#Digital X Ray Machine

[hellnokittyxo]

I GOT ACCEPTED INTO COLLEGE!!

[hallowpeachesart]

love this game

[infoanalysishub]

X-ray: Definition, History, Types, Uses, Safety & Future Explained

Discover everything about X-rays in this detailed encyclopedia guide. Learn their history, types, physics, applications in medicine and industry, safety, and future advancements in easy-to-understand language. X-ray: Definition, History, Types, Uses, Safety & Future Explained X-rays are a form of electromagnetic radiation that has transformed medicine, science, and industry. Discovered over a…

[oneofusnet]

Digital Noise Episode 344: Purple Velvet Fiction Machine DIGITAL NOISE EPISODE 344: PURPLE VELVET FICTION MACHINE Chris and Wright have an epic-list this week of titles and despite having a bunch of classics on it, Wright has never seen any of them. From the purple-clad adventures of “The Kid”, to a young Tony Perkins getting a good talking-to from Henry Fonda. From an “Alien” analogue from the director of “Blade”, to a disaffected Richard Gere having lots of sex and getting framed for murder, we got it all. All titles were sent to Digital Noise by the distribution companies in question for the purpose of review. No other… Read More »Digital Noise Episode 344: Purple Velvet Fiction Machine read more on One of Us

[4biomed]

Exploring the Impact of Radiology Equipment: X-Ray Technology and Digital Imaging

Introduction:

In the ever-evolving landscape of healthcare, technological advancements play a pivotal role in improving diagnostic accuracy and patient care. Radiology, a cornerstone of modern medicine, relies on cutting-edge equipment to enable precise imaging. In this blog, we explore the world of radiology equipment, X-ray technology, and the transformative impact of digital radiography.

Understanding Radiology Equipment

Radiology equipment encompasses a broad range of tools designed to capture detailed images of the internal structures of the body. From traditional X-ray machines to state-of-the-art digital radiography systems, these technologies empower healthcare professionals to make accurate diagnoses and formulate effective treatment plans.

The Power of X-Ray Technology

X-ray technology remains at the forefront of diagnostic imaging. Traditional X-ray machines use ionizing radiation to create images of bones and other dense structures within the body. These images are invaluable for detecting fractures, assessing joint health, and identifying abnormalities. X-ray technology has been a cornerstone of medical imaging for decades, offering a quick and cost-effective means of diagnosis.

Evolution to Digital Radiography

While traditional X-rays provide crucial insights, digital radiography represents a leap forward in imaging technology. Digital radiography systems capture X-ray images digitally, eliminating the need for film processing. This not only streamlines the imaging process but also allows for immediate analysis and easy storage of images. Digital radiography enhances image quality, reduces radiation exposure, and offers a more environmentally friendly alternative to traditional methods.

Advantages of Digital Radiography

Enhanced Image Quality: Digital radiography produces high-resolution images, enabling healthcare professionals to visualize fine details with greater clarity.

Immediate Results: Unlike traditional X-rays that require film development, digital radiography provides instant results, expediting the diagnostic process.

Reduced Radiation Exposure: Digital radiography systems are designed to minimize radiation exposure while maintaining diagnostic accuracy, ensuring patient safety.

Efficient Workflow: Digital images can be easily stored, retrieved, and shared, facilitating seamless collaboration among healthcare professionals.

Choosing the Right Radiology Equipment

When selecting radiology equipment for healthcare facilities, considerations should include the specific diagnostic needs, patient volume, and budget constraints. Investing in advanced digital radiography systems not only enhances diagnostic capabilities but also future-proofs the facility against evolving technological standards.

Conclusion

In the dynamic field of healthcare, radiology equipment, X-ray technology, and digital radiography continue to shape the way medical professionals diagnose and treat patients. As technology advances, embracing digital solutions becomes imperative for healthcare facilities aiming to provide cutting-edge diagnostics and elevate patient care.

For an extensive range of radiology equipment, including state-of-the-art digital radiography systems, visit 4biomed.com. Explore the possibilities that modern radiology offers and embark on a journey towards precision, efficiency, and excellence in healthcare.

[invigormedkraft]

Digital X-Ray Machines: A Closer Look at the Future of Diagnostic Imaging

In the rapidly advancing landscape of medical technology, digital X-ray machines have emerged as a groundbreaking solution, transforming the way diagnostic imaging is conducted. This innovative technology has not only revolutionized the accuracy and speed of medical diagnoses but has also significantly improved patient care. In this blog post, we delve into the future of diagnostic imaging, exploring the impact of digital X-ray machines, especially in the context of India.

The Evolution of Diagnostic Imaging

Traditional X-ray systems, though effective, had limitations. They often required time-consuming processes for development and lacked the flexibility to enhance images for a more precise diagnosis. Digital X-ray machines, on the other hand, have overcome these challenges by embracing cutting-edge technology. These machines use digital sensors to capture X-ray images, eliminating the need for film and allowing for immediate access to high-quality images.

Benefits of Digital X-Ray Machines

Enhanced Image Quality: Digital X-ray machines provide exceptionally clear images, allowing healthcare professionals to identify even the subtlest abnormalities. The high-resolution images aid in accurate diagnoses, leading to more effective treatments.

Speed and Efficiency: Unlike traditional X-ray systems, digital X-ray machines produce images in a matter of seconds. This rapid process not only saves time for both patients and medical professionals but also enables quick decision-making in emergency situations.

Reduced Radiation Exposure: Digital X-ray systems utilize lower doses of radiation compared to their traditional counterparts. This reduction in radiation exposure is particularly crucial for vulnerable populations, such as children and pregnant women, ensuring their safety during diagnostic procedures.

Enhanced Diagnosis and Treatment Planning: Digital X-ray images can be manipulated and enhanced to focus on specific areas of interest. This flexibility aids healthcare providers in making more accurate diagnoses and formulating precise treatment plans tailored to individual patient needs.

Digital X Ray Machine in India

India, with its rapidly expanding healthcare infrastructure, has witnessed a significant uptake of digital X-ray machines. The integration of these advanced systems has played a pivotal role in enhancing the country’s diagnostic capabilities. Digital X-ray machines in India have not only improved the accuracy of diagnoses but have also facilitated early detection of various medical conditions, leading to better patient outcomes.

Digital Radiography X Ray System in India

Digital radiography X-ray systems in India have brought about a paradigm shift in the field of diagnostic imaging. These state-of-the-art systems have proven instrumental in elevating the standards of healthcare services across the country. The digital radiography X-ray system in India is designed to cater to the diverse and evolving healthcare needs of its vast population. With a focus on precision, efficiency, and patient safety, these systems have become indispensable tools for healthcare providers.

Conclusion

Digital X-ray machines have undoubtedly reshaped the landscape of diagnostic imaging, offering unparalleled benefits in terms of accuracy, speed, and safety. In India, the integration of digital X-ray technology has ushered in a new era of healthcare, ensuring that patients receive timely and precise diagnoses. As these advanced systems continue to evolve, the future of diagnostic imaging appears promising, holding the potential to further revolutionize the way medical conditions are diagnosed and treated. Through the widespread adoption of digital X-ray machines and digital radiography X-ray systems, India is poised to provide world-class healthcare services to its growing population, setting new standards in the realm of diagnostic excellence.

Visit: Portable Dental x ray System | Surgical Accessories in India | Diode Laser for Varicose Veins

[perlovemedical]

[copperbadge]

AI Scraping Isn't Just Art And Fanfic

Something I haven't really seen mentioned and I think people may want to bear in mind is that while artists are the most heavily impacted by AI visual medium scraping, it's not like the machine knows or cares to differentiate between original art and a photograph of your child.

AI visual media scrapers take everything, and that includes screengrabs, photographs, and memes. Selfies, pictures of your pets and children, pictures of your home, screengrabs of images posted to other sites -- all of the comic book imagery I've posted that I screengrabbed from digital comics, images of tweets (including the icons of peoples' faces in those tweets) and instas and screengrabs from tiktoks. I've posted x-ray images of my teeth. All of that will go into the machine.

That's why, at least I think, Midjourney wants Tumblr -- after Instagram we are potentially the most image-heavy social media site, and like Instagram we tag our content, which is metadata that the scraper can use.

So even if you aren't an artist, unless you want to Glaze every image of any kind that you post, you probably want to opt out of being scraped. I'm gonna go ahead and say we've probably already been scraped anyway, so I don't think there's a ton of point in taking down your tumblr or locking down specific images, but I mean...especially if it's stuff like pictures of children or say, a fundraising photo that involves your medical data, it maybe can't hurt.

If you do want to officially opt out, which may help if there's a class-action lawsuit later, you're going to want to go to the gear in the upper-right corner on the Tumblr desktop site, select each of your blogs from the list on the right-hand side, and scroll down to "Visibility". Select "Prevent third party sharing for [username]" to flip that bad boy on.

Per notes: for the app, go to your blog (the part of the app that shows what you post) and hit the gear in the upper right, then select "visibility" and it will be the last option. If you have not updated your app, it will not appear (confirmed by me, who cannot see it on my elderly version of the app).

You don't need to do it on both desktop and mobile -- either one will opt you out -- but on the app you may need to load each of your sideblogs in turn and then go back into the gear and opt out for that blog, like how you have to go into the settings for each sideblog on desktop and do it.

[vashwoo]

additional feature

pairing: vash the stampede x afab! fem!reader content: smut (MDNI!) cw: questionable usage of this man's prosthetic fingers, c.lit play, tristamp coded vash because of the arm color but the others can have some coochie as a treat a/n: been in my notes app for forever. i cannot believe my first fic in awhile is smut and it's even my first trigun fic. ashamed. shaking out the dust and sand from my brain just like vash shakin' out the sand from his arm.

brad is a genius and knew the blonde would gunk up his masterpiece with sand at some point... so he provided a neat lil feature to help shimmy out the granules from the tiny crevices!

On the desert planet that was Noman’s Land, sand was a cruel devil for mechanical bits and bobs. Constantly eroding the cheap lacquers and choking up the gears in more intricate machinations made being an engineer a more annoying task. Hence why Brad, genius that he is, had equipped the blonde gunman’s arm with a little special something to rid the little granules from the intricate joints that made up the malachite arm. 

