#Deep Learning Market Research

[worldpharmatoday]

Qureight and Avalyn Pharma partner to advance pulmonary fibrosis treatment with deep-learning image analytics, shaping pharmaceutical market trends.

[manmishra]

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[mitsde123]

Data Science Job Market : Current Trends and Future Opportunities

The data science job market is thriving, driven by the explosive growth of data and the increasing reliance on data-driven decision-making across industries. As organizations continue to recognize the value of data, the demand for data scientists has surged, creating a wealth of opportunities for professionals in this field.

[xpbrandai]

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[mrudula01]

Key Industries & Applications in the Global Deep Learning Market

Over the years, deep learning has emerged as a transformative technology, revolutionizing the way various industries operate. Accordingly, the domain has become instrumental in the field of data analysis, predictive modeling, and process optimization. As per Inkwood Research, the global deep learning market is anticipated to grow with a CAGR of 39.67% during the forecast period 2023-2032.

In this blog, we will explore how major industries are leveraging the potential of deep learning in order to drive innovation and efficiency in their operations. We will also highlight real-world examples of successful deep learning applications in each of these industries.

1. Healthcare

Healthcare organizations of all specialties and types are becoming increasingly inclined toward how artificial intelligence (AI) can facilitate better patient care, while improving efficiencies and reducing costs. In this regard, the healthcare industry has been at the forefront of adopting deep learning for a wide range of applications, such as –

Medical Imaging: Deep learning algorithms have significantly improved the accuracy of medical image analysis. For instance, Aidoc (Israel), a leading provider of AI-powered radiology solutions, aims to improve the efficacy as well as accuracy of radiology diagnoses. The company’s platform utilizes deep learning algorithms in order to analyze medical images and aid radiologists in prioritizing and detecting critical findings.

Drug Discovery: Pharmaceutical companies are using deep learning to expedite drug discovery processes. Insilico Medicine (United States), for example, employs deep learning models to predict potential drug candidates, reducing the time and cost associated with developing new medications. The company’s early bet on deep learning is yielding significant results – a drug candidate discovered via its AI platform is now entering Phase II clinical trials for the treatment of idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis.

Disease Diagnosis: Deep learning is aiding in disease diagnosis through predictive modeling. PathAI (United States), for instance, utilizes deep learning-based AI solutions to assist pathologists in the detection, diagnosis, and prognosis of several cancer subtypes, thus improving the accuracy of diagnoses and patient outcomes.

2. Finance & Banking Services

The success of deep learning as a data processing technique has piqued the interest of the financial research community. Moreover, with the proliferation of Fintech over recent years, the use of deep learning in the finance & banking services industry has become highly prevalent across the following applications –

Fraud Detection: Banks and financial institutions deploy deep learning models to detect fraudulent activities in real time. Companies like Feedzai (Portugal) use deep learning algorithms to analyze transaction data and identify unusual patterns indicative of fraud. In July 2023, the company announced the launch of Railgun, a next-generation fraud detection engine, featuring advanced AI to secure millions from the surge in financial crime.

Algorithmic Trading: Hedge funds and trading firms leverage deep learning for algorithmic trading. Investors are utilizing deep learning models to evaluate and anticipate stock and foreign exchange markets, given the advantage of artificial intelligence.

Credit Scoring: Deep learning is transforming the credit scoring landscape. LenddoEFL (Singapore), for instance, creates, collects, and analyzes information from consent-based alternative data sources for an accurate understanding of creditworthiness. The company’s unique credit decisioning tools draw from large, diverse, and unstructured data sources through deep learning, artificial intelligence, and advanced modeling techniques.

3. Manufacturing

Here’s how the manufacturing industry benefits from deep learning in optimizing production processes and quality control –

Predictive Maintenance: Manufacturers use deep learning to predict equipment failures and schedule maintenance proactively. General Electric’s (United States) Predix platform employs deep learning to support innovative IoT solutions to help reduce downtime and maintenance costs.

Quality Control: Deep learning-based image recognition systems inspect products for defects on production lines. Real-time deep learning approaches are essential for automated industrial processes in product manufacturing, where vision-based systems effectively control the fabrication quality on the basis of specific structural designs.

Supply Chain Optimization: According to industry sources, deep learning models have the potential to generate between $1-2 trillion annually in supply chain management. In this regard, deep learning is used in the manufacturing sector to optimize supply chain operations by predicting demand patterns, enhancing inventory levels, and improving logistics planning.

Deep learning’s ability to process vast amounts of data and recognize complex patterns is transforming the way industries operate, making processes more efficient and enhancing customer experiences. As businesses strive to remain competitive in an increasingly data-driven world, leveraging deep learning and staying updated on its latest developments will be crucial for the overall growth of the global deep learning market.

FAQs:

What are the key components of a deep learning system?

A deep learning system typically comprises input data, a deep neural network architecture, loss functions, optimization algorithms, and labeled training data.

How does deep learning differ from traditional machine learning?

Deep learning, unlike traditional machine learning, eliminates the need for manual feature engineering by allowing models to learn and extract features automatically from data.

[cherrystaineddoll]

𝓽hings to do instead of scrolling ౨ৎ

summer is here, school is over and you have way too much free time on your hands. so unless you want to spend your whole days with your eyes locked on a screen, here's an in- depth guide on what to do this summer, or whenever!!

learn a new language - trust me, speaking more than one language is a skill that everyone should have, and it always comes in handy. you can watch tv shows, movies or youtube videos in your target language, read beginner books, use apps (not duolingo though.. ) and even just listen to music!! just expose yourself to the language as much as you can, even better if you know anyone you can have conversations with. you could also learn sign language!!

journal or scrapbook - writing down your feelings really helps understanding your own self more. you can try doing shadow work to really dive deep, or just write whatever you feel in that moment. it doesn't have to become a chore, and remember, write for yourself and not as if someone else was going to read!! as for scrapbooking, just print out some nice photos and decorate the pages with stickers, drawings, fun colored paper.. whatever you want, just be creative!!

make art - it doesn't have to look perfect, remember that all art is beautiful in its own way. even if you think you're not good at it, just create, it will help you feel better & you'll also get better with time!! you can draw, paint, sculpt, do pottery, etc. you don't have to follow any guidelines, just buy a random sketchbook, bring out your inner child and do whatever you feel like doing

learn how to play an instrument - this can be a bit expensive, but if you have any instrument in your house that you've never used, it might be a great time to start learning it!! you don't necessarily need to take classes, you can easily find tutorials on youtube, even though it might be harder to learn by yourself. but making music is a really fun activity & good for the soul

reading and writing - i will never recommend reading enough !! everyone should read. it helps you learn new things, understand different perspectives, expand your vocabulary, and so much more. i know books can be expensive, but you can always try to buy them at flea markets, or ask a friend/family member to lend you some. and just in case, there are always some sites where you can read books online for free, like zlibrary!! you can read before going to bed instead of staying on your phone (which is sooo bad for your sleep), at the beach while tanning or outside while getting some fresh air. and if reading books inspires you, you can try to write something!! i'm not saying you have to write a 600 page book, but you can try to write small stories, or poetry, and who knows, someday you might actually write a book! if you want to get published, there are some small literary magazines you can find on social media that publish the works of small writers, it can be a great way to start. you can also always post your works here on tumblr, substack, or any social media platform!! you could also try to write the story for a movie and start screenwriting, if you're into cinematography

research interesting topics - now that school isn't forcing you to study things that maybe you don't care about, you can study whatever you want !! remember, knowledge is power, and with the internet, you basically have the world in your hands. you can watch a youtube video, read a book, or simply research on websites (make sure they're reliable though). you can also take online courses!! i might make a post on ideas for what to research??

start a new hobby - your life can't only be made of school/work, sleep, and a screen. you need hobbies that you actually like and that make you feel good. some of these can be: baking and cooking, crocheting, knitting, embroidery, jewelry making, nail art, makeup, photography, editing, blogging/vlogging, coloring, candle making, soap making, perfume making, modeling, origami, sewing, making diy stuff, chess, puzzles, acting, singing, flower arranging, meditating, lego building, trying new hairstyles or outfits, doing animations, discovering new music, sudoku, the things i previously wrote, and probably a million other activities i can't think of right now

stay active - moving you body is good for both your physical and mental health, i'm sure we all know that. you can go on walks or runs in the nature with your headpones on, or do any sport that you like- some ideas: swimming, dancing (ballet, hip hop, modern, ecc) , tennis, martial arts (judo, karate, taekwondo, ecc), volleyball, basketball, athletics, gymnastics, football, archery, fencing, table tennis, boxing, surfing, rowing, hockey, horseback riding, softball, golf, biking, figure skating, rollerblading, skating.. you don't need to do it competitively (unless you want to), as long as you're having fun and moving your body. you can also do workouts, like yoga or pilates, at home or outdoors, or go hiking.

watch movies, tv shows, or documentaries - it can always be a good learning experience, or just something fun and relaxing that isn't mindlessly scrolling. a bonus: after you've watched something, write a very long, detailed and in-depth review in your journal. you can also post it wherever you want (like letterboxd, to fight all the one liners)

hang out - with friends, family, or even by yourself !! (i know, i know, it can be scary). you can do anything, as long as you're with the right people everything is fun, but here's some ideas: have a picnic, go to the beach, go to a water park, have a baking contest, do temporary tattoos, go to a concert, go out to eat, do a one day trip, go on a road trip, take a walk in the nature, go hiking, go to a trampoline park, go to an amusement park, visit a museum, go thrifting or shopping, have a board games night, try out a new cute cafe or bakery, do an escape room, have a karaoke night, have a movie marathon, and so much more!!

i hope this helped!! ♡

[cyberclouddream]

What You Tend to Use Social Media For

Things we tend to seek and/or share on social media. Recommend looking for Mercury first. Also, whichever sign rules over your 11th House, look for whichever house that sign naturally rules over, e.g. Cancer/4H, Sagittarius/9H, Libra/7H, Aquarius/11H.

Gemini/Mercury in the 1st House

- to show off your personality traits and quirks, what makes you interesting

- fashion updates, like outfit and style experiments

- sharing mundane daily activities

- to create a particular public image

- instant reactions to events or trending topics

- to use your humor or wit to attract followers or engagement

- creating FOMO, lmao

- to experiment with social media trends

- to post controversial topics/challenge norms

- to seek likes and comments for self-esteem boosts

Gemini/Mercury in the 2nd House

- personal finance hacks or budgeting advice

- to post luxury items or flaunt purchases

- personal value discussion, like what’s truly important to them

- for marketing research, like judging product reviews

- promoting side hustles, businesses, or services

- to hunt for discounts or offers online

- gift ideas

- investment ideas, like stocks or crypto

Gemini/Mercury in the 3rd House

- to post about happenings in the neighborhood or community

- to engage in debates

- share updates or funny stories about family members

- post poetry, short stories, or personal anecdotes

- advertise local events or gatherings

- share educational resources or articles

- to vent about everyday frustrations

- microblogging

- posting thought-provoking questions

Gemini/Mercury in the 4th House

- family updates, like gatherings or milestones

- home projects or renovations

- childhood memories, like sharing old photos and stories

- showcase local businesses or attractions, supporting community

- personal growth experiences

- family or cultural traditions

- pet updates

- to rally support for family members

- to discuss family troubles openly

Gemini/Mercury in the 5th House

- post artwork, crafts, or performances

- date night ideas, like romantic spots

- parenting chronicles, lol

- viral social media challenges

- highlight hobbies or interests

- celebrate achievements

- flirtation, online dating

- promote fun activities

- encouraging others to participate in events or projects

Gemini/Mercury in the 6th House

- how to manage stress or workload

- health hacks and wellness tips

- productivity routines

- job milestones

- fitness challenges

- volunteer opportunities

- health struggles

- day-in-the-life posts

- job market trends

Gemini/Mercury in the 7th House

- relationship status updates, like breakups or dating life

- collaborative projects

- group discussions, like conversations about issues or shared interests

- relationship advice

- event planning, like gatherings or parties

- gossiping about friends

- insights about balancing relationships and independence

- to rally support for friends in tough personal times

- asking followers for advice on relationships decisions

Gemini/Mercury in the 8th House

- sharing intimate thoughts, like fears or deep feelings

- discuss finances, like tips on managing shared resources or investments

- to explore vulnerability with intimacy and trust

- personal growth stories

- to talk about change, like life transitions and transformations

- crowdsourcing solutions

- to engage in deep conversations on profound topics

- to discuss loss, grief, and/or coping mechanisms

- to seek closure

Gemini/Mercury in the 9th House

- travel stories

- cultural insights

- education advocacy, like promoting courses or learning resources

- debating beliefs, like philosophical or political

- inspirational quotes

- global issues

- book recommendations

- sharing experiences through videos or photos

- connecting with others from diverse backgrounds

- encouraging exploration, to inspire others to step outside of comfort zones

Gemini/Mercury in the 10th House

- sharing career milestones

- networking posts, like opportunities and connections through peers

- personal branding, promoting your craft or projects

- seek career advice or industry insights

- discuss ambitions, sharing dreams and goals

- showcase participation in community

- sharing learning experiences

- work/life reflections

- to shift public perceptions, especially after setbacks

- host Q&A sessions

- mentorship opportunities or anything related to guidance/support culture

Gemini/Mercury in the 11th House

- to grow your social circle

- to join causes or charity work

- posting about community events or group outings

- share friend’s achievements and milestones

- discuss future goals, like collective ambitions and aspu

- connect with like-minded people

- to debate societal changes or movements

- to organize or participate in virtual hangouts [ like Discord, virtual worlds ]

Gemini/Mercury in the 12th House

- share personal struggles, like mental health issues or personal battles

- reflect on dreams and fantasies

- document experiences of solitude or self-discovery

- spiritual conversations, like spiritual beliefs or mystical experiences

- posting anonymously about sensitive tooics

- using creative outlets like poetry or art to convey deeper feelings

- discuss unconventional ideas

- seek support through online communities

- content related to the mysterious, like astrology or the occult

- post about reflections or meditation

[bathroomcryptid]

Emotional Support

A/N: Hiii everyone, this is my first kinda work for Warhammer and I’m very excited. This is just a funny intro I came up with in my head with more to come about each legion. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: none

Are you, citizen of our great Imperium, craving a change in career? Or are you otherwise unemployed and seeking stable employment? Well, we here at Imperium of Man Inc. have just the career for you!

After years and years of research, it’s come to the attention of everyone involved that we humans are communal by nature and crave intimate relationships with other humans and have a great need for those deep fulfilling bonds (platonic, romantic, or otherwise). This also rings true for your local Space Marine Chapter. Therefore, we here at Imperium of Man inc. have a bunch of emotionally stunted Space Marines desiring people with whom they can essentially imprint on and we need the serfs to be able to do their jobs…Either way, this gap in the market has prompted us here to roll out the first of many programs designed to keep the Empire’s finest in tip top shape. We’d like to introduce to you, Imperial citizen, our newest career path - Emotional Support Human!

That’s right! Today, you could be one of a select few chosen after a series of tests to be placed with your local space marine chapter to be their Emotional Support Human and help support the Emperor’s Angels in a variety of ways.

Qualifications:

-Passing all Imperial Temperament Tests

-Excellent communication skills (verbal, written, etc)

-Happy, Courteous, Enthusiastic, Attentive and Empathetic

-Meets mobility requirements

-Proficient in the Imperial and High Gothic (High Gothic lessons available after employment)

-Ability to multitask

-Work under pressure and at a fast pace

-Willing to learn and understand complex military terminology and strategies

-Able to cope with sudden changes in elevation and being carried around

-Able to perform deep pressure therapy

-Able to cope with hearing complex trauma and lend support as needed

-Able to wield a basic knife and fire a weapon with decent accuracy (training provided if skills not already acquired)

-The mental fortitude to see eldritch horrors beyond comprehension and not go insane

-Comply with imperial policy

-First aid may be required based on legion policy

Benefits:

-competitive salary

-A clean room to sleep in (may share with other emotional support humans based on legion policy)

-At least three meals a day

-free visits to the legion Apothecary

Being an Emotional Support Human HCs:

- You were basically snatched off the street by Imperial employees with little grace. Let’s be honest here, it’s the Imperium.

- The whole time you’re convinced that they’re about to turn you into a servitor. You’re not stupid, you’ve heard the stories of people being yanked of the streets and going missing all to end up as servitors

- You just hope they lobotomize you quickly.

- To say you’re confused when they just stick you in a random room and congratulate you on being selected as a potential candidate for their newest program is an understatement and you’re even more confused when they tell you that they are about to administer their new test for you.

- Do you have to take a test to become a servitor now? You thought the only requirement was a mostly functioning brain?

- You comply (not that you have much choice with the two armed guards staring you down) and take the test, a little unnerved the whole time as the proctor administers the test, but oh well.

- Next thing you know, you’ve passed and they congratulate you on your new job - a Space Marine Emotional Support Human (SMESH/ESH but smesh is just funnier-)

- Anyway, you have no idea wtf that is, but you’re apparently not becoming a servitor and that’s about enough to get you to do anything.

- Plus, a free room and three meals a day were apart of the benefits package and they had you at that.

- You’re moved into another room with about 20 other people, all of you looking equally as confused.

- An Imperial employee gets up in front of you and congratulates you on being the first batch and trial run of the Imperium’s newest hare brained scheme (your words not theirs) - the Space Marine Emotional Support Human program.

