#Cluster sampling steps explained

[marketxcel]

Cluster Sampling: Types, Advantages, Limitations, and Examples

Explore the various types, advantages, limitations, and real-world examples of cluster sampling in our informative blog. Learn how this sampling method can help researchers gather data efficiently and effectively for insightful analysis.

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

Astronomers discover first pairs of white dwarf and main sequence stars in clusters, shining new light on stellar evolution

Astronomers at the University of Toronto (U of T) have discovered the first pairs of white dwarf and main sequence stars – “dead” remnants and "living" stars – in young star clusters. Described in a new study published in The Astrophysical Journal, this breakthrough offers new insights on an extreme phase of stellar evolution, and one of the biggest mysteries in astrophysics.

Scientists can now begin to bridge the gap between the earliest and final stages of binary star systems – two stars that orbit a shared center of gravity – to further our understanding of how stars form, how galaxies evolve, and how most elements on the periodic table were created. This discovery could also help explain cosmic events like supernova explosions and gravitational waves, since binaries containing one or more of these compact dead stars are thought to be the origin of such phenomena.

Most stars exist in binary systems. In fact, nearly half of all stars similar to our sun have at least one companion star. These paired stars usually differ in size, with one star often being more massive than the other. Though one might be tempted to assume that these stars evolve at the same rate, more massive stars tend to live shorter lives and go through the stages of stellar evolution much faster than their lower mass companions.

In the stage where a star approaches the end of its life, it will expand to hundreds or thousands of times its original size during what we call the red giant or asymptotic giant branch phases. In close binary systems, this expansion is so dramatic that the dying star's outer layers can sometimes completely engulf its companion. Astronomers refer to this as the common envelope phase, as both stars become wrapped in the same material.

The common envelope phase remains one of the biggest mysteries in astrophysics. Scientists have struggled to understand how stars spiraling together during this critical period affects the stars’ subsequent evolution. This new research may solve this enigma.

Remnants left behind after stars die are compact objects called white dwarfs. Finding these post-common envelope systems that contain both a “dead” stellar remnant and "living" star – otherwise known as white dwarf-main sequence binaries – provides a unique way to investigate this extreme phase of stellar evolution.

“Binary stars play a huge role in our universe,” says lead author Steffani Grondin, a graduate student in the David A. Dunlap Department for Astronomy & Astrophysics at U of T. “This observational sample marks a key first step in allowing us to trace the full life cycles of binaries and will hopefully allow us to constrain the most mysterious phase of stellar evolution.”

The researchers used machine learning to analyze data from three major sources: the European Space Agency’s Gaia mission – a space telescope that has studied over a billion stars in our galaxy – along with observations from the 2MASS and Pan-STARRS1 surveys. This combined data set enabled the team to search for new binaries in clusters with characteristics resembling those of known white dwarf-main sequence pairs.

Even though these types of binary systems should be very common, they have been tricky to find, with only two candidates confirmed within clusters prior to this research. This research has the potential to increase that number to 52 binaries across 38 star clusters. Since the stars in these clusters are thought to have all formed at the same time, finding these binaries in open star clusters allows astronomers to constrain the age of the systems and to trace their full evolution from before the common envelope conditions to the observed binaries in their post-common envelope phase.

"The use of machine learning helped us to identify clear signatures for these unique systems that we weren't able to easily identify with just a few datapoints alone,” says co-author Joshua Speagle, a professor in the David A. Dunlap Department for Astronomy & Astrophysics and Department of Statistical Sciences at U of T. “It also allowed us to automate our search across hundreds of clusters, a task that would have been impossible if we were trying to identify these systems manually."

 “It really points out how much in our universe is hiding in plain sight – still waiting to be found,” says co-author Maria Drout, also a professor in the David A. Dunlap Department for Astronomy & Astrophysics at U of T. “While there are many examples of this type of binary system, very few have the age constraints necessary to fully map their evolutionary history. While there is plenty of work left to confirm and fully characterize these systems, these results will have implications across multiple areas of astrophysics.”

Binaries containing compact objects are also the progenitors for an extreme stellar explosion called a Type Ia supernova and the sort of merger that causes gravitational waves, which are ripples in spacetime that can be detected by instruments such as the Laser Interferometer Gravitational-Wave Observatory (LIGO).  As the team uses data from the Gemini, Keck and Magellan Telescopes to confirm and measure the properties of these binaries, this catalogue will ultimately shed light on the many elusive transient phenomena in our universe.

Contributing institutions include the David A. Dunlap Department of Astronomy & Astrophysics, the Dunlap Institute for Astronomy & Astrophysics, the Department for Statistical Sciences, and the Data Sciences Institute at the University of Toronto, as well as the National Technical Institute for the Deaf and Center for Computational Relativity and Gravitation at the Rochester Institute of Technology, the Department of Astronomy & The Institute for Astrophysical Research at Boston University, and the Department of Astronomy at the University of California, Berkeley.

About the Dunlap Institute for Astronomy & Astrophysics

The Dunlap Institute for Astronomy & Astrophysics in the Faculty of Arts & Science at the University of Toronto is an endowed research institute with over 80 faculty, postdocs, students, and staff, dedicated to innovative technology, groundbreaking research, world-class training, and public engagement.

The research themes of its faculty and Dunlap Fellows span the Universe and include: optical, infrared and radio instrumentation, Dark Energy, large-scale structure, the Cosmic Microwave Background, the interstellar medium, galaxy evolution, cosmic magnetism and time-domain science.

IMAGE: This image from the ALMA telescope shows star system HD101584 and the complex gas clouds surrounding the binary. It is the result of a pair of stars sharing a common outer layer during their last moments. Credit: ALMA (ESO/NAOJ/NRAO), Olofsson et al. Acknowledgement: Robert Cumming.

[shootybangbang]

[Talking Bird] Chapter 22: In which swallows are shot

[Ao3 link]

[Content Warnings]: implied/referenced sexual assault, implied/referenced incest

I'm immensely grateful to @reddeaddufus and @verai-marcel for editing this. Without their support, I could not have gotten nearly as far in this fic as I have.

Note: dialogue that is spoken in Chinese will be denoted with 《sample text》

Note for people who speak Chinese: for the sake of clarity, all Chinese names have been transcribed in western fashion as [given name_surname] instead of the customary [surname_given name]

————

“One more favor? Last time, I promise.”

“And what might that be,” Trelawney asks stiffly. He keeps his eyes fixed on the green rush of fields and forest streaking across the train’s smudged window, and crosses his arms as he settles into the cracked leather seat opposite your own. 

The man is obviously still miffed by the state of his cheese supply. He’s taking up now the practice he always defaults to when feeling resentful: taking great pains to pretend that he isn’t. But you’d seen the way his face had fallen when he’d caught sight of his depleted reserves, heard what censures he’d hissed at Arthur when he thought you out of earshot— judging by the effort it’s currently taking him to keep himself civil, he’ll be quietly sore about this for a month, at least.

“Would you kindly ask the police to give Martin Street a wide berth on Tuesday? The Chinatown patrol on weekdays is still just old Bertram, I think. Five dollars should do it.”

“Martin St? That’s—”

“My former place of employment, yes.”

“Lee.” Trelawney’s superficial disdain drops the second he realizes the implications. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I could’ve said the same thing to you about a hundred times by now,” you retort. “But I never have. Because it’s not my business.”

“This is different.” He puts his hand to his temples like he’s incurred a migraine. A show of genuine regret. “This is my fault.”

”What’re you talking about?”

“Arthur can sometimes be… shockingly altruistic when it comes to women and children.” He pauses a beat, then amends, “When he thinks nobody’s looking, that is. I told him your situation thinking it might spark some sympathy in him, but if he’s decided to rope you in on some reckless scheme, then—”

“It’s the other way around.”

Trelawney looks at you sharply, with that analytic gaze you’ve always done your utmost to avoid— like he’s peering through a glass house containing all your faults. You stare instead at the small cluster of belongings nestled in your lap. The sum of all your present earthly possessions: the blue notebook, the keyring, and a handful of nickels and dimes you’d managed to wheedle from Morgan before he’d let you step into the train and out of sight.

“I ran an idea past him,” you explain, still not meeting his eyes. “He said he’d think about it. I’m eighty percent sure that nothing’s going to happen at all. But… I’d like the street clear anyway. Just as a precaution. And also the… y’know, the…” Lightly, you chew the inside of your cheek. “The contingency plan.”

“The contingency plan in the event of your death.” He sounds like he’d like to seize you by the shoulders and shake some sense into you.

You nod. “I don’t think it’ll come to that. But if it does, that claim’s gonna need to be filed as soon as possible.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then you’ll have two dead women on your conscience instead of just one.”

He stays silent so long that the pressure of that quiet builds and builds until the sigh he lets out, bereft of any theatricality, hisses rather like the defeated wheeze of a punctured balloon. “There’s no talking you out of this.”

“No. But when have you known me to be reasonable?” You offer him a smile in an attempt to lighten the mood. He does not return it.

“How exactly were you planning on setting this up?” he asks. “Because if you’d like me to serve as a distraction, or—”

“What? I don’t want you to serve as anything.” The confusion in his face confuses you. “You’ve got a wife. Your two boys. And besides, you’ve got no stake in this.”

You can see that irritating shine in his eyes spark up— the one that he always gets when he thinks he’s found a compelling argument, like he’s turned a pin and cracked open a difficult lock. A kindness in his countenance that might disarm you if you let him, and you know you have to shut him up quick.

“Well, you can at the very least tell me what time you —” 

“Trelawney,” you interrupt. “You’re forgetting something. We’re business partners, not friends. I’ve owed you things. You’ve owed me things. This is the very last of it.”

He raises his eyebrows and sinks back against the cushioned seat with his hands folded in his lap. And he observes you now like he did in those early days, when every conversation had in it a deliberate and carefully delineated quid pro quo. “In any case,” he says. “I still don’t want to see you dead.”

“That makes two of us, then.” 

But the words ring hollow even to you.

———

The tenement buildings on Mulberry Avenue are lined by rows of windows cracked and broken like poorly kept teeth, spilling out snippets of the lives they contain on a tepid suggestion of an autumn breeze. Their private melodramas float inconsequential as dead leaves: snatches of disembodied conversation, both tender and fraught with tension, and through the dispersed Babel of languages you can discern the disparate threads of base human existence. Two women bicker from across their respective balconies. A man laboriously practices English phrases in a thick, unrecognizable accent. A child sings brokenly in what might be Polish, and when her mother sings a fluid verse in response, you have to squeeze your eyes shut against the pang in your chest. On the back of your tongue, a phantom sip of river water lingers like a meal sampled from a nightmare.

You keep walking.

These days, crossing beneath Chinatown’s red and gold gate feels like just another level of damnation. You keep your head down as you walk, knowing how much you stand out even here: an Oriental woman walking freely in a white man’s attire. Your clothes are faded and torn, but even now are easily worth more than a laundryman’s monthly wage. A tattered condemnation of bygone ambition and broken aspiration. You glare down at your stained pants and, while deciding between whether to entertain self-hatred or its gentler cousin, self pity, nearly collide with a man hauling a cartful of hens to the butcher’s. The birds are placid in their wire cages, either ignorant of the knife that awaits them or utterly indifferent. As they pull past, a flutter of feathers settles atop the grimy cobblestones like flakes of auburn snow.

You climb up the corridor of an ashy bricked four-story building whose damp, dark stairwells never seem to dry out completely. The narrow window set in its turn lets in a creak of light in which motes of dust glint like suspended chips of gold, sanctifying the patch of black mildew that it falls upon in a meaningless blessing. When you trudge up to the third-floor landing, the guard sitting in his rickety hallway chair takes his cigarette out of his mouth and scrutinizes you with obvious suspicion. Prematurely returned and empty-handed as you are, you can hardly blame him.

《The shipment—》

You interrupt him. 《It’s been taken care of.》

《Lee,》 he says, not unsympathetically. 《You look like shit. What happened?》

《Got robbed.》 Before he can ask for details, the appetite for fresh gossip evident in the straightening of his back, you add, 《I’ll talk to Huang after I’ve gotten some food and a cup of tea in me.》

You plod to the last tenement in that unadorned corridor and slot the key to its lock, but the door catches when you try and pull it open, and you see the brass glint of the slotted latch chain still in place through the skinny gap. Heaving an irritated, bad-tempered sigh, you holler. 《Mei! It’s me!》

《Lee?》you don’t hear her footsteps– never have been able to, with that mincing way that she’s forced to walk. 《You said you wouldn’t be back until Thursday. Is everything—》

《Everything’s fine. Just open the door.》

She starts fretting over you before you can even sit down to unlace your goddamn boots. Her hands flutter a nervous cadence as she restrains herself from touching the bruise on your cheek. To compound things, Baoyu comes out from behind her skirt to curl his small hand tight in the fabric of your trousers, like he’s trying to anchor you before you can leave again. 

The kid looks up at you with wide, unblinking brown eyes uncharacteristically serious for a four year old. He clutches his cloth sheep doll to his chest and asks, “Present?”

Fucking hell. Through the commotion of getting kidnapped, manhandled, and shot at, your customary duty of scrounging for some trinket with which to placate him had completely slipped your mind. “Ah, shi—” 

He perks up. Seems to have a sixth sense for picking up the English words you don’t want him to learn, this kid. So you bite your tongue before it can flick out that damning last consonant and pivot. “I mean, sure. I uh…”  As you rifle through your pockets with the ludicrous hope that something might miraculously manifest, a fit of inspiration strikes you like a conciliatory slap from god. You flip to Morgan’s sketch of Cotorra Springs in your ledger and begin ripping it out.

《He asked you for a present, didn’t he.》

《Yeah.》

《Baoyu.》Mei’s voice is stern, but she sounds more tired than upset. 《What did Mama say about begging Miss Lee for presents?》

Baoyu, already well-learned in the art of petitioning for leniency, looks up at you beseechingly. You sigh, then intercede upon his behalf. For chrissakes, it’s your fault the kid’s in this situation to begin with. 《I’ve been giving him acorns and shiny rocks,》you say. 《It’s fine.》

When you finish tearing the sketch free, you look it over one last time before the kid inevitably scrawls all over it with green crayon, same way he does over near everything he can get his hands on in recent days. There’s a new, and very verdant stain on the wall beneath the kitchen table where Mei had obviously tried very hard to scrub away a doodle of a lopsided forest.

