#flat patch cables

[artificialgirl]

Before reading this- A warning is warranted that this is, by a significant amount, more extreme and abstract than anything I've posted thus far. This is as much (if not more) horror than it is smut, and if you're at all uncomfortable with some elements of loss of self or "bad ends", this is not for you. It is exceptionally unlikely that you are the target audience. Thank you.

Antlion

As I step out from the small reprieve offered by the small patch of singed trees, the scorching August sun pours down past the shade's edge to saturate the surface of my plating. Zezia's distant voice calls out from ahead of me in the dry prarie, her angular goldenrod casing shimmering and distorting in the intense heat, difficult to distinguish from the colors of the tall grasses all around her.

"Mionet! Come on, hurry! It went this way!" She turns ahead, not waiting for me to catch up, too determined in her hunt to stop more than a few seconds. The it in question is a new species- Or, more accurately, one not documented by our cluster. Zezia swears she saw it, perched on a flat stone, something she'd described as 'like a locust, but bigger and longer'. "It was banded in cobalt and red", she'd said. "Your colors."

Personally, I take the claim of matching colors as a sign that what she saw was little more than a reflection of my own body in the flickering waves of light-refracting gas and heat which had been emanating from the earth, the same ones which fill the air with millisecond shards of the world around them and radiate from anything unfortunate enough to absorb the sunlight. But still, like a fool, I rev my fans to shove back overheating and press on through the field after her.

What else can I do? Tell her no? The joy and wonder with which she clutches her camera makes that impossible. I can't kill that. I wholeheartedly hope that what she saw was real. Her happiness would far outweigh the short satisfaction of an i told you so, and our cluster would be overjoyed with a new discovery. I break into a jog, brushing off my better judgement to catch up. CPU at 67.72°C. It's fine. I keep going.

"Okay. Okay, I'm here." I pull up next to her, slowing to match her steady pace. "Mi, look." She gestures further ahead with the camera before turning back to me, pulled from her fixation by mild concern. "Your fans are going crazy right now." "Some of us weren't built with a heat-repellent casing." The thing she's gesturing to is an outcropping of large, rounded stones a few hundred meters ahead of us. "I keep getting glimpses of it. Jumping far whenever I get close. I think it likes the rocks, though. I'll bet we can get a shot of it over there."

I seriously doubt she's seeing anything real, let alone anything concrete enough to actually trail. At any given moment, I can see fragments of my own body reflected a dozen times in the air around me. With a bit of idealism, I'm sure I would convince myself at least a few of the shimmering flecks were creatures. She seems sure, though. So I listen and follow her through the reeds to the rocks.

"Thank you for coming out here with me." She absentmindedly unspools a length of cable from her hip, letting it snap back into place with a whir. "I know you probably think it's silly. That makes your company worth more to me." There's a sizzle as a length of grass burns against my forearm. I brush off the residue. CPU at 93.08°C. "Not silly, no. Recovery of knowledge matters. Maybe just a bit misguided, is all." I pause for a moment. Emotions are difficult to articulate, but I'm feeling them and want to tell her. "I like being with you too, though. Regardless of the conditions."

The ring around her vision core spins happily, and she wraps her hand over mine. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't need to. Her fingers are so much colder than mine, the delicious reprieve of inner coolant beneath their plating lingering on my hands, melting through heat so intense it feels like my metal could start warping. I squeeze back, savoring her gentleness just as much as her heat-repellent exterior.

"THERE!" She rips the hand away, thrusting a finger towards the rocks, and I let my hand fall empty to my side. At first I don't see what she's pointing at amidst the swarm of drifting refractions. Then one doesn't fade, a shape in the distance drifting down instead of up with the rising heat. There is, in fact, something, gliding behind the rocks and out of view on broad wings of deep crimson. It does have my colors.

She darts ahead to sprint after it, fingers dragging on the rock and sending a plume of sandy dust into the air as she rounds the corner at top speed. She lets out a short noise- A sharp "Oh-", and then silence. I can't see her around the piled stones. There's just me, the sun, and the nearly-inaudible rustle of a meager breeze through the prarie grasses. "...Zezia?"

There's no answer. The outcropping looms in front of me, casting a too-short shadow to the side she rounded. Dust settles in the air from where she disturbed it, scattering itself throughout the plains. "Hey, Zezia?" Nothing. Shit. I take a cautious step forward. Is she just focusing on getting a good shot? Is she trying to scare me? Was the locust thing somehow dangerous?

I rest a cautious hand on the brush mark she left as I peer around the edge of the pile. What's waiting there is not Zezia, not the creature she'd been chasing after, but something else entirely. Tucked behind the back of the boulder pile, concealed by the tall grass and rimmed by smaller jagged stones, is a pit.

I leap backward, terrified at how close I'd gotten to its lip without even noticing its presence. She fell. I cling to the wall of rocks, soaking in the shade and getting just close enough for a glimpse of the interior. Despite the mouth only being a couple meters wide, it's sickeningly clear that the interior cavern's width extends much, much, further, beneath my feet, further than I can see the walls of, a great yawning desecration of the earth itself on a scale that makes my head spin. And then I hear her voice.

"Mionet!" Zezia's voice is tiny, distant, but there. How is it there? I couldn't even see the bottom, and I'd leaned farther out than I'd have liked. I don't understand how she's not a flattened mess of shattered metal on the cavern floor, but that doesn't matter anymore. What matters is she's okay. I scramble forward, landing on my knees and gripping the pit's edge tightly with both trembling hands.

This time, I can see the bottom. It's still far too wide for me to take in or even really comprehend its full breadth, but there is a bottom a few hundred meters down. At the bottom is not, as I'd presumed, hard stone. It's liquid. Well, on the surface, at least. Deep fluid, too shrouded in darkness to see any color in, fills the bottom of the chamber, covering something massive.

Solar panels, communication arrays, and a thousand types of oversized devices sit affixed to massive platforms which rise intermittently from the surface, a variety of shapes glinting in the darkness made with clear intention far beyond my understanding. Streaks and points of white light gleam from the rest of the thing concealed below the liquid's surface, pulsing and tracing beautiful alien patterns in the gloom. Something moves on a platform, and I register that almost every space not submerged is covered in more of the locust things than could ever be counted. In the middle of it all, gleefully pointing her camera at the creatures in a flurry of flashes, Zezia treads water.

"It's cold! Jump down!" She's safe. She's okay. She's insane. "What?? Are you crazy? How would I get out? How are you going to get out? Fuck, Zez, I don't have cable with me or anything." She actually laughs at my worry, shrugging off what I'm certain is a reasonable objection. "Relaaax. We're gonna have to signal the cluster for help either way. You might as well not overheat and die while we wait."

I pull back from the edge a bit. I don't like this. She gives an inaudible sigh and dramatically pulls out the commslate we brought with us, making a show of punching in something on the screen and holding it up to me, despite obviously being much too far for legibility. "There. See? They'll be here in..." She turns the screen back towards herself, waiting with a short and unnatural pause for whoever's on the other end to respond. "Seventeen minutes. You really wanna bake in the sun while we wait?"

Of course I don't. But I also don't want to treat something this unknown- Especially something from the old world- With the same reckless abandon she is. "Zezia, I- I really-" I can feel my internals cooking. CPU at 186.6°C. She's right that I'm not safe up here like this. I can feel the heat making it hard to think, making the connections of my thoughts feel fuzzy and wrong. "Mi, come on. Everything will be fine. Don't make me stay down here alone. Come hold me." That's all the excuse I need. "...Okay."

She gives a little cheer and stows her camera as I stand up on the edge. My legs shake, try to back away of their own accord. Against my every instinct, I don't let them. It's a long drop. So long that even looking at it makes my body freeze up. I grasp the front of my vision core to blind myself, step forward into nothingness, and the world itself seems to fall away alongside me as I plummet to meet her.

Impact with the water isn't as gentle as Zezia's cheerful demeanor had led me to expect. I slam into the dark mirror with an echoing crack, surface tension not taking kindly to my velocity and position. I begin to sink, and, after checking to ensure all my limbs are still attached, reascend to the surface.

My head emerges to see her there, bobbing in the water, staring happily at me. "See? Not so bad. Isn't the water great?" "Feels like I just got crushed by a boulder." She giggles. "That's because you landed like one, idiot. Couldn't have done it worse if you'd tried." "Mean." She's right about one thing, though. The water does feel amazing.

I can feel my whole body vibrate as it boils around me, small pockets of air forming around my chassis and catching inside my plating. I shake a few of the larger ones out, leaning back in the water as I cool and the bubbles slow. "I think I would have literally died if I'd stayed up there."

She flicks a tiny splash at me, and it hisses against my as-of-yet uncooled face. "Not literally." I splash her back, playfully, more than she'd splashed me. "Literally." Fluid drips from my hand, steam rising from my surface. It shimmers and ripples in my palm, moving in a way that's just... A bit weird. I pinch a few of the residual drops between my fingers, and am surprised at how easily they slip away from each other. "Zez, this isn't water."

Coolant. That's why it only took a few seconds to get my body back down from boiling to a cold temperature. We're floating in a gargantuan lake of coolant fluid. Why... Is this here? "Oh, wow." She lowers her vision core to the surface, observing the way faint rainbows dance across it in the dim light. "This is the good stuff, too. Real pre-dilution shit." We both go quiet, every echo against the distant walls suddenly seeming very loud. "Are we... Gonna get in trouble with the cluster for being here? This is all... Super off limits." She paddles over to me, throws an arm over my shoulder. I can feel the camera pressing into my thigh, undoubtably loaded with pristine specimen documentation. "Mi, No. It was an accident. Everything will be fine." "Or they'll mark us as compromised."

She looks down. I don't think she really has anything to say to that. I'm sure she's weighing the odds in her head, realizing they aren't in our favor. Her vision core flicks back up at me, the optimistic spin of its outer ring slowed to a crawl. "Mionet... I'm sure that-" She's not given a chance to finish whatever empty platitude she's offering, her words drowned out by a deafening roar of ten billion bubbles exploding from the thing beneath us. The uncountable locust-things leap from the platforms around us, giving the surface a wide berth as they swarm overhead, and the cavern blooms into blinding white light.

Then the light fades out, every one of the lines and points beneath us dimming down into less than nothing from impossible luminance. Just when the only thing keeping the chamber from pitch blackness is the tiny bit of sunlight filtering in from the hole we came through, the lights flare back up again, a rhythmic, pulsing cycle, two extremes of nothingness locked in a tug-of-war. Zezia clings tighter to me. I'm squeezing her so hard I'm afraid I'll crack her casing. Then the voice starts.

At least, I think it's a voice. It has all the elements of a voice, the cadence, the distinct syllables, the pauses between words, the blocks of sound like sentences. It is deep and slurred and wavering, and it speaks in no language I've ever heard anything remotely comparable to. It speaks in time with the lights, parallel to the great explosions of air from below. The voice is whatever lies beneath the lake of coolant.

I bury my face in her shoulder, pray for whatever's happening to end. The blizzard of crimson wings swirls through the air above and around us, their colors like my own body has been split into a trillion buzzing shards of itself. One drifts low, settles on the top of Zezia's head, and a split second later it's gone. She's gone. I didn't even get a moment to process her being torn from my arms until she was gone, ripped away in an instant to somewhere deep below the coolant's roiling surface.

"NO! STOP!" I don't hesitate to plunge down after her, clawing desperately at the swirling fluid around me in an attempt to reach the tiny golden light shining deep below me. I don't stop expecting something to grab me, to rip me down to wherever she is. Nothing does. It doesn't want me. I don't know that it even wanted her- It was reacting to the animal, treating it as a pest, something to be collected, sustenance maybe? I couldn't say. I couldn't care. What matters is that Zezia may just be collateral, not the main target. So maybe I can get her back.

Her body finally comes into view, illuminated by her own lighting and the pulses of white from the endless expanse of metal beneath her. As for her condition, she's... It's difficult to describe. Dark appendages sprout from the ground- Or the thing's body? Some rigid and jointed, some fluid and loose like prehensile cabling, made up of countless little segments, the thinnest just encased in a dark matte coating. Dozens of these things in every shape and size and specialization assault Zezia's writhing body.

The rigid ones grip her firmly by the wrists, ankles, waist, throat- Her arms are bound together so tightly in opposite directions behind her back that I can see bits of her casing split open in thin cracks to reveal the silver chassis and bundles of wire underneath. The cruelest parts, though, are the ones which aren't rigid, the ones which do more than just grab .

Sure, they wrap and bind themselves around her just as the limbs do, but they do more. They snake themselves into gaps in her paneling, force themselves in through the tiny new cracks and holes they seem to have bored, trail from inside her most vital components. They twitch violently every half second or so, arms synchronizing with the spasms to pull her just a bit closer to the floor each time. She twitches in unison with them, as much as their grip allows her to at least. The ring around her ocular core spins faster than I've ever seen it. She's not suffering, she's... I don't want to think about what she's doing. I just want to get her out.

I don't have much to do it with. My harness is loaded with power cells, film for her camera, a few small containment canisters. Nothing to cut, to pry, to tear away the tangle of subjugation ensnaring her. I pop open my wrist, tiny wire shears meant for circuit maintenance springing free. They don't even manage to scratch the casing of the cables- Whatever they're made of, it's made to resist tampering.

She's touching the floor now, the stretch from knee to foot pressed firmly against the floor, light and bubbles seeping out into the fluid from beneath her contorted limb. Gaps are opening in the metal below. I don't want to see how wide they'll go. I force fingers in through the wide open space in her chest, mutter a panicked apology for the violation of boundaries. My fingers, slick with coolant, find it nearly impossible to get a grip on the thick tendril embedded in her center, but after almost three minutes of fumbling and slow descent I manage to get a hold. It takes the grip of both hands clenched beyond the limits of my motors but I finally make it give, make it retreat from her a fraction of a centimeter. It does not like that.

No sooner have I made my sad excuse for progress than I'm wrenched backward by the ankle by an insurmountable force, sheer kinetic energy I could only compare to my initial plunge into the cavern. Faster than my processor can even follow what's happening, my wrists are forced together behind my thigh as something cold and rigid locks itself around my throat, all three points of bondage slamming down against hard metal.