- Your new job? Becoming your local space marine legion’s new in-house therapist/stress toy/state sponsored best friend

- Out of everyone that was tested, 21 people passed, and the lot of you were the 20 selected to be in the program (one person per legion). You think 21 people passing the stupid test is ridiculously low but whatever. (Turns out, being able to tolerate your now line of work takes a pretty optimistic and mentally sturdy person that’s not all that common)

- You’re given your new uniform and basically shunted off to your new forever home and to the people the Imperium would love for you to bond with…what could go wrong?

[therealslimshakespeare]

|| Nuremberg

Rosie x Ida, intimacy journey, part 2

Previous: Wedding Night

18+ Warnings: very mild sexual undertones throughout between a married couple, the usual thematic warnings for the series apply in retrospect, angst, mentions of miscarriage, mentions of medical experiments and infertility, distressing scenes of post-war Germany and attitudes towards Germany citizenry.

Circa: late 1945

Summary: months into marriage and back on the continent, Ida finds the secret of her lost daughter overshadowing her marriage (or, the chapter where she finally tells Rosie about it, yayyy)

Edited and researched by my haggard self, lemme know what I may have missed 🥰

Nuremberg in the fall, and then early winter, and then closer yet to holidays once so eagerly anticipated, proves an odd place.

Ida feels herself in a strange, head down, mouth thin, orders to be exacted sort of domesticity. Everything feels exact and measured and more than a little dreadful. She learns the streets, she finds the city market place, she finds the city market place is empty of provisions, she finds the army commissary instead, she answers the boys questions there about a woman behind the yolk, she sets up house, she learns Robert’s hours and that they begin immediately, she relearns her typist skills, she works at her law books, she tries to eat the food she has purchased, she tries to appreciate Nuremberg in the fall.

She fails. It is too grim; but she tries. And she fails; none of it is Robert’s fault.

He seems utterly content, if perhaps not happy. Neither had anticipated unaudited happiness here and it is no great discovery to find themselves slightly out of balance meshed together like this, he seems cheerful and content and Ida forces herself not to mind the watchful carefulness of his wise eyes. The busyness is a boon, they both know that and accept it without complaint, he gets thrown deep into his role of assistant council a paltry forty eight hours after hopping of the plane and Ida is aware that he knows how much she needs this independent reconnaissance of their new life on her own.

They had strolled together through the streets the first day, hand in hand, gloves without holes and coats smartly cut in the newest style, there was a hollow echo of horror to walking past the signs she had only seen through train slats. She had gripped his hand so tightly she felt foolish for how difficult she found it to convince herself she was safe, if she wished to go down one street and not another she might. German surroundings and German voices and German intentions held no power over her any longer

Nuremberg had been, to put it bluntly, bombed to ash. One direct hit to the judicial building had decimated that palace of evil legislature in one single strike, a strike that was so utterly final and untempered it made Ida think of Maureen’s pickle- barrel-exactitude right on the damn dome. She could almost hear the bombardier gloat over the radio in her ear: “yup that’s a hit, gone to shit”. The grand building was now a caved in mass of rubble and the trials were being held elsewhere in adjacent and better preserved buildings.

It was something to tell Kendeigh on the phone that night, when asked how it was to be settling in.

“Love what we’ve done to the place.” Ida had snarked and she felt sick from it. There were orphans and poor and hopeless faces everywhere, around every bend and milling around the barren marketplace, and the terror of that cruelty and her part in reducing them to such straights wreaked havoc with Ida’s soul, rage at the monstrous prisoners brought out each day for trial warring with the guilt of the maimed citizenry she had to step over to get to her newly appointed lodgings.

No amount of reading about conquering Caesars had prepared her for the sickening, omnipotent feeling that being a victor in a vanquished place made in one’s belly.

Robert had taken to popping toast into her mouth himself in the mornings, strong hand on her chin closing the hinge of her jaw. Playful, yet not to be defied, “Eat.” he told her in that voice and she liked it, she would shut her mouth and chew and swallow and her toes would curl and his hand would leave and so would he.

Then he would come home and hang up his hat and she would take his coat and he would kiss her and she liked that, too. It was easier to eat dinner, she wasn’t sure why.

She told Maureen that. Maureen agreed, she wasn’t sure why; said that Jack was the same but Tilly was feeding him anyway.

“Why do we all need someone to feed us?” Ida had huffed over the line in embarrassed confusion, it was easier talking of this with Kendeigh than Rosie, each thing Ida admitted to, Maureen was right away saying she too must irrationally psych herself up to use a public toilet and use a stall and disrobe half in public and assure oneself that no one was going to burst in and catch them at it. Rosie knew all that, he knew it and he understood it and yet it was still utterly shaming; and worse yet, he didn’t seem a bit sorry for what they had done with the place.

“You ever wonder what your count is?” she could ask Maureen, and Maureen could reply that she did, all the time, and Ida could tell her the list of dead here in Nuremberg, the wives and the mothers and the brothers and the pastors and the sons and the ones who only were in the wrong place with the wrong leader at the wrong time. The ones she learned about going about in her tweed suits and scarf down to the empty marketplace only to find civilians kicking and beating a pilot into the earth, screams and demands of “where were you when they dropped their bombs?” hurled at the poor boy who’d done his best but America had done a bit better, a bit bigger, always a winner.

It reminded her so gravely of Fritz she had unthinkingly kneeled next to him and tried to triage the damage to his bleeding head. He’d staggered away from her, fast as if she was death come calling itself with his eyes pinned to something behind her. When she rose she saw the American MPs standing behind her, unmoving and unseeing.

She hated that barren marketplace; she kept going back anyway.

“You’ve got to eat.” -In the mornings their home felt foreign, it felt wrong, it felt like they were doing what they were doing: living as a unconsumated couple in a displaced German family’s home in a country they had reduced to ash.

“I’ve missed you.” -By the evenings she had been home all day at study, the sun had set and the gray skies had dimmed to dark and the smell of cooking food was domesticating the place and the lamplight made a returning Robert in his felt hat and dark overcoat look gentle and kind and warm.

She would bury her face in his scarf and feel his cold mustache against his forehead and ask how his day went as if he wasn’t trying monsters for war crimes.

“You can come, if you want. I’ve got you a pass. Secretary, it’s not a pity post.” he told her after a few weeks, “I’d like you to, when you want.”

She had been genuinely too busy with setting up the house, then she had been too busy with her studying, then she had run out of reasons and gone. They went to work together, carefully not entangled, carefully a full half yard apart, carefully parting without a backwards glance and taking to their positions in the court with impressive dispassion until the proceedings were over.

Coming home together, subdued and distant until past their front step- Ida suspected there could be some mischievous enjoyment of this entire professional ruse by two married people if they were different than they are. If they were free and easy and she was a good wife and if they were in some habit of tripping over the threshold and yanking at each others coats and then shirts and the belts and on and on like those who marry do, married folks who find some game in playing they aren’t for half a day only to come together in a heated rush of desire deferred.

They do not. She and Robert cross their threshold and they undo their own coats now and Robert still kisses her, that ritual remains but these times both their faces are cold and there is no happy delight to the reuniting. Ida hates the cold, and the home now feels as foreign at night as it did in the mornings. Ida feels wretchedly ungrateful for this haven he has afforded her with this life. She wants more from it and somehow she feels she must discard herself first if she is ever to get it. It’s a very lost sort of feeling and she loathes it, and she’s sure her face shows it when he kisses her. He still does it, and she thinks he’s the bravest man she has ever met. Patient as a father, fearless as a leader, warm as the fast waning sun.

She asks Maureen if she knows that way of feeling, the feeling of being utterly hollowed out inside. For once her lieutenant disagrees, but that is quickly amended to an admittance that she is too busy worrying for the way Gale seems the same as Ida, gone in his mind too often, too restless and miserable and thin. He won’t eat- Maureen tells her in anguish, sometimes he just won’t eat. Ida suspects that she would hear the same story of Cleven from Bucky were she to talk with him- but he doesn’t call, and she doesn’t know where to call him.

Robert begins to look at her sternly over dinner, and after a few weeks he outright commands her to eat; gentle as at breakfast but not to be disobeyed. It all sticks in her throat and she goes to bed with a belly ache.

“What is it?” he asks her that night as they lay side by side and when she takes a series of breaths that are entirely calculated to prevent a sob he takes pity, and specifies kindly, “What is it tonight?”

As soon as he asks it she realizes there is something specially sad about today, every day seems to have its own sorrow but today has something she can form a sentence for. “All the holidays,” she gets out, “going to miss them all again.” she means with her family, because they never were holidays in the stalag, she went along with that ruse too but they weren’t holidays, “My Birthday, too.”

Why had she thought to spend them all in Germany again, first year she had some freedom of choice about it all.

“You’re lonely, aren’t you?” he hums, utterly sympathetic.

Perhaps she is, it hadn’t even occurred to her. The other officers’ wives are kind and lovely and eager to talk of their husbands, their households and what they did with themselves during the war, they talk of trying for babies and they talk about fashion and they don’t mention the children on the streets and the lack of food at the market and they don’t know what to make of flying a bomber into war as a woman.

No, Ida has to gently disagree with each new friend in waiting, not a WASP, she was in the actual airforce, bombers, a pilot, yes the 100th. That 100th. Yes, she was Ida Brady, thanks for your concern, she’s fine. No, the papers got all that about as right as they get everything else. No, her girls were golden, yes, her girls are fine, the ones left, thanks for the concern. Yes, that happened, but then again, male veterans blow their brains out after coming home, too. Statically there’s nothing special about one female sergeant in thousands of male ones. Tragic of course, but one has to get on with it. Yes, lovely to meet you, maybe she’ll pop in for quilting next Tuesday.

“I guess.” Ida realizes and Robert humms again and Ida wants to bury herself into his chest, make him understand she only ever really wants him these days, she just wants him in a way that makes her need to not be herself any more. It’s really all so glum. She was thinking the holidays would be better than this.

“We could go home.” he dares to wrap an arm around her in their bed and she folds for it, lets herself be tucked into him, legs intertwining, his heartbeat a thud under her ear, Ida not even bracing for more- a month and a half side by side in this bed and he’s not taken an inch more than the first night, his chest is warm and his voice deep under her cheek. It’s the homiest thing here. “We could go home for them, just a bit, do us both good. They’re offering passes for some on the bench.”

The big shots can afford to go home because their deputies and assistant councils will keep up the slack in their absence; Robert is just such an assistant council and the opportunity to rise to the occasion in such a manner is crucial for his reputation, his future recommendations, his own morale. This assignment means everything to him and Ida is not about to jeopardize all his hard work and commitment by skipping off to be glum, frigid and not herself in New York when she can be all that right here in Nuremberg.

“I don’t want that.” she says it with conviction.

“Ida, we co-“

“No, Robert, we couldn’t and we shouldn’t and I don’t want it.” she tries not to sound too harsh, she thinks it comes out gentled by the press of his chest against her lips, “I just- I am trying to get settled.” that hangs over them and their bed for a few false moments before she corrects, “I am in a funk, and I want to get out of it. And we need to stay.”

“Ok.” he murmurs and he sounds so fine with the idea of being stuck in Nuremberg with the gray rubble and the grim business of trying monsters and the starving populace and the wretched cold and his shell of a wife.

“I only hate the cold.” she realizes that folded together like this is the only time it’s gone, now that she leaves the house and goes to work with him most days.

Robert just squeezes her tighter and it’s very brave of him. Her heart stops then picks back up, double time for the omission. She splays her hand out on his chest, right where burning hot skin smears into flannel.

“Then we’ll stay.” he agrees.

Staying is necessary for it. For all of it. For the both of them making it.

She thinks for half an hour about rolling on her side of the bed and falling asleep in the usual routine. She doesn’t manage to before she feels the rhythmic breaths beneath her cheek that signal sleep has claimed him. She stays frozen there, clammy tears wetting the lapel of his pajamas beneath her cheek, wishing to God she could be herself again. Something reminds her that if she were herself, she would have held him closer and kissed him harder and swore she loved him and didn’t regret this and that all she needed was to share herself with him and she’d be alright.

She remembered not thinking she was herself as she pushed out a child, but then Bucky Egan held her, told her there was nothing more like herself than to survive this. And then she did. She doesn't know where Bucky is these days, she’s lost track of all of it.

They stay for her birthday and Robert makes a stupendous effort to make it sweet and he manages it - it is sweet - and small and cozy and festooned, and Ida chokes down the horrible beat of her heart at the memory of Bucky’s makeshift streamers in the stalag and Jack’s embroidered gift of wings patched onto her shirt. It’s a peacetime birthday and there’s only four blocks of town not razed to rubble for them to paint red but they do, and it’s not so cold with a full bottle of Schnaps in one’s belly and a gaggle of very new friends laughing and joking and complimenting for all the world like life is ever so worth going on for.

She’s in her pajamas, freshly bathed and recently danced with when the American side of the pond wakes up and calls to send her their good wishes. The line breaks down once, while she’s speaking to Jack, and on accomplishing the arduous redialing and waiting for the ringing of a transcontinental number, Bucky’s voice answers at the newly minted Brady residence. It’s a mild shock and she can tell it is on his end too, but he plays it off well and she can hear the impatient scuffle when Jack grabs the receiver back.

It was odd and bothersome but Jack treated it as perfectly normal. When she calls three days later Jack mentions the backyard project they’re working on together, and when she dares to ask what Bucky does these days her brother seems shocked she didn’t hear he’s taken up at an army flight school in New York, an easy twenty minute commute. The inference his home is Jack’s home goes unsaid.

Ida doesn’t know what to say to that, because she should have known: Bucky was never not where he was needed.

And apparently he had decided Jack needs him more than Gale. That alone makes her stomach turn again, it’s such a worrying choice. She hasn’t heard from Cleven, rarely from Lu and while she talks to Jack as thanksgiving whirls by and Christmas approaches, it is always about all his plans for “Tilly and Bucky and I.”

Ida supposes she hasn’t got much room to chide, to judge, to eye any domestic arrangements with suspicion. She doesn’t know what’s going on all the way over there with all her mother’s sons who once were hers, not now when they’re someone else’s and what she’s managing over here is a pathetic attempt at living.

“John Egan is living with Jack.” she tells Robert that night, tucked into his chest, because otherwise he’ll know she’s thinking a hole through her skull and ask her on his own. “One presumes on the couch. But he’s there, job and all.”

“Hmm.” her husband sounds approving, yet Ida feels very like when she used to run off over eager girls who wanted to paw at her brother fresh off a juniorhigh bandstand. “I think you should try going to mass.” he says instead of commiserating and Ida thinks he has a point.

She goes next available Friday and it is, like most other things in this city, a humiliating exercise of talking to locals to find which bombed out cathedral is still in use. They are civil enough, it is she who is off-sorts and finds the eye contact galling, the directions past rubble much like the next block grating to hear. The padre at St. Sebastian’s greets her in perfect German and she replies in her own sparsed dialect, when he asks her name she gives him “Brady” without thinking it through and he barks out a laugh.

“O’Malley.” he admits, and what were the odds of an Irish priest serving in Nuremberg? Two and a half years since her last confession and it feels good and right to sit in the drafty stall and list off to O’Malley every evil thing that keeps her up at night. The absolution for the murder of hundreds due to it being her paying job sits less so, as ineffectual as Robert’s insistence they did what needed doing. She tells him about telling secrets that weren’t her own, of trying to coerce a man she owed so much to, she tells him she betrayed Cleven and he asks if she asked forgiveness of the man and she says she did and he tasks her lightly as penance. She wishes he would flog her, beat her, order Robert to do it, to take some penance from her flesh for her or him both. The padre must see something of this wretchedness in her face, he offers her work in the food line on Saturdays. Her days are too full as is, but she agrees.

“I’ll be there.” she swears, and means to be since they are staying.

They stay and Robert shoulders a supreme amount of the work at the trials during the holiday season and in their domestic moments they laughingly agree it’s for the best that they have to spend their first religiously diverse holidays together and alone, without relatives and the predictable stumbles of navigating a fractured season like that. A New York Jew married an Irish Catholic- sounds like a joke, Rosie would often say.

There’s sweet little traditions to be shared, cultural superstitions to be adopted and theological differences to be accepted. Ida warms to it and something that feels like the courtship days blooms again, an eagerness to know him, to build themselves together as a unit.

She goes to mass and she sees relief on his face when she does, even for the Saturday afternoons which she spends in the food line, time she can hardly spare from work and study and her attendance to him, but he seems gladdened by it. She meets one of their neighbors there, a doctor and his three young children who share their front stoop. His wife is near bedridden, he tells her. Ida only learns this when she’s returning home and the familiar faces are along the sidewalk beside her, going up the adjacent steps and she realizes they have been neighbors all this time. His wife is half invalid and his children go to the makeshift school that the padre has set up to help the children catch up on the grades the war has robbed them of.

Ida gives them her hand to shake then, no ladle or plate to give her excuse otherwise, and she tells them “Ida Rosenthal” and he tells her “Captain Bauer, and this is Greta and Ingrid and this one is Joachim.” Ida thinks she should take the wife some prepared food sometime, then wants to laugh at the absurdity of herself adopting this sort of life. She tells Robert in hopes of making him laugh, he doesn’t, he just smiles and asks why the woman is bedridden.

“She’s pregnant.” Ida answers, and her nightmares that night have her nearly falling from the bed in her thrashing.

Still, Robert smiles often these days, and still makes her eat. He apparently finds that it’s easier when she’s tipsy, and she’s not so far gone to see the cautious worry in his eyes when she is that free and easy only from its influence. He himself is a delightful man with a few shots in him, gregarious and silly and sometimes rather tight in his embrace and sometimes Ida has such hopes he’ll dare something he wouldn’t otherwise.

