#Elevator Access Control System

[advancedelevatoraccesscontrol]

High-Functional Elevator Access Control System| Full-Service Security System & Automation Company

Looking for a high-performing elevator access control system? Shop from Infinite Systems Technology Corporation; their elevator floor access control systems come with advanced connectivity options.

[isaacsapphire]

From an access control perspective this fact gives me hives. Like, I know that elevators can have access control because I have worked with ones that used keys and badge readers (could use fobs too) but I also know how much access control is part psychological rather than physical.

On the other hand, shared spaces like hallways and elevator lobbies are kinda a waste of square footage and I would prefer the space be inside the apartment rather than this wasted ghost space that is subjected to the tragedy of the commons and everyone has to pass through.

I am most certainly a city person and an extrovert, but if there's one thing that freaks me out is that somewhere out there are apartment buildings where the downstairs elevator opens directly into your apartment?? Just fucking rawdogging the whole of city life like that? Going commando with essentially nothing but a gust of wind between your private areas and the open public??

[winkofcharm]

Spinning, Spinning, Spun - Chapter 2

I wanted more for this chapter, but apparently I'm travelling this weekend so it's all I could do.

batfamily x reader {platonic}

[first] [previous] [next]

Alfred thinks he may rival any of The Flashes in how quickly he moves. Any aching joints or stiff knees that may slow him down are forgotten in his hurry. He does not call Stephanie back to inform her, throwing all his attention into getting into the Batcave as soon as he can.  There is no time to waste, for if Stephanie is right - you haven’t been heard from in at least a week, a week too long. If the laughter at the end of your voicemail is real, then you’re not just missing, you’ve been taken.

‘It’s all too familiar’, Alfred thinks, punching in the access code before stepping into the elevator. ‘It’s happened again, another child - gone’. The past replays in his mind, over and over again. Jason, gone, dead, killed by the same grotesque creature that now holds you. 

Alfred is forced to wipe his eyes, clear away his forming tears, so that the retina scanner works. And as soon as he is able, the emergency alert goes out. He knows it will wake Bruce and Tim, and he knows it may take a few minutes for Dick and Barbara to join virtually - but sure enough, his family fills the cave. 

Batman, Robin, Red Robin, Batgirl and Spoiler are all gathered within a half hour. Nightwing’s and Oracle’s faces each on a monitor. Spoiler, Stephanie, is pale, her face twisted into a look of guilt, eyes staring into Alfred’s as he begins to speak. 

The words are slow to form, and choke him as he forces them out-

“I was made aware not long ago that,” Alfred pauses, not purposely, but long enough to give a shuddering sigh, “The young master has -” His eyes settle on Stephanie, who has yet to divert her eyes from him. It is a slight movement, but her head is shaking, back and forth, a silent prayer for him to not finish. “Has been taken.” He finishes. 

Stephanie shrinks into herself, it was not the answer she wanted, but the one she received nonetheless. Alfred shuts his eyes, refuses to look upon the others as he provides more information, the only information he had. He forces the words out, as if speaking them is carving them into stone. He knows he will have to say them, no matter how little he wishes to. He will have to open his eyes, and bear witness to a world in which you most certainly have been harmed. 

He tells them all he knows.

He tells them how Stephanie had noticed your lack of online presence, how she had reached out to him, and he had tried to contact you, and how your voicemail had been…altered. How the laugh at the end could belong to only one person. He finishes, and silence takes over. The only sound he hears is his own heart pounding in his ears - waiting for someone, anyone, to tell him that he was wrong. That you were in fact safe and sound, that you were upstairs in your room, wrapped tightly in blankets and securely asleep. 

Barbara is the first to speak, her voice coming from the speakers, bouncing around the cave with a slight echo. 

“They failed to check in with me today, but they did yesterday. It’s unlikely they’ve been gone that long - “ she explains, Alfred can hear the tap-tap-tap of her keyboard through the surround sound system. She remotely takes control of the computer, various screenshots of conversations popping up as she does. The very latest is dated yesterday, 5:15pm for its final message. 

The picture above your final message (‘Your last words’ Alfred thinks) is cut off, but he catches the end of a runway, and the top of your seated legs.

K. 

That’s it. 

5:15pm: K.

“According to their schedule, they should be in Milan for fashion week - huh. Strange -” Barbara stops mid-sentence. Her brow furrowing as she types rapidly, “But the jet’s in New York, and has been for-” she cuts herself off again. Typing getting faster, a frown overtaking her expression. “Three weeks - what? They’ve been sending pictures from all over the place?” 

Stephanie’s eyes widen, and she steps forward. 

“That picture is from last year,” She pulls out her phone and pulls up profile, scrolling back through a years worth of content, “See! It’s the same one!” She claims. She sends it wirelessly to the computer, and it pops up squished between Babara and Dick’s faces. 

Even from what little he could see of your messages from Barbara, he can tell it’s the truth. The lights are the same, the runway and laying in your lap are identical, down to the tiniest of stains on the knee of your pants. 

Barbara proceeds to pull up more and more of the pictures you have supposedly sent her these last few days, and sure enough - each one is a duplicate to an earlier post. Panic and fear bubble in Stephanie’s chest as she confirms each one, and Alfred watches as the rest of his family begin to realize - 

You were gone.

Someone had your phone.

That someone had been pretending to be you.

If the laugh at the end of your voicemail was any indication - 

Joker had you, had had you for a week, at least. 

And no one had noticed. 

It’s only when Bruce steps forward, that Barbara and Stephanie fall silent, and back into line. His eyes are steel, cold and hard,  flickering over all the presented information. 

“Nightwing, come back to Gotham, you and I will focus on the Red Hood case. Spoiler and Robin, I need you to investigate the Jet, check it over, see if anything is out of place,” He pauses, deep in thought before continuing, “Oracle, track their digital movements. Phone records, previous posts - everything. Red Robin, Batgirl, try and see if they have any enemies. Anyone who may have wanted them hurt, or wanted to hurt the Wayne family.” 

Bruce stops, and looks over his team, his family, as he gives his instruction. Splitting their attention at a time like this, with a new violent vigilante on the loose in his city, wasn’t ideal. He would make it work - he had to. Red Hood was targeting the Robins, Red Robin in particular, this gave him both an excuse to get Tim off the Red Hood case, and onto your disappearance. He hopes they aren’t connected, and hopes he can keep the rest of them from realizing they might be. 

It would be easier for him to take Red Hood on with Dick alone; and if it means letting the rest think Joker - who is still firmly locked in Arkham - took you, then so be it. 

Bruce dismisses his team, his family, his children, and watches them all flit off into the night. Oracle signs off with a flourish, but Dick remains behind - the computer automatically adjusts so that his face, and his face alone takes up the entire monitor. Bruce is turned away from the monitor, and despite the distance between them, he can feel his son's eyes burn into his back. He knows that Dick is frowning, knows what he will say when he turns to face him. He lets out a sigh, there is no preventing what is to come, his shoulders fall slack, and he finally turns to face what he knows is coming - as if he is the son to be scolded by his father. 

Dick is angry, is disappointed, and frustrated. He may not have been as close to you as he could have been, but you were still part of his family. He was once told that keeping you at arms length meant keeping you safe, but he learned long ago that was a lie. 

He was already Nightwing by the time he had met you, but he had known of you for far longer. He learned of you from bits and pieces, crumbs dropped by those who barely let a thing slide. Written reports on a desk that he was technically forbidden from reading, early morning phone calls between Alfred and some secret stranger - everything pointed to a secret, and Dick was really, really good at figuring out people's secrets.

