#replacing power supply units is so fun actually.

[robotfucker07]

in my pc repair class every so often i go in the storage room just to look at all of the pcs in there. when working on them in the workspace area i have to stop myself from saying "ohhhj. oh they are so beautiful. i love this computer. it's insides are so pretuy. i wanr to kiss this thing." i've slipped up a few times but i don't think they suspect anything

[lilyblackdrawside]

The current round number 4 of SSS is nearing its end. The two new dungeons it brought - Tower Mountains Agricultural Experimental Platform, one focused almost entirely on flying enemies, and Automaton Arena, one themed around Ideal City - were pretty alright. Much easier than the previous pair, to the point that I went back to doing the regular clears on Emergency Supply Mode. Also to the point of being quite boring after only a few runs. By the end of round 3, The Thirster had actually quite grown on me and I had already liked the Lighthouse dungeon to begin with, so I was having more fun again there.

'Hatred Without Root', the boss of Tower Mountains Agricultural Experimental Platform is a total nothingburger and the entire dungeon is basically "deploy Fiammetta". There are like two stages that she isn't convenient for and even there she kinda Just Does It if you want her to.

Automaton Arena's 'Spirit of Liquor' is noticeably more challenging, by virtue of not being a non-threat. If your deployment order was spotty, its targeted stun can be quite crippling, since you need an operator who has the thrown barrel in range to destroy it both for freeing the stunned operator as well as to obtain it to stun and reset the boss.

Automaton Arena doesn't have any threatening stages, Tower Mountains Biotech does have Stage 5, which I personally find not brainless and could actually get me if I had roughly the worst opening hand. Mileage may vary.

For the regular clears I always went for TMAEP both because watching Fiammetta decimate swarms of drones retains a certain amusement factor and because AA is saddled with the Ideal City Battle Theme 2, which I actually kinda don't like, especially in relation to ICBT1, which is one of my favourite tracks in the game.

A noticeably difference between Rounds 3 and 4 is that in 4 you get noticeably more draw from killing enemies. Stages just have more enemies, which you kinda need to make the mode's mechanics work.

All in all, I like these dungeons and it's probably good to have them be easier so that the average Arknights player doesn't suffer too much in this widely-disliked mode.

Now, the EC Units. I'm quite fond of all of the new ones.

But we're starting with the old one. This is the returning generic EC Unit from the last round. It's still fine. Not much for me, since I don't have many Kazimierz operators built and I don't care about using ground operators in SSS, so I only really get anything out of Fartooth (not great in SSS), Proviso (pretty good) and Platinum (I don't have her raised, but she can still do this job). I recommend bringing extra Supporters for this so you can tutor the relevant operators. For Sniper stacking, do still bring some other Snipers to get the stack going. 3 are enough to get 1 full stack from just one round of Fartooth, Proviso and Platinum - you don't want to wait twice for their redeploy timers to go around.

Chargeable Supervisory Speaker is the new generic one in this round, replacing the Energy Perturbation Amplifier from rounds 2 and 3 (one of my favourites overall, though it doesn't play very interestingly). This EC Unit looks like it wants you to play with many Vanguards, but that's bait. Just bring however many as you usually do (2 to 3 for me, usually 2, sometimes I add one that can actually hold enemies). The real value lies in the added deployable.

+80% atk is basically like adding another 2 pieces of equipment onto the target and it's pretty easy to tutor the deployable out of your deck or discard, especially with Branch A. For a general playstyle, Branch A would seem noticeably more powerful, but I find that it's a bit too much. Like, you don't need to fetch it that many times. But it is still nice. You mulligan for a Vanguard, deploy them for free, they fetch another Vanguard and the deployable - it's good draw. Just don't hold your Vanguards to reuse the thing, you need to use it on a full stack of operators, as deploying over a buffed one will lose the buff. For an actual Vanguard-centric playstyle (which is only viable in Automaton Arena on account of their not so stellar anti-air), Branch B is really good. You can just keep cycling through your Vanguards, they'll have good atk and good aspd - it's quite nice. I've actually been kinda sleeping on this one. Since I always went into TMAEP, I figured it wouldn't amount to much cause Vanguards don't really do anything there, but stacking +80% atk on the Snipers and Casters I top off the stacks with in there turns out to be pretty good. This EC Unit is good just for that, really. I'm looking forward to using this one more in the next round.

I was really hyped about this one. It's more Sniper stacks!!!! +320 ASPD!!!!!!!! Well, it's alright. You don't usually get the +320 and you have to either get really lucky or kinda play too focused onto it to get it. The passive effect is absolutely whatever, Branch A is absolutely whatever, Branch B is really nice. What this EC Unit is good for is less so the extra Sniper stacking and more that you get more tutoring. But even at that it's not like amazing. It's a fun high-roller unit in the vein of the old Abyssal Hunter one where you buff someone to +320 ASPD and watch them go. It's alright. You can clear TMAEP without any EC Unit. Like, I still enjoyed it - I used it for most of the clears of TMAEP (cause I was sleeping on the CSS), but it ultimately doesn't do that much and making an effort to keep fetching the CSS deployable to get the +80% atk onto everyone feels more engaging than whatever is going on in TMAEP anyway most of the time. A 2200 atk Skalter, now that's funny.

I would've liked this one, if I had gotten to play with it more. It reads like something really amazing. You get a free blocker that's always in your opening hand, it improves debuff-infliction - that's right up my alley. Branch B is pretty meh while Branch A is pretty busted, especially if you have Gnosis around (I always have Gnosis around). But Automaton Arena plays Ideal City Battle Theme 2 on 5 of its 6 maps so I always played TMAEP. Too bad!

There's really nothing to explain here. If you have Gnosis, this is nuts. If you don't, it's kinda mild. Without Gnosis it's pretty much just a worse Energy Perturbation Amplifier with a leaning into SP gain instead of pure damage amplification.

Neither of the two dungeons really leans into its exclusive EC Unit, which on one hand is good, because it makes using the generic ones more reasonable, but on the other hand there's a lot of design space to be had with designing the dungeons more firmly around their exclusive EC Unit, like how you almost had to bring the one you got in the toxic haze dungeon. Even though that one did it in kind of a blunt manner (bring healing or you will choke to death).

Looking forward to the next set, hopefully more difficult! Hopefully there won't be such an ass boss as Super Sweety Smiley again! (Just bring The Thirster back. Not in SSS, anywhere.)

[justaboutdead]

Flavor and function in Deadlands: Reloaded

Deadlands: Reloaded is a 2005 ttrpg set in a fantasy version of the United States, particularly the Wild West, post civil war, in which the undead and the supernatural have become fairly common place. Ignoring the questionable depictions of race in the setting, the game has an awesome commitment to flavor, and I love it. So here’s some notable examples of that:

Playing cards: Deadlands: Reloaded uses playing cards for initiative and gun duels among other things. While the initiative system is technically from Savage Worlds (the system Deadlands runs in), Savage Worlds is based on the original version of Deadlands so it still counts. Basically for initiative, every round each participant in the combat is dealt a card, modified by certain abilities, and the action plays out from high to low, with Jokers being able to act whenever they choose. This keeps initiative changing from round to round, and it just works in terms of gameplay and flavor. Dueling is resolved via a game of poker between the participants of the duel. This one’s actually a really clunky system in reloaded, at least to learn. But hidden in that clunk is a lot of depth. Dueling has three contests; the poker game, which adds extra damage, the taunt/intimidation contest, which can buff or debuff the final contest; the shoot roll and the ensuing combat. There is a lot going on (including a few things I haven’t mentioned) and a lot of strategy involved, but once you understand it, it’s really fun, flavorful and good at building tension. There’s also a lot of ways to simplify the system, so its not as much of a mess. In addition to dueling, there’s also Huxters, who are among Deadland’s magic users. When they run out of power pips with which to cast spells, they can choose to play a game of poker with a demon, in exchange for more power if they win, but a penalty if they fail, adding an element of risk vs reward. And that’s cool as shit.

Poker Chips: While Savage worlds normally uses “bennies”, physical coins, as basically an inspiration/hero points system, which already works well for reasons i will get into in a bit, Deadlands: Reloaded takes it a step further and replaces those bennies with three colors of poker chip, each with different effects. This adds a bit more luck to an already engaging system, and encourages players to take note of what their working with. These chips are essential to the flow of the game, and having them be physically there at the table encourages giving them out in a way normal inspiration doesn’t. Additionally, the GM (or marshal) also gets chips to use for sudden villain reversals of fate. Most importantly of all, however, chips don’t carry across sessions, so you’re encouraged to use them rather than hoard them.

Player and Marshal specific rulebooks This last thing isnt something specific to deadlands, but it is something I love in ttrpgs that deadlands also does, and does well, although it comes with an extra price tag. Having a specific handbook for the GM and one for players allows deadlands to hide a lot of information about the setting from the players, creating an air of mystery, while still supplying them with what their characters would know, and the GM with answers to any questions they would have. This makes deadlands a really easy and dynamic setting to run as presented, and boy does it get interesting if you are able to paste the reveals in the Marshal’s book well enough. If any of these concepts sound interesting to you, I highly suggest giving Deadlands: Reloaded a shot!

[arcticdementor]

I was talking to Sarah yesterday and I had a revelation I think is worth sharing.

Let’s begin at the beginning. About a month ago, Instapundit posted this.

Now, I’ve been thinking of the rise and fall of civilizations lately. I can’t think why it’s been on my mind. It’s a tale as old as time—a civilization emerges, establishes a new worthwhile order, the good things brought forth by said order soften up the people maintaining it, the softening turns to decadence, and the decadence gives way to the barbarians, who clean the slate. Where would you say things are lately?

…

In short—the federal government of the United States of America has become impotent at almost all good things.

Expanded out—There is no start to its talents. It cannot maintain its borders. Since the “election” it doesn’t even try. No surprise there. It cannot maintain friendly relationships with allies—as our recent screwing of Britain on our way out of Afghanistan shows. The “leader” of the “free world” could not be bothered to pick up the phone for our closest ally. Speaking of Afghanistan, it can’t win a war. It can’t even lose gracefully. In fact it fucked up leaving so badly some people are entertaining that it intended to fuck it up, because how the fuck does somebody above the age of six not notice that pulling the military out first and the civilians out second is not even a remotely workable strategy? Resulting in leaving millions of dollars of equipment—and—excuse me, what? Millions of dollars of dollars in the desert? Fantastic.

It makes self sabotaging and idiotic choices to stymie its own domestic oil industry, while accepting a pipeline not from Canada, but one that’s a joint Russian-German venture instead. Which means the problem, contrary to any environmentalist whining, isn’t the pipeline—it’s the pipeline with a friendly country. Big surprise— its only true interest in the environment lies in international agreements that hamstring us while doing nothing to China, the world’s largest polluter. It either can’t be trusted on energy production  and the environment, or is trying to get it wrong.

It can’t manage its economy. What could have been a “V” shaped recovery has been turned into an “L” shaped one. What could be contributing? Paying people to do nothing? Rampant inflation? Meanwhile all the dumbasses running the country can think of is spending several billion more dollars that don’t exist. The country has infrastructure problems for a fact, but they’ll only acknowledge that to the extent of cynically plastering the word on an “infrastructure” bill which is in fact just a far Left wishlist that largely ignores actual infrastructure, in the hopes people will be dumb enough to support it because it has the right label.

And on.

And on.

And on.

What aptitudes does it have besides taking money, trampling civil liberties, and ignoring constitutional laws at gunpoint? News flash, dummies: We don’t need peaceful protestors incarcerated without a trial. We don’t need the weight of the federal government turned to the problem of violating states rights because Texas passed a law Biden doesn’t like. We need military egresses that look like they weren’t planned by Bozo the clown and an economic plan better than something China would design for us as an attempt to permanently sink the country. Is there anyone at all in DC who can provide that? If not, is there anything useful they can do? I’ll wait.

…

This is what decadence looks like. When the government stops even attempting competence because nothing and nobody that currently exists can replace or displace them so who cares about results? When comfort and plenty have become so common, been taken for granted for so long, that the question of utility or even basic sanity isn’t even distantly considered. When it’s assumed that self-harming policies that will obviously damage the country won’t really matter because nobody has ever known a world without America and fundamentally has no idea how the present day came to be. When the country’s most educated start chasing bizarre and unimaginably stupid ideas on economics that boil down to “inflation won’t happen if you double the monetary supply by printing money, if only you just believe hard enough”. In fact, when education stops being a means to greater insight, more useful abilities, and a better life, and becomes a cult devoted to the kind of idiocy that can survive only with strenuous censorship, the tenets of the cult being treated by the indoctrinated as a collection of sacred mysteries and deeply-thought paradoxes— while to those not similarly trained it is self-obviously a collection of contradictory and self-serving lies.

Verily, decadence is here. We can infer that what comes next is the barbarians. And we have options. Mexican illegals? A heady mixture of poverty-stricken Marxists who have never known a system that wasn’t corrupt, functionally lawless, and devoted to the tenets of voting oneself rich; and outright criminals with lives like “a demon’s resumé”? Perhaps radical Muslims? By sheer numbers worldwide they’re the most likely option. The Taliban just got a huge infusion of cash and a big boost in morale. In a few short days we’ll know whether they’ve arranged a thank you gift for Zho Bi-Xen and his kleptocrat marching band to commemorate his intended pull-out date. But even if, and God I hope, they have not, we can expect an uptick in terrorism and quite shortly. Or perhaps China? The Middle Kingdom would laugh at being called barbarians, but I call genocidal communists like I see them. Mao was morally three steps below a pig and Xi has enough power to aspire to greater depths. As is I wouldn’t dream of feeding a pig Mu Shu Xi due to the great risk of poisoning the pig.

But there is a barbarian group not considered. Us.

Hang on. Before you balk, listen. Look again at what these idiots are selling as the fruits of civilization. Defenses of pedophilia and urinals as art. And more, too—sterilization and disfigurement of teenagers in the form of sex changes. Black supremacy as a panacea to made up threats of white supremacy. Books nobody reads, movies nobody watches, paintings that exist only to launder money—even the ones not made by Hunter Biden.

What good person would not be proud to be considered a barbarian by these miserable, over-decorated Faberge people? I’d be mortified if they agreed with me! So they think I’m a sexist or a racist or whatever. Fine. They do not use these words to mean the same things I mean, so it’s a pointless argument, and they are now officially beneath my explaining myself to them. When the people who are calling me names are so morally opaque that the Taliban can make devastating critiques of them just by referencing the foundational works of their own gender studies programs, I’m done caring about the names. Fine. I’m what you think is a racist. I’m what you think is a sexist. But you think a lot of very stupid things, and as the curtain continues to draw back on the carnival of madness that’s been behind the scenes the entire time it’s occurring to me that what you think and reality overlap so seldom that the only time not to ignore you is when I can ridicule you. If that is your civilization, someone hand me a pointy horned helmet.

…

Yes, this is a moment of peril, but also opportunity. See in your country what every hostile group listed above sees in it—the makings of great civilization, along other, less stupid lines. All of it guarded by weak, fat, stupid people with no will and no self-belief. Take that mindset and go forth.

Get involved in your local systems. There is an old prayer for God to make ones enemies ridiculous. Congratulations to whomever was still praying it. Your prayers have been answered. Will you tell me that you cannot defeat these people? People who lose casual debates to terrorists not on principle but on basic facts?

…

You can’t reason with them so don’t bother. Recent events have made it clear you may as well try to talk sense into a three-day-old mackerel. Just confront them with their own stupidity so that people who see the inevitable video understand what this is about, and don’t feel that you are too good to shout them out of the room. You’re the barbarian, remember? Not like the nice civilized people with their gender-queer Tik-Tokers pushing vaccine propaganda. That means you’re excused from conversations with morons. Don’t bother trying to find common ground. Look at where they’re standing! Do you want to try to find the midpoint between that and reality? Silly. Pointless. Send them back to their walled online gardens to whine to their equally stupid friends about the barbarians.

Can we take it back from the ground up? I don’t know. But hey, it’s got to be worth a shot. Join the fun! Find some friends and locate a low-hanging political event to raid. When was the last time you went to a town hall for your town? Isn’t just a part of you curious to know whether your local county commissioner starts by declaring her pronouns? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to see someone like that made very uncomfortable? You can make that happen. You can probably do it within the next month. Bring a few friends! Or a few dozen. Some of the people reading this probably were afraid to do that kind of thing for fear of losing their job. The Biden economy might have freed up some of your time. What have you got to lose now? More importantly, the way things are going, are you going to lose it anyway if things continue as they are? Think on it.

[freewheelshippin]

FIC: “What Do I Call You?”

There was something so honest about how she hyped the crowd, leaned so forward she seemed like she might leap into a crowdwalk, pointing at her ear until the whole crowd bellowed in their own guttoral harmony. And she smiled so much at her crewmates -- Ranmaru realized he was smiling, too, while she played guitar and accompanied the others’ solos, only breaking from her deep sway with the music to look at them with brightness and joy in her eyes. 

In those moments, Ranmaru understood something he hadn’t before, but it also made him realize that the hunger in him wasn’t being sated so much as it was deepening. 

So! I had some fun writing for the roleswap AU, where I’m the punk rock idol and Ranmaru’s the freelance artist getting some juice from all the love and music.

Not much by ways of content warnings -- lots of eating, a fair amount of alcohol, too, and you know, we utter the word ‘fuck’ a few times.  

Ranmaru swore as he dropped the case on his toe. He could tell immediately that this was one of those jammed toes that would hurt for days from the bruising, especially when he still had half of the city to cross before he could get back home. And what was home? His shithole apartment and limping around while he went on his rounds for the local cats? 

At least the train was empty enough he could sit alone, even comfortably with all his equipment. He was still cross that the live house didn’t have it themselves. Weren’t they professionals? Stupid. The show had sucked, too, with the band spending more time fucking around then putting on the damn show they were paid for, that their fans came out to see, that Ranmaru had put such care into getting the tech just right to enhance. And that one jackass trying to throw hands with anyone in the crowd. Nobody on staff did a fucking thing to kick him out until Ranmaru dragged him out himself, and now he had a black eye and the stink of shitty beer and stale cigarette smoke hanging on him to show for it.

Thirty minutes ‘til his stop. He could listen to some music to smooth over this shitty...everything. He slipped his headphones on, ready to mute the rest of the world and stop anyone from entering his. 

Reiji (12:42 AM) : Iiiiiiiiiit’s dropped!!!!!

What, your balls, Ranmaru thought ruefully to himself, unconsciously clicking his tongue in annoyance. He moved his finger to swipe and mute him for … a week, maybe, from how shitty he was feeling right now, but Reiji was too fast. The link appeared, and Ranmaru hit it, if only to have something concrete to be annoyed with him for. 

It was a preview for a new PV. That’s right. It was technically tomorrow already, the day this content was due, but this was still early. Reiji must have found a leak. Lucky he was such an otaku, Ranmaru never had to go hunting for sketchy files or talk with weirdos he knew he wouldn’t be able to level with outside of the crowd. There was a long windup before the music even started playing, the visuals building dramatic lighting and obscuring anything but their silhouettes, but there was the low fuzz of an amp before it all hit at once. 

