and gave- permission, to use force against him if he did become.. ungovernable.”

For the first time, Prowl released a servo from the desk and used it to gesture broadly to the whole situation.

It fell somewhat limp at his side.

“Velocity preformed the necessary repairs, noting a sudden decline in Jazz’s language capabilities as well as strong evidence for prior medical abuse.”

“Shortly afterwards, Jazz temporarily fled the medbay.”

That eleven letter word was a load bearing component of Jazz’s survival.

Some of the tension returned to the room as they were all reminded of the inciting incident. Prowl had significant practice in withdrawing his emotions, and now more than ever did he need to appear neutral.

“Jazz escaped by utilizing a strong magnetic grip to both damage the locks as well as scale the ceiling through the blind spots of the cameras. He traveled only a short distance into Rune’s office, where the therapist was able to talk him down somewhat. Jazz then sought to “tell me something important” encountering Whirl along the way.”

Red Alert had finished tearing apart Prowls desk, and was now carefully inching his way closer to the body still on the floor. Hesitantly, as if it could strike without warning.

Prowl resisted the urge to tense.

“Both mechs can corroborate the timeline. Shortly after, I discovered Jazz lost in the halls and brought him to the nearest room I had control over. My office.”

Inspecting the frame for subspace pockets it didn’t have, the security chief crackled lightly with frustration.

Snippily, Red Alert snapped at him, “So the oil pot got you alone, in your office no less, under the pretenses of distress JUST like I said he would.”

“Red Alert.” The smaller mech jolted but looked his Captain in the optics. Elita One held a steady, cold Calm over the room. Her field not to be overruled. “Have you found anything yet?”

“Well, no. But I haven’t looked everywhere.”

The Captain silenced him with a raise of her hand. “Then finish your search, and Prowl will finish his report.”

She nodded for them both to resume their parts.

Odds of Survival 33%

The tactician nodded gratefully in return.

“Jazz was behaving irrationally. Nervous. Confused. He made statements that didn’t make sense and given his helm injury, I had strongly suspected he was crashing. Or his species equivalent to it.”

Prowl watched very carefully as Red Alert finished his search, faster than expected. The total lack of any signs of life coupled with the mention of crashing made the mech’s optics go impossibly wide. “Did he- is he?”

Prowl passively waved his servo at the body. “He’s not dead, although by cybertronian standards it may appear that way. This state is relatively normal from what Velocity has noted.”

“So if you thought he was having a medical emergency, why didn’t you call for help?” The captain didn’t quite relax, but did seem to accept Jazz wasn’t going to spring up at any moment.

No no no no. Please god no.

Prowl snapped out of the memory. Once more resetting his optics.

“He. . asked me not to. I chose not to risk agitating him or his injury further.” Prowl’s wings twitched minutely, tracking Red Alerts movement towards Greens habitat.

“And then?”

“He confessed to me he was an alien.” Prowl stated mirthlessly.

For the first time Elita took her eyes off the body, cycling her optics and turning towards Prowl, who could only press his mouth into a thin line.

“Jazz was totally unaware he was completely isolated on an unknown alien vessel. At least until very recently.” Prowl finished.

There was a flicker of some other emotion through Elita’s field. He’s had enough people pity him to recognize the sensation.

A yelp from Green’s habitat had both Prowl and Elita One rounding on Red Alert. The mech was clutching his servo like it’d been lacerated.

“It tried to bite me! It tried to bite me!”

Sure enough, a low throaty hiss emanated from the top of Green’s enclosure. The flyt glared down over the edge of her highest platform at the short mech. Her crest and throat were flushed a dark purple with territorial fury.

“An erratic mech is forcibly intruding on her personal space. The urge to bite is a sympathetic one.” Prowl growled, stood in the center of his completely overturned office.

“Leave the damn flyt alone Red. Prowl, get to the fragging point.” At last, Elita holstered her weapon, glowering at them both.

Odds of survival 45%

The tactician turned back to the captain, “Between the shock, exhaustion and his injuries, I believe Jazz went into his species version of an involuntary shutdown. I have done everything I can to stabilize him from crashing.”

He rubbed his helm where his own would-be crash had wanted to form, “I have the relevant experience.”

Elita One studied Prowls face with a piercing gaze. Narrowing slightly.

“Why did you stop responding to comms for almost a full breem?”

His fans still running on high, helm burning and sensor net itching, Prowl put all his will into suppressing any exhaustion born sass.

“I nearly crashed.”

“You nearly crashed.” Elita reiterated.

Prowl nodded.

The captain considered this for a time.

“Red Alert, I want this ship deep cleaned. Full search and scan from top to bottom. Get the ceilings covered and figure out something for the locks to counter the super magnet situation.”

Optics brightening to luminosity of head lights, Red Alert stammered in reply, “E-even your quarters Captain?”

Elita looked like she was contemplating the taste of a fistful of nails, rolling her optics as she grit out, “Yes. This one time, and you explicitly do not have permission to place any form of surveillance inside.”

Red Alert saluted so hard he left a dent.

“YES CAPTAIN I WON’T MAKE YOU REGRET THIS CAPTAIN THANK YOU CAPTAIN!”

“Go!”

The red mech had his sirens blaring before his tires even hit the ground. Leaving the remaining mechs almost alone.

The sound of Elita One’s peds clacking against the metal floor made Prowl’s wings twitch.

Arms crossed, she stared the praxian down.

“Tell me everything you just redacted.”

Prowl did not immediately respond, still staring down at the body on the floor. His doorwings rotated satellite slow.

Without a word, Prowl took his weight off of the desk, walking up to Greens enclosure, where he gently pushed the flyt aside and collected what was hidden beneath her.

“This-“ Prowl cupped his servos around a small white and blue form, “is Jazz.”

——————

The logic cascade nearly consumed him.

Prowl was holding Jazz’s spark.

Jazz.

The mecha’s chest plate had opened. Revealing only the faintest glow within, washed out entirely by the harsh overhead lights of Prowls office.

Irrationally, Prowls higher functioning stalled out and his processor defaulted to some spark deep coding to make sense of what was happening.

He’s exposing his spark. He’s showing me his spark and he’s still crashing.

He’s going to crash and die with his fragging spark out in my office Oh fragging Primus Not here not like THIS.

A ringing.

Shrill and strangled. A dissonant sting.

An EM field.

Jazz’s EM field.

Faint. Faint but sharp, like an almost invisible shard of glass that only becomes known once it’s lodged itself beneath your armor.

The scream warbled and popped like a blown radio speaker. Some-thing fell forward from Jazz’s chassis.

His spark his spark his spark is falling out of his chest.

Jerking forward on instinct, Prowl cupped his servos and caught what wasn’t a spark- that’s not a spark this is NOT A SPARK.

A body, limp and silent. Tissue paper light in the way only non-metallic life forms can be.

It’s in his servos it’s in his servos it’s in his ser>%$.

Prowl was static. From his mind to his body. Pure static. Frozen yet screaming internally on his knees, staring down at everything that made Jazz alive.

He held the Spark-body-organic-not spark- Spark-SPARK-SPARK-ITS NOT JAZZ-NOT A SPARK ITS \#}>%*!? JAZZ-IT IS JAZ%-IT IS-IT IS- in his servos.

Gently.

Sparks Organics were very fragile.

He knew that. Prowl held onto that. Gently. Very gently.

He slotted the simple equation into place.

How to keep Jazz not-spark alive.

Odds of Survival. . .

——————

The weight in his palms felt imaginary. Too small to be real.

Yet here was Elita One as his witness. Thrown Off was a look seldom worn by the Captain and it was clearly an uncomfortable fit.

“This is Jazz?” She echoed Prowl, reaching out a servo to the unconscious whatever Jazz was.

The praxian stiffened, manually canceling the move to pull Jazz away from the other mechs reach. He didn’t, however, quite manage to cancel his vocalizer, a “Please be careful.” busting out despite himself.

Elita shot him an affronted look, plucking Jazz from his servos. “I know how to not kill an organic Prowl.”

She turned her servo over, using her thumb to roll the alien onto its back. “You let me hold Green.” She muttered.

“Green is much larger and I actually know what she is.” He was hovering, Prowl knew he was hovering and that Elita hated it when people hovered but it was really just a race to see who pissed off who first right now.

“Okay, okay, so what’s wrong with.. this one?”She gestured with the digit she was using to prod Jazz, closely examining the unconscious organic.

Not for the first time that day, Prowl rubbed a servo over his head, “I-I am unsure. It’s incredibly faint but he is breathing. I did mean it when I said I think he fainted from shock and possibly exhaustion. Organics typically require rest and fuel much more frequently than us and Jazz was extremely active for a highly extended period of time.”

Prowl cleared his vents, “At least, compared to a flyt. I do not have many other data points for comparison.”

Considering this, Elita frowned at the aliens inorganic casing and then at the motionless mecha on the floor. Definitely an aesthetic match. She considered something for a moment, frowning.

“Do you- Ew, ew, it’s twitching. Take it. Take it back.”

Not quite panicking, Elita effectively half-tossed half-dropped the alien back into Prowls anxious servos.

For several long and ancient clicks, neither mech moved, holding perfectly still as the alien shifted in Prowls servos.

Holding him like this, Prowl can feel Jazz’s field again. Faintly, like the sound of rustling branches on the edge of conscious hearing, the field tickled his palms. Unlike the mecha, Jazz’s visor wasn’t opaque, allowing Prowl to see the faint scrunch of his face and the way it smoothed out again once back in Prowl’s care.

His field dropped back into a near silent whisper.

Prowl made a ball of his servos, sealing off Jazz from anything else that might happen.

“We can set them up in a holding cell or something.” Elita said quietly, flicking her hand in exasperation. “Maybe under a glass bowl. I’ll arrange for someone else to handle questioning.”

The praxian straightened up at that, looking back to his captain, “Sir, I am the best suited to question Jazz.”