“This is the annoying part; gets... so… gritty– Eep!”

The blonde man squawks as he flails his left arm around, jerkily stretching his lithe fingers. The dual suns’ rays reflect off of the flat planes of his limb, occasionally blinding you as you watched him fumble around. Speckles fell from the crevices as he slapped his other hand against the jewel toned forearm, but the grimace on his face told you that it wasn’t quite fixed yet. Before you could offer to helpfully brush it down with a random paintbrush you picked up from the previous town, he fiddled with something at his inner bicep and the teal arm buzzed to life. 

Sand granules vibrated and seemingly shimmied out of the tighter spaces of his arm and fingers, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he happily wiggled his digits again. A clear lack of stuttered arcs in their movements told you the sand battle was won. 

Distantly, the others in your ragtag group argued about the lack of water and supplies for the next few hours, but your brain wanted nothing to do with that conversation. In fact, the mechanical whirring of his arm mimicked the static of your empty skull. Not a single thought was between your eyes at that moment.

Words died in the back of your throat and were replaced with absolutely salacious thoughts. Those thoughts raced through your mind and the blood pumped wildly in your ears (and between your legs). You fiddled with your fingers nervously as you cleared your throat to grab the blonde's attention.

“Say, Vash,” you coughed, and his eyes darted to yours in interest at the awkward tone you’ve suddenly adopted, “I’ve got an… idea.”

Those big blue eyes blinked owlishly at you as he curiously tilted his head. 

“What’s up, Mayfly?”

As soon as the group stumbled into town, divvied up the keys, and parted ways, the door of your motel room was barricaded by a splintered chair because the lock didn’t live up to its namesake. 

“Curious about this, huh?” Vash’s teasing murmur against the shell of your ear snapped your attention back to the present. “Were you wondering how it would feel… against… your–”

The tip of his cool, jade finger floated down and graced the swollen bud between your legs. Before you could snap a little jab in his direction, the droning mechanism whirred to life again, except this time, Vash wasn’t trying to rid himself of sand. With a yelp, you curled in on yourself, plush thighs caging the broad man’s hands. Your body jerked and he laughed breathlessly, cooing as his flesh-and-blood hand pried your legs apart. This man was teasing you! Turning the buzzing fingers on and off? How cruel–

“So lewd of you,” he cooed your name, delighted by your body’s honest reactions.

Tease. Bastard. Where’d this confidence come from? 

He tenderly pressed chapped lips against the back of your neck, pecking you three times over. When you embarrassingly squirmed against him and curled in again, he fussed. “M-Mayfly, don’t hide,” he breathes, his voice laced with poorly masked desperation. Your attention was taken and you ceased your squirming at the breathlessness of the man holding you. “Just wanna make you feel good.” 

For Vash the Stampede, succumbing to hedonism was a transgression against his moral code. Yet, when it comes to his precious Mayfly, your happiness and pleasure were equally his own, and he was a selfish sinner learning to indulge. 

He would never come to you with this... idea. But he won’t lie that it came to mind once. 

Well, twice. 

Okay, maybe a few times before the two of you had become entangled in each other.

For every stuttered gasp you released, he mirrored it. For every choked moan you bit back, his hips bucked in response to wordlessly beg you to let go in his arms. 

It made you wonder who was going to finish first. It made him wonder why he took this long to do this. It was all for you, after all. Your pleasure was his.

The gunman’s ragged back rested against the chilled wall of the dim motel room, pulling you taut against his warmth. He protected your back from pressing uncomfortably against the metal over his heart, shifting your body to lean on the rightmost side of his chest. His soft hair tickled you at times, constantly adding ammo to the reasons to squirm in his lap.

Vash’s touch was grounding, yet it also sent you straight for the clouds. His initial hesitant ministrations were gaining confidence the more you sang for him and arched so prettily in his grasp; his index and middle fingers moved at a languid pace, playing you like a seasoned musician performing their magnum opus.  

At the start, he expressed concern over the idea of using his arm’s ugly, brutish, and utilitarian functions on your soft body. He sputtered in surprise when you first mentioned it earlier in the day; he had frantically gestured to his shining arm, babbling and asking you to confirm what he thought you had said. Crimson heat rose to his ears and it was not from the suns beating down on his neck.

Vash was certainly surprised by your proposal, but again, it wasn’t necessarily the first time it came to his mind.

Even as the two of you first settled against the musty sheets on the mattress, his hesitation spoke volumes with the way his fingers ghosted your core. After much coaxing and promises to stop him if it hurt, he finally, cautiously, pressed his strong fingers where you needed them most. The jade fingers weren’t vibrating though. Only when you complained with a whined cry of his name did he turn it on with bated breath.

Well, Vash quickly learned the tremoring metal was not too much against your core, and hearing your stuttered gasps? The practiced gunman was delighted to find out his body could serve you even better than before.

Currently, each time your legs twitch inwards, he’d whine with pouted disagreement and sweet talk your body to open back up to his touch by nudging your thighs apart again. His petulant huff raced past your ear and your attention would wrap around his next words. “So wet, Mayfly,” he breathed, awe lacing his voice. “Is it that good? Am I doing okay?”

Genuinely, Vash wanted to be nice, so he stopped his flicked motions to let you answer. His fingers rested on your clit, but didn’t cease the vibrations. With trembling, yet practiced fingers steadily pulsing against you, your head flew back onto his shoulder as you choked out your pleasure, “S-so good, Vash!” 

Oh god, you sounded wrecked and beautiful to this man’s ears. The man always loved how his name was uttered from your lips. Your compliment held an unsaid cry for him to continue, so he hummed happily as his fingers sped up their strides, flicking up and down, and occasionally chasing well-practiced circles. The vibrations from his hand seemed to amp up in strength and your hands flew to his strong legs, digging your nails into his skin. His hand was suddenly drenched and his breath caught at the back of his throat. 

His loving pace faltered for a beat at the sting of your grip as he groaned, mindlessly nuzzling the back of your neck with his nose. The crescent marks on his legs would never scar like the others on his body because you’d never harm him in such a way, but a ruined part of his mind prayed you did. Vash’s free hand trailed up from your tummy to cup one of your breasts to gently toy with the swollen nubs, pulling you close against his body. 

“You’re so wet,” he moans brokenly and gingerly nips at the juncture of your neck. His fingers were starting to clumsily slip from the slick drowning his fingers, but he was determined to be so good and do well. That’s all the Humanoid Typhoon ever wanted to be for you, after all. If he was blessed to touch an angel and make her sing with his erred hands, the least he would do was give her a glimpse of heaven, right? 

“A-are you getting close, Mayfly? Can feel her throbbin’ f’me…” he slurs, his fingers working overtime as he flicked and massaged you. You wailed softly as he seemed to establish a steady rhythm after your sudden deluge from earlier. Before he can moan out yet another nose-bleeding-inducing whimper, your hand shoots out and halts all of his progress. You yank his arm away and a confused ‘bwuh?’ slips from the blonde angel in the room. Before he can protest, you awkwardly crane your head around and stare him down; his voice, worry, and confusion fizzle away at the dazed gaze you grace him with. 

Although the room was dim this late at night, the lantern illuminated your silhouette well; every curve on your body was highlighted by the warm light. Your chest heaved as you caught your breath from his little onslaught of pleasure.

‘Wow.’

You laughed; did he say that aloud? 

Kind of embarrassing, but–

Desperate want painted your pretty little face as you pant at him. His grip on your body loosened as he felt your legs twitch, letting you rearrange the two of you however the hell you wanted. 

He’d follow you anywhere. 

When you lifted yourself from his body to shakily turn and face him, a hum bubbled in his throat before your fingers coyly traveled down your front, spreading yourself under his gaze. His cerulean eyes had followed your fingers’ dance and he swallowed dryly. 

Wet.

So wet. 

He did that. 

Your thighs were quivering as you balanced yourself on your knees, and if he stared hard enough and long enough, he was sure he’d see you drip onto the sheets. 

What a waste that would be, though.

Dumbly, his jaw slackens he stares at your lower half glistening with the obvious sign of your love for him. Distantly, his left hand continued to buzz against your flesh and you laughed at the tickling sensation as you placed your hands on his tense shoulders to steady yourself.

His brain was going to short circuit like the very first time you allowed him to even see an inch of your bare skin. The hardworking pink thing in his skull cheered over and over as his eyes continued to glaze over at the gift in front of him.

Your plump lips were mouthing salacious words down at him but were only partially registering in his clouded brain. 

Something about ‘being inside’ and ‘finishing together’–

His wide eyes snapped back up to yours when you planted your hips firmly against his. Oh god, his pants were so ruined but he didn’t care. Not when you were looking down at him with all the love in your eyes as you sighed out his name in bliss.

It sounded so pretty from your lips. 

The Humanoid Typhoon felt dizzy, oh so dizzy…

You purred when his hands shakily found their home on your hips, “c’mon Plant boy. Let’s get those pants off of you, huh?” 

Vash the Stampede had never clumsily unbuckled his ruined pants so fast in his life. Can’t blame the guy though. His pretty litte Mayfly laughing and sitting on his lap made it really difficult. 

[adafruit]

🎄💾🗓️ Day 4: Retrocomputing Advent Calendar - The DEC PDP-11! 🎄💾🗓️

Released by Digital Equipment Corporation in 1970, the PDP-11 was a 16-bit minicomputer known for its orthogonal instruction set, allowing flexible and efficient programming. It introduced a Unibus architecture, which streamlined data communication and helped revolutionize computer design, making hardware design more modular and scalable. The PDP-11 was important in developing operating systems, including the early versions of UNIX. The PDP-11 was the hardware foundation for developing the C programming language and early UNIX systems. It supported multiple operating systems like RT-11, RSX-11, and UNIX, which directly shaped modern OS design principles. With over 600,000 units sold, the PDP-11 is celebrated as one of its era's most versatile and influential "minicomputers".

Check out the wikipedia page for some great history, photos (pictured here), and more -

And here's a story from Adafruit team member, Bill!

The DEC PDP-11 was the one of the first computers I ever programmed. That program was 'written' with a soldering iron.