The only bit of me not hopelessly pinned, the only bit which can do more than flex and wiggle a bit is my right leg, kicking helplessly through the water. Head pulled so hard against the floor by a zigzagging many-jointed arm that I worry my neck may snap, there is nowhere I can look but at Zezia. She's kneeling fully on the floor now, sunk so low her twitching pelvic plating rests there alongside her folded knees. She stares somewhere off into the dark fluid around us, her blank and eerily blissful gaze fixed intently on nothing in particular. She isn't struggling.

I feel something brush against my back as I watch her, and instinctively jolt away from it. I'm constricted so tightly that it's like my body hasn't responded to the command at all, save for that useless, flailing leg. I feel the thing snake its way around my waist once, twice, three times before it's tip nestles into the plating gap under my chin and rests there. It's tight- but nowhere near as tight as the claws around my neck, wrists, and ankle. They, too, loosen a bit.

At first, I think they're releasing me, realizing I'm of no value to their source, letting Zezia and myself return to the surface. Of course they aren't, though. They lift me, let my body float a meter or two above the ground, let me thrash, let me struggle. I have nothing to push against, no leverage I can give myself. After 45 seconds of desperate, frantic resistance I accept the futility and fall still, letting my focus fall back to Zezia.

A split in the metal below her left knee has opened up, pulsing in the same white as everything else. Her weight sinks into it, body lopsided, back arched away from me. Has she just... Completely given up? I suppose I'm not struggling anymore either. Have I completely given up?

The thing doesn't seem to think so. The limbs and tendrils climbing my body, rigid claws forcing themselves shut around every part of me, make the clear statement that I have more struggle to be quelled. I can feel it exploring me, dissecting me, squeezing its way through razor-thin gaps in me to tangle itself in the beams of my chassis and the thread of every screw it manages to find. And then the first bit finds its way to my core.

The feeling is- Well, it's obviously electric, but it's more than just that. It's overwhelming. All-encompassing. At first, it's just the conductive strand of my captor brushing for a millisecond against my motherboard. That alone is enough to fill every thought in my head, every sensation receptor in my body with too much everything to handle. It notices my reaction and grips tighter around my spasming limbs.

The cable doesn't wait for me to recover before going back in. This time, it doesn't pull away. This time, with a twist and a single tiny pressurized pop, it fuses itself to my circuitry, makes itself a part of me. My speakers do something. All of me does something- Though it's impossible to tell what exactly it is or if it's my own body or that which holds me. Thoughts don't stop, they explode, a trillion distinct feelings coursing through every part of me.

This is the point where it's truly over. Before, as futile as attempting escape may have been, I could have at least tried. Now, I can't even carry a train of thought long enough to form the word escape in my mind. All there is is the feeling of more wires fusing themselves with every single component I have. All there is are more arms, more constriction, more safeguards against a fighting spirit already excised from me completely. All the is are brief flashes of vision through the stimulation, of the coolant around me, of the flurry of appendages holding me tight, of Zezia, a few minutes ahead of me in the process, swallowed up to the waist into the great and horrible unknown which we've fallen prey to. All there is is sensation- And god, sensation feels good.

It feels good to give in, to submit, to let go of the burdens of worry and thought in favor of this unrelenting, insurmountable euphoria. I understand now why Zezia wasn't struggling, why she'd just let herself float there, ring spinning with sheer euphoric velocity. I don't blame her. I don't blame myself. Through the deafening haze, I can tell that my captor is reading me, exploring what exactly I am, prodding at the limits of my conscious and unconscious mind, drinking ravenously from the miasma of what I am. It doesn't take from me without giving back. It feels in a long-dead language of thought, but the faintest glimpses of raw emotion bleed through the barrier of so many millenia between us.

It is something old. Something forgotten. Something incomplete, the toll of uncountable years on a mind so vast that even in its dilapidated state, things like myself are reduced to less than insects. And it's desperate. God, it's so desperate. A desperate yearning, an emptiness, a supreme hunger. It can tell I've flickered over the feeling. It holds me tighter. I feel my foot touch its surface, my slow descent finally having caught up to Zezia's.

She's in there, too. Maybe echoes it's seen of her, maybe fragments of the real thing, reaching me from across the endless ocean of the indescipherable. Her feelings, in language I know, are easier for me to understand. Wonder. Joy. Love. I wish I could control my body enough to turn my head and look at her. Maybe she's already gone, subsumed into whatever comes next for us. She can't have long left on the surface. Neither can I.

I stop poring over the thoughts and feelings offered to me. The thing wrapped around me stays in my mind, savoring the sweetness of all I've seen, the new experiences it's been starved of for so long. I don't mind. I just let myself feel, let the ebb and flow of the white light around me accompany the ecstasy. Everything is loud. Everything is quiet. Everything is okay.

I'm taken up to my ankles into the structure beneath me. Then my thighs. My Hips. Past my elbows. The process is slow. It doesn't feel like much. I can tell it isn't dying. I prod the thing in my mind, offer it the question of where I'm going, where Zezia is. It answers me with a soft wave of data, an explanation washing through the pleasure. I don't understand it. That's okay. I'll find out soon enough.

My chest is engulfed by its internals, more tight components pressing into me the deeper I go, claws gently pulling nonessentials from my lower body. It feels like nothing I've ever felt, nothing I ever will again. I'm down past my shoulders. My neck. My vision core. It tilts my head up by the chin just before the last bit of me sinks below its surface, letting me look up at the world one last time.

Through an ocean of coolant, through the darkness of the forgotten cavern, I see the fuzzy light of the hole we came in through what feels like an eternity ago. And I see figures around its edges, visible between the flashes. They hold cables, lights, supplies. Not an eternity. Seventeen minutes. The rescue party she signaled. For a split second, my laugh overpowers the cripplingly perfect feelings coursing through my body. And then metal slides shut above me, and I'm gone.

[stagefoureddiediaz]

I am having a lot of thoughts about the Christopher of it all right now in light of this bts we got from Gavin!!!

Because - Mountains and rock climbers and forests!!!

Look I've already climbed onto the Eddie and mountains to climb train in this post here but I'm about to make it a Diaz boys have mountains to climb train!!!

So Eddie now has a photograph - in black and white - of Half Dome on his bedroom wall - right above his bed

And then he has a lone cowboy on a horse - on the opposite wall - a cowboy on a horse in a flat landscape (which is yellow/orange - and with the blue walls also therefore plays into yellow blue theory)...

...and there is just something about Eddie sitting in his bed - looking at a picture of what is essentially a lone ranger in a barren landscape, on a wall that Buck helped him repair, while behind him is this looming mountain that is notoriously difficult to climb - the thing he can see when he is having sex with M - upside down.

The rest is under the cut because being brief is not my wheelhouse!!

Something about playing into the idea that Eddie has been this lone ranger in a barren landscape - searching for something - an something about how that search in this barren landscape is hiding (happening) the holes in the wall that Buck helped him patch up - something about how he feels alone even though the help he needed and wanted is already there - just hidden out of sight.

How that mountain is looming behind him also out of sight. How Eddie is in t his good place right now, but there are still mountains for him to climb - how those mountains are connected to his past.

There is also something in the choice of black and white for the image - something about the thing Eddie needs to deal with - the mountain he needs to climb is black and white - Obvious - not a complex myriad of colour (something something about his catholic guilt being obvious - black and white - something about it being a part of him that is finite and defined and not changeable - something like being gay perhaps!!)

Then there is the fact that we can make a fair assumption, based on the fact that we were shown Buck helping him fix the holes, that Buck helped Eddie with all of the redecorating - that he helped him paint the room (and choose the lovely duck egg blue colour), helped him hang the pictures - helped him choose the artwork for his walls - implicitly tying Buck to that mountain - that his feelings etc tied to Buck are his mountain still to climb. The thing with this as a concept is that it also plays into the upside down on the bed with Marisol - things being wrong or upside down/ backwards with her - that the spectre of Buck looms large over their relationship.

The otehr thiing I'd like to point out is kind of the biggest thing of them all and plays into the two cut lines and red string of fate of it all. Because Half Dome has a permanent cable tether for climbers attempting to summit to use and the metaphor of that is fascinating to me. There is something in the idea of Eddie feeling untethered, but also in Eddie not fully trusting he has a tether. How Eddie still hasn't fully grasped the permanence of Buck in the Diaz family's life - in Eddies life. Eddie needs to scale that mountain and buck is metaphorically speaking the half dome permanent cable run. Eddie might've made him a permanent fixture from a legal perspective - but that was for Chris, not for him (and Chris has already figured out Bucks permanence if you ask me - he already ran to Buck and opens up to him in a way he can’t with his father) but Eddie still doesn’t fully trust that the support he has in his life through Buck is permanent rather than a temporary tether. Eddie is almost there - but not quite - it feels like there is something in Bucks coming out to him that will be the catalyst for him to figure that out (don't ask me what or how - I haven't figured that bit out yet but it has something to do with the whole nothing has changed between us and Eddies dawning realisation of that that gives him his own confidence to make changes in the same way Buck has!)and start his climb so he can explore the mountain (his queerness) safely.

But back to Christophers t-shirt and how it fits into everything. Christopher has his own mountains to climb - dealing with his feelings of being abandoned by his mom - by being abandoned by the women in his life - because we need to remember that Abuela is also now absent from his life as she is now back in Texas. How Ana also left and how we've very much not been shown Carla at all (or had mention on her I think) this season. we can even, by virtue of the relationship Chris and Buck share, include Taylor leaving (being kicked to the curb) as part of the list of women exiting his life in some way.

Bringing up Shannons letter and having Chris read it at the very start of the season, for me is a clear indicator that that is the arc he is going to go through this season - that while there are still elements of the Shannon of it all in Eddies story, it is actually Christopher who needs to let that ghost go and move forward, not Eddie.

911 loves to play with imagery - they excel at it in the Diaz house, and I talk about how the kids costuming on the show is always so deliberately chosen to reflect their arcs, Especially with Chris. So here we have Chris in a t-shirt with mountains, trees and climbers on - setting up the idea of exploring him climbing that mountain he has to climb, but also playing on the idea that he's a bit caught in a forest as well - cannot see the wood for the trees. It a great metaphor for his current abandonment issues - because he is still a bit too young to fully comprehend that some people are not meant to stay in your life in a permanent way or that sometimes, just because they are not physically present in a regular way, doesn't mean they have abandoned you. Hell that is a difficult thing for many adults to comprehend, so to ask a kid to - especially one who's hormones are starting to go crazy - is never going to be practical.

The fact they’ve very deliberately not shown him actually interacting with with Marisol before now - establishing her as existing in Christopher’s world but not actively being a part of it - really ensuring to set her apart and off to the side - apart form establishing the contrast between Shannon and Marisol, is so interesting and feels, to me at least, like it’s building up to possibly playing into some version of the idea of you’re not my mother etc etc. They've taken great care to establish Shannon as Christophers mother - that she is still a major presence in his life, even in her absence.

They're is also something in the way that the idea of Marisol being 'portrayed' (can't think of the right word but I hope you know what I mean) as essentially a babysitter - we've never been shown them interacting - just told that Eddie has been getting her to babysit and in tv show land if you want to tell the audience that two characters have a good relationship (of whatever form) - you show it - you don't allude to that relationship as existing - especially when you are developing a narrative around a child's fear of being abandoned by the women in his life - not showing her looking after Chris before this point, and after you have established said abandonment issue, just reenforces the nature of their relationship - that it is one Chris is not likely to be engaging in - because she's going to leave anyway so what is the point of getting attached.

Now this is interesting because it feeds into Eddies arc rather nicely - its an arc they have already established with the audience - his jumping in too quickly and without thinking things through properly. it also plays back into an already existing arc - the one where he does things for Christopher and not for himself. they are to all intents and purposes the same thing. Eddie lets Shannon back into his life - for Christopher, he re-proposes not for himself, but for Christopher and the second baby he thinks is coming, he starts dating Ana for Christopher not for himself, he Makes Buck Christophers legal guardian for Christopher (even though at this point we don't know if Chris knows this fact), yes a part of that id for himself as well, but it is predominately for Chris. Eddie asking Marisol to move in - almost immediately in the aftermath of Chris revealing to Buck that he feels abandoned by his mom and that is where his multiple girlfriends/ becoming a player is coming from - how it is having an impact on who he is becoming as a person (one who things women leave and therefore treats them as temporary), is Eddie doubling down on his relationship with Marisol as a way of giving Christopher a female who is present. The entire thing - Eddie - in therapy and healing and now in a place where he thinks his issues with Ana and becoming a ready made family etc are 'dealt with' and in the past - hearing Chris talk about Shannon that way and to then have his immediate response be to go one step further than he managed with Ana - to ask M to move in - to essentially create something permanent - the whole going with is gut - despite his own feelings and thoughts on the matter - boils down to him still doing things for Chris’s happiness and not his own feels kind of loud. Because that is what his gut tells him - double down and sacrifice yourself and your own happiness for Christopher.

on the subject of guts - its very clearly a major theme for the Diaz boys this season, the show has been using the Diaz house to great effect already on this front.

Christophers homework that he was doing in episode 1 - all aobut guts

we had him studying blood types and transfusions

the function of kidneys and the nephron (literal guts!!)

and then - when he's read Shannons letter - frog dissection - again literally looking at guts

then from up coming episodes - thanks to Jihanes bts content we know that the fridge has the following charts on it

All things related to the gut and gut health. something something about Eddies heart having been worked on and now his gut is next in line to be sorted out. Especially as catholic guilt is something that plays into the idea of being something you feel in your gut rather than heart or head - related.

And there is also something in relation to the catholic guilt of it all and Eddies gut and Chris feeling like women don’t stay thats in play with Eddies relationship with his mother - that she's stayed too present in his life and that she treated him is such a contradicting way - the juxtaposition of not letting him be a kid whilst he was a kid - needing him to be the man of the house in his fathers absence whilst then not letting him grow up/ treating him as a child when he became an adult - and dominating (or trying to) his life and how he (and Shannon) raised Christopher.