Arms crossing, Elita One gave Prowl an appraising look. “You said so yourself that you nearly just crashed. Why can’t anyone else do it?”

Nodding in understanding, Prowl pitched his counter argument, “As it stands, I have the best rapport with him. The only other mechs Jazz has met is Bluestreak, Velocity and yourself.”

“Jazz gets along with Bluestreak, however my brother is not well suited for interrogations.” Which wasn’t entirely true, Prowl kept to himself. Subjecting detainees to Bluestreaks small talk for several groons frequently made said individuals much more receptive to questioning by subsequent officers.

That currently didn’t help however.

“Velocity is a medic, which Jazz is terrified of and has zero experience with interrogations.” The knowledge of where this chaos began was still fresh. Fresher still was Prowl’s memory of Jazz pleading to not wake up on a table.

“And I mean no offense captain, but the last time Jazz saw you, you had threatened to rip off one of his arms and beat him with it.” Elita shrugged and gave Prowl a “Fair Enough” look.

“Statistically speaking, Jazz is most likely to answer honestly to someone he considers an ally. Regardless of how others may view my reputation, Jazz did specifically choose me to explain himself to before he lost consciousness.”

Venting, Elita considered the facts and stepped slightly closer. Prowl held his posture as formally as he could despite how his servos were positioned. The harsh look in his captains optics softened only slightly hearing his fans continue on high power.

“Are you sure you can handle this? Medically speaking?”

In a rare break of form, Prowl let his doorwings sink to a less physically taxing position. “The initial shock has passed. I will not crash.”

Probably. 67%.

Breaking eye contact, Prowl stared at the mess of data pads now scattered on his office floor. 85% of which was commissioned work directly from Megatron.

“I do not know how long it will take for Jazz to wake up. I do know I will not be very effective at my job until this is resolved.”

Finally stepping back, Elita had the look of someone using comms. “Officially, I’m putting you on medical leave for the next couple cycles. Megatron will have to make his own poor decisions for awhile.”

She paused by the body. “What do we do with this?”

It was heavier than it looked. Prowl knew now from experience. The mechs needed to remove it would add to the list of possible loose ends to an already sensitive situation.

“We can leave it for now. I will not allow Jazz access to it until I am more certain of his intentions.”

She hummed in response. Eyeing where Jazz was currently contained, Elita made her way to the door, “I need to go do damage control, alert me the instant their condition changes. Yours too.”

“Understood. And thank you. For listening.”

Awkwardly, Prowl looked anywhere but the captain, and Elita wordlessly waved him off. Both mechs quickly abandoned the moment of mutual care and thankfulness in favor of their usual personas.

Soon enough, Elita was gone.

Cracking open his hold, Prowl peeked at his alien charge.

Still sleeping.

Almost imperceptibly, Prowl could make out the slight rhythmic expansion of his chest. Limbs tucked close, Jazz was loosely curled on his side into a ball, showing no signs of waking.

Odds of Survival 63%.

The gauntlet was over, now it was all up to Jazz.

——————

Prowl lay slumped over on his desk.

His arms fenced in a pile consisting of every instant cold pack he kept in his office, which were currently arranged to completely bury his head.

After two and a quarter groons, the packs were mostly room temperature but the way they blocked out most light and sound was nice.

The door to Green’s habitat was left open. It was a risky move but a pleasant surprise that the flyt chose cuddles over consumption in regards to the small alien. Prowl hadn’t counted on her getting protective over the fellow organic, but it was certainly a relief.

Placing Jazz back in Greens nest seemed the safest option at the time. Soft but contained. Green certainly had no qualms and arranged herself as she saw fit. Prowl figured she must know more than him about this and let her be.

Currently, the flyt had started trilling happily. Prowls doorwings twitched. Scanning the room for the umpteenth time before relaxing again.

The only other sounds were the noises the Lost Light usually produced and Prowls own body functions.

It was quiet. As quiet as his office normally was anyways. The flyt continued her quiet song.

Actually, Green was trilling very loudly right now.

Then, Prowl picked up on a second, much stranger pitch.

Speech. Specifically speech in the tone of cooing.

Rising from his mountain of maladaptive coping, Prowl lethargically turned his helm to the habitat. The cooing continued unawares.

Standing now, Prowl looked into Greens nest to see what was going on.

The flyt had her beak almost tucked against her belly, forehead pressed against Jazz’s chest.

Awake, and lying on his back, the alien was reaching around the flyts comparatively massive head to scritch and scratch at the back of her neck. Paying special attention to the crease where Green’s crest met her head, causing the flyt to trill like crazy.

All the while, the alien matched her vocal tone, speaking absolute nonsense in his native language. {D’aww you like that big guy? Yes you do! You’re just a giant love bug aren’t you?}

It took a couple tries, but after several resets Prowl believed his optics were working.

The alien noticed him at last and smiled at him from around Green. “Oh hey Prowler!”

“Are-“ his voice clipped.

Resetting his vocalizer this time, Prowl tried again, “You are remarkably calm right now.”

Not stopping his ministrations, Jazz hummed nonchalantly, “Well yeah, s’not like this is real.”

Prowl felt he had underestimated Jazz’s capacity to screw with his head.

“What.” He searched for any signs that he had fallen into defrag. Finding none.

“You think this isn’t real?” Prowl asked incredulously.

Jazz raised an eyebrow, smiling at the tactician.

“Prowl. Babydoll. I’m petting a {dinosaur.}”

He said with the most “you serious right now?” look reserved for only the most ridiculous of questions.

Prowl, might, kill Jazz himself.

Very hide-able body.

Very feasible.

He’s hidden bigger.

Instead, Prowl schooled his emotions. He would not, under any circumstances, allow himself to loose control like he did during Jazz’s confession.

Bringing his servos together as if he was a praying mech, Prowl calmly asked, “Why do you think this isn’t real?”

Jazz shrugged, “I mean, which is more likely? That I fell through a space spanning portal only to be rescued by some handsome alien who’s entire species just so happens to look exactly like mechas? Or that going through that portal permanently damaged something in here?”

The alien pointed at his own head for emphasis, carrying on, “And this is all some end of life {hallucination} my brain came up with where I’m actually fine, dinosaurs are pet-able and robots turn into cars.”

Prowl stopped Tacnet before it could take the prompt. Because it would calculate those odds, it would agree with Jazz, and then Prowl would crash for real this time.

“Well then can you at least pretend this is actually happening?” He was getting angry. He was getting angry again and he needed to stop before he did any more damage.

His doorwings and servos shook from how tightly he was holding them. He would stay calm. He would stay calm.

His field was seeping out again, but Prowl now knew from experience that trying to stop it now would just cause whatever hold he had on it to break loose.

[PROWL]: Jazz is awake. I am handling it]

[ELITA-1]: Keep me appraised]

[ELITA-1]: If Jazz turns out to be a liability he’s gone, and you’re going to scour the outside of the shop for all those “listening devices” Red Alert is now freaking out about]

The cold packs had done wonders earlier and Prowl was about to undo all the good they’d done.

He let the anger stay but cool into something usable. “Listen to me.”

Prowl leaned in just close enough to feel the bare hint of Jazz’s field. It was still incomprehensible but maybe he’d understand Prowl’s.

“My boss is currently demanding to know what you and your intentions are, and if I can’t provide a satisfactory answer we’re both going out of an airlock.” Prowl hissed.

Jazz stilled.

He looked over Prowl again, then back to Green. A melody Prowl hadn’t been aware of juttered to a stop, and that reedy dissonant sting reappeared. The alien looked down wide eyed at Green, slowly raising his hands away from the massive animal.

“Oooooh Fuck me this is actually real.”

The wonderful scritches having suddenly stopped, Green clicked unhappily and shoved her forehead more forcefully against Jazz’s chest.

The alien wheezed as all the air in his body was forced out, eyes bulging and panicked. Jazz began rapidly tapping Greens head, trying to speak without breath, “Help. Help help help help help.”

“Green! To me!”

The flyt thankfully followed the hurried command, only needing to flap once to clear the distance between her nest and Prowls pauldron. The sudden gust of wind had Jazz jerking into a ball at the gale force buffeting.

Lightly keeping one servo on his flyt, Prowl leaned in close as he could to check Jazz over for damages.

No bodily fluids leaking, no screaming, still breathing. Good.

Jazz uncurled slowly, making intense eye contact as he pulled air back into his body.

He coughed, “Uh, hi.”

“Hello.” Prowl unconsciously copied the motion, clearing a vent, “Are you hurt?”

Jazz patted his chest in a few places, “Nothing broken. A little dizzy but I’ve felt worse.”

A little bit of relief went a long way right now, and Prowl pretty much sagged with it. “Good. Right. Now, if you could describe what insane circumstances resulted with you, inside of that, I would greatly appreciate an explanation.”

Prowl waved his free servo over to the mecha still on the floor. He didn’t miss the way Jazz’s eyes lit up seeing it and the following look of concentration as he suddenly realized how high up he was.

“Right, right. Okay, I’ll try.” Jazz swung his legs over the side of the nest, needing his arms to keep himself upright.

Idly, Prowl pet Green to keep her content on his shoulder, as Jazz centered himself to try and bridge the gap of misunderstanding.

———

About a decade and a half ago, my world started to end.

Giant fuck-off aliens descended across the Earth, destroying everything in their paths. They didn’t know the difference between cities and savannas, just plowed on through from one to the other. Maybe they actually did but it just wasn’t a difference that mattered.

That all changed once we fought back.

Conventional weapons worked at first, but then they started sending bigger, faster and meaner motherfuckers. The first wave didn’t care, just dug around in random places.

But the second wave?

We were fucked.

The biggest problem was that the thing’s barely cared what was attacking them. Civilian casualties skyrocketed. Fighter planes couldn’t keep their attention and tanks couldn’t maneuver well enough through the shattered landscape.