I was an art student at the time, but spending most of my time in the engineering labs. There was a PDP-11-34 in the automation lab connected to an X-ray spectroscopy machine. Starting up the machine required toggling in a bootstrap loader via the front panel. This was a tedious process. So we ordered a diode-array boot ROM which had enough space to program 32 sixteen bit instructions.

Each instruction in the boot sequence needed to be broken down into binary (very straightforward with the PDP-11 instruction set). For each binary '1', a diode needed to be soldered into the array. The space was left empty for each '0'. 32 sixteen bit instructions was more than sufficient to load a secondary bootstrap from the floppy disk to launch the RT-11 operating system. So now it was possible to boot the system with just the push of a button.

I worked with a number DEC PDP-11/LSI-11 systems over the years. I still keep an LSI-11-23 system around for sentimental reasons.

Have first computer memories? Post’em up in the comments, or post yours on socialz’ and tag them #firstcomputer #retrocomputing – See you back here tomorrow!

[pancaketax]

What Remains | Chapter 1 A Ghost Among the Living (Tony Stark x M! Reader)

Summary : The morning unfolds in quiet solitude, the apartment filled with stale air and remnants of your roommate’s late-night mess. At university, the day drags on, lectures feeling distant, classmates engaged in conversations that barely include you. A new animation project is assigned, but motivation is scarce. Eliott’s usual teasing barely registers, while Peter, as always, tries to pull you back into reality. He brings up a Stark-hosted event, sensing you need something to break the cycle. Meanwhile, home is no refuge—tension with Matthew lingers after an unspoken mistake changed everything. As night falls, the walk back feels heavier, each step pulling you toward a place that no longer feels like yours. Post aswell on AO3

word count: 6.9k

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

The low hum of the alarm breaks the silence of the room—barely audible, yet enough to disturb the frozen stillness of dawn. It doesn’t truly ring, it vibrates — a discreet, rhythmic, almost organic pulse that makes the nightstand tremble faintly. A bluish glow escapes from its digital screen, casting the shadow of the furniture across the cracked wall. The numbers press themselves into the darkness: 5:42. Too early to live, too late to keep dreaming. But you stopped sleeping at normal hours a long time ago. Habit, or maybe necessity, drives you to rise before the first rays of morning kiss the gray sidewalks of the city.

You lie there for a moment, still, on your back, eyes open, staring at the fissured ceiling as if it might offer you an answer you’ve never known how to ask. Your body is numb, but your mind is already elsewhere, floating in that semi-conscious haze that precedes the gestures of the day. With a slow, almost deliberate motion, you slide the coarse blanket to the side. The cool air bites at your bare skin for a second, drawing a shiver. Your feet search for the floor, settle on the worn-out wood that creaks under your weight. Your hand disappears into your tousled hair, tracing an uncertain path through the knots formed by the night. Your fingers linger for a moment at your temple, as if trying to massage a thought struggling to be born. Then, without a word, without a sound, you get up. Your steps are soft, nearly silent—like an intruder in your own home. The apartment is steeped in warm darkness, disturbed only by the cold reflections of the streetlamp filtering through half-closed blinds.

As you walk down the narrow hallway, a muffled snore reaches you from the living room. You pause on the threshold. Your roommate is slumped on the couch, a blanket lazily thrown over one shoulder. His mouth is slightly open, his breathing uneven. A pale light blinks softly on his face from the TV screen, left on standby. He looks peaceful, almost detached from the very idea of discomfort. You watch him for a second, without animosity, without affection either—just that neutral, distant gaze you now reserve for everything that no longer truly concerns you.

You turn away, slowly making your way to the cramped kitchen. It greets you with its familiar coldness—worn-out surfaces, cracked tiles, cupboard handles hanging loose. You reach for the coffee machine, already prepared the night before, and press the button. A soft click followed by the low rumble of heating water fills the space. The sound, almost comforting, breaks the heavy silence of the apartment. For a few seconds, you stand still, arms crossed, watching the black liquid drip slowly into the carafe. The strong, bitter scent of coffee begins to fill the air, seeping into your nostrils, triggering a sensory memory you don’t try to name.

You open the fridge, its door groaning with a tired sigh. A harsh light spills out, brutally illuminating the remnants of a night you weren’t part of: empty beer cans stacked on the bottom shelf, a torn-open bag of chips, crumbs scattered everywhere, an overflowing ashtray resting directly on the glass, filled with a bizarre mix of cigarette butts and pen caps. A cold, acrid smell hits your nose. You close the door with your foot, irritated but not angry. It’s nothing new. And it won’t be cleaned either. You grab a mug—the same one as always, chipped, with the image of a black cat—and pour the hot coffee into it. The feel of the ceramic against your palm is oddly comforting, almost familiar. You sit on one of the two rickety chairs pulled up to the small table, set against the wall to save space. The room is quiet again, pierced only by the distant hush of a city waking up.

Through the slightly open window, the sounds of the outside world timidly seep in. A lone car horn in the distance, followed by indistinct shouting. You hear hurried footsteps, maybe a jogger, maybe someone rushing to work. The street is still pale, the air probably damp, thick with the fatigue of sleepless nights and the lukewarm promise of an ordinary day. You sit there, listening, watching, letting your thoughts unravel slowly into the diffuse silence.

Here, in this narrow apartment, you are just a blurred outline in a frozen frame. A silhouette among shadows. Background noise in someone else’s routine. You inhabit the walls without leaving a mark; you drift through days like a forgotten dream. You are invisible—even to yourself.

And at university, it’s not much better — just another shadow in the hallways, a figure that doesn’t make waves, a name nobody remembers. You’re alive, but without presence. You exist, but without grounding.

You raise the mug to your lips. The coffee is bitter. It burns your tongue, but you don’t flinch. You cling to the sensation, as proof that you’re still here. You sit there for a long moment, staring into your mug, as if the dark liquid might show you a direction to follow. The acrid smell slowly fades into the still air of the kitchen, replaced by a dull fatigue that nothing seems able to lift. Then, with a methodical gesture, you get up. Your movements are precise, almost devoid of intent—they follow a mechanical routine, as if your body, out of habit, knows what to do without your permission.

You walk to the small table against the wall, where your bag waits—slumped, the fabric tired from too many aimless commutes. You open it in silence, sliding in your sketchbook, its cover bent from too much handling, and your laptop—heavy and warm—handled with care. You check automatically for your charger, a pen, your tangled earbuds. Each object finds its place, like in an emotionless ritual. You head to the coat rack near the door and grab your jacket—the one you wear nearly every day, its elbows worn thin, marked by time and neglect. Before leaving, your eyes drift toward the living room, stopping on the inert silhouette of your roommate. He’s still there, slumped in an awkward position, mouth half-open, uneven breath escaping his dry lips. The blanket has slipped off his shoulder, pooling halfway on the floor like it gave up.

You feel nothing. No tenderness, no irritation. Just that quiet, worn-out indifference that settled between you from the very first day. Two people coexisting out of necessity, like silent passengers on a never-ending ride. You look away, gently close the door behind you. The dry click echoes briefly in the hallway, then silence takes back its reign.

Outside, the air is sharp, biting against your skin. A morning chill that seeps through your jacket and draws an involuntary shiver. You inhale deeply. The damp smell of asphalt, of trash still piled in the street corners, and the more distant scent of warm bread mingle in a strange urban harmony. A new day begins, identical to the last, identical to the one before. One more day where you’ll move among others unnoticed, leaving no trace. You walk down the stairs, your worn-out shoes hitting the concrete with regularity. Each step a note in the monotone symphony of your daily life. The walk to university is short. You know it by heart, but you don’t even look anymore. The same shop windows with the same displays, the same tired faces, the same impatient horns at the same intersections.

As you get closer, the street grows livelier. Students pour in from every direction, carrying the same bags, earbuds in, eyes ringed from short nights. They cross paths, sometimes greet each other in passing, laugh, yawn, call out. Their voices blend with the engines and the early birds. You walk among them, at their pace, but from a distance. You’re there, physically, but no one looks at you. Your existence slips between the cracks of theirs, like a quiet current that never disturbs the flow. You pass through the university gates, enter the main building, then the hallway leading to your classroom. The freshly cleaned floor still smells of harsh disinfectant. The walls display the same old project posters, warped slightly from humidity. You enter the amphitheater—a space with harsh lighting and a ceiling far too high, where the emptiness feels larger than the presence of the students already seated.

The room is half-empty. A few scattered groups talk in low voices, their faces glued to screens or bent over notebooks. You recognize a few figures, classmates whose names you’ve never bothered to learn. They’re part of your class, but there’s no real sense of group. Just a bunch of individuals vaguely gathered by the obligation of a shared curriculum. You pick a seat on the side, mid-height, where you can observe without being seen. You set down your bag, take out your notebook, a pencil. You wait. Around you, the conversations pick up again, mundane. Deadlines, due dates, hoping a teacher won’t show up, overpriced vending machine coffee. Colorless conversations that fill the space without feeding it. The professor eventually arrives, late as usual, walking briskly, a poorly tied scarf around his neck. He drops his bag with a sharp motion, opens his laptop, connects the projector. The screen flickers to life with a familiar hum. The image stabilizes, a title appears: Semester Project – Animated Opening on the Theme of Ecology. He clears his throat, adjusts his voice, then begins to speak.

You hear the words—visual storytelling, meaningful message, symbolic mise-en-scène. He talks about impact, emotion, creative responsibility. Some students jot notes frantically, others nod as if trying to absorb every word. A flicker of excitement rises in the room, barely perceptible, but there. Ideas are already flying. One mentions Japanese inspiration, another a vintage UPA style. Reference names pop up, techniques, color palettes. You stare at your notebook. The first page is still blank. Your pencil grazes the paper, writes a word, then another. Ideas that don’t quite stick, blurry fragments. You sketch a few abstract shapes, faceless silhouettes, lines without depth. Your mind is already drifting. The voices around you become distant, filtered through an invisible bubble. You hear without listening. You’re here, but elsewhere. Always on the edge, always apart.

