#value of good estimator

[asestimationsconsultants]

Choosing a Reliable Residential Estimating Service

When building or renovating a home, choosing a reliable residential estimating service is one of the first and most important steps. The right estimator provides clarity, controls cost expectations, and ensures the project starts on solid financial ground. But with many service providers available, how can homeowners identify the most dependable option?

Start with Credentials

Reputable residential estimating professionals often have formal training in construction, architecture, or cost engineering. Look for credentials such as certifications from organizations like AACE or years of experience in residential construction. An experienced estimator is more likely to understand the nuances of local building codes, subcontractor rates, and material pricing.

Check Industry Experience

Experience within the residential sector is essential. Someone who typically estimates for commercial or industrial projects may not understand the specific needs of residential construction. Ask potential estimators if they’ve worked on projects similar in size, type, or complexity to yours.

Ask for Samples

Reliable services are transparent about their process and results. Ask to see sample reports, including quantity takeoffs and cost breakdowns. A professional estimator should be able to explain their methodology clearly, including how they arrive at prices, what data sources they use, and how they deal with unknowns.

Assess Communication Skills

Clear, consistent communication is a strong indicator of reliability. A trustworthy estimator listens carefully to client goals and asks clarifying questions about scope, materials, and timelines. They should provide timelines for when the estimate will be completed and follow up on any gaps in information.

Look for Client Reviews

Customer reviews are a helpful way to assess reliability. Look for positive feedback related to accuracy, responsiveness, and professionalism. If possible, ask the service for references or testimonials from recent clients, especially homeowners.

Compare Estimates

While price isn’t the only factor, very low bids may indicate a lack of thoroughness. Compare what’s included in each estimate and be cautious of vague or generalized reports. A reliable service provides detailed, traceable numbers with clear scope definitions.

Technology and Tools

Modern estimating services often use advanced software for digital takeoffs and real-time pricing. Ask if they use recognized tools like PlanSwift, Bluebeam, or RSMeans. This shows they are committed to precision and up-to-date data.

Conclusion

Choosing a reliable residential estimating service requires looking beyond pricing. It means evaluating experience, communication, process transparency, and reputation. A professional estimator helps set your project on a predictable path and acts as a financial guide from concept to completion. Investing in the right partner ensures fewer surprises and better outcomes.

[natsmagi]

[bluegiragi]

I don't want to sound rude, you may have already answered this question (if so, I'm sorry, I didn't find that answer), but I'm wondering why you're so against AI bots specificly. Obviously, this is a personal matter for everyone, but I'm a little confused by such harshness. Of course, I'm not going to prove anything to anyone, but I just wanted to understand the roots of your position. I really like your work, but to be honest, your last answers have thrown me into a kind of stupor :(

i have an ideological opposition against AI as a whole to be fair. a lot of it comes down to it's environmental impact

Globally, AI-related infrastructure may soon consume six times more water than Denmark, a country of 6 million, according to one estimate. That is a problem when a quarter of humanity already lacks access to clean water and sanitation.  

but i also believe it's inherently anti-human.

In a time when global literacy rates are diving (did you know that half of american adults read at a 6th grade level or below?) , I think it's incredibly short-sighted to be essentially surrendering your ability to write your own emails/essays/messages to an AI, when doing it yourself, despite what online contrarians will say, does have value (emails teach you how to communicate professionally, messages improve your social skills, essays improve your critical thinking skills). In this political landscape, it also feels dangerous to have your ability to read critically by yourself get dampened by AIs which are, at the end of the day, owned by silicon valley billionaires many of whom attended trump's inauguration, which is a good indication of where they lie politically.

Generative AI when it comes to art is also killing culture, removing opportunities for existing artists who are the ones who can extend the ceiling for human creation and helping society devalue art even more even though it's the only thing keeping us all sane. How would you feel if all you had in your life was just school or work, leaving out music, movies, tv shows, books, art? Doesn't art bring enough value to your life that it's worth properly compensating the people responsible for it? Why should we ever encourage or normalise throwing art into a meat grinder and feeding on the approximated soulless sludge it generates?

For AI chat bots, my beef with it is that it's an inherently anti-social product. All it does is remove the need to ever communicate with another person, which is horrible for people's brains. Some people are "falling in love" with their ai chatbot, some people are using their ai chatbots as therapists. The desire for real human connection is getting lost. An AI chatbot also makes RP obsolete, which is a foundational part of fandom which, i always feel like i need to remind people, is based on community. The point is to connect with people! I just fear that the popularisation and normalisation of this technology is going to end up with people shut in their homes their entire life, lost to whatever toxic pipeline their anti-social behaviour inevitably leads them down.

i know people love to play with AI like it's a fad, and it's "not that deep bro" but i think it's shameful and embarrassing to act as if you don't have agency in your life. You can choose to abstain from technology, you can choose to find entertainment elsewhere, you can choose to be a person independent of technology. If all AI went away tomorrow, would you be able to still do your job? Write a story? Read a book and understand its meaning? AI is a product built on instant gratification and entitlement - not to get too deep on an ask about AI chatbots, but i think art, relationships, culture, all of it is worth the journey to get there.

[txttletale]

genuinely curious but I don't know how to phrase this in a way that sounds less accusatory so please know I'm asking in good faith and am just bad at words

what are your thoughts on the environmental impact of generative ai? do you think the cost for all the cooling system is worth the tasks generative ai performs? I've been wrangling this because while I feel like I can justify it as smaller scales, that would mean it isn't a publicly available tool which I also feel uncomfortable with

the environmental impacts of genAI are almost always one of three things, both by their detractors and their boosters:

vastly overstated

stated correctly, but with a deceptive lack of context (ie, giving numbers in watt-hours, or amount of water 'used' for cooling, without necessary context like what comparable services use or what actually happens to that water)

assumed to be on track to grow constantly as genAI sees universal adoption across every industry

like, when water is used to cool a datacenter, that datacenter isn't just "a big building running chatgpt" -- datacenters are the backbone of the modern internet. now, i mean, all that said, the basic question here: no, i don't think it's a good tradeoff to be burning fossil fuels to power the magic 8ball. but asking that question in a vacuum (imo) elides a lot of the realities of power consumption in the global north by exceptionalizing genAI as opposed to, for example, video streaming, or online games. or, for that matter, for any number of other things.

so to me a lot of this stuff seems like very selective outrage in most cases, people working backwards from all the twitter artists on their dashboard hating midjourney to find an ethical reason why it is irredeemably evil.

& in the best, good-faith cases, it's taking at face value the claims of genAI companies and datacenter owners that the power usage will continue spiralling as the technology is integrated into every aspect of our lives. but to be blunt, i think it's a little naive to take these estimates seriously: these companies rely on their stock prices remaining high and attractive to investors, so they have enormous financial incentives not only to lie but to make financial decisions as if the universal adoption boom is just around the corner at all times. but there's no actual business plan! these companies are burning gigantic piles of money every day, because this is a bubble

so tldr: i don't think most things fossil fuels are burned for are 'worth it', but the response to that is a comprehensive climate politics and not an individualistic 'carbon footprint' approach, certainly not one that chooses chatgpt as its battleground. genAI uses a lot of power but at a rate currently comparable to other massively popular digital leisure products like fortnite or netflix -- forecasts of it massively increasing by several orders of magnitude are in my opinion unfounded and can mostly be traced back to people who have a direct financial stake in this being the case because their business model is an obvious boondoggle otherwise.

[pucksandpower]

Racing Hearts

Lando Norris x cardiopulmonary technician!Reader

Summary: you’ve had a way of making Lando’s heart race since the moment he met you

You glance down at your clipboard as your next patient walks into the exercise physiology lab. “Lando Norris?” You ask, looking up with a smile.

The young British man grins back at you. “That’s me!”

“Excellent! I’m Y/N, I’ll be your technician today. We’re just going to do a simple cardiopulmonary exercise test to get some baseline numbers before the start of the season.”

Lando nods, looking around the lab curiously. “No problem, happy to be poked and prodded in the name of science and fast cars.”

You laugh as you gesture for him to take a seat. “Don’t worry, I promise to be gentle,” you joke. “I’m just going to put some electrodes on your chest to monitor your heart rate, then we’ll get you on the treadmill for the test.”

“Sounds good,” Lando says, settling onto the exam table.

You start placing the sticky electrode pads across his chest and ribs, trying not to blush at his shirtless state. Formula 1 drivers really are fit underneath those racing suits.

“So how’s preseason training going?” You ask conversationally as you work. “Think McLaren has a chance this year?”

Lando grins. “I’m feeling good! Me and the team have been putting in a lot of hard work over the winter. I’m definitely aiming higher than 6th in the championship.”

You smile as you finish placing the electrodes and motion for him to stand. “That’s the spirit. Alright, hop up on the treadmill and we’ll get you moving.”

Lando steps up onto the machine and you start it up slowly, increasing the speed in measured increments. “I’ll take you up to a brisk jog, then we’ll keep you there for about 10 minutes while I monitor your heart rate, breathing, and oxygen levels,” you explain.

“Sounds gucci,” Lando replies with a thumbs up, his breath starting to quicken as the treadmill pace increases.