There was one thing the fuckers never seemed to ignore though.

Statues. Big ones.

Christ the Redeemer, The Statue of Liberty, if it was huge and human shaped the invaders would B-line for them.

One day some genius pitched the idea of J-Boy and Lady Libs bitch slapping some aliens, and most of the world was at the “Fuck It” stage anyways.

Next thing we know, there’s this, gigantic, fuckin’ robot stumbling around the West Coast.

The first ever mecha.

Built from hopes and dreams and I think a couple decommissioned battle ships, the Vanguard had one real job.

Draw away the invaders, take hits and probably blow up.

Story goes that one of the pilots decided this wasn’t going to be a suicide mission anymore.

They fought, and they won.

San Francisco. The first city to have more living than dead after an attack. My home.

After that day? The mecha program was officially formed. More mechas were made, more pilots were trained, and ten years later we’ve fought the invaders to a standstill.

Someone finally suggests taking the fight to them, and bada bing bada boom ya boy Jazz is getting shot into space.

———

“Then a, what was it, a quintessential showed up.”

“Quintesson.” Prowl corrected through his servos.

“Thank you! I kicked it in the face, we fell through the tear into some kind of command center. Everybody freaked out, somebody reactivated the portal machine thingy and well, you know the rest!” Jazz at last stopped emoting with his hands, letting them come to rest on his lap. His story complete.

Prowl had to get a chair halfway through.

He was not going to crash.

He fragging wasn’t.

The fact that his face was buried in his servos and that Green was anxiously trying to preen his chevron meant nothing.

He listened to Jazz say one insane thing, and put a pin in it. He then heard a second insane thing, and added a second, larger pin.

And so on.

There where quite a lot of pins at this point and Prowl wasn’t entirely sure how to grab just one without poking himself on another.

His fans were on again.

The tactician wiped his servos down his face, “Who- who are your allies? How many planets does your kind control?”

Meeting his gaze, Jazz frowned. “Do you mean alien allies? Cause no, it’s just us. One people, one planet.” He said holding up a solitary finger.

Currently Jazz was sat on the floor, leaning against Greens nest. Earlier, the pilot had tried to stand briefly but nearly collapsed. Waving off Prowl’s concern with an “I’m fine! This is normal.”

One. More. Pin.

“Hell, you’re the first alien I’ve ever met that didn’t want me dead.”

Shaking his helm in disbelief, Prowl started cutting back logic branches that’d surely result in a cascade. “This, this is a lot to process.”

Jazz had the audacity to laugh, “Hey, you’re tellin’ me.”

Eyes roving Prowl’s frame, Jazz sat up a bit straighter as they realized something.

The alien rubbed the back of his neck, “Uh, I’d like to also apologize. For what happened earlier.”

Resting his elbows on his knees, the space around Prowl’s optics tightened, “Yes. Well, I did not behave in a manner I will ever be particularly proud of either. I assure you I do not usually loose control like that.”

“I hope you can forgive me.” Staring at the floor between his peds, Prowl’s doorwings fell low in apology. He was so caught up in his own self righteous rage he’d screamed down at a mech who’d needed him. Who trusted him.

Jazz however, just seemed confused. “What? You didn’t do anything wrong, I was the one getting all handsy on the bridge.”

The praxian snapped up straight.

“Right. That. I also, yes. That.”

“In my defense,” Jazz raised his hands and bowed his head, “I thought you were a guy in a suit like me. Didn’t know I was actually grabbing the real you.”

Resetting his vocalizer, he spoke much more quietly. “Yes, well. It was an understandable mistake.”

“Still would though.”

“What?”

“What?”

They stared at each other in silence for several clicks.

For all his expressiveness, Jazz had a way of totally shutting off any visible tells the second he wanted to. The only tell of any kind was a practiced deceptively neutral smile beneath his visor. His mouth twitched.

The silence finally broke when Jazz growled.

Immediately leaning back defensively, Prowl wrinkled his nose when Jazz started laughing like crazy, snorting a bit before finally loosing steam.

Taking deep breaths, Jazz closed his eyes.

“Sorry, sorry, that wasn’t directed at you. My stomach does that when I haven’t eaten in a while.” He rolled his head over to look at Prowl, eyes peeking back open. “Could’ya help me back to my mecha? I’ve got some rations in there.”

Prowl was already moving his servo inside before he could think better of it. From there, Jazz did not so much climb as he did roll over onto Prowls open palm. Sitting crisscrossed.

Something faintly like a pleasant hum touched his field.

Once out of the enclosure, the tactician studied the now conscious creature curiously. Bright eyed and without hiding it, Jazz studied him as well. A melody he didn’t recognize played against the pulse of his wrist.

He found that if he turned Jazz just the right way, the light from the theory board would turn his visor opaque. Every time he turned Jazz back, the visor cleared, and the subtle shock of sudden eye contact had him repeating the motion. Prowl got lost in trying to find the exact angle where Jazz was halfway between hidden and revealed.

Every time he did, Jazz would shift almost imperceptibly. Hidden and revealed again at his own discretion.

They stood there together, longer than either had expected.

Eventually, it was Prowl’s turn to break the silence, “You trust me. Why?”

Finally moving towards the mecha, there must have been some proximity sensor on Jazz’s person that triggered the chest plates to open.

Wings fluttering, Prowl subconsciously averted his gaze as Jazz scooted off his servo and into the cavity. The sound of tiny boots clanking.

Still not looking, he heard Jazz answer, “Breaking it down into three layers, there’s number one: I don’t exactly have any other options.”

A quick doorwing scan revealed the incredibly complex interior of Jazz’s suit, which somehow felt even more inappropriate than openly staring. Prowl pinned his wings together and stared resolutely at the ceiling.

“Number two: If you were going to kill me, you would have by now.” The sound of Jazz rustling around in their mecha abruptly stopped as the pilot spoke to Prowl more directly. “Hey, you good?”

Determined not to address this right now, Prowl simply shook his head. “I’m fine. Continue.”

He could almost hear Jazz thinking at this point, “Oooh right, the open chest cavity is probably pretty gross for you huh?”

Prowl squinted harder at the ceiling, “Not. Exactly.”

Jazz made some sort of noise of interest but thankfully choose to leave it for now. Instead, Prowl felt him clamber back onto his servo and heard the chest plates close back up.

Prowl finally looked back down at the human who’d gathered a backpack full of supplies. He carried him back to his desk and sat, releasing the small alien and leaning down low to look him in the face.

Jazz smiled back at him, “Reason number three: I like you.”

Prowl reset his optics and swore that made Jazz smile even harder. “Why?”

“Beats me.” Jazz shrugged, pulling out some ration packages.

“It’s probably a bunch of little things all added together. Super smart, fun to piss off, likes animals, can hold down a job, didn’t freak out and squash me like a bug. Hard to say for certain, but yeah, I like you.”

That was an exceptionally rare opinion to hear.

Gradually, Prowl began to feed all the information Jazz had provided into Tacnet in an effort to focus on more productive things.

There was an alien species capable of monumental destruction currently at war with the quintessons. Jazz liked him. Jazz held a favorable opinion of Prowl and could possibly be convinced to view Cybertronians in general with similar affability. Jazz was a fantastic ally on the field. There were multiple other fighters like Jazz on his home planet. They might also be convinced to “like” cybertronians.

The entire reason Prowl had been in deep space that cycle was because he was on a mission to find potential allies with other alien civilizations.

On the transport back, Prowl had written the mission off as an abject failure. Organics generally either hated Cybertronians, or feared them to the point of uselessness.

And yet.

Prowl crossed his arms on the table, getting more comfortable.

[PROWL]: My original mission has become a tentative success]

[PROWL]: Jazz has been cooperative so far, and if we can verify everything he’s told me, we could potentially form a highly favorable alliance with his people]

[ELITA-1]: He’s not freaked out about being tiny and squish-able any more? How’d you get him to talk?]

[PROWL]: I simply listened. He’s a shameless flirt]

[ELITA-1]: What]

[PROWL]: I will elaborate later. I am technically on medical leave still]

[ELITA-1]: Prowl what]

A rare sense of smugness filled Prowls field. He watched as Jazz played keep-away with Green for his limited rations. To give him some peace, he recovered the flyt, and Prowl set his mind to finding this Earth as soon as possible.

———

Jazz folded his hands behind his head, staring blankly at the star map.

“So?” Prowl prompted.

The human looked relaxed, maybe almost disinterested, however that dissonant ringing sting was back in his field. “I have no idea what I’m looking at.”

Fine. Fine. This was fine.

The map probably wasn’t formatted in a way Jazz was used to viewing. Prowl skipped around through a few other maps, landing on some deep space photographs instead. “Okay, well, what’s the farthest your species has traveled into space?”

“Our planets moon.” Jazz smiled in a tight-eyed sort of way with too many teeth.

Prowl stalled out, “I- How?!? How does your species have the technological development to create drivable weapons shaped like people but you lack the technology to reach past your own moon? What method of space travel are you using where the moon is the limit?”

“Big missiles.”

The tactician slowly raised his servos to his face.

“Jazz.”

“Yeah Prowler?” He said with faux casualness.

“When you said that you, and I quote, “got shot into space.” Prowl took a long deep vent. “You were being literal?”

At the very least Jazz had the decency to look sheepish. Risking a glance, he saw Prowl’s irises spinning like crazy again.

The tactician brought his chevron back down to his most used pillow, his desk. He crossed his arms over his helm for good measure, willing his helm to not explode.

What kind of demented species was so overly specialized for combat that projectile explosives were considered a reasonable form of transportation?

. . .The same kind that can hold off a Quintesson invasion by themselves.

He needed Jazz. The whole Decepticon movement needed that alliance with his people. They were spread too thin. Too many enemies. Not enough support.

