#youngs modulus

[er-cryptid]

[omarfor-orchestra]

@ people asking questions on the group chat at 9pm causing me to jump off the bed to check the answer because I get anxious can you please stop. It's not the time to check atomic force microscopy techniques to study biopolimer's bending stiffness

[bouquetofgemstones]

13.4.2024 to-do:

Pre-report for a lab on printed electronics

Lab report for biodegradable polymers based on that hideous workshop I had on Wednesday

Check tensile testing data analysis, I've calculated the Young's modulus incorrectly so many times now, I'm gonna check it one more time

Return a t-shirt, I picked a size too big

[sciencesolutions]

[limbsofsatan]

what am i but a metal block being to subjected to tensile stress

[truphysics]

Young's Modulus

Introduction Young’s modulus, also known as the modulus of elasticity, is a measure of the stiffness of a solid material. Named after the British scientist Thomas Young, it quantifies the relationship between stress (force per unit area) and strain (proportional deformation) in a material. Defining Young’s Modulus Young’s modulus is defined as the ratio of stress ($\sigma$) to strain…

[slowd1ving]

STRESS, STRAIN: THE TALE OF YOUNG MODULUS AND A FORLORN PHYSICS STUDENT ゜゜・BLADE DRABBLE

Dealing with a stalker roommate? No problem, Kafka's got the perfect solution: staying with the unapproachable and cold Blade. Teetering the thin line between sleeping on the streets and facing his rumored wrath, it sure is hard keeping your balance when the engineering student is anything but civil. gender-neutral, physics major reader paired with college au + band au (will come into play in another part I swear) see here for some basic designs for them warnings: some violence? consumption of alcohol, arguments, blade being a dick, college au wc: 6.3k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

✧ Perhaps it’s lucky that your acquaintance Kafka finds you at your most dire of moments, or perhaps it’s your Achilles-level misfortune finally catching up to you. Dorm changes aren’t particularly infrequent, sure—but dealing with a stalkerish, obsessive roommate is definitely story-material for when you’re downing shots. Literature major Kafka isn’t one to turn her magnanimous back on whom she considers a friend, even if said friend is currently wallowing their sorrows away by complaining about the lack of available dorms to make the switch and drowning in hard liquor.  ✧ Saviour Kafka, who plays for notorious metal group Stellaron Hunters (she’s a suave electric violinist), finds this a perfect opportunity to help out the cute guitarist from the rival Trailblazers! Her deft fingers are already sending a message to her pinned contact and drummer: Bladie, finally found you a roommate. Respond. It should be okay to put two college students (in bands infamous for their tense rivalry on– and off–campus) together in the proverbial lab rat cage; after all, neither of you are aware of who the other is behind the elaborate masks. It’s not like there’s a deficit of music groups at the Astral Institute—so who will ever know? Don’t ask how she knows the face behind the pretty Venetian mask. She won’t ever tell.   ✧ Honestly, she’s not sure how the bad blood started (she helped spread the rumours). All she cares about is doing you a solid!

“You think the streets will accept me for who I am?” Even with your head slumped over your forearms and the smell of cheap vodka clinging to your clothes, Kafka thinks you look naively charming in the dim amber lights of a bar pretending to be upscale. And by naive, she means very naive—for real, how can a physics major be so gullible as to not question their roommate’s deranged tendencies until it’s far too late? It’s hilarious. 

She’d dissect how this mood is perfectly, pathetically fallacious to your situation; yet her mind is too honed in on the buzz of her phone as Blade finally replies to her text. 

“Kafka,” you bawl into a stack of papers you’d salvaged from your ransacked dorm. “What if the asphalt doesn’t like me when I’m sleeping in the streets?”

21:48 > ok. 

Kafka, being an expert at metaphorical and allegorical interpretation, translates Blade-speak easily: let’s discuss this tomorrow, please and thank you. 

“Found you a roomie,” she murmurs delightedly, watching with her hawk-keen eyes as you sit up drunkenly. 

“That was fast, even for you,” you wipe your eyes cautiously—still wracked with the occasional hiccup. “Who is it?”

“Blade. You know him?”

✧ That sobers you right up.  Of course you know him. Nicknamed Blade for how cold and unfriendly he is, you’ve personally seen him in engineering lectures: making people shiver from just his gaze alone, and on one notable occasion, making his project partner cry after his infamously harsh criticism of her proposal. It’s common knowledge that he practises various martial arts, but the rumours that circle around him like vultures whisper of how he uses them on the streets. But whilst you doubt the reliability of the latter talk, it’s hard not to picture his hands dripping sanguine when his eyes glint the same shade.  ✧ Honestly, how bad could it be? It’s not like you have any other options unless you want to wake up with your roommate standing over you while you sleep again. After her, you doubt he’ll be any more of a walking nightmare.  ✧ Perfect!—Kafka is a bit too enthusiastic at your reluctant nodding, but you cast it from your mind as you pack your stuff with Caelus and Stelle standing behind you like a pair of twin guard dogs. One good thing about this is that you can finally take your guitar with you (rather than storing it safely at Dan Heng’s room) to the apartment—because of course he’s too good for the dorms. Though, after experiencing your batshit roommate, you really can’t blame him for avoiding this area.  ✧ Maybe, just maybe, the rumours about him being insane too are false and you can finally have a peaceful night’s rest without fearing for your life. 

Yeah right. You hate him. You genuinely hate the man over in the room next door. The passage of time on your phone indicates it’s only been a week since you showed up with five boxes of belongings and a nervous smile on your lips—but the agony you’re going through prolongs this mental period to eternity. 

Sisyphus embodies futility for evermore; as do you when you’re knocking on his door for the nth time to beg him to quiet down on his drums. The timings are so meticulous and calculative that you’re sure you could work out a linear sequence to this situation if you tried. 

Exhausted from the laboratory job you’re juggling on top of band practice and reading on Dirac notations? No problem—Blade’s busy expressing how you feel in terms of loud crashing and banging that you hate to admit is (very technically) skilled.

Recalling your first encounter—your nervous smile and his cold indifference as you moved into the room next to his—it’s not hard to imagine that he’d be inconsiderate of you. Those red eyes had slid right past you like oil on water: judging you to be not worth his time to even greet properly. In fact, it’s like he’s trying to chase you out so you leave him alone for good. 