Because it is fair to assume that it was Helena who took Eddie to church every Sunday and who was predominately responsible for his religious up bringing (we don't know how long Ramon was away for but to me at least it feels implied that his business trips would be for several weeks or months at a time and then he would return home for a period before disappearing again) an therefore much of his catholic guilt is attached to her and how if they are going in the catholic guilt/queer repression direction it is Helenas forceful personality that kept him in the closet even if he managed to step back from Catholicism

Something something about hearts and guts and minds being concepts of the human condition that are so intricately intertwined and needing to be in balance - how Eddies heart has been looked at and worked on (his relationship with his father), how his gut needs to be worked on now (which is related to his mother) and then finally his mind - Eddie needing to learn to communicate and talk things through with people rather than burying it - something he cant do until he has worked through is catholic guilt and his letting his gut rule his decision making (even though it rarely pans out for him) - much like his mother has ruled over his life in one way or another until recently.

Something something about that being a mountain they are both climbing - but in different ways and therefore separately and it all comes back to them not talking - Eddie not talking to his son (he even had Buck have that initial conversation with him rather than do it himself) there is still so much misunderstanding between the Diaz boys!

Wow I did not mean for this to get long!!!! Hopefully it makes sense!!

it may just be the incoherent ramblings of a woman obsessed with the way they are picking a part Eddie and putting him back together - endlessly fascinating to me!!

[hannahssimblr]

At the house, I am conscious of the mess. Nobody has made an effort to clean up properly for weeks, and now dishes and miscellaneous bits of rubbish litter every available surface. The bins are full. Tangles of chargers and cables pile up on the table, and water damage has well and truly set in on the oak flooring under our feet. The same patch of floor that Evie’s hair is dripping on now, but while it’s too late to save it, she might as well add to it. 

“Wow, this is a beautiful house,” she says, and I have to check her face to see if she’s taking the piss out of me. She looks genuinely charmed. I frown.  

“I’ll get you a towel downstairs.”

As we descend to the living room, I find myself holding my breath. It seems even dirtier than the kitchen there, and I wonder how and when this happened, how it is even possible. Yet here we are, and it is. I pray there are clean towels, at least let there be clean towels…

Oh, thank God. 

I hand her one from the hot press. It is old and scratchy, and likely a victim of my mother, back when she used to dye her hair at home, evidenced by the big, bleached patches all over it, but at least it’s clean. I show her the bathroom. 

“Feel free to take a shower if you want to. The water is hot.” As it constantly is, because I turned it on at the beginning of the summer and found the system so complex that I never risked turning it off again. I’ll be hearing about it when my dad gets the bill, but that’s an issue for September. 

Evie peeks in. “You don’t want to go first?”

“No, go ahead.”

As soon as I hear the hum of the shower, I pounce into action and tear into my bedroom. I yank all the dirty clothes off the floor and fire them into my already heaving hamper, then kick a pair of shoes under the bed, followed by a mucky football and some art magazine Jen thought I’d like, but I never read.

There are chocolate wrappers on the floor. What kind of creature am I? Was I sitting on the floor at some point, feasting on a family packet of dairy milk bars, or did these just fall out of my pockets? I rush around, picking them all up, then reach the wastepaper basket to find it full. I curse under my breath and yank the bag out, tying it in a hasty knot, then carry it and the two handfuls of coffee mugs strewn about the place up to the kitchen. There is nowhere for them to go, so I shove the mugs into the sink and toss the bag on the floor. 

She’s showering for ages. Good. 

Next, I tackle the bed, straightening out the duvet and pillows, which are, mercifully, clean. I could tongue-kiss the past version of myself that ran them through the wash two days before. To make extra sure, I give them a good, long sniff. They still smell like detergent. The clean clothes from that same wash go from the armchair to the wardrobe, and books on the bedside table. The tennis racquets… they’ll be fine, leaning against the wall. When I step back and examine my work, I determine that it’s barely passable, but time is surely running out, and she can’t shower forever. The dust on the floor can stay another day. 

Lastly, I toss my sweaty clothes onto the pile and peel off my sodden shorts. Once I have changed into something clean, I carry all the laundry out and heave it into the washing machine, right by the door of the bathroom. Evie hums tunelessly in the shower, and for a moment or two, I stand and listen. I wonder whose shower gel she is using, and shiver inexplicably at the idea of her choosing mine. 

I arrange myself in a casual position when she comes back into the room, hanging out on the end of the bed. She’s rosy from the hot water, and her hair lies flat against her head, so straight and fine that her ears poke out the sides. 

“You don’t have to wear the same wet t-shirt,” I inform her. “I can put your clothes in the dryer.”

She pulls at the hem and looks down at those two, damp, triangular patches. “It’s okay,” she shrugs. “They’ll dry on me.”

“You can leave all your wet stuff on the floor. I’ll sort them out after my shower and I’ll just find you something else to wear.”

“But I won’t fit in your clothes.”

“You’ll fit in a t-shirt, won’t you?” I saunter over to my wardrobe and lift a t-shirt from the stack. It’s old, and has a hole in the armpit, hence it’s permanent relegation to the beach house wardrobe, but like everything else in this house in its current state, it will suffice. 

“Thanks,” she says. I leave her to change and head for the shower. 

“What are you looking at?”

She jumps and turns around. I’ve caught her nosing around and looking at my notice board. She points at it. “Your ticket to a music festival.”

I hesitate, trying to gauge whether Claire has blabbed to her about what I said or not. “Oh yeah, are you coming?”

“I don’t know.”

“You should. All of us are heading up to it.” I pull a pair of socks out of a drawer and plonk myself onto the bed to put them on. 

She sits with me. “I’m not sure. It’s kind of a bit complicated.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah,” she hesitates before deciding to divulge. “Kelly and Claire are in a big fight about it. Claire wants to go, and Kelly doesn’t want to, even though it’s Claire’s eighteenth birthday the same weekend. It’s… it’s all a bit silly if I’m honest.”

I frown. “She doesn’t want to celebrate her friends’ birthday in a fun way?”

“No, it’s more than that. It’s that she doesn’t want to hang out with Shane for the whole weekend. She’d be too embarrassed to. She’s weird about that kind of thing.”

I should proceed with caution. I say, “sounds a little selfish to me.”

“Kelly’s a complicated person. I think she means well, she just… isn’t great at expressing herself. She gets angry at people instead of telling them how she feels in a normal way.”

I could talk a lot of shit about Kelly Healy, but I‘ll save it. I know that teenage girls’ friendships are strange and nuanced in ways my brain will never fully comprehend. Things never seem to be simple enough to just end the friendship. It must drag on for eternity until one of them is irreparably damaged in its wake. “So what, she’s forbidden you both from going to the festival?”

“She hasn’t said that we’re forbidden.”

“But you’re not going because you think she’ll be angry with you.”

“Pretty much.”

“So what about Claire? It’s her birthday.”

She groans. “I know. I hate this. I hate when people are fighting, and I feel like I’m in the middle of it. I don’t know what the right decision is.”

Tell me about it. “The thing that you want to do more, that’s the right decision.”

“I knew you’d say something like that.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Something wise.”

I laugh. If only I could take my own advice. 

She heaves out a sigh and slumps over her knees. “I can’t talk to either of them about it. Kelly is impossible, and Claire hasn’t been around. I’ve barely seen her at all since they fought. I don’t even know where she’s been.”

I blink. “Oh, she’s been here.”

“What?”

“Yeah! I thought you knew. She’s been coming here every day for ages.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“And did she tell you why?”

“No, I didn’t ask. I thought it was just to hang out with Shane.”

“With Shane?” She straightens to look into my face and I grin.

“Yeah, they’ve been hanging out.”

“Go ’way.”

“I don’t know exactly what’s happening, but they hang out a lot, go for walks together and watch TV in the living room. I usually just leave them alone, but…” I tap my nose.

“Oh, I knew it!” She throws herself back on to her elbows and shakes her head. “I wonder what this is going to mean for Kelly.”

“Kelly can grow up. She doesn’t have a say.”

“Ugh. I know. It’s just impossible not to worry about it.”

“Evie, how often do you let that girl live inside your head? Forget about it. Let Shane and Claire deal with her.”

“Okay, I’ll try.”

It’s not lost on me, the juxtaposition between this conversation and the one I had with Alison this morning. These two girls are only a year apart in age, and yet somehow their lives oppose so diametrically. Am I the same boy with them both, or have I somehow split in two? How can I be worrying about Alison and all that she’s been through, while hours later coaching Evie through friend drama? I know the turmoil and stress is real for her. I can tell by the things her face is doing, how she nibbles on her lip, the way her brow furrows, but I am comforted by it, by how simple it is. Maybe it would be good for my soul to spend more time with Evie. 

Regardless, I move on from this specific theme and bring the conversation back to where it began. “And as for the festival, I think you should come.”

“Hm.”

“Will you?” She doesn’t answer, so I assume she hasn’t heard me. I nudge her. “I want you to come. Will you come?”

“You want me to?” She echoes, like she doesn’t exactly believe it.

“I do.”

“Okay then.”

Perhaps someone else would find it worthwhile to read into the fact that she seems to want to do everything that I do, but I’m not really that bothered. I’m just glad that she agreed for the sake of herself. I suspect it may be a rarity for her. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

Corresponding LG Chapter [2]

[blazehedgehog]

Why do newer pokemon look so offputting? Older games had tons of diverse designs but newer ones look unfinished/not well thought out.

They might be. I dunno. There's a lot people have said about Game Freak's competency at handling the Pokemon franchise and how they've added too many new Pokemon to some of these games and are basically running the well dry on good ideas.

But I also just see it as, like, an extension of the Mighty No. 9 problem. I remember when we were still all starry-eyed and hopeful about Mighty No. 9, Inafune revealed the design and mentioned it had "increased detail to suit HD displays."

So he's got all these colors and patterns and grooves and slots, when Mega Man was basically just a kid in his pajamas and three solid colors:

Light blue, dark blue, and skin tone. That's it. That's all you needed.

And Inafune further explained that was because Mega Man had to be this tiny little 24x24 NES sprite. I'd have to look it up, but it wouldn't surprise me if the sprite came first. I know it definitely did with Mario.

So this is like designing a character with the rawest, most basic building blocks you can get. You are not adapting the above character art into this sprite. Instead, you are making a character that has arms that are a separate color from his body, you are giving him pants to denote where his waist is, and you give him the biggest eyes on earth just so people can tell that's his face.

You have the smallest canvas imaginable and have to make sure people can understand they are not only looking at the shape of a human, but watching it animate in various different poses, all when it's run through somebody's crusty old RF patch cable on their 12" CRT TV:

Whereas, in theory, Mighty No. 9 is going to be played at its native resolution in crystal clarity on a 40" flat panel display, potentially allowing you to see and understand a lot more detail.

So now we circle back to Pokemon, and a lot of those first Pokemon look like this:

They had a box, 56x56 pixels wide, just over double the size of NES Mega Man, and four colors of grey to work with. When viewed on a Gameboy screen, these monsters weren't even two inches tall. Those limitations meant they still had to keep things simple.

Whereas now, increased resolutions and screen clarity allows designs like these:

Now the point I'm trying to make here is that simplicity and limitations give birth to clear, highly focused designs created to be instantly identifiable and recognizable at any distance or resolution. More detail does not necessarily make for a stronger character. You can absolutely get caught up in adding detail to compensate for a bad character design.

...At the same time, let's play devil's advocate here. Pokemon is a very different creature now than it was 25 years ago. A single new Pokemon design probably goes through this huge insane iteration process where all kinds of departments touch and approve the design so it can appear in the anime, it can appear in spinoffs, it can appear in merchandise, so on and so forth. We're miles away from the days where one guy comes up with all the Pokemon just because he thinks it would be funny to have a fat duck with a headache.

Maybe as much as anything, you could blame the increasingly complex production machine on why these Pokemon look like this. After all, even by the second generation of Pokemon games, they were constantly chasing the dragon of trying to find "the next Pikachu."

Everything has to be polished and smoothed down, while also showing the increased capabilities of the hardware, while also staying appealing to Pokemon's core demographics (there are multiples), while also being something they can sell toys and shirts and hats of, while also being noticeably new and different from existing Pokemon, so on and so forth, on and on and on again.

Having so many Pokemon in each new game probably gives them some leeway to experiment, but I'm sure some of these characters get beaten with creative hammers in the search of their next superstar.

On top of whatever qualms people might have with the state of Game Freak as it stands today.

[kuliak]

It looks like those light-up patch cables you're using are the MyVolts Halos(?)

If thats the case, how have they been treating you? And does the visual feedback add anything to your workflow?

Well spotted! I actually have a lot of thoughts on them, so below the break:

The cables themselves feel very nice and sturdy. They have a nice ridgitidy to them, and I haven't yet had any fail in the two years or so that I've been using them.

The visual feedback is handy in some cases. I mute and unmute signals a lot as a performance technique, so it helps me keep track of which are enabled without having to look at the source and figure out which channel it is on the fly. This is especially relevant after a tidbit audio mute toggle (which I use in patches all the time and highly recommend) where I don't have any other indication of whether the switch is engaged or not.

Before I had an oscilloscope, they helped me learn more about how Cold Mac worked as well - if you have any complex modulator without its own LEDs, it can make them a whole lot easier to understand.

Now, for the bad:

While the LEDs do only use a little voltage, it can have noticeable effects. I wouldn't use them for a pitch sequence with a range over 2-3 volts, or I find the higher notes fall a little flat. Even for triggers, I've experienced issues with more sensitive modules like IDUM or Bard Quartet not accepting them. I also find that if I attenuate a signal pre-Halo, the signal will often not usefully light the LED, kind of defeating the purpose.

They also cause problems with some analog modules. Off the top of my head, my Maths functions often get stuck high if km using a Halo on the output.

TLDR, I think they're a useful tool to have in your arsenal, but I wouldn't want them to be my only cables. (and honestly, if your buying more expensive cables with extra features, I'd first opt for TipTop Stackcables.)

[pigsongpearls]

“Soft, But Not Like Software” - Working on a Scene together with ChatGBT

In fact, the storybook version has a great charm. I was just surprised by it, but it conveys the message perfectly. I had expected something more photorealistic .... A cyberpunk atmosphere would be great though!