Megatron barely approved Elita-one’s proposal to attempt to establish trade relations with known organic civilizations. And only under the condition that the trade heavily favored the Decepticons.

But these were fellow combatants. For all the high command’s xenophobia, they at least respected exceptional acts of violence.

It was a solution just out of reach.

Earth was presumably located on the edge of the Quintessons territory. Given the necessity of using rifts to approach the planet, there was likely a dedicated Quintesson Gate Station somewhere within the Human’s solar system. When asked to describe the type of Star his planet orbited, Jazz answered with a less than helpful “Yellow.”

If roughly 18% of the average galaxy had yellow stars, then that would still be around 80 billion stars. Even excluding stars without Earth sized planets, that’s easily still twenty billion different stars in just one galaxy. If they could somehow accurately survey up to 8 planets per breem, it would take a little over 761 Vorns to finishing sweeping one galaxy under Quintesson control.

Assuming the Quintessons didn’t kill them first that is.

He’d need to find another way.

The human blew a raspberry after Prowl didn’t move for a good forty seconds. “Are you calculating our “Odds of Survival” again?”

Peeking through his forearms, the praxian squinted at him, Tacnet whirling away, “No. Just yours.”

“Ah, gotcha.” Jazz, who was feeling much better after eating properly, expertly slipped past Prowls barrier a breath away from his face.

“Is it more than zero?” He said leaning back against Prowls arm.

“It’s a decimal point.” Prowl muttered. “With many, many zeroes before the point.”

And now those damn sounds were back again.

It had to be Jazz’s field, there was no other correlation.

It was always on the edge of perceptibly, like a song playing in another room. Prowl had to constantly check he wasn’t imagining things, because EM fields did not make sounds and yet here was Jazz, breaking everything he knew about what was possible.

Currently, the field brought to mind a steady smooth hand on a bowed instrument. A couple notes plucked in a major key.

“Then I’ll survive.”

Scrunching his brow, Prowl pulled away so he didn’t go cross eyed looking at the little impossibility. “That’s not how this works. Your odds of survival are microscopic, Jazz.”

“Buuut there’s a chance yeah?” Jazz pulled himself up to sit on Prowls forearm. “It’s more than zero, and I’ve worked with zero.”

Prowl tapped his digits, “We’ll have to convince the captain and her crew to keep you aboard.”

“I’m effortlessly charming.” He winked.

“Everything will be dangerous for you here.” Prowl pointed out.

“Everything already was.” Jazz shrugged.

He wiped a servo down his face, not even sure why he was arguing with him, “It’s going to be statistically impossible.”

“Prowl.” Jazz stood, “I am impossible.”

The silence ran to the Earth and back.

Neither broke the eye contact, waiting for the other to break first. Desperately, Prowl needed something to keep Jazz from making him crash. This could not become a pattern.

Quickly, he considered every data point he’d collected on the pilot, and compiled it into an extremely temporary equation.

<< Jazz + [Odds of Survival] = 99% >>

Something in Tacnet wound down finally, and Prowl actually relaxed. It was a lie. But it was a lie that Tacnet didn’t need to know about. For now.

Automatically, Prowl held out a servo and Jazz hopped on.

“Finally believe in me?” He said, lightly grasping his thumb as a hand hold.

“No, but it will literally kill me if I don’t try.”

Prowl turned down the hall, trying to ignore the subtle auditory hallucination of an energetic leitmotif. Picking up a little speed despite himself.

“Before anything else can be done, we need to make our case. Are you ready Jazz?”

“This is something straight out of a TV show Prowler. Hell yeah I’m ready.”

Together they would face the music.

———————————————————————

Coda

———

Humanity’s Finest: “Yeah we don’t know why but for some reason these things just fucking hate giant metal people.”

Jazz, being introduced to Cybertronians: “I have a theory.”

1 Breem = 8 minutes

1 Groon = 320 minutes or 5.3 hours

1 cycle = 16 groons or 3.5 days

1 vorn = 50 years

Well how about that. What was started as a four parter evolved into ten.

This’ll be where I’ll leave Jazz and Prowl off for a time. Other stories wait in line.

Thank you to everyone who’s followed along for this and a special thank you to @keferon for laying the groundwork for the story and for @glitchgh0sty’s absolutely amazing fanart of Odds of Survival.

Still crazy to me how much talent and care random folks can put into things to share with one another.

Also huge shoutout to the people who leave comments! You guys are awesome and hearing about all the stuff that sticks out to you or made you go crazy really does help me as a writer! I learn things! Woo!

Thank you all for reading, and I wish for each of you a very high Odds of Survival.

-SSTP

<- First

[dlyarchitecture]

[noirandchocolate]

RICE Alzheimer's Research Institute

Terry died on 12 March 2015, having given his PCA a run for its money.  Open about his diagnosis, he has helped to unlock the secrecy and stigma that often surrounds dementia.  His legion of fans is undoubtedly grateful that despite the inevitable progression of the PCA he was able to fight his ‘embuggerance’ and continue to produce a number of both well-received and well-reviewed books.  Terry was also a great example to me in emphasizing how important it is that, in caring for people with any type of dementia, we always look for what people with a condition like PCA can still do, rather than what they can’t: by maximizing what is possible, a person can still live well with dementia for a significant time.

–Professor Roy Jones, Director of RICE (taken from “Terry Pratchett: His World”)

I wanted to post something for the Glorious 25th about the Research Institute for the Care of Older People (RICE) in Bath, where Sir Terry Pratchett received treatment for Post-Cortical Atrophy, the type of Alzheimer’s disease that eventually took his life. From the organization’s website:

RICE established one of the first memory clinic services in the UK in 1987 – a service which has since been widely replicated and is now considered standard and best practice by the NHS. In fact, RICE now runs the NHS Memory Clinic in Bath and North East Somerset on behalf of the local clinical commissioning group and local authority through a sub-contract with HCRG Care Group. To date, we’ve assessed, diagnosed, treated and advised 12,000 people with memory problems and their families in our memory clinic. 

Most of RICE’s clinical services and research activities take place in our own purpose built, specialist centre located on the Royal United Hospital site. The building of the RICE Centre was possible as a result of generous donations from major donors, trusts and foundations, and members of the public. RICE moved into the ground and first floor of the centre in 2008. Following the success of the DementiaPlus Appeal and further generous donations from major donors, trusts and foundations and members of the public, RICE converted the attic floor in 2019 to create more office space. This has given us access to much needed additional rooms and offices which will enable us to grow and run more services and activities. We’ve worked hard to ensure that the areas of the centre visited by our patients meets their needs and we regularly receive feedback on how much our patients enjoy their visit to our centre.

RICE not only provides clinical services to patients, but also conducts research into aging and dementia, including performing clinical trials for new drug treatments for memory-related diseases and developing other “techniques for diagnosing, managing, treating and understanding dementia and memory changes in older adults.”

Lady Lyn Pratchett is the patron of the organization, and the website includes a page about how people can donate funds or volunteer at the clinic and participate in fundraising events.

SO, if you’d like to help fund Alzheimer’s research on this Glorious 25th of May–or at any time–in honor of the Man in the Hat, take a look!

[interiorergonomics]

Customizing Office Storage Cabinets

Customizing office storage cabinets for a modern workstation desk significantly enhances both functionality and aesthetics. They offer tailored solutions which cater to the 2-person workstation desk clusters and specific spatial needs.

Once you opt to customize the cabinets to either low or mid and full height cabinet option, they promotes efficiency by ensuring that all necessary items are within easy reach. They go further to reducing clutter, and improving workflow.

Additionally, bespoke storage designs can seamlessly integrate with the overall office decor. Here they can reinforce a cohesive and professional appearance which aligns with the company’s brand identity.

Such thoughtful integration not only optimizes space utilization but also extends the biophilic designs of greenery to office spaces using integrated planter cabinets. For sure, read more to learn how they contribute to a more organized, productive and office furniture aesthetics for a visually appealing workspace.

[mixelation]

i was trying to rotate the reborn au konoha chunin exams and got stuck on "does kushina have to dress up" for SOME REASON followed by "what is uzushio formal wear" and then i wrote a whole scene. kill me

Kushina invited her over for breakfast, after Minato had left for work and after Naruto had dragged his feet over to training ground 12 for morning drills with Kakashi, but before either Tori or Kushina strictly needed to be anywhere. 

Tori didn’t really like being invited anywhere before 10 AM. She simply wanted to maximize time in her pajamas. But the Uzumaki-Namikaze household was a place she had permission to teleport to, and so there was no one but Kushina to judge her for showing up directly from bed, still in her PJs. 

“You and Minato….” Kushina started, eyeing Tori’s bed head as she poured her coffee, “took very different approaches to Hiraishin.”

Kushina set plates in front of both of them and then segued directly into complaining about all the red tape the Kazekage visiting was causing. The Chunin Exams were already an entire event during which Minato’s advisory committee got extra anxious about Konoha PR and representatives from the Daimyo showed up to be even more annoying, but the Kazekage also visiting made everything worse. 

Usually Kushina’s role would be to support Minato in his personal life, unless Uzushio or fuuinjutsu specifically were involved in whatever event and she needed to take a more formal role. But apparently for ultra public-facing events like the Chunin Exam, people started giving her a hard time about her public persona. 

“They want me to dress up all fancy whenever Kazekage-sama is around, including for the tournament,” Kushina said, rubbing her temples. “Minato told me to just wear whatever I want, but I know his advisors give him a hard time when I’m too informal at public events…”

Tori nodded along, sipping her coffee as Kushina complained. No one in Konoha cared much if the Hokage’s wife stood at his side in her Jounin uniform; that just made her one of them. But apparently when they had to appear as a pair for the Daimyo’s court, or more rarely for international events, there was some expectation of formal wear. Minato was expected to wear his ugly Hokage robes, and Kushina was expected to wear a formal kimono. 

