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leqclerc · 4 years ago

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Merc's junior program is rough! Look at Esteban - he was Toto's protege, the boy who beat Max in F3, the one who was lined up for a merc seat. But George came along, and Toto's focus has shifted entirely, and Esteban's left his Merc affiliation so he could actually get a seat. It's only a matter of time before Toto's next big thing comes along and George is forgotten too. They're worse than RB for this.

I don’t know if it’s worse than RB but...Look, I’ll give RB one (1) right and say that at least they give the young drivers a chance. They don’t give them enough support for them to thrive in their roles, the working environment is stressful and often downright toxic, and they obviously prioritize the other side of the garage, but at least they let them have a go, which is more than you can say for the young Mercedes drivers so far.

Again, I was around for 2015-2016 when Pascal was a big young talent. He took part in various Mercedes events alongside Nico, Lewis and Toto, featured in photoshoots, etc. When Nico and Lewis’s intra-team conflict was at its peak - and later, when Nico unexpectedly announced his retirement - a lot of people were speculating that Pascal may be the answer. But Toto opted to go for the sensible option and used his Williams connection to get Valtteri instead, who was also a protégé of sorts. They initially gave him a one year contract to see how he performs and works alongside Lewis and...fast forward to present day and they’re still giving him one year contracts although he’s going into his...fifth season with them? Something like that. Meanwhile Pascal’s F1 career fizzled out, and he ended up racing in other categories. The Mercedes link was officially severed after 2018 (interestingly he was replaced at Sauber by...Charles himself.) In 2019 he actually became Ferrari’s development driver or simulator driver or something (I’ve seen it be called both things) but I personally haven’t seen him around much in that role, and with the FDA being a booming business...

Then you’ve got Esteban who also became, like you pointed out, Toto’s protégé. I didn’t follow his career too closely, I’ll be honest, but I do know he sort of benefited from that Mercedes link when they took him on as reserve driver in 2019 after Lawrence Stroll got involved in Force India/Racing Point and Lance took his place, letting him “sit out” the year but still sort of be involved in F1. According to Wikipedia, He was a contender to take the second Mercedes seat alongside Lewis Hamilton in 2020, however the team decided to continue with Valtteri Bottas. I don’t have the full picture, but my understanding is that (if you look at DTS’s portrayal of the situation at least) Toto was instrumental in securing Esteban the Renault drive from 2020 onwards. However, that meant he was no longer part of the Mercedes junior programme. So that’s another young driver they lost to other teams/racing categories.

And then obviously there’s George who, admittedly, out of all them has gotten the closest to getting a shot at being a proper Mercedes F1 driver. Depending on how things work out, if Lewis indeed does decide to retire at the end of the 2021 season, I do think they might try to promote George. Whether he’ll be driving alongside Valtteri or whether they’ll opt for a completely fresh lineup going into the new reg era, I guess we’ll see. But I think 2022 is, like, the final call if they’re really serious about promoting George. Otherwise...either someone else will take him on (Red Bull has apparently expressed interest?) or he’ll be forced to take his career in another direction.

If Red Bull are too brash and hasty in their decision-making, promoting and demoting drivers mid-season and trying to figure out what lineup works essentially through guesswork and trial and error, then Mercedes are too careful. And I get it. From their point of view, what they have right now works - they’re converting their work model to poles and wins which, in their mind, means that it’s a viable one. As much as they’re like, “Oh, hope some other team catches up and challenges us!” Mercedes like winning. They’re more than a team, they’re a business, one that’s run very efficiently. You can see Toto’s years of business involvement and investing coming through in the way they do things - they run a tight ship. Hell, even Ferrari - traditional, set in their ways Ferrari took a huge risk by promoting Charles after just one year in F1. A lot of people were very skeptical about their new lineup and a lot of people I think assumed Charles would crumble under the pressure - or, at the very least, not be able to keep up with the demands and pressures of being a young driver at Ferrari. And he ended up proving himself and two seasons later they’re trying to mold him into a leader that will take them to victory in the future. Something something does it ever drive you crazy just how fast the night changes. Maybe this is just the way Charles is; maybe he was given the support he felt he needed to thrive; maybe if it were anybody else it wouldn’t have worked out the way it did. But at least they took the chance - and it paid off. Mercedes are clinging to their current model because it works right now, but if they want to continue being competitive and being on top in years to come, then they really need to think of ways to shake things up. And I think Toto knows that. George is a huge asset; how and when they choose to utilize his skills is up to them. But the clock is ticking and I think Toto’s aware of that. While I have no personal emotional stake in the team, I’m curious to see what they decide to do going forward. I’m not sure they can afford (in the not strictly material sense) to lose George the way they did their previous young drivers.

#replies #anonymous #guess what time it is kids? it's ✨ essay ✨ time #no i can't keep things brief...........it's a Problem #all opinions expressed are my own and all that good stuff #and this is in no way meant to slight valtteri btw #in fact i think it's quite shitty of them to keep feeding him one year extensions #mostly so they can easily drop him in case someone 'better' comes along #like either you're serious about him being an important member of the team - in which case reward him with a multi-year deal #or admit that you're not satisfied with him or that you want someone else and be upfront about it #mercedes is sleazier than people give them credit for tbh. but y'know toto is hot and they all have cuddles and compliment each other #so it *must* mean that everything's fine #long post

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bearhatarmy · 4 years ago

Photo

I really really miss photography.

Photography feels like an old friend I’ve lost touch with. It pains me greatly that I just don’t have the energy or stamina to do it anymore. It really filled a creative void after I was unable to create my original comedy posts any longer. My illness keeps taking and taking from me and it is a challenge to find ways to adapt and cope.

The saddest part is that I felt like I was just starting to master photography as an art form. I was at that point where I could instinctively do all of the technical things and concentrate purely on the art. Lighting was becoming intuitive to me instead of a complicated puzzle I had to solve each time.

Yes, I took a lot of photos that I am really proud of. (Which I am spreading throughout this post).

But sometimes I mourn the photos I could have taken if my chronic illness hadn’t worsened.

It’s also hard seeing the new cameras and lights that have been released since I had to stop. I *just* missed a technological revolution. New features that would have allowed me to do more with less energy. To push the boundaries of my creativity. To get shots I could only dream of back then.

Full frame mirrorless cameras have opened up so many creative possibilities. The low light performance, the detail, the dynamic range--it has all been improved greatly in just a few years. But there are also many automated usability features that allow the camera to offload work and concentration from the brain. These new digital wonders can even be used as cinematic quality video cameras--something I would have liked to have explored.

I had to take these match photos in a pitch-black room, with a reversed lens, with no control over my aperture, and a manual flash. It took forever to time it properly because I had a whopping 3 frames per second. It would have been a cinch with a mirrorless camera, with super fast burst modes and an electronic viewfinder. You can see exactly what your image will look like before snapping it. But you can also “see in the dark” using a high ISO preview. Before you had to use a live view mode on the back screen. But on older cameras that mode was clunky and slow and... it just sucked.

Enlarge!

MOAR BIGGER!

Weirdly, one of the biggest advances is due to a shortened “flange distance” where the lens connects to the camera body. It seems like a small thing. Literally only a centimeter or so. But because of the lack of mirror, camera designers are able to move the lens closer to the sensor and design more advanced lenses with incredible sharpness. Combined with increased megapixel counts, that would have been amazing for my macro photos.

Electronic viewfinders take the guesswork out of exposure--even in bright sunlight where screens get washed out from glare. And being able to compose portraits with highly accurate eye-tracking autofocus would have been a tremendous advantage.

No more “focus and recompose.”

No more “Did I get the eye? Let me zoom to 100% on this tiny screen.”

I could have spent more of my concentration getting natural expressions from my subjects and composing my photos without distraction.

And IBIS!

I missed out on motherhecking IBIS!

This photo of my wonderful friend Erin was taken handheld at sunset. The original RAW version was extremely dark--even though I was using a high ISO. I had to do a ton of work to get this to not look like noisy garbage. But there just wasn’t any other way to capture it... UNTIL NOW.

IBIS (eye-bus/👀-🚌) or “in-body image stabilization,” allows the camera sensor to kind of... float. You can eliminate camera shake caused by the subtle micro-movements when handholding.

How do I explain it? Ummmm...

It turns the sensor into a chicken head.

So instead of increasing the ISO (which is like a volume knob for light which gets grainier as you crank it), you can lower your shutter speed. In the past, depending on the lens, 1/60th of a second was about as slow as you could set it. With IBIS, as long as the scene you are capturing is relatively still, you can take photos in very low light without a tripod. This is great because tripods are a pain in the ass and you can’t always have one handy. Plus, you can combine an IBIS camera with a stabilized lens to get a de-blurrification multiplier. Then you can get sharp handheld photos that are technically considered long exposure. I’ve heard people say they got sharp photos exposing at several seconds. Literally going from a fraction of a second to 2 goddamn Missisisppi. I can’t even quantify how many fantastic photos are being taken right now that would have been unusable blurry messes a few years ago. We get to enjoy these photos all because they installed a chicken head inside cameras.

AND DARN IT ALL TO HECK I HECKING MISSED IT, GOSH HECKING DANG IT!.

Sorry... didn’t mean to curse like a sailor that stubbed his toe while stepping on a Lego.

I think I’ll have a cool refreshing root beer to calm my IBIS envy.

(Those water droplets are a total fraud, by the way. It’s fake blood without the red added.)

And with the progress in battery and wireless technology, artificial lighting has become lighter and more portable while still being powerful enough to compete with the sun. I could have used strobe lights in my little studio, packed them up into a small case, and gone to the middle of the field to use them there.

Yes, I was able to convert my old studio lights to be “portable-ish” but we had to lug so much equipment to accomplish this photo of Brittany in the red dress. The battery pack alone weighed as much as one modern light. I was stuck in bed for a week afterward from all of the carrying of heavy gear.

Before that, this was my hacked together “outdoor” light. The Flash-O-Tron 3000. It looks cool but it was delicate and hard to get through doorways.

After charging 12 AA batteries overnight, I had to drag this contraption outside at the buttcrack of dawn to get my favorite photo of Otis.

I had to use a handheld mirror to reflect my popup flash in the direction of the Flash-O-Tron 3000 to trigger it. It worked about 25% of the time. Oh, and I was laying on cold wet grass, manually tracking Otis--who refused to sit still. I had to line up a single autofocus point on his head for every snap. The concentration required felt like my brain was juggling chainsaws.

But guess what they invented last year?

PET. EYE. AUTOFOCUS.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

A little robot inside the camera is all, “Hey, that’s your dog’s eye!” and just follows it no matter where your pup moves.

I NEEDED THAT SO BAD!

This shot took 10 minutes of me trying to lock onto his eye with a macro lens. The depth of field at that distance was the width of his eye and, again, he does not sit still.

I want a time machine so I can go back and retake every blurry Otis photo.

Also, many of the modern strobes have NO WIRES. You just stick a thing on top of your camera and you can set off lights several football fields away. My photo studio has tons of wires routed in the ceiling and coming out of the walls.

[Hi-Res Version]

And then those wires all go into a weird analog remote with old school sliders that controlled the power of the flashes. But the sliders were difficult to finely adjust.

Now you can load an app on your phone and adjust the flash power digitally and adjust the brightness in 10% increments. You can save lighting ratios and recall them instantly. And you can preview your work with high powered LED modeling lights so you don’t have to take 50 test shots.

No more nudging a light and taking a picture. Raising the power and taking a picture. Swapping out a modifier and taking a picture. Back and forth, back and forth.

Essentially, what you see is what you get, so setting up lighting takes a fraction of the time and effort with these new lights and cameras. That would have been so helpful with my disability.

Oh... the lights are less expensive too.

The future of camera tech looks exciting as well. I think the computational photography that is in the latest smartphones will soon be added to more professional cameras. That is going to make high-end photography so much more accessible to anyone who wants to try it as a hobby. The learning curve will flatten further, and as long as you are creative, you will be able to take beautiful, high-quality photos.

Some might say that not having all of the new tech helped me gain important experience, expertise, and problem-solving skills. Some believe the inconveniences are a photographer’s trial by fire. The struggle makes the art more authentic. And since I learned how to do it the hard way, my journey is more valid than some photography influencer on Instagram with an iPhone.

To that I say... BULLLLLSHEEIIIT.

Those inconveniences just made me SUPER DUPER TIRED.

And some of those influencers take really kickass photos. Not all of them are butts either.

I love photography but there is a reason I had to stop. Like anything, doing it well was a lot of work. I always ended up having to quit taking photos much sooner than I wanted. I had to scale back my ambition to fit my energy requirements. I could only do photography on days when my body was cooperating fully. I had to cancel many photoshoots because the preparation was just too much to handle. And after my bigger projects it took me forever to recover.

GIVE ME ALL THE CONVENIENCES PLEASE.

That “you have to struggle” attitude is no-good-gatekeepy-ableist crap.

Old photographer grumps are upset because they spent years learning how to focus manually on horseback and use the sunny 16 rule and develop film in a converted shed they built by hand and now “those darn kids” can use an iPhone on a skateboard while doing a kickflip with their eyes closed and still pull focus.

However, despite there being a lower barrier for entry, the technological improvements add new complications to the advanced side of things. So you can make photography as difficult as you desire if you are willing to learn new stuff. Which old school photo grumps are notoriously averse to.

This new tech has all kinds of novel things to discover and figure out. There is drone photography. There is advanced macro photography using robotic focusing rails and ever-improving focus stacking software. You can now network more lights together than ever before. Karl Taylor did a photoshoot with 12 lights! (Captain Picard would totally lose his shit.) Long lasting batteries and computerized sliders have created new timelapse possibilities. Stabilization software allows complex hyperlapse videos. Better low light performance and sharper lenses with big apertures combined with stacking or star trail software has improved astrophotography. Advances in material science have allowed darker and darker high quality neutral density filters for extreme long exposure photos. New focus tracking algorithms have allowed for wildlife photography that was never possible before. You can capture fast-moving birds in the sky from farther away and still get amazing detail. Faster burst modes allow people to capture split-second action. Never miss a good header at your kid's soccer games. (Is that a thing? I have no kids and don’t remember how to soccer.) IBIS allows photography without a tripod. So now people can trek to harder to reach areas, AT NIGHT, and take sharp photos with little noise. Increased dynamic range and new HDR displays will allow photographers to take images of lights and capture their actual intensity. What if the lights in photos could glow like they do in real life? Think about a neon sign at night in the rain reflecting in a puddle. That would look so neat.

Not to mention learning how to process photos in editing software is an entirely separate and challenging skillset you can master. There are thousands of techniques you can learn to elevate your images. Dodging & burning, frequency seperation, and compositing, oh my! Programs like Lightroom and Photoshop are constantly updated with new features that expand possibilities.

None of that is easy. It will all require diligent study and practice to master. Technical skills will always be an aspect of photography that anyone can pursue. But not everyone will need as much technical skill to start having fun and create art.

And much to the chagrin of those grumps... phones are perfectly viable to create that art and they will keep getting better.

You might find it odd that this love letter and goodbye to photography has so much talk of technical gadgetry. But, for me, it isn’t out of place in this sentimental essay. Technology was my first love. My parents bought me a 66mhz Packard Bell computer when I was 12 and technology was the first thing I was ever good at. I learned every function of that machine. I would sometimes break it just so I could learn how to fix it. I took it apart and put it back together. It was my first true obsessive hobby. I found my creativity soon after, and I immediately used that technology to help me create art. I wrote comedy. I learned how to digitally paint. I recorded music. And eventually I found photography. It was the perfect marriage of technology and art. I could nerd out as much as I want while still getting my creative fix.

