#Compressor Seals

[omegagraphite]

Demystifying Mechanical Seals: A Comprehensive Guide

Welcome to our blog, where we delve into the intricate world of mechanical seals. If you've ever wondered what exactly a mechanical seal is and how it functions, you've come to the right place. In this guide, we'll break down the basics, explore the importance of mechanical seals, and shed light on Omega Seals Company's role in this crucial industry.

What is a Mechanical Seal?

Let's start with the fundamentals. A mechanical seal is a device used to prevent fluid leakage between two mating surfaces in a mechanical system. These surfaces can be rotating or stationary, and the seal is typically installed in equipment such as pumps, compressors, and agitators where the containment of fluids is essential. Mechanical seals provide a higher level of sealing compared to traditional packing seals, offering greater efficiency and reliability.

How Do Mechanical Seals Work?

Understanding the workings of a mechanical seal is key to appreciating its significance. Essentially, a mechanical seal consists of two primary components: a rotating element (typically attached to a shaft) and a stationary element (housed within the equipment). These elements are held together under mechanical pressure to create a tight seal. The seal faces, usually made of materials like carbon, ceramic, or silicon carbide, come into contact to prevent fluid leakage. Additionally, a secondary sealing mechanism, such as an elastomer O-ring, provides further protection against leakage.

Importance of Mechanical Seals:

Mechanical seals play a critical role in various industries, including oil and gas, chemical processing, pharmaceuticals, and wastewater treatment. Their ability to withstand high pressures, temperatures, and corrosive environments makes them indispensable in ensuring the safe and efficient operation of equipment. By preventing leaks and contamination, mechanical seals help maintain product quality, minimize downtime, and enhance workplace safety.

Omega Seals Company: A Leading Provider of Seal Solutions

Based in India, with a presence in Mumbai, UAE, Saudi Arabia, and Brazil, Omega Seals Company is a reputable manufacturer of a diverse range of seal equipment. With a commitment to quality, innovation, and customer satisfaction, Omega Seals Company delivers reliable sealing solutions tailored to the specific needs of each industry. Whether its standard seals or custom-designed products, Omega Seals Company's expertise and experience make it a trusted partner for businesses worldwide.

Mechanical seals are essential components in various industrial applications, serving to prevent fluid leakage and ensure the efficient operation of equipment. Omega Seals Company stands out as a leading provider of high-quality seal solutions, catering to the needs of industries across the globe. With a focus on innovation and customer service, Omega Seals Company continues to uphold its reputation as a reliable partner in the field of sealing technology.

Contact us at: https://www.omegaseals.com/ | +91 9820045787 | info@omegaseals.com

[noiseproblems]

What are acoustic panels and why we utilize them?

Acoustic panels can be made from a wide range of materials like a blend of fabric and foam, wood wool, or biophillic aspects such as moss or cork. The acoustic panel design can be made into a range of sizes and shapes and personalized to complement the design of your space.

The main purpose of acoustic door seal and panels is to remove remaining sound in any space. The efficiency of good quality acoustic panels implies that you can use much less so that you are not at the stake of clumsy spaces and areas.

We can all benefit from serene ambience on worksites. Air compressors are an instance of just one of the hundreds of pieces of equipment that make legally dangerous noise levels.

Regardless of your application, a serene air compressor makes life simpler for everybody. By lessening air compressor noise with the help of a compressor sound blanket, you can:

• Better verbal communication between the workers and prevent avoidable workplace injuries.

• Prevent hearing damage and noise-induced hearing loss

• Avoid noise complaints from nearby businesses and residents

On the other hand, vibratory bowl feeders serve various industrial sectors. Generally, they are found in industries that need flexible feeding systems for the volume production of pieces or components. These include usage in the pharmaceutical industry or for processing electrical spares, consumer electronic components, plastic components and parts, fashion, food, cosmetics, automotive etc.

You can also use a vibratory bowl feeder in pill bottling systems. Big patches of capsules or pills can be deployed into the vibratory bowl feeder for bottling and counting. A big patch of pills is dumped on the top of the vibratory feeder. The vibration in the vibratory feeder makes sure that the pills keep moving forward toward the exit into the bottle systematically without getting congested.

[abbotjack]

The House She Left You

Content Warnings : 18+ MDNI explicit sex, grief, family trauma, complicated sibling dynamics, references to addiction and overdose, emotionally repressed Pope Cody behavior, morally gray choices, sexual content in emotionally charged contexts, kitchen sex, emotionally manipulative undertones, references to Pope’s canon instability, emotionally explicit dialogue, light dubcon tension (consensual but fraught), emotionally unhealthy power imbalance, unresolved trauma, unprotected sex,

word count : 6,637

a/n : Here’s the Pope fic that’s been sitting in my drafts for weeks. Not my favorite, but I figured I’d share it anyway since I probably won’t be posting much until after finals.

Summary : She’s dead. You have her kid. Her house. Her ghosts. And now—Pope. The man you were never supposed to want, who never once looked at you when he was hers… but who saw everything. He shows up when the fridge hums and the silence grows thick, and what starts as confrontation splinters into confession, then into violence you asked for.

Time: One week after the funeral Location: Oceanside, California — your sister’s house

You don’t turn on the lights when you come in.

The house doesn’t deserve it.

It’s not yours. Not really. Not yet.

Not even after the state handed you a stack of papers, stamped and signed, with your name on the last page and hers on the death certificate. Not even after the little girl sleeping down the hall said “mommy” in her sleep two nights ago and you had to step outside so she wouldn’t hear you lose it.

You shut the door behind you and breathe in the dark. Not a big breath—your chest won’t take it. Something’s been living there the past week, curling in your ribs like an animal, biting at your lungs whenever you try to hold too much air. You let your back hit the wood, keys still in your hand, eyes adjusting to the same stale shadows.

The kitchen light is off. You left it that way.

But the fridge is open.

At first you think it’s just the door not sealed right, some crack letting the compressor hum like a breath. But then it moves. A shape. A shoulder shifting. A figure standing there like he never left.

Pope.

Just his face in the cold light, slack and unreadable. Forearms braced on the counter. Staring into the fridge like there’s something in it worth seeing. He doesn’t look up when you walk in. Doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t apologize.

And why would he?

You flick the switch by the door. Harsh, overhead light floods the kitchen. It hits him like a slap. He barely blinks.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you ask.

Your voice isn’t loud, but it slices. Dry. Defensive. You’re not ready to see him. You weren’t ever going to be.

He shuts the fridge slowly. Leans his hip against the counter.

“You left the back door unlocked.”

You stare. “That’s not an answer.”

He shrugs. “Thought I’d check on the kid.”

“You already did that. Three days ago. She doesn’t even remember.”

“She’s seven.” He finally looks at you. “Of course she does.”

Something in you tightens. You cross your arms to keep it from showing. “You can’t just let yourself in.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?” you snap, voice sharp, teeth bared. “Because it’s her house? Because you used to live here? Fuck her on that couch? Eat breakfast with her daughter like you weren’t already halfway out the door before the coffee was done brewing?”

He doesn’t flinch. Not even a blink. And that’s what infuriates you most—that nothing you say ever seems to get under his skin.

You want him to react. You’ve always wanted him to see you.

“She’s gone,” he says flatly. “You’re here now.”

You let the silence settle. He always had that talent—the kind that made people fill the quiet just to get rid of it. You don’t give in.

He pushes off the counter, stepping around the table. Slowly. Like he’s giving you time to adjust to his shape in the room. Like he knows how he fills it.

“You get the paperwork?”

Your eyes narrow. “You don’t get to ask that.”

“She wanted—”

“She wanted a lot of things.” You throw your keys in the bowl by the door harder than necessary, like the sound might drown out the ache in your throat. “She wanted to be clean. She wanted to live. She wanted to be a mom.”

“I know.” His voice is still maddeningly calm, like nothing ever rattles him. “I was there, too. You think I didn’t care?”

“I think you cared like it was a job,” you say, eyes flicking to the spot on the floor where he used to drop his boots. “I think she used that. I think you liked being needed until it made you hate her.”

A long pause. Then—

“You blame me,” he says. Not a question.

“I blame her,” you bite out. “I blame me. I blame everyone. What does it matter?”

He nods once, slow. Walks toward the sink. Opens the cabinet, finds the glasses like it’s still muscle memory. Like this place remembers him even if you wish it didn’t. Even if you still catch yourself standing in doorways, waiting for him to look back.

“Water?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Don’t pretend this is normal.”

He drinks anyway—slow, deliberate.

“I’ve been watching,” he says—low, rough, worn down at the edges. “Not just her kid. You.”

You don’t know whether to be angry or scared. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe it’s just that old pulse again—buried too long under everything she took before you ever had the chance to want it.

“Why?”

He sets the glass down carefully. Like he doesn’t want to startle you. Like he’s still trying to be the man your sister needed.

“Because I know what this house does.”

Your throat catches. Tight. Dry.

“She let it rot,” you whisper, voice small and shaking and too full. “She let herself rot in it.”

He nods. Once. Quiet. He doesn’t say it out loud—he doesn’t have to. He saw it too. He stayed, and you ran. That’s always been the difference.

You shift your weight, heart pounding like a truth trying to claw its way out. “You don’t get to show up and act like this is yours. Like you’re the only one left who gets to carry her.”

“I’m not,” he says. Looks at you like he means it. “You are.”

And it shouldn’t feel like a punishment. But it does.

Because he’s right.

She left the mess—but she left it to you. The wreckage. The weight. The child. The smell of smoke in the walls. The goddamn silence. Pope? He gets to haunt the corners, slip in and out like a ghost with no leash. But you—you—have to stay and live in it. Scrub the stains out of the floorboards. Pretend the pain doesn’t sound like his footsteps in the hall.

You turn away, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. You won’t let him see your eyes. Not now. Not after all these years of swallowing the part of you that wanted him first.

And that’s when he says it. Quiet. Gentle. Like it matters now.

“She said you were the only one who never lied to her.”

You go still. Stiller than still.

“She said it like a confession,” he continues. “Last time I saw her. Said she couldn’t look you in the eye anymore. Not since the baby. Said you were the only one who meant what you said. Even when it hurt.”

Your hands grip the edge of the sink. White-knuckled. Nails biting down into laminate. Not to ground yourself—no, you know where you are. You’re trying not to shatter. Not to let him see that part of you that still wants to believe him.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because she never said it to you.”

Silence. Heavy. Sacred. Dangerous. It drips down the walls, clings to the space between your shoulder blades. It makes the house feel like it’s listening.

You stare at the wall above the sink—the same place your sister used to hang grocery lists she never followed. Where her handwriting used to live. You used to read them just to imagine what normal might’ve felt like. You used to watch him read them, too—pretending he didn’t already know how it would all fall apart.

“She wasn’t always cruel,” you say softly. Too softly.

“I know.” His voice is closer now. Closer than you’re ready for.

“But she knew how to gut you.”

“She had a gift.”

You turn. Slow. Like the weight of it might crack you.

And there he is.

Watching you like he’s seeing the ghost and not the girl. Like he knows what it costs to keep surviving her. But more than that—more than any of it—he’s looking at you the way he never used to. Not when she was here. Not when you were just the sister on the couch. Not when you burned for him and bit your tongue raw.

“Are you staying?” you ask, barely above a whisper. “Or just passing through again?”

He doesn’t blink. “Do you want me to?”

And that question—God, that question—lands in your chest like a knife you’d still let him twist. Because you don’t know. Because part of you wants to fold into him and forget the rest. Part of you wants to scream in his face. Part of you has wanted this for years, and none of it came the way it should’ve.

But the worst part?

Is that you don’t want to be alone in this house tonight. And he’s the only one who’s ever made it feel like it could be home.

Time: That night, 2:37 a.m. Location: Your sister’s house — hallway outside her old bedroom

You don’t sleep. You just lie there and sweat in the dark.

You’ve been doing that a lot lately—sweating through sheets, through your shirt, through your teeth clenched so tight you wake up with a headache. It’s not the heat. It’s not even the grief.

It’s the house.

It holds things. It holds her. You swear to God, it holds him too.

You roll over, check your phone. 2:37 a.m.

The silence feels off. Stretched too thin, like it’s holding its breath. You sit up slowly, pulse already pounding. You’ve lived in enough shitty apartments to know the difference—between a house settling and a house remembering.

You don’t turn on the light.

It’s easier not to see.

You press your feet to the floor and step into the hallway barefoot.

The wood is cold beneath your toes. The air feels heavier than it did an hour ago—like the house knows something you don’t.