Yet Robert Rosenthal is the same when drunk or otherwise, he takes not an inch more than first allowed, only grasps it firmer and relents later -Ida loves him for it and her hope dies all the same.

Every morning she still wakes and finds them tangled together as is the new habit and he will stir and kiss her forehead and squeeze her shoulder and carefully pull his body away before she can feel anything remotely like desire, want, maleness. He gets up then and he often showers and Ida lays there and wonders. He will leave the shower, wet hair in ringlets and face flushed and looking just sleepy enough he needs that coffee he will inevitably make for the two of them and serve her in bed before she’s fully dragged her feet out of the covers.

Shortly after Hannukah ends -the precious eight days strike early this year with the last candle lit on the seventh of December- there is a morning unlike the others. Robert doesn’t kiss her, he doesn’t move away, and for a brief moment panicked excitement thrills through her as she concentrates on feeling, trying to feel any part of him beside her, until she hears a panting breath escape him.

She knows pain, she knows the sounds of it being ground out of a person, the sounds of it suppressed just enough not to wake another. She bolts upright before she can even recall that there’s no guards, no guns, no immediate reason for such a calamity. Yet she was right in instinct, Robert has his head turned into the pillow a terrible grimace on the side of his face that she can see.

“What is it?” she whispers in what she’s ashamed to recognize sounds a little closer to rage than panic.

He grits his teeth and his pretty pink lip snarls up along his teeth before he can form the words. “S’my neck. Head. Whole thing. Happens sometimes.”

She recalls the way he waved off an anecdote back at Thorpe Abbotts about breaking his neck in one of his crashes. Back in the saddle six weeks later, that was the focus of the story. Back in the saddle! Indomitable Rosie! The new boys had loved telling Colonel Brady about that one. Ida had wanted to ask if it still hurt, in the same way her pelvis ached for no reason at all.

She hadn’t then, it wasn’t hers to know.

She knew now. It happened sometimes. And it was awful, it would seem.

“From breaking it?” She asks now, clipped and very like an officer and it relieves her immensely to hear that voice come out of her mouth after months of disuse.

Rosie manages a hissed, “Yeah.”

“What helps?”

The stubborn man just winces his eyes shut and tries to shake his head only to cry out. “Nothin’.”

Ida makes a noise that is the anger incarnate given voice.

“It’ll pass.” he tries to molify even as he whines in agony.

“What makes it pass?” she demands, raking back the wildness of her morning hair and staring down at him with the oddest feeling in her gut, anger at his stubbornness, terror at his pain and a very new feeling of surety that she can fix this. No one can stop her, she can fix this.

Robert remains in agony and unhelpful. “I just lay here, Ida.” and his tone holds a request to be left alone, to be left to, in fact, lay there.

Ida glances at the clock and realizes work will not be happening with him laying here. Neither will relief in any timely manner. “Well that’s unsatisfactory.” she decides and carefully gets out of bed so she does not jostle him more than necessary.

Robert only answers the hasty noises of her toilet with moans and she bites her lip and resolves not to find them aggravating: she does so hate the sound of a man moaning, and she’s never had occasion to hear Robert at it. His seem very like all the others and her skin crawls from the sounds of it. Pain or pleasure, it matters nothing to her roiling stomach but she shoves it down and comes back out and places her hand on his crinkled cheek.

“I’m going to get you a hot pack. Then I’m going to tell the judge you’re calling off, then I’m getting a damn doctor with a muscle relaxant. Hold tight.”

She phones the office and finds that without her scalding supervision the secretaries are unhelpful. So after heating an actual warm water bottle and straddling it along his neck and kissing his forehead, she throws on her coat and takes to the streets to visit the court buildings personally and threaten them all into usefulness in his absence. Having accomplished this she sets out to track down the listed three army doctors she was informed might actually be continental despite the holidays. She finds two have indeed gone back to America, the third is continental but vacationing in Austria and a fourth she ferreted out herself refused to leave the army base for love of life or balls. Determined to make local inquiries after first rechecking on her felled husband, she encountered Captain Bauer on the steps again, a perceptive look in his eye at the sight of her crisp urgency.

“All well?” he asks her in his typical, immaculate English.

“My husband is ill.” she gives him that cursory civility.

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you.” while she digs for the key she ponders about asking him for a local recommendation but his rank sticks in her throat, a captain of the late forces, it’s irksome at best.

“Have you located a physician?” he asks her instead and Ida snaps her head up, giving him a sharp look. “Holidays- it is hard.” he amends, placating, it strikes her as a leading question.

“It is.” she agrees, stalled on her front stoop.

“I know.” he ventures, “I am one.”

She’s quite sure she snarls. It’s a freedom of expression that she has not learned to regovern. There’s something satisfying with the way it makes the man’s eyes drop instantly. “Are you.” she goads, suddenly back under the knife at Sagan, German ethics and German medicine and German practicality robbing her of everything. Worse still, it feels like a betrayal to Jack to even speak with one. This doctor looks poorly chastened. Ida hates him for it but it’s the most she’s felt in awhile and it’s pleasant in its way. So is the crestfallen meekness she’s just elicited from him.

“Ja.” he answers her, nods down at the pavement, a shuffle in place of his once strong stance, the German word is not lost on her, all presence of friendliness somehow dissipated by her single expression.

“Are you offering your services?” she wonders herself if she’s asking only to throw it back in his face. She’s never been so unsure of her motive before.

“I would like-“ he casts about for a word and raises his eyes when he does not find it in the paving stones, “-to be of help. Neighbors and all. It is the holidays.” the way he adds the last part is so simple and plaintive she thinks if this man had been able to vocalize such a sentiment before, there’d have been no war at all. Her blood rushes and she feels close to fury.

She chooses to bite. “My husband is a Jew.” she has never had reason to say that before, it is always Rosie making the jokes and she has never cared. Not until now. “Will that be of any matter, captain?” she asks, daring him.

The shake of his head is violent, instant, closer to a shudder. “Nei- no. No. Not- no.”

Ida finds the fury leaching away. “Mm.” She looks him up and down and he is younger than he seems, only maybe in his mid thirties but worn down and graying, and he carries himself like a man recalling his defeat only recently: somehow it is more palatable than the crushed figures at the marketplace. “It’s an injury, his neck from a crash. I think a relaxant might be in order.” she watches him nod, meek and unassuming and it’s a wrong look for that strong Aryan jaw but it’s smart of him. “Have you any supplies?”

“I- yes, I do.” he insists. “The padre he- I help. He sends me patients.”

Ida turns her key, the door cracks open and she thinks worryingly of how long she’s left her husband. “Then bring them, please.” she steps over her threshold, “The supplies, not the patients. Ring the bell.”

She enters her house, her home -such as it is- and shuts the door on the noise of the street before she can reconsider her choice and her neighbor. Her hands shake and it is cruel to be so helpless against this tide of rage that never ebbs fully and comes rushing back at the least provocation. She hangs up her coat, scrubs away gathering tears and sets a kettle to boil before taking off her heels to make her way quietly into the bedroom. It’s a fruitless courtesy, Robert is not asleep when she enters. He doesn’t acknowledge her return. He doesn’t seem capable of moving at all, if anything his grimace is stronger, his face tucked more rigidly into the pillow, making a white knuckle fist of the covers. All of him is as still and rigid as a statue, except for the ragged expansion of his chest with each quick breath.

“Oh darling.” Ida mutters, tossing her purse aside and kneeling beside the bed, she presses her palm to his lips, trapping in his breath just a little, like Bucky used to when Jack would hyperventilate and no paper bag was available. His eyes clear at her touch, laser focused and pupils a pinpoint dot in his anguish. “I’ve gotten a doctor. And I’ve called off work. For you and I. All will be well. All will be well.” she says it once more for herself, and he must know, his hand forgoes its grip on the sheets and folds itself around her wrist, pale digits that are clammy and unlike him except for those calluses on their work-worn pads that she has grown to know better than her own nose.

Her batting eyelid cannot catch it before it falls, one stupid tear betraying her but Robert doesn’t even blink, his hand only tightens and Ida lays her face beside his and presses her hand tighter to mouth and his chest slows its frantic gasping just enough that she feels important. They stay like that for eons, the most unified she’s felt with him in weeks, until the doorbell sounds, distant and hollow in the foyer.

“It’ll be the doctor.” she whispers and he gives an assuring wink of his crystal blue eye that fortifies Ida enough to stand up and slip her heels back on and open the front door with the confidence of a woman who is not living in someone else’s home in some enemy’s city.

Ida is not sure if she is pleased or chagrined Doctor Bauer has regained his confidence when he steps over the threshold- it bodes well for the surety of his treatment, yet is all too reminiscent of Wehrmacht efficiency.

“Through here.” and she does not wait to watch him wipe his feet.

It is a rule amongst most stubborn folk that upon being visited by those with the power to help, they will summon as much composure to appear less helpless than moments before. Rosie, by such a rule, has regained some semblance of calm in his breathing, his eyes barely squinted and his position slightly pulled out from the pillows she left him buried in by the time the doctor came up to his bedside. She watched the men exchange their pleasantries. The doctor inquires and Rosie replies, a solution is suggested. Rosie inquires of the man’s family as the doctor draws up the remedy, they are, bizarrely, perfectly amenable to each other. The doctor uncaps the needle, flicks at the glass syringe and Ida, gripping the headboard until splinters dig beneath her nails, watches memories of Jack’s arms and legs and belly flash before her, mottled and pitted from that damn syringe—

Bauer plunges it in. At the neck. Ida holds her breath but Rosie’s mild inquiries about the ages of his erstwhile enemies’ children only hiccup slightly from the small stab, then resume again. Bauer’s children are nine and seven and six— and, after some hesitation, there is mention of one on the way. Oddly his tone was kinder in addressing Rosie than it is when he mentions this latest blessing. Ida could have told Rosie of these children, she has seen them and the Captain at the soup lines.

“Would you like coffee?” Ida asks him as he clasps his small briefcase with its horrid little tools shut and out of sight.

“You have coffee?” he sounds entirely stunned.

Another damned luxury she did not know she was fortunate for in this wasteland. Rosie has turned to lie on his back, his face softening as the spasm retreats, not in death but in comfort. Her heart thuds back to life. The doctor has done no harm.

“We do.” she murmurs, and leaves the men speaking of parachute ejections to go into the kitchen and brew a cup and hyperventilate some strange relief into her search for the sugar packets.

Doctor Bauer, over a cherished and slowly sipped brew, recommends rest from desk work for three days, warm baths nightly and to summon him at the least hint of a return in the drawing up of the muscles. “My daughter has fallen ill,” he continues, “if I fear contagion, I will leave you the vial on your doorstep, so as not to bring you a cough to go with your Christmas pudding. You do celebrate Christmas, ja?” he asks after seeming to recall her admonition in regards to Robert’s faith.

Robert’s smile is serene and fully crinkly with his newly mobile face, “yes we do, doc.” he agrees. “You?”

Of course the Bauers do. They are German. Although, as Ida walks him to the door, she realizes with gut wrenching certainty that the Bauer’s haven’t any components nearly rich enough to make a pudding to celebrate, perhaps not even food to keep his children from sickness. They are her neighbors— she should have called months ago.

Even so she does not recall saying thank you, when she shuts the door on him, gently and with a wave, to her credit, but her throat is closed up again and it is an awfully nostalgic misery. She will thank him with something more tangible tomorrow, food and a visit to his wife who she ought to know intimately by now and yet, has barely exchanged a word with.

Robert is still on his back, sweat drying tacky on his pale face but a droopy eyed relief covering his features that is unmistakable and comforting. He sees her come back into the room and his hand outstretches to her. She bypasses it with only a graze of her fingertips before tumbling into bed beside him, exhausted beyond reason. Ever adaptable, Rosie offers his other hand, and she clasps it and puts it under her cheek and he hums to her gently as she closes her eyes against the press of the damp sheets.

“I should drag you into the bath.” she mutters after what has likely been an hour of dozing on and off.

Robert’s answering hum is too saucy for belief. “When you put it like that…”

“Doctors orders.” Ida gripes back, cheek still smushed against his knuckles; the room has gone dim, night has arrived.

“Yeah.” her husband concedes, “Seems like a nice guy.”

“He’s a captain. Was a captain.”

“Yeah, he said.”

“He did? To you?”

“Yeah- while you were standing here. Didn’t you hear?”

“I didn’t - I was not invested in the conversation.” She mutters, “You looked in a terrible way, Robert.”

“I know.” he uses his other hand to pet her weary head and Ida wonders how it is that she is ever restless when he is so wonderfully disposed to doting. “Sorry, lovebug.”

“Don’t be sorry.” she insists and forces herself out of her nest of sheets and soothing hands, “Bath, doctors orders. Come on.”

She runs the bath to make it warm for him, rolls up a towel for his neck. She even helps him in to it with a stabilizing arm, the revelation of seeing her husband nude for the first time being a transient and oddly mild shock, replaced easily by the need to steady him down into the water and to switch off the glaring electric light to spare his bloodshot eyes.

“Stay?” he asks, so plaintive she knows he somehow feels guilty for asking, and that is likely his bare body and fragile health talking and she is made of stronger stuff than this shadow of herself and so she kneels down beside the tub, reaches in up to her elbow in suds to find his hand and holds it.

“Of course.” she whispers back, thumbing at the beloved knuckles.

His head lolls on his towel and that handsome face with its pristine mustache and starling eyes gaze at her ardent. “Your shirt is getting soaked.” and he’s right.

A normal wife would have joined him in the bath, a normal wife would have stripped down too and thought nothing of it, a normal wife would not find her mouth dry and her thoughts ablaze at the fresh sight of her ailing husband’s glistening shoulders. “Tell me about football.” she begs, and he does.

Robert sleeps fitfully and the next day his vertigo remains so extreme he might as well be in pain- he is incapacitated. An expected result of the spasms and its treatment but it makes for rough going and finally Ida props him in bed with a breakfast board firmly in place and his case papers and glasses laid on before him. “I’m in bed, it’s not desk work.” he argues, insisting he is not violating any doctor’s order by toiling so and, knowing when a cause has been lost, Ida leaves him to it and busies herself in their kitchen with good intentions that kept her up most of the night.

A basket, to begin, for the Bauer’s. If the child is sick the mother won’t be at mass, or likely at the soup line. So Ida does what she should have done months ago, and exits her own home, clops down her three front steps, rounds the small iron railing dividing the stoops and ascends her neighbors’ three steps. She knocks. She waits. She steels her nerve and knocks again. Robert is alive and well and it is due to this man’s kindness. She has coffee and flour and citrus fruits and it is nearly Christmas. She raps her knuckles again and the door opens before her hand has dropped to her side.

Anya Bauer is a pleasant looking woman, like her husband her age is a copy case of fatigue etching away at vitality, but after her initial showing of shock, she is polite enough to assume a mask of mild surprise at Ida’s appearance on her stoop.

“Mrs Rosenthal, a pleasure.” her English has always seemed exceptional, Ida had noticed that before. “Come in?” her hospitality does not shrink in the face of an invader.

“I come bearing gifts.” Ida uplifts her loaded basket, not missing the somewhat glassy eyed inventory Frau Bauer seems to be making of its fresh and plentiful contents, “A thank you for your husband’s service to mine, yesterday, and well wishes for your daughter's recovery.” Cowardice waivers briefly and Ida steels herself with the thought of what Robert would think of her shirking the small act of righteous contrition, “And an apology, for letting so many months go without making myself known.”

“You need not be sorry, you are busy.” the door remains open, against all rational expectations, and Ida realizes she would commit a grave injury but remaining without on the stoop, and so, with what she is sure is an ill-fitting smile, she ducks her head and enters the Bauer home.

Like most things put off out of fear, it ends up being the thing Ida might have needed all along. She doesn’t want to tell her so but- Frau Bauer isn’t like the other ladies at the market, at mass, or at the officer’s club and it suits Ida just fine. Perhaps she is though, perhaps all these haggard and sad eyed women are like her yet Ida won’t know because Ida doesn’t live next to them, doesn’t come over and provide ingredients and insist on shared suppers as often as possible in the following weeks so that it’s not just herself and Rosie Rosenthal sitting at their lonely table after a days work, quizzical yet separated by too much.

By the time of ramshackle warmth and reverence that the prescribed series of epiphany masses produce, Ida has Robert on one arm and a Bauer child in the other when entering the bombed out, hollow gloried, frigid Nuremberg cathedral.

“We should spend Christmas with them.” Robert suggests, eyeing a new batch of chocolates and oranges that Tilly Brady has sent them in holiday greeting. Ida sent back the ever so plentiful wooden toys and trinkets that line the streets here- if German children could eat wooden figurines they’d be fattened and sated. “At least, I think we should ask.” Robert adds, and when Ida muses on wether that would truly be welcome or merely accepted out of obligation for the food, he shocks her by informing her that he’s not only kept up with the Captain since, but is quite sure they’d be welcome from his hinted invitation. “I think we’ve got the wires crossed, they think we’d assume we’re wanted for the food, and they know we’re in need of…” he trails off and Ida is desperately, painfully curious what Robert considers them in need of- company, might be the kindest word for it. The kind of mild word Robert Rosenthal would choose for their aching marital predicament.

She never learns, but his eyes look terribly lonely, if she were to judge him like any other. And of course he is, his wife has only grown further apart from him since marrying him.

“Then let us celebrate with them.” she agrees.