So yeah... I miss it all.

I miss all of the technical nerdery. I miss trying out new gadgets. I miss editing the photos I’ve taken. I miss taking pictures of my beautiful friends. I miss taking pictures of weird products. I miss asking Delling to call apiaries to find me freshly dead bees so I can take macro shots of their fuzzy little torsos.

I really hope some day I find a treatment that gives me enough energy to take photos again.

Thankfully my writing helps me feel creative and productive and fulfilled. And it’s something I can do even if I’m not able to get out of bed. And I am grateful I have so many awesome people that actually want to read what I have to say.

So thanks to everyone for that.

I always find a way to move forward. That’s just the nature of surviving chronic illness. But glancing back at what I lost is a pain I never quite get used to.

Though, writing this has helped.

Looking back at all that I accomplished has helped.

And I do feel lucky I was able to accomplish what I did--even if missing it makes me sad sometimes.

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hxpefulmuses · 4 years ago

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[A little something I wrote based on a few inbox interactions between my partner @despairfound and myself. I'll go back and edit any name mistakes later. I just like writing their names this way for simplicity sake. Now enjoy a very ooc interaction done purely for self indulgence purposes of Izuru x Servant. I've got other drabbles I'm working on for Komahina and Saiouma]

The sound of a door creaking open was enough to draw the male sitting with his back to the wall out of his thoughts. He only heaved a small sigh when he saw the shadow cast on the ground of whom had come to pay him a visit.

"Kamukura!" The way her voice interrupted the silence made him turn his body in the direction someone had been speaking.

"Mn?" That was all the response that she really deserved.

"I have something for you." She approached him with her arms behind her back obviously holding something in them. Whenever Junko had anything for him he wasn't sure if he could necessarily count it as anything enjoyable, or entertaining for that matter.

"What is it?" Izuru heard the sound of his own voice, but he was never sure if he was only telegraphing or replying to his own thoughts; they were such a jumble at times. He would probably regret replying to Junko as it was.

"A surprise! It's Halloween after all." The blond with pink highlights in her long pigtails was in a "good" mood, and when Junko was in a "good" mood that meant that he or her servant had to put up with her antics.

Before Izuru got much of a chance to question anything the despair pulled out a pair of cat ears, and a tail, both black in color and presented them as if they were the most generous offering anyone had ever made before.

"What are these?" Crimson optics eyed what the fashionista had pulled from behind her back.

He didn't have to wait too long for an explanation as Junko was only too pleased to volunteer the details on her own.

"You're going to keep a certain someone company for me. How about it?" Junko placed a pout on her pink lips before giving a halfhearted wave of her hand.

Usually, Izuru would have shrugged her off or just listened as she went on about her ideas to bring despair to the world-- one of which she had succeeded in, yet for now he was interested. "Who?" He asked while only so slightly moving his head to the left. The dark curtain of hair seemed to move along with even such a small movement.

"That's a surprise for both of you." She told him in a sing song voice while moving forward to attempt to slide the ears on him. He dodged her attempts even throwing out a hand a few times, but in her perseverance she had managed to get behind him and place the ears on his head.

Izuru wanted this to be over and done with as soon as possible, and it was a break from doing nothing so he just decided to comply. Junko could be tolerable in doses after all. "Tolerable".

The pigtailed despair bounced with joy before placing on her cutesy persona. "Oh, I just knew you would go along with it!" She moved to fasten a tail to the back of his suit before taking his hand, this time a more mature voice and persona in play. "We wouldn't want to keep the puppy waiting, now would we? It's such a lonesome Halloween so far for him." As if she actually cared whether it was or not; much of this was for her own enjoyment too.

Izuru didn't answer that, and only chose to follow Junko towards a room down the hall. She opened the door and he spied a shock of white with shading of pink. The eyes belonging to the servant were currently occupied with the pages of a book.

"Nagi! Happy Halloween!" The despair called out as if she was just calling out to someone else on the playground. "I brought you a playmate!" A hand pushed into the long haired male's lower back urging him forward. Izuru just simply complied stepping into the room.

At the interruption to the silence the servant who had been enjoying a temporary escape frowned at the voice lilting in the air. Nagito knew that Junko only brought the silent and indifferent Kamukura by as way of keeping him complacent-- and probably her own twisted amusement in some ways as well. He supposed that was what he got in return for his unpredictable cycles of luck. Junko didn't necessarily fear him, but she was definitely wary of him all the same as if she calculated several ways things could go wrong with his very existence and planned ahead.

"Enoshima," Nagito was wearing his usual cordial smile while putting his book off to the side. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" His last word was hinted with irritation laced within it. Did she say Happy Halloween wondered to himself.

"I already said I brought you a playmate. For Halloween!" Junko said with her arms cross over her chest. Her baby blues landed on the suit clad male, and Nagito who was always watching Junko's each and every move took the sight of him in.

"You bring someone like this to worthless scum like me?" He was so temperamental. His moods could switch on and on off just like they had been shifted into the on or off positions. "I guess Halloween isn't a total bust after all." He said giving a series of giggling that earned a shift in his breathing getting hitched slightly. To say he was pleased to see the dark-haired male was an understatement.

Once he managed to steady his breathing he took note of the cat ears and the tail trailing behind Kamukura. Both of which didn't seem to bother him in the least as he was wearing his usual mask of indifference.

Izuru walked forward, but not before moving out of the way of Junko getting ready to touch him again. He made his way over to the servant, and sat down with his back firm against the wall.

"Have fun you two." Junko had merely wanted to drop Kamukura off while attending to plans she had in mind. She couldn't very well have Mr. Wildcard getting in the way either. This left her shutting the heavy steel door behind her, and enabled Nagito to finally speak to the figure radiating hope and talent next to him. Besides, it was a good idea to keep both of them on their toes. It would be so much easier to throw despair at them when they least expected it.

"The look is surprisingly becoming on you, Kamukura." Nagito said with a wry chuckle before reaching out and running his fingers over the soft material of one of the feline appearing ears. "I really am lucky to be gifted with this..." He trailed off as the dark haired male wasn't so much as reactionary.

"Can you tell me why you would go along with such a thing?" He found himself asking as he removed his fingers from the cosplay ears, and slid down the wall, but not before edging closer to Kamukura.

"Sometimes it is easier to just go along with her whims all in the name of evading boredom." Izuru explained while moving a hand to lay atop his knee.

What he wasn't saying was the conflicted impressions that came into his mind whenever he was able to spend time with the snowy haired male. How he didn't mind his company.

Nagito's eyes lit up with an interest in them. He might as well enjoy the time he could get with the mysterious Kamukura. "You could easily best her in anything, but I guess I could understand." He made the last remark while bringing a finger to his chin in contemplation.

Izuru interrupted his thoughts leaving a surprised expression on the pale-haired male's face as the long-haired male spoke. "That is an interesting opinion considering you yourself could easily think several steps ahead of Enoshima." Before he was finished he spoke once more in a softer, yet still monotone voice. "I don't mind going along with her antics if they include you." After all the servant wasn't boring, no in more ways than one he was unpredictable. A small semblance of interest to Izuru.

"You give me and my lucky guesswork way too much credit." Nagito tells the hopeful with a smile on his features. He reaches up to a dark faux furred ear tracing his fingers along it between two fingers once more. "Ah! I get it you really do enjoy my presence after all." He chuckled. "I feel flattered!"

"I would say that your lucky guesswork has more credit to it than you would think." Izuru explained while trying to regain composure and indifference once more.

"More simply put, I tolerate you." Izuru said as once more he had been proved correct in that the servant wasn't easy to read. He hadn't expected the touch yet again.

"I see," Nagito's eyes took on a swirling of black in the grey green before twisting into despair. "So you simply tolerate me. That's fine!" Everyone else did as well. He said with a laugh. "They do suit you though." If Izuru's words had stung than it didn't show.

"Yes, I tolerate you." Izuru reiterated before his face fell from the total stoic mask, eyes gazing downward as if searching for a way to word what he meant. "Perhaps, it is a different sort of tolerate where you are concerned." Emotions could be complex for one who had been designed with the sole purpose of thinking in many ways and talents. "You are skilled in more than just luck." He tried saying once more.

Instead of trying to explain himself or his jumbled thoughts once more, he just moved in closer to the servant while his fingers found the metal links of his chain, and began idly playing with it. While he was doing that he reached up to the crown of his head and removed the velvety black cat ears. Without much deliberation on his actions he moved to place them on the other males crown of white tresses.

The corners of Nagito's lips turned up as he simply moved in closer towards Kamukura. He had a feeling that the one they called Izuru Kamukura was actually kinder and held a bigger heart than all of the indifference let on. Yet, appearances were often deceiving. "A different sort of tolerance? I can take that as an answer." He said before noticing that the cat ears had been switched ownership to his own head.

"Those suit you much better, I think, but I'll wear them if that is what you want." His own fingers moved to ghost across the wrist of the hand holding the chain.

"Then I will wear them." Izuru promptly switched ownership of the ears once more, but at the compliment he leaned in and licked the Servant's cheek before giving a monotoned "Meow. Happy Halloween." It hadn't been entirely boring after all. Though he would never admit that. He still didn't understand a lot of the excitement about the holiday however.

Nagito actually blushed at the sudden lick to his cheek. “Ahah, Happy Halloween. I’ll make some treats just for you once the kids are all in bed,” he reached up to playfully scratch behind Kamukura’s ear.

#:: drabbles ::#my writing #its late but i hope still enjoyable

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duhragonball · 5 years ago

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[FIC] Luffa: The Legendary Super Saiyan (115/?)

Disclaimer: This story features characters and concepts based on Dragon Ball, which is a trademark of Bird Studio/Shueisha and Toei Animation. This is an unauthorized work, and no profit is being made on this work by me. This story is copyright of me. Download if you like, but please don’t archive it without my permission. Don’t be shy.

Continuity Note: About 1000 years before the events of Dragon Ball Z.

[10 March, 233 Before Age. Ristet IV.]

As the Federation-Jindan War continued, Luffa found it useful to keep herself and her star-yacht in separate places. This kept the enemy guessing as to her exact location, and it discouraged attacks on the ship itself, since no one was entirely certain of how valuable a target it really was.

Following the liberation of Gorrfeg, the Federation and Seltiss' Saiyan Free Company agreed that Luffa and Xibuyas should split up and tackle Jindan cultists on different planets. It was important to prevent the cultists from establishing a power base on another Federation world. Thus far, the Jindan strategy had been to swoop in and attack any Federation planet within easy reach. Evidently, the only objective was to confound the defenders and spread their forces even thinner. Luffa could foil this effort, but only by being in the right place at the right time.

Her secret weapon to ensure this was Dotz, a fortuneteller she had met before the war began. Dotz was no warrior, but her predictions of enemy activity had been instrumental. For this reason, Luffa had kept Dotz's role a secret, and took care to make sure she was far removed from the heaviest fighting.

And so, when the star-yacht needed repairs, it made sense to send it--and Dotz-- to Ristet IV, as Dotz's forecasts had shown no combat in the next several days. The planet was well-defended by surface-to-orbit weapons, bolstered with a Federation fleet which used the system as a command center. Given this high level of security, and surrounded by qualified starship mechanics at the spaceport, Dr. Topsas suggested that they use the time to relax and unwind.

No one, not even himself, took his advice. Topsas left the ship, but instead of taking in a show in the city near the spaceport, he went to a medical research facility and began looking up ways to improve Luffa's recovery time after each battle. Dotz remained on board, preferring to stay close to the materials she used for fortunetelling: crystals, a pack of arcane cards, and various other trinkets most people would deem useless and insignificant. As was her custom, she would sit on the observation deck and arrange these things around herself. Nearby, Zatte was perched on a lounge chair. The Dorlun had at least tried to follow Topsas' suggestion. Clad in a black one-piece swimsuit, she had spent about thirty minutes sunbathing under the dimmer of Ristet's binary stars, but shortly after this she gave up and began running diagnostics on her weapons.

"If you don't mind my asking," Dotz said, calling over to her. "Why do you even have all those blasters? I thought you could shoot ki like Luffa can."

"I can," Zatte said. "But not nearly as well as a Saiyan, or most other martial artists. Besides, I like to keep my options open. Sometimes you can do things with a plasma rifle that you just can't do with a ki blast."

"Well, there's no need for you to check them now," Dotz said. "I still don't see any sign of major combat on this planet. No Saiyans destroying cities or anything like that. At least not anytime soon."

"Oh, I believe you, Dotz," Zatte said as she reassembled a sight on one of her pistols. "You haven't steered us wrong yet, but I'm not used to knowing things like that in advance. I guess I'm a creature of habit. Can't take anything for granted. Anyway, if you're so sure this planet won't get attacked, why are you so busy with all that stuff over there?"

"Well, um, I'm trying to refine my ability," Dotz said. "I'm confident about he Ristet System, probably because... well, because I'm here. The forecasts are usually clearer when I'm on-location. But there's a lot of things I can't make out. I still can't get a decent reading on Luffa, and the outcomes of her missions are fuzzy at best. I thought I had a handle on her son's destiny, but it was all so muddled. Your wife keeps telling me how important I am to the war effort, and how grateful she is that I'm here, but I can't even predict how the war will end, or who wins."

"Shoot, I can tell you that one. We're going to win this war, Dotz," Zatte said confidently. "You'll see."

"To be honest, I don't," Dotz replied. "I can see glimpses of the future, enough to make a decent living as a fortuneteller, but I can't always see big picture stuff. I know the next Saiyan attack won't come for several more hours, but I have no idea how it'll turn out, or what's happening on other Federation planets. I'm sorry I can't be more useful than that."

"Don't be ridiculous, Dotz," Zatte said, "You've been a big help already. The challenge with a space war like this is that it's tough to know where to deploy our forces. Luffa's strong enough to beat the Jindan Saiyans, but if she doesn't know where they'll strike, it could take days to get her to the right place. You've taken a lot of guesswork out of things. Tactically speaking, that's huge."

"Oh. So is that why you've been sticking so close to me lately?" Dotz asked. "To keep me safe?"

Zatte nodded. "My people believe in watching each other's backs. I used to be a soldier, so it was my job to guard the others so they could support everyone else. But besides that, I was hoping to be close by in case you had any visions about Luffa. Until the communications are restored with the Fedender System, you're the only way I can keep tabs on her."

Dotz closed her eyes and gently raised her hands to chest height. She took a few deep breaths, then mumbled quietly.

"I see her," she said warily, as if even commenting on the vision might chase it from her mind. "She's alive. I can tell that much."

"But you still can't see her future," Zatte said.

"No, I can't. I'm sorry about that. Um... I know that made you upset before."

"No, I'm sorry. I overreacted," Zatte said. "My people has a saying: No news is good news. I had to remind myself of that. Just because you can't see what happens to Luffa doesn't mean it'll be bad."

"Is that why you don't want me to read your fortune?" Dotz asked. "Are you worried I'll see something tragic?"

"No. I mean...! Well, yes." Zatte shook her head and chuckled. "It's... complicated. I'm just not comfortable with the idea of peeking ahead at the end of the movie."