The deep mahogany door swings inward, and you’re left facing an unimpressed, scowling Blade. With the way he’s clutching those drumsticks, you’d think he was about to skewer you—but you’re a bit too preoccupied with how he’s only sporting a pair of loose navy trousers that cascade languidly from his hips. 

“What do you want?” Laconic as ever, he gets straight to the point with his question—as if he can’t possibly fathom why you’ve come knocking. Just like this morning, just like last night, the night before, the night before yesterday’s—every damned night is a problem. 

“For you to invest in soundproofing,” you scowl back, too tired to keep up the fragile facade of politeness. At least when you practise with the electric guitar, you can easily hook it up to a pair of headphones and protect the sanctity of silence elsewhere. Actually, you don’t think he even knows your guitar exists with how considerate you are of your asshole roommate. 

“Why should I?” he crosses his arms, looking directly down at you. If you looked closely, the slight stretch of his lips resembled a smirk—but you’re definitely mistaken, since the man never so much as smiles. The cold expression accompanying his crude words sums up his thoughts: if you don’t like it, beg Kafka for whatever other solution she has. 

His inky hair sways from where it’s tied back, and you resist the urge to yank it until he sees sense. 

“For better quality of life,” you grit out. 

Those eyes turn into sardonic crescents. “I’m good.”

And the door is shut. 

✧ Fortunately, you’ve managed to fall asleep in the middle of the practise room before on countless occasions; tuning the heavy thumping comes easy after a while when you’re exhausted and practically dead on your feet. The problem is during the day—doing your assigned reading and writing up results from practical work comes much harder when you’re constantly accompanied by the rhythmic percussion of a madman who favours metal. It gets so rowdy that you seriously consider whether he’s part of the Stellaron Hunters and knows you’re a Trailblazer—it would make sense, after all, if he was just feeling extra spiteful. However, from the trembling students claiming to be his previous roommates, this is just common treatment: him basically telling them to beat it and never return.  ✧ Two can play at that game. Upon complaining to Kafka of his (rage-inducing) musical tendencies, she suggests that you get back at him with your electric guitar. Don’t ask her how she knows, no she’s not trying to instigate and watch the chaos—Kafka attempts to reassure you. You don’t trust the shady writer one bit, but both Data Analysis major Dan Heng and Environmental Studies student March 7th give the plan the go ahead. If you’re not mistaken, you can hear a touch of personal grief in the normally composed Dan Heng’s voice—something so poignantly irritated you wonder what the story between them is.  ✧ Contrary to his nonchalant attitude, it’s clear he’s annoyed by the loud chords that buzz through the apartment. As soon as he picks up his drumsticks, you plug the guitar to the amps and thoroughly mess with him. You know enough from Caelus’ repertoire to place each genre of music Blade starts to play (which is limited to metal). No problem—you play various styles that decidedly aren’t metal and are so discordant with his own tempo you can’t help but keep a grin on your lips. He’s much too stubborn to knock on your door, but the irritated twitch of his eyes in the kitchen belies just how aggravating this is. And when you know he’s scrawling down notes for his classes, that’s when you’re practising your metal riffs and playing around with the fretboard. If you’re feeling particularly nice, you’ll play along to some darkwave gothic music—something relatively more calm—but these occasions are few and far between. 

Chromatic eyes pierce your back while you deftly chop vegetables for your dinner. Really, now’s the best time to do work: when you’re busy with cooking and not insistent on plaguing him with jarring melodies. For someone so logical when it comes to his meticulous classwork, he sure doesn’t seem it as he leans against the counter on the other side of the kitchen—sipping water and just staring at you while you Julienne an onion. 

You shoot him a withering glance as you toss the slices into a bowl on the side, and he glares at you with a matched fervour. If it weren’t for the fact that you literally don’t have anywhere else to go—Caelus doesn’t even have a couch for you to sleep on—you’d have moved out a long time ago. 

It’s a rustic space: sage green cabinets filled with charming, mismatched plates and cups; glossy white counters that house various herbs and the occasional plant; a lacquered table in the middle that has a vase holding a singular dried flower. An orange lily—still retaining a vibrancy that conceals just how long it’s been there. You wouldn’t have expected this style of decor from him, but at the same time, you doubt it’s his influence so much as Kafka’s. 

“Do you have a problem?” you probe icily, turning back to where you’re slicing a carrot into thin matchsticks; if there was a god somewhere, you’d hope it could transfigure the man behind you into the root vegetable you’re enthusiastically chopping. 

“No.” And when he speaks again, he’s right behind you. There’s a sink to your left, but he’s much too close as his breath ghosts over the nape of your neck. Affronted, you turn around; only to watch as his eyes widen minutely, glass of water slipping out of his grasp and spilling down your front. 

“You dickhead.” Your hands angrily grab at his collar—unheeding or perhaps uncaring of his reputation for violence as you feel the cold seep into your skin. You’re seething; for someone with such good reflexes, this is a new level of low in attempting to chase you out. Or perhaps it’s revenge for finally getting under his skin. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

It’s a little too late when you realise the position you’re in: skin showing through the translucent material, breathing shallow from your infuriation, face glaring right up at his. 

“Sorry.” His voice rings out insincere—and there’s that damn faint smile still toying at his face as he looks directly at you with that heavy gaze. “My hand slipped.”

You shove him back, too disgusted to acknowledge him any further. Maybe if you turned back around, you’d see the tiniest pricks of red on his face as you tossed your soaked shirt into the washing machine—leaving you in a damp vest while you continued cooking for yourself. Maybe if you looked back at least once, you’d see the amusement in his eyes as you maul the bok choy on the cutting board. 

Those are maybes.

There’s particular things you know for certain. One, you despise him and his existence. Two, he abhors you and your entire being—because why else would he be so insistent in making you leave out of your own volition?