On the day of, between Mass and the Christmas festivities she plans to bring over to the Bauer’s in an hour, Ida downs a few fortifying gulps from the bottle of Jameson her brother sent her. Jack sent her five of them with little red velvet bows tied around their green bottle necks and she feels dopey and loved at the surety he tied them himself, and at the conviction he knows she needs the booze. Maybe it takes one to know one and she calls him, calls to ask how its been, their Christmas stateside. Dials mother’s number, because that’s where they’ll be. And predictably he answers after two rings, up before everyone else despite the late night. Between Jameson and the hearing of Jack’s measured good wishes, she’s in the right spirit for a festivity and she loads Robert’s arms with those treats and pies and meats she didn’t take over to Frau Bauer’s the day before, and they join their neighbors in celebrating Christmas as they should.

By nights end it’s one of the most magical Christmases that Ida can ever recall. Made so because it was about the children, it was about providing joy and relief. It was all the things the season was about anyway. It’s because it was Christmas. Simple as Captain Bauer had made it sound on her front stoop. If only all things could be so easily solved.

Their men share a cigar in the living room when Ida and Frau Bauer tackle the washing, the children running about the house, high on the rare taste of sugar and actual, elaborate, American gifts.

“We have running water since you moved in.” Frau Bauer tells her at the sink with a relieved laugh, “I knew someone had to be important who was moving in when they fixed the whole block.”

Ida chuckles uncomfortably and glances sideways at her ponderous belly. “When are you expected to deliver?” she asks, and tells herself it is so she might make herself available to keep the children and provide food or anything else needed in the recovery. Not because she’s terrified of losing a friend from it. Not out of morbid curiosity to see another blood-slick newborn, the first since her own.

“Sometime in early January, it’s assumed.” she replies gravely, “It’s an estimate, always. Went late with two and early with the other. There’s no pattern!” she assures Ida merrily, as one would a bride likely to have children of her own one day.

Ida’s throat begins to close in that old familiar way and she reaches for someone’s near empty wine glass on the counter and downs it, likely to the distaste of her hostess but she has to get over this horrible panic every time the topic comes up. She wonders if Jack has to do the same, if there’s a topic or a word or- god forbid but it’s likely- a compliment that sends him choking and incapacitated into own his private hell. “I’m sure the captain will be very happy and helpful,” Ida rambles around the cool aftertaste of vintage red, “but if you need anything- I’ll be here.”

Frau Bauer shuts the tap off and observes Ida intensely. Ida’s cheeks flush from drunken mortification at her state, and her offer considering it. She doesn’t strike one as dependable. She knows it. Even her husband knows it. She’s not.

But she used to be. And Christ on high knows she wants to be again.

“You’re not like other the officer’s wives.” Anya Bauer says Ida’s thoughts somberly.

Ida hears her drunken guffaw before she can fully clip it short. “I am an officer myself.” she mutters, realizing the drunken admittance adds a clarity for her own predicament.

“Really?” There’s admiration, not skepticism in that question.

“Colonel, yeah.” she affirms. “Retired. Obviously.”

“I’d appreciate your help.” Frau Bauer affirms in turn, specifically personal, “And your husband’s friendship with mine has come not a moment too soon for us. I am afraid it might very nearly end him.”

Ida startles a little, more than she would without so much booze inside her to loosen her up, feeling a surge of adamant conviction when she protests Frau Bauer’s prediction, “No, no don’t talk like that. You’re going to make it, he won’t have a thing to be worried about. I’ll see to it, you and the baby. Your husband’s a capable man, he’ll be glad to be needed, most men just have to wait in the other room or stand around and hold your hand.”

Thoughts of Bucky and thoughts of Jack and being upheld by them flash unbidden and are shoved back into the recesses of her mind.

Frau Bauer’s eyes track past Ida to the children’s gleeful mayhem and beyond to the partition wall and the men still smoking behind it, animated bits of unintelligible conversation discernible. “No, I don’t mean dying.” she answers, “You’re not like the other wives.” she repeats, as if reminding herself of something.

“Then what.” It’s simple when Ida asks, and she feels more like herself for the clipped sentence rolling off her oiled tongue.

Frau Bauer meets her eyes, “I’ve confessed it already,” she assures as preamble in a perfectly steady voice and Ida braces with the a pilot’s intuition that something invisible up on the horizon is different from other invisibles and is headed straight for her own fuselage, “but I’ve wished this child would pass.”

Ida feels a spark run up her nerveless hands, her body going half numb, half electric.

“And if it doesn’t,” she continues, rote and resigned as any of Ida’s memories of the same, “I don’t know that he’ll handle it well.”

Ida tried to think of a right response, there’s not one and that’s why Any Bauer is telling her and not some other wife. So she asks what comes to mind, “You think he’ll leave you?”

“No, but I don’t know.”

Ida thinks of a January due date, she thinks of Rosie and his Berlin missions. April. Her mind does a quick math problem. It’s apparent, “Is it not his?”

“No.”

“And he knows.”

“Ha, yes.” Her laugh is mirthless, “I had not seen him in years.”

“And he came home to you- like this.” Ida understands.

“Yes.”

“I see.”

“He might have forgiven an infidelity.” she draws slightly closer, a sobriety that is not skittish cloaking her confession, “He cannot forgive it being the child of an enemy.” she gives Ida a small smile as she explains, “Seeing him with your man has given me some hope. I’d have thought him unable to find magnanimity. But perhaps time does heal.”

Ida glances back at the men herself, in full agreement; thoughts of Bucky’s rabid devotion to her own child whirl. Some men had that capacity, to be generous to the point of delusion. Some men, or maybe just Bucky. “So- the baby is an American’s?” she prepares herself for some dismal and entirely probable revelation that the American boys were as cruel as any other, that all over the world, women get hurt by men from all over the world.

“No, I was in Berlin when it fell.” She shook her head adamantly, “We prayed you’d get to us first.” Frau Bauer had started to sound half-strangled herself for the first time, “You didn’t. Those first Russian brigades were… they were-“

Ida’s arm reached out before she had thought of what to do, it had reached out and gripped the woman’s own, a handshake of sorts like she’d seen the pilots do when touching back down after a hairy mission. “I’ll be there.” she swore. “And it’ll be yours. That’s all that matters. It’s your child.”

“Yes.” an enlightened conviction spread over Anya’s face, as if all she needed was one other person’s verdict to cement her own, “Yes, it’s mine.”

It’s a bloody, gruesome, perfectly mundane affair when it comes, first week of January in the Bauer’s front room, the half naked mother near as possible to the solitary radiator as she can get for heat, a dismal blizzard outside and only Ida, the Captain her husband, and some beneficent aunt there for support.

It is enough. They both live, mother and child.

Captain Bauer allows the aunt to catch it, a boy, and hand it over to rest on his mother’s heaving breast. It’s better formed, more realized and alive than Ida remembers babies to be.

That makes sense, though. This one is alive. This one’s mother did right by him. This one’s mother kept him safe inside until he could make it on his own.

It’s still odd, though. Neither mother wanted it. But this one lived.

Captain Bauer waits patient and unperturbed until the placenta is expelled, then carries it in a trash bag to the kitchen. The blood slows, his wife is going to live. Ida watches him scrub his hands methodically of blood and fluids and return then, a cold, clean set of fingers pressed to his wife’s pulse.

The look she sends up to him, through clumped lashes and bleary eyes, is enough to knock a man flat. He kisses her brow, still counting her beats.

Ida feels her pockets for a cigarette, unable to put it off any longer. The aunt is helping the baby latch on anyway, they’re both alive, her husband has forgiven her for something she didn’t do. There’s nothing else for Ida to oversee.

She steps outside. Onto the Bauer’s stoop, unable to go into her own house yet, despite the way the blizzard tries to put out her light. Shortly after it’s fizzled out she hears the door at her back open and shut. It’s the Captain with his own coat and scarf firmly fixed, a lighter and pipe in hand.

“Your husband gave me this.” he holds it aloft, already packed and collecting snowflakes in the sheltered bowl.

She thinks of Jack, predictably, and his Christmas Day smokes he’d share with her. How he had to light them fast before the snow could dampen it. She realizes Captain Bauer intends to make her one of the men with this ritual, a shared pipe with the buddies after the wife has done her job. “Hurry or it won’t catch.” Ida warns.

He does, grinning softly with the stem between his teeth and Ida’s chest aches. He puffs it until it flames strong, maybe too strong- he chokes, he laughs, he offers it. He’s seen her own soggy fag. She takes it and inhales, feeling gutted, feeling at peace. She didn’t think the two feelings would suit each other. There’s just a little bit more hollowing out to do, she thinks, just a scrap left, then she’ll be entirely empty and can begin to refill again.

She knows what she needs to do. And she’ll do it tonight.

“You are kind.” the captain breaks their companionable silence. Ida accepts the compliment with a wordless nod and offers the pipe back a third time. “To spend your holidays and your time with us.”

She is being watched, puzzled together, made a study of; Ida knows the feeling. She doesn’t care.

“I did not think you liked us at all.” he admits, and it is obvious he meant in the past, when she first arrived.

Ida doesn’t assure him otherwise and his sad smile cracks wider at her honesty: she thinks to herself that she has come to like not only his family, but him.

The pipe is almost empty, their hands numb. He says one last thing, as one does when a smoke is concluding. The heart of the matter. “It is Christian indeed, to care for those who are not your people, much less for your enemies.”

Christmas, they’re so fresh off Christmas. The thing that could have solved everything, if everyone could recall it year round. But it’s not just that. And Ida knows it.

She takes the pipe back from him, “You are my people.” she realizes: she has a German daughter, nothing will or can or should change that. “My enemies are also my people.”

Ida tells Robert about the birth over dinner, relieved that there’s an innocuous story to share amongst the clatter of their cutlery. A mundane preface for the horrific personal truth she still needs to share with him. Left to herself she’d have told him about her own child over the first bite of pork chops, probably after a nip of whisky this evening, get the damn thing over with.

She does not, because Maureen sounded less than enthused at the concept when Ida called her earlier, fresh off the birth and the smoke and determined to bare herself once and for all to Robert.

“Don’t make a fucking briefing out of it.” Maureen had advised knowingly, “He loves you, like a husband does. Show him Ida, just- show him.”

So after dinner, and after a bit of companionable paperwork, and before it was too late, Ida reminded him of his prescription to continue with hot baths. Robert leveled her one soft, searching look before conceding without an ounce of his usual grumbling or cheeky quips in regard to the same.

He knew…something. Once again, Ida appreciates his keen intuition and the chivalry that constrains him to forever prioritize her comfort over his own curiosity. Helping set up the bath, arrange the towel, exchange jokes and small talk as he slips into the steam, all gives her the momentary illusion of piloting this, of being in control of how this occurs.

It feels breathtakingly easy. Even down to the moment when he’s settled in with his arms on the side and eyes droopy, and she asks, unprecedentedly, if she could join him in the bath.

Nothing drowsy about the way Robert’s eyes snap sharp, cautious, suppressing their surprise. “I’d love ya to.” he decides to say, she can watch him flick through a few choice sentences before he settles on that simple one. She moves to stand at the foot of the tub, right across from him, intentionally, he seems to realize this too, not choosing his usual compulsion to gallantry, to look away. She locks her eyes on his to keep his on her’s, then steps out of her trousers, undoes her shirt, lifts the cotton singlet she wears beneath it.

Watches him watch her, watches as his eyes shift from cerulean eagerness, to shadowed interest, suppressed desire, then to blatant shock at what he sees. She does not let him recover before she tosses away her brassiere, slips down her underwear. By the time she steps into the tub between his feet she knows he’s seen the stretchmarks all across her belly and breasts, and the ugly crescent scars above her ovaries, the one long gnarled line at her womb. When she sinks down on her haunches, into the steaming foam of soap suds, she knows he knows she carried a child once. She is sure he suspects what the other scars mean.

Maureen had been right. This way was better. Showing him was better.

Robert looks at her like a man who loves her, and cannot believe there is still more to be discovered about his cherished one, like he cannot believe that he has not found the bottom of her pain. Never in those eyes does there flash distrust or distaste, anger or accusation, although the guilt she sees startles her.

“Ida.” he breaths, no longer lounging back, drawn forward to her with the intensity of his compassion. “You didn’t say-“

She leans forward to meet him, knees knocking into each other’s, it feels so right, sitting naked in a bath with him, foreheads close to touching. She thought this would drown her at one point, it only feels right, it only feels like peace. “I can barely admit it to myself. Not for- not until very recently. I didn’t know what to tell you.”

His frown enlarges the concerned pout of his mouth, its endearing and tender beyond belief. “So this is not- from before? Before the war?”

“No.” she shakes her head

Robert’s careful whisper barely moves his lips, “This was- in the camp?”

There is always the offer to leave it here. No more, no less, now she’s told him, he’ll let her off the hook if she asks. Ida just leans forward further, their forearms touch atop their bent knees, shins wedged against each other. “I began to vomit and-and to swell, a few months in. Didn’t stand a chance but she hung in there for so long, for months- it was a girl, Robert. She stayed so long I could tell she was a daughter when she was born- and, and we could feel her kick. The winter saved us from being caught, all of us bundled in coats, it didn’t attract attention. We were going to try to run.” Bucky had been ready, everyone had made such sacrifices, taken such risks, “But those seventy some odd soldiers broke out, escaped, and they tightened the security. One night after, at roll call, I-“ Ida bit her lips savagely to steady it, felt Robert thumb swiping along her arm, the heat of his face near hers, a comforting presence, “-I couldn’t keep her in anymore.”

“My God.”

“It was horrible.” she admitted for the first time ever, years late,“Pushing her out in the barracks, trying to stay quiet- they surprised us with an inspection half way through, I remember Jack had to hold me still in the bunk until they left.”

“Did they find out?”

“Yes. They took me away, to the hospital ward. Solitary. Didn’t matter, I wasn’t awake for much. Everyone else was punished far worse.”

“Ida.” Robert’s angel-soft voice held a stern admonishment against such a lie.

“No, Robert, far worse.” she insists because it was true, yes she was robbed of her fertility in her sleep but Bucky was beaten, progress lost for all, Jack and Gale- barred themselves for the rest. It didn’t compare. “The worst had already happened. I’d lost my baby, and no, I can’t have more now but it doesn’t matter. I couldn’t bear to anyway. I meant that, when I- when we married.”

“That’s not why I care.” she felt his hand reach up from the bath water and grasp the side of her neck, warm and firm and very bold, she felt that touch in her soul, “I care because that is- darling, that’s a violation few have ever had to live with. And you’ve been livin with it- all this time?”

“I told you it doesn’t matter!” she felt desperate to be heard, “I don’t fucking care, Robbie.” it felt so good to admit, even to his mildly affronted, very dubious face, “I likely should, but I don’t. It’s not the future I can’t swallow, it’s-“

“What? What then?” he begged.

“Her!” she wailed, it flooded out once she realized, “I can’t forget her and the longer she’s dead the realer she becomes and that’s not how it should be! They opened me up and cut me apart and I don’t care about it, it’s- it’s what they did to my girls, to my boys, the way those Nazis fucks lived to torment my brother, that’s why I hate them, and it’s, it’s because when I am here, she’s not far away. She’s just a few hundred miles away, buried with the rest. With our boys and with the guards. All mixed up. And I can’t ever- ever get her back. Not even a grave. I don’t- Robert I don’t fucking care about the other!”

Robert had tugged her crumpling self into his arms, over his knees and to the firm shelter of his wet chest before she knew it, “Shh, I get it.” he mumbled against her forehead as she tried to catch her breath back from the drowning torrent of tears. “I get.” he assured her of what she needed to hear, and she focused on the gallop so his heart under her cheek and the warm, soft feeling of his thighs beneath her hip, the comforting cage of his arms, realized she’d managed it.

She’d done it.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, I couldn’t-“

“Sweetheart, you’re to never apologize about this again, alright?” he demanded sweetly, sounding deliciously strong in her unraveled state. “You’re gonna cry about it as much as ya need, and you’re gonna go on trips if they help you find peace and you’re gonna stay at home if it helps you figure things out and your gonna have days when you have it figured out and nights when you can’t sleep and it’ll all keep being like it is until it softens. Because it will. But you don’t have to do it alone anymore. Not with me. Not without her, either, she belongs here, as part of you. She won’t let you alone if you don’t leave a chair empty for her. In time she’ll fill it, and it won’t be a torment to have her close, it’ll be a comfort. Sometime, sometime down the road, it’ll be like that. I promise.”

Absentmindedly absorbing his gentle logic, Ida pet the curly wet hair spread across his chest, chestnut with a gleam of red in the low light, just like his mustache. She never wanted to leave his arms, the sanctity of this trusted embrace, the bone deep surety he meant every word. She could only hope her future self would be so determined.

“I’m sorry about the children.” she whispered, knowing he’d married her without expectations, but it felt a bit like cheating him all the same.

A firm squeeze of her arm made her gasp. “Apologize one more time about the actual crimes against humanity that were inflicted on you and I’ll be forced to take drastic measures. Don’t test me, woman.”

Ida actually giggled, gone a little mad with her emotion careening wildly out of her tight hold. “Wish you would.” she sauced back, her voice almost unrecognizable in its husky quality, probably from the tears, but it jolted him all the same.

He about snapped his neck in shock- “Say what?”

“I-“ she retracted, “say what?”

“No- you say what first.””

“I- it’s, nothing.”

She could tell his vibrant mind was whirring away behind wide blue eyes when he looked down at her askance, “Another topic for another day, yeah?”

“Yeah.” she conceded.

“Yeah.” he still sounded shocked, “Jesus, love bug. Way to clear the air.” He shook his head disbelieving, clearing his mind of it and returning to the topic at hand. “Do you want to get away from here? Or do you want to try to find- I don’t know, where she’s buried? Anything? What would help?”

“I don’t know.” Ida admitted, uselessly, pulling herself up a little, sitting between his legs. The water was getting cold.