"But you're convinced about the outcome of the war," Dotz said. "What makes you so sure?"

"Luffa," Zatte said. "She's destined to accomplish great things, Dotz."

"Destined? It sounds like you had a vision of your own once."

Zatte had been applying lithium grease to a rifle part when Dotz said this. It startled her enough that she accidentally missed and sprayed it on her work gloves instead. "I... I guess you could put it that way." she said, looking up at Dotz somewhat anxiously. "I saw something. I've been trying to interpret it ever since."

"Now I get it," Dotz said. "Asking me to tell your fortune would be... well, it would be like questioning your own epiphany. Even if I confirmed what you had seen, you would feel as though you didn't trust your own instincts."

"Uh...yeah," Zatte said, more than a little amazed. "I didn't know how to put it into words before, but that's it exactly. Wow, Luffa wasn't kidding. You are good."

"In my line of work, you have learn to read people," Dotz said. "It helps fill in the gaps when the omens don't make sense. I think I envy you, Zatte. I'm so used to having glimpses of the future that I've never had to put much faith in anything."

Zatte was about to respond to this, when she suddenly noticed something outside of the transparent dome that covered the deck. At first, she thought it was the contrail of an aircraft, only brighter, like the ionization trail of a meteorite.

"What is it?" Dotz asked, when she finally saw what had caught Zatte's attention.

"Could be a starship," Zatte said, "but if it's coming in for a landing, it should be coming here, towards the spaceport. Unless it's out of control, or a hostile..."

"But... but that's impossible," Dotz said. "If the Saiyans were going to invade this planet, I'm sure I would have foreseen it. I might have gotten the hour or the number wrong, but I'm sure I would have seen something, unless..."

"Let's check it out," Zatte said. She grabbed the beach robe off the chair and a holster belt containing the weapons she had already finished cleaning. "You should probably come with me to the bridge. It'll be safer there."

*******

The people of Ristet IV had orange, scaly skin and long muzzles. As the planet's Supergovernor was currently on trial for conflicts of interest related to his vast toothpaste business holdings, the vice-Supergovernor had been the head-of-state for the past sixteen months. He conducted his business in the Red Manor, located at Number 1, Supergovernor Street, Supergovernor City, postal code 00001. In front of the Red Manor was a reflection pool, which was something of a tourist attraction to visitors to Supergovernor City. It was now gone, replaced by a crater thirty feet wide, with a small pod resting at the bottom. Moments after arriving, its lone occupant stepped out, marched into the Red Manor, and introduced himself to the vice-Supergovernor.

"It's pretty simple stuff," he said to the vice-Supergovernor and his staff. His skin was pale pink, and his unkempt hair hung from his scalp like the fronds on a tropical tree. But what caught everyone's attention was the invader's long furry tail, which waved lazily from a hole in his black trunks as he spoke.

"You all know what I am, and what I can do, and what I must have done to the fleet up there to get this far, right? Well that's it, then. I don't see why we should waste time fighting then. I mean, I like fighting, sure, but your best defenses were topside, and I already took care of those. Calling for help won't work either, thanks to the jamming device I left in orbit."

"What are your terms?" the vice-Supergovernor asked. Diplomacy was not his strong suit, though in this situation, flowery speeches weren't going to change the situation.

"I like that," the invader said. "Straight and to the point. I have friends coming over, and they need a place to stay. You will disable your defenses, you will allow them land here without a fight, and no one gets hurt. Before you know it, we'll be on our way, but you'll get to keep all your fancy buildings and weapons when it's over."

One of the chiefs-of-staff spoke up. "This planet is a Federation world," she protested. "You're asking us to betray--"

The invader pointed his finger at her and fired a ki blast through her chest, killing her instantly. "As of twenty minutes ago," he replied, "you people got cut off from the Federation, whether you wanted to or not. All I'm asking you to do is look out for yourselves. Once my guys are gone, you'll be free to patch things up with your buddies, assuming any of 'em are still around. So what'll it be? If you want to make a go of it, that's fine with me, but this little barnhouse of yours will be the first to go, along with everyone in it. Now, do we have an understanding?"

The vice-Supergovernor looked down at his chief-of-staff's body and nodded mournfully.

"Good," said the invader. "First thing you can do for me is have someone put my ship in storage. Some place with some high security. I don't want any busybodies fooling around with it while I wait for my buddies."

"We'll put it in the highest-security facility we have," the vice-Supergovernor said. "I can assure you, no one will even find it, much less tamper with it."

"Good boy," the invader said with a smile.

*******

[11 March, 233 Before Age. Ristet IV.]

"He's not a Saiyan," Zatte said.

"How did you figure that out?" Dotz asked.

"Because I'm sitting inside his ship," Zatte explained. "He wiped most of the logs, he didn't bother to clear the internal sensors, which identify the most recent passenger as a felinoid species. Felinoids have tails like Saiyans, so they sort of look like Saiyans, but they're not."

Zatte was somewhat obsessive over these kinds of matters. Over the past 23 hours, she had tracked down the incoming ship to the Red Manor's front lawn, learned the ship had been removed by government agents, and traced it to a secret storage facility. There were passcodes and sensor grids to overcome, but her ability to manipulate energy made this a fairly simple task. She was still wearing the swimsuit and beach robe from when she had first spotted the ship. Changing clothes had seemed like a luxury she couldn't afford, and so she hadn't bothered.

Someone, probably the felinoid, had done something to jam planetwide communications, but this apparently only applied to off-world communications. With the star-yacht on the planet's surface, she could read Dotz just fine on her earpiece.

"Well, could he have had a felinoid on board with him?" Dotz suggested.

Zatte smiled at the thought. "You wouldn't say that if you were here," she replied. This is definitely a one-seater. It looks more like an escape pod with a stardrive built onto it. When this is over, I might want to take this baby with us. Luffa could get some use out of a little ship like this."

"Um, I don't really understand then," Dotz said. "Why would someone try to impersonate a Saiyan like this? Especially in a war with Saiyans on both sides?"

"He's probably an opportunist," Zatte said. "Luffa's dealt with these types before. They show up on a planet, and shake down the population for whatever they can get, and the planet's leaders cooperate just to get rid of them. A lot of actual Saiyans pull this trick, but plenty of other aliens do it too, anyone strong enough to blow up buildings and cities with their ki energy. He may only be using the war as a cover. He can play at being a Saiyan and trick his victims into thinking he's got backup when he really doesn't. That's probably why the Federation hasn't stepped in yet. They may think he's with the cult, and they don't know what the situation on the ground is."

"But you can shut off his jammer and tell them what's really going on, right?" Dotz asked.

"Afraid not," Zatte said. "I was hoping he had some kind of controller for it on his ship, but I can't find anything like that. I could try using his navigational computer to backtrack his flight path, maybe find out where he left it, but if he was smart, his gadget has thrusters and a cloaking device."

"Oh! But you could take his ship into orbit, outside the range of the jamming device!" Dotz suggested. "Then you could summon the fleet that way!"

"No. If he finds out, I'll be a sitting duck, or he might get desperate enough to hurt people on the surface. Besides, Luffa's forces are stretched thin enough already. I'd rather tackle this guy by myself, save them the trouble."

"By yourself? But... but how?" Dotz asked.

"I haven't worked that out yet," Zatte said. She opened the hatch on the pod and lifted herself out of it, only to spot a guard making his rounds. Normally, her powers made this a simple matter, as she could simply warp light around herself to become effectively invisible. This time, however, she had to deal with the ship, and make certain the hatch was closed before the guard could happen to notice. While she struggled to close it as quickly and quietly as possible, Dotz continued to speak into her ear.

"It's just... I didn't even see any of this coming," she said. "If there's going to be major combat on this planet, and soon, then I have no idea how it will turn out. And I haven't read your fortune either, so if you go to face him, then... well, anything could happen. You might die!"

There was an audible clack as Zatte finished closing the hatch, one that she couldn't avoid, and one that the guard couldn't help but overhear. Luckily, the acoustics of the storehouse seemed to be in her favor, and the guard wandered off in a different direction. If he ever came back to check the pod, Zatte would be long gone.

"Anything's possible," Zatte whispered as she crawled through the metal racks. Upon reaching the skylight she had used to gain entry, she slipped inside and closed it behind her, then leaped down from the roof and made her way on foot to an airbike she had stowed in the bushes. "Personally, I like my chances. It's a risk, but an acceptable one."

"But if something goes wrong--"

"It won't," Zatte said. "I'm sure of it, just like I'm sure we'll win the war."

"Oh."

Zatte powered up the bike and sped along a dirt road. Once she was certain that she was on a public highway, she dropped the invisibility effect she had used and took a roundabout path back to the spaceport.

Why can't you believe?" Zatte asked. "You told me before that your power can't foresee everything."

"Because even the things I do see are uncertain," Dotz said. "I know Luffa's alive--for the moment--but not much else. She could be fighting for her life right now, or maybe the battle's already over. I find it's best to react to situations as they happen. Let things play out and gather more information."

"Why did you join us?" Zatte asked. "Don't get me wrong, I'm glad to have you on board, but you've got no obligations here."

"I had a vision that someone like Luffa would help me, not long before she showed up to bring me out of the coma I was in. I also knew that my powers would begin to change around the same time that happened. I'm... evolving. I don't know how else to put it. I can't see into Luffa's future, for whatever reason. I think that might he a sign. Either way, she helped me once, and she might help me again. And since I can't predict whether or not she can help me, I'll...um... have to stay nearby and find out the old fashioned way."

"Okay, but is that worth riding out a war?" Zatte asked.

"Uh... maybe not, but I have to find out. For you, it's a matter of faith. A foregone conclusion. For me, it's a mystery."

"Huh. Well, I'll be back at the ship in about half an hour. Maybe I can take some of the mystery out of how to take this felinoid down."

*******

At the spaceport's medical facility, Dr. Topsas was poring over data on comparative Saiyan biology. There was very little useful information on Saiyan-specific medicine, as so few Saiyans bothered to seek treatment. Much of what Topsas knew was self-taught, or accomplished through his own requests, such as the scans conducted on Bigreen shortly after Luffa first transformed into a Super Saiyan.

He had begun his research on Ristet IV by asking a fairly simple question about feet. Luffa's left foot had been run through with a beam of ki energy, and this had caused some substantial tendon damage. Topsas had stitched her back together, but his preference would have been for Luffa to rest and let the wound heal. As it was, she simply had no time for this. The battle in the Fedender System was simply too critical.

"They'll die if I don't get over there, Doc," she had said to him before leaving. "What kind of a Super Saiyan would I be if I just sat around here taking it easy?"

"The healthy kind," was probably what he had said to her in reply, but her words had left a greater impression on him than he had let on, for they reminded him of an expression from his own culture. His species was of an arachnoid biology, possessing eight limbs, each terminating with a hand, and eight eyes, positioned about the head in such a way as to see in virtually any direction. In his youth, he had asked his pastor why they had so many more eyes and limbs than other beings. At that age, Topsas had already become interested in vertebrate biology, and the bipedal anatomy that often accompanied it. What strange creatures they were, to manage with only two eyes and two legs and two hands.

His pastor had explained that their people had been blessed with extra limbs and eyes, so that they would always be able to see those in need, and lend a hand to those who needed it. This, more than anything, was what had inspired him to become a physician. But it had always been a matter of helping the less fortunate. His patients were sick, injured beings in need of his care, and once he had healed them, his work was done. He had always thought that he was drawn to Luffa because she needed more care than most; more than she was willing to admit.

But over time, he had begun to realize that it was more than that. In her own way, Luffa had taken on his brand of charity, and he began to see that there was more at stake than simply keeping her healthy. Kept in sickbay, and allowed to recover in full, Luffa could save no one but herself. In the field, she could save thousands, or even millions. Everything hinged on how quickly Dr. Topsas could get her back in action.

He had always loathed this aspect of sports medicine, which prioritized schedules and purses over the health of the athlete. It encouraged risk taking and corner-cutting in the name of getting a warm body into the game. But now the schedule was a war, and the purse was innocent lives. He knew how to heal her, but that wasn't enough anymore. He had to find a way to do even better.

And so, his original query had transformed into a wider search for other treatments. He began to stray into the unorthodox, the experimental, the techniques and prescriptions that he never would have considered before, because he lacked the confidence in his own ability to administer them. And his response to the challenge was always that he would have to rise to the occasion. If a better doctor was what the galaxy needed now, then he would do all that he could to become one. He had, after all, too many eyes and too many hands not to try.

*******

While Topsas worked, his absence went mostly unnoticed by his shipmates, who assumed he was enjoying a much-needed day off. Zatte saw no way the doctor could help, and she preferred not to burden him with this latest crisis. Whoever this invader was, she was at least grateful to the felinoid for keeping a low profile.

She now stood in the conference room of the ship, eating a bowl of cereal as she tweaked a holographic model of a city block. On one particular building, a pair of fourth-story windows were ringed with glowing red rectangles. Thin beams of green light extended out from these windows and pointed to various other buildings in the vicinity.

She was still dressed in the black swimsuit, beach robe, gloves and boots she had been wearing before. Her face was somewhat drawn from lack of sleep, and her hair was messier, but otherwise she looked essentially the same as when this had all begun.

"Up here would be the best spot," Zatte said, pointing her spoon at a tall building on the edge of the hologram. "The altitude, the distance from the target, it's perfect. I could get off three or four shots and still get out of there before he'd ever find me. The only problem is the angle."

She put the spoon back in the bowl and tapped a few keys on the table's computer console, which displayed an image over the holographic city. It was the view from a telescopic sight, which showed the very edge of a window.

"His hotel room has two windows and I can only line up with one of them from up there. And I had to do some pretty daring stuff with some climbing gear to make that work. On top of that, I'd need him to be standing right next to the window to hit a vital area."

"What if something happened outside?" Dotz suggested. "You could stage a diversion, something big enough to make him look outside to see what it was."

"Maybe, but it'd all be for nothing if he looks out of the other window that I can't hit," Zatte said with a sigh. "And it's not like we could just try again until it works. Sooner or later, he'd get suspicious, or he might just stop taking the bait. I thought about sabotaging his place, maybe screw up the plumbing enough that he'd get fed up and move to another room, but I don't want to drag things out this long. I really just want to climb up there and take the shot."

She set down her bowl with more force than she intended, then dropped into one of the executive chairs with a frustrated groan. "You know," Dotz said, "I'm just impressed that you can hit anything from that far away." She got up from her seat, carefully holding the folds of her purple garments so as not to disturb the cards and crystals she had laid on the table, and pointed at the thread of green light that represented Zatte's proposed line of fire. "I mean, this is over two miles, isn't it?"

"Nearly three," Zatte said. "I've made longer shots than that without a problem. It's just a matter of taking the wind into account, keeping a steady hand. I had to get used to using the scope with my left eye, but that didn't take long."

"Your eye," Dotz said. "You lost it in a battle, didn't you?"

"That's right," Zatte said. "Was that a psychic reading, or simple deduction?"

"Well, deduction," Dotz said. "You said you were a soldier, and you seem pretty stubborn in your own way. Did you want me to divine something more than that?"

"Sure, why not?" Zatte said. "I just need to get my mind off of this for a while."

"I'll need to see your eyepatch," Dotz said. "If that's all right."

Zatte hesitated, then turned away and removed it from her face. She handed it to Dotz, but only after making sure to conceal her injured eye with her free hand.