The kid frowns and flips the paper up and down, squinting at it dubiously. 

《What do you say?》 Mei prompts him.

《What is it?》he eyes the drawing with the critical eye of a disappointed patron at the Galerie Laurent. 

His mother’s voice is clipped with expectation. 《Baoyu.》

《Thank you, Miss Lee.》 he says, dejectedly.

《You remember how to say it in English?》 you ask.

He frowns and furrows his brow. He looks angry when he’s deep in thought— a trait he’s somehow picked up from his father, despite the man’s gravedirt tenure for a full quarter of the kid’s life now. 

“Thank you,” you enunciate.

“Thank you,” he repeats, already distracted. He looks longingly towards the corner of the room, where wooden blocks bearing penciled in capital letters on their sides line the wall in crooked, tottering constructions.

“Good.” You give him an absent pat on the shoulder. “Now shoo.”

Mei dogs your steps as you begin ransacking the kitchen cabinets for something other than dry beans and rice. 《You drew that?》

《No.》 You pick up a tin of sardines, consider it for a second, then firmly slot it back.

《I’m sorry, there’s not much. I was planning on going to market today—》

《Don’t bother. I’ll do it later.》

《No, you should rest! And besides—》

《I’m faster,》you interrupt, glancing conspicuously at her feet.

They’re half the size of your own, and bound with bandages beneath the tiny slippers she wears. Crushed beyond recognition into what was considered, she had once informed you bitterly, a lotus bud shape. Back in the motherland (that dream-wrought Avalon to which you owe your eternal classification, that country whose name you have heard sighed and cursed and whispered like a lover’s lament on the yearning tongues of so many workmen), she had murmured, clenching a cup of baijiu so tight that her knuckles had been moon-pale, girls from wealthy families have the bones in their feet broken and set again and again, folded inward and solidified with the distortion of healing. Suffering with it an education whose primary teachings lay in the art of transformation. How to wind golden silk over a ruin of mangled flesh until it resembled the newborn furl of a flower. How to thread a smile over the teeth-clenched rage of one’s own pinioning. How to limp and totter a cripple’s stuttering gait and call it a dance.

It was an education which Mei, the youngest daughter of a failing merchant family, had been bestowed at the tender age of six. And which she had continued to receive, owing to the metastasis of misfortune, through the later ordeal of having been exchanged to a pimp for just eleven silver sycees. The light had glinted off the ingots like shards of white fire, and she had seen the distortion of her own reflection in the rounded curve. A reminder that what was then warped could be contorted further still, the shape of her life twisted beyond reckoning.

She relents now at the reminder of her own debility, thins her lip and lowers her eyes as she crosses her arms tight. And the worst part of you, that which houses the old instinct to pinpoint ways in which you outcompete her, feels a vicious jab of satisfaction.

Well. The larder’s as good as empty. But there’s still tea left in the kettle. You reach for one of the painted china cups you still can’t bring yourself to sell, and Mei notices at last the bandage beneath your sleeve.

《Lee, your arm—》

《I’m fine.》

《Will you at least tell me what happened?》

You do not want to talk to her about this. You do not want to talk to her about any of it, really, and your heart clenches like a fist at the mere prospect of catching a glimpse of that lovely, sympathetic face of hers. The concern there, the genuine worry that brims like a perfect inverse of every hateful impulse you still keep primed for her— it makes you feel vaguely sick, for all your deliberate standoffishness.

Since Feng’s passing, there have been times where the two of you have nearly gotten along: halfway amiable conversations after Baoyu’s been put to bed shared over a draught of cheap rice wine. It’s always you who takes a step back before any real semblance of friendship can develop. And it’s always her who tries to smile and furnish some sort of excuse to allow you the opportunity to awkwardly slip away.

And when Feng had been alive? You’d been polite, but distant, much to his chagrin. Optimistic fool that he was, he’d constantly try and cajole you into conversation with her. Invite you over for dinner, then go out for a long smoke on the balcony, thinking perhaps that by merely stepping out of sight he might loosen the linchpin of your resentment. A fool through and through. 

《Please, Lee.》

But considering what might happen next, you owe her at least the skeleton of the truth. 

《Got robbed a day after I dropped off shipment.》You rattle the words off fast, as if clustered together they might conceal what you’ve chosen to omit. 《Looked pathetic enough that someone paid for my fare back. Walked back from the station, and here I am.》

Even an idiot can tell that you’ve left enough holes in your story that the entire legitimacy of it has been sieved out. Mei frowns. 《And your arm?》

《Got cut while I was getting robbed.》

Her eyes narrow. 《Who drew you that picture?》

《The man who found me pathetic enough to send home.》

《What was his name?》

You fill your cup and keep your eyes fixed on the amber stream of jasmine tea that trickles from the kettle spout. 《Don’t remember.》

《Listen,》 she says. 《You lie to me all the time. And I let you, because I know that if I say anything otherwise, you’ll tell me even less than you do now. But you’ve never come back hurt like this.》

《I’m just a little banged up—》

《I-If someone…》

Her voice breaks, and when you glance at her from over your shoulder, you can see a red rise of fear creeping up her cheeks. Guilt tightens your throat with the unrelenting grip of a hand at your windpipe. She speaks now like a flagging autumn wind. 《If a man hurt you like that…》

If someone did to you what your father did to me—

《... you don’t have to tell me. But everything you’ve gone through, I know it’s for me and Baoyu, and I— I’d like to know the cost of what that—》

《I don’t do it for you,》 you snap.

The retort comes out sharper than you’d intended it to. Mei blinks as though batting a speck of dust from her lashes.

《And not for Baoyu, either,》 you continue. 《I do it for Feng. So it’s him that owes me, not you. And that means it’s none of your business what the… ‘the cost’ or whatever is. And just so you know, it’s very annoying when you constantly pry into my affairs, but it’s even more annoying when you get all pathetic like this, so I’ll just fucking tell you, alright? The man who robbed me is the same man who brought me back home.》 You nod towards the door, where the kid is diligently coloring in Morgan’s sketch with purple and green crayons. 《And he drew me that picture on the way.》

Mei seems to be unsure exactly what kind of emotional response you’re currently trying to get out of her. She tries to settle her face into her usual placid, pretty mask of unbroachable porcelain, but the facade cracks as she looks silently from the drawing, to you, to the drawing again. 《Lee. I don’t… what?》

《You remember those bonds I brought back last time.》

She nods very slowly.

《I stole them off a man called Morgan. I ran into him in Strawberry the morning after I dropped off shipment, and…》

Maybe it’s the way that the ripening noon light filters through the burlap curtains, casting the magnified shadows of coarse fiber against the wall like latticework. Or maybe it’s the deferential tilt of your head as you mark the abstract pointillism the tea sediment settles into, as if reading the minutiae of existence will reveal to you some esoteric path. Or maybe it’s the cadence that runs through it all, the holy repetition inherent in all ritual, most of all the mundane, as you drain and refill the cup again and again. In any case, there’s a distinct air of confession in the arrangement. And accompanying it, an almost sacrosanct relief.

Through the better part of an hour, you tell her nearly everything. The mechanical resistance of the shotgun trigger against your pointer finger. A man’s bewildered profile caught in a halo of evening muzzleflare. Morgan’s promise of cruelty, his failure to follow through. Firelight and peaches, and cold tubfuls of soap and blood. The silhouette of a luna moth slicing a pale green streak through the dark.

You say nothing of the plan, though you give its tenuous outline a certain soundless consideration in the pauses between sentences. If she notices— and no doubt she does, she knows you far too well by now not to recognize the presence of what has been left unsaid, the unknown shape that casts its anonymous shadow when all else is lit— she says nothing of it.

《And,》 you conclude lamely. 《That is why I look like shit.》

Mei nods sagely and, with a thoughtful, contemplative air, offers up the worst idea you’ve ever heard. 《We should invite him to dinner.》

《A man kidnaps me and ties me to his horse, and that’s your reaction.》

《He brought you back to us,》 she says simply, and tilts her chin meaningfully at her son, who lies on his stomach as he embroiders a stand of graphite trees with bold blue scribbles, small legs kicking the air idle as a pendulum. Wholly oblivious to the grim alternative his mother leaves unspoken. As he should be.

《Too late for it now. Morgan’s long gone.》 You shrug as though that possibility doesn’t sting. Your chair skids screechily against the scuffed floorboards as you get to your feet. 《Anyway, I should be going. Huang’ll never let me hear the end of it if I keep him waiting much longer.》

After you’ve pulled on a jacket and swiped your cap from its crooked nail on the wall, something less than half your size and adamant as a small elephant barrels against your leg, nearly knocking you over. Baoyu hugs your shins with all his four-year-old might and sits down, anchoring you.

You groan. 《Oh, Bao. Come on.》

He shakes his head, glaring sullen daggers at the door. Too young to understand that his father is dead, but wise enough by now to glean that what crosses that threshold doesn't always come back.

《Not again,》 Mei hurries towards you as quickly as her bound feet will allow her. 《And he’d been so good about it recently, too.》

《Bao, I’m just going to the market this time.》

《Dun’ wan’ you to.》 His small fists are wadded so tightly in the canvas of your pants that you’re concerned they might tear. The poor kid’s as firm and persistent as bramble. 

Mei kneels beside him, gently tries to pry his fingers loose. And though she shares with you a private glance of exasperation, you hear no trace of it in her coaxing. 《Hey,》 she says, soft and solicitous. She rests her palm on top of her son’s head, angles her head down to look him in the eye. On her lips is that madonna-like smile that seems solely the provenance of doting mothers. For not the first time, you feel the quiet surge of jealousy that always comes with seeing wanted children. The tendrils of that which was denied, that which was lost inching out again from what you’ve tried again and again to keep buried.

《Remember what Mama said about Miss Lee this morning?》 she asks.

Baoyu answers with a furious shake of his head and buries his face against your calf. He clings even tighter. 

《Mama said that Miss Lee always comes back. And she does, doesn’t she? Every time. I bet this time she’ll be back again before you even know it.》

No response. 

《Bao,》 you say. 《That present I gave you this time was pretty terrible, wasn’t it.》

His muffled “mm-hmm” is immediate. Mei turns slightly pink. 《Lee, you really don’t have to–》

You raise your voice to drown hers out. 《So how about I get you a better one?》

The kid peeks partway from behind the crook of your knee, his revealed eye bright with wary interest. He’s precociously shrewd enough to give you his attention by degrees. His father’s son, indeed.

《Maybe… one you can eat?》

He peeks out a little more, but his arms do not loosen.

《It’s been a while since we’ve all had meat for dinner, hasn’t it,》 you remark, and from the reluctant tug of the boy’s smile, you know you’ve won. 《And even longer since we’ve had pork belly.》

《Pork belly,》 he says, with a shine in his face like you’ve dangled something precious on a string, and the black tangle of guilt in your heart twists another snarl.

《Pork belly?》 Mei repeats, doubtful. She puts her hand up and flicks her pointer finger a few sideways strokes, counting off the beads of an invisible abacus.

《There’ll be enough. I’ll get Huang to pay me today.》 You reach down to unhook Bao’s fingers from your trousers, and this time he comes away easy as anything. But his smile falls away when you pick up the market bag and pull open the door, and as you turn the key to click the lock shut, you hear his high, thin whimper. It turns to a wail that loses volume with every rapid step you take from him.

The guard calls your name before you can round the bend in the stairs. Six steps down, with one foot on the seventh, you swivel back to give him your attention, and from the dark of the corridor you imagine you must look like a pilgrim halfway to hell.

《The kid’s cryin’ again, huh?》 he asks.

《Yeah.》

He flips you a dollar coin that spins like a silver star through the gloom. 《Get him a pastry or somethin’,》 he says, and before the last word is out of his mouth, he’s already given you his shoulder in a show of apparent indifference.

How many times have you seen it? These little gestures of pity, presented like indulgences— shameful, secretive. As if with each token one can bury their own complicity. And how little you can judge them for it, seeing as you were a keen patron of it yourself in your lapsed past life. 

In any case, a dollar is a dollar. You nod to him, and continue your descent.

— — —

《They’re called swallows,》 your mother said, and tried her best to describe to you, a five-year-old girl at the time whose only reality consisted of the narrow confines of the brothel, the swift, dark swathe that those fork-tailed birds could cut across the sky. How at times they seemed to plummet downwards like stones, only to swoop upwards mere inches from certain death.

You sat cross-legged on her bed, back turned to her as she wove and unwove intricate plaits through your hair. Your eyes watered every time she pulled a strand too tight, but you uttered no sound of protest. At even that tender age, you knew that the slightest disturbance might shatter this rare, fragile show of intimacy.

《They have black feathers.》She tugged the brushlike end of your long, dark braid and dusted it over your nose until you’d giggled. 《And red throats.》Her fingers briefly alighted to your small mouth, momentary as dragonflies. 《And they fly so quick that nothing can touch them.》

She squeezed your thin shoulders. 《That’s why I named you after them, Yan.》

It’s difficult not to think of her each time you walk towards the man who had owned you both, and it is during these small purgatories that she haunts you most. Though it is just a wisp of a haunting, as if even her ghost has largely abandoned you.

Remember the desperate way she had sometimes tried to love you, her averted-eyed affection. The wasted relief on her young face when she’d passed in her bed, dead of typhus at scarcely twenty-five. The twin poles of what she left you to reconcile.

You never mourned her. Not properly, at least. Hadn’t known how to, back then. But when the missionaries taught you to write— both English script and Chinese characters, back when the assumption that you’d continue their work among your countrymen seemed as absolute as the word of god— her name was among the first characters you’d learned. Mingyue Lee, named for the moon, but in perpetual wane for the six short years you’d known her. Her bones interred in some pauper’s grave on the outskirts of San Francisco, sleeping in the soil of a country she had died cursing. When you were nine, you scratched her name into a large stone in the courtyard with a knife you filched from the kitchen, so that on grave-washing day you’d have something to scrub.