He discovered you, and then, to his regret, left you alone. He was gone by the time you finally came home, and with Jason arriving nearly the same day to replace him - his attention was diverted to the most pressing matter. He did visit occasionally, and met you through those visits. 

You didn’t know about the Batman thing, and he was fine keeping that from you. He also didn’t think he had to make sure Jason knew about keeping the Batman thing secret from you, but maybe he should have. There was such a clear divide between you pre-knowing, and post-knowing. 

Dick can’t help but think that if he had tried just a bit more, things may have been different. He appreciates all that you do, really he does - it’s just, he doesn’t know you the way he knows everyone else. Doesn’t know what makes you happy or sad, doesn’t know your favourite foods, favourite colours, or even who your friends are ( do you even have any, outside of those you work with?). Now it may be too late, he thinks. If Joker has you, and you’ve really been gone for as long as they think - it’s Jason all over again. He wonders if he’ll see you too, in the dark corners of his mind. If an apparition of you, molded by his own mind, will taunt his failures as Jason’s ghost does. 

It’s not even the first time you’ve been kidnapped. They all have, at some point or another, but they all had training to get themselves out. You hadn’t, and yes, most of the time it was some low ranking organization or crook looking for a quick buck, thinking you an easy target (and you were an easy target), it didn’t change the fact that it’d happened. 

Didn’t change the fact that after the first time, Dick had promised he’d spend more time with you (and then didn’t). Then it happened again, and this time you weren’t even rescued by a family member, by a familiar face. Maybe it was one of the Supers? Or maybe a Flash? You were brought home by a Green Lantern once (twice). Each time he’d promise himself, he’d treat you better, each time he promised you’d be safer and it wouldn’t happen again - and then it did. 

It ate at him, how you’d shrug off each incident without a word. Perhaps, he thinks, he convinced himself that it didn’t affect you, that even if you were snatched up, you’d be saved in the end, so the fact that it happened didn’t matter. But it did matter, it did. He swears it did, and staring down at your shared Father, who had swore time and time again that you’d be kept safe (and being proven wrong, time and time again) it sinks in that this may be the last time.  That those promises he made to himself were never going to be kept, that he was a liar, that for all his bravado about being the best big brother , he was possibly one of the worst. 

“Bruce,” he forces out, words dancing on the tip of his tongue, “You said this wouldn’t happen again.” 

‘This’ being either you being kidnapped again, or having another of his siblings taken away by the clown prince of crime. He isn’t sure which one he means, or maybe he means both - and judging from the look on Bruce’s face, he takes it as both. 

“It hasn’t, “ Bruce starts, and Dick thinks he may have finally lost it. You definitely were taken again, and a good chance it was - “He’s still locked up.” 

What?

“Joker’s still in Arkham, the others will figure that out soon enough,” He continues, and Dick stares open-mouthed at him. If Joker is still in Arkham, then who? Who has you? Harley? Is it an attempt to bust Joker out? To continue his work while he cannot? Dick can’t help but wonder what is worse, thinking Joker or Harley may have you, or not knowing who does. He runs over all the possibilities in his mind, for surely this must be one of their known enemies. Someone who wants to target them, because there was never a reason to target you specifically. 

But there’s a new player on the board, isn’t there? One that’s started cropping up everywhere they look. 

“Bruce, you don’t think it’s him do you?” Dick waits for an answer, and all he gets is the slightest nod of Bruce’s head. “I see. I’ll be back in Gotham by the morning, and then, we’re tracking Red Hood down.” With that, Dick dismisses himself, logging off and finally Bruce is alone. 

He is not a good father. He knows this. He has never pretended otherwise, despite what some may say. They may say he did his best, he did all that he could. They praise him for the way his children have turned out, the ones that survived, as if he is the reason they did so. He knows he is not, especially not when it comes to you. 

There is nothing he has done right for you, not once, except perhaps try to set you free from the darkness. But even that, he thinks, he has done wrong. To let you grow in the sun, he severed your roots. Refused to let them take hold, that someday you might leave him, and his shadows behind, and start anew. Yet he sought to tie you to him, that you might never find that sun, may see it, but never feel its warmth for yourself. 

He is a selfish man, who drags those around him down, he poisons the well from which you drink long before you could find another. In wanting to keep you close, he has driven you away. In wanting to drive you away, he may have killed you. 

You are his first born, one that he did not want, but was no less dear to him. He has never shown you this, never let you know, and now that may be another great failure atop the pile of other great failures. 

He was not there when you were born, didn’t even know you were to be, but when the hospital called, he felt his heart swell. A family, a father in a way that Dick didn’t really need him to be. He didn’t rush, couldn’t rush. It wouldn’t be the first time he was declared the father of an illegitimate child. He pushed for tests, just in case, and when they came back and you were his, he felt himself hope. 

Hope is a fickle mistress, and he found it lacking soon after. He had you placed in his childhood room, the nursery, the one in which all Wayne children had resided in at some point or another. He thought he could keep up with raising a child and being The Batman. He was young, he was capable, he was, he was doing so very very wrong by you.

A baby was different from a preteen, he soon learned. Dick was easy, because for the most part, he could care for himself. He did not need someone to watch him at all hours, didn’t need nappies changed and bottles warmed. It was not care he nor Alfred could give. 

He did what he thought was best, and though it haunted him, he sent you away, and promised he would bring you back when you were older, when it would be better, easier. 

A better time, an easier time, never came. Something always came up, always held him back on bringing you home. He didn’t think that time would ever come, doesn’t know if it truly had. But you came home, the woman he had personally hired to raise you was retiring, and he figured it was the only chance he had to bring you in. 

The date slipped his mind, and on the day you came home, he found Jason. Instead of greeting you, welcoming you, embracing you, he opened his arms to another, letting you slip into the manor like a phantom. 

You were finally home and despite all that you may have needed - Jason needed more. He passed you in the hallways, sometimes at meals, never really stopping to connect with you the way he should have. He learned of you indirectly, through Jason. 

How glad he was, that you held no animosity towards the boy he had taken in. You never gave any inclination towards the idea he may have stolen your place, even if Jason sometimes thought he had. The boy was sensitive, empathetic to a degree Bruce hadn’t known before. And Bruce, for the moment, encouraged it.

Until you found out about Batman. 

He had done what he could to keep you separate. To keep your life and light safe from the dark and dirt that encompassed all he did. It was Jason’s mistake, and Jason would be punished accordingly. But that left you - sitting alone in the study, eyes cast aside until he began to speak and you looked up and oh- 

Your eyes. 

His mothers eyes. 

He had never looked you in the eyes before, never noticed, how could he not notice? You had her eyes. Your eyes, looking upon him in fear, reminding him so clearly of his mothers eyes on that night.  His mothers eyes, frightened of him. 

He panicked. Lashed out, locked you out of the loop and threw away the key. If it meant you hated him, feared him, so be it. He would keep you safe, he would do all he could to keep those eyes in his life. 

And then he failed. Again. He thought by letting you go into the world slowly, he could at least try to keep you safe and content. 

Again, and again, and again, and again. He watched you suffer as he failed you. Then when you finally seem to be escaping his failure, leaving behind all his mistakes, he refuses to let you go. Forces you to play pretend, to put a metaphorical mask on and lie to the world about how perfect he is -

Sometimes he lets himself believe it, lets himself get lost in the fairy tale, that you are a happy child and he is a good father, that he has never abandoned you, that you and he are a team, taking on the world together. He pretends that he has never missed a ceremony or award, that ‘family night’ includes you, that he doesn’t see only your back walking away from him, that he has never walked away from you. 