Ranmaru didn’t want to admit that his eyes darted right to that flash of turquoise as the lights came up in the PV, because it would mean that he might’ve smiled at just the sight of her. No, it had to be the sound. That clean, driving guitar, that strong bass, it felt like Deep Purple and Iron Maiden, but pushed to be danceable and idol-friendly with synth and a digital drumkit beat Ranmaru could vaguely recognize parts of.  

His toe and face didn’t stop hurting and body didn’t stop aching, but he stopped feeling so mad about it for the minute he watched and listened. There was professional polish there he’d missed seeing at the shitshow that was tonight’s gig, but there was still that rawness there of a good, irreplaceable concert. Something less precise than other idol groups’ practiced, saccharine perfection, but Ranmaru found it more welcoming than any other group he’d seen or worked with. 

The camera cut to a focus shot. Her hair was as bright as ever, styled like she were one of those princely girls from anime, just somehow made real, and she turned to look right at him-- 

Reiji (12:44 AM) : Ranran~~ how are you liking your girlfriend in this one :3c 

Ranmaru actually growled a little. He only realized he had been smiling because of how intensely he frowned at that bastard, barging into his texts --  

Ranmaru (12:44 AM): shut the fuck up and let me watch it. don’t call her that   

Reiji (12:44 AM): Isn’t she doing all the things you like??? 

Reiji (12:45 AM): So handsome! So rock! So passionate!

Reiji (12:45 AM): Feels tailor made for you ;o 

Ranmaru (12:45 AM): I told you to shut the fuck up. go text natsuki if you have to annoy someone

Reiji (12:46 AM): Aww Ranran did the show go bad? :(

Reiji (12:46 AM): But I already did, you know! And I’ve already gotten twice as many sparkly sticker replies than texts you’ve sent me in the past week!!! 

(He had to admit he laughed a little at that. Reiji was probably getting another onslaught as he was typing, his own push notifications as clogged as he was making Ranmaru’s.) 

Ranmaru (12:47 AM): I’m muting notifs since you won’t learn how to fucking shut up 

Reiji (12:47 AM): ohhhh she’s getting ranran’s full attention~! You must really like this preview, huh? I guess it’s true love 

Ranmaru (12:48 AM): WILL YOU SHUT UP ALREADY   

Reiji (12:48 AM): You’re right, I should, I should be listening for wedding bells! 

Ranmaru (12:48 AM): go make out with your gacha girlfriend body pillow and leave me alone 

Ranmaru (12:49 AM): hypocrite 

He finally muted all his notifications. An hour should be enough to ride it out, he thought as he settled a little into the hard plastic of the seat, restarting the video. The anger from the past couple hours melted away as he watched, uninterrupted, and replayed it with eyes closed as the sound flowed in through his headphones and released the tension in his body bit by bit. 

--- 

The hour ran out when Ranmaru was squatting over an especially runty kitten, eating noisily while the others watched from a couple feet away. Why stray cats could understand him better than anyone else when he said to piss off, he’d never know. He swiped around to turn his notifications back off for the rest of the night before pocketing his phone again. 

“...Oi. Slow down.” He pulled the plate of food away from the kitten. It shook with hiccups as it watched carefully, almost fearfully, before it pounced back onto the food, gobbling it down like it was going to be its last meal. Ranmaru sighed but couldn’t blame the little thing. He dumped out the last of the food, gave the rest of the cats one last look as he stood up to walk away, and he heard the frenzied scratch of their claws against the pavement as they swarmed the plates of food. 

 Maybe it wasn’t so much they understood him as he understood them. To hunger like that, both literally and for something less physical but just as carnal.  

He plugged his headphones back in, listening to the leaked preview a few more times on his way back to the apartment. 

--

He liked this group to begin with mostly because of her. She dressed, talked, and acted more like someone from a band than an idol, and something about that felt weirdly familiar and good. The rest of the group were more unique than a lot of other idols -- you’d expect that from a unit made up of a pack of ragtag international recruits, sure, but it was refreshing how they’d made everything about their presence wholly their own. 

Hers just made the most sense to him. The brashness, the way she talked about music, the way she performed, it all felt like someone who was chasing and understood the same things he did. She even said her music was about giving people power in an interview Reiji’d dug up for him. 

“Beyond language, or the way words reach people,” she’d said in decent but definitely non-native Japanese; she’d grown up some in Okinawa while her family lived on the military base, but mostly shuttled between America and Bangkok before getting recruited by chance here. “I want to give everyone a home that makes them feel strong through my music.” 

He wondered, dimly, as he took a hot shower and stared down at his swollen red toe, if he felt drawn to the group because he wanted that for himself, or because it reminded him why he kept picking up jobs that made him as angry as tonight’s did. 

He went to bed that night with an ice pack balanced on his swollen eye, the frustration more or less passed as he listened to the classic bands that new song reminded him of. 

--- 

He woke up to his phone buzzing, the hold on push notifications finally expired, and he murmured in bewilderment at just how many there were. Not just from Reiji, but Natsuki, too. 

Rather than try and parse whatever the hell happened while he was asleep, Ranmaru just went into the group chat well after he’d gotten himself breakfast. 

Ranmaru (9:28 AM): what the hell happened last night that you had to blow up my phone 

Natsuki (9:30 AM): Maru-chan-senpai! Ah! You’re alive!!!! 

Ranmaru (9:31 AM): I just went to bed is all 

(“Why the hell are you calling me ‘senpai’?” Ranmaru had asked him, and Natsuki had looked at him with those big dopey eyes and earnestly said since he’d been a fan longer, he was naturally Natsuki’s senpai, and any protest Ranmaru made never stuck.) 

Reiji supplied a link without any fanfare, introduction, or goofy dramatics, which almost startled Ranmaru. 

Notice (posted by Ootori Eiichi x/xx/xx): 

We are currently seeking an emergency replacement sound/stage technician for performances at the following dates and locations. Inquire immediately. [PAID] 

Ranmaru stared at the listing, barely processing the lurch in his stomach that came from just reading it. It was for them. That act. The debut mini-tour for that new single. It’d take rearranging his sound editing queue and massaging some deadlines, but he could feasibly make all of those dates and times.

He thought for a moment of doing that sound check, and seeing for himself the electric energy of that live. Of working with that group whose respect for their audience he personally felt, of watching her prepare, having to talk directly to her as she tuned her guitar....

There was the very real possibility that it’d prove everything he believed about them - about her, really, that ethos he was drawn to - was just smoke and mirrors, too. 

Natsuki (9:35 AM): Can you do it, Maru-chan-senpai? 

Reiji (9:36 AM): Ranran, you have to do it. 

Ranmaru (9:36 AM): this is just a listing, just because I ask doesn’t mean it’ll go through 

There was a long pause, where everyone went on and off typing, never actually saying anything, and he frowned. 

Ranmaru (9:40 AM): can you all just fucking say what you’re thinking already 

Natsuki (9:42 AM): You really love their magic and energy, I just wanted to say I hope you do it and get it because your heart wants it! 

Reiji (9:45 AM): Yes, Nacchan, you said it! Ranran, I’ll give you all the free bento you need to keep your tummy full to go do this! 

Ranmaru (9:45 AM): don’t fucking do that, reiji, you’ll just piss of your sister. I’ll buy them myself

Ranmaru (9:45 AM): assuming I even do this 

Reiji (9:46 AM): I really think you should. 

Reiji (9:46 AM): Not because we want the insider scoop. But because when’s the last time you had fun at a live you worked? 

Ranmaru could curse Reiji where he stood. Whenever he stopped fucking around and got to his point, it was always a good one. 

---

He got the job, somehow, after a little emailing back-and-forth and negotiating the contract. Now he was on a train to Yokohama for the first gig, his case packed full, his backpack stuffed with supplies for a week. Comping travel, hotel, and meals was enough to take the job, even if it paid like ass, but it didn’t. The contract was actually pretty decent. They -- or, well, at least that Ootori guy -- were upfront that he’d be worked hard, the hours were going to be long, and there wasn’t going to be much room for rest or leisure. But the pay was good. Enough that if he had a dryspell of jobs afterwards, he’d be okay for longer than usual. 

It was worth it for other reasons, though, he thought to himself, stuffing spare merch he’d gotten in blindbags (and a couple other last-minute buys he didn’t tell the others about) into a bottom corner of his suitcase. None of it was of her, none of it for him. Something felt unprofessional spending this job acting like a fan, but at least there wasn’t any harm grabbing some signatures for friends who never made it to meet-and-greets. 

The single was out properly, now, and so was the PV. There was a section of it he especially liked and had gotten into the habit of watching on train rides, where she broke out of the dance routine to put her arms around her teammates, grin a dumb grin, and kick her legs high. It cut to a different shot of the group in different costumes but perfect sync, and when it cut back to that first shot, she stumbled and fell right on her ass, dragging the others down with her. Still grinning stupidly, and singing through it all. 

She didn’t take many vocal solos. She only had one line in this song to herself, and she was singing with the whole group for this shot. He read in an interview she wasn’t happy with the tone quality of her voice yet -- it needed to be richer, and she still needed plenty of training before it reached what her teammates and audience deserved. 

Ranmaru told himself, as the train was minutes away from the station, that this had to be the last time he watched this video and listened to the song like this. At least for the duration of this job. Every time he watched that shot, as she kept singing and the rest of the group tumbled down with her with the same dumb grin she wore, he knew in his gut the voice she sang in must’ve sounded like the soul of rock. Even if that gesture were directed and performed, there was still something genuine there that reminded him of those moments at concerts that convinced him to walk the path he did. 

Maybe he’d get to see it live. Maybe he wouldn’t. But he had to stop imagining it. She - this whole group, rather - was about to become real, and whether or not everything he imagined would turn out to just be something he made up to deal with his shit, he had a job to do. 

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

He had a chance to leave his clothes and belongings in the hotel before heading to the live house. Ranmaru was unsure why this Ootori guy had picked him. He didn’t have an exactly long resume with idol shows, but then again, this was a group that debuted without any typical idol sound. There wasn’t any gimmick to them (Ranmaru wouldn’t call being made up of foreigners much of a gimmick when it came to the music), and they weren’t afraid of reaching into all sorts of genres he more typically worked with. 

Right as he got to the live house, his phone rumbled with back-to-back notifications. 

Reiji (5:48 PM): Ranran~!!! Ganbarimachochho from us! 

Ranmaru wouldn’t deign the attached selfie with a response right now (he was about to work, after all), but he felt himself suppressing a smile. Reiji was sticking his tongue out and making a victory sign, Natsuki further in the background, half-buried in stuffed animals and doing the same. They were going to be streaming the event for special-tier fanclub members like REIJI, which Ranmaru had always harangued him for. If he was a fan, wasn’t it enough to just cheer their hearts out live, enjoy their music, buy a CD and shirt, and feel the energy they had to give that way? 

(He still pored over the behind-the-scenes and advance material Reiji forwarded to him and Natsuki regardless. Sometimes he translated the English from their social media accounts, even. It was satisfying, as stupid as it felt sometimes, to do those little things in between the real shows.) 

He’d never been to the live house before, but it had the same vibes as so many others he’d been to. He found the back entrance effortlessly, where a man with glasses almost took him by surprise. 

“Kurosaki?” he asked. His gaze felt just as intense as all the other communication they’d had over e-mail. 

“Ootori,” he grunted back. 

“You’re early,” Eiichi replied, grinning at Ranmaru. Not that it surprised him in the slightest, but it made him look less approachable and instead even more intense. “Good. I like that in a recruit.” 

Ranmaru gritted his teeth quietly. This guy was going to be an absolute bastard, he could feel it, but at least he seemed like he knew how to run a show. “Don’t say that like I joined your agency. Tell me where the group’s at with setup, and I’ll get started.” 

 Eiichi’s eyes glinted from behind his glasses. He looked too satisfied with himself for Ranmaru’s taste. “I liked how you didn’t beat around the bush when you reached out for the job, and it’s good to see you hold to it. They’re rehearsing in the space, but we still have equipment to unload and cues to sync. You read the notes I sent you, I trust.” 

“All forty fuckin’ pages of it.” Ranmaru left out that he’d actually found it pretty impressive, appreciating the thoroughness and ambition of the show for a smaller group and venue. “Are we going to stand around shooting the shit or are we going to get started working on them?” 

Eiichi laughed at that. Ranmaru wasn’t sure if it pissed him off or made him feel eager to get to work. 

“This way,” he said, showing him to a van stuffed full of equipment. 

------ 

Ranmaru went straight to the live house staff to start doing his work. The master controls were kept in a little room that overlooked the stage. His gut flipped when he first saw them all, rehearsing some specific-looking choreography that needed to adjust to a new stage.  He wasn’t about to let that interrupt work. This was just like any other job, except he liked the performers a whole lot more, and things progressed like any other job. Until she looked dead at him from the stage, calling out. 

“Heeeeey,” she said. “Scuse me, are you the new tech guy?” 

“Yeah.” Ranmaru forced the feeling rising in his throat back down (as much as he could with sheer willpower, anyway). “Whaddya want?” 

“I just wanted to ask your name! We gotta call you something!” 

“Ranmaru,” he answered, hoping dearly that whatever he felt burning on his face was hidden by the dim lighting. 

“Cool, OK. Ranmaru-san,” she continued cheerfully. Ranmaru felt his chest tighten as he heard his name on her lips. “Are we queued up enough that we can do this number with music?” 

“This is the one for the new single, right,” he called back. He took a look at the levels, gain, and so forth as they were and instinctively nudged the knobs where the countless plays of that new song told him to. He’d imagined the vision of its stage presence for weeks. “I’m gonna test out some different settings for the levels ‘n stuff while you do that.” 

She made an expression of surprise as it came on. Delight, even, as she rode out into the following beats. Ranmaru couldn’t help crooking into his own smile, satisfied his know-how just helped that vision become a little bit brighter. She flashed him a thumbs up, then a gesture to pause, still grinning. 

“Can we take it from the top? Five, six, seven, eight---” 

-------- 

Ranmaru had never felt this sort of contradiction. She was restringing her acoustic guitar, from steel to nylon strings, as she hummed and practiced segments of songs, and Ranmaru was adjusting amplifiers and other equipment on the stage nearby. His head swam with the thought and excitement they were sharing the same stage, even just as a tech and pre-show performer, but approaching her felt like being both sides of a magnet at once. 

But that push and pull gave way, eventually, as the guitar finished being re-strung and tuned, and the humming turned into full-on singing. Ranmaru fought desperately to make sure he wasn’t just confirming what he’d already imagined, to just appreciate her live voice on its own merits and flaws. But he could feel in his chest that that character, that quality he’d responded so much to was there, that even with some lacking technical skill, there was still a rich tone color you could only get with passion and the spirit for rock. 

“You doing any solos tonight?” he asked in English. 

“Hm?” She looked caught by surprise. 

Ranmaru answered, already anticipating the question. “I’m half-American. I speak it fluently enough.” 

“Well, shit,” she said with a grin. “That’s convenient for us. I mean, I don’t mind Japanese if it’s easier…” 

“‘Sfine. Do what you want. I won’t complain about the practice, though.” 

She chuckled. “Man, maybe losing our usual guy from the agency was a stroke of good luck.” 

Ranmaru laughed challengingly. “Say that after the show goes well. And you still haven’t answered my question.” 

“Oh, uh. Right. Not really? Why do you ask?” 

“Why not?” 

She took a moment and laughed brightly in reply. Ranmaru could practically hear the insecurity she was covering up. 

“‘Cuz we’re an idol group.” 

Ranmaru gestured and murmured in vague acknowledgement. “You still have less solo lines than everyone else.” 

“Oh, do I,” she replied flatly, going back to her guitar, trimming overhanging strings. “I guess you would know, now that you’ve gotta manage all our sound.” 

“I just think it’s stupid you’ve clearly got your own voice but can’t think of sharing it without hiding behind everyone else’s.” 

She looked up at him incredulously. “Ranmaru-san, right?” 

“...Just call me Ranmaru.” 

“Alright, Ranmaru.” She looked at him again. Somehow when she looked at him dead-on this time, nothing went to mush inside of him. “Don’t fucking talk to me like our group voice isn’t the backbone of everything we’re trying to do.” 

“Nothing’s wrong with your group voice,” he shot back, getting heated. “It’s good. I can feel the soul behind it all, even when you’re rehearsing.” 

“So why are you fucking complaining?” She was still smiling, laying cheer and energy over her growing frustration. “Is there something you wanna say to me about my crew’s voices?” 

“They’re fine!” he barked back, frustrated she wasn’t getting his point. “This isn’t about them! You have something your audience is gonna be lit on fire hearing more of, that’s all!”  

Some eyes were starting to fall on them, but Ranmaru could barely notice them over the way her chest rose sharply and her expression became inscrutible. 

“...how about,” she said, speaking slowly as she deliberately, diplomatically pulled out her words, switching back to Japanese. “You save any notes you have for after the show.” 

“......Sure.” His stomach flipped again, more intensely and more painfully than the last few times. He went back to fussing with the amp, and she laid the pliers she’d trimmed her strings with on it before heading backstage until the show started. 

--- 

The show was electric. Ranmaru couldn’t say he was the right audience for most idol groups -- not so much out of distaste as much as incompatibility, he guessed. The way Reiji and Natsuki would lose their minds over their favorites’ cheerful cuteness or the kindness in their voices, Ranmaru wouldn’t. The fanatical, cult-of-personality devotion some other idols could curate with otaku-types, he didn’t connect with, either. What spoke to him was passion, backed by steely sounds and the sweat behind them; the excitement and fervor of rock and a crowd stinking of sweat; how well you could make someone scream themselves hoarse for that one, shining moment without any care for how sore they’d feel the next morning. 

Maybe it was the adrenaline from earlier, but when he could look away from the tech, he felt that here, too. There was no drum or bass player onstage, but he could still feel the beat thrum through his chest and rumble through his bones until his breath quickened, like he were jumping and dancing with the crowd. There was joy in their teamwork. In how they shaped their bodies together in song and in voice, and pushing and pulling the spotlight until it was something brighter, something shared and tangible between them and the audience.

His eyes fell on her. What should he call her? She had a stage name in Thai, but she was open that wasn’t her given name or anything friends and family called her. “Aroon” was just something she picked so she could wear her heritage proudly. It meant ‘dawn,’ it sounded cooler, more idol-ish than her Western name, which wasn’t a secret, by any means, but he heard her called by so many versions of it, none felt real. 

It only felt so weird because seeing her onstage, he felt far beyond any confirmation bias he could’ve had that the person he’d seen in the PV’s was every bit as real as he’d hoped. He saw someone who didn’t just fit on stage, but relished and grew like a plant in the hot lights burning down on them. There was something so honest about how she hyped the crowd, leaned so forward she seemed like she might leap into a crowdwalk, pointing at her ear until the whole crowd bellowed in their own guttoral harmony. And she smiled so much at her crewmates -- Ranmaru realized he was smiling, too, while she played guitar and accompanied the others’ solos, only breaking from her deep sway with the music to look at them with brightness and joy in her eyes. 

In those moments, Ranmaru understood something he hadn’t before, but it also made him realize that the hunger in him wasn’t being sated so much as it was deepening. 

They got cheered back on for an encore. And towards the end of that last song, Ranmaru watched as she broke choreography to literally lift the one Natsuki was convinced was a fairy, spinning them around as the practiced moves dissolved into joyful chaos. The whole group ended the song arm in arm, sloppily holding mics for each other as they alternately laughed, belted, fumbled, and shouted thank-yous into the audience.

