#property survey company

[smithmariam298]

Meta Geomatics Property Survey Company

A property survey company plays a crucial role in real estate transactions by providing comprehensive assessments of land and structures. These surveys offer invaluable insights into property boundaries, easements, encroachments, and other critical details essential for legal and development purposes.

Expert surveyors employ advanced technologies like GPS, drones, and 3D scanning to ensure accuracy and efficiency in their evaluations. Whether it's for residential, commercial, or industrial properties, these companies deliver detailed reports that aid in decision-making processes for buyers, sellers, and developers.

Moreover, property survey companies serve as guardians of property rights, helping clients navigate complex regulatory requirements and resolve disputes over land ownership or usage. By leveraging their expertise and cutting-edge tools, they contribute to the smooth functioning of real estate markets and the sustainable development of communities. In essence, partnering with a reputable property survey company is an indispensable step towards ensuring transparency, legality, and peace of mind in any property transaction.

[fowlerblogs1]

Laser Scanning Capturing the World in 3DLidar, short for Light Detection and Ranging, is a cutting-edge technology that utilizes laser beams to create detailed three-dimensional representations of the environment. This innovative technique has revolutionized various industries by offering a highly accurate and efficient way to capture complex shapes, objects, and landscapes. The operation of lidar is based on the principle of time-of-flight measurement. Initially, a laser scanning projects a concentrated beam of light, typically in the near-infrared spectrum, onto the surface of interest. The scanner then calculates the time it takes for the laser pulse to bounce back to the sensor. By leveraging the speed of light, the scanner can precisely determine the exact distance between itself and each point on the surface it scans.

[conspectie]

Conspect Engineering Surveyors - Snag lists - pre purchase surveys

Welcome to our handy contact form page, send our team a message here to get a snag list quote or pre purchase survey quote. Got a question and not sure if you need an engineer or construction professional, please feel free to ask we are here to help & advise.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical violence, flashback, blood and injury, swearing

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: Part Twenty-Two of Ink & Needle

Simon relives the past. Evie goes to Simon for help. Price and 141 come for another visit.

Chapter Twenty-One // Chapter Twenty-Three

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

It’s raining.

Simon can hear it pattering against the steel roof. He stands on the edge of a fracted concrete slab, staring down into darkness. Even the rain collects here, falling from the opening in the roof several stories up.

This is the only light Simon has. The rest of the building is utterly dark.

Walsh is here. Somewhere. Slinking through the inky blackness like a tentacled beast awaiting its next meal.

The fucker is cornered, and he knows it. Walsh blew the goddamn fuse box, shoving the abandoned construction site into complete darkness. It’s not ideal—but Simon has worked in far harsher conditions.

Simon had the advantage—the element of surprise. He seized it, only for Walsh to run when one of his conspirators shot off at Simon suddenly and without warning. The bullet only grazed Simon’s upper arm. Nothing more.

They’re all dead now.

All but Walsh.

Simon made sure of it. He did it slowly, using the shadows to his advantage, becoming a violent mist that struck with sharpened blade. Those men are just puddles of blood and vacant eyes.

Twirling his knife end-over-end, Simon considers his next move. Walsh’s only escape is on foot, and even in that the man is fucked. Simon managed to nick the back of Walsh’s leg just before he disappeared. Best case scenario, Simon struck a tendon. Unlikely—but Walsh isn’t going to make it far on foot, not with this rain and an injured leg.

Simon’s cold gaze surveys the building around him.

It’s just one of many properties Walsh owns, but knowing which was always the hard part. The man hides behind fake companies and even faker names. Connecting them back to him took the most effort. This place is just storage—a building to conceal what you don’t want found.

“Where are you?” murmurs Simon, cleaning the blood off his blade against his pant leg.

Walsh is unpredictable when he’s cornered. The man turns into a wild animal. All raised fur and sharpened teeth. This is the Walsh that’s dangerous. The one that will do anything to escape.

Stepping away from the edge, Simon submerges himself into the shadows. He backtracks, stepping over bodies along the way, boots silent as he walks. The rain picks up as Simon enters a partially completed stairwell. There are walls and stairs, but no roof or railings.

He is unprotected from the rain, and the water soaks into his clothes, the fabric sticking to his skin. Most of his body is unprotected, but this isn’t an infiltration, and backup is far away. The opportunity appeared suddenly, and Simon seized it with both hands, ready to choke. Simon made himself a false friend to Walsh, and that is the only reason Simon is this close to victory.

Three years.

Three fucking years since Simon started tracking this fucker.

Three years of endless searching. Endless infiltrations. Endless missions. Simon got close. Moved in. And now he’s fucking here, ready to finish the job.

And he will.

He fucking will.

Simon exits the stairwell and returns to the slim light trailing in from the hole in the roof. There’s a sharp illumination, a flash of white, followed by the cracking boom of thunder. The metal around him lights up, soaking up and reflecting the lightning.

Simon inhales, the scent of rain seeping through the soaked balaclava.

He glances upward, and squints just as another flash of lightning illuminates the space.

Above him—four levels up—is a shadow of a man.

Simon doesn’t wait for the next bolt of lightning. He turns back into the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. His heart pounds in his chest—adrenaline spiking. Blood rushes through his limbs, muscles tense and poised for action.

The next flash of lightning comes, but—no. Not white. Not bright.

This is hot. This is heat.

This is flame.

The building shakes and Simon slips, sliding down the stairs, eventually landing on his knee as a resounding boom vibrates his bones.

“Fuck!” cries Simon as his knee strikes concrete. It’s a sharp crack that shoots up his leg and goes right to his head.

Rolling to the side, Simon presses himself against the wall, protecting his head as everything shudders around him. The rattling tapers out—and the moment Simon’s teeth aren’t rattling around in his head—he pushes to an upright position.

The first step is agony. He can hardly bend his fucking knee.

Hissing sharply with every step, Simon continues to climb, emerging onto the fourth level as a rising wave of nausea hits him.

The wispy tendrils of smoke come first before the heat. Simon cautiously walks forward, circumventing a slab of slanted concrete.

Behind it is fire. There is so much of it. Climbing the walls, complete undampened by the rain.

What the fuck did Walsh set off?

Simon’s intelligence said that this place might be storing chemicals, not weapons. But it didn’t say what kinds of chemicals.

A nearby beam falls from its mooring and crashes to the floor. Simon takes a step back, and then the world is tipping. Spinning.

Simon didn’t hear him. Didn’t see Walsh coming.

There are strong arms around him, shoving him down.

Simon’s training clicks into place, and he surrenders to the push, falling into it. When Simon’s back hits the ground, he rolls with the momentum, shoving Walsh off of him. Walsh tumbles away, rolling through a small patch of fire, before skidding to a stop on his side.

Simon pushes up to standing just as Walsh regains his footing. His black hair is a soaked mess, lips a snarl. Simon always thought that Walsh looked like a crow. All sharpness and talon.

“You fucking betrayed me,” screams Walsh, spittle flying from his lips.

He takes a step, staggering slightly. The sleeve of Walsh’s jacket smokes. In his right fist is a crowbar.

“Always planned on it,” replies Simon coldly.

The crowbar gently swings with Walsh’s swaying form. He hefts the metal up, pointing the bent end at Simon. “I’m gonna kill you. Take your eyes. Feed them to my fucking dogs.”

Simon says nothing. He remains still, knife clutched in his fist. It’s the only true protection he has.

“And then I’m going to kill every person you love,” continues Walsh, eyes widening slightly as he talks. “Everyone you’ve ever cared about.” Walsh lowers the crowbar. “Even the dead ones.” He laughs, the sound manic and high. “What’s a bit of graverobbing, yeah?” Walsh grins. “You can add it to the fucking list of grievances.”

“You’re not walking out of here alive,” says Simon, keeping his tone calm.

Price and the rest of the team are on their way with additional forces. Simon can kill the man, but it’ll be much easier once everyone else arrives. He just needs to play this right, to keep Walsh occupied for a bit or until the wanker tires himself out.

Either way, Walsh is a dead man.

Walsh shakes his head. “That’s where you’re wrong, mate.” He starts walking forward, the crowbar swinging. Walsh twists his wrist and the metal bar comes upward for him to grasp it like a bat. “I always fucking win.”

Simon steps to the side as Walsh brings the bar down. The man grunts. Staggers. Turns back in Simon’s direction.

Pushing the advantage, Simon shoves the knife forward with a quick slashing gesture. Walsh dodges, the metal of the blade harshly sliding against the crowbar. Sparks fly as the two metals meet.

Walsh swings again. Simon grabs the crowbar just above Walsh’s hands, holding it at bay.

“Fuck you!” screams Walsh, kicking out.

He connects with Simon’s injured knee. Simon staggers. His hand slips a bit on the crowbar.

“Fucking bastard,” spits Walsh, kicking out again, striking Simon in the chest.

Simon’s hold on the crowbar remains but he goes down, the two men stumbling to the concrete floor.

They are a tangle of limbs. Walsh gnashes his teeth, chomping at Simon as if to tear away flesh. Simon’s elbow connects with Walsh’s jaw. The man’s head snaps back and Simon slices the knife through the air.

The blade tears up Walsh’s neck, drawing blood. It isn’t much. Not nearly enough.

Walsh pushes off Simon, clutching his throat as he takes up the crowbar and swings again.

This time, the bent end connects, digging into Simon’s leg. Screaming, Simon lunges for it, intending to rip it out of his leg.

“No you fucking don’t,” snarls Walsh, yanking on the crowbar.

Simon scream again. Muscle and tendon are tearing. Nerves severing as Walsh drags Simon’s by his leg across the floor.

“I’m not done with you,” growls Walsh, yanking again.

Simon growls and lunges forward, grabbing onto the crowbar. The two men fight for dominance and control.

Walsh lashes out with his fist. Simon jerks to the side, and then thrusts his head forward, cracking his forehead against Walsh’s nose.

Blood bursts across Walsh’s face. The man stumbles back, falling on his ass.

With a guttural cry, Simon changes his angle on the crowbar, tugging it free. A black pool begins to form beneath Simon’s leg.

Groaning, Simon turns onto his side, pushes up to sitting with both hands. Grabbing his knife, Simon staggers to his feet just as Walsh steadies himself.

Simon charges, knocking into Walsh, blade pointed forward.

The knife goes in clean. Perfectly slips between ribs, missing bone, and meeting tender flesh.

Walsh screams, and then laughs—fucking laughs. The sound is choked. Garbled. But it’s not just Walsh who screams. They’re both screaming, staring into each other’s eyes as all that pent up rage and anger emerges like a storm.

A knee shoves into Simon’s stomach, and then the two men are up again. Simon’s knife is still lodged in Walsh’s chest.

The rest is all fists. Blurry. Bloody.

At some point Simon’s back and arms burn, the clothes singed and partially melted. He’s not sure when it happens. Everything is growing fuzzy, and his leg doesn’t want to move. It drags behind Simon with every swing of his fist.

Walsh’s hands slide around Simon’s throat. Using his weight, Simon drives forward, moving like a rugby player, pushing Walsh closer and closer to the edge.

Walsh’s mouth is moving, but there are no words.

It’s a buzzing. Like an alarm.

Like—

Simon’s eyes snap open. He’s greeted by the ceiling. The burns beneath the tattoos are warm as if the dream renewed the long-forgotten pain.

And that buzzing.

“Fucking hell,” groans Simon, sitting up, and grabbing his phone off the bedside table.

Bravo whines and places his head on Simon’s leg, his large dark eyes tinged with worry.

Simon opens up the doorbell app on his phone, checking to see who is out on the street wanting entrance. He checks the time and balks.

“Shit,” mutters Simon, swinging his legs out of bed. Bravo grumbles his annoyance but doesn’t move from his spot.

The quality isn’t great but there’s a woman standing outside. All he can see is a coat and her figure. He can’t tell if it’s you, but it might be.

Simon hits the button that unlocks the downstairs door and shuts off his phone. Standing, his bad knee stretches, resisting movement. He stretches a bit, and then heads for the front door.

Someone is banging on it before Simon even makes it across the living room.

He unlocks the deadbolts, and swings the door wide, expecting that it might be you and you’ve simply lost your key.

But it’s not you. It’s—

“Evie?” breathes Simon, his sudden excitement dimming to an extinguished flame.

She is rain-soaked. Trembling. Her brown eyes are large and round. Simon tastes fear and desperation in the air.

Something is wrong.