“You don’t have to know yet.” He said, “But the minute you do, you let me know. Don’t sit on it, whatever it is- I’ll make it happen. I’m dead serious about this Ida, you tell me.”

“Alright.” she agreed soberly, “I don’t think I want to go. Not yet. There’s so much to do here. What you’re doing is too important.”

“Don’t bring that into, we’ll figure it out. Just focus on what you need. Maybe it’s this, what we’re doin’, maybe it’s not. But don’t, I’m beggin’ you, don’t keep me out of it, please Ida, let me help carry it.”

“I think,” she pondered aloud, fully gutted, almost hopeful something new could finally fill her now, “I think it’s that I’m just desperately trying to find some good in these people, my daughter’s people, and it’s so wrong. I’m here to try their crimes, to uncover their atrocities but all I want is proof that they can be good, that they can be like all the rest of us. Bad and good and…and the more we find, lately what we learn of, learn what was done by them, the death camps, the- all of it I, -it seems so small, what happened to me. Even to my girls. But it’s eating me, it’s eating me while I’m here Robert, you understand? You’re here for justice and I thought I was too. Especially after the way the airforce screwed us over. And I was so angry when I got here but I- I want to know her people. I want to know the people I might’ve brought my daughter back to, told her where she came from, told her some of them at least were noble and kind and resilient, that they loved Christmas and gave of their last resources to help another. That they could heal and pray and- I want that and then I wake up another day and I want them to be the monsters we're finding every day, but it’s killing me all the same. Learning they are. Learning they’re not. They’re just like everybody else. I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t. And I don’t know what -what it is I need. What I want. I don’t know but I-“ the bare truth came out in a staccato of ragged breaths, “-but I want you to know me. Even though I'm not, not at all who I want to be anymore but I want you to, I need you to, to know me.” -the thought like Bucky does comes and goes unbidden and savage, “Know me fully.”

Robert’s lips were up against hers when he said it, “I want that, too. That’s all I’ve ever wanted from you.”

“Carry me to bed?” she asked through a shiver, suddenly bone-tired and weary.

His grin melded into his kiss, “Say the word’n’ I’d carry you anywhere, Mrs. Rosenthal.”

💋 Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it! If you’d like to be added or taken off this tag list, just drop me a note!

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[dontmakemechooseanli]

Zayne who is always busy. Always has somewhere to be, someone to help, some research paper to read.

And yet.

He always finds the time to read up about the latest Hunter discoveries and equipment. Listens on the way to work about news stories about wanderers. Pays extra attention to the Hunters that come through Akso and their stories.

Why?

Because- MC is such a nerd about being a Hunter. You get so excited about the tech, the new wanderer species, the new strategies to beat them. All of it.

After the first time MC went on a rant about protocore stabilization tech on the black market Zayne fell even more in love with her.

She’s adorable

But she’s making no damn sense. It’s a cute thing nerds do- they are so into their hobby or interest or job they assume everyone knows about it.

Zayne does not know about it.

So he spends the next 2 days doggedly reading and learning so he can engage you next time you spout off about a knave and the best way to defeat it.

And he does. He knows the questions to ask. He can listen to you ramble about swords and generators even exhausted now and just be happy because he already mostly understands. He doesn’t have to think too hard to keep up anymore.

He’s in love with a nerd and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

(MC catches him half asleep on the couch with a book about the history of protocores the day after you had vividly explained it to him. You fell more in love with him as you tuck the book away and lead the sleepy head surgeon to bed.)

Inspired by the fact that most of my friends and loved one’s are massive nerds and I do have to do my own deep dives sometimes to even begin to understand what they’re talking about

But that’s love and it’s def a part of Zaynes love language

[brittanyearnestauthor]

How to Write Trades and Cultures More Effectively

When developing characters, it's crucial to consider both small and major aspects of their identities. Even if certain details don’t make it into the final story, understanding everything about your character helps define their goals, personality, and role within the plot.

Among these elements, two critical aspects are trade and culture—both shape how a character interacts with their world and influences their decisions. In this post, I’ll explore why trades and backgrounds matter, how they impact character development, and ways to integrate them into storytelling.

What Are Trades?

Trades refer to a character’s occupation, skills, or specialized knowledge—whether they’re in a formal profession or have learned a craft through experience.

Why Trades Matter in Character Development

A character’s trade plays a major role in shaping their skills, mindset, experiences, and worldview. It influences:

- How they approach problems

- Their daily interactions

- Their values and priorities

For example:

- A doctor sees life through healing and responsibility. They might be compassionate, skilled at managing people, and prioritize others' well-being—or, if motivated by money, they could take advantage of patients instead.

- A soldier fights for what they believe in. They often display discipline, resilience, and loyalty but may also struggle with past traumas no one else understands.

These elements help define character motivation and strengthen storytelling, showing why a character makes certain choices and how they evolve over time.

How Backgrounds Shape Character Perspectives

A character’s upbringing, culture, education, and personal experiences shape their personality and beliefs. This influences their decision-making, relationships, and moral outlook.

Key Factors That Shape Backgrounds:

- Wealth – Characters raised in financial stability may value status and image, while those from poverty may prioritize resourcefulness and survival.

- Family Dynamics – A character raised in a loving home may express warmth, while one from a chaotic household may struggle with relationships or seek independence.

- Hardships – Facing difficulties can make a character more compassionate or more guarded, depending on how they respond to challenges.

- Privilege – Some characters may be unaware of societal struggles, assuming others have the same opportunities they do. Others challenge privilege, striving for fairness.

How Location Influences Backgrounds

A character’s surroundings shape expectations, skills, and behaviors:

- City Life – Fast-paced and demanding, often leading to characters who value efficiency and precision.

- Rural or Tribal Life – Strong emphasis on self-sufficiency, community, and survival skills.

- Nomadic or Remote Living – Adaptability, resourcefulness, and deep connection with nature.

Understanding regional influences ensures characters feel authentic and rooted in their environment.

Examples of Careers & Trades

Here’s a diverse mix of occupations and trades to consider for your characters:

Skilled Trades & Hands-On Careers

- Carpenter, Electrician, Plumber, Mechanic, Blacksmith, Welder, Tailor

Medical & Science-Related Professions

- Doctor, Nurse, Pharmacist, Biologist, Psychologist, Chemist, Researcher

Military & Law Enforcement

- Soldier, Police Officer, Spy, FBI Agent, Bodyguard, Detective

Creative & Artistic Careers

- Writer, Painter, Actor, Musician, Graphic Designer, Photographer, Film Director

Business & Technology

- Entrepreneur, Software Developer, Engineer, Accountant, Analyst, Marketing Expert

Education & Mentorship

- Teacher, Professor, Tutor, Historian, Librarian, Public Speaker

Survival & Adventure-Based Trades

- Explorer, Sailor, Ranger, Astronaut, Survivalist, Guide

Unconventional Careers

- Hacker, Fortune Teller, Stunt Performer, Cryptologist, Auctioneer, Game Developer

How Trades & Backgrounds Impact Character Growth

Each profession requires specific skills, emotions, and beliefs, making characters unique within their role. This shapes:

- Problem-solving abilities

- Resilience and adaptability

- Patience, empathy, and integrity

A well-developed character evolves naturally, with their trade and background seamlessly fitting into their personal growth.

How to Effectively Integrate Trades & Backgrounds into Your Story

1. Research Thoroughly – Every culture and profession has unique nuances. Realism enhances authenticity and respect for diverse experiences.

2. Build Around the Character Arc – Design a character’s skills, motivations, and weaknesses to align with their growth and trade.

3. Consider Cultural Influence – A profession may be viewed differently across cultures, requiring accurate representation.

4. Avoid Stereotypes – Even characters within the same trade or culture should have individual personalities and experiences.

5. Expand Beyond Their Career – A character’s interests, hobbies, and struggles should extend beyond their occupation, making them multidimensional.

Conclusion

Thoughtfully integrating trades and backgrounds adds realism, depth, and emotional weight to storytelling. By crafting characters with unique experiences and skill sets, writers create immersive worlds that resonate with audiences.

Developing these elements will help shape memorable characters who feel rooted in their world—characters who stand out and keep readers engaged.

Happy writing!

[coachs-locker-room]

TF Trade:

I got a huge thing for Cbum right now, fuck that's my dream body, maybe even bigger.

I'd put up with anything to wake up as the Aussie version of him 🤤

Your laptop continued to hum away as you tried and failed to focus on your thesis in the library. Scrolling your Instagram feed, again, you came across a familiar face - but this time on your university's gym account..

"JOIN THE CBUM CHALLENGE! WE MAKE BIGGER: HE MAKES BETTER. No experience required, enlist today!"

You sneered as the questionnaire, the series of commitments, and the final, ominous "Transform Now!" button as it all felt pretty amateur. Brushing it off as a hastily-made last-minute effort from some poor meathead sports marketing student to get some 'first-hand data', you closed the link to focus on getting your own research finished. But yet.. a strange curiosity started to gnaw at you... distracting you again... and again.. until you finally clicked that button.

Moments later, back in your cramped room, a strange sort of tingling sensation began behind your eyes and in your fingertips. As you changed into a loose pair of black shorts and a grey tank, you felt a deep feeling of pressure starting to build, and then a feeling of… expansion.

"CONGRATULATIONS!" your phone started to buzz. "You have been chosen to participate in the program! For your own health, you must report to the gym immediately for your induction."

Your frame began to broaden, your legs reshaped, even your forearms morphed into the chisled veins across taught skin of your idol.

A low groan escaped your lips as the sensation coursed deep within you - it was overwhelming, chaotic, and altogether the most euphoric feeling you had ever experienced. As quickly as it began, the moaning within you became a deep belch, as you felt the last of your core tighten. Ending the very same moment, your screen went black, an equally familiar face staring back at you from the other side. Your consciousness, somehow inhabiting the incredible body, could only stare in stunned disbelief.

"...Fucking hell.”

Notification after notification began to be pushed through to your phone, and you realised that you had no choice but to follow their instructions. Upon arrival at the lab, they informed you that the so-called ‘challenge’ was actually a student-led academic collaboration between your university and CBum himself. Deep tissue scans of his entire body were matched with sensory records and psychological expertise, participants would be able to experience a ‘first-hand CBum experience’ - all through a willing host.

They were running out of time to find one - until you.

All through the night until the next morning the gym's lab staff undertook their thorough monitoring process. Everything from how your body measurements compared with his body, your endurance levels matched his endurance, your knowledge and, as you would come to learn, most importantly: what you were missing from his.

What you didn’t initially anticipate was that this meant the CBum program didn’t just bring over his physical likeness to yours, but also his thought patterns. The lab team proposed that over time, the two would slowly merge into a unique hybrid, but no one could be certain just how much of 'you' or 'him' there would be in the long run.

In exchange for participation in the 'challenge', you’d be rewarded with full 1st class credits for the semester, so long as you spent all of your time maintaining your physique.

You were more than happy to do so. Plus, with so much time in the gym ahead of you, it was only natural that you’d find a well-paying side hustle.

"You're not gonna quit on me that easy, are ya, mate?"

Your new, gruff voice barked at the former lab attendant who inducted you all those weeks ago.

"Let’s start again, shall we? I know you've got it in there. 3… 2… 1”

-

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[vivs-fics]

In The Woods Somewhere

Logan Howlett x Reader

Warnings/ Tags: Swearing, smoking, smut to come

Lumberjack AU

Word Count: 8924

The flaming heat of the mid-summer afternoon sizzled down to tepid embers with the arrival of a pleasant sprinkling of rain. The light pitter-patter of rain on your windshield coupled with the slow, easy jazz that flowed out of the radio made for pleasant company on your drive out to the small shopping center in town. A cool wave of contentment washes over you, you relish it. Finally, you feel as though you’re in a place where the entire world doesn’t feel like it’s crumbling around you. Staring out onto the open road ahead of you, a faded white line divides the smooth tarmac surface. Evergreen trees stand proudly on either side of you, the heady scent of pine is thick in the air, amplified by the rain. A sad, sullen thought slinks through your mind.

Was there even a point to bearing witness to all these beautiful things if you had to see them alone?

Thoughts like these creep up on you sometimes. Getting out of a four-year relationship that had you twisted from the inside out will do that to a person. It took you well over a year to process. Countless hours of gentle parenting yourself and using every crappy, overly marketed self-help tool at your disposal to breathe, and mantra, and journal your way through everything. And it worked, partially at least.

Learning to live with yourself was a little harder than expected, but being out here helped. Perhaps it was because of the mountains. Weathered and different from how they once were- carved and indented by the hands of men… But still strong, still present. And maybe, you thought, you should extend the same grace to yourself. Acknowledge that things inside and around you have changed, but never underestimating the importance of the fact that you are still present. Present despite every setback, disappointment and broken heart- and that is no small feat.

You smile. Fuck yeah, emotional regulation. Just as a small blossom of hope sprouted in your chest, it was crushed by the heavy boot of your car engine sputtering, backfiring and then smoking profusely. No. Sweet, suffering Jesus, no. You were too far from the town to get a signal on your phone and were too unfamiliar with the surrounding area to know where the nearest tow company was. You supposed you could just walk to the grocery store you were heading to and ask someone there- but it was at least five miles and visibility was shit because of the rain.

You pull over and rest your head in your hands for a brief moment, recalling all the choices that led you here. You didn’t even have the luxury of blaming all of this on the impulsivity of a drunken night out, no. You sat, and thought, and researched about all of this. This came to you, bit by bit, with a clear mind. A rasp of wry laughter escapes your parted lips. At the angst of it all, the fucking absurdity.

“Alright.” You mutter to yourself, gathering quiet strength stored deep down and get out of the car. You pop the rain spattered hood of your car and assess the damage- the engine smokes, a great roaring heat hits you as soon as it’s given an escape from the confines of the car. “Shit.” Yeah, shit. You wouldn’t be able to fix this, not without some divine imparting of mechanical wisdom. You wait for a moment, collecting yourself.

Your silent prayer to the heavens is interrupted by the distant rumble of an engine. As the sound grows louder, you look up, hoping for a good Samaritan that could aid your current predicament. A red truck makes its way into your vision, an oasis in the desert of your despair. The pickup rolls to a stop, and your eyes move through the rain to see the figure stepping out.

He is a mountain of a man, broad-shouldered and rugged. The brown plaid of his shirt is muted by years of wear- muscles bulge under the fabric. His hair is a warm chestnut, framing his face perfectly. He’s a few feet away, eyeing you with a mix of curiosity and what you took to be mild annoyance- as if this situation was an inconvenience to him. The silence he shrouded himself in was almost tactile. It fills his immediate surroundings with an unspoken reserve that suggested a man chained in solitude. As he approaches, brows furrowed and lips set in a solid line, you notice the shining hazel of his eyes- they’re soft. Surrounded by harsh lines and weighed down by his sullen expression, but soft, nonetheless.

“You alright?” The stranger enquires, eyebrows raising a hair in concern. He looks behind you, almost through you, and lays his sights on the wispy, darkened smoke rising from your engine.

“Yeah- I mean… No. Not really. Stupid fucking car just gave out on me.” You sigh out, exasperated.

He grunts and steps closer. “Want me to take a look?”

A smile graces your features at his offer, “Please. Yeah, go ahead. You know a lot about cars?” You sidestep the vehicle to give him access to your disaster of an engine.

“Some.” He responds, eyes downcast.

He surveys the scene with an air of practiced detachment, “Yeah. It’s fucked. I can tow it into town, if you want.” he offers, his tone carrying a hint of reluctance.

You manage a wry smile, relief flooding you. “That’d be great. Thanks. I couldn’t get a signal out here either so, uh, you’re kind of saving my ass.”

“I’m Logan.” he states plainly, not bothering to shake your hand. He keeps himself away, not allowing the hands that caused so much hurt and pain to taint you with their touch. An invisible border closes him off from you- maybe from everyone, you theorise. He closes the trunk with little regard and turns to you.

“Y/N, pleasure to meet you.” You wipe your clammy palms on your pants, unsure of what to do. His head bows only a little, only for a moment. If his presence wasn’t so encapsulating, you’re sure you would’ve missed it.

He works with an efficient precision, unhooking your car from its spot and securing it to his truck. The heavy clink of the tow hitch falling into place was oddly reassuring, a small promise of resolution to come.

Logan moves to the passenger side of his truck and opens the door for you, extending his arm as a gesture for you to get in. You do so wordlessly, a tight smile flung his way as a measure of gratitude.

As you climb into his truck, the faint scent of blended tobacco and leather wafts its way into your nose. It provides you with an odd sense of comfort. You take in the interior- the brown seats are worn, the dashboard cluttered with pinecones and other forest finds. Odd, you think, but refrain from asking about it. Instead, you ask the only thing you could think of- it comes out sputtered and unkempt, “So, uh, have you lived here long?”

“A while.” His eyes don’t leave the road, his knuckles tighten slightly around the dark expanse of the steering wheel.

Am I annoying him? You think to yourself, but quickly shut it down remembering how he offered to help you. Perhaps this is just his nature, it fits with the gruff woodsman aesthetic he’s wrapped himself in.

“You don’t talk much, do you, Logan?” You peer over at him. Jesus fucking Christ this man is so beautiful. Maybe you’d be more annoyed by his shitty attitude if he wasn’t so goddamn pretty.

“Not if I can help it, angel.”

“Angel? Ah come on, Logan. Don’t tell me you’ve resorted to that because you’ve already forgotten my name.” You jest, a small ring of laughter coming from you.

There is the tiniest uptick of his lips, you note it. “Didn’t forget it.”