The magnolias that dot the route to Viceroy Street are shedding their blooms. Their white petals have been blown to the edge of the sidewalk, where they collect in lovely, dying heaps. When you tread them underfoot, they muddy to the same indistinct shade of brown that collects between the cobblestones of this place. Horse shit and swamp muck and god knows what else, a pervasive filth so deeply entrenched that it has become its own strata. You count down the bronze-plated numbers affixed to storefronts and houses as you walk the path down to 33, and in the steady subtraction there brews a dread that makes you feel far too young and far too old all at once, trekking the twilight road between memory and present. 

The Chuan Li Benevolent Society is housed in a nondescript building flanked between a curio store and a laundry, with nothing but a weather worn plaque beside the door to proclaim itself. Its peeling blue paint is flecked by the mud-sprays of passing carriages, and the awning that stretches over its entrance is missing so many shingles that it puts you in mind of a poorly scaled fish. 

Putting it simply, it looks like shit.

But its innards are timbered and paneled with red lacquered wood, and from the ceiling of the parlor a chandelier hangs like a luminous octopus, each golden limb dripping with crystalline light that fragments prismatic across the ceiling. Furnishings alternately gilt and velvet, in a theme of burgundy as deep as wine or blood. Both things you’ve known to be spilled here in excess. An altogether gaudy depiction of a poor man’s conception of wealth. 

Putting it simply, it also looks like shit. 

You step over the neat doormat laid in front of the threshold, and proceed to trail a fading mosaic of mud across the floorboards.

《You know you’re just making more work for the maid.》Yulong, who is lying lengthwise on the parlor chaise with his shoes on the cushions, addresses you without looking up from the English primer he is reading. The other man in the room, some underfed grunt who you’ve never seen before, rudely asks who the hell you are. He marks a show of reaching into his jacket for the hatchet you know they all carry.

《Calm the fuck down, Wei. It’s just our railroad mule. Our railroad mule who’s, what… five days early? Ain’t you supposed to be in Strawberry right now?》

《I need to talk to Huang.》

《So you finally fucked up good, huh? Guess you lost the shipment.》

《Shipment’s fine. Tell your goddamn boss I’m here to see him.》

《Should watch that mouth of yours, boy, if you know what’s good for you,》Wei growls at you, hardly more than a boy himself. His cheeks and chin are scraggly with the proud, patchy growths of a first beard, and you glancingly wonder whether he’ll live long enough to see it fill in, this jumped-up kid with criminal notions. 

Yulong closes his book with a snap of its pages and sits up like a man unjustly roused from sleep. His narrow eyes gleam as they always do— like he’s just been privy to some secret joke at your expense. Huang’s right hand man, and easily the most untrustworthy looking creature you’ve ever met. Each time you’ve met with his boss, he’s been standing in the corner, pretending like he doesn’t have his hand on his knife. He approaches you now with his lips drawn in an unfriendly smile.《Naw, that ain’t a boy,》he says. 《Just a woman playin’ at bein’ a man and failin’ at both. How you doin’, Lee?》

《Fuck you.》

《Bet you’d like to, since you ain’t gettin’ it from Feng no more.》

You slap him so hard that his head jerks sharply to the side. Yulong hesitates for a split second looking nearly remorseful, then backhands you with such force that you stagger against the wall, tasting blood.

《Tell the boss she’s here,》 you hear him say. Gingerly, you touch your split lip.

Wei’s voice is unsure, tentative. 《She’s bleeding. Shouldn’t we—》

《Just do it.》

— — —

Huang welcomes you into his office with an amiable greeting and an offer of chrysanthemum tea. His pleasant demeanor does not falter when you roundly refuse him, all the attempted disdain in your rejection about as effective as shooting a gun at an ocean wave. A bullet negated instantly by the cold, infinite dark beneath, the shapeless and breachless indifference of water to that which it drowns. The bastard pours you a cup regardless, slides it across the table on a painted porcelain saucer where it steams like a sigh.

He asks after your health, expresses polite concern over the evening-hued contusion (already fading nicely to a sickly dawnish green) on your face, putting on now the fatherly airs he’d withheld from the entirety of childhood. These days, he speaks to you as though those days of subjugation were an unfortunate accident. A misunderstanding that can surely be forgiven because it’s all in the past, and what’s the point of tallying sins? Be reasonable, Yan.

He folds his hands on the table like he’s guarding a hand of cards and says, 《I understand you and Yulong had something of an altercation in the parlor.》

From his place by the door, Yulong scoffs.《Teachin’ her some manners, more like.》

《Perhaps next time you might find a more delicate means of instruction.》 The fond look Huang gives you then sickens you like the first strains of an ague. Fever and chill that will not douse the other as the man peers tenderly at the only unrotted thing that still carries any trace of your dead mother’s existence. An apparition encased in flesh and bone.

You look just like her, but you have my eyes.

He continues, 《A woman’s face is her life, after all. And we wouldn’t want to ruin Yan’s, would we?》

As if he hadn’t already. 《It’s Lee,》 you remind him, teeth clenched.

He ignores this the same way he’s ignored it every other time you’ve corrected him. But you’ve persisted regardless, speaking your mother’s surname as though it might serve as an incantation to dispel the remnant of your former self. That flinching girl so eagerly servile, hoping that another task completed might be another beating deterred. Terrified little Yan, who had crawled under a table and hid when the city police busted that Frisco brothel, thinking that she’d been rudely introduced to another means of punishment. A white woman had found you there and knelt beneath your wooden shelter, gently asking your name in broken, halting Chinese. When she reached her hand out for you to take, you misread her intention entirely and curled up isopod-like, figuring that a blow to your back would hurt far less than one to your front.

Huang pulls a fresh linen handkerchief from a desk drawer, proffers it like reconciliation. 《Here. Clean yourself up.》

You lick your lips and the tip of your tongue locates the shallow cut at the edge of your mouth. Iron and organic rust, half-clotted. With a slow swipe of your forearm, you smear away the congealing blood with the back of your hand.

《Suit yourself,》 he says. The drawer rattles shut like a threat being withdrawn. 《So tell me then, Yan. What’re you doing back five days early?》

You pull your journal out from your satchel and thumb free the proof of sale tucked inside, then lay the receipt bearing Cheng’s ornate red seal (ridiculous how every one of these smugglers fancies himself a veer of legitimacy) on the heavy, oaken table that separates you from Huang like a bulwark or a gate, possibly both. 《The delivery went fine,》 you say. 《I went to Cheng right after I got into Strawberry and had him sign off on the paperwork. He’ll wire you his usual fee at the end of the month.》

《Very good.》

As a child, you would have worked yourself to the point of collapse at the prospect of that simple praise. And as an adult, there’s still a fragment of you that receives it with idiotic pride. Infuriating really, how those infantile hurts persist even now, as if the past lingers still in your ruminating blood. From a chamber in your subterranean heart, down the catacomb of every iteration of self you’ve laid to rest, Yan stirs from slumber and peers briefly through your eyes in a dark flash of memory. 

You detail the rest of your ordeal with vagaries and half truths. Nothing outright false— walking that middle path again, as you always do. Lacking even the conviction to construct your own lies, you pathetic piece of shit. Dodging commitment the same way a bird dodges a shower of buckshot: which is to say that it can’t. Try to outfly the cluster of pellets all you like, but one is sure to find you and bear you down. And isn’t it fitting that it would be the pierce of the only real promise you’ve ever made that lodges in your breast, sends that dual pronged swallowtail fluttering bannerlike as it drops, red sash of blood ribboning upwards in the wake of that earthward plunge.

An outlaw accosted you in an alleyway, you tell Huang. He marched you up the stairs of your hotel with the cold barrel of his gun jammed between your shoulder blades, then tied your arms behind your back as he ransacked your belongings. Tied your ankles too, for good measure. He left you like that for hours, until another man found you and cut you free from your captivity. You cried and became hysterical and made him so uncomfortable that he had arranged an immediate means to get you back to St Denis, if only to get you to stop your tears.

 You make no mention of the events surrounding the bandage on your arm. Or of Morgan’s sketch, which is currently being meticulously ruined by a four year old’s artistic renderings. Or how in a span of hours before, with the first touch of dawn spreading its dustlike penumbra over the floorboards, you had lain in bed for a full five minutes studying the accumulated shadows of the outlaw’s sleeping face, wondering whether under different circumstances you might have enjoyed the view.

Yesterday in the caravan, you scrubbed clean the bandana that he’d used to bandage your cut as you waited for your clothes to dry, wrung out the rust-colored droplets of your own loosened blood over the basin and watched as they broke perfect, circular lakes through a topography of soap suds. You laid it next to the furnace and watched the moisture wick away, folded it up, and only remembered to return it this morning, while waiting for Trelawney to finish buying train tickets at the station’s front booth.

Morgan had stood beside you in a secluded corner beside a rusted water pump, regarding you with the stiff formality of a spurned gentleman. All stilted vagaries and dismissive affect as he glowered there with his arms crossed and his hat tipped low. He leaned his back against a brick wall still damp with dew and seemed loath to even acknowledge you. Asking whether he’d given your proposition any further consideration seemed at that point only an excellent way to further his scorn. In the hollow of your chest, a setting, a sinking. Something bright clipped beneath a horizon, and only the quiet expectation of inexorable night accompanied it. You drew out the black square of his bandanna from your pocket like a flag of farewell, and said, “Hey. Morgan.”

“What.” His voice was flat as a board. Still wouldn’t look at you, the arrogant prick.

“Forgot to give this back last night. I, uh… I washed it for you. Here.”

He made no motion to receive it. Your proffering arm stretched towards him like an insufficient bridge as he shook his head. “Keep it,” Morgan said. “I got another.”

“Well thanks, I guess. I’ve always dreamt of having a raggedy old bandanna to call my own—”

“Tell you what.” At last, he lifted his eyes to meet your own, and the blue of his irises seemed a softer shade than you’d remembered. The hue of late spring blooms, forget-me-nots. “I’ll take it back next time I see you, alright?”

 And when will that be? you hadn’t asked, all the better to ration out your own specious hopes.

God, but you are stupid, aren’t you. Thinking that there is any chance in hell that he hasn’t crossed the state line by now, leaving the city and the swamp and you behind to fade like a forgotten mirage in a torrent of road dust. Nary a backward glance, as is the nature of his kind. Loyal only to the promise of a payout, and for all his talk of coming back to collect, there’s hardly any chance of him doing so when the certainties surrounding you are slim to none.

Yet his bandanna rests in your pocket like a chivalric favor, and as Huang stares you down with reptilian stillness, saying nothing and blinking seldom, you slip your hand there and clench the frayed black fabric tightly in your fist. Black as mourning, black as swallows’ wings.

You had expected an interrogation. Questions and accusations lobbied, a showing of the straightforward suspicion that most tong men jump to when things go askew. Feng had been like that. At the slightest twitch of another man’s confrontation he’d be afire, the tension in him crackling like a live wire and at once the visible measurement preluding potential violence: how many words until we come to blows, how many steps to close the distance. No patience for subterfuge, no eye for subtlety. No foresight as to what deals might be germinating behind his back, what bargains struck with him at their center. 

But a pimp is a kind of purveyor, and though he occupies a different role now, Huang’s merchant instinct has not left him. He knows well the maddening coax of silence, the expectant desolation that will drive a man to say more than he ought in an attempt to shape a foothold for himself in the midst of that emptiness. He lets you weave your narrative without interruption, and regards its component stitches with a masklike placidity that had frozen you to the marrow when you were Yan, but which crystallizes now as only a passing skin of frost. You brush past the tightening knot of unease wending in your gut and forge into the essentials of what you came here to haggle.

It always snaps a sinewy strand of disgust in you, the way this part comes easy. Flexing the muscle that you and he have in common, the parlance of transaction. There is a rhythm to this that you know how to trace like a finger to a pulse. Open by asking too much, backtrack, pivot, chip at his offers with the knowledge that he is doing the same. Retreat and entreat, and pretend that you don’t see the approving acknowledgment in his face. That you are indeed your father’s daughter.

Huang is unusually agreeable today, and you get the disconcerting impression that he is placating you for something. The spoonful of sugar before the cupful of medicine, as they say.

He’ll have a new valise made within the week. No cost to you— these things happen, he says, nodding in artificial sympathy, and it’s far easier to replace equipment than personnel. A miracle, actually, that you were able to escape in one piece. You want your pay early? Well now, there is protocol to this sort of thing, figures to be kept. The treasurer will certainly be cross… but an exception can be made, just this once. And how very kind of you to offer to host the Tuesday morning poker game! Yes, of course you’ll be compensated. Really, Yan. All this suspicion, and for what? Has he not always played by the rules? Has he not always operated within the bounds that the tongs have set?

Even Feng’s murder, says the seething silence that stretches between you, had been sanctioned. Sam Wah himself had signed off on it in red ink, executioner’s ink. In the cold aftermath, as you stood bloodless and blank and senseless as new paper, the old man had met with you one last time in the Hop Sing drawing room and explained the terms of your expulsion, laying out his justifications as cleanly as black and white weiqi pieces on a game board. 《He should have known what he was courting,》 the old man had said. 《Two Chuan Li men dead. Another beaten so badly he can’t even hold a pair of chopsticks. There were calls for war, Lee. And if I could sacrifice just one man to stay that war…》

Damn it all, the shifting labyrinthine sprawl of custom and regulation and ceremony that governs this hell. And you, aimless and hopeless as a minotaur, wandering these unnavigable halls and waiting for the inevitable blade that will run you through. 