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know it’s late. But I have no one else to turn to. The police aren’t doing anything and I—”

“Come inside,” says Simon, softly, taking a step back.

Evie swallows hard, her hands clasped in front of her chest as she takes a hesitant step into Simon’s flat. He shuts the door behind her, locking the deadbolts.

“Sit here,” he instructs, gesturing toward the kitchen table. “I’ll make tea.”

“Simon,” she starts.

“Tea first, and then we’ll talk.”

Evie only nods, removing her coat to hang on the back of the chair. Simon fills the electric kettle and turns it on. Striding into the living room, he snags a blanket off the couch, and offers it to Evie.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, unfolding it slowly to drape over her shoulders.

Simon returns to the kitchen, preparing what he can for the tea. This concerns you. He knows it deep in his bones. But as much as Simon wants answers—craves them like a cigarette after sex—he needs to be fucking calm about this. He needs to be the clear-headed one.

When the kettle goes off, Simon makes each of them tea, spooning the perfect amount of milk and sugar into both. Simon sets a mug down in front of Evie and then decides to settle in the seat across from her.

“What happened?” he asks.

Evie’s mouth opens. Closes. She bites her lips and stares down into her cup.

“Start wherever you need,” says Simon. “Take your time.”

Time is never on anyone’s side. He is fully aware that time is your greatest friend and enemy. Even a few seconds are crucial.

Evie takes a deep, shuddering breath. “She should have been home yesterday. It’s not like her to not call if she’s running late.” She pauses, taking a moment to drink some tea. “I called. Texted. Nothing. Would go out to the house but I have Lillian to think of.”

“What time was she supposed to be home?”

“Around dinner,” answers Evie after a few seconds. “Still no word. No phone calls. No texts.” Evie sighs. “I went to the police station this morning but they shrugged it off. Said it’s too soon to file a missing person’s report.”

“Have you tried contacting anyone else?” asks Simon. His grip on his cup is the only thing grounding him right now.

Evie nods. “I contacted the estate agent. She said she’s go out there and check.” Tears begin to form in the corners of Evie’s eyes. “Haven’t heard anything. When I call her it goes straight to voicemail.”

Evie glances up from staring into her mug. “I’m worried. That’s why I came.”

“You did the right thing,” replies Simon. “I’ll go check.”

Her sigh of relief is palpable, as if the burden of it is a physical thing. “Thank you, Simon. I—”

“Finish your tea,” interrupts Simon. “I need to make a few calls.”

Glass crunches under Simon’s boots. Some of it shines in the morning light. Other pieces shine red.

The patio door is completely shattered, the glass strewn over the living room and lawn. In the middle of the floor is a deep pool of dark red liquid. And in that pool are two bodies.

Neither of them is you—thank fuck, but it’s hardly reassuring.

You are not here. You are—wherever you are.

Simon stares down at the two dead women. There’s a hammer near the blonde, the bludgeoning end covered in brain matter and gore. This is the estate agent and her assistant. They came to check after all at Evie’s request.

And they walked right into their deaths.

“Fucking hell,” mutters Captain Price, bending at the knees, observing the two lifeless women.

Kyle and Johnny are near the kitchen. Gaz is slowly shuffling through the paperwork on the kitchen counter while Johnny slowly walks the entryway with a torch. Simon doesn’t think they’ll find anything important.

This doesn’t have to do with Evie at all. Or Archie.

Not at the moment anyway.

This is about Simon. This is about Walsh.

It is about revenge, and the spirit of the chase in pursuit of that excellent vengeance.

Simon walks the perimeter of the dark pool, coming to a stop next to Price. He crosses his arms over his chest, gaze downward.

“Good thing you called us,” says Price, voice gruff. He comes to a standing position, a frown on his face. He turns to Gaz and Johnny. “Found anything?”

“Nope,” comes Soap’s response as he shines his torch up and down the staircase.

Gaz shrugs. “Not sure,” he replies. “This is mostly paperwork about selling the house. Don’t think Walsh is after that.”

“He’s not after the house,” growls Simon.

Price glances at him. “Simon.”

He’s trying to remind Simon to be calm—to chill the fuck out. But Simon is anything but calm. He’s fucking fuming.

“Walsh is after me,” says Simon, gaze locking with Price’s.

“Then why didn’t he come after you?” counters Price, shrugging. “You’re a civilian now. Why not surprise you in your home?”

Simon snorts but it’s not with amusement. “Think Walsh wants to make this quick?” He gestures toward the dead women.

Price doesn’t even glance at them. “These two were in the way. Likely surprised them.”

“Sure,” agrees Simon. “But he wants to hurt me first. To cause pain before he strikes.”

“We’ll find her,” sighs Price. “Maybe she escaped?”

“She would have turned up somewhere. Made contact with someone.” Simon shakes his head. “Walsh has her.”

“We don’t know that, Simon.”

Simon is ready to snap a reply, to show some teeth. This is about him, but it’s also about you. Walsh can have anything, but he can’t have you. You are the only thing Simon has ever truly wanted. The only person he’s craved to the point of obsession.

Life does not seem complete without you.

Letting you go is not an option.

“Captain!” calls Johnny.

Simon and Price snap to attention, their bodies shifting in Soap’s direction. There are solid footsteps, and then Johnny appears around the corner, coming to a stop next to Kyle. He clicks off the torch and places it on the kitchen counter. In his other hand is a large stack of mail. He gently sets the mail down, and spreads them out, making sure each envelope is on full display.

Simon takes a step forward. He’s not sure why he’s moving. Something is telling him to, wrapping around him like a string, and tugging.

Johnny lifts an envelope and holds it up. Frowning, he turns it around. “It’s addressed to Simon.”

He closes the distance in seconds, snatching the letter out of Johnny’s hand. It’s simple parchment. Slightly faded and weather-worn. There is no postage. No address. Just Simon’s full name.

“Simon,” says Price, almost cautiously, as if he doesn’t want Simon to open it.

He ignores Price, tearing it open.

There is a single piece of paper inside. It’s thin—nearly translucent. With slightly shaking fingers, Simon withdraws it from the envelope.

Come and find her. – KW.

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[tinydefector]

Was wondering if you could do some earth spark Megatron x reader, there isn't alot of them and I'd love to see what you could come up with.

The Malto's Neighbour

Megatron x human

Warning: none.

Wordcount: 1.6k

Megatron masterlist

Really hope you guys like this, and woo first piece for earthspark since I've started watching the series. Hope you guys enjoy the chaos which is to come.

________________________

The Malto's property is a busy one, Twitch yelling at the others as they practise. "Keep up slow poke Twitch's madly zips between the hay bales strewn across the yard, chassis buzzing with energy. "Gotta be faster than that, Jawbreaker!" She shouted gleefully, panels flared and fans roaring. 

Hashtag revved her engine competitively, darting around the yard in tight circles as she sought an opening to knock Thrust off his pedes laughter echoing from all of them. Nearby, Nightshade sculpted away as they planned out new projects. 

Dot smiles as she watches her kids run around the yard, and back and forth from the barn. "Play nice you lot!" She calls out while finishing her coffee. The sound of  propellers alerts her to Megatron's arrival. She looks out the other side of the widow with a smile as Megatron touches down. "Megs wasn't expecting to see you today" she calls out while walking out to meet him.

His optics scans the surrounding farmland, ensuring all remains secure within guarded borders, before his powerful lip components peel back in a fierce yet weary grin. "And risk missing the sparklings?" he retorts, striding over rust coloured soil towards the porch Dorothy stood on. 

His field pulses warmth upon seeing his friend, soaking in her calming company. “It is good to see you Dorothy” A gruff hum rumbles his massive frame, relaxing further.

"so optimus, has you playing babysitter today?" She asked with a smirk, trying to ruffle his plating. A scoffing snort bellows from Megatron's vents at the insinuation of playing nursemaid.

Twitch's laughter makes Megatron look up to watch as she flies around with Mo before their eyes and optics land on the ex-warlord. "Hi Mr Megatron!" A collection of voices call out, Dot laughs at her kids. "Believe it or not they seem to enjoy having you around, think they like you better than OP '' she states smugly. A rare soft chuckle rumbles from Megatron's frame. "Well if the Prime cannot appease youthful tastes, it seems his title means less than once assumed," he replies loftily, it earns him a small slap to his plating from Dorothy. 

Beside him, her own amusement rings sweet as Terran continues with their Shenanigans. Megatron's optics glint fondly. He didn't know how to voice his appreciation to the soldier turned ranger, she trusted him so willingly with her family and he would forever be thankful for that.  

Dot walks towards her work vehicle. "You gonna be alright dealing with all of them by yourself?. Alex shouldn't be far away" she replies while getting into the driver's seat and ready to head off to work. 

"Twitch Not fair only you and Nightshade can fly!" Hashtag calls out.

 

"Too bad bozo should have picked a better alt mode instead of a Ghost Van '' Twitch calls back as she takes off with their basketball before throwing in through the hoop.

This handful of newsparks posed no threat whatsoever, and he'd make sure they were protected while she was away.

"Worry not, I shall keep them entertained and out of trouble until your return" he rumbles, His massive frame shifts casually aside as Dot's vehicle rumbles past, optics following until taillights fade into rural tree line. Massive peds crunch soil as Megatron straightens, surveying once more. 

It's only once the kids mother has left do they go about doing their own things. 

Nightshade and Hashtag with little projects together. “Can you give me a tutorial on renovating?” Nightshade ask Hashtag as the two work away 

Jawbreaker finds himself sitting beside Megatron with Mo sitting in his lap. “But I never thought you had a grounded alt” Jawbreaker states while watching the ex Decepticon. “Much has changed since my time on cybertron and even while here on earth.” He starts. “I was once a miner, my Alt was that of a Mining Drill, it's only as of recently I've taken an alt mode of a flying type” he replies, a sad smile on his lips as he remembers. He's broken out of his memory when Twitch flies back in a panic. 

"There is someone on the property!, they didn't see me but i didn't stick around to get seen" She states and it makes all the young ones tense up. 

"You don't think it's GHOST again?" 

"It could be the neighbour!" Robbie states trying to calm everyone.

"Show me," he rumbles curtly to Twitch, striding toward the perimeter of the woodlands. His engine rumbles a warning growl. "Remain here. Stay out of sight, Little bird stay in drone mode in case it is GHOST."  The young terrans all retreat back into the barn watching. The wind whispers against his armour as he and Twitch move through the woods, Twitch stays close to Megatron's side hovering as they slowly scan the area. 

A loud whistle leaves a human as they move throughout the woodlands. "Bluey!" They call out while looking through the woods. "Blue! Come on!" They call before their eyes catch movements, they huff to themself moving closer hoping to find their dog. 

As they turn down another track they freeze when Scarlet optics linger on them, their body goes into fight or flight mode but instead of either they sand frozen to the spot hoping they hadn't been seen. Megatron freezes as well, optics narrowing to analyse the stranger before him. No weapon was drawn, but their presence alone was alarming. A low menacing growl rumbles leaves his intake, Twitch hovers over his shoulder plate quick to hide behind his back as she transformers, ember optics watching the human from behind Megatron as she clings to the large Mech. 

"Explain your business here, human," he demands. "You trespass" Twitch's faint glow flickers beside him, awaiting the answer that could mean swift action, depending on what the human said would decide how quickly she would fly back to the barn.

They fall to the ground moving backwards quickly. "BLUE!!" They shout loudly. The sound of heavy footsteps crunching against branches, leaf litter and rocks follow before a large cybernetic Dog stands in front of the human growling at Megatron. Its ears are pinned back as it barks loudly at the large Mech, guarding their human. 

Twitch's optics widen in shock. “No way you have a Robodog!” she squeals out in delight only for Megatron to make sure she stays behind him. 

 Megatron's optics narrow as he watches the Metal dog and vice versa. Bright blue optics watch his every move, the creature looked like a merge of cybertronian tech yet at the same time his scans said it was something different.

"Explain," he rumbles again, optics narrowing upon the trespassers. Loyalty to one's charge he respected, if nothing else. But his main concern was his charges and their safety. More footfall alerts Megatron to one of the children running towards them. Robbie pants as he catches up to Megatron, his eyes going wide when he sees his neighbour. “DON'T BLAST OUT NEIGHBOUR!" He yells loudly.

 

"You know them?" he asked Robbie who nodded. "Yea they leave across the woods, their another one of my Parents friend's!" He states only to flinch as the cyberdog sniffs him. its ears perk up and whines at the young man waiting for a pat. "Robbie?" The other human calls out in shock.