Your gaze drifts beyond the lecture hall, drawn by the subtle movement of students below in the courtyard. From up here, they look like rushing shadows, their steps paced by habit, their gestures erased by the dull morning light. You watch them without really seeing, your thoughts floating elsewhere, far beyond the university walls. A harsh scrape—the sound of a chair dragged carelessly—pulls you briefly back to the surface. You blink, as if shaking off a dream, then your gaze drops back to your sketchbook. Your fingers, moved by some independent will, resume their slow, distracted dance. A few abstract lines appear on the page—without direction, without intent. They testify to your deep disinterest, that distance between you and the world.

The professor goes on with his presentation, his voice rising above the ambient murmur. The discussions multiply—some students speak without raising their hands, others comment on the projected visuals. The commotion brushes past you without touching, like a distant buzzing. Your pencil drifts again, carving out indistinct forms, like a sleepwalker tracing footsteps in snow. You’re not really there. Another day of class slips by, just like the others, your presence blending into the background. A throat clears, snapping you once more from your daze. You barely lift your eyes, just enough to spot a familiar silhouette settling beside you. Eliott. He makes himself comfortable as if he’s known you forever, elbow resting lazily on the table in perfect nonchalance. He turns his head slightly toward you, a smirk tugging at his lips, and blatantly peeks at your sketchbook.

He’s the kind of guy who stands out in a crowd like this. His sweatshirt outlines a discreet but solid build, maintained without showing off. His dark brown hair is always neatly trimmed, giving his face a near-military sharpness. But what really strikes you are his eyes—two piercing blue sparks, vivid, sharp, almost too bright to be real. When he looks at you, it’s like he sees right through you with unnerving ease.

— “So,” he says, voice laced with mockery, “did you crank out something revolutionary or still stuck in procrastination mode?”

You shrug, barely shifting your gaze. No desire to explain. You quietly turn the page of your notebook, hiding the aimless scribbles that would betray your lack of inspiration. You already know he won’t settle for silence, but you’d rather not invite commentary. He lets out a theatrical sigh, rolls his eyes like the weight of the world just landed on his shoulders, then slowly straightens to look at the professor’s screen.

— “Seriously, who thought giving us a project about ecology was a good idea? They want us to become tree-huggers or what?” His tone is loud enough to draw a few stares, but he clearly doesn’t care.

You stifle a small smile. Eliott often annoys others with his borderline provocative remarks, but you’ve learned to see through them. It’s a mask, a persona he wears religiously: the cocky guy, a bit macho, always ready with a jab to test reactions. A role he plays with almost artistic precision. He glances at you again, his blue eyes catching the pale light filtering through the blinds.

— “You got even a single idea for what you’re gonna do?” he asks, voice lower this time.

You sigh. You shake your head slowly, like even answering costs too much energy.

— “Not really. I don’t even know why I’m still here.”

He arches an eyebrow, mock-surprised.

— “Third year and still lost? Impressive.” He pats your shoulder briefly, almost affectionately, then bends over his own notebook, starting to sketch out half-formed shapes of his own, like he’s following you into the fog.

You let out a soft breath, barely audible, swallowed by the ambient murmurs. Another day pretending, faking progress while everything in you remains frozen. Around you, the project begins to take shape. Conversations become more concrete, ideas intersect, sketches multiply. The group moves forward, inexorably—even without you. You feel like you’re still standing on the platform while the train has already left, carrying with it the momentum you never managed to catch. The bell rings—sharp, metallic—signaling the break. A slight jolt ripples through the room, then everything speeds up. Students pack their stuff with the jittery eagerness of people desperate to escape for a few moments. Some laugh, chat in low voices about their projects, others are already on their feet checking their phones, planning a coffee break or a cigarette outside. You watch them without really seeing, their blurry excitement sliding off your vacant stare.

You stay where you are, arms crossed over your chest, as if that posture might hold your inner world together a bit longer. The amphitheater empties slowly, footsteps echoing off the metal steps, laughter fading. The door closes softly behind the last student. Silence falls again like a cold blanket. Only the low hum of the projector remains, still on, and the pale light bathing your abandoned notebook. You could go outside too. Feel the sun on your skin, watch the others live a simple, light moment. But what’s the point? That world feels distant, like you’re looking at it through thick glass. So you stay. You lower your gaze to your notebook, its pages half-filled with meaningless lines, unfinished sketches, fragments of ideas that died before they formed. You try to take a step back, to understand what you could possibly do with this project, with the coming months, with this degree you’re pursuing almost mechanically.

And there, facing the blankness, a quiet truth sinks in. You’re not really here. Not in this classroom, not in these studies. You’re following a motion without believing in its destination. Motion Design. Three years of learning tools, theories, techniques. Of faking motivation, pretending it all means something. But the truth is, you’re drifting—because you have to go somewhere. Because they told you it was better than nothing. Because you told yourself that maybe, with a diploma in hand, you could try something on your own. Freelance work, independence. But none of it sets your heart racing. None of it really drives you. You realize that sometimes, you envy the ones who have the spark. The ones who argue with passion, who stay after class to work on their projects, who take initiative, who talk in terms of style, narrative, rhythm—with stars in their eyes. You, you look at your screen with indifference. You open the software without conviction. You start things you never finish. And meanwhile, everyone else keeps moving forward.

And there’s that persistent feeling, always humming in the background—the sense that you were pushed aside. You weren’t always alone. You used to be different. You showed up. You went to parties. You brought drinks, food. You talked, you laughed. And then one day, it stopped. You never understood why. There wasn’t a fight, no dramatic gesture. Just the slow, quiet realization that you weren’t invited anymore. That you weren’t included. You went from being “there” to being “too much.” And since then, you’ve drifted. You go missing. You stop giving notice. You isolate yourself—not really on purpose, but not trying to stop it either.

Your mother doesn’t know any of this. She thinks you’re doing fine. That you’re serious. That you’re working hard to succeed. You never really lied to her—not exactly—you just left things out. You didn’t have the strength to disappoint her. So you keep playing your role. You get up every morning, you go to class, you come home late, you say you’re tired. And it’s true. You are tired. Just not in the way she thinks. You don’t even really have an appetite anymore. You don’t feel like cooking, even though it was one of the few things you used to enjoy doing for yourself. You can’t afford the cafeteria, or delivery. Your living situation wears you down, eats away at your energy a little more each day. You’re supposed to cook, eat properly, take care of yourself. But that takes a kind of willpower you just don’t have anymore. The idea of pulling out ingredients, chopping them, watching over a pan… it all feels distant, too complicated, too demanding for a mind already saturated. So you settle for whatever’s there. Leftovers. Cold meals. Packaged food. Anything that gets you through without requiring effort.

You could go out now. Get some air, feel something other than this lethargy clinging to you like a heavy blanket. But you’re still here, sitting. Staring at your notebook, searching for answers that won’t come. Hoping a line, a word, an idea will shatter the invisible wall between you and the person you’re supposed to be. But all you hear is silence. The door opens softly, and a warm draft slides into the empty amphitheater. You don’t move right away, still frozen in your quiet daze. A familiar figure appears in your field of vision. Peter Parker. His shoulder bag thumping against his thigh, his hoodie a bit too loose, sneakers squeaking on the smooth floor. He walks in like the place belongs to him, with that casual ease he brings everywhere. He spots you instantly, a playful smile on his lips, then approaches without a word. He sits next to you, drops his bag on the desk with an automatic gesture, then crosses his arms, watching you like he can read every thought without you saying a thing.

— “Bet you haven’t done a damn thing yet,” he says finally, his usual half-smile glued to his face.

You shrug with that slow detachment you’ve perfected when you don’t want to explain yourself.

— “I’m thinking about it.”

— “Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his eyes, but there’s no malice in it. “You always think about it right up until the night before, and yet you still manage to hand in something decent.” He tilts his head slightly, raising a brow. “But you do know that’s a crap work strategy, right?”

You smile faintly, amused by his familiar honesty.

— “So I’ve heard.”

Peter shakes his head, mock-despair in his eyes, and leans over to glance at your open notebook. He squints, analyzes the forms without commenting, then asks, voice barely louder than a whisper,

— “What’s the project about again?”

You fold your arms on the table, head lowered slightly.

— “An animated title sequence. Ecology theme.” You pause, your tone laced with the soft irony you reserve for uninspiring assignments. “Inspiring, right?”

He lifts an eyebrow, pretending to be impressed.

— “Yeah, sounds like it’ll be packed with moral messages about saving the planet and recycling. Good luck with that.”

You nod silently, lips tight.

— “Thanks for the support.”

The silence that settles next is easy, obvious. You don’t need to fill the space between you with pointless sentences. Peter doesn’t either. He just sits there, perched on the edge of his desk, hands clasped, his gaze drifting between the dark screen and your notebook still lying open. He watches you calmly, attentive but never intrusive. He knows you. He knows you shut down when pressure builds, that you prefer irony to drama, withdrawal to confrontation.

— “You got even a rough idea of what you’ll do?” he asks again, his voice softer now.

You shrug once more. The gesture has become an answer in itself.

— “Not really. I don’t even know why I’m still here.”

Peter turns his head toward you, his expression shaded with a gravity he rarely shows. He looks at you for a moment, as if weighing his words. Then he sighs—a long breath, betraying a quiet worry.

— “You’re fed up, huh?”

You don’t answer right away. You stare at an invisible spot on your notebook, a fleck in the paper, a flaw in the ink. You could say yes. You could spill everything. But you don’t feel the need to. He doesn’t push. He waits. And sometimes, that’s enough. His presence alone serves as a reminder: you’re not completely alone.

You smile—brief, tired.

— “Anyway, you know how it is. I’m just here to survive the day. We’re here for the degree, not to make friends.”

Peter says nothing. He nods slowly, a compassionate smile brushing his lips. He doesn’t pretend. He accepts your cynicism, your exhaustion, without trying to fix them. You pull out your phone—a reflex, just to fill the void. You scroll through the news with a lazy thumb, not really reading. Until one headline catches your eye. You pause, frown, then tilt the screen toward Peter.

— “You seen this?” you ask. “They want us to go to some conference on new technologies.”

He skims the article quickly, his eyes darting from line to line with curiosity.

— “It’s hosted by Tony Stark. Could be cool.”