You pause outside your niece’s door. Still shut. Still quiet. She sleeps the way she used to when she was small—after long days, after heartbreak. But now it feels different. Now it feels like retreat, not rest. Like she’s learned the same trick you did: vanish first, before anyone can ask why.

You move toward your sister’s door.

You should go back to bed.

It’s been almost a week since you stepped inside her room.

That had been your one boundary.

You cleaned the bathroom, scrubbed the grout with shaking hands. Rearranged the kitchen so it wouldn’t feel like a mausoleum. But the bedroom? You left it untouched. Shut the door like sealing off a limb you couldn’t afford to feel.

Because walking into that room was like crawling back into a wound.

And you’ve bled enough.

But tonight the door is open.

And the light is on.

You don’t call out. Don’t make your presence known. Because part of you already knows who’s in there. You can feel it in your chest—the static. The heat. The wrongness. The himness.

Pope.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed with his head bowed, elbows on his knees like he’s praying to something he’s already lost.

He doesn’t look up when you stop in the doorway.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” you say—quieter than you mean to.

His voice doesn’t move. “Neither should you.”

That makes your breath catch. Not because he’s wrong, but because he knows. He always fucking knows. Even when you never said a word.

You cross your arms, lean a shoulder against the doorframe.

“Thought we had a rule.”

“We didn’t.”

“I made one.”

He finally glances over. No surprise in his face. Just that same quiet—dead sea eyes, nothing on the surface but too much beneath it.

“She used to leave the door open when she wanted me to crawl back,” he says. “You remember that?”

You nod once. You were eighteen. Maybe nineteen. You remember everything. The way the door would crack just wide enough for his shadow to slip through. The way you’d sit awake across the hall, listening for the sound of his boots.

“She’d scream at me for two days. Throw my shit out in the yard. Block my number. And then the door would be open.” He gestures around the room like it’s a stage. “Light on. Bed made. Like nothing ever happened.”

“She knew how to make you beg,” you mutter.

He looks at you, sharp. Not angry. Just clear. Like he sees straight through you, down to the part that still aches when he walks into a room.

“I didn’t beg.”

“No,” you agree. “You didn’t. But you always came back.”

He leans back, palms flat on the comforter. Hands spread wide like he needs to feel the fabric beneath him to remember where he is. Who he is. Who he isn’t.

“So did you.”

And it’s true. God, it’s true.

Because you were always there—behind the door. On the stairs. In the silence between fights. You never left. Not really.

You just weren’t the one she asked for.

You push off the doorframe, walk two slow steps into the room.

“She was my sister,” you say. Like it explains everything and nothing at once.

He watches you. “You were kids together.”

You sit in the armchair near the dresser—her dresser, still covered in tarnished rings, tangled necklaces, the half-burnt stick of incense she lit the night before her last relapse. Everything left exactly how she abandoned it.

“She hated when people felt sorry for her,” you say. “That’s why she lied so much. Said she was clean when she wasn’t. Said she was sober on Christmas Eve and then passed out on the stairs an hour later.”

“She didn’t want to be seen like that.”

“No,” you murmur. “She wanted to be loved like that.”

Pope doesn’t respond. Just stares at the floor like it’s safer than looking at you. Like he’s afraid of what your face might give away.

You lean back in the chair, exhale slow. “We were so close, people couldn’t tell where I ended and she began. Thought we were twins. Then she started sleeping with my boyfriends, and suddenly the resemblance didn’t feel so flattering.”

That earns the faintest flicker of a smile. The kind that barely crests his mouth before it dies. But you see it. You always see him.

“She was always louder. Always got the attention. I’d do everything right—get good grades, make curfew—and she’d show up high at dinner and still get the last word.”

“She was fire,” Pope says. “And fire burns.”

You look at him for a long time. Too long. Like the ache in your chest has a shape now, and it’s him.

“She told me you were her last chance.”

He shifts. Slight. But you notice.

“She said that a lot.”

“But she meant it with you. You were the only one she ever… stayed clean for. Even if it never lasted.”

His voice drops. Quiet. Flat. “It was never real. The clean part. Not with me.”

You blink. Your breath catches. “What?”

“She’d lie. Say she was sober when she wasn’t. Tell me she wanted to go to meetings, but only if I went with her. She’d drag me to church on Sundays just to play house.” His hands curl on the edge of the bed. “I knew she was using again before you did.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because she’d already started using me, too.”

The room holds its breath.

Then you whisper, “She loved you.”

He shakes his head.

“She did. In her own way.”

“That’s not love,” he says. “That was ownership.”

You don’t argue. You don’t need to. You both know the kind of damage she did.

“I used to watch you,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Pope lifts his gaze slowly.

“I’d sit in that hallway when she was yelling. Just out of sight. I’d wait for the part where you’d yell back. Where you’d leave.”

He doesn’t speak.

“But you never did.”

“She needed someone who wouldn’t.”

Your throat goes tight. Your whole body stills.

“So did I.”

The words fall like glass. Sharp. Irretrievable.

And the silence after is deafening.

Not empty.

Just full of everything you never said.

Pope’s jaw tightens, like he’s grinding something down before it slips out. His fingers twitch against the bedspread—like they want something to hold, something to do. His gaze drops—traces the curve of your knees, your bare feet curled into the carpet like you’re bracing for impact. He doesn’t look away fast enough.

You feel it like a flare in your chest. Hot. Gnawing. Old.

He exhales, long and low. “She was scared you’d love me the way she couldn’t.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t.

You just sit there in the dim light, your sister’s walls pressing in like old ribs, her scent still soaked into the sheets, the air, the skin at your throat. Pope sits three feet away, looking like something half-ruined and still dangerous. Like grief only hollowed out the parts that could’ve stayed soft.

And for the first time since she died, you feel like you’re finally mourning her.

Not just because she’s gone.

But because this—this—this fragile moment between you, this silence filled with things she always took before they could be yours… this is everything she never let you have.

“I was always cleaning her up,” you say. “Not just the mess. Her. I’d hold her hair back. Cover her arms. Wipe blood off her teeth and pretend it was from brushing too hard. I lied to Dad. I lied to the kid.”

Pope leans forward. Not fast—like something’s pulling him. “You didn’t clean up,” he says, voice low. “You parented.”

The word hits somewhere deep. Somewhere sore.

You shake your head. “I loved her. That doesn’t mean I didn’t hate her too.”

He says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He knows—fourteen months apart, same house, same hell.

“She got everything first,” you murmur. “Boobs. Boyfriends. Bad decisions. I got the leftovers. The fallout. Hand-me-downs and scars she never even noticed she left. And every time she lit a fire, I was the one putting it out.”

He leans back, eyes steady on yours. “That’s why you never liked me.”

You hold his gaze. “That’s not why.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just waits. He’s always been like this—danger wrapped in quiet. And you’ve spent years avoiding this exact moment.

You hesitate. One breath. Two.

“I didn’t like you,” you say, “because you made her worse. You let her get away with shit no one else did. And every time she got clean, it was just to keep you.”

You pause. Let it simmer.

“But I couldn’t stop… wanting you anyway.”

There it is.

Hung in the air like smoke. Like confession. Like sin.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

He just sits there, wrecked and unreadable, and you think maybe that is what undoes you—that he’s finally hearing it, and not turning away.

“Say that again,” he says.

You rise to your feet.

And the ache follows you up like it’s part of your spine.

The room holds its breath as you cross the carpet, slow and deliberate—each step measured like you’re approaching something wild and damaged, something that might bite if startled.

You stop in front of him. Close enough to feel the tension radiating off his skin. Close enough to touch, but you don’t. Not yet.

“I wanted you,” you say again. “Even when I shouldn’t. Even when you were fucking her. Even when she made sure I saw it.”

His breath stutters, caught somewhere in his throat.

You lower yourself between his thighs, fingers grazing the inside of his leg—slow, certain, like a fuse being lit. Careful. Knowing. The kind of beginning that doesn’t end clean. The kind that ruins.

“She used to tell me I was boring,” you whisper. “Too clean. Too smart. Not the kind of girl men ruin.”

Pope looks down at you like you’ve just become a threat—like you’re something holy and reckless, the kind of woman men do ruin, and never recover from.

“I wanted to be ruined,” you say. “By you.”

And that’s what breaks him.

His hand twists in your hair, rough and unrelenting, dragging you up with the kind of desperation that doesn’t ask—it takes. Like he’s been holding back a storm and finally lets it swallow him whole.

The kiss is unholy. Starved. His mouth crashes to yours like a blasphemy he’s longed to speak aloud, all spit and heat and something darker—like he’s tasting damnation and begging for more. Like your ruin is sacred and he’s ready to bleed for it.

It’s violent with need—ten years of silence burning on his breath. He pulls you into his lap with a force that borders on frantic, devouring your mouth like he’s been fasting on guilt and grief and this is the first thing he’s allowed himself to want since she died.

His hands are on your back, your hips, your ass. Gripping. Claiming. Consuming. Like he’s trying to memorize you by force. Like he doesn’t trust this moment to last.

“Tell me you hate me,” he pants against your mouth, lips brushing yours, voice torn and desperate.

You shake your head. “Can’t.”

“Tell me this is a mistake.”

“It is.”

You kiss him again—harder this time—so violent it nearly topples you both. It’s not tenderness. It’s a confession in blood.

He groans—full-throated, ragged. Like it’s been trapped inside him for years. His hips jolt up, grinding into you with a heat that burns through the cotton between you.

You grind down, shameless. Raw. He’s already hard—thick, aching, leaking beneath the fabric of his sweats—and you feel the exact shape of everything you’ve ever wanted.

His hands fly to your face, rough with urgency, and he pulls you back to him like he needs to look at you. Like he can’t breathe unless your eyes are open.

“You want it slow?” he asks, voice cracked and wrecked. “Or just the part that hurts?”

"Both."

He lifts you off him in one swift, breathless movement—your body dragged from his like it wounds him to let go.

“On your knees.”

You obey.

Not because you’re submitting. Not with him.

With Pope, it’s not power—it’s surrender. It's history. It's wanting so badly it’s become a kind of religion. You crawl to the center of the bed, fingers sinking into her old comforter, and arch for him with instinct and ache, every breath shaking loose something you’ve buried.

He kneels behind you. Doesn’t touch you at first. Just breathes.

Then his hands are on your hips, tugging at your waistband—not rough, not rushed. Like every inch he bares is something he’s never thought he deserved. He slides everything down your legs in one slow motion.

You exhale like it hurts.

He stays there for a moment, hands resting on your skin—like if he moves too fast, he'll ruin you. Or himself.

You hear his breath catch. Feel his heat press up against your back.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice low and stunned. Wrecked. “So fucking pretty like this. Can’t believe she ever called you weak.”

“She said a lot of things,” you whisper, voice trembling. You’re already unraveling.

His hand traces your spine, palm flat. “She said you were off-limits.”

You look back over your shoulder. Voice like a dare. “And are you good at following rules?”

His eyes meet yours. Burning. “No.”

He drags his fingers through the wet heat of you. Slow. Possessive. Like he’s confirming something he already knew.

“Wet already,” he says, voice guttural. “You were waiting for this.”

You nod, breath shallow. “My whole life.”

He doesn’t pause.

He fists his cock—thick, veined, flushed dark—and brings it to your entrance, dragging the blunt head through your slick with deliberate weight. Like he’s about to take something he’s been denied for years.

And then—he freezes.

“You sure?”

You glance back again, hair falling into your eyes. “You don’t get to be gentle now.”

That’s all it takes.

He drives into you in one slow, brutal, soul-tearing thrust.

You gasp—lurch forward—and arch. Nails digging into the mattress. Breath punched out of you.

And he doesn’t move.

Just stays buried, impossibly deep. One hand locked on your hip, the other pressing down at the base of your neck—holding you there, grounding you, steadying himself like this is the only way he won’t fall apart.

Like you’re the first thing that’s ever made him believe he’s real.

“You feel that?” he rasps, voice raw and shaking. “That’s me. Inside what she said I could never have.”

He pulls back.

Then slams forward.

You cry out, high and sharp, and he fucks you like he’s punishing himself for every year he pretended he didn’t want this. Like he’s finally taking what he buried alive.

The rhythm is merciless—hips snapping into you again and again, the sound obscene, wet, relentless. His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your ribs, pressing you down like he wants to keep you there forever. He’s panting against your back, mouth open, breath ragged, murmuring broken things:

“Mine.”

“Should’ve been you.”

“Fuck—take me, just like that.”

You’re moaning, gasping, shaking, eyes blurred from how deep he is, how wrecked you feel. You brace your hands harder into the mattress as your body tightens around him—clenching, spiraling, gone.

When you clench, he growls, a low sound that vibrates into your bones.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Just like that. Let me wreck it.”