"I only take it off when I'm alone, or with Luffa," Zatte said. It's a personal thing."

"I understand," Dotz said. She cradled the patch in her hands for a moment, and made an intrigued noise as she closed her eyes. "You didn't think she was coming back that day," Dotz said. "When the shrapnel hit you in the face, you thought you were going to die, and that you'd never see her again."

Zatte didn't know how to respond to this. She tensed the hand she was holding over her sightless prosthetic eye.

"But you didn't die, and then she came back to fight alongside you. When you pray, you thank Providence for allowing you to keep one eye so you could see her return that day."

"That's... H-how? I never told anyone that. Luffa doesn't even know, unless she picked it up from me telepathically, but we don't..."

"You still feel it in your skull sometimes," Dotz went on. "Um, your eye, that is. Sometimes, it's like you never lost it, and it's still there, aching a little."

"Okay, I think I want that back," Zatte said. "This is getting a little too personal."

"Sorry," Dotz said. As she slid the patch across the table, she paused to look at the hologram. "Um...What are these other green lines?" she asked.

"Oh, those," Zatte said. "I tried finding better angles to shoot from, but they're all too close to the target."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Dotz asked. "I don't know a lot about guns, but..."

Zatte straightened her eyepatch and checked her hair to make sure it was free of the strap. "It would be, but the shot from those points isn't a whole lot better than the one I want," she explained. So the difficulty would be lower, but there's still a good chance that I miss, and then he comes barrelling out of the window to find the shooter." She pointed at the far edge of the map. "If I'm shooting from there, and I miss, it's not as big a deal, because I'd have time to get away and hide. But from over here--" Now she pointed at a closer position, on the roof of a department store. "--he'd be on me in seconds."

"But you can make yourself invisible," Dotz said. "And you can mask your ki."

"Sure, but he could set off an explosion big enough to catch me before that would do me any good," Zatte explained. "I don't know exactly how strong he is, but I got a decent idea when I tracked him down to his place. He's definitely strong enough that I can't afford any mistakes. One shot is all I get. If it weren't for these damn windows!"

"Well, why not turn part of the wall invisible?" Dotz suggested. "You can do that too, can't you?"

"It's not quite that simple," Zatte said. She lifted her spoon and it slowly began to vanish from sight. "What I'm doing here is bending light waves around an object. The spoon is unchanged, but you can't see it because I'm not allowing light to bounce off of it and into your eyes." She then held up her free hand and placed it behind the spoon. "You can see my hand because light is bouncing off of that, and then I warp that light around the spoon and into your eyes. But I can't make a section of the bulkhead invisible, because I'd have to bend light from the other side and bring it into this cabin, and there's no pathway for me to do that, unless you open the door or something."

"Oh, I see," Dotz said.

"I could use the windows on the apartment as an opening," Zatte went on, but even so, I'd have to be pretty close to make it work. Less than a hundred feet, I think. I might as well knock on the door and shoot him when he answers it."

"Well, why not try that?" Dotz asked. She stood up and pointed at the building across from the apartment. "Not... not knocking on his door, I mean. But you could set up here, and make part of his wall invisible, and then you couldn't miss."

"Dotz," Zatte said, "he'll notice me right away. As soon as he looks up and sees a hole in his wall, he'll know something's up before I even get a chance to aim."

"He might not look up," Dotz said. "You could make a small hole, just big enough to see through."

Zatte took a deep breath and put her hands behind her head as she leaned back in the chair. "It's too risky. I mean, if he's facing away from me, there's no problem at all. At that range the shot becomes child's play, sure. But if he's facing the wall, and he's already on edge..."

"Oh, but I don't think he is," Dotz said. "He snuck into a war zone, past a fleet, and then he bluffed his way into conquering this planet. Right now, he's probably thinking he doesn't need to worry about anything. He's already won."

"Is that a prophecy?" Zatte asked.

"Call it a hunch," Dotz said. "It's just that... if he were worried, he wouldn't be hiding in plain sight like this, would he? He thinks he's holding all the cards. The last thing he expects is someone like you to shoot him. Besides, I have... well, I suppose I have faith in you. You know your skills, and you believe this is worth doing. Just like you believe Luffa will win this war."

Zatte leaned forward in her chair and looked at Dotz for at least a minute.

"You're right," she finally said. "I have to do this, and I need to do it soon. It's risky, but it'll only be riskier if I wait. If Providence has decided that I should fail, then there's nothing I can do about it."

She stood up from her chair, and then Dotz did the same. "I'll go with you," she offered, but Zatte gestured for her to sit.

"No, I can't risk losing both of us," she said. "And if something does go wrong, I need you to fill in the others on what happened. But I appreciate the offer."

"At least let me read your fortune," Dotz said. "I might be able to tell you if this will work or not."

"Thanks, but no," Zatte said. "But I'll tell you what. If I make it back, I'll tell you all about the vision I had. If I'm going to take a chance, we may as well make this interesting, right? A little side-bet won't hurt."

Dotz smiled, but not as cheerfully as she might have liked. She was confident that this plan would work, and it seemed that Zatte believed in it too, but she still felt responsible for whatever came next, as if she had signed the young woman's death warrant.

But there had been no fear in Zatte's eye when she turned and left for her mission. Dotz had gathered this much just from handling the eyepatch. With past clients, such objects often carried signs of regret, or bitterness, or repressed trauma. Zatte's eyepatch had traces of these, to be sure, but they were overshadowed by a sense of duty and honor, and the notion that her physical loss served a higher purpose. Dotz didn't know if there was any truth to this, but it didn't seem to matter. Zatte believed it, and for now, that was enough.

And so, when Zatte returned a few hours later, alive and unhurt, holding a bottle of spirits to celebrate her successful hit, Dotz was deeply relieved, but not altogether surprised.

NEXT: ...To She Who Waits.

#dragon ball #fanfiction #zatte #dotz #ristet iv #lssjluffafic

3 notes · View notes

jeannereames · 5 years ago

Note

The original of Prado bronze - when was it identified as Hephaistion and why is it identified as Demetrius now? Thank you.

First, let me begin with a serious caution: unless a figure is NAMED, it’s all guesswork. Some guesses may be more sound, but ultimately, it’s opinion. What I see and what another person sees can differ, and the Prado Colossal Bronze is a good example. One of the main reasons for IDing it as Demetrios Poliorketes rests on perceived similarities to a couple other statues thought to be D.P., especially one from Herculanium. But I think D.P. appears much softer, and when the Prado is looked at full-on, the mouth is different, the chin is firmer, the face is longer, and the jaw seems squarer (although the damage makes that tough).

Now to be fair, different sculptors could be the reason for the differences, not to mention different mediums. Just compare the ATG Azara Herm to the Pergamum head to see how much difference there can be! But to me, the Prado just doesn’t look enough like Demetrios. Actually, to my mind, the Hephaistion votive (discussed below) looks more like Demetrios than the Prado Bronze!

Our biggest problem is that we lack what’s called a “portraiture tradition” for Hephaistion, unlike what we have for Alexander, or Sokrates, or Augustus, or Antinoos. No matter the slight differences in these figures, it’s usually pretty easy to guess one when you see it. That simply doesn’t exist for Hephaistion. While there may have been about a bajillion statues of him made for ATG after H. died, that didn’t survive Alexander. The Successors had every reason to promote *themselves* with Alexander, and minimize Hephaistion’s memory.

(This is one reason I’m highly skeptical that any of those figures in the Pella mosaics are Hephaistion. The lion hunt mosaic, for instance, is almost certainly Alex and *Krateros*, based on a description by the travel-writer Pausanias of a bronze [I think bronze?] group commissioned by Krateros’s son, to commemorate when his father saved the king from a lion. Pausanias describes virtually the exact same positioning. The house it came from, called the “Dionysos House,” might even have *been* Krateros’s son’s house. It’s one of the biggest of the Hellenistic-era houses in that block area. I gave it to Hephaistion’s family in the novel (*grin*) just because I wanted to be able to describe something concrete, but of course, it wouldn’t have had any lion hunt at that point.) HEPHAISTION in portraiture...the ONLY securely identified statue of him is a dedicatory votive from the Thessaloniki Museum made by one “Diogenes” to the “hero Hephaistion.” (This image is copyrighted to me, and watermarked.)

Unfortunately, it lacks what most art historians would consider distinctive, or “portrait” features. It’s of a style that resembles northern Macedonian and Thracian portraits of “hero horsemen.” The female figure in the stele (perhaps Diogenes’s wife?) is about to pour a liquid offering into the patera (offering bowl) that he’s holding in his hand--pretty standard stuff. Slap a hat on his head and he could be the Thracian Rider.

A handful of other portraits, mostly in marble, have been IDed as Hephaistion, largely because he’s positioned with Alexander as part of a sculpted set. Two of the better known are the Kyme head and the “Demetrio” statue (so-called because it was originally thought to be Demetrios, too). Yes, the Kyme head and Demetrio statue do sorta look alike, but that’s because they’re “generic ephebe.” ALL those look alike. :-) (An ephebe is a young man, usually in his late teens/early 20s. They tend to be modeled on statues of Apollo, the idealized young man.) One may as well point out that most Archaic koroi look alike!

Probably the best known “Hephaistion,” the Getty head, is also almost certainly a forgery. The other best-known Hephaistion figure is from the “Alexander Sarcophagus” (so-called because of who’s on it, not who’s in it) in the Istanbul Museum. There are actually THREE possible Hephaistions on the sarcophagus, but the best known is the central horseman in the long-side battle scene. That ID is based on the assumption it’s the burial sarcophagus of Abdalonymos, King of Sidon (who was given his position by Hephaistion). Waldemar Heckel recently tried to re-argue the sarcophagus belonged to Mazeus of Babylon, which I’m not buying (I think if fits Abdalonymos better). But if he’s right,t hat would probably throw the ID of the central rider into question. WHATever the case, again, we have a generic face. Both Alexander on the left, and “Parmenion” (so IDed by several, although Antigonos Monophthalmos has also been floated) on the right of this battle scene have, to my eye, more distinctive (e.g., portrait) features.

So how do we know Hephaistion if we see him? We don’t.

So if it’s all so IFFY, why do I consider the Prado Bronze to be Hephaistion? It owes to a couple things, which I fully admit are speculative. It was first IDed as Hephaistion as early as 1900, and a couple more have argued so since, including Manolis Andronikos, but the most recent arguments (that I know of) come from 1988 by Moreno, repeated in Smith’s HELLENISTIC ROYAL PORTRAITS (which is where I first encountered it, back in grad school).

I found three points intriguing: First, the bronze is a “colossus,” so larger-than-life, usually reserved for gods and heroes. If we do later see this transferred to kings, this portrait is early for that (310-300 BCE?). Second, Moreno thinks it’s a Lysippos and (my bad Italian aside), I found his argument convincing. Third, the head lacks a royal diadem, which we usually see with Successor kings. Granted, it IS an early statue, and those arguing for Demetrios suggest the fashion of taking up the diadema (ala, ATG) hadn’t yet caught on.

But in a nutshell, that’s why I think it could be Hephaistion: a portrait made of the “Hero Hephaistion,” possibly for a heroon, or hero shrine. That he’s not wearing the diadema may suggests it’s not meant to be a king.

So why couldn’t it just be, say, Apollo? Well, it does have a few characteristics that may suggest it’s a portrait, not a generic god. First, he’s got a crease in his forehead; this is no Apollonian ephebe. He’s older if not old, probably early 30s. He has a long face, jutting chin, and deep-set eyes (better seen side-on) under a heavy brow. Plus the wild hair recalls Alexander’s a bit. The hair is one reason he’s been suggested as Demetrios, in fact. But once more, when I look at this portrait, I just don’t see the similarity (putting below both the Prado head and the Herculanium marble).

Does that make the figure Hephaistion? Again, no. But given when it was made (310ish), if it IS a *portrait* of a person heroized, well...Hephaistion makes a pretty good bet.

So that’s the (rather long) explanation for why I still accept Moreno’s ID of the bronze as Hephaistion, and why it became my “mental image” for what Hephaistion might have looked like. But again, I FREELY admit this is all a bunch of speculation!

#Hephaistion #hephaestion #art history #prado bronze #how do art historians decide these things anyway?

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tumblehcendrum · 4 years ago

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I doubt there are any resources, as rules change with brands, so here’s my Average Automotve Alphanumerical Guesswork Guide (or AAAGG), with general rules, examples, and guesswork tips, and more conversation-oriented glossary and enthusiast etiquette

GENERAL RULES!

So, alphanumerically named cars usually have a digit or letter indicating size...

- Audis, bar rare exceptions, are just called A[number], or Q[number] if SUVs, with the A1 being smaller than the A2 and so on

- Mazdas have a similar rule, with just numbers (e.g. 2, 3, 6), CX-[number] for crossovers, MX-[number] for “Mazda Xperiments” like the MX-5 y’all call Miata, and *sniff* RX-[number] cars, which *starts crying uncontrollably* WHY DID THEY HAVE TO LEAVE US, GOD?!

- Mercedes models start with a letter that (bar off-roaders) is further down the alphabet the larger the model, so the C class is shorter than the E class

- BMW models’ starting digit indicates the size, since lately they have coupes (or faux coupes) use even numbers and sedans use odd ones, so the 3 series is a sedan, its coupe version is a 4 series, the 5 series is a larger sedan. Its SUVs are just X[number]

...and often digits for engine size in cc...

- A mercedes C class won’t have a “C class” badge, it’ll have the badge for its specific engine size (so if it’s a 2000cc it’ll be a C200)

- Same for a 3 series, that will be even more specific and show the fuel too (so a 320d will be a 3 series with a 2000cc diesel) and 4WD if it has it (so a 320xd will be the 4WD version of the 320d)

...and a sporty division that’s either placed after or fucks the naming scheme up

- Audi S (sporty I guess) and RS (real fucken sporty) models will start with S or RS instead of A (so S3 or RS3 rather than A3)

- BMW models will start with an M, and will maintain the naming scheme in sporty I guess models and just keep the series number in real fucken sporty models (e.g. M340i is sporty I guess, M3 is real fucken sporty)

- Mercedes models will add AMG as a suffix and take a digit out the engine size numbers (e.g. you have a C220 but a C63 AMG)

- Fiat has a sport division called Abarth but unlike most believe it actually replaces the brand (e.g. there’s no Fiat 500 Abarth, that’s an Abarth 500)

- Mazda does a similar thing with its Mazdaspeed division (so sporty Mazda 3 = Mazdaspeed 3)... *starts crying again* OR AT LEAST DID *sobs* WHY GOD, WHYYYYY

- Honda’s sporty I guess models use the suffix Si (spelt, not pronounced), and its real fucken sporty models use the suffix Type R (e.g. you wanna fuck with a Civic, evaluate fucking with a Civic Si, do not fuck with a Civic Type R)

GUESSWORK TIPS!

- As specified, larger numbers either indicate a larger car or a larger engine, either way usually larger number = more car

- Same goes for letters further down the alphabet

- Names or letters after the name, aside from BMWs (as explained above) usually indicate version/trim level. If someone bothers to include them they’re likely talking about a sporty (usually with aggressive names like Demon or letters GT, R or S) or electric (usually featuring E) version

- Depreciation is very much a thing, so don’t assume any car with a fancy badge will have cost 50k+. You can actually get BMWs for three digits if you look hard enough

- Miatas are cool. People believing otherwise are usually a bit stuck up.