Your negotiation with Huang seems to be drawing to a close, winding into insincere niceties that make you faintly ill to have to receive and resentful to have to reciprocate, when he says (magnanimously, as if he’s gifting you with some great benevolence),《And by the by, I thought you should know— I’ve arranged a new escort for you.》

You draw back in your chair. 《What?》

《I believe you’ve met before. Sam Bennett.》

《Sam Bennett? Sam Bennett?》 Jesus fuck. No. 《You can’t pair me with him. Last year, when I was still with Hop Sing, I—》

《You had him dismissed from the police force for upping his payoffs. Yes, I’m well aware. But the man has agreed to let bygones be bygones in the interest of commerce, and has promised to be on his best behavior.》

《That doesn’t mean shit—》

《Language.》

Shifting again, the corridors of the labyrinth. Reconfiguring into a straight arrow path to Theseus and his golden sword. And you have no recourse but to make your way forward. It wells up in you like a scream, the shivering skitter of a suppressed year’s worth of dread. Racing through your veins like a million frantic ants, your very blood on the trembling verge— and in the midst of this, Huang has the nerve to politely ask you not to curse. You would tear into him and bite open his fucking heart with your own teeth and nails if it would not bring the entire wrath of his tong upon your dead man’s promise. You would gnash him to splinters. You would shred him until he were nothing but insensible meat, until he resembled at last the miserable pile of bloodied and putrid rot you have always known him to be. 

Yulong is here. Yulong is here. Calm down. 

《He’d hurt me,》 you say, your voice shaking the same way your fist in your pocket does, wringing Morgan’s bandanna the way you’ve often imagined wringing Huang’s neck. 《The second he gets me alone. He will.》

《As I said before. He has given his word.》 Huang picks up his teacup and takes a long, savoring sip. Your own sits waiting still on his desk, the steam gone, the liquid that rests inside the sweet brown ochre of a dead leaf. 《But if you’re yet unwilling to continue playing courier… the original proposal still stands.》

The slavemongering bastard opened a parlor house on Harrison Ave when he came here. You have heard talk of it from some of the men. Dead-eyed girls in fine linen and closed doors from which fume the haunted soundscape of your childhood. He would add you to their number, noose you round the neck with a contrived contract and add with each day new debts with which to fetter you. And he would shut you in with him. He would have you take your mother’s place.

《And I suppose if that’s not an option, then I’ll have to take poor Meilan back. But such a shame for a child to grow up without his mother, and you’d know that better than anyone, wouldn’t you.》

His bland, nondescript shopkeeper’s face is as mild as ever, yet there in the pits of his eyes shines a cold and calculating light that you might have named satanic in your missionary days. But it is a child who cannot comprehend that the blackest quadrants of cruelty come not from the divine but are rooted instead in what is altogether too human to bear.

《It’s not a decision to be made lightly, by any means. I believe the next delivery is scheduled for—》Huang fingers the calendar set on the corner of his desk, looking thoughtful as if he hadn’t personally engineered your predicament.《— the 15th. I’ll give you until the 13th to give me your answer. But in the meantime…》

The drawer rattles open again. He withdraws a thick wad of new bills and laboriously counts out a portion with neatly manicured hands, then places a crisp green stack on the center of his desk. You have to stand up and lean forward to reach it, and you shouldn’t be surprised when he closes his fingers round your wrist— his grip tight and cold, the smile on his face still deceptively kind— but you freeze as though your very blood has done the same, rooting you there through the branching of ice through your veins, and you stare up at him rabbit-eyed, and you’re Yan again after all, you always have been—

From his corner, Yulong coughs conspicuously. He follows it up with a loud and truly impressive mustering of tobacco-tinged mucus, which he spits neatly into a nearby spitoon. It pings like the most disgusting and simultaneously blessed bell in existence.

Huang gently places your wages into your open palm. He releases you, and says nothing when you stumble a few steps backwards, then grind the heel of your boot against the floorboard so hard that it squeaks as you turn and propel yourself out the room, into the hall, through the door, and past the front of the building, the laundry, the shops, the faces of jostled onlookers whipping past in murmurs and blurred shouts of indignation, until you reach the iron water pump on the corner of Spruce Street. Its worn handle lets out a series of frantic and angry squeaks as you work it, and a gaggle of girls bedecked in French Quarter finery looks on in vague bemusement as you scrub at your wrist under its torrent of rust-specked, tepid water.

Your sleeve is still damp with it when you reach the butcher. And as you stand there watching the scale’s silver needle quiver as the man weighs out a strip of fat-striped pork, your eyes drift over the tubs of fresh viscera resting behind the glass. Kidneys gleaming a deep cabochon red, pale coils of intestines bunched up like fleshy snakes, a slab of cross-sectioned liver that shines as dully in the afternoon light as unburnished copper— the parceled out fate of a creature sectioned to its most valuable parts and bought piece by piece. The curtain to the back room has been swept aside, and in that blood-reeking, windowless dark dangles a meat hook thronged by a lantern’s eerie flicker. A dead sow hangs from it snout down, her insides hollowed out and her ribs starkly white in the dripping cavity of her chest.

Her ear has been slit. Beholding it, you recognize that notch for what it really is. A prelude to slaughter.

— — —

The more he thinks about it, the worse he feels.

Arthur flicks a scavenging fly off the lip of his soup bowl and stirs what’s left of the sludgy minestrone like he’s sifting for gold amongst bobbing chunks of string bean and gristly pork. In the far corner of the saloon, the piano player struggles through a rendition of Maple Leaf Rag, and the jarring, imprecise notes that litter the score seem appropriate considering the utter mistake that he seems hellbent on walking himself into.

If you were anyone else, I’d have never opened that door in the first place. 

What a fucking joke. 

You had said the words sincerely— he has no doubt of that, those clear eyes of yours so devoid of artifice— but they had obviously been meant for someone else: the avatar of the dead man you seem to see in him. Fong or Feng or Fang, whatever the hell his name was. Arthur lets his spoon drop against the rim of the bowl and gestures towards the barkeep for another shot of bourbon, figuring that the fire of it down his throat will burn away the foul taste at the back of his mouth.

From down the road, a work whistle sounds off and a gate opens like an unhinged maw, loosing from its depths an outpour of workers who stream down the city streets dusty as moths. Worn down men clothed in grease streaked shirts pungent with sweat, and boys among them lively with a youth that dilutes daily with each lever pulled, each heap of coal shoveled in these ashen-hued factories.

A cluster of dark-skinned teenagers, none of them much older than thirteen, runs past the saloon window as they jostle each other for sidewalk space. Exuberant still, the cruel cogitations of the city they inhabit not yet fully manifest for them, they are bright and loud and painfully earnest with an incandescence that will only ever dim in the years they have left. One of them cracks a joke that makes his fellows laugh, and as they make their way towards the slums a white man several feet away casts a disgusted look in their direction and crosses the street. Above it all, the smokestacks like funereal columns holding up the blue catafalque of sky spew soot indiscriminate.

“More of ‘em every year,” the man sitting beside him at the bar grunts.

“More what.”

“You know.” He nods at Arthur with the beleaguered camaraderie of a fellow soldier, huddling miserable in the trenches. “Coloreds. Blacks and Mexicans and god knows what else. Come in like a trickle, but before you know it the water’s at your neck and you’re just barely keepin’ afloat.”

Arthur scoffs. “You say that like the white folk round here are any improvement. They ain’t.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of them equality minded types—”

“Quit it, Pete.” The bartender sounds weary. “Don’t need you proselytizin’ to every new patron I got.”

Customers come and customers go, and their chatter flows about him like a stream rippling round an obdurate stone. The light that shines through the oily glass begins to take on the ruddying tint of early sunset. A man with a scraggly blond beard and a laborer’s look about him sits down at the bar, begins making idle conversation with the bartender. New in town, and staking out watering holes. Still acquainting himself with what distractions the city has to offer, and might he recommend whereabouts a man might find a decent place to play a hand of poker?

“Prob’ly Chinatown,” the bartender says, polishing a glass with a rag so filthy that the action serves only to counter his efforts. “Only thing worth venturin’ there for. Whole place reeks of piss.”

“Ain’t worth it, if y’ask me,” says Pete, whose opinion has been sought by nobody. “Them chinks’ll cheat a man outta every penny they can get.”

“Parlor on Martin Street’s decent.”

“That the one with the Chinese hostess?” the newcomer asks. “I heard of it. Too bad the ante’s steep as hell.”

“What you think her pussy looks like.”

Arthur nearly spits out his drink. From the corner of his eye, he sees Pete’s yellowed smile, his conspiratorial glance as he spills out his own dubious brand of wisdom. “Because from what I been told, chink pussy’s slanted just like their eyes.”

“Bullshit. What would that even look like.”

“Ask Jonesy. He says he’s had her.”

“I don’t believe a single word outta that bastard’s mouth.”

“Well if anyone knows, it’d be him. That degenerate’s mad for exotic pussy like no one else. Anyway, he says when that chink girl spreads her legs, her gash is sideways—”

When Arthur slams Pete’s face against the blunt edge of the bar, the brawl that ensues has a flavor of confusion to it, like the other man can’t understand what he’s done to deserve it. 

As he stalks down the darkening streets with his knuckles smarting and his hair still dripping with cheap beer, he finds himself approaching the margin between the city and the swamp, where the lines of houses grow in grandiosity until they cease at the muddy wash of the wetlands. A breeze kicks up, carrying in its stream strains of insect song and mallard calls, the repetitious melodies of creatures so caught up in the business of rut that they will cry out incessant amidst a landscape rife with predation. Short-lived, they are. The breadth of their days narrow, and with the horizon of things held in each precarious hour, they have no heed for caution in the face of desire.

In the descending close of day the wooden bridge that leads into the Lemoyne wilds stretches into the rising evening mist like a structure half imagined. How easy it would be to ride towards that merciful anonymity, how freeing to leave every bit of this idiotic sense of obligation behind. 

Arthur sighs. He adjusts his hat and turns back towards St Denis, where the lamplighters are kindling their metal forged charges one by one, glass-amplified fires sparking up in silent welcome.

— — —

Sunday morning, and the Christians are flocking to their god. From the alley off of Calliope Street, Yulong shades his eyes with his hand as he scans through a sea of starched collars and pressed linen dresses. All those good little worshippers so intent on saving the souls of the heathens, and so heedless of that which lies shattered in the wake of their compassionate imposition— they stream towards the stone cathedral that juts from the city square with its spires sharp as icicles, and in their midst he spots a brown-hatted figure weaving through the edge of the crowd.

Oh, Lee. Pretty as a knife. 

Dressed like a boy again, and in a way that certain other men have utterly failed to recognize, it does suit you, given how well it shows the turn of your waist and the quickness in your step. You glance over your shoulder as you approach the alley. A rather futile act of caution, given how loudly the heels of your boots clack against the cobbles.

《Sound like a goddamn elephant stomping over here like that,》Yulong remarks when you come close.

《Oh, shut up.》

《Lemme see your face.》

《Really, Yu. It’s not that bad.》But you let him tilt your head up with his knuckle and squint at the cut on your mouth, though you fold your arms across your chest and roll your eyes as he does so.

The second Wei had left the parlor to inform Huang of your arrival, Yulong had crouched down and tried to help you up. 《Motherfuck,》he whispered.《You okay, Lee? I didn’t mean to hit you that hard—》

You swatted away both his hand and his offer of assistance with an impatient flap of your wrist.《Meet me tomorrow morning.》

《Where?》

《The alley. Eight o clock.》A bright bead of blood ran down your chin as you spoke and he had remembered with a plangent pang like buried regret the bygone days in which you would have welcomed him to tend you. That year which had held in all its seasons the lazy contentment of deep summer before its inevitable fall. 

Your bottom lip is streaked now with a vertical scab the width of a horsehair, and your cheek holds in it an asymmetrical blush of rupture in the shape of his own hand, marked with a small white stripe from the imprint of the ring on his finger. He winces, and instead of the awkward apology that he’d spent all morning stringing together, blurts out,《The hell were you thinkin’, smackin’ me in the face like that. You knew I’d have to hit you back. Woulda looked suspicious as all fuck if I hadn’t—》

《That thing you said about Feng.》Your voice is reproachful, but not angry.《It was mean.》

He concedes this with a rueful twist of his mouth.《It was.》

《Yeah.》

《You wanna take another crack at me now, you’re welcome to it.》

You manage a bleak little smile. As you roll up your sleeve and bop your fist lightly against his shoulder, he sees the pink ring of chafed skin at your wrist— ligature mark the width of his thumb, striated like strands. Rope. His mouth goes dry, his throat tightens. He tries to force away from his mind’s eye the thousand haunted hypotheticals that had plagued him the night before. Lee hurt. Lee crying. Lee broken beneath some faceless white devil leagues away from retribution.

That last image had struck up such a blaze of inconsolable rage that Ruolan had sleepily sat up beside him, blankets rounding over her swelling belly as she pressed her lips to his shoulder. Was he worried about the baby again, she asked him, her voice husky in that way that made his heart and loins wound in sympathetic ache. She was nervous too, she confessed, crossing her arms around him in the soft warren of their bed. But she had a good feeling this time, and especially so far along…

He rolled over and hugged her with such sudden ferocity that she had startled. Ran his palm over the new life that beat in tandem within her and buried his face against her soft neck, and would not worry her by speaking his fears aloud.

《Lee,》Yulong says.《The sonuvabitch who robbed you— gimme a name. Or if you ain’t got that, go down to Kuang’s and give ‘im a description, get ‘im to draw you a picture. He’s good at th—》You shake your head, and it is not shame or revulsion or even simple dismay that clouds your face, but rather the sheepish embarrassment of a moonstruck schoolgirl.《Ah no, that’s not… I mean, it wasn’t exactly a robbery, it was more like a misunderstanding. As in he did take my money, but he also saved my life, and— god, it doesn’t really matter. It’s not why I’m here.》The breath you take rattles through your lungs like nervous conviction, and you close your eyes through the long duration of your exhale. When you open them again, the resolution contained there is thin and weary but nonetheless solid, and it plucks a chord of apprehension in him to witness. 《Yu,》you say simply. 《Help me.》

[pure-garbage]

Two-Faced Archipelago! The Smile Of Sabaody

The town built on a cluster of ancient mangroves was bright and lively, beckoning Lana with novel sights and sounds.

"You still remember the dock number?" she triple-checked.

"For the last time, yes!" Zoro grumbled.

"Okay. Here, try this."

Zoro accepted a mug from her, sampling its contents with a discerning flair.

"Not bad. Where'd you get it?" he asked.

"That shop. It fronts a distillery."

"Wanna stop in for a while?"

"Maybe on our way back. Gimme some of your hair. I'm gonna split for a while."