✧ It’s the time of year that you hate: joint engineering classes so you can cover the materials aspect for your physics studies. Well, it’s not like you hated it from the very beginning—you’ve hated it ever since you realised that once again, you’d have to be in the incorrigible presence of Blade. While he did finally install some soundproofing in his room, he’s taken it upon himself to linger wherever you’re present. Typing up your notes on the deep maroon couch with a mug of lavender tea perched on the coffee table? He’s in the window seat, looking over a thick reference manual for tensile strengths. Going to meet bassist Dan Heng so the two of you can play around with various lines for your next song? He’s at the convenience store you briefly stop at, gazing at you before he glares at your friend. Practising a slow solo in the living room (it’s really got the best ambience)? He’s tapping out a beat that you can very faintly now hear—one that surprisingly goes with the electrifying chords.  ✧ Point is, you’re ignoring him and his presence—while he’s inching ever closer. It comes to a head at the lecture hall; you decide to sit in the third row, since it’s both far from the back (where he usually frequents) and it doesn’t make you look like a beg. When you glance at his predestined seat, it’s empty—unsurprisingly as he’s there usually a minute before the professor—while the seat next to him is taken by a girl you’ve seen before. Despite his horrible personality and the (probably true) rumours surrounding him, there’s a few stragglers who genuinely want him. And you genuinely want those people to seek help because it’s clear something went wrong in their lives for them to be thirsting over a man who looks like he eats cigarettes for breakfast.  ✧ He comes in late, as you expect, but you freeze as he places his bag down next to you. Aghast, you can’t help but stare; yet for once he’s not meeting your eyes, and it’s far too late to make a scene and move elsewhere—not when the professor’s just arrived and is keen to start the lecture for materials. He doesn’t talk much, but you’re so distracted by his presence pressing slightly into your sides that you forget that today the professor’s deciding on the pairs for your projects—mouth agape, you stare in shock as she assigns them based on who’s sitting nearby. To be generous, she says, yet there’s nothing generous about this arrangement as his mocking eyes meet yours. He knew, you seethe, storming out of the hall right as the class wraps up. 

“I hate him.” Your molars grind bone-against-bone as you harshly press angry chords into the fretboard. “I hate him so so so so much.”

“Who are you talking about?” March 7th—in charge of the synthesiser—glances first at the bassist to your side, then back at you. Her eyes are wide in sympathy, yet it’s useless in the face of your despair. 

“Blade.” Poetically, the word is accompanied by the deep twang of Smoke on the Water as your fingers move mindlessly on your precious baby. What, your roommate?—she queries. No, a pet fish—Caelus responds, but you tune them both out. 

“He knew the professor would assign groups like that,” you groan. “That’s why he sat next to me.”

“He’s definitely trying to get you to leave his apartment out of your own will,” Dan Heng’s smooth cadence is somewhat soothing—and his conjecture is one you’ve come to yourself—but the accompanying baseline he’s playing to the song makes his theory sound comical. “But he won’t screw up his own project like that.”

You sigh, and the melody falls apart as you bring it to a grinding halt. 

“Believe me, I know just how much he values his projects.” Your head throbs upon thinking about that poor girl sobbing, and the bassist coughs to stifle a laugh. 

“What did he say that one time? ‘Your vapid idea would be better used on death row than as a functioning building’,” Stelle—the vocalist and also the only Psychology major you know who doesn’t unnervingly stare at you—imitates the deep reverberations of his voice, and you’re astonished at how it’s recalled verbatim (down to the exact adjective).

“I’m surprised it got round that far,” you suppress a smile—after all, it’ll be your head on the chopping block next. “You should’ve gone into theatre like Caelus did.” 

What a waste of talent, you shake your head mock-ruefully, which quickly turns to true woe as you realise just the predicament you’re in. 

✧ It’s not a complicated assignment. Well, it shouldn’t be: designing a sound structure based on the whims of the architectural class (whom you loathe); except that Blade is notorious for being a severe critic for civil engineering partnerships—like seriously, out of all hills to die on and it’s civil engineering. You begrudgingly create a new contact for him in your phone; a digital space just for him, which almost makes you throw up at the thought.

(+2 unread messages) <Dickhead> (new contact) 10:11 > library.  10:11 > east block, 20 minutes.

You stare incredulously at the chat, which is neither phrased as a question nor a request but an encrypted demand. The fuck? Infuriated, you take the break between your reps now rather than later, swilling down water while you irritably type out a reply. 

No can do. < 10:15 I’m busy. < 10:16

The reply comes less than a minute later; three dots animating themselves into existence while you wipe the sweat off your face with a towel. This prick. Well, it’s not so much a reply as an acknowledgement of your words—because he doesn’t reply, but rather your phone starts buzzing and you fumble while looking at the expletive lit up brightly on the screen. 

You’re sorely, sorely tempted to press the red receiver on the device. 

“What do you want?” you scowl, and you hope it translates through your voice that you’re revolted by his mere radio presence. 

“Where are you?” He ignores your question; voice vibrating low through your headphones, and you can’t help but shiver, just a little. Even through the thick towel, you can still feel crescents being formed in your palm from your nails—you sincerely wish you were throttling him instead. 

“None of your business.” 

There’s a budding migraine blossoming to life in your temple as you finally hang up. You think that’s the end of it—after all, it was literally yesterday that the groups were assigned. 

But when you shoulder the gym door open—skin still damp and warm from your shower, clean clothes sticking ever so slightly to laved skin—there’s a sleek car parked outside, and you frown when Blade opens the driver’s door. 

“I’m going to report you for stalking,” you grit out, pressing your body to the cool glass of the building. “How the fuck did you know where I was?”

“Kafka,” he replies simply, and of course, that crazy woman was the one who viewed your private story and sent it to him. “I’m picking you up.”

“No you’re not.” Seriously, he thinks you’re that easy to convince—

“I’ll shut the fuck up with the drums for these two weeks.” 

It’s almost miraculous how quickly you slide into the passenger seat. 