(Minato didn’t get invited much to international events, not compared to other Kage. Mostly no one wanted to risk him marking things in their village or their shinobi with Hiraishin.)

“Dressing up sounds fun though,” Tori tried when Kushina paused in her complaints to finally take a bite of breakfast. Kushina wrinkled her nose as chewed. “I mean, it’s only every once in a while, right?”

“I like a pretty dress as much as the next person,” Kushina said after she swallowed. “But formal kimono? Yuck. Ugh, but I do think someone should be wearing traditional Uzushio clothes…”

Tori finished her breakfast at a normal pace as Kushina complained. Then Kushina shoved all her food into her face in record time and said: 

“Do you want to see some traditional Uzushio clothes?”

Kushina and Minato had a backroom they called an office but was probably originally meant to be a sunroom or breakfast nook. A long table was pushed against a wall with huge bay windows overlooking their back garden, and various fuinjutsu scrolls and notes were scattered across it. There were two chairs, and Tori could clearly see the line between Minato’s work space and Kushina’s: Kushina’s things were neatly arranged, and Minato’s side was absolute chaos. It would be cute, if Tori weren’t currently mad at dear Hokage-sama. 

There was a day bed tucked into one corner of the room, and the rest of the space was storage: piles of mismatched plastic boxes and old fashioned trunks, a floor-to-ceiling set of shelves, and a wardrobe. Kushina tossed open the wardrobe doors to reveal multiple kimono.

“I got these from Mito-sama,” Kushina said. “My grandmother was supposed to send me some of my mother’s when I got old enough, but… well, that couldn’t happen.”

Kushina plowed on without giving herself a moment to mourn, picking a kimono out and announcing it’s what she was thinking of wearing to the chunin exams. 

Uzushio formal wear didn’t seem much different from other older style kimono. The kimono Kushina spread out on the day bed was dark green with swirling gold thread to make a pattern of eddies, and it had a higher collar than normal. Kushina also set out a dark, brownish red obi, along with a gold obijime, a cord meant to wrap around over the obi. 

“This is the most Uzushio-specific thing,” Kushina said, holding up the obijime. From it hung dozens of small, rectangular wooden tags, which clacked together as the obijime moved. Tori leaned over, examining what was written on them. Uzushio fortune fuinjutsu— not real techniques, but good luck charms meant to protect metaphysically. Kushina had painted them all over her house. “A same-gender family member is meant to paint them for you. Mito-sama’s notes said most of these were done by her mother, and some by her sister, but when some of them wore out… well, it broke the gender rule, but she taught Tobirama how to redo them for her. Better someone of a different gender do it than you do it yourself. That’s how it works.”

Tori nodded. That made sense. Kushina had given her a few mini-lesson on the fortune fuinjutsu— Tori assumed because Kushina simply liked to talk, and also because some of the philosophy overlapped with her regular fuinjutsu philosophy— and the intentions of the fortune caster and her relationship to whom she was meaning to bring fortune was very important. If Tori understood history correctly, both Mito’s children had been boys, and Tobirama was the only one in her adoptive family with notable fuinjutsu skills. Better to break whatever gender preference for someone who loved and actively wanted to protect you, than to just get some unrelated woman.

“Are they different from the ones on your window sill?” Tori asked of the fuinjutsu. 

“Yes,” Kushina confirmed. “The traditions are all very complicated, even for me. There’s different ones for exterior rooms and interior rooms, for inside versus outside, for different types of clothes and for bare skin… honestly, I don’t know the clothing ones very well. I’m grateful that Mito-sama was very good at writing it all down for my family and hers, after… after Uzushio fell.”

Naruto had, for his own formal occasions, his own Uzushio-style haori fringed with fortune fuinjutsu tags. Minato had been the one to decorate it for him. Or— well— Minato had painted some tags and Kushina had sewn them in. Minato had also been, historically, the one to fix up Kushina’s inherited tags. She simply hadn’t practiced it much herself. 

It had been on their to-do list for a while to commission Minato his own Uzushio-style clothes, which Kushina would theoretically decorate for him. But neither of them much liked dressing up unless they had to, and he basically always had to wear his Hokage robes on any occasion where formal wear was required. 

“We keep joking we’ll finally get around to it the day before Naruto’s wedding,” Kushina said with a laugh. “And at that point, with the gender rule, he’ll be old enough to do it for Minato…

“Anyway,” Kushin continued. She shifted the obijime in her hands. “This is the one I wear the most, since it matches basically everything. A bunch of these tags should be replaced.”

She held it forward to Tori, like she was offering it to her. 

“Um,” Tori said. She stared down at it. This thing had come from Uzumaki Mito’s mother. Surely Kushina didn’t want her just handling it?

“I want you to do it,” Kushina said, pressing it further towards her. “It’s best if a woman does it, you know. I have Mito’s scrolls and the right brushes already prepped. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

“But you said…” Tori started. Kushina had very specifically said family. That’s why she and Mito weren’t just finding random female fuinjutsu users instead of Tobirama or Minato. 

Kushina frowned. “You’re my precious student, you know,” she said. “And I want you to.”

Tori still hesitated. This was important. This meant something to Kushina, to any Uzumaki. Since when was Tori a person anyone sane would look to for help or protection?

Would she protect Kushina?

All data points to yes, Tori decided. 

She accepted the obijime.

[sgiandubh]

Landcon Paris 7: the logistics

I said it before, I will say it again: it's not exactly for the cast that I reluctantly (at first) embraced the idea to give in and go to the Landcon, this year. I first and foremost went for the people I was very curious to meet and hug. And I also went there because I do believe that your fandom's experience is not complete until you watch its dynamics - but about this, in a separate, concluding post.

There seems to be a consensus about Landcon's logistics being the stuff nightmares are probably made of, and I can absolutely confirm this. I have written yesterday about the little legal arrangements that to me prove the organizers' first and foremost objective is the maximization of profits, sometimes at the expense of common sense or empathy itself. Because let's be clear, for once: Landcon's honchos are not exactly born yesterday. This is the seventh edition of this event, which by the way is the only official, licensed OL fan convention. By now, they should have a pretty clear idea about their audience/clientele, which is, as far as I could see, mainly composed by mature women, many of which had just arrived in Courbevoie after sometimes exhausting mid- to long courier flights or grueling train rides or drives. That means they left home the day before or pretty early in the morning and were sometimes unable to check-in to their hotels or accommodations before the allotted time window for registering, taking their bracelets and buying whatever extras were still available for sale (almost all of them).

The venue is definitely not the problem here, except perhaps for the unapologetic Brutalist eyesore that is everything but glamorous. Seen from the curb, it could be anything: a hospital, a faculty, one of those non-descript local government office buildings, an insurance company's headquarters. But once inside, I found the Centre Evénementiel to be just one of those multi-purpose spaces that I do know so well from my other, real life: a pretty intuitive to navigate, rather clean and safe affair. The Courbevoie Municipality could easily organize there a minor European summit, for example.

However, I find it absolutely unacceptable to have a Reduced Mobility Zone that was just a half-dozen of very basic pliable chairs, scattered haphazardly in a side area of the main hall, that was not properly designated, nor signaled as such. You had to be a regular and know there was also a special designated line for Reduced Mobility/Difficulty Standing attendees, people who are easily overwhelmed by the colossal hullaballoo of screaming, shouting, shushing ladies. The flow seemed endless and very much decided to get those bracelets at Mach 4 speed, which made everything look more like an Oriental bazaar, than an effective, well-oiled machine worth the rather steep ticket fees. Same goes for all the rest of the already tired people: rest or simply comfortably waiting for your sweating, swearing and grumpy party was not in order, you got the pump up the jam and move it, move it. Ugh. Such an eyeroll and so easy to address, with a bit of extra care.

I also found it very questionable to limit the staff's special needs assistance offer to the extras' moments only, cutting the Reduced Mobility attendees from their +1 friends. And the situation in the main auditorium wasn't any better, so to speak. The lady who sat on my right was visually impaired and used one of those telescopic walking sticks that you just cannot see while running around like a headless chicken to get your pics. I kept on being terrorized either by the idea of stumbling on it - imagine a pachyderm plunging in slow motion like a felled sequoia tree, IN THE DARK - or falling on her. The struggle was real, while at the very same time the panel was droning on and business as usual.

Except for the tchotchkes for sale area which was seriously clogging the space dedicated to the extras' lines, there was nothing else on offer. Not a single bottle of Evian, not a slice of one euro greasy pizza Margherita (wee joke: there are no one euro pizza slices in our old and mercantile land). To be completely honest, they did have three food trucks outside (reheated, microwaved fried chicken/squishy hot dogs with violently colored sauces and the infamous Pizza Tony - all for the price of a kidney transplant) and huge garbage bins to accommodate the ditched leftovers. But no sitting lunch area or even those sorry standing tables you sometimes see in hotels, in front of their meeting areas. Classy: I was just trying to piteously cope with a stubborn chicken strip while standing near a full ashtray, just as C was gracefully sashaying through the main entrance (and being almost one hour late!), at less than six feet from me. Embarrassing does not even start to cover it. A diva slides by and you look like a carnivorous beast, trying to feed yourself, while smoking and gossiping at the same time. One of those moments you're probably sorry to be alive on such a nice day, after all.

Enough said. I will spare you the cheap vaudeville of the lost and found bracelets at Registration Desk, the higgledy-piggledy offset alphabetic lists that made us stay in line twice and my flat-footed ordeal, while waiting in a seemingly infinite line of women who could not decide on what the fuck they wanted for their extra photos and autographs. And I will spare you this because at the exact moment my tolerance level crushed and I was about to uncharacteristically leave, swearing like a drunken sailor in at least four different languages, I met @irunfraser standing in line. And there was finally sunshine and birds were singing suddenly, everything was fine in the world, because @irunfraser and I hugged like death row inmates before their last meal, even if we talked perhaps only four or five times in DMs. What we told each other then was strictly in Spanish and I will provide neither a transcript, nor a translation, for once: it's between me and her only. But such is also the magic of this very strange Nowhere Land - it does bring people together and makes a true friend out of a non-descript handle. And such is, I believe, the strength of our underdog community, where people are overall smiling and warm and damn caring. And while I am at it, a final and special shoutout to @pamalissou, who knows everyone and everything five minutes before it becomes public. And without whom I would have never ever had my terrible, terrible C pic I am, nevertheless, very proud of.