He accepted the knife she offered, obliging her request even as he questioned it.

"What do you need my hair for?"

"I heard there's a stall a few streets over that make up vivre cards. I'm going to get them to make us one each," Lana explained.

"What for?"

"Just to have. The whole concept is so neat, I can't resist!"

"If you say so. What do you say we meet back here in an hour?"

"Uh..."

Lana considered the idea of Zoro intentionally trying to find his way back to one specific spot and paled a little at the thought of the chaos that would almost certainly ensue.

"Don't worry about it... I don't know how long this'll take. I'll just find you when it's done, 'kay?" she proposed instead. She didn't wait for him to accept, just ran off before he could protest, leaving him shaking his head.

"With her awful sense of direction?" he scoffed, unaware of the cruel irony. "I'll be lucky to ever see her again."

Lana left the stall with her freshly minted vivre cards much sooner than she'd anticipated.

"Now, Zoro," she muttered to herself as she stepped out into the street. "Where are you?"

She walked for about three minutes before a woman's inconsolable wailing pierced the calm of the grove.

"Yep," she sighed. "Bet my sash that's where Zoro's at."

Lana high-tailed it in the direction the screams, heading for the source of the commotion. Soon, she rounded a corner, but what she saw stopped her cold.

"Z-Zoro!"

He sat on the grass, red covering his head and dripping down off his chin.

"What did you do?! I left you alone for like, twenty minutes! Whose blood is that?" Lana demanded. Her head whipped around, but she didn't see bodies or anyone else injured. Her sole focus turned to Zoro. "Can you stand? What happened?!"

"I'm fine, it's red berry sauce," Zoro grunted, taking her hand and pulling himself up. "You're not gonna believe this, but some crazy chick just knocked me down and splashed it all over me. On purpose."

"What? That's all? I mean, that's pretty bizarre, but I thought you hurt someone. Or got hurt. Mostly hurt someone else, though."

Lana wiped a finger through the red substance and popped it into her mouth, confirming Zoro's claim.

"I almost did," Zoro admitted. "Some whacky guy in the dumbest outfit I've ever seen pointed a gun at me for literally no reason."

"Literally no reason? Come on, Zoro, just pony up and tell me what you did," Lana scoffed.

"I didn't do anything! I have no clue what this guy's problem was!"

"Right, sure. So this connects to the red berry sauce woman how?"

"She knocked me down, splashed me, told me to stay down and then did a whole bunch of caterwauling about how her 'poor brother was dead'. Hey, knock that off!"

Zoro swatted Lana's hand away as she tried to swipe another taste of the syrup.

"But it's good though," she moped. "Whatever, have it your way. That sounds like a really strange encounter, Zoro. I guess that was all the screaming I heard."

"Think that's all considered normal around these parts?" Zoro asked, glancing around surreptitiously for any sign of others being unsolicitedly doused with berry sauce.

"Who knows? Come on. Let's head back to the ship and clean up. Before anything else weird happens."

"Sure you don't want to hang around and see if you can get some berry sauce for yourself?" Zoro smirked as he caught her eying the sticky substance yearningly.

"Ha ha. Very funny. How about we get back to the Sunny and I settle for licking you clean?" she teased.

"You're right, we really should get going," he agreed at once with a wide grin.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Lana realized. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the vivre cards.

"Purple and green?" Zoro asked curiously.

"Yeah, they let you pick the colors. Nifty, huh? Here."

She tore both cards, kept half of each and gave the other halves to Zoro.

"Obviously, mine is the purple one and yours is green."

"That tracks."

"Now don't lose them, or mine won't work."

"Me? You don't lose yours."

"As if. Hey, you still remember the grove number where we docked?"

"Hey!"

________________________________________________

<== Previous Chapter

Next Chapter ==>

== First Chapter ==

[muraenide]

Malleus ( @fireandfae ) sent: “Ah, Leech. There you are.” Appearing from the air with a shower of green sparkles as if he were some sort of oversized lightning bug, Malleus steps in front of Jade with a smile entirely too smug as he hands him an odd sort of container. “It is your birthday is it not?”

It’s shaped like a dome, transparent glass tinted the faintest of purples and harboring beneath its lid a small cluster of mushrooms that appear to shimmer with an eerie blue glow amidst the dirt heaped up around them.

“You are so fond of mushrooms, I thought I would gift you a sample of one of the kinds that grow within the boundaries of Briar Valley. Perhaps you may find them intriguing as I am quite certain nothing similar grows near this school.”

Malleus' appearance comes as a surprise. He does not recall seeing the Diasomnia Housewarden at his and Floyd's birthday party. Amid the masses of students gathered at the lounge, he wouldn't have missed it if someone as tall and outlandish as Malleus had paid them a visit.

His gaze falls onto the odd-looking container in the other's grasp, half-expecting the purpose of his visit, but it's still different to think about it in theory rather than witnessing it in person. "You know that I enjoyed studying mushrooms?" A smile sits on his lips. It's a rhetorical question. He hasn't forgotten the club showcase where Malleus' booth had been located just right next to his. Perhaps his displays had made it far too obvious.

Taking the container into his hands, his eyebrows pinch when he realizes the breed of fungi is unlike anything he has ever seen before. "Is this...... Oh." As Malleus explains the origin of his gift, for a few brief moments, the facade melts away. Eyes wide, alight with curiosity and wonderment, his grip around the container tightens visibly, having known the full extent of its value. "I — I couldn't thank you enough. I would never have expected such a thoughtful gift." The excitement in his voice is barely concealed. He didn't mind now that no one was left here except the two of them.

"Are there any special treatments I should take note of to ensure their survival outside of Briar Valley? If you know, you must find a time to tell me about them."

[obwjam]

The dense foliage of Isla Nublar concealed both its prehistoric wonders and its dangers. Alan Grant, a seasoned paleontologist, had been navigating this untamed island for days, collecting samples and documenting the remnants of dinosaurs that had once roamed these lands. Every rustle in the underbrush and every chirping insect spoke of the island's vitality, but they also hinted at the lurking perils.

Meanwhile, deep within the verdant labyrinth of the jungle, a tiny three-inch woman named Selene embarked on her own expedition. She wasn't a fairy; she was an adventurer of her kind, a member of a tribe who had learned to thrive in the world of giants and dinosaurs.

Selene's curiosity had led her deep into the heart of Isla Nublar. Her tiny form was clothed in attire made from leaves and vines, designed for both camouflage and practicality in this vast wilderness. Her eyes, bright and observant, scanned her surroundings as she stepped gingerly over moss-covered roots and skirted the massive ferns that bordered her path.

As she ventured deeper into the jungle, the flora grew more ominous. Unbeknownst to Selene, she had entered a perilous territory inhabited by carnivorous plants. With silent trepidation, she approached a particularly vibrant and deceptively enticing-looking flower.

Unfamiliar with the island's flora, Selene failed to recognize the danger. As she neared the carnivorous plant, its leafy tendrils suddenly sprang to life, snaring her in their grasp. Panic coursed through her veins as she realized the perilous situation she had stumbled into. The plant's serrated edges closed around her, leaving her suspended in the air, her tiny form trapped within the gaping maw of the botanical predator.

Meanwhile, not too far away, Alan Grant had been examining a cluster of dinosaur tracks when he heard an unfamiliar, high-pitched cry for help. The desperate plea echoed through the jungle, reaching his keen ears. Intrigued and concerned, he followed the sound, making his way through the tangled undergrowth.

The cries led him to the carnivorous plant, and as he approached, he spotted Selene struggling within its grasp. Her tiny form was barely discernible among the plant's verdant foliage. Realizing the danger she was in, Grant knew he had to act swiftly.

With a surgeon's precision, he used a small knife from his toolkit to carefully sever the plant's tendrils one by one, all the while ensuring that Selene remained unharmed. Each snip brought her closer to freedom, but it was a delicate and time-consuming process.

Finally, with the last tendril cut, Selene tumbled into Grant's outstretched hand, her chest heaving with relief. She gazed up at him with gratitude, her tiny eyes filled with a mixture of awe and wonder at the giant who had come to her rescue.

Grant, holding Selene gently in the palm of his hand, smiled warmly. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice a comforting rumble.

Selene nodded, her voice tiny but resolute. "Thank you for saving me. I would have been the plant's dinner without your help. I’m Selene.”

Grant chuckled softly. "I'm glad I arrived in time. What brings you to this wild place, Selene?"

Selene explained her adventurous spirit and her curiosity about the island's unique environment, which was vastly different from her own miniature world. She shared stories of her tribe and their resourcefulness in coexisting with the giants of Isla Nublar.

As they continued to talk, Grant marveled at Selene's bravery and resilience. He decided to offer her a place to stay, nestled securely in the palm of his hand, where she could find refuge from the island's perils. Selene accepted his offer with gratitude, knowing that this newfound alliance held the promise of exciting adventures and a friendship that transcended the boundaries of size and scale.

😭 headcanon that if tinies exist in the jurassic park universe, alan 100% knows they exist and has met them before

[xaltius]

The Data Scientist's Toolkit: 20 Essential Statistical Approaches - A Deep Dive

Data science is more than just wielding powerful machine learning algorithms. It's fundamentally built on a strong foundation of statistical principles. To truly extract meaningful insights, build robust models, and make impactful decisions, a data scientist must possess a comprehensive understanding of statistical approaches. Let's delve deeper into 20 crucial statistical concepts that form the bedrock of a successful data science career.

1. Descriptive Statistics: Unveiling the Story Within the Data

Descriptive statistics are the first step in any data analysis. They provide a concise summary of your data, allowing you to understand its central tendencies and variability. Key measures include:

Mean: The average value, representing the center of the data.

Median: The middle value, less sensitive to outliers than the mean.

Mode: The most frequent value, useful for categorical data.

Variance: Measures the spread of data around the mean.

Standard Deviation: The square root of variance, providing a more interpretable measure of spread.

2. Probability Distributions: Modeling the World's Randomness

Probability distributions describe the likelihood of different outcomes. Understanding them is crucial for modeling real-world phenomena:

Normal Distribution: The bell-shaped curve, representing many natural phenomena.

Binomial Distribution: Models the probability of successes in a fixed number of trials.

Poisson Distribution: Models the probability of events occurring in a fixed interval of time or space.

Exponential Distribution: Models the time between events in a Poisson process. 1  

3. Hypothesis Testing: Drawing Conclusions from Data

Hypothesis testing allows us to make statistically sound inferences about populations based on sample data. Common tests include:

T-tests: Compare the means of two groups.

Chi-square tests: Examine relationships between categorical variables.

ANOVA (Analysis of Variance): Compare the means of multiple groups.

4. Confidence Intervals: Estimating the Unknown

Confidence intervals provide a range within which a population parameter (e.g., the mean) is likely to fall, with a certain level of confidence.

5. Correlation Analysis: Measuring Relationships

Correlation analysis quantifies the strength and direction of the linear relationship between two variables.

6. Regression Analysis: Predicting the Future

Regression analysis builds models to predict a dependent variable based on one or more independent variables:

Linear Regression: Models linear relationships.

Polynomial Regression: Models curved relationships.

Logistic Regression: Models binary outcomes.

7. Analysis of Variance (ANOVA): Comparing Group Differences

ANOVA extends t-tests to compare the means of more than two groups.

8. Time Series Analysis: Unraveling Temporal Patterns

Time series analysis focuses on data collected over time, identifying trends, seasonality, and other patterns:

ARIMA (Autoregressive Integrated Moving Average): Models time series based on past values.

Exponential Smoothing: Forecasts future values based on weighted averages of past values.

9. Bayesian Statistics: Updating Beliefs with Evidence

Bayesian statistics uses Bayes' theorem to update beliefs based on new evidence.

10. Sampling Techniques: Making Inferences from Subsets

Sampling techniques allow us to select representative samples from a population to make inferences about the entire population.

11. Non-Parametric Tests: Dealing with Non-Normal Data

Non-parametric tests are used when data does not meet the assumptions of parametric tests:

Mann-Whitney U test: Compares two independent groups.

Wilcoxon signed-rank test: Compares two related groups.

12. Principal Component Analysis (PCA): Reducing Dimensionality

PCA reduces the dimensionality of data by identifying the principal components that explain the most variance.

13. Cluster Analysis: Finding Hidden Groups

Cluster analysis groups similar data points together based on their characteristics:

K-means clustering: Partitions data into k clusters.

Hierarchical clustering: Builds a hierarchy of clusters.

14. Outlier Detection: Identifying Anomalies

Outlier detection identifies data points that deviate significantly from the rest of the data.

15. Survival Analysis: Modeling Time-to-Event Data

Survival analysis analyzes time-to-event data, such as time until failure or time until recovery.

16. Resampling Techniques: Estimating Model Performance

Resampling techniques, like bootstrapping and cross-validation, estimate the performance of a model.

17. Statistical Power: Detecting Real Effects

Statistical power determines the probability of detecting a statistically significant effect when it exists.

18. A/B Testing: Comparing Two Options

A/B testing compares two versions of a product or feature to determine which performs better.

19. Statistical Modeling: Representing Reality

Statistical modeling involves creating mathematical representations of real-world phenomena.

20. Experimental Design: Planning Effective Studies

Experimental design focuses on planning and conducting experiments to collect data and test hypotheses.

The Indispensable Role of Statistics in Data Science:

These statistical approaches are not mere theoretical concepts; they are the practical tools that empower data scientists to:

Extract meaningful insights from raw data.

Build accurate and reliable predictive models.

Make informed, data-driven decisions that drive business value.

Communicate complex findings clearly and effectively to stakeholders.

Xaltius Academy's Data Science and AI Program: Building a Strong Statistical Foundation:

Xaltius Academy's Data Science and AI program recognizes the paramount importance of a solid statistical foundation. The program provides a comprehensive understanding of these essential statistical approaches, ensuring that you graduate with the practical skills and theoretical knowledge needed to excel in the data science field. The program's hands-on approach will make these difficult concepts easier to understand.