‘This is the last time,’ Bruce thinks, going back over all your accounts, comparing the recent ones to the timeline of Red Hood showing up in Gotham. ‘After this, I will let them go.’ 

He knows this is another lie, and chooses to believe it anyway. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Next chapter - Red Hood vs Batman,

and finally, a check in with Reader-tan

@holybatflapexpert @electricgg @xoyumiqls @holderoflostmemories @sleeptimes @galaxypurplerose @sassam @pearlyribbons @bellelamoon @fortunatelydifferentqueen

@randomlyappearingartist @c4xcocoa @whyiseveryuseenametaken @myjumper

@magdalenacarmila @noone1233nobody @bbmgirll @degenerates-posts@rinkydinkythinky @ithoughtthinks @rtyuy1346  @s1mppp @yokesmam

man i'm hopin these tags work

[hadesoftheladies]

“what oppression do women face? what rights don’t they already have?” let me explain something very simple to you. having laws that permit women to have jobs, divorce men, abort, or kill in self-defense is literally 25% of the battle. why? because of infrastructure and societal bias.

for example, it is technically illegal to rape (legislation) yet few rapists are ever convicted and even if they are, their sentences never match the crime. why? for one, it’s hard for girls and women of challenging socioeconomic backgrounds to access services or resources like rape kits or information on how to seek legal assistance; and in the course of this, the police men are likely to sexually abuse them as well, resulting in more trauma and reducing their chances at seeking justice (infrastructure). even if a woman were to get a job (and the law doesn’t allow discrimination), if the social bias is that she can’t perform well, she is still less likely to be hired. if she is hired, she is more likely to be underpaid (read up on the velvet or pink ghetto).

government (legislation and judiciary) are reflective of social consciousness. they may agree with the rights of women (sometimes) on paper, but whether or not they are meaningfully enforced is completely up to those with the most socioeconomic power, which, for now, is largely still men (in that men maintain most of the wealth, property, and high opinion in a populace, they also control most popular metanarratives via religion, education, pornography and entertainment which means they largely control public perception). because men in patriarchal society keep their resources to themselves and seek to elevate only themselves. racism can be illegal, and still rampant, in a country. so it is with misogyny and homophobia.

if men hate women in a system that has long been organized to benefit them, a few legislative changes won’t automatically change that system. it has to be altered structurally and socially as well.

and that takes a whole lot more fighting

[dostoyevsky-official]

A 25-Year-Old With Elon Musk Ties Has Direct Access to the Federal Payment System

A 25-year-old engineer named Marko Elez, who previously worked for two Elon Musk companies, has direct access to Treasury Department systems responsible for nearly all payments made by the US government, three sources tell WIRED. Two of those sources say that Elez’s privileges include the ability not just to read but to write code on two of the most sensitive systems in the US government: The Payment Automation Manager (PAM) and Secure Payment System (SPS) at the Bureau of the Fiscal Service (BFS). Housed on a top-secret mainframe, these systems control, on a granular level, government payments that in their totality amount to more than a fifth of the US economy. Despite reporting that suggests that Musk's so-called Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) task force has access to these Treasury systems on a “read-only” level, sources say Elez, who has visited a Kansas City office housing BFS systems, has many administrator-level privileges. Typically, those admin privileges could give someone the power to log into servers through secure shell access, navigate the entire file system, change user permissions, and delete or modify critical files. That could allow someone to bypass the security measures of, and potentially cause irreversible changes to, the very systems they have access to. “You could do anything with these privileges,” says one source with knowledge of the system, who adds that they cannot conceive of a reason that anyone would need them for purposes of simply hunting down fraudulent payments or analyzing disbursement flow. "Technically I don't see why this couldn't happen," a federal IT worker tells WIRED in a phone call late on Monday night, referring to the possibility of a DOGE employee being granted elevated access to a government server. "If you would have asked me a week ago, I'd have told you that this kind of thing would never in a million years happen. But now, who the fuck knows." A source says they are concerned that data could be passed from secure systems to DOGE operatives within the General Services Administration (GSA). WIRED reporting has shown that Elon Musk’s associates—including Nicole Hollander, who slept in Twitter’s offices as Musk acquired the company, and Thomas Shedd, a former Tesla engineer who now runs a GSA agency, along with a host of extremely young and inexperienced engineers—have infiltrated the GSA, and have attempted to use White House security credentials to gain access to GSA tech, something experts have said is highly unusual and poses a huge security risk.

[mariacallous]

The internet—it seemed like such a good idea at the time. Under conditions of informational poverty, our ancestors had no choice but to operate on a need-to-know basis. The absence of pertinent, reliable, and commonly held facts was at first a matter of mere logistics—the stable storage and orderly transfer of knowledge was costly and troublesome, and entropy was free—but, over time, the techniques of civilization afforded us better control over the collection and transmission of data. Vast triage structures evolved to determine who got to learn what, when: medieval guilds, say, or network news reports. These systems were supposed to function in everybody’s best interests. We were finite brutes of fragile competence, and none of us could confront the abyss of unmitigated complexity alone. Beyond a certain point, however, we couldn’t help but perceive these increasingly centralized arrangements as insulting, and even conspiratorial. We were grownups, and, as such, we could be trusted to handle an unadulterated marketplace of ideas. The logic of the internet was simple: first, fire all of the managers; then, sort things out for ourselves. In the time since, one of the few unambiguously good things to have emerged from this experiment is an entire genre of attempts to explain why it mostly hasn’t worked out.

This effort—the attempt to hash out what went so wrong—had something of a rocky start. After 2016, many liberals were inclined to diagnose the pathologies of the internet as a problem of supply. Some people have bad ideas and beliefs. These are bad either because they are false (“climate change is a myth,” “vaccines cause autism”) or because they are pernicious (“we should have a C.E.O. as a monarch,” “foreigners are criminals”). These ideas propagate because the internet provides bad actors with a platform to distribute them. This story was appealing, both because it was simple and because it made the situation seem tractable. The solution was to limit the presence of these bad actors, to cut off the supply at the source. One obvious flaw in this argument is that “misinformation” was only ever going to be a way to describe ideas you didn’t like. It was a childish fantasy to think that a neutral arbiter might be summoned into being, or that we would all defer to its judgments as a matter of course.

The major weakness of this account was that it tended to sidestep the question of demand. Even if many liberals agreed in private that those who believed untrue and harmful things were fundamentally stupid or harmful people, they correctly perceived that this was a gauche thing to say out loud. Instead, they attributed the embrace of such beliefs to “manipulation,” an ill-defined concept that is usually deployed as a euphemism for sorcery. These low-information people were vulnerable to such sorcery because they lacked “media literacy.” What they needed, in other words, was therapeutic treatment with more and better facts. All of this taken together amounted to an incoherent theory of information. On the one hand, facts were neutral things that spoke for themselves. On the other, random pieces of informational flotsam were elevated to the status of genuine facts only once they were vetted by credentialled people with special access to the truth.

There was, however, an alternative theory. The internet was not primarily a channel for the transmission of information in the form of evidence. It was better described as a channel for the transmission of culture in the form of memes. Users didn’t field a lot of facts and then assemble them into a world view; they fielded a world view and used it as a context for evaluating facts. The adoption of a world view had less to do with rational thought than it did with desire. It was about what sort of person you wanted to be. Were you a sophisticated person who followed the science? Or were you a skeptical person who saw through the veneer of establishment gentility?