“Um Hey!, sorry about him” Robbie says sheepishly while patting the dog's face. "Um... when did you get a robot dog?" He asked his neighbour, they let out a groan as they continued laying on the ground. Crimson optics scan the pair, A rumbling purr vibrates his massive chassis, posture shifting from confrontational to watchful. "You seem acquainted. Explain yourselves further - why have these 'neighbours' not been introduced before now?" He asked Robbie. 

The young man turns back to Megatron. "Because the terrans are hiding from GHOST, Megatron," He states, but the shock of reality finally kicks in after he says those words. "We are all gonna be in deep shit when mom gets home," he says in a panic. Twitch perks up. "Ohhhhh, Robbie said a bad word! I'm telling mom!!" She shouts while flying out from behind Megatron's shoulder.

"Troubles abound it seems," he finally replies, his tone modulated into something approaching conciliatory. "Explanations are due. But not here, it isn't safe out here." Crimson optics scan the forest shadows. 

That's how they end up sitting in the Kitchen of the Malto's house with both Robbie and Mo, along with the Terrans watching them from windows and Megatron sitting on the ground beside the house watching. They slowly sip on their drink as the kids look at them with worry. "You're not going to tell anyone about the bots right?" Mo asked.

"What!, no, no! That would put Blue in more danger, I'm out here hiding him for the Government" they state. It makes all the terrans relax before questions fly about themself and their cyberdog. 

Megatron scans Blue appraisingly where the cyber-hound lies on the Doorstep near his Pede. He had never seen anything like this creature. He had his run in with turbofoxs and other creatures like on cybertron, but this one almost reminded him of Ravage in how protective they were of their human.

A sigh vents softly from Megatron's frame, he reaches out slowly running a servos over the dog's back which makes the mutt huff, before it rolls over in delight, soft chafing noises leave them. 

It's only when Alex returns that he realises something is up. "Kids... what's going on?" He asked his children. The older of the collect waves. "Um Hey Alex, you might wanna sit down" they call out to him. He nearly drops his shopping bags when he sees the Metallic Dog.

Enjoy the Art of Blue.

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@delectableworm

@cheesecaketyrant

@ladyofnegativity

@desertrosesmetaldune

@stellasfallow

@coffee-or-hot-cocoa

@shinseiokami

[opencommunion]

"Palestine was heralded as ‘a land without a people for a people without a land’, and the Naqab in particular was characterized as a desert in need of technologically advanced (Zionist) pioneers to make it bloom. In actual fact, the estimated 65,000–90,000 Palestinian Arabs populating the Naqab Desert prior to the 1948 war were organized into 95 tribes, and engaged in animal husbandry and seasonal agriculture. Turkish records dating as far back as the sixteenth century show that Palestinian Bedouin owned, cultivated and paid taxes on land; and that cultivation was extensive, particularly in the more fertile, less arid northern and northwestern Naqab. Palestinian Bedouin cultivation in the Naqab was documented by European traveller accounts from the mid- to late-1800s, as well as Zionist explorer accounts from the late 1800s and early 1900s. Reports produced both by British Mandate authorities and the Zionist Movement’s Palestine Land Development Company in the early to mid-1900s indicated that over 2 million dunams were owned and cultivated by Naqab Palestinians. The great majority of Naqab Palestinians held their land under customary Bedouin law. Neither the Ottoman or British Mandate governments ever completed land surveys of the vast Naqab region; however, they both recognized the Naqab Palestinians’ traditional land ownership system, at the collective tribal and individual levels.

... However, prior to the 1948 war, Zionist leaders such as Ben-Gurion denied Naqab Palestinian land ownership, and characterized the Naqab as ‘No Man’s Land. It has no legal owners and anyone who cultivates it with the permission of the government is entitled to become its owner, according to a Turkish law, which still prevails in Palestine’. He rejected the idea of purchasing land in the Naqab, saying to his staff: ‘In the Negev we will not buy land. We will conquer it. You are forgetting that we are at war.’ The 1948 war/Palestinian Nakba (Catastrophe) resulted in large-scale expulsion of Palestinian population, and internal displacement of many who remained in the territory that became the State of Israel. Studies of the internally displaced Palestinians have generally not included the Bedouin Palestinians in the Naqab; aside from noting that the official governmental numbers did not include them, or that a much higher proportion of the population was displaced, as compared to other regions. They, indeed, faced the most extensive displacement and dispossession, with 12 of the 19 tribes that remained in the Israeli state forced to move from their fertile lands in the northwestern Naqab to the infertile, arid region of the Seig. This resulted in nearly two thirds of the communities losing their land, property and possessions. Although Israeli authorities initially told them that the displacement was temporary, and they would be allowed to return to their lands, this never occurred. Instead, an arsenal of laws was enacted and applied throughout Israel to transfer Palestinian owned land to the Israeli state. ... Recently uncovered archives and declassified government documents confirm that the displacement and land acquisition was not coincidental, but occurred according to an orderly, large-scale state plan to expel Palestinian citizens from the northwestern Naqab, with the goal of severing their physical ties to the land, and transferring this land to the possession of the state. Moshe Dayan, who commanded the military operation, wrote: ‘It’s now possible to transfer most of the Bedouin in the vicinity of [Kibbutz] Shoval to areas south of the Hebron-Be’er Sheva road. Doing so will clear around 60,000 dunams in which we can farm and establish communities.’ Although security issues were given as a rationale for the transfer, Dayan also clearly stated: ‘Transferring the Bedouin to new territories will annul their rights as landowners and they will become tenants on government lands.’ The military government carried out the operation using a mix of threats, violence, bribery and fraud; but were careful never to give the displaced Naqab Palestinians written transfer orders, because such an operation for the purpose of land acquisition was illegal. Oral Palestinian histories of threats, violence and arrests were confirmed by archival kibbutz and state records. Although the official government story was that Naqab Palestinians voluntarily left their lands, declassified government records from the time document the ‘Bedouin resistance and protests, the stubbornness with which they tried to hold onto their land, even at the cost of hunger and thirst, not to mention the army’s threats and violence’. Archival kibbutz records also documented the military government’s use of many methods to force the Bedouin to leave their lands, including stopping their food supplies for months."

Ismael Abu-Saad, "Al-Naqab: The Unfinished Zionist Settler-colonial Conquest of its Elusive 'Last Frontier,' and Indigenous Palestinian Bedouin Arab Resistance," in Decolonizing the Study of Palestine: Indigenous Perspectives and Settler Colonialism (2023)

[mbta-unofficial]

If your city is a Brand, it’s already too late

Long post time. What is it that drives gentrification? Also, what is gentrification? Is it when a city gets blue hair and pronouns? No, it probably already had those.

Gentrification is the result of concentration of wealth in the hands of business owners, including landlords, over and above the hands of residents.

Let’s start with rent. Rent, like any good, is priced according to the laws of supply and demand. Supply of available rental housing is primarily determined by construction costs and estimated return on investment for new construction, and property management costs and estimated return on investment for existing units.

Breaking that down a bit, the higher construction costs get the higher the rent needs to be to break even on new construction. Construction costs include labor (which can always go down but you want it high for moral and practical reasons), materials (highly variable depending on the project) and bureaucratic costs. A bureaucratic cost is a cost that is based on how projects fit into the legal and practical environment, and are usually non-negotiable. Dig Safe, a program which requires three days of surveying local records before breaking ground, is an example where the function is to prevent crews from flattening a neighborhood by puncturing a gas main. Environmental Impact Statements, Fire Codes, Habitability Guidelines, and other regulations increase costs to projects. These programs are good and need to exist, but do stop smaller projects from happening at all because the capital investment required just to actually break ground on a new house might cost as much as the land and materials put together at which point you might as well build another 120$/sqft luxury midrise.

Property management costs for existing units are largely dependent on age and wear. A unit with no occupant is going to depreciate little, and may also appreciate in value. Depreciation and appreciation here are sort of unintuitive because they can happen at the same time. Imagine an old luxury sports car with a high resale price. Driving depreciates the value because it’s literal condition is poorer, even as the resale value goes up over time. The appreciation needs to beat both inflation and the value of depreciation for it to go up in real value. For companies with large capital holdings however, losses such as through the upkeep of empty apartment buildings are useful to a point because they reduce these organizations’s tax burdens. A company that makes a killing on the stock market only has to pay taxes if they keep it: if they buy houses they then don’t rent, they can claim they “lost” their stock market earnings with “bad investments” and then pay no tax while saving the real estate to rent later. Again, this favors the largest possible projects and the largest possible operators because small companies can be killed by an unprofitable quarter or 4 while large ones explicitly benefit from unprofitability in reducing their tax burden.

Expected ROI is the final piece of this, which affects both new and existing units. Every private developer and landlord wants to make as much money as they can, unless they are explicitly are renting as a service. An example of renting as a service would be families, who will rent to each other at favorable rates or for free, privileging people with large and/or wealthy families that are friendly with each other. Now, ROI is also subject to supply and demand. Everyone wants to build 120$/sqft luxury apartments but once everybody does nobody can sell/rent for those prices without setting a price floor and waiting for buyers to catch up. If you are a small developer, you can’t afford to do this. Your expenses will eat you alive. If you are a big developer, though, those expenses are offsetting the gains you make and serving to reduce you tax bill. Units at prices nobody can pay are effectively furloughed, meaning off the market, and, so long as they remain cheap to maintain, will remain that way, artificially restricting supply. It doesn’t matter if it’s for sale or not when it’s at a price you can’t afford. (Sidebar, anyone who tells you that the minimum wage depresses hiring because it artificially restricts demand is lying to you. It’s not strictly false, but like the above it’s a multi-variable equation and blanket statements about cost of labor are aimed at killing wages.)

What this alludes to also is a need for greater income equality. In order for rental to be a competitive option with furlough, not only does the price of furlough have to be increased, the real value of wages have to be increased in order to create opportunities for people to splurge. This is a twofold strategy, of both increasing the rewards of putting units on the market and increasing the costs of keeping them off. If real wages barely cover cost of living, or don’t cover cost of living, nobody can realistically spend more real wages on rent regardless of the percentage of their income it is. (Real wages here refers to the political power implied by dollar wages. A dollar is really worth whatever it can be exchanged for, whether that is a candy bar or a square inch of a 144$/sqft condo) The real value of everything except time and land are also constantly going down because of constant improvements in manufacturing. The cost in acres of land and hours of labor of a pound of beef, a bolt of cloth, or a pint of beer have dropped dramatically in the last century. Unfortunately, land is one of the few things that remains in marxist terms uncommodifiable, because it cannot be fully abstracted from the physical properties that make it valuable and we can’t make more of it just by making a better machine. This means that as the real value of things goes down because of supply and demand, the value of land only goes up because the supply is hard capped. If the value of everything under capitalism must go down because of increased production, while the value of capitalist assets must go up, or the system collapses, it makes sense that land would become a fixed point in that equation, the marxist speed of light observable from all reference points. The best approximation of land as commodity is, what else, apartments, which make available as living space the empty air above us. Because production never stops, the value of everything but land must go down. Therefore, as time passes, the price of land, and hence the price of housing, must tend upwards. Therefore, in order for housing to remain affordable, real wages must grow. This is the opposite of what is currently happening, as real wages have gone down for decades.

This income inequality which is one facet of capitalism is not new. For as long as people have lived in urban areas there have been issues between the abject class, the working class, the ruling class, and the professional class, a four part distinction I will seriously argue for in opposition to a lot of marxist theorists. The ruling and working classes ought to be familiar, or at least self explanatory. However, the other two classes I identify, the professionals and the abject, are useful to this analysis because they fill both a racial gap in the primarily marxist analysis I put forward and identify the two most likely groups to rent, which is to say the worker who works to produce but owns without governing and the professional who works to govern but does not own. The ruling class both governs and owns, but its court is full of courtiers who are there to push various agendas from within the rule of law without per se producing. Likewise, the working class pensioner exists in opposition to the abject who is denied the opportunity or the resources to be productive explicitly as a means to manufacture a threat against which inter-class solidarity between the workers and the rulers is developed. The textbook nazi conspiracy theory about “elites” doing a great racial replacement picks out perfectly what I mean by both the racial character of the professional and the abject and their utilization to foster solidarity between your plumber uncle and Elon Musk. This is relevant to both the broad theme of gentrification and the narrow theme of rent because gentrification is a wedge issue that divides the working class and the professional class far more than its impact on any other. The working class’ disidentification with doctors, lawyers, PMCs and other yuppie types, as well as the professional class’ disidentification with union politics, illegalism, and radicalism in general is brought to firecrackers in virtually any conversation about gentrification which seems in passing to be more about tapas bars than about real politics. Likewise, these groups shared distrust of and disdain for the abject, who are explicitly labeled by the state as constitutionally guilty, is the basis for the very broken windows policing strategy that empties neighborhoods of minorities regardless of class. The Rent is Too Damn High, and excluding homeless people from the “working” working class is a big part of how we got here specifically because the interests of small time owners and small time government functionaries, carried to their conclusions, are necessarily self defeating. These two groups eliminate the presence of the abject from their spaces at their own financial peril.

