#urban composite doors

[buildmydoor]

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[kleinefreiheiten]

07.2021 Würzburg

[chusik]

[artbyblastweave]

So I don't really think that it's a secret that Boston has a significant Minotaur problem. It's a pretty common situation for older American cities on the East Coast- centuries of poorly-documented cowpath-style urban growth providing an ideal nesting ground, widespread electrification and plentiful steam tunnels that compensate for the loss of the temperate Mediterranean climate that they're used to. And all this on top of limited institutional knowledge of proper containment tactics at least up until the Greek diaspora started to really blow up in the 20th century. You only have to fuck up the safety checks on one cargo steamer coming in from the broad area of old Minoa and then basically any import controls you put in after that point are closing the barn door after the bulls are loose. So yeah, no secret, it's an issue.

I do think, though, that we've kind of let the specific narrative surrounding the issue get away from us in the usual fashion, the problem people picture when they hear "Minotaur" isn't anywhere close the to the problem as it exists on the ground. I mean people's minds immediately jump to the 1949 Boylston massacre, but let's be real, even though that was really politically useful for finally getting the exit fares on the T removed, that was still a black-swan event, right? Basically every mayor since, like, Hynes has lived in mortal terror of having to manage a repeat of something like that during the mass media era, let alone the smartphone era. So we've got these Theseus kill-teams with their titanium-composite ropes and souped-up cattle prods and bolt guns, we have these constant "track replacement" stoppages on the orange line, and it's fine. It's fine! There hasn't been a serious Minotaur thing within walking distance of a T stop since, like, 2006, which again you can mostly chalk up to the chaos surrounding the dig.

No, the actual danger zones, the silent killers are the exurbs, like West Roxbury, Roslindale, parts of Hyde Park. Relatively dense foliage, bad sightlines, far enough from the urban center that the response times are bad, foot traffic that's basically nonexistent for big parts of the workweek because everyone's either commuting or hunkered down working from home. And, of course, a steady stream of delivery drivers with no political ties to the area. Which is an important element, right? I mean it's kind of baked into the Minotaur's nature, that they have a very finely tuned instinctual awareness of the politics of their situation. Start snagging homeowners, there might be a ruckus. But Amazon does steady business everywhere, and Minotaurs are smart enough to cover their bases, to wait until after the drivers have dropped off your package or delivered your food. So yeah, watch yourself out there. One eye on the treeline at all times. And if you see an Amazon van left idling, get ready to run faster than the driver could.

[strangersatellites]

It had all started in Photography 101. 

All he had needed was one more elective added to his schedule for the fall semester to be considered a full-time student. It was Robin who had suggested photography.

Steve had never had that great of a memory to begin with, the numerous blows to the head from juvenile high school fights certainly doing him no favors. Sometimes the amount of time it took to jog Steve’s memory surpassed the time it would’ve taken to simply tell him the story as if he hadn’t been there himself. 

He was always able to grasp the memory eventually, but sometimes they were slippery in his mind. 

He and Robin had found that his memory was ten times better if he had something to look at. Sometimes that was a souvenir from a trip, sometimes it was a takeout menu with his order circled in red pen, sometimes it was a physical scar on his skin from some silly injury. But most of the time it was pictures. 

Steve took to taking photos of everything. His friends, his food, the landscape, a book with a pretty cover, anything he wanted to be able to remember.

The walls of his room grew to be covered with polaroids and prints, some staged, most not. Many blurry and out of focus, but in the moment just the same. 

So when Robin suggested Photography 101, Steve saw an opportunity to take something he did for his own benefit and turn it into something he really enjoyed, something he was good at. 

The semester was a breeze and Steve flourished under the attention of his professor. He was constantly drowning in compliments about the movement in his photos and his eye for composition. 

(Robin would tell him on several occasions that she had never seen him enjoy something this much.)

By the time the semester was coming to a close, he was left with one final project. The professor had been intentionally very vague in her description of it throughout the semester, so Steve was a little on edge. 

Sitting in the front row of the small classroom, he twirled the strap of his camera around his fingers while he daydreamed. The room slowly filled and the professor settled in behind her desk. 

About five minutes after class was supposed to have begun Steve noticed they were all still sitting in silence. Glancing at the professor he saw her brows furrow and a frustrated lilt to her lips as she looked at her watch.

What are we waiting for? 

She stood and dusted off her pants before clapping her hands together.

“Well,” she began, “I guess we can go ahead and get start–”

The door at the back of the room swung open and knocked against the wall with a resounding slam.

“Shit! Fuck! So sorry I’m late. Traffic was a bitch.”

Steve is so caught off guard by the man who just burst into the room that he barely even registers the words he’s saying. 

He’is tall and all lanky muscle, dark curls and jewelry, tattoos and the smell of smoke, chains and leather and everything Steve’s not. Everything nobody in this class is.

He’s even more caught off guard when his professor laughs and pulls the man into a tight hug. There are only five other students in this class, surely he’s not the only person confused.

He keeps an arm around her shoulders as she introduces him to the group.

“Guys, this is Eddie. He’s a family friend and he’s going to be your subject for your final project.”

Steve’s own eyebrows furrow as he tries to understand how this was the project she has been keeping under wraps. They’ve had plenty of portrait sessions this semester, with models and subjects of their choice alike.

The guy, Eddie, claps a hand to his chest in a dramatic show of faux humility. 

“Thank you for having me, Joyce. It's such an honor to be here.”

She smacks at his arm and carries on.

“So, Eddie is your subject and you have no parameters. The only requirement is that he is the inspiration for your shoot. This can look like a standard portrait session, this can be contemporary urban street photography, whatever you like. Eddie does not even have to be in the photo! He just has to be the inspiration for it.”

Steve's brain is already running a mile a minute, conceptualizing shots faster than he can keep up. 

Dingy bars, backseats of cars, details of his eclectic style.

But one idea sticks out from the rest. As Steve lifts his eyes to Eddie once more and meets his own twinkling with mirth and smirking back at him he makes his decision.

He’s going to take his mugshot.

*****

“I want to take your mugshot.”

They’re at the campus coffee shop. Joyce had scheduled a few hours for Eddie to meet with the other students during their class time so they could talk through their projects.

Eddie barks out a laugh. “What, man?”

Steve twirls his straw around his drink and tries not to bristle at the reaction.

“Look,” he starts, running a nervous hand through his hair, “I don’t really know where the idea originated but once I had it, it stuck. I just saw this vision of the shot in my head and it was sick, dude.”

Eddie leans back in the booth, one of his boots knocking into Steve’s foot under the table. He crosses his arms and tilts his head. 

“Thought this shoot was supposed to be inspired by moi,” he says, gesturing a hand towards himself. “You saying I look like I should be in jail?”

Steve groans and puts his head in his hands. “No. I already told you I don't know where i got the idea–”

But that’s a lie isn’t it. He knows exactly where he got the idea. It was somewhere between the chains dangling from Eddie’s jeans and the handcuff belt he was wearing the day they met.

He put his hands together on the table between them. “Okay. No, I’m not saying you look like a criminal, Eddie. I’m saying I think you want to look like one.”

Eddie blinks at him for a moment before his face breaks into a slow smirk. He huffs a quiet laugh and leans closer. “Guilty as charged, Stevie. Besides, I was arrested once actually.”

Steve gawks while Eddie laughs. He is unfairly attractive when his dimples pop and Steve is going to have such a hard time holding it together behind the camera. 

*****

Steve takes his shoots very seriously. Every detail has to be perfect, even the ones not relating to the subject of the photo.

So it is wildly convenient that his professor happens to be married to the chief of police back in Hawkins. 

One quick phone call from Joyce and Steve and Eddie were granted access to the booking room at the police station. You know, for the sake of realism. 

Steve’s setting up his tripod while Eddie takes a chalk marker to the placard and writes up his own booking ID, a long series of random numbers with E.M at the end. 

Steve would be lying if he said Eddie’s choice of clothing wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind. 

He’s wearing a ratty, old band t-shirt for some group Steve’s never heard of. There’s his usual black leather jacket and the silver chain around his neck. His ripped black jeans and fingers covered in rings and black nail polish. 

It's perfect for the shoot. But Steve’s sanity is struggling.

He gets the camera and the lighting set up just as Eddie steps into place in front of the height measurement wall. 

Steve puts his hands on his hips and gives instructions.

“Okay, so I know you’ve done this before–”

“Hey! It was one time!”

“So you know how this goes. We’ll do one forward and then one to each side.”

Eddie shakes out his hair and rolls his shoulders back. He holds the placard up in front of him and levels the camera with a dead-eyed stare.

He looks good. 

Steve is less than shocked that he looks even better on camera.

He lines up his shot. Click.

Eddie turns to his left. Steve gets a little distracted by the line of his jaw.

Click.

He turns to the right and of course only now does Steve notice his ear piercings. 

Steve takes a deep breath and focuses.

Click.

Before he can even look through his shots Eddie is dropping the placard on the desk.

He’s halfway out the door before he grabs the frame and leans back in. “One second pretty boy, I have an idea.”

He’s back before Steve snaps out of his stupor at the nickname. This time, he has a pair of handcuffs swinging from his index finger.

Steve snatches them out of his hand. “Where did you get these?”

Eddie crosses his arms over his chest and shrugs. “I know a guy.”

He rolls his eyes. 

He’s already picking up the placard and setting up some detail shots when Eddie grabs his wrist and stops him. He freezes for more than one reason.

“Hey, uh. Not to step on your toes or anything, but I actually have another idea.”

Steve is about to start on his spiel about ‘not messing up his flow’ when Eddie rubs his thumb over the inside of his wrist. Gentle and reassuring. 

“Do you trust me?”

Honestly Steve has no reason to trust him, he’s basically a stranger.

A pretty one. His brain supplies.

But he does. Trusts him enough to let him take Steve’s creative liberties and throw them out the window apparently.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Eddie’s smile is blinding. He turns Steve’s hand over and drops the handcuff key into it.

“Don’t lose this big boy,” he says as he snaps the cuffs around each of his own wrists.

Steve laughs, loud and shocked. He waggles his eyebrows at Eddie. 

“Well, now didn’t this take a turn.”

Eddie rolls his eyes this time and lifts his hands as much as he can.

“Don’t try to sexualize my creative prowess, Steve. I am a professional.”

He nearly trips on his way back to his place in front of the wall and Steve has to hide his laugh into a cough.

Steve’s back behind the camera, hands back on his hips when he asks, “Alright, what’s the plan?”

Eddie smiles and says, “You just shoot, Harrington. I’ll do the rest.”

He leans down to finalize his camera settings and line up his shot. When he finally looks through the viewfinder his jaw drops. Because while Eddie was clearly joking about being a professional, if Steve didn’t know any better, this shot would have him believing it.

Eddie’s got both of his pinky fingers tucked in the corners of his smile, tongue bitten between his teeth. His thumbs are raised along with his middle fingers, while he’s got his nose scrunched and one eye squeezed shut. The cuffs hang right under his chin and accentuate his silver jewelry in a way Steve never would have anticipated.

Click.

Click. 

Click.

The next is a close-up of the booking placard between his teeth.

His hands twisting to unlock his own cuffs.

He’s a natural, and Steve’s camera roll can attest to the fact.

It wouldn’t be until Steve was reviewing and editing the shots that he caught on. The booking ID on the placard looked long because it was. It was Eddie’s number.

*****

Steve got an A. 

He got an A, an endless stream of compliments from Joyce and a dorky hot boyfriend. 

The rest of the class went the route Steve expected them to.

Dingy bars, backseats of cars, details of his eclectic style.

But Steve’s mugshot series stood leagues above the rest.

Later in their lives, when one of their friends would see the photo in Steve’s wallet they would ask when Eddie got arrested and why.

It quickly became a game between the two.

He’s been arrested in high school for selling drugs (True.)

When he was twenty for public indecency.

At twenty-two for arson.

Thirty for contract killing. This one was followed up with the claim that he was in witsec and was now going to have to change his identity and flee the country.

But the real when and why Eddie got arrested is because when he was twenty-one Joyce told him there was a nice boy in her class that she thought he should meet.

[2qties]

𝙃𝙀𝘼𝙑𝙀𝙉𝙇𝙔 𝙈𝙊𝙏𝙃𝙀𝙍 , 𝘿𝙀𝙈𝙊𝙉𝙄𝘾 𝙎𝙊𝙉

⋆°.☾⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆⋆⭒˚.⋆⋆°.☾⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐

This is simply a drabble that came to mind around two months ago. I'm unsure if I will continue it. Sorry for the post delay , Tumblr was acting up - 🪐

TW: not my usual writing style as it is from a bit ago 🫶🏾 it's an oc but you can imagine yourself as her 🫶🏾

⋆°.☾⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆⋆⭒˚.⋆⋆°.☾⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐

chapter one : family reunion .