You raise an eyebrow, half-skeptical, half-annoyed.

— “Mmh. Not really sold on it.”

Peter turns to you, a little surprised.

— “Why not? Not your thing?”

You straighten a bit, sighing.

—“First of all, it’s in the evening. And I’m working that day. Not sure it’s worth the hassle.”

He shrugs, understanding.

— “Makes sense. But still... it’s Stark, y’know.”

You don’t answer. You let the silence stretch a little, then set your phone down face-down on the table, as if that would end the conversation. You stretch slowly, arms above your head, your shoulders cracking under the tension. The break’s almost over. Already, you hear voices in the hallway, footsteps approaching. The bell rings—its metallic echo cutting through the walls of the amphitheater like a sharp reminder. Peter stands up, grabs his bag in one smooth motion, then throws you a sideways glance—half teasing, half concerned.

— “All right, back to your class of ghost-shadows,” Peter jokes with a wink. “At least try to pretend you’re motivated.”

You stay there for a second, once again alone, in the fading echo of his voice. Silence returns, slowly reclaiming the space between the empty rows of seats. Your eyes linger on the now-closed door without really seeing it. It feels like Peter just took a fragment of light with him, leaving the usual shade of your day-to-day behind. Then, little by little, the calm is replaced by a growing murmur. Students return, one by one, in scattered clusters. Footsteps echo on the floor, voices rise again, chairs creak under rediscovered weight. The room fills up slowly—alive, noisy—but to you, it’s like it’s all happening behind a window. You’re here, yes, physically present, but none of it really reaches you.

You haven’t moved. Your arms still crossed, head slightly lowered, gaze lost in the spirals of your sketchbook, while others’ words float around you. But one conversation eventually pierces your bubble. You don’t really mean to listen, but their excitement makes it impossible to ignore. They’re talking about the event tonight. The conference hosted by Tony Stark. His name alone seems to electrify the air. Some are speaking with barely restrained enthusiasm, eyes already sparkling with anticipation, as if they’re hoping for some grand revelation. Others are more reserved, weighing the pros and cons with fake objectivity. There are those who see it as a networking opportunity, a possible step toward a real job. And those who don’t know if they’ll go, but talk about it anyway—just to stay part of the conversation.

You stay frozen in your seat, expression blank. You hear, but don’t listen. The buzz slides over you like rain on glass. Nothing catches. Even if Tony Stark himself walked down from the stage and handed you a personal invitation, you’re not sure it would make a difference. The thought of going feels pointless. Too far. Too loud. Too full of people. And anyway, you’re working that night. That’s what you keep telling yourself. Like a shield. A convenient excuse. A quiet sigh slips from your lips. You dive back into your sketchbook, as if it could serve as refuge, a barrier against the noise outside. You scribble without purpose—shapes without logic, fragments of thoughts barely formed. Just another day of being here, of pretending to function, while your inner self stays motionless. A blurred figure in a world too sharp.

A familiar clearing of the throat interrupts you again. You look up just in time to see Eliott plop down noisily beside you. He folds his arms on the desk, back slightly hunched, and flashes that trademark smirk of his. His piercing blue eyes glint with mischief, but not malice.

— “Come on, man, you can’t be that dead inside. We’re talking about Stark here! It’s not every day we get a shot like this. And we’re doing an afterparty too. Gonna be fun.”

You don’t reply right away. You glance to the side, your gaze brushing your phone. The screen lights up under your thumb, revealing another wave of unread content you scroll through without focus. Your thumb moves up and down, mechanical. Your eyes are here, but your mind remains somewhere else.

You let a few seconds pass before muttering, without even looking at him.

— “I’ll see… I don’t know. I’m working that night anyway.”

Eliott rolls his eyes, an amused grimace tugging at his mouth.

— “You always find an excuse, huh? Seriously, you should come. It might clear your head.”

You shrug vaguely. It’s not that you’re refusing the invitation—but you can’t bring yourself to imagine going either. His insistence doesn’t bother you. It barely touches you. Like everything else. You’re stuck in that bittersweet fog where every suggestion feels demanding, every movement a mountain.

And yet, a small voice buried inside whispers that he’s not wrong. That you’re just surviving. That you’ve been floating on the surface of everything for a while now—never diving in. You survive. You conserve energy. You say “no” by default. Or “maybe,” just to avoid saying “I’m too tired.” Eliott eventually gives up. He slouches against the back of his chair, arms crossed behind his head, looking resigned but still amused.

— “You’re really a lost cause, man. But hey, if you change your mind, we’ll be there.”

You turn your head just a little, a small smile flickering at the corner of your lips without staying. You nod—barely—but enough for him to know you heard. Maybe you’ll change your mind. Maybe not. The idea hangs there, suspended, somewhere between possibility and indifference. For now, you’re not there yet. For now, you’re still watching the world go by from the sidelines, unsure whether you even want to step into it.

The day stretches out slowly, weighed down by the stillness of the room and the constant hum of voices. The hours slip by without you really feeling them—punctuated by the tapping of keyboards, the scraping of pencils, tired sighs and the occasional burst of laughter. You’re still there, in your seat, notebook open in front of you, but your thoughts are somewhere else entirely. Every now and then, you doodle, scribble a word, a shape, a diagram you immediately erase. Nothing takes form. Nothing grips you.

Around you, the commotion continues, like a little self-contained world you only float through. The conversations loop endlessly. The Tony Stark event keeps coming up, again and again, like a magnet pulling all the room’s energy toward it. Your classmates talk about it with a mix of excitement and nerves, as if it were some pivotal moment in their careers. Some see it as a professional opportunity, others just want a glimpse of a celebrity. But what keeps coming up—what everyone seems most hyped about—is the after.

You learn it almost by accident, half-listening while pretending not to. The afterparty will be held in a luxury apartment, apparently lent by a student who’s clearly way more loaded than the rest. The comments pour in about the décor, the rooftop jacuzzi, the balcony views. They’re already talking about drinks, playlists, who’s bringing what. The mood is rising, energy building—and you remain still in your bubble. A few people vaguely call out to you, invite you again. Always the same polite smiles, the same hazy looks. Not because they really care about you being there. No—you know why. They remember the convenient version of you: the guy who, without saying much, brings a good bottle, the guy who always adds a little something extra to the vibe. They don’t know you. They don’t know anything about you. But they keep that blurry image: the quiet one, but useful.

That’s when you find out the event isn’t tonight. It’s tomorrow. The news slides over you like a lukewarm drop of water. Nothing changes. One more day pretending, taking up space without really inhabiting it. Another chance to stay on the outside while others make plans, carve out paths you won’t follow. The hours crawl. The afternoon drags like a never-ending rainy day. The professor comes back, still talking about the project. Some students show progress, share ideas. You pretend to listen, nodding now and then, taking a note here and there. But your mind is fogged. Nothing gets through. You’re there—but not really. And finally, the end creeps closer. The sun starts dipping behind the grimy windows, casting the room in a golden light that doesn’t warm you. One by one, voices quiet, things get packed away, bags zip shut in soft rustles. You finally move. Slowly. You close your notebook with almost ceremonial slowness. You tuck your pencil back in its case, your laptop into your bag—every motion precise, measured, meaningless.

Your movements are automatic, like a puppet repeating the same dance every day. You don’t look at anyone. You say nothing. No goodbye, no smile. You slip between the others like a shadow leaving before the room’s even empty. Only the dull sound of your zipper, the gentle scrape of your chair, and the weight of your bag on your shoulder remain behind you. Another day behind you. Another one ahead. Identical. Silent. Outside, the air barely surprises you, but it’s enough to remind you you’re no longer indoors. It’s cooler than the stuffy classroom, and it brushes your face, drawing a subtle shiver. The daylight fades, leaving behind that orange hue that marks the end of a season’s day. You take a deep breath, as if that one inhale might wash away the inertia of the day.

And then, the second your eyes sweep the plaza in front of the university—you see him. Peter. Leaning against a lamppost, hands stuffed in the pockets of his oversized hoodie, one leg bent against the painted metal pole. That eternal half-smile lights up his face—calm, grounded, reliable. He was waiting for you. When your eyes meet his, he straightens with a fluid motion, steps away from the post, and walks toward you with that quiet energy he always carries.

— “So,” he says, one eyebrow raised in a mix of amusement and gentle challenge, “still not convinced about seeing Stark live?”

You sigh, already tired just thinking about the subject again. You shrug lightly, not even slowing your pace.

— “Honestly? I don’t know. I don’t really have the energy for it. I’ve got work that night anyway, and showing up to a conference after… I’ll just end up more exhausted.”

Peter lets out a soft laugh, rolling his eyes, but his smile doesn’t fade.

— “I’ll pick you up after your shift if you want. We don’t have to stay long. Just check it out, feel the vibe, then you can crash.”

You glance sideways at him, a bit intrigued by his persistence. He knows you’re not the type to chase after big social events. He knows crowded rooms, inspiring speeches, charged-up atmospheres—they’re not your thing. But he keeps insisting. Not to be annoying. More like he genuinely wants to pull you out of this fog you’ve been sinking into day after day. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish into your routine without even noticing. You lower your gaze, eyes trailing the sidewalk. You feel the weight of your bag, the sound of your footsteps on the concrete, the breeze brushing your neck. Without thinking, you pull your phone from your pocket and scroll aimlessly. Pointless notifications. Unread messages. News that tells you nothing.

— “Yeah… maybe,” you murmur. “But I’ve got the project too. Not like I’ve got time to waste.”

Peter stops walking for a second—just enough to cross his arms and tilt his head toward you.

— “Dude, when’s the last time you did something just for you? Not for class, not for work—just… for you?”

You stay silent. His question catches you off guard. Worse—it hits home. That emptiness you feel every day has already been whispering the answer. But saying it out loud, admitting it to him—that’s different. That’s a step you’re not ready to take yet. You shrug faintly, a movement so small it’s barely there. You pocket your phone without a word, like that gesture could close the topic.

— “I’ll think about it,” you say eventually, your voice tired, uncertain—but not shut off.

Peter’s smile softens—almost brotherly. He pats your shoulder with his palm, light but full of meaning. Then, without pressing further, he starts walking again beside you.