✧ You’ve never been in such close proximity to him before (if you don’t count that day in the kitchen). At least, voluntarily. When you close your eyes and lean back against the headrest, you can smell the faint, woody scent of his cologne. It’s different from the putrid tide of Axe the average engineering student drowns themself in—rather, it’s got the deep undertone of oud and something sweeter. You don’t expect it; maybe if he smelled like first impressions, he’d stink of blood and a dumpster fire.  ✧ Don’t fall asleep—he remarks, and you can feel his eyes on you briefly. Eyes on the road, prick—you retort, but your own lids are still tightly shut. Therefore, you don’t see how his gaze traces the remaining water droplets from your shower: how his hands linger on his gear stick so he can feel the emanating warmth from your damp thigh.  ✧ He freezes. Gross. He doesn’t like anyone, and only tolerates the rest of the Stellaron Hunters since they’ve seen him at his lowest and yet still find ways to bug him. And you. He wasn’t expecting you to last as long as you have. He certainly wasn’t expecting you to irritate him in your own way, and actually manage to aggravate him enough to force him into soundproofing his room. Actually, he still doesn’t know why you did that. He doesn’t know why his heart picked up slightly at the sight of you in that soaked shirt. And in the end, he still doesn’t entirely know why he chose to sit next to you for that lecture instead. It’s to annoy you, he decides. No point in deliberating too much about it.  ✧ It’s surprising that the two of you don’t immediately argue over the project; some eco-facility for sports that surprisingly was chosen unanimously by the pair of you. Eyes flitting to each other and back, it was a miracle you both had the same idea somehow. And it’s surprising when despite your lack of experience in civil engineering like this (you usually opt for mechanical on projects like these), you carefully consider the missing parts in his outlines—security cameras, sound systems, and tiny edits to the structure to really amplify the architecture.  ✧ He doesn’t mind your presence. That’s what shocks him. As you doze off with your head pressed into the crooks of your elbows, he doesn’t reprimand you like he would with anyone else. Instead, he places the material reference guide down and stops considering cement foundations. Before he gets the chance to poke your forehead, your phone buzzes against the table—lighting up with a name he didn’t think he’d see.  ✧ Dan Heng. He knows you’re friends with the guy, but there’s a burning sensation as his eyes watch the pop-up turn into another message, then another. What does he want? In real time, there’s a particular irritation that blossoms with each new notification. 

<Dan Heng> 20:19 > Are you still up? 20:19 > My roommate’s going to move in with his girlfriend, so you’ll be able to…

The message is cut off, but Blade isn’t stupid. He knows exactly what the implication suggests, and there’s a certain coolness in his eyes as he stares the message down. Isn’t this what he wanted? Yes, this is precisely the ending he hoped for: you moving out and him getting his space back to himself. 

But the issue stems from Dan Heng. He can’t have that. He can’t have you moving in with that man of all people. Anyone else would be fine, he insists to himself. 

Dan Heng. Dan Heng. Dan Heng. 

There’s a certain hypothesis he’d like to test. With your guard down like this, he snaps a photo of you with the drool leaking onto your sleeve—sending it directly to you. Just like clockwork, your phone lights up once more with a message. It’s not ‘Blade’ that’s texting you. 

<Dickhead> 20:20 > [photo.jpeg attached]

He grits his teeth, clutching his textbook until his fingers ache from the strain. No, he won’t give that bastard the satisfaction of taking his roommate like this. 

He’ll play nice. When you find someone who works this efficiently with you, while managing to hold their ground under his intimidating gaze, it’s hard not to want them to not scurry away. 

Eat shit, Dan Heng.

✧ Somehow, mercifully, you manage to complete the project with that weirdo. It’s strange—he’s surprisingly more cordial than ever. And with his inky hair pulled into a loose bun, glasses perched on his straight nose—it’s hard to imagine he’d ever made that poor girl cry in front of everyone like that, but you’d witnessed it yourself. So with a sigh, you remind yourself that he’s just as much of an asshole as the rumours say. But, staring at him so relaxed like this, these two different Blades are hard to ever merge.

“Something on my face?” He’s still writing with his glasses sliding down his nose. He sounds irritated, as per usual, but the tiny smirk painting his face lets you know that no he’s not irritated, he’s just being an arse just as always. 

“Yeah, pen,” you mutter, looking away as he finally glances up at you. When you glance back at the desk where your laptop precariously shows the still-unfinished presentation slides, he’s gazing up at you with an indecipherable look in his eyes. 

It almost puts to rest the image of a dickhead. 

“There’s no pen, though,” he purrs, voice low while he rests the manual back on the table. “I’ve been reading all morning.”

Nevermind—he’s as much of an asshole as he regularly is. 

“Who knows,” you comment offhandedly, slowly sliding a blue biro your way as soon as he looks back down. There—you attempt to inch forward to draw on his face, but he catches your wrist from across the table between you. 

You freeze. Shit, you screwed up. With how relaxed he is, it’s getting easier and easier to forget the rumours of his bruised knuckles that follow him like a shroud. His eyes glance coolly at you, then at the incriminating weapon within your fingers. 

“What are you doing?” Maybe he’s the questions first, beat up later kind. 

“Getting revenge.” Shameless, you think, but definitely not as shameless as getting told to effectively shut up with the drums yet having the audacity to keep going louder. 

His lips part, and your eyes nearly stray to the pink colour of them. Then, he smiles—something so cynical and disturbing you can’t help but shiver and twist your arm out of his hold, all so you can watch him askance. 

“I can see why people find you scary,” you shudder, tapping your biro on a square notepad. 

“And you don’t?” An innocuous question, but one that almost sounds accusatory. 

“Nah,” you make a disgusted noise, like you’re trying to suppress vomit. “You’re just a prick.”

In the end, that same prick ends up rolling his sleeves upon your request so you can litter blue ink upon his forearms. With how pale he is, it resembles delicate ceramics painted with cerulean landscapes. And while you do include etched illustrations and swirling designs, you make sure to include several phalluses dotted around—just so he lives up to his contact name. 

“Wow,” he remarks sardonically. “Maybe you should quit physics and join the liberal arts programme.”

You ignore him, taking a few shots of your handiwork and sending them to Kafka, captioned I feel like this truly reflects his personality and making sure all the tiny dicks are in full focus. 

“Maybe I should,” you shrug. “Then I wouldn’t have to deal with you, at least.”

“Likewise,” he responds, but it’s not as satisfying to think about you quitting as he thought it would be. 

It’s stupid. He finds that he doesn’t want the ink to wash from his arms, not so soon. 

When you log into your account to touch-up the presentation, you spot the comment he left back in the library on the presentation slides—timestamped to the exact twenty past five. 

17:20 > Maybe if you stopped staring at me, we’d be done sooner. 

It’s the longest sentence he’s ever typed out to you—but that’s exactly what makes it so galling. 

go fuck yourself < 22:31

22:31 > ooh you want me so bad aha

You pause, staring incredulously at the text, then to where the bathroom’s situated. The water’s definitely running.

… < 22:32 damn this idiot’s really getting scammed and hacked < 22:33 crazy < 22:33 [feynman’s twin] sent laughing emoji < 22:33

22:33 > on the daily lmao 22:34 > same two old man passwords for everything

Types like one too < 22:34

22:35 > right?? 22:36 > we should be friends btw 22:36 > [Blade.] sent contact silver-W

Dang he really put a period after than name too < 22:37

22:37 > top ten edgelords 22:37 > [Blade.] sent laughing emoji

[feynman’s twin] sent laughing emoji < 22:37

It’s not until the morning when he’s looking over the (surprisingly well-done) slides that he finally notices the string of (highly unprofessional) messages that he definitely did not write. 