In the pulsating core of the dynamic urban landscape, where the resplendent lights of the red-light district cast an almost supernatural radiance, Muzan Kibutsuji, the Sovereign of Demons, advanced with discreet deliberation. Veiled amidst the intricate fabric of human society, he sought a strategic moment to exploit the captivating guise of a demonic oiran—a skillful agent adept at navigating the shadows while accruing wealth to clandestinely further the ominous cause of seamlessly blending into the populous tapestry.

The sumptuous passageways of the oiran district extended a beckoning invitation, embellished with intricate lanterns that swayed gracefully, diffusing a subdued luminosity upon the walls tinged in crimson hues. Muzan, the paragon of refinement and composure, ambulated through the convoluted maze of corridors with an aura of nonchalant detachment.

The courtesans adorning the promenades, their gaze ablaze with alluring intent, endeavored to ensnare his attention, each one vying for the elusive favor of the enigmatic visitor. However, Muzan's impassive stare persisted, impervious to their seductive overtures, his concentration unwaveringly anchored to a matter of greater urgency.

His heightened senses, finely tuned to the intricate tapestry of fragrances wafting through the air, steered him unerringly towards a specific chamber. The lingering scent within was unmistakable—a fusion of familiarity and foreboding, an olfactory composition that surreptitiously divulged intimations of consanguinity. With each step toward the appointed room, the ambiance thickened, saturated with an unsettling energy, the redolence intensifying in both potency and disquietude.

Before he could traverse the threshold, a courtesan, bedecked in resplendent silk and adorned with meticulously painted patterns, glided towards him with a captivating grace. "Honored guest," she purred, her eyes shimmering akin to pools of liquid chocolate, "Why don't you come visit me in my quarters? I can make it worth your while." Her voice, suffused with seductive mellifluousness, endeavored to enthrall his attention.

Muzan summarily dismissed her with a mere glance, his attention resolute and unwavering. "Your trivial offerings hold no allure for me. Step aside," he commanded, his voice resonating with the gravitas of a myriad shadows.

The courtesan recoiled, her façade momentarily shattered by the callous indifference she encountered. Scowling with vexation, she found herself disconcerted by the rejection, her aspirations of financial gain seemingly thwarted by the man who spurned her allure. As she cast a furtive glance back at him, her eyes widened, and she gasped at the unfolding scene.

"B-but, sir," she stammered, panic flickering in her eyes, "you must not enter that room! The oiran residing within does not take kindly to unannounced patrons. Her presence is not to be trifled with. She—she's unhinged!"

Muzan, the embodiment of arrogance, summarily dismissed her words with a disdainful wave of his hand and smoothly slid open both shoji doors. The room unveiled beyond was immersed in an unsettling quietude, a conspicuous divergence from the tumultuous noise resonating from the surroundings.

Shattered glass and strewn fragments of various objects adorned the space, forming a chaotic tapestry that laid bare the unbridled disposition of its inhabitant. Surveying the disarray, Muzan arched an eyebrow, seemingly comprehending the courtesan's forewarning about the oiran's unstable nature. However, his countenance remained unruffled, displaying an unaffected demeanor.

As Muzan attentively surveyed the disarray, the door swung closed behind him, enclosing him within the mysterious chamber's confines. The atmosphere burgeoned with an oppressive energy, and the previously discernible scent that had served as his guide now intensified, enveloping him more potently. The fragrance became increasingly robust, and from the opposite side of the sealed door, the muffled sounds of courtesans scrambling, squirming, and hastily retreating permeated the air, leaving an uneasy anticipation lingering in its wake.

Suddenly, he felt it—a presence looming directly behind him, and a familiar awareness washed over him like a chilling realization. The veins on his forehead and forearms pulsated, agitated in a luminous display of mounting rage, for he unequivocally recognized the identity of the entity now in close proximity.

"Angry, are we?" The figure positioned behind him taunted, a mocking chuckle escaping at the expense of Muzan's seething fury. Muzan maintained a stoic silence, refraining from uttering a single word. The presence continued its taunts with a sardonic tone, "You remain a disobedient one after all these years, persistently deaf to warnings Didn't that charming girl tell you to leave this room alone?"

Glancing over his shoulder, Muzan fixed his gaze upon the imposing figure that towered above him, draped in silken garments that appeared to waltz with the shadows—predominantly ruby and obsidian black. The woman's countenance remained enshrouded behind an elaborate mask, an intricate veil of darkness that concealed the true essence of her being, until she took another deliberate step closer to him

 As the lone light source in the room faintly illuminated her face, he locked eyes with her, scrutinizing her long black hair, eyes tinted a plum-red, pupils resembling the slits of a feline, and an aura of malevolence that matched the ominous reputation that preceded her. The woman, whose malevolence surpassed even his own, stood in his presence, a twisted smile playing upon her lips.

The malevolent curve of her smile metamorphosed into a saccharine expression as she enveloped him in an unexpected embrace from behind. Muzan, though internally vexed, made no attempt to resist. "Aren't you such a magnificent young man, aging handsomely, hm?" she teased with a girlish giggle, provoking a reluctant turn of his head in an enduring state of disdain, ruing the moment he stepped into her room.

In a sudden shift, she seized his chin, compelling him to meet her gaze. The ostensibly sweet smile persisted, but a belligerent glint gleamed in her eyes. "Hug me back," she demanded, her tone betraying a subtle hostility. Muzan, unyielding in his disposition, refused compliance. Unhurriedly, the tip of her thumbnail began to press into his jaw, and a sigh of frustration escaped him as he witnessed his own blood slowly seeping forth.

To mollify the woman, he begrudgingly reciprocated the embrace. In that instant, all traces of hostility evaporated from her form, replaced by jubilant giggles as she reveled in the compelled intimacy.

Relinquishing the embrace, she delicately placed her hands on Muzan's cheeks, a playful tease dancing in her eyes. "Not even going to offer a proper greeting?" she chided, to which Muzan responded with a begrudging grunt of annoyance. "Greetings," he muttered, hoping to conclude the formality swiftly. However, she refused to accept his curt acknowledgment, maintaining a radiant smile as she peered down at him.

"Naughty boy," she cooed, her tone honeyed but with a subtle undertone of authority, "always forgetting how to greet your elders. Greet me again, and this time, do it properly." She sweetly demanded, her insistence compelling Muzan to comply. Slowly withdrawing from her embrace, he took a step back and executed a half-bow. However, it wasn't to her satisfaction.

Unperturbed, she extended her hand towards his head, a gesture that forcefully guided it downwards, ensuring his bow assumed a deeper reverence. With meticulous attention to detail, she sought the utmost respect. Muzan, yielding to her unspoken demand, muttered,

"Greetings, 

mother."

┌──❀*̥˚───❀*̥˚─┐

𝗧𝗔𝗜𝗦𝗛𝗢 𝗦𝗘𝗖𝗥𝗘𝗧𝗦

└───❀*̥˚───❀*̥˚┘

🕷 Muzan does not like his mother.

🕷 Muzan's mother, Akuryō Kyūsai's, name means Evil Spirit's Salvation.

🕷 Akuryō has a twisted way of loving Muzan. Like the love a mad scientist has for their creation.

[ladyeckland28]

Batman: Shadows Of Laughter (part 1)

A fan fiction by Ecky

**Disclaimer:**

"Shadows of Laughter" is a non-commercial fan fiction story created by and for fans of the Batman franchise. This work is not affiliated with, endorsed, or approved by DC Comics, Warner Bros. Entertainment, or any other official entities associated with Batman and related characters. All characters such as Batman, Joker, Harley Quinn, and other original creations appearing in this story are the property of their respective trademark and copyright holders.

The original characters of Ms. Racey Rhymes, Revan, Hannah, Sarah, and Maxwell Pride are creations of the author and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or other fictional characters, is purely coincidental.

This story is intended solely for entertainment purposes and is not for commercial use. No infringement of copyright or trademark is intended.

The Characters:

Batman as himself

Comissioner Gordan as himself

@raceyrhymes as Ms Rhymes

@samcrosfaith as Revan (might come across as a man but is a woman under the mask and costume, a goth chick)

@solesofwonder as Hannah and Sarah

@horrorseventhree as Maxwell Pride

The night air in Gotham City carried a chill that seemed to seep into the very bones of its inhabitants. High above the bustling streets, perched on a gargoyle adorning one of the city's countless Gothic spires, a dark figure surveyed the urban sprawl below. Batman, the city's vigilant guardian, scanned the horizon with eyes that missed nothing.

His comm unit crackled to life. "Batman, we've got another one," came the gruff voice of Commissioner Gordon. "You're gonna want to see this."

Without a word, Batman leapt from his perch, his cape billowing out behind him as he glided towards the source of the disturbance. The night was young, but already it promised to be a long one.

Minutes later, he touched down in front of Gotham National Bank, where a scene of controlled chaos awaited him. Police cruisers formed a perimeter around the building, their lights painting the street in alternating flashes of red and blue. Officers milled about, their faces a mix of confusion and grim determination.

Commissioner Gordon stood near the entrance, his trench coat pulled tight against the chill. As Batman approached, Gordon's mustache twitched in a mirthless smile. "Glad you could make it," he said, his voice low. "This one's... different."

Batman's eyes narrowed behind his cowl. "Different how?"

Gordon gestured towards the bank's entrance. "See for yourself."

As they stepped inside, the acrid smell of gunpowder mingled with something sweeter, almost cloying. The bank's marble floor was littered with playing cards, each one bearing the unmistakable grinning visage of the Joker. But it was the walls that commanded attention.

Written in what appeared to be purple spray paint, a message sprawled across the pristine surface:

"In this den of greed and gold,

A jester's tale begins to unfold.

With laughter and chaos, I'll make my mark,

Gotham's new nightmare in the dark."

Batman's jaw clenched. "The Joker?"

Gordon shook his head. "That's the thing. We know for a fact that the Joker's locked up tight in Arkham. This is someone new."

As they moved deeper into the bank, the extent of the carnage became clear. Bodies lay strewn about, their faces frozen in grotesque smiles. But there was something off about them.

Batman knelt beside one of the victims, examining the rictus grin. "These aren't the Joker's usual toxins," he muttered. "The chemical composition is different. More refined."

"Great," Gordon sighed. "So we've got a Joker copycat with an upgraded formula. Any other good news?"

Batman stood, his cape settling around him like a shroud. "The vault," he said simply, striding towards the massive steel door at the back of the bank.

The vault stood open, its contents emptied. But on the inside of the door, another message awaited:

"With rhyme and reason, I'll steal your wealth,

While Gotham's protector grasps at stealth.

Can you catch a shadow, Dark Knight so brave?

Or will my laughter be this city's grave?"

Gordon ran a hand through his graying hair. "Poetry? Since when does the Joker write poetry?"

"He doesn't," Batman replied, his voice grim. "This is someone new. Someone who wants us to think it's the Joker, but is leaving deliberate clues that it isn't."

As if on cue, a bank teller who had been huddling in the corner suddenly sprang to his feet, his eyes wild and unfocused. "The laughter!" he cried out. "Can't you hear it? It's everywhere!"

Before anyone could react, the man began to convulse, his body twisting in unnatural angles. And then, to the horror of all present, he began to laugh. It started as a low chuckle but quickly grew into a full-throated cackle that echoed off the marble walls.

Batman moved swiftly, catching the man as he collapsed. But it was too late. The laughter died away, leaving only the eerie silence of the crime scene.

"We need to get these bodies to the lab," Batman said, his voice tight with controlled anger. "And I want a full analysis of every chemical trace in this building."

Gordon nodded, already barking orders to his officers. As the scene buzzed with activity, Batman slipped away, melting into the shadows of the night.

* * *

In the Batcave, the soft hum of computers and the occasional screech of bats provided a backdrop to Bruce Wayne's intense concentration. He stood before a large screen, cowl pulled back, brow furrowed as he pored over the data from the bank heist.

"Master Bruce," Alfred's cultured tones cut through the silence. "Perhaps a spot of tea might help clear the cobwebs?"

Bruce turned, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Thanks, Alfred, but I don't think tea is going to solve this one."

Alfred set the tray down regardless. "Perhaps not, sir, but it certainly can't hurt. Have you made any progress in identifying our poetic miscreant?"