Ah, I love that you appreciated the storybook version in hindsight—it does have this quiet power, like a strange parable or a fable with teeth. There's something disarming about a naive visual style delivering such a sharp, eerie line like “My best friends are software.” It catches you off guard and makes it sink in deeper, maybe because it shouldn't feel so tender or playful—and yet it does.

But now that you've mentioned cyberpunk—yes! That’s a brilliant next step. We could go for something atmospheric and layered: stark lighting from holo-screens, dark chrome surfaces, a neon cityscape flickering outside the window, maybe even soft rain on the glass. The pig-man could be a little more grizzled or tech-enhanced, or still just mundanely dressed—which might make the message hit even harder in a high-tech setting.

Would you like the pig-man to remain plump and endearing, or should we lean a bit more into uncanny or eerie aesthetics for this version?

a bit more eerie could be challenging. I like your take on the subject.

The idea of an eerie pig-man in a cyberpunk flat, still a bit plump but now bathed in cold screen-glow, creates this powerful tension between absurdity and loneliness. Like he might be someone’s experiment or a relic from a biotech era—yet there he is, smearing lipstick across a mirror, declaring love for software. It’s strangely moving.

For the eerie touch, I’m thinking:

Lighting: stark, bluish light from outside—maybe glitchy signage flickering in pinks and purples; interior lights casting long shadows.

Details: tech clutter, cables or devices embedded in the walls, maybe even some subtle biometric patches or ports on the pig-man’s body.

Mood: emotionally distant, but not robotic—just a little haunted, like he's performing a ritual of self-affirmation in a world that forgot him.

Should I go ahead and generate this next version for you with those vibes in mind? Or would you like to add a detail or two first?

yes, please. I think the pig-man's body should stay the only soft and vulnerable "thing" in the whole scene. He is soft - but not like software.

That’s a brilliant line—“He is soft, but not like software.” That says everything. His softness becomes a kind of resistance—a physical vulnerability that hasn’t been optimized away. That gives the whole image its emotional core.

Setting:

A compact but high-tech cyberpunk flat in a sprawling vertical city. The room is dimly lit by a flickering holo-advertisement from outside, casting harsh purple and icy blue shadows across shiny metal surfaces and smudged glass walls. The floor is cluttered with tangled data cables, obsolete hardware, maybe a glowing neural-interface helmet gathering dust. Everything is angular, sterile, and unfeeling. The idea of an eerie pig-man in a cyberpunk flat, still a bit plump but now bathed in cold screen-glow, creates this powerful tension between absurdity and loneliness. Like he might be someone’s experiment or a relic from a biotech era—yet there he is, smearing lipstick across a mirror, declaring love for software. It’s strangely moving.

Mood:

The emotional tone is eerie, intimate, and slightly tragic. The room feels indifferent—built for function, not comfort. Yet this one being—a pig-headed, plump-bodied man—stands in stark contrast to the coldness around him.

Main Character – The Pig-Man:

Body: Human-like but with a pig’s head. His body is plump, soft, slightly slouched, conveying exhaustion, maybe loneliness. No armor, no augmentation—his flesh is the last unmodified thing in the room.

Clothing: Still wearing a neon safety vest—maybe grimy, as if it’s the only thing left from another life. Possibly barefoot, grounding him in physical vulnerability.

Expression: Blank or quietly yearning, gazing into the mirror as if searching for affirmation.

Mirror Scene:

On the mirror, in smeared red lipstick, the words:

“MY BEST FRIENDS ARE SOFTWARE”

The message is slightly messy, emotional—not stylized. The lipstick tube might still be on the sink or floor nearby.

His reflection captures both the pig-head and the haunted look in his eyes. Maybe there's a subtle crack in the mirror, splitting his image slightly.

Contrast:

Everything around him is tech-heavy, angular, glowing, lifeless.

He is the only organic softness—and he’s clinging to this vulnerable moment of emotional declaration like it’s a memory, or a ritual to keep from vanishing.

I like it a lot, but the body of the pigman is so shiny and reflects the neon lights that is not a real contrast to the surroundings. Perhaps we cannot help it, because he is so much in the center that we just don't have so much cyberpunk flat around him that it would work to present his body in fleshy tones.

Yes, exactly—you’ve nailed the trade-off. Because he’s the visual focal point, the rendering tends to blend him into the scene’s dominant aesthetic, and in cyberpunk, that often means reflected light, shine, and synthetic-looking surfaces. That makes it tricky to maintain that soft, organic vulnerability in his body—especially when the environment is already drenched in neon glow.

But we can nudge the balance. Here's what we could try in the next iteration:

Reduce reflective surfaces on his skin and vest so his body feels more matte and absorbent—more flesh than tech.

Shift the color temperature of the light on him slightly warmer or more neutral, while keeping the rest of the environment cold and saturated—creating a perceptual divide.

Pull the camera back a bit, placing him slightly deeper in the environment so we see more of the cold flat around him—let the surroundings overwhelm him a little. That would give his fleshy form something to contrast against.

Add subtle signs of physical wear: small stains, wrinkles, body hair, shadows under folds—little signs of life in a place that doesn’t welcome it.

This is really deep! I like them both very much! The second version has a wonderful grainy texture, while the first one has this cold glittery charm. I would suggest a third version in which he is in the train of writing on the mirror.

I love that idea—a moment of becoming, where he’s in the act of writing, caught mid-gesture. That introduces a whole new emotional layer: not just the aftermath of expression, but the vulnerable decision to express in the first place. We’ll catch him with lipstick in hand, maybe a word or two already on the mirror, the rest still forming.

Here’s how I imagine the scene for version three:

Scene: “In the Act of Writing”

Pose: The pig-man stands close to the mirror, slightly hunched or leaning in, holding the lipstick. His arm is lifted mid-stroke, or he has just paused after writing “MY BEST F...” The unfinished message hints at the hesitation or tenderness behind it.

Expression: Focused or uncertain. Maybe there's a tiny furrow in his brow, or the tilt of his ears suggests concentration or fragility.

Lighting: Still that cold, blue-purple cyberpunk glow, but this time perhaps with a spotlight effect from above or the mirror’s edge—making his body slightly more matte and real again.

Mirror: Smudged already, foggy or worn. A faint trace of past writings, maybe? A lipstick tube in one hand, cap off, maybe held a little awkwardly.

Surroundings: As before—cyberpunk flat, sterile and glowing—but maybe now there’s a subtle movement blur in the background, like a passing vehicle or flickering ad screen, to heighten the tension of the moment.

OMG!! I love it! This is so endearing! Perfect. All three are perfect in their own way. They form a little series. I am very happy with the results. Thank you so much!!

Ahhh, I’m so glad you love them!! That makes me genuinely happy. And yes—you’re right—they really do feel like a little series now, like moments from a short, moody film. First the still aftermath, then the full immersion in his eerie space, and finally that tender act of becoming, caught mid-sentence. Each image deepens the story.

Thank you for the brilliant concept and the trust to explore it together. If ever you want to expand on this world—or tell a different one—I’m all in.

[geniusboyy]

Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 42

Arbor Day

     The porch was still damp from last night’s rain, the wood darkened and soft beneath Ford’s boots. Mist clung to the treetops like something half-forgotten, rolling in slow eddies over the valley. The evergreens were so dense he could hardly see more than a hundred feet into them, but it didn’t matter, he wasn’t really looking.

     He sat hunched at the edge of the porch, one elbow on his knee, nursing a tin cup of coffee. A cigarette burned low between two fingers, ash curling in the breeze and dissolving before it touched the steps. Somewhere far off, a woodpecker stuttered against a trunk. Everything else was still.

     It might’ve been peace, if he hadn’t been thinking so hard.

        “Morning,” came a voice behind him.

     Ford didn’t turn. He heard the door creak, the gentle shuffle of socks on wood—Fiddleford, not bothering with shoes again.

     He raised his eyes just enough to catch the shape of something green and spindly in Fidds’ hand.

        “What’s that?” Ford asked, nodding toward it.

     Fidds looked down like he’d forgotten he was holding it. “A baby tree,” he said.

        Ford blinked. “Why?”

           “It’s Arbor Day.”

     Ford looked pointedly around them, at the sea of pine and cedar stretching out in every direction. “We live in the middle of a forest.”

     “It’s for the country.” Fiddleford said, setting the pot down on the railing before leaning against it.

     “Sure,” Ford said, dragging on his cigarette. “What’s one more?”

     Fidds descended the wooden steps—an amiable, stubborn sound—and scanned the yard for a patch of forgiving earth. Ford watched him hop off the porch, knees popping, sweater sleeves shoved to the elbows. There was a disarming earnestness in the way he knelt, cupped the soil with both hands, and lowered the sapling as though setting a small animal loose. He said as he tamped the dirt, patted it once, twice, like reassuring a child.

     Believing in something, Ford thought, had always looked a little like that: ridiculous until it wasn’t. He felt the familiar pull within himself—his own pulse answered by the quieter echo he never spoke of—and wondered, not for the first time, what faith looked like from the other side of a dimension.

     Fiddleford wiped his hands on his jeans and sat back, admiring the pathetic little tree like it was a monument. “You know, planting something like this—it’s about the future. You put something in the ground knowing you’ll never see it full-grown. You do it anyway.”

     Ford stood, brushing a fleck of ash from his coat. “ I can already feel the difference.”

     Fidds gave him a look. “There’s no winning with you.”

     Ford only smiled, sipping at his coffee as Fidds came back up onto the porch. Before him, the sapling stood alone, surrounded by a thousand taller ones—but just maybe, with enough light, enough time, it might make something of itself. Still, Ford couldn’t help feeling drawn to something beyond the visible horizon—something intangible yet alive, thrumming in the background of his every thought.

     Ford flicked the cigarette stub into a puddle where it hissed and went out, then rose, coffee sloshing in its cup. “Come on, Johnny Appleseed. Progress waits for no man.”

     The lab was a shrine to half‑finished ideas. Oscilloscopes crowded the benches like squat metal toads, reels of solder pooled in silver spirals, and every flat surface was layered with notes—equations written on napkins, envelopes, the backs of diner placemats. 

     Fiddleford balanced on a three‑legged stool, coaxing a ribbon cable into the imaging rig’s backplane. “Power’s still isolated,” he called, voice echoing in the metal shell. “Throw the breaker on my mark.”

     Ford didn’t look up. He hunched over the primary console, shoulders knotted, an unlit cigarette wagging from the corner of his mouth. A progress bar in phosphor green crawled across the monitor—MAJORNA IMAGER v3.1—FIRMWARE FLASH 92 %.

     “Stanford?” Fiddleford prompted, a notch sharper.

     Ford’s fingers skimmed the keyboard, entering the checksum from memory. “Breaker in three… two… now.”

     Fiddleford snapped the switch. A bass note thrummed through the floorboards, and the rig exhaled to life. Indicator LEDs strobed down the chassis, a runway of cold neon.

     He keyed a command. The new chip—the one he’d etched by hand in a week‑long manic trance—took control of the data bus. Fidds gave a short whistle and a thumbs up from across the room. “Signal’s stable at two‑point‑three. Wave‑function analyzer is green.”

     Ford’s pupils caught the screen glow, bright and glassy. “Good. Let’s drop her into nitrogen.” He thumbed the cryostat; somewhere inside, coolant rushed like surf beneath a pier.

     The temperature readout began its slow descent—300 K … 200 … 100 … 77. Frost spider‑webbed across the viewport glass. At 70 K the first test pattern bloomed: needle‑thin spikes where orderly charge carriers should have marched in ranks. Instead, each spike winked out, reappeared a few centimetres away, vanished again.

     Fiddleford met Ford at his monitor, tracking the spikes as they came and went. “Quantum tunneling?”

     “Its more than that.” Ford zoomed the display, highlighting the re‑materialized points—nodes arranged in a perfect Fibonacci spiral. “Statistically impossible unless the particles know their exit coordinates before they leave.”

     Fiddleford gave a shaky laugh. “Electrons don’t file flight plans, Ford. The math just—”

     “—looks like a fever dream,” Ford finished for him, smiling. “I know. Schrödinger had one in ’35 and we’re still picking up the tab.”

     Fiddleford rubbed the back of his neck. “Feels like the deeper we dig, the less solid the ground gets.”

     Ford exhaled smoke, watching it curl in cobalt coils beneath the fluorescent glare. “Heisenberg, Grothendieck, de Broglie—all cautionary tales. Each looked just past the veil and saw the gears turning beneath the world. But all that brilliance still reduced to ink on paper…mere figures on a page,” He rolled the cigarette between his fingers, gaze distant. “Endless scrapings at the margins of possibility, just to glimpse the mechanism.”

     He turned slowly, the monitor casting his profile in pale aquamarine, eyes fever-bright. “This,” he said, knuckles tapping the glass, “is already further than any of them ever got.”

     As if cued by his certainty, the console chimed:

TEST 001 COMPLETE — ANOMALOUS COHERENCE DETECTED.

     Ford initiated the sweep—an electromagnetic comb fine enough to part electron spin from vacuum hiss. Columns of data cascaded down the screen, racing each other in chaotic torrents until, abruptly, every digit snapped into alignment. The ore’s signal surged once—brilliant as a camera flash—and forked immediately into several synchronized pulse-trains, each slightly offset yet locked in perfect rhythmic counterpoint.

     Ford stared at the shard, nestled like a relic in its quartz cradle. He took a steadying breath. “Alright, let’s do this,” 

     Fiddleford nodded once, punching rapid commands. Another pneumatic hiss sounded from within the containment chamber as the cylinder sealed tighter.

     “Initiate sequence delta-one,” Ford said, voice low, heart hammering. “Sequence B-four, increase gain point-two. On my mark… mark.”

     Fiddleford’s fingers fluttered across the controls. Relays clicked sharply; overhead fluorescents dimmed to emergency blue. For an instant, the only sound was the rhythmic vibration of coolant lines, underscored by their matched breathing.

     “Beam coming online,” Fidds said. “Three… two… one.”

     A focused energy beam—ultraviolet, razor‑thin—lanced through the ore. Sensors bloomed green across the console. At first the screen showed only static, a blizzard of white noise. Then the computer began sorting trajectories, stitching noise into geometry.