In addition to class, there is also a specific historical movement that is crucial to the understanding of gentrification as it exists, which is the movement of factories in search of cheap labor. The United States is not a good place to find cheap urban labor. You build a factory and suddenly everyone complains about air quality and labor violations and you can’t just kill them because everyone has lawyers. You kill one (us citizen) organizer and the NLRB is trying to get you in court for intimidation. What’s the country come to? But a shipping container costs a quarter cent per mile and the goods aren’t perishable so you go to Guangzhou or Cape Town where you can kill union bosses in peace. But for the American city, that’s a loss of what once made land prime real estate. What jobs can replace the insatiable demand for labor that a 24 hour paper mill once produced? Service labor, which crucially is site specific and therefore not outsourceable, is what the US has predominantly turned to. (and arms manufacturing which is not outsourced for very different reasons) However, service labor is only in demand if there is already a stable population that can be served, which requires a constant influx of capital holders in demand of service. This is why Airbnb exists and is hollowing out rental availability, why Boston as a college town is the way it is, and why there are in fact so many damn tapas bars. Fred Salveucci talked about being able to go north of the expressway in the 70s and being able to get a plate of mac and beans for half a buck. I went looking for a 5$ slice of pizza on my lunch break today around Government Center and found two places that were boarded up and ended up spending 20$ at Chilacates. Cities are being slowly turned into Cancun, complete with the fences to keep out the homeless.

What can be done about this? Obviously the factors we’ve discussed that favor consolidation of housing are mostly either contained within a gordion’s knot of tax policy or intrinsic to capitalism/goods as commodities. But, given that we narrow our objectives to making the rent lower, some obvious weaknesses jump out: increasing the cost of vacancy forces units out of furlough, because companies are no longer able to justify the losses, and increasing real wages increases the availability of capital for workers to spend on rent. These are the prongs I talked about earlier.

Legal means to pursue each prong exist. Both a minimum wage and a maximum wage, depending on their implementation, can potentially increase real wages, and vacancy taxes directly increase the costs of vacancy. The government can also ignore the market and directly mandate maximum rents within certain parameters. This tends to decrease the long term supply of housing for the reasons discussed at the outset, given that if the revenues from house building don’t cover the costs of building, less gets built. However, any political movement that exists exclusively within the white lines of the law fails to genuinely threaten change. Landlords, like bosses, break the law constantly with the impunity that a lawyer provides them against consequence. This is why a healthy dose of illegalism is an important part of any effective political movement. The most direct action one can take is property occupation, or squatting. Squatter’s rights are nearly non-existent in the United States. The most leeway that any state grants to any unknown persons occupying a dwelling is 60 days notice to vacate the property, and there are states that allow no notice evictions or lack statutes governing squatting at all. Every single state regards the occupation of owned property as trespassing, meaning most kinds of squatting are prosecutable offenses. However, squatting, even temporarily in ways that don’t expose the squatter to liability provided they don’t get caught, can seriously impact the value of properties. You have heard of rent lowering gunshots. This is the serious version of that. At the same time, illegal action needs legal defense, both in terms of non-compliance with police to protect those willing to take illegal actions from arrest and in terms of legal, 1st amendment protected disruption to keep focus on the issue. The most effective movements have a radical wing and a institutionalist wing who do not acknowledge each other but share the same tactics and objectives.

If you are housed, you need to be willing to protect and support homeless people because they are your front line. Start or join an Occupy movement, where they are your peers in occupying a public space illegally in a way that is too public to prosecute. Give to people on the street, and smash anti-homeless architecture if nobody is watching. Be willing to distract cops if you see someone doing something dodgy so they can get away. Remember that following the law is a tactic, and so is breaking it.

The case for this being on my transit blog is arguably weak, but I felt compelled after a particularly hateful experience looking at facebook memes about homeless people on the T. You should want those people there. You should want those people breaking down the doors of luxury apartments and setting up shop. You should want them keeping your city safe because the cops you hire to separate you from them will train their guns on you next.

And for gods sake, don’t let your city become a brand. Branding is marketing. Branding is clean, and bloodless, and a gloved hand around your throat that leaves no fingerprints.

[itsbenedict]

From the beginning | Previously | Coin standings | 60/70 | 36/36

Walter wants to go check out what was happening down in that sunken temple, but Adea doesn't want to just leave all this dirt sitting here- and she's just plugged in that coin miner thingy, so they'll need to sit around for a bit to see if it works anyway.

IT PREVENTED ROOK POWER EXTRUSION is OVIOS NETWORK EXPENDITURE REPORT. Apparently, about 14 years ago, the municipal government started deploying some project called the OpenVista I/O Station network. OPENVISTA is, on paper, an independent startup, but apparently it's a shell corporation established so Thinrar could dodge some of his own restrictions on public works. The report details the budget that went into constructing and deploying these things- though it's not clear from the report exactly what they do.

Apparently a construction company called WIREFRAME MOCKUP was hired to simultaneously build a mall named TARGETED ADVERTISING... and force an underground funeral home type facility run by SLEEP MODE to surrender something called the LOTUS VEXOR, in exchange for letting them keep the rights to their land (which they'd been retroactively granted thanks to a surveying loophole). The project took years and went way over budget, despite someone named DEADLOCK DETECTION being sent from Thinrar's office to oversee it personally. But 14 years ago, she apparently managed to get her hands on it- a key component of the OVIOS network, somehow. The cover op, the mall construction, is set to open in a few days.

TIN RUNT CONCOCTS A QUART O' CACTI concerns an AQUATIC CONSTRUCTION CONTRACT, offered by COLLUSION to a well-regarded specialist contractor named REGRESSION TEST. It's mostly an email chain with said contractor, who had a thousand questions about the nature of the work and the equipment she was being paid to install. The emails- sent to her by someone named JUST-IN-TIME COMPILER- are evasive and noncommittal, and seem primarily concerned with getting her to agree to various nondisclosure agreements and security measures.

REGRESSION TEST's job, apparently, is just to demolish the wreckage at the build site, create some waterproof housing with enough space for maintenance staff, and install the provided equipment. That's all she's allowed to know about the HILARITY! BE A FILIAL E-CYGNET.

SPRITZ? REPENT, WRY ED COOLHAXX! is a strange set of files called PROXY WIZARD CONTEXT HELPERS. It's a dossier on... various random people in town. A university researcher with no friends, a family of small-time crooks down by the docks, various guards at this very tower, and a handful of other random citizens with no clear connecting factors. The files describe the details of their lives over a disconcertingly long period of observation, and note things that are missing from those lives. Family members they don't have, friends they've lost contact with, coworkers who quit recently. There's transcripts of interviews with some of these people, but nothing stands out as particularly odd.

There's also profiles on various properties for rent, and some odd shorthand notes that appear to describe how long they've spent vacant and what's wrong with them. And... a bunch of copies of old missing persons cases, with all the names blacked out. And statements from investigations of incidents where... disasters were averted for reasons no one understood, like an out-of-control trolley being diverted onto a track by some good samaritan who never identified themselves.

[ed: Yeah, chew on that one, FF. You'll find out what I'm on about eventually.]

This is all weird, and rings a few bells, but you're not sure what to make of it just yet. In the meantime, Adea collects 10 Coin from the minter- which seems to have really raised the ambient temperature in the room. It's probably fine, though, right? The heat's dissipating into the stone, for the most part.

Adea consults with Walter and formulates a guess. He'd been drawn underground by some mysterious force when he woke up, right? If your daughter ended up here too- and it stands to reason, because you were all right there in the same place when the blast(?) went off- maybe she was pulled down there by the same force! It's possible he just missed her- she could've gotten lost in those underground tunnels somewhere. Best to give it another once-over with an extra pair of eyes.

You head through the ancient pyramid, which... seems to be more extensive, and in better repair than it used to be. When did all this construction happen? Finding a crack in the floor leading down is more difficult than before. Earlier, it hadn't been difficult at all- Walter says some part of him knew which way to go. Did something change?

Neither of you are feeling any supernatural pull downwards anymore. The area below- save for some additional pyramid construction- is almost entirely unchanged. Which... does mean that there is a GIANT SKELETON, still. Several of them. You find a reasonably well-hidden spot to lurk and install the WIFI ACCESS POINT in the REVERT A BANDANA SURGERY SUBTERRANEAN GRAVEYARD. Files include:

Someone took issue with the performance assessment of a robot horse, around, like... thirty years ago? The email is RE: PONY SERVITOR 2076 SCORECARD, and they're not happy.

You've heard of saltwater taffy, but mousewater taffy is considerably harder to manage. Someone's done it, though: ENCODED::: WRANGLED MOUSEWATER TAFFY.

According to the LANCE GLANCE RECRUITER: PI ROTATION IS OUT. He's in charge of recruiting people who've had a close shave with spears, and he prefers to measure lance angles with tau.

An island nation called Haiti, which you've never heard of, is really mad about something- but they don't seem to want to be mad. IRATE HAITI WISHES MELLOW??? Really?

There'd been a lot of development on a faster-than-light utensil, but the product has been getting worse over time. See, a TORTOISE PROVED WARP FORK REGRESSED in this paper.

There's an invitation to the LETTERED CORRECTNESS FOUNDATION, an organization devoted to putting letters in the correct order. Sure would help if these guys weren't hallucinatory!

To be continued | 60/70 | 32/32

[smithmariam298]

The Significance of Property survey Company with residential Land Survey

When it comes to buying a domestic or beginning a development, having a clear understanding of your property’s boundaries is basic. Whether you’re managing with a little residential parcel or arranging a expansive development format, enlisting a property survey company can spare you time, cash, and potential legitimate headaches. Read More: https://blogzone.hellobox.co/7001616/the-significance-of-property-survey-company-with-residential-land-survey

[fowlerblogs1]

Meta Geometics Land Surveying Company

Lidar, short for Light Detection and Ranging, is a cutting-edge technology that utilizes laser beams to create detailed three-dimensional representations of the environment. This innovative technique has revolutionized various industries by offering a highly accurate and efficient way to capture complex shapes, objects, and landscapes. 

The operation of lidar is based on the principle of time-of-flight measurement. Initially, laser scanning projects a concentrated beam of light, typically in the near-infrared spectrum, onto the surface of interest. The scanner then calculates the time it takes for the laser pulse to bounce back to the sensor. By leveraging the speed of light, the scanner can precisely determine the exact distance between itself and each point on the surface it scans.

[conspectie]

Conspect Engineering - Surveyors - Snag lists - pre purchase surveys

New home snag lists & Pre purchase surveys Buying a new home or house is not an everyday purchase for most of us, even when you find 'the perfect' property that ticks all the boxes on your must have list & of course within budget! New home snag list inspections, snagging of new build and pre purchase surveys of existing buildings both residential and commercial are paramount when making an informed decision.

[odinsblog]

“All this happening at once is really startling,” said Joseph Schwieterman, a DePaul University professor who researches intercity bus travel and directs the university’s Chaddick Institute for Metropolitan Development. “You’re taking mobility away from disproportionately low-income and mobility-challenged citizens who don’t have other options.”

Roughly three-quarters of intercity bus riders have annual incomes of less than $40,000. More than a quarter would not make their trip if bus service was not available, according to surveys by Midwestern governments reviewed by DePaul University.

Intercity bus riders are also disproportionately minorities, people with disabilities, and unemployed travelers.

A spokesperson for Greyhound, which is now owned by German company FlixMobility, said it strives to offer customers the most options for connections, but has “encountered challenges in some instances.” The spokesperson also said they “actively engage with local stakeholders to emphasize the importance of supporting affordable and equitable intercity bus travel.”

The terminal closures have been accelerating as Greyhound, the largest carrier, sells its valuable terminals to investors, including investment firm Alden Global Capital.