You make sure the electrode leads are secure, then step back to observe the incoming data on the computer screen. Lando’s lean legs stride smoothly along the treadmill belt as you keep a close watch on his vitals, making notes on your clipboard. After a few minutes, you frown slightly at the heart rate readout. It seems unusually elevated for an elite athlete like Lando, even at this moderate jogging pace.

“How are you feeling Lando?” You call out. “Everything okay?”

“All … good,” he huffs out, face flushed from the exertion.

You hesitate, glancing between him and the concerning heart rate values on the screen. “It’s just that your heart rate is a bit higher than I would expect,” you say slowly. “Are you feeling any chest pain or tightness?”

Lando shakes his head. “No, no, nothing like that. I feel fine!” He insists breathlessly.

You bite your lip, still frowning. “Your heart rate is quite high though, over 85% of estimated max. For an experienced athlete I would expect values closer to 70-80% at this pace.”

“Oh … yeah, maybe it’s a bit high,” Lando acknowledges, starting to breathe harder. “But don’t worry about me, I’m fit as a fiddle!”

You reach over to slow the treadmill slightly. “Let’s bring the pace down a bit. I’m concerned about these heart rate readings. We should really have you checked out by a cardiologist before the season starts.”

Lando grabs the front handrails, shaking his head stubbornly. “No, no that’s not necessary, really! I’m fine, just maybe didn’t warm up enough.”

You give him a skeptical look. “Lando, as your technician I have to advise getting this looked at. Your heart rate is elevated beyond normal parameters.”

Lando chews his lip, glancing away evasively. “Um, well … maybe there’s a reason for that.”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “What do you mean? Like a medical condition you haven’t told me about?”

“No, no nothing like that!” Lando says quickly. He mumbles something under his breath you can’t quite make out over the whir of the treadmill.

“Sorry, what was that?” You ask, leaning closer. “I couldn’t hear you.”

“Oh, uh … it was nothing,” Lando mutters, face reddening further.

You stop the treadmill completely so you can hear him better, folding your arms over your clipboard. “Lando, if there’s something I should know that’s affecting your test results, you need to tell me. As your technician, I really think we should get your heart looked at just to be safe.”

Lando locks eyes with you for a moment, hesitation written across his features. He mumbles again under his breath, so quietly you can’t discern the words.

You hold his gaze firmly. “One more time, please. It’s really important that I understand what’s going on so I can interpret these results accurately.”

Lando breaks eye contact, looking down at his feet. He kicks lightly at the motionless treadmill belt, before finally whispering. “It’s you, alright?”

You blink in surprise. “Me? What do you mean?”

Lando glances up at you briefly, his face now tomato-red. “You’re … the reason my heart rate is high,” he mumbles.

You stare at him in confusion. “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

Lando groans, covering his face with his hands. “Because … I really fancy you, okay?” He admits, the words muffled into his palms. “You’re just … totally gorgeous and sweet and it makes me nervous and … my heart rate goes mad around pretty girls I like.”

Your eyes widen in understanding, feeling your own cheeks flush bright pink. “Oh! Oh ...”

Lando peeks out at you between splayed fingers. “Yeah, so that’s why it’s high. Not because I have some underlying heart condition.” He gives you a sheepish smile. “Just because my technician is really fit.”

You let out an awkward laugh, suddenly feeling shy. “Wow, uh … I’m flattered, Lando. I didn’t realize ...”

Lando drops his hands from his face, looking at you earnestly. “Sorry, is that weird? I know we just met and you’re doing your job.” He fidgets with the electrode wires across his chest. “Don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything.”

You smile warmly back at him, feeling butterflies in your own stomach. “Don’t be silly. It’s not weird at all. Honestly, I, uh … also think you’re really cute,” you admit with bashful grin.

Lando’s eyes light up. “Yeah?” A wide, delighted smile spreads across his face.

You nod, laughing softly. “Yeah, I may have been trying not to blush myself with you shirtless here in my lab.”

“Well I’m certainly not complaining about the view either,” Lando says cheekily.

You smack his arm playfully. “I’m being professional here!”

“And doing a great job,” Lando says, smile softening. “But maybe once we’re done with all this boring medical stuff … we could get dinner? If you want?” He looks at you hopefully.

Your heart flutters with excitement. “I’d really like that.” You smile at each other giddily for a moment before you clear your throat. “But first, we really should finish your assessment properly.”

Lando laughs, nodding. “Of course, you’re the boss!”

You roll your eyes affectionately. “Alright, hop back on the treadmill. And this time just focus on your breathing and try not to make eyes at the pretty technician,” you tease.

“No promises there,” Lando quips with a grin as he steps back onto the belt.

You just smile and shake your head as you start up the machine once more, unable to keep your own heart rate from quickening in anticipation of what promises to be a very special dinner date after the test is complete.

***

Several Months Later

You glance down nervously at your paddock pass as you make your way through the crowded paddock. As an unofficial member of Lando’s training team now, you have full access to the exclusive behind-the-scenes world of Formula 1. But despite months of dating the British driver, the glamorous circus still feels surreal.

Dodging golf carts and important looking people with headsets, you head for the McLaren garage. Lando had told you to meet him there before the start of the race. Your heart flutters, as it always does at the thought of seeing him again.

“Y/N!” Lando greets you brightly as you enter the garage. Engine roars echo around you as mechanics make final tweaks to the cars before wheeling them to the grid.

“Good luck today!” You tell Lando, leaning up on your toes to kiss him sweetly.

“With you here, how can I lose?” He grins down at you. His energy is infectious.

You chat together as the cars are lined up on the starting grid, Lando bouncing excitedly in his race suit. You squeeze his gloved hand. “Be safe out there.”

“Always am, love.” He winks before pulling on his helmet and climbing into the cockpit.

You make your way back to the McLaren hospitality suite to watch the start of the race. Your heart pounds as the lights go out and the F1 cars launch forward in a roar of engines. Lando makes a clean getaway, slotting into P5 heading into the first turn.

The race unfolds smoothly, Lando maintaining his position in the top five. You watch tensely on the monitors, hands clenched.

But on lap 38, disaster strikes. Heading into a fast sweeper, the Red Bull of Sergio Perez attempts a risky overtake maneuver on Lando’s inside. They collide in a shower of carbon fiber and a plume of smoke.

You gasp sharply as Lando’s car spins off into the gravel trap, coming to rest against the barrier at an abrupt stop. The McLaren crew monitor the radio channels anxiously.

“Lando, are you okay mate?” His engineer asks urgently.

“Yeh … I’m okay ...” Lando’s labored voice comes back. “Bit winded but I’m alright.”

You breathe a deep sigh of relief along with the crew. The medical car is quickly dispatched to the scene. Lando climbs unsteadily from the battered car, sitting down in the gravel trap as he awaits assistance.

Your adrenaline surging, you take off from the garage the moment you see Lando is out of the car safely. Jogging through the paddock, you make your way swiftly to the medical center.

As you rush in, Lando is just being helped onto an examination table by two medics. He’s dusty and sweaty, his hair sticking up at all angles from where he pulled off his helmet. But otherwise he seems intact.

“Lando!” You hurry over, emotions welling up at seeing him battered but in one piece.

“Y/N, hey ...” Lando greets you with a weary but reassuring smile. He reaches for your hand which you clutch tightly.

One medic cuts away the top of Lando’s racing suit, placing electrodes on his chest to monitor his heart rhythm. You hover anxiously as they check him over.

“Heart rate is quite elevated,” the doctor frowns as he reads the monitor. He glances between you and Lando with concern. “Any chest pain or tightness?”

Lando huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. He looks up at you, his green eyes glinting. “Nah, doc. She’s the reason for the fast heartbeat.”

You feel your cheeks flush as Lando grins. The medic looks confused.

“See, ever since Y/N came into my life, she’s made my heart race a mile a minute,” Lando explains cheekily.

You smack his arm but can’t help laughing too. Trust Lando to still be flirting from a hospital bed.

“Ah, young love,” the doctor chuckles. “Well, your heart may beat for her, but let’s still do a full check to be safe.”

Lando nods agreeably, though his gaze stays fixed on you. He winces slightly as they palpate his ribs and abdomen, checking for injuries.

You cling to his hand, emotionally drained from the scare but overwhelmed with relief that he seems okay. Lando keeps stealing glances at you through the examination.

Finally the doctor steps back. “All done. Amazingly, you’ve escaped with just some bruising. No breaks or internal injuries. You were lucky today.”

The medic packs up his equipment. “Get some rest and ice those sore spots. But overall good news. No reason you can’t race in two weeks’ time.”

“Phew, that’s a relief!” Lando says. He thanks the doctors as you help him down from the table.

Arm wrapped supportively around him, you make your slow way out of the medical center towards the McLaren motorhome.

“Thank you for being here,” Lando murmurs, leaning his head on your shoulder as you walk.

You kiss his dusty hair. “I’m just glad you’re okay. You scared me to death out there!”

“I know, sorry about that, love. It happened so fast.” He lifts his head to look at you sincerely. “But I’m alright. Just grateful to have you by my side.”

You stop, turning to face him fully. Reaching up, you caress his cheek gently. “I’ll always be right here by your side.”

Lando’s eyes shine. “Is it cheesy to say you make my heart race in the best way?”