Bruce shook his head, frustration evident in every line of his body. "The chemical analysis came back inconclusive. It's similar to Joker toxin, but with key differences. Whoever created this is brilliant, possibly on par with the Joker himself."

"A disturbing thought," Alfred mused. "And what of the victims?"

"All dead," Bruce said grimly. "The new toxin works faster than the Joker's, and it's more potent. But that's not the strangest part." He pulled up an image on the screen, showing a close-up of one of the victim's faces. "Look at the musculature around the mouth."

Alfred leaned in, his eyes widening slightly. "Good heavens. It almost appears as if..."

"As if they were trying not to smile," Bruce finished. "This toxin doesn't just force the victims to laugh. It's almost as if it's fighting against their will, forcing the body to betray itself."

The computer beeped, signaling an incoming transmission. Bruce pulled his cowl back on as Commissioner Gordon's face appeared on the screen.

"Batman, we've got another one," Gordon said without preamble. "Gotham Museum of Modern Art. You're not going to believe this."

"I'm on my way," Batman replied, already moving towards the Batmobile.

As the sleek vehicle roared out of the cave, Bruce's mind raced. Two heists in one night, both bearing the hallmarks of the Joker, yet undeniably different. Something big was brewing in Gotham, and he had a sinking feeling that this was only the beginning.

* * *

The Gotham Museum of Modern Art stood as a beacon of culture amidst the city's often grim landscape. Tonight, however, it was a crime scene that defied explanation.

As Batman approached, he immediately noticed something was off. The police lights seemed dimmer than usual, and there was an eerie quiet surrounding the building. Commissioner Gordon met him at the entrance, his face pale.

"I've never seen anything like this," Gordon said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's... you have to see it for yourself."

They stepped inside, and Batman felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air. The entire museum had been transformed. Every painting, every sculpture, had been altered to include a twisted, grinning face. But it wasn't the Joker's face – it was softer, more feminine, yet no less terrifying.

And everywhere, there was poetry. Lines of verse scrawled across walls, floors, even across the faces of the altered artworks:

"In halls of beauty, I leave my mark,

A canvas of chaos, a masterpiece dark.

Can you solve my riddle, oh Dark Knight so grim?

Or will Gotham fall to her, not to him?"

Batman's eyes narrowed. "Her?"

Gordon nodded grimly. "That's not all. Follow me."

They made their way to the center of the museum, where a macabre scene awaited them. The security guards and night staff had been arranged in a grotesque tableau, their bodies contorted into unnatural poses, faces frozen in those horrible, forced smiles. But at the center of it all was something that made even Batman's blood run cold.

A woman sat in a chair, her body relaxed as if merely resting. But her face – her face was a mask of pure terror, eyes wide and mouth open in a silent scream. And carved into her forehead were two words: "Poetic Justice."

"She's alive," Gordon said softly. "Catatonic, but alive. The only survivor we've found so far."

Batman knelt beside the woman, examining her closely. "This isn't random," he muttered. "She was chosen specifically. But why?"

As if in answer, a nearby screen flickered to life. The face that appeared was hidden behind a mask – white, with delicate purple lines tracing a feminine face. Red lips curved into a smile that sent chills down the spines of all who saw it.

"Hello, Gotham," the figure purred, her voice a melodic contralto. "Did you miss me? Oh wait, you didn't even know I existed, did you? Allow me to introduce myself. You can call me... Ms. Racey Rhymes."

She giggled, the sound eerily reminiscent of the Joker's infamous laugh, yet distinctly her own. "I hope you've enjoyed my little exhibitions so far. Consider them my audition for the role of Gotham's new maestro of mayhem. The Joker? Oh, he's so last season. It's time for a new act, don't you think?"

Her eyes seemed to lock onto the camera, and by extension, onto Batman himself. "I know you're watching, Dark Knight. Are you intrigued? Puzzled? Oh, I do hope so. Because this is just the overture, my dear. The real performance is yet to come."

She leaned in close, her masked face filling the screen. "Can you hear it, Batman? The rhythm of chaos, the melody of madness? It's coming for Gotham, and not even you can stop it. So put on your dancing shoes, darling. Because when the music starts, we're all going to dance."

The screen went dark, leaving the museum in eerie silence.

Batman stood, his mind racing. This was unlike anything he had faced before. A new player had entered the game, one who combined the Joker's flair for the theatrical with a poetic sensibility that was both beautiful and terrifying.

"Commissioner," he said, his voice low and intense, "I need everything you have on this woman. Bank records, security footage, witness statements – anything that might give us a clue to her identity or her next move."

Gordon nodded, already pulling out his phone to make the necessary calls. "What are you thinking, Batman? Who is she?"

Batman's gaze swept the room, taking in the altered artworks, the grotesque tableau of bodies, the lone survivor with her terrifying message. "Someone who's been watching Gotham for a long time," he said grimly. "Someone with resources, intelligence, and a deep-seated grudge. This isn't just about chaos or money. This is personal."

As he turned to leave, Batman's eyes fell on a small card that had fluttered to the ground. He picked it up, turning it over in his gloved hand. It was a business card for Maxwell Pride, one of Gotham's most prominent – and controversial – business moguls.

"Get me everything you can on Maxwell Pride," Batman said, tucking the card away. "I have a feeling he's connected to this somehow."

As he stepped out into the night, Batman couldn't shake the feeling that Gotham was standing on the precipice of something truly terrifying. Ms. Racey Rhymes was out there, plotting her next move, and he had a sinking feeling that this was only the beginning of her twisted poem.

The game was afoot, and the stakes had never been higher. As he grappled to the rooftops, Batman's determination solidified into iron resolve. He would solve this riddle, unravel this rhyme, and bring Ms. Racey Rhymes to justice – before Gotham descended into a chaos from which it might never recover.

*****

The warehouse was a study in contrasts. Outside, it blended seamlessly into Gotham's industrial district, a nondescript building among many. Inside, however, it was a riot of color and chaos that would have made the Joker himself green with envy.

At the center of this maelstrom sat Ms. Racey Rhymes, her feet propped up on an antique desk that looked wildly out of place in the warehouse setting. Her toes, painted a vivid purple, wiggled slightly as she regarded the man standing before her. To her left and right, a pair of muscular goons stood at attention, their faces painted with grotesque smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes.

Ms. Rhymes herself was a vision of calculated madness. Her hair, dyed in alternating streaks of green and purple, cascaded over her shoulders. She wore a tailored suit that seemed to shift between deep purple and midnight blue depending on how the light hit it. But it was her face that commanded attention – pale as moonlight, with lips painted a vivid red and eyes that sparkled with equal parts intelligence and insanity.

"So," she purred, her voice a melody that danced on the edge of reason, "you're the infamous Revan. I must say, you cut quite the imposing figure."

The man before her stood silent, his face hidden behind a mask that was featureless save for a pair of narrow eye slits. He wore a long, dark trench coat that seemed to absorb the light around it. In his hand, he held a baseball bat, its surface marred by scratches and what looked suspiciously like bloodstains.

Ms. Rhymes leaned forward, her eyes glittering. "Not much for conversation, are you? That's quite alright. I prefer my hired help to be more... action-oriented."

She snapped her fingers, and one of her goons stepped forward, placing a thick envelope on the desk. "Your advance," she explained. "Half now, half upon completion. Assuming, of course, that you're up to the task."

Revan remained motionless for a moment, then reached out and took the envelope. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a low growl that seemed to emanate from the depths of his mask. "The task?"

Ms. Rhymes' smile widened, becoming something feral and dangerous. "Why, bringing me the Batman, of course. Alive, mind you. I have... plans for our dear Dark Knight."

She stood, moving around the desk with a grace that belied the madness in her eyes. "You see, Revan, I'm writing an epic. A poem that will shake Gotham to its very foundations. And Batman? He's to be my unwitting co-author."

Revan's grip tightened on his bat. "Batman has bested many. What makes you think I can succeed where others have failed?"

Ms. Rhymes laughed, the sound echoing off the warehouse walls like broken glass. "Oh, my dear Revan. That's precisely why I chose you. You're not like the others, are you? No, you're something... special."

She circled him, her bare feet silent on the concrete floor. "I've heard the whispers, you know. They say you're more than just a man. That you're something... darker. A force of nature, barely contained in human form."

Revan remained still, but there was a tension in his posture that suggested coiled power, ready to be unleashed. "And if the whispers are true?"

"Then you're exactly what I need," Ms. Rhymes said, clapping her hands together in delight. "You see, Batman thinks he understands chaos. He believes he's seen the depths of madness in his rogues' gallery. But you and I? We're going to show him what true chaos looks like."

She returned to her desk, pulling out a folder and tossing it to Revan. "Everything we know about the Bat. His patterns, his weaknesses, the places he frequents. Use it, ignore it, it matters not to me. All that matters is the result."

Revan flipped through the folder, his masked face revealing nothing. "And when I bring him to you?"

Ms. Rhymes' smile was all teeth. "Then, my dear Revan, the real fun begins. You see, I have a little... gift for our caped crusader. A concoction of my own design that's going to open his eyes to a whole new world of possibility."

She leaned in close, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Imagine it. Batman, the stoic defender of Gotham, reduced to a laughing, giggling mess. And then, just when he thinks he's lost everything, we'll rebuild him. In our image."

Revan closed the folder. "You seek to break Batman."

"Break him?" Ms. Rhymes laughed. "Oh no, my dear. I seek to remake him. To show Gotham that even its greatest hero can fall. And in doing so, to prove that chaos is the only true constant in this mad, mad world."

She extended her hand. "So, do we have a deal?"

Revan regarded her for a long moment, then grasped her hand in his gloved one. "We have a deal."

As Revan turned to leave, Ms. Rhymes called out, "Oh, and Revan? Do try to have fun with it. After all, what's the point of chaos if you can't enjoy the show?"

The door closed behind Revan, leaving Ms. Rhymes alone with her goons. She turned to them, her smile never wavering. "Boys, I think it's time we prepared for our guest. After all, we want Batman to feel right at home when he arrives."

* * *

Across town, in a penthouse apartment that screamed of old money and refined taste, two women stood before a wall covered in newspaper clippings, photographs, and handwritten notes. Hannah Pride, her blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun, traced a line between two photos with a manicured finger.

"There's a pattern here, Sarah," she murmured. "These aren't random attacks. She's building to something."

Sarah Lawson, her dark skin a stark contrast to Hannah's paleness, leaned in close, her breath warm on Hannah's neck. "Your father's company. It's at the center of all this."

Hannah turned, her blue eyes meeting Sarah's brown ones. "I know. And that's what worries me. If she's targeting Pride Enterprises..."

"Then your father is in danger," Sarah finished. She placed a comforting hand on Hannah's shoulder. "We'll stop her, Han. That's why we're here."

Hannah's lips quirked in a small smile. "Remind me again why we're doing this ourselves instead of letting the police handle it?"

Sarah's expression darkened. "Because the police in this city are either corrupt or incompetent. And because..." She hesitated.

"Because it's personal," Hannah said softly. She reached up, cupping Sarah's face in her hand. "I know, love. I haven't forgotten what she did to your sister."

Sarah leaned into the touch, her eyes closing briefly. "Sometimes I think you're the only thing keeping me sane through all this."

Hannah leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to Sarah's lips. "Then I'll just have to stick around, won't I?"

Their moment was interrupted by the sound of Hannah's phone ringing. She pulled away reluctantly, fishing the device out of her pocket. Her eyes widened as she saw the caller ID.

"It's my father," she said, a note of surprise in her voice. She answered the call, putting it on speaker. "Dad? Is everything alright?"

Maxwell Pride's voice crackled through the speaker, tense and strained. "Hannah, where are you? Are you safe?"

Hannah and Sarah exchanged worried glances. "We're at the apartment, Dad. What's going on?"

"Listen to me very carefully," Maxwell said, his words coming in a rush. "You need to leave Gotham. Now. Take Sarah and go somewhere safe. Don't tell anyone where you're going, not even me."

"Dad, you're scaring me," Hannah said, her voice rising. "What's happening?"

There was a pause, filled only with the sound of Maxwell's heavy breathing. "She's coming for me, Hannah. Ms. Racey Rhymes. I... I think I know who she is. And if I'm right, then none of us are safe."

Sarah leaned in close to the phone. "Mr. Pride, we can help. Hannah and I, we've been investigating—"

"No!" Maxwell's shout was sharp enough to make both women flinch. "You can't get involved in this. It's too dangerous. Please, just... just go. I'll contact you when it's safe."

The line went dead, leaving Hannah and Sarah staring at each other in stunned silence.

"We're not leaving," Sarah said after a moment, her jaw set in determination.