Last year, Alden subsidiary Twenty Lake Holdings purchased 33 Greyhound stations for $140 million. Alden is best known for buying up local newspapers like The Chicago Tribune, New York Daily News and The Baltimore Sun, cutting staff, and selling some of the iconic downtown buildings.

Alden has started to sell the Greyhound depots to real estate developers, speeding up the timetable for closures.

“I don’t know the specific details of each building, but it is clear what is happening here: an important piece of transit infrastructure is being sacrificed in the name of higher profits,” said Stijn Van Nieuwerburgh, a professor of real estate at Columbia Business School.

“The public sector has turned a cold shoulder to buses,” DePaul’s Schwieterman said. “We subsidize public transit abundantly, but we don’t see this as an extension of our transit system. Few governments view it as their mandate.”

Bus terminals are costly for companies to operate, maintain and pay property taxes on. Many have deteriorated over the years, becoming blighted properties struggling with homelessness, crime and other issues.

But terminal closures cause a ripple effect of problems.

Travelers can’t use the bathroom, stay out of the harsh weather or get something to eat while they wait. People transferring late at night or early in the morning, sometimes with long layovers, have no place to safely wait or sleep. It’s worse in the cold, rain, snow or extreme heat.

Bus carriers often try to switch to curbside service when a terminal closes, but curbside bus service can clog up city streets with passengers and their luggage, snarl traffic, increase pollution, and frustrate local business owners. In Philadelphia, a Greyhound terminal closure and switch to curbside service after its lease ended turned into a “humanitarian disaster” and “municipal disgrace” with people waiting on street corners.

(continue reading)

[themourningfox]

Firecracker | Kix x F!Reader

Found some old stories on my abandoned ao3 page. Figured I should bring some of them back to life and let y'all enjoy them.

Kix x F!Reader. Fluff, angst, one-sided crush (lmao yeah right), SFW, comfort fic, hurt fic. Reader gets hurt on a mission.

She was a soldier. Not a Jedi, not a clone. Just a soldier thrown into the war. With her expertise in explosives, it was an easy guess as to why. She couldn’t help it. She enjoyed the smell of the powder. The ticking of the timer. The fuses being lit, or buttons being pressed. The fire, the impact, the dust and smoke. 

Okay, so maybe she was a bit of a pyromaniac. 

Just a little bit.

It fit well with her personality and allowed her to fit in well with the clones she ended up working with. She was able to take their banter and give it right back, which may or may not have earned her the nickname Phoenix.

But despite how many clones enjoyed her company, there was one who was not so keen to welcome her into their folds.

Kix.

So maybe she had developed a tiny crush on the medic, which was why she noted the difference in behavior from him. She wasn’t sure what it was that drew her to him like a fly to honey, but damn…she wanted to find out.

That’s where the slightly devious part came in.

Every chance she got, she would go to the medbay. Burns, scrapes, twisted ankle, anything to just go see him.

He was never rude or mean. It was business. That was it. That’s all it was to him. She watched him play with his brothers, argue and fight back, but not with her. She was dying to know what she was doing wrong, but...how?

After a while, she just stopped going. It hurt her to watch his playful attitude turn so strict whenever she came within vicinity. Maybe he just didn’t like her. So, with some expertise in treating her own burns, she stopped going to the medbay.

A month had passed. The only times she had seen Kix were in the mess. Well... that’s when she actually showed up there. Things changed after a mission at a Separatist outpost went a little haywire. She was meant to blow the bridge, but her gadgets malfunctioned. She frowned, panic seizing her heart when she realized they weren’t going to detonate. 

“What’s wrong? Why isn’t it blowing?” Captain Rex asked, his voice filled with mounting pressure.

The droids were getting closer. They couldn’t risk this. 

She flung herself over the barricade, running toward the bridge.

“Phoenix!”

Ignoring Rex’s booming voice, she dodged a blaster bolt and dove beneath the legs of the bridge. Gritting her teeth, she tried to force her trembling hands to still. Eyes surveying the explosive, she quickly found the problem.

They hadn’t been set properly. 

Sweat beaded on her forehead as she raced against the approaching enemy. There wasn’t enough time to fix it and run back. They would need to be set off with her right here. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Rex’s voice grated through the comlink in her ear.

“Not now, Rex! Focusing!”

“What’s the problem?”

“Explosives weren’t set property,” she explained, finally getting the fuses in the right place. “I’m going to have to blow it from here.”

“Phoenix, don’t!”

“I don’t have time for anything else. I’ll be okay.”

Before he could respond, she lit the fuse. The bomb started ticking at an accelerated pace. Phoenix leapt to her feet, running out from under the bridge. Her shoes pounded against the hard ground. Blood rushed in her ears. She could see her battalion—

The explosives detonated. She could feel it. The ground shook. A heatwave hit her first, knocking her off her feet. Then the shockwave. She was thrown into the barricade at the feet of her battalion.

That’s the last thing she remembered.

The first thing she came to was the feeling of floating. She blinked. It took a moment to process that there were two strong arms holding her off the ground. A hard wall was to her left...no wait, that was an armored chest. Phoenix blinked again. She was being carried.

Her tongue touched her lips. She tasted blood. Her own? Probably. She shook her head. Maker, she felt lightheaded.

“You’re awake.” Rex’s voice wasn’t a question. “That was reckless.”

Oh, here they go...a lecture about safety.

“I’m okay,” she grunted weakly, pushing at his chest.

Rex snorted, clearly amused. “You were out for a day.”

A day? She stared up at his face, hidden behind the helmet. “Where are we?”

“We’re heading to the medbay, you and I. We just arrived back at the ship.”

Medbay, yes. That was a good idea...her heart stopped. Medbay. “No!” she shouted, shoving hard against his chest.

The clone captain grunted, but otherwise just held tighter onto her. “That wasn’t a suggestion. You were hurt and you need to be examined.”

“I can do it myself. I don’t need to go to the medbay.” The embarrassment would be too much. “I don’t need Kix to look after me!”

“Mm, I would beg to differ.”

Her heart stilled in her chest. In her attempt to get out of going to Kix, she hadn’t realized they had just arrived. She sent Rex a small glare before turning her head to look at Kix.

He was leaning against one of the cots, arms crossed over his chest. He gave her a once over, before nodding to Rex. The captain set her down on the cot and left shortly after.

Phoenix rubbed her neck, looking anywhere but at Kix. He didn’t waste any time. He started the examination, looking over her burns, bumps, and bruises. He hummed here and there, poking and prodding, taking note of where she tensed.

Her eyes slid closed, cheeks turning a nice rosy color at his proximity. He was all around her. She could smell him. The aftershave. The shampoo in his hair. Feel him as he shifted around her, deft fingers grazing over her skin like ice.

“Are you all right, mesh’la?” Kix’s voice cut through the silence.

She opened her eyes, almost gasping when she realized he was right there. Right in front of her face. So close.

“Y…yeah,” she stammered, nodding her head.

“Good.” He backed away, taking notes and preparing a tincture. “My conclusion is that you need a couple days of bed rest. You have a small concussion and will need to be checked in on. What I’m making here will heal your burns, but I need you to promise me you’ll stay in bed for a couple of days. Is there anyone to come and check on you?”

She blinked at him, trying to think. “Rex?” 

“He’s out on leave.” He hummed, then shrugged as he approached her again and began to clean her burns. “I’ll come and check on you.”

“You will?” she asked, breathless as his scent filled her nostrils again.

Kix nodded, dark eyes sweeping up to her. “Of course. You’re my patient.”

Oh...right. Business. She gave him a small smile. “Thank you, then.”

He smiled back at her and she blamed it on the concussion when it felt like his thumb rubbed soft circles on the back of her hand. “I’m glad your safe. It’s been a while since my favorite firecracker came to visit me for her medical needs.”

Favorite... firecracker? She blinked at him, cheeks warming. “Your what?”

He chuckled softly and wrapped her burn. “You heard me. Don’t think I didn’t notice when you stopped coming to see me. I’ll have to ask you about that when you don’t have a concussion, mm?”

All she could do was nod. He...his favorite...she felt like her heart was about to erupt with happiness. She couldn’t wait to see where this would lead.

[mariacallous]

Less than three months after Apple quietly debuted a tool for publishers to opt out of its AI training, a number of prominent news outlets and social platforms have taken the company up on it.

WIRED can confirm that Facebook, Instagram, Craigslist, Tumblr, The New York Times, The Financial Times, The Atlantic, Vox Media, the USA Today network, and WIRED’s parent company, Condé Nast, are among the many organizations opting to exclude their data from Apple’s AI training. The cold reception reflects a significant shift in both the perception and use of the robotic crawlers that have trawled the web for decades. Now that these bots play a key role in collecting AI training data, they’ve become a conflict zone over intellectual property and the future of the web.

This new tool, Applebot-Extended, is an extension to Apple’s web-crawling bot that specifically lets website owners tell Apple not to use their data for AI training. (Apple calls this “controlling data usage” in a blog post explaining how it works.) The original Applebot, announced in 2015, initially crawled the internet to power Apple’s search products like Siri and Spotlight. Recently, though, Applebot’s purpose has expanded: The data it collects can also be used to train the foundational models Apple created for its AI efforts.

Applebot-Extended is a way to respect publishers' rights, says Apple spokesperson Nadine Haija. It doesn’t actually stop the original Applebot from crawling the website—which would then impact how that website’s content appeared in Apple search products—but instead prevents that data from being used to train Apple's large language models and other generative AI projects. It is, in essence, a bot to customize how another bot works.

Publishers can block Applebot-Extended by updating a text file on their websites known as the Robots Exclusion Protocol, or robots.txt. This file has governed how bots go about scraping the web for decades—and like the bots themselves, it is now at the center of a larger fight over how AI gets trained. Many publishers have already updated their robots.txt files to block AI bots from OpenAI, Anthropic, and other major AI players.

Robots.txt allows website owners to block or permit bots on a case-by-case basis. While there’s no legal obligation for bots to adhere to what the text file says, compliance is a long-standing norm. (A norm that is sometimes ignored: Earlier this year, a WIRED investigation revealed that the AI startup Perplexity was ignoring robots.txt and surreptitiously scraping websites.)

Applebot-Extended is so new that relatively few websites block it yet. Ontario, Canada–based AI-detection startup Originality AI analyzed a sampling of 1,000 high-traffic websites last week and found that approximately 7 percent—predominantly news and media outlets—were blocking Applebot-Extended. This week, the AI agent watchdog service Dark Visitors ran its own analysis of another sampling of 1,000 high-traffic websites, finding that approximately 6 percent had the bot blocked. Taken together, these efforts suggest that the vast majority of website owners either don’t object to Apple’s AI training practices are simply unaware of the option to block Applebot-Extended.

In a separate analysis conducted this week, data journalist Ben Welsh found that just over a quarter of the news websites he surveyed (294 of 1,167 primarily English-language, US-based publications) are blocking Applebot-Extended. In comparison, Welsh found that 53 percent of the news websites in his sample block OpenAI’s bot. Google introduced its own AI-specific bot, Google-Extended, last September; it’s blocked by nearly 43 percent of those sites, a sign that Applebot-Extended may still be under the radar. As Welsh tells WIRED, though, the number has been “gradually moving” upward since he started looking.

Welsh has an ongoing project monitoring how news outlets approach major AI agents. “A bit of a divide has emerged among news publishers about whether or not they want to block these bots,” he says. “I don't have the answer to why every news organization made its decision. Obviously, we can read about many of them making licensing deals, where they're being paid in exchange for letting the bots in—maybe that's a factor.”

Last year, The New York Times reported that Apple was attempting to strike AI deals with publishers. Since then, competitors like OpenAI and Perplexity have announced partnerships with a variety of news outlets, social platforms, and other popular websites. “A lot of the largest publishers in the world are clearly taking a strategic approach,” says Originality AI founder Jon Gillham. “I think in some cases, there's a business strategy involved—like, withholding the data until a partnership agreement is in place.”

There is some evidence supporting Gillham’s theory. For example, Condé Nast websites used to block OpenAI’s web crawlers. After the company announced a partnership with OpenAI last week, it unblocked the company’s bots. (Condé Nast declined to comment on the record for this story.) Meanwhile, Buzzfeed spokesperson Juliana Clifton told WIRED that the company, which currently blocks Applebot-Extended, puts every AI web-crawling bot it can identify on its block list unless its owner has entered into a partnership—typically paid—with the company, which also owns the Huffington Post.