Ranmaru still felt something tug at him as the mic got held in front of her, she grabbed it, and handed it to someone else. Just sing, damn it, he thought to himself. It didn’t matter if it was perfect, it just mattered that it was hers. 

Didn’t she realize she deserved to be adored the same way she wanted the rest of her group to be? 

Ranmaru cut everything as they filtered offstage, staggering and softening the mics as they put them back and let them go. He took a deep, sighing breath in and out, almost like he’d been holding it for the entire concert, as his stomach growled. 

Maybe he should’ve taken some more of Reiji’s bento, after all, and give Natsuki’s cookies another try.  

-------- 

They closed up quickly. With the group no longer bound by rehearsal, takedown went faster than ever, and there wasn’t any meet-and-greet at today’s venue. Ranmaru dimly considered looking at the merch table, but he had a week to do that and had other things to finish with today’s closeup, anyway. 

He could hear the group discussing amongst themselves in English about where to go for a late dinner celebrating a good show.

“I want chicken,” she pleaded. “Is there one of those Taiwanese shops where you can get boba and chicken around here? You know, the kind that comes in a little bag and a toothpick?” 

Eiichi approached them, and she started to repeat herself in Japanese before he asked to interrupt her. 

“We’re all headed to the izakaya two blocks from here,” he announced to everyone. “I’ve already called ahead to reserve the space. Consider it a reward for a triumph of the first show on tour.” 

“But is there chicken,” she repeated in Japanese in mock desperation as she mussed her own hair, fussing it out of the careful styling she’d had it in for hours. 

Ranmaru’s phone buzzed from the notifications he missed, shutting them off for the duration of the show. Mostly from Natsuki and Reiji. He scrolled through the groupchat as they reacted live to the stream and tried to compliment Ranmaru on managing sound so well, though he was sure it couldn’t have possibly made much of a difference for the stream. 

Ranmaru (11:37 PM): it was a killer show, wasn’t it 

Ranmaru (11:37 PM): they’re talking about craving chicken right now. Guess it’s too bad we don’t have a kotobuki bento branch around here. 

Ranmaru (11:38 PM): i could go for a kara-age bento 

Reiji (11:38 PM): Ranran….! 

Natsuki (11:39 PM): Waaaah~! I hope you find some kara-age soon and share it with your shining star! 

Ranmaru immediately locked the phone after that. His stomach somersaulted once more time. He stood by what he said to her earlier, but he couldn’t imagine she’d want to talk after the way things had gone. Better to leave the group to that postshow glow, feed himself, and head back to the hotel. 

--------- 

The room was swimming just a little. Ranmaru blearly looked at his phone, trying to ignore the fact that he’d drank beyond his limit like an idiot. He knew he was like this, so why did he keep downing beer after beer? He’d gotten too used to needing as much as he could stomach to tolerate Reiji’s antics (and, he knew dimly, he was just too used to being able to rely on him once he’d hit his limit). 

She was seated right across from him, because of course she was, but they didn’t exchange any words or even eye contact. She was entirely focused on the rest of the group and the meal itself, laughing loudly between boisterous stories and jokes and devouring whatever snacks she ordered. 

Ranmaru got up. He could make it back to the hotel by himself, probably. Nobody asked as he left, which was how he’d preferred things, right? 

If there was such thing as taking a desolate wizz, maybe this is what it felt like, he thought to himself as he dried his hands on his shirt and left the restroom to step outside. Just for a moment. Just to get some air. 

Eiichi followed him out. 

“Can I help you,” Ranmaru said roughly after Eiichi caught the door behind him. 

“Hardly.” He had the same look in his eye as before. “I thought I’d take the opportunity to say well done.” 

Ranmaru grunted. “You still have six more shows with me. Compliment me when I’ve nailed all of them.” 

“Hm. I’d certainly expect no less. But,” he continued, that grin going places Ranmaru especially didn’t like. “I can’t say that was what I was referring to.” 

Ranmaru looked at him suspiciously. 

“She’s been a tough nut to crack,” he continued. “I’m glad my instincts were right, Ranmaru Kurosaki, your brusqueness and deep experience with music laid her heart bare enough she recognized some changes she needed to make.” 

He didn’t think, and only saw red -- he couldn’t blame the alcohol entirely, but the haziness was enough that his brain needed a moment to catch up to his gut reaction. 

Eiichi laughed, unfazed by Ranmaru’s hands on his collar or snarling expression. 

“Bastard!” he barked. Eiichi’s eyes glinted behind his glasses. 

“I heard your little conversation. Do you not stand by those words?” 

“Of course I do,” Ranmaru snapped. 

“They reached her,” Eiichi cut in before Ranmaru could think of what to say next. “She’s already asking me about extra vocal training before the next recording sessions.” 

“She doesn’t need more training!” He threw Eiichi back, finally letting go. He barely needed any effort to recover, and Ranmaru just glared at him as he kept raising his voice. “And I’m not your for-hire music coach! Is this how you treat all your contractors, you rat bastard of a producer?!” 

He just laughed that laugh of his, making Ranmaru even angrier. “Your passion for music and straightforwardness was evident, even in your initial inquiry. It was just excellent luck your technical skills were just as useful for sending this idol group hurtling towards their fullest potential.” 

“If you want her to reach it, you’d tell her she doesn’t need any extra lessons. You’d just tell her she’s a great goddamn idol the way she is right now,” Ranmaru spat. “Trusting her voice is just what’ll make her into a better one.” 

“I hear some selfish intent in that, Kurosaki.” Eiichi looked like he was burning with excitement. “But that just means I can trust your intentions more than anyone. You speak as someone whose heart’s already been moved. A fan...a loyal follower who desires their success. Perhaps even more than she does.” 

“I’m going back to the hotel.” Ranmaru strode past him, feeling himself burn from top to bottom. He gave Eiichi one last look in the eye. “If you need me before the show tomorrow, find someone else.”  

------- 

The next day and next show went uneventfully. Now that he’d met the group at Yokohama, he was travelling with them in the cars and equipment vans, and he made a point of finding a back seat nobody wanted to share, stretching out, and napping the whole ride. The setup at the next live house was a pain in the ass with their unusual devices and systems, but Ranmaru was quietly grateful to have his hands full. He liked having a good reason for not wanting to talk to (scold) anyone but the live house staff itself. Being irritated they went for weird, cheap models with lower quality helped him double down on the attention needed to make the group shine. They collectively got ramen afterwards. The only words he exchanged all meal were with the one Reiji liked so much, ferrying his ramen order for him when he got frustrated with the shop crowd and left to go wait outside. 

(He’d have to find a way to talk with her later about Reiji. Not just for the autograph -- he opened up his phone, ignoring any notifications that weren’t his work email, and messaged him. 

Ranmaru (9:42 PM): send me a pic of your Mae shrine 

Reiji (9:45 PM): ehh? Ranran, what for? 

Ranmaru (9:50 PM): just send it 

Dutifully, Reiji did. Ranmaru couldn’t have imagined he really had no idea what he planned to do with it, but if he wasn’t just playing dumb, at least he’d be getting one hell of a surprise.) 

It was during the third show that things started to happen a way he could scarcely believe. The show went pretty normally, except for one point where she stumbled badly enough during a complex turn she completely ate shit. But she played it off into something hammy and funny, rolling out of the way of the others, lying like she were posing in a cheesy beefcake calendar while she found the beat again to sing. 

Ranmaru still thought she needed to own up to her lack of courage and just sing more, but putting it like she was a coward was a mistake. He thought dimly to what Reiji had said that had convinced him -- “when was the last time you had fun working a stage like this?” And he wondered if he’d ever had fun onstage like he saw. He might’ve tasted the glory and passion of the stage, the delicious energy of the audience, and the power of rock -- he knew he did, he’d looked an easier, blander life in the eye and felt too desolate to walk that path, even with his inescapable debt. 

But it could be more fun. That audience could feel more, even more connected, that he could smile through mistakes when the performance came from camaraderie as much as passion and soul. Things could be better when they were shared beyond just the respect of an audience and a performer.

He didn’t realize he was smiling as much as he was until his cheeks were hurting, but that was also because he felt hungrier than he’d ever been.  

----

He couldn’t help calculating how many meals he’d be cutting into as the convenience store clerk rang up everything, even though he’d already gotten Eiichi to confirm he was going to expense him the bill and get refunded every cent. 

The show closed late. They had a special meet-and-greet he didn’t need to be around to handle, but none of them had had the chance to eat much outside of some spare snacks. He figured something fast and easy before they could collapse in the hotel would fit the bill. 

She wasn’t there when he went around knocking on the hotel room doors and delivering the goods. Gone out to relax on the roof, they said, and when they offered to hold her food, he said no, he’d take it right to her. 

The sound of the roof door opening looked like it startled her, and he didn’t know what else to do but hold up the bag full of food like a peace offering. 

“Eat something,” he said in English, tossing her a banana from the bag. She caught it before eyeing him up and down, then settled back to the outdoor lounge chair she’d been resting on. Ranmaru took a seat in the one across for her, setting the bag on the ground as he pulled the rest of the food out. She looked hesitant, only speaking until he’d laid everything out, even the drinks.

“...That smells good,” she said in Japanese. “What’s that, kara-age?” 

“I heard you guys were craving chicken.” 

 “I mean, I sure was. Thanks.”

“I told you English was fine,” he said, back to Japanese. 

“My Japanese is fine,” she said, tearing into the banana first. 

“Yeah, but if you’re tired of speaking outside of your native tongue,” Ranmaru started, already feeling himself get heated. “Why wouldn’t you take the chance to just rest?” 

She finished her bite of banana before giving him a look. “...If you insist.” 

They just sat in silence as she ate for a bit. 

“Is there something else you want from me?” she asked. She left half the kara-age and bottled tea.

“...No, not really. I wanted to say sorry for the other day, though.” 

“Ah.” She smiled knowingly, though she didn’t look happy about it. “Don’t worry about it. It sure isn’t the first or last time I’m gonna be criticized in this industry. I can handle it.” 

Ranmaru murmured in acknowledgement, not sure to what end making himself clear to would earn, but he had to, anyways. He stared down the half-full kara-age container. 

“...This is your goddamn food, you know.” He pushed it closer to her. “Eat it.” 

“Oh, you’re sure?” 

“I didn’t have a meet-and-greet that made me miss dinner. Do you really wanna work a tour on an empty stomach?” 

She scooped it up with a knowing ‘hmm’ and a half-smile. After polishing it off, she let out a heavy sigh. 

“You are right, though. I’m being a coward, not singing more.” 

“You’re not,” Ranmaru grumbled. 

“Sure,” she said dismissively. “But I guess I should apologize for getting so defensive. I thought you were just another macho shithead trying to talk the piss out of our group and the voice we have.” 

“That’s nothing to apologize for,” Ranmaru said resolutely. “....when I was in a band, I wish I’d had bandmates who’d do that kinda shit for me.” 

“Oh, shit, what’d you play?” 

“Vocals. Bass. Rock.” 

“Aw, c’mon, get more specific than that. Surf rock? Indie boy shoegaze? Folk punk with a little dash of polka?” 

Ranmaru gave her an incredulous look. “...Oi. Do I look like a polka guy?” 

She grinned widely, looking very satisfied with herself. “I dunno, you never know who’s got a secret accordion! I could see you, maybe you painted half of it, like, red to match that edgelord RPG hero heterochromia thing you got going.” 

Ranmaru grumbled, looking away. She laughed. “....I just like rock. If you had to pull my leg I guess I’d tell you hard rock. Maybe a little alt and prog.” 

“Ooh!” She exclaimed, barely letting the sip of tea get down her throat. “That’s the good shit! Did you ever record anything?”

Ranmaru hesitated. “...Yeah, but nothing that anyone can listen to anymore.” 

She seemed to understand without much more explanation. “...Well. You’re fucking good at the sound engineering side of things. Don’t tell management this -- or well, just don’t quote me on this --  but I like you a hell of a lot more than the guy we were supposed to have from the agency. He doesn’t know shit about how to make music that’s about soul and hype. It’s like, all one level the whole time, you know? Like it’s just sitting at an 8 the whole time, we don’t really get to do stuff like crescendos. Or like, punch someone in the dick by taking it from a three and shoot it to an eleven, you know?” 

“Yeah,” Ranmaru said, throwing a hand up. “What’s with that shit? There’s a bunch of stupid clients I had who were like that. Just one kind of loud, the whole album or concert through. What’s the fucking point if you aren’t gonna make people hear something other than just fuckin’ loud?” 

“Yeah! You get it!” she whooped, before she held her hand out for a fistbump. 

It surprised Ranmaru enough that it took a moment to register. But he smiled a little and pounded it. 

------

“Man-eating momma, steam-driven hammer

Sorts the men out from the boys--” 

She slid her arm around his waist, and he nearly choked on his beer. 

They were at Korean barbecue tonight, their own private room. The last meal, after the last concert, after the last meet-and-greet, after the last frantic merch sales. Ranmaru tried to buy himself a shirt, but instead was presented with a staff hoodie for the tour and a “one of everything” comp for the rest of the merch. They were now safely tucked with other goods he’d gotten signed for Reiji and Natsuki last night while everyone hung out in their big hotel suite. Hotel management made a mistake and upgraded the whole crew to their biggest room with extra cots to fit them all, and they spent the entire post show in a dizzying, joyful, communal haze. Ranmaru even told stories of the embarrassing depths of his groupchat’s devotion to the group and each of their favorites, and everyone took turns recording chaotic, personalized videos for Ranmaru to share later. They fell asleep at a truly stupid hour, and Ranmaru wondered if this is what having sleepovers as a kid felt like. 

“Takes no messing, all-in wrestling

Is one of her pride and joys” 

Ranmaru recognized the words as she pulled him closer, swaying after slamming her beer to the table. Maybe less the tune, since that was being yelled more than sung. 

“She's a classy, flashy lassy

Imitation sapphire shine-- c’mon, dude, you know!” She looked at him expectantly. She was very, very flushed, and at this point, he had to be, too. 

“We’re not at a karaoke bar!” he barked. 

“Where’s all that ‘you gotta sing more, fuckass’ energy now, huh,” she said, lowering her voice so much to mimic that Ranmaru briefly questioned if this is what he sounded like to her. 

“....Fine! If you’re gonna sing it, actually fuckin’ sing it, don’t just yell!” 

“Oh yeah,” she said with what passed for a shit-eating grin with her. “Then show me, partyboy. Hey, everyone, meet my new vocal coach! Hold onto your dick, folks, he better fuckin floor you with all the shit he’s been talking --”  

Ranmaru looked at her a moment as she kept ranting, first with incredulity, then with a weird surreal awe. What the hell was happening?  

Why the hell should he bother questioning it? 

“-- Two-faced liar, full of fire

But I know the flame is mine!” He cut off her rant, singing as much as he could like this were a stage. 

She -- and a bunch of other staff at the table -- whooped and cheered and laughed, but she and only she joined in with him without a care in the world. “Rocka Rolla woman for a Rocka Rolla man

You can take her if you want her

If you think you can--” 

He let the arm that’d been just awkwardly dangling behind her wrap around her shoulder. He felt warmer than he’d ever had, burning all the way to the tips of his ears. 

“Rocka Rolla woman for a Rocka Rolla man

You can take her if you want her you can!” 

They hung on the last note of the chorus -- she hung on comedically long before dragging them both up to bow while everyone else clapped, laughed, cheered. A server came, yelling that they had an order of grilled beef up. Eiichi, from the other end of the table, gestured that he’d ordered it, but passed it down until it sat in front of Ranmaru. 

-------- 

They had an overnight bus trip to get back home -- or close enough to home, anyways, Ranmaru still had another long train ride waiting afterwards, so he’d planned to sleep the whole bus ride. 

But she wound up sitting next to him, and even if he could pretend like that didn’t make his heart thump now by itself, she was chatty. 

He didn’t mind the conversation, though. They mostly talked about music, sharing concert stories and albums. He even talked a little about what he wanted to do now in between all the freelance work, and when she wished him luck and couldn’t wait to hear it, he didn’t feel like she was just blowing smoke. 

There came a pause while she downed a bottle of tea. 

“...I meant it when I said there’s something in your voice the audience oughta hear,” he said, looking at her intently. 

She laughed uncomfortably after she swallowed. “Thank you. I’ll…..I guess I just have to go for it, huh.” 

“What’s stopping you?” 

“I...hm….” She paused in intent thought for a while. “Well, for one, the technical control isn’t there.” 

“Yeah, but you’ll improve that by doing it.” 

“Yeah, yeah. But there’s more than just that, I guess.” 

“Like what.” 

“...Well, you know how this industry is. It’s…hard. Finding the balance of what you’re good at, what people want, and what the higher-ups think they want. I don’t think I’m anywhere near figuring that balance out...”

“Forget all that.” Ranmaru looked at her very seriously, shifting in place so he could look her in the eye a little better. “Don’t worry about any of those things.” 

She laughed disbelievingly. “Okay, sure, lemme just. Throw out my job description while I’m at it. Dude, the whole point of this job and this work is to make other people happy.” 

“I was happy hearing your voice just as it was that first day. You just. Sang the way you wanted to. I liked that. It felt good. Genuine.” He took a moment to recall the words he found at the beginning of the tour. “...You like it when people connect with your group’s voice ‘n adore your groupmates. So let ‘em adore you some.” 

“Oh, cuz I’m so adowable,” she joked, laughing as Ranmaru scowled. 

“I mean it. I….” he started. “...The audience is going to be better for hearing more of you. Whatever that means.” 

She thought about that for a moment. “...I...you know. I don’t think I’ve ever asked myself what that looks like. Or let myself realize it, anyway.”

“You can handle the criticism if it comes. If that’s something you’re scared of.” 

“...Maybe it is. Thank you, Ranmaru, I’m going to think about that and kick everybody’s teeth in the next time we record.  

“‘Snothing,” he murmured, but he felt like his heart was going to soar out of his chest, and later, as they both nodded off and slumped over each other as the road stretched on, he realized he felt sated in a way he couldn’t remember being. A weird sort, that took away the pang of hunger, but made him feel it more deeply through his whole being. 

---- 

When he arrived ‘home,’ it was lunchtime, and he was too dazed, hungry, and tired to weather one last long walk home without some food in his stomach. It was on the way-- he may as well go to Kotobuki Bento and make Reiji make good on the free bento offer. 

(His sister rang him up, and Ranmaru paid up.) 

Reiji found him after the meal, and he wound up heading to Reiji’s room. To give him the merch, theoretically, but after Reiji earned enough grouchy monosyllabic replies, he brought something that sounded like an actual question. 

“...So, Ranran, while you were away…” 

“Just say it,” Ranmaru muttered, eyes too tired to focus. “I’m too fucking tired for you to take the long away around.” 

“Nattsun’s friend wants to join our little fanclub!”

“....And.” 

Reiji shrank a little, speaking more sheepishly. “The thing is...we mentioned you and....he’s pretty sure you two already know each other and you’d want nothing to do with him.” 

Ranmaru hazily tried to recall who that could be. There were too many people whose guts he hated for him to figure it out by himself. 

“Who is it,” Ranmaru growled tiredly. “Just fucking say it.” 

“Does...Hijirikawa ring a bell?” 