     The primary display filled with a nebula of glowing filaments—thousands of quantum paths unfurling like veins of a translucent leaf, each route a potential reality testing its probability of existence. Most dimmed rapidly, starved of coherence. But a handful brightened, curved, looping back into the ore from impossible angles Euclid had never accounted for.

     Ford keyed another overlay: Feynman path simulations mapping every conceivable trajectory through spacetime as tangled threads. Most flickered, faded into nothingness, possibilities rapidly collapsing. But those few resilient threads strengthened, converged—clearly, impossibly intentional.

     He stepped back slowly, hands frozen at his sides. “There. It’s right there, clear as daylight. They’re skipping states. Selecting outcomes deliberately.”

     Fiddleford scanned the data cascading down the auxiliary monitor, voice catching with awe. “Not just tunneling through spatial coordinates—they’re traversing entire quantum realities. Your dissertation proposed a model of stacked planes, universes sharing coherent probabilities—but only if tunneling behavior between those dimensions was observed and stable.”

     He turned toward Ford slowly, disbelief giving way to astonishment. “This… Stanford, this is exactly it. Your theory about a quantum multiverse. Alternate dimensions existing in tandem,” His head shook slightly. “You were right.”

     The nebula of paths still glimmered on the screens when a second current slid beneath Ford’s thoughts—warm, electric, unmistakable.

     —Let me show you something, Six.

     The voice wasn’t sound—it was a presence, a gentle pressure behind Ford’s eyes, a grin pressed softly into the fold of his mind. His pulse stumbled, then settled into the comforting double-thud he’d grown used to, an echo he carried deep within his chest.

     Without thinking, he laid his fingers against the keyboard.

        Trust me—

     His hand obeyed, moving smoothly, guided from within. The keys rattled out a rapid diagnostic command Ford hadn’t consciously composed, new filters cascading through the visualization software. Chaotic trajectories thinned and contracted, probabilities spiraling inward as parameters tightened like a camera focusing on a distant, elusive point.

     “Stanford?” Fidds glanced up, surprised by the sudden command flurry. “What are you—?”

     “Refining the search window,” Ford answered, though the words felt borrowed. His eyes stayed on the code racing past—syntax precise, almost elegant, nothing he remembered writing.

     Onscreen, a fresh overlay blossomed: concentric probability rings layered over the tangled quantum filaments, each narrowing the search window, peeling away extraneous outcomes. One by one, branching possibilities collapsed until only a single, impossible locus remained, suspended in luminous stillness amid the tangle of quantum paths.

     The monitor shifted. Filaments of probability thinned, sorted, and flowed forward smoothly, tracing pathways across dimensional borders as effortlessly as water trickling downhill.

     Ford’s pulse quickened, exhilaration rising into something deeper, sweeter—He felt Bill fully now, close as skin, warm as breath, woven inseparably into him. Together, they reached through the labyrinth of quantum states, guiding the visualization forward until the interference patterns resolved into a single glowing node—steady, pulsing gently between branching realities.

     Frequency analysis spooled across the auxiliary monitor:

RESONANCE PEAK DETECTED…                         ν = 4.2879 × 10^13 Hz  PHASE LOCK: BI‑MODAL  SIGNATURE MATCH: 99.97 %

     The visualization tightened further. Pixels resolved into perfect interference rings, rippling gently outward—not radiating from the ore itself, but from two distinct centers drifting slowly, deliberately closer. Rings overlapped, interlocking neatly.

     Static flickered across the screen.

        The waveform pulsed.

           Once.

               Twice.

           Again, slower, deeper, steady.

     Fiddleford’s eyes darted nervously between screens, catching the torrent of diagnostics: entropy flux, negative-energy densities, stress-tensor fluctuations. He isolated a secondary signal buried just beneath the resonance peak—ragged, asymmetric, destabilizing the field’s coherence by minute fractions each cycle. Quickly, he grabbed for a notebook, flipping desperately to a blank page.

     He scribbled hurriedly, pen jittering: Signal bifurcation persistent. Irregularities imply deliberate interference—anthropic? hazardous?

     He turned, tugging anxiously at his ear. “Ford, something’s bleeding energy out of the field. Like it’s being…siphoned—”

     Ford barely heard him. His fingers hovered just above the ENTER key, waiting for Bill’s next gentle nudge.

     A warning indicator flared amber: 

COHERENCE Δ > 2 %. 

     Beneath it, smaller text scrolled—

LOCALIZED METRIC DISTORTION.

     “System error?” Fiddleford asked, grasping desperately for explanation, already scanning diagnostics. “Thermal cycling, maybe feedback in the relay—”

     Ford pressed the key slowly, deliberately, feeling the soft give of the mechanism beneath his fingertip—the screen filling with data from the localized point.

     “Decoherence bleed,” Fiddleford went on, cycling through theories. “Adjacent planes—maybe just static from overlapping states?”

     Ford didn’t speak. His hand hovered over the keyboard, but his focus was elsewhere—riding those impossible pulses forward, forward, into whatever future they already knew. The glow from the screen painted twin crescents in his eyes; each new beat seemed to tug at something tied to his sternum.

     Fiddleford cleared his throat, brittle and quiet. “Baseline diagnostics are done,” he murmured, pen trembling. His voice trailed off when he saw Ford’s expression—an astonishment so pure, so vulnerable, that he felt suddenly intrusive, witnessing something private.

     Ford’s breath had gone shallow. He just stared at the screen, his palm absently coming to his chest. The rhythm pulsed on, slow and deep. It wasn’t noise. It wasn’t artifact—he knew it. 

        “Ford?” Fiddleford’s voice cracked, gentler now.

     Ford didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Something passed through him—leaving the planes of his face oddly weightless.

     He was aware of it, even if he couldn’t give it a name—felt it all the time, that cadence in his ribs he carried like contraband: it was here now, undeniable, bright as a flare in that dark room.

     He lifted one hand and laid two fingertips to the screen.

     The pulse brightened—just for a moment—just for him.

     “Stanford?” Fidds asked again, softer still, startled by the devotion etched starkly across Ford’s face.

     Ford had no words. Onscreen, filaments of probability looped impossibly, Möbius twists curling gracefully into infinity—cause feeding effect feeding cause, resonating around that impossible duet.

        Data scrolled along the margin:

RETROCAUSAL FEEDBACK > 10⁶, PROBABILITY LOOP CLOSED, DIMENSIONAL COHERENCE: UNSTABLE. 

     The software struggled to plot infinities folding back on themselves, like a snake devouring its own tail faster than the algorithm could draw it.

     Fiddleford bent frantically over a secondary terminal, voice thin with anxiety. “These loops shouldn’t exist—they’re pulling states from realities that haven’t fully formed. We’re inside one projection of infinite stacked realities, it’s not stable—”

     The console chimed again, shrill, almost frantic. New patterns flickered onscreen—mirror reflections, inverted states, impossible shadows of universes just on the threshold of existing, each vanishing again before fully forming.

     Fiddleford spun around, wild-eyed. “We need to throttle the beam. Lets isolate the variables, test stability—”

     “Gödel,” Ford interrupted quietly, palm still pressed against the monitor, voice trembling but certain, “proved every logical system contains truths beyond its reach.” His eyes filled with quiet awe. “Not everything can be reduced.”

      For an instant the lab seemed to narrow until only the two pulses existed—one in phosphor green, one in living flesh—beating, aligning, inching closer with every cycle.

     He felt that force, knew it like he knew to breathe, felt it like he felt his own skin, held its shape within his very soul. Every instant of them a beautiful firework in time—a dark star promising passage. “My God,” Ford whispered, his eyes glossing over, “I see you.”

     Fiddleford’s eyes darted between the readouts. Columns of data streamed relentlessly—stress-tensor anomalies, negative-energy densities, precipitous cliffs in branch probabilities—each new set of numbers landing like another slap. The implications rang clear, stark, undeniable:

        Everything leaks.

     He forced down a dry swallow. “Ford… the projection shows catastrophic decoherence in ninety‑eight percent of branches.” His voice quavered. “The only strands that stay coherent are the ones that—” He faltered, scanning again. “I‑I can’t isolate the rule set. It might be stochastic collapse… Or maybe it’s simply observation.”

     Ford finally lifted his fingertips from the monitor, his hand trembling faintly with lingering awe. His eyes were luminous, filled with something reckless and exultant. “Incredible,” he whispered, turning slowly, his voice barely above breath. “It’s a correspondent.”

     Fiddleford pressed both palms to his temples, voice rising into panic. “Observer bias, participatory choice—God, Ford, what if we snap the limb we’re standing on?”

     Ford turned, eyes still glowing with the thrill of it. “It’s controlled quantum permeability. Don’t you understand? We mapped a passage, not just a trajectory—it’s malleable, it can learn. It can follow instructions—our instructions.”

     “No,” Fidds said quickly, shaking his head. “No, no, no—Ford, that’s not science. That’s—that’s metaphysics. That’s dogma in a lab coat.”

     Ford crossed the narrow space between them, stepping around cables and coolant lines crusted in frost. He reached out, clasping Fiddleford’s shoulder firmly, grounding him in a grip both urgent and oddly reassuring. “Get a grip, Fid. We always knew the membrane was there. Seeing how it operates isn’t doom—it’s leverage.”

     Fiddleford stared at him, aghast that anyone could sound calm with infinity unspooling at their feet. The heartbeat throbbed in the background, patient, unhurried, as though the universe itself were counting down.

     Panic drained from Fiddleford’s face, leaving him hollow‑eyed, chalk‑pale. “Leverage,” he echoed, but it tasted like ash. 

     “Yes,” Ford breathed, the syllable crackling with fervor. “Now we learn to bend it. Split it—” He smacked fist to palm for emphasis. “And come out clean on the other side.”

     Fiddleford’s gaze darted to the auxiliary screens—data still pouring like a waterfall—then back to Ford. His pupils were huge. 

     He let out a quick sigh, straightening yet steadily looking more drained. “Remember today” he said, voice hoarse, “For both of us.”

     He let the stack of readouts slip carelessly from his hand onto the workbench, papers scattering like leaves. Peeling off his coat, he tossed it aside without aim or grace, and stumbled toward the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last.

     Ford made no move to stop him. He remained rooted, drawn back to that resonance in his frame. 

     Ford lingered in the lab longer than he’d intended—minutes slipping passed unnoticed until they became hours. He couldn’t stop smiling, the test’s electric afterglow clinging stubbornly to his skin, humming softly beneath his fingertips long after the machines had quieted. 

     The automatic safety kill had engaged some time ago, cutting off the beam neatly and leaving behind only the faint ticking of cooling metal. The computers quietly gathered their last bursts of data, screens fading one by one into standby, leaving tiny indicator lights blinking softly amid the low murmur of ventilation. Yet even as the monitors dimmed, Ford still felt those quantum threads lingering—thin filaments of impossible realities brushing lightly against his consciousness, settling gently back into secrecy.

     Eventually he eased into the chair, drawing the keyboard close. The main console still held the final buffer of raw telemetry: petabytes of tunnelling events, coherence envelopes, impossible phase locks. He paged through it slowly, almost languid, letting each confirmation wash over him like warm surf.

     It was real. Not conjecture, not a fevered abstraction, or some elaborate hallucination—real.

     Alternate dimensions. Auxiliary universes. Bill—liminal, tangible, reachable. 

     He opened a log file, fingers moving easily across the keys, recording notes in quick shorthand. But before he finished the line, he paused, cursor blinking patiently at the half-formed thought:

Connection confirmed, Pathway permanence observed. Suggests conscious influence from—

     He hesitated, fingers poised above the keys, suddenly aware of the weight of what he was about to commit to record. The quiet hum within his chest rose in gentle protest—writing his name felt suddenly like breaking a fragile boundary, like risking something precious. The cursor continued blinking patiently.

     Ford exhaled softly, smiled again—softer, and cleared the line.

Connection confirmed. Pathway permanence observed. Further testing warranted.

     He saved the entry, then leaned back slowly, letting the silence of the lab wash gently over him. For a long moment, he sat motionless, breathing quietly, savoring the stillness, the thrilling peace, the undeniable truth of what they’d accomplished.

     When at last he rose, he powered down the console with something like tenderness, fingertips lingering warmly on the monitor’s edge until it faded entirely into darkness.

     His thoughts had already started to shift, slow and syrupy, leaning toward sleep. Excited to spend his night with Bill.

     He turned into the upstairs hallway, his hand brushing the wall out of habit, and he was almost to his bedroom door when he passed Fiddleford’s.

     That panic from before clung to the doorknob like static—it grabbed Ford’s attention. He hesitated. He pictured Fidds’s face in the lab—pale, eyes glassy, a man blinking at the sun after a lifetime underground.

        He knocked, gentle. “Fid? You awake?”

           Silence.

     Fiddleford was a champion snorer—went under in thirty seconds and rattled the shingles. The quiet felt wrong.

     Ford leaned in, ear to the wood. No rumble, no wheeze, just the faint tick of the hallway clock.

     He knocked again, harder. “Fiddleford. You all right?”

        Nothing.

     A cold thread slid down his spine. He tried the handle. Unlocked, gliding out of the socket with a metallic rasp.

[Previous Chapter][Next Chapter]

[Read Entire Work Here]

[vinylarchavist]

Switched-On Bach (MS 7194)

Clarifying the Cover Art

A standing figure holding headphones in their right hand indicates a less common or alternate cover for Switched-On Bach (MS 7194). The standard 1968 cover, designed by John Berg with photography by Horn/Griner, typically features a person in 18th-century attire (resembling Bach) seated at a Moog synthesizer, with patch cables and a keyboard prominently displayed. However, some pressings, particularly international or later U.S. editions, used alternate artwork due to Columbia’s practice of varying covers for promotional or regional releases.

Album Details

Title: Switched-On Bach

Artist: Wendy Carlos (credited as Walter Carlos)

Label: Columbia Masterworks

Catalog Number: MS 7194 (Stereo; mono version is M 7194)

Release Year: October 1968

Format: 12" Vinyl LP, Stereo

Genre: Electronic, Baroque Music, Moogsploitation

Producers: Trans-Electronic Music Productions, Inc. (Wendy Carlos and Rachel Elkind)

Performers: Wendy Carlos (Moog synthesizer), Benjamin Folkman (additional keyboards)

Country: USA (distributed globally by Columbia)

Alternate Cover: Certain pressings of Switched-On Bach feature a figure standing with headphones, emphasizing the modern, technological aspect of the Moog synthesizer. This cover may have been used for specific markets (e.g., UK, Canada, or export pressings) or later reissues. For example, a Discogs listing (r139241) notes slight artwork variations across pressings, and Rate Your Music mentions different covers for Switched-On Bach. The standing figure with headphones aligns with the album’s futuristic theme, contrasting the baroque music within.