Because robots.txt needs to be edited manually, and there are so many new AI agents debuting, it can be difficult to keep an up-to-date block list. “People just don’t know what to block,” says Dark Visitors founder Gavin King. Dark Visitors offers a freemium service that automatically updates a client site’s robots.txt, and King says publishers make up a big portion of his clients because of copyright concerns.

Robots.txt might seem like the arcane territory of webmasters—but given its outsize importance to digital publishers in the AI age, it is now the domain of media executives. WIRED has learned that two CEOs from major media companies directly decide which bots to block.

Some outlets have explicitly noted that they block AI scraping tools because they do not currently have partnerships with their owners. “We’re blocking Applebot-Extended across all of Vox Media’s properties, as we have done with many other AI scraping tools when we don’t have a commercial agreement with the other party,” says Lauren Starke, Vox Media’s senior vice president of communications. “We believe in protecting the value of our published work.”

Others will only describe their reasoning in vague—but blunt!—terms. “The team determined, at this point in time, there was no value in allowing Applebot-Extended access to our content,” says Gannett chief communications officer Lark-Marie Antón.

Meanwhile, The New York Times, which is suing OpenAI over copyright infringement, is critical of the opt-out nature of Applebot-Extended and its ilk. “As the law and The Times' own terms of service make clear, scraping or using our content for commercial purposes is prohibited without our prior written permission,” says NYT director of external communications Charlie Stadtlander, noting that the Times will keep adding unauthorized bots to its block list as it finds them. “Importantly, copyright law still applies whether or not technical blocking measures are in place. Theft of copyrighted material is not something content owners need to opt out of.”

It’s unclear whether Apple is any closer to closing deals with publishers. If or when it does, though, the consequences of any data licensing or sharing arrangements may be visible in robots.txt files even before they are publicly announced.

“I find it fascinating that one of the most consequential technologies of our era is being developed, and the battle for its training data is playing out on this really obscure text file, in public for us all to see,” says Gillham.

[inuhalfdemon]

Dirty Dealings (6/21)

Word Count: 6,508 Words

Chapter 6: The Confession

“Adeline…dear Adeline….I believe that I,” He flourished his hand, pressing it to his chest “…am fucked up.” - Alastor

New Orleans, Louisiana

June 25th, 1976

One year later - on a warm sunny early afternoon - Alastor came back to New Orleans to find Addie staying in a cabin outside of the city. It was small, but quaint – especially to someone for his taste of aesthetic. It was surrounded by marshland and well away from any neighbor within a mile. He paused briefly at the door, appreciating the rustic-ness of the sturdy, old building. He had come this time already in his form that was his norm as the radio demon from Hell. Adeline had made a point of really not being bothered or overly concerned by this appearance and he favored it anyway. Turning one large ear toward the swamp, he listened to the familiar sounds of the bog. It was all very nostalgic for him.

He knocked at the old wood that was the door and Addie soon was there opening it.

“Happy Anniversary, Adeline,” He bowed at the door, smiling widely. “I’m quite surprised to find you here. I thought you might make me travel somewhere terribly ungodly…Sweden, perhaps.” He chuckled at his own joke. “But, instead, I find you here. Seen it all already, have you?” His voice playing to her as if someone had cranked on an old radio.

Addie stepped back so that he himself could step into the cabin. “Not even close.” She told him with a small laugh, smiling back at him. “I just knew you would be by to visit and I wanted to make sure I was here to meet you. You haven’t been out to the cemetery yet, have you?” She asked him. 

Fiddling with his monocle, he was surveying the interior of the cabin: noting the old kitchen and stove; a small dining area that was really just a very rickety table with matching chairs; the short hallway that branched quickly to one room and another, likely a bathroom and one lone bedroom.

“Not yet.” He told her, appreciating some antique furbearing animal traps that were hung along one wall.

“Well,” She told him. “I was in town earlier…I picked up some things for a quick supper and I found a beautiful bouquet of flowers that I thought you could take with you when you went.”

“Ah!” He said happily. “I thought I could smell shrimp and grits! You are too kind, dear Adeline.”

“I hope that’s ok,” She said, “I’m not the best cook…”

“I’m sure it will be splendid.” He assured her, his smile as large as it had ever been.

They took their supper out on the small back porch that was attached to the cabin. Along with the shrimp and grits, she had made a lemonade which they both continued to enjoy following their meal. They sipped at cool, sweet drinks chatting and enjoying each other’s company underneath the warmth of the sun.

Addie told him about her traveling; how the documents worked perfectly and how she already had gotten to see so much more than she ever could have imagined possible. He was curious about the history of the cabin. She told him that it had been left abandoned for some time and she had found that there was a rather messy paperwork battle ongoing for the land surrounding it. Addie figured it might take some time to get sorted so she was squatting upon the property for the time being.

“Hm,” He commented. “Rather resourceful of you. That a girl.”

“Thanks.” She smiled. “I…really appreciate it.”

Soon following, Alastor was taking his leave. Addie gave him the flowers – a beautiful bouquet of sunflowers - to take with him to his mother’s grave; without touching the flowers themselves, he snapped his fingers and they disappeared in a cloud of green. “I’d carry them along with me if I could, of course.” He told her. “But, I’m afraid they’d wilt at my touch. Best that I take them this way. It will be nice to have something much more colorful to bring than one of my…hellish…roses.” He chuckled, happily enjoying another one of his own jokes.

“Your cooking was delectable, darling, and very much needed.” He thanked her.

“I’m glad.” She said, going with him to the door.

“Forgive me,” He paused at the door. Reaching for her, he lightly took her right hand, pulling it more into the light. “But, I only just noticed that you are wearing your ring. I don’t recall seeing you with it before.”

“I was afraid I might lose it…” She admitted. “I was very careful with it and ended up losing it anyway…twice. Both times, it came back. It would be gone and then…it wasn’t.” She was looking at the wooden ring, a small smile touching her face.

“Well, it looks lovely on you, Adeline.” He gently let her hand go. “Before I go, I offer to you another anniversary gift. Should you ever need me, should you ever require my presence – twist the ring around your finger, any finger. Three purposeful twists should do it.”

She looked at the ring, wondering if she would ever actually dare to do it. At the surface, it was a kind gift for him to offer but she worried too, that like anything, it would come at a cost.

Then she realized, “You haven’t asked me.”

He stood smiling at her, saying nothing.

“Every year you find me and you make a point of asking me if I’m ready to give up yet. If I’m ready to give you…my soul.” She explained.

“My, dear…” He grinned back at her. “I meant no rudeness.” He told her. “I simply assumed to know what your answer would be. It would be a lie for me to tell you that this is the first time that I’ve made an ass of myself.” He cackled.

When he had stopped, he regarded her more seriously. “Have I been terribly…mistaken?” He asked her, obviously expecting no real surprises from her.

“No.” She said. “It’s just…something I noticed.”

He turned a long ear slightly at that and she wondered what he must be thinking.

“Well, I do have one more matter to discuss with you before I take my leave, dearest Adeline.” He told her. “I’m afraid our yearly anniversary celebrations will have to be….less frequent from now on. I’ve become rather busy and these visits are becoming quite…tedious for me to attend to each passing year. Now, now, my dear – please- don’t fret too much,” He was saying, though she hadn’t really reacted to his news at all. “I will still be popping by from time to time, of course; purely to check in and see that you haven’t yet changed your mind in regards to your...answer.”

This was something she - in fact - had anticipated for some time. She fully expected him to grow bored with their yearly visits. If anything, she was surprised he had kept up with it as long as he had. “Sounds good to me.” She told him.

“Fantastic!” He exclaimed. She was watching his expression closely this time; not his smile – that never went away but his eyes and ears often told a different story. She read nothing in them now, but she suspected that he had been hoping for a much different response from her.

“How does our 30th sound?” He asked her.

“Four years…” She said. “Yeah, that’ll work.”

This time both ears shifted position, ever so briefly.  Laughing, he said, “It’s a deal then.”

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

New Orleans, Louisiana

June 25th, 1980

Nearly 15 years came and went. True to his word, Alastor did not find her again until the year 1980; marking 30 years since Addie LaRue made her deal with the radio demon. He found her again, staying within New Orleans; this time in a rather high-end apartment within the city. He visited her during the day again – coming true to his form- and she had a crawfish pie waiting for them to lunch with.

“Can I make a request?” She asked him as they ate. “I mean…for my gift this year. Is that allowed?”

He smirked, taking a sip from the lemonade she had made to go with their meal again. “Perhaps…but it will depend on what it is you have in mind, of course. Rather bold of you to assume you’d be getting a gift…” His voice crackling behind a filter of radio.

“Shut up.” She told him, “I want..” She paused, trying to decide how to approach it exactly. “I would like…” She began again. “I would like for us to spend some time together.”

His smile curled oddly across his face, his head tilting at her…odd request.

“I mean, I’d really like some company…and I could tell you about all of the traveling I’ve gotten to do in the past four years. I could get wine, we could play games… I don’t know.” She stopped, sighing. “That probably sounds really boring to you.”  

“It sounds horrendously boring.” He told her. “Do you, by chance, own a radio?”

“Yes…” She told him, unsure of why he might be asking.

“Well, if nothing else.” He speared a bite of pie with his fork. “I could stand an evening ‘in’ listening to some good jazz - of my choice - of course. And, if you’re promising alcohol, well, I suppose it will be somewhat bearable.”

“Really!?” She hadn’t actually thought he would entertain her idea. “Would you have some time tonight?” She asked him.

“Actually, yes.” He told her, going for another bite of the food. Finishing it, he told her, “I just have my – errand – but, after that I’m all yours.” He snickered.

“Oh, yes!” She said, remembering he would be visiting his mother’s grave today. “I got you some more sunflowers to take…I mean, if you want to. I’m not even sure if those are ones you even want-“

She really was needing some company, he noted. She normally wasn’t so worried about what he thought.

“They will be perfect, Adeline.” He assured her. “Sunflowers were her favorite.”

 “Oh,” Addie smiled. “Good.”

They finished their lunch and Alastor left with the sunflowers to visit the cemetery. They planned to reconvene later that evening at her place, him telling her not to worry about preparing another meal for them as he had…other…dinner plans. Addie briefly remembered the very first form she had found him in; remembered hearing the sharp cracking of bones from somewhere in the darkness; the sounds of something gnawing on soft, wet flesh. She shivered. She still hadn’t figured out what she made of him quite yet.

That evening, Alastor arrived to her apartment promptly. He came, in human form, with a bouquet of red roses and was dressed rather handsomely in a fine black pinstriped suit.

“Good evening, Adeline.” He told her as she opened the door.

“Good evening, Luc.” She offered him inside.

His spectacles caught the light of the room, his head tilting sharply as he eyed her coyly.

She ignored his carefully veiled look of disgust, asking him “Wouldn’t you rather a more comfortable…ensemble?” She herself, was dressed in casuals but she also was just surprised to find him not in his strange tall, red demon form.

“I felt like cleaning up a bit for tonight, I hope that’s alright.” He told her, going to a small coffee table, he produced a vase like he had back at the hotel in Lafayette years ago and began arranging the flowers.

“Fine with me.” She shrugged. “I’ll go get the wine.”

When she returned he was seated comfortably at one of the sofas within the living room, her radio playing soft jazz.

She filled two glasses of wine, handing one to him, she then curled herself into one of the lounge chairs across from him. They spent the remainder of their evening in that fashion; she telling him all about the traveling she had gotten to do since they last saw each other; he listening and enjoying the soft tones of music playing from the radio. Later, they chatted amiably about things that really held no great importance, simply enjoying each other’s company.

Adeline couldn’t have expressed – even to herself – how much it meant to her to have this. To have someone here that she could spend time with…someone that knew her. Someone who remembered her. Someone she could have an actual conversation with without ever having to worry about them turning away, even for a moment; where she did not have to carefully and meticulously navigate a single interaction, forcing it to remain completely intact and stretching it for as long as she possibly could before…inevitably…it was broken. 

When the wee hours of morning came and Addie found herself starting to fall asleep from the wine and fine music, Alastor politely excused himself. They planned to meet again in 5 years, their 35th anniversary.

Their 35th anniversary was very much a repeat of the 30th, almost exact in many ways. Alastor found Addie again in the same apartment, in New Orleans. They lunched, Addie provided him with more sunflowers for his mother’s gravesite and she requested that he spend the evening with her. He agreed - willingly enough - and arrived just as he had years before, coming as a human and dressed handsomely in the same black pinstriped suit; carrying a bouquet of roses. He again played jazz from her radio as they drank wine and spent their evening catching up and getting to know each other a little more.