This perspective has come to be associated with Peter Thiel, who introduced a generation of conservative-leaning acolytes to the work of the French theorist René Girard. This story has been told to hermeneutic exhaustion, but the key insight that Thiel drew from Girard was that people—or most people, at any rate—didn’t really have their own desires. They wanted things because other people wanted those things. This created conditions of communal coherence (everybody wanting the same thing) and good fellowship, which were simultaneously conditions of communal competition (everybody wanting the same thing) and ill will. When the accumulated aggression of these rivalries became intolerable, the community would select a scapegoat for ritual sacrifice—not the sort of person we were but the one we definitely were not. On the right, this manifested itself as various forms of xenophobia and a wholesale mistrust of institutional figures; on the left, as much of what came to be called cancel culture and its censorious milieu. Both were attempts to police the boundaries of us—to identify, in other words, those within our circle of trust and those outside of it.

The upshot of all of this was not that people had abandoned first principles, as liberals came to argue in many tiresome books about the “post-truth” era, or that they had abandoned tradition, as conservatives came to argue in many tiresome books about decadence. It was simply that, when people who once functioned on a need-to-know basis were all of a sudden forced to adjudicate all of the information all of the time, the default heuristic was just to throw in one’s lot with the generally like-minded. People who didn’t really know anything about immunity noticed that the constellation of views associated with their peers had lined up against vaccines, and the low-cost option was to just run with it; people who didn’t really know anything about virology noticed that the constellation of views associated with their peers had lined up against the lab-leak hypothesis, and they, too, took the path of least resistance. This is not to say that all beliefs are equally valid. It is simply to observe that most of us have better things to do than deal with unremitting complexity. It’s perfectly reasonable, as a first approximation of thinking, to conserve our time and energy by just picking a side and being done with it.

Liberals were skittish about this orientation because it replaced our hopes for democracy with resignation in the face of competing protection rackets. But what they really didn’t like was that their bluff had been called. Their preferred solution to informational complexity—that certain ideas and the people associated with them were Bad and Wrong and needed to be banished from the public sphere—wasn’t much better. The urge to “deplatform” made liberals seem weak, insofar as it implied less than total confidence in their ability to prevail on the merits. The conservative account was all about allegiance and power, but at least it didn’t really pretend otherwise. They were frank about their tribalism.

Recent discourse attending to a “vibe shift” has tended to emphasize a renewed acceptance, even in erstwhile liberal circles, of obnoxious or retrograde cultural attitudes—the removal of taboos, say, on certain slurs. Another way to look at the vibe shift is as a more fundamental shift to “vibes” as the unit of political analysis—an acknowledgment, on the part of liberals, that their initial response to an informational crisis had been inadequate and hypocritical. The vibe shift has been criticized as a soft-headed preference for mystical interpretation in place of empirical inquiry. But a vibe is just a technique of compression. A near-infinite variety of inputs is reduced to a single bit of output: YES or NO, FOR or AGAINST. It had been close, but the vibe shift was just the concession that AGAINST had prevailed.

One side effect of the vibe shift is that the media establishment has started to accept that there is, in fact, such a thing as a Silicon Valley intellectual—not the glib, blustery dudes who post every thought that enters their brains but people who prefer to post at length and on the margins. Nadia Asparouhova is an independent writer and researcher; she has held positions at GitHub and Substack, although she’s always been something of a professional stranger—at one company, her formal job title was just “Nadia.” Her first book, “Working in Public,” was an ethnographic study of open-source software engineering. The field was inflected with standard-issue techno-utopian notions of anarchically productive self-organization, but she found little evidence to support such naïve optimism. For the most part, open-source projects weren’t evenly distributed across teams of volunteers; they were managed by at most a few individuals, who spent the bulk of their waking hours in abject thrall to a user-complaint queue. Technology did not naturally lead to the proliferation of professional, creative, or ideological variety. Tools designed for workplace synchronization, she found at one of her tech jobs, became enforcement mechanisms for a recognizable form of narrow political progressivism. In the wake of one faux pas—when her Slack response to an active-shooter warning elicited a rebuke from a member of the “social impact team,” who reminded her that neighborhood disorder was the result of “more hardships than any of us will ever understand”—she decided to err on the side of keeping her opinions to herself.

Asparouhova found that she wasn’t the only one who felt disillusioned by the condition of these once promising public forums. She gradually retreated from the broadest public spaces of the internet, as part of a larger pattern of migration to private group chats—“a dark network of scattered outposts, where no one wants to be seen or heard or noticed, so that they might be able to talk to their friends in peace.” Before long, a loose collection of internet theorists took on the private-messaging channel as an object of investigation. In 2019, Yancey Strickler, one of the founders of Kickstarter, published an essay called “The Dark Forest Theory of the Internet.” The title was an allusion to Cixin Liu’s “Three-Body Problem,” which explains the Fermi paradox, or the apparent emptiness of the universe, as a strategic preference to remain invisible to predatory species. The writer Venkatesh Rao and the designer Maggie Appleton later expanded on the idea of the “cozyweb.” These texts took a fairly uncontroversial observation—that people were hotheaded dickheads on the public internet, and much more gracious, agreeable, and forgiving in more circumscribed settings—as a further sign that something was wrong with a prevailing assumption about the competitive marketplace of information. Maybe the winning ideas were not the best ideas but simply the most transmissible ones? Their faith in memetic culture had been shaken. It wasn’t selecting for quality but for ease of assimilation into preëxisting blocs.

In the fall of 2021, Asparouhova realized that this inchoate line of thought had been anticipated by a cult novel called “There Is No Antimemetics Division.” The book is brilliant, singular, and profoundly strange. Originally serialized, between 2008 and 2020, under the pseudonym qntm (pronounced “quantum,” and subsequently revealed to be a British writer and software developer named Sam Hughes), as part of a sprawling, collaborative online writing project called the SCP Foundation Wiki, “There Is No Antimemetics Division” is part Lovecraftian horror, part clinical science fiction, and part media studies. (This fall, an overhauled version will be published, for the first time, as a print volume.) Its plot can be summarized about as well as a penguin might be given driving directions to the moon, but here goes: it’s a time-looping thriller about a team of researchers trying to save the world from an extra-dimensional “memeplex” that takes the intermittent form of skyscraper-sized arthropods that can only be vanquished by being forgotten (kinda). The over-all concept is to literalize the idea of a meme—to imagine self-replicating cultural objects as quirky and/or fearsome supernatural monsters—and conjure a world in which some of them must be isolated and studied in secure containment facilities for the sake of humanity. What captured Asparouhova’s attention was the book’s introduction of something called a “self-keeping secret” or “antimeme.” If memes were by definition hard to forget and highly transmissible, antimemes were hard to remember and resistant to multiplication. If memes had done a lot of damage, maybe antimemes could be cultivated as the remedy.

This is the animating contrast of Asparouhova’s new book, “Antimemetics: Why Some Ideas Resist Spreading,” published with Yancey Strickler’s Dark Forest Collective. She has devoted her attention, as she puts it in the introduction, to the behavior of “ideas that resist being remembered, comprehended, or engaged with, despite their significance.” She is interested in ideas that cost something. Her initial examples are a little bizarre and slightly misleading: Why do we still observe daylight-saving time when nobody likes it? Why don’t people wash their hands when they know they should? (A clearer and more salient reference might be to the newly memetic “abundance agenda,” which remains essentially antimemetic in substance, insofar as it attempts to replace procedural fetishism and rhetorical grandstanding with the hard, unglamorous, possibly boring work of applying ourselves to basic problems of physical infrastructure.) What she’s ultimately after is a much bigger set of questions: Why can’t we manage to solve these big, obvious collective-action problems? Why, in other words, can’t we have nice things? As she puts it, “Our inability to make progress on consequential topics can be at least partly explained by the underlying antimemetic qualities that they share—meaning that it is strangely difficult to keep the idea top of mind.” These antimemes are crowded out by the electric trivia of online signalling: “As memes dominate our lives, we’ve fully embraced our role as carriers, reorienting our behavior and identities towards emulating the most powerful—and often the most primal and base—models of desire. Taken to the extreme, this could be seen as a horrifying loss of human capacity to build and create in new and surprising ways.”