You nod, barely breathing, tears slipping hot down your cheeks—silent and unstoppable.

He leans over you, chest heavy on your back, and one hand slides under your stomach—ruthless, focused—fingers finding your clit with practiced cruelty. He rubs tight, filthy circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. It's too much. It’s perfect.

“You gonna come for me?” he mutters against your ear, voice thick, ruined. “Gonna let me feel it?”

You nod frantically, whimpering. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he snarls. “Come on. Give it to me.”

“Please—” you gasp, high and cracked.

“Let me ruin it,” he whispers. "Let me be the one who breaks it."

And you do.

You come with a sob—full-body, wrenching, your orgasm ripping through you like a scream you’ve been holding back for years. You clench around him, trembling, crying, coming apart with his name in your mouth.

He follows seconds later—slamming in deep, one final thrust that splits you open—and groans, long and guttural, like it’s killing him to let go. He spills inside you with a curse and your name dragged raw from his throat.

Then he collapses over you.

You’re both shaking. Breathing like you’ve survived something. Still joined. Still trembling.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move.

Just stays there—chest flush to your back, mouth pressed to the curve of your shoulder, fingers tangled in your hair like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing that’ll keep him from going under.

“Was it worth it?” you ask, voice broken, raw.

His answer barely makes it past his lips.

“Ask me when I lose you too.”

Time: 8:19 a.m. Location: Kitchen. The morning after.

You wake up to sunlight, and the first thing you feel is him.

Not his body—he’s gone. Just the dent he left behind in the mattress. The scent of him on your skin. The ache between your legs that’s part soreness, part memory. You feel raw. Wrung out. Touched in ways you’d spent years trying not to imagine. You feel like her.

You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help. The images are branded behind your eyelids: Pope’s hand tangled in your hair. His voice in your ear. His body holding you still like he needed to memorize your shape before he could live with himself.

Let me be the one who breaks it.

You roll onto your back, and it hits you all over again—he fucked you in her bed. Not just sex. Not a mistake. A collision. A choice. A lifetime of looking and aching and staying silent that finally snapped loose. And now?

Now he’s gone.

You sit up slowly. Your thighs stick to the sheets. You wipe at the sweat on your chest. You look like a girl who got wrecked and abandoned.

You look like someone your sister would have mocked.

You dress in yesterday’s clothes and follow the scent of coffee.

You hear them before you reach the kitchen.

Her voice—small, familiar, sharp enough to gut you.

“You made them wrong,” your niece says.

Pope grunts. “There’s no wrong way to make pancakes.”

“Mom used to put bananas in.”

He doesn’t answer.

You stop at the edge of the doorway.

He’s there. At the stove. Same hoodie from last night. Hood up. Shoulders hunched like he’s trying to make himself smaller, vanish into the steam. He doesn’t look at you, but his whole body goes taut the second you enter—shoulders pulled tight, jaw locked.

He knows you’re there.

He always knows.

You used to think it was a sixth sense for violence. Now you think it’s guilt. Or longing. Or both.

“Morning,” you say, voice low.

Your niece lifts her fork and waves. “He’s making breakfast. But it’s not the way she did it.”

You look at him.

He still won’t look back.

The silence is brutal. Ticking. Loaded.

You take a step in. Measured. “Can I talk to you?”

His hand flexes on the spatula. Tight enough to crack it.

“Not now.”

“You don’t get to do that,” you snap.

That gets him.

His gaze cuts over his shoulder—sharp. Brief. A warning behind his eyes like the ones he used to give her before everything went to hell.

“Do what?” he says.

“Pretend like last night didn’t happen.”

He turns now. Fully. Slowly. Like he’s squaring up, not facing you.

“It didn’t mean anything,” he says.

But it’s too fast.

And it doesn’t sound like him. Doesn’t sound like a lie he’s practiced. Sounds like it burned his mouth to say it.

You stare. Your voice softens, but it’s no less dangerous. “That how you’re gonna handle this? Just another Pope Cody vanishing act?”

His jaw ticks. That old, silent rage moving beneath the surface.

“There’s a kid in the room,” he says, dead flat.

“Don’t use her as a shield.”

His mouth tightens. No comeback. Just a low simmer. That silence that always came before the damage.

You step closer. Cross the kitchen tile like it’s a line he’s dared you to walk.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t feel it.”

He doesn’t.

He won’t.

Because he can’t.

Because for the first time in years, you touched something real—and so did he.

And now he's too much of a coward to hold it in daylight.

You wait while she eats—sloppy bites of pancake drowning in syrup, her small hands sticky and careless, bare feet kicking at the air beneath the table like she’s still too light to be touched by everything that’s broken.

Pope doesn’t speak. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t blink. His jaw is clenched. Shoulders coiled. He watches over her like it’s all he knows how to do. Like standing still might hold the world in place a few seconds longer.

He doesn’t eat. Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t look at you.

When the bus honks outside, she shoves her plate away, grabs her backpack off the hook, and bolts out the door without looking back.

“Bye!” she calls.

The screen door slams.

And then—nothing.

No syrup chatter. No footsteps. No excuse left to not look at each other.

That’s when the silence gets dangerous.

He’s already halfway to the door when you stop him.

“Say something real,” you breathe.

He stops. Doesn’t turn. Just stills like an animal in a snare, waiting for the next shot.

“Last night… that wasn’t some mistake. That wasn’t about her.”

He shakes his head once. A sharp cut of movement. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

He turns. Slowly. Like it hurts. His face is unreadable—not empty. Buried. Like everything he’s ever felt for you got pushed somewhere too deep to dig out without bleeding.

“You think I wanted it?” he asks, voice low and cracked. “You think I planned that? I touched you in her bed.”

You fold your arms, fingers digging into your sides. “You wanted me before she died.”

He twitches like it’s a bruise you just pressed too hard.

“I saw it,” you say, breath tight. “The way you’d leave the room when I laughed too loud. The way your eyes caught on my hips when I wore her clothes. You were scared of it.”

“Of course I was scared,” he bites out. His voice splinters. “You were the only good thing left in this house.”

You blink.

The words hit harder than they should. Like a wound breaking open from the inside.

“I’m not good, Pope.”

“You are,” he says instantly, eyes locked on yours, voice ragged. “That’s why I came back.”

You blink. Again. Slower.

“I didn’t come back for her,” he says. “I came back for the kid. And for you.”

You step forward. Slow. Breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your spine.

“You kissed me like you hated yourself.”

“I did.”

Another step. “You fucked me like you were trying to forget her.”

His jaw clenches. “I was.”

And another. “But you held me like you didn’t want to let go.”

His breath catches.

And now—you’re in front of him.

Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest. Close enough to see the blood pulsing in his throat. Close enough to see what he won’t say in the tremble behind his eyes.

And that’s when he shatters.

Not loud.

Not explosive.

Just shatters—like a man who’s been grieving too long, loving too hard, and finally let himself want something he was never supposed to touch.

Like you’re the only thing he ever wanted that didn’t ask him to disappear.

He grabs your face. Not sweetly. Desperately. His palms are rough, trembling against your skin like he’s holding a live wire. Like this—you—is the thing that’s going to burn him alive, and he’s asking for it anyway. His forehead drops to yours, and he exhales like it hurts to be this close.

His hands are shaking.

“I don’t know how to want things without destroying them,” he breathes. Voice low. Fractured. Like it’s been stuck in his throat for years.

“I’m already broken,” you whisper.

“I know.”

And then he kisses you.

It’s not clean. It’s not even careful.

It’s devouring.

Too wet. Too fast. His mouth misses yours and lands on your jaw, your throat, your collarbone like he’s trying to bury himself in you. Like he wants to wear your skin, hide inside your ribs, press himself so deep he can forget what loving her did to him. What not touching you did to him.

His hands shove under your shirt—urgent, reckless—palming your ribs like they hold answers. He fists the back of your waistband, yanks you toward him, and lifts you up onto the counter with a grunt, breath ragged in your ear.

You gasp, sharp and startled.

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ask. He drags your pants down to your thighs like he’s furious they were ever on you in the first place.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he rasps, every word a confession he doesn’t want to survive. “I keep seeing you—bent over her bed. Your hands in the sheets. Your voice in my mouth.”

He pushes your legs open, staring down like it kills him. Like the sight of you is both prayer and punishment.

“I woke up hard this morning,” he chokes. “Had to jerk off in her shower. Couldn’t stop hearing you.”

You moan. Soft. Shaken. “Pope—”

He grabs your face again, rougher now, like your voice just undid something he was barely holding together.

“You wanna be mine?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“I don’t do gentle.”

“I don’t want gentle.”

His thumb brushes your lower lip. A tremble beneath the violence.

“You say stop, I stop.”

You nod. Breathless. “I won’t.”

And that’s it.

He shoves his sweats down, rough and clumsy, teeth clenched. His hands lock around your thighs—hard, claiming—and he lines up, flushed and thick and aching.

No teasing. No question. Just one long, brutal thrust.

You cry out—your whole body arching, splintering, as he drives deep into you.

Your sound echoes off the cabinets. The floor. The silence she left behind.

He doesn’t apologize.

Doesn’t slow down.

He fucks you like it’s survival. Like he means to stay. Like this is the only way he knows how to say I’m here—not with promises, but with ruin.

Like he thinks he can erase her memory by burying himself in yours.

Your hands claw at his hoodie. He doesn’t take it off. Doesn’t even kiss you again. He just fucks you harder, like he’s chasing something down inside himself—guilt, grief, hunger. Maybe all three.

You moan his name and his grip tightens until your skin burns.

“I can’t stop wanting you,” he growls, teeth bared.

“Then don’t.”

He thrusts harder. Rougher. You fall apart with a sob—full-body, breathless, undone—your orgasm ripping through you.

And he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going until he’s gone too—slamming into you deep, groaning like it’s killing him, his release pulsing inside you, your name dragged raw from his throat like it’s the only thing he still believes in.

The kitchen is silent again.

Except for your breathing—shallow, broken. Except for his—louder, rougher, like he’s still trying to catch it. Like he’s still somewhere inside you.

Pope doesn’t move.

His forehead rests against your shoulder, breath hot where it hits your skin. One hand grips the counter beside your thigh, the other still buried in your hair. He’s trembling. Not from the cold. Not from shame.

From the fact that he’s still here.

That you’re still here.

When he finally pulls out, it’s slow. Careful. Like it hurts him to leave.

You wince, but don’t pull away. You don’t move at all.

He tucks himself back into his sweats with one hand, the other never leaving your skin.

You expect him to speak. To backtrack. To run.

He doesn’t.

He stands between your legs, eyes closed, hands now resting on your hips—thumbs rubbing slow circles like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s trying to learn what staying feels like.

You whisper, “What now?”

He opens his eyes. Bloodshot. Devastated.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I don’t want to leave.”

Your throat tightens. You nod.

“I won’t make you promise anything,” you say.

“Good,” he mutters. “I break those.”

A pause.

Then—his hand lifts. Brushes your hair behind your ear. Fingers trembling.

“I don’t know how to be what you need,” he says quietly.

“You already are,” you answer. “You’re still here.”

His jaw clenches.

And for the first time in years, you see it on his face—not guilt, not rage.

Hope.

Tiny. Fragile. Flickering.

But alive.

He kisses you again. Slow this time. Like thanks. Like maybe, if he’s careful enough, this won’t burn too.

And when he rests his forehead to yours again, he doesn’t shake.

He breathes.

And so do you.

[kirlicues]

Seabreeze Solace | Sims 2 Residential Lot Download

This mariner-themed lot is full of options for summer activities for sims of all ages. It's built on a 3x5 lot, has 4 bedrooms, 3.5 baths, and costs §201,717.

Since this lot is so long and narrow it's best if I give you a tour of the grounds in several different images. First is a view of the back of the home looking looking straight on. But this doesn't show what's behind you!

Ooo, look! A pool house for the kidlets simlets birthday parties! I'll show you a floor plan in just a few...

(Now WHY you would go swimming in a pool when you have the whole ocean, presumably right out your back/front door I don't know, but hey, I'm a builder, I just fill the space I'm given. 🤷‍♀️🤣)

But first, a hermetically sealed* greenhouse! Enjoy those fresh, homegrown veggies without the saltwater contaminating the soil and ruining your crops!

*Not actually hermetically sealed.

Alright, let's take a look at the inside and sea see what we've got to work with!

First up, the main house:

1st Floor: Clockwise from left: Sunroom, or optional room-of-your-choice, kitchen, bathroom, family room, living room, entryway, and dining room. Sorry y'all, no garage on this lot so you'll have to find some other way to keep your cars protected and rust-free in the salty sea air. (Which will keep you healthier? Veggies or cars, hmm?🤔But I digress...)