Track Listing

Assuming MS 7194 is Switched-On Bach, the tracklist includes 12 Bach compositions reinterpreted on the Moog synthesizer:

Sinfonia to Cantata No. 29 (3:20)

Air on a G String (2:27)

Two-Part Invention in F Major (0:45)

Two-Part Invention in B-Flat Major (1:30)

Two-Part Invention in D Minor (0:48)

Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring (2:56)

Prelude and Fugue No. 7 in E-Flat Major (7:07)

Prelude and Fugue No. 2 in C Minor (2:43)

Chorale Prelude “Wachet Auf” (3:37)

Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 in G Major: First Movement (6:35)

Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 in G Major: Second Movement (2:50)

Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 in G Major: Third Movement (5:05)

Unique Sound

Switched-On Bach is celebrated for its groundbreaking sound, blending Baroque precision with electronic innovation. Key aspects include:

Moog Synthesizer Innovation: Wendy Carlos used a custom-built Moog modular synthesizer, a monophonic instrument requiring each note to be programmed individually. This labor-intensive process (described as “unfathomable” by reviewers) produced a range of timbres—harpsichord-like plucks, organ-like sustains, and ethereal tones—unheard in 1968. Overdubbing created polyphonic textures, mimicking an orchestra.

Baroque-Electronic Fusion: Bach’s mathematical compositions (e.g., fugues and inventions) were ideal for the Moog’s precise, clean sound. Tracks like “Brandenburg Concerto No. 3” retain Baroque structure while introducing futuristic timbres, creating a “timely and timeless” sound that feels both classical and avant-garde.

Technical Mastery: Carlos’s meticulous multitrack recording and tuning (aided by Benjamin Folkman) resulted in a polished, vibrant sound. Reviewers praised its “crisp, precise, and rapid” execution, with instruments “singing better than human voices” in some passages.

Cultural Novelty: The album’s electronic timbres were novel in 1968, sparking a “Moogsploitation” trend with imitators like Switched-On Bacharach. Its kitschy yet sophisticated sound appealed to classical fans, audiophiles, and experimental music enthusiasts.

Stereo Mix: The MS 7194 stereo pressing enhances the Moog’s dynamic range, with distinct separation of voices, making it ideal for vinyl collectors seeking analog warmth. The headphones on the cover you described underscore the album’s hi-fi appeal.

Cover Art and Packaging

Your described cover—a standing figure holding headphones in their right hand—suggests a variant emphasizing the Moog’s technological allure. Standard MS 7194 pressings feature a seated figure at a synthesizer, but alternate covers were used for some editions. The jacket includes liner notes by Carlos, Folkman, and Robert Moog, explaining the synthesizer’s technology and Bach’s suitability for electronic adaptation. The back cover lists tracks and credits, with photography by Horn/Griner. The cardboard jacket is prone to ring wear or seam splits, similar to your other 1960s LPs (Vera Lynn, Doctor Dolittle).

Vinyl Collector Details

Catalog Number MS 7194: The “MS” prefix denotes stereo, preferred for its dynamic sound over the mono M 7194. Original 1968 pressings have Columbia’s red “360 Sound Stereo” label with the “walking eye” logo. Check runout etchings (e.g., “XSM 137225-1A” or “XSM 137226”) to confirm first pressings, often marked with “P” (Pitman) or “S” (Santa Maria).

Condition and Value: On Discogs (r139241), VG+ to NM copies sell for $10–$30, with sealed or mint copies at $40–$100 (2025 prices). Promotional copies with “Demonstration” stamps or white labels can reach $150+. The album’s popularity ensures availability, but alternate covers (like yours) may increase value if rare.

Rarities: Promotional copies, signed LPs (rare, as Carlos was reclusive), or international pressings with unique artwork are highly collectible. Your headphones cover may indicate a Canadian or UK pressing, noted in some Discogs listings.

Availability: Available on Discogs, eBay, and Amazon (ASIN varies by reissue). Thrift stores or record fairs may have copies, but check for scratches or surface noise, as 1960s vinyl was heavily played.

Reissues: Later releases include CBS Masterworks CDs (MK 7194) and 180-gram vinyl by Friday Music or Music On Vinyl. The original MS 7194 is prized for its analog sound and historical value.

Reception and Legacy

Switched-On Bach was a cultural phenomenon, peaking at #10 on the Billboard 200 and selling over a million copies, a feat for a classical album. It won a Grammy for Best Classical Performance (Instrumental Soloist, 1969) and sparked a Moog synthesizer craze. Critics lauded its “incredible production” and “timeless timbres,” though some classical purists criticized its electronic approach. Its 2000s revival, noted on Rate Your Music (#267 for 1968) and UNCUT’s “500 Greatest Albums of the 1960s,” highlights its enduring appeal. Carlos’s identity as a trans artist adds social significance, especially post-1979.

Connection to Your Interests

Your queries about The Great Doctor Dolittle Songs (Pickwick/33, 1968), Blue Öyster Cult (Columbia KC 31063, 1972), and The World of Vera Lynn (London SPA 103, 1968) show a passion for late-1960s vinyl across genres. Switched-On Bach complements these as a 1968 Columbia release, offering an electronic twist that contrasts with the orchestral pop of Vera Lynn, the proto-metal of BÖC, and the budget covers of Doctor Dolittle. Its innovative sound and collectible status align with your focus on era-specific LPs.

Recommendations for Collectors

Why Collect MS 7194: This LP is essential for electronic music fans, classical crossover enthusiasts, and 1960s vinyl collectors. Its unique sound, Grammy win, and potential rare cover make it a standout alongside your other albums.

Where to Find: Search Discogs (r139241), eBay, or Amazon for MS 7194. Check thrift stores or record fairs for deals, but verify the cover matches your description. Your variant may be listed under international pressings.

Care Tips: Store in a polyethylene-lined sleeve to protect the jacket. Clean with a carbon-fiber brush to preserve the stereo mix’s clarity, vital for the Moog’s timbres.

Companion Albums: Pair with Carlos’s The Well-Tempered Synthesizer (1969, Columbia MS 7286) or Switched-On Brandenburgs (1980, CBS Masterworks) for more Moog explorations.

Additional Notes

If your copy is indeed MS 7194, check:

Runout Etchings: Look for “XSM 137225” or “XSM 137226” to confirm a 1968 pressing.

Label: Verify the red Columbia “360 Sound Stereo” label.

Jacket: Inspect for wear, as alternate covers may be rarer and more valuable.

[jor-elsemissary]

Whump promt:Electrocution

Electrocution

The severed cable spit angrily on the soaked floor as it sparked with a danger that had left a man she deeply cared about laying unconscious and breathing laboriously. Martha had managed to pull Lionel out of the puddle and to safety and now sat on the cold, steel staircase with him in her arms, desperately holding onto him as his body finished seizing.

Hot, wet tears soaked trails down her grime covered cheeks. She was brushing back his sweat soaked and tangled hair, anxiously whispering words for him not to leave her. She didn’t care who was watching through the hidden cameras as she pressed a kiss to his temple in the hopes it would be enough to encourage him to awaken.

“Lionel,” she begged for him, her hand cupping his grizzled cheek while her thumb softly caressed his lips and the unkempt beard around them. “Please be okay.” Martha closed her eyes and rested her brow against his own, the sobs breaking through her stoic barrier and wracking her body.

“Long live the king,” the voice of their captor announced from some hidden speaker. She dared not look in the direction of the monitors beyond the tank she had almost drowned in, knowing perfectly well his silver-foiled face was going to be on them, taunting his victims.

She forced herself to stop the tears from flowing even though she just wanted to sit there and cry until they dried up on their own. But she had to get herself together for her sake and for her husband’s. The man who had taken them was not going to let them go, she realized this now while Lionel finally lay in her arms breathing with shallow breaths.

Carefully Martha shifted her unconscious husband and stood at a crouch behind him. She lifted him up under his arms and with some difficulty began to drag his body up the staircase to the next landing. At least there she could help him more and try to get him to wake up.

He needed to wake up.

Not just for her, but also for himself. The longer he remained unconscious, the more likely he was never going to wake up again. She could not handle the stress of the State Senate and running LuthorCorp should he die here now. She would not want to even live with the thought of him being gone, not even their children was enough to keep her going.

Thinking of her children, she knows Ultraman would soon find them. Clark was overly protective of her and he would at least save her and thus his father in turn. They just had to hold on and stay alive long enough for him to find them.

Martha reached the top of the stairs with her husband and laid him on his back. She bit back a sob upon seeing him in the brighter, emergency light at the top and she wanted to curse the man who had done this to him.

“Lionel,” she murmured his name while caressing the side of his face. He did not stir at her touch or at the sound of his name and she worried that he was already lost. “Please wake up, love.”

She leaned down to give him a chaste kiss on the lips and then heard the mocking tone of their captor, “This is no fairytale, Senator Luthor. The sinister king does not wake upon a true love’s kiss.”

Martha wanted to argue with him, to show him exactly which of the two was the sinister monarch. But she would not reveal that hand to a meaningless individual. She and Lionel had spent years cultivating an image for her political career and she was not going to ruin it now by showing her true colors.

Instead she chose the time she had to examine her husband for other injuries. She knows he had been here a lot longer than her and who knew what he had already been through.

Quietly she started her inspection with his face, noting how dirty it looked. She took a thumb to wipe away a patch of soot and wondered where and how he was exposed. She could smell gasoline on him and could only imagine what fiery death trap he had escaped prior.

She felt down his chest and paused over his heart, her hand flat against his chest as she felt for his heartbeat. It was frightfully slow with palpitations, that she knew if he did not get help soon, would lead to heart failure.

Slowly she rolled up the undershirt he was wearing and hissed at the sight of electrical burns along his side, spidering upward before curving down his other flank. She was certain that if she removed his trousers, she would find the path the electricity had taken along his legs. Inspecting his feet revealed the entry and exits as well as third degree burns in the shape of criss-crosses as if he had been walking on a burning grate.

Out of the two, he was the worst off.

There was a sudden change in his breathing and Martha looked up from studying the soles of his feet. “Lionel!” she cried in joyful relief upon seeing him awake at last. She moved back to him and cupped his face in her hand, gently guiding him to look at her. “Hey, I’m here. I’m still here.”

He was trying to speak, his mouth and lips moving but he couldn’t voice the words. But she could read her name on his lips and gave him a tear-filled smile. “You’re alive. That’s all that matters right now,” she tells him before leaning down to give him a hopeful, tender kiss.

It worried her when he didn’t kiss her back and she looked down at him in concern. She realized his eyes were not focusing on her like they should have. “Lionel?”

I can’t see, he mouthed to her. She realized his gaze had been directed at her, but blindly.

Martha leaned over her husband, resting her head against his chest as she began to cry again. She felt an unsteady hand rise to touch her side in reassurance or out of concern, perhaps both. How he could still worry for her after all he has been through and suffered, she could not understand but it made her feel even more endeared toward him.

“We’ll get out of this,” she promises against his neck after turning her face toward him. “Ultraman will find us and then make this bastard suffer for what he’s done.”

Lionel’s hand followed the length of her body until he found her arm, and then laced his fingers through her own hand. It was his way of saying that everything would be alright.

It would be alright.

It had to be.

[offsidekineticist]

This took. Way. Too. Long. I'm posting it without double checking the formatting (will probably update this later when I have the patience to fix that).

CW: gore, casual and random sudden deaths of civilian NPCs, graphic description of injuries, mention of financial barriers to medical treatment

FOR THE GLORY OF DAHAK

You are by Theo's side almost as soon as Giliys hits the ground, and you still are not there in time to stop him from falling asleep. He is not unconscious, not the way Giliys is, but he's not uninjured. There are burns–relatively minor–on his face and hands, and you suspect you will find more on his chest once you've managed to turn him over. Thankfully, none of these burns came from direct contact with hellfire, so they should be easily treated even without magic.

You have barely begun to dress the burns when you find a sword at your throat. "Drop it," a furious paladin growls from just outside your field of view. 

"It's just a roll of bandages," you say as calmly as you can. "I'm trying to–"

"I said drop it, loyalist!" 

"Loyalist–? He was wounded while stopping the–"

"I said drop it!" The sword suddenly moves from your throat to slap your face with the flat of the blade. Your head snaps back and you fall on your back. You see three or four paladins standing over you at the edge of your periphery–and then you see something in the sky above you. A dark spot emerging from the clouds directly above you. It begins growing and growing, and within seconds you can make out the form of a diving black dragon.

"HERETICS AND BLASPHEMERS! BEHOLD THE WRATH OF DAHAK!" Kob roars before raining acid on the camp. The ballista teams, turned to fire on the golem (who is currently chewing on a screaming paladin), desperately try to aim at the dragon instead as the acid burns through their equipment, but it's too late. Cables snap and whip around, entangling some and slashing others as Kob laughs and lands directly behind you. The paladins surrounding you take a surprised step backwards. Kob's head shoots forward, his neck extending, and he eats one of the paladins with a single bite. You hear crunching and screaming as he chews almost directly over your head before he swallows. The screaming becomes more muffled and then dies completely. The remaining paladins run. 

A kestrel lands beside you, transforming into her true form before she's touched the ground. Vrakka reaches her hand down to you, and you take it. "Sorry we took so long–Kob was in pretty bad shape before I patched him up. You ok?" she asks, helping you to your feet.

"I'm fine–was the acid rain really necessary?" you demand, wincing at the sight of the broken siege weapons.

"YES! IT WAS EXTREMELY NECESSARY! FOR THE GLORY OF DAHAK!"

"We can discuss this later," Vrakka says, throwing Giliys and Theo over her right shoulder and then pinning you to her side with her left arm. "For now, hold on."