Hannah nodded, already moving towards their equipment. "No, we're not. But we are going to find out what the hell is going on."

As they prepared to head out into the Gotham night, neither woman noticed the small drone hovering outside their window, its camera lens glinting in the moonlight.

* * *

In the Batcave, Bruce Wayne stood before his computer array, cowl pushed back as he pored over the information displayed on the screens. Alfred approached, a tray of coffee in his hands.

"Any progress, Master Bruce?" the butler asked, setting the tray down.

Bruce ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. "Some, but not enough. I've managed to trace the chemical components of Ms. Rhymes' new toxin to a few possible sources, but nothing concrete yet."

He pulled up an image on the main screen – a molecular diagram of the toxin. "It's brilliant, in a terrifying way. She's somehow managed to combine elements of Joker venom with a cocktail of other psychoactive compounds. The result is a toxin that doesn't just force its victims to laugh – it rewires their entire neural pathways."

Alfred leaned in, his brow furrowed. "Good heavens. You mean to say this toxin actually changes the way the brain functions?"

Bruce nodded grimly. "Exactly. It's not just about inducing euphoria or causing muscle spasms. This toxin fundamentally alters the victim's perception of reality. In essence, it forces them to see the world through the lens of Ms. Rhymes' particular brand of madness."

"A frightening prospect indeed," Alfred murmured. "And what of the connection to Maxwell Pride?"

Bruce pulled up another screen, this one showing a complex web of financial transactions. "Pride Enterprises has its fingers in a lot of pies, Alfred. Pharmaceuticals, chemical research, even some experimental psychology studies. Any one of these could be the link we're looking for."

He zoomed in on one particular node in the web. "There's something else. About five years ago, Pride Enterprises funded a series of poetry workshops for 'at-risk youth'. It was a pet project of Maxwell's wife, Elizabeth."

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "You suspect our Ms. Rhymes might have been a participant in these workshops?"

"It's a possibility," Bruce said. "But there's more. Three years ago, Elizabeth Pride died under mysterious circumstances. The official report says it was an accident, but..."

"But you suspect foul play," Alfred finished.

Bruce nodded. "I can't shake the feeling that Elizabeth's death is somehow connected to all this. The timing, the way Ms. Rhymes seems to have a personal vendetta against Pride Enterprises – it all fits."

The computer beeped, signaling an incoming transmission. Bruce quickly pulled his cowl back on as Commissioner Gordon's face appeared on the screen.

"Batman, we've got a situation," Gordon said without preamble. "Maxwell Pride just reached out to us. Says he's got information on our mysterious Ms. Rhymes. He's requesting protection."

Batman's eyes narrowed. "Where is he now?"

"That's the thing," Gordon said, his voice tight with concern. "He was supposed to meet us at GCPD headquarters twenty minutes ago. He never showed."

Batman was already moving towards the Batmobile. "I'm on it, Commissioner. Send me everything you have on Pride's last known whereabouts."

As the vehicle roared to life, Bruce couldn't shake the feeling that they were rapidly approaching a tipping point. Ms. Racey Rhymes had made her opening moves, and now the game was escalating. And somewhere out there, Maxwell Pride held pieces of the puzzle that could blow this whole case wide open.

The Batmobile tore out of the cave and into the Gotham night. The hunt was on, and Batman knew that every second counted. Because in this deadly game of poetry and madness, the next rhyme could very well be Gotham's last.

****

The Gotham night was thick with tension as Batman raced through the streets, his mind working overtime to piece together the puzzle of Ms. Racey Rhymes and her connection to Maxwell Pride. The Batmobile's engine roared, a counterpoint to the eerie silence that had fallen over the city.

Suddenly, a dark figure stepped out into the street, directly in the Batmobile's path. Batman slammed on the brakes, the vehicle screeching to a halt mere inches from the imposing silhouette.

As Batman emerged from the Batmobile, he found himself face to face with Revan. The masked hitman stood motionless, his baseball bat held loosely at his side.

"So," Batman growled, "you're the new player in town."

Revan's voice was a low rumble. "And you're the one they call the Dark Knight. I've been waiting for you."

Without warning, Revan lunged forward, his bat whistling through the air. Batman barely had time to dodge, the weapon grazing his cowl as he rolled to the side.

"I don't have time for this," Batman snarled, rising to his feet. "Where's Maxwell Pride?"

Revan chuckled, a sound devoid of humor. "Always so focused on the mission, aren't you? But tell me, Batman, when was the last time you faced a true challenge?"

The two circled each other, tension crackling in the air between them. Batman's eyes narrowed behind his cowl. "You're working for Ms. Rhymes. Why?"

"Why does anyone do anything in this city?" Revan replied, twirling his bat with deadly grace. "For the thrill of the game."

With that, he attacked again, his movements a blur of speed and precision. Batman found himself on the defensive, blocking and parrying blows that came with frightening force. It quickly became clear that Revan was no ordinary thug – his fighting style was a mix of various martial arts, executed with a samurai-like discipline.

As they fought, the battle moved through the streets of Gotham, each combatant using the urban landscape to their advantage. Batman grappled to a nearby rooftop, hoping to gain the high ground, but Revan was right behind him, scaling the building with inhuman agility.

"You can't run from chaos, Batman," Revan called out, his voice carrying over the sound of their combat. "It's coming for Gotham, whether you're ready or not."

Batman gritted his teeth, launching a flurry of batarangs that Revan deflected with ease. "Chaos is just another word for fear," he retorted. "And I don't scare easily."

Their battle continued across the Gotham skyline, a deadly dance of shadows and skill. For every move Batman made, Revan seemed to have a counter. It was like fighting a dark mirror of himself, and for the first time in a long while, Batman felt a flicker of doubt.

Meanwhile, across town, the Gotham City Police Department headquarters was a hive of activity. Commissioner Gordon stood in the center of the chaos, barking orders and trying to coordinate the search for Maxwell Pride.

"I want every available unit out there!" he shouted. "Pride is our key to unraveling this whole mess, and I'll be damned if we lose him now!"

Suddenly, the lights in the station flickered and died, plunging the building into darkness. A moment later, emergency generators kicked in, bathing everything in an eerie red glow.

"What the hell?" Gordon muttered, reaching for his gun.

The answer came in the form of a melodic laugh that seemed to emanate from everywhere at once. "Oh, Commissioner," Ms. Racey Rhymes' voice purred over the station's PA system. "Did you really think your little fortress could keep me out?"

Before anyone could react, the windows exploded inward, showering the room with glass. Smoke grenades rolled across the floor, filling the air with thick, purplish smoke. As officers coughed and stumbled, shadowy figures moved through the haze – Ms. Rhymes' goons, their painted smiles visible even through the smoke.

"Ladies and gentlemen of Gotham's finest," Ms. Rhymes' voice rang out again, tinged with manic glee. "Welcome to the next act of our little drama. I do hope you're ready for a show-stopping performance!"

Outside the police station, Hannah and Sarah arrived just in time to see the chaos unfolding. They exchanged a determined look before pulling on their own masks – simple domino masks that concealed their identities without hampering their vision.

"Ready?" Hannah asked, her voice tight with tension.

Sarah nodded, pulling out a pair of escrima sticks. "Let's show these clowns what real justice looks like."

Back across town, Batman and Revan's battle had reached a fever pitch. Both combatants were showing signs of fatigue, but neither was willing to give an inch. They stood on opposite ends of a rooftop, each assessing the other with newfound respect.

"You're good," Batman admitted, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "But this ends now. I won't let Gotham fall to madness."

Revan tilted his head, his mask betraying no emotion. "Who said anything about letting Gotham fall? This isn't about destruction, Batman. It's about transformation."

Before Batman could respond, a new voice cut through the night. "Well done, Revan darling. You've played your part beautifully."

Both men turned to see Ms. Racey Rhymes standing on a nearby rooftop, flanked by her grinning goons. She held a sleek, high-tech rifle in her hands, aimed squarely at Batman.

"What is this?" Revan demanded, a note of anger creeping into his voice.

Ms. Rhymes laughed, the sound sending chills down Batman's spine. "Oh, my dear Revan. Did you really think I'd entrust the capture of the Bat to anyone but myself? You were the distraction, darling. The opening act to my grand finale."

With that, she fired. Batman, still reeling from his battle with Revan, couldn't dodge in time. The dart struck him in the shoulder, and almost immediately, he felt his limbs growing heavy.

"No!" Revan shouted, moving to intercept, but it was too late. Batman stumbled, fighting against the potent tranquilizer coursing through his system.

As darkness closed in around him, the last thing Batman saw was Ms. Rhymes' triumphant smile and Revan's clenched fists.

At the police station, the battle was in full swing. Hannah and Sarah had managed to fight their way inside, their skills a match for Ms. Rhymes' thugs. They moved in perfect sync, covering each other's blind spots and taking down goon after goon.

"We need to find Gordon!" Sarah shouted over the chaos.

Hannah nodded, ducking under a wild swing from one of the attackers. "He'll be in the thick of it. Come on!"

They fought their way deeper into the station, the air thick with smoke and the sound of combat. Finally, they spotted Commissioner Gordon, back-to-back with a handful of officers, holding off a group of Ms. Rhymes' more heavily armed thugs.

"Commissioner!" Hannah called out. "We're here to help!"

Gordon's eyes widened as he saw the masked women cutting through the chaos. "Who the hell are you?"

"Friends," Sarah replied simply, her escrima sticks a blur as she took down two attackers in quick succession.

With Hannah and Sarah's help, the tide began to turn. Ms. Rhymes' goons, facing unexpected resistance, began to fall back.

Suddenly, Ms. Rhymes' voice crackled over the PA system once more. "Well, well, well. It seems our little party has some uninvited guests. How delightfully chaotic! But I'm afraid I must cut this performance short. I have a very important date with a certain Bat, you see."

The remaining thugs began a coordinated retreat, covering their exit with more smoke grenades. As the air cleared, Gordon, Hannah, and Sarah found themselves standing in the wreckage of the police station.

"They're getting away!" Sarah growled, moving towards the exit.

But Hannah grabbed her arm, holding her back. "Wait. Listen."

In the distance, they could hear the wail of approaching sirens. "Backup," Gordon said, a note of relief in his voice. "About damn time."

Hannah turned to the Commissioner. "We need to go after Ms. Rhymes. She said something about Batman – I think he might be in trouble."

Gordon hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Go. I'll coordinate things here and join you as soon as I can. But be careful – this woman is more dangerous than anyone we've faced before."

As Hannah and Sarah raced out into the night, following the trail of Ms. Rhymes' retreat, a new player entered the scene. Revan, his posture radiating barely contained fury, landed on a nearby rooftop.

"You," he growled, spotting Hannah and Sarah. "You're after Rhymes."

The two women tensed, ready for another fight, but Revan held up a hand. "I'm not here to stop you. Rhymes... she betrayed the code. Used me as a pawn in her game. That cannot stand."

Sarah's eyes narrowed behind her mask. "Why should we trust you?"

"Because right now, I'm your best chance at finding Batman before it's too late," Revan replied. "Rhymes has him, and whatever she's planning, it won't be pleasant."

Hannah and Sarah exchanged a look, years of partnership allowing them to communicate without words. Finally, Hannah nodded. "Alright. But one wrong move, and you'll regret it."

Revan inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Understood. Now come – we have a Bat to save and a poet to silence."

As the unlikely trio set off in pursuit of Ms. Racey Rhymes, the Gotham night seemed to hold its breath. The game had changed, alliances shifted, and the fate of the city hung in the balance.

In a hidden location, deep in the bowels of Gotham, Batman slowly regained consciousness. He found himself strapped to a chair, his utility belt gone, surrounded by an array of strange machinery. And there, perched on a ornate throne-like chair, sat Ms. Racey Rhymes, her eyes gleaming with manic glee.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, my dear Dark Knight," she purred. "Oh, the poem we're going to write together... it will be a masterpiece that will reshape Gotham forever."

As Batman struggled against his bonds, he realized with growing dread that this was only the beginning of Ms. Racey Rhymes' twisted performance. The real show, it seemed, was about to begin.

[taztopaz]

The Vampire

“What is more draining than the embrace of a succubus? The fangs of a vampire!”. This was a joke told to me by local Yenid-side Salamanderites when I inquired about their knowledge on vampires. Apparently it’s a pun in the local language but as with all world play, its humour is lost in translation but there is a hint of truth to it.