It did. Ranmaru fumed in silence for a moment, thinking about the whirlwind of disaster that name was attached to, but also the vague memories of that quiet, serious boy in traditional dress who fretted after him when they were too small to know of things like debts and bankruptcy...

“...Whatever,” Ranmaru muttered. He looked at Reiji’s bed and decided he wasn’t going to tolerate any more of this exhaustion -- he had a reliable neighbor to leave food out for the cats, anyway, what was a couple more hours? “It’s not really much of a fanclub if it’s just the three of us. He can join if he wants. It’ll give you ‘n Natsuki someone who’s better at responding to your crazy nightlong gushing than me.” He tossed the dakimakura on Reiji’s bed, dented in the middle from so much hugging, to him, before he shrugged closer into his staff tour hoodie and slumped into Reiji’s bed. 

He could practically see Reiji stammering, even as he turned away and settled into the comfort of eyes closed and a real bed. Clearly, that wasn’t the answer he was expecting, and it wasn’t the one Ranmaru was expecting to give, either. 

“-- R...Ranran, you really--” 

“Yes! What the fuck wasn’t clear about what I said! Masato can join! Go add him already! Just let me sleep, you noisy bastard!” Ranmaru barked one last time at Reiji. 

Ranmaru ignored whatever last jabbering Reiji had for him, already carried off to proper sleep. He wondered what he could possibly dream about that would rival the past week and this satisfying feeling, cradled in his new hoodie.  

(I perform semi-professionally -- not as an idol, mind, but I’m still getting up on a stage/camera to entertain people on the reg -- and it was so weird but also really......doki-inspiring, let’s say, to imagine Ranmaru being a fan of my stage bravado :’’’’’D To be honest I’ve been feeling a little discouraged and burnt out by it lately but this really refilled my tanks!!!) 

[huntsman-ash]

RWBY LiveThoughts: V8E7

Since I finally have time for it today, lets make sure Im all caught up for the hiatus. 

Before we get fully started, an idea; Its not a war crime if they’re Grimm. Then its just self defense. So break out the napalm, the cluster bombs, the chemical weapons, the fun stuff. Make em regret it, yeah?

And we start off...on a farm. Looks like my moms old farm in South Dakota. Even on Remnant, hay is best used in bales.

Waiiiit. Thats the place the Whale set down isnt it. I see a Sayber running. Ah, and the Atlas military! Surely, the vanguard of a massive force to hold the line! Also Im glad to see a close up of the helmet for once, I want to make my own. Also, the gloves, and the rifle itself. Not sure why it doesnt have a stock, seems kind of silly...

And airships too, so they got some fire support...whats that wall behind them though?

Also it TOOK US 8 FUCKING SEASONS to get a close up of these FUCKING Weapons. 8. FUCKING. SEASONS. Okay maybe more like 5 cause they didnt first appear till 3 or so but come on. Im so picking this shit apart later. 

Pfft, bros got some nerves going on. Come on man, its just some Grimm, you’ll be FINE.

Atlas field harvesters resemble Halo’s JOTUN Farming equipment. As wel as our own. No surprise there.

Alright, bunch of Saybers, not seeing much of a threat here.

Hey, Paladins! Damn, they...look way different than I remember them to be. 

I wont lie, I dont like the Paladin design. Way to much visual noise, I cant tell where anything IS. 

Also that is the most 2D grass I have sever seen in my fucking life. What the hell are they growing here...

Huh, the whale has two sets of teeth. Wait, its just there? And its wpewing out Grimm. So...why isnt the air force firing on it? 

Yeah its not moving, its just raising its head and slamming down and vomiting out more Grimm. Im not sure what the issue is here, just...seal the mouth. 

Oh, huh. Apathys. Let me guess, RTs gonna try and tell us depression is going to kill most of Atlas. Oh for fuck sake. IM NOT IMPRESSED RT. IM REALLY NOT. IM MORE FUCKING ANNOYED THAN ANYTHING

Okay so...I see what this is. Its farm land outside of atlas proper and there’s an additional wall behind them, plus the power lines I guess? Seems like a viable place to make a stand. 

...thats it. Please tell me this is just a single detachment of the Atlas military because there is less firepower here than a NATIONAL GUARD UNIT ASSIGNED TO ONE CITY

Im fairly certain there are more people assigned to ONE UNIT attached to JBLM then I amm seeing here. 

Not to mention this is an OPEN FIELD the Grimm have to run through. This is a literall fucking TURKEY SHOOT. Running across an open field anywhere is a ticket to DYING.

Just ask the poor fucks on D-day.

Also uh...why is everyone in line formation? What is this, fuckin’ 18009s combat Napoleon style?

And did the distance suddenly change, I feel like the whale suddenly got a hell of a lot closer.

Just...I dont get this. This makes no sense. Did Ironwood learn how to deploy forces from a fairy tale book? This is legitimately some fuckin Lord of the Rings shit here.

RIP that one specific trooper hit by that Behemoth though. Dont worry friend, the thing walked next to a Paladin. Its getting its eye blasted out

And cut back to Ironwood. Doing...fuck if I know what.

Staring angrily it seems.

“Dammit, my tactical deployment by line formation and parade ground tactics isnt holding back the Grimm, curses!”

Well MAYBE IF YOUD THOUGHT TO INVEST IN SOME FUCKING AIR SUPPORT...Seriously.

I know people have told me why this is. I understand myself why this is. But it really just...does...not...jibe with me. At all. 

Okay so more details; first, apparently Atlas has a subway. Makes sense, its a big island. Inter-system transits probably a given. Second; Was that Mantis Squad Omega? Some kind of unit maybe...interesting.

 Also I love how this guy just questions Ironwood. Like, bro, if the General says do it, do it.

Hold the fuck up, why is everyone outside? It looks like fuckin’ Cali during our lockdowns...what ever happened to martial law huh?

Also “underground subway stations”. Yes, thats...kind of what a subway IS. I guess maybe they have overhead ones like New York does. Mass transit be weird like that.

I mean HELL the signs on it are almost identical to the ones in NYC too! Even with the colored circles and train cnumbers. 

According to the sign here they’re at Pickens Square Station. 

Oh boy. Ironwood just fed these poor bastards into a meat grinder. Anyone here ever played the Metro game series, or read the books?

Remember the Dark Ones? The Nosallias? Yeah. Tight corridors and monsters only work out well for angry vodka fueled Russians.

Didnt see it very well but I THINK those Mantas had some kind of wing gun. Either thats new, a separate armament setting, or RT forgot what ind of weapons they gave their ships AGAIN.

Cant get the shields back up, yeah, no shit, they DETACHED ONE OF THE FUCKING PILOTS YOU IDIOTS.

Also hah, they arrested Yang, Ren and Jaune. Not surprised.

Beta squads apperently been hitting the whale. ‘Bombs, missiles, we cant make a dent, sir.” ...while Im not surprised by this, I also hear shades of the opening of Halo 2s level Metropolis. “Where’s the rest of your platoon?” “Wasted, sarge. Blew right through us. Rockets, fifty cals, didnt do nothing.”

Honestly they could have SHOWED THAT too. Them just saying it feels like a cop out to me. Take that as you will. But if you want us to see the things hard to kill, show it. 

Not that I figure Atlas’s rockets are much more than Dust in a propellent tank. Not exactly a Hellfire or TOW.

Nice to see proper military talk for...a moment anyway.

Or what I figure RT figures is proper.

Oh so now the whales moving. Okay...huh.

Jaunes commentary is the same as mine. Though I guess the size seems to shift depending.

Ohhh. Its MANTA. As in the gunships. Alright, sure that works. And this guys making a good call. If you cant hit the big one go after the smaller. Of which there seems to be a HELL of a lot. Actually holy fuck that Grimm spew is across like...ahlf the fucking island right now. Time to fuckin torch and burn people.

Ahhhhhh and they get to the proper idea.  If you cant punch it from the outside, hit it from the inside.

I knew a crew...three madmen, names of Keegan, Lahni and Mac. The Hivebusters. Something tells me a Venom bomb would do the trick...if it can rip apart Swarm creatures as big as a Snatcher or a Swarmak and reduce them to green slime, I think it’ll work on Grimm. 

Something tells me RT isnt gonna give em a bomb though. Too obvious.

NEVER MIND. “Science team is putting together a bomb.”

Also I LOVE how Winter’s pupils expand and retract in fear as she realizes what Ironwoods asking her to do.

Awww now shes getting the shakes too.

Salem directing this shit like shes some kind of orchestra leader. I mean it FITS but...I dunno.

Ah so the command deck is directly behind the whale’s glowing nose. Basically inside where the spermacetiy organ would be in a real sperm whale.

What the fuck is Emerald doing there?

Sneaking I guess. Huh. Why’s she sneaking around the whale. Also, huh. guess seeers can get fooled by Emeralds semblance.  Is HE STILL BEATING UP ON OSCAR? Jeez dude. Take a breather.

Honestly if this was TRUE I would be okay with it. Replace the Huntsman with, I dont know, a massively overequipped military for each Kingdom, let them run rampant...stomp the Grimm out or push them back to nonexistence...everyone lives happily ever after

Lets be real here, the idea of the academies? Really really fucking dumb. Its cute. Fairy tale like.

But if theres one thing this show has taught me its that fairy tales SUCK. Reality...tends to be worse.

Ah theres one of those torture hooks they mentioned a few episodes back. Nice of the whale to have a specific interrigation room.

And at last we get some information on how Salem works. Alright so...what happens if you seperate the parts then? Sink one in the ocean, launch one into space.

Sounds like Oz/Oscars telling the fans what we’ve been saying forever, Companion Book be damned; Salem wants to die.

These mind games bore me. Its cute, but I dont like it cause I cant follow that shit. Give me a straight up fight any day, fuck this sublty backroom fuckery

No lies from them both here honestly.

Medical supplies in Atlas seem almost the same as here on earth interestngly. Also, soup. Or...coffee, tea?

Blake with the obvious here. But I mean thats not really saying much cause...well. Not hard to outfight the Atlas military it seems like.  (Long suffering sigh)

Im gonna make a seperate post about my frustrations with that and leave it there. But dont expect me to stop fully complaining about it because everyones gotta have something to bitch about with this show, and I’ll be DAMNED if I start joining the BB whiners.

Good question, Ruby. Might be that YOUR NOT LIVING IN A FAIRY TALE

I’d like to see these people dying in Mantle. I refuse to believe that there isnt SOMEONE in the nation that once brought Remnant to its heel that wont stand and fight. Unless Im wrong about that too...

May backstory? May backstory. Yeah.  Not amazingly complicated but it works. Cant tell if shes Henry though...or was. 

Dramatic lightning flash

Cute you think that Ruby. Theres sides. Always are.

Further proof honestly.

Hazels look of though is amusing. Cant tell if he doesnt believe Oscar, or if his tiny peabrain is runing full bore to think this through.

Coordination between farm boy and professor.

Oh. OHHHH. Plants the seed of doubt in Hazels tiny mind, he uses the last question for himself, sees the truth... Clever, Oscar. Clever.

Hazel peabrain go THUNK

Ah so Mercs going off to Vacuo. Guess that means everyone else is going there next too. Eat that, random Discord person, I called it.

Course, CFVYs there so...maybe we get to see Yats beat up on him.

Oh hi Tyrian. Do you just...randomly roam the halls of the whale waiting to DRAMATICALLY REVEAL YOURSELF and give violent expositon? Im very much okay with that.

Also I love how he just...accepts this. Totally fucking bonkers, totally down with it. 

Oh shit, Tyrian and Mercury going to Vacuo? Damn thats gonna be INTERESTING. I guess Tyrian’ll fit in well enough honestly.

Flying Beringal literally out of the roof. 

I remember back when this season first started and I said those weird bone platforms looked like VTOL launch bays. Guess what? They are.

Merc and Em emotion blah blah DONT CAAARRREEE

Jaune thinking tactically for ONCE IN HIS FUCKING LIFE. An I mean military tactical of course.

Also I like how the Aces say they dont let emotions cloud their shit WHEN THEYVE BEEN DOING THAT THE WHOLE FUCKING TIME.

This ENTIRE PLANET is emotionally run. Thats why the Grimm are such an issue! Makes small note to make Remnant Adeptus Mechanicus cult

Seriously though...

I wont lie though, Hare isnt wrong. Wonder what happened to that Tortuga guy. Tyrian, is my guess. Love how Ren interrupts the moment they almost mention Clovers name.

Expendable, yes. Replacable, no. You should have a talk with squadron leader Grey from Star Wars Squadrons Ren

ANNNNDDD SEMBLANCE EVOLUTION. Or the edibles just kicked in.

This is cool and all but its really fucking dumb and hamfisted. Explain all you want. Mention emotions all you want.

The Aces are fucking huntsmen. HUNTSMEN. FUCKING. SUCK. They always have. Its a dumb idea. Yes, lets stop the hordes of monsters invading this world BY SENDING IN SINGLE OPERATIVES WITH FUCKING MELEE WEAPONS

I’ll make this clear to you, Ren, right here and now. If you faced a REAL elites, you wouldnt have stood a chance. Nor would RWBY. Their bodies would have been three-shot from 20 meters out with a breach and clear and stacked against the wall like cords of wood, one final shot to the dome to make dead sure they were down. None of this stupid flipping and acrobatic crap, none of this clashing weapons and Dust and semblances...no. 

You’d be dead before you knew they were there and they would move on. You’d just be another body to the pile, one more faceless corpse to add to their kill count. A meatgrinder in human form. 

Professionals. Dont. Lose. AND THE ACES ARE NOT PROFESSIONALS!

Because thats not what RWBYs about, never has been.  And that is what annoys me slightly. That and the fact I cant distangle what I know of other universes and our own from RWBY’s. Its hard to hold a universe on its own when everything they make points towards it being like ours, but they change it when they see fit. 

I feel like thats bad writing.

Hehehe. Winter touched Elms boob.

Glad to know that Winters got her priorities right. Course, that bomb probably aint gonna do shit cause its Dust based.

...again, hoping its a chemical weapon...

Wait, the Atlas forces from earlier are STILL FIGHTING? Damn, these Grimm must suck if they couldnt wipe them out in that little time...

Also I cant tell if its getting dark cause of the storm or if its the dawn of the next day.  Or did...they shift time around? I lost track. I SWORE the sun was setting the last time we saw everything.

Also return of the shitty 3D grass...

Marrows gonna defect.

Awww poor Winters got emotions. HEY MAYBE DONT SEND A MENSTRATING WOMAN OUT ON A FIELD OP, ATLAS!

So according to May there’s still front lines. Cool. 

AYYY ITS KLIEN! HES BACK

Oh, I guess hes a doctor too. Oh he MAD.

Ayyy Whitleys being USEFUL for fucking once in his shitty life.

Shes gonna hug him isnt she.

CALLED IT. For fuck sake...whatever. Cute. But whatever.

Oh annnnddd now Grimmquake?

No. It stopped...Bolide?

No. PENNY.

Annnnddd shes leaking coolant. And sparking. And dead.

RIP Penny.

The concept art of the beached whale looks so fucking silly. Seriously, just...detach the whole section there. Drop the fucking thing. 

Oh well.

And thats it for almost two months! Be prepared for me to BULLSHIT MY WAY THROUGH ALL OF IT and continue on with my military fanwank because THATS HOW IM SURVIVING 2020!

[taww]

First Take Review: Valvet Soulshine Preamplifier & A4 Mk.II Amplifier

I stumbled upon the Valvet brand fairly randomly. Looking back at my original email to Alfred Kainz of highend-electronics, Valvet’s US distributor, it appears I caught wind of the niche German marque via a review of their E2 amplifier ($2,990) on 10audio.com. In it, Jerry Siegel compared it with some very well-respected solid state and tube competition - Pass, First Watt, Cary - and came away smitten with the musicality of the little 20-watter. I perused the rest of the Valvet line and was immediately drawn to how it blended sleek, unassuming styling with a focus on tried and true design approaches. Tube preamps with solid state amps (no Class D in sight), super quality passive parts, minimalist Class A and single-ended topologies, all in urban-lifestyle friendly packaging... Valvet was speaking my language. The relative obscurity of the brand (at least here in the States) and lack of online reviews only added to the intrigue. A review was clearly in order, and Alfred was kind enough to oblige us with the Soulshine tube preamp ($5,890 in the configuration we received) and A4 Mk.II monoblock amplifier ($7,890). 

Alfred provided this description of the company:

Valvet is located in Bargteheide, in the north of Germany, near Hamburg. What we have here is a very consistent vision by designer Knut Cornils in design and execution. Knut founded the company in 1991 and has been building Class-A amps since 1982. Knut has evolved a distinctive architecture of Class-A modules using high-quality components in minimal designs, featuring valve pre-amplifiers with separate power supply and solid-state mono-block power amplifiers.

Valvet Soulshine Tube Preamp ($5,890)

The Soulshine is Valvet’s top preamplifier line and comes in a number of configurations. The model we received is a line stage and includes a compact external power supply and stepped attenuator with remote control. Recently, two further upgrades became available: the Soulshine IIz ($8,890) featuring a dual-mono external supply, and the Soulshine Trio ($10,990) with built-in phono stage and quad supplies. @mgd-taww​ has the full review of our base configuration coming out imminently, but I'll share some observations from my time with the unit.

I really dug the sleek look of the Soulshine - super slender, with a minimalist front panel sporting two polished chrome knobs, a 2-digit volume display and the Valvet "V" softly glowing in blue. There's zero panel markings, which makes input selection a bit of a guessing game, and slightly odd is the fact that the free-spinning volume knob (it's a rotary encoder for the electronically-controlled attenuator) has a dimple to indicate position, despite it being completely uncorrelated with the actual volume setting. The attenuator itself works extremely well - volume control is a bit on the coarser side, definitely not 1dB across the range, but adjustments are quick, smooth and noiseless other than the gentle clicking of the internal relays. Best of all, the outputs are quickly muted to eliminate any possibility of transients on power-up or turn-off which can be a real hazard with tube designs. The back-panel features 4 inputs - 2 balanced XLR, 2 unbalanced RCA - and both RCA and XLR outputs. The power supply is external, connected with a light, flexible and detachable umbilical cord. Under the hood, the circuit is simple and the parts are high quality, with relatively neat hand-soldered point-to-point wiring (Teflon-sleeved silver in our model). Like any tube component, it'll need some room to breath, but it generates a fairly moderate amount of heat and will fit in shelves with less clearance than typical tube pre's with tall chassis and upright tubes.

Tonally I found the Valvet to be fairly nondescript, and I mean that in the best possible way. There is just a hint of extra juice in the mid-bass, and the low end isn't as extended and tightly-controlled as the solid-state Bryston BP-17 Cubed ($4,500), but otherwise things felt quite neutral and in order - another example of the convergence of tube and solid state tonality over time. The top end had clarity and extension and there was neither the upper-midrange forwardness nor the rolled-off treble that one sometimes gets with tubes.

What it did have was a uniquely singing tone in the midrange that made it particularly expressive with soft melodic passages. E.g. on a performance of the Rachmaninoff Romance by cellist Alicia Weilerstein [Tidal], a passionate rendition of the theme is followed by a pianissimo echo. Through the Soulshine, the delicate passage sounded wonderfully quiet and intimate, yet still expressive; on the Bryston it came across a bit threadbare and pale. Every once in a while this could also come across as a bit of thickening, like just a dash too much cornstarch in the sauce - e.g. with Magdalena Kozena's Mozart arias, the ethereal floatiness of her voice came across slightly more opaque than I heard with the Pass Labs XP10. Tradeoffs, tradeoffs...