There are plenty of different frames Asparouhova might have chosen for an investigation into how the structure of a given channel of communication affects the kind, quality, and velocity of information it can carry, but she has settled on the cool-sounding if cumbersome notion of “antimemetics” for a reason. The decision alludes to her conflicted relationship to a clutch of attitudes that are often coded as right-wing. Like many Silicon Valley intellectuals, she thinks that figures like the voguish neoreactionary Curtis Yarvin—whose more objectionable statements she explicitly rejects—and Peter Thiel had long demonstrated a better grasp of online behavior than liberals did. Thiel’s invocation of Girardian scapegoating anticipated the rise of “cancel culture” as a structural phenomenon, and Yarvin was early to point out that the antidote to dysregulated public squares were “smaller, high-context spaces.” If she accepts their descriptive analysis of how the open internet deteriorated into a tribal struggle over public “mindshare,” she rejects their prescriptive complicity with the breast-beating warlords of the new primitivism. Memetic behavior may have got us here, she writes, “but as we search for a way to survive, it is a second, hidden set of behaviors—antimemetic ones—that will show us how to move forward.”

Asparouhova’s basic intuition is that both of the prevailing theories of information on the internet (either that it had to be sanitized and controlled or that it was simply natural for it to remain perennially downstream of charisma) have been wrong. It was foolish to hope that the radical and anarchic expansion of the public sphere—“adding more voices to a room”—would prove out our talent for collective reasoning. But neither do we have to resign ourselves to total context collapse and perpetual memetic warfare. She does not think that all communication can be reduced to a power struggle, she is not ready to give up on democratic values or civilization tout court, and she considers herself one of many “refugees fleeing memetic contagion.” These refugees have labored to build an informational and communicative infrastructure that isn’t so overwhelming, one that can be bootstrapped in private or semi-private spaces where a level of trust and good will is taken for granted, and conflict can be productive and encouraging instead of destructive and terrifying. As she puts it, “If the memetic city is characterized by bright, flashy Times Square, the antimemetic city is more like a city of encampments, strewn across an interminable desert. While some camps are bigger and more storied—think long-established internet forums, private social clubs, or Discords—its primary social unit is the group chat, which makes it easy to instantly throw up four walls around any conversation online.”

The book “Antimemetics” is gestural and shaggy, which makes it a generative and fun read. The central concept is not always clear or systematic, but that seems to come with the antimemetic territory. At times, Asparouhova suggests that antimemes are specific proposals, like the importance of extended parental leave, in perennial lack of a lasting constituency to sustain them. Elsewhere, antimemetic ideas represent the sacred reminder that we are frail and uncertain creatures deserving of grace. This is quite explicitly a pandemic-inflected project, and she often returns to the notion that antimemes have “long symptomatic periods” and are “highly resistant to spread”—if one manages to “escape its original context” and spreads to networks with high “immunity,” it can be prematurely destroyed by the antibodies of “pushback.” The concept can thus seem like a fancy way to say “nuanced,” or like a synonym for “challenging” or “hard-won.” There are places where she implies that antimemes are definitionally good—as in, a name for elusive ideas we should want to propagate—and places where she argues instead that they are morally neutral. Sometimes antimemes are processes—like bureaucracy—and sometimes they seem more like concrete goals. What makes this conceptual muddle appealing, rather than a source of irritation or confusion, is that she’s quite clearly working all this out as she goes along. The book never feels like a vector for the reproduction of some prefabricated case. It has the texture of thought, or of a group chat.

As is perhaps inevitable in even the best internet-theory books, Asparouhova’s antidote ultimately entails the cultivation of the ability to decide what matters and choose to pay attention to it. She recognizes, to her credit, that such injunctions are often corny invitations to flower-smelling self-indulgence; her icon of patience and stamina in the face of obdurate complexity happens to be Robert Moses, which makes for an odd, if refreshing, contrast with the bog-standard tract about the value of attention. More important than one’s individual attention, she continues, is one’s concentrated participation in the subtler kind of informational triage that high-context communities can perform, but she doesn’t think it’s sufficient to give up and tend only these walled communal gardens. The point is not flight or bunker construction. She envisions a recursive architecture where people experiment with ideas among intimates before they launch them at scale, a process that might in turn transform the marketplace of ideas from a gladiatorial arena to something more like a handcraft bazaar: “Group chats are a place to build trust with likeminded people, who eventually amplify each others’ ideas in public settings. Memetic and antimemetic cities depend on each other: the stronger memes become, the more we need private spaces to refine them.”

She grants that this sounds like a lot of effort. It’s an invitation to re-create an entire information-processing civilization from the ground up. But if the easy way had worked—if all you had to do was get rid of the institutional gatekeepers and give everyone a voice, or if all you had to do was remind people that the institutional gatekeepers were right in the first place—we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

“Antimemetics” arrives at an opportune moment for two reasons. The first is that private group chats have matured in precisely the way she predicted. “Somewhere out there, your favorite celebrities and politicians and executives are tapping away on their keyboards in a Signal or Telegram or Whatsapp chat, planning campaigns and revolutions and corporate takeovers,” she writes. A few weeks ago, Ben Smith of Semafor provided ample corroboration, reporting that the venture-capitalist Marc Andreessen turns to group chats for the coordinated dissemination of “samizdat”—the opinionated venture capitalist, according to one source, apparently “spends half his life on 100 of these at the same time.” As the Substack economist Noah Smith put it, “Group chats are now where everything important and interesting happens.” Not all of Asparouhova’s predictions were quite right, though: “No journalist has access to the most influential group chats,” she asserts, a statement rendered hilariously inaccurate by the events of the last two months. None of these examples seems quite like the models of high-minded exchange Asparouhova described on the basis of her own experience, but their apparent pervasiveness underlines the consensus that the public internet exists only for the purposes of yelling into the void—or for the putatively spontaneous expansion of support for campaigns that were coördinated in darkness.

The other thing that’s rendered the book particularly timely has been the development of something like a moral self-audit among Silicon Valley intellectuals, Asparouhova among them, who have come to wonder if their own heterodoxy over the past decade has had politically disastrous consequences. In a miniature drama published online titled “Twilight of the Edgelords,” the writer Scott Alexander, of the widely read blog Astral Codex Ten, has one of his characters declare that “all of our good ideas, the things the smug misinformation expert would have tried to get us cancelled for, have gotten perverted in the most depressing and horrifying way possible.” The character outlines a series of examples: “We wanted to be able to hold a job without reciting DEI shibboleths or filling in multiple-choice exams about how white people cause earthquakes. Instead we got a thousand scientific studies cancelled because they used the string ‘trans-’ in a sentence on transmembrane proteins.” Alexander has more or less done what Asparouhova would have recommended: supervise the rigorous exchange of controversial ideas in a high-context, semi-private setting, and hope that they in turn improve the quality of the public discourse. What Alexander seems to be lamenting is the way the variegated output of his community was, in the end, somehow reduced to FOR or AGAINST, and the possibility that he inadvertently helped tip the scales.

Given the revelations in Ben Smith’s reporting—and his argument that Andreessen’s group chats were “the single most important place in which a stunning realignment toward Donald Trump was shaped and negotiated, and an alliance between Silicon Valley and the new right formed”—Alexander’s honorable exercise in self-criticism seems more like a superfluous bit of self-flagellation. From Asparouhova’s perspective, the lesson we should draw is not that bad ideas should in fact be suppressed but that good ideas require the trussing of sturdy, credible institutions—structures that might withstand the countervailing urge to raze everything to the ground.