His head throbs and his eye twitches as he reads through them—burning holes through the wall separating him and you. He hopes you receive the subliminal nightmares he’s so graciously sending you. 

It’s a fiercely deliberated decision. With a heavy heart, he finally presses [backspace] on the typo next to his nickname. 

He only hopes you won’t notice. 

(Silver Wolf notices—immediately screenshotting the new handle [Blade] and sending it to you.)

✧ Good things come in threes. Getting through this project, not getting beat up by that nerd, and getting through the presentation smoothly. By that, you mean you do most of the speaking while Blade clicks through the slides. However, contrary to all expectations, his voice comes low and rich—neither stumbling through the knowledge nor forgetting the important parts. It’s so shocking you can’t help but stare at him; something he definitely notices, judging by the self-important smirk he sends you.  ✧ Perhaps a little too good. The pair of you leave the lecture hall separately—after all, it’s not like you want to be in his presence any longer, and he doesn’t particularly want to be in yours either. But you do want the sweet energy drink that’s been chilling in the shared fridge for the past few days: as tantalising as the very nectar of the gods.  ✧ It’s when you enter an alleyway shortcut that you witness her—your old roommate. Vaguely, you recall she used to have a crush on Blade (a match made in heaven if there ever was one); perhaps that’s why she’s inching towards you with a pipe that is tetanus’ wet dream—so grimy you think you’ll immediately die if you’re struck by it.  ✧ All this over him?—you think with disgust as you try back out of the alleyway, only to collide with the towering body of her boyfriend: some guy unfortunate enough to be entrapped by her pretty face and definitely not her personality. She doesn’t want you, and he (aforementioned: Blade) doesn’t want her either. It’s rather tragic, but woefully you can’t spare any pity for them: not when you’re about to get beat and for what? A successful presentation with Blade?  ✧ They’re amateurish enough that you manage to evade them for a minute, but the alleyway’s too narrow to slip past them, and you’ve never been in a fight like this.  ✧ You’re cornered when he appears: some twisted knight he is.

“You’re late,” you heave, bruises on your knuckles and that man’s face. 

“You…” Blade trails off as he sees the blood spatters on your clothes, and his expression twists into one he’s glad you can’t see—not when his broad shoulders face you in an impenetrable wall. The two idiots—Tweedledee and Tweedledum, judging by how disturbingly gullible they are—stiffen immediately upon his timely arrival. 

He’ll handle it like he always does. 

But it’s certainly strange. Why does he feel so much angrier than he does normally?

✧ It’s late afternoon: dusk barely kissing the rooftops of the city, stars just about peeking from the violet firmament. You didn’t ask questions when he made enough space for you to slip out the alleyway: heart lodged in your throat as you quietly sat down at the local café with blossoming pain in your ribs and fists. Stupid, you were stupid to think that crazed girl would ever leave you alone.  ✧ Maybe it’s counterintuitive to feel safe when he steps into the small building. He smells faintly of blood: a terrible, metallic odour spilling onto his clothes and flesh. But beneath that, there’s a lingering scent of that woody oud—you can’t help but sink into it.  ✧ They won’t bother you ever again—he murmurs as the door jingles behind both of you. You didn’t kill them, did you?—you mutter back, half-sarcastically. No, but it probably hurt quite a bit for them—he shrugs. “Let’s go home.” ✧ Home. He says that, but there’s still that offer from Dan Heng to move in with him—one you’ll probably accept. Blade may have saved you, but he’s still a dickhead who has made numerous attempts to kick you out. 

“Ow, fuck,” you hiss as he dabs antiseptic on the various cuts on your hand. It’s well into the evening now, and you’re currently sitting on the bathroom counter with your injuries on full display. 

So infuriating. You glare at the man standing in between your legs—unscathed completely. Worst of all, there’s a smug smile on his lips; whatever worry he might have had over you has completely dissipated. 

“You couldn’t let them hit you once?”

“Bitter much?” he returns easily, swabbing another cotton ball with alcohol and pressing it against the large cut on the side of your forearm. It stings, but you grit your teeth and bear it—much too annoyed with him to show any more pain. 

In this position, the resentment you feel towards him turns faint; a veil seems to obscure the burning sensation. 

“You talk too much,” you seethe. “What happened to the prick who kept his mouth shut and ignored me?”

Tendrils of his jet-hued hair brush your cheek as he inches forward. “If you like, we can go right back to that—playing at my whim included.”

He hasn’t felt like this in years—back when he was still a boy named Yingxing and unmarred by the burdens life would eventually place on his shoulders. 

“Let me do it myself,” you argue back. 

“Nah.” Silver Wolf will pay for calling him an old man. “You won’t do it properly.” 

Another brief kiss from the alcohol against your bloody knuckles, and this time you can’t hide the slight wince on your face. It takes quite a lot of self-restraint to not dent the tweezers—he should’ve done so much worse to the two who tried this, besides beating the shit out of them and getting Kafka to land them behind bars. 

“That rod probably had tetanus on it,” he shrugs, rummaging around in his disused first-aid kit for plasters and bandages.

“Yeah, I thought that too,” you shudder. It's this moment of casual, same line thinking that strikes you as being far too strange. He's so close you can feel each puff of air when he exhales: practically scalding the bare skin stretched over collarbones. Too close—and if he keeps talking like this, as if he’s no longer disgusted by your presence, you won’t be able to deal with it. 

“What’d you do to her?” he questions, but it’s not the ‘no wonder she attacked you’ tone—rather than that, it’s like he’s trying to prompt you into distraction. 

“This is actually your fault,” you scowl, irritably casting your mind back to when she used to talk your ear off about the man standing here. 

“How so?” Nonplussed, he starts rolling the bandage across your arm—evidently, he’s experienced with this sort of thing. 

Stalker roommate. Stalker roommate has crush on engineering maniac. Stalker roommate sees that your new roommate and engineering maniac are one and the same—you summarise, too tired to give the specifics. He sees the way your lids flutter closed from exhaustion; for once, he’ll use Kafka to get more of the information you omitted. 

“Honestly, you two freaks would be perfect for each other,” you murmur absentmindedly. At that, he pulls the bandage tighter against your skin and you draw in a pained inhale. 