Moving on, we have the 2nd floor!

Clockwise from bottom left: kids bedroom 1, kids bedroom 2 (used as an art room currently), kids bedroom 3, upstairs landing, kids bathroom, master bathroom, master bedroom, and office.

Ok, you've waited long enough--on to the pool house!

Pool house 1st floor: Clockwise from left: outside showers, bathroom, kitchen, and dining nook.

I can feel the water going up my nose and clogging my ears already, but wait, there's more!

Pool house 2nd floor: Clockwise from left: open to below, upstairs landing, and rec room.

For those of you your sims who may not love the water, or are a bit too young to swim there's plenty to keep you occupied! Just remember to keep your darts at one end of the room and your toddlers on the other and nobody gets hurt. (Sorry guys, there's only so many activities that come with the game, and thankfully, since toddlers, or anyone else, can't get hurt by the darts game, I figured this combination would be ok.)

Is there anything more you could want?! Well, it will have to go on another lot because this one is FULL. 🔐 🤣

Seabreeze Solace: MF | SFS

All EPs and SPs are required.

*I highly recommend that you have the PerfectPlants mod from TwoJeffs*

I’ve run this home through the Lot Compressor so any random references to sims that aren’t there should be removed. I have also run this lot through the Lot Cleaner to remove any bits of buggy code. This lot comes with a shiny custom thumbnail so it has even more curb appeal in your Lots and Houses bin! 😄

This home has 4 pieces of CC, 3 of which are Maxis pre-order bonus or store items which you may already have in your game. These can easily be replaced or omitted if you don’t want them though.

CC List (Included): -Maxis Match Wall Cabinets by CTNutmegger at ModtheSims -Seasons Pre-Order Bonus "Garden Swing of Bliss and Harmony"

CC List (Not Included): -Sims 2 Store Nouveaulicious set Callas -Sims 2 Store Cubic Dynamics Rug from this pack by CircusWolf on ModtheSims

I ALWAYS recommend using the Sims 2 Pack Clean installer to install lot files.

Want to improve the look of your game, or grab some “Lost & Found” Maxis objects? Check out this post.

[poetrex]

Littoral Combat Song (One Piece At A Time)

Well, I left Kentucky back in 2006, And moved to Mobile to work on ships— First year, they had me weldin' plates on LCS-2. Every day I'd see her high and dry, And sometimes I'd hang my head and cry 'Cause I always wanted me one that was long and blue. So one day I devised myself a scheme, an' It's the envy of most any seaman— I'd sneak it out there in whatever I could fit it in. Now gettin' caught meant goin' to prison, But if a diesel engine or two went missin' I'd have me a boat worth at least a half a billion. I'd get it one piece at a time, And it wouldn't cost me a dime. You'll know it's me when I come through your sound. I'm gonna sail around Austal style, Gonna drive Lockheed Martin wild 'Cause I'll have the only one there is around. So the very next day when I punched in To distribute lethality with some help from a friend, I left that day with a lunchbox full of gears. I've never considered myself a thief, But GD wouldn't miss just one little piece, Especially if I strung it out over several years. The first day I got me a stator vane; The next day I got me a whole A-frame, Then the turbochargers, compressor, and that alternator. Little things I could fit in my hands Like nuts an' bolts, and most of the cams, But the big stuff we snuck out in my buddy's flatbed trailer. Now, my plan was workin' out just fine Til' at last that trimaran was mine, But during sea trials, we faced significant hurdles. See, one crankshaft was from LCS-3, And the shaft seal was a bit leaky— She made over fifty knots, but only in circles. So we upgraded her Mission Module, And with a little bit of help from a Youtube video, We fixed her waterjets and that helped a lot. Now the weapons was another sight— Gold Crew removed the 57 one night 'Cause they found that it interfered with their wifi hotspot. The superstructure looked funny too, But we put it together and when we got through, Well, that's when we noticed that we only had one bridge wing. Then we had a small explosion; Some minor issues with aggressive corrosion, But other than that, she'll take you for a helluva spin. But when we took her out for a shakedown cruise To show the flag and spread the news, I could hear everybody laughin' up in OPNAV. Now, CNO didn't find it amusing 'Cause when they showed up, I expected a bruisin' But they promoted me to NAVSEA, even let me pick my own staff. I got it one piece at a time, And it didn't cost me a dime! You'll know it's me when I come through your sound. I'm gonna sail around Austal style, Gonna drive Lockheed Martin wild 'Cause I got the only one there is around.

HOOYAH! Red Ryder this is the USS Dale Earnhardt saying Bravo Zulu to all our Navy team, and She's not a corvette, do not call it a corvette.

And negatory on the cost of this here mow-chine Red Ryder, You might say I won it in a no-bid contract. It's cheaper that way.

Uh, what Mission Package is it? Well, it's a Surface Warfare SSM Counter Unmanned Aircraft System Anti-Air, Counter-Mine, Counter-Anti-Submar-ine High-Energy Laser Littoral Combat Ship.

Yeah, a VLS PDS Aviation Countermeasures, ALMDS UISS DEW and Knifefish operator, Agile and modular Littoral Combat Ship!

[auto-technician]

Tips for Maintaining Your Auto AC Compressor for Optimal Performance

The "AC compressor" is the heart of your car’s air conditioning system. It compresses refrigerant and circulates it through the system, ensuring you enjoy cool air during hot drives. Proper maintenance of the compressor not only enhances your comfort but also extends the lifespan of your vehicle’s AC system. Here are some tips to keep your auto AC compressor in top condition.

1. Regular Inspections

Inspect your AC system periodically for leaks, unusual noises, or reduced cooling performance. A noisy compressor or weak airflow might indicate a problem that needs professional attention.

2. Run the AC Regularly

Even in cooler months, run your AC for at least 10 minutes once a week. This prevents seals from drying out and keeps the compressor lubricated, ensuring its longevity.

3. Use the Right Refrigerant

Always use the manufacturer-recommended refrigerant type and amount. Incorrect refrigerant can damage the compressor and reduce efficiency.

4. Replace the Cabin Air Filter

A clogged air filter forces the AC system to work harder, increasing strain on the compressor. Regularly replace the filter for optimal airflow.

By following these tips, you can maintain your auto AC compressor's efficiency and enjoy cool, refreshing air for years to come.

[stellanslashgeode]

W.i.P. Wednesday

A bit from "She Left Without a Trace" that I wrote last night, content subject to massive changes. Might erase this and start over idk. @spacelesbiandisasterii

  Trace Martez has always been a dreamer. She may have been born kilometers below them but she’s always had her head up in the clouds. I should know, I know her better than anybody. That’s why I’m telling this story.

  That particular afternoon she was dreaming of her Silver Angel, as usual. Her head wasn’t only in the clouds but soaring above them on its way to the hyperlanes. Last thing she expected was for an orange angel to come swooping into the mech bay. That’s probably how she’d describe it. An orange angel crash landed from up above with a singed and broken wing. Everyone feel sorry for her. Broken compressor and blown repulsor, more like it. Crashed her bike and nearly made herself a smear across our property. Wouldn’t be the first Jedi galavanting around the portal. 

  Trace got off on the right foot initially, letting her know her bike was absolute trash. But the damage was done. Ahsoka Tano had already wriggled those hips around pushing her hunk of junk around. Got those head tail things flailing all come hither. She started working on her right away. “Oh, I can’t have you fix my bike, I have no money!” and “Oh, I just need some tools, thank you. But no money to rent them with! Oh, woe is me,” You get the idea. I raised Trace to be hard, but she has a soft heart. I’m sure Ahsoka used that mind reading juju on her playing on her sympathies. If I had only been there, I would have sent her off right away, let me tell you. Would have saved us so much trouble.

  Why are you telling this part if you weren’t there?

  I know exactly what went on, because of the security feeds. You think I’d just let my sis work alone with the bay doors open in this neighborhood? Estúpido. That’s how I know she got right to grifting sis from the jump. Once she got a good look at the Silver Angel I bet she was planning her free ride out of there. She wasn’t riding away on that junker of a bike. She starts moping and looking out into the departing freighters to get Trace to scrape the carbon deposits off her sparker, getting her engine going. I’m hard on her, but she is an absolute genius with repair work. She takes after mom like that.

  Now, why didn’t Ahsoka just come clean at this point about the Jedi thing? Like, what’s the worst that would have happened. Everything would have gone differently at that point. I would have definitely known not to trust her. 

  You know why she didn’t tell her.

  Oh? Do you know me so well, caçador? Or her?

  She was hoping neither of you had seen her wanted poster a few days earlier.

  Yeah? Is that what she told you? Eh? Are all you clones so chummy with Tano? Yeah, I thought so. Then after she baits the hook with her fallen upper city angel sob story she seals the deal waxing the floor with Pindu’s goons. Comes off like a real hero. And she gets right to driving a wedge between her and her loving sister. Tarnishing my good name and reputation. 

  Heh, what reputation?

  Hey, I didn’t do anything wrong. I was in my laundromat the whole time. Being a responsible legitimate business owner. I would’ve gotten Pindu his money eventually.

[californiarubber]

Top 5 Benefits of Using Rubber Gaskets in Industrial Settings

In the demanding world of industrial manufacturing, efficiency and reliability are non-negotiable. From high-pressure pipelines to sanitary processing systems, one seemingly small component plays a critical role in keeping operations running smoothly: the rubber gasket. At California Rubber, we specialize in precision-engineered rubber gaskets designed for performance, durability, and safety across a wide range of applications.

Rubber gaskets offer significant advantages over metal or fiber alternatives in terms of flexibility, resilience, and resistance to extreme conditions. In this blog, we explore the top five benefits of using rubber gaskets in industrial environments.

1. Superior Sealing Capability

The primary function of any gasket is to create a leak-proof seal between two surfaces, and rubber gaskets excel at this. Thanks to their inherent flexibility and compressibility, rubber gaskets can conform to surface irregularities, ensuring a tight seal even in imperfect or worn flange connections.

This superior sealing capability is particularly vital in high-pressure systems or where liquids and gases must be contained with absolute precision. Components like Sanitary Gaskets used in food and beverage manufacturing rely on high-grade rubber to maintain hygiene and prevent leaks under demanding conditions.

Rubber materials such as EPDM, NBR, and silicone are also excellent at maintaining seal integrity across a wide range of temperatures and pressures, making them ideal for dynamic and static applications alike.

2. Chemical and Temperature Resistance

Industrial environments often expose components to aggressive chemicals and extreme temperatures. Rubber gaskets are available in a variety of formulations that offer excellent resistance to these challenges.

EPDM is commonly used for steam and water applications due to its excellent heat and weather resistance.

Nitrile rubber offers superb resistance to oils, fuels, and other hydrocarbons.

Silicone rubber is ideal for high-temperature sealing up to 230°C (446°F).

This adaptability ensures long-term performance without degradation, reducing the frequency of replacements. It’s particularly valuable in environments such as Cannabis Extraction Parts, where chemical exposure is frequent and operational safety is a top concern.

3. Durability and Longevity

Rubber gaskets are known for their excellent wear and fatigue resistance. When properly installed and maintained, they can provide years of reliable service, even in environments with high levels of vibration, pressure fluctuations, or abrasive materials.

This durability not only lowers the total cost of ownership but also contributes to reduced downtime and maintenance cycles. In sectors like brewing, where production schedules are tight and efficiency is key, using high-performance components such as Brewing Gaskets can significantly improve system reliability.

The use of advanced manufacturing techniques like compression molding and injection molding ensures that rubber gaskets meet precise dimensional tolerances for consistent performance.

4. Noise and Vibration Dampening

In addition to sealing, rubber gaskets offer excellent vibration isolation and noise reduction. Their elastic nature absorbs mechanical energy, dampening vibration between metal parts and reducing wear and fatigue on adjacent components.

This feature is particularly useful in dynamic systems such as pumps, compressors, and HVAC systems. Components like aodd pump parts often integrate rubber seals and diaphragms to ensure quieter operation and longer mechanical life.

By minimizing mechanical noise and vibration, rubber gaskets also contribute to safer and more comfortable working environments in industrial facilities.

5. Versatility Across Applications

Rubber gaskets are incredibly versatile, available in a wide variety of shapes, sizes, and materials to suit almost any industrial requirement. Whether you need a standard flange gasket or a custom-molded seal for a unique configuration, rubber provides a flexible solution.

Their usage spans industries including:

Food and beverage processing

Pharmaceuticals and biotechnology

Oil and gas

Automotive and aerospace

Water treatment and chemical processing

Rubber gaskets can also be tailored to meet regulatory and compliance standards such as FDA, NSF, and USP Class VI, depending on the application.