It’s no surprise that in 1990, their 40th anniversary, Addie made her request to him again; that he accompany her that evening at her apartment for them to spend time together. Alastor willingly accepted. This evening, however, when he arrived; it was as the red, radio demon. Addie wasn’t sure if she should be surprised by this or if it just was that he was becoming more…casual…with these evenings they were spending together.

Her radio immediately tuned to a smooth jazz station and she left to get wine. When she returned he had made himself comfortable, his long body stretched across the sofa leisurely. She brought out two wine glasses and a bottle of pinot noir. “So, dearest Adeline, what wild tales of adventure do you have to share with me this evening?” He asked her. 

“Actually,” She said. “I wanted to see if you’d be interested in playing a drinking game tonight?”

“Ugh,” He groaned disgustedly. “I am NOT playing that wretched game of ‘Never Have I Ever’ again.” She laughed at that. She learned quickly that she held the upper hand in that one the last time they had played; there wasn’t much he hadn’t done and he wasn’t very good at finding the right questions to ask her in order to win the game.

“Well,” She sat down in the lounge chair beside the sofa. “I am NOT playing 20 questions with you ever again. You made me work through 5 whole separate rounds just for me to be guessing for ‘a dead man’s left kidney’.”

He shrugged. “So, what do you have in mind?”

“One I thought of…” She shifted in her seat, hoping he had an open mind tonight. “One of us asks a question. The other can either; answer it and the person who asked the question has to take a drink OR they can skip the question but then have to take a drink themselves.”

“Eh…Why not.” He sat up and she reached for the bottle of wine.

“If we are doing this though, I may need to actually be drunk.” He snapped his fingers and a whiskey glass filled with a liquid appeared upon the small table. “A nice rye, I think.” He reached into his suit jacket, retrieving a flask and promptly poured another type of liquid into the glass. “Don’t think me impolite, I’d offer you a taste but if you consumed merely one drop…well, it would kill you.” He stirred the drink with one long, clawed finger. “Mortal liquors don’t quite have the kick that I’ll need tonight.”

“Wow, are you really planning to let that loose?” She asked him, only half-teasingly.

“Honestly, Adeline, I could use it. I have had quite an aggravating time of it lately” He began muttering, “…obnoxious…pompous...piece of shit….television...”

When she didn’t have anything to say to this he continued, “Tonight, I think I will properly let myself become completely and utterly sloshed. I don’t have anywhere I have to be, anyway. Depending on how the night goes, I may need to take up residence somewhere…maybe that corner of the room over there. I promise, you won’t notice me. The shadows will just seem darker over there until I’m gone.”

“I guess I should have gotten more wine.” She glanced at the bottle. “I could run out quick and-“

“No need, my dear.” He told her, already nursing his whiskey. “It’s not just holy hands that can turn water into wine, after all.”

She starred at him. He sipped again at his whiskey, then setting the glass down, “What? Do you think that I’m kidding?”

“You won’t…you won’t put any of that-“ She nodded at the flask that was still on the table. “In it…will you?”

“Heaven’s no!” He told her, lifting one of the empty wine glasses from the table top and handing it to her. “Here, fill it with water and bring it back to me.” He reached down and returned the flask that was on the table back to where he regularly kept it within his jacket.

When she came back, he took the glass. Holding it by the round bottom; the stem between his fingers; he swirled the glass with a smooth, gentle motion. The clear liquid within spun into a small whirlpool before turning a vibrant red. Stopping the movement, he offered the glass back to her.

She took it tentatively, watching him watching her. She raised the glass to her lips and sipped. The liquid was pleasurably cool but a soft, radiating heat followed it down as she swallowed. The taste was inconceivably delectable upon her tongue, and she could already feel the promise of a buzz coming as she drank more.

“This is…amazing. Is-is there more?” She asked, worried she’d want more than just the one glass.

“Oh, yes.” He told her, going back to his whiskey. “Drink as much as you like, the glass will not empty.”

She shook her head slightly, still baffled by his small surprises.

“The lady may ask her first question.” He told her, stretching back out onto the sofa, his whiskey glass in hand.

“What year was it when you died?” She asked him.

“1933.” He told her and she sipped from her wine glass.

“What year were you born in?” He asked her.

“1918.” She answered and he drank from his whiskey.

“Did you have any siblings?” She asked him.

“No.” And, she drank again.

“Did you have siblings?” He asked.

“No.” She said and he tilted his glass.

“What music do you prefer?” She asked him.

“Jazz, usually.” He answered and she tipped her glass.

“How about you?” He asked.

“Now, hold on.” She said, “You can’t just keep asking me my questions.”

“I can’t think of any! And, you’re actually asking some good ones…”

She laughed.

“Jazz, naturally.” She answered his earlier question and he drank. They continued for some time, going back and forth. Soon, the effects of the alcohol started to make their appearance.

“Ok,” He sat up, seemingly serious now. “I want to know…have you ever thought about murdering someone?” She started to answer when, he stopped her, “Now, mind. I don’t mean in a this guy has a very disagreeable personality, I should get him drunk then push him off a building and tell everyone that he simply tripped and fell.... No. I mean like truly and actually wanted to string them up by a meat hook - using that white cotton butcher’s twine for wrapping meats so that they can’t get away; but all circulation is cut off  slowly and painfully from their hands and limbs; and you can hear their joints and ligaments popping and pulling from the weight of them just hanging there and you take a sharp knife, slowly and purposefully cutting through and into the cavity of their soft belly, spilling their warm and wriggling guts into your open hands before you take a slice at their jugular, their blood raining hot and red onto you and the concrete below while they scream and struggle into violent and jerking death throes…?” He was almost out of breath, his smile entirely gleeful as he asked her this.

“Um…no.” She said.

“Oh.” He said, disappointed and they were both quiet for a moment.

“You could ask me if I-?”

“I think I know that answer, thank you.” She told him and he chuckled darkly.

She swirled her wine glass, trying to think of her next question. On the sofa beside her, his chuckling had turned into a fit of giggling. She was holding back her own laughter at his sudden antics when he told her, “Adeline…dear Adeline….I believe that I,” He flourished his hand, pressing it to his chest “…am fucked up.” He burst into another fit of it.

She watched him, amusedly, knowing she wasn’t very far behind from being in the state he was in. As promised, no matter how much she drank, the wine glass never emptied; never dwindled in volume in the slightest. It was impossible to tell how much she had drank already but she could feel the alcohol singing through her veins; a comfortable, consuming buzz pressing in on her and draping a warm, but pleasant fogginess around her.

“So, what did you find to do for fun while you were alive?” She asked him.

“You mean besides killing people?” He asked her.

“Yes, besides that.” She told him, briefly wondering if he actually had killed anyone while he was alive but then deciding it was an area best not to delve into.

“Hm…” He thought for a moment. “I was quite a good dancer, back in my day. Why, I could really cut up a rug…and not just one soaked in blood.” He laughed.

Yep, he definitely had killed some people, she decided.

“Ah, yes,” He went on. “I could waltz and jitterbug like nobody’s business. I could sing too. Hell, I could dance and sing; both at the same time.” He was smiling softly to himself. “The Charleston…however, that one was a personal favorite of mine.”

Addie sipped her wine, “I can’t say that I can appreciate what any of that really means. I’ve never danced before.”

“WHAT!?” Her radio erupted in static loudly from across the room and he appeared suddenly just to the opposite side of her, his face very close to hers as he leaned over the arm of the cushion, his eyes wide. A crackling static was emanating now from him as well.

She gasped, startled, nearly falling out of her chair.  She had inadvertently fumbled the wine glass, it turned end over end briefly before she caught it back by the stem. Miraculously, the glass neither broke in her hand when she caught it back much too firmly; nor did any of the liquid spill from the rim.

“How does one be raised in the early, roaring 1900’s…in New Orleans, of all places-no less, not know how to dance!?” He demanded, rather sharply.  

“My family was poor.” She told him. “We never made it into town to do things like that…My father worked as a carpenter, so we only really went into New Orleans for jobs and supplies when we needed to.” She explained and he continued to stare at her, as if he was having trouble comprehending this concept. “That counts as a question by the way…” She pointed. “You’re supposed to take a drink now.”

He stood up straight, ignoring her last comment. “Well, that simply won’t do,” Pulling at the lapels of his jacket and straightening it he smoothly shifted into his human form; his red suit fading into black, the antlers and ears disappearing completely, his dark brown eyes glinting behind spectacles.

“I am much too drunk to go out-“ She started.

“Who says we are going anywhere?” He asked her; the radio filter completely gone from him now that he had changed his appearance. Snapping his fingers, a lively jazz number started playing from her radio now.

“I don’t thin-“ She was blushing deeply now, both from drink and embarrassment, realizing he meant to actually dance with her; here and now.

“I hold your soul within my possession, Adeline.” He told her and she wondered if he really was going to use that against her, when he continued, “Knowing said soul never got to experience – to appreciate - the true absolute passion of the fine art of dancing greatly decreases the value to me. I can’t have that.”

“I guess you could always cancel our contract.” She told him, not moving from her seat.

“Nice try.” He smirked. “Now, come here.” He was standing in a more open area of the room, offering his outstretched hand to her.

“Well, you sobered up quickly. Were you even ever actually drunk?” She asked him, annoyed.

“Adeline…” He said it in a low, warning growl. A smirk still across his face.

Sighing, she carefully stood up from her chair. She never wobbled but her head was swimming from the wine. She tentatively took his hand and he immediately began pulling her into a swinging dance with him around the room.

He took both her hands in his, and with smooth movements, he had her stepping with him through a quick routine. She slipped and stumbled into him and out of the rhythm several times but he patiently guided her through the awkwardness until she found somewhat of a flow to their movement. Her steps were clumsy and hardly in time with whatever this was supposed to look like but he led and spun her about with such ease that she actually felt like – had they really gone to a club - they wouldn’t look half-bad.

Soon though, the spinning and dipping was too much and she stopped him, “Ok…I really am too drunk for this.” She admitted, the room still spinning slightly despite her no longer moving now.

“Hm..” Not letting her go, he kept one hand in hers as – again, with a snap of his fingers – the radio shifted into playing a new song.

“Perhaps, something slower,” He told her, pulling her against him and starting her moving slowly into an easy, swaying Cajun two-step. With their left hands clasped together, he led her with his right hand pressed to her waist; her own right hand resting on his shoulder.

The jazz playing from the radio was soft toned but still had a kind of swing to it. The steps were easier for her to find this time and on they went, working their way about the room. She was pressed close to him; she noticed his eyes were closed as he visibly enjoyed the sounds of the music that were playing with the movement of their dancing.

“I still haven’t heard any of that singing you were bragging about.” She told him.

He laughed, spinning her with him as the music shifted slightly, soft vocals coming from the radio. Matching the tones perfectly, he sung along:

“Careless…now that you’ve got me loving you,

You’re careless. Careless in everything you do

His voice melded into their dancing so richly; the vibrations of his chest sending gentle, muffled vibrations into her own.

You break appointments and think you are smart.

If you’re not careful, you’ll break my heart.

Careless. Now that my bridges are all burned,

You’re careless. Careless in things where I’m concerned.

Are you just careless, as you seem to be,

Or do you just care less for me?”

              “Careless” – Tommy Dorsey (1939)

The smoothness of the jazz continued beyond the vocals of the song and they continued their way around the room. When it had ceased playing, he deliberately stopped their steps; their dance ending perfectly with the music.

He opened his eyes, smirking.

It was her turn to have her fit of the giggles. Whether it was the wine, the brief embarrassment of learning to dance for the first time or just her being completely unable to fathom anything about him; laughter was bubbling from her.

He assessed her mood briefly for a moment before erupting into another fit himself.

They wobbled back to the chair and the couch together; their laughing growing more uncontrollable.

Addie pulled herself into the lounge chair, pulling her legs up into a ball as her body shook with her laughs. Alastor – shifting quickly back to his red demon form – collapsed, still laughing, back onto the couch, his long legs draping over the top cushion, he slid so that his head was hanging off of the seat cushion, the tips of his ears folding flat against the carpet. Through the tears of her laughing, Addie saw how stupid that he and his smiling face looked in that position and her laughter went into uncontrollable guffawing. They both were in absolute hysterics.