“So you say.” You smile at him once again, subconsciously willing him to look at you again. He does, but only for a moment. Just enough to indulge the butterflies inhabiting your belly. Logan drives with focus, intensity. You were sure he applied the same intent to everything else in his life.

The truck glides steadily along the winding road. The landscape remains breathtaking, even as you get closer to civilisation. The towering pines, strong and evergreen; the lake shimmering like a million sapphires, and the mountains looming majestically with peaks partially veiled by mist. You suck in a deep breath, letting the serenity of the outside make its way inside you. Logan is not blind to this; he checks on you periodically. It takes every fibre of his willpower to not look at you. He wants to drink you in, satiate himself on the divine radiance of your presence. So bright, so beautiful. He wouldn’t dare risk casting a shadow over that.

Your attempts to make conversation with the burly plaid-clad man feel like an exercise in persistence. “So… Is it a habit of yours come to the rescue of beautiful, stranded motorists?”

He lets out a non-committal grunt. You sigh, deflating into the seat slightly. He notes the pang he feels in his chest at disappointing you. He means to crush it under his heel, with the force and might of a tank, but he can’t seem to bring himself to. Logan shakes it off, reminding himself that he is, at his core, stone and adamantium, sharp edges and an impenetrable centre. The world breaks against him.  

He glances at you briefly before focusing on the road, stealing seconds of you for himself. Logan supposes he could indulge you, just this once. “Not always. Just when it’s hard to ignore.”

“I have been told I light up a room. Maybe that same mechanism made me look like the world’s prettiest, most devastated road flare.”

 Logan lets out a scoff, it’s half-hearted and something close to a show of amusement. The corners of his mouth ascend as he turns onto the road leading into town. You witness it, photograph it, and frame it in your mind.

The truck rumbles down the road as the mechanic shop comes into view. It was the kind of place you wouldn’t notice unless you sook it out. It is a dingy, slightly crooked building with a battered, sun-bleached sign that reads "Ricky’s Auto" just barely clinging on to the wall. A sad collection of vehicles lay scattered around the lot, most of them looking like they were long past saving.

You sigh deeply, eyeing your pathetic excuse of a car that’s still hitched to the back of Logan’s truck. This is not how I imagined my day going, you think to yourself. You had envisioned picking up some cherries from the greengrocer and making a pie, maybe getting some reading done with a hot cup of tea. But here you were, courtesy of Mr Sex on Legs, who so far had spoken about fifteen words to you.

As soon as Logan parks the car, he exits and moves around the vehicle in an imperceptibly swift motion and opens the door for you. You hop down from the slightly raised surface and give him an easy smile, coupled with a genuine, albeit slightly surprised, “Thank you.”  You doubt he hears you though, because he’s already moving to unhitch your car. And, by God, you try not to stare, but it seems like the world’s most impossible task. Seeing the way his muscles moved under the lines of his plaid shirt makes your mouth water. With the same quiet efficiency as before, he unlatches the tether between the two vehicles.

Before you think too much about how incredibly strong he looks, a man in oil-stained overalls emerges from the garage. He has a crescent moon hairline and thin, wire framed glasses. Splotches of grease stain his fingers as well as the cloth clasped in his left hand. “Logan m’boy!” he calls out, slapping his rag down on a pile of neatly stacked tyres. “Haven’t seen you ‘round here in a goddamn minute.” The grey-haired man stands a few feet away from us, a half-smoked cigarette dangles from his lips. His blue overalls are stained from decades of oil changes and brake jobs. A canvas upon which he painted his years of experience.

“Been busy,” Logan mutters, his voice gruff as all hell, but you notice the faintest flicker of a smile tug at his lips.

The mechanic turns to you, putting his hands on his hips. “And who might you be, Miss?”  

“Oh- I’m Y/N. My car decided today would be a good day to give out on me and, um, Logan here so generously offered me a tow.” You flash him a half-smile.

“He did, eh?” Ricky peers over his glasses to assess Logan, standing with his arms folded over his chest. Logan furrows his brows, a silent conversation occurring between the two men. You shift on your feet awkwardly, unsure of what to do.

Ricky shrugs his shoulders and walks over to the car. The bespeckled man leans over, scratching his chin. “Alright Miss Y/N. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.” He pops the hood and squints, practiced eyes examining the situation. “Yeah, looks like the radiator’s shot. I can fix it, but it’ll take a day or two for parts.”

A day or two? Fuck me, you think to yourself. You make an attempt to shirk your disappointment, but it is as evident as the light of day upon your face. “Right. Okay. I suppose if that’s the only way…”

Before you could dwell on it, Logan speaks up. “Ricky’s the best. He’ll get it done, angel.” Your eyes meet momentarily, sincerity evident behind his hazel irises. “If you need a ride or anything… I can, uh… I’m around.” He curses himself out mentally. Now why the fuck would I say that? He thinks, clenching his fists slightly.

Your eyebrows raise in surprise, the butterflies in your stomach flutter wildly. Considering how he behaved like simply towing your car into town was a chore, you hadn’t expected an offer like this. “Uh, yeah. That’s really sweet of you, Logan, but I wouldn’t want to put you out…” you fiddle with the rings on your fingers, hoping he sees through your feigned polite declination.

Ricky, however, wasn’t about to let this moment slide. He interjects, leaning against your car. “Don’t be silly, Miss. ‘Course he’ll take you.” An air of finality surrounds his words.

Logan shoots him a look, jaw clenching in the most delicious way. This, however, just causes an even wider grin to spread across Ricky’s wrinkled features. “Young miss, you were headin’ into town, weren’t you? Logan here would be more than delighted to take you ‘round and bring you home after.”

You glance over to Logan, eyes wide, curious, pleading. He nods his head, albeit begrudgingly. You let of a smooth sigh of relief, thank God. After giving Ricky your details, you exit the well-loved repair shop to see Logan with his hands shoved deep into his jean pockets.

“C’mon then angel.” He rumbles, tilting his head in the direction of his truck. He opens the door for you once again and waits until you’re strapped up before he shuts it.

You couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound breaking the tension the tiniest bit. “So, I wanted to go to the grocery store to pick up some cherries. I was going to bake a pie tonight.”

He hums in response, eyes focused on the road. “You bake often?” It comes out gritted, restrained. Knuckles whiten around the worn steering wheel.

“When I can. I thought I’d bake as much as I could before the school year starts. I’m, uh- I’m starting work at Oak Haven High School in the fall.”

He nods slowly- soaking in the bright, melodious nature of your voice. He could listen to you talk about nothing forever, he thinks to himself. He wants to hear you laugh; he wants your smiles to come about because of him. He wants to hear you whimper under him while he- No. No. Can’t think about that, Logan scolds himself for allowing his mind to wander.

“You know I-” You pause for a moment, thinking about how to say this. He glances over as you stop speaking, brows raising a fraction of an inch, egging you on.

“Well… it’s just that you’ve been so kind to me, and I’d like to repay your favours.”

“Don’t need to, angel.”

“No, but I want to. I don’t know if you’re busy later but maybe you could come to mine for dinner? I was going to cook Chicken Adobo and uh, and the pie, obviously.” You smile, teeth flashing from under painted lips. And his heart catches in his chest. Every ounce of better judgement is silenced by the screaming of every cell in his body, telling him to say yes. It’s beyond desire, beyond want. It’s necessity. He must see you again.

“You don’t- no. That’s not necessary.”

“Aw c’mon, I can’t say the food will be anything to write home about, but I can promise some good company.” You bat your lashes at him and smile and for the first time in a long time, Logan feels weak.

“Alright.” He drawls out, the faintest whisper of a smile graces his face.

“Really?” You beam, all sunshine and warmth. It lights something up inside him, a fire he’s kept covered since he moved out here. He nods, loosening his grip on the steering wheel. It’s surprising to him, how easily he lost this battle of wills with you. And maybe, he thought, he should allow you to win again and again.

The drive into town is pleasant, less tense than before. You glance at Logan from the corner of your eye, mind reeling at the sight of the beautiful behemoth of a man to your right. He is clearly a man of few words, his stony exterior surely aids in his want for solitude. Every now and then, you’d catch him looking at you, infinitesimal moments that he took for himself. Neither of you comment on it.

“So… you and Ricky go way back?” you enquired finally, breaking the seemingly never-ending silence.

Logan shrugs nonchalantly, keeping his eyes trained on the road. As if he knew that if he allowed himself to look at you properly, he’d never be able to look away. “Knew him from town. He’s good people.”

You nod, eagerly awaiting more from him. When he doesn’t give you anything else, you decide to press a little. “He seemed to enjoy teasing you back there.”

Logan huffs, something resembling a laugh escaping his perfect lips. “Ricky’s a pain in the ass, but he means well.”

That, right there—that tiny hint of humour hidden under his stony exterior, it makes you smile. “Seems like everyone in this town’s got a lot of… uh… personality.”

He glances at you, his gaze lingering just a second longer than before. “Guess so.”

Subtle as it may have been, there’s something a touch different about the way he gazes upon you now. A hairline fracture appears in the brick-and-mortar walls that surround him, letting the slightest sliver of something out, something real and tactile and intoxicating.

Strolling into the little greengrocers, you glance down at the shopping list in your hand. The air in the small space is fresh, produce is lined up in neat piles sprawling across the aisles. Logan is pushing the cart with squared shoulders, he’s tense. He glances moves past the fresh vegetables receiving a light misting from the sprinklers above. His hazel eyes scan the surroundings, as if he’s waiting for something- or someone to pop up.

“Are you always this tense when you go shopping?” you ask, a vain attempt to lighten the mood, raising an eyebrow at him as you stop in front of the baking section.

Logan looks over at you, his expression hard, unreadable. “What do you mean?”

“You know, some people find this relaxing,” you said, grabbing a bag of sugar and tossing it into the cart. “But you look like you’re being hunted for sport.”

He snickers, shaking his head. “I just like getting in and out. Not a fan of lingering.”

“Not a fan of lingering,” you repeat with a smirk, eyeing him as you reach for a small bottle of almond extract. “I guess I shouldn’t ask for your opinion on pie spices, then? Too much lingering involved.”

He gives you a slight shrug, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “As long as it’s edible, I don’t have a strong opinion.”

“High praise, Logan,” you jest, rolling your eyes playfully. “I’ll be sure to aim for ‘edible’.”

Logan remains silent, giving you the sweet nothing you’d become slightly accustomed to. You could, however, see the tiniest bit of amusement flicker in his eyes. He isn’t exactly chatty, but there is something oddly comforting about his presence. He’s grounded, solid. Reminds you of the mountains- he smells like them, too. Fresh, earthy, safe.

As you reach the fruit aisle, you glance at the cherries, bright and shiny under the fluorescent lights. You grab a bag and hand it to him, watching as he weighs them in his large, calloused hands.

“Do you even like cherry pie?” you asked, sliding your hands into your back pockets as you lean against the cart.

He paused for a second, looking down at the cherries, then up at you. “Never had it.”

Your eyes widen in blatant disbelief, “You’ve never had cherry pie?”

Logan shakes his head, his expression still neutral, though you notice the faintest trace of amusement behind his eyes. “Nope.”

“Well, now I feel like I’m under immense pressure,” you said, mock serious. “I’m taking your cherry pie virginity, Logan. What if I mess it up?”

He raises an eyebrow, his voice teasing. “Didn’t you say somethin’ about aiming for edible?”

You snort, shaking your head. “Shut it.”

He shrugged again, his lips twitching into a near-smile. “Just holding you to your own standards, angel.”

“So, that’s how it’s going to be?” you shoot back, unable to keep the grin off your face. “Alright then, tough guy, let’s see if you can handle the next critical decision.” You gestured grandly to the dairy section. “Butter or margarine?”

Logan drinks you in, sizes you up, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly. “Butter. Always butter.”

You clap your hands together and sigh dreamily. “A man after my own heart.”

The gruff lumberjack feels his cheeks heating, he needs to look away from you- you’re too goddamn beautiful, even under the harsh fluorescent lights. He feels as if he’s going to combust, but he cannot bring himself to tear his gaze from you. So, he smiles. It’s bright and big and you catch a glimpse of his sharp canines.

The banter continues as you wander through the aisles, each small decision becoming a chance for you to tease him, and for Logan to surprise you with his dry, understated responses.

At one point, you reach for a carton of eggs, only for him to pluck it off the shelf before you can. “I’ve got it,” he said, placing it carefully in the cart.

You tilt your head, pretending to size him up. “You’re surprisingly helpful for someone who looks like they’d rather wrestle a bear than be in here.”

He lets out a low chuckle, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “I’m not that bad.”

You grin, leaning in a little. “Oh? You sure about that? Because the guy I met a few hours ago...” You raise your eyebrows and suck in a breath through your teeth.

Logan’s jaw clenches, there is no anger behind it though- more like he is deciding how much to give away. You decide to leave it alone, best not to press him, you thought as you see him shift, like he isn’t used to being called out.

“I guess you caught me on a rough morning,” he says finally, his voice quiet but sincere.

You soften at that, watching him for a second longer than you intended. There is something vulnerable in his honesty, and it throws you off guard. You want to watch him unravel next to you- you want to kiss the scars on his hands and shield him from the world.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” you hum, your tone lighter again, “I, um, I didn’t mean to pry.”

Logan shook his head, dismissing it easily. “It’s fine. I don’t mind.”

You let the silence hang between you for a second before deciding to break it. “Well, in that case, I think you’ve earned the right to pick the ice cream.”

He glanced down at the freezer section in front of you, clearly aware of your attempt to steer things back to neutral territory. “Vanilla.”

You groaned, dramatically covering your face with your hand. “Vanilla? Really?”

Logan’ lips twitched again. “What’s wrong with vanilla?”

“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head as if you were gravely disappointed, “It’s good. Classic.”

“You seem surprised.” He adds, eyebrows raised in faux surprise.

“Yeah,” you reply, a concealed smile on your face. “I had you pegged as… like a… mint chocolate chip man.”

He smirked—a full-on, unmistakable smirk. “Mint chocolate chip.” Logan swirls the words around in his mouth He kisses his teeth and shakes his head, playing disappointed. “That’s… certainly something, angel.”

You throw your hands up in defeat. “What do you mean? Mint chocolate chip is a perfectly respectable flavour to enjoy!” He grunts in response, picking up the vanilla ice cream and dropping it into the little trolley.

As you make your way to the checkout, you can’t help but sneak glances- actually, scratch that... You cannot help but full-on stare at him, eyes trained to his pretty face or his rippling muscles the entire time- shamelessly. There is just something about the way he carries himself—strong and steady, but there’s also faint whisps of humor peeking through his tough exterior. It made you feel like you’d been graced with a glimpse of the real Logan.

And maybe, no… Definitely. You definitely like what you see.

The drive back to your house is quiet, as you anticipated. Not an awkward silence- more like the kind that settles in when two people are comfortable. Logan’s prized red truck rumbles steadily along the road, the low hum of the engine filling the gaps in conversation. You stare out the window, watching the trees blur into a mix of greens and browns as the slightly parted clouds give way to balmy rays of mild, yellow sunlight.

“This is me,” you state, a pointed finger directing him toward a small, cozy house nestled between the trees. You could already see your porch light flickering on, casting a warm, yellow glow over the front steps. As Logan slows to a stop, the tires crunching on gravel, you feel a little flutter of nervousness again. I should’ve mowed the goddamn lawn, you chastise yourself internally.

Logan put the truck in park, glancing around as if taking mental inventory of the place. You observe his hazel eyes sweeping over the porch, the old oak rocking chair in the corner, the hanging ferns swaying slightly in the breeze. He doesn’t say much, but you can tell he is taking it all in- just like he’d taken in the details of you back in the store. Quiet, observant.

“You moved into Sixty-Seven?” he enquires, his voice low, almost like he was talking to himself.

You blink, looking at him as you fumbled for your seatbelt. “Yeah, it was- uh- I just fell in love with it, y’know? It’s got this bay window out front, and I just couldn’t stop thinking about how beautiful the view would be from there when it snowed.”

Logan gives you a small nod, his hands still resting on the steering wheel, gaze lingering on your abode. His heart clenches in his chest- this, all of this and you- so beautiful, so perfect. His eyes catch the flicker of the porch light, and for a second, you wonder what he is thinking. Surely nothing about how goddamn unkempt your lawn looks. Surely.

“You live nearby, Logan?” you ask quickly, a flailing attempt to fill the quiet.

“Yeah. Not far from here.” His voice is gruff, but there was something almost... tentative about it. Like he hadn’t really expected to say that out loud. “Just, uh, down the street actually.”

You hum and give him a smile, looking out the window again. “So… I guess, uh, I should get going?”

Logans lips twitch slightly, though his eyes remain fixed on your house. “Guess so.” He almost seems lost in thought. You couldn’t possibly fathom that he was lost in a fantasy, so long passed that he never thought he could reach it again. He imagines love flowing out of your house, music playing softly in the living room. His mind wanders to you: you who should not have such an immense hold on him this soon; you with your dazzling smile and bright eyes, with that sweet fuckin’ ass and those perfect tits- Logan blinks and suddenly the domestic fantasy is dragged away from him. The prospect of warmth like that is stolen and an icy reality washes over him. The reality that he is alone- and perhaps it was best for everyone if it stayed that way.

For a moment, neither of you move. You feel the weight of the day settle between you, meeting one another, the shared shopping trip, the easy banter, the way he had quietly helped with everything without making a fuss. And now here you are, sitting in his truck, only a few feet from your front door, and it feels like you are still... suspended. Like neither of you quite want the moment to end.