GLOSSARY!

- More or less, two doors = coupe, three/five doors = hatchback, four door = sedan, five door version of a sedan = station wagon

- It counts as a door if it has hinges, metal and glass. So if a car has two passenger doors and the rear windshield opens with the trunk, it’s a three door.

- The difference between a five-door hatchback and a wagon is like love: lots of controversy on the definition (some look at the number of side windows and the roofline), but you know it when you see it.

- Horsepower measures the engine power (small to midsize cars go from 100 to 250, 300+ is what normal people start to call “scary”), torque does too but in a more “how much can it pull” way (400+ is impressive in things not made to tow)

- Weight determines if that engine power will actually make the car go fast. A Mini (some 2700 lbs) with 300hp is a riot. An Escalade (some 7000lbs) with 300hp will barely move.

- What wheels the engine is actually connected to depends on the car. FWD is cheaper to implement and saves cabin space but struggles to handle high power, so is usually reserved to small/low power cars and their sporty versions. RWD tends to be considered more fun and engaging so it’s a preference in sportscars and driving-focused sedans (like BMWs and sporty Mercs), and also allows you to do “drifting”,

Which is considered very fun. AWD provides the most grip and is thus the favorite of rally cars, high-powered versions of small cars, and executive rockets like sportier Audis.

- Turbocharger and supercharger are two different ways to cram more air into the engine, which makes it able to put more fuel in too, which makes it kaboom harder and make more power. A turbo/supercharged engine is thus more powerful. Some people prefer to just have a bigger engine due to things like “character”.

ENTHUSIAST ETIQUETTE!

- Similar subjective reasons like style and character make many older cars fascinating to enthusiasts, so consider that to them an older car tends to be more, not less, interesting (thus avoid remarks like “You like that? But it so old!”, at most just say you prefer newer cars).

- Guesswork if you need to (or aren’t interested enough to ask), but if you want to be sure ask (e.g. “So, like, that’s the sportier version, right?”). Car guys hate and clown on people who pretend to know more than they actually do.

- If you actually want to talk about cars (because faking interest is never a good idea), better questions than “What’s your favorite car?” are “Any particular types/eras you’re into?” “Any favorite brands?” or “What makes you passionate about them?”, also, make sure they’re aware of what gets lost on you.

- Apparently this needs explaining: don’t criticize someone’s own/favorite car. You don’t get in someone’s house and go “This is so small, how do you live here???”, do you. It’s like saying “It’s just a car” in any circumstance that isn’t a no-casualties accident: it’s just a way to say “I don’t understand what makes this special to you and think myself wiser for it”.

Sorry but how do people know about cars. There are like 400000 different types of cars and they all look the same. How is anyone able to tell them apart and be like “ah a 2007 Dodge Antelope Duster, good engine but the wheels go vroom vroom too hard.” Like what are they saying, what is there to say

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found915 · 7 years ago

Text

It’s Sad, But It’s True (Pt. 2)

Pairings: Billy Hargrove x Fem!Reader

Words: 1413

Summary: There’s more to Billy Hargrove than meets the eye, but you’re not sure if it’s going to be enough this time.

Part: 2 of ? (I still don’t know how long this is going to be. When I know, you’ll know. Until then, it’s all guesswork.)

Warnings: Angst, references to abuse, cursing (okay, honestly if I write it, odds are there are going to be a few “colorful embellishments”), Billy Hargrove being confusing af

A/N: Hey, guys! Here’s part 2 of ISBIT!!! I can’t believe I got this completed already, but the love I got for part 1 was astounding and I was so inspired, so thank you!!! I honestly couldn’t believe the amount of notes the first part got and I’m still a little in shock and I’m a lot honored. Thank you for going on this ride with me! I hope you enjoy and feel all the things!

(Also, please don’t think I believe it necessary to be asked for help before you give it. What I write is purely based on how I think certain characters would act and what they would do/need and I don’t think Billy Hargrove would appreciate someone trying to help him when he doesn’t think he needs it. This is in no ways a reflection on my personal opinions/beliefs. This is ultimately a story of healing and that will be understood by the end of this series, I hope. Thank you.)

Part 1

Billy ignored you for a straight week after that night, not even bothering to spare you a glance in the school hallways when you had to pass him to get to your next class. So, essentially, nothing had changed. It’s not like you were really expecting it to, but you were curious as to if you would ever catch another glimpse of the Billy Hargrove who had stood in your yard that night, looking up at the stars. Another glimpse of that scared boy who was desperate for help, but didn’t believe anyone was willing to give it. It didn’t seem too likely. That whole night was probably a fluke, anyway.

You were also really curious as to what he had told people had happened to his face. You couldn’t help, but obsess over it. The bruise was still very much there, even if it had turned to a more sallow yellow already. There were varying stories circling the rumor mill, but none of them came close to what you imagined was the truth. You guessed you’d never know. You just genuinely hoped it got better for him and you wished you knew how to help. Even if he was a dick more than half of the time. You didn’t really think that wishing on stars was enough. It’d have to be a start, though, which is why you made sure to do it every night.

After the week of absolute disregard had passed, something strange happened. You were walking home from school when the familiar roar of an engine sounded behind you, closing the distance swiftly until it began to slow down, crawling at a turtle’s pace beside you matching your stride. Not even bothering to look because you knew who it was, you just hugged your books closer to your chest and continued your trek, head held high and your eyes looking straight ahead. The signature blue Camaro continued to match your pace for a bit longer before speeding up a little and suddenly pulling up to the curb and parking. The passenger door was swung open as if waiting for you to get in. Quirking a brow and placing a lock of hair behind your ear, you simply chose to keep walking, still not bothering to look at the interior. There was no telling what the mullet wearing teen was thinking, but you weren’t entirely fond of games and this seemed like one in which he expected you to be a willing participant. You’d stick to your wishing on stars, thank you very much.

You hadn’t gotten much past the car before you heard another car door open. Rolling your eyes, you stopped, but still didn’t turn to face the boy.

“You’re pretty goddamn stubborn, aren’t you, (Y/L/N)?” Billy huffed, leaning against the hood of his car and pulling out a cigarette before lighting up. Looking over your shoulder at him, you took in his expression which insisted he wasn’t nearly as annoyed as he pretended to be. You gave a small shrug.

“I don’t remember being asked a question, so I don’t see how I’m being stubborn.”

Billy raised that famous eyebrow of his, simply looking you over for a minute. Annoyed by his silent scrutiny, you sighed and rolled your eyes before turning back around and beginning to walk away once more. There was the asshole you had become accustomed to and expected, even if it was from a distance that you were exposed to it. Okay, so maybe you had thought things were going to be different after your talk of hope. Sue you. Everyone was allowed to make mistakes. This guy got his jollies off by messing with people’s heads. You saw how he liked to screw with your friend, Steve Harrington, and the other girls at school. There was no way you were going to fall prey to his bullshit.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Okay, you weren’t expecting that. Facing him again, you noticed the only movement he had made was to cross his arms. Protecting himself. From you. That… that was unexpected. This guy sure knew how to throw you for a damn loop.

“Uh, what?” your confusion was evident on your face, you were sure of it.

“At school. Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Billy’s gaze had narrowed slightly, certain you were going to tell him that you had told someone and he just hadn’t been exposed to the consequences of your running your mouth yet. His eyes seemed to be trying to penetrate your soul in that moment, to find all the answers that he needed. It was all you could do to look away.

“Oh, um, because I didn’t think you’d want me to?” It was more of a question than an answer. You tried again. “If I thought it would make things better for you, as opposed to worse, I might have. But I knew you weren’t ready for my help, so, I, uh, kept it to myself…” you mumbled that last part, biting your lip to stop your rambling.

“You didn’t tell any of your little friends?” he asked, still dubious. He had seen you with Harrington, Wheeler, and Byers. If you had chosen to tell anyone, it would be them. Pushing away from the Camaro, Billy stamped out his cigarette before stepping onto the sidewalk and moving closer to you. Eyes following his movement, you still couldn’t quite bring yourself to look at his face. You shook your head.

“No. I’m not really one to gossip and, again, that seems more hurtful than helpful.”

“I don’t need any help, (Y/L/N).” Billy stopped a respectful distance away from you, but you still felt he was too close. The air surrounding you seemed too charged with… something. Something you couldn’t describe. Tilting your eyes from their current neutral position, you found his face once more. Billy Hargrove had another unreadable expression on his features, blue eyes charged with this foreign thing as they locked onto yours. Breathing seemed a little more difficult than it should have been in that moment.

“Right. Of course not. Sorry,” you answered with sincerity. You weren’t so used to being out of your element and this whole situation was making you feel like you were currently living underwater. Breathing was difficult, you were surrounded by silence, there was a roaring in your ears, Billy’s eyes were reminiscent of waves… Luckily for you, a gust of cold wind broke you out of your hypnosis. Unluckily for you, you hadn’t worn a jacket, just a thin, long sleeve shirt and your hair was now personally assaulting your face. Your heaping amounts of hairspray did not stand a chance against the Indiana fall winds.

Billy chuckled quietly, his smirk taking over residence on his face. When the air stilled once more, his hand came up to move a wayward lock behind your ear. Eyes widening, you tensed slightly, but he noticed causing him to drop the strand of hair. Immediately breaking eye contact and shoving his hands in his pockets, the boy stepped away from you. Opening his mouth to say something, he stopped when he noticed your shiver, changing his mind. Instead he said, “Come on. I’ll give you a ride home.”

“I’m fine. It’s not that far,” you began to insist. Billy is already opening the driver’s side door, stopping only long enough to roll his eyes at you.

“You’re freezing. Just get in the damn car, (Y/N). It’s not like it’s out of the way.” Sighing, you acquiesce and walk toward the still open passenger door. After getting in and resting your books in your lap, you finish what Billy had started, and began fixing your windblown hair. Noting that you still haven’t moved, you turn to see Billy looking at you once again. Watching your movements.

“What?” you question, cursing the obvious nervousness in your voice.

“Nothing. I just can’t seem to figure you out, (Y/L/N).”

Lurching away from the curb suddenly, you decide to buckle up as Billy Hargrove speeds down the deserted street. You hear his snicker at your movements, which earned him a glare. Choosing to look out the window as the houses whizzed by, you muttered under your breath, “That makes two of us, then.”

You don’t know if he heard you or not, but he made sure to blast the radio for the rest of the short journey to your house.

Tags: @xanaphorax @hairringtonsteve @stevesdacre @itsjustcatrin @ashrod98 @lady-thor-foster

(If you want to be tagged in this series, let me know!)

#mdakotaqwrites #mdqwrites #it's sad but it's true #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove series #angst #stranger things #billy hargrove #stranger things fic #dacre montgomery #reader insert

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hightechdad · 4 years ago

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It’s BBQ time again. Actually, BBQ season can exist year-round in many locations; it’s just a bit more enjoyable doing the BBQing process when the weather is a bit nicer. I mean, who wants to stand out in the rain or snow trying to figure out when your meat is cooked to the proper temperature and not become a charred piece of coal on the grill. Guess what! BBQing is becoming smarter – yes, that’s right, another smart device to help you be your best. I recently got to test out the Yummly Smart Thermometer with a couple of huge pieces of tri-tip. And not only did the Yummly Thermometer keep up updated on the cooking process, I knew exactly when I should take the meat off the grill! (*Disclosure below.) Back to that situation where it is pouring rain or snowing out, or you simply want to be inside with your family, friends, or guests instead of hovering around a hot grill. Traditionally, when you BBQ, you are either a seasoned expert and know exactly how long a piece of meat, fish, or poultry needs to be on the grill and when it needs to be flipped, or you are a bit of a newbie like me and run back and forth, sticking an old fashioned cooking thermometer into the meat every five minutes. The meat becomes holy but not in a religious way. With the Yummly Smart Thermometer, you pretty much take all of the guesswork out of grilling, roasting, or cooking. Once whatever you are cooking is monitored by the Yummly Thermometer, you can join your guests or stay out of the rain or cold while your BBQ cooks away. And, you get notifications when the meat is cooked based on your preference, and even when to flip it. How the Yummly Smart Thermometer Works As I mentioned, I had an older digital thermometer that I used for all of my grilling. You turned it on, selected the type of meat, fish, or poultry you were grilling, and then stuck it in to get a quick read on the internal temperature. If you had hit that “cooked” threshold, some of these thermometers would beep. But the whole process was repeatedly sticking the thermometer into the flesh. It was labor-intensive, inefficient, and a bit of a pain in the butt. Enter the Yummly Smart Thermometer! For starters, this smart thermometer is completely wireless, meaning that you can connect it to your smartphone and have a bunch of other readings and notifications. Also, the recommended way of using the Yummly thermometer is to stick it into the side of the meat and leave it there throughout the entire cooking process (instead of piercing the meat repeatedly). The Yummly has two main components: the thermometer itself and the charging dock. The charging dock also has another critical function – it maintains wireless communication with the thermometer (there are no wires between the thermometer and the charging dock) and then relays that information via Bluetooth to your smartphone and the Yummly app. And, the dock also charges up the wireless thermometer when it is not in use and stored away. Once the Yummly is inserted into the thickest part of the meat (and you typically insert it in the side so that you can flip the meat as needed), you leave it in throughout the entire cooking process. The Yummly will give you real-time temperature readings from the inside of the meat, as well as “external” temperature reading from inside the grill or oven. Basically, you have two real-time readings always available. Let’s take a look at the initial setup and my first grilling experience using the Yummly! Initial Setup of the Yummly Thermometer The first time you use the Yummly, I recommend setting it up at least an hour before you actually want to grill. There are a couple of reasons for this. First, you need to run through all of the Bluetooth pairing processes. Then, you need to be sure that there isn’t a firmware update required (mine needed one). And lastly, you need to charge up the thermometer before the first use. You start by putting the included AAA batteries in the base. And make sure you install the Yummly app first. There are actually two parts to the Yummly smart app – one is all about planning meals and getting recipes (there are premium subscription services for that – this review is not about that service as I don’t have a premium account…yet), and the other is about setting up the Yummly Smart Thermometer. The smart app will walk you through all of the required setup steps, including pairing and updating the firmware. They do recommend that you charge the Yummly at least 30 minutes before going through the setup. So, as I said, install the batteries and leave the smart thermometer in the case to charge up. To use the smart connectivity, you do need to make sure you have Bluetooth enabled. During the setup process, you will pair the thermometer case via Bluetooth to your smartphone. Keep your smartphone next to the case for the fastest setup. Once you go through the setup and pairing, you are ready to start grilling! Getting Grilling! When you are ready to grill, and the Yummly is all charged up, all you need to do is simply remove the smart thermometer from the charging case. Make sure your phone is close by and Bluetooth is on. The Yummly app will indicate when your smartphone has connected to the case. Once it is connected, you are ready to cook. Click on “Ready to Cook” and then choose what you will be cooking (meat, fish, or poultry). You can make a manual selection if you want. For my grilling, I chose Beef. In this particular instance with beef, you choose the type of cut you have – I chose Steak (as I had two big slabs of tri-tip). Next, you insert the thermometer fully into the thickest part of the side of the meat. Ensure that you insert it all of the way so that no metal from the thermometer is showing and just the black cap remains. You are then reminded to keep the charging/connected dock within five feet of the thermometer itself. Don’t put it too close to heat though! The last step for grilling beef was choosing how well cooked the meat should be. I chose Medium Rare. Each setting has a target temperature that the Yummly should hit to indicate if the meat is cooked enough or not. For Medium Rare, the temperature has to hit 135º. You can optionally check off the “Tell me when to flip the food” setting (I didn’t, unfortunately) so that Yummly can tell you the best time to flip the meat. As you grill, you can spy on the internal temperature of the meat. And, you can even get the ambient temperature from inside the grill (but not inside the meat). One of the great features is that the estimated “ready time” of the meat is displayed. While I was grilling, one of my daughters kept asking me when the meat would be ready. With a quick look at the app, I could give an exact time. And, I wasn’t even in front of the grill! However, I did make the mistake of having my iPhone go beyond the Bluetooth range of the charging case. Once I did put it back in range, I got a notification (actually on my Apple Watch) that the meat was almost done! So I raced outside to remove the tri-tip from the grill. One last setting that I didn’t test out but will next time is the Rest Timer. Once you remove meat from a grill, it is important to let it rest for a few minutes before carving it up. With the Yummly, you can set the timer, and you will be notified when you can start carving. Under the case is another item that you use to remove the thermometer from the meat. You definitely do not want to touch the Yummly directly right when you take it off the grill as I learned it is quite hot. The attachment allows you to securely grab the thermometer and remove it from the meat. A Great Gift for Grillers! I must say, my first time using the Yummly smart thermometer was easy and effective. The meat was cooked nicely to slightly over a medium-rare (probably because I waited just a few minutes too long before removing the tri-tip). The thinner cuts were cooked a bit more medium than medium-rare, but that was fine because there are some members of my family who, for some reason, like their steak cooked a bit more – but I’m working on changing that! Clean-up is easy. Once you let the thermometer cool down, just rinse it off with a sponge and soap. Don’t put it in the dishwasher, though. Then, put it back into the charging case so that you are ready for your next grilling adventure. A fully-charged Yummly should have enough battery for about 25 hours – perfect for a slow-cook brisket or something. The Yummly Smart Thermometer retails for $129.99. But as of this writing, it is on sale on Amazon for $99.00! Honestly, even at the full price, I think this is a nice deal, especially if you or one of your loved ones enjoys grilling! Buy on HighTechDad The product shown below (and related products that have been reviewed on HighTechDad) is available within the HighTechDad Shop. This review has all of the details about this particular product and you can order it directly by clicking on the Buy button or clicking on the image/title to view more. Be sure to review other products available in the HighTechDad Shop. Yummly Smart Meat Thermometer $99.00 Buy on Amazon Disclosure: I have a material connection because I received a sample of a product for consideration in preparing to review the product and write this content. I was/am not expected to return this item after my review period. All opinions within this article are my own and are typically not subject to the editorial review from any 3rd party. Also, some of the links in the post above may be “affiliate” or “advertising” links. These may be automatically created or placed by me manually. This means if you click on the link and purchase the item (sometimes but not necessarily the product or service being reviewed), I will receive a small affiliate or advertising commission. More information can be found on my About page. HTD says: In order to take your grilling to the next level, you need to learn the art of cooking your meat, poultry, or fish to perfection. 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#HTD #HighTechDad.com #HighTechDad™