[whatsissue]

Should You Worry About Bird Flu? Experts Explain the Current Risks and Precautions

Should You Worry About Bird Flu? Experts Explain the Current Risks and Precautions The bird flu, specifically the H5N1 strain, has recently been spreading among dairy cows in California, Idaho, and Utah. While the virus primarily infects wild birds, it began impacting commercial poultry in 2022 and has now been detected in cattle since March 2024. Although there have been a few human cases linked to exposure to sick animals, experts emphasize that the situation is currently contained. Current Situation with Bird Flu The H5N1 outbreak was first identified in wild birds in January 2022 and quickly made its way to commercial poultry, affecting turkeys shortly after. Since then, the virus has been detected in various animals, including cattle, goats, alpacas, and even a pig. According to Dr. Amesh Adalja, an infectious disease expert, the ongoing outbreak is largely due to an increase in avian influenza activity among wild birds that has spilled over into livestock. Notably, this is the first time dairy cattle have been infected with H5N1, which raises concerns because there is no flu vaccine for cattle, and the dairy industry has never faced such a challenge before. The detection of H5N1 in pigs is particularly alarming since pigs can be infected by both human and avian viruses, potentially leading to the creation of new influenza strains that could infect humans. Can Humans Contract Bird Flu? As more animals become infected, the likelihood of human exposure increases. In April 2024, a person tested positive for H5N1 after exposure to infected cows, marking the first known case of cow-to-human transmission. By May, several additional cases were reported among individuals who had contact with infected dairy cows. In total, 46 people in the U.S. have been diagnosed with bird flu this year due to exposure to infected animals. A July 2024 study suggested that the actual number of infections might be higher than reported, indicating that approximately 14.3% of farm workers tested had antibodies for H5N1, suggesting prior exposure to the virus. Public Health Threat Assessment According to the CDC, all cases documented in the current outbreak have been classified as sporadic instances of animal-to-human transmission. The risk to the general public remains low since there has been no evidence of human-to-human spread. For the virus to start spreading among humans, significant genetic changes would be necessary, allowing it to bind more effectively to human receptors. For those concerned about food safety, it’s important to note that pasteurized milk is safe, and properly cooking meat should eliminate any risk of the flu virus. Most reported symptoms in infected individuals have been mild, primarily respiratory issues and conjunctivitis. So far, no farmworkers diagnosed with HPAI have required hospitalization. Preparedness for a Larger Outbreak Experts warn that surveillance and testing efforts have not kept pace with the virus’s spread, which could allow it to adapt to humans. The U.S. Department of Agriculture has announced plans to enhance testing, collaborating with state veterinarians to bulk-test milk samples to understand where H5N1 is spreading. Dr. Richard Martinello stresses the importance of monitoring infections in animals, particularly pigs, as each new infection presents an opportunity for the virus to evolve. If clusters of human infections begin to emerge, it may indicate that the virus has gained the ability to spread among people. Vaccination and Prevention While vaccines for H5N1 have been developed, they are not yet publicly available. Experts recommend focusing on seasonal influenza vaccination as a more immediate protective measure, as seasonal flu poses a greater threat to public health than H5N1 at this time. Dr. Martinello emphasizes that getting vaccinated against seasonal influenza is a crucial step for personal protection. Conclusion While the current situation regarding bird flu is concerning, experts believe the risk to the general public remains low. Close monitoring of animal infections and enhanced testing will be vital in preventing the virus from adapting to humans. For now, staying informed and getting vaccinated against seasonal influenza are the best ways to protect yourself. Thank you for taking the time to read this article! Your thoughts and feedback are incredibly valuable to me. What do you think about the topics discussed? Please share your insights in the comments section below, as your input helps me create even better content. I’m also eager to hear your stories! If you have a special experience, a unique story, or interesting anecdotes from your life or surroundings, please send them to me at whatsissue@gmail.com. Your stories could inspire others and add depth to our discussions. If you enjoyed this post and want to stay updated with more informative and engaging articles, don’t forget to hit the subscribe button! I’m committed to bringing you the latest insights and trends, so stay tuned for upcoming posts. Wishing you a wonderful day ahead, and I look forward to connecting with you in the comments and reading your stories! Read the full article

[thelarrylockenchanne1]

Earth like Pleiadian planets

On this, I verbally explain what I had been talking about the last two weeks on Facebook.  Regarding contact, I had been having with, eight different human collectives from various planets in the Pleiades star cluster. I explained how the main theme behind each of them was that each one of them was a color of the rainbow as it pertained to their skin color, even one that was a rainbow color itself.

I briefly recapped how it all started and what each one of them was like in their own way this is something that I have been documented on Facebook every step of the way along with 1-minute slideshows to each of them that has either the name of their color in their song or in their band's name.  There were eight races in all that I encountered, keeping in mind that they have over a thousand earth-like planets with humanoids like earthlings on them in the Pleiades star cluster alone.  ⁶

So, to put that into perspective, that sample size I was privileged to was less than half of a percent of the earth human-like planets they have there.    The colors  of the inhabitants were pink, purple, green crystal blue, dark blue yellow, white, and a , colored one as well.  In the last two minutes I started to go into the second reason for doing this talk. 

That was to bring up a message brought to me by the 12th dimensional Arcturian Translucent Color Realms Collective regarding the Ascension of not just humans but plants and animals on the planet as well I will do that one another day at least it gave like a two-minute sneak peek before cutting me off lol.  I will finish up the Arcturian part a bit later today!  🩷💜💚🩵💙💛���🌈😇🗯👽🛸✨️ https://youtu.be/JGHykwDDcHc?si=mZAg-KvdCmM1aj9gl #pleiadianexpressproductions #starseed #lightworker #arcturians #newage #awakened #ascension #angels #larrylocken #pleiadianlightgridproject

[sunaleisocial]

AI model identifies certain breast tumor stages likely to progress to invasive cancer

New Post has been published on https://sunalei.org/news/ai-model-identifies-certain-breast-tumor-stages-likely-to-progress-to-invasive-cancer/

AI model identifies certain breast tumor stages likely to progress to invasive cancer

Ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS) is a type of preinvasive tumor that sometimes progresses to a highly deadly form of breast cancer. It accounts for about 25 percent of all breast cancer diagnoses.

Because it is difficult for clinicians to determine the type and stage of DCIS, patients with DCIS are often overtreated. To address this, an interdisciplinary team of researchers from MIT and ETH Zurich developed an AI model that can identify the different stages of DCIS from a cheap and easy-to-obtain breast tissue image. Their model shows that both the state and arrangement of cells in a tissue sample are important for determining the stage of DCIS.

Because such tissue images are so easy to obtain, the researchers were able to build one of the largest datasets of its kind, which they used to train and test their model. When they compared its predictions to conclusions of a pathologist, they found clear agreement in many instances.

In the future, the model could be used as a tool to help clinicians streamline the diagnosis of simpler cases without the need for labor-intensive tests, giving them more time to evaluate cases where it is less clear if DCIS will become invasive.

“We took the first step in understanding that we should be looking at the spatial organization of cells when diagnosing DCIS, and now we have developed a technique that is scalable. From here, we really need a prospective study. Working with a hospital and getting this all the way to the clinic will be an important step forward,” says Caroline Uhler, a professor in the Department of Electrical Engineering and Computer Science (EECS) and the Institute for Data, Systems, and Society (IDSS), who is also director of the Eric and Wendy Schmidt Center at the Broad Institute of MIT and Harvard and a researcher at MIT’s Laboratory for Information and Decision Systems (LIDS).

Uhler, co-corresponding author of a paper on this research, is joined by lead author Xinyi Zhang, a graduate student in EECS and the Eric and Wendy Schmidt Center; co-corresponding author GV Shivashankar, professor of mechogenomics at ETH Zurich jointly with the Paul Scherrer Institute; and others at MIT, ETH Zurich, and the University of Palermo in Italy. The open-access research was published July 20 in Nature Communications.

Combining imaging with AI   

Between 30 and 50 percent of patients with DCIS develop a highly invasive stage of cancer, but researchers don’t know the biomarkers that could tell a clinician which tumors will progress.

Researchers can use techniques like multiplexed staining or single-cell RNA sequencing to determine the stage of DCIS in tissue samples. However, these tests are too expensive to be performed widely, Shivashankar explains.

In previous work, these researchers showed that a cheap imagining technique known as chromatin staining could be as informative as the much costlier single-cell RNA sequencing.

For this research, they hypothesized that combining this single stain with a carefully designed machine-learning model could provide the same information about cancer stage as costlier techniques.

First, they created a dataset containing 560 tissue sample images from 122 patients at three different stages of disease. They used this dataset to train an AI model that learns a representation of the state of each cell in a tissue sample image, which it uses to infer the stage of a patient’s cancer.

However, not every cell is indicative of cancer, so the researchers had to aggregate them in a meaningful way.

They designed the model to create clusters of cells in similar states, identifying eight states that are important markers of DCIS. Some cell states are more indicative of invasive cancer than others. The model determines the proportion of cells in each state in a tissue sample.

Organization matters

“But in cancer, the organization of cells also changes. We found that just having the proportions of cells in every state is not enough. You also need to understand how the cells are organized,” says Shivashankar.

With this insight, they designed the model to consider proportion and arrangement of cell states, which significantly boosted its accuracy.

“The interesting thing for us was seeing how much spatial organization matters. Previous studies had shown that cells which are close to the breast duct are important. But it is also important to consider which cells are close to which other cells,” says Zhang.

When they compared the results of their model with samples evaluated by a pathologist, it had clear agreement in many instances. In cases that were not as clear-cut, the model could provide information about features in a tissue sample, like the organization of cells, that a pathologist could use in decision-making.

This versatile model could also be adapted for use in other types of cancer, or even neurodegenerative conditions, which is one area the researchers are also currently exploring.

“We have shown that, with the right AI techniques, this simple stain can be very powerful. There is still much more research to do, but we need to take the organization of cells into account in more of our studies,” Uhler says.

This research was funded, in part, by the Eric and Wendy Schmidt Center at the Broad Institute, ETH Zurich, the Paul Scherrer Institute, the Swiss National Science Foundation, the U.S. National Institutes of Health, the U.S. Office of Naval Research, the MIT Jameel Clinic for Machine Learning and Health, the MIT-IBM Watson AI Lab, and a Simons Investigator Award.

[jcmarchi]

AI model identifies certain breast tumor stages likely to progress to invasive cancer

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/ai-model-identifies-certain-breast-tumor-stages-likely-to-progress-to-invasive-cancer/

AI model identifies certain breast tumor stages likely to progress to invasive cancer

Ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS) is a type of preinvasive tumor that sometimes progresses to a highly deadly form of breast cancer. It accounts for about 25 percent of all breast cancer diagnoses.

Because it is difficult for clinicians to determine the type and stage of DCIS, patients with DCIS are often overtreated. To address this, an interdisciplinary team of researchers from MIT and ETH Zurich developed an AI model that can identify the different stages of DCIS from a cheap and easy-to-obtain breast tissue image. Their model shows that both the state and arrangement of cells in a tissue sample are important for determining the stage of DCIS.

Because such tissue images are so easy to obtain, the researchers were able to build one of the largest datasets of its kind, which they used to train and test their model. When they compared its predictions to conclusions of a pathologist, they found clear agreement in many instances.

In the future, the model could be used as a tool to help clinicians streamline the diagnosis of simpler cases without the need for labor-intensive tests, giving them more time to evaluate cases where it is less clear if DCIS will become invasive.

“We took the first step in understanding that we should be looking at the spatial organization of cells when diagnosing DCIS, and now we have developed a technique that is scalable. From here, we really need a prospective study. Working with a hospital and getting this all the way to the clinic will be an important step forward,” says Caroline Uhler, a professor in the Department of Electrical Engineering and Computer Science (EECS) and the Institute for Data, Systems, and Society (IDSS), who is also director of the Eric and Wendy Schmidt Center at the Broad Institute of MIT and Harvard and a researcher at MIT’s Laboratory for Information and Decision Systems (LIDS).

Uhler, co-corresponding author of a paper on this research, is joined by lead author Xinyi Zhang, a graduate student in EECS and the Eric and Wendy Schmidt Center; co-corresponding author GV Shivashankar, professor of mechogenomics at ETH Zurich jointly with the Paul Scherrer Institute; and others at MIT, ETH Zurich, and the University of Palermo in Italy. The open-access research was published July 20 in Nature Communications.

Combining imaging with AI   

Between 30 and 50 percent of patients with DCIS develop a highly invasive stage of cancer, but researchers don’t know the biomarkers that could tell a clinician which tumors will progress.

Researchers can use techniques like multiplexed staining or single-cell RNA sequencing to determine the stage of DCIS in tissue samples. However, these tests are too expensive to be performed widely, Shivashankar explains.

In previous work, these researchers showed that a cheap imagining technique known as chromatin staining could be as informative as the much costlier single-cell RNA sequencing.

For this research, they hypothesized that combining this single stain with a carefully designed machine-learning model could provide the same information about cancer stage as costlier techniques.

First, they created a dataset containing 560 tissue sample images from 122 patients at three different stages of disease. They used this dataset to train an AI model that learns a representation of the state of each cell in a tissue sample image, which it uses to infer the stage of a patient’s cancer.

However, not every cell is indicative of cancer, so the researchers had to aggregate them in a meaningful way.

They designed the model to create clusters of cells in similar states, identifying eight states that are important markers of DCIS. Some cell states are more indicative of invasive cancer than others. The model determines the proportion of cells in each state in a tissue sample.

Organization matters

“But in cancer, the organization of cells also changes. We found that just having the proportions of cells in every state is not enough. You also need to understand how the cells are organized,” says Shivashankar.

With this insight, they designed the model to consider proportion and arrangement of cell states, which significantly boosted its accuracy.

“The interesting thing for us was seeing how much spatial organization matters. Previous studies had shown that cells which are close to the breast duct are important. But it is also important to consider which cells are close to which other cells,” says Zhang.

When they compared the results of their model with samples evaluated by a pathologist, it had clear agreement in many instances. In cases that were not as clear-cut, the model could provide information about features in a tissue sample, like the organization of cells, that a pathologist could use in decision-making.

This versatile model could also be adapted for use in other types of cancer, or even neurodegenerative conditions, which is one area the researchers are also currently exploring.