Laughing softly, you pull him into a tender kiss. For this brief moment, nothing else matters but the two of you.

Lando sighs contentedly when you eventually pull back. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

You squeeze his hand, smiling up at him. “The feeling’s mutual. Now let’s get you rested up. I want my favorite driver back to full fitness ASAP.”

With his arm wrapped warmly around your shoulders, you’re reminded that no matter what challenges life brings, your hearts will keep racing together as one.

***

It’s a quiet night and you and Lando are cuddling in bed together after a long day. Lando’s arms are wrapped securely around you, your head resting comfortably on his chest. His fingers idly trace delicate patterns along your back as you lay pressed close, breathing in sync.

Though it’s late, you can tell Lando’s mind is still wide awake, trailing far from the coziness of your shared bed. His pensive silence prompts you to prop yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him with a curious smile.

“Penny for your thoughts, love?”

Lando blinks up at you before giving a small, distracted smile. “Oh, it’s nothing really ...”

You raise a knowing eyebrow. “Lando, I can always tell when something’s on your mind.” You brush a lock of hair back from his forehead tenderly. “Talk to me?”

Lando chews his lip, eyes darting away evasively. Finally he lets out a long breath, arms tightening around your waist. “I guess … I’ve just been thinking about when I picked you up earlier today.”

You think back to the afternoon when Lando swung by your lab after work like usual. “What about it?”

“Well, when I pulled up out front, I saw one of your patients leaving the exercise center,” Lando explains. His brow furrows slightly. “Some tall, muscular bloke in running shorts.”

“Oh, that was probably Brandon — he’s a sprinter I had in for VO2 max testing,” you reply casually before pausing. “Wait … you’re not jealous, are you?”

“No! No, of course not,” Lando says quickly. But the way his eyes shift away makes you think otherwise.

You frown slightly, snuggling closer against his chest. “Lando, you know you have absolutely no reason to be jealous. I only have eyes for you,” you murmur reassuringly.

Lando sighs, arms tightening around your back. “I know, I know. It’s stupid ...” He trails off, looking conflicted.

You lay a comforting hand along his jaw. “Talk to me, love. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Lando meets your earnest gaze, emotions swirling in his eyes. “I just … I wonder sometimes why you picked me, you know? You meet guys like that every day. And I’m just ...” he shrugs self-consciously.

Your heart squeezes at the vulnerable admission. You tenderly stroke Lando’s cheek. “Hey … you listen to me. You’re the only one I want. All those other athletes are just patients to me. But you ...” You smile down at him adoringly. “You’re the one who makes my heart race with just a look. The one I want to spend all my time with. The one I love with my entire heart.”

The corner of Lando’s mouth lifts in a faint, tentative smile at your words. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely,” you whisper fervently. Leaning down, you capture his lips in a sweet, loving kiss. “You’re my once in a lifetime, Lando. My soulmate. Meeting you was destiny.”

Lando’s arms wrap tightly around you again, the last of the tension fading from his frame. “I’m sorry I got all insecure like that. I know I’m being silly.” He presses an apologetic kiss to your hair. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You nuzzle your face lovingly against his neck. “You were just yourself — that funny, charming, incredible guy I fell for the moment we met.” You lift your head to meet his eyes again. “I never stood a chance. My heart was yours from the start.”

A smile breaks across Lando’s face at last. “I really am the luckiest bloke in the world, aren’t I?”

“Damn right you are,” you say teasingly, making him laugh. Your expression softens. “But truly, you have absolutely nothing to worry about. My heart only races for you. It always will.”

Lando’s eyes gleam with renewed confidence and adoration as he rolls you both over so he’s hovering above you. “Well in that case, what do you say we get your heart racing again?” He murmurs playfully, brushing his nose against yours.

You grin up at him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “I’d say you’re on.”

Lando’s smile widens as he dips his head to meet your lips in a passionate kiss. Your pulse immediately quickens at his touch, heart thrumming as you arch up into him.

When Lando finally pulls back for air, his eyes are dancing. “Yep, definitely racing,” he laughs breathlessly, lifting your hand to his lips to kiss your pulse point.

You shake your head in amusement, heart overflowing with love for this man. “You’re the only one for me. Today, tomorrow, and always.”

Lando’s smile softens to something tender and reverent. “And you’re my once in a lifetime, Y/N.” He brushes his thumb along your cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you whisper. And as his lips find yours again, you let yourself get lost in his kiss, your racing hearts beating as one.

[shiny-jr]

I’ve just had a vision, what if a yan (e.g riddle or vil because they are most princess-ish) was a trapped in a castle away like in one of those stereotypical fairy tales and the reader decides to save them because they are a ‘damsel in distress’ and reader is like a hero… only to realise there is a reason why they were locked away (because they were batshit crazy)

Warning: Yandere. Gender-neutral reader.

Characters: Vil Schoenheit.

Summary: You are a thief with freshly stolen goods. Chased and hunted down, you avoid capture by finding a castle hidden in gloom and fog. Locals told legends of this place, saying a royal had been trapped within. Of course, you don't quite believe such tall tales. That is, until you discover the royal and learned that they were purposefully sealed inside...

Note: I think I'll call this one, not your valiant savior. It's just a placeholder name for now. Just a quick post, so sorry if it's bad.

It was too easy. What did they expect when they left out a priceless object owned by the royal family and estimated to be worth a fortune? Of course a famed thief on the loose such as yourself, would just be itching to snatch the relic. And snatch you did, living up to your reputation of thief. Each member having unique abilities to assist in stealing. Your mother had speed to outrun anyone in a chase, your grandfather had the talent of picking any locks, your great-grandmother could sweet-talk anyone then rob them blind. And so on and so forth.

And of course, you had your own talent. As quiet as a mouse and with fingers that stuck to valuables like glue, stealing became like second nature. Literally. However, it wasn't exactly a talent valued by the wider community, and if you stole enough you could end up on terribly drawn wanted posters. Which is why staying in one place wasn't wise.

From place to place, you went taking and claiming anything of worth. When you got very low on cash, you set your sights high: on the vault that stored the royal's priceless treasures. There was bound to be endless riches stored within, if only you could get your grubby hands on them. Well, after careful planning, you had. It wasn't a giant gem or sack full of gold.

Time was short, so you had grabbed the closest thing you could before guards could find you. A golden box encrusted with jewels. Who knew what was inside? Maybe some family heirloom, a magical artifact, or something else of high value. And with the box, you bolted, and the chase had begun out of the city and through the woods.

As fast as you could, you ran through the mystic woods, a forrest travelers and locals alike were all wary of. It was the safest place you could go when chased by frightening palace guards on horseback that would do anything to take back what you stole and drag you back to the gallows. Even the woods heavy with fog and dark from the clouds overhead, had deterred your pursuers enough for you to slip out of their reach and deeper into the forrest where there was no way they would be able to track you. Here, you would have to wait until tomorrow and depart early. Then, you'd be home free and rich beyond your wildest dreams.

After what felt like hours of walking, you stumbled upon a bridge over a gloomy lake. In the middle, sat an old castle of gray stone and dark windows. A castle once said to hold a royal captive, but of course, you didn't believe such stories that were so old they were told to your own grandparents. This castle would be your sanctuary for the night. And maybe, just maybe, you'd clutch the jeweled box and dream of simpler times when you were told fairytales of locked away royals waiting for a savior.

The castle was exactly like those set in spooky tales, haunted by vengeful spirits and claimed by ghosts. It appeared abandoned, that much was obvious by the crumbling stone bridge and the battered old wooden doors that once protected the inhabitants.

Cautiously stepping over the splintered debris of the front door, you didn’t bother boarding it up since no one would be stupid enough to follow you inside.

There was wreckage and ruin everywhere. If you had to guess, whatever happened here, whether the people were driven away by conflict or time, it was followed by the destruction of time. Time with weather were likely all factors that led to the disarray of what was probably once a grand estate. Strangely enough, there was furniture and decor. Everything coated in dust and grime, but still here. Had people been too afraid to enter the grounds? There were so many valuables that could've been looted!

"I'll definitely have to come back here later." You scoff, turning over a few clothes or broken furniture with your foot to uncover possible hidden goodies. Maybe something as small but valuable as a ring was lost somewhere on the ground.

Proceeding to carry the golden box under your arm, you decide to search for the cleaniest, not-so-moldy room where you could spend the night. On the third floor halls, you see ripped curtains and frames where portraits loosely hung. Every rug was brown with dirt and dust.

There were items left behind, which showcased the life one led here. A piano too big to steal, the skeleton of a chandelier and broken gems hanging from its limbs, empty glass perfume bottles now filled with dust. The place must've been wondrous once, but now it was like a tomb. A setting frozen in time.

When you found moonlight filtering through the open balcony of what looked to be the master bedroom, you paused to see the space wrecked more than the others. As if more than just weather and time had affected this place. The owner of this castle likely slept in this very room, on that very bed where the sheets were ruffled and unkempt.

"I wonder who used to live here..." You murmur to no one in particular, as you approach the balcony looking over the bridge and woods. This would be a good vantage point.

A heavy fog settled over the woods, extending over the bridge like water. Good, an extra layer for cover. You stepped back into the room, analyzing every carved piece of wooden furniture, makeup and brushes stored on tabletops, a separate room as long as a hallway and filled with all types of articles of clothing.