Next - my photoshoot experiences, as they happened, spare the C one, which I covered separately. Sorry for the length: concision has never been my forte and never forget I am a babbling, sentimental imbecile.

[centrally-unplanned]

Oh I did wanna log the thought: since Trump's campaign was so often vague and contradictory on its agenda, there was an uncertainty around what his administration would actually be. "Soft" and "hard" versions abounded in the take market. Now that we have the EO's, what does that suggest?

I think it is pretty bad, I would rank these as 80 percentile on a soft-to-hard scale. He was talked off the ledge on the maximal tariff stuff, it looks like - he is still gonna do some, which will suck, but I think the smart money is not on "20% tarifffs on every import" and they do look more like bargaining tactics now on some cases like the Canada/Mexico ones. On trade & economics we didn't get anything too crazy.

On everything else each thing was just...20% more extreme than expected. Pardoning everyone he could from 1/6, including those who attacked polices officers, that is cold. Trying to remove birthright citizenship for legal immigrants, everyone expect the illegal side but damn. The trans rights EO is "complete", it isn't a "get rid of this DEI stuff/preserve women's spaces" thing, it is categorical in its denial of existence. I think the "tech right" is currently pretty worried about their talented immigrant hires given how restrictive the situation looks to become. Almost every EO was expected, but more than half had something that was like "oh shit they went there".

I saw someone (Noah Smith I think) comment that it is a little ironic that "The Resistance" spent itself during Trump's first term when he was, until 2020 at least (very important caveat), pretty much in practice a normal Republican with an incompetence/trolling streak. Now they are burned out while the Trump admin they thought they were fighting in 2016 is finally here, ready to wreck shop in 2024.

Fortunately early days are always the most heady, we will see how this actually goes. Not a great start though!

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Vittoria Elliott at Wired:

Elon Musk’s takeover of federal government infrastructure is ongoing, and at the center of things is a coterie of engineers who are barely out of—and in at least one case, purportedly still in—college. Most have connections to Musk and at least two have connections to Musk’s longtime associate Peter Thiel, a cofounder and chairman of the analytics firm and government contractor Palantir who has long expressed opposition to democracy. WIRED has identified six young men—all apparently between the ages of 19 and 24, according to public databases, their online presences, and other records—who have little to no government experience and are now playing critical roles in Musk’s so-called Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) project, tasked by executive order with “modernizing Federal technology and software to maximize governmental efficiency and productivity.” The engineers all hold nebulous job titles within DOGE, and at least one appears to be working as a volunteer. The engineers are Akash Bobba, Edward Coristine, Luke Farritor, Gautier Cole Killian, Gavin Kliger, and Ethan Shaotran. None have responded to requests for comment from WIRED. Representatives from OPM, GSA, and DOGE did not respond to requests for comment. Already, Musk’s lackeys have taken control of the Office of Personnel Management (OPM) and General Services Administration (GSA), and have gained access to the Treasury Department’s payment system, potentially allowing him access to a vast range of sensitive information about tens of millions of citizens, businesses, and more. On Sunday, CNN reported that DOGE personnel attempted to improperly access classified information and security systems at the US Agency for International Development (USAID), and that top USAID security officials who thwarted the attempt were subsequently put on leave. The AP reported that DOGE personnel had indeed accessed classified material. “What we're seeing is unprecedented in that you have these actors who are not really public officials gaining access to the most sensitive data in government,” says Don Moynihan, a professor of public policy at the University of Michigan. “We really have very little eyes on what's going on. Congress has no ability to really intervene and monitor what's happening because these aren't really accountable public officials. So this feels like a hostile takeover of the machinery of governments by the richest man in the world.”

[...] “To the extent these individuals are exercising what would otherwise be relatively significant managerial control over two very large agencies that deal with very complex topics,” says Nick Bednar, a professor at University of Minnesota’s school of law, “it is very unlikely they have the expertise to understand either the law or the administrative needs that surround these agencies.” Sources tell WIRED that Bobba, Coristine, Farritor, and Shaotran all currently have working GSA emails and A-suite level clearance at the GSA, which means that they work out of the agency’s top floor and have access to all physical spaces and IT systems, according a source with knowledge of the GSA’s clearance protocols. The source, who spoke to WIRED on the condition of anonymity because they fear retaliation, says they worry that the new teams could bypass the regular security clearance protocols to access the agency’s sensitive compartmented information facility (SCIF), as the Trump administration has already granted temporary security clearances to unvetted people. This is in addition to Coristine and Bobba being listed as “experts” working at OPM. Bednar says that while staff can be loaned out between agencies for special projects or to work on issues that might cross agency lines, it’s not exactly common practice.

WIRED’s report on the 6 college-aged men between 19 and 24 that are shaping up DOGE in aiding and abetting in co-”President” Elon Musk’s technofascist takeover.

[alizha]

ｈｏｌｉｄａｙ ｅｎｎｕｉ

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

⁀➷ 𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗎𝗇 𝗑 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 | 𝗆𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇 𝖺𝗎

Word Count: 4.8k

Tags: SFW, no use of gendered pronouns, references to and depictions of anxiety and depression, kissing

Summary: You and Reiner have a meet cute at therapy, and you're both feeling afloat during the holidays.

❖ masterlist ❖ read on ao3

The waiting room outside Dr. Keller’s office still bears the cheerful remnants of Christmas, even though the holiday had already come and gone. You’re sitting in your usual chair near the corner, puffy coat hugged tightly around you. Truth be told, the festive decor meant to liven up the room only adds to your listlessness.

There’s nothing wrong with the place as it usually is. The corners and empty spaces of the waiting room burst with vibrant greenery, strategically placed, you suspect, by Dr. Keller herself to maximize patient contentment. You’ve been with her for two years now, so you have a sense for that sort of thing.

A tall fiddle-leaf fig tree stands proudly in the corner closest to you, its glossy leaves catching the soft light filtering in from frosted windows. Now, it’s adorned with twinkling multicolored lights that throw alternating cool and warm shadows on the sage-painted walls. They blink unwaveringly and silently, regularly changing patterns every minute or so, and you can’t help but feel sorry that they’re being wasted on someone who can’t appreciate them.

You’ve been in a bit of a rut since November, something of which Dr. Keller was well aware, of course. She assured you she’d be available through the end of the year, and you’d taken her up on that, keeping up with your weekly visits. At the beginning of the month, she asked you how your Thanksgiving went.

“It was fine,” you’d said. “Quiet. Just me and Elvira.”

“Ah,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Your cat. Still not expanding your social circle, I see.”

You’d resented that. After all, Dr. Keller had told you to to start with things that feel comfortable. And Elvira is very comfortable. Cats didn’t judge, didn’t require any special considerations. They aren’t a challenge—not like people are. People are hard.

“We’re aiming for connections that talk back and don’t require kibble,” Dr. Keller had said flatly.

A big ask, but technically, you managed that the week before Christmas. You’d seen your next door neighbor, Mrs. Leary, when she was taking out her trash. She’d said Merry Christmas, and you said it back. Given the criteria set out for you, you’d say that counts.

You glance at the two doors at the far end of the waiting area leading to the therapists’ individual offices. Dr. Keller shared a space with another doctor, Dr. Madsen, whose names glinted on the brass plates adorning each door. You can practically already hear what Dr. Keller is going to say when you tell her about Mrs. Leary.

“It’s a start, but why not challenge yourself? Go beyond polite exchanges. Did you ask her how her holiday was?”

Sighing, you flit your gaze from the miniature pine tree twinkling at the edge of the low, rectangular coffee table topped with neatly arranged magazines, all holiday editions. Fixating on the strands of tinsel catching the light, each glimmer feels oddly louder than it should in the empty waiting room as you attempt to formulate an answer.

Your desperate clawing through the recesses of your mind for something more substantial than, “It just felt like too much,” is interrupted by the soft chime of the door. You glance up just in time to see him—tall, broad-shouldered, and blond. The man you’ve seen here at the office in passing many times before. One of Dr. Madsen’s patients, you’ve gathered in the time since you started noticing him.

Today, he’s dressed more casually than you’re used to, in a red flannel sherpa over a cream cable-knit sweater. In his arms, he’s juggling a navy backpack and several—maybe four or five—mini rose-gold foil gift bags. He looks even warmer and more approachable than in his usual business professional fare. It makes your stomach twist uncomfortably, a combination of envy and a familiar pang of fear, as he approaches the front desk with apparent ease.

“Morning, Lily,” he says pleasantly.

The secretary flashes him a dazzling smile. “Reiner! So good to see you. Did you have a nice holiday?”

You fidget with the hem of your coat. She didn’t make it sound so hard to ask. Maybe, you could do it, too. Maybe.

“It was fine,” the man—Reiner, you think to yourself—says, absently pushing the small potted succulent on Lily’s desk a smidge further away from the edge. “Quiet, just the way I like it. You?”

“Not quiet at all,” Lily says with a bell-like laugh. “Family chaos. You know how it is.”

“Lucky you,” he says with a faint smile. He adjusts the bags in his arms, pulling one carefully out of the pile by dainty ribbon handles and setting it on the secretary’s desk. “Just had to run into the office for a bit, and my coworker was handing these out. Take one off my hands?”

“Gladly!” Lily exclaims, her face lighting up all over again.