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dunmerofskyrim · 7 years ago

Text

A great cavern of atrium, sides trenched like the kernelpit of a peach. In red and lambent violet we saw what tunnels led off it. Veins and arteries off from an old stiff heart; roots from the bulb of some tuber’s slow growing. We didn’t venture far. There was no need. Miner-baskets lay in piles against one strange-grooved wall, each heaped into the one beneath it so they stacked in fives and threes, sixes and eights. Tiers of coiled roughshod wicker.

“Think they found this wild?” I asked as we worked. “The kwama just set into the city when it emptied of people?” Sweat on my arms and in the spine-furrow that cleaves my back. In the heat of the mine, I forgot that the world above was all winter. “Or did people set in and plant all this, for food? How’s it work? Is an egg-mine something you seed or something you stumble on?”

“Ask the farmer,” Medis said.

And we gathered what eggs we could. What eggs we could mattock and trowel out from the lodgings where they grew bubonic against the wall-grooves and floor, and hung stalactite from the ceiling. The egg-lodgings disgusted me worse than the eggs, the kwama, the tight and blood-warm darkness of the mine itself. Not quite meat nor quite earth, they raised like proudflesh, like scar-tissue, in growths and beds from the dirt of the place. Tooling free the eggs from it felt more like surgery, butchery, than mining.

Kwama milled about us, in all the seeming aimlessness of intense and focused labour.

The come and go of foragers, long and shorting the plates of their shells to writhe forward. Not like snakes who tacks towards progress, sideways, then sidewards, then sideways again. More like some nameless muscle, moving in throbs and contractions as they left off down the side-tunnels.

And the hunchbacked workers, four-footed and sturdy, with their chins like ploughshares and their hollow tunnel-faces. Their two pairs of petty arms beneath the great lob of their heads. Blind jade eyes down the length of their plate-jagged bodies. Around us they dug, and scaled along the grooved walls, and daubed the cavern’s sides with black secretions that shone in our magelights and set hard as lacquer.

But we filled our baskets. One each, with leather-shelled eggs some big as melons, others small enough to hold in one hand. Pushing them ahead, we stooped and crawled back down the tunnel. Up the tunnel. Around the tunnel as it screwed to the surface.

I feel the air first. The cold of the real world, where winter still reigns, outside the mine’s strange dream. It breezes against my face and I think the wind-chime chimes again.

The light that breaks across my eyes is little light at all. The sun’s begun to sink already. Ablaze, my first sight of sky. The tunnel spits us out and onto the temple wreckage, and above the night spreads like a bruise while orange clings to the west. Long shadows stripe the ruin floor, lean and smooth as ink over all the rubble-roughness.

“Believe you were more’n two hours,” says Shurfa, leaning out from one of the shadows. “We waited anyways.”

“Goes deep,” I say by way of explanation, if not apology.

“Thank you,” says Medis.

“Fucking tunnels,” I say. “Worth it though for what we found. It’s a fucking egg-mine down there. Tamed. Look!” Our two baskets are fuller of eggs than any one person could carry without aching, rest-stopping, sweating through their clothes even in winter. “Shunted them all the way back up.”

“Not a bad harvest for two cityfolk,” says Shurfa.

“Think it’ll do for the rest? How many meals in a kwama egg, anycase?”

“How long’s a rope. How tall’s a tree. But biggest you got there, well I’d say as it’s a sixty-cell egg.”

“So that’s a yes then. Least until we make the mainland.”

“If we’re chary.”

“Reckon we’ll have to be.”

“I don’t understand,” says Balambal. He’s been chewing something over in his head, maybe since before we came back. His words come like a worry he can’t keep in anymore. “This place would feed six families well. Here, that’s more valuable than anything. Why is it not guarded?”

“It’s hidden,” I shrug, but take his point. “Did you see anyone up here? Anything?”

“Silence and the moving sky.”

“Maybe they’re gone. Something happened to them.”

“What they deserve,” tuts Shurfa, “egg-mining a temple of the old Tribunal. What we deserve too, like as not.”

“Admissions and atonements will feature in my prayers tonight,” says Medis. “But for now we’d best not ling—”

The air breaks with a thupp. A stout wooden something stands out from Medis’ neck and the tunnel-ragged front of his pilgrim’s robes are coming in black. A growing stain like a lengthening shadow. He paws and presses at the crossbow quarrel, an agony of surprise in his searching hands, and on his blank sudden face. Tries to pull it out. No telling if the raw suck of sound that comes is the voice of the wound or him trying to speak.

His magelight blinks out. He slumps forward. The world’s lit only in red now.

Curse and clamour, we split off from each other in panic, exploding towards what cover we can find. Shurfa to the temple’s one standing wall. Balambal to the gloom of the tunnelmouth.

I bound up the wreckage-slope that leads towards the spire. Try to remember Medis’ facing, the bolt’s angle. Coming up almost empty, I trust myself to a half-guess and corner round the spire’s nightward side.

“No flights!” Balambal’s voice calls from below. “No flights on the quarrel! It came from close!”

My light’s come with me, leaving the temple-floor in half-darkness and me haloed round like a beacon. “Fuck…” I close the spell in my mind and stand obscure, against the towerside and against the purpling sky. I pull my sword and hold it ready.

In the shadows a steamlike hissing comes running through the black. Closing it starts like a harsh whistle, many-mouthed, to the sound of scurrying feet. Not a dog, but knowing nothing of nix, I default to the same fear.

“They’ve got nix!” I shout. My second trust to guesswork of the night.

“Simra!” I hear Shurfa bellow. Hear the sound of bodies shuffle-struggling against stone. “Light! Unkill the light, blight it!”

I turn towards the scurry as it gains on me. Third guess. I bark a calling word. Flames glare out from my left hand. The shape of something many-legged and lean scuttled on itself sears into my eyes after the flare’s gone out. Half-blind, I still see sparks clinging to something moving. I strike for it, Hlaalu blade singing long through the air as it clacks against hardshell, softshell, sharp but not heavy enough for the work.

Limned in sparks, the shape writhes round, awful and catlike, streaming and shedding glints scraps of itself as it turns. It pounces through my second gout of fire and chokes off the calling into a yelp.

Panic.

I fall back into the towerside and crumple flailing onto the ground. Fall down the slope, fighting limbs, not knowing if they’re mine. Hear screams, and don’t know if they’re mine. The darkness, the reek of smoke, the reek of bad sour candles, as tight around me now as the tunnel was below.

I scramble onto my feet. I’ve lost my sword; lost the hound-shaped thing that jumped me. A senseless scream leaps out my mouth as I spin a circle and trace a wake of sparks and scalding air around me. Fend off. Everything that might be, could be — I won’t let it touch me. But I’m wasting my reserves; spending more than I ought to. The fear puts an excess in me. I lose my measure.

Spinning again, body low in an animal crouch, I catch sight of my flames catching something. The same nix-shape as before, or another — no matter which, for it writhes back, air shrieking hot from its shell. I remember the wolves of the Rift, the pack’s closing circle and my widening circle of fire in the night. I wish there was more here to burn.

But as things are, the sprays of flame bright the night into frozen pictures.

Shurfa caves in the side of a nix-hound with her longclub. Sends it flying to crack against the facade wall. The sound of her roar outlives the image blazed into my mind.

Balambal bursts from the tunnelmouth like a heron up from the reeds that hid it. Flashing curve of sabre takes one shadow in the shoulder.

No peace in my mind to call light with. Only fire to shriek out at the dark. What comes at me next has a cudgel raised. No, something between pick and sickle — a farmer’s tool against my empty hands. They yell for courage. I scream for fear and fury, and half-leap backwards. A scything arc of my arms as I go – one savage move of a dance I scarcely know – and flames thrust, crest, and curl like a breaker at sea towards the coming figure. Golden edged with a foam of copper sparks and spitting as it shatters, the wave of flame has a red heart and a black manshape inside it.

I land bad and blind though from the hap and hazard of my dodge. A sharp pain as my ankle threatens to twist. Rather than let it, I fall into its angle, tumble along the ground. Maybe I try to roll. Maybe the rubble and wreckage stops me, grabbing and bruising, objecting hard on my elbows, shoulders, sides and thighs. My scalp is sharp and bloodwet. My ankle throbs too hot.

But the temple-ruins are painted now, in a glaze of orange light and brown shadow. At its center, a figure thrashes, ragged clothes gone all to flame. Its arms rise up and it shrieks, like a celebrant, eaten up in an oil-reeking ecstasy of fire. It goes to ground, rolling against the blunt-tooth scree and wreckage. Torch one moment and bonfire the next as it collapses. Wailing thin one moment, then sounding like spitted meat; airless, voiceless, crackling.

The burning body gave out enough light to show how Balambal died

A bolt stuns him, sticking smug into the side of his ribs. It hammers the air from his lungs. The attacker whose shoulder’s grit wet round Balambal’s blade fights him to the ground as I try to struggle up. A long straight knife sinks into Balambal’s belly, hooks up; breaks into his thigh as he raises a leg, an arm, anything to fight off the other mer. Blood pools round them link an inkblot, livid-black on the stones. Their struggle sounds like the gurgling of two drowning men.

I saw Balambal die and know how death met him, but Shurfa died in the dark that came after. I don’t know which is worse.

#TES #Morrowind #Dunmer #Simra Hishkari #SH Forth and Back #SH New Canon

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hollywoodx4 · 8 years ago

Text

Sticking with the Schuylers (31)

I really had to think about how many chapters this has good lord 31 chapters of you guys sticking through it-and supporting it-and commenting and loving and I just-Thanks for everything you do, I love you all so much. This one’s a long one because I feel bad for my post-vacation I think I might have walking pneumonia lack of updates this week.

(Happy Easter to those who celebrate it-Happy weekend to those who don’t!)

Tagging: @ellzabethschuyler (Hope you’re feeling well and wonderful!)

Let’s talk about John Laurens and the media....

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 I 13 14 15 16 17 18A 18B 18C I 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 261 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 I 13 14 15 16 17 18A 18B 18C I 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 I 30

There are many things that present themselves as a façade in New York City; cozy chairs that dig into bodies in just the wrong way, discount coffees just above five dollars…the entire city seems to live as a picture of itself, showing a version that it would rather be than what it truly is. To tourists it is perfect, picturesque. They arrive in Times Square, or Central Park, or Rockafeller Center with every picture they had seen online ideally filled. They traipse with their tour groups in safety and with careful guidance. There is no guesswork-only the ability to lay back and enjoy the sights while somebody else does the work.

There were many things about New York City that had stunned Alexander when he had first arrived; a seventeen year old who had lived a life mostly taken up by the care of his mother or the desperate scrambling to get out. There were so many people, always rushing about, with goals in their minds and dreams tucked in their pockets. And he relished them, these dreams. These people with their brief cases-their shoulder bags, their purses….each person who walked by Alexander had a life separate from his own. And although his own life had been a struggle he was here, walking through the city reading street signs to find his way to Columbia.

It was his dream; the people, the crowds…Alexander had waited so long to get out of the Caribbean that it came as a shock to him that he was among this life now-that he wasn’t just a map-muddled tourist. This was his world, with its bright lights and throngs of busyness. He longed to be an immediate part of it. At seventeen, he yearned for the opportunity to be a part of something.

One of the first things he decided to do was grab something to eat-the journey to the city had been long and tiresome, and there were many things that weighed deep on his mind. Every so often in the face of a passerby-a beautiful child, a work-worn mother-he would find a fragment of the delicate features his own mother had possessed. His stomach is in knots by the time he reaches a tucked-away café, whose doorway sits in an alley rather on the main streets. He tosses his bag under a table and orders a coffee and a croissant, proudly handing the cashier his money before tucking into a long table situated in front of the window. The windows face the street in this shop, and although Alexander thinks this is a little backwards he is thankful for the peace that people watching brings him.

He sits with a pen and an old notebook, bound by hand and given to him as a gift by a shop owner in Nevis he had grown close to. She spent her days binding these notebooks, and even as a boy Alex would stop by her shop whenever possible, always carrying around one of the books and an idea in his head. When he left she was teary-eyed, wishing that his dreams would be fulfilled as she pressed the soft leather cover in his hands. Now, it sits open on the table. He records what he sees-each passerby with their own description, the emotions running rampant and dancing across the pages. He flips the pages fervently, looking up only occasionally to think-to take in another centimeter of the scenery or to enjoy the coffee that has already grown slightly cold.