For all of its fun-house absurdity, qntm’s “There Is No Antimemetics Division” seems legible enough on this point. Humanity, in the novel, has lived under the recurrent threat of catastrophically destructive memes—dark, self-fulfilling premonitions of scarcity, zero-sum competition, fear, mistrust, inegalitarianism. These emotions and attitudes, which circulate with little friction, turn us into zombies. The zombie warlord is an interdimensional memeplex called SCP-3125. The book’s hero understands that her enemy has no ultimate goal or content beyond the demonstration of its own power, and in turn the worship of power as such: “SCP-3125 is, in large part, the lie that SCP-3125 is inevitable, and indestructible. But it is a lie.” The antidote to this lie is the deliberate commemoration of all of the things that slip our minds—antimemes such as “an individual life is a fleeting thing” and “strangers are fellow-sufferers” and “love thy neighbor.” In the universe of the novel, these opposing forces—of what is too easy to remember and what is too easy to forget—have been locked in a cycle of destruction and rebirth for untold thousands of years. For the most part, it has taken an eternal return of civilizational ruin to prompt our ability to recall the difficult wisdom of the antimeme. The march of technology insures that every new go-round leaves us even more desolate than the last one. This time, Asparouhova proposes, we might try not to wait until it’s too late.

[redfilledfantasies]

First Sight (Chapter 7 of 7)

The syringe felt precisely weighted in Carmella's hand as she turned back toward Audrey, the clear Adenosine solution catching the examination room's fluorescent light. She approached the reclining chair with measured steps, her clinical gaze assessing the naked form before her with practiced detachment that grew more difficult to maintain with each passing second. The electrodes remained attached to Audrey's freckled skin, the wires creating a technological tether between her exceptional physique and the steadily beeping monitor that continued to document each perfect contraction of her heart.

"I'll need to access a peripheral vein," Carmella explained, her voice maintaining its professional timbre despite the flutter beneath her rib cage. "The medication requires direct venous administration for accurate pharmacological stress simulation."

Audrey extended her right arm without hesitation, her musculature shifting beneath freckled skin with elegant precision. The movement highlighted the exceptional vascularity along her forearm—prominent vessels mapping pathways that Carmella's trained eye followed with inappropriate appreciation.

"Perfect," Carmella murmured, the word escaping before she could contain it, its clinical assessment compromised by the warmth in her tone. She applied the tourniquet with practiced efficiency, the blue latex band contrasting vividly against Audrey's skin as she secured it at the precise tension required to restrict venous return without compromising arterial flow. Audrey's veins responded immediately, rising to prominence beneath her skin—a testament to her exceptional hydration status and minimal subcutaneous fat.

Carmella's fingers palpated along the antecubital fossa, identifying the optimal insertion site with unconscious precision. The median cubital vein presented as an ideal target—straight, well-fixed, with sufficient diameter to accommodate the catheter while minimizing the risk of infiltration. She cleansed the site with methodical circular motions, the alcohol swab leaving a cool path that evaporated quickly against Audrey's warm skin.

"You'll feel a slight pinch," she warned, the standard phrase falling from her lips automatically as she positioned the needle at the optimal angle of approximately fifteen degrees. The venipuncture was flawless—first attempt cannulation with minimal tissue disruption. Carmella observed the immediate flashback of blood into the catheter hub, confirming perfect placement within the vessel lumen. She advanced the catheter with gentle precision, withdrew the introducer needle, and secured the IV line with a transparent dressing, all while maintaining sterile technique despite the tremor that threatened her usually immaculate control.

"Excellent vein," she noted, her clinical observation undermined by the slight elevation in her voice. "The Adenosine will circulate rapidly through your system." Audrey smiled, the expression transforming her already striking features. "I've been told I have exceptional circulation," she replied, the casual comment carrying suggestive undertones that registered in Carmella's nervous system with the precision of an EKG.

Carmella connected the prepared syringe to the IV line, her fingers brushing momentarily against Audrey's skin in the process. The brief contact sent another jolt of awareness through her already heightened nervous system, but she maintained her professional facade with desperate determination.

"The effects will manifest within approximately thirty seconds," she explained, her voice steadier than her pulse as she began the injection. "You'll likely experience flushing, possibly shortness of breath, perhaps a sensation of chest pressure. These responses are expected and temporary."

The clear solution disappeared into Audrey's vein with metronomic precision as Carmella depressed the plunger at the exact rate specified in cardiovascular pharmacological protocols—6 milliliters per minute, neither too fast to trigger hypotension nor too slow to compromise test efficacy. She monitored the injection site for any signs of infiltration, though the perfection of her venipuncture technique made such complications highly improbable.

The ECG monitor registered the first pharmacological effects within twenty-three seconds—precisely within the expected timeframe. Audrey's heart rate began to accelerate from her resting 72 beats per minute, climbing steadily as the Adenosine triggered massive peripheral vasodilation. The monitor's beeping increased in frequency, documenting the progression with electronic precision.

Carmella observed the physiological cascade with clinical fascination that barely masked her deeper interest. A flush spread across Audrey's freckled chest, the capillary dilation creating a visible map of the drug's systemic effects. Her respiratory rate increased to approximately 18 breaths per minute, her chest rising and falling with greater amplitude as her body compensated for the increased oxygen demand.

"How are you feeling?" Carmella asked, her clinical question standard procedure during pharmacological testing. "Warm," Audrey replied, her green eyes brightening with an internal heat that seemed to transcend the medication's physiological effects. "My heart is racing, just like when I first saw you watching me at the gym."

The statement hung between them, its directness stripping away another layer of professional pretense. Carmella's cheeks flushed with heat that had nothing to do with the ambient temperature of the examination room, the capillary response mirroring Audrey's drug-induced flush with uncanny symmetry.

As the Adenosine reached peak effect, Audrey's chest began to rise and fall with visible force, each heartbeat creating a perceptible movement beneath her sternum. The freckles across her skin seemed to dance with the rhythm, creating patterns that drew Carmella's gaze with magnetic intensity. She found herself tracking the pulse with inappropriate fixation, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she counted the visible contractions.

Audrey noticed the focus of Carmella's attention, her eyes narrowing with knowing perception. "My heart is pumping so hard now, doctor," she said, her voice dropping to a sultry tone that sent vibrations through Carmella's already heightened nervous system. "You should hear it in action."

The suggestion triggered an immediate autonomic response in Carmella—her pupils dilated fully, her own heart rate accelerated to approximately 110 beats per minute, her peripheral blood vessels expanded with a rush of warmth that defied her attempts at professional distance. The stethoscope around her neck suddenly felt heavy with potential, the instrument both a symbol of her medical authority and a conduit for the intimate connection she desperately desired.

"Yes, I should auscultate your heart during peak effect," Carmella agreed, the clinical justification transparent in its inadequacy. Her hand rose to the stethoscope, fingers curling around the familiar tube with unnecessary force. "It's standard protocol during pharmacological stress testing."

Before she could position the earpieces, Audrey's hand closed over hers, the contact sending another jolt of awareness through her nervous system. With deliberate slowness, Audrey took the stethoscope from Carmella's trembling fingers, the transfer of the instrument representing a seismic shift in the power dynamic between them.