“You should try stand-up.” His voice is thick with revulsion, and it’s quiet for a few brief moments as he gets started on patching up the scrapes left on your back. You’re sitting on a stool now: unable to see his face but awfully mindful of how his hands brush over the skin layered over your scapula. 

“You still haven’t thanked me.”

“Thank you, my aggravating saviour,” you say, much too insincerely. “But that reminds me that I’ve got good news for you. That should suffice as a symbol of my gratitude.”

What is it?

“One of my friends has a room free, so I’ll probably be able to move out soon.”

The worst part is, he knows exactly who this friend is. His hands freeze on the band-aid he’s smoothing on your skin; too absorbed in his murderous thoughts to notice how you stiffen at the prolonged gesture. He’s not jealous; these are merely stirrings of friendship—this ugly, amorphous thing writhing in his gut and condemning him to senseless anger. 

“That’s not good news,” he breathes, and it’s a little too quiet as he finishes wrapping the final bandage around your bruised ribs. 

For the first time ever, Kafka receives a text from Blade that doesn’t consist of just one word. 

<Bladie> 20:33 > I need advice. 

Oh, this is interesting. 

What are friends for?—she coos, making sure to show Silver Wolf the glaring achievement in Blade’s range of text vocabulary. 

He’s clearly been on the rear end of bad news; while for her, on the contrary, this just means her scheme is moving along very nicely.  

[materialsscienceandengineering]

SI Derived Units: Pressure, Stress, and the Pascal

The derived unit of pressure - as well as stress and specific variables such as Young's modulus - in SI units is known as the pascal. The unit was named for Blaise Pascal and was officially adopted in 1971. Pressure is often defined as force over area and one pascal is one newton per square meter, or, in base units, kg m^-1 s^-2.

Mathematically the pascal is abbreviated Pa; pressure is often symbolized with either a capital or lowercase p and stress with the lowercase Greek letter sigma. The atmosphere, approximately equivalent to the pressure of the atmosphere at sea level, is sometimes used as a reference point for pressure, but is not a base unit. It is abbreviated atm and 1 atm is approximately 101325 Pa or 101 kPa. US customary units and imperial units use psi, or pounds per square inch, in place of the pascal, with 1 Pa equivalent to approximately 1.45x10^-4 psi. Other units of pressure include the torr, the bar, the barye, mmHg, and inHg.

Sources/Further Reading: (Image source - Pascal Wikipedia) (Pressure Wikipedia) (Stress Wikipedia) (Metric System) (Proportion Air) (MSE Student)

[mintflavoredart]

Seventeen aliens shaped like mathematical operators adjust their eyes to the artificial lighting overhead. A vault may not be especially stimulating, but it would have to do.

Modulus is one of many planets inhibited by the curious equation-creating lifeforms called Algebraliens, but they are moving their clutches of hatchlings to be raised below ground in greater numbers by the day. It is not an act of paranoia. The Modules' first contact with Earth was not followed by a gesture of friendliness, but a threat of violence. Their powers were beyond what the people of Earth could comprehend, and Earth rapidly developed weapons to match, or even best, them out of fear. The Modules did not mean harm, and the Earthlings knew this, but neither could ignore the glaring imbalance of power. The weapons have gone unused so far, but the knowledge of their existence has made the people of Modulus begin planning for the worst. They could move mountains, they could change the course of rivers, but they could not laugh in the face of the unknown when they had precious much to lose. Their abilities were not instinct and could only be taught, making their young vulnerable.

The last mature algebralien in the vault- exactly 1,000 years old- says their goodbyes, comforts a crying radical symbol, and clambers up the ladder into the tenuous future. This generation was not meant to see sunlight for the next 100 years.

[er-cryptid]

Patreon

[snixx]

my favourite annoying thing to do as a science-scarred student is randomly name drop physics/chemistry stuff where they literally couldn't belong less just for the cool ring and the kicks. oh my god you are a viscous drag. she's so optically dense. he's such a bromoamide bore - uh, bro. i have such a goddamn sinusoidal personality when will I have my DC or even my pulsating DC era damnit. for the love of vinylic ketals. my brain's young's modulus decreases exponentially every day. damn we are such incoherent wavefronts. stop being a bernoulli bitch. what the fuck it's 315 kelvin outside. we are so azeotropic <3

[thefagggot]

the highly not so exciting rigor will eventually prove my hard work on scale as significant as young,s modulus fuck my ass

[alvfr]

🌹

here you go Miss

You braced your slinging arm to avoid the hardest recoil when the line flexed and pulled you along. “Relax, my webs have a Young’s modulus of roughly ten gigapascals and I can shoulder press a tank. I’m not gonna drop you.”

---

thank you! makes me really happy when people play the game ❤️

For every “🌹” received in my inbox I’ll post one random sentence/snippet of a random WIP I’m currently writing (specify fandom or original fic if you want)

[kayla000bell]

Greetings, fellow mechanical engineering enthusiasts and aspiring Ansys aficionados! Today, we embark on a journey through the intricate world of Ansys theory, delving deep into complex problem-solving techniques that are pivotal for mastering this powerful simulation software. Our expert has meticulously crafted a comprehensive solution to a master-level Ansys theory question, designed to sharpen your understanding and equip you with the skills needed to excel in your mechanical engineering assignments.

Understanding Finite Element Analysis in Ansys

Finite Element Analysis (FEA) lies at the heart of Ansys, enabling engineers to simulate and analyze the behavior of structures and mechanical systems under various conditions. To truly harness the capabilities of Ansys, one must grasp the fundamentals of FEA, including mesh generation, boundary conditions, material properties, and solving techniques.

Master-Level Ansys Question:

Question:

A cantilever beam is subjected to a concentrated load at its free end. Using Ansys, determine the deflection at the free end of the beam.

Solution:

To solve this problem using Ansys, we first need to create a finite element model of the cantilever beam. This involves defining the geometry of the beam, assigning material properties, meshing the structure, and applying boundary conditions.

Geometry and Meshing: We start by creating a 3D model of the cantilever beam in Ansys DesignModeler. Define the dimensions of the beam and create a solid model.

Material Properties: Specify the material properties of the beam, including Young's modulus and Poisson's ratio, to accurately represent its behavior under loading conditions.

Mesh Generation: Generate a mesh on the beam using Ansys Meshing. Ensure that the mesh is refined enough to capture the stress variations accurately, especially near the point of loading.