Once, in the middle of a particularly long span of writing about the differences between foot traffic between this city and Nevis, he looks up to find somebody sitting next to him. The man looks to be about his age, with hair as seemingly unruly as his pulled neatly into a ponytail that fluffs up at the ends. His coffee-colored features are splashed with a layer of freckles that dot a playful line across his cheeks, which lift in a smile as Alex looks over at him. He waves. Alex nods, looking between the man and his notebook, unsure of what to say.

“You’re a writer, I’m guessing?” The freckled teen begins the conversation, breaking the silence for Alex. He nods again before realizing that he should speak, clearing his throat with a hesitance.

“Yeah-mostly for myself, though.”

“And the bag?” He uses his foot to gesture to Alex’s navy blue duffle, on the floor below his feet and stuffed with what little possessions he had arrived with. Alex shrugs, moving it further underneath the high table with his foot. He feels his face redden-he knows the usual social implications which being an immigrant will bring him. Those truths were already engrained in his mind when he stepped off the train in the city; by those in his village, by his mother…even passersby who did not know his story. People either embraced his past-the past of so many others in the city-or spat the word immigrant as if it were a disease rather than an accomplishment. But this man seemed nice, although chatting with a stranger in the middle of a coffee shop would not have been Alex’s first choice of activities.

“I actually just moved here.”

“Like…just now?”

“Pretty much.”

“From where?”

“Uh, Nevis.” Upon seeing the stranger’s eager eyes Alex is comforted, and although he knows nothing about the man there is a sense of sincere security between them. There will be no judgment, unless he’s very good at hiding it. But Alex decides to take that chance; with nothing to his name and knowing not a single soul in the city, there really isn’t anything to lose. “It’s in the Caribbean-small place, but it was home.”

“And your family?”

“None that I’ll miss.”

“Wow…good for you, man. I guess that makes me your official welcome wagon, then.”

“Oh, my name’s John, by the way. I guess it’s kind of rude not to introduce myself.” He holds his hand out with a large grin plastered on his face. It is cheerful and sincere, taking up most of his features with its charismatic light. Alex accepts the handshake, as well as a relief that floods through his system in copious amounts.

“There are stranger things-like talking to random people in a coffee shop?”

“You’ve got a lot to learn about the city…”

“Alex.”

“Alex. Well, if you’re looking for something to do tonight we have a big family dinner. You could start to get to know a few people around here, make yourself at home-hey, wait. You have a place to stay?”

Alex looks away for a moment, the sudden embarrassment from the lack of a plan returning full-force. It had been enough of a task to get here from Nevis-the actual plan to stay hadn’t quite made its way to his heavy-weighted mind just yet. He shakes his head, refusing to look at the stranger-at John. He’s met with a slight chuckle and eyes that dance with a glittering mischief, teasing him.

“Well, it’s a good thing I decided to stop by this shop today, then. My mom won’t mind you staying a while-our house basically has a revolving door.”

…

John finds their usual seat by the window, head in his hands. They shake under the weight, a pure exhaustion having hit him so hard and so sudden that he can barely keep his eyes up to watch out for Alex. It’s their sophomore year-just getting into their second year of their friendship. The amount of up and downs have taken them on a ride but there they stood, side-by-side, through it all. Still friends.

Still friends.

It surprises John just how far they have come; especially since their friendship had begun in such a strange place. He’d attempted to teach Alex the ways of New York City-some methods had worked, others had failed miserably. It had taken Alex months to learn how to navigate the subway without getting sidetracked or missing his stop but only a day to learn the tax conversions in his head and pick up enough broken Spanish to navigate the craziness of the Laurens household. He’d even managed to find a job, although he hated being a dishwasher for the small diner down the street more than anything. Through it all, he’d had John. And John had been a happy, supportive friend.

The thing about being himself that he hated so much was that familiar tickle that often landed in his stomach and traveled up through his hands. It was a sensation so familiar and yet so unwelcome that he had tried to push it away, lock it and hide it until his mother had sensed what was going on. And she’d pulled him aside one day, after an argument with a sibling about something that had sent him away near tears. He hadn’t remembered how it had started, only how it had ended…with shouting and vile words he hadn’t meant to spill, causing his middle sister to start crying right as his mother walked through the door. Luckily, his mother didn’t yell. Luckily, she was one of the few parents in their community who would talk and listen to an explanation before settling for a punishment. Luckily, Ana Laurens was a mother who would accept her children no matter what.

He’d gotten lucky. Even with seven mouths to feed and only John and his older brother helping with the bills, their mother had taken Alex in. And then they’d both gone to Columbia together, already having a built-in friend. Alex had similar interests; big dreams and a drive to get him there. They’d take Columbia on together, roommates and best friends. John considered himself very lucky-if he hadn’t stopped in the shop that day…he couldn’t imagine a future without Alex Hamilton by his side.

But then, John found a great misfortune within himself. Every time he and Alex were together, there it was. His hands itched. His stomach rolled. And Alex would chuckle, re-tying his hair into a ponytail before sipping on his dark brew. He always smelled like coffee-even at night, when they’d ducked into a movie theatre to avoid the cramped space of their dorm for a few more hours. Even then, when Alex shrugged off his old leather jacket, a warm and bitter scent always came wafting through. It was comforting-secure. It made the knots in his stomach tighten upon the thought alone.

John Laurens had been gay his whole life, but never had he experienced something like this before.

He was unsure of the protocol-if there was any, at all. What he was aware of was the glaringly obvious fact that even if by the stretch of John’s vivid imagination Alex was in some way interested in men, he was in no way interested in him. It was a sense that he picked up, from the way Alex spoke to him in the same tone as Laff or Herc. There wasn’t even a single moment of discomfort, not on his end, anyway. While John found that being roommates with him had become increasingly difficult, there were no signs of discomfort from the other end. And then, he knew.

He had to tell Alex.

Which led him to the coffee shop where they’d first met-at least if by some miracle things worked out in John’s favor, it would end up being a wonderful story to tell. If not…well, he hadn’t gotten that far yet. Alex walked in with his hood over his head, shaking out unruly curls mussed by the beginnings of rainfall. He ordered his dark brew and settled in the chair next to John, slinging his backpack underneath the table. John won’t let himself look up-not yet. Instead he lets himself feel the presence of his best friend one last time. It feels like a death sentence, the way a lump has settled in his closed throat and his hands have begun to shake. But there is a confidence, stuck deep under negative emotions that have rooted themselves in the front of his mind. So he takes a long sip of his drink and sighs, opening his mouth so that everything can spill out at once.

“I don’t want to be awkward but I’m gay and I’m pretty sure-no, I’m absolutely sure that I have feelings for you.”

If there was one thing that Alexander Hamilton lacked within the power of his mind, it was the power of observation. The truth hits him with surprise, o much so that he nearly chokes on the coffee he’s been nursing. John looks back at him with already dejected eyes and Alex is barreled over with instant regret. He wishes he could be more-do more for the man that had been his friend from the beginning. Instead, he’s stuck with his tonge caught in his throat, unsure of what to say.

“It’s okay.” It’s the best he could come up with, a phrase that leaves his mouth and causes him instant regret. John nods. Alex cringes from the embarrassment at the lack of comfort in that first phrase had brought. He shakes his head.

“I mean, I wish I could say more. I wish I could say that I was gay, too, and make you happy.”

“Alex,”

“-Wait. I might not be able to say any of that, but what I can say is that this won’t affect my friendship with you. If you still want to be my friend-if I haven’t just made things too complicated-I support you. That’s what I’m trying to say.”

There’s a shift in the air between them-John can feel it in Alex’s tentative yet sincere smile, the way he refuses to look away from him although there’s still a hint of an awkward silence hanging around the pair. But within the sting of rejection there is a hope; it hurts, the way the truth he’d known comes crashing down on him. But the fact that Alexander seems to unchanged, so willing to accept him without hesitation, is enough to let a monumental sigh of relief escape his system. There is still the glaringly obvious pang in his stomach-the shiver down his spine when Alex smiles back at him. But at least he’s still there. At least Alex is still his best friend.

…

John Laurens hates Elizabeth Schuyler.

It’s been a year since he’d told Alex about his feelings. There hadn’t been many girls between then and now, just a few, far-between flings that hadn’t lasted much past the realization that Alex is very much in love with his work. It hadn’t been difficult to deal with-even when they shared a room, and John had been left to wait until the end of a date to enter his room multiple times. It was never taxing-he knew things weren’t going to work out. He was aware of that fact. In the year since Alex had let him down it had actually become easy to ignore his feelings. It was almost as if they’d gone away completely. He was relieved.

They hadn’t gone away.

The first time Alex lays eyes on Eliza is through the screen of Lafayette’s phone. He is skeptical. John had been watching the Schuyler streams for quite some time, but Alex never understood what could be so great about a bunch of senator’s daughters. Watching the change within his best friend hurt more than anything he’d felt before. The look in his eyes as Eliza sang, clear as a bell that echoed across the room-that familiar, stabbing pang found its way back to his stomach as if it hadn’t been a year since it left. And then, Alex was incessantly talking about her. Twenty four hours a day, seven days a week-his life had been consumed with the thought of this girl although he didn’t even know her. It was hard, but John could manage. It wasn’t as if he knew her, anyway.

And then, they’d met her.

She greeted them all with such a warm smile, bringing cupcakes to their apartment and making herself into the perfect house guest. Alex looked at her with wide and shining eyes, and her face flushed scarlet. John leaned against the wall of the living room and tried not to watch. His hopes had come crashing down with one singular introduction. Alex was clearly as far gone as John had been with him. And then, Eliza felt the same.

The worst part of it all was that the more he spoke with Eliza-the more time she spent around their apartment-the harder it became to hate her. She was sweet as could be, doting and kind and optimistic. She brought John his favorite candy and knew when he worked late and needed company. She worked her hardest to ensure that he always had company. She listened to him when nobody else would. Yes, Elizabeth Schuyler was impossible to hate. Except she was living the life he so desperately wanted to live. She had Alex. He didn’t.

So he resented her for a while-really resented her. He’d walk away when she and Alex were both in the room. He’d feign plans while she was waiting for Alex to get out of work so he wouldn’t have to spend time with her. It wasn’t as if he didn’t like her, but the pain that came along with her relationship status was just too much to handle. It was doubly so knowing how well Eliza fit with him, in a way that John never could.

But then she’d opened up to him; after her panic attack in Starbucks things had changed. It took a while, a lot of coaxing, but John was patient and calm and treated her as a friend. She was his friend. She’d told him everything, as much as her filter would allow, and suddenly there was a light on the last speck of shadow he’d held against her. Alex was great for her. Alex was protective, and understanding…she brought out a side of him John had never seen before. He took breaks. He took care of himself. He was helping her heal.

There was only one more conversation to have.

…

He’d made sure that Alex was working-that Eliza would be the only occupant in their apartment. It was a chilly December afternoon, fresh snow from the morning cancelling classes and dropping the temperature another twenty degrees. When he knocks on the door with a bag of takeout and a bright smile she flings it open, ushering him in and immediately setting out plates. She speaks in this airy, weightless voice that carries like a bird’s song and resonates off the hardwood flooring clear as a bell.

She’s instantly cheering. He hopes it’ll make the conversation go much easier than anticipated.

John mulls over his lo mein with incredible concentration, swirling it around with his chopsticks and investigating it as if it’s not their usual meal. She notices an instant change in his demeanor. He clears his throat. His posture is stiff and unsure. He keeps his head down and his quickened pulse is practically audible. Eliza pushes her plate aside and rests her arms on the table, tipping her head in attempts to catch his eyes.

“John, what’s wrong?” He flushes, head bent in a mixture of embarrassment and worry. He’s not sure how Eliza will take this conversation; she’s good of heart, sure, but this? The thought of losing someone now so close to him weighs heavily on his conscience, but he knows this has to be done. The need has been eating him alive, taking away sleep and sanity in anticipation of this moment. He has to say something.

“I just-I’ve been thinking a lot. I know so much about you, but I’ve been kind of…guarded? I’ve been guarded around you. It’s not fair to us. I feel like this friendship has been really one-sided in that way, and it’s not fair to you.”

“Okay.” She’s using a quieted tone of voice now, barely above a whisper. It’s the hush of wind brushing against fresh grass-of snow falling silently through a dawn-lit sky. She has this innate and consuming need to nurture brought out in hand that finds its way toward his, a warmth that soothes him just enough. “Go ahead, it’s alright. I’m here to listen.”

“Alright. Okay. So,” He takes in a breath, prolonging the inevitable. “When Alex and I met, there was kind of this connection I felt with him. I really liked him. And it’s lasted a really long time.”

“Okay…”

“I mean, of course you know by now that I’m super gay…like, really gay. And Alex, he’s a really great person. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, the entire first year of our friendship. So I told him. And I mean, he’s not into men, so I kind of got over it. Almost. But I kind of hated you when we first met.”

“Oh.” She draws back a bit; pulls her hand away from his, mirroring his downward gaze. John is immediately wracked with guilt for causing such a pain, pedaling back through his words in a panic.

“I don’t hate you anymore-really, I don’t. That was completely unjustified, and I just-I couldn’t. You’re actually one of my closest friends now.”

Eliza rolls her shoulders, nodding, considering his words. Silence lingers in the apartment. John picks at his food with his chopsticks, his mind racing in a silent prayer for his friendship. Finally Eliza lifts her head, eyes searching his with a curiosity laced with understanding. Still, there is not an angry, or upset, or offended piece about her.

“Well, I’m glad you don’t hate me anymore.”

“Eliza,”

“No, I mean it. I’m glad we’re friends. I just…I wish you had told me sooner.”

“Does it change things?”

“No, god no! It only changes how I’ll talk to you-god, I feel like such a jerk. How many days have I spent telling you how much I love Alexander, and how good he is to me? I can’t even imagine-why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just didn’t want to wreck things. And trust me, those feelings?” He laughs, shaking his head and lifting a hand to wave her off. “They’re pretty much gone. The amount that kid works? The amount of time he spends talking? I don’t know how you do it, E. I was his roommate for 3 years and I still don’t know how I survived.”

Her laughter is more than just a typical bell-tone, then. To John, it is a hallelujah call. The serenity that crosses his features then consumes him, and he laughs along with her. Then she’s holding her hand over her mouth, choking through that mirth before sipping her drink.

“I could tell you stories, John. I love him but my god you’re right. There’s this thing that he does when he’s stressed, and,”

She’s cut off by the sound of the door slamming against the wall. A snow-dusted Alex stands in the doorway, shaking precipitation from his hair and kicking his shoes off at the door in haste. They hit the wall in two resounding thuds and he pulls a chair from the table, nearly knocking their food over in response.

“Can you believe this?” His higher tone comes out somewhere between a shout and a cracking nerve, and he turns his phone so that they both can read what’s on the screen.