Carmella's professional mask cracked visibly, her expression betraying the conflict between desire and protocol. "Please give me back the stethoscope, Audrey," she demanded, though the authoritative tone she attempted was undermined by the breathless quality of her voice. "I need it to auscultate your heart during this te—" "No," Audrey interrupted, the simple negation carrying more force than its single syllable suggested. "You don't need this to hear my heart." Her green eyes locked with Carmella's, the pupillary dilation signaling arousal rather than pharmacological effect. "And we both know this isn't really about the test anymore, Doctor Hill."

"Please place your ear against it, against my chest," Audrey suggested, her voice a husky whisper that seemed to vibrate through the clinical air of the examination room. "You know you want to." The words hung between them, stripped of any pretense, laying bare the truth that had been masked by medical terminology and professional distance. The stethoscope dangled from Audrey's fingers, the instrument that had served as Carmella's shield now held just beyond her reach, forcing her to confront the desire that had driven her to this moment.

Carmella's heart skipped a beat—a literal premature atrial contraction that she identified with automatic clinical precision even as her consciousness registered the significance of the arrhythmia. Her pulse accelerated immediately afterward, compensating for the momentary disruption with a rush of tachycardia that sent blood pounding through her vessels with such force she could hear it in her ears.

"That's not—" she began, the protest dying on her lips as her medical training battled with the raw desire that had crystallized within her. "The protocol requires instrumental auscultation for accurate documentation of—"

"Forget the protocol," Audrey interrupted, her green eyes bright with challenge. The electrodes on her chest moved with each accelerated heartbeat, the wires swaying slightly with the force of her cardiovascular response to the Adenosine. "This isn't about documentation anymore. We both know that."

Carmella drew a deliberate breath, attempting to activate her parasympathetic nervous system through controlled respiration—four counts in, hold for seven, eight counts out. The technique had calmed countless anxious patients throughout her career, yet now it failed to regulate her own autonomic responses. Her diaphragm seemed to resist her conscious control, each breath shallow and rapid despite her efforts at modulation.

The examination room's fluorescent lights cast Audrey's flushed skin in stark relief, highlighting the visible pulsation at the base of her throat where her carotid artery throbbed with pharmacologically enhanced force. The ECG monitor continued its frantic beeping, documenting a heart rate of approximately 155 beats per minute—well into the target range for stress testing, though the stimulus had become something far more complex than simple medication.

"You've been wanting this since you first saw me," Audrey continued, her voice steady despite her elevated heart rate. The flush across her freckled chest deepened as the Adenosine reached maximum effect, the capillary dilation creating a vivid landscape of physiological response. "I could see it in your eyes, in the way you watched me move. All the medical language, the research protocol—it was just an excuse to get close to my heart."

The truth of the statement struck Carmella with physical force, weakening her knees as if her quadriceps had suddenly lost innervation. She gripped the edge of the examination table for support, her fingers whitening with pressure against the cold metal. The professional distance she had maintained throughout her career—the careful boundary between clinical interest and personal engagement—dissolved completely under the weight of Audrey's accurate assessment.

Carmella's eyes remained fixed on Audrey's chest, where the effects of the Adenosine created a hypnotic visual display of cardiovascular force. The trainer's heart pounded with such vigor that the movement was clearly visible through skin and muscle—a rhythmic pulsation that created waves across her sternum with each powerful contraction. The freckles that mapped her skin seemed to dance with the beats, creating patterns that Carmella's brain tracked with the same attention she gave to complex cardiac arrhythmias.

The sight was mesmerizing, transcending clinical appreciation to become something primally compelling. Carmella found herself leaning forward unconsciously, reducing the distance between them by approximately twelve centimeters before catching herself. Her glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of her nose, and she made no move to adjust them—her usual meticulous attention to appearance abandoned in the face of overwhelming fascination.

"I can see you fighting with yourself," Audrey observed, her perceptive gaze noting the subtle tells in Carmella's face—the tension at the corners of her mouth, the rapid flutter of her eyelids, the dilation of her pupils to approximately 7mm despite the bright clinical lighting. "The distinguished doctor versus the woman who's been obsessed with my heart. Which one will win?"

The internal battle intensified, Carmella's ethical training waging desperate resistance against the tide of her desire. She had built her reputation on exceptional control—over her practice, her research, her physiological responses—yet that control unraveled with each beep of the monitor, each visible pulsation beneath Audrey's freckled skin. Her professional boundaries, once rigid and uncompromising, now bent like wire under the heat of her fascination.

Somewhere in the analytical portion of her brain, Carmella registered that they had reached the optimal recording period for the Adenosine test. Under normal protocol, she would be documenting waveform changes, measuring cardiac output, calculating ejection fractions. Instead, her clinical mind had surrendered completely to the primal appreciation of Audrey's exceptional heart, beating powerfully before her without the mechanical interpretation of medical instruments.

A tremor developed in Carmella's hands—approximately 9 Hz, visible evidence of her autonomic arousal. Her breathing had synchronized unconsciously with the ECG monitor's beeping, each inhalation coinciding with the electronic confirmation of Audrey's heartbeat. The irony registered dimly—that she, a cardiologist who had spent years interpreting the mechanical translations of cardiac function, now longed for direct, unmediated connection to the living organ itself.

"Just let go," Audrey urged, her voice softening though the intensity of her gaze remained unchanged. "There's no one here but us. No protocols, no professional boundaries. Just you and me and what we both want."

The words penetrated Carmella's final defenses, dissolving the last fragments of her professional resolve. Her breath escaped in a soft sound that might have been surrender or relief, the distinction meaningless in the face of her capitulation. The weight of her desire—carried for days through careful observation and clinical pretense—finally overcame the counterbalance of her professional ethics.

With a movement that felt both inevitable and shocking, Carmella lowered herself to a squatting position before Audrey's chair. Her knees bent with unusual lack of grace, her normally precise movements compromised by the tremor that now extended to her larger muscle groups. Her hands found Audrey's thighs, fingers curling around the perfect musculature with desperate need for stability.

The contact sent another surge of awareness through her nervous system—Audrey's skin warm beneath her palms, the exceptional quadriceps development palpable through her fingertips. Carmella's grip tightened unconsciously, the pressure leaving momentary blanching that quickly refilled with blood as her fingers dug into the firm tissue.

"That's it," Audrey encouraged, her voice dropping to an intimate register that seemed to bypass Carmella's ears and register directly in her nervous system. "Listen to what you've been dreaming about." With a final surrender to her fascination, Carmella leaned forward, her head descending toward Audrey's chest with the inevitability of gravity. Her ear pressed against the warm skin just left of Audrey's sternum—the optimal position for appreciation of mitral valve sounds, a placement she had performed thousands of times with stethoscope diaphragms but never with her own flesh.

The contact was electric, immediate, overwhelming. Audrey's skin felt impossibly warm against Carmella's ear, the temperature differential triggering thermoreceptors with unusual intensity. Beneath this superficial sensation lay what Carmella had truly craved—the unmediated sound of Audrey's exceptional heart, no longer translated through stethoscope tubing but transmitted directly through tissue and bone to her waiting consciousness.

The sound consumed her completely. Carmella's world contracted to a single point of focus—the powerful, rhythmic pounding of Audrey's heart against her ear. The sound was unlike anything she had experienced through the clinical remove of a stethoscope, the intensity unfiltered by rubber tubing and metal diaphragms. This was primal, immediate—the raw force of Audrey's exceptional cardiac muscle transmitted directly through flesh and bone, filling Carmella's consciousness with its perfect rhythm.