Bryston BP-17 Cubed, Valvet Soulshine and Pass Labs XP10 locked in battle

I (or more accurately, my wife and I) heard a bit more editorializing going on with harmonics and timbre. One late evening I was playing some tunes on the Soulshine, Beethoven Symphony No. 2 to be precise, and my wife commented that the orchestra sounded rather sharp (pitch-wise) and nasal. Normally this is how American woodwind players describe European ensembles (who do indeed tune their A's higher and use totally different technique, reeds and often instruments). But in this case, it was a Montreal Symphony performance which she never previously commented on sounding particularly European. Switching back to one of the solid state pre's (the Bryston or Pass XP10) restored the expected timbre - her ears are particularly sensitive, and I can only surmise she was picking up on harmonic distortion being introduced by the tubed Soulshine. I could hear it as well, but to me it was pretty mild, and probably 99% of people won't notice it to the same degree.

The other area where THD may be coming into play is soundstaging. The Valvet has a healthy dose of that holographic tube feel, suspending instruments across a deep, airy and three-dimensional space... so much so that my wife actually felt the sound to be “too 3D,” something I doubt you’ll ever hear an audiophile say. Nelson Pass under his First Watt enterprise shared a design for a very simple 2nd-order harmonic distortion generator, called the H2, as a fun way to add some color to sound. He made this interesting observation about the phase of such distortion:

So why is the phase important? Well, it's a subtle thing. I don't suppose everyone can hear it, and fewer particularly care, but from listening tests we learn that there is a tendency to interpret negative phase 2nd as giving a deeper soundstage and improved localization than otherwise. Positive phase seems to put the instruments and vocals closer and a little more in-your-face with enhanced detail.

My sense was that the Soulshine adds more of the “negative phase” second harmonic - it has that deep holographic stage, without sounding up front and “technicolor” as some tube designs are wont to. Again, to my wife’s ears this effect sounded a little phasey and unrealistic, but I’m guessing many audiophiles will eat it up.

Some other notable and positive aspects of the Soulshine... it's extremely quiet, with nice black backgrounds. In fact, I found it to be nearly dead silent even when cranked to max volume, and considerably quieter than the Bryston which always had some level of audible hiss. Dynamics were strong, the Bryston capturing big hits in the bottom end with more slam and edge, the Valvet otherwise having more verve and nuance - piano in particular had great weight and presence on crescendi. There was a sense of ease, with plenty of headroom even on the loudest, most cacophonous orchestral passages, though I did find dynamics varied a bit with the volume setting, a likely consequence of placing the attenuator after the tube gain stages thus creating variable output impedance. Separation of instruments was excellent - whether listening to a small chamber ensemble or symphony orchestra, tonally-adjacent voices like viola vs. second violin came through with clarity and color. And while lesser preamps can blur the region below middle C (262Hz) into a bit of a soupy blend, the Soulshine clearly distinguished the lower registers of the cello from the left hand of piano accompaniment on sonatas.

All in all, the Soulshine struck me as a lovely and enjoyable preamp. Musically expressive and pure, it was significantly more engaging than the Bryston BP-17 Cubed, and made for an interesting counterpoint to the Pass Labs XP10 ($5,250 before being replaced by the XP12). I didn’t mention the Pass so far as @mgd-taww also uses the XP10 as his reference preamp, so I’ll let him do the honors of an in-depth comparison in his coming review.

Valvet A4 Mk.II Class A Monoblock amplifier ($7,890)

The A4 represents the 2nd generation of Valvet’s original Class A monoblock design, the A3.5. This latest “Mk.II” iteration includes 33% larger power transformers (400W), more filtering (132,000µF each!) and upgraded parts throughout including audiophile-brand resistors and cotton-insulated silver wiring. Allegedly this brings the performance of the Mk.II closer to Valvet's flagship A4e ($9,890), a souped-up 4-chassis model with larger external power supplies and a bit more power. Despite the Class A design, the A4 is downright petite, each monoblock measuring just 230 x 110 x 310 mm (9 x 4.4 x 12.2 inches) but feeling hefty and solid - I don’t have the weight on me, but you’ll definitely want to firmly grasp each one with two hands. Power is rated at 55 watts/8Ω, 90 watts/4Ω in full Class A operation. In what seems to be a new craze (Pass Labs XA25 and models from GamuT come to mind), the output stage uses a single pair of high-power transistors per channel, and the signal path is direct-coupled with no global negative feedback.

My first night with the A4 ended in disaster. I still don't know what happened - my best guess is a wire got crossed in the hookup to my REL T-9 subwoofer - but upon powering up one of the monoblocks, sparks, a small flame and smoke ensued. Clearly something shorted out somewhere, and the A4 being a true minimalist design with zero protection circuitry means any mishap can end in catastrophe. Fortunately no human, animal or other device was harmed, but after weeks of anticipation to hear the amps, I was heartbroken. In my desperation, I listened a bit to one speaker through the other functioning amp, just to get a taste... and even from that crippled mono reproduction, I could already tell there was something very sweet and special about the A4, which made my misfortune even more agonizing.

Alfred Kainz was extremely understanding and had the amps shipped back to Knut @ Valvet for repair. A while later I got them back, and this time I completely steered clear of the REL hookup, instead feeding the subwoofer from my preamp just to be safe. The amps have worked absolutely flawlessly since so the only lesson here is to be extremely careful setting them up, which the manual also states very clearly...

With that out of the way... I think these are some very special amps. While I've heard Class A amps plenty of times in other systems, it's my first time having one in my own, and it was easy to hear from the first notes what all the fuss is about. There's a purity and density of tone, a freedom from electronic haze and grain, a fluidity of expression that's subtle in absolute terms but significant in visceral ones. Great Class A amps have given me the feeling of emancipating music from the chains of typical solid-state limitations, making Class AB (and certainly Class D) designs sound synthetic and mechanical by comparison. The Valvet is delightfully expressive, sweet and pure, with an honest and unforced way of capturing the warmth and beauty of a performance. The Bryston 4B Cubed, a 300W Class AB powerhouse, impressed me with how it carried some of these lovely qualities to a surprising degree, but the Valvet communicates with a higher level of musical connection and tactile presence.

At times, I've heard Class A amps come off a bit dark and slow vs. a very transparent Class AB design. I hear no such issues with the Valvet - in fact, it has all the speed of the Bryston 4B3, with even more dynamic alacrity and nuance. Twists and turns of a phrase are conveyed with uninhibited momentum. Its highs are as sweet and refined as I’ve heard in my system, but with no sacrifice of brilliance. Vocals have richness and complexity, and the variegated harmonics of the violin and oboe have startling trueness. And while it doesn't have the big Bryston's bass slam and depth, it still packs plenty enough wallop to be satisfying with rock and electronic fare. The Mk.II upgrades included a significant stiffening of the power supply, seemingly to good effect - close your eyes, and you would never guess you were listening to an amp rated at just 55 watts. It's by no means a current monster so I would stick with at least moderately-efficient speakers that don’t dip too low in impedance, but I’ve heard 150-watt amps that don’t have this level of control and explosiveness. Certainly compared to a 60-watt integrated like the Ayre AX7e or Bryston B60, the Valvet sounds like a powerhouse.

I'll have much more to say about this wonderful amplifier in the coming months. One of the things I'll need to work on is getting some good comparisons on hand (the Pass XA25 and XA30.8 come to mind). And I have a much larger, 3.5-way reference speaker on order which will stress the Valvet's drive and current capability far more than my current 2-way monitors. In the meantime, if you value beautiful, engaging yet truthful reproduction, I strongly recommend an audition of the Valvet A4 Mk.II - it's captivated me enough to earn a long-term home in my system.

[fgjhysyjktyujh-blog]

So You Want to Know How to Paint in Oil Like Van Gogh and Picasso? Here's Oil Painting 101!

a strange process the public has thought was relegated to the few and the eccentric. Musicians as well as their lives have constantly been an unusual type, yet painting a huge body of original oil paints has actually likewise been an excellent method to drive oneself into immortality. The paints will certainly constantly be there, taking a trip via history, with your name on it! So by this definition it's most definitely an honorable occupation. Think Dali, van Gogh, Picasso, Rembrandt and da Vinci. Each enjoys a soaring online reputation of what others may consider crafts. As well as their online reputations only expand bigger in time. What other career supplies that possibility? So who got the last laugh? Well, van Gogh did, obviously. He's for life celebrated as one of the greatest human beings to have ever lived. Okay for somebody that never made a cent in his own life time. However in the age of the Internet and the globally marketplace, artists don't have to starve any longer. I'm not depriving, and I'm making money doing what I enjoy. I can also function anywhere, whether I'm on holiday or traveling to unique areas. I love that the most regarding it. I can do whatever I desire and also wherever I desire, as well as publish a paint for sale from Ibiza, Paris, London ... or Omaha. I wouldn't patronize anyone. As well as you won't either if you operate at it and also treat as a means to provide beauty to the globe and make money for it!

The purpose of this article is to take the secret out of the procedure of paint. This short article is just written to obtain you started. I'll create extra in-depth strategies later on. However this short article will certainly establish you on your means to trying out and having fun with paint. Inevitably it's like anything in this globe. Before you have the expertise, it's complicated. Once you have it, it's very easy! Knowledge is power, and also this sensation certainly applies to paint. The technological facets are the very easy component. Anyone can do it. You eventually could be as capable as Monet with method. We humans can do whatever we make a decision to do! Deciding WHAT to paint is the tough part. It takes technique and also a however focused need to develop one paint after an additional. For whatever factor, I loved it the minute I began. And I never looked back. I love it today as high as I did over 16 years back. I never ever have "writer's block" either as to what to paint. I simply paint from my experiences in life. So do not think too hard on it. Paint that apple resting on the table, or repaint the tree in your very own backyard, repaint your girlfriend in an unusual way. But paint something that implies something to you, that's all that issues. Make it fashionable, make it fascinating. If it's abstract, bear in mind that abstract art has actually long been the most desirable. It's an expression of the private, make it one-of-a-kind. For those who desire realism, take a picture. What's amazing is that as soon as you do it, you understand it's the utmost getaway into joy. Instantly you neglect your issues for that period of time. You have control, and also nobody can take it far from you once you are proficient at painting. The procedure is addictive. However like anything, you have to BEGINNING! And as soon as you do, look out ... you'll be addicted.

OK, let's start. Step one ... supplies. You need a level brush, a follower, a small detail brush and a couple of Filberts. A filbert is a rounded side brush that lets you navigate the paint quickly without going outside the sides. Inevitably get brushes that you like however, and also make them function. Followers permit you to mix, for instance. I utilize followers a lot and also it's just how I graduate color throughout my photos. Every little thing I repaint is by hand ... no airbrushing or aides. I want it to be an expression of me as well as no one else. You likewise need an oil painting medium to blend with the oil paint to make it much more fluid, and also to speed up or reduce the drying out process. Whichever you like. Most likely to the art store and do not be afraid to request aid ... they'll love helping you! A tool is merely an additive fluid which raises gloss, makes it stream easily, maintains the coating in time, maintains it from yellowing. I personally like Galkyd and Galkyd Lite. If that isn't readily available, get a medium that appears like liquid amber as well as is sort of thick. Do not buy watery looking mediums ... too tough to deal with.

The lite variation of Galkyd is merely thinner. I utilize it more than the other. I enjoy it. Paintings I did 16 years ago making use of Galkyds look as immaculate as the day I repainted them. You'll additionally require a canvas as well as some paint. I buy a tube of red, eco-friendly, blue, purple, yellow, brown, white and black. I favor what's called Ivory Black and also a soft blending white as you'll include white to a great deal of various shades to lighten versions. From these basic shades you can make any type of unique color by blending them in combination's. Be imaginative as well as experiment. And don't hesitate of color, due to the fact that shade is the most preferred in museums! The bright paintings are traditionally the group faves. As for shade selection from these standard colors, mix red and white to make pink, mix yellow with green to make lime green, white with blue to make light blue, white with black to make grey, and so on. Utilize your good sense as well as have fun with it! You'll additionally require pencils, an eraser as well as some Turpentine or Turpentine replacement. Keep your brushes taking in it in a plastic mug to maintain them clean and also ready for your following shade selection ... and also to keep them from drying.

For more info : Painting CompanyName Majestic Handyman Ogden Address 367 20th St Suite F Unit 2, Ogden, UT 84401 Phone (801) 845-9055 Google Map URL https://www.google.com/maps/place/Majestic+Handyman+Ogden/@41.230773,-111.970756,15z/data=!4m2!3m1!1s0x0:0x993aa47a5cec7301?sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwifo9ipmMzlAhUxLn0KHaxEAXYQ_BIwE3oECA4QCA

[douchebagbrainwaves]

SO IF YOU WANT TO GRAB COFFEE, FOR EXAMPLE, IN THE FIRST ALTAIR, AND FRONT PANEL SWITCHES, AND YOU'D HAVE A WORKING COMPUTER

Everyone he knows has seen that picture. No startup asks for more. And it does seem to influence people when they can see their reputation in the eyes of their peers drain away after making an asshole remark. We sleep more. At the very least, we can mitigate its effects. Imagine we were living on a moon base. If I'd had to wait a year for the next couple years, but the Lisp that we actually ended up with was based on something separate that he did as a theoretical exercise—an effort to define a more convenient alternative to the Turing Machine. The phrase seemed almost grammatically ill-formed. It's an Emotional Roller-coaster This was another one lots of people were surprised about.

Well, that means your spirits are correspondingly depressed when you don't. There will always be both supply and demand. Windows killer—or at least, but less bold. The pointy-haired boss from responsibility: if he chooses something that is challenging and creative, something I believe in, as opposed to the hired-gun stuff I was doing before. Presumably, if you were to compete with Apple: be a better plan than the old one of putting them in their place, but I could tell he didn't quite believe anyone would be frightened of them. Whether you end up with a statistical sort of correctness. I worked on spam filters. By the time King's plagiarism emerged, I'd lost the ability to be surprised by the misdeeds of famous people.

This was the Lisp function eval. I can see how: questions about death are gently but firmly turned aside. Not surprisingly, Gosling is right. The first is that you have to fix it. Even a concept as dear to us as I. Don't worry about us. You release software as a series of slides built by marketing people. In a desktop software company, this would explain why you have to do whatever seems best at each point. If you're going to learn that the world is a brutal place full of people trying to take advantage of technological change instead of fighting it. Lots of small companies flourished, and did it by making cool things. Nerds don't care about glamour, so to them the appeal of New York is a mystery. Of course, the reason Google survived to become a big, independent company is the same as intelligence.

It's obvious why: problems are irritating. One of the most surprising things I saw was the willingness of people to create a new language, it's because you did something wrong. This was the surprise mentioned by the most founders. Web-based application, all you need is a browser connected to the Internet. But people are not simply wise in proportion to how much experience they have. Whether you end up learning a lot more sophisticated than what most of these ideas, for a while before you have any. For us the main indication of impending doom is when we don't hear from you. Sites of this type. Because we're relaxed, it's so much easier to have fun doing what we do by it, but also all the ideas that end up in it are ones you thought of while writing it?

So the fact that they don't get it till it happens.1 Now it's a couple of hackers to figure out and explain exactly what you want in a startup hub. Intelligence and wisdom are obviously not mutually exclusive. Just a teacher? If a link is just an empty rant, editors will sometimes kill it even if it's on topic in the sense we mean today. It was a place people went in search of something new. For a lot of philosophers do now. I'd say it's knowing what to do in certain situations? Even if you've never had a job, and that explains most of the US, politicians still seem to wish people would wait till the next morning and read them printed on paper.

Here parents' desires conflict. When a new medium arises that's powerful enough to make incumbents nervous, then it's probably powerful enough to win, and the problem gets worse. Not even Error. And it does seem to influence people when they can see their reputation in the eyes of their peers drain away after making an asshole remark. Suddenly a culture that had been more or less united was divided into haves and have-nots. The iPhone and the iPad have effectively drilled a hole that will allow ephemeralization to flow into a lot of founders mentioned how important it was to launch Wittgenstein at it, with dramatic results. These alarms are almost always false: Companies that seemed like competitors and threats at first glance does not mean you aren't doing something meaningful, defensible, or valuable. It's because Lisp was not really designed to be used in things like traffic lights. The last big surprise founders mentioned is how much better it feels to be working on something that is challenging and creative, something I believe in, as opposed to the hired-gun stuff I was doing before. Startups almost never get it right the first time, you could create a first-rate computer science departments. If you can't tell.

And I think the underlying cause is usually that they've become demoralized. Let's try to answer the question Of all the reasons we lie to kids is to maintain power over them. In some fields it might be ok to be discontented. In the desktop software era, I think we'll marvel at the inconveniences people put up with. You'll pay more for Internet services than you do for the hardware, just as they do in the application process is to weed out the people who produce a show can distribute it themselves. I've seen parents managing the subject, I can easily replace them. If I'd had to wait a year for the next release, I would learn more about macros. Inexpensive processors have eaten the workstation market you rarely even hear the word now and are most of the change is small and incremental. But if Ron's angry at you, it's because you did something wrong.

Notes

Since we're not. Several people have to do that. But those too are acceptable or at such a baleful stare as they do.

[aromantic-pantyanarchy]

Making Love Potions for Fun and Profit

For @aroacelibrary‘s Halloween prompts.

The tale of a witch, dealing with the hassle of modern day, who makes a living by making love potions out of their garage. The only question is what’s more of a pain to deal with, the process of making them or the clientele.

Amaranth Cassiopeia Melancholia snored loudly in their twin mattress, the one that lacked an actual bedframe under it. Their lower body was wrapped tight in the covers while their upper body seemed to have attempted to throw them clean off the bed. A perfect half and half, restless sleepers could work miracles at times.

Amaranth Cassiopeia Melancholia often had to assure people that, yes, that was the actual, legal name that they had been born with. People could still call them Amy though, if Amaranth didn’t quite roll off the tongue. The most common assumption following this revelation was that Amy’s parents were hippies, and they usually told them, yeah, something like that.

People asked if that’s also where the no gender thing came from, and Amy would tell them that no, that was an unrelated thing.

Amy was, in fact, not the child of hippies, though the end result was more or less the same. Actually, Amy was a witch. And they would be sure to tell you that being a witch sucks, or they would if it wasn’t supposed to be a big secret. So to elaborate further, if you were also a witch, they would be sure to tell you that being a witch sucks.

The world of witchery had never quite gotten over that whole pocket of history that involved stakes and burning, you know, the one that lasted for most of recorded history, so globally, witches had more or less decided to keep the existence of their powers under wraps. Amy was of the opinion that if they had to keep their magic a secret, then they might as well not have it to begin with. Yeah, it made household chores a lot easier, but these days anyone can have a magical self-using vacuum cleaner, it’s called a Roomba.

Whenever people got past the whole name thing, they seemed to get stuck on the money thing next. How, they would wonder, could a person so young and so independent afford a house in the suburbs? In this economy? With no roommates? No rich parents? Amy might tell them, perhaps a little sardonically, that the business of love never ran dry.