— “It’s cool. I know your ‘I’ll think about it.’ I’m still coming to get you though, just in case.”

You shake your head slightly, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. One of those smiles that doesn’t fully land—but Peter always catches it. He knows you. Too well, sometimes. No other words are needed. You walk on together in the fading light, in silence. The streets begin to come alive again. Shop windows light up one by one, people stream out of offices, bikes weave between cars. In the distance, you spot the glowing signs of the grocery store where you work. They’re already blinking faintly in the deepening dusk, dragging a sigh out of you. The world keeps spinning—noisy, fast. But in this quiet walk next to Peter, something feels suspended. Just for a moment. Like in all the background noise, you’ve found a breath of calm.

The walk continues in a lighter mood, almost peaceful. You and Peter exchange trivial things—stories that don’t matter, little observations—just to keep the weight off. Talking without effort, without pressure, without expectation. It’s simple. It’s soft. It’s rare. A moment where you don’t have to perform, or calculate your words. You can just exist—present, unguarded. Then, between two street lamps, between two muffled chuckles, silence settles in again. You let it. You don’t try to break it. And finally, without really meaning to, you sigh—almost under your breath—eyes drifting to the pavement sliding by under your shoes.

— “I don’t really wanna go home tonight…”

Peter doesn’t answer right away. But he doesn’t need to. You feel his gaze on you—steady, listening. You know he understood, the way he always does, with that silent kind of insight that never forces you to say more than you’re ready to. He doesn’t push. He waits. And you keep walking. He knows. Since you arrived in the city, you thought you had found balance. A simple living arrangement. No drama. Matthew was just that quiet but friendly guy, the one things just clicked with. Those late-night kitchen chats, shared beers, the unspoken ease of quiet routines. A soft kind of normal. Built from small gestures and unspoken understanding.

And then came that night. You don’t even know why you did it. A mix of exhaustion, loneliness, tension that had been building in every glance for weeks. That unspoken something that hovered over every meal, every laugh that lingered a bit too long. You kissed him. And everything stopped. Like a light switch flipped mid-motion. In seconds, everything you’d built collapsed. Since then, Matthew has become a bitter shadow in your everyday life. He doesn’t talk to you anymore—or only to throw passive-aggressive remarks. At first, he avoided you. Then came the little comments, the pointed looks, the sighs. He learned to aim right—straight at what hurts. You don’t know if it’s rejection, fear, or just cruelty in disguise. You don’t know. And you don’t want to figure it out anymore.

You rub your hand over your face, already tired at the thought of crossing that threshold, hearing another sigh, seeing his closed-off stare.

— “Matthew’s home tonight, and I just know it’s gonna be a mess again.”

Peter turns his head gently toward you, his gaze calm but touched with concern. He doesn’t judge. He doesn’t dramatize. He just extends the offer like he’s holding out a hand.

— “You wanna crash somewhere else tonight? I can take you in if you want.”

You hesitate. You even slow your pace a little. The idea is tempting. But you shake your head softly, almost automatically.

— “Nah, I’ll be fine. I just… needed to say it.”

He stays quiet for a second, then matches your pace again. His presence remains steady—comforting, but never overbearing. Exactly what you need. Still, he doesn’t drop it entirely. His tone stays gentle, but firmer this time.

— “You say that, but seriously… you don’t have to put up with a roommate like that. If he’s being an ass, maybe it’s time to just step away from it, y’know?”

You smile a little—a crooked, sad smile. The kind born more from irony than joy.

— “Don’t worry. I’ve been through worse, honestly.”

Peter shoots you a more focused look, and his expression shifts slightly. Something in your voice—or your eyes—must have caught his attention.

— “Yeah? Like what?”

You shrug slightly, your gaze drifting to the lit windows of distant apartment blocks.

— “I mean… outside of class, you don’t really know me that well.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. You can feel him processing that. Maybe for the first time, he’s realizing that everything he knows about you is surface-level. He knows the classmate—the quiet guy, sometimes sarcastic, often tired, always a bit distant. But not the rest. Not the weight behind the silences. Not the things you’ve run from to end up here. Eventually, he lets out a sigh, a sideways smile tugging at his lips.

— “You’re good at dodging serious questions, huh?”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow.

— “You just noticed?”

He lets out a quiet laugh—almost fond.

— “You’re a walking mystery, man. One day, you’re gonna have to open up a little.”

You don’t reply. You leave the sentence hanging in the air between you. It’s easier that way. He seems to understand—again. So he doesn’t push. The rest of the walk unfolds in peaceful silence, broken only by the sound of your steps on the pavement. The streetlamps cast their trembling halos, shop signs flicker as businesses close one by one. Evening settles in for real. The world slows down. At a corner, the two of you stop without needing to say a word. It’s habit. The natural end of the road. Peter slips his hands into his pockets, his gaze settling on you one last time, more serious than usual.

— “If anything happens—send me a message, okay?”

You nod slowly.

— “Yeah. Don’t worry. Good night.”

— “Good night, man.”

He walks off, his steps swallowed by the night. You watch him disappear without moving, then turn in the opposite direction, starting your way back. Each step toward your building brings back that weight you know too well. It’s not fatigue. It’s anticipation. The dread of walking back into that now-hostile space, filled with heavy silences and dodged glances. The air feels colder all of a sudden. Or maybe it’s just the pressure sitting on your chest—the one that always finds you again, right there, every single night.

[sehnsuchts-trunken]

I'll Show You Just How Sad I Am

a raymond smith x reader quick little blurb, just 1k words

there's mentions of smut in this so read at your own risk <33 who knows, maybe raymond will make a more regular occurrence on my blog over the next few weeks

here's my masterlist in case you want to check out my other works

"Should be the door to your left, honey."

Your voice is sweet in his ear, a pleasant distraction from the run-down building Mickey had sent him off to. It's smelly and dirty and even though he knows he should most likely feel pity, he's still just as disgusted. He'd be with you in a heartbeat if he could, safe and clean in the comfort of your home.

"Mickey should've sent a cleaning lady", he grunts as he knocks at the door, your chuckle almost making up for the very truthful, thinly veiled anger behind his words.

"Mickey wanted you because you're the best", you recite - you've told him often enough by now that it really is reciting. "And because he trusts you to keep this clean."

Which is easier said than done.

Twenty minutes later, the whole thing's anything but clean.

Sure, he'd very much accomplished bringing Laura home - but he'd also left a dead teenager in a puddle of blood about two stories down from where he should've been sitting.

"Left, left!", you call into the mic. Even though you're far from panicking, you're still much too loud, your voice flowing from his earpiece and stinging his brain.

"I'm trying, darling", he grunts back, breathless and panting as he pushes on, one foot in front of the other on the pavement of some random South London streets.

"I know, I know", you sigh. He isn't sure whether he's actually hearing you chew on your lip or imagining it, but he doesn't really have the capacity to think too much about it at the moment. "He's right in front of you. You've got him, Ray."

Yeah... The only problem is that what you must be seeing as a moving, flashing dot on a digital map, he's seeing as a bunch of teenagers trying to look intimidating. Probably feeling intimidating too. God, this is exactly why he didn't want the job. He isn't made for the fucking low-classed youth.

"You've seen enough?", that bastard of a boy spits at him. "Now I've got backup."

Raymond steadies his hands on his thighs and takes a deep breath in.

"You couldn't back up a phone, you cunt", he rasps, his erratic heartbeat slowly starting to calm back down.

"Raymond", you scold. "That's a child."

"That's a bastard", he mutters, before he finally straightens and tries his best at a somewhat mannered bargain. He's really only here for the fucking phone. He needs those pictures, then he's gone. He doesn't want to leave more unnecessary corpses to take care of.

So he offers them money. Which is something that they should definitely take, just judging by how they look. Plus a visit to a very good psychiatrist. But they don't. It's the same fucking bastard who's taken the pictures in the first case and got him into this mess that refuses - and in such a really stupid way, too: "How 'bout you give us that bag and be gone anyway?" - god, even you let out a choked up laugh at that, your breath carrying through the mic and into Ray's earpiece.

He drops his chin to his chest and shakes his head. What a fucking bunch of idiots. Goddamn it. He can feel his blood boil, hot and hotter.

"It's bait", you mutter, your voice low. "Calm down, love. You've got a machine gun. Use it."

Yeah, fucking hell, it's bait, he knows that. It doesn't change the way he's feeling. But your voice in his ear at least brings him back down to reality.

"Right", he grunts, then he swipes his coat to the side, closes his hand around the grip of the gun and steadies his fingertips against the trigger. He pulls it out in one swift motion, points it at the sky and shoots. For a good three seconds longer than necessary.

"Just like that", you breathe, your grin dripping down onto your voice and melting into his ear like honey. You've really got to stop that, he actually loses his focus for half a moment there and in his line of work, next time that means sure death.

The entire bunch of teenage boys flees - as expected - and in less than a minute, Raymond has the phone pressed into his palm.

"God, sometimes I really hate that I'm not there", you sigh, something in the background ruffling, probably as you shift into a more comfortable position on your chair. "Kinda wish I could've seen you."

"Run after a little cunt like that? You didn't miss anything, darling", he says, turning his head left and right before he strides back towards the car, his steps long and purposeful.

"Turn the corner here", you mutter, your voice taking on that specific tone that tells him there's a lazy grin licking at your lips. He can just imagine how you're looking (especially now that he has the time and freedom of mind for it) - one foot propped up on those bar stools that you'd bought for the kitchen, your equipment organised on the table top in front of you, his shirt hanging from your shoulders and pooling in your lap, your head tilted back and your eyes half-closed as you talk to him.

"I don't mean the little idiot", you go on, undeterred even as he narrowly avoids a trash can. Fuck, you really distract him too much. "I'm talking about you. God, you sounded so hot I wanted to jump at you. Actually scratch that, I still do."

He lets out a chuckle as he spots the car, his steps slowing. He should hurry up, he knows that. But he's got you in his ear, talking in that sweet voice of yours about just how much he affects you. He can't pass up on that.

"You're a little fuckin' minx, darling", he mutters with a grin, throwing a glance over his shoulder to check if there's any possibility he could be overheard. He doesn't necessarily feel like making your conversation public, even as you hum into the microphone.