If all this was still here, then was it possible some jewelry was left behind? You scoured the room, looking for hidden compartments while murmuring to yourself to fill the ominous silence. As you pulled back a curtain against a wall, you furrowed your eyebrows when you saw an uneven lump underneath the wallpaper.

Could this be handle leading to a vault of treasures? With that in mind, you ripped off the old wallpaper. A glimmer of gold made your heart soar with hope, but when you caught sight of your reflection, you stopped and stared. A mirror. It was a large mirror, oval shaped, with golden borders so intricately decorated. However, when a hand suddenly appeared on the other side of the mirror, like a ghostly apparition, you screamed and stumbled back.

A hand– there was a hand in the mirror! You stared with widened eyes full of shock, as the hand pressed its palm against the surface of the glass. You couldn't see anything else, no one behind the hand. After a second, the slim pale hand delicately pointed a long dainty finger at the box you were holding in a vice grip.

"What...? This? You want this? But..."

You had worked hard to procure this golden box from the royals. Pursing your lips, you contemplated your options, with so many questions running rampant in your mind. What was that thing? A magic mirror? A magic mirror would be priceless, much more valuable than any gold. However, if it was magic, it would be tricky. Possibly even sentient. So you'd have to gain its favor.

"Alright, alright, the box. You know, I went through hell trying to get this."

You informed the mirror, unsure if it even understood you. You carefully set down the heavy box in front of the mirror, and watch as the hand made a motion with its fingers.

Click!

It had unlocked the box, without even a key or tool. A grin broke out on your face. Had it done it for you? Apparently not, because the box opened on its own and a heavy thick tome floated out from it and into the air. The hand beckoned the tome closer, and closer it came, until it was literally phasing through the glass.

"Hey! Wait––"

The glass shattered, the sound booming and ringing out in the silence like an explosion. You only had a second to react, instinctually using your arms to shield your face from the glass flying out in every direction. When it stopped, you looked around. The mattress was shredded, the curtains torn to shreds, wooden furniture cut as if done by an axe, but miraculously you were somehow unharmed.

A breath, not of your own, caught your attention. Your eyes darted over to the now broken mirror, awestruck at the vision of a figure stepping over broken glass. They were beautiful, gorgeous, stunning, more than any words could convey. Their hair like gold and eyes an alluring shade of purple like two amethyst stones, soft pink lips, and a tall slim pale figure clothed in odd robes. For a moment, whoever this person was, appeared disoriented for a brief moment, but they clutched the tome like a lifeline. The tome that came from the box you had stolen.

"Thank you––"

He breathed, his voice quiet as he attempted to stand tall and upright. When his legs nearly gave out beneath him, you were there to catch his hand and prevent him from falling as he looked at you with appreciation. You were just stunned, bewildered, in pure disbelief.

"You... You freed me. You returned my stolen tome...!"

He exclaimed in disbelief, as he restored his posture. Somehow, he was able to stand in heels, but heels were currently one of the least important details.

What did he mean freed?

There was no time to ask any questions. The loud sound of the shattering must've alerted any of your pursuers that had followed you thus far, because from the balcony you could make out the torchlights weaving their way directly towards the bridge.

The mysterious man from the mirror took notice of your expression of dismay as he glanced at the distant torchlights. Smoothing out his robes, he looked back at you and took in your expression. "Enemies of yours?"

"Yes..." You nod slowly.

"Now that just won't do. I can't have anyone harming, or even killing my savior. I've yet to even learn your name." Tapping some well-manicured fingers against the spine of the tome, he appeared to contemplate something. When he stopped tapping his fingers, he smiled so sweetly. "I am Vil Schoenheit, prince and prodigy. Here's my proposition to you, my savior: I will destroy your enemies for a small price. You must tell me your name, and I will grant you my protection."

Of course you gave him your name, and almost immediately you saw the fog below turn an odd color. The torchlights flickered out, you no longer heard their encouraged shouts to move forward but instead their screams echoing in the dark woods. All after Vil murmured a few words in a foreign tongue read from his tome, as he continued to gaze at your intently. What exactly was he to cause so much death in a single instant with hardly any effort...? And you were stuck in this abandoned castle with him.

The prince had no plans to abandon you, he's made that much clear when you attempted to casually part ways after thanking him for getting rid of your pursuers. Stay. I can make it worth your while. Once I reach my former glory, you'll be able to bask in it with me. Is what he said as you swore you heard the front of the castle be sealed shut.

The entire time he looked around the castle with disdain, cross as he complained about the state of his home. While helping him clean up some rooms, he told you more about himself. Vil was a prince who once lived in this castle, set to inherent the throne shortly after the death of his father. However, he was widely feared due to being a prodigy in dark magics and genius at brewing concoctions. For attempting to steal the life of a younger kinder foreign prince who specialized in good magic, he was trapped in a mirror with his tome being the only key to grant him freedom.

Vil actually appeared to be much too fond of you, which you attributed to his isolation. If you were imprisoned all alone in a mirror for centuries, you likely would've gone insane. It was a miracle Vil's mind was intact, but maybe he wasn't there entirely. Because what sane person killed people with the snap of their fingers while smiling so kindly at the one who set him free?

Pridefully he listed off his feats and accomplishments. Living prodigy. Most beautiful man in the land. Prince of the land. It felt too much like flaunting, as he wanted you to realize how truly great he was. He replaced your clothes with his own, and while combing your hair he reminded you that what's rightfully his will be returned to him one day, and you would be there beside him that day.

The crown was what he wanted, a crown he believed was stolen from him and passed down to the descendants of the very good prince he attempted to kill. He spoke of a future in the castle restored to its former glory, where citizens would be loyal to him once again, and those that wronged him will receive a fate worse than death. Positions were open for applying once he became king, he told you one day. He was still searching for a vassal, a knight, a jester, or a partner to wear a crown as well.

Was it the isolation that had driven him to become so attached to the one who set him free? It was possible, but you couldn't even be sure. For all you knew, he could've been like this before he became trapped in the mirror. What mattered now was that he did not make any effort to hide his attraction towards you. Vil was offering a thief all the riches he would attain after his plan for vengeance, and his heart in a golden box.

"Keep the knives I gifted you, although I doubt you'll have to resort to lifting a finger. Just allow me to handle it when the time comes. I want to extract vengeance slowly and painfully, make them hurt just as they did to me... And at the end of the day, you will be there, you little thief who stole my affections, to comfort me and drive away those memories of cold lonely centuries in darkness. You'll be there for me, won't you, my valiant savior?"

[minetteskvareninova]

I am not on Bluesky and you cannot make me join, but if there was anything that could make me do it, it would be seeing this contrarian bullshit while procrastinating from studying on my Early Modern History exams. Because someone needs to give these historically illiterate morons a reality check.

Listen. I don't *like* Middle Ages. I don't vibe with their art, philosophy, politics, anything. But they existed. They brought something of value to the world. Over the course of the Middle Ages, Europe experienced important societal developments. Without these developments, renaissance literally wouldn't happen. Renaissance was in many ways (art, philosophy, science) a continuation of the Middle Ages, in that there really isn't hard cut between Late Medieval period and the renaissance. In other ways, it was exactly like the Middle Ages AND WORSE. The panic over witchcraft reached its zenith in the 16th and the first half of the 17th century. Lots of unscientific bullshit about medicine, alchemy etc. was still going strong well into the 17th century. In fact, 17th century really was the worst, I'd just despise it with all my heart if it wasn't for a few bright spots like baroque architecture, beginnings of the scientific revolution and the like. And are you seriously calling out medieval Europeans for their silly religious beliefs and tendency for violence when renaissance was THE era of bullshit religious conflicts?! Like, my man! Thirty Years wasn't a medieval thing! Even the thing about "going to war with your cousin" - THAT'S LITERALLY WAR OF SPANISH SUCCESSION WHAT ARE YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT

I am not even going to talk about the 16th and 17th century on other continents, because in the Americas it was the era of LITERAL APOCALYPSE. Like how can you talk about any progress when that part of the world saw a brutality that would make the crusaders blush.

It sucks that Early Modern Era still effectively doesn't exist in the popular imagination. Its best parts are subsumed into "renaissance" and "enlightenment". Its worst parts are grouped in with the Middle Ages - not the least because they didn't actually improve that much, and in fact got worse a lot of the time. But you cannot celebrate the art of Da Vinci and just ignore the atmosphere of constant warfare between petty duchies it was born in. That's not how historical eras work. In fact, historical eras aren't really discreet categories with a clear cutoff point, but more like approximate divisions of a continuum. There is very little that separates the art of 1599 from 1600, but by 1650, you do kinda start seeing the difference.

Also! I know I keep repeating this, but Middle Ages didn't suck equally throughout their entirety. "Dark Ages" were the Early Medieval Era, which itself was a several centuries long period by most estimates. High Middle Ages were mostly as good as the Middle Ages got, you get gothic architecture, invention of universities, scholastic philosophy, the works. 14th century is when the things really start to suck again, Black Plague comes, you get wars and peasant rebellions, yada yada. But you also get the earliest "renaissance" art, so if you like that style, you can't disavow the Middle Ages entirely. And the 15th century is also mostly bad, except that one is when the renaissance and humanism period begins in earnest, so.