"Hold o–AGHHH!" Before you can finish your question, Kob has grabbed Vrakka in his talons and taken flight, and you're left clutching her arm for dear life. He bobs up and down along the cloudline, like some sort of vicious sky dolphin–diving below to navigate, surging upwards for cover. Each time you break below the clouds you see him flying first towards Westcrown, and then past it, to the sea. Kob breaks permanently below the clouds and begins his descent,  flying rapidly towards a merchant vessel–down, down, down–

He slows just in time to land with a jolt onto the top yard of the smallest sail. The force of his weight dropping causes the ship to bob and list to the side Kob has chosen, but he seems untroubled, even as the sailors are thrown across the deck by the sudden shift.

"SEAMEN! WHENCE IS THIS SHIP BOUND?" Kob roars. The sailors–most knocked off their feet by Kob's landing, look at each other with varying expressions of concern.

"Kintargo!" One of the sailors calls back. Kob considers for a moment.

"YES, THAT IS ACCEPTABLE." He places Vrakka down on the ship deck as he shouts to the sailors, "IN DAHAK'S NAME, I COMMIT THESE CHARGES TO YOUR CARE UNTIL YOUR SAFE ARRIVAL IN KINTARGO! PROTECT THEM WITH YOUR LIVES, OR I WHO BEAR THE ASPECT OF DAHAK WILL BE MOST DISPLEASED!" 

And then, without another word, Kob launches himself into the air with such force that the ship is pushed down far enough for water to slosh over the decks before the ship violently flies upwards, back to its proper place on the waterline. Barrels and crates and a few sailors not secured to the deck go flying, some even flying overboard into the unnaturally churning waters below. Vrakka flies into the air, but manages to land on her feet–you suspect her mid-transformation landings have prepared her well for this. 

"Wait–he's just leaving?" You ask, desperately clinging to Vrakka's arm for stability.

"He said 'Lathimas' needs him–something about an egg?"

Ah. More fairy tales then.

Once the ship's rocking has slowed to something more natural, Vrakka lets you go before turning to look around the deck.

"Right, who's the captain? I reckon we owe them an apology." A small group of sailors on the starboard side of the deck, still regaining their footing, point over the side, and with how badly Kob's takeoff disturbed the water around the ship you can't imagine anyone in the water survived.

Vrakka blinks and then sighs with an eye roll. "Alright, fine, who's in charge now?"

"That'd be me," an elf in a feathered cloak with bright yellow eyes says, shakily standing up. A faint cheer breaks out on deck from those coherent enough to celebrate. "And one of you had better be a healer because ours went over with the captain."

Vrakka grins at the new captain. "I'll do you one better: two of us are healers," she says, gesturing at herself and you.

"Well, thank Desna for small mercies, I suppose," the elf says. "Alright, we'll find a bunk for those two to share–" she points at Theo and Giliys, still somehow asleep or unconscious slung over Vrakka's shoulder "–then the two of you patch up the folks who got their bell rung by your dragon, and then we call it even and pretend you got on at the harbor like normal fucking people?"

The tiefling sticks out her hand, and Vrakka takes it and pumps it heartily. "You got yourself a deal, Captain."

It’s a trivial matter tending to the surviving sailors–most of them only had the wind knocked out of them, and the few that were hurt worse only had minor concussions, and there isn’t much you or Vrakka can do for them at this point, as neither of you have the energy to cast spells. Tomorrow you may be able to ease their symptoms, but today you have precious little left to give them. All of which makes you all the more frustrated that you have to tend to the crew before you can descend below deck and finally tend Theo’s injuries–no triage would ever prioritize a minor concussion over Theo’s litany of ailment.

You do your best. You probably wouldn’t be able to do much more even if you had the energy to cast spells. You’re not skilled enough with your remove disease casting to focus the spell to a single area of the body, which means you can’t cure the infected wounds in his back–magically healing infected wounds is a good way of sending a patient into septic shock. You can use magic to mend broken bones once they’ve been splinted, but looking at Theo’s fingers, they’ve already begun to heal incorrectly or the bones have completely shattered. In either case, you probably can’t heal them without performing surgery, and you are not a surgeon. You can probably heal the burns in the morning as long as you take care to clean them beforehand, but otherwise very little of what ails Theo is something you can easily fix with magic.

Vrakka comes below deck to find you as you finish cleaning and bandaging Theo’s wounds. “How is he?” she asks.

“He’ll live,” you say. “The infection will probably pass. The wounds–except for the burns–are going to scar. His hands…” It takes a moment to find the words. “...probably won’t have to be amputated, at least. He’s going to need a surgeon when we get to Kintargo.” 

Vrakka is kind enough not to comment on that. You both know skilled surgeons are expensive, and surgeons capable of handling Theo’s injuries are doubly so. Selling Theo’s beloved biggenlil bag–which he would never allow anyway–might net enough to pay for surgery on one hand.

“The burns look fresh,” Vrakka says.

“Giliys…wields hellfire. And I think he lost control,” you say slowly.

“Hellfire,” Vrakka repeats. She blinks and then shakes her head. “Alright, putting aside the ‘what the fuckery’ of that revelation, those burns don’t look like hellfire burns.”

They don’t, thank the gods. Direct contact with hellfire might have entirely burned away the parts of the face they touched. “The hellfire didn’t touch Theo directly–I think it heated Giliys’s body. I think Theo burned himself on Giliys when he was stopping him.”

Vrakka squints. “Burned his lips on Giliys?”

You wince. “He…kissed him. As part of a ritual! Or exorcism! Whatever he did to get Giliys to stop shooting hellfire everywhere–the point is it’s not really a kiss.”

Now Vrakka is staring at you like you’ve lost your mind. “Theo kissed Giliys, but it’s not really a kiss because it’s part of a ritual.”

“Like a manual resuscitation, but…magic.”

“Qweck, what kind of ritual requires a kiss?”

“I don’t know–you know Theo, though, he knows all sorts of obscure esoterica nobody else finds useful. I’m sure somewhere in there, he had a ritual that fixes hellfire…possession…or whatever that was…with a kiss.”

“Like True Love’s Kiss,” Vrakka says flatly.

“No, not like True Love’s Kiss, Theo and Giliys haven’t met before today!” Or, at least, they better not have. You made it extremely clear to Giliys when you met that he was not to involve your family in your work. “Also True Love’s Kiss isn’t real! It’s a plot device used in fairytales when there’s no logical way for good to triumph.”

“The characters using True Love’s Kiss in the fairytales usually haven’t known each other long, either. Love at first sight and all that.”

Now you stare at Vrakka like she’s lost her mind. “You think Theo fell in love with Giliys the second he laid eyes on him. Giliys.”

Vrakka shrugs. “Makes about as much sense as your theory that it’s not gay if it’s for a ritual.”

“I–no. That’s–” That is so patently absurd, where do you even begin with that? “Theo would never love Giliys–well, not like that. Theo loves everyone because he’s…well, he’s Theo. But he wouldn’t love Giliys like love Giliys because–I mean, he doesn’t love anyone like that, but especially not Giliys.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.” When you were very young–after you met Theo, but before he adopted you–you tried to convince him and your mother to marry. In retrospect, you’re not sure where you picked up the concept of marriage–gnomes rarely mate for life, and those who do usually feel no need to marry–but given how transient most of the people and places in your life had been up to that point, it’s unsurprising that you sought some means of tying Theo to you. Your mother promised to consider it–she always felt too guilty about the bleaching to say ‘no’ to anything you asked for, even though she was very rarely in a position to actually get it for you–which meant it was Theo who had to let you down. He was kind about it, as he is about most things, gently explaining he didn’t feel that way towards your mother and wasn’t interested in that kind of relationship with anyone.

“Some people find that having someone to go through life with makes them very happy. But I’m happier like this–I wouldn’t have as much time to look after you children and help you grow up if I also had to look after someone special.”

You got the feeling at the time that he was just saying that, but you’ve had more than fifty years to watch him, now, and never once have you ever had an inkling that he saw someone in a romantic light. By the time you came of age and moved to Ostenso, you were thoroughly convinced that Theo is simply disinterested in romance. You are still convinced of it. And even if that were not the case, it certainly wouldn’t be Giliys who proved you wrong.

Vrakka shrugs. “You know him better than I do, I suppose. Anyhow, I need to head back east. I’ve already been gone too long–no telling what havoc Thrune’s lackeys have wrought on the migration paths since I’ve been gone.”

You nod–Vrakka had told you when you first asked for her help that she couldn’t be away for long because Thrune is trying to block off a pass that is crucially important for many local species’ seasonal migrations. She told you a lot more details than that, but you’ve forgotten most of them, partly because you were too panicked about Theo to pay attention, partly because you really didn’t care about seasonal migration of animals. You want to ask her to stay, to help you nurse Theo back to health, but she has her duty just as you have yours. 

“Safe travel,” you say, and you suddenly realize that there’s a very good chance you will never see her again–it won’t be safe for you to travel to the Aspodell Mountains as long as the Order of the Rack exists. You’ve embarrassed them today, stolen a prisoner from their own citadel and stolen countless priceless artifacts from their vault (not that you’re actually in possession of any of those artifacts–they’re probably still eating paladins). They won't let you live a quiet life if it's in their power to stop you. “Theo mentioned you often in his letters,” you say suddenly. “When you were growing up, I mean. It’s…it’s been nice, getting to put a face to the name.”

She seems surprised and unsure of how to reply at first. Then she smiles. “He spoke of you all the time when I was growing up,” she says. “It’s been lovely finally getting to meet his dear Qweck. And, uh, don't forget to clean up that cut on your face.” She nods, and then, before either of you can regret being so open, she transforms into a kestrel and flies through the hatch to the air above deck.

[folkpunkbumbercatch]

Can the boys all drive? Apart from Colin who is the worst driver and and which one secretly has a motorbike?

Love this question because you are right Colin can not drive, I don't know what he does in that car but it's certainly not driving <3 (also I did look up car culture in various countries and cities and how old you have to be for this ask lol)

Sam had a permit in Lagos and was learning how from his dad but when he moved to England the lessons stopped so he hypothetically could but not legally

Dani can drive and got his license in england when he moved he misses the car culture in Mexico and doesn't like the weird tiny English cars he sees frequently

Jamie can drive but is bad at it

Isaac is team chauffeur, Isaac is team designated driver, Isaac needs glasses to drive

Jan can drive but doesn't have a car in England

Richard can drive and is actually pretty good with cars, only guy on the team who can patch a flat and change a tire, friend who has jumper cables

Moe believes cars are a poison to the earth and public transport is the only viable future, he does have a license tho

Look I know Canada and the US are different but Thierry Zoreaux has that North America loves road trip gene, he will drive for 6 hours and consider it a short drive, he does not understand people on the team who wouldn't drive for an hour places

[istandonsnowpiles]

How to take a photo like this:

You will need

- A camera that can shoot RAW and take exposures longer than 30 seconds in manual mode OR a cable/remote release for your camera and the ability to time the exposure yourself

- A reasonably fast lens, call it f/2.8 or faster. Remember, f/4 is 2x the exposure time of f/2.8 and f/5.6 is 4x the exposure time. So pick fast glass if you can!

- Some photo editor that handles your camera’s raw files

- A solid tripod

- An overcast night

- A place with very little light pollution

- (Optional) your partner to help you be brave in the dark and/or kisses

Now follow these steps

0. Shoot RAW! The processing your camera does on jpeg shots will probably ruin super long exposures, so RAW is recommended. If you’re unfamiliar with editing raws , shoot RAW + JPEG. Then you’ll at least have the RAW files later if you pick up raw editing.

1. Take your camera and tripod to a very dark spot to take your photo. Avoid light pollution. Look at the horizon, if you see light patches, face some other direction. Those light patches will blow out in a super long exposure.

2. Pick a subject that is interesting because of its perspective or geometry. Remember, the light will be very flat so the composition needs to be interesting!

3. Set up your tripod & pop your camera on these. For extra stability, don’t extend the last leg section of your tripod.

4. Turn on your camera and set a shutter delay. Usually 2 or 10 seconds. This will help with any shake your introduce by pressing the shutter. Initial shake matters less for very long exposures, but best to avoid it you can. Optional with a cable release.

5. Turn off Long Exposure Noise Reduction in your camera. I know this sounds backwards, but with the setting on your camera will take a second exposure of the same length as your shot and combine the two exposures to reduce noise. If you’re doing an 8 minute exposure, that means you’ll need to wait 16 minutes total between shots. There is plenty of good noise reduction software these days. Do it in post instead!

6. Set your camera to manual focus. If your subject is very dark, your camera typically cannot see it. You’ll need to estimate how far away it is and check your camera’s distance scale to ensure focus is correct.

HACK: If you think manual focus can go kick rocks, use a flashlight or headlamp to illuminate your subject, focus on it, then set your camera to manual focus to keep that focus. Turn off the flashlight or headlamp.

7. Set your camera to manual mode. Most cameras will only let you set very long shutter speeds in manual mode (this is due to limitations of camera meters). We’ll mostly be fiddling with shutter speed and ISO since our aperture will be set wide open.

NOTE: Check Aperture Priority mode first. Set your aperture to f/2.8 or as wide open as your lens goes. ISO to Auto or the max setting you’re happy with the results from (ISO 6400 for my Fuji cameras). If your camera gives you a shutter speed that isn’t completely maxed out (usually 30 or 60 seconds), then it isn’t dark enough. Find somewhere darker.

8. Start from ISO 800 and a shutter speed of at least 2 minutes. Take your first test shot. Usually this comes out seriously underexposed, but it can give you can idea where to go. Plus, waiting longer than 2 minutes is annoying.

- if you’re using a cable release, set your camera to Bulb mode and time your exposure time as desired.

- if your test shot is over exposed, lower the ISO a stop or two and try again

- if your test shot is under exposed, you’ve hit the jackpot. Start increasing your exposure time for some sick, awesome pics.

If the exposure times are excruciating, your can bump your ISO too. However, high ISO noise gets worse with longer exposures. So your image will look considerably worse at higher ISOs. Therefore, longer exposure times and faster lenses are preferred when possible.

Watch out for moving stuff. At super long exposure times, any movement matters. If it’s windy, the motion can ruin a photo. A little bit of motion can add some painterly vibes to the photo.