“We have shown that, with the right AI techniques, this simple stain can be very powerful. There is still much more research to do, but we need to take the organization of cells into account in more of our studies,” Uhler says.

This research was funded, in part, by the Eric and Wendy Schmidt Center at the Broad Institute, ETH Zurich, the Paul Scherrer Institute, the Swiss National Science Foundation, the U.S. National Institutes of Health, the U.S. Office of Naval Research, the MIT Jameel Clinic for Machine Learning and Health, the MIT-IBM Watson AI Lab, and a Simons Investigator Award.

[joeabdelsater2]

Procedural Grass Generation in Ghost of Tsushima

Following my exploration of procedural terrain building, I was pretty intrigued by how grass and foliage generation can be made procedural as well with the use of similar techniques. I was surprised to find out that the two have completely different processes as grass tends to be quite memory and performance-expensive. That's when I came across a different Game Developers Conference video on the subject, posted on YouTube. The talk is by graphics programmer and rendering engineer at Sucker Punch Productions Eric Wohllaib, and he explains how the studio was able to generate and animate grass without it being memory-heavy.

To my knowledge, grass in games has generally been created using grass cards. But, as it turns out, traditional grass cards tend to be heavy on rendering especially when the foliage is meant to be densely populated in the environment. The speaker mentioned that they had experimented with grass cards but since wind was a big factor in their gameplay they wanted to be able to create something more flexible and accomodating in terms of animation and simulation. The grass is meant to interact with the wind mechanics in order to guide players in-game, as well as react to all characters moving through it. This led them to develop a system of grass which Wohllaib describes as "artist-configurable" where each grass blade is rendered individually, allowing for greater flexibility and realism.

In the early stages of the game design, they drew inspiration from a blog post by Outerra called "Procedural grass rendering", which they used to create their own pipeline and test out the integration of this new technology into the game. The process begins by dividing the game world into tiles, each containing information about the terrain and the type of grass to be rendered. A compute shader is then used to determine the position and characteristics of each grass blade within the tile. This includes factors such as height, orientation, and interaction with wind. Those tiles are further subdivided into sub-tiles that are considered for rendering. They take samples from smaller sections from the main textures applied to the parent tiles. This segmentation strategy not only streamlines computational processes but also facilitates efficient memory management and optimization techniques.

From here, a complex compute shader takes the lead in coordinating the development of the lush environment. It organises the specific movement of individual grass blades throughout the landscape by analyzing their precise position and features inside the chosen tile, using a combination of mathematical data and manual input. Each lane in the compute shader gets a position on the tile's grid to add a random offset and set the blade's definitive position. Height, being the most important of characteristics, is measured for each grass blade so that they can be assigned different altitudes based on the topographical data contained in the tile. For example, tiles that either have the "null grass" type or have a height of "zero" are dropped, which results in a realistic undulation that matches real-life grass.

The team noticed that the fields in the game did not look natural, but messy and random. To address this, they introduced a clumping algorithm based on a procedural Voronoi system which groups grass blades into clusters, allowing for variations in height, direction, and other environment-affected aspects. The system searches for the nearest nine points on a grid, and then the nearest two points of this bunch are used as a guide for the clump. A clump's guide point can control both the height of grass blades and their direction, attracting them to each other or making them pull away. A second compute shader then runs when the first one is done, to transfer the calculated blade count, which represents the total number of grass blades to be rendered within the tile. This step gives instructions for the graphics processing unit (GPU) on how to render the grass blades efficiently.

Upon completion of the second compute shader, the graphics pipeline kicks in, invoking the vertex shaders responsible for generating the geometric properties of the grass blades. They utilize the instance data generated by the compute shaders to render each grass blade according to its prescribed position, orientation, and other characteristics. A vertex shader is a graphics processing function used to add special effects to objects in a 3D environment. Each vertex can be defined by variables like location, based on the x, y, and z coordinates or colour coordinates. Vertex shaders don't change the type of data but change the values of the data (different colour, different textures, or a different position in space) (NVIDIA, n.d.). In Ghost of Tsushima, there are two versions of grass blades to be rendered: low Level of Detail (LOD) blades with 7 vertices, and high LOD blades with 15 vertices. Each vertex has a 0 to 1 value describing its position on the length of the blade and whether it's situated on the left or right side. To transition between both LODs smoothly, the high LOD gradually blends into the low LOD as the camera view approaches it to prevent the new vertex shader from abruptly popping up.

Although the grass blades have two LODs, the landscape tiles themselves also have two LODs that need to be changed depending on the player's distance. Low LOD tiles are twice the size of high LOD tiles, but since both have the same number of grass blades each, 3 out of 4 grass blades of a high LOD tile switch to their low LOD version first before the entire tile is replaced by its low LOD version. This is also to ensure that the transition is seamless when moving away from the rendered tile. One thing that I found absolutely genius is how when a grass blade is short enough, the number of vertices is reduced to create another grass blade next to it, regardless of LOD level. For instance, if a short grass blade has 15 vertices in its high LOD form, 8 vertices may be used to create the initial grass blade and 7 others to create a second grass blade. This helps make areas of low-height grass look denser, thus giving them a more natural look.

Each grass blade's shape is defined by a cubic bezier curve, and control points within the curve allow precise manipulation of the blade's shape, facilitating animation and enabling a big set of grass shapes. To establish the position of control points, one parameter dictates the tip's position relative to the base, influenced by the facing direction of the curve. The midpoint's placement is determined by another parameter; a value of 0 aligns it with the base-to-tip line, while positive values elevate it away from this line. In cases of split blades, the general shape is maintained, but control points are adjusted to increase coverage while preserving directionality.

Once control points are defined, determining the world space position of each vertex can be done by using a zero to one value to denote the blade's position along the curve. The facing direction guides the generation of a normal orthogonal to it (perpendicular segment), which helps determine vertex positions along the blade's width. Tapering towards the tip is achieved by scaling the distance based on the blade's width and position along the curve. Finally, vertex normals are computed by finding the derivative of the Bezier curve at each vertex position and crossing it with the previously determined normal, in this manner, creating a render of the face of a blade.

Lots of other micro details help make the grass look more convincing and three-dimensional, such as opacity levels, ambient occlusion, colour variation and faked shadows. One notable technique that I found very interesting is the bumping out of the normals of grass blades by tilting them outwards at the centre, making them look rounded. One thing worth mentioning is that the grass is animated based on a dynamic wind system based on a 2D Perlin noise which is scrolled into the direction the wind is supposed to be blowing in. It gives a simple push force that affects all elements of the environment especially the movement of the grass.

In conclusion, studying the grass rendering techniques employed in Ghost of Tsushima has helped me understand the use of compute vertex shaders for procedural grass generation, and the implementation of Bezier curves for precise shaping. Grass being a main actor in the game's narrative, it is clear that the studio wanted to put lots of effort into achieving the best results. This realisation has inspired me to reassess my approach to environment art, recognising the significance of seemingly minor details in the overall aesthetic of a game environment. It helped me acknowledge that micro details can be used procedurally to achieve dynamic environments, even when dealing with elements that may not be individually crafted.

References:

Outerra. (2012). Outerra: Procedural grass rendering. [e- journal] Outerra. Available at: https://outerra.blogspot.com/2012/05/procedural-grass-rendering.html

Eric Wohllaib. (2022). GDC - Procedural Grass in ‘Ghost of Tsushima’. [online video] YouTube. Available at: https://youtu.be/Ibe1JBF5i5Y

www.nvidia.com. (n.d.). Vertex Shaders|NVIDIA. [online] Available at: https://www.nvidia.com/en-us/drivers/feature-vertexshader/#:~:text=A%20vertex%20shader%20is%20a.

[reflective-muses]

Don't mind Cyno, he's simply enjoying the view while Tighnari is studying his newest samples from the desert that Cyno had brought him. The General can let his fingers play with some of the short strands hanging down near the nape of Tighnari's neck while the Ranger is deep in thought. This is something he enjoys with Tighnari, seeing his boyfriend deep in thought with what he was best at.

"Finding anything interesting right away with the flowers? I'm not sure how the travel time here may have affected them since the oasis' climate is different than the desert or the rainforest."

Cyno in Ghandarvaville was always a nice treat.  The time away really did make the heart grow fonder like that saying claimed.

Hazel eyes were fully focused on the flowers he was holding, carefully inspecting them.  They were in a small cluster at the end of a longer, thin stem.  He jumped a little at the fingers near his neck and looked up to meet Cyno’s eyes.  “Ah, sorry–you startled me,” he explained while flashing a sheepish smile.

He cleared his throat.  “Ahem–Anyway…  these look like they’re from the genus Cleome.  I’m not too familiar with these since I don’t see them often.  I can check one of my books to figure out its species,” he said, as he inspected the flowers again, “As far as uses, I don’t think they have any medicinal uses.  They’re pretty, so they’d make nice ornamental flowers.  These are in good condition, so I’ll see if I can propagate them.”

Tighnari stepped aside to prepare a small pot of soil and got the samples placed into it.  He spoke as he worked.  “How was your trip back here?  Are you hungry?  Collei made some extra pita pockets, so help yourself.”

[progress-log]

shell-novice On GUIs

The most widely used way to interact with personal computers is called a graphical user interface (GUI). With a GUI, we give instructions by clicking a mouse and using menu-driven interactions. While intuitive to learn, this way of delivering instructions to a computer scales poorly. Imagine: to copy the third line of one thousand text files in one thousand different directories and paste it into a single file [would take] hours with a GUI, and you could commit an error. The Unix shell is both a command-line interface (CLI) and a scripting language, allowing such repetitive tasks to be done automatically and fast. With the proper commands, the shell can repeat tasks with or without some modification as many times as we want, [and complete the task in the example] in seconds. While a GUI presents you with choices to select, CLI choices are not automatically presented to you, so you must learn a few commands. Unlike a spoken language, a small number of “words” (i.e. commands) gets you a long way. Sequences of commands can be written into a script, improving the reproducibility of workflows. As clusters and cloud computing systems become more popular for scientific data crunching, being able to interact with the shell is becoming a necessary skill. We can build on the command-line skills covered here to tackle a wide range of scientific questions and computational challenges. — Most popular shell environments by default put your user name and the host name before the $. Our first command, ls, which is short for listing. This command will list the contents of the current directory. If the shell can’t find a program whose name is the command you typed, it will print an error message such as: ks: command not found

Belle's Pipeline: A Typical Problem

Nelle Nemo has 1520 samples that she needs to run through an imaginary program called goostats.sh. In addition to this huge task, she has to write up results by the end of the month, so her paper can appear in a special issue of Aquatic Goo Letters. If Nelle chooses to run goostats.sh by hand using a GUI, she’ll have to select and open a file 1520 times. If goostats.sh takes 30 seconds to run each file, the whole process will take more than 12 hours of Nelle’s attention. With the shell, Nelle can instead assign her computer this mundane task while she focuses her attention on writing her paper. More specifically, the lessons explain how she can use a command shell to run the goostats.sh program, using loops to automate the repetitive steps of entering file names, so that her computer can work while she writes her paper. As a bonus, once she has put a processing pipeline together, she will be able to use it again whenever she collects more data. In order to achieve her task, Nelle needs to know how to: - navigate to a file/directory - create a file/directory - check the length of a file - chain commands together - retrieve a set of files - iterate over files - run a shell script containing her pipeline

Keypoints

A shell is a program whose primary purpose is to read commands and run other programs. Bash is the default shell in many implementations of Unix. The shell’s main advantages are its high action-to-keystroke ratio, its support for automating repetitive tasks, and its capacity to access networked machines.

[rabbitindisguise]

it's late but I'm getting all worked up before bed because I had weird test results and they just didn't do anything!!!!!!!!!! not even a "everything looks normal" just "weird weird okay I'm leaving" sometimes even leaving the room before I could be like "Wait hold up"

frankly I think it's probably wise to ask for someone to go to an appointment with me to quickly get all the referrals I need and tests done that make sense given my symptoms but it's a bit short notice for an agency for patient representatives (who mostly get second opinions, and I'd need to figure out insurance for that) and everyone else has like School or Work and stuff

and like I'm mad enough about this stuff that I can do some self advocacy running off of pure anger but 1) I don't want to sabotage the somewhat decent relationships I have with my doctors and 2) as much as I joke that this is my full time job I'm seriously underqualified and it's stressful as hell when I'm alone in a room with a person who basically has my life in their hands. I was mostly adjusting to the idea that if there was a problem someone would do something, but ever since the seriously concerning bloodwork has come back I haven't heard a peep. It's like they think because I'm up and talking I'm somehow healthy as if I haven't personally done a hip reduction multiple times by myself- because they don't believe it ever happened, though even when presented with test results they don't seem to wake up until you repeatedly shake them into sense

Therapists have a lot of problems and the patient/therapist relationship has the thorny bit where they can have you institutionalized against your will, but doctors can both do that AND cause problems through negligence. I have more self respect from therapists than I ever will from how I get treated by doctors because they are capable of treating people like equals.

And like I can't do my best work when I'm like physically a mess because I acted on the advice they gave me and I can't hold anyone responsible for it without going through the effort I should be saving for repairing my health. People ignore me when I basically present my symptoms on a silver platter and don't do anything when I tell them to do stuff that they assume I don't want. It's infuriating.