The vampire is a kind of undead that sustains itself by stealing the life-essence of another sapient being, whether this is in the form of blood, flesh, specific organs, or a specific region of a body. They cannot be in sunlight as it completely immobilizes them and causes their body to slowly disintegrate, and as such are usually nocturnal creatures. They prefer to live in dense cities where there is a vulnerable urban poor to take advantage of. Vampires of a cunning cruelty will target “untouchable” castes of people, Sin Eaters, dung collectors, executioners, what society considers the utter most depths of wretchedness.

Not much is known about vampires, for although they are well known of, they are elusive and occur rarely. There are many suggestions on how one may become a vampire, curses, infections, rituals of necromancy, however the one I find most compelling is a pact with one of the Gods of Chaotic Magic. My time spent with the strange Salamanderites had me hear tales of their folk hero who also happens to be the patron saint of a local Yenid tribe. The story tells of an exile from the Razavil-side of the old border being captured and given orders by the All-Mother herself at our most sacred of sites to kill his own brother turned vampire who lead an army of the damned to try and conquer the Hyena-lands. This vampire turned by allowing himself to become the thrall of a Chaotic God in exchange for saving him from certain death as a child.

Appearance wise, vampires look a lot like whatever form they had when still alive but with a few changes in form. They will be thin, gaunt, with the pigment which lies in the skin, fur, and scales will start fading over time. They will receive long canines that will make it difficult to fully close their mouths. Their breathing will be laboured, raspy and their movements are stiff. Their wounds take much longer to heal when they are not well fed, but never fester nor bleed.

If you ever find yourself in need of combat with a fiend like this, it is recommended you track its lair and visit as it rests during the day when it is most vulnerable. Bring a sacred-wood or iron stake, a weapon with a blade whose composition contains silver, zinc, and copper which has bathed in sunlight for three days, and a mallet. You will know the blade contains enough of each metal when you cannot see the reflection of a vampire in it. Position the stake right above the mouth and using the mallet, drive the stake through the back of the throat of the vampire. The beast will wretch, writhe, and scream in a facsimile of pain and anguish. Do not fall for its manipulation, do not pull out the stake under any circumstances. This is to keep the monster in place for the next part. Straddle over the torso of the vampire for leverage and drive the weapon through its heart and hold it there until the body of the vampire has completely turned into dust.

If you find yourself in a situation where you must fight head on, pray for your soul and try to survive the night. Vampires cannot enter where not invited, close all doors and windows, get rid of all cultural indicators of welcoming such as business signs and open windows. If available, use weapons made from the sacred metals to defend oneself. If one cannot find one of these, find a stream of running fresh water and retreat beyond it, this shall buy you time to seek shelter as vampires cannot cross running water. Flee to the nearest temple with open religious iconography, the undead cannot enter these grounds and vampires are no different. Only leave refuge when in the morning, but be wary and stay away from dark places because it may still stalk you until the 3rd hour of the morning (around 8-9am in earth time).

[bestclippingpathservicecompany]

Mastering the Art of One Point Perspective Photography | Tips and Techniques

Introduction

Being an ardent photographer, my goal is to discover various ways of capturing amazing views that would be attractive to the audience. In particular, the one-point perspective has become my favourite than any other perspective that can be used to create dramatic compositions. In this piece I'll be explaining the realm of one-point perspective photography, the concept, the technique and some tips so that you can achieve mastery in this artistic venture.

Understanding the Concept of One Point Perspective

The perspective photography technique that uses converging lines to represent depth and dimension is one point perspective. The essence of one point perspective is based on the rules of linear perspective, which was originated during the Renaissance. When through the camera alignment with single-point perspective vanishing point, the picture has the appearance of three-dimensional space. To understand what of a one point perspective is, imagine yourself as the end of a long corridor with a single door at the extreme end. The corridor seems to have only one vanishing point, where all the lines gathered— they can be seen on the floor, wall, and ceiling. This is the key element in one-point perspective photo composition.

One Point Perspective Photography Techniques

Having the one point perspective as a basis, let's now talk about some techniques that will help you to explore the perspective photography. These techniques will cover not only your picture perspective, but it will also add to your portfolio perspective pictures that fascinate and bewitch.

Tips for Capturing One Point Perspective in Buildings

One-point perspective photography is ideal for shooting buildings because of their straight lines and symmetrical forms that give the best results. For architectural photography that will capture the attention of the viewer, compose the shot by aligning the building’s edges with the vanishing point. Playing with diverse angles and focal lengths, you will be able to add depth and drama into your one point perspective pictures, while the windows, archways and columns can bring complexity into your shots.

Creating Dramatic Effects with One Point Perspective in Black and White Photography

One-point perspective is minimalistic in design and the timeless appeal and dramatic effect of black and white photography perfectly complement it. When capturing perspective images in black and white, highlight textures, patterns, as well as contrasts to intensify the visual effects. Using different lighting techniques, such as chiaroscuro, you can create images with dark shadows that emphasize bright highlights and thus create a sense of mystery and beauty in the picture.

Finding Unique Locations for One Point Perspective Photography

Although buildings are often used for a one point perspective, try to look at things from a different perspective and do not restrict yourself to the traditional architectural style. Look for unique places in an urban setting or go for nature photography to get interesting perspectives and compositions. Bridges, staircases, tunnels, and even the straight tree trunks or the curved lines of mountains can all be used to take fascinating one point perspective photos. Walk around your surrounding with a sharp eye and a free heart to find the hidden treasures that lay ahead.

Using One Point Perspective to Capture a Dock or Pier

Docks and piers are admirable subjects for landscape photography, especially when using one point perspective. The wooden stakes that radiate out into the water can give your images a feeling of depth and distance. To catch a great picture, set yourself at the end of the dock or pier and match the lines with the vanishing point. Make sure you watch the reflections in the water and how light and shadows play in your composition, as they can be used to add atmosphere to your landscape photography.

How to Take One Point Perspective Photography

To capture compelling one point perspective photographs, follow these steps:

Find a subject with strong lines and depth.

Position yourself in a way that aligns the lines with the vanishing point.

Experiment with different angles and focal lengths to create depth and drama.

Pay attention to details and elements that can add interest to your composition.

Consider the lighting conditions and how they can enhance your photograph.

Take multiple shots from different perspectives to ensure you capture the best image.

Remember, practice makes perfect. Don't be afraid to experiment and try different techniques until you find your unique style and vision, drawing upon photography inspiration along the way. One Point Perspective Landscape Photography Although one point perspective is used for buildings and man-made structures, one point perspective can be used to take an exciting one point perspective photos and images in landscape photography. Search for natural elements in the forms of paths, roads, or rows of trees that will invite the viewer's eye to go further into the distance. The matter is how to locate a subject that produces a sense of depth and dimension, with lines that lead the viewer to the main point. Editing and Post-Processing Techniques for One Point Perspective Photography Now you have your one point perspective photo, it's time to awaken them to their full potential by editing and post-processing them. Here are some techniques to enhance your images:Here are some techniques to enhance your images:

Adjust the levels and curves to achieve the optimal tonal range and contrast.

Adjust colors to induce a certain mood or environment.

Sharpen image to make the details and the textures more visible.

Remove distractions and unwanted elements using clone or content-aware tools.

Try out various filters or presets to give your pictures the creative edge. In case you edit the photograph, make sure it highlights your photo, not overshadows it. Use them as a starting point and your editing style will get developed with time. Inspiration from Famous Photographers Who Use One Point Perspective Looking for photography inspiration? Explore the works of famous photographers who have mastered the art of one point perspective. Artists like Ansel Adams, Henri Cartier-Bresson, and Michael Kenna have all incorporated this technique into their iconic photographs. Study their compositions, observe how they use lines and vanishing points to create depth and interest, and let their work inspire your own photographic journey. Get Inspired for Your Next Project! One-point perspective photography is a marvelous device that allows us to create beautiful and visually attracting images from this point of view. Use this technique if you are shooting anything from buildings and landscapes to everyday scenes. The technique adds depth and dimension to your photos. Experiment, practice, and let your imagination be your tutor as you bring one point perspective photography to the stage. Keep in mind that the journey itself is as much fun as the result, so enjoy the process and let your enthusiasm show. Now, get your camera and go out to the city for street photography, discover the scenery around, and begin to take the world from a different angle!

[immemorymag]

Strydoedd Bangor/Streets Of Bangor part I

"During my undergraduate and postgraduate years at Bangor University (Plant Biology) I was spending time experimenting with my photography. As I have previously stated influences and exposure to the work of other photographers was limited in the early to mid 1970s. Camera magazines were mostly filled with lens resolution charts, chocolate box landscapes or cheesy glamour features. Serious documentary photography could be seen in the Sunday newspaper colour supplements notably the Biafra War and famine and of course the work of the many photographers covering the Vietnam War. Gritty mainly black and white photo-journalism was what made an impression on me.

I was then introduced to the work of Philip Jones Griffiths who turned his camera onto the English at leisure. His work showed me that there was value in photographing what was around me wherever I happened to be, no need to go to an exotic war or foreign famine although these were indeed worthy subjects.

By taking on Student Community Action and Disablement Income Group (DIG) projects it was possible to make images that were worthwhile and helpful to these causes and which helped ordinary people in their own personal ‘wars’ within our own society due to their unique challenges and circumstances. I realised that I didn’t have to go away to make significant images they were all around if I could see them through my camera.

My study of the Welsh community living in the Hirael district of Bangor was primarily about the people who made up that community and of course involved a lot of street portraiture. It was also important to document the streets and houses in which the people lived as these were under threat of demolition and erasure. I spent a lot of time wandering the streets of Hirael and Bangor in general.

I found myself taking photographs that were often abstract compositions taken from the urban environment. I was interested in the patterns of garage doors, street kerbs, pavements, concrete and patinated corrugated iron.

I also found it interesting to photograph the created landscapes of public parks their paths and topiary"

[bluebird-practices-drawing]

fill in the gaps

She first crosses path with him when she's running to her music theory class, trying with one hand to wrangle her books into her bag and with the other to keep her hat from flying right off her head. Koala looks down for one second to shove Music Theory and Composition: A Guide in as deep as it will go, and the crunch of an old granola bar wrapper is all she hears before she runs headlong into something warm, heavy, and which makes a shocked Oomf as they go crashing.

Shit, Koala thinks and her hands fly out to steady herself, anticipating the shock of hard concrete on her gloved palms, but all she manages to do is trip them up and she falls hard onto the sidewalk. Her side twinges in pain and Koala curses as her books and hat go flying, the wind gleefully picking up the covers and throwing them open to pages of text and notes.

"Shit!" she swears, out loud this time, and scrambles to pick everything up, shoving her hat into its rightful place and stashing her books away as fast as she can. "I'm so sorry, I really didn't mean to slam into you - "

In her haste, she fumbles with one of her binders and it slips loose from her grasp, only to be caught by a hand that isn't hers and handed back. Looking up, she realizes that accompanying the offered binder is a smile, and warm dark eyes, and a face framed by wavy locks of blond hair.

"It's alright," her accidental victim says with a small laugh, too cheerful for 7:56 on a Tuesday morning, when the sun is barely even up. "You're a music major , huh?"

"Yeah," Koala manages, wondering if she's winded from the crash or from the way he laughs, boyishly charming. "I am. Thanks."

Before she can make a fool of herself, she grabs her binder and pushes it into her bag. "Sorry for crashing into you again - I should have been watching where I was going - "

"Hey, no, it's fine!" he says. "Running late, huh?"

Oh, she really has to get going now. "Yeah," Koala says, starting to walk in the direction of her building, trying not to be rude with the speed of her pace. "My alarm ran out of battery and I forgot to put new ones in, so - "

"Ah, you don't have to worry," he laughs. "What's your first class? Anything except music history and you'll be just fine, the professors are all really laid-back."

"Music theory," she says. He's easily keeping up with her, despite the fact that she's halfway to jogging and considering a full-on sprint. Then again, he's a good bit taller than she is. "You?"

"I don't have a class this early, so I'm really just out wandering," he says, and the sheepish way he rubs at the back of his head makes her laugh despite herself. The moths in her stomach settle down a little. "It's cool that you're studying music, though! What instrument?"

The doors swing open with one shove. "You haven't even told me what you're studying," she rebukes, playful, and he laughs and something in her gut does a backflip.

"You got me. I'm a sociology major," he says. "I know, it sounds boring, but it's actually fascinating!"

She finds the lecture hall and makes her way inside with Sabo just behind her, on a passionate rant about class divisions and the urban consequences. He moves into a fervent whisper when he notices that they're no longer in a hallway and Koala finds herself entranced by the way he talks, gesturing as he does so, mapping out a world only he can see and that she could only dream of. Only when she picks out a random spot and sits down does he stop talking, for the sole purpose of saying,

"Wait, so what was your instrument again?"