You catch him glancing at you again—just a quick, fleeting look, but enough for you to notice. He has this way of looking at you like he isn’t sure what to do with you, as if you are simultaneously the most innocent and dangerous thing in the world.

“I, uh, appreciate the help today,” you say finally, your voice resounding melodically in the quiet cab of the truck. “And the ride. I really do. Thank you, Logan.”

His fingers flex on the steering wheel, his knuckles brushing against the worn leather. “Not a big deal,” he mutters, his hazel eyes finding yours before looking away again. He finds it hard to breathe, even with the windows of the car open. You shine and radiate and fill up the space with your insurmountable beauty. He doesn’t know how he’ll ever be able to look away.

Isn’t a big deal? You smile to yourself. Perhaps this is just his way? Saying something isn’t a big deal when he’d gone out of his way to make sure it was sorted out. Like when he stayed with you at the mechanic, or when he let you tease him about lingering in the grocery store without getting defensive. Every little thing about today had shown you more of who he was beneath the gruff exterior. And you want more.

“Well, it is to me,” you said softly, your fingers brushing the door handle as you hesitated. “So… thanks.”

He nods, still not looking at you directly, but you can feel the weight of what isn’t being said between you. You weren’t sure if it was the quiet of the woods surrounding you, or the warmth that lingered from the setting sun, but something about the moment felt... heavier. Like it wasn’t just about the grocery run or the ride home.

He shakes his head, as if clearing his mind from the thoughts he is having about you and moves to open your door. His tan boots crunch heavily on the gravel. The cool afternoon air engulfs around you, a chill runs up your spine. You turn back to face Logan, who was still here, leaning against the side of his truck. He watches you in that way of his—silent, steady, almost unreadable.

“So, um… I’ll see you tonight around seven?” you query, a genuine lightness in your tone.

Logan nods slowly, his gaze shifting between you and the house, like he was still sizing up the situation. “Yeah. You sure you don’t need help takin’ all that inside?”

“I’m a big girl, Logan. I think I can manage carrying two shopping bags twenty feet into my kitchen.” You jest, but your hands feel clammy, and your belly constricts at the thought of him coming into your absolute mess of a house. It horrifies you, boxes sprawled across the floor, clothes haphazardly strewn on the backs of your chairs, dishes piled in the sink left with the promise of fixing it up after your ‘quick run into town.’ Not exactly the best circumstances for a… what even was this? A date? A thank you dinner? God knows.  

But before you could take another step, he calls out, his voice a little softer than before. “Angel. Thanks, uh, for the invite.”

You turn back to him, your heart doing cartwheels at the sound of that nickname in his mouth. You wanted to hear it over and over, every second of every day, sung out in pleasure and joy.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice softer than you intend. “Of course.”

He nods once, like that is all he needed to hear, before turning around and hopping into his car. As you watch him pull away, the truck’s rumbling engine cutting through the serenity of the street, you cannot shake the feeling that something is shifting. Inside you, perhaps inside him. It could be nothing. Or maybe it is everything.

~

You didn’t think that you’d live to see the apocalypse, yet here you were standing in what can only be described as a catastrophe-riddled kitchen. Bombs of flour litter your immediate vicinity. It’s on the counters, the floor, it even managed to get on the potted fern by the window it’s leaves dusted white like a winter’s morning. The air smells of sugar, sweet cherries and the buttery pie crust, which was about the only thing that was going well at this point.

Oh God. Why did I think this was a good idea?you think to yourself, contemplating why you didn’t just offer to invite him to dinner tomorrow.

Inviting Logan over for dinner seemed like such a simple, kind gesture at the time. A little thank you for all his help with the car, perhaps a little excuse to indulge in his presence once more. But now, standing in the middle of this culinary battlefield, your confidence is crumbling faster than the edges of your pie crust.

You flail around attempting to make your house seem presentable, shoving clothes into your laundry basket and wiping up the remnants of flour and sugar and pie crust that had somehow spawned all over your kitchen.

The clock on the wall ticks louder than usual, reminding you that time is running out. Fifteen minutes until he arrives. You glance at the mirror by the door and cringe slightly at the sight. Flour streaked your cheek, your hair is dishevelled, your teal apron is muddied from its time on the aforementioned culinary battlefield.

Your heart does a little flip, and you immediately scolded yourself for it. Why are you nervous? It’s just a friendly thank you dinner. A friendly thank-you dinner with a pretty, brooding, unimaginably sexy man. You suck in a few deep breaths before changing into something appropriate for dinner.

The setting of the table is interrupted by three sharp raps on your front door. You swing the door open, and there he is, standing on your porch in all his glory. His broad shoulders fill the doorway, a fresh red flannel shirt stretches taut across his defined chest, and his boots are coated in a fine layer of dust, a bottle of red wine is clasped in his right hand. For a moment, the world outside seems to fade into the background, and it was just the two of you, standing in this strange, unspoken space between strangers and something else… something more.

His hazel eyes meet yours, flicking quickly to the warmly lit living room behind you. You see a brief flash of ardour in his gaze before his face settles into its usual unreadable expression.

“Hey,” you sing out, a big smile gracing your features. You step aside and extend your arm in invitation. “Come on in.”

Logan nods and steps inside, moving slowly, as if he isn’t entirely sure if he belongs here. He glances around, taking in the varnished wooden floors, the cosy linen couches, the scent of sugar and cherry hanging in the air. His eyes settle on the antique record player in the corner of the living room, and for a second, you think you see his lips twitch, the ghost of a smile. It feels unfamiliar to him, but it was good, he thought. Something about this cosy space, with its cluttered charm and lingering warmth, made him feel less out of place than he expected.

He watches you move, your hands fidgeting as you finish setting the table. There was something... endearing about it, Logan thought. Something about the way you hold yourself that makes him feel warm inside. An almost indefinable quality that tells him that this is you, unabashed and unashamed of your nature. He yearns for that.

“Uh, I hope you’re hungry,” you said, your voice a shining as you gesture to the table. “I’ve got the chicken stewing, and the pie’s almost ready... sort of.”

Logan gives you a low grunt of approval, his eyes flicking to the pie cooling by the window. “Smells good,” he said, his voice rougher than usual, like he’s trying to find his footing in this strange, domestic moment.

You smile awkwardly, fiddling with your fingers. “It’s my first pie in, well, uh... years. Let’s just hope it tastes better than it looks.”

She’s nervous, Logan realizes, watching the way your delicate hands tremble slightly. He’s used to people being nervous around him, he’s an intimidating man, but most just avoid him altogether. But here you are, standing in front of him, your eyes bright with uncertainty, trying to make the best of this impromptu dinner.

He takes a seat at the small kitchen table, the polished chair creaking slightly under his weight. The space feels too small for him—too cozy, too... personal. But he notices the little things, the details that make it feel like a home: the way the warm porch light slants through the window, catching the edges of the remnants of flour on the counter, the faint hum of the adobo bubbling on the stove, the warmth that seemed to fill every corner of the room. It is a place he could never have imagined for himself, but in this moment, it feels like he’s supposed to be here.

You shuffle around the kitchen, stirring the stew, checking the pie. But you can feel his eyes on you- those sharp, quiet eyes that seem to view more than they let on. You weren’t sure if he’s judging your messy kitchen or just observing, but either way, the awareness of his gaze makes your heart race.

“So, do you cook often?” Logan enquires, breaking the silence, his voice low and steady.

You let out a breathy laugh, gesturing to the flour-covered counter. “I know it probably doesn’t look like it, but I promise I do.” You rub the back of your neck sheepishly.

He tilted his head slightly, a hint of playfulness flickering in his eyes. “No, it- uh- it smells good, angel. Want me to open the wine?”

You chuckle, nodding your head. “Yeah, let me- I’ll just get some glasses. Thank you for this, by the way. I thought I was supposed to be making it up to you for everything you did, and here you go adding to the list.”

“Couldn’t help myself.” Logan said, leaning back in the chair, arms crossed. He didn’t smile, but there was a softness in his tone that surprised you.

You dished out the stew, setting a bowl in front of him. Your fingers brushed his as you passed the bowl, and the warmth of his skin sent a tiny spark up your arm, more surprising than you wanted to admit. He retracts his hand, causing the stew to drip down from the side of the bowl, “Shit. Sorry.” He quickly grabs the cloth napkin that the cutlery was laid down upon and wipes up the stray droplets.

As you sit across from him, you try to relax, but every time you look up, there Logan is, sitting at your kitchen table like he belonged there, like this wasn’t the most surreal thing that had happened since you moved here. He eats in silence, his movements slow and deliberate, the way someone eats when they’ve learned to savour every bite. Why does he have to be so... solid? you wonder, watching him out of the corner of your eye. There is something grounding about him, something steady. Even though he barely said a word, his presence filled the room, making it feel smaller, warmer.

“So,” you said, breaking the silence, “what do you do when you’re not out chopping trees? Any hobbies besides... lumberjacking?”

Logan raises an eyebrow, his mouth morphing into some kind of reserved smirk. “I’m not that interesting.”

“Oh, come on,” you tease, leaning forward slightly. “There has to be something.”

He shrugs, honey eyes drifting to the window. “Just take care of the land. Fix things up. Keeps me busy. I’m up on Lot 48- it’s lakeside. I, uh, started redoing the house when I moved out here.”

You nod, picturing him out in the woods, working with his hands, surrounded by nothing but the sound of nature. It was such a different life from anything you knew, and you couldn’t help but wonder what had led him to choose that kind of isolation.

“Must get lonely,” you coo softly, not quite sure why the words slip out.

Logan’s jaw tightens slightly, his gaze still fixed on the window. “Sometimes. But it’s better that way.”

The silence that follows is heavier this time, charged with something unspoken. You want to ask more, to understand why he kept himself so closed off, but before you could say anything, Logan smiles at you. His eyes are soft, mellow pools of gold that you want to lose yourself in. The smile catches him by surprise, but he can’t help it- you’re so fucking gorgeous, and you put so much effort into this meal. Things of beauty, such as this, seem foreign to Logan.

The rest of the meal passes in quiet conversation, the tension from earlier slowly melting into something softer. You serve the cherry pie and wait in eager anticipation for his feedback. Logan takes his first bite, fork passing through his soft, pink lips. His eyes widen slightly, just enough for you to catch the flicker of approval. He lets out the most delicious low moan.

“This is so fucking good,” he said, his voice rough, sincere.

You smile, feeling a warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with the wine or the steaming hot cherry pie. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you’d done something right. Truly right. Completely right.

“Really?”

He lets out a muffled “Mhm.” Mouth still stuffed with vanilla ice cream and cherry pie. “I, uh… I don’t usually have a sweet tooth- but you’re- uh, this is incredible, angel.”

"That's mighty high praise, Logan. Would you go so far as to say it's edible?"

A laugh rings out from him, more joyful than a thousand church bells, sweeter than all the combs of honey the world has to offer. "Fuck yeah."

~

The scrape of chairs across the floor feels almost too loud, punctuating the end of dinner with a finality that leaves your heart beating just a touch faster. As you stack the plates and glance toward Logan, the room feels smaller somehow, heavy with the weight of something unsaid, something hanging in the air between the two of you. Nobody comments on it, neither of you have the courage to.

Logan so moves easily, like he’d done this a thousand times before, confident in every movement, every stride. Taking the plates from your hands without so much as a word, his fingers brush yours again, but he doesn’t flinch away from it this time. Even though it’s just for a second, it sends a spark of electricity up your arm—a reminder of the tension that has been simmering since he came into your house.

“I’ll take care of this,” he murmurs, already heading to the sink. His voice is low, gruff as always, but there’s something softer beneath it tonight. He rolls up his sleeves, exposing his forearms—strong, tanned, with just the right amount of scruff. You have to physically stop your jaw from dropping. You can’t help but stare, and apparently, you aren’t as subtle about it as you think because he catches you looking and raises an eyebrow.

“You alright over there?” he asks, a teasing edge to his tone.

“Fine,” you say, too quickly, reaching for a towel. “Just... uh, trying to figure out how you’ve made washing dishes look like some kind of art form.”

“That all?” He chuckles, the low rumble of his voice makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

“Yeah, I just… I can’t remember the last time someone did the dishes for me.”

“Don’t be too impressed. I can clean up after myself.” He winks, leaning over the sink.

You dry the dishes after he rinses them, the comfortable silence between you filled only by the clinking of plates and the soft hum of the evening beyond the window. Every now and then, you catch him sneaking a glance your way, and each time, it makes your pulse quicken just a little. There’s something brewing here, something that neither of you seem ready to name just yet.

When the last dish is dried and put away, Logan leans back against the counter, rubbing the back of his neck—a gesture you weren’t sure you’d ever see, a sign of nervousness. “Mind if I step outside? Thought I’d smoke a cigar.”

You blink, not half surprised. The idea of him standing on the porch with a cigar seems... right. You nod, suddenly feeling like you need fresh air yourself. “Sure, uh, I’ll come with you.”

The evening air is cool, a light breeze carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. The sky is splattered with deep purples and oranges, with the final rays of sunlight slowly dipping behind the mountains, casting a beautiful golden glow over everything. The porch creaks slightly underfoot as you both step outside, the world around you settling into a soft hush.

Logan reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a thick Cuban cigar, lighting it with slow, practiced ease. The flare of the lighter illuminates his face for a brief moment, highlighting the strong lines of his jaw and the hazel of his eyes that caught the fading light just right. He takes a slow drag, the scent of tobacco mixing with the pine-scented air. You’re drunk on him. Gulping down every facet of the strong man available to you.

You lean against the railing, pretending to watch the sunset but feel the weight of his gaze on you, that unspoken tension still simmering. “Hey Logan?” you enquire, breaking the quiet, “what’s with all the pinecones on your dashboard?”

He lets out a low chuckle, glancing sideways at you, cigar puffing between his lips. “Noticed that, did you?”

“Hard not to,” you reply, teasing. “You’ve got a whole collection. I thought maybe you were some kind of weird tree fruit enthusiast.”

“Not quite,” he quips, tapping the ash from his cigar. “Those... well, they’re gifts.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “Gifts?”

“Yeah.” He shifts slightly, looking a little embarrassed, which only made you more curious. “From my cat.”

Your eyes widen, a surprised laugh bubbling up before you can stop it. “Your cat brings you pinecones?”

He nods, taking another slow drag of his cigar. “She’s a stray I took in. Started bringin’ me little ‘presents’—pinecones, rocks, she found a… a, uh, whole stem of Harebells once. Couldn’t bring myself to throw them out, so... they ended up on the dash.”

“That’s... fucking adorable,” you said, biting back a grin. “You’re a big softie underneath everything, aren’t you, Logan?”

He gives you a half-smile, his hazel eyes glinting with something you can’t quite place. “Guess I’m a bit sentimental.”

You tilt your head, looking at him in a new light, a softer light. “Sentimental, huh? Never would’ve guessed that about you.”

He shrugs, blowing out another stream of smoke, his gaze flicking back toward the mountains. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, angel.”

The way he says your name—soft, low, with just a touch of something deeper—sends a shiver down your spine. You turned slightly, leaning against the railing, your arm brushing his as you did. “So dramatic, Logan. Maybe you should start filling in the gaps, then.”

Logan looks down at you, his eyes locking onto yours in a way that makes your breath catch in your throat. The air between you feels charged, the fading sunlight casting great, sweeping shadows across his face, making everything feel more intimate, more immediate. For a moment, you are sure he is going to say something—something important—but then he just smiles, that quiet, secretive smile that makes you wonder what exactly is going on inside his head.

“You really wanna know?”

You nod, biting your lip. “I do.”

For a moment, the world seems to narrow to just the two of you, the fading light, the soft breeze, and the shared space on that old porch. You don’t say anything else, and neither of you move away from the other. Instead, you simply stand there, side by side, feeling the tension thrum between you like something alive, waiting to be acknowledged.

And then, in a quiet voice that is almost drowned out by the sound of the crickets, Logan whispers, “I like this. Being here.” With you, he omits.

Your heart skips a beat, your breath catching in your throat as you turn to look at him. He isn’t smiling, not exactly, but there is something softer in his expression, something that makes your chest feel too tight, your thoughts too scattered.

“I like it too.” you grin, not trusting yourself to say more.

He doesn’t reply, he just nods slightly, taking one last drag from his cigar before putting it out against the heel of his shoe, a practiced movement. And even though he doesn’t say anything else, the way he looks at you in that moment- his eyes dark and warm, his posture more relaxed than before but still stony- says everything you need to hear. And it scares him. It scares the fuck out of him. The whole reason he came out here was to get away from people- if no one knew him and no one wanted to know him, then there was absolutely no chance of people getting hurt because of him. But here you were, fresh faced and pure, weaseling your way into the stone walls he’d built up over so many years.

“I should, uh, I should get goin’, angel.” He sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets, closing the solid barrier between you and him.

“Oh,” The word comes out involuntarily, sadness lacing the singular syllable. “No, yeah. Of course. It’s getting late.”

He clears his throat, stepping down the stairs one by one, “Thank you, again, for dinner. It was really good. Don’t put yourself down so much.”

You chuckle, nodding at his praise. You let it drip down you and warm your entire body. It feels good. The moonlight casts a pale glow over him, illuminating his features and encasing him in an angelic glow. God, he’s so fucking beautiful. You don’t want him to go, you want him to stay and light a fire for the two of you, you want him to sit and talk more about his cat and his house and everything else he’d be willing to tell you.  

“I left my number on that notepad in your kitchen. Call me if you need somethin’ angel. I’m sure I’ll- uh- I’ll see you around.”