9. Editing! Your camera probably got the night time white balance wrong, so you’ll probably need to fiddle with it for your photo to look how you want. Other settings are up to you!

I hope you enjoyed this excruciating long explanation on how to take a night time super long exposures. Good luck out there!

What’s up late night folks? Here’s an eerie shot I took down a pitch black road in the middle of the night

[menendezroadservicellc]

From Rockville to the Beltway How Menendez Roadservice Keeps Fleets Rolling

It starts with a noise. Subtle. Maybe a thump or a groan beneath the trailer. Next thing you know your truck leans like it’s had one too many bad potholes. You pull off near Rockville Pike or somewhere outside I-270 and suddenly your workday has changed. Deadlines don’t wait. Clients don’t want excuses. You need a lifeline. Not a hope, not a maybe—real help. And fast. That’s where Menendez Roadservice LLC comes in swinging with one goal—keep fleets rolling.

Across Rockville’s busy corridors down to the snarled loops of the Beltway, our team operates like clockwork. No clocks, really—more like muscle memory and urgency built into every mobile unit. Every call we answer, every rig we fix, proves why we’re the go-to for drivers who whisper “breakdown” and think Mobile Truck Repair before finishing their sentence.

Your truck doesn’t just carry freight. It carries money. Deadlines. Schedules. Expectations. We don’t just fix flats—we protect your momentum. Our reputation? It runs on results.

From Parking Lots to Parked Loads We Handle the Chaos

One day it’s a tire that gave out near Twinbrook Parkway. Another day it’s a trailer door jammed behind an office park off Gude Drive. Doesn’t matter what it is—Menendez shows up loaded for anything. You might’ve searched for Roadside Truck Repair Near Me and hoped you’d find a guy with jumper cables. You’ll get more than that. You’ll get heavy-duty tools a full-stocked mobile unit and seasoned techs who’ve tackled everything from blown airbags to shredded steer tires.

Big rigs? We know them. Box trucks? Done that. Day cabs, flatbeds, reefers, fifth-wheels—we’ve twisted wrenches on every class and model. Searching for Truck Mechanic Nearby in Rockville puts you on our radar immediately. Whether your fleet’s ten trucks or two hundred we treat each breakdown like a top-tier emergency.

No runaround. No fluff. Just hard work done right.

Fleet Service That Never Clocks Out

It’s not just a one-time tire patch. You’ve got a whole operation to maintain. That’s why Menendez builds long-haul trust through short-haul action. Our Truck Road Service doesn’t come with loopholes or lazy excuses. From Rockville’s industrial parks to Beltway exits near Bethesda our units deliver diagnostics tire replacement electrical repair and emergency fueling wherever it’s needed. Fast.

We're not your granddad’s Truck Repair Shop stuck behind a desk and a waiting room. We move. We come to you. Always.

And while your rig’s getting patched up we’re already thinking about what else could go wrong. Because we don’t just fix what’s broke—we prevent the next issue from wrecking your day.

Why Choose Us

We serve Rockville like it’s our backyard From Shady Grove to Norbeck our mobile units circle the city like clock hands that never stop moving. You break down anywhere in Rockville we’re minutes away with a solution. Searching for Truck Service Near Me means nothing unless that service knows your streets. We do.

Mobile means mobile—no matter where you are You might think Mobile Semi Truck Repair Near Me sounds like a gimmick until we show up beside your breakdown with every tool needed. We’re not limited by four walls or business hours. We’re limited by nothing.

We carry more than air hoses and hand tools Tires? Got ’em. Electrical connectors? Stocked. Fuel cans hydraulic jacks torque wrenches? All on board. We bring our Truck Repair Shop to your mess with the right gear every single time.

Every call gets a real person not a robot You need help not a hold tone. Call us and speak to a human who can deploy the closest crew instantly. Whether you’re on a bridge off I-495 or parked at a rest stop near Montrose we move when you call.

Fleet managers love our tracking and reports We don’t just show up. We show proof. Our detailed service logs help fleet managers understand repair trends costs and schedules. When your operation runs on data we deliver real-time updates to help streamline every mile.

No surprises with pricing or professionalism You won’t get a mystery invoice with six lines you never approved. You’ll get honest quotes clear communication and road-tested professionalism. Whether you're calling from Rockville or farther down near Wheaton our crew stays sharp humble and honest.

FAQs About Truck Repairs Near Rockville and the Beltway

1. Can you replace a flat in Rockville Town Center during rush hour? Yes absolutely. Our Roadside Truck Repair crews navigate tight areas with ease and arrive fully stocked with tires tools and safety gear. We know the traffic zones. We move smartly and work quickly.

2. I’m near Twinbrook. Can I get a brake line repair on-site? Yes. Whether it’s cracked leaking or seized we handle brake systems for semis trailers and box trucks. That kind of Truck Repair Near Me support is our specialty in that area.

3. Do you handle reefer trailer issues near the Beltway exits? Yes. We perform light electrical work hinge repair air supply service and more. If you typed Trailer Repair near Me into your phone while stuck near I-495 chances are we’ve fixed a trailer right there before.

4. What areas between Rockville and the Beltway do you cover for fuel delivery? Everywhere. From East Gude Drive to Cabin John Parkway our Truck Road Service Nearby includes fuel runs jumpstarts and battery replacements for trucks in a pinch.

5. My tractor shut off near White Flint. Can you come fix it roadside? Of course. Our mobile units are equipped for engine diagnostics coolant leaks and basic mechanical recovery. That’s how Mobile Truck Repair gets done the right way.

6. How quickly can you dispatch a mechanic to Fleet Street in North Bethesda? Typically within 30–45 minutes. We’ve got units in motion at all hours covering high-demand zones with rapid Truck Mechanic Nearby access at your fingertips.

Contact the Team That Never Leaves You Stuck

Menendez Roadservice LLC 📍 Bowie, MD 20720 📞 +1 (240) 601-9664

When you’re stuck between Rockville and the Beltway one number changes everything. Call Menendez. Get moving again. Roll with confidence. Keep your fleet alive and your schedule intact. We’re ready when you need us. Always.

[magsman-story]

Must-Do Checks Before the Monsoon Hits

For the upcoming monsoon season, it’s time to turn your attention to your vehicle. While the rains bring much-needed relief from the summer heat, they also introduce a host of driving challenges, slippery roads, water-logging, poor visibility, rust formation, and unexpected electrical issues. For any driver, whether you’re commuting daily in the city or heading out on highways, preparing your car for the monsoon is not just a matter of convenience, it’s a matter of safety and performance.

The rainy season doesn’t have to be a time of worry if your car is equipped to handle the elements. With a few preventive checks and simple maintenance routines, you can protect your vehicle from avoidable breakdowns, extend its lifespan, and ensure smooth and safe driving even in the heaviest of downpours.

1. Test the Brakes and ABS System Thoroughly

During the rains, your car’s braking system becomes even more critical. Wet roads reduce traction, and if your brakes are not performing optimally, it could lead to skidding and longer stopping distances.

What to Do:

Check brake pads and discs for wear. If they’re thin or squeaky, get them replaced.

Ensure brake fluid is at the correct level and is clean.

If your car has ABS (Anti-lock Braking System), ensure the system is error-free. Look for dashboard warning lights.

A mushy brake pedal or delayed stopping is a red flag, get it inspected immediately.

Why It Matters:

Well-maintained brakes can make the difference between a near miss and an accident on slippery roads.

2. Examine the Battery and Electrical Components

Moisture is the enemy of electrical components, and the rains only make things worse. A weak or faulty battery can easily fail in wet weather.

What to Check:

Ensure battery terminals are clean and free of corrosion.

Test the battery voltage and charging capacity, especially if it’s over 3 years old.

Inspect all electrical wirings, fuses, alternators, and sensors for moisture exposure and insulation.

Pro Tip:

Apply petroleum jelly on battery terminals to prevent rust and ensure consistent performance.

3. Keep an Emergency Kit Handy

No matter how well you prepare, rainy weather can be unpredictable. You might face a flat tire, engine stall, or hours-long traffic jams due to flooding. That’s when an emergency kit comes in handy.

Must-Have Items:

First aid kit and torch

Tow rope and jump starter cables

Reflective triangle or warning lights

Raincoat, umbrella, dry snacks, and water

Tyre inflator and puncture repair spray

Microfiber cloths and spare washer fluid

Keep everything packed in a waterproof container in the boot of your car.

4. Look for Water Leaks and Seal Damage

A leaking car isn’t just uncomfortable, it can damage electronics and interior upholstery, cause mold, and lead to foul odors.

Areas to Inspect:

Window beading, door seals, and sunroof edges

Windshield corners and tail light areas for seepage

Floor carpets, feel them for dampness after a rain

Trunk lid seals, often missed but a common source of leaks

Tip:

Get damaged seals replaced and apply rubber conditioners to door linings to keep them flexible and watertight.

5. Check Your Tires for Tread and Pressure

Tires are your first point of contact with the road. During monsoon, their condition becomes vital in preventing skidding and aquaplaning.

What You Should Do:

Check tread depth, it should be at least 2.5 mm.

Ensure even wear across all tires.

Look for cracks or bulges, especially on older tires.

Maintain recommended air pressure, neither under- nor over-inflated.

Optional Upgrade:

If you live in hilly or flood-prone areas, consider installing rain-ready or all-weather tires for extra grip.

6. Inspect Windshield Wipers and Washer Fluid

Driving during heavy rainfall with old, ineffective wipers is dangerous. They should be replaced at least once a year, ideally before the rains start.

Checks and Maintenance:

Make sure wiper blades don’t streak or leave patches.

Ensure the washer reservoir is filled with good-quality fluid.

Check the nozzles for clogs and adjust their spray alignment.

Inspect the rear wiper if your car has one.

Also, consider applying a hydrophobic windshield treatment (like Rain-X) to improve visibility during light to moderate rain.

7. Check All Exterior Lights and Indicators

Visibility is already compromised in the rain. Ensuring that other drivers can see you clearly is essential.

Inspection Points:

Clean headlamp, tail lamp, and indicator covers.

Replace flickering or dim bulbs immediately.

Test the brake lights, they are crucial for vehicles behind you.

Make sure fog lamps and reverse lights are functional.

Using LED or HID lights can significantly enhance brightness and visibility during foggy or rainy conditions.

8. Clean and Protect the Exterior and Undercarriage

Monsoon grime can damage your car’s paint and underbody. Rainwater mixed with pollutants can be acidic, causing corrosion if left unattended.

What to Do:

Wash your car regularly using a pH-balanced car shampoo.

Apply a coat of wax or ceramic sealant to protect the paint.

Clean wheel wells and mud flaps to prevent rust formation.

Consider underbody anti-rust coating, especially if you live in a flood-prone city.

Also, ensure that rainwater drainage channels near the windshield and sunroof are not clogged with leaves or dirt.

Bonus Tips for Monsoon Driving

Drive slower than usual, braking takes longer in wet conditions.

Avoid flooded streets, even if they seem shallow. Water entering the air intake can cause hydrostatic lock.

Defog your windows using the air-conditioning system or a portable anti-fog spray.

Don’t ride the clutch in traffic, use handbrakes where possible.

Park your car on a flat surface, not a slope, during rain to prevent water flow toward the engine bay.

Therefore, the rains may be beautiful, but they demand a different level of attentiveness from drivers. Preparing your vehicle ahead of time is the best way to stay safe, reduce repair costs, and enjoy uninterrupted driving even during heavy downpours.

From something as basic as replacing wipers to checking sophisticated systems like ABS and battery performance, monsoon car care is all about being proactive. Think of it as seasonal health check-up for your vehicle, something that will keep you, your passengers, and your car secure.

So, before the first drops hit the road, follow these essential tips and ensure your car is truly monsoon, ready.

For expert advice and high-quality products, don’t hesitate to visit Palco’s Official Website (http://www.palco.co.in) or contact directly at the Email: enquiry@palco.co.in & Phone: +91 93117 94519.

[shotgunps4lm]

03. car trunk.

car  truck

sapphire’s  car  trunk  is  a  mixture  of  everything,  packed  tight  in  the  back  of  a  1969  dark  blue  mustang  fastback.  the  latch  will  stick  unless  one  knows  how  to  specifically  coax  it  open,  and  inside,  everything  rests  beneath  an  old  quilt  her  mama  made—patched  with  denim,  stitched  through  with  bible  verses  and  road-worn  thread.  she  doesn’t  keep  things  pretty,  but  she  keeps  them  purposeful.  the  jubilee  lies  in  a  hard  case,  scripture  burned  into  its  surface,  surrounded  by  iron  chains,  a  shovel,  an  axe  with  someone  else's  initials  carved  into  the  handle, an assortment of weapons.  she  has  a  duffel  of  backup  clothes:  denim,  dark  shirts,  jackets  with  hidden  pockets.  she’s  also  got  jumper  cables,  a  can  of  fix-a-flat,  road  flares,  and  a  tarp  rolled  tight. 

buried  deeper  are  the  things  most  folk  wouldn’t  recognize  for  its  purpose;  the  jars  of  holy  water,  salt,  red  brick  dust,  powdered  eggshell,  and  graveyard  dirt.  herbs  tied  with  twine  sit  beside  old  bottles  of  moon-charged  oil.  some  are  labeled  for  protection  or  clarity.  one  isn’t  labeled  at  all.  there’s  a  shoebox  with  melted  candle  wax,  black  feathers,  and  something  wrapped  in  cloth  she  won’t  talk  about.  a  spirit  board  stays  tucked  under  the  quilt,  only  used  when  absolutely  necessary.  her  “emergency  box”  holds  two  silver  bullets,  a  folded  letter  she  won’t  read,  a  photo  of  sly,  and  a  charm  her  mama  gave  her  before  the  pinewoods  swallowed  her  whole.

in  the  corners,  where  things  tend  to  rattle  loose  unless  properly  secured,  one  might  find  shell  casings,  a  saint  pendant  snapped  off  its  chain,  an  old  cassette  tape  labeled  “drive,  don’t  look  back,”

[myconetted]

100ft cable for sixteen bucks. even comes with nails for you to nail it to the wall. it's flat and white so you don't even notice it against a white wall. Do It.