You can’t help but stare at the cheerful, gold-speckled tissue paper peering over the top of tiny curling ribbons. Until you realize Reiner has been glancing around the room, and his gaze has landed on you. Immediately, you look down at your lap, twisting your fingers together awkwardly.

“Still got decorations up, huh?” you hear Reiner say. “Festive.”

“Yeah, I keep meaning to take them down, but they’re so cheerful. Why the rush?”

There’s a shuffling of feet and paper, and you catch a glimpse of red out of the corner of your eye a few moments later. You tilt your head slowly and meet the man’s gaze again. He’s sidled past the coffee table and standing a couple steps away from you—a cautious, non-threatening distance.

“Hey,” he says with a disarming smile. “You… uh, want one of these?”

Your hands instinctively clasp over your knees, breath hitching. Plenty of other patients have tried striking up conversations with you in Dr. Keller’s waiting room before, but no one’s ever tried offering you anything. And it’s not really that you mind it’s just—

You’re no good with people. People are hard.

“Oh, no. That’s okay. I don’t—,”

“They’re just leftover office gifts,” he says carefully, taking a small step closer and holding one out toward her, thumb and forefinger gingerly pinching the sheer pink handle. The gift bag looks dainty and small and oh so endearing in his hand. “One of my coworkers went a little overboard. They mean well, though. Chocolate, I think. Or maybe soap? I honestly didn’t look too closely.”

You shake your head quickly, shrinking slightly. “No, really, I couldn’t—,”

“Please,” he says, his voice softening. “You’d be doing me a favor. Everyone at the office shoved these on me because they said I looked ‘too gloomy’ this season. Guess they thought this would help, but I wouldn’t know what to do with all this.”

His eyes, warm honey hazel, look just genuine and pleading enough to make you hesitate.

“You seemed… gloomy?”

He laughs lightly, a soft rumble of self-awareness. “I guess so. Anyway, I don’t need all these. Someone would enjoy them. I’m Reiner, by the way. And you’re…?”

You murmur your name in reply, barely audible, but he repeats it warmly all the same.

“Well, maybe you could take just one bag? You don’t even have to keep it—you could re-gift it if you want,” Reiner says. “But if I go through the trouble of lugging them all the way home on the bus, they’ll just sit on my kitchen counter until I forget about them.”

His kindness (and perhaps, his admittedly attractive face) placates your nerves just enough for you to extend a tentative hand. He looks pleased, placing the handle of the back in your grip. Warm fingertips gaze across your palm, his touch light and fleeting before quickly disappearing entirely. A shiver runs down your spine.

“Thank you,” you mumble, your cheeks warming.

“No, thank you,” he says with a grin. “Saved me from carrying these around the rest of the day.”

He looks around for a moment before moving to settle into the plush taupe chair beside the fiddle-leaf fig. You try not to look at him again, staring instead at the rose gold bag in your lap, plus still racing as you wait. When Dr. Keller finally emerges from her door and calls your name, you duck into her office and burn under the inquisitive look she gives you and your glittery new acquisition.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

You’re relieved when you don’t immediately regret leaving your apartment on New Year’s Eve to walk down to the main strip. The street is in full holiday swing, bursting with life and swirling with laughter and music.

Walking at a leisurely pace, you take in the string lights crisscrossing above you, glowing in warm yellows and icy whites. The storefronts are still dressed in their seasonal finery, frosty-edged windows sparkling with fake snow and wreaths and glimmering ornaments. And up and down the walkways, food vendors lined the curb, their carts sending up fragrant plumes of spice and cocoa.

The crisp winter air bites at your cheeks, and you pull the sides of your knitted hat a bit further down over your ears as you reach the plaza at the end of the strip. A towering Christmas tree stands at its center, huge ornaments glinting under the twinkling of a thousand multicolored lights. Beneath the tree, a stage is set up for a local band playing upbeat, jazzy renditions of holiday classics.

You weave through the throng of people gathered around, your breath puffing in soft white clouds. Some of them are dancing, others simply swaying to the music or beaming as they hold hands or clutch steaming cups in their gloved grasps. Everyone seems to be in the companionship of others, though. Not like you.

You hadn’t meant to come out tonight—not really. The thought of spending New Year’s Eve surrounded by so many people had seemed suffocating in the lead up. Yet, staying home had felt equally unbearable. You’d spent hours pacing your tiny apartment, torn between the guilt of declining your family’s invitations and the overwhelming anxiety of going.

So, you’d landed here, out among strangers. Their chatter blurs into a comforting hum in your ears. For once, it doesn’t feel like you have a hundred pairs of eyes on you, watching, judging. Everyone is too busy counting down the hours until midnight to notice you. It’s unbelievably freeing.

You pause by the edge of the plaza and stuff your hands deep into your pockets. As the band starts up Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, your gaze wanders back toward the large center tree, and you squint at a tall figure with short blond hair. That’s when you realize you recognize him from the therapist’s office—Reiner.

He’s leaning against the metal railing around the tree, hands shoved into the pockets of his long camel overcoat. His stance seems relaxed, but his expression is distant, eyes staring blankly into the pavement a few feet away as groups and couples walk past.

Your heart thuds in your chest. Maybe he’s waiting for someone. He doesn’t seem like the type to spend New Year’s alone, so handsome and charming. But he looks almost miserable standing there alone, you wish you could extend some sort of comfort while he waits, at least. Keep him company until his friend (girlfriend?) gets back.

The thought of approaching him paralyzes you with fear. You consider slipping away, pretending you haven’t seen him. Then, Dr. Keller’s voice echoes in your mind.

“We’ve been working on this bit by bit,” she’d said at your last appointment. “Maybe instead of thinking about it as a huge change, we break this down into smaller, achievable goals. Maybe you set a goal to initiate one meaningful conversation—with someone at work or even a cashier at a grocery store. The important thing is that you try.”

You swallow dryly, jaw clenching. You’d promised you would try. Progress wasn’t about perfection, even if you really want it to be with Reiner. But you were being presented with the perfect chance here.

You should take it.

Your legs feel like lead, but somehow, you forced them to move. Each step toward him is like a tiny battle. By the time you reach the railing, your palms are damp despite the cold. You clear your throat, voice coming out small.

“Hi, Reiner.”

He turns, life returning to his eyes when he stutters your name. “Hey,” he says, sounding pleasantly surprised.

“I, uhm…” you hesitate, the words catching in your throat, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Didn’t expect to see you either,” he says with a low chuckle. He glances around at the crowd before looking back at you. “Are you… alone?”

“Oh. Yeah.” The admittance tears through your gut like shrapnel.

“Me, too.”

“Oh.”

It comes out sounding surprised, which you don’t mean for it to. You wince inwardly as Reiner awkwardly lifts a hand and rubs the back of his neck, the short of his blond rustling.

“Listen,” he says, shifting his weight and hesitantly meeting your gaze. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Back at Dr. Madsen’s office. Well, I guess you go there for Dr. Keller. I didn’t mean to… uh, well, I guess I had seen you around and thought maybe it would be fine.”

You blink up at him, startled. “No, no, you’re not—,” you hurry to say, but then, you stop, unsure of how to continue.

You can feel the old, familiar instinct to retreat freeing up on you, the urge to politely escape the conversation before it gets too hard. You forcefully swallow down that urge and take a deep breath.

Baby steps.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” you say. “I meant it’s not easy for me to talk to people, but you’re not, uhm… scary. Not like a stranger on the street or something.”

Reiner tilts his head, his plush lips quirking into a soft smile. “Glad to hear it,” he says. “I’m not sure I could handle being called scary tonight.”

His tone is light, joking, but there’s a quiet hint of genuine relief there. You can’t help but let out a soft, nervous laugh. He really was afraid he had come off badly in front of you, and the thought that even someone like him could feel that way relaxes you in a way.

“It was a bath bomb, by the way. The office gift,” you clarify when he looks at you inquisitively. “Not chocolate or soap.”

“Right,” he says, amused. “Good thing you checked instead of taking my word for it.”

The two of you stand there for a moment, the silence between you surprisingly comfortable. You fidget with the zipper of your coat, searching for something to say. This is the part you normally dread—the moment when the conversation could slip away entirely because you can’t bring yourself to go beyond the pleasantries.

Inhaling deeply, you push out the words, letting them tumble out. “So, uhm… how’s your New Year’s Eve going?”

As soon as you ask, you regret it. Your stomach sinks when Reiner’s expression shifts. Just a slight flicker as his faint smile fades into something wistful before he plasters the cheerful mask back on.

“Well, it’s probably not going all that well if I’m wandering around alone,” he says, his dry tone all but revealing his self-deprecation. “Just came out for a walk, really, and ended up here. But then again, you did the same thing, right?”

You duck your head, cheeks heating. “Yeah,” you admit. “I was supposed to go to a big family thing. I just… I didn’t have it in me. Guess neither of us is really winning at the whole social thing tonight.”

Reiner makes a low, teasingly dismissive sound and shakes his head. “I’m not much of a party guy either. But hey, I wouldn’t count you out just yet.”

You cock your head at him questioningly, and his smile widens.

“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

You’re shocked. Your jaw nearly drops. Friends? You and Reiner? “Does—does this make us friends?”

Sitting in the same therapists’ waiting room every week, seeing each other in passing once in a while there. You thought being friends required a bit more than that, but Reiner doesn’t seem to think so. Has it always been this easy, and you just stressed yourself out for no reason?

“Sure. Then, we can say we hung out with a friend for New Year’s Eve. I’d say that’s a win,” he says. “I would like to be friends. If that’s alright.”

You look up at him, a hopeful glimmer in your eye. The word—friends—bounces around in your head, thrilling and terrifying at the same time. But Dr. Keller’s been urging you to take steps toward real connection for months. This could be one of those steps.

“It’s better than alright,” you say, the corners of your mouth stretching into a smile. “Dr. Keller’s been insisting my cat doesn’t count as a friend for ages, so it’s amazing, actually.”