From standard sealing tasks to highly specialized roles, rubber gaskets can be engineered to solve complex challenges efficiently and economically.

Maintenance Tips for Longer Gasket Life

To get the most out of rubber gaskets, consider these simple but effective maintenance tips:

Perform regular visual inspections for signs of wear, cracking, or hardening.

Ensure proper torque is applied during installation to avoid over-compression.

Store spare gaskets in a cool, dry place away from sunlight and ozone sources.

Replace gaskets at the first sign of leakage to prevent downstream damage.

Proactive care will maximize the life span of your gaskets and ensure uninterrupted system performance.

Why Rubber Gaskets Are a Smart Investment

Rubber gaskets are not only a practical solution for sealing and insulation but also a strategic choice for improving operational efficiency. With the right material and design, they reduce maintenance needs, enhance equipment life, and support safe, clean processing environments.

For manufacturers in regulated industries, choosing the correct gasket material is also key to maintaining product quality and compliance. Investing in high-performance rubber gaskets is ultimately an investment in your operation’s reliability and success.

Conclusion

Rubber gaskets offer a powerful combination of sealing performance, chemical resistance, durability, and versatility that make them indispensable in modern industrial settings. At California Rubber, we understand the critical role gaskets play in your operations, and we offer expertly engineered solutions to meet the most demanding requirements.

Whether you're upgrading aodd pump parts, installing FDA-compliant seals in food processing systems, or customizing Brewing Gaskets for specialized production needs, we provide the quality and expertise you can rely on. Reach out today to learn how our custom rubber gasket solutions can optimize your systems and extend the life of your equipment.

[byz-was-here]

If it's stupid and it works, it's not stupid.

Central AC died. I live in he us south, where its 80% humidity on avg and it's already 80F in April.

$11k to replace the burnt out compressor and replace the 20y/old old furnace/coolant line system.

I just had to get a new car, can't afford that.

I can however, afford a 160 dollar window unit and some weather sealant foam.

Cut up an old vynyl shower curtain that I was using as a dropcloth, used weather tape to hold the foam insulation panels against the plastic window extensions, sealed it flat and tight with the vynyl and more weathertape. Completely closed up the air gaps around the window ac and kept hot air from leaking through.

Window's the wrong type for the included mounting kit? Check the garage. Old piece of scrap wood to distribute the force evenly on the ac unit, cinderblock, and a spare car jack (from old FUBAR car) to level the support to the perfect height.

Sure it's redneck as all hell. But I'm sleeping cool tonight.

[tremendouslovenerd]

The Science Behind Efficient AC: How Tailored Mechanical Maximizes Your Cooling System

Introduction

As the sweltering summer months approach, many homeowners find themselves turning to their air conditioning units for relief. However, not all AC systems are created equal. Understanding the science behind efficient air conditioning can make a significant difference in comfort and energy costs. This is where Tailored Mechanical comes into play, providing expert insights and services that can enhance your cooling system's performance. In this article, we will delve deep into the mechanics of air conditioning, explore how tailored services from professionals like Tailored Mechanical can optimize your system, and ultimately ensure you stay cool during those scorching Tucson summers.

The Science Behind Efficient AC: How Tailored Mechanical Maximizes Your Cooling System

At its core, air conditioning relies on basic principles of thermodynamics. The process involves transferring heat from inside your home to the outside environment, making use of refrigerants that absorb heat as they evaporate and release it when they condense. But what happens when your AC system isn't running efficiently?

What Makes an AC System Efficient?

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This component regulates refrigerant flow into the evaporator coil, allowing it to expand and cool effectively as it enters.

The Import

[journalofthewanderers]

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The Day of Reckoning

Uncharted planet, Pharhan Galaxy

124th Turn of the Holy Calendar of Kroll

Koschei tugged on one of his black leather gloves, the left one this time, a nervous habit he’d developed not long after receiving them.

Before him stretched a grey landscape, an uneven series of rocky depressions, nothing but dreary boulders of the same colours and varying sizes, which was the most unique thing the landscape had to offer.

The mind-numbing boredom the setting provided was doing little to subdue his anxiety, however.

The nudge startled him from his musings, and he turned to see Darkel waiting for him, he was a lanky youth, but she was even taller than him, copper skinned and hair almost as wild as the Doctors, though hers was a platinum blonde.

“If you’re finished admiring the…” she cast a critical, yellow-flecked brown, eye over the same scene he had been staring at with such avid intensity, “…picturesque landscape, he’s about to start.”

“Thanks,” Koschei nodded, Darkel folded her arms and gestured to the small boxy device he’d been holding in his left hand.

“New toy?” she asked, Koschei smiled a little shyly and held it out for her to see.

“It’s supposed to be a Matter Compressor, the Doctor helped me put it together.”

“Supposed to be?”

“I-“Koschei began then bobbed his head, “haven’t tested it yet, the theory is that it could stand in for a Time Archons Transmigration ability, by shrinking an object down.”

“Nice,” Darkel smiled evenly, “come on, but we’re about to start.”

“Oh, of course, sorry,” Koschei blushed and gestured for Darkel to lead the way back to the others. There were six of them altogether, their other four classmates–dressed in the same quilted, one-piece jumpsuit–were gathered around a Time Archon, who’s heavy layered robe and curved golden collar, with a semicircle of metal suspended between its prongs, marked him as a Chronarch.

Preceptor Salyavin, the Chronarch in question, waited patiently for Koschei and Darkel to join the group.

As they came over he fastidiously smoothed the stole that hung from the shoulder pads of his collar–another part of Chronarch adornment–decorated with the Seal of the Time Archons, below which was the symbol of the Great State of Prydon, reflected also in the green of his robes, and lastly at the bottom, his name written in High Jeweliform script.

Koschei took in all this with the attentive eye for detail that always emerged when he was anxious, as Salyavin began to speak.

“Firstly notes on the journey here: Magnus and Rowellanuraven your piloting of the TARDIS was highly professional, Darkel you did well compensating for that temporal drift, Koschei and, Corsair…”

Salyavins tone shifted slightly as he named the last member of the group, a statuesque deep-brown skinned and freckled Shobogan with nose, ear and brow rings, each of a different make from a myriad of different worlds.

The name ‘Corsair’ in place of a conventional Shobogan name identified him as a full member of the Paradox Faction, something the Chronarch found exceptionally distasteful. Of course Koschei was also a member, but having yet to discard his own name–something he doubted he would ever do–that connection remained less apparent, and he was sure the Chronarch was unaware of that fact.

“…a little more awareness next time,” Salyavin continued, “those eddies can sneak up on even the most competent of pilots, but it pays to remain vigilant.”

The Corsair merely looked back, unflinching in the face of Salyavin’s palpable disapproval.

The Preceptor drew his attention away from the Corsair and steepled his hands in front of him, regarding the students under his care, and his observation, for this final examination.

“Your task here may seem simple, yet assuming simplicity is one of the great follies of any life form: a piece of anachronistic technology has been pre-placed somewhere within this region, in 29 Turns of their Holy Calendar, a survey ship from a neighbouring civilisation will land here, if left unrecovered this anachronism will have a ripple effect on that civilisation, representing an unacceptable change in the web of time. You will locate and retrieve the anachronism, then return to the TARDIS which has blended with the environment adding another layer of challenge to this examination, you will have exactly one rotation of this planet to achieve that task, failure will result in automatic Transmat back to the TARDIS and will count as a failure, once you succeed we will return to the Homeworld and meet with a fellow TARDIS and engage in a live fire exercise to test your combat expertise.”  

Salyavin looked at each of them in turn to ensure that they understood their objectives then turned and held up his Datapatch.

“You may begin.”

With a press he was outlined in the reddish glow of a Transmat beam before his form faded from view and his newly acquired halo dispersed into nothingness with him.

Immediately the group huddled together, drawing out their Datapatches.

“This is what we’re looking for,” Magnus told the group, immediately assuming the lead, a rendering of the device appeared on their screens, a large boxy machine with three diamond shaped rings suspended via gravitic field in a row at one end, Koschei recognised it even as Rowellanuraven continued.

“A small probe fitted with a Gravity drive, the Balhoonians who will land on this planet aren’t able to develop gravity technology for another 498 Turns of their Holy Calendar, that’s an unacceptable contamination of their timeline if it were to be discovered.”

“What options do we have for locating it?” The Corsair asked, Koschei took this chance to add his own voice to the discussion.

“Do we know what TLC level this probe comes from?”

“Level 9 I think?” Darkel replied, “so that’s what? Particle weapons almost standard issue, frequent Transmat usage, Gravity drives become standard obviously and unpurified Zeiton-4 reactors.”

“Well,” Koschei mused, “if it has a Zeiton reactor we can track it’s radiation signature, should stand out amongst all this.”

“Don’t be daft Koschei,” Magnus replied more than a little dismissively, “it’s a probe, something that small won’t have a full reactor, probably a low-level thermoelectric generator.”

“That’s… that’s not true for every species though.” Koschei argued meekly, he gestured at the image of the probe, “those gravity rings, a diamond shape is inefficient but when compared to the rest of the design it creates an aesthetic style that wouldn’t work with any other shape, this probe is a statement as much as a machine, a way for this civilisation to show off, and nothing shows off more than a Zeiton reactor built into a probe.”

The others considered the design again and all began to nod and look at each other, but Magnus shook his head.”

“Setting up a scan for Zeiton will take time, time we don’t have, especially if your logic doesn’t pan out.”

“Well what’s your solution for finding it then?” Darkel shot back before Koschei could attempt to reply, Magnus didn’t answer immediately, then he smirked.

“The probe will be putting out a signal surely, if not a greeting message then the remnants of a control signal.

His reply prompted a scoff of derision from Darkel, “even if there is a signal, I was in charge of the exterior monitoring terminal of the main console, this planet’s atmosphere is charged as spack, a signal would get bounced around like crazy.”

But Rowellanuraven waved a dismissive hand, “We can filter that out, Magnus plan makes the most sense.”

Is that just because he thought of it? Koschei thought, but he said nothing even as the group’s opinion swung, as it often did, in Magnus’ favour, it came with the territory of being the top pupil of their class. Darkel shot him a half encouraging, half exasperated look, but when he made no attempt to argue his case further she rolled her eyes.

The group began fiddling with their individual Datapatches, sure enough a faint control signal was detectable from the north, Magnus couldn’t help but shoot a superior look at Koschei as he set off confidently, just before having do turn east as the signal glitched and altered position by a matter of several hundred kilometres.

~ ~ ~

As the lightposts began to gradually increase their intensity, bathing Prydon in the false glow of an imitation sunrise, the Doctor breakfasted quickly before making her way to their usual meeting place under the Dead Evertime.

No one knew why this particular tree, of a species that never withered or even lost its leaves, had achieved both, but it had, long before any of them had come along. The Rani and Drax were sitting side by side at the base of the tree below the many carvings upon its twisted, almost branchless trunk.

The Rani was holding a fully unfolded Datapatch, the small discs of golden metal were ubiquitous across Jewel as Shobogan personal computers, slightly dimensionally transcendental, it could be unfolded into a full-sized computer pad. The stylistic decorations and stickers on the back identified it as belonging to Drax. Hey grey eyes with purple streaks were intently focused on the screen even as she spoke animatedly to Drax.

They couldn’t have looked more different, the Rani was almost a picture perfect Shobogan, dressed in the appropriate red, her rich dark hair was cut short in the vogue Shobogan style, a style that actually complimented her sculpted and refined features and almost white skin. The only mark that she was part of the Paradox Faction was a small square of blue stitched onto one of the sleeves.

Drax by comparison, had looked into the great archives, found the term ‘punk’ and had proceeded to embody its description completely; their hair was long, very long, reaching down to their knees, dyed white and tied in a ponytail accentuated with metal ringlets and string, contrasting wildly with the deep copper shade of their skin and their orange-streaked purple eyes. Even their style was radically different, studded leather frock coat over checked trousers and a bright blue shirt, and not a trace of red colouring anywhere on their attire.

Drax saw the Doctor first and waved.

“Come help us Thete, Rani is determined to drill these answers into me, and I don’t mean figuratively.”

The Rani gave Drax a withering look and put down the pad.

“If you want to keep dancing on the edge of expulsion from the academy, you can at least do well in your written exam before that happens, you won’t get anywhere without a qualification.”

“Where is it written that an artist needs qualifications?” Drax replied coiling their hair about their wrist.

“So you’ll be content to wander around like a cosmic tramp?”

“Tramp no, hobo maybe.” Drax grinned at the Doctor who chuckled and shook her head.