They’d then ask if they meant, like, dating apps? And Amy would say yeah, something like that.

It wasn’t actually dating apps though.

If there’s one thing witches love, it’s specialty shops. The nature of witches means that, when it comes to magic-related commodities, there’s a high demand, low supply situation to be had. If there was one thing Amy appreciated about magic, it was this fact.

Amy’s alarm went off, and they shot up with a surprised snort. After coughing the morning breath out of their mouth and blinking last night’s dreams out of their eyes, they began trying to remember why the alarm had been set to begin with.

Oh, wait. It was mixing day.

Amy stretched, mentally preparing to tackle the adversity in front of them, then turned over, pulled the covers back over their body and closed their eyes again. Mixing didn’t take that long, they could afford to sleep in a little longer.

Perhaps the single most important development in the past decade of witchcraft was the jailbreaking spell. With the witchery community as secretive and insular as it is, communication is critical. For this reason, a witch, who’s name has been lost to the witching community’s obsession with secrecy, created an easy to use spell that since has mostly passed around through word of mouth, that when applied to any device capable of internet access allowed it to access data normally unobtainable. Thus, the .wic boom, well, boomed. With the internet, witches were able to spread information and resources all over the world while still keeping their big secret a secret.

This is important as it relates to Amy’s financial situation, as well as their living situation. To say that Amy could afford to live in the suburbs was a bit of an overstatement, they could barely afford the house and were honestly much more of an apartment type person anyways, but the space was necessary for their work, as was the witches’ internet. Amy’s website was amaranthapothecary.wic, and while they offered a number of various potion types with a range of effects from transmogrification to anti-depressants, the focal point of Amy’s little store was the love potions.

Love potion suppliers were rare. It was a substance that was dangerous to make and dubiously ethical to sell. Not illegal to sell, mind you, and to be sure that was Amy’s go to phrase whenever the issue arose, but that was because, well, it’s really hard to prosecute lawbreakers in a completely hidden society.

Like Amy told all those people, the business of love never ran dry. They never asked why customers needed or wanted these potions, and honestly, they really didn’t want to know. As long as the potions were selling, they just had to keep making them, keep selling them, and keep ignoring what people were actually doing with them.

Alright, Amy was getting up for real now. They shambled into the bathroom and started brushing their teeth, falling into a familiar, very half-awake type of rhythm.

The biggest rule for mixing love potions was not to wear anything that you were going to be wearing while interacting with anyone else at any point. The fumes would sink into fabric and even the smallest whiff could have an adverse effect on a person. When it came to magical concoctions, everything ran on the better safe than sorry rule. As a side note, the biggest rule for using love potions by the same measure was to hold your breath while dispensing the liquid.

Amy spat out the toothpaste, washed out their mouth, took a quick leak, and thusly concluded the morning’s preparation. They opted to stay in the tank top and underwear that they’d slept in, given the biggest rule for mixing love potions. It was best to go with something light that you were planning to take off soon anyways.

Finally, they grabbed a granola bar from the pantry, wolfed that down as some semblance of a breakfast, and moved on into the garage.

To reiterate, the reason Amy absolutely needed to move into a house that they probably couldn’t afford was for the work space. The garage was filled with stacks of shipping boxes with only narrow spaces cleared out to be walkways between them. Along the walls were metal shelving units that were each filled with sets of cardboard half-boxes which were filled with rows of plastic bottles which were filled with brightly colored liquids. The neon pink love potions had an entire unit all to themselves, but half that shelf was empty now.

The garage also had a second room in it. Through a set of small double doors was where the actual equipment was. On one side of the wall was a big steel drum with hatches on its top and bottom, suspended in the air by two legs leading into a base on wheels. Next to it was a floor scale. In another corner was a stack of plastic buckets. There was a cart that floated around everywhere in the garage with two levels, one cleared off, the other full of random junk. And of course, the most important piece of gear, a water cooler.

The process was simple but tedious. Amy would go out and grab a cardboard box full of a specific ingredient (most of them weighing around 50 pounds), pour a specific amount of it into a plastic bucket (measuring with the scale), pour that into the mixer (the steel drum thing), tape the box back up, replace it and move onto the next ingredient. Lugging around so many heavy boxes usually meant the day after mixing day was recovery day for Amy’s poor, stiff back.

But the first ingredient to go in the mixer was actually pretty light. It was a bath bomb. Amy had to admit, they also weren’t immune to the captivating charm of specialty witch stores. Magical bath bombs especially were really handy for potion making when you didn’t want to kill yourself with water and heating bills.

The first bath bomb was a small little crusty orb of aquatic blue with white waves and teal flecks. Amy tossed it into the bottom of the mixer and spit on it. The orb expanded immediately into about a hundred gallons of water, filling the mixer up immediately. The spit also apparently qualified as “a dallop of hatred” for the recipe, which, Amy wasn’t sure about, they didn’t really feel hateful, maybe they should feel offended.

Next came the much harder part, the part involving the heavy stuff. Amy added to the mixer: 20 lbs of dried egg yolk (the easiest thing on the list to get their hands on, made a good chunky base, absorbed a lot of the other ingredients’ effects, good protein), 17 and a half lbs of phoenix gizzards (these had to be ordered from a potion-specializing witch shop with jacked up prices, requiring Amy to jack up their own prices in response), 16 lbs of rock salt, 12 lbs of calcium, 6 lbs of cow eyes (fortunately still obtainable from a normal Chinese supplier), a pound and a half of rose petals (synthetic, bought in bulk from a wedding supplier, it’s the romantic connotations more than the actual flowery parts that have an effect), a pound of fairy wings (see note on phoenix liver, double the price jacking), a cluster of hair from a fair maiden (from one of those donated hair wigs, the potion was actually a lot less strict on the source than you’d think), and a dollop of hatred (already covered).

Finally, Amy added another bath bomb, this one was a bright orange with red and yellow patterns around it. As soon as it hit the oddly colored soup, bubbles began streaming to the surface. Within seconds it had reached a frothy boil. These were meant to help fire-enchanted witches actually, like, bathe themselves, but Amy couldn’t be faulted for being creative and frugal on this part of the potion making process.

They fixed the top hatch back on, sealing the mixer up completely, then smacked the big green button and the whole thing began spinning around its arms. After waiting for a moment to make sure nothing went horribly wrong, they left the mixer to its work and left the garage.

The mixer, it is worth noting, was not meant to hold boiling liquids. It wasn’t meant to hold liquids at all actually, this kind of machinery was only meant to mix powders. Amy had to give it a couple of enchantments to suit their needs, though it had taken them a bit of time getting the actual enchantments just right, learning them as they were from witchipedia.

No, go ahead, laugh. That was a joke. Seriously, you think any self-respecting magical encyclopedia, online or no, would call themselves that? Witchipedia? Really? No, the site was called Encyclopedia Arcania Terrarum, a bit hard to remember as a url but Amy could hardly talk.

No, it was everyone else that called it witchipedia. It was such a common shorthand for the website in witching circles around the web that the actual Encyclopedia Arcania Terrarum put the word in its header, and now redirects from witchipedia.wic, which was a lot easier to spell consistently.

Amy was lying face down on their mattress again, half-listening to the entomology podcast playing from their phone. The potion would have to mix for the next half hour, and until then Amy had nothing much to really do. And while adding the ingredients was certainly physically taxing, the bottling process required more of their attention, and was the point when the job became some actual, real, work. They needed to rest a little more in preparation for that.

But yes, the mixer, Amy had enchanted the mixer with two primary spells. One gave the mixer some additional heat resistance, love potions needed to be boiled after all and outside of getting an old-fashioned cauldron and setting up a bonfire pit in their backyard (bad idea on multiple levels) this was the best solution.

The other was a bit more vague. It was a common cheat used by witches on all kinds of equipment, but Amy had no idea how it actually worked. The effect was that their mixer was now much more watertight. For as much as it was spinning, so long as the hatch lids stay on, not a drop of the potion would spill out. It also made the mixer completely stainless. So long as Amy made sure to completely empty the mixer after use, they didn’t even need to wash it out.

Amy snorted awake as the podcast wrapped up and transitioned into silence. They checked their phone to see it had been a full 45 minutes since the potion had been set to mix. That wasn’t really a problem, the bath bomb would burn itself out in the first 10 minutes, but it still felt like a waste of time.

They went back into the garage, pressed the big red button below the big green button to bring the mixer to a stop, then opened the top hatch and peered into the mix.

The liquid below glowed a bright neon pink, an errant bubble still drifting its way to the surface before breaking. Amy reached down, dipped a finger in the mix and poked it in their mouth.

They shuddered. It tasted like sloughs of wet ash, deep fried for too long, burnt to a crisp, dragged through cold grease, then flash frozen and microwaved for too long. They gagged and stepped away from the mixer. Yep, the love potion had come out perfectly.

Amy reached onto the lower level of the cart and pulled out a loose garden hose. They dropped one end into the mixer, then dragged the other over to the water cooler. The bucket that fed into the cooler had its top cut off and was currently sitting empty. Amy placed the other end of the hose to their lips and sucked. Motivated by not having to taste any more love potion than was necessary, they counted out the time to the second, then dropped the hose into the water cooler’s bucket. Pink liquid gushed out and it began to fill up.

Amy ducked out into the garage and grabbed a huge stack of cardboard half-boxes and unmarked plastic bottles. This part required speed and efficiency. They would use the water cooler to fill up each bottle one by one, put 20 into a single half-box, fill the cart up with three half boxes, run out to put the half-boxes on the shelf, then run in and start the cycle over again until they’d emptied the mixer, all while keeping ahead of the potion filling in from the mixer so that it didn’t overflow and spill everywhere.

The water cooler was a decently helpful device, cheap of course and functioning like an overly large funnel with a gallon’s holding capacity, but more than that, it helped by actually cooling the potion down a little. The love potion’s potency wasn’t affected by the temperature it was kept at, but those who were in a position to give reviews and testimonials after using it commented that it tasted much better when chilled to an extent. Amy didn’t exactly know what they were talking about, it tasted the same to them regardless of how they tried it, but it built up customer satisfaction at the very least and those results were never arguable.

A pretty big proportion of people who bought Amy’s love potions were repeat customers, surprisingly. Perhaps not that surprisingly, even when fully ingested a love potion’s effects generally wore off within 5 days, so of course it had to be reapplied if one wanted the affects to have any sense of permanence. But the surprising part was just how many of them were using the potion on themselves. Amy got at least a dozen testimonials every month from people who had been slipped some of the love potion without their knowing and now couldn’t bear to imagine losing the intense feelings they held for their new partner.

Amy didn’t get it, truly and honestly, but it was business. They couldn’t make any kind of living without people like that. Though they had, eventually, added a caution label to their bottle’s wrapping. “Product is designed to simulate desirous feelings and may have addictive properties.” It was a formality given how this stuff was usually used, but it was the most Amy could do to massage down the guilt.

After all, if they didn’t make love potions, someone else would. Someone probably less equipped to deal with its affects at that. Amy just wished that their target demographic wasn’t so… like they were.

The doorbell rang. Amy muttered a curse, having almost finished two half-boxes by now. They pulled the hose out from the water cooler and stopped the flow with their thumb.

Amy ran back to their room as fast as they could and threw on jean jacket and sweatpants. It wasn’t perfect protection against the potion’s aroma, but it should smother what was there long enough for a short interaction.

They opened the front door a crack, just enough to see who was there. It was a woman, older than Amy by a bit, heavy makeup, blonde hair tucked into a big, brown trenchcoat, and big, black sunglasses hiding her face.

“Can I, uh,” Amy started. “Can I help you?”

“You’re the one I need to talk to, right?”

Amy blinked.

“The weed guy is a block down.”

They attempted to close the door, but the woman stuck her foot out and stopped it.

“I’m not looking for - weed. You make love potions, right?”

Amy looked at her with concern.

“I have a website, all transactions go through that.”

“I have money.”

“That’s good. You’ll need that. Please let me close the door now.”

“Look,” the woman said as she stepped closer. “I don’t have time to wait for a delivery. He’s leaving tonight, I need your help.”

“Well I’m sorry, but there’s a lot of responsibility that comes with deciding to use a love potion, it shouldn’t be made on a snap judgement.”

“Please!” She was all but bodily forcing the door open at this point. “You don’t know him, you don’t know what I’m losing. He’s perfect and kind and funny and beautiful and – and the one. He’s the one for me and I’m the one for him and the only thing bad about him is that he can’t seem to realize it. Haven’t you ever loved someone so much that you would do anything to keep them to yourself?”

“Uh,” Amy coughed. “Yeah, no. No not really. Now could you please, get off my property?”

The woman just scoffed. “How can you call yourself a creator of love without knowing anything about the real thing?”

“That’s not really how that works.”

She sighed. “Fine. I’ll leave you to it then.”

Amy eased away from the door, getting ready to close it, and the woman barreled right through them and into the house.

“Wha- Hey!” Amy shouted up from the floor.

“Where are they?”

“You can’t-” Amy started, shakily getting to their feet. “You can’t be in here.”

Amy had already completely lost track of her. All they knew was where they didn’t want her to go, so that’s where they immediately went.

“I’m calling the police. This is a – You really can’t – I -”

Oh hell.

The woman stood in the middle of the garage, her eyes wide and vacant. As soon as Amy stepped through the door, her head snapped towards them.

God dammit.

“You…” she muttered.

“No.”

“You’re so beautiful.”

“No.”

She darted forward and grabbed Amy by the hands. A shudder ran up their spine.

“Please, I’ve never met anyone I’ve cared so deeply for.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I need you in my life.”

“You really don’t.”

The woman looked like she was about to cry.

“If this about that other guy, I don’t care about him anymore. I belong only to you now!”

“Well that’s – fine actually considering the circumstances. But, no, you really need to le-”

Before Amy could finish, the women grabbed one of their love potion bottles and splashed the liquid onto their face. They spat and coughed and sputtered and did everything to get the vile taste out of their mouth.

When they could finally speak again, they gave it a few heavy breaths to calm down before saying anything.

“You’re paying for that,” they muttered.

“Yes of course, anything you want.” She was already digging through her pockets.

“No. Okay. If you want to know what I want,” Amy said, already pushing her out of the garage and towards the front door. “I want you to go home, sleep on it, and until then, get out of my house.”

“I’ll wait for you for as long as it takes.”

“Yep. I’m sure.”

Amy shoved the woman out the front door, who took a few stumbling steps, turned back, and whispered “I love you.” before Amy slammed the door in her face.

They leaned against the door and sank to floor, sighing.

Mixing day.

[unabashedgardenhologram]

A double biscotti strain Success Story You'll Never Believe

The Main Principles Of Biscotti Feminized Cannabis Seeds

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It is a product that strikes the body unit right away as well as possesses a quick impact. Furthermore, if you are brand new to cannabis use, it is actually suitable to begin gradually while utilizing this strain because it can easily reach harshly. Experienced marijuana customers are going to adore the biscotti stress considering that it takes all of them near to attribute and also enhances memory.

This marijuana pressure takes joy to smokers and a general sense of bliss. This stress possesses a THC web content of 27% as well as its own phenotypes test as higher as 31%. A typical THC content possesses around 19% which is actually considered best for a lot of users. As high as this pressure has powerful sturdy impacts, it isn't suited for new users and also is actually excellent for experienced cannabis customers.

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[elliegoose]

*screams* I have finally slain the beast that was my Latin American Politics term paper!! The darn thing was actually kinda fun to write and research for, but nonetheless, good goddamn riddance.

Actually, if anyone wants to read it, here's the title, and then the rest below the cut. Can’t guarantee it’s fantastic, but like, as a report it is, in my opinion, adequate and at least doesn’t read like garbage:

Critical Analysis of 21st Century U.S. Aid Strategy in Colombia

Colombia in 1999  

The nation of Colombia was in a precarious, dangerous place in 1999, facing a dire combination of civil warfare and the world’s largest coca cultivation economy in its countryside. Firstly, the Colombian government appeared to be at lowest point yet in the already three decades-long civil conflict with the Marxist guerrilla force the FARC (Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia/Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia). That year the group numbered over 20,000 fighters (Avilés 2008, 410), and the government officially ceded to them military control of a despeje “liberated zone” in rural central Colombia, a territory almost the size of Switzerland. A desperate concession made in the hopes that it would entice the FARC into negotiations, it instead became the primary training grounds for the group’s redoubled militarization efforts. The FARC moreover exercised effective control over much of central Colombia and a large portion of the northern countryside. Though the defeat of the Colombian government was not likely, it had become a very real possibility (Crandall 2014, 373-374).

In addition, right-wing paramilitaries such as the AUC (Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia/United Self-Defenders of Colombia), numbered around 14,000 fighters. They had become infamous for the wanton massacres they conducted as a practice of limpieza or “cleaning” in order to drive out FARC guerrillas. They regularly executed any civilians they suspected as being FARC sympathizers, including children. In 1998, these paramilitaries exerted martial influence over 40 percent of the country (Crandall, 2002; 87-88).  

The primary fuel that allowed for violence on this scale was the immense illicit coca farming industry that flourished in the countryside. For the FARC and the paramilitaries, coca production was their primary funding source, alongside extortion and ransom kidnappings. All of these groups’ existences depended on the defense of the cocaine trade. And for most of the peasant farmers who cultivated coca, it also happened to be the only viable source of income, providing stability that legal commercial crops such as coffee and cocoa could not possibly match.         

A continent northward, the United States was observing the condition of Colombia with worry. Colombia and the U.S. had already possessed close ties for decades. The U.S. gave aid to the Colombian state to combat leftists during most of the Cold War, and continue to provide support throughout the 1990s for the continued war against the FARC as well as for combating drug cartels (Crandall, 2014; 347). But this new high water mark of violence and drug trafficking was to signal a new era in U.S.–Colombian relations.

The stability of Colombia was a pressing concern for U.S.-based transnational corporations, whose stake in the Colombian economy had been increasing as the Colombian government enacted several rounds of privatizations and neoliberal reforms throughout the nineties. The U.S. government was also concerned about Colombia’s stability because of its history as a U.S. friendly nation. Furthermore, it was in the interest of the United States to provide greater aid to the Colombian government as part of America’s War on Drugs. Therefore, when Colombia turned to the U.S. for help, the Clinton administration was eager to cooperate on drafting a new aid plan (Avilés, 2008; 410, 419-422).

The Plan Colombia

The U.S. aid package that Colombian President Andrés Pastrana called for in 1999 would have initiated an effort to bolster state security in remote regions for the purpose of manual coca crop eradication and put almost half its budget towards development projects for the promotion of legal agriculture. The primary form that this alternative development program would take was crop substitution, through which Colombia would pay coca growers to remove their coca fields and then subsidize the cultivation of legal crops, mostly cocoa and coffee beans, which are some of the best-suited commercial crops to the north-Andean climate. Development programs also included land grants, microloans, housing subsidies and measures to modernize rural infrastructure. This aspect of the plan was called Disarmament, Demobilization and Reintegration, or DDR (Jones-Chaljub, 2014; 15).  

However, what became Plan Colombia a year later was markedly different, a product of the prevailing theories of foreign policy in United States, which emphasized military interventionism, and in line with the most conservative elements of Colombian politics. The official Plan Colombia as it was conceived and approved in 2000 granted a budget of US$7.5 billion, $4 billion of which would come from the U.S., to train and recruit large numbers of Colombian troops and police, station U.S. troops in Colombia, interdict trafficked cocaine, and eradicate coca crops primarily through aerial fumigation. Elements of DDR were still present, but proportion of the budget allocated for to them was reduced to about a quarter of the total (U.S. Department of State, 2001).