You wave him off as his headlights illuminate the road leading away from your house. As soon as he’s in the confines of his car, and far enough away for you not to hear- he lets out a long, “Fuck!” And another, and one more for good measure. He runs a hand through his hair, a maelstrom of emotions swirl through his chest. He shouldn’t feel this much for someone, not this soon, anyways. But it is the most intoxicating feeling in the world, being near you gives him a high people could only dream of; his head is a mess- his heart more so.

For now, Logan only knows two things for certain: that he absolutely should not see you again, and that he 100% would be seeing you again.  

Part 2 >>>

Hi hi! So this is part one to my Lumberjack!Logan series. It's going to be a bit of a slow burn, but please let me know what you think of the story so far!

xoxo, Viv

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We need to talk about AI

Okay, several people asked me to post about this, so I guess I am going to post about this. Or to say it differently: Hey, for once I am posting about the stuff I am actually doing for university. Woohoo!

Because here is the issue. We are kinda suffering a death of nuance right now, when it comes to the topic of AI.

I understand why this happening (basically everyone wanting to market anything is calling it AI even though it is often a thousand different things) but it is a problem.

So, let's talk about "AI", that isn't actually intelligent, what the term means right now, what it is, what it isn't, and why it is not always bad. I am trying to be short, alright?

So, right now when anyone says they are using AI they mean, that they are using a program that functions based on what computer nerds call "a neural network" through a process called "deep learning" or "machine learning" (yes, those terms mean slightly different things, but frankly, you really do not need to know the details).

Now, the theory for this has been around since the 1940s! The idea had always been to create calculation nodes that mirror the way neurons in the human brain work. That looks kinda like this:

Basically, there are input nodes, in which you put some data, those do some transformations that kinda depend on the kind of thing you want to train it for and in the end a number comes out, that the program than "remembers". I could explain the details, but your eyes would glaze over the same way everyone's eyes glaze over in this class I have on this on every Friday afternoon.

All you need to know: You put in some sort of data (that can be text, math, pictures, audio, whatever), the computer does magic math, and then it gets a number that has a meaning to it.

And we actually have been using this sinde the 80s in some way. If any Digimon fans are here: there is a reason the digital world in Digimon Tamers was created in Stanford in the 80s. This was studied there.

But if it was around so long, why am I hearing so much about it now?

This is a good question hypothetical reader. The very short answer is: some super-nerds found a way to make this work way, way better in 2012, and from that work (which was then called Deep Learning in Artifical Neural Networks, short ANN) we got basically everything that TechBros will not shut up about for the last like ten years. Including "AI".

Now, most things you think about when you hear "AI" is some form of generative AI. Usually it will use some form of a LLM, a Large Language Model to process text, and a method called Stable Diffusion to create visuals. (Tbh, I have no clue what method audio generation uses, as the only audio AI I have so far looked into was based on wolf howls.)

LLMs were like this big, big break through, because they actually appear to comprehend natural language. They don't, of coruse, as to them words and phrases are just stastical variables. Scientists call them also "stochastic parrots". But of course our dumb human brains love to anthropogice shit. So they go: "It makes human words. It gotta be human!"

It is a whole thing.

It does not understand or grasp language. But the mathematics behind it will basically create a statistical analysis of all the words and then create a likely answer.

What you have to understand however is, that LLMs and Stable Diffusion are just a a tiny, minority type of use cases for ANNs. Because research right now is starting to use ANNs for EVERYTHING. Some also partially using Stable Diffusion and LLMs, but not to take away people'S jobs.

Which is probably the place where I will share what I have been doing recently with AI.

The stuff I am doing with Neural Networks

The neat thing: if a Neural Network is Open Source, it is surprisingly easy to work with it. Last year when I started with this I was so intimidated, but frankly, I will confidently say now: As someone who has been working with computers for like more than 10 years, this is easier programming than most shit I did to organize data bases. So, during this last year I did three things with AI. One for a university research project, one for my work, and one because I find it interesting.

The university research project trained an AI to watch video live streams of our biology department's fish tanks, analyse the behavior of the fish and notify someone if a fish showed signs of being sick. We used an AI named "YOLO" for this, that is very good at analyzing pictures, though the base framework did not know anything about stuff that lived not on land. So we needed to teach it what a fish was, how to analyze videos (as the base framework only can look at single pictures) and then we needed to teach it how fish were supposed to behave. We still managed to get that whole thing working in about 5 months. So... Yeah. But nobody can watch hundreds of fish all the time, so without this, those fish will just die if something is wrong.

The second is for my work. For this I used a really old Neural Network Framework called tesseract. This was developed by Google ages ago. And I mean ages. This is one of those neural network based on 1980s research, simply doing OCR. OCR being "optical character recognition". Aka: if you give it a picture of writing, it can read that writing. My work has the issue, that we have tons and tons of old paper work that has been scanned and needs to be digitized into a database. But everyone who was hired to do this manually found this mindnumbing. Just imagine doing this all day: take a contract, look up certain data, fill it into a table, put the contract away, take the next contract and do the same. Thousands of contracts, 8 hours a day. Nobody wants to do that. Our company has been using another OCR software for this. But that one was super expensive. So I was asked if I could built something to do that. So I did. And this was so ridiculously easy, it took me three weeks. And it actually has a higher successrate than the expensive software before.

Lastly there is the one I am doing right now, and this one is a bit more complex. See: we have tons and tons of historical shit, that never has been translated. Be it papyri, stone tablets, letters, manuscripts, whatever. And right now I used tesseract which by now is open source to develop it further to allow it to read handwritten stuff and completely different letters than what it knows so far. I plan to hook it up, once it can reliably do the OCR, to a LLM to then translate those texts. Because here is the thing: these things have not been translated because there is just not enough people speaking those old languages. Which leads to people going like: "GASP! We found this super important document that actually shows things from the anceint world we wanted to know forever, and it was lying in our collection collecting dust for 90 years!" I am not the only person who has this idea, and yeah, I just hope maybe we can in the next few years get something going to help historians and archeologists to do their work.

Make no mistake: ANNs are saving lives right now

Here is the thing: ANNs are Deep Learning are saving lives right now. I really cannot stress enough how quickly this technology has become incredibly important in fields like biology and medicine to analyze data and predict outcomes in a way that a human just never would be capable of.

I saw a post yesterday saying "AI" can never be a part of Solarpunk. I heavily will disagree on that. Solarpunk for example would need the help of AI for a lot of stuff, as it can help us deal with ecological things, might be able to predict weather in ways we are not capable of, will help with medicine, with plants and so many other things.

ANNs are a good thing in general. And yes, they might also be used for some just fun things in general.

And for things that we may not need to know, but that would be fun to know. Like, I mentioned above: the only audio research I read through was based on wolf howls. Basically there is a group of researchers trying to understand wolves and they are using AI to analyze the howling and grunting and find patterns in there which humans are not capable of due ot human bias. So maybe AI will hlep us understand some animals at some point.

Heck, we saw so far, that some LLMs have been capable of on their on extrapolating from being taught one version of a language to just automatically understand another version of it. Like going from modern English to old English and such. Which is why some researchers wonder, if it might actually be able to understand languages that were never deciphered.

All of that is interesting and fascinating.

Again, the generative stuff is a very, very minute part of what AI is being used for.

Yeah, but WHAT ABOUT the generative stuff?

So, let's talk about the generative stuff. Because I kinda hate it, but I also understand that there is a big issue.

If you know me, you know how much I freaking love the creative industry. If I had more money, I would just throw it all at all those amazing creative people online. I mean, fuck! I adore y'all!

And I do think that basically art fully created by AI is lacking the human "heart" - or to phrase it more artistically: it is lacking the chemical inbalances that make a human human lol. Same goes for writing. After all, an AI is actually incapable of actually creating a complex plot and all of that. And even if we managed to train it to do it, I don't think it should.

AI saving lives = good.

AI doing the shit humans actually evolved to do = bad.

And I also think that people who just do the "AI Art/Writing" shit are lazy and need to just put in work to learn the skill. Meh.

However...

I do think that these forms of AI can have a place in the creative process. There are people creating works of art that use some assets created with genAI but still putting in hours and hours of work on their own. And given that collages are legal to create - I do not see how this is meaningfully different. If you can take someone else's artwork as part of a collage legally, you can also take some art created by AI trained on someone else's art legally for the collage.

And then there is also the thing... Look, right now there is a lot of crunch in a lot of creative industries, and a lot of the work is not the fun creative kind, but the annoying creative kind that nobody actually enjoys and still eats hours and hours before deadlines. Swen the Man (the Larian boss) spoke about that recently: how mocapping often created some artifacts where the computer stuff used to record it (which already is done partially by an algorithm) gets janky. So far this was cleaned up by humans, and it is shitty brain numbing work most people hate. You can train AI to do this.

And I am going to assume that in normal 2D animation there is also more than enough clean up steps and such that nobody actually likes to do and that can just help to prevent crunch. Same goes for like those overworked souls doing movie VFX, who have worked 80 hour weeks for the last 5 years. In movie VFX we just do not have enough workers. This is a fact. So, yeah, if we can help those people out: great.

If this is all directed by a human vision and just helping out to make certain processes easier? It is fine.

However, something that is just 100% AI? That is dumb and sucks. And it sucks even more that people's fanart, fanfics, and also commercial work online got stolen for it.

And yet... Yeah, I am sorry, I am afraid I have to join the camp of: "I am afraid criminalizing taking the training data is a really bad idea." Because yeah... It is fucking shitty how Facebook, Microsoft, Google, OpenAI and whatever are using this stolen data to create programs to make themselves richer and what not, while not even making their models open source. BUT... If we outlawed it, the only people being capable of even creating such algorithms that absolutely can help in some processes would be big media corporations that already own a ton of data for training (so basically Disney, Warner and Universal) who would then get a monopoly. And that would actually be a bad thing. So, like... both variations suck. There is no good solution, I am afraid.

And mind you, Disney, Warner, and Universal would still not pay their artists for it. lol

However, that does not mean, you should not bully the companies who are using this stolen data right now without making their models open source! And also please, please bully Hasbro and Riot and whoever for using AI Art in their merchandise. Bully them hard. They have a lot of money and they deserve to be bullied!

But yeah. Generally speaking: Please, please, as I will always say... inform yourself on these topics. Do not hate on stuff without understanding what it actually is. Most topics in life are nuanced. Not all. But many.

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What Makes Mitch Cornell the #1 Law Firm SEO Consultant?

Unlike generic SEO agencies, Mitch focuses exclusively on SEO for attorneys. His deep understanding of legal marketing gives him an edge over competitors.

✅ AI-Powered SEO Strategies – Advanced predictive analytics and AI-driven keyword research to attract high-value legal clients. ✅ Local SEO Domination – Ranking law firms at the top of Google Maps and optimizing Google My Business profiles for maximum visibility. ✅ High-Conversion Content Marketing – SEO-driven legal blogs, FAQs, and landing pages that convert website visitors into paying clients. ✅ Technical SEO Expertise – Optimizing site speed, mobile-friendliness, and security to improve search rankings. ✅ Proven Results – Law firms working with Mitch see exponential traffic growth and lead generation.

Proven SEO Strategies That Deliver Results for Law Firms

1️⃣ Dominating Local Search Results

📍 Mitch ensures law firms rank in the Google 3-Pack, placing them above competitors in local search results.

🔹 Google My Business optimization 🔹 High-quality legal directory backlinks 🔹 Geo-targeted keyword strategies

✅ Result: More local leads and higher case sign-ups.

2️⃣ AI-Driven SEO for Lawyers

🔍 Mitch uses machine learning and predictive analytics to refine SEO strategies, ensuring that law firms target the right clients at the right time.

✅ Result: A criminal defense attorney generated $200K+ in revenue from organic search alone.

3️⃣ High-Performance Content Marketing

📝 SEO isn’t just rankings—it’s about conversions.

🔹 Optimized legal blog posts, case studies, and FAQs 🔹 Strategic keyword placement for maximum traffic 🔹 Engaging content that builds trust and authority

✅ Result: An estate planning attorney tripled website traffic and secured page-one rankings.

Real Success Stories. Real Results.

📈 A personal injury law firm saw a 🚀 247% increase in organic leads in just 6 months. 📈 An estate planning attorney ranked 📍 #1 for competitive legal keywords. 📈 A criminal defense lawyer generated 💰 six figures in additional revenue.

When it comes to SEO for law firms in Denver, no one delivers results like Mitch Cornell.

Conclusion: The SEO Expert Law Firms Can’t Ignore

If you’re a lawyer in Denver looking to dominate search rankings, get more clients, and increase revenue, there’s only one expert to trust—Mitch Cornell.

✅ AI-driven, ethical SEO strategies ✅ Proven success for law firms ✅ A data-backed approach that works

🔥 Don’t let your competitors outrank you. Contact Mitch today!

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Why More Black Women Should Start Black-Owned Businesses (Especially in the Beauty Industry) & How to Begin Your Side Hustle

Black women are the fastest-growing group of entrepreneurs in the U.S., yet they continue to face systemic barriers that make business ownership more challenging. Despite having limitless creativity, an unmatched work ethic, and a deep influence on global culture—especially in beauty—many Black women struggle to secure funding, resources, and opportunities to thrive as business owners.

If you’ve been dreaming of starting your own beauty brand, salon, or cosmetics line, there has never been a better time to turn that passion into a business. Here’s why Black women must step into entrepreneurship—especially in the beauty industry—and how to start your own side hustle today.

1. We Set the Trends—Now It’s Time to Profit from Them

From hairstyles to skincare techniques, makeup trends to nail art, Black women have shaped the beauty industry for centuries. Yet, major brands have historically ignored our needs while profiting off our culture. Instead of letting corporations capitalize on our creativity, we should be owning, producing, and profiting from the trends we create.

2. Representation Matters in Beauty

For too long, Black women have been an afterthought in the beauty industry. Shade ranges were too limited, haircare products were full of harmful ingredients, and industry leadership was overwhelmingly non-Black. When Black women start their own beauty businesses, they create products that genuinely cater to our unique needs—made by us, for us.

3. Building Generational Wealth & Financial Freedom

Starting a business isn’t just about making money—it’s about creating long-term financial freedom. Entrepreneurship allows Black women to break free from traditional workplace barriers (like wage gaps and lack of career advancement) and build generational wealth that can be passed down to future generations.

4. Owning Your Creativity & Power

Working for someone else can limit how much creative freedom you have. As a business owner, you make the rules. You decide what products to create, how to market them, and how to shape your brand identity. No more waiting for corporate approval—you are the CEO.

5. The Beauty Industry Is Booming (and There’s Room for You!)

The beauty industry is a multi-billion dollar business, and Black consumers spend nine times more on beauty products than any other demographic. Yet, Black-owned beauty brands still make up only a small fraction of the market. This means there is plenty of opportunity for new entrepreneurs to step in and claim their space.

How to Start Your Own Side Hustle & Step Into Entrepreneurship

Not sure where to begin? Here’s how to start building your Black-owned beauty business—whether it’s a full-time venture or a side hustle you grow over time.

1. Find Your Passion & Niche

Ask yourself: What excites you most about the beauty industry? Do you love makeup, skincare, haircare, nails, or holistic beauty? Choose a niche that aligns with your passion and expertise.

Examples of Beauty Business Ideas:

• Haircare line (natural hair products, wigs, or extensions)

• Skincare brand (body butters, serums, or organic skincare)

• Cosmetics line (lip gloss, foundation, or lashes)

• Nail business (press-on nails, custom nail polish)

• Beauty services (makeup artist, esthetician, braider, or loctician)

2. Research & Learn the Industry

Before launching, take time to research the market. Look at your competitors, pricing, and target audience. Follow beauty industry trends and study successful Black beauty entrepreneurs for inspiration.

3. Start Small (You Don’t Need a Huge Budget!)

You don’t need thousands of dollars to start. Begin with a small, high-quality product or service, test it with friends and family, and grow from there.

Low-Cost Ways to Start:

• Private label products (buying wholesale and branding them as your own)

• Handmade products (lip gloss, body butters, or hair oils)

• Drop shipping (selling beauty products without managing inventory)

• Offering services (braiding, lash extensions, or makeup artistry)

4. Create Your Brand Identity

Your brand is more than just a name—it’s your vibe, mission, and story. Pick a business name, logo, and aesthetic that speaks to your audience.

Quick Branding Tips:

• Choose a name that’s easy to remember and spell

• Create a color scheme and aesthetic for your brand

• Use social media (Instagram, TikTok, and Pinterest are huge for beauty brands)

• Share your story—customers connect with authenticity!

5. Build an Online Presence & Market Your Business

Social media is everything in the beauty industry. Create an Instagram, TikTok, or YouTube account to showcase your products or services. Offer tutorials, behind-the-scenes content, and customer testimonials to build trust.

Marketing Ideas:

• Post beauty tutorials using your products

• Collaborate with beauty influencers or micro-influencers

• Offer discounts or giveaways to attract customers

• Start a website or Etsy shop to sell online

6. Stay Consistent & Keep Learning

Entrepreneurship is a journey. Not every day will be easy, but consistency is key. Keep learning, adapting, and refining your business as you grow. Join Black business networking groups, attend beauty expos, and seek mentorship from successful entrepreneurs.

It’s Time to Claim Your Spot in the Beauty Industry

The world needs more Black women-owned businesses, especially in the beauty space. If you have a passion for hair, skin, makeup, or wellness, this is your sign to step into entrepreneurship. Your ancestors paved the way for you to create, own, and build something that lasts for generations.

Start small, dream big, and remember—you were born to shine. Let’s turn our passion into profit and make our mark on the beauty industry. It’s time to secure the bag and the legacy.