“I suppose you agree with them?” The Rani addressed the Doctor critically, the Doctor shrugged.

“I mean it depends on what you want to do, but we are trying to change the system remember.”

The Rani sighed.

“Doctor, the Paradox Faction needs capable, learned, and qualified people to argue it’s case, how else do you change a system?”

“Well if you ask Drax the answer would be spray painting ‘Spack off’ over every inch of the Capitol.”

“Thete! How could you assume I’d be so crude and crass?” Drax interjected, their tone hurt, “It’d be ‘Spack right off’ anyway” they added a beat later.

The Doctor stifled a laugh and settled down beside the Rani as she rolled her eyes and continued to study Drax’s Datapatch.

It was a quiet morning in Prydon, above the Vortex swirled past. Jewel still rotated, and to look up at the moment was to look straight ahead along the churning tunnel of all time and space, into the future.

“There was some… commotion last night.” The Rani said airily after an instant or two of silence, the Doctor didn’t look at her, choosing instead to toy with some tufts of redgrass.

“A break in at the Palace.”

“Yeah, I heard something about that.”

The Rani set down the Datapatch and looked at the Doctor.

“What were you thinking?” she asked harshly, the Doctor drew in a long breath and leaned forward to face her.

“I was thinking that I’d finally finish my project and annoy the Time Archons in the process.”

The Rani’s face was a picture of incredulity, “you risked your life, to be an annoyance?”

The Doctor narrowed her eyes. “No I broke into the Cardinals Palace and ran away from the Guards for my binary vascular health,” she replied acidly.

“Did you use Venusian Akido on any of them?” Drax interjected eagerly, even as the Rani shot a vicious look at them.

“Wasn’t an opportunity,” the Doctor replied, prompting Drax to throw up their hands in disbelief,

“Well what did you learn it for then?”

“Do you actually take any of this seriously?” The Rani snapped hotly, she climbed to her feet and walked a few steps away, arms folded.

“Of course we do,” the Doctor said to her back, only for her to round on him.

“Really? Seems to me like you’re more interested in spacking about, playing games.”

“Rani…”

 This isn’t the Deca, Drax, this is the real world, what if the Doctor had been caught, or shot?”

No one said anything as she glared at both of them, finally the Doctor got to her feet.

“What’s my name?”

The Rani sighed and rolled her eyes, “the Doctor,” she replied archly.

“And why is it the Doctor?”

“Because you Burned your Name, what’s your point?”

“Exactly,” the Doctor leant back against the Dead Evertime.

“Whatever my name was before is gone, the Grandfather erased it from time, I am and always will be the Doctor, every other member of the Faction has done the same.”

“So your saying im not a full member because I didn’t?” the Rani shot back, the Doctor held up her hands and shook her head.

“No…”

“Drax didn’t choose a title when their name was Burned.”

“I had no interest in following the herd, even a herd of rebels,” Drax said, mostly to themselves.

“You’re right, you didn’t Burn your name,” the Doctor cut in, ignoring Drax, “you’re still Ranidvoratnelundar, you just shortened your name, no-one begrudges you that, no-one is doubting your commitment because it was your choice, that’s what our end goal is, choice.”

She drew from her pocket the Sonic Screwdriver and held it up for them both to see.

“Last night, I proved that their power is not absolute, I opened a psychic door with this, crossed a threshold that no Shobogan has been capable of crossing, not without a Time Archon to condescendingly hold their hand.”

She smiled, “and it pissed them off, oh it definitely did that, and that’s the point, I defied them.”

The Rani was standing with her arms crossed and her eyes set, the Doctor stowed the Sonic, walked over and gave her shoulder an affectionate rub.

“Look, we do take this seriously, you know that, it’s why we Burned our names, and maybe you’re right and trying to fix things from the inside should always be the best option, but… when you’re fighting a system like ours, more often than not you do have to spray paint ‘Spack right off’ on the Capitol.”

The Rani’s small snort of a laugh was reluctant, but a sign of acceptance, nonetheless.

“Well,” she said after a breath, “I don’t agree, but at least it all worked out for you.”

“It almost didn’t, if not for the Professor,” the Doctor admitted evenly, choosing not to continue the argument and sitting cross legged on the ground.

“He showed up again?” the Rani resumed her original place, taking up Drax’s Datapatch once more, while Drax themself was weaving a long strand of grass into their hair.

“He did,” the Doctor confirmed, “no idea how he does it, manages to show up at just the right time to cover for us.”

“You more than us,” Drax observed, the Doctor shrugged.

“He’s either got a Time Space Visualiser, or he’s a secret Time Archon agent who’s organising all our… my close shaves to ingratiate himself into the Faction.”

“He helped found the Faction?” The Ranis tone still held her usual strain of irritability, but only to a slight degree, the Doctor shrugged again.

“He’s playing the long game,” she said with a grin, prompting the Rani to sigh, though more good naturedly than before.

“It’d be new levels of stupidity even for the Time Archons to send one of their own as a spy.”

“Maybe, but then again, you have seen their collars?”

Drax sniggered while the Rani chose to immerse herself in the Datapatch, a more comfortable silence settled over the three of them as a gust of wind caressed the bare branches of the dead Evertime like absent fingers.

“How do you think Koschei’s doing right now?” the Doctor asked, as her thoughts turned to the missing member of their group.

Drax smiled. “Knowing him, they’re probably considering creating the position of King of the Homeworld for him, that or President Archon or something equally gauche.”

“I’m surprised you don’t have more of an opinion about him becoming a Time Archon.” The Rani said, lowering the Datapatch to look intently at the Doctor, who waved a hand in dismissal.

“Koschei’s his own person, besides a high achiever like him becoming a Time Archon and being a member of the Paradox Faction? Didn’t you say something about working within the system?”

Her own argument turned back on her, the Rani simply made the face version of ‘fair enough’ and raised the Datapatch back over said facial features. Though neither her nor Drax had missed the uncertainty hiding in the Doctors response.

The Doctors eyes wandered, away from her two friends, up to the Dead Evertime looming over them, where its lower branches had been stripped away, its trunk had slowly been festooned in carvings across the Eras; Androgar loves Rodan, Gastron was here, Gat is a Vortisaur kisser were some of the newer ones.

Her eyes fixed upon one carving in particular, much older yet still perceptible: EHITAED.

Everything has its time, and everything dies.

No one knew who’d carved that one, but everyone knew what it said, a fact passed from person to person without ever being altered or misremembered.

The Doctor reached up and absently traced the letters with a finger, many a Paradoxical had looked at those words, and agreed with their message.

~ ~ ~

Half a rotation.

They had been stumbling around for half a rotation without getting any closer to the elusive, ever-changing signal. Koschei had been tempted to check the archive file on the creators of the probe, just to see if in fact, they weren’t in fact sentient radio waves that liked to taunt aspiring Time Archons, but to do so would have marked them down if not outright disqualified them.

They’d get no more than a few dozen kilometres in one direction before the signal would jump, now coming from almost the opposite direction. Everyone was becoming ever more desperate and irritated, especially Magnus as, with each passing moment, and each time the signal moved, he became increasingly aware of how wrong he’d been.

Not that that was helping, the slow realisation went hand in hand with an irrational stubbornness not to admit his mistake, even if it cost them all their qualifications.

Darkel kept shooting looks of encouragement at Koschei, trying to prompt him to speak up, to convince the others to try his idea, but he couldn’t do it. He could state his case as he’d done initially, but he was no debater, he couldn’t argue his case, and no matter how he tried, how he practiced with the Doctor and the others, it was a glitch in his psyche he couldn’t shake.

Nor unfortunately could Darkel, though her reasons were different.

Both her parents were Chronarchs heavily involved in the politics of the Great State of Patrex, they’d sent her off to Prydon with a stipulation that she not do anything to embarrass them.

One of those stipulations was that she not speak her mind too much, due to the fact that she had the opposite problem to Koschei; she was overly argumentative and was incapable from keeping from descending into a litany of swear words and more than a few punches and kicks if she came to loggerheads with someone.

So her parents, ever supportive, had passed a note to Salyavin, requiring her being held back, if not entirely dismissed from the programme if she blackened anyone’s eye during her final assessment.

Koschei could see how much keeping her temper in check was grating on her.

It had begun to rain as they’d clambered across the rough landscape, and a slurry of greyish mud had begun to bubble up from between the rocks, staining the lower half of their green jumpsuits.

Darkel dropped back to trudge beside Koschei as they altered course for the umpteenth time.

“Spacking. Say. Something.” She hissed.

“You know he’ll just shut me down,” he replied quietly, causing Darkel to scowl.

“If you don’t we all fail, and I’d quite like to have all the work I’ve put in pay off.”

Ahead Magnus had stopped at the edge of a small cliff, which had the effect of framing him quite dramatically against the desolate landscape.

Darkel dug an elbow into Koschei’s ribs, and he sighed heavily.

“Magnus,” he called out, walking towards the dramatic silhouette. Magnus ignored him and he called again.

“Magnus.”

“We’re nearly there, I know it.” His classmate snapped back.

As it turned out, Magnus’s conviction was only slightly less steady than the ground he was standing on, as with a sudden wet crunch, the cliff began to sag.

“Magnus!” Koschei yelled, but the ground suddenly slid downwards, carrying Magnus with it even as he frantically made to dive to safety. Fortunately the cliff turned out to be more of a steep incline, nonetheless Magnus still rolled hard down to the ground. The others gathered at the new edge in a panic, Rowellanuraven called down to him, taking the lead as best she could, below Magnus was moving but had found himself in a small pit of the grey slurry, which was hampering his ability to pull himself free.

Almost unconsciously Koschei found himself perching on the edge and sliding down himself on his back, his own landing was far more controlled than Magnus’s but no less filthy.

“Over here,” he called throwing himself flat beside the muddy ditch and holding out his hands, Magnus scrambled over and grabbed hold, together they pulled and soon enough Magnus was free.

“Thanks,” Magnus spluttered, his reluctance audible even through the mud.

“Don’t you think it’s time to try something different,” Koschei said quietly.

For a moment it looked as if the other Magnus was truly considering, then he shook his head sharply.

“I know, what I’m doing.”

A sharp sting of anger twisted Koschei’s insides, followed by a sudden cold awareness. He looked up at the figures still clustered above them.

“I-! think this hill comes down a few yards that way,” he pointed to his left, “take the safe way and we’ll-we’ll meet you.”

Darkel, or he thought it was her, waved in confirmation and began leading the others in the direction he’d indicated. Once they were on the move, he turned back to Magnus.

“Look at me Magnus.”

Irritably the other Shobogan did as he was asked, then his mud caked features softened slightly as he met Koschei’s gaze.

“Look into my eyes,” Koschei said gently, his voice would be barely audible over the downpour, but Magnus would hear it in his mind.

When Salyavin had met him privately after class one day and informed him that he would give Koschei personal tutoring in the art of psychic projection, he had been at a loss for words, but Salyavin had merely smiled and told him��

“Magnus and Rowellanuraven may be the best students in this class, but accolade can be a poor indicator of ability, and I perceive that you have the most potential out of your fellows, the question is, do you have the drive to fulfil that potential?”

The process of unlocking one’s telepathic power was arduous, even for Shobogans with their inherent latent psychic awareness, and sessions of meditation, practice and rigorous concentration had followed.

“Time Archons,” Salyavin had explained as Koschei had concentrated on pacifying a captive Pigbear, “have their natural mental abilities greatly expanded upon their creation, full telekinesis only manifests in older Chronarch’s and Eternals of course, but even the newest Elemental can influence lesser beings when necessary, convince them of things untrue and deny the evidence of their own eyes, however developing one’s powers before ascension has a myriad of advantages, with the right level of mastery you can control the minds of others.”

Even if Koschei had reached that lofty height before his ascension, controlling another Shobogan was no easy task, and he would have refrained from doing so regardless.

But what he could do, and what he did now, was influence.

“Listen to me,” he said, “you know my idea was right, if we keep trying we’ll fail, and then all our efforts getting this far will be in vain, you know I’m right.”

Magnus said nothing as the rain slashed down, then he blinked and shook his head.

“Alright,” he said, “alright Spack it, we’ll try it your way.”

The others joined them an Instant later and after some discussion they set to work. Retooling their Datapatches to scan for Zeiton radiation was an arduous and lengthy process, just as they’d feared, involving stripping down the devices, before adapting and overclocking their wavelength receivers. Homeworld technology relied on Fluid Link circuitry which at least meant they didn’t have to worry about the rain getting into the machinery, but the process of squatting in a circle, ankle deep in mud and with rain lashing at them wasn’t one they wished to repeat.