STRAYING SCHUYLER: THE TRUTH ABOUT AMERICA’S SO-CALLED SWEETHEART

He never expected things to turn south so quickly. Social media star and hopeful politician James Reynolds opened up to US in an exclusive interview at a local rooftop bar over the weekend, where he dished on all things Jeliza. “It was hard for me to keep her attention,” he says about now ex-girlfriend Elizabeth Schuyler. “She was always really flighty-always looking for another fling to keep entertained.” The two ended their eight month relationship abruptly last March, sources stating that Reynolds is “still deeply upset” and “wanting Eliza back more than anything.” Now, Reynolds spends his time reflecting.

It isn’t hard to see why the Sentator’s middle daughter is so desirable-with her bright eyes and soft smile, she’s dazzled America since her first magazine appearance at the young age of eleven. Now, she’s on the covers of People, Entertainment Weekly, and has graced our own front cover 6 times.

It’s hard to see her now, a source close to Reynold’s divulges. “She has been in so many pictures with so many men lately, it’s made him very distraught.” Pictured above are two of the men in question. Alex, her new beau, had been first referred to as Mystery Man by fans and sceptics alike. Now, the two are spotted in public nearly every day. But there’s another man on the scene-a nameless ‘hispanic hunk’ who’s taken to holding Schuyler’s arm on a walk through the city nearly as often as Alex.

The rumors may be true-if the continued series of photographs are any clue to the key of Jeliza’s breakup, we’re ruling with Reynolds on this one. America’s sweetheart may just be America’s serial dater. The verdict from Reynolds? “He still wants her back-he’d forgive her, even for everything she’s done.” Looks like there’s more to this story than meets the eye.

#I love John Laurens #like is this about to be the tags #saying i love them then destroying their lives #mine: swts #hamliza #hamilton au #but I really do love John #and eliza #she'll always be my favoritee

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thedemonkingamaimon · 8 years ago

Text

Blitz - Ao No Exorcist fic

Not doing too well in himself, Amaimon grabs a full wallet, throws on a statement jacket, and heads into town. Halfway through the night, struggling to get drunk on the aid of shots alone, a casual “I-need-this” drinking turns into an unhealthy bender.

Comments/reviews always welcome

Warnings/themes: Binge drinking

Note: headcanon/personal verse based (as always). Let me know if you have any questions

The music grew louder by the hour. It was subtle, the routine change from catering to after-work drinkers to setting up for the night groups. What time was it now? 8? 9?

Amaimon had no idea. He’d purposely left him phone on his brothers desk after their argument so that he couldn’t be interrupted. He also didn’t own a watch, and he couldn’t see a clock in this pub, so it was all guesswork. Not that he really cared. He was somewhat content enough to sit staring into his empty glasses.

He watched one of the lads at the next table. They’d arrived shortly after he had, and one in particular was a noticeable lightweight. He’d had far less than Amaimon had, but was so visibly out of it, that it was annoying. Amaimon felt himself getting steadily more angry as he watched him.

He sighed heavily, standing up and double checking he had what little he’d brought with him before leaving. He didn’t much fancy the atmosphere in there anyway.

He’d long since learned the best places to get cheap drinks. That’s what he wanted: to get as drunk as possible for as little as possible, even though he didn’t really need to worry about money. He rather felt he’d move around a bit tonight. He had the means to do so, giving the dramatic raise in his allowance from Mephisto since his behaviour had improved.

It wasn’t long before he came to one of his favourite cheap joints. It was a quaint little pub with rough clientele and smashed bathroom windows. Maybe that was why he liked it so much: no one worried about appearances here. Plus, the atmosphere was friendly and relaxed, which he felt he needed.

He’d been out a good few hours already, mainly mulling over shots and ciders, and he wasn’t quite tipsy yet. He was annoyed at himself: he knew only spirits tended to tip him over, yet he’d indulged in a few bottles of cider and an artillery of jager bombs anyway.

Amaimon was feeling quite annoyed again and decided to step it up a bit and get a double vodka and coke to start with. As usual, he chose a table near to the bar. This was mainly for convenience, but also because it gave him a good view of the lads playing snooker over the way - they were often an amusing bunch.

Just as he was about to get up for another drink, one of the snooker lads landed at his side, bleary-eyed and swaying slightly.

“You’re not here all alone, are you?” his speech was noticeably slurred, and Amaimon regretted to admit he was a little jealous. “C’mon, come and join us lot: ain’t no point being lonely over here”

Quickly deciding there was no harm in it, he accepted the invitation.

The atmosphere at the other side of the pub was drastically different. The lights were brighter, the people were more animated. For the first few minutes, what with the introductions and what-not, it was a little uncomfortable for Amaimon, but he soon grew to like that side of the pub. Besides, he quite liked the look of this bloke, the one who had invited him over. He was conventionally attractive, and he was very warm, and quite hands-on.

The rest of the bunch had turned out to be nicer than the first bloke. They seemed to have maintained their spacial awareness throughout their drunkenness. Their wallets were very loose, which gave for a good handful of free drinks over the first 45 minutes. It was very welcomed, and Amaimon could feel that drunk feeling he’d yearned for starting to warm his body. It was nice, and he felt comfortable for the most part.

The man from the start was very drunk, and started to grow quite thoughtful. All of a sudden, Amaimon wasn’t sure what he thought of him. He felt he’d gotten a bit too familiar with him, considering he’d decided it would be a good idea to showcase the results of his recent motorbike accident to the group.

Now, he seemed to be getting closer. He’d spent a lot of his time beside Amaimon, often with an arm round his shoulders. They’d had a laugh, in that little group, but now it was starting to feel a bit weird. Amaimon had grown used to restraining his instincts, so even though it felt like an option, he managed not to deck the bloke one when he was suddenly so close to him that he basically sat on his lap. Instead he bore with it, subtly finishing his drink and weighing up his options.

By some merciful coincidence, the bloke soon got up to pop to the loo. Once he was out of sight, Amaimon quickly downed what little remained of his drink and stood up.

“Awight fella’s, ta for the drinks and all that, but I’ve somewhere to be!”

He shot them all a friendly grin and their farewell involved a few quick hugs with the less full-on members of the group.

Stumbling a little from the intake of spirits, Amaimon exited the pub. He walked at first, but as soon as he was past the windows, he broke into a run, caped coat billowing out behind him.

He didn’t stop until he was a couple of streets away, ducking into an alley and falling against the wall to catch his breath. Bloody hell, he wasn’t sure if he was being stupid for letting something so trivial bother him that much, but he couldn’t shake the feeling he’d had a narrow escape. Actually, he felt rather shaken by it, even a little sick. Maybe it was just the alcohol.

Everything went blank for a little while, and next thing he knew, he was at the local gay bar. He barely remembered the walk over. He’d only been once or twice before, but he knew some of the prices were ideal, as they often had deals on.

It was a weekday, so it wasn’t particularly busy. It looked like an open mic night or something, but the stage couldn’t be seen very clearly because of the smoke machine. Plus, the bar seemed a little more interesting.

The drinks menu seemed to blur a little before his eyes, and he suddenly had no idea what to have. Suddenly cheap shots seemed quite attractive.. but still, those cocktails...

He became vaguely aware of a hand on the small of his back, but it didn’t bother him so he paid no mind. The shot list seemed to deserve his attention more. He’d had too many jagerbombs already, but how often did you see a glitter bomb and a skittles bomb? Better to mix it up a bit, surely? But then, pricey drinks with multiple types of booze...

“Struggling there, little mate?”

The sudden voice made him jump quite violently, to the point he thought his heart rate may have doubled in that short moment.

“Woah, you alright? Sorry, didn’t mean to make you jump”

Amaimon shook his head. “I’m fine, just- woah”

He turned mid-sentence to look at this stranger, and was quite impressed with what he saw. He was a bit taller than Amaimon was, with very soft, welcoming features and a happy, youthful look about him. His voice matched his appearance very well - and it was very appealing.

The Stranger merely smiled at him. “Fancy doing some shots?”

This new Stranger was a very different kind of man than the one in the run-down pub. His personality was as soft as first impressions made you think, and he was one of those people that quickly put you at ease and made you feel like you’d them for years.

There was a table free by the window, and together they chose quite the selection (which Amaimon insisted on paying for, if only to empty his wallet a bit). They did, of course, go for all the bombs, and every flavour of Sourz available to them. They had quite the set up on their little table.

“Ok, so here’s an idea: we’ll savour the bombs, right?” the Stranger said, setting the glasses into two lines. “But when we do the little ones, lets make it a bit of a competition. Last to finish all their little ones buys the other a cocktail”

Amaimon liked the idea of that. “Suits me”

This wasn’t the first binge he’d had recently, so he reckoned his chances pretty well. He rather felt he’d become immune to Sourz.

Neither of them, however, were particularly impressed with the glitter bomb - it resulted in some rather amusing facial expressions. The skittles bomb was a bit underwhelming, but infinitely better than whatever that glitter bomb was.

“Well, I’m glad I tried it once. I’ll know not to order it again... Oh, I’m Alaois, by the way. You?”

“Amaimon”

Alaois raised an eyebrow, but not judgmentally. “That’s an interesting one”

Amaimon shrugged. “Guess my father liked things being a bit different”

“Got a nickname at all?”

Amaimon thought for a moment. “Yes, but they’re all a bit non-transferable”

As expected, Amaimon won the Sourz round. Alaois didn’t seem to mind. He happily sauntered up to the bar to pay his penalty. He rather liked this funny little creature he’d thrown himself on. Always good to meet new people.

“’ere, you’ll like this” Alaois said upon his return, setting a rather big martini glass down on the table and flopping back onto the sofa. “Basically just tastes like coffee”

“Certainly an interesting looking one..” Amaimon noted, looking at the frothy concoction he’d been presented with. It did, however, look quite appealing - and upon taking the first sip, he found it tasted pretty good too. “You’re right about that. Can’t taste the alcohol in it”

“Best way to drink, I think. Can’t be doing with things that taste like hand rub”

Amaimon nodded slightly, but he was concentrating a bit on his cocktail. He felt quite tired and wobbly, and he knew that if he stood up he’d end up having a bit of a fall.

“Wait, how old are you, anyway? If you don’t mind me asking?”

Amaimon looked up from his glass, and gave his visual age; “Nineteen”

“Thought you were about that. I’m 26, in case you want to know”

Amaimon looked at him, and although the dim lighting made it harder to see, he rather thought this new person had been younger.

“Wouldn’t have guessed” he shrugged, downing the rest of his drink.

Amaimon had quickly decided he was happy where he was. The alcohol helped. That was what he liked about drinking: he was always at his happiest when drunk.

He was settled down with another cocktail (he didn’t really know what was in it, but it tasted distinctly of amaretto), as was his new acquaintance - who suddenly seemed to have a thought.

“Hold on, are your parents alright with you being out on your own this late?”

“I live with my brother”

“Alright, so does your brother mind? How old is he?”

Amaimon grumbled a little. “Like, 36? We had a bit of a fight so I don’t suppose he’ll really be missing me”

Alaois didn’t seem convinced. “Still, I think he’d probably want to know you’re ok. Maybe you should ring him”

“Don’t have my phone with me - and I don’t know his number” he added when Alaois went to offer him his phone. “It’ll be fine, don’t worry”

“Well, if you’re sure” he said uncertainly, putting his phone back into his pocket. “Just thought I’d check. You’re only a little thing”

“I’m more than capable of fending for myself”

It had gone midnight, and Amaimon had rather forgotten exactly what he’d had to drink that night, and how much. He was starting to feel a bit giddy. He’d long since reached his slowly falling over stage, and Alaois had happily become his cushion. He’d had quite a bit himself, but he’d noticed how much Amaimon’s voice had changed as a result of his drinking. He seemed like a strong little fella though, so he didn’t worry.

Amaimon stood up, and Alaois automatically stood too and caught him by the arm. They both suddenly felt very, very drunk. Funny how motion did that to you.

“Alright?”

Amaimon nodded. “Yeah, I think I’m gonna head off now, if that’s alright”

“Course it is! Thanks for tonight - I had a good time” Alaois smiled at him. “How are you getting home?”

Amaimon smiled a little too. “I’m meeting someone soon”

That seemed to satisfy him. “Alright, good. Well, take care... Um, sorry if this is a bit forward, but is it alright if I kiss you?”

Amaimon decided not to mention the fact he wasn’t officially on-the-market anymore. Why ruin the end of a good meeting, after all.

Bloody. Hell.

Those were the two words circling round his mind as he stepped out into the cold and ventured to find his next stop. He had, of course, lied about meeting someone. It was around 1am, so it was chilly outside. Plus, he was feeling very unsteady on his feet. He actually felt a little scared at just how drunk he was. He couldn’t quite stand straight and he was tired and the world was tilting about him and the cold made him feel like he was in shock and he felt rather like he might need help.

Still, he’d long perfected hiding his drunkenness, and he headed back into the main centre of town. Most of the pubs were shut by now, which left his options somewhat limited. He didn’t fancy nightclubs - they weren’t really his scene - so that left the modern bars. He knew one that did half price pitchers after 11pm that stayed open til 4am even on weekdays. That seemed like the best bet.

Everything seemed a little blurry and unreal. He had a feeling not unlike the one he got when his father caught him red handed - hot and shaky with that weird, empty feeling in his stomach. But, it was also quite different, and he did rather feel like he needed to sit down. He knew he was a lot more drunk than he’d planned on getting, but still... He had quite a bit left in his wallet.

Nearing the bar, he felt a little relieved to see the lights and hear the noise of people there - although he could feel something of an anxiety headache coming on, which was a little unsettling.

He had to stop for a moment, using a lamppost to support himself as he tried to steady himself. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath of night air and willing the headache to vanish. His eyes snapped open as he heard a crash, presumably from a nearby building. Even more alarming though, was a sudden swishing sound - and he was grabbed roughly round the chest from behind. His screams were quickly muffled with a gloved hand over his mouth.

Struggling proved futile, although he continued until he was roughly released. He recognised his location quickly - the sofa flooring, the whir of the engine, and the slam on the limo door. He tried to compose himself, and, still on his hands and knees, looked up. Doing so made him feel sick with nerves.

How the elder had managed to compose himself to look so relaxed so quickly was a mystery. He seemed so much bigger when viewed from the floor.

“Look at the state of you. How much have you had?”

Amaimon didn’t answer. Samael unfolded his arms and grabbed his younger brother by the elbow, yanking him close to him.

“I said, how much have you had?”

Rough handling and eye contact helped neither ones cause. Amaimon had reached a level of drunk that had almost surpassed him being happy and had moved on to uncertainty, confusion, and a touch of fear. He couldn’t bring himself to answer his brother - and truth be told he didn’t have a definitive answer for him anyway. He was made to jump when a sharp slap was delivered to his face.

“Answer me, Amaimon”

Amaimon couldn’t hold eye contact, or even properly look at him. He set his gaze on the back window of the limo. It took him a few moments more to pluck up the courage (or just ability) to speak.

“I don’t know”

His arm was released, now sporting quite a violent looking set of finger marks. He looked at that briefly, his drunk self seeming unable to comprehend it. He had his little drunk smile back on his face, feeling more comfortable now he was warm again. He could feel eyes on him, but decided he didn’t care. He took a moment to compose himself, and climbed onto the seat next to his brother, leaning against him.

“Being affectionate won’t get your a free pass: you’re still in for *quite* the reprimanding, dearest little brother”

Amaimon almost grinned, giggling a little in his confused drunk state. He cuddled further against his brother, deciding it was worth it.

“I know”

#my writing #amaimon #Ao no Exorcist #fanfiction

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