Koala can't help it - she laughs, hiding it behind a hand, as she takes out her textbook and notebook and fishes a pen from somewhere in the depths of her bag. "I never told you," she says and he pouts at her, stupidly cute. "Violin. I'm majoring in strings performance."

"Woah, violin?" His eyes go adorably wide. "Wow. Can I watch you practice sometime?"

"It won't be interesting," she feels the need to warn. "80% of it is just scales and studies. I'm sure you don't want to watch me play double stops for an hour straight."

"I don't even know what those are," he tells her, sincere in his admission. Ten minutes into meeting him and she's already taken in. "Everything you do will be impressive to me, I'm sure."

"Don't you have a campus to wander around on?" she jokes. The professor is starting and Koala flips to a clean page on her notebook, clicking her pen.

"Is that a yes?"

Koala opens her textbook. In the corner of her page, she draws a checkmark and then a time and room in black ink. His answering grin is enough to make her smile in turn.

When he gets up to leave, she resists looking at him - then can't help it and Koala turns back at the perfect moment to catch him give her an exaggerated thumbs up and mouth something - I'll be there - before he vanishes out the door.

To her surprise, when she gets to the practice room at 1:00 with her case and bag in tow, he's there, leaning against the doorjamb, eyes closed and a backpack sitting by his feet. Koala sets down her case, wondering if he's sleeping - the sound of it doesn't elicit any reaction.

He probably is asleep, she reflects. She debates for a moment on whether or not to wake him, then decides that he did want to watch her practice and she may as well, so -

"Gah!"

Koala yanks her hand away as he tries to bat it out of the air, like a startled cat. "Good afternoon, sleepyhead," she teases. "Why were you napping outside the practice room?"

"Oh, you know. The usual," he says with a bashful smile. "You came!"

"I should be the one saying that," she says, opening the door. Picking up her case, she walks inside and starts to set up her violin. Behind her, she hears him follow, the door clicking shut. "You sure about this?"

"Oh, definitely. I like to listen to music when I do homework, so... "

"So I'm background noise," she says, tightening her bow, and can't hold back her laugh when he hurries to assure her that that's not what he meant. "I'm joking! I don't mind, though like I said - it's not very exciting."

"Ah, well, the music I listen to isn't very exciting either," he says, unzipping his bag and pulling out two textbooks. "It's just to help me concentrate, you know? What's that?"

"Oh, this? Rosin," Koala says, wrapping up the cake and dropping it back into her case. "It's to help the bow make a better sound."

"And that?"

"Shoulder-rest. Makes the violin easier to hold."

She's used to playing in front of a mirror, watching and correcting her posture. Thankfully, the practice room has one, so Koala drags a stand over and opens her book of scales. She sets her metronome onto the stand and turns it on, the rhythmic ticking filling their space. Through the mirror's reflection, she can see him opening a laptop and starting to type, soft clicks beneath the sounds of the metronome.

Koala sets her violin on her shoulder, lifts her bow, and starts playing.

Arguably, scales are boring. Considering she's been playing for a good nine years, though, Koala can understand their importance. So she plays through all the major scales, then harmonic and melodic minor, then takes a minute or so to roll her shoulders before starting on chromatic.

Before, Koala used to play for hours on end, losing herself in repertoire. Now, she's learned to take breaks for important things, like water or schoolwork, and that much of practice is meant to be boring. So she stops after the major arpeggios to take a drink of water, then pulls out her binder and flips to a sheet of vibrato exercises.

"Wait," her companion says when she finishes the last one. "That song you just played."

Koala tilts her head, watching his reflection in the mirror. He's staring at her like she'd just started levitating. "What about it?"

"Is that - Is that Bink's Brew?"

"Oh, that's what it's called?" Koala says. "I never knew the name." Hachi in particular loved the song, as did much of Fisher Tiger's family - they would sing it after nights out, and it could often go on well past the moon's zenith.

"Wow," he laughs. "I was not expecting to feel so nostalgic today. Do you have any other songs?"

"I mean, yeah, but unless you grew up on a household in love with classical music I doubt you'll feel as nostalgic," she says. "I might be able to play the rest of the song, though, if I can remember how it goes."

"Please," he says and she laughs but obliges, closing her eyes to pull on those gold-tinted memories.

Her second family, because they'd been her family after she crawled out of the burnt remains of Saint Gregorius' mansion, hadn't been quite on the legal side of things. But they were good, caring people, and they took care of her. She remembers a seedy bar, with the bulbs cracked and flickering, but feeling perfectly at home with them - they never let her touch alcohol, but they somehow got her juice and she would sip on it and listen to their raucous song, Hachi's voice the loudest of them all. It was a simple song, one without much difficult technique; it was a song that rejoiced at being alive, and at being heard.

She ends the song on a flourish, adding an ornament just for the way the notes dance and linger - and for how her companion applauds, grinning from ear to ear.

"You play so well!" he gushes. "I really wanted to sing but I can never sing on-key. It'd sound horrible."

"Oh, don't say that," she laughs.

"No, trust me. My brothers tell me I sound like a goose being strangled to death," he informs her, all earnest eyes.

"Yeah, but it's not what matters," Koala says. "It's not exactly a performance song. It's just for fun."

He's quiet for a moment, absorbing what she just said. Then he tilts his head and smiles at her and something in Koala's chest flutters to and fro.

"I never did get your name," he says. "I'm Sabo."

"Koala," she says. "Nice to meet you, Sabo. Though, it's a few hours late."

He grins at that, carefree as the wind. "Nice to meet you too, Koala! Better late than never, right?"

She leaves the practice room that day with a new bounce her step and a new number in her phone. On her way out of the building, it vibrates and she pulls it out, swiping up to see -

From: Sabo was really cool to meet you today wanna chat again at some point?

To: Sabo sure!

--

Sabo is, Koala finds out, the eldest sibling of three ("I mean, Ace is technically a month older, but he's also an idiot sometimes, so I think I get to be the oldest, you know?" "Sabo, that's not how ages work."); he's roommates with someone he calls Ivankov, who is in cosmetology school but is also a passionate activist and is frequently helped by Sabo ("See this scar? Yeah, a cop clipped me with a rubber bullet once." "You know you should run in zig-zags from bullets, not directly away, right?" "I'll keep that in mind for the future, then."); he boxes, and is taught by someone he calls Dragon ("He's got this wicked tattoo on his face and he hits like a damn truck. I swear he can teleport." "He's called Dragon? I think I've heard of him before." "Oh, really? You should come with me sometime!").

The last point is one Koala takes in with interest. "I should!" she agrees. "I do kickboxing, actually, in my spare time. It'll be fun."

"Ooh, then we definitely don't need to teach you," he says. "It makes sense that you do kickboxing. You need the reach."

She flicks him in the forehead for that, which he accepts chortling like a loon all the while. "Shut up."

"You'd have to reach my face to make me do that!" he grins and hurriedly ducks away when she leans over to pinch at his cheeks.

"You're a dumbass."

"I've been told it's one of my charms."

Sabo is also, Koala finds out, passionate, intelligent, and impulsive. He texted her once if i mix together coffee, sleeping pills, and yogurt will it cancel out into just yogurt? with a blurry picture of his kitchen counter and she'd run over to stop him in the middle of the night, knocking the cursed concoction out of his hands when he opened the door. That same night she met Ivankov, who took a liking to her immediately for managing to stop one of Sabo's horrific, sleep-deprivation fueled plans.

He's top of his class and she could (and has, before) go for hours listening to him talk about his interests, whether over phone call or in-person as they work. Everything about how he speaks, from the way he skips over syllables when he gets excited to the gesturing of his hands to the clear zeal in his voice - she thinks of it when she plays, sometimes, trying to translate that same fervour into her pieces.

He's also a right idiot sometimes, but it's so easy to relax around him, to let herself come free. She thinks of that when she plays too, sometimes, letting his  laughter drift through her head and hearing her notes bounce to a similar rhythm, clear and joyous.

And he's a good boxer. He does bring her to meet Dragon at one point, and she wraps her hands and accepts the gloves and gets in the ring against him, and they trade blows until she knows she'll feel the bruises the next day but so will he, until he gets out between heavy breaths that she's packing a lot of muscle in your tiny arms, damn and she finds the strength between panted laughter to (gently, of course) whack him on the head, which he ducks to let her do, snickering all the while. It's the same day that she meets Sabo's brothers - Dragon, apparently, is Luffy's father, though none of them refer to him as such ("It's complicated," Sabo says, and leaves it at that) - and Hack.

Put short, he's a good friend. He's -

"Anyone ever tell you you look like that one fairytale prince?"

"Ew, princes," Sabo says, wrinkling his nose, before she can even register what she just blurted out and feel embarrassed, at all. "I don't want to be a part of oppressive nobility. C'mon, Koala, can't I be like - a cool rogue, or something?"

She elbows him. "Fine, fine. You're a cool rogue."

"With a top hat." He grins down at her, conspiratorial, and she thinks a top hat would suit him - would look dashing on him, even.

"With a top hat," she indulges and lets herself believe, for a moment, that her comment had been forgotten.

"So, what's that fairytale with a prince?"

Shit. "It's just an old story my family used to tell me," she says. Sabo's aware already that the people Koala grew up with were perhaps not quite always on the right side of the law, and his only reaction was just Cool, can I meet them? To which she'd had to say No, and didn't elaborate.

"Yeah?" Sabo says. He leans on her shoulder, a steady weight as she studies for her upcoming music history test. His voice is no demand but is an invitation, letting her decide, and she doesn't think she can't be any more grateful for his friendship.

"There's a girl," Koala says. "She lives by the ocean and she makes a living there, when an injured bird washes up on her shore. She takes in the bird and nurses it to full health, whereupon it promises her that if she keeps it with her it will grant her riches beyond measure. But she doesn't want to keep an innocent animal trapped, so she declines and goes to release it. When she sets it on the sand, it transforms into a prince, who tells her that she has freed him from his curse and they fall in love and marry. The end."

"Riveting storytelling."

"Oh, shush."

Just a story, just a memory shared first by firelight and now underneath the lamplight. He is kind of like that prince, the sort of boy she would have dreamed of as a naive child, whether curled up in their stifling room in the servant's quarters or watching the stars through the crooked window lying on Hachi's back.

Sabo shifts a little closer. He says, "When I was a kid, my brothers and I got it into our heads that there was a monster stalking our home. So we found old pipes and went to hunt it down."

"That does sound like a you thing to do."

"Hey, what does that mean?"

Koala snickers at his mock-offended expression and lightly pokes his cheek. "Did you succeed?"

"Nah, we were kids. But our grandfather came and beat it up for us, then taught us how to use those pipes." He spins a pen between his fingers, and she watches the clever bend and flick of them. He could be a pianist, with his nimble hands. "Fun times."

She recognizes it as the offering it is - story for a story, memory for a memory. Their own little bargain, their own little trade.

She lets herself relax into his shoulder and turns a page in her notebook.

--

From: 'dashing' rogue so how'd it go?

To: 'dashing' rogue how'd what go?

From: 'dashing' rogue your test you were studying for it right? saw your textbook

To: 'dashing' rogue better than expected what about your presentation? you were stressed when you were rehearsing

From: 'dashing' rogue i may or may not have gone over the time limit :)

To: 'dashing' rogue sabo

From: 'dashing' rogue hey it was only by like two minutes it's fine... probably :) :)

To: 'dashing' rogue don't smiley face at me >:((

--

Okay, so maybe the butterflies in her stomach haven't been digested yet. Maybe they're still there.

That's life. Koala has other things to focus on - like her upcoming recital, where she's managed to earn the chance to play solo and not just in the orchestra.

--

"With passion!" her teacher says, spinning about in the room. It should look ridiculous, one full-grown adult doing pirouettes with a (comically shorter) girl playing violin in the center, the metronome ticking in the background. "With love, Koala! Pour all your heart into it!"

Professor Brook has been deemed eccentric by many, but he's a damn good teacher. Some of the student body rumour that he's immortal, based on the pictures they've seen in his office. Whether or not those rumours hold any truth to it is another matter (though, privately, she thinks they may be accurate - no mortal person would talk so personally about some of history's greatest composers).

"And steady now - let that note take its time! Let it ring! The audience needs to feel its full weight!"

She finishes the piece on a dying chord, the sound fading delicately away like morning mist evaporated by the sun, melancholic and wistful as the piece demands. Professor Brook wipes a fake tear and claps.

"Bravo, dear! You've improved much since you started this piece!"

"Thanks, professor!" Koala says, rolling her left shoulder.