By the time they had finished they were soaked, miserable and running out of time. Koschei could feel the fulminating despair in the others, Magnus, despite being unaware of his actions was resentful, Rowellanuraven equally so.

Koschei pushed his not insubstantial doubt aside and turned his Datapatch on, instantly a single signal, strong and unmoving, appeared to the west. Taking a deep breath he began walking, trudging carefully through the mud, but no matter how far he walked the signal remained constant.

Doing his best to hide his relief, and perhaps a sense of satisfaction, he turned back to Darkel and nodded, she made no effort to hide her emotions and gestured to the others to follow. They moved quickly, more than once they slipped and stumbled, their jumpsuits more grey than green now. We look like we’re from the Great State of Dromeia instead of Prydon, Koschei though with amusement, what little amusement he could derive from their situation.

The signal remained a steady pulsing blip on his Datapatch screen, but the rangerscope indicated it to be several kilometres distant, he checked the distance against the rotation of the planet; it was doable, but they were running out of time.

Jewel, or the Homeworld, or even the Planet, had a notoriously thin atmosphere, even at sea level, as such the early Shobogans had adapted their respiratory bypass system in order to subsist off of minimal oxygen supply. Coupled with their binary vascular system it gave them exceptional endurance, something that the group put to good use as they upped their speed to a steady jog, as much as possible across the still treacherous, mud sodden ground, in the direction of their target.

Three quarters of a rotation had passed by the time they finally sighted the probe; it wasn’t particularly large; double the size and weight of an average Shobogan, but as they staggered to a stop around the device, their elation–reluctant though it was on the part of Magnus and Rowellanuraven–quickly gave way to consternation and more than a little despair.

“There’s no way we can drag this thing all the way back to the TARDIS,” the Corsair murmured, he stood just behind the probes diamond shaped gravity coils, rubbing his left hip which Koschei knew sported an ouroboros tattoo.

“If we all lifted and moved as quickly as possible?” Rowellanuraven suggested, going so far as to reach down and grab onto a corner of the machine, she remained there expectantly, even as none of the others made to join her.

“One wrong stumble, that thing slides down a particularly steep incline, and we’re finished,” Darkel replied, unable to resist a glare at Magnus, who gave as good as he got.

“We can but try,” he replied archly, deciding now to help Rowellanuraven, the Corsair joined them, as reluctantly did Darkel and Koschei, but no sooner had they found a handhold on the probe, when a new problem joined the long queue of issues already waiting.

“It’s stuck,” Darkel said, not to any of the others in particular, more to the universe at large, an admonishment regarding its current tomfoolery.

Try as they might, with more than one of them slipping and falling into the mud, the probe refused to be pried free from the sludge clinging to its underside.

“Spack!” Magnus shouted, aiming a kick at the infuriatingly uncooperative device.

Koschei took a step back, toying with his gloves as he wrestled with his own mounting despair, he put his hands to his hips. His fingers brushed against the small box attached there, and his low mood was shattered by a sudden fierce, bright glimmer of hope.

“What if we could make it smaller?” He said quickly.

The others turned to him, Magnus shook his head.

“We’ll that’d be great,” he muttered, massaging his foot, “but how likely is that?”

Koschei drew out the Matter Compressor in response, and showed it to him, to them all.

“You think you can compress the probe?” Darkel asked, his sudden excitement infecting her too.

“Hopefully,” he replied, pressing the small controls on the device, “if I can all we need do is simply put the probe in our pocket and hurry back to the TARDIS.”

“Theres no grantee that will-” Magnus started but Koschei was already aiming the devices emitter at the probe.

“Clear away,” he called, the others scattered, and he pressed the activator.

There was a hissing sound, and the probe was bathed in a faint reddish light.

The probe began to shrink. Barely noticeable initially, but as they all watched, their reactions ranging from impressed to resentful, the device became smaller and smaller with ever greater speed.

Koschei stopped the device before it went too far. He walked over to the Probe and picked it up.

It fit perfectly in his palm.

“Okay,” Darkel said to the others, “now we need to spacking book it.”

~ ~ ~

A single rotation of the planet was a considerable amount of time, not as long as other planets but still substantial, Salyavin had used that time judiciously. He’d swam several length in the TARDIS’ recreation rooms swimming pool, then he’d treated himself to a light lunch followed by a bowl of Jelly Bears which he enjoyed as a treat sitting back in one of the rooms armchairs. Regulations clearly stated that any food was to be consumed only in the Galley, he smiled at the thought, popping a green Jelly Bear into his mouth. Such rules were intended more for the discipline of Elementals and Shobogans, especially when someone was looking, and a small bowl of sweetmeats wasn’t going to undermine all of Time Archon society.

A Paradoxical might wish it were that easy.

The sour thought came unbidden into his mind, perhaps inevitably given the train of his thoughts and the connection to the much-maligned Paradox Faction. He scowled and swallowed bitterly.

The Corsair wasn’t the only one, there had been a marked increase in the number of younger Shobogans and even some older and supposedly wiser Time Archons, ‘Burning their Names’, a childish and disrespectful act in his opinion.

He let out an exasperated sound and pinched the bridge of his nose.

He wasn’t a fool; it was hard to be an academic and not be perceptive. Jewel wasn’t perfect; but name a society that claimed it was.

The ones that did had more often than not resorted to eugenics to achieve such ‘purity’.

Maybe he was biased; as a Chronarch he had nearly unrivalled power in their society, save of course for the Eternals. But he believed–he knew–that his lofty position gave him and his fellow Chronarch’s a view of Jewel that a mere Shobogan simply couldn’t comprehend, and no matter the issues their world faced, civil disobedience and borderline insurrection were not the way to go about solving those issues.

The beeping of his Datapatch drew him from his introspection, a full rotation was all but concluded, his brows knitted together in the first flicker of concern he’d felt since the assessment had begun.

Was it possible his class would fail?

He popped another Jelly Bear into his mouth but it’s sweet taste–a high amount of glucose being essential for a Time Archons diet–did nothing for him.

He lurched from the armchair and began to pace, the Recreation room, like most TARDIS rooms, was a vast cylinder, almost as big as the Console Room, divided up into several distinct sections, a swimming pool and exercise area, a cloistered garden, and a comfortable sitting area. The walls were an almost granite colour, regularly interspersed with large blocky projections in the golden bronze colours that appeared across much Time Archon architecture, especially the Type 40 TARDIS, each projection was framed by Pandak style pillars and bore twin columns of five oval insets.

He stopped by one of these outcroppings, the warm, whitish-yellow light emanating from the top, middle and bottom rows casting his shadow across the floor.

The impact it would have on his students if they failed, the work they’d all put in.

The impact it would have on his reputation.

The conclusion came to him in a flash of inspiration, it was a daring idea.

It was also not allowed.

Salyavin glanced back down at the bowl of Jelly Bears and smirked.

No-one was looking.

Resolving himself to his decision, he hurried towards the connecting doorway that led to the Console Room, the doors whirring open to receive him.

~ ~ ~

It was remarkable, Koschei thought as they struggled through the increasing downpour, how adversity really did breed comradeship, if only briefly.

They were almost back to the TARDIS landing site, and any of the animosity that had existed between them had clearly decided to take a temporary leave of absence, at one point Rowelanuraven had fallen and Darkel of all people had been the one to help her back up, Rowelanuraven had then returned the favour by supporting Darkel and the Corsair as they navigated a treacherous piece of terrain.

Even he and Magnus had mutually agreed to help each other, both of them were in the lead–Datapatches opened to their fullest–and were coordinating like mad to locate the concealed time machine.

“My coordinates show the TARDIS as being half a mile in that direction,” he said, gesturing down a slope.

“Mine concur,” Magnus said, wiping a layer of rain from his screen, “You know, I think this rain might save the day actually.”

“How so?”

“A chameleon circuit allows a TARDIS to blend in with its environment on a general level, it can mimic an objects shape, texture and basic characteristics,” Magnus explained, “but it can’t mimic specifics, all the rocks around here seem to produce this mud when they react with water, either an internal chemical process or the mud builds up over time and we just got unlucky, either way the TARDIS won’t be able to mimic that.”

“I thought newer circuits had changed that?”

“They have, but this is a Type 40 we’re looking for, and they’re approaching the end of their service life.”

“Good point,” Koschei conceded, inwardly surprised that being corrected by Magnus didn’t annoy him nearly as much as it would normally.

The reason why was all too obvious to everyone.

They weren’t going to make it.

They had a mere handful of Instants to find the TARDIS, and the assessment would only be a success once the last of them had stepped over its threshold.

So a form of morose fatalism had settled upon them, they would keep trying down to the last microsecond to succeed but deep in their hearts they all knew it was impossible.

They trekked down the slope to a small collection of large boulders and sure enough one was conspicuously not vomiting up a constant stream of greyish sludge, just as Magnus had predicted.

Good old Magnus Koschei thought sadly as they hurried forward, Darkel reached the TARDIS first, reaching to her belt she drew out the small arrowhead shaped ‘key’ but in her frantic urgency, and the weather numbing her muddy hands, she fumbled and then dropped it.

There were no recriminations from the others, Magnus dropped down to help Darkel search while Rowelanuraven and the Corsair began fumbling for their own keys. Koschei instead glanced down at his Datapatch and watched silently as his timer ticked down the final Moments towards failure.

3

2

1

0

…

1

2

3

Nothing happened. There was no whirr of the Transmat, no red glow. No sudden transition to the Console Room.

Koschei merely stared as the clock showed the first few Moments of the planets next rotation, Darkel found her key, scrambled to her feet and began tracing the opening pattern before the TARDIS, in their eagerness and their drive, none of them had noticed that they’d already failed.

Except, apparently, they hadn’t.

It wasn’t a matter of them being right at the TARDIS doorway making the Transmat superfluous, it was an automatic process. Koschei had read an account where the last member of a class had been just about to enter their TARDIS when time had run out, and the entire group had been transmatted a mere foot forward despite being already inside at the time.

Darkel completed the pattern, and the boulder cracked open, revealing an antechamber larger than the boulder could possibly be, a pair of double doors, each inlaid with 3 oval shaped insets, projecting a warm whitish-yellow light, stood beyond.

As one, even Koschei, his mind still racing in a mix of confusion and relief, piled inside.

The Boulder resealed itself behind them, and for a little while nothing happened.

The rain poured down; the mud bubbled up.

Then after perhaps 10 Instants, twin spheres of gold light like miniature stars appeared at the top and bottom of the rock and rushed towards each other, meeting in the middle. A second pair of lights followed them, then another and another, colliding in the middle, adding to the bright star slowly growing there, each new pair moving and colliding with increasing rapidity.

With it had come the sound of something close to a distant impact, the sound of a machine much larger than the rock could possibly hold building up to full power.

The intensifying star, fed by a constant stream of smaller stars, now moving so fast they had become twin pulsating strings of light, flared brighter and brighter, and for a moment the boulder shed its disguise, in its place stood a tall box, golden bronze in colour, with a large flat curved cylinder on top and four oval shaped intends on each of its four sides, two of each emitting a warm whitish-yellow light.

That image only lasted for a moment before, with a final, wheezing groaning bellow, the box, and it’s frantically expanding star simply disappeared. Leaving the grey rainy planet empty and quiet once more, save for the sound of the rain.

Seal of the Time Archons

[materialsscienceandengineering]

Generating cold with solids

After more than a century, physicists aim to dethrone the tried-and-tested technology of the refrigerator, as cooling can be made more energy-efficient. The summer of 2023 was the hottest on record worldwide. Devastating wildfires raged in many places, and people suffered due to heat records. In a world that is steadily getting warmer, the demand for cooling is rising, too—and cooling consumes energy. A lot of energy. "As a rule, generating cold is more difficult than generating heat," says Professor Daniel Hägele, physicist at Ruhr University Bochum. The compressor technology used in today's refrigerators was invented more than a century ago. "While the technology has been continuously optimized over the years, recent improvements in energy efficiency classes have mostly involved adjustments like tighter seals on doors," points out the researcher.

Read more.

[thestonedknifeman]

Now I normally don't do product reviews and for two reasons one I'm not famous nobody's going to listen to me anyways and two no company is going to pay me to tell the truth about their piece of shit product.

I present to you the stroger pcp (pre-charged pneumatic) xm1 air rifle.One of the worst air rifles I have ever had.. this is actually the second rifle I've been through the first one seals gave out the third time I shot it. After fighting with the stroger / Benelli company I finally got them to send a replacement it only cost me a hundred bucks to ship this one back east and wait 6 months to get another oversized overpriced substandard paperweight!