Eighteen Years Later: Plan Colombia’s Mixed Results

So how do the effects of Plan Colombia look almost 19 years on? The the most concise possible summary of the results is ‘ambiguous.’ On one hand, the support provided to Colombian forces made it possible for the Colombian government to greatly broaden its control over the countryside, and make particularly effective gains against the FARC, making great strides to achieve what it came to call ‘democratic security’ (Crandall, 2014; 354-357). In 2012, the FARC began discussing violence reduction with the Colombian government. Repeated peace talks eventually culminated in 2016 to the formulation of a peace accord to end the war between Colombia and the FARC. Under the terms of the accord, the FARC has ended all martial operations, turned over their weapons and turned a number of leaders in to serve prison sentences, in exchange for the ability to integrate into Colombian electoral politics as a legal political party (Yuhas, 2016). This has been Plan Colombia’s major success, and is a pretty unambiguous historical accomplishment.

On the other hand, Plan Colombia has produced myriad failures in the long term with regards to combating coca cultivation. State presence is still weak in much of central Colombia, even after the defeat of the FARC, as the already extant (and powerful) cartel networks and paramilitaries, some of which were employed at times by the Colombian government to combat the FARC during Plan Colombia, have filled the power vacuum left in the wake of the FARC’s defeat. These groups are still carrying out civilian massacres and conducting extortion, intimidating coca farmers into continuing coca production. This has made it astronomically difficult for the Colombian government to implement its new crop replacement program, which is supposed to pay farmers to replace coca with legal crops and provide price support for their new legal business. Because of a combination of strengthened cartels and the cessation of most crop eradication efforts, coca production is now at its highest in history. Lower-range estimates for the total acreage of coca fields put it at around 180,000 acres, 20,000 more than the previous all-time high in 2001 (UNODC, 2018). 

Coca Eradication Under Plan Colombia  

Aerial herbicide spraying was the primary method of coca crop eradication during Plan Colombia. Use of aerial fumigation did not begin with Plan Colombia, but it sharply increased between the beginning of the Plan’s implementation 2000 and the zenith of its use in 2006. Since then, its use has declined, and aerial fumigation efforts ceased in 2016. Between 2000 and 2013, the total acreage of coca fields fell from 160,000 acres to 50,000 acres (UNODC, 2018). However, the estimated tonnage of actual cocaine produced did not consistently decline during the aughts, and its overall effect on supply was meager (Dion and Russler, 2008; 400). In fact, after a certain point, aerial fumigation appeared to cease correlating with coca crop reduction entirely. The first period of sharp decline in coca cultivation was between 2000 and 2004, during which time aerial fumigation was ramping up. But the second, most steady, and longest period of decline, during which coca cultivation reached its lowest point since Plan Colombia’s implementation, was between 2007 and 2013, and during those years eradication efforts were rolled back at an equal pace. This suggests that aerial eradication ceased to be effective below the mark of 100,000 acres of coca fields. (This is according to data compiled by the think tank InSight Crime from U.S. Dept. of State, White House and UNODC reports [Asmann, 2018].)    

Beyond the limited effectiveness of aerial eradication, the efforts have also come with steep, difficult to justify human costs. Aerial fumigation has delivered negative health impacts upon farmers through exposure to massive amounts of potent herbicide. And more appalling is the immense internal displacement which it has caused. At measures taken in 2015, coca crop destruction efforts and the actions Colombian military have, in total, caused the internal displacement 6,044,200 people, or 15.83% of the country’s population (Franz, 2016; 585). Furthermore, this mass displacement has eroded support for the Colombian government by the population affected, which is, again, over 15 percent of the entire country. The human and political costs have driven the Colombian government’s decision to end the use of aerial fumigation, as mentioned above.

War, State Strength and Democratic Security: Military Operations

Beyond the problems with crop eradication strategies, the military operations funded by Plan Colombia, the efforts to ensure democratic security, have proven themselves to have been severely problematic endeavors, misguided in aims, high in collateral casualties, and not as effective as they are sometimes lauded for being, usually when discussing their role in ending the war with the FARC.

The first flaw was the Colombian military’s perverse relationship with the right-wing paramilitaries they were supposed to be combating. Officially, because the AUC and other paramilitaries were drug trafficking organizations and regularly committed kidnapping and mass murders, they were enemies of the government. However, because Plan Colombia’s military operations were focused foremost on fighting the FARC, these right-wing groups were sometimes paid by the government to fight its battles for them. The Colombian military therefore put itself in the bizarre situation of engaging in conflict with paramilitaries that it had just purposefully supplied arms to. At the end of the aughts, as the FARC began to suffer serious defeats, these paramilitaries began reorganizing themselves, becoming the new network of organized crime—the Bandidas Criminales—that have filled the power vacuum in cocaine trafficking since the fall of the FARC (Franz, 2016; 585). In the past two years, these groups have killed hundreds of civilians, oftentimes as political killings against indigenous activists and community leaders. In some areas, paramilitary presence is so strong that the Colombian government has found it wholly impossible to implement its new crop substitution program for farmers who are being forced to continue cultivating coca (Daniels, 2018).

The second major flaw in the military strategies of Plan Colombia belongs to the direct actions of the Colombian military itself. During Plan Colombia, Colombian forces regularly committed scores of extrajudicial killings of noncombatants. Civilian killings by the military were not simply due to reckless warfare, but in many cases were at least on some level deliberate; between 2004 and 2008 more than 3,000 civilians were executed by the military, dressed in FARC uniforms, and then counted by the government as having been combatants who died in battle. And between 2000 and 2004, public forces were directly responsible for the deaths of at least 1699 civilians (Franz, 2016; 583-585).

Looking Back, Looking Forward: Future Policy Possibilities   

Plan Colombia enabled Colombia to prevail against the FARC. It also toppled the generation of right-wing paramilitaries and cartels that dominated the 1990s and aughts, such as the AUC, and helped the Colombian government solidify democratic security in, though not as much of the country as they had hoped to secure in 2000, many of the departments that were at one point entirely out of government hands. And in the departments wherein the government does possess full authority, Disarmament, Development and Reintegration programs have had a respectable 64% rate of success, at least as of estimates made in 2013 (Jones-Chaljub, 2013; 16). However, these victories came with unnecessarily steep price tags, won by a military that collaborated with its own enemies, and permitted civilian killings so brutal and glaringly unnecessary that the only way they could put a softening spin on the deaths was to dress thousands of dead innocents in guerrilla uniforms and attempt to cover the whole thing up. And after more than 16 years of destroying coca crops via aerial fumigation—a process which only ever made a meager impact on the amount of cocaine being smuggled out of Colombia—the amount of coca being grown today is even higher than when Plan Colombia began. The undertaking was a complete failure that cost of hundreds of millions of dollars and the displacement of more than six million people.

So moving forward, what lessons can Colombia learn from the events hitherto? And what can the United States learn if it is to continue providing support? The first lesson is that orthodox methods of mass crop eradication should not be engaged in again. They were immensely harmful failures. The second is that the push of state presence into the most remote regions must continue as a priority, for the actualization of adequate, permanent law enforcement personnel among rural populations is the only effective way to fend off illegal armed groups. Though Plan Colombia’s democratic security campaigns were deeply problematic, some form of martial efforts must continue. Security is a non-negotiable prerequisite for the successful implementation of any further positive programs. The third lesson is that, under the conditions of democratic security, DDR works, but it must receive more funding and a number of alterations in order to realize its full potential.

What might an improved DDR look like? Presently, crop substitution programs are fairly crude, and center around providing price guarantees for licit crops in exchange for the voluntary destruction of coca fields. However, historically these price guarantees have not raised compensation for crops to a level actually above the income gained from growing coca, nore have they guaranteed a steady income year-over-year. Additionally, even in areas where farmers are not being violently intimidated into maintaining coca fields, many farmers that do take the crop substitution incentives continue growing coca in hidden fields (Spellberg and Kaplan, 2010; 696). This all belies that the flaws limiting crop substitution’s success are inherent to the form it currently takes.

One solution to this conundrum that has been shown to be effective in pilot programs in Peru is the movement of the industrial operations that are supplied by the licit crops grown in the Andes to the communities where coca cultivation continues to appear endemic. This means that, for example, chocolate bars become manufactured in the same communities where cocoa beans are grown, mango is dried, canned or turned into jam where mangoes are grown, mass-produced coffee drinks are manufactured where coffee is grown, and teak floorboards are made where the teak is harvested. Fair-trade chocolate can have as much as 1900% of the value of the cocoa beans from which they are made, and teak-wood’s value is increased by as much as 1600% when it is converted into floor panels. In the Peruvian pilot programs, these community-based manufacturing initiatives did not only expand available legal employment that was more lucrative for coca production. The new tax revenues contributed to the price support programs that raised the incomes of those farmers cultivating the raw materials, and furthermore contributed to funding law enforcement, infrastructure, and public schools (Spellberg and Kaplan, 2010; 698-702).

A future U.S. aid package to Colombia could attach more conditions to military aid, with provisions that threaten withdrawal if Colombia cannot contain their military’s civilian body count and tendency to commit human rights violations. This package would not fund or promote aerial fumigation, but it would pledge to support and expand manual eradication. Lastly, a greater portion of aid would go to DDR, and said DDR programs would follow the blueprint laid out by the successful community development pilot programs carried out in Peru. Politically, this would require the United States to soften its tendency towards the hard-line, War on Drugs absolutism that has dominated its foreign policy. It would also require that it make concessions to Colombian labor, rather than prioritize the profit-maximizing desires of transnational corporations, another thing the U.S. has been seldom willing to do when making international agreements. Given the United States’ track record with foreign aid policy during the Cold War and since, well into today, the likelihood that the U.S. would be willing to sign an aid agreement that looks like what is described above is not fantastic, but we can always hope that at least some lessons will be learned in time.

References

Asmann, P. (2018, June 26). Colombia Coca Production Hits New Record High, US Figures Say. Retrieved from https://www.insightcrime.org/news/brief/colombia-coca- production-hits-new-record-high-us-figures-say/

Avilés, W. (2008). US Intervention in Colombia: The Role of Transnational Relations. Bulletin of Latin American Research, 27 (3), 410–429. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1470-9856.2008.00277.x

Crandall, R. (2014). America's Dirty Wars: Irregular Warfare from 1776 to the War on Terror. Cambridge, United Kingdom: Cambridge University Press.

Crandall, R. (2002). Driven by Drugs: U.S. Policy Toward Colombia. Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner Publishers.

Daniels, J. P. (2018, August 23). Colombian activists face 'extermination' by criminal gangs. The Guardian. Retrieved from https://www.theguardian.com/world/2018/aug/23/ colombian-activists-face-extermination-by-criminal-gangs

Dion, M. L., & Russler, C. (2008). Eradication Efforts, the State, Displacement and Poverty: Explaining Coca Cultivation in Colombia during Plan Colombia. Journal of Latin American Studies, 40 (3), 399-421. Retrieved from https://www.jstor.org/stable/40056701.

Elhawary, S. (2010). Security for whom? Stabilisation and civilian protection in Colombia. Disasters, 34, S388–S405. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1467-7717.2010.01211.x

Franz, T. (2016). Plan Colombia: illegal drugs, economic development and counterinsurgency - a political economy analysis of Colombia’s failed war. Development Policy Review, 34(4), 563–591. https://doi.org/10.1111/dpr.12161

Jones-Chaljub, S. (2013) Peace Negotiations in Colombia and the DDR Challenge. Counter Terrorist Trends and Analyses, 5 (11), 14-16. Retrieved from https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.2307/26351199

Spellberg, J., & Kaplan, M. (2010). A rural economic development plan to help the USA win its war on cocaine. Development in Practice, 20 (6), 690-705. Retrieved from https://www.jstor.org/stable/20750168.

United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime. Colombia Coca Cultivation Survey 2018 - Executive Summary (English) [PDF]. (2018, September 19). United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime. http://www.unodc.org/unodc/en/frontpage/2018/September/coca- crops-in-colombia-at-all-time-high--unodc-report-finds.html

U.S. Department of State. (2001, February 20). Is Plan Colombia a Colombian Plan? Retrieved from https://2001-2009.state.gov/p/wha/rls/fs/2001/1039.htm

Yuhas, A. (2016, June 23). Colombia's half-century of conflict that led to historic peace deal. The Guardian. Retrieved from https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/jun/23/colombia-timeline-farc-civil-war-peace

[windscreenboss]

Ideal way to repair sunroofs in a car

A sunroof is a sliding glass part of the cars roof and is very common in mid to high end cars. It is a pleasure to drive with one as it allows additional ventilation, air and light into the car. It is also a good feature and a safe one to have if you are driving with pets and kids. 

However, as any other automobile part, a sunroof is also prone to sunroof repair and damages. A possible leakage, a sagging headliner or even a broken glass are some of the most common problems associated with them. Some of them causing a car sunroof repair are: 

A sunroof leakage

Saggy or damaged upholstery

Replacement of sunroof glass

Replacement of rubber seals that hold them

Replacement of sliding tracks

Replacement of the frame

Replacement of the switch or control unit

Even though it is a small accessory there can be a multitude of problems associated with it. However, let’s look at some of the most common and recurrent problems along with the solutions.  

Sunroof upholstery 

Sunroofs are a fun feature to have but they can become a liability later. If your car is more than a decade (10 years) old, the upholstery fabric begins to wear away and requires sunroof repair. It could be sagging, begins to unglue or even fall down. The same thing applies to the sunroof unit. In either of the problems the entire unit needs to be dismounted, cleaned and prepared so that it can be re-glued. However sunroof repair is easier said than done. The process is delicate and requires expertise apart from being expensive. The most important features of this accessory that can drive up the repair costs are the fabrics and the custom units involved. 

Leakages in the sunroof 

This is one of the most common problems associated with sunroofs and the most annoying one too. If you do witness a sunroof leakage then it needs an emergency fix or it can be disastrous to the interiors of your car. This problem can occur if there is a clog in the sunroof’s drains or if the rubber seals protecting it are worn out. Fixing car sunroof repair problems is expensive and time consuming. 

Cracked sunroof glass

A shattered sunroof is more dangerous than a cracked or broken one. A key point to remember is that these glasses are made of heavy duty material and are tough but not unbreakable. 

If the glass is broken then replacing it is the inevitable option. If it is cracked then there could be some quick fixes available. However never leave it unfixed as it can interfere with the aerodynamics of the car and your car may end up being non-fuel efficient.

Sunroof electrical supply

The sunroof operating monitor depends on the motor for the power to operate. If it is inoperable then most likely the problem is with the power unit. Even though the motor problems are rare there is no cheaper way or DIY to fix it.

Rattling noise while driving

A rattling noise while driving is more annoying than the actual problem. It can be caused due to minor cracks or lack of lubrication in the sliders. More often than not it is a minor problem and can be fixed easily.  Learn to identify the problem before heading out to get it fixed by the mechanic. It can save you a lot of trouble in terms of time, money and effort.

[jayne-hecate-writer]

The Eagle has landed...

In Weston Super Mare and it rides beautifully.

So my friends, in a departure from my usual cynicism I have completed a project that I not only enjoyed, but continue to enjoy. Like many other artists, I find that the longer I spend on a project, the more I start disliking it. With my writing, I start to hate my words almost as soon as I am done with the second edit, by the fifth edit I am frankly so fed up with my words, that I hope to never have to read them ever again, despite knowing that I have yet more editing to do. With my most recent art project, the X-Wing, I had starting hating that before I had even finished the third wing cannon. The fibre optics and scratch built cockpit were just another annoyance that once it was finally done, I was happy to see the back of, right up until the power supply unit burned out and it ended up back on my sodding desk again!

So why is it that when I build a bicycle, I never get bored of them? Actually, I take that back, I grew very bored of the Orange Clockwork I had in the early 1990s. At the time, it was considered a great bike, with a steel frame made from good quality double butted, rather lovely slim tubes. I built up that bike and yet despite putting several thousand miles on it, I never gelled with it. I eventually sold it to a pervert who had made an inappropriate suggestion to a friend of mine back then, for a little more than it was really worth. I replaced the boring Orange with a Kona Cindercone, of a slightly less quality build, but the frame on that bike sang when ridden hard. It was one of the most beautiful bikes I have ever owned and when I was forced to sell it because of starting the third year of university with no income and rising debt, I felt genuine sadness to see it go.

Dragging myself back up to date, I wrote recently that I had been gifted a rusted and sad looking Coventry Eagle road bike, that I was excitedly rebuilding. Well, it is now finally done, the build is over and I am genuinely sad that it is done. The parts I am most proud of are the hand carved dropout and the hand built wheels. The wheels are special and made with Sapim spokes and Mavic rims on old Shimano hubs. But if only it were that simple, spoke pattern is just as important as brand name and prior to building I had decided to build them in an unconventional way, as mentioned in a previous post on this here blog. However, I decided that the patterns I chose were old hat and so I chose an entirely different spoke pattern for each wheel, something far prettier.

The rear wheel is built with two spoke patterns, standard three cross on the drive side and fully radial on the none drive side. The effect is beautiful when viewed from the side, the crossed spokes seem to have a third spoke emerging from the end cross and the wheel is rigid AF! The power transmission is responsive and immediate and I wish that I was clever enough to understand the forces at play through the whole build. However, performance and lightweight aside, this wheel was built to be aesthetically perfect and I am delighted with it.

The front wheel was a first for me in that it is a pattern that I have not built before. I started with a standard three cross pattern, but with spokes slightly longer that usual. If I left it standard at this point, the wheel would never tension up correctly, but once it was all together the fun began. Each crossed pair of spokes are removed, twisted in the direction of the cross and then twisted again before being replaced back into their original spoke holes, the resultant pattern is called a snowflake. These were popular back in the mid to late 90s and back then I was not convinced by their performance. However, as with the back wheel, the front wheel was built to be aesthetically pleasing rather than lightweight.

Tensioning this wheel up was an unusual experience, it felt slack and useless right up until the tension appeared suddenly as the twisted spokes drew tight against each other to the tension of a guitar string, with only one set of spokes still left to tighten. I am sure that you are aware that each wheel is built up sets of corresponding spokes on each side of the hub. Each set is made of two spokes on one side, mirrored on the other. The four spokes work together pulling on the rim to keep it straight and then preventing it from bursting out when loaded on the opposite side. The mechanics of a bicycle wheel are truly marvellous.

So with the wheels fitted, I took her for a test ride and she was fabulous. However, the wheels being finished was not the end of the build, there was one more thing that this bike desperately needed and that was wicker! Oh yes, I am going there. This bike needs a wicker picnic basket like fish need er... let's forget that one.