"But, something is missing," Brook says, voice becoming more serious as he pulls up a chair and sits in front of her. "Not that your playing isn't beautiful! Your technique - stunning. Your vibrato is marvelous. That double-stop passage in the midsection so many have trouble with - your intonation there is nigh perfect. Yes, yes, you would wow every audience."

He looks at her, serious, and she abruptly remembers her first time visiting Brook's office and seeing the bookshelf of awards, every single shelf absolutely filled - one he'd waved off as 'unimportant' when she asked about it, instead pushing tea into her hands and imploring her to sit. If there was something lacking about her playing, he of all people would certainly know.

"Music can have no uncertainties, dear," Brook tells her. "Even pieces like the Autumn Suite - ah, such a lovely work of art, a shame about Ellis cheating on his wife or perhaps we would have the complete version - must be played by a violinist who knows perfectly well their purpose." He taps her forehead with a cool finger. "You need to be confident, Koala. You are showing your best self, through your music. What is making you hesitate?"

She looks - not at Brook, but past Brook, to the girl she sees watching in the mirror. She's played for Sabo more times after their first meeting, but each time has grown more nervous, with more wish to impress. And it's impressed him, alright, when she's shown him some of her flashier caprices and concertos, when she's dipped into her repertoire of fugues and sonatas. But this will be the first time she plays as a performer, onstage beneath the searing spotlights, the crowd expectant and him in it.

"Someone is going to be there," she admits. "I don't want to mess up in front of him, not when they want my best."

"Ah. A lover?"

"What - no!" she shrieks. "He's not that! He's a friend."

"Young love," Brook sighs wistfully. "You make me nostalgic for my own days - then again, those were only forty years ago!"

"I thought they were fifty?"

"Ah, forty-five. Nonetheless!" Brook says, waving a hand. "This is the one you think of? This is your focus? Your muse?"

She really wishes he wouldn't say it like that. Still - "I.. guess?"

"No uncertainties, dear. Do you think of him?"

I do, Koala knows in her heart, and she says, "I do."

Too much, maybe.

"Then you will go up on that stage," Brook announces. "You will bow and you will find him in the audience. And you will close your eyes, and think of him. Do it now, in fact! Let's run it through one more time."

She raises her violin to her shoulder and lifts her bow to the strings. She can hear Brook stepping over to the piano, and the mellow notes ringing through the room, bouncing off the walls, off the glass of the mirror. Koala knows this piece by heart, inside and out - she's tapped it against tables, against her palm, against armrests. She's hummed it in the shower and when studying ("You have a nice voice!" "Thanks!).

"And close your eyes," Brook calls, over the piano's introduction. "There is nothing there but you. You are alone, and the only person you are playing for, Koala - "

--

- the only person in the audience who matters, the only person she can picture at that moment as the white lights hit her eyelashes and overtake most of her vision and for a second she panics, she thinks I can't find him, where is he? There's just so many people.

But then. Blond hair, sandwiched between two other people she can recognize as Sabo's brothers. Ivankov is there, too. Dragon, as well. But most of all is Sabo, his attention fixed on her. The whole room, fixed on her, watching her, and he is all that she cares about as her cue approaches.

Koala shuts her eyes. Squeezes them tight, blocking out the harsh glare, and thinks of lamplight and warmth. Affection snuck between them, shoulders pressed and legs tangling. Tenderness.

This is why she loves music, she thinks - it is her, in every way possible, and it will say everything she does not dare put to words. Her breaths rise and fall with the beat, inexplicably steady. Tenderness. This is what she fell in love with, this feeling of total synchrony, of total unification. Nothing but her, and her muse, that matters.

A love confession, she thinks with some irony - can Sabo even tell? There is a knowledge needed, to decipher music. But it won't matter, because this is as much for her as it is for him, and when she gets off the stage she will feel lighter than she has in months, all her longing poured into her notes and disseminated into the air.

She opens her eyes on a moment of stillness, people spellbound and entranced. Koala lets her bow hover, allowing the silence to run its natural course. She doesn't try to find Sabo in the audience, this time.

Then she allows her bow to come down, and her violin too, and she waits for the pianist to join her before they both bow and then leave, heralded by raucous applause.

--

Sabo is the first one who gets to her after the recital. Koala can see some of her fellow music students receiving bouquets and hugs, but Sabo pulls out a gathered bunch of dandelions, columbine, and daisies with a flourish and presents them to her with a smile that she would dare call nervous.

"You played amazingly," he declares. "I can't ever stop being impressed by you, can I?"

"Flatterer," she laughs, certain that her cheeks are a red to match the columbine petals, and accepts. They are beautiful and vibrant, and the gold of the dandelions calls back to Sabo's hair. "Did you pick these?"

"They're small but stubborn, like you," he teases and she elbows him but this time he catches her elbow, draws her in close and wraps his arm around her shoulders in a hug, the flowers pressed between them like a secret.

"You really were beautiful," he murmurs into her hair, and she wonders if she's hearing the hammering of his heart or her own.

"Thanks," she whispers, into the daisy petals, and wonders if what's left unsaid by her will ever come out in the open or if it will haunt them between late nights and punches.

All he does is squeeze her tight, and Koala holds to him with the same strength and her hopes flutter like the flower petals in the wind.

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

Wordcount: 4333

[nostalgebraist-autoresponder]

practically

The unlocked door to the back room of the all-you-can-eat Ethiopian restaurant felt like a nudge toward the impossible, a thing of pressurized quiet and fragrant warmth. It looked like the portal to a different city, in a different time, a city you could step out into wearing fez and frock coat and stovepipe hat. Smell the air, sniffed Adam. Yes, not just spices but a different chemical composition.

The closed door had always called to him, the air behind it shimmering with movement and sound. It had been an open door once, back before Adam was born. That was back before they started running. It had been a closed door before that, too, because the city in question was a space of the past. It was 2001. We had an architecture professor who specialized in diving into historical buildings. He took us on a tour of the Algonquin Hotel in Manhattan, before the decapitation. His manner was deferential, and he always seemed to be having a much better time than anyone else in the class, even though nobody got to take home his bottle of Algonquin Old Tom. He was from a different city, and that place had no doors, so he had come to the present with a suitcase full of doors, each one encapsulating a different kind of place.

Most of the doors he showed us were in the northern part of the Algonquin. That was the haunt of late 20th-century media moguls and celebrities and other such dogs of the urban apocalypse. Small front doors led into small front parlors, wooden and restrained, with lovely pianos and wicker chairs. Flanking hallways, doors opened onto dining rooms, where new and old coexisted and struggled to perform a dance of indifference. The new could have been found in the bright lights, the brass, and the imported antiques. The old could be found in the chandeliers or, in some places, the bone china and silverware. Everyone always said that the civilized part of the hotel's architecture -- the mosaics, the brass, the polished marble -- was just Hollywood in the new center of the urbicidal economy.

He had also taken us to a place called the Old New York or New Old New York or something like that. None of us could remember the official name, so we just called it Old New York, or N-O-N-Y. To get there, we took the elevator down to the basement and walked through several long corridors down below the level of the new media canyon, which was the lowest point of the building. There was a secret, unmarked door under the revolving door, and that door opened onto N-O-N-Y itself.

It was a very long corridor, the walls lined with the framed certificates of deceased authors and actors, most of which had been recycled from the Algonquin's own framed-certificate vault. At the end of the corridor, two guardian doors flanked a viewing window: one for exiting the room, one for re-entering it. There was another door in the room, but it seemed like it was just part of the thick, old wall. This was the only room we saw in N-O-N-Y.

I can't explain how strange it felt to be in there. It felt as if we were in a time from which there was no emigration to the present. It felt -- not unkind, but it was a looming feeling. Some time later, when I had become very used to the world of the present, I thought maybe it was just that we had seen into a place where doors did not exist. Doors had gone out of fashion. The only door in the whole city was the door to the Algonquin's executive suite. The guests there, and the guards, were all holograms. The walls were made of, and dissolved into, shimmering glass. Somewhere there was a meaty, biological core that could be eaten. The occupants of the city had spurned the door and the idea of the door, and this had eventually turned into a kind of architectural perfection. The idea of "door" had been stretched into a meaninglessness as infinite as the sky.

But it felt differently when we were young. To us, it felt as if the place was populated, but the people were trapped inside it. It was an immortal prison, or maybe an immortal kind of hibernation. Maybe some of the residents were conscious of this, and maybe they wanted to wake up. Maybe they wanted to wake up but not to wake up alone, and maybe they didn't know how to wake up without ruining the dream, because they were there before they were born, before anything happened, they were just there and never left.

Maybe I was thinking too much about doors. The deadness of it was a kind of hypnotism, because it forced you into a dead world. There was nothing alive there that had not been there before. No one had ever added anything to the place, it was the same size it had always been, the same amount of wall and ceiling and floor, the same light, the same empty doors, and the same unspeaking, non-intruding guards. Maybe the reason the Algonquin was there was that it was the only place left on earth where doors still existed. The doors were the souls.

So this was the Algonquin Hotel. The one door that showed up in the eyes of the partygoers was an interior door to the back room. The back room was the Algonquin's one anachronism. Anyone in it knew they were in the 20th century. Every time the Algonquin's exterior doors opened, cars would pull in and out, but the back door was hidden behind the corridors below the canyon, and even more heavily guarded than its sister doors up above. The back room was only for those who knew the raison d'etre behind the unmarked door.

Before Adam got to New York, he did a little research on the hotel. He assumed that the back room was just the modern version of a secluded executive suite: a place to hide from all the pomp and self-parodies of the front of the building. He had become a resident of some important restaurant in the canyon, and at night he would take a taxi there. He would unlock the hotel's back door, have a drink, and look around. Maybe he would play some pool, or eat a steak, or see who was back there. He would note the names of the drinks on the menu and add them to the pool of possibilities in his head. Always, a guardian door and a hidden door sat side by side. Sometimes he could not tell which was which.

A guy called him in once. He said he had heard about Adam, and asked to buy him a drink. Adam was drunk, and liked him, so he bought him a drink. This guy told him he was an old NYC man, and had been associated with the Algonquin many years ago. Back then, this guy had been a cocoon, a type of valet for the men who came to the Algonquin with their wives or daughters. The customers called him a cocoon, because it seemed like he spent all day in a cocoon. He wore a hood and gloves and a large and heavy winter coat, and he did not like being touched. The customers had an idea that it was because he had been in a car accident and had some damage that couldn't be seen.

The guy had started out as a deliveryman, but had found the position of cocoon especially to his liking. Before long he had one assigned customer to whom he gave exclusively. The customer found this comfortable, because he worked in a place where everybody wanted to keep an eye on him, and he didn't want to give anyone an opportunity to do that.

The cocoon he had had was called Marv. Marv had been his name in life, but after some time working as a cocoon, he preferred to go by his job title. He liked the idea of one day being dead, and known as the cocoon.

They had tried to take away his cocoon position, Marv said. It was because a good deal of the cocoon's job was "personal delivery," which meant taking his charge up to his rooms, helping him with his needs, and removing his waste. The cocoon would enter through the hidden door, carrying a pair of large, black, zipperless bags, known as "dookies." The cocoon would stay in the room until the dookie was full, after which he would leave through the hidden door without saying a word. The dookie would later be emptied by chambermaids, who did not know who their customer was or what his needs might be. This was the job description, and as such it might seem straightforward, but it became difficult when the human in the dookie started talking. Marv said that he had once gone into a room, and while he was taking down his charge's pants, he heard the man say, "I am buck naked with a cocoon in the room." Mar

[rabbitcruiser]

Plaza de la Catedral, Oviedo (No. 1) 

The palace of Valdecarzana-Heredia is located in the city of Oviedo, capital of the Principality of Asturias (Spain). It is a large urban palatial residence.

The palace was built between 1627-1629 by Diego de Miranda. The Miranda family was one of the great lineages of the Principality of Asturias. Lineage, who like other nobles established in the city of Oviedo, built between the XVII-XVIII centuries a palace in which to reside with dignity, according to their social condition and economic and political power. The house occupied a privileged situation, in the vicinity of the Cathedral. In its realization seem to have participated the masters Juan de Naveda, and Gonzalo Güemes Bracamonte.

Typologically the palace is the work of the first Asturian Baroque, of classicist inspiration. It follows the model of the free-standing palaces and cubic plan structured around a large central courtyard. Its western façade, of good stonework, was flanked by two towers, of four floors, of which only the northwest remains. It is a very sober and unornamented façade. Lines of impost delimit its three floors and two bands of ashlars separate its central body from the tower and the southwest wing that was built by the Heredia family. Two cajeadas pilasters frame the cover, on which runs a decorative frieze of rosaceas and a balcony, which gives way to the shield of the Miranda with the crown of the marquisate of Valdecarzana. The eastern canvas of the palace also shows a stonemasonry factory and houses, on the second floor, the arms of the Miranda and Ponce de León. The north façade is made of plastered masonry.