Now my first concern overall my concern I can't stress that enough as well as my first dislike of this air rifle is an order to read the air gauge you must put the muzzle end of the barrel in the general direction of your own head in order to read the gauge.

I don't believe I need to elaborate on how much of a no no this is! But that's what stroger / Benelli did! There's the photographic evidence folks!

My second dislike of this air rifle is the lack of reliability and durability. As I said the first one I got I was able to shoot three times before the internal seals gave out. The second one will not even accept a charge from the pump that sold with the rifle. Thus rendering it the overpriced substandard paperweight that it is.

My second complaint that designers or engineers whatever you might call them,i call them jackasses we're too ignorant to put a barrel strap where it was needed. Anybody who knows their ass from a hole in the ground realizes that everything needs to be supported securely! Yep stroger / Benelli that's real craftsmanship there with that sloppy barrel 😂. I laugh even harder when I think of trying to take a perched shot with this rifle and it's sloppy barrel.

We'll discuss the pressures and again putting a barrel strap or at least some kind of reinforcement where it's needed and I'm talking about here by the breach. Most PCP airguns run at about 2000 bar which is equivalent to 3,000 PSI give or take a bit. I'd like to see a little bit more than a piece of plastic for the rotary clip that jams up all the time and again a barrel strap right in front of where it's only press fitted in. Not to mention if stroger / Benelli can't make internal seals that withstand these pressures how am I supposed to have the confidence that these pressures won't blow up in my face, how can any of benelli's customers be confident that their firearms will not blow up in their face!

And since we're discussing the pressures of the air gun is a good moment to tell you about the consistency of the shots. Or rather the lack of consistency. Stroger / Benelli claims that you could get 30 shots per charge of the air gun. I say that that is a straight-up marketing lie the first air gun that I was able to shoot three times meaning the gun came pre-charged I emptied it to a certain point of pressure refilled it and shot again twice. Had an average of 5 to 8 consistent shots and a total of 15 to 18 shots per charge. The replacement that I had to fight stroger / Benelli to uphold the honor in their warranty and replace the air rifle, got a total of four consistent shots before the decline and pressure was so rapid as well as the drop in the projectile that the rifle cannot be sited in!!!!! Now we'll talk about actually charging air rifle itself given that it takes roughly 3,000 lb PSI. In some states the compressors that are compatible with PCP air rifles are either banned or highly regulated which means a certain percentage of these PCP air rifles owners are stuck with the hand pumps which suck. They are prone to failure the gauges on your pump never match the gauges on your air rifle. And like the air rifles the pumps only have a lifespan of 1 to 3 uses before failure!!!!!

I guess next is to comment on the loading and feeding mechanisms which the first rifle I received had no issues at all. The second rifle I received on replacement however jams every shot! I'm not sure if this is due to the sloppy rotary clip and plastic molding injection that they use or if it's due to poor quality machining tolerance on the bolt breach, receiver, and all that good stuff. I have no confidence in Benelli / stroger or their workmanship!

They claim to have an adjustable trigger but it's very little adjustment for those who have fat or narrow fingers it does not in any way adjust of the pull of the trigger and is in no way a multi-stage trigger nothing fancy just you can slide it back enough to fit your finger with a glove around it. The trigger pull itself isn't all that bad it's one of the better things I have to say about the air rifle.

Next we will talk about the designer/engineers/jackasses placement of picatinny rails and their scope mounting we'll start with the placement of the picatinny rails.

I'm 6 ft and wear a size 13 shoe. The brass threaded inserts on the front part of the foregrip to the end of the barrel is over 12 inches. Good luck being able to use a flashlight on your picatinny rails. And this is a good moment to remind you guys a lack of barrel strap with such a long barrel and they gave no option of a picatinny rail on the bottom with a heavy rifle to put a bipod. So good luck trying to get any kind of good shot resting your end of your barrel on a log or tree branch or whatever to make that vital shot so that you can eat dinner because there is no fucking rations. Yeah stroger Benelli I just pointed out vital design flaws again how many times have I done this in this post. I'll be giving you a link to this in a email Pat.

Scope mounts as well as the scope that comes with the rifle are as Bart Simpson would say craptacular.

So as for the very few things I do like about this air rifle first and foremost is that it is slightly easier on scopes and does not kick as much as barrel break air rifles. Second would be the adjustable stock pads the interchangeable cheek rest on the stock and the interchangeable sized grips. That is all

Overall I would give the stroger xm1 22 or 177 caliber PCP air rifle a rating of overrated overpriced substandard paperweight! Which in reality my best friend just pointed out the wind would probably blow the papers out from underneath this useless paper weight. And when I say overpriced I spent about $400 for this POS when I would rely on my Chinese take down recurve bow at 40 lb draw weight I paid $35 for on Amazon with my life before I would consider using any product from stroger and or Benelli! The fact that I would trust my life to a Chinese recurve bow before this supposed "top quality" Benelli product says a lot!

I've been living and surviving outdoors for 30 years now not part-time not on the weekends but full-time 365 days a year outdoors since I was 17 years old. I have owned many firearms many airguns many bows I have learned I've learned to make and use atlatels good enough to be proficient at taking game. As well as Spears bows in any other primitive hunting implements or technology you want to throw at me. And let me tell you stroger / Benelli I would take any one of them over your products any day in any situation even target shooting. I cannot begin to belittle companies like stroger / Benelli who practice such unethical business ethics. The only thing I can say is that such companies that practice these bad business ethics should be eradicated like a common cockroach or termite.!!!!!

15 minutes after original post my dog walked up to this rifle and hiked its leg to piss on it and my dog is a female!!!!

[homeandkitchenparts]

Top Signs Your Samsung Refrigerator Freezer Door Gasket Needs Replacing,

A properly working refrigerator freezer door gasket is critical to the efficiency and lifespan of your appliance. The gasket, a flexible seal that runs along the door's edge, maintains a tight seal, keeping cold air in and warm air out. When this component fails, it can cause a variety of issues, including higher energy usage and food deterioration. This blog will walk you through the most common indicators that your Samsung refrigerator freezer door gasket needs to be replaced, allowing you to keep your appliance running smoothly and efficiently.

Understanding the Refrigerator Freezer Door Gasket

The refrigerator freezer door gasket is essential for keeping your appliance's internal temperature stable. It ensures that the door shuts tightly, keeping cold air from escaping as warm air enters. A damaged gasket compromises this seal, forcing the refrigerator to work harder to maintain the desired temperature, resulting in higher energy expenditures and possibly appliance damage.

Common Signs Your Samsung Refrigerator Freezer Door Gasket Needs Replacing

Visible Wear and Tear

One of the most visible symptoms of a defective gasket is visible wear and tear. Gaskets are prone to cracks, rips, or distortions, which is normal, but inevitable, during flat to frequent use and exposure to temperature variations. Regularly inspect the gasket for physical degradation symptoms. If you find any cracks or tears, you know for sure that the gasket should be replaced.

Frost Build Up and Condensation

Moisture and frost buildup inside the refrigerator and freezer are sometimes caused by a faulty gasket. It’s when warm, humid air from outside gets in and condenses into drops of water or frost. Check the walls of the freezer for heavy frost, or water droplets where the door seal meets the wall. These are telltale signs of a bad gasket.

Increased Energy Bills

If you see your energy bills go up suddenly, it could be your refrigerator’s gasket. Cold air escapes as a by-product from a faulty gasket and causes the refrigerator to run more often and use more energy to reach the desired temperature. This problem might be caught early on by monitoring your energy bills.

Warm Spots Inside the Freezer

If there’s uneven cooling or you have warm patches in the freezer, this could be from the gasket not sealing properly. The appliance loses cold air and consequently has temperature variations. Feel around your hand in the freezer to see if there are any warm spots. If you find any part that is warmer than the other, then it is a signal for the gasket to be maintained.

Door Doesn’t Close Properly

If a refrigerator door does not close properly, then you know it’s a bad gasket. Try a simple dollar bill test: pull a dollar note closed and try to remove it. The bill should fall out easily if the gasket is sealed. This test may have the ability to tell you if the gasket needs to be replaced.

Unusual Noises

If you hear unusual noises from your refrigerator, such as the compressor running more frequently, your gasket may be broken. To compensate for the loss of cold air, the refrigerator runs more often creating increased noise levels. Make sure to watch for any changes in the appliance’s noise patterns.

Mold and Mildew

A problem is clearly indicated by the sight of mold or mildew surrounding the gasket. Moisture can build when a gasket is bad, furnishing a breeding ground for mold and mildew. It doesn't just damage the gasket, it is also dangerous for your health. Look the gasket over periodically to see if it’s moldy or mildewy.

Your Samsung refrigerator freezer door gasket needs to be well maintained in order for your Samsung refrigerator to perform its efficient job. But regular inspection and replacement will save you money on energy bills and repairs. In this blog I mention some of the indicators that will help you make sure your appliance is running smoothly and efficiently.

[unofficial-sean]

You underestimate my desire for knowledge. Do it. Talk about refrigeration compressor motors.

Hello hi, sorry for the delay. I had to wait for the brain power to return to me.

So, an electric motor's job is to convert electrostatic potential energy into magnetic potential energy in order to rotate a shaft, thus making one final energy conversion from magnetic PE to kinetic energy. There is a secret fourth energy conversion, though, and that is another form of kinetic energy: heat. The heat is waste, though.

Anyways, the power available in your home is not the power generated at the source powerplant; it is just a single phase of alternating current (AC), instead of three. Electric motors running on single-phase encounter an interesting problem: they need a special winding, called a start winding, to get the motor going. It is phase shifted from the run winding (which keeps the motor running after startup). The easiest way to explain phase shift, in this context, is to think of it like the pedals on a bicycle: if the pedals weren't opposite each other (offset from each other 180 degrees), it would be very difficult to pedal. Unlike a bicycle, the phase shift in the motor isn't 180 degrees. It's less than that. About 45 degrees.

Both the start and run windings are coils of wire. The more times the wire is wound, the stronger the magnetic field it generates. The start coil has more windings than the run coil.

To help smooth power delivery and introduce the aforementioned phase shift, we need capacitors. Capacitors are just small batteries. They can hold a charge and be discharged. They also block direct current (DC), but allow AC to pass through it. It's really neat. On startup, a single-phase motor using capacitors only needs the start coil and the start capacitor briefly. If they remain in the circuit afterwards, they risk overheating and destroying themselves. So how do we automatically take the start coil and capacitor out of the circuit after startup?

One way is to use a centrifugal mechanical switch that will disconnect the start components from the circuit once the motor reaches 75% of its maximum RPM. This switch must be in the motor, though, and will create a spark when it breaks contact. This is okay for motors that are in the air, but what about the motors in a hermetically sealed refrigerant compressor? That spark would degrade the refrigerant, and that's a non-starter.

We need an RPM sensitive switch outside the compressor motor, and one way to do this is with a potential relay.

This is a diagram of a potential relay circuit with a capacitor-start, capacitor-run compressor motor.

On startup, the relay contacts, 2 and 1, are closed. Power can flow through the start winding and through both the run and start capacitors. This gives the motor a good grunt to get it going, with the start winding slightly out of phase with the run winding. Once the motor reaches 75% of its max. RPM, though, the magnets on the rotor/shaft of the motor induce a back electromotive force, or BEMF, in the start winding. The start winding becomes a voltage source in tandem with the incoming power from the outlet.

The induced AC voltage is stronger than the incoming power, and is also out of phase with it. This is demonstrated in the diagram with voltmeters 1 and 2. The induced voltage flows through the coil of the potential relay at terminals 2 and 5, and the coil generates a magnetic field which pulls the relay contacts open, breaking the connection to the start capacitor and preventing the start winding from connecting with the other side of our power supply. So long as the motor is running, the BEMF is present and keeps the relay open.

This is what the voltage looks like on an oscilloscope. CH1 is the smaller wave and it's on the common run terminal. CH2 is the larger wave and is at terminal 2 of the relay.

As we can see, the induced voltage on the start winding lags behind the line voltage by about 45 degrees and it is much stronger.

When the motor shuts off and slows down, the induced voltage disappears and the relay contacts close again. The relay sits outside the motor where sparks are acceptable.

As a cherry on top, I've drawn the current paths through the circuit to help illustrate what's happening:

^ Start condition (red). Current flow through the start winding and start + run capacitors

^ Run condition (blue). BEMF across the start winding powers the relay coil and opens the contacts.

There is a lot more going on I could talk about, but that's just the part I wanted to be autistic about. There is actually a better way to draw out this circuit that looks like this:

Sw = Start winding

Rw = Rung winding

PR = Potential relay

Sc = Start Capacitor

Rc = Run capacitor

And isn't that fascinating?