[barnesunlight]

oh and can i order a souffle featuring george weasley with reader being grumpy? thank u so much!

soufflé: “why are you so grumpy all the time?”

view the menu here!

George was used to your frown. Your eyes would slightly crinkle, and you would sigh before inevitably pulling your lips downwards into the most adorable frown.

He was the first thing he noticed about you, and the first thing he brought up when you talked for the first time.

"Why are you so grumpy all the time?" he asked, genuinely curious. You simply gave him a look full of digust before walking away.

He could take the hint, but he didnt want to. You didnt really have friends, sticking to two people, Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbottom, two people that were your complete opposite, and it was easy for him to approach you at any given chance.

The first couple of days you wouldn't give him a second look before walking away. The next week he started coming up with what he thought were amazing pickup lines. By the way you looked up at him, you didnt agree.

Slowly but surely, you started warming up to him, George could tell because instead of walking away in disgust, you would simply frown at him. Not progress in anyone's book but his.

"I'm not very good at math but I can give you the value you deserve." George grinned as he slid into the seat next to you during breakfast.

Fred was far behind you, and he shot his brother a thumbs up, you on the other hand sighed, hand reaching over to grab a loaf.

"That doesn't apply here," you spoke, Georges's mouth went agape, was this about to be your first-ever conversation? Yes, you two were making progress, but he estimated your first conversation to be at least two weeks from now. "You had an 'Exceeds Expectations' in math."

Contrary to popular belief, George was not all dumb. He especially had a talent in Mathematics.

"And you had an 'Acceptable?" George replied, not exactly knowing how to continue the conversation. He was not prepared for this.

You didn't reply, simply frowned, "I like your frown." George coughed eyeing Neville, who was definitely talking about you two to Luna.

"Isn't the normal saying 'I like your smile?" you questioned, tilting your head slightly.

"You don't smile."

"Yeah."

"It's okay, I don't think I would like your smile anyways," George said, immediately regretting it, eyes wide as you turned to him with a blank face.

"Okay George," you said, frowning at him before getting up from the table.

George watched you walk away with an adoring smile, he nudged the random kid sitting next to him, nodding over to you, "That's my future girlfriend over there."

[comicaurora]

When creating art, how do you deal with the fact that seemingly everyone's opinions and tastes are completely individual? Like, how do you make good art, when around 40-50% of what even is "good art" changes from person to person? Sure, we have points we can all agree, but I'm baffled by how three people can agree and disagree on the same pieces of media. I can like movies A and B, and feel like they're very alike, but a friend might love B and hate A and another friend thinks the opposite.

The confusion is because "good" is being used to mean several different things:

To My Personal Taste. If you like a piece of art, you could very easily describe it as good just because you had a good time with it.

Well Put Together. If a story is well-crafted, lacking in plotholes or contrivances, broadly carefully woven, makes sense the more you think about it, etc - you could deem it to be good because it's been put together well. If a work of art looks good, the light sources and shadows make sense with one another, the colors work well together, the composition has clarity, the anatomy is correct - then the work was put together competently and skillfully, and could be called good for this reason.

Objective Quality. When people describe a movie as good, this is usually what they are trying to judge. Whether an objective judgment can be rendered on something as subjective as art is something people have been yelling about for centuries. In my estimation, the quality of a work has to be judged based on what the artist was going for and how close their execution was to that goal. An attempt at photorealism might be seen as "objectively bad" if it doesn't look photorealistic.

And by the same token, "bad" can mean a BUNCH of different things:

Bad Because I Had A Bad Time

Bad Because It Didn't Deliver What I Expected From It

Bad Because It Hit Me With A Personal Dealbreaker

Bad Because I Couldn't Take It Seriously

Bad Because It Didn't Make Sense To Me

Bad Because It Said Something I Really Disagreed With

And many more. This is why I think it's helpful to unpack a story further than just "is it good or bad" because those judgments are almost always concealing a more interesting personal analysis. There are stories I find highly ineffective that are still professionally well-crafted and accomplishing the creator's goals. There are stories I enjoy the hell out of that are weighed down by ropey characterization and dubious values. It's usually more effective, in my experience, to narrow in and identify what parts of a work are working for you, and what parts aren't clicking.

[arc-misadventures]

C0-C0AD3L

Jaune: Okay Ren... We've got a new member to our team!

Ren: What?! Did you hire someone without my knowledge? Again.

Jaune: Okay, that wasn't my idea! You try, and refuse a Tygorix War reaper...

Ren: ...

Ren: N-No...

Jaune: Thought so.

Jaune: Okay, so... The Atlasian Commonwealth, Navel Command to be specific, assigned a Specialist to us.

Ren: ACNC? Why are they assigning one of their Specialists to us?

Jaune: They also gave us a high value bounty, then want us to capture a terrorist, a high ranking member of the White Cabal. A Falintyn who goes by the name of, A'Dim Tauriny.

Ren: The White Cabal? Why do they want us to capture a terrorist? The White Cabal is fighting against the Mistral Dynasty, the Atlasian Commonwealth has no steak in this.

Jaune: Somewhat, reports say that the White Cabal is getting support, mostly military support from the Commonwealth. Seems like they're trying to ease relations with the Mistral Dynasty by taking him in.

Ren: And, since we're bounty hunters licensed by the Commonwealth they want us to capture him, so the Commonwealth is show showing their support, but not being directly involved in it.

Jaune: And, the Specialist they've assigned to us is mostly here as a liaison between us, the Dynasty, and the Commonwealth. And, on the completion of the mission, they are to take the prisoner when we're done.

Ren: Ahh, I see where they're coming from... But, do you really want to take on this mission?

Jaune: I didn't, but then I saw the man's rap sheet, and I changed my mind...

Ren: what did this guy do?

Ren: Oh...

Ren: ...

Ren: Oh.

Ren: ...

Ren: Oh by the celestials...?!

Jaune: Yeah, bounty aside, this guys needs to go down.

Ren: Okay... So... you got a plan?

Jaune: I have one in the making, but I'll save it for when the Specialist arrives.

Ren: Smart. So, any idea on who this Specialist is?

Jaune: Yeah, they gave us a small document about them, just basic stuff, nothing deep. Let's see... They're name is C0-C0AD3L...

Ren: C0-C0AD3L? Are we working with an android?

Jaune: Uhh... Yes, and no. She is a Zelttrian.

Ren: A Zelttrian? I've never heard of those before; What are they?

Jaune: They are a tragic race, in some ways they are considered to be a dead race.

Ren: Considered to be? Clarify.

Jaune: Zelttrian's were once a, what I would describe as a humanoid race, a race of with bodies of flesh, and blood. But, five centuries ago a bio-plague spread like wildfire throughout their entire species. Completely destroying their species reproductive capabilities, rending their entire spices infertile, and slowly destroyed their bodies over time from a cellular level. It was all utterly irreversible on top of it all as well. Estimated reports said they would be rendered extinct in two centuries.

Ren: Oh gods! But, if one of them is joining us on this mission, that means they haven't gone extinct.

Jaune: Yes, and no. The last humanoid Zeittrain died about three centuries ago, as the report said. But, the Zeittrain were, and still are damn good, damn good at what they do, specifically in the creation of androids, bio-cybernetics, cloning, and neurological sciences.

Ren: Bio-cybernetics, cloning, and neurological sciences? Wait... why are you talking about such specifics specialties?

Jaune: Because, the Zeltrian's were dying out due to a genetic plague, The Sterilization Purge as they called it. They used a lot of their technological specialties to save their species. They developed through their mastery of bio-cybernetics to create 'flesh, and blood' androids that can replace their people. They used their mastery of neurological science to then transfer their minds into these androids. But, the Zeittrain's still couldn't reproduce, so they created a massive data bank filled with millions of strains of Zeittrain's DNA sequences, that they then slice into an infinite amount of a new DNA, and the create clones from these sequences.

Ren: Holy hells... But, if they were able to 'reproduce' from DNA slicing, and cloning, how come they're still an android race?

Jaune: Sadly no, The Sterilization Plague is still in those DNA sequences, and despite their best efforts they can't get rid of it. All these clones still have the Sterilization Plague so they all sterilized, and slowly dying, so when these clones reach twenty years of age their minds are transferred into an androids body.

Ren: Oh, that's a shame. But, since they're androids now they probably live longer now.

Jaune: Well, kinda. Humans, thanks to the advances of medical technologies can now live to about one hundred, and fifty. Zeittrians commonly lived to be around one hundred, and fifty years old, since becoming androids they can now live to be about two hundred years old.

Ren: They're not immortal machines?

Jaune: No, the androids body does degenerate with age considering they are designed to age like a normal Zeittrians. They did this as a means of retaining their Zeitanity...? What ever the Zeittrians equivalent of 'humanity.'

Ren: So they don't develop a god complex, and die like any of the other advance civilizations that developed god complexes?

Jaune: That, but there is also a religious belief among the Zeittrains about the sacredness of the body. Life, and death cycles, things like that. I think they find immortality an affront to their religious doctrine.

Ren: Oh that's interesting... but, can I ask you one more question, Jaune?

Jaune: Sure.