It's also really frustrating watching people go through their own health struggles and feeling like I'm helpless and giving the wrong advice. I feel like my answer should always be to fight it every step until you're sure it's fine but money is Such an issue and also going to so many appointments can cause problems that are nebulous and unclear, hospital to hospital, system to system. I have no idea how to correctly go to the doctor or if there even is such a thing! People have been giving me advice but there is no fix, I'm never seeing the same person, I'm shuffled off from one person to the next and they won't even agree that I'm disabled to sign my forms one entire year later and I did all the things I'm supposed to the letter

I'm doing my stool sample tomorrow and calling to schedule more appointments. I'm messaging my neurologist to follow up on cluster headaches and an MRI, talking about my problems with emgality, and asking about why my prescription is currently in limbo. I'm going to call the nurse line to see what I should do about the test results, schedule an appointment with my actual specific PCP, and start typing up the ungodly level of paperwork I need to create for the next appointment and a treatment plan based on my symptoms. And then as a treat next friday I'm going to tell my story to my therapist to explain why I haven't been doing the therapy stuff I want to be doing this week instead of trying to do it and failing -_-

The main things I need to figure out is if 1) one of my prescriptions is causing this 2) if there's any possibility there is actually a bacteria infection 3) what other things I could have symptoms of 4) what intermediate treatment options I have between now and the endoscopy for the Problems

eventually I'm going to have to type up a bunch of treatment guidelines for MCAS and surgery so I'll need to get a consult through my doctor and a bunch of papers through the EDS support groups if I can. Plus all the documentation for my RFC form, citations from my doctors notes, records requests from tufts, my previous hospitals, and get my password recovered for an online portal/records request if I can't.

and in the meantime I'm going to have to sleep. Ugh. I know I procrastinated on laundry but it's like. How am I supposed to do all the things? how is anyone supposed to do all the things??? I see all the work people have to put into being people and it's a wonder any of us are moderately functional. I want to be physically stable enough that I can have good, positive, and stable relationships with the people I care about. And we have plans this weekend ;-; and I still haven't edited the wedding photos OTL

Edit: this is the part where my therapist/housemates tell me I'm not responsible for literally all the things and I should rest and where i remind myself that thinking I have to fix everything is also in and of itself a type of grandiosity *sigh* baby steps

[kyuuppi]

Personal Duties

Pairing: Xiao x Reader (gn)

Contents: ...fluff ig?

Word Count: 2.8k

The morning had begun uneventfully, giving no hint to how strange of a day it would inevitably become.

You had risen with the sun, as usual, and taken the time to double check the contents of your inventory before leaving for Liyue harbor. On the way you stopped by Wanmin restaurant for a simple skewer, returning Chef Mao’s enthusiastic greetings as you indulged in the quick breakfast. He rattled on about a few new recipes he wanted to try, insisting that you would be the one to sample them before they became an official part of the menu, and his beloved daughter’s latest adventures in Springvale. Chef Mao was always rather talkative but he was kind and one of the first locals you had become friends with when you first arrived in Liyue.

You finish the meal quickly and thank him before continuing your short journey. As you walked through the open streets of the harbor you breathed in the freshness of the sea, salty and foreign but comforting in the way only a land as mysterious as Liyue could feel. Despite having only lived in the city for a few months, you feel at peace here, safely cradled between mountains tall enough to break through the clouds, dotted by qingxin flowers that seemed to sparkle in the evenings after a good rainfall. The first day you arrived in Liyue you were left speechless, awestruck by both the vastness of the natural valleys and mountain ranges as well as the crumbling ancient ruins scattered across the lands, telling of a time you had only read about as a child in your faded copy of Records of Jueyen. The locals immediately recognized you as an outsider but offered nothing but hospitality, providing useful advice or large discounts on some of their finest products. Thoroughly enamored, you had immediately decided you would stay in Liyue for as long as you could. That same night you had rented a modest room at the highly regarded Wangshu Inn, a decision that cascaded into several life-changing events, including the meeting of a certain long-term resident and fabled legend of the inn: adeptus Xiao.

Meeting and then even befriending Xiao could be described as nothing short of a miracle. Meeting him has been unexpected—an accident really—in which you foolishly ventured to the vacant top floor of the inn in the middle of the night and nearly fell to your death trying to lean over the railing for a better view. Xiao had, very reluctantly, saved your life in that moment, gripping your upper arm firmly the second you realized your weight was tipping forwards. When you looked back to meet his gaze he had advised you, quite harshly, not to be so careless before vanishing without another word.

Naturally, your interests were immediately piqued and you sought out more information about the mystery man on the top floor of Wangshu Inn who could conveniently blip in and out of existence.

Most of the locals provided minimal information aside from a few rumors and the story of a masked figure told by the owner of Second Life. Piecing together snippets of information from locals and a few of the tales you remember from books, you were able to conclude that the man who saved you was not a man at all and rather the revered conqueror of demons and vigilant yaksha, Xiao.

The most useful source of information, however, turned out to be Wangshu’s very own boss, Verr Goldet. While the woman was hesitant to reveal anything at first, she eventually opened up at your persistence to the point it almost felt as if she wanted you to make progress with the adeptus more than you did.

“Rumor has it he becomes a little more friendly when he is presented with a fresh helping of almond tofu,” she had suggested not so subtly one evening.

You had happily taken the hint, pestering Smiley Yanxiao to teach you how to make the delicate dish before taking said dish to the top balcony as an offering of thanks to Xiao.

Expectedly, Xiao did not appear at all that night but you were nothing if not persistent. You returned with a fresh plate of almond tofu every night that week until on the seventh day, as you were nearly dozing off while leaning on the rail, Xiao finally revealed himself to you, if only to ask if you were trying to make a repeat of your near death experience from last time. He claimed he wouldn’t save you a second time but the way his eyes sparkled when he finally received your plate of almond tofu made you think he was bluffing.

After that night, your relationship with the adeptus rapidly developed. You found yourself on the top floor of Wangshu Inn every night, Xiao obediently appearing a safe distance beside you even if he liked to pretend you didn’t exist or that your presence annoyed him. The fact he still showed up and, as evident by the occasional question he would ask in the midst of your chattering, actually listened , was enough for you. He did not share much about himself but you understood well enough that his life was not without significant hardship or suffering and, if nothing else, you liked to think you could at least offer a small distraction to the hardworking yaksha.

“Ad astra abyssosque! Welcome to the Adventurers' Guild,” Katheryne greets as you finally arrive at her desk.

You return your own greeting before discussing the details of the day’s commissions.

It would be an uneventful day, you quickly gather. Two of your assignments are merely deliveries: a mother near Dongsheng’s general good shop needs her daughter to take her medicine but the little girl refuses unless there is a fresh plate of almond tofu to eat it with and a letter addressed to Granny Chu in Gulli Plains that need to be delivered. The third assignment is a complaint about a particularly rowdy group of hilichurls close to the main road. Lastly, a small clan of treasure hoarders seem to have stolen one of Jifang’s most prized artifacts.

Reasoning to yourself that a day of boring commissions is likely better than a day of dangerous commissions, you set off.

You finish the first two assignments rather quickly, as expected. The little girl had excitedly complimented your almond tofu several times, swearing it to be the best thing she had ever eaten while her mother profusely thanked you for getting the girl to finally take her medicine. Likewise, Granny Chu had immediately brightened the second you handed her the small envelope, explaining it was a message from her grandchildren who seemed too busy with their own families to stay in contact very often. The elderly woman insisted you took a couple of ripe sunsettia as thanks for delivering the letter before you were once more setting off, prepared to face the rambunctious cluster of Hilichurls.

It is then that your uneventful day takes a turn.

While hiking through the marsh on the way, you quickly notice how disturbed the land looks, barren of the common lizards, loaches, and small mammals that usually occupy the lands, scurrying away the moment you step too close. Instead, patches of bare land break up the once lush and seamless grass, jagged cuts along the blades as if a strong force had ripped through them. Evidence of chipped cobblestone and patchy grass seem to only get worse as you approach your destination and a small part of you feels anxious, wondering if the camp of hilichurls will be much more powerful than you had expected. Subconsciously, you grip your claymore a little tighter as you walk, glancing around cautiously as if you could be ambushed at any moment.

Instead of a rowdy group of fearsome monsters, you are met with empty space when you reach the location Katheryne had described. The air is eerily quiet aside from the soft chirps of distant cricadas, not a hilichurl in sight as you slowly survey the area. You almost would have assumed you had misheard and went to the wrong place if it were not for the obvious evidence of a large group of hilichurls once residing there. Shoddily built wooden huts and tilted towers surround the open space, the structures seeming barely able to support themselves as half of them had been caved in or ripped apart as if by a tornado. Strewn across the ground near the unlit campfires lie various meats, vegetables, and wheat. A few water pots and cauldrons lay tipped over but still partially filled with water as if they were being used mere hours ago.

Someone had clearly exterminated this hilichurl camp before your arrival, not even bothering to rummage through the chests, undoubtedly filled with valuable treasures, sitting in the far corner of the camp.

You are far from the only adventurer in Liyue. There are others, many of which are stronger and more skilled than you, who are assigned similar and even more dangerous commissions, taking down hilichurl camps like this on the daily. However, Katheryne always keeps meticulous records of who the guild assigns to do what and, in your five years as an adventurer, mistakes made by the adventure guild are almost unheard of. Surely Katheryne didn’t assign you to a task someone else was already assigned to—but then, who would complete something as tedious as clearing a hilichurl camp without seeking the rewards the adventure guild offers, or even the unguarded chests around the camp?

None of it makes sense to you but the sun is already beginning to set and you still have an assignment to deal with treasure hoarders on the opposite side one the city. Reluctantly, you take advantage of the untouched chests and pick up anything of value you find among the wreckage of the camp, not a single hilichurl body in sight.

The oddity of your last commission is nearly forgotten by the time you reach the treasure hoarders’ hideout, chest slightly heaving and thighs burning from hours of hiking through the uneven terrain. Above you, the sky has already turned a deep lavender, a speckle of stars glittering above the mountain peaks. You lean against a large rock at the entrance of the valley, too tired to even consider the glittering tangerine of cor lapis peeking out between the rocks. It is in that moment, as you are catching your breath, that you catch the murmurs of male voices carried with the wind.

“Look—I think that’s them…!”

“A-are you sure? If we mess this up that m-masked man might come back and…”

You abruptly straighten up, brows furrowing at the words and fearful tone of the voices. Why did they sound so afraid? Was it because of this “masked man?” The only masked man you can think of is...

“Just hurry up and give it to them so we can get the hell out of here!”

You are startled into a fighting stance at the sound of footsteps coming towards you.

Finally, a small group of burly men round the corner of the large rock you were just resting against, all wearing the familiar variations of martial arts or farming clothing and masks synonymous with treasure hoarders in Liyue. To your surprise however, rather than angry or smug as the hoarders usually looked, the men before you all appear disheveled and wide eyed, some even visibly trembling as if they’d seen a ghost. All look at you with wide eyes, as if you personally had struck the fear of the archons within them. The largest man, who you presume to be their leader, steps forward and you take a cautious step back, raising your blade in defense.

“No, wait—we don’t want to fight you,” the man quickly says, causing you to furrow your brows in skepticism.

“H-here, this is all of it, we swear!”

You fumble when the man throws a large bag at you, nearly dropping your sword to catch it. The bag itself is unassuming, a brown and slightly stained burlap sack, but you can already guess the contents based on the weight and clunky shape. Glancing up you find the men all staring at you expectantly, seemingly awaiting your approval as if their life depended on it.

Cautiously, you open the bag, finding a single blue and silver goblet inside along with a few bird’s feathers and a silver cricket lined with jewels—Jifang’s stolen artifacts.

“Y-ya see? It’s all there! We learned our lesson—we promise we’ll never steal again,” one of the men stammers, the group already stepping back as if ready to bolt.

“Wait a second—” you try, stepping forward.

To your shock the men startle like wild animals, recoiling from you as if you’ll attack them at any moment.

“H-here, take these too,” one of the men in the back shouts, throwing down a bronze coin. You immediately recognize it as a treasure hoarder’s insignia—something a hoarder only gives up if they have been defeated in battle. And yet, soon all of the men are throwing their own down as well, letting them land around your feet like an offering before the men all turn heel and abruptly book it, running down hill as if an evil spirit were hot on their tails despite your calls.

Thoroughly baffled by the whole exchange you crouch down to pick up the tokens—that is when you realize the land looks familiar. The same patchiness and jagged cuts plague the grass here as it did the hilichurl camp you had seen earlier. In fact, the pattern felt familiar to something you had seen only a few times before: the aftermath of a particularly powerful anemo used by a particularly powerful masked “man”...

“Xiao!”

Your voice echoes slightly around the wooden hallway as you stumble your way to the top balcony, eager to confront the adeptus. Your chest is heaving as you attempt to catch your breath, having practically ran all the way to Wangshu Inn from Liyue harbor after hastily collecting your commission rewards.

The air is silent for a few moments, the only sound coming from your own harsh breaths before a calm, deep voice startles you from behind.

You whip around to face him.

“You’re so noisy, ” Xiao complains, arms crossed and expression mildly annoyed.

While the greeting would be hardly encouraging under any normal circumstance, you feel you have grown close enough to Xiao to understand his words hold no true malice—or perhaps you’re just really good at ignoring it.

“Xiao,” you repeat much more calmly than before. You eye him cautiously as you speak your next words, trying to gauge his reaction.

“What did you do today?”

His expression gives nothing away, remaining neutral and closed off—unreadable—as he replies monotonously.

“The work of the adepti is not something mortals could ever understand nor need to know.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the typical, very Xiao-like response.

“Well did you happen to decimate any hilichurl camps in the Dihua Marsh? Or mentally scar any treasure hoarders around Jueyen Karst? The hilichurl camp I was supposed to take down was already gone when I got there and the treasure hoarders I talked to were acting really weird—there was also a lot of collateral damage. It almost felt like someone was sabotaging my commissions…”

Xiao’s expression promptly sours, seeming slightly offended by your unspoken accusation.

“I have no interest in the work of an adventurer, ” he spits out, the word itself seeming to leave a bad taste in his mouth, “I am dedicated to my adept duties, nothing more and nothing less.”

Xiao speaks in a way that leaves no room for protest and you finally give up with a small sigh, turning away from him to gaze over the view from the balcony instead. It was true—there would be no reason for Xiao to trouble himself with doing your dumb little daily commissions when he faces much larger, more powerful monsters on the daily. Moreover, why would Xiao target you specifically? As much as you like to think you’re special, you’re really just one of many humans and Xiao does not seem like the type to hold personal vendettas or enjoy watching people suffer. It was foolish to even think he had anything to do with what happened today, you mentally scold yourself.

Despite the summer season, a cool breeze rustles through your hair and clothing, encouraging your shoulders to release a tension you didn’t even realize you had. Your smile at the calmness of the night, oblivious to the watchful eye of the adeptus next to you.

His duty as an adeptus is to defend the people of Liyue but somehow along the way ensuring your protection has become a personal duty he takes very seriously.