Boundary Conditions: Apply boundary conditions to mimic the physical constraints of the problem. For a cantilever beam, fix the base of the beam to restrict its movement and apply the concentrated load at the free end.

Solution: Once the model is set up, solve for the deflection using Ansys Mechanical. The software will calculate the deformation of the beam under the applied load, providing us with the desired deflection at the free end.

Post-Processing: Analyze the results obtained from Ansys Mechanical to gain insights into the behavior of the beam. Visualize the deformation using contour plots and extract the deflection at the free end for further analysis.

Conclusion: In this blog post, we've tackled a master-level Ansys theory question, demonstrating the application of Finite Element Analysis in solving complex mechanical engineering problems. By mastering these fundamental principles and techniques, you'll be well-equipped to tackle challenging assignments and projects with confidence. Remember, for expert assistance in solving your Ansys assignments, look no further than mechanicalengineeringassignmenthelp.com. Solve your Ansys assignment and elevate your mechanical engineering journey today!

Stay curious, stay innovative, and keep exploring the limitless possibilities of Ansys!

[bagog]

Failed Relationships - Adderall

I took a test when I became an adult, it said “genetically, these are the types of relationships to seek, and these others will not work for you, and about these over here: we just can’t know.”

You wore a Goodwill windbreaker and a scrunchy you found on the sidewalk walking home last night. I waited all morning for you to wake up, and you opened your eyes after noon and asked me for a joint. The date we’d been waiting to go on, you ran-through it in four hours or less. Then you were back on the street for the night, I do not think I will see that windbreaker again.

Imbued on me an absurd Young’s modulus for my life: impervious to the crush of the world, prone to fracturing perpendicular to my grade. I saw night skies with you I’d never have looked for, would never have stared at patches of black between the stars till they fill with pinpricks.

Sitting in the food court with you, shivering and fearing for my life.  Loving my art and thinking everything you gave to me was worth it, I still think about you.

[danganronpasurvivoraskblog]

A Detective’s Woe’s.

*After a short while, Future Foundation once again gathers in the middle of the new camp. With Ando now free from the effects of the mind control, they assemble to get all their information together.

How are you holding up Shuichi?

Better...I can see Dr Ando is free?

From both his binds AND his mind control.

I’m sorry I wasn’t there as a witness.

Believe me, you got lucky.

What?

Nothing. How were things on your end.

*Miu, who accompanies Shuichi, steps forward.

Me and a couple of other researchers did some analysis on the shields. The bad news is we still haven’t found a way to break them.

Future Foundation procured a high-powered drill from the Tower to try and break through the doorway. While you were taking care of Ando, we all waited and watched it work.

And? What happened...?

...

The drill exploded the minute the tip touched the door.

It exploded!?

It didn’t even leave a mark. Whatever material that plating is made of, it’s damn near indestructible.

I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

If you don’t believe us, go look! The remains of the drill are still there!

No need to be so aggressive Shuichi...

...

Now, usually, something exploding when only the tip touches it is something that I make fun of people for...But you know, in this situation, it’s pretty serious.

...?

...!

Th-That’s really gross...

Sorry, just...trying to bring a little humor to this situation.

There is good news though. I’ve analyzed the doors and I’ve figured out exactly what we’re dealing with here.

You have?

Yeah. The plates on the doors are made using huge amounts of pure Carbyne. That’s why we’re having so much trouble.

Carbybe!? That’s...insane...!

What’s Carbine?

Carbyne is a linear acetylenic carbon; which basically means it’s an infinitely chain of carbon. Carbyne has a chemical structure with alternating single and triple bonds. This structure of carbon gives an impressive Young’s modulus of 32.7 TPa, which-

Hold-hold on Iruma. As much as I enjoy hearing you be capable and clever, can you maybe not use lab words no one else understands?

Ugh, alright fine. Basically, Carbyne is 40 times tougher than diamond, and 30 times that of carbon nanotubes.

40 times stronger than DIAMOND!?

But...surely that would make it...!?

Yeah...It’s the strongest material on planet earth as we know it.

What confuses me is that this much of the shit is SUPER rare to come by. But Zetsubou got enough of it to layer all the doors of this lab with the stuff. How the hell they pulled that off, I don’t know.

So...bottom line is...those doors are made with the strongest material known to man, and nothing can break them?

Basically.

SHIT!

...If we can’t destroy them, it means our only remaining option is to find a way to get those doors open the usual way.

But we’ve tried everything. Attacking, hacking, all of it. We can’t open the doors from out here!

*Shuichi goes up to Ando.

You said you were free from the brainwashing, right? And you’ve been in that lab for a long time.

Y-Yes?

Then what if there’s a way to open the lab doors from the inside!? Like a switch in the main lab that ends the shutdown.

Good point. It’s not unreasonable to assume that.

...

Ando?

I...I don’t think I can help you.

What!?

*Shuichi suddenly grabs Ando by his coat.

What are you talking about!? Are you on our side or not!?

Shuichi, let him go! He-

YOU shut up! Don’t speak to me!

!!?

Shuichi, that’s enough!

Hold on, let him...

Do not interfere.

I don’t care if you were brainwashed or not! Munakata and Gonta were too, and both were more than willing to take responsibilitu for the wrongs they did!

If you gave a crap about stopping Zetsubou, saving your daughter, saving my partner, or ANYTHING, then tell me how to open the lab from the inside-!

YOU CAN’T OPEN IT FROM THE INSIDE!!

*Ando panics and shouts this out. Shuichi slowly releases his grip.

........what?

Wh-What are you saying?

You’re right...I’ve been in that lab long enough to know how it’s system works...And I know this full well.

*Ando points towards the hatch.

That lab can only be opened using a single control panel, which Shirogane has on her person. She is the ONLY ONE who can close down the lab. And there is no straightforward way of opening it from the inside.

You hear me? The lab can only be opened and closed from the OUTSIDE. If it’s closed down, anything inside the lab has no way of escaping once the shutdown activates!

You’re saying that lab has a close switch but no open!?

THAT DOESN’T MAKE ANY SENSE! Lockdowns are usually to protect people from getting inside the lab, right!? Why would it stop anything from getting out!?

...Does it not make sense?

Huh?

*Everyone looks at Rantaro.

You’re wrong Kaito. The lab can’t be opened from the inside because that’s exactly what it was designed for. Not to keep people from getting in, but to stop people from getting out.