After a time, they slowly regained some composure. Alastor had moved himself back into a comfortable lounging position against the arm of the sofa and Addie stayed curled in the cushion of her armchair, wiping the streaming tears from her face. The muscles in her face and her chest ached painfully from her merriment. She about decided she really shouldn’t have much more to drink this evening. Alastor, however, had his whiskey readily in hand again.

“More questions?” Addie asked.

“If you wish.” He shrugged complacently.

“Hm.” She thought. “Were you ever married?” She asked.

“Never.” He answered. She reached for the wine glass to take a drink.

“A toast…to your annoyance,” He said, lifting his glass in gesture before tilting it to his lips. “But, I’ll ask you the same.”

“No, never.” She answered and then she thought of a very interesting question to ask him. “Have you…- did you ever have sex?”

The radio, still playing the soft notes of something jazz briefly rattled with an irritating static, before tuning back in clearly to what had been playing. He was holding his glass, still close to his smiling face, but his eyes were sharply on her.

“Isn’t that a rather…distasteful question, Adeline?” He held one eyebrow raised.

“What?” She wasn’t really sure why he seemed so bothered by it, but he was almost glaring at her despite the grin he held in place. “You could just skip it…” She told him. “And, I really only meant to ask if you had while you were human. Is it really that big of a deal?”

He slumped into the couch, taking a dragging swallow from his whiskey, all the while holding his other hand up, giving her one raised long and very pointed middle-finger.

“Oh, wow.” She said, laughing. “You really didn’t like that question.”

“No.” He said darkly. “I didn’t.” The radio filter completely absent from his voice for a moment.

“Ok, well, your turn.” She gestured, expecting him to ask her the same question and ready to give him her honest answer.

“Do you regret the deal you made me with me, Adeline?” He almost purred wickedly.

“Fuck you.” She said

“Well, that one struck a nerve…” He noted.

 Setting her wine glass down on the table, she told him. “I was playing nice.”

“Were you?” He hissed.

“Yes!” Her voice rising now. “How was I supposed to know that that would bother you so much?” She demanded. “And don’t you already know the answer?” She demanded. “With you, ‘holding my soul within your possession’ and everything?”

“It doesn’t really work like that.” He snapped. “Our contract makes it so I know more about you, yes, but I don’t know everything.”

“You know when I’m in danger.” She pointed out. “So was that trick with the ring you told me completely pointless?”

“I mean…” He really was drunk enough that he was having trouble keeping his thoughts straight, here. “I should think that I’d know you’d need me there well before then.”

“What a fucking joke.” She was growing angrier, somehow completely unafraid of any truly threatening consequences from him from it. “This is all just one big game for you. What else did I expect?”

‘Is it really that big of a deal’ He mocked her. ‘You could just skip it-‘

“Fine, you know what.” She was well and truly pissed now. “Yes. I regret it. I regret it every fucking day. Does that make you happy? Happy to hear me fucking say it?” She asked him.

His smile was stretching in response, giving her the answer to the question she was asking now.

“I don’t age. I can’t die.” She told him. “I have as much time to live by as I could ever fucking want; I can travel the world, see things and do things I never could have dreamt to in what was supposed to be ‘my lifetime’. I have all of this ‘freedom’. But, what is the actual fucking point of any of it if I can’t really, truly talk to anyone, know anyone or have any kind of an actual relationship with anybody!?  I’m so fucking lonely, all of the time. Forty years. Forty years without anyone to know or care about me. There is no one. No one that I can share any part of my life with now.” She could feel the heat of angry tears, just barely brimming her eyes. She hated knowing that he damn well knew the only one that she could say was the exception to this – of course – was him. 

He was laughing again now. His smile stretched to the fullest.

“Oh, Adeline.” He laughed. “You must see the irony in all of this?” He jeered at her.

“Please, do tell me.” She seethed. “What exactly are you finding so funnily ironic in all of this?”

“Why,” He had stopped laughing now but was obviously more than happy to share this with her, “Do you think that I believe that you came to the swamps that night just to strike a deal with a demon like me on a whim? You, my dear, were running from something. Something that made you completely and utterly…desperate.” He was telling her this in a kind of sing-song-ish tone, enjoying himself immensely.

“So desperate, in fact…” He continued, a shadow casting over him now; his ears curling and his antlers lengthening long above his head; his voice taking a deep, dark and demented tone. “You were willing to sell your soul.”

“And, how incredibly lucky for me.” The shadow dissipating and his appearance going back to what it was, as he continued on happily. “Otherwise, I doubt I shall ever had found such an easy claim for something with so much….potential”. He said the word, greedily.

“So,” He went on, taking a drink from his whiskey and setting the glass down beside hers at the table. “What were you running from, dearest Adeline? An abusive boyfriend, perhaps? Or, even, an arranged marriage – not as common back then, mind you but-“

“I was pregnant, asshole.” She told him, darkly.

He stopped talking. The smile never left his face, but his eyes were wide; watching her.

“Wow. You really can’t stop smiling, can you? Weren’t ready for that?” She asked him, the hot, angry tears spilling down her cheeks now. “And, I was actually kind of excited about it too. For a little while. But, the guy…he skipped town. My dad was gone and my mother she…well, she told me the gators could have their way with me next for all she cared.”

“I had made a mistake…” She went on, when he hadn’t said a word or moved an inch. “I was desperate.” She admitted. “I-I didn’t know what to do. So, I made the deal. Like I said: I can’t age, I can’t die… But did you know that I also can’t get pregnant? That I can’t maintain a pregnancy...”

She thought she saw him tense visibly; but she also couldn’t be sure if it wasn’t just her trying to humanize him.

“It doesn’t really make a difference.” She told him. “I’d have found a way to…to deal with it anyway.”

She looked at him, brushing the tears away now. “Yes. I regret our deal. But it’s just another regret that I have. Regrets on top of regrets. That’s what my life has become.”

Both of them were silent for a moment; jazz still playing continuously from the radio.

“Ugh…” She exclaimed, her hands cupping her forehead. Her head was pounding painfully now. “I’m sorry…This isn’t how I wanted this evening to go.” She told him. “I shouldn’t have pressed you earlier. It was a very personal sort of question, and I can understand why it upset you. I’m sorry that I asked it.”

“Yes, well,” He cleared his throat, finally visibly relaxing. “I suppose I was…rather ‘careless’ myself tonight. You have my apologies…Adeline.” His smile had become much smaller, his eyes much softer.

“I think I’m done for tonight.” She told him. “I understand if you don’t really wish to stay here tonight though.”

“Do you want me to leave?” He asked her.

“No, I-“ She hated how honest this was. “I really don’t.”

“Then I’ll stay.” He promised.

He sent away their glasses while she got up to change into more comfortable clothing and get blankets. He politely turned down the one she had gotten for him but offered her the couch to stretch out on so that he could have her armchair, nearer to the radio. She noticed it had just begun to rain outside; going to the window, she lifted it open; the sounds of rain and thunder rolling in from the very early morning darkness. The smell of a warm, summer rain filling the room. She climbed onto the couch, pulling the blankets close as he reclined beside her in the chair.

“Luc?” She asked him after some time, listening to the radio and the rain outside.

“Hmm?” He responded to the name with no sounds of disgust or comment.

“Would you-?” She started to ask, a little shyly. “Would you sing to me? You do have a very lovely voice.” She told him. “If you don’t really want to though, I’d understand.”

He laughed lightly, clearing his throat. The radio shifted, an eerie music melding smoothly into the sounds of rain and thunder. With no accompanying vocals this time he sang: 

“I can feel you sweet song of summer

Your music comforts my lonely reign

I can hear you in evil darkness

That empty feeling, I’m near you again.

I am your forever and this I emphasize

Your never ending hurting and criticize

We are friends forever and this is emphasize

Your never ending hurting and criticize”

             “Sweet Song of Summer” – Bee Gees (1972)

And with his voice, there within the darkness, she drifted off.

______________________________________________________________

Chapter 7

[sunshowersanddandelionwine]

YOU ASKED AND YOU SHALL RECIEVE

(this is going to be Long so prepare yourself XD)

Murderbot Diaries:

I have no idea if you've ever read the murderbot diaries books by martha wells (which, if you havent and have any sort of interest in science fiction PLEASE READ THEM THEYRE SO FUN) but the character of secunit is SO ghost coded its not even funny

for those unaware: secunit is short for security unit, which in the world of murderbot are partially artificial and partially human constructs created as cheap labor. secunits are considered property rather than people, despite being totally sentient. they are not, however, autonomous. secunits have a thing called a "governor module" that will essentially fry their brains if they do anything to go against the company/their client's orders. secunits can be repaired and reissued to new clients, so the whole thing is just super fucked up

anyway, back to the au. ghost, like murderbot, manages to disable his governor module somehow and is able to act completely autonomously. however, he's been so Fucked Up by you know... being a secunit, that he doesnt exactly know how to be autonomous or his own person, so he just. Doesnt. and he continues to protect clients as they come up, doing his best to hide the fact that hes able to act freely.

enter the 141 survey crew, who are his latest group of clients that hes been tasked with protecting. its a much smaller group than he's used to, only seven members compared to dozens and dozens, but that means he's the only secunit sent along which is for the better tbh. the members of the survey include laswell, price, gaz, soap, farah, alex, and roach.

for once in ghost's life, he's not treated as a looming threat or an inanimate object, but an actual person with thoughts and opinions of his own. and he Does Not Like This At All.

at least, not at first. but he finds his walls start getting eroded by these idiotic humans and their idiotic tendencies to make the worst possible choices. (especially a certain engineer with a taste for explosive materials, but thats neither here nor their)

of course, something has to go wrong, as it always does. there are two other survey teams on the planet - kortac and shadow company. and according to a message sent by one of them (not sure which yet lmao), something is hunting them.

and soon, the 141 is going to be hunted to

im trying not to directly copy the plot of all systems red (the first murderbot novella) so yeah!

Muzzled:

this is going under the read more because its getting too long lmao

cw for mild mouth trauma and general blood/violence

SO this one is fun.

ghost is still part of the 141, alongside gaz and price. he's a werewolf (obviously XD) and somehow, a mark gets the drop on him while he's shifted into his full wolf form

he wakes up in a tiny iron cage in a dank basement, with a burning pain across his snout, jaw, and neck. his captors managed to muzzle and collar him with pure silver, keeping him as weak and docile as possible. hes still fucking dangerous as shit, but this way they can at least handle him.

his captors, a group of hunter/poachers, have a shitton of other supernaturals trapped in the basement with him. they come down to gloat, and with them is a strange man. he doesnt talk smack like the others. he moreso tries to blend into the shadows and disappear. but ghost cant tear his eyes away from the bright blue eyes lurking in the darkness. or the thick iron band locked around his throat.

the man is clearly inhuman, but he cant - or wont - speak. hes tasked with taking care of the "feral wolf" (ghost) for the duration of his stay. from the precise wording of the orders, ghost knows exactly what the man in.

fair folk. something powerful, too, given the iron bands around his wrists as well.

days of ghost plotting his escape pass, and ghost and the fae start to come to some sort of wordless alliance. they take care of each other as best they can from their relative cages, finding solace in each other that they cant find anywhere else.

something happens later down the line, maybe gaz and price are getting to close to the operations, but the poachers decide that its time to cut their losses and skip town. they order the fae to "take care of the wolf". ghost's heart drops, because he knows that a fae cant disobey an order given by the keeper of their true name.

but in the poachers' haste to get things wrapped up, they made a mistake. they left the order unclear and open ended.

and the fair folk always take notice of loopholes.

the fae unlocks ghost's cage and releases him from the silver. ghost, rather than just go up and slaughter the entire organization himself, decides to be extra and lets loose every single other creature trapped down there with him. they all go and massacre the ring, but ghost doesnt. because the fae collapsed on the floor of the basement, dropping his glamour in the process. and the sight is grisly.

he's skin and bones, barely any muscle or fat on him at all. the iron ring around his neck and the iron bands around his wrists hang loose, showing the thick rings of scar tissue on pale skin. but the worst is his mouth.

coarse, rough thread seals his mouth shut, the wounds red and angry and irritated. locking the fae's strongest weapon away, keeping him firmly under the whims of his captors. he may have had the freedom of movement that ghost lacked, but he was as much a prisoner here as the rest.

ghost somehow manages to get them all out safe, and he finally gets the fae's name. his true name. not the silly little nickname he gave him in his head while watching him clean the basement day in and day out (soap).

for the first time in months, simon and johnny speak to one another.

there you go, hope you enjoyed! @bl-nk-sp-ce