Reiner perks up, his brow lifting. “You have a cat?”

“Yeah,” you say, nodding. “Her name’s Elvira.”

“I like cats,” he says. He leans in just slightly, but you get a full whiff of his scent, clean soap and the masculine fragrance of some variety of men’s shampoo.

“Well,” you say, warmth spreading in your chest as you study him curiously, “we’re friends, so you should meet her.”

He looks at you with a mix of surprise and excitement when he says, “Now?”

Your lips part, pulse thrumming fast. You didn’t plan on now, but you also don’t see why not. Reiner was, in your own words, not scary. Maybe this was a good idea and not one of those ideas that landed women on primetime news for entirely the wrong reasons.

“Now,” you affirm with a nod.

Reiner practically beams. “Lead the way.”

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

About twenty minutes later, you’ve made your way back up the strip and into your neighborhood with Reiner in tow.

“Dr. Keller said what I’ve been feeling lately is actually pretty common,” you’re explaining as you fumble with your keys.

The faint tremor of nerves is making the metal jangle softly in the otherwise quiet hallway. You’re hoping Mrs. Leary is asleep and doesn’t hear you and Reiner briefly loitering in the hall.

“She called it holiday ennui. You know, that weird, in-between time after Christmas but before New Year’s where everything feels off.”

“I get that,” Reiner says as you get the door unlocked and swing it open. “It’s like you’re supposed to be celebrating, but it feels more like you’re waiting for something to end. Or start. I don’t know.”

“Exactly,” you say, stepping inside and flicking on the light to reveal your cluttered living room. “Sorry, it’s a little messy in here.”

The idea of bringing someone into your space—a near stranger, no less—is something you’d never imagined yourself doing. Not even a week ago. But here you are, walking into your apartment with Reiner. Even the sleek black cat perched on the armrest of your couch looks confused.

“Don’t worry,” Reiner says with a reassuring smile. “My apartment looks like a tornado hit it most of the time.”

You set down your back and start toeing off your boots. “That’s Elvira, by the way.”

Reiner carefully slips off his own boots and overcoat, considerately placing them next to yours on the shoe mat and hanger. Moving slowly, as if not to startle the cat, he pads across the living room and kneels to get a better look. “She’s gorgeous.”

Elvira doesn’t move, her green eyes fixed on him with an imperious stare. You bite your lip and smile.

“She can be a little standoffish, but I’m sure she’ll warm up to you.”

Reiner nods. “Sounds like most cats I’ve met. They make you earn it.”

You settle into the far end of the couch and busy yourself with folding the blanket haphazardly thrown over it, your nervous energy bubbling up. “You’re, uh, welcome to sit. I’m sure Elvira won’t mind.”

He smiles gratefully and lifts himself up just enough before sinking into the other side of the couch. Elvira watches warily as Reiner sinks into the seat cushion, shifting her small paws as if deciding whether to hop down off the couch.

“It’s rough,” Reiner sighs thoughtfully, and you gather he’s picking up where your previous conversation left off. “That limbo during the holiday season. It’s been hitting me hard this year. Well, more than usual. I’m glad Dr. Madsen’s been available through the holidays.”

You fold your limbs cross-legged on the couch. “More than usual?”

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “I was diagnosed with depression last year. Started seeing Dr. Madsen about it around the same time. He’s been helpful. I mean, it’s not like a magic fix or anything, but it’s something.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly.

Of course, you’d known he was showing up at the same therapists’ office as you for a while, so there must have been a reason. When you think about the times you felt envious of the ease with which he seemed to carry himself, your first instinct is to tell him you could hardly tell he was struggling with anything, but that isn’t always what people want to hear.

Obvious or not, Reiner was getting help. That’s what was important.

“You’re… really good at masking it,” you settle on saying.

“Yeah, well. Years of practice, I guess,” he says. “It’s not like I’m trying to hide it on purpose. Just… everyone deals with it differently, right?”

You nod slowly. “Right.”

Elvira takes that moment to leap down from her perch right onto the center couch cushion between you, landing with a soft thump. You watch with interest as she leans in to sniff at Reiner’s outstretched hand.

“Looks like she approves,” you murmur, a smile touching your lips.

Reiner chuckles, turning his palm face-up to scratch under Elvira’s chin. “Just gotta give ‘em their space, you know? Can’t force anything on them, let them come to their own conclusions.”

The cat settles herself regally on the cushion, neatly curling her tail around her paws, and glances up at you. Perhaps cats didn’t judge the same way people did, but they were still good judges of character. And if Elvira had taken to Reiner, you were inclined to believe inviting him over hadn’t been a mistake after all.

You glance at the time on your phone and realize midnight isn’t far off. “Should we maybe turn on the TV for the countdown or something?”

“Yeah, sounds like a plan,” Reiner says without pausing from petting Elvira. “Can’t miss the ball drop, right?”

Leaning forward, you pluck the remote from the coffee table and click on the TV, flipping through a few channels before landing on a lively New Year’s Eve broadcast.

A glittering stage fills the screen, performers decked out in sequins that throw the spotlights shining down on them in a brilliant cacophony. After turning the volume up a bit, you set down the remote and absently reach over to brush Elvira’s fur. Your fingers caress warm, unfamiliar skin instead, and you realize with a jolt that you’ve touched Reiner’s hand.

With a sharp inhale, you jerk your hand away and snap your gaze to him. Both of you stammer out your apologies at the same time.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean—,”

“No, no, I’m sorry. She’s your cat—,”

You snap your mouth shut and look down at your socks, feeling the heat rushing to your cheeks. His hand is so big and warm, your stomach flutters recalling the fleeting touch. Reiner clears his throat quietly, his eyes glued to the screen.

“Looks like we caught the last performance,” he says.

“Do you usually watch this kind of thing?” you ask, sneaking a glance at him.

“Not really,” he admits. “Usually, I don’t even bother staying up for midnight. But I’m glad I’m doing something different this year.”

He gives you a tentative smile that makes your heart skip a beat, testing the waters. Instead of resuming his petting of Elvira, he relaxes into the couch and stretches out his arm across the backrest, hand resting gently on the cushion.

You return the smile and let your hand drift toward Elvira to scratch behind her ears. The cat purrs softly, tilting her head.

“Me, too,” you say quietly.

As the countdown looms closer, the broadcast on the TV switches to shots of the massive crowd gathered in Times Square. You lean in a little closer, your stomach performing flips as you pretend to adjust your position to better reach Elvira. But really, it’s more about closing the gap between you and Reiner.

You sidle in bit by bit until you’re close enough for his forearm on the backrest to brush against the nape of your neck, and an unexpected shiver runs down your spine. This is a thrill that makes your heart race in a way wholly different from trying to ask for help at a store. This is the kind you’re somehow enjoying, the kind you want to chase.

Reiner seems to notice, his gaze flickering briefly to you before settling back on the screen. Unimpressed by the shrinking space on the couch, Elvira lifts herself up in a long stretch before leaping to the ground and padding away, leaving Reiner’s warmth, solid and steady beside you. He scoots an inch closer to you, tucking you into the crook of his arm, and your nerves ebb away.

You turn to look at him just as the crowd on TV begins changing, “Ten! Nine! Eight!” only to find he’s already looking back at you. The movement of his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip draws your eyes down, and you guiltily drag them back up, throat suddenly dry. The scant air between you feels charged with something you can’t quite name.

As the countdown continues, Reiner leans in even closer. You can see the patterns in the gold of his irises as he searches your face for some sign that he’s pushed you past your comfort zone. Unconsciously, you hold your breath, your heartbeat wild against your ribcage.

“Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!”

Out of the corner of your eye, the screen erupts into a colorfully dazzling display of fireworks and lights, and a mix of cheers and music fill your small living room. But you barely notice as you close the last bit of distance between you and Reiner and press your lips firmly against his.

He kisses you slow and hazy, with lips that taste like cinnamon cider. The pleased sigh he lets out against your mouth is only a faint whisper, as delicate as the tickle of his stubble against your chin. He brings his hand up to your face, warm fingers now cool against your burning skin as he skims his knuckles down your chin.

Auld Lang Syne plays out from the TV, muffled in your ear beneath the rushing of your pulse as your every nerve alights. Reiner doesn’t rush the kiss, languidly plucking at your lips with his, as if he might scare you away otherwise. His thumb strokes along your jaw, the gesture so gentle that fondness stabs you through the chest.

You reach up to tangle your fingers into the soft of his hair—dragging him closer, slanting your head to deepen the kiss. Encouraging him to be bolder. Reiner groans.

He slides the hand on your jaw around the back of your neck, and heat ricochets through your veins. You add fuel to the fire, wrapping your arms around him, startled by your own brashness. His tongue rolls against the seam of your lips, hot and wet, and your breath hitches, opening yourself to allow him to tenderly explore your taste.

Just as you’re starting to notice the lightheadedness creeping up on you, a dizziness resulting from equal parts excitement and lack of air, Reiner parts from your lips and ducks his head to trail warm, open-mouthed kisses up the column of your neck. When he reaches your jaw, his tongue flickers out to lave at your ear.

A tiny whimper falls from your lips, and you nestle yourself into the juncture of his neck, panting into his flushed skin. The scent of his shampoo invades your senses again, leaves you fuzzy and yearning. Reiner’s fingers skate down the length of your spine to wrap his hand around your waist.

Somewhere in the far flung corner of your mind, you vaguely register that persistent, gnawing uncertainty that screams at you to flee. But the more present part of you drowns that instinct. It compels you to melt into the comfort of Reiner’s arms, hoping that he’ll let you stay pressed against him for a little while longer, even as your tongue twists into knots. You’ve been very good at asking for what you need.

“Been wanting to do that for ages,” he sighs, sounding breathless.

“Happy New Year, Reiner,” you say softly into his ear.

His lips curve into a smile against your hair. “Happy New Year.”