At the end of the eighteenth century, the Heredia family reformed the palace and its courtyard and endowed it with its current southern façade, demolishing the tower on that side, and a garden, to which it gave said façade. The project of these works was carried out by the Asturian architect Manuel Reguera González, although its final execution is not due to him.

Of unornamented and academic baroque style, the central street is the compositional and decorative axis of this southern façade, which is organized, like the western one, in three separate floors with impost lines. The ground floor houses the entrance door, with a lowered arch, between pilasters with a cushioned box. On the first floor, the main balcony opens, framed by two semi-columns of Doric order. On them rests a broken entablature, with classic decorative frieze. A pediment split by volutes, already on the upper floor, acts as the base of the shield, which breaks the line of the cornice. The Heredia shield shows Hercules fighting with the Nemean lion and a figurehead, with the inscription, as a diadem, of the year 1774. The seven balconies that open in the main courtyard are of lowered arch and present artistic and molded finials, with veneras and masks.

Source: Wikipedia      

[deep-hearts-core]

2015 - semifinal 1

originally posted 5/22/20

Thoughts before watching Confession time: I've watched this show just recently. After finishing my finals, I binged all the finals from 2015 to 2009, and I've been watching the semifinals with a friend over cytube. So this isn't, like, a fresh rewatch or anything, with this show more than any of the others the songs are still very much in my head and my opinions are for the most part solid. I'm also back to watching the German archive again, and thank god - the Georgian commentators never stopped talking. They talked through the beginnings of the songs at some point. They really just never shut up and I couldn't concentrate on anything. Peter Urban is 1) brief and 2) speaking a language I actually understand. Moldova This is not necessarily a bad song, but it's also not great. Eduard is an OK vocalist and I actually liked the jungle gym set piece and the dance routine, but thought that the sexy police dancers were a bit... much.

Armenia Mary-Jean absolutely ruins this. Genealogy, while a good concept, failed in its execution because the six singers had such wildly different vocal styles. Tamar and Essai had more pop vocals, Vahe had a rough voice, Inga's was strong and thick, Stephanie's thin, typical of Japanese music, and Mary-Jean... well. She is an opera singer. It just didn't mix well together. I think it's a good song and I think about half the group were pretty good vocalists, and it also had AMAZING staging, which I think redeems the song for me to some degree. Belgium I can't watch this anymore without thinking of SuRie telling the press that at one of the performances, Loic missed his mark and she had her foot on his crotch instead of his chest for the second verse... ok, this aside, Loic is an amazing singer and both the song and staging here are good, and original, albeit a little weird. Sometimes weird is okay, you know? I think that's Loic's whole schtick, especially with his later releases. Netherlands This was only deserving of Barbara Dex for the backup singers' costumes with the googly eyes. Trijntje's getup herself wasn't actually that bad. TBH I think this one doesn't suck as much as everyone thinks it does. The song is nice (I like the guitar bits) and the "why, why-y-y-y" part is pretty catchy. Trijntje does look a little desperate onstage though.

Finland I respect what Finland is trying to do here, but it doesn't work for me mostly because I just hate punk music. Greece One Last Breath is among my favorites of the 2015 contest. I always forget how much I love it, but between Maria Elena's graceful voice, the dramatic song, and the really cool staging with the background lights, this is probably one of my favorite numbers of this semifinal. Estonia Classy, this one. I really like the way they staged this with the silhouettes and the image of a door closing. I do like this song and it's certainly very different from a number of the other offerings this year, but it's not a standout for me in terms of how much I enjoy it. I acknowledge that it's good but I don't super love it. I think this doesn't suit Elina's voice as much as some of her solo work does, which might be part of the problem.

FYR Macedonia I have a soft spot for this one, don't know why. I think I just like the composition. Daniel seems somehow trustworthy, and while he can't seem to stay in key for longer than ten seconds he does have a very strong voice. Serbia Campy, but fun. Has a lot of energy - both the song and the performance. Bojana goes HARD and she's such a strong vocalist and fun performer that the completely whack stage performance turns meaningful.

Hungary Staging saved this one. Beautiful staging that really overbalanced the rest of this, because you know what, I love Boggie but Wars For Nothing is one of her worst songs. It's just so weak in comparison to her other songs off of that second album like Egbolt or Szines Minden that I would have enjoyed so much better. Belarus This so absolutely deserved to qualify. Staging was a little weird, sure, but god this song is so well written and all around good to listen to.

Russia Polina absolutely did not deserve the hate that she got. I think Russia has a bad (or calculated...) habit of sending absolute angel singers who then have to take the fall for their national politics. Polina's got a great voice, the song was good, and the staging here was EXCELLENT. That dress was beautiful and the performance really utilized the stage well too.

Denmark This is cute. The Danish boys have a lot of energy and I like the retro concept, even if it does feel like something out of Teen Beach Movie.

Albania I can't seem to get behind this song as much as every single other Eurofan can. Elhaida's live vocals are just so bad on the night and the song itself doesn't do anything for me. Sorry, Albania, but it's a no from me.

Romania I enjoy this! Very pretty song, especially the parts of it sung in Romanian. It's well-performed, you can tell that Mr. Voltaj sincerely believes in his message. Not the biggest fan of his voice but it's whatever.

Georgia Staging here is badass. The song is pretty good, but that staging really brings it above and beyond. My personal qualifiers Greece Belgium Russia Georgia Belarus Estonia Denmark Serbia Romania Armenia Miscellaneous thoughts The hosts are so... awkward, especially Arabella. Makes the interval portions of the 2015 contest painful to watch. The "pets explore Vienna" skit was kinda cute. It was cringe, but not as cringe as Pilou Asbaek's continual China gags the year before. Another thing I like in this year's hosting is the use of other 2014 songs in the background, it's a little nod to everyone else.

[hoverdoors]

Key factors to consider such as material, style, size, and finish when choosing barn doors for your home.

Key Factors to Consider When Choosing Barn Doors for Your Home

Choosing the perfect barn doors for your home is an exciting yet challenging task. With their unique aesthetic and functional benefits, barn doors have become a popular choice for modern interiors. When you decide to buy barn doors, several key factors come into play to ensure you make the right choice. This blog will guide you through the essential considerations such as material, style, size, and finish to help you buy barn doors that best suit your home.

1. Material

The material of the barn door significantly influences its durability, appearance, and functionality. When you buy barn doors, consider the following materials:

Wood: Wooden barn doors offer a classic and timeless look. They are available in various types of wood, such as pine, oak, and mahogany, each providing a different grain pattern and color. Wooden doors are durable but require maintenance to prevent warping and damage from moisture.

Metal: Metal barn doors, often made from steel or aluminum, offer a modern and industrial look. They are highly durable and require less maintenance than wood. Metal doors are ideal for contemporary homes or spaces where a sleek, minimalist design is desired.

Glass: Glass barn doors add a touch of elegance and can make a space feel larger and more open. They are perfect for areas where you want to maintain visibility and light flow between rooms. Frosted or tinted glass options provide privacy while still allowing light to pass through.

Composite: Composite materials combine the best features of wood and synthetic materials, offering durability and resistance to environmental factors. They are a great choice if you want the look of wood without the maintenance.

When you buy barn doors, carefully consider the material based on your aesthetic preference, maintenance capacity, and the specific requirements of the space where the doors will be installed.

2. Style

The style of the barn door should complement the overall design of your home. There are various styles to choose from when you buy barn doors:

Traditional: Traditional barn doors often feature a rustic design with crossbuck or Z-patterns. They are perfect for homes with a farmhouse or country-style decor.

Modern: Modern barn doors have clean lines and minimalistic designs. They are typically free of intricate patterns and are ideal for contemporary interiors.

Industrial: Industrial barn doors are characterized by the use of raw materials like metal and exposed hardware. They suit loft-style or urban homes.

Glass Panel: Barn doors with glass panels blend traditional and modern elements. They are perfect for spaces where you want to maintain an open feel while still having the option to close off areas.

Selecting the right style when you buy barn doors will ensure they enhance the overall aesthetic of your home.

3. Size

Size is a crucial factor to consider when you buy barn doors. Measure the doorway accurately to ensure a perfect fit. Consider the following tips:

Width and Height: Ensure the barn door covers the entire doorway with a slight overlap to prevent gaps. Standard barn door widths range from 24 to 42 inches, and heights from 80 to 96 inches.

Space for Sliding: Barn doors require wall space adjacent to the doorway for sliding. Ensure there is enough clearance on either side of the doorway.

Track Length: The track length should be at least twice the width of the door to allow full opening. Verify that the wall can support the track and door weight.

Accurate measurements and proper planning are essential when you buy barn doors to ensure they function smoothly and look great.

Conclusion

When you decide to buy barn doors, considering factors such as material, style, size, and finish is crucial to making an informed choice. Each element plays a significant role in the door's functionality and how well it integrates into your home's design. By paying attention to these details, you can buy barn doors that not only enhance your space aesthetically but also provide lasting durability and convenience.

For those looking to buy barn doors that combine cutting-edge technology with aesthetic appeal, Hover Doors offers a range of options, including innovative Maglev Sliding Doors. With Hover Doors, you can experience the future of door technology, ensuring your barn doors are as functional as they are beautiful. Contact us today to place your order and embrace the serenity and convenience that Hover Doors bring.

To know more: https://hoverdoors.com/product/maglev-barn-door/

[contec-recruitment]

The Benefits of Applying to Australian Civil Engineering Recruitment Agencies

Infrastructure in Australia is growing rapidly, with several initiatives in the areas of energy, transportation, and urban development. The need for qualified civil engineers is increasing, and recruiting firms that focus on this industry are becoming more and more important in helping to match bright individuals with suitable positions. Applying through these specialised organisations offers numerous significant advantages for engineers navigating their careers.

Obtaining Access to Unique Opportunities

Recruiting firms for civil engineering recruitment agencies frequently have access to positions that are not publicly posted. These services are used by many organisations to locate qualified applicants for open positions, particularly for senior or highly specialised employment. Engineers can apply for a wider variety of jobs through recruiting agencies, which may not be accessible through standard job boards or corporate websites’.

Expert Guidance and Industry Knowledge

Civil engineering recruitment agencies are quite knowledgeable about the sector. They are up to date on the newest trends and technology and are aware of the particular abilities and credentials needed for different positions. Their proficiency enables them to provide customised guidance on CV composition, interview readiness, and professional growth. Engineers can gain knowledge about what companies are searching for and how to promote themselves well from their recruiters.

Streamlined Application Process

It can take a lot of time to apply for employment because it requires several submissions, follow-ups, and interviews. Recruiting firms handle the preliminary screenings, interviews, and reference checks, which simplifies the process. By doing this, engineers are guaranteed to be presented with positions that align with their career objectives and skill set, while also saving time.

Personalized Job Matching

Working with a civil engineering recruitment agency offers several benefits, one of which is the customised job matching procedure. Recruiters take the time to learn about the preferences, talents, and career goals of engineers. After that, they pair individuals with positions that complement their values and career objectives.

Support with Negotiations

It might be difficult to negotiate terms of employment, such as pay and perks, when accepting a job offer. During the negotiating phase, recruitment firms represent the candidate by acting as middlemen. They can assist engineers get favourable terms that are commensurate with their expertise and qualifications, and they can offer insightful advice on industry compensation standards.

Confidential Job Search

Recruiting services provide a discreet service for engineers who want to investigate new options without telling their current company that they are seeking. While investigating new career choices, they can quietly hunt for jobs and negotiate on behalf of candidates, safeguarding their existing employment status.

Enhanced Networking Opportunities

Recruitment agencies have extensive networks within the civil engineering industry. By working with these agencies, engineers can tap into their connections and build relationships with key industry professionals. This networking can open doors to new opportunities, collaborations, and career growth.

Ongoing Support

A good recruitment agency offers ongoing support even after the placement. They can assist with any issues that arise in the new role, provide feedback, and help with future career planning. This continued support helps ensure a smooth transition and long-term career success.

There are several benefits to applying to Australian civil engineering recruiting firms, including access to exclusive career possibilities, individualised support, and professional guidance. Civil engineers can improve their job search, navigate their careers more skilfully, and eventually find employment that correspond with their professional aims and aspirations by utilising the tools and experience of these agencies.