Remember...Ando was Zetsubou’s prisoner. Yes, he was brainwashed, but what if somehow, Zetsubou discovered he had freed himself and was planning an escape. What would be there backup plan?

To...trap him the lab.

Good Gonta! And that’s not exactly a surefire solution if Ando can open it from the inside, right?

Of course...there’s also a non-zero possibility that Tsumugi set this trap a long time ago specifically for Kaede. The fact that she reacted so late after Ando was freed may be the explanation for that.

...I’m...I’m sorry...

*Shuichi releases Ando.

What the hell do we do...!? 

Well, it’s not as if we don’t know how we can open the lab. If we find Shirogane and that control panel-

But we’ll need to find Zetsubou’s base first, and Ando hasn’t even started on Seiko’s cure yet. 

And by the time we actually prepare to get Tsumugi, it’ll probably be too late...

...!

C-Come on guys...We’ve faced more impossible odds than this.

Right Makoto? We’ll find a way to fix this, right?

Why are you asking me?

...!?

Alright, everyone stop. Tensions are clearly very high right now, so listen up.

*Everyone looks towards the leaderly Kyoko.

We’ll work on examining the area and trying to find a way inside the lab, either through the doors, or other alternatives. The Kisaragi Foundation will take care of the escape hatch.

Myself, as well as Makoto, Sayaka, Munakata and Byakuya’s factions will focus on the rear door.

Shuichi, you and your friends, as well as Rantaro, will focus on the other door. In the meantime, I’d like Ando and Yoruko to stay with Seiko and Owari, try to focus on making sure everyone is well-adjusted.

Do what you can, but our top priority right now is this...We need to find a way to establish contact with Kaede Akamatsu inside the lab.

What do you want me to do, Bosswife?

Your strength is highly valued here Kuripa. I’ll have you join the Shuichi’s group, if that’s alright with you.

That’s fine. I was hoping to have another look at-

If it’s all the same to you, Ms Kyoko...I don’t want Kuripa anywhere near me.

*Everyone pauses in surprise and looks at Shuichi.

What...did you say?

You heard what I said. I refuse to have Kuripa Kurafto on any squad of mine, even if it’s your request.

...Why...!?

Why? Oh I don’t know...maybe it’s because I don’t trust him? No, actually, I don’t trust him AT ALL!

Wh-Where is this coming from!?

What, is this just because he got out of the lab but Kaede didn’t!? Don’t be so petty, Shuichi!

You have no idea just how much pain I’m in right now!

!!?

*Shuichi turns to Kuripa.

You were always there for me back when I first joined Future Foundation. You’ve always been a true senpai, to all of us! A figurehead who would protect us despite his own issues, and despite how we came from an unknown world, you still welcomed us!

You’ve done me...so much good Kuripa...but I’m sorry...I don’t have ANY faith in you anymore...Not after this.

I know it was brief, but that’s because I didn’t get much of a chance to talk...But after what happened in New York, where you beat Kaede half to death, I was reluctant to put faith in your, even after you ended up being right about Katagiri.

So I made you promise that you would protect Kaede, to the end, no matter what...

And you LIED!

*SHOVE!*

...!

Shuichi, stop! I don’t know what you’re doing, but this is too much!

Oh, would you look at that. Makoto’s doing his regular old thing of defending his MURDEROUS PSYCHOPATH TOOL!

Wh-What did you say!?

YOU HEARD WHAT I SAID! Kuripa has killed and hurt so many people, even now, including the people who are supposed to be his allies.

Even after knowing what he did to you and Hina earlier, you STILL defend him!? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU!?

!!!??

What he did...to who?

What, did you think I wouldn’t figure it out!? Kuripa has done more harm than good to the Foundation, and yet you continue to stand by his side, protecting him from whatever justice he deserves and...

Ngh...Whatever...You’re going to take his word over mine anyway. That’s just how it is...

I can’t believe I ever thought it was a good idea to put faith in this loose cannon...And yet Future Foundation are STILL doing it...!? 

Why are we continuing to forgive you, when all you do is KEEP FUCKING UP!?

...

Shuichi, please...You need to calm down...!

...

*Kuripa suddenly steps forward.

...Kaede means more to me than you think she does, Shuichi. This war against Organization Zetsubou, to rescue your friends and family, and put Shirogane and her bitches out of business, means more to me than you think it does...

I have given everything, and WILL give everything, to see it through. I don’t think I’m truly capable of what I put my mind to, but I’m willing to DIE trying!

Whether you trust me or not...Whether you want to believe in me or not...I am going to make things right.

“...Make things right?” 

*Shuichi glowers.

I don’t care if you somehow end up being right in the end. The Fugitive situation spiraled out of control, and everyone was pushed to the brink of insanity, because you tried to “make things right.”

The situation with Zen Katagiri came about as you trying to “make things right.” It just seems every time you try to “make things right” it ends up affecting US negatively!

Shuichi, wait. I think you’re being too hasty! Doesn’t it show Kuripa’s dedication to his branch and his boss in how he was willing to take up the sword against the Foundation like that!?

And what happened to the Future Foundation after that incident, huh!? WHAT HAPPENED!?

Kokichi’s Cabaret burned down! I lost my hands! Kaede was tortured by Munakata! MUKURO IKUSABA DIED! AND IT’S ALL BECAUSE OF YOU!

Alright, that’s enough! I will not stand by and let you-

...!

Wh-What are you doing?

*Byakuya strides forward, but Kuripa sticks out an arm and stops him.

...Remember Togami...He’s YOUR boss now. If I was in your shoes, I’d let him finish.

Krgh...!

I just can’t help but point this out...Every time Kuripa does ANYTHING not by the book, SOMEONE pays the price for it, while Makoto and everyone else encases him in an impenetrable shield of trust and faith, even after EVERYTHING he’s done!

...

You almost crushed the skull of the girl I loved, right in front of me, and even after THAT SHIT, I still found it in me to trust you...simply because despite everything, Kaede still believed in you...!

And look where that got her now...SHE’s the one trapped in the lab, after she sacrificed herself to protect YOUR PATHETIC ASS!

*SHOVE!*

...!

So today...Kuripa Kurafto...

I am DONE with you...!

...

...

Alright, I’m done now. I’ll do what was requested and set up a perimeter around the first door.

If you’ll excuse me.

*Shuichi silently walks away towards his squadron.

...

...

...