Ren: How do you know all of this? How do you know so much about an entire alien races reproductive cycle?! Is this a human thing...?

Jaune: No, it's not 'a human thing?' My favourite show growing up was "Defenders of the Cosmos." A team of renegade, freedom fighter composed from people all across the universe. My favourite character was a female Zeittrain named KY1-Z4Q6, everyone just called her, Kayz. I never heard of Zeittrian before so I did some research on them, and fell down a rabbit hole. I even used them for a history report in school, I got a hundred percent on it too!

Ren: Okay... Then you're not going to act weird around...

Jaune: C0-C0AD3L.

Ren: Around... C0-C...?

Jaune: Unless she already has a name, a nickname, whatever. I think we should just call her Coco.

Ren: 'Coco?'

Jaune: Yeah, the first four letters/numbers of her name spell coco. I think it's a nice name.

Ren: The way you're saying this, is 'coco' an actual thing?

Jaune: Yeah. 'Coco powder.' it's a key ingredient for making chocolate.

Ren: Chocolate; That brown stuff you fed me is made from a substance called, 'coco powder?' Do you really think someone whose name is...

Jaune: C0-C0AD3L...

Ren: Will they be okay with a nickname like, 'Coco?' Based off a food ingredient?

Jaune: That's not for me, or for you to decide. That's up for C0-C0AD3L...

: Coco.

Jaune: Sorry. That's not up for you, or me to decide, that's up for Coco to decide!

Ren: ...

Jaune: ...

Jaune: You weren't the one who said 'Coco.' Were you?

Ren: No... No I didn't...

Jaune: Then...?

: I did.

JR: AHHHHH?!

: ...

Ren: Hi...

Jaune: You must be, C0-C0AD3L?

: Coco... I would prefer it if you called me: 'Coco.' I've never had a nickname before, and I like the sound of it. It... It sounds cute.

Jaune: Well then Coco... Before I welcome you aboard there is something I must ask you.

Coco: Yes?

Jaune: Hod did you get aboard? The door has like seven locking mechanisms that need to be undone before even we can get in.

Coco: Door was unlocked.

Jaune: Sona'bitch!

Ren: I blame you.

Jaune: Shut up! H-How long have you been here?

Coco: Since you mentioned you had a plan in mind.

Jaune: Then that means you also heard all about the discussion we had about Zeittrain's?

Coco: I did, you are quite knowledgeable about us, for a human that is.

Ren: Did you just...? You bloody humans...

Jaune: Shut up, and go and check the ships locks.

Ren: Alright, alright...

Jaune: Well, Coco... welcome aboard the, 'Everlight!' An Atlas model XA-72 Light Corsair. Granted we've heavily modified her, so she is basically more of a Mid tier Corsair than a Light tier Corsair. And, the fact she's an Atlasian model might make my plans to capture that A'Dim fellow a little tricky...

Coco: Oh, you already have a plan to get him?

Jaune: I have one in the works; Gun running if your curious.

Coco: Gun running? Ahh, so you plan is to get close to A'Dim by selling weapons to the White Cabal... Clever. Depending on the weapons, I can acquire them for you.

Jaune: By asking the ACNC?

Coco: Yes.

Jaune: Hmmm... No, can you ask the ACNC to give us some Galactic Credits instead?

Coco: Sure, but why?

Jaune: The White Cabal doesn't trust the Commonwealth, because of their closeness to the Dynasty. We need to limit the Commonwealth's, and by extent your existence in this mission to as little as possible.

Coco: I see... I suppose ten million Galactic Credits will suffice...

Jaune: Ten million? Mmmm... Better make it fifty million. I can get better shiny trinkets with that amount of money to entice them with.

Coco: Fifty million? That may be a little difficult, but for a prize like A'Dim Tauriny, I think they'd be willing to pay for more.

Jaune: Alright then. I'll leave the money to you, and I'll get into contact with a weapon smuggler that I, somewhat trust.

Coco: Now then, can you show me to my quarters?

Jaune: Oh yeah, quarters! Sorry, talking about the plan got me distracted! T-This way.

Coco: Thank you.

Jaune: Well, your room is over here.

Coco: Hmm... looks cozy...

Jaune: Well, you get yourself comfortable. I'll be in the coms arranging a deal with a seller.

Coco: Okay.

Jaune: Okay, well I'll contact you when I get a word with a seller. Welcome aboard the 'Everlight,' Coco.

Coco: Thank you Jaune. Oh, and Jaune?

Jaune: Y-Yes?

Coco: Although we may be an android clone race... there are ways for us to reproduce with other species...

Jaune: T-There is...?

Coco: Yeah, us female Zeittrain's can collect male genetic samples, and splice them with ours in order to reproduce. They may be considered half breeds, but this practice has proven to be helpful in combating the effects of 'The Sterilization Plague. '

Jaune: Is that so... I never heard of that.

Coco: Yes. I should also mention that Zeittrain/Human offspring have proven to be particularly effective at combating the plague.

Jaune: R-Really?

Coco: Yes. So play your cards right, and I might have to thank you for your services in another way~!

Jaune: W-What way...?

Coco: Prove your value, and I'll be more than happy to show you myself. Till later Captain Arc~!

Jaune: L-Later?! W-Wait! I'm not the...

'Click.'

Jaune: Captain...

Jaune: I'm not the captain...

Jaune: Actually, who is in charge of this vessel?

Ren: You're the 'Captain Slut' if anything!

Jaune: SHUT UP REN?!

///

Writes, Smash story.

Spends two thirds world building, and creating an entire fictional race, and why they're androids than writing about romance...

Seems like something I'd do.

[legendofmorons]

Warriors and Wild who are painful reminders of the past for eachother BUT they still care. Give me brothers that would do ANYTHING for eachother BUT have a ton of almost matching baggage neither enjoys examining.

Warriors who does make Wild think of the army. Wars makes Wild think of the worst nights of his life without meaning to. Wars moves and talks like the knights Wild knows, but the knights Wild knows are HORRIBLE.

Wild Recognizes that Wars is NOT those knights. He Recognizes that Wars isn't trying to dredge up the past. He Recognizes that while he hates how effective Warrior's Captin's Voice is that Wars rarely uses it on purpose and that sometimes its good that there's that voice.

Warriors who looks at Wild and sees so many lost soilders who were still hopeful. He sees Wild and he Recognizes that the champion IS smart, and strategizes even if Wars can't always choose the same strategies. Wars looks at Wild and sees all the traits the army crushes out and is maybe even Jealous of how much easier it is for Wild to let himself have emotions. (Wether Wild actually has it easier around feeling or not is up to interpretation but Wars IS on the outside looks in...)

Wars KNOWS he can depend on Wild to step up if things go south and the plan goes out the window. He knows Wild is kind, adaptable, and capable even if he doesn't agree with all the decisions. Wars Knows Wild isn't trying to dredge up the past.

Give me Warriors and Wild who (while accurate or not) see eachother as mirrors of the past... but maybe hope for the future.

Warriors is not just a good knight and hero. He's a good and loyal man. He's got lots of integrity, and he's a good leader. Wild appreciates that most of the time, warriors can be trusted to help pull everyone through. Wild admires the easy (EXTERNAL) confidence and the ability to plan in such detail.

Wild is not just a bit of a free spirit who adores adventure, he's a kind and hardworking man. He's canonicaly good with kids (see both LU comic when he's around Wind AND Totk where we learn Wild was a teacher), he's friendly, and he's incredibly fast on his feet (physical and mental!). Wars admires his wilderness survival skills and his ability to put people at ease. The captain appreciates the work Wild does.

Give me Wars and Wild who admire eachother. Yes, they cause unpleasant memories sometimes, and yes they both Certainly annoy eachother because some of their personality traits clash a bit, but they Care about eachother.

Wild and Wars may not agree on strategy but they're able to see the value in the other ideas. They may not be best friends, they may argue over tidyness sometimes and they may even argue about authority and how far that extends bur that dosen’t mean they don't care.

For every bad memory, there's a gesture to help.

For every clash and argument there's still the trust that they want the best for eachother and the group.

Even with the distance that may very well exist between them, they are still brothers, and they are still able to step in for each other.

Wars almost never under estimates Wild. (Critical observation.)

Wild rarely puts everything on Wars. (Independence.)

Also if Wars found out about the way Wild usually (fanon?) ended up selectively Mute and in the army PRE CALMITY, the captain would have a FIT.

Give me Wild and Warriors who stay up together on the worst nights and maybe they don't have some great big philosophical conversation but they are there for eachother and a reminder that the army DIDN'T take and break everything.

I'm not sure this is coherent... my head hurts so much I can feel it in my hair...

[tacobacoyeet]

WHITE COLLAR .

Tashi Duncan, Art Donaldson, and Patrick Zweig were never meant to be criminals.

They were meant to be icons—flawless, untouchable, transcendent. The prodigies of the court. They were supposed to be the kind of legends etched into history books and Wheaties boxes, draped in gold and immortal praise. Together, they were the wings, the sandals, the laurel crown of Nike herself—divine symbols of strength, speed, and victory.

But fate, as it often does, had a different trajectory in mind.