"Yeah, but yours", you mumble. It sounds like you're almost proud of that. "Here's an idea, love: Get back home before I finish my shower and I'll show you just how sad I am that I couldn't watch you."

[sturnboos]

CHAPTER FIVE - the Novacade

“Okay” Chris said, eyes bright as the group stepped back into The realms twilight-lit streets. “Now I have something to show pixel.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Another tree?”

Nick groaned. “If I see another 'super cool' tree I’m logging off.”

“Nope,” Chris replied with a grin. “I’m taking you to the Novacade.”

“The what now?” you asked.

Chris leaned over with a grin. “Only the most aggressively chaotic part of the town realm. It’s like if an arcade and casino had a baby”

Matt threw an arm around your shoulder dramatically. “Just don’t loose all your credits in Skee-Ball of Doom.”

“You make it sound like a scam,” you said.

“It is a scam,” Nick said.

Matt shrugged. “But a fun one.”

The entrance to the novacade shimmered like a portal, all glowing lights and holographic signs flashing things like WIN BIG and LEVEL UP. Inside, the air buzzed with musi and the soft ding! of digital credits being spent and earned.

An NPC avatar handed each of you a neon blue token before letting the four of you step inside. Virtual game booths lined every wall Nick and Chris already sprinted toward a machine called Plushie Royale. Matt tapped your token with his, syncing your credits. “You get a hundred to start. Each game costs between 5 and 20 credits. Win, and you get a reward. Lose, and… well, there’s usually an explosion sound effect.”

“Sounds fair,” you said.

Matt tilted his head toward the nearest booth. “Wanna team up?”

You gave him a sideways glance. “Team up or carry me?”

“Both. Definitely both.”

You and Matt stood side by side racing against a countdown to solve 'passwords'. The game would give you 3 hints and the more passwords you crack the bigger your prize will be. Matt hit a rhythm fast type, enter, type, enter and you kept grinning every time. “You’re terrifyingly good at this,” you muttered.

He shrugged. “Might’ve played this one in secret tutorial mode last night.”

“Are you trying to impress me?” you teased.

“Is it working?”

you smiled. “Dangerously.”

You both won the round. Your prize? +250 Credits and a Healing Potion (Strawberry Flavored).

Meanwhile, Nick was dramatically gripping the joystick of a machine yelling, “GRAB THE CAT! GRAB THE CAT!” at the claw. Chris spammed the drop button. The claw missed completely, picked up a brick, and hurled it at a plush mushroom who screamed and exploded into a pile of stuffing. “NOOO?!”

Chris spotted a machine called Lightsaber Duel he challenged you. and of course, you accepted. Glowing sabers in hand, you stood across from each other on a digital dueling platform. Matt and Nick took front-row seats on the sidelines, cheering like gremlins.

“Loser buys the other a virtual soda,” chris said.

“oh of course” you chuckled and rolled your eyes, you should of expected something like that to come out of Chris’s mouth.

You lunged first, catching chris off guard. He recovered quickly, the sabers clashing in bright of light. where ever the sabers hit made that limb glitch for a few seconds before fixing itself. The fight was fast and flashy more style than substance, but the way he kept circling you, grinning between attacks, made it feel more like a dance than a duel. Finally, you knocked the saber from his hand.

“Okay that was hot… Don’t you think Matt?” Nick smirked. Only to receive a punch in the shoulder and a quiet “shut up”.

You grinned. +100 Credits and a Digital Soda

A few hours past but the hours only feel like mintues as the lights dimmed slightly to indicate “Arcade Closing Soon” your inventory was slightly ridiculous now:

3 potions, a plush bunny, teleportation necklace, cake mix,flowers, 1425 credits and that drink chris still owes her.

Nick had somehow ended up with a cheetah print cap that would fade between colors slowly. Matt had won to pairs of sunglasses one night vison, and the other X-ray vison, he also one a realistic pug plush.

Chris leaned against the exit gate, looking over at you as the arcade’s background music softened. “So, on a scale of 1 to ‘totally nailed the hangout,’ where are we landing?” he said.

You smiled. “I mean… free soda, plushie prizes, and I got to hit you with a lightsaber? That’s a 9.”

He looked pleased with himself but then confused “why not 10?”

“the wasn’t a glowing tree” she smirked teasing.

“OH FOR FUCK SAKEEEE” chris shakes his head sighing.

“I told you guys the tree was cool!” Matt shouts to his brothers.

“Well come on” nick said, nodding toward the exit, “my turn next time… I’ll show you the rooftop skybox.”

And with that, the four of you stepped out into the pixelated night again. prizes in hand, laughter still echoing behind you, and that warm little something still lingering between you and Matt. Something that didn’t need an in-game achievement to feel real.

Tags: @blushsturns @riasturns @iloveduckssm @chrissbxby @sturnobessed @kayskreativeideas @tits4matt @mattsfavho @sturniolobananas1 @courta13 @alexisa78 @chrisissos3xy @sturnobessed @mattschelseaa @norahsturns @dolliraez @jibitzlesscrocs @oopsiedaisydeer @gemzyy @sturniolofruitloop @mattschelseaa @hesvoid34 @phone4pills @spaghettislut1 @sturnslux3 @phone4pills @owenstar @luvsturns @nickssidewitch @ariieeesworld @sugarraez

[rawmeknockout]

Can we have some command trine x minibot!reader? Please and thank you, king 💕💕💕

Dweeb is the most apt description for the whole lot of them.

It's almost funny; you used to be so terrified of them. They're still intimidating. The most skilled fliers to ever come from Cybertron, capable of razing down Autobot forces like they're insects. More than once you've been at the business end of their null rays, barely escaping being shot down (usually due to your miniscule size in comparison). You're clearly no match for them one-on-one, despite being able to escape being offlined by the Decepticon seeker forces more times than you care to count. You don't know how many more dogfights you've got left in you before you're a little energon smear on Earth's crust.

In comparison to the Decepticons, you're a clumsy, amateur flier. Forged for carrying cargo, as opposed to Starscream, Thundercracker and Skywarp who are the pinnacle of fighter build. The first image that comes to mind when mechs think Decepticon. They're elite soldiers with a tight formation and more combat experience than most mechs. Probably because most mechs can't survive as long. More than once Sunstreaker has compared Skywarp to an organic cockroach; the sort of mech that won't die no matter how many punches he takes. They have so much combat experience that the more you run into them, the more you learn as a result. That's perhaps the only good thing to come from having contact with them as a flight frame.

One of the things you've learned is that all three of them are absolute dorks. Thundercracker is the most tolerable, sensible and calm when the others are lost in their feelings and schemes. He would rather take atrocious orders than give them. You begrudgingly find him handsome, with a smile that belongs on an ad for denta scrub as opposed to getting knocked clean off from throwing servos with the likes of Brawn. His optics sparkle when he reaches down to hold your small digits, something that should NOT set your lines ablaze. The fluttering in your circuits makes you want to purge.

Skywarp is a plain nuisance, on the battlefield and in everyday life. When he's not warping in your way and playing stupid pranks, he's picking you up in his stupid big arms and warping off with you. He uses his ability to an obnoxious degree, irritating not only you but everyone around him. The zzZZ-VOP of him materializing from nothing haunts your deepest nightmares. He is irritatingly giddy around you, dementedly giggling right in your audial when he curls his large build around yours. But, just as you are forced to tolerate him, Skywarp is steadfastly tolerant of everything you do. Even the harshest insults you can levy are nothing more than water off an Earth duck's back. He might be actually nice to hang out with, you might be able to laugh off his antics, if he wasn't so insistent on banging pelvic armor.

But the one you least understand is Starscream. You've spent so long analyzing his flight patterns, copying the sharp way he dips and dives through the air, trying to morph your frame's movements to match his grace and deadly skill. And yet you're still no closer to understanding the mech himself. Not that you're exactly part of logistics and strategy, you would rather leave that to Prowl, but it would be nice to know what in the hell you did to attracted Starscream of all mechs. Thundercracker and Skywarp were easier to understand, more Cybertronian. They were deadly but noticeably more alive, Starscream is like a scheming, plotting machine with only torment on his mind. If it didn't hurt another mech, why would he care? But, as little as you understand it, when he's not shrieking at the top of his vocalizer at his brethren, he's trying to sneak his treasonous claws into your servo. You've learned it's best to ignore this, even let him do it, because if you question him he'll blow your audials out with how little he thinks of you screamed at the top of his voice like a hawk. You also blithely ignore the way he struts around like a peacock, flaring his wings in a blatant attempt to attract your attention.

Where once you felt fear, loathing, and reluctant respect for the elite trine, now you just feel weary. Perhaps it's the curse of being a mini flier. There aren't a whole lot of your kind left, and it's not exactly a popular frame for construction. It's got to be the novelty of it. That's all you can think. Why else would they be bickering with you trapped in the middle, Starscream's claws bearing down on your poor shoulder armor while Skywarp squeezes you a tad too hard. Thundercracker doesn't help much, more focused on shouting the others down than saving you.

A pack of sqwaking hens.

Maybe in this next battle you'll be shot down and you can take a nice long rest in Ratchet's medbay. That sounds nice.

[saturniasxenos]

Cyber / Virtual ID Pack

Inside this pack, you will find: Pronouns, Titles, Names, and Genders that relate to Virtuality, Cybernetic, Robots, and anything alike!

This features a LOOOONG list of pronouns and dystopian-ish names!