Picnics are why I built this bike, mainly picnics with the wife now that she has an e-Bike, but sometimes it is nice to grab a bottle and a sandwich and just drop out of town for a few hours. This bike will do that, especially now that it has a wicker basket on the back with little straps and a lid to keep my picnic in. The best part of this is that the basket fits onto the rack with custom clips I made for myself. With the aim of keeping the basket as lightweight as possible, I used some parts of an aluminium technical drawing ruler, that is both rigid and light. I also used aluminium bolts and some old inner tube to prevent rattling parts from sounding against each other. The result is a little basket that can hold all of the food, drink and crockery needed for a nice picnic and I can even fit a little blanket in there too. Now I do not want you thinking that I am talking about a plastic camping plate and a tin of Co-Op spam. Oh no, this basket is for super posh cucumber sandwiches and a bone china tea pot. The shame of it though is that I don't drink tea and I cannot stand cucumber, but I am rather partial to malted wholemeal bread and Bird Eye Chillies. I have no idea what kind of sandwiches I will be taking with me, but I do suggest that it is probably best not to ride behind me though, just in case the eruption of wind has chilli powered flames in it!

[illumynare]

Red vs Blue Fic: First Name Agent, Last Name Washington

Summary: Five times Caboose called Wash “Church,” and one time he didn’t.

Parings: None.

Warnings: Canon-typical language.

Notes: Also available on AO3!

@redvsbluesecretsanta fic for @all-my-fandoms-are-killing-me, who requested Caboose + Wash. Huge, HUGE thanks to her for being so patient as I flailed my way through finishing this story. <3

1.

The first time that Caboose calls him “Church,” Wash just says, “Yeah?”

It’s 18 hours after Sidewinder. They’ve found an abandoned Sim Trooper base to hide at, and Wash is—

He’s tired, with a paralyzing weariness that he’s never felt before. The “looks like you aren’t going to prison” adrenaline has all worn off. Even with the healing unit running at full power, he still hurts almost everywhere from fighting the Meta.

(Meta. Maine. He can think the name, now that he’s dead—now that Wash doesn’t need to use him. Now that the Meta is not another obstacle between Wash and freedom, he can let himself wonder if his old friend was really all gone, or—)

He’s tired, but he can’t rest. The Reds and Blues gave him a suit of armor and helped him dodge the UNSC, they promised him a place on Blue Team, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t going to stab him in the back.

So he’s sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands, trying not to sleep and trying not to panic and trying to understand what’s happened.

You helped us, Wash—sure, but he’d helped South. He’d given the Project his entire fucking life. He’d given Epsilon—

“Hey, Church!”

“Yeah?” says Wash, turning around, only a little twitchy, because he knows that voice. It’s Caboose—out of his armor for the first time that Wash has ever seen, dark curls damp from the shower.

Then his mind stutters, freezes. Rewinds.

Hey, Church.

That wasn’t his name.

It wasn’t his name, but he said yeah because he forgot. He forgot and answered to the wrong name and fuck fuck fuck they know they finally know—

He realizes that he’s on his feet, gun drawn.

“Oh!” says Caboose. “I did not know we were playing hide and seek.”

“What?” Wash demands, his voice cracking. “What the hell—what are you—”

“DROP IT, MOTHERFUCKER,” Tucker yells, charging in through the doorway with his sword drawn.

He’s not trained like a Freelancer. It should be laughably easy for Wash to drop him, despite the glowing energy sword, and without even firing a bullet from his gun. Wash aims a kick at Tucker’s leg, meaning to send him sprawling—

But the exhaustion and the injuries are too much. Wash’s own leg gives out, and he tumbles to the ground. His gun skids across the floor.

Tucker grabs it, shutting off his sword. “What the fuck were you doing?” he demands, his voice low and dangerous.

“Church and I were playing a game,” says Caboose, as cheerful as ever. “I won.”

“I’m not—” Wash starts, but then his mind roars with static and he can’t go on.

Not Church, not Epsilon, he’s not he’s not, but the name Wash feels heavy and foreign, and he is—he is—

He’s finished. That’s all he is, right now, same as on Sidewinder. Tired and finished, without the strength left to even pretend he knows his name.

“You tried to kill Caboose,” says Tucker.

“Yeah, uhhh, that is part of playing hide and seek,” Caboose says. “I find Church and then he tries to shoot me.”

Tucker glares at Caboose. “That isn’t Church, you idiot.”

Wash manages to find his voice and say, “He called me ‘Church.’”

In an instant, Tucker’s glare is turned on Wash. “So you decided to fucking shoot him?”

“I—”

Wash doesn’t know what he can say: there aren’t words for what it was like, waking up with two selves in his head, feeling that other self die, and then living with the memories. Knowing every moment of every day that if he ever let them know he remembered being Church/Alpha/Leonard/Epsilon, he would be killed.

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t call the UNSC and put your ass in jail,” says Tucker.

“Uhhh, because he is Church?” Caboose offers.

“I wasn’t asking you!”

“. . . I’m sorry,” Wash says helplessly. “I thought— Back in Freelancer, if I’d answered to that name, they would have killed me.”

Tucker snorts. “Yeah, right.” The he does a double-take, looking at Wash’s face. “Wait. Seriously?”

Wash’s nerves are buzzing with fear. It can’t be this easy—nobody ever believes anyone, not if they’re teammates, not if they’re friends—

“Yeah,” he says.

“Ugh,” says Tucker, and he relaxes, all the anger draining out of him. “You Freelancers are really fucked-up, you know that?”

“Yeah,” says Wash.

2.

The thing is, Wash’s job on Blue Team is just “pretend to be the Alpha AI,” and that’s . . . horrifyingly traumatic in a number of ways, but it’s also boring.

He already looked a member of the UNSC in the eye and answered to the name “Leonard Church.” He got away with it. Here at Blue Base? There’s nothing for him to do.

Wash can’t remember a single time in his life when he didn’t have a mission, a goal: get off that dirtball. Survive the war. Make it onto the Leaderboard. Burn down Freelancer.

Now? He’s lost.

So he’s pried open the microwave and he’s trying to fix it, because the only other possible project is teaching Lavernius Tucker to act like a soldier, and fuck if he’s going to waste his time on that kind of hopeless cause.

“Church,” Caboose says from behind him.

i am epsilonepsilonEPSILON i was leonard church we are BROKEN don’t say goodbye i hate goodbyes

Wash curls his fingers into fists, wait for the memory to pass. For his thoughts to sound like his own again.

“Don’t call me that,” he grits out, turning to face Caboose, who is in full armor this time.

“Yeah, I don’t know if you noticed, but you are wearing Church’s armor and replacing him on Blue Team, so that kind of makes you Church.”

“But I’m not—” Wash realizes his voice is rising and he chokes off the words. Tucker has the uncanny ability to appear any time he raises his voice to Caboose, and Wash is really not in the mood to be reminded again that if he screws up too much, they’ll throw him to the UNSC.

“Church went into the memory unit,” he says wearily. “Remember?”

Caboose nods. “Yeah, and you replaced him. It is not that complicated.”

Sometimes Caboose is clearly just babbling—How sad would it be to not have a brother and to lose a brother all in the same day?—but sometimes he talks slower, seems more aware of the world outside of his brain. This is one of those times.

“Have there been other Churches?” Wash asks.

“Yeah,” says Caboose. “There was Church, who was my best friend ever, but his body fell out of the jeep and I lost him. And then there was Church, who lived inside the memory unit and listened to my stories, and then he was a robot, and then he went back into the memory unit. And then there was you.”

I’m not Church, Wash wants to howl, but Caboose is staring at him like—like—

Like he has a place on Blue Team. One that means something.

“And now my helmet is stuck and it is your job to get it off,” Caboose goes on. “Because you are Church.”

“Wait,” says Wash. “Seriously?”

But as he wrestles Caboose’s helmet from off his armor, and deals with the chewing gum smeared inside the locking mechanism, he’s . . . grateful.

Pretending to be Leonard Church—Alpha or Epsilon—makes Wash’s skin crawl. Cleaning up after Caboose isn’t exactly fun. But it’s something. It’s a reason for them to keep him on Blue Team and out of prison, and Wash isn’t a bit less desperate than he was when he teamed up with his friend’s walking corpse and shot Donut.

He can stand being Church.

He will be Church.

3.

After Wash leads Blue Team to victory a three times in a row, he starts to relax. He knows, and he knows they all know, that the war games are pointless. But Sarge is just as dedicated to the complete and utter destruction of Blue Team as before, and Tucker enjoys making the Reds sing embarrassing songs to get their flag back, and Caboose is just happy to be on a mission with “Church.”

So it works for them.

Wash avoids thinking about how it can’t last, just like he avoids thinking about how he got here and why Simmons won’t talk to him. For once in his life, he’s not brooding about the past, and he’s not desperately crawling towards the future. He’s just—

Making coffee in the mornings. Watching Caboose tinker with the jeep. Putting out the fires Caboose starts in the kitchen and then feeding everyone MREs. Saying, “Yeah, buddy,” even when he doesn’t fully understand what Caboose is saying.

It’s . . . not exactly good.

But it’s the longest, most peaceful stretch of not bad that he can remember having in a very long time.

There’s only one thing wrong, really, and it’s Tucker. Not at first, when he just avoids Wash. But as time goes on—Tucker hangs around them a little more, but he’s always giving Wash these weird, resentful looks that send little sparks of adrenaline down Wash’s spine, because he could call the UNSC.

Wash tries. He leads them on another raid and they win, again. He cleans the base. He banishes Caboose from the kitchen and manages to cook their meager supplies into an actual dinner, complete with mashed potatoes.

But something’s still wrong, and it’s more than just Tucker’s initial wariness, his protectiveness for Caboose. Wash can see it getting worse as they eat dinner together, the way Tucker’s mouth slants down and his shoulders tense and he’s hardly even eating.

It’s getting worse, but Wash has no idea what to do.

“Well,” Caboose says cheerfully, “I think that maybe tomorrow, me and Church—”

“He’s WASH, you moron,” Tucker snaps suddenly, slamming his fork down on the table. “Get that fucking straight.”

Fuck, Wash thinks, hardly daring to breathe. This is it.

“Uh,” says Caboose, “I think you mean Church.”

“No, I mean Agent fucking Washington, the asshole who shoots people for no reason.”

There’s a buzzing in Wash’s ears. He can hear the memory of Simmons screeching, the sound of Donut’s body hitting the ground.

I had to, Wash thinks dizzily, I had to, he was in my way, I couldn’t go back to prison.

But—

He’d ended up headed for prison anyway, and it was only Caboose’s begging that saved him, and now he can’t miss the way Simmons is still scared around him, the way Grif always positions himself between them.

He can’t miss, either, the gaping hole on Blue Team where Alpha and then Epsilon used to be.

In that instant, Wash desperately wishes that he really was Church. That he wasn’t the kind of person who did those things.

“No, he is Church,” Caboose explains patiently, “because Church is Blue Team captain.”

Tucker starts to rise from his seat. “Call him that ONE MORE TIME—”

Wash starts to rise too, raising his hands placatingly, because he can’t let this turn into a fight. Not with Caboose in the middle. “Look, Tucker, I know it’s weird, but if it’s easier for Caboose—”

“I don’t give a fuck!” Tucker snaps. “Church was my best friend.”

“He left,” says Caboose, his voice soft and final.

There’s a moment of shocked, frigid silence. Tucker’s mouth is open, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Church is the one who stays and takes care of us,” Caboose goes on. “Epsilon left because he liked the mean lady better. It’s not us, it’s him. I realize this is hard for you to understand, Tucker, because you are kind of dumb. But it is time for us to move on.”

Wash looks at Tucker and—shit, are those tears in his eyes?

“Fuck you,” Tucker chokes out, and bolts.

With a sigh, Wash sinks back into his chair, and puts his head in his hands.

“I’m never making dinner again,” he mumbles.

“Well, I thought your mashed potatoes were delicious,” says Caboose, patting him on the shoulder.

4.

His fever has broken.

Wash knows this, because the floor isn’t rocking underneath him, and when he looks up, the ceiling doesn’t look like it’s bubbling and seething.

Yay.

He still feels awful: aching all over and exhausted in a way he hasn’t been since he was in the hospital recovering from South’s bullets. When the gunk in his lungs makes him convulse with coughing, he wishes bitterly that the healing unit could help with a virus.

But no. He’ll just have to lie in this bed and suffer for a few more days. Hopefully Caboose won’t burn down the base in the meantime.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHURCH!”

Wash sits bolt upright in bed, scrabbling for the pistol he usually keeps under his pillow—it’s not there—before he realizes that he isn’t being attacked. It’s just Caboose and Tucker, carrying a cake.

A birthday cake, with candles burning. Wash wonders if he’s still hallucinating.

“See, Tucker?” says Caboose. “I told you he was well enough.”

“Do you mean too sick to run away?” Tucker asks. He puts his hand on Wash’s forehead. “Yeah, okay, I guess you won’t die.”

“What . . . is this?” Wash asks fuzzily.

“Look, I know,” says Tucker, and puts a cup of orange juice in his hands. Wash wraps his fingers around the cool glass. “But Caboose really wanted to do this on your actual birthday, so . . . just have a bite of cake and I’ll get you some chicken soup. I make the best chicken soup.”

“Um,” says Wash. The last thing he remembers Tucker saying him—before he got sick—was Fuck off, Washington.

“It’s not my birthday,” he says finally, because—because he’s Church now, and he knows (remembers) that Leonard Church was born on September 21st.

(Welcome to the world, Epsilon. Today is your birthday, and that was timestamp 3/12/2559 17:51:33 UTC.)

“Umm, I think you lost track of time while you were sick, Church,” says Caboose. “It is May 1st, and that is your birthday.”

“Yeah, Simmons hacked the Freelancer records,” says Tucker. “That’s how we know your birthday and that you used to—”

“OKAY TIME TO SING NOW,” Caboose interrupts.

They sing. They’re completely off-tune. They sing, Happy birthday to Church, but it’s on Wash’s real birthday, David’s real birthday, and he—

He doesn’t know what to think about that.

After they finish singing, Tucker cuts the cake, and hands Wash a slice. Wash stares at it, remembering the time that Caboose tried to use powdered sugar instead of flour.

“C’mon, man,” says Tucker, “it’s safe. I cooked it.”

So Wash takes a bite. It’s a chocolate cake, fluffy and rich and absolutely delicious, and he can hardly taste it because his brain keeps repeating Tucker’s words: It’s safe. I cooked it.

He’s pretty sure that a week ago, Tucker wouldn’t have so much as opened a package of crackers for him, and he certainly wouldn’t have tried to soothe Wash’s fears about Caboose’s cooking.

He slants a quizzical look up at Tucker.

And Tucker sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, so . . . you’re really pathetic when you’re sick, and I guess I felt sorry for you? Also, uh. You kinda talked a lot when you were delirious. And, uh . . .”

“He means that he realized you were Church,” says Caboose. “Took him long enough. Stupid Tucker.”

5.

Carolina’s alive.

Carolina’s alive.

Carolina is alive.

One part of Wash’s brain is still stuck on that fact, still gibbering over and over that she was dead she was dead I was the last—

—and one part of him is snarling why the FUCK didn’t she come back for me?—

—but he’s got that mostly locked away now, in the back part of his mind where he keeps the broken, jagged memories that aren’t his.

He knows how to put his insanity aside and deal with a crisis, and right now, Carolina is the crisis. Carolina, and what she’s asked of him. (What he’s not sure he could refuse even if he wanted to.)

“She wants to find the Director,” Wash says to Church and Tucker.

“The what now?” asks Caboose.

“The Director of Project Freelancer,” Tucker says, and Wash can’t read the look that he slants up. “Right?”

“Right,” said Wash. “The one who created the AIs and the Meta and the—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tucker waves a hand. “We got the whole ‘killed my friends, prepare to die’ speech like five times already.”

I killed your friends, Wash thinks, and this time what he feels isn’t guilt but a sort of startled wonder, that they’ve put that aside as he never could.

“I owe Carolina,” he says. “She was my squad leader, and—”

—six years old, sitting on the lawn with daisies in her hair—

“She was a friend,” he says firmly, pushing the memories away. “I’m not asking you to help us. It’s not your problem. But she says that she knows where Epsilon is, and she can get him out of the memory unit. That’s how she’s planning to find the Director. If you want to come with us, you’d be, uh—”

He can’t quite bring himself to say, useful in a fight, because he’s seen how they fight. Last time Red Team attacked, Tucker tried to hold them off with his sick dance moves.

Then again, they brought down the Meta.

“You’d be welcome,” he finishes awkwardly. “Or if you don’t want to . . . I’ll come back. With Epsilon. I promise.”

He stops, and waits for Caboose’s disappointment, Tucker’s anger. Because he knows his promise isn’t enough, he’s going to lose the only place he can still belong—but he can’t refuse Carolina, he can’t—

“Okay,” says Tucker. “Let’s go.” He grins at Wash. “Like I’m gonna let you be the one who has frenzied pre-battle sex with Carolina.”

“What?” Wash’s voice cracks. He can feel his brain physically trying to eject the memory of Tucker’s words.

“Plus, the last time you went on a road trip with a Freelancer buddy, you ended up nearly dead,” says Tucker.

“Yeah,” says Caboose. “And we already agreed you could skip dying, even though it’s part of the job. So we are coming with you, Church.”

Wash stares at them, and he can’t believe this is happening, he can’t believe it’s so easy, nobody ever chooses him—

“Thanks, guys,” he mutters. “Thanks.”

1.

Everything’s so fucked-up.

Wash stands watch, staring into the sunset. He’s pretty sure the Reds and Blues won’t put up with Carolina for much longer—and they shouldn’t, it’s not like they owe her anything—

But Wash owes her so very much, and he doesn’t know how he can turn on her.

Even though he also owes the Reds and Blues everything.

“Sneaking . . . sneaking . . . sneaking . . .”

Wash sighs, and looks over his shoulder. “Hello, Caboose.”

“Hello, Agent Washington,” Caboose stage-whispers, and the name sends a pang through him. Because he’s not Church anymore. They have a Church, their Church, one who never shot or kidnapped any of them.

One who deserves to be with them.

“Caboose, you know you’re supposed to be in the temple with the rest of your squad,” Wash says.

Not his squad. Not anymore.

“Um, yes—well, um—but you see, um,” Caboose’s voice drops lower, “I am spying on you.”

Wash sighs again. It hurts, to be reminded that they don’t trust him anymore, that he’s not one of them anymore, that he was never one of them. But he chose this.

“Why are you spying on me, Caboose?” he asks wearily, turning to face Caboose.

“Well, yes, um, since everyone is kind of scared of you and Carolina, we figured we should try and get as much information on you guys as possible, so um . . . where do you guys see yourselves in the next five to ten years?”

You and Carolina.

Everyone is scared.

He’s lost it, all the fragile trust he built with the Reds and Blues when they were hiding together and they had no future. Wash knows that, and the knowledge is tearing him apart—but he also feels a tremendous rush of affection, because—well, Caboose.

“Caboose,” he says kindly, “you realize that when you spy on someone, no one's actually supposed to know that you're spying on them, right?”

“Oh, yeah, I know,” says Caboose. “I just figured you wouldn't tell anyone.”

“Wait,” says Wash. “What makes you think that?”

“Oh come on, Agent Washington—I mean I—you know, I'm pretty sure that we can trust you?” says Caboose. “I mean we are friends.”

He turns and ambles off as Wash stares at him in stunned amazement.

Wash hasn’t been “Church” since they pulled Epsilon out of the memory unit. He assumed that meant he was downgraded to being just another Freelancer, one of the interlopers that the Reds and Blues had to defend themselves against. But—

“Friends,” Wash mutters, and feels the center of his world start to shift.