Tashi's career ended in a single, brutal snap—an injury that never quite healed, physically or otherwise. Patrick spiraled beneath the weight of expectation, his once-electrifying talent drowned out by inconsistency and a reputation he couldn’t outrun. And Art, sweet, unshakeable Art, lost the one person who ever made the tour feel like home. When his grandmother died, something essential inside him went quiet. He didn’t walk away from tennis. He simply stopped showing up.

The three of them could’ve faded then. Could’ve let the world move on without them. Could’ve become cautionary tales whispered about in locker rooms and bar corners. But they didn’t. They wouldn’t. Being forgotten was never going to be enough.

The spark came from Patrick, as it often did. He was crashing in another woman’s bed—charming, broke, and always a little too clever for his own good—when he noticed the vase. It stood on a pedestal near the window, backlit by city lights. Porcelain. Imperial yellow. Eighteenth-century Qing dynasty. The kind of thing you see once in a lifetime, if you're lucky—or reckless.

While she was in the bathroom, he did a quick google search. Qianlong era. Estimated value: nine million dollars.

That night, Patrick did something he never did—he scheduled a second date. Then he called Art. Then he called Tashi.

The plan was stupid at first. Then brilliant. Then inevitable.

Ten years later, they were infamous.

The trio had become the most elusive white-collar criminals on the international stage. They slipped through countries and identities like water, leaving behind only splintered champagne bottles, forged documents, and the distinct scent of audacity. Their work was seamless, often beautiful, always just out of reach. They didn’t chase greatness anymore. They stole it—paintings, diamonds, tax codes, ancient artifacts, entire reputations.

And despite the dossiers, the witness statements, the surveillance photos and whispered confessions, not a single case ever stuck. No court ever held them. No handcuffs ever locked.

But there was you.

The head of the FBI’s White Collar Crime Division in New York. Unshakable, relentless, methodical. You’ve built an entire career on patterns no one else sees, on connections no one else believes in until it’s too late. You know them better than anyone else alive. You know their methods, their tells, the rare moments they falter.

They know you, too.

You’re not just a threat—you’re a problem. The kind they can’t buy, charm, or blackmail their way out of. They laugh about you sometimes, over drinks in villas under fake names. But lately, the laughter’s been thinner.

Because you’re getting closer.

And this time, they feel it.

tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow @soulxinxthexsky @voidsuites @elsieblogs @deeninadream

[sightseertrespasser]

"I have a whole other tangent I could elaborate on about Tacnet specifically" Staring at you with big HUGE eyes. I would love to hear the tangent

Alrighty then.

First things first, what is Tacnet?

Sometimes also referred to as a Battle computer, Tacnet is short for Tactical Network and its ostensibly the worlds most demented excel spreadsheet.

In more literal terms, Tacnet is a type of supercomputer.

Supercomputers are incredibly useful pieces of technology. Able to run simulations, predictive algorithms and utilizing real world statistics to essentially speculate the past, present or future. The bottleneck for a regular old supercomputer is that someone has to sit down and manually input all the information necessary for those calculations.

You want to know what kind of gun made that specific bullet hole?

Well first the supercomputer needs the ballistics data off as many kinds of guns as possible, then it needs data on the material that was shot, and it also needs as much information as possible on the bullet hole in question.

You skip out on any of that input and the odds of the supercomputer being correct gets progressively lower.

Problem is, the supercomputer can’t actually think, and therefore can’t estimate how accurate its own calculations are. A computer works in total binary. If it only has the ballistic data for three kinds of guns, it doesn’t matter how much the bullet hole doesn’t match the data sets its been provided, the supercomputer will select whichever of the three matches the hole the most closely.

A computer, no matter how advanced, is incapable of knowing when it doesn’t know something.

But people on the other hand. . .

We turn now to an ambitious young R&D developer many millennia ago.

Once upon a time, this member of Research and Development was on the team responsible for designing new Cold Constructed mechs for Sentinel Prime. And they had a GREAT idea.

“I’ve got it!” They say, unaware of the ominous music rising in the background.

“The great powers of the supercomputer cannot be realized within its current limitations! Its greatest flaws are that it must be stationary, it must be manually fed information and all calculations it does generate must be reviewed by a thinking mech!”

Their coworkers groan. It’s too early in the morning for this shit.

“Therefore!” The mech says, quickly sketching out a box full of smaller boxes that is supposed to be a computer and the miserable approximation of a mech.

“We simply remove the separation, and make the mech itself the data intake for the supercomputer!”

Lightning crashes in the distance, someone tiredly gets the fire extinguisher. Again.

It’s not a hard sales pitch for a totalitarian government to go “Yeah we want super-cops. Here’s the money, make it happen.”

And in a tale as old as capitalism, an untested feature was rolled out with catastrophic consequences.

If you’ve read my tangent on how Crashes work, then you already know about logic cascades.

Tacnet is a supercomputer. A tool. Like any tool, it’s only as good as the person using it, and someone who really doesn’t know what they’re doing is liable to hurts themselves.

So what can Tacnet really do in the hands (or processor) of a master?

Some psychic-type level nonsense. Anyone who’s gotten the hang of their Tacnet, in their own fields of expertise, are able to know exactly what will happen before anyone else.

Let’s compare Smokescreen, Bluestreak and then Prowls Tacnets and how they’re used.

Every Tacnet starts the same, but can be developed and trained to excel at different things.

Smokescreen - Place Your Bets

Smokescreen has trained his to work best for gambling. “Training” can be anything from downloading tables of statistical analysis to personally observing the phenomenon and making notes.

Let’s look at rolling dice. If you rolled a six sided die, any number is equally likely to be rolled. Or 16.67 % odds for each.

So if 3 dice are rolled, then every total value outcome from 3 to 18 must be equal odds as well, right?

Nope! If three six sided dice are rolled, there is a 12.5 % (or 25% if you combine them) chance it’ll be a 10 or 11. And that’s out of sixteen possible outcomes.

So if you know the difference but your opposition doesn’t, then suddenly you have a huge advantage while betting. And this is just the most simplified example I can think of.

If you’ve got the time, statistics are absolutely wild and there’s a mathematical equation for pretty much anything.

All Smokescreen has to do to get good at a game is learn the rules and then plug in the numbers. You know how card counting will get you banned from most casinos? Well Smokescreens worked that out too. Talking to other players (collecting preexisting data points) he can find the average of how much he can win in a night before people get too pissy.

Another thing Smokescreen has going for him (especially over Prowl) is that Smokescreen is much better at reading people. He doesn’t just have statics on the games, but the players.

Mapping out the connections between individuals and taking personal motivations into account, Smokescreen at his peak can not only predict who the winners will be, but he can also predict who will loose on purpose, who will bet the most, who will cheat and who will seek to take their winnings by force.

Experience, experience, experience is the golden ticket.

Also, it’s Smokescreen himself who has to craft the profiles of his victims gambling buddies. Once fleshed out, Tacnet can do wonders mid game, giving Smokescreen room to focus on his social schemes instead.

Luckily, after the burning of Praxus, most people don’t really know what a Tacnet is truly capable of. So Smokescreen looses just often enough to keep folks from realizing that he always knows how every game will play out before they even start.

Bluestreak - Shoot Your Shot

Going in the opposite direction of utility, Bluestreaks Tacnet is all about kinetic calculations.

This fucker is doing the type of math that’s more letters than numbers. Constantly.

Air resistance, velocity, acceleration, gravity, weight, density, temperature, vector, displacement and time.

There’s equations that call for each and every one of those factors, usually in combination.

Your average sniper, even a good one, is usually considering wind speeds, the pull of gravity and the distance from the target when lining up a shot. Bluestreak is taking in all that and then working out the influences of about 15 more factors on top of that. Even before he’s picking where exactly on the target he’s going to hit. Since remember, if he’s got data on not just his own weapons but his enemies defenses, then it really becomes as simple as “would you like them disabled or dead?”

Aim is no longer a question of ability, but an equation to be solved.

Still, physical capabilities does play a part since a steady hand goes a long way towards realizing those calculations.

Tacnet may crunch the numbers, but Bluestreak is the one who has to find all the details relevant to the shot and pick which ones to feed to the machine.

Additionally, Bluestreaks Tacnet in particular has the experimental feature of massively increasing the amount of sensory data he can take in per second, effectively causing him to perceive things in slow motion. This is less something Tacnet is doing, and more a case of Bluestreaks own processor utilizing the bandwidth normally taken up by Tacnet.

Tacnet itself takes a substantial amount of power to run. Normally, it causes problems by siphoning too much power from other systems to do its job (see logic cascade crashes). But Bluestreak has the funny little quirk of somehow doing that in reverse. So when his sense of time dilation becomes maxed out, Tacnet isn’t running the formulas to help him shoot anymore, it’s just Bluestreaks own skills at that point.

Outside of that rare circumstance, Bluestreak is effectively playing with aimbot in real life.

Prowl - Know Your Fate

So we’ve established that Tacnet is powered by mathematical formulas and data collection.

What would happen if someone just, kept going? Kept feeding it? Building up more and more infrastructure for Tacnet to grow around until it has a point of reference for almost anything?

You get an oracle.

Prowl puts the Tactical back into Tacnet. He’s essentially the Jack of all Trades and Master of several of those subjects actually.