Pronouns:

Cy/Cyb/Cyber/Cybers/Cyberself

Vir/Virt/Virtual/Virtuals/Virtualself

Ne/Net/Network/Networks/Networkself

Ne/Net/Nets/Nets/Netself

In/Inter/Internet/Internets/Internetself

Co/Comp/Computer/Computers/Computerself

In/Inpu/Input/Inputs/Inputself

Ou/Out/Output/Outputs/Outputself

Vi/Viru/Virus/Viruses/Virusself

Anti/Antivir/Antivirus/Antiviruses/Antivirusself

Er/Erro/Error/Errors/Errorself

Sys/Syste/System/Systems/Systemself

Pro/Proce/Processor/Processors/Processorself

Di/Digi/Digital/Digitals/Digitalself

Do/Down/Download/Downloads/Downloadself

Up/Uplo/Upload/Uploads/Uploadself

Cor/Corru/Corrupt/Corrupts/Corruptself

Mal/Malwa/Malware/Malwares/Malwareself

Se/Secur/Security/Securitys/Securityself

Cry/Crypt/Crypto/Cryptos/Cryptoself

We/Web/Webs/Webs/Webself

Web/Webs/Website/Websites/Websiteself

Fu/Futu/Future/Futures/Futureself

Ro/Rob/Robot/Robots/Robotself

Rob/Robo/Robotic/Robotics/Roboticself

By/Byt/Byte/Bytes/Byteself

Fi/Fil/File/Files/Fileself

Ra/Ram/Rams/Rams/Ramself

Scr/Scre/Screen/Screens/Screenself

Te/Tech/Techs/Techs/Techself

Te/Tech/Techno/Technos/Technoself

Tec/Techno/Technology/Technologys/Technologyself

Ma/Mach/Machine/Machines/Machineself

Wi/Wir/Wire/Wires/Wireself

Na/Nan/Nano/Nanos/Nanoself

Da/Dat/Data/Datas/Dataself

Plu/Plug/Plugs/Plugs/Plugself

Ele/Elect/Electric/Electrics/Electricself

Ke/Key/Keys/Keys/Keyself

Pa/Pass/Password/Passwords/Passwordself

Ter/Term/Terminal/Terminals/Terminalself

Cy/Cybo/Cyborg/Cyborgs/Cyborgself

Ty/Typ/Type/Types/Typeself

Fi/Firm/Firmware/Firmwares/Firmwareself

Ha/Hard/Hardware/Hardwares/Hardwareself

So/Soft/Software/Softwares/Softwareself

Ha/Hack/Hacks/Hacks/Hackself

Ha/Hack/Hacker/Hackers/Hackerself

Si/Sig/Signal/Signals/Signalself

Clo/Clou/Cloud/Clouds/Cloudself

On/Onli/Online/Onlines/Onlineself

In/Insta/Install/Installs/Installself

Co/Cod/Code/Codes/Codeself

Ad/Admi/Admin/Admins/Adminself

Gra/Graph/Graphic/Graphs/Graphself

Sy/Syn/Synth/Synths/Synthself

Phi/Phis/Phish/Phishs/Phishself

Phi/Phish/Phishing/Phishings/Phishingself

Do/Dox/Doxs/Doxs/Doxself

Si/Sit/Site/Sites/Siteself

Bo/Bot/Bots/Bots/Botself

Pho/Phon/Phone/Phones/Phoneself

Key/Keyboa/Keyboard/Keyboards/Keyboardself

Mo/Mou/Mouse/Mouses/Mouseself

Chi/Chip/Chips/Chips/Chipself

Moth/Mother/Motherboard/Motherboards/Motherboardself

Co/Com/Compute/Computes/Computeself

Pi/Pira/Piracy/Piracys/Piracyself

En/Encry/Encrypt/Encrypts/Encryptself

PDA/PDAs

CPU/CPUs

URL/URLs

404/404s

📱/📱's

💻/💻's

⌨️/⌨️'s

🖥/🖥's

🖱/🖱's

💿/💿's

🎙/🎙's

Titles:

The Cyborg

(X) Whos Wired

Made of Nanotech

(X) Who Uses Nanotech

Scholar of Machines

The Cyber Security

(X) Who Has Cyber Wings

Connected Online

Offline

Unable to Connect

The Administrator

Synthesizer

The Hacker

Nanohacker

The Antivirus

Reconnecting...

ERROR: Unable to Connect

ERROR 404

ERROR: Malware Detected

Names:

Since names don't usually have "techy" meanings, I picked one's that sounded the most cybernetic, cyberpunkish, dystopian, virtualish, etc!

Fem: Althea, Ameris, Astoria, Arcadia, Astra, Beretta, Cyra, Crystal, Crosselle, Eve, Io, Jinx, Kit, Lilith, Meridian, Morrian, Nebula, Nova, Neve, Noxia, North, Octavia, Odette, Odile, Prota, Pistol, Rey, Rue, Rain, Raine, Stormy, Seraphina, Sona, Skye, Thundra, Tempest, Vega, Viva, Vinette, Venus, Xenia, Xya, Xena, Xiomara, Xenara, Xanthe, Zephyria, Zyla, Zadie, Zia,

Masc: Alaric, Aksel, Arden, Antares, Apollo, Ace, Asher, Cole, Cyrus, Code, Draven, Drift, Ender, Flynn, Hawk, Isaac, Jericho, Kip, Kai, Koios, Knox, Nox, Neo, Nero, Octavian, Orionis, Oghma, Paine, Rocket, Ray, Rai, Silas, Slader, Sebastian, Seth, Seraphim, Thalax, Theo, Thatch, Vox, Vector, Wyatt, Xyon, Xane, Xylan, Xerxes, Xayden, Xavier, Xander, Zander, Zayden, Zenith, Zev, Zale, Zane, Zaire, Zeke,

Neu: Andras, Axe, Axiom, Alloy, Allele, Ash, Arrow, Beetle, Chrom, Corvus, Dakota, Dell, Eos, Echo, Eden, Fox, Ghost, Glöckner, Hydrae, Ion, Jesper, Jett, Kursk, Lesath, Locklyn, Lyrae, Maddox, Nemo, Orca, Onyx, Oxygen, Panther, Rikko, Robin, Rune, Scorpion, Scorpius, Saturn, Sparrow, Sonar, Tore, Tauri, Techne, Techno, Ursae, Vesper, Volt, West, Wolf, Xen, Xenon, Zephyr, Zodiac, Zenon, Zeru, Zero, Zen

Genders:

Futuracityc: A gender related to futuristic cities

Futurafashic: A gender related to futuristic fashion

Futurahousic: A gender related to futuristic houses

Digigender: A digital gender. Rangeable from any digital thing or file; virus, malware, .txt, .mp3, antivirus, trojan, email, etc.

Cybergender: A gender or form of gender expression where ones gender or expression is deeply tied into Cyberpunk lore, culture, fashion or media.

CYBERWEAPONIC - a gender that feels like a digital or robotic weapon. this gender may also have ties to sentient AI used as a weapon, but not necessarily.

BIOAMOROBOTIC - a gender connected to being a robot who loves humanity and the world and finds joy all around them!

RobAnatomic - a gender under the anatomic system(link) related to robots, anatomy, robotic anatomy, the anatomy of robots, robots made to teach/study anatomy, anatomy based/related robots of some kind, the anatomy/biology of someone or something being robotic, having robotic anatomy, being a robot with an interest in anatomy and more.

Robogender - for people who’s gender identity aligns with machines/robots/androids/mechs/AIs.

Cyborwebic - a gender related to webcore, evil scientist aesthetics, artificial beings such as androids/cyborgs etc, turtleneck sweaters and old computer monitors

AI flag - this can be used for nonhuman, otherkin, gender, delusion.

Gendervirtual / Genderdigital - a gendersystem in which your gender is related to virtual ) digital themes and x , such as being a virtual ) digital x , a x who loves virtual ) digital themes , a virtual ) digital being who loves x themes , etc.

[blueiscoool]

Scientists Digitally 'Unroll' 2,000-Year-Old Scroll Scorched by Mount Vesuvius

he Herculaneum scrolls have remained one of the many tantalizing mysteries of the ancient world for almost 2,000 years. Burnt to a crisp by lava from Mount Vesuvius in A.D. 79, the reams of rolled-up papyrus were discovered in a mansion in Herculaneum — an ancient Roman town near Pompeii — in the mid-18th century. Both towns were decimated by the Vesuvius eruption, and most of the scrolls were so badly charred they were impossible to open.

Over the next two and a half centuries, attempts were made to unfurl some of the hundreds of scrolls using everything from rose water and mercury to vegetable gas and papyrus juice, according to the New Yorker.

The few that could be opened were philosophical texts written in ancient Greek. But most of the scrolls were so badly damaged, they were considered illegible. More recently, researchers managed to decipher some select words using artificial intelligence, X-ray and CT scans to distinguish ink from the papyrus it was printed on.

The mystery is still unravelling, and on Wednesday, a major breakthrough was announced. Researchers say they've now managed to digitally unroll and start reading one of the ancient scrolls. The scroll in question, known as PHerc. 172, is one of three stored at the University of Oxford's Bodleian Libraries in England.]

A team involved in the Vesuvius Challenge, a competition offering prize money to anyone who can help unlock the delicate scrolls, says it has virtually unwrapped the papyrus to reveal columns of text that Oxford scholars have already started working to decipher.

"This scroll contains more recoverable text than we have ever seen in a scanned Herculaneum scroll," said Brent Seales, one of the co-founders of the challenge.

"We're confident we will be able to read pretty much the whole scroll in its entirety, and it's the first time we've really been able to say that with high confidence," project lead Stephen Parsons told CBS News' partner network BBC News. "Now we can work on making it show up more clearly. We're going to go from a handful of words to really substantial passages."

The breakthrough came when the team at the Bodleian Libraries brought the blackened scroll to the Diamond Light Source research facility in nearby Oxfordshire, where technicians used a massive machine called a synchrotron to create a powerful X-ray beam that was able to peer into the fragile relic without damaging it.

Villa of the Papyri in Herculaneum

"It can see things on the scale of a few thousandths of a millimeter," Adrian Mancuso, the facility's director of physical sciences, told the BBC. "We have to work out which layer is different from the next layer so we can unroll that digitally."

Last year, the Vesuvius Challenge announced that three young students had won its $700,000 grand prize for using AI to help researchers read about 5% of another scroll, the subject of which was Greek Epicurean philosophy.

The scroll that the team at the Bodleian Libraries recently unfurled is assumed to be on the same subject.

"I just love that connection with whoever collected them, whoever wrote them, whoever rolled those scrolls up and put them on the shelves," Nicole Gilroy, head of book conservation at the Bodleian Libraries, told the BBC. "There's a real human aspect to it that I just think is really precious."

By Frank Andrews.