Sure, Smokescreen has him beat for behavioral analysis, and Bluestreak is leagues beyond what Prowl can calculate for trajectories. But no one has doubled down on what Tacnet can really do like Prowl has.

You know that (not actually true) statistic about how humans only use 25% of their brains? That’s your average Tacnet user.

Prowl just happens to be insane.

He is constantly taking in new data. He is constantly taking notes, making observations, stripping it down to the raw numbers involved and packing it away into monumental resource centers for Tacnet to refer to.

You ever see someone who’s really good with excel sheets and then see them do some shit you didn’t know excel sheets could even do?

It’s kinda like that.

If you’ve ever read the classic Sherlock Holmes stories, a lot of what makes Sherlock so effective is having such a detailed knowledge of the world around him.

Let’s go back to the bullet hole analysis.

Prowl could look at the bullet hole and tell you after two minutes: “It was this specific Cargo vessel at this time with an illegal weapon.”

From the outside, this looks like a baseless guess. But to Prowl it looks like this:

a) The gun must be a new imported weapon as nothing he currently has on file matches the marking its made in that kind of material.

b) The shooter not only missed their shot, but was shooting downward at an excessive angle. Indicating this was a very large mech firing downward at a much smaller target, likely a mini bot.

c) The shooter can be exactly tracked by looking at the local registry for recent out bound flights, specifically ones with no cargo.

Why? Because the shooter is most likely a transport shuttle. Easy access to imported goods, very large but not a war frame (hence the missed shot) and having failed to kill their victim, would flee town immediately without waiting to take on cargo.

Of those two minutes it took, he spent 1:30 waiting for the flight records to load so he could look up the name of the shuttle.

Scale those skills up to a war room, and Prowl not only knows why an enemy troop is retreating, but where they’re retreating to, what losses they must have taken and whether or not it’ll be worth it to finish the job.

Prowl isn’t smart because he has a Tacnet. Tacnet is OP because Prowl is that smart.

When I write his perspective, Prowl often has an accuracy percentage attached to his calculations. Tacnet isn’t the thing making those estimates. Prowl is the one judging how accurate Tacnets suggestions are.

Dudes just a freak.

—————————

In summary, Tacnet is like if you had every kind of calculator in your pocket and the only limit was how many equations you’ve added on and the amount of information you can feed it.

That last bit is the biggest challenge for Tacnet, as conflicting or flawed data can cause. . . Issues. Aka Logic Cascades. Aka “Why can’t I make it make sense.” Disease.

Let’s just say there’s a reason not many people know what Tacnet is capable of, as a lot of early Praxian Enforcers could be taken out by confusing emotions, plot holes, and particularly well executed magic tricks.

Doesn’t exactly inspire confidence when your new shiny police force can be hospitalized by watching Back to the Future 2.

Being one of the first Cold Constructs built with a Tacnet, Smokescreen figured out how to mostly get around that glitch early on and taught Prowl and Bluestreak how to do the same. In this particular setting, Tacnet is poorly understood and best kept mostly secret for those reasons.

(Bizarrely, between Tacnet and the radar uses of doorwings, Prowl and his brothers would actually be really good at predicting the weather.)

———————————————————————

Bonus bit: Good fucking lord it would absolutely terrifying if you could somehow combine Smokescreen, Prowl and Bluestreaks skills into like a Tacnet hivemind or something.

Though with wing speak, to an outsider that’s probably what it already looks like.

———

The three brothers look at the same bullet hole, silently communicating in a way the local non-Praxian officer couldn’t pick up on.

“Oh yeah, looks like Rotor didn’t like Brick cutting into his half of the dirty money. Slippery little guy but you can find both their hideouts here and here.” Smokescreen, the eldest, pulls up a map for reference.

Prowl is already out the door, Bluestreak is lining up a shot through the window.

“What is he. . ?” The other officer looks from Bluestreak. Then to Prowl, trailing off, “Where is the other one. . ?”

“Oh Prowls off to arrest the shooter.”

“But he’s a grounder, can’t Rotor fly?”

A shot rings out.

“Not anymore!”

[pythiaswine]

John Laurens + Suffering

can you tell I've been emo about those old men lately? yeah

click for better quality, + closeups below the cut

1. His First Grief by Charles Spencelayh

saw this and immediately thought of John. not his first grief considering by this estimated age he would've lost older siblings. but thinking of it as a precursor to his mother dying. also the bird is so him :( sorry

2. Ophelia by John Everett Millais

haunts the narrative and is the pushing point for Ham(let)ton's madness yeahhh. plus laying in a creek surrounded by flowers is so him. dead in the swamp

3. Death and the Maiden by Marianne Stokes

originally was going to have john visited by death to be truer to the painting, but an angel in funeral shroud and uniform visiting alex? sorry, had to

4. The Sacrifice of Isaac by Giambattista Pittena

don't get me started. sins of the father, religious extremism, valuing god's word over loving your own son, sacrificing your son for religion/god. only divine intervention could save him and at last it didnt. so many things to think about here. i cried

5. alex when he gets The News

not based on a painting except maybe that anime meme of the girl scream crying. but ohhh my god. idk i just was rereading their letters and got so emo about it. i hope to god alexander got a few good crash-outs in private to grieve but i am really scared of the great possibility that he never did, not even ONE good scream in the middle of nowhere or breaking someone's nose over it, he just buried it and acted out in other ways. it just wasnt fairrr. i keep thinking about Them and especially about how he must have felt the moment he realized. praying it wasnt true. praying. screaming. i am in physical pain over this every day

[yourtoradorasextendedwarranty]

"Eat the ri- Wait a minute"

Recently, a short video came out of Pokimane saying we need to "Eat the rich" in so many words, and this is actually supre funny to me.

The biggest advocates of "Eating the Rich" are at the end of the day, themselves rich. Pokimane has an estimated net worth of 6 Mil. If I had to take an honest to goodness guess, it's probably higher than that. However I need you too look at something:

8.3% of the population of the US makes between 150k-199k yearly. And before the Pokimane simps come in and scream about how, "she said only the giga rich", you are correct. Because her friend in the video called her out saying, "What do you mean the rich. You are the rich". Yeah. These are people that pretend to care about you because it helps pad their wallets. That's the long and short of it.

What's funnier is the fact that Hassan (Expensive cars/Mansion) Piker, came to her defense. When will the people who support these creators learn that none of these people support the values they claim to? I'd ask if it would take them pissing in your face and telling you they've been playing you this whole time; Though some of you degenerates that follow these people would enjoy that. My point is at the end of the day, they DO NOT care. They aren't socialists. Or Maybe they are the best example of Socialists. Scam artists who lie about being for the "Working class" while pretending that streaming is the hardest job in the world. Then complaining that people exist that are richer than they are.

Which is only made funnier by the fact that if they WERE the ultra wealthy they'd still be advocating for this crap while flying around on private jets preaching it. Same as the fuckers who preach climate alarmism. "Oh well there are still people richer than me. I meant them" all the while doing fuck all to actually help people. Aside from MAYBE donating to dubious charities. Who when looked into seem like they don't do much in the wake of helping.

Sure most at least help a little, but can't profit off a solved issue. Can't be invited to fancy Gala's where rich/influential people dote on you for making them look better. This however, is not a rant about that. This is me saying, look at the people you literally simp for are getting richer off of you. And contrary to the message they preach, they will never redistribute their own wealth. They will only get more rich, and make it out like "Only the giga rich are the problem". I'm sorry Ma'am. The phrase isn't, "Eat the Giga Rich". It's "Eat the Rich". And the people screaming the loudest about it will continue to enrich themselves while moving the goalpost of what is, "The Rich™".

Get your heads out of your asses for once in your lives. Stop simping for scam artists.

[ptseti]

I continue to say - FVCK THEM.

May the evilness of these actions bring Karma to everyone involved in this act of inhumanity! May 13, 1985, Philadelphia MOVE Bombing. The city officials dropped 2 Bombs on the Black, MOVE organisation, murdering 11 people, including 5 children, 2 survivors. The police fired 500 gunshots into the home within 90 seconds, and it was determined that police lied about Move members firing on them. The Move members were public nuisances, giving loud speeches, but had committed no violent crimes. The two survivors: 🛑Ramona Africa, an adult MOVE member, spent 7 years in prison, convicted of 3rd degree murder, although moved fired no gunshots 🛑Birdie Africa, a 13-year-old boy ✅The city officials responsible for the murders did not go to prison. 🛑Black Mayor Wilson Goode approved the plan, but states he didn’t approve the bombing. 🛑White Police Commissioner Gregory J. Sambor made the decision to drop the bomb. A former Brigadier General in the US Army Reserves 🛑White Fire Commissioner William Richmond allowed the fire to burn, contributing to the destruction of the block. 🛑 White Pennsylvania Governor Dick Thornburgh was informed about the stand-off between MOVE and the Philadelphia authorities, but he did not intervene or take direct control. 🛑White City Prosecutor, Ed Rendell, sent the victim, Ramona Africa, to 7 years in prison. She later filed a lawsuit, received $1.5 million. He later became Mayor and Governor. ✅Number of homes destroyed: 61 homes. Over 250 people were displaced. Estimated property damage was

$13.5 million in 1985 dollars 🛑valued between $30,000 to $50,000, typical for middle-class row homes in West Philadelphia.