Her eyes fluttered closed as she pressed closer, surrendering to the sensation with unprecedented abandon. Each contraction reached her with perfect clarity—the mitral and tricuspid valves closing with the distinctive "lub" of the first heart sound, followed by the sharper "dub" as the aortic and pulmonic valves snapped shut. The intervals between them, the subtle variations in amplitude, the exceptional force of ventricular contraction—all registered with a visceral impact that transcended clinical appreciation.

At approximately 160 beats per minute, Audrey's heart produced a metronomic cadence that seemed to override Carmella's own cardiovascular rhythm. She felt her pulse shifting, synchronizing unconsciously with the powerful beat beneath her ear, their hearts finding alignment despite the different rates. The Adenosine's effects created a cardiovascular symphony more complex than any she had previously documented—increased contractile force, shortened diastolic filling periods, subtle third heart sounds audible during rapid ventricular filling.

"It's beautiful," Carmella whispered, the words vibrating against Audrey's skin. "So strong, so perfect." Her clinical vocabulary had abandoned her, replaced by simpler terms of appreciation that felt strangely adequate for the intensity of her experience.

Her lips parted with each accelerated breath, moisture gathering at their edges as her autonomic arousal manifested in multiple systems simultaneously. The flush that had begun at her cheeks now spread down her neck and beneath her blouse, capillaries dilating across her chest in patterns that mirrored Audrey's drug-induced flush. Her nipples hardened visibly beneath the fabric of her bra and blouse, the sensitive tissue responding to autonomic signals with embarrassing transparency.

Carmella's grip on Audrey's thighs tightened unconsciously, her fingers pressing into the exceptional musculature with force that might have been uncomfortable if not for Audrey's remarkable conditioning. The contact grounded her as the intensity of the auditory experience threatened to overwhelm her nervous system's capacity for integration.

"I knew you needed this," Audrey murmured, her voice a physical presence that Carmella felt through her chest as much as heard with her ears. "The moment I saw you watching me, I knew exactly what you were craving."

Without breaking the connection between Carmella's ear and her chest, Audrey raised her hand, fingers finding Carmella's hair with gentle precision. The touch was tentative at first—a questioning contact that waited for permission. When Carmella responded with a small sound of encouragement, barely audible above the thundering heart between them, Audrey's fingers became more confident, weaving through the strands with appreciative exploration. The caress sent another wave of sensation through Carmella's already overwhelmed nervous system.

Audrey's fingers traced patterns across her scalp, following the contours of her skull with the same anatomical appreciation Carmella had shown for Audrey's exceptional physique. The touch moved lower, tracing the elegant architecture of Carmella's neck, where her pulse visibly raced beneath the skin.

"Your heart is racing too," Audrey observed, her fingers finding the carotid pulse with knowing precision. "Almost as fast as mine, and you haven't had any medication." The observation held a truth that Carmella couldn't deny—her tachycardia was entirely natural, a physiological response to desire that no amount of medical rationalization could disguise. Her pulse throbbed against Audrey's fingertips with betraying honesty, each beat confirming what her professional facade had attempted to conceal.

The contrast between them became suddenly, vividly apparent—Audrey completely naked except for her athletic shoes, every perfect muscle and freckle exposed to the examination room's unforgiving lights; Carmella fully clothed in her professional attire, the formal blouse and slacks creating a boundary that seemed increasingly arbitrary as their connection deepened. The power imbalance implied by their respective states of dress had inverted completely—the naked woman now in absolute control, the clothed professional surrendered to her vulnerability.

Audrey's hands moved with increasing confidence, one remaining at Carmella's neck while the other traced a path across her shoulder and down her spine. Each point of contact sent new information through Carmella's nervous system—pressure receptors, thermoreceptors, proprioceptors all firing in complex patterns that her brain processed as pleasure. Her usual analytical distance had abandoned her completely, leaving her immersed in pure sensation without the buffer of clinical interpretation.

The ECG monitor continued its documentation, the beeping gradually slowing as the Adenosine began to clear Audrey's system. The medication's short half-life meant the pharmacological effects were already beginning to diminish, heart rate decreasing from 160 to approximately 140 beats per minute. Yet Carmella remained transfixed, the gradually slowing rhythm creating a new cadence that her ear tracked with the same entranced attention.

"Stay with me," Audrey murmured, her fingers tightening slightly in Carmella's hair as if sensing her awareness of the changing cardiac pattern. "Listen to how my heart responds to you, not just the medication." The invitation penetrated Carmella's consciousness with unexpected force. Beyond the pharmacological effects, beyond the stressed cardiovascular state she had ostensibly come to study, lay something more significant—the natural response of Audrey's heart to their shared attraction.

As the Adenosine's influence receded, this authentic rhythm emerged with greater clarity, still elevated but now driven by emotional rather than chemical stimulation. Carmella's breathing had synchronized completely with Audrey's, their respiratory patterns falling into perfect harmony despite the differences in their positions. Each inhalation expanded their thoracic cavities in unison, each exhalation released with matched timing. This unconscious alignment created a shared physiological experience that transcended their distinct bodies, binding them through autonomic processes beyond conscious control.

"I never do this," Carmella admitted, the words muffled against Audrey's skin, the vibration of her voice creating another point of intimate connection between them. "With patients, with anyone." "I'm not your patient," Audrey replied, her fingers tracing the sensitive skin behind Carmella's ear with deliberate slowness. "And this isn't an examination anymore. This is something else entirely."

The acknowledgment hung between them, naming the transformation that had occurred in this sterile medical space. What had begun as a thin pretext for professional contact had evolved into an intimacy neither woman had fully anticipated, though both had desired it with increasing awareness since their first encounter. Carmella felt Audrey's heart rate continuing its gradual descent as the medication cleared her system, the powerful muscle returning to a still-elevated but more natural rhythm of approximately 100 beats per minute.

The sound remained captivating, each contraction a perfect demonstration of cardiovascular efficiency, but now with a sustainable intensity that suggested possibility rather than pharmacological manipulation. "The test is technically complete," Carmella noted, though she made no move to lift her head from Audrey's chest. Her ear remained pressed against the warm skin, unwilling to surrender the direct connection even as her clinical mind emerged briefly from its sensory immersion.

"Yes," Audrey agreed, her fingers continuing their exploration of Carmella's hair and neck with unhurried appreciation. "But I think we're just getting started with our own experiments." The statement carried unmistakable invitation, suggesting continuation beyond this initial surrender. Carmella's analytical mind, briefly resurfacing, calculated the implications with surprising clarity despite her compromised state—this moment marked not a conclusion but a beginning, the first data point in what could become a series of increasingly intimate investigations.

Her body responded to this realization with renewed awareness, the pleasant weight in her lower abdomen intensifying as she contemplated future encounters. The professional boundaries that had once seemed so essential to her identity had not merely been crossed but fundamentally redrawn, creating a new territory neither purely clinical nor simply personal, but uniquely theirs to explore.

As the ECG monitor documented Audrey's returning cardiac baseline with electronic precision, Carmella remained connected to the direct source, her ear still pressed to the skin that covered the most fascinating heart she had ever encountered. The rhythmic sound continued to fill her consciousness, but now carried new meaning beyond its physiological significance—it had become the soundtrack to something unprecedented in her carefully controlled existence, something that promised to transform both women with the force of its undeniable attraction.

[alpaca-clouds]

How to make a "world" more accessible

Let's talk a bit about accessible worldbuilding. I am thinking here first about Solarpunk worlds, but also about other scifi and fantasy worlds, that often do not think about this at all. Again, there is this nasty tendency to just assume that there are no disabilities in those worlds - and it leaves disabled people often feeling left out.

One of the most basic accessibility features one would expect to see in a world would be some sorts of ramps. And don't get me started with "oh, in my world wheelchairs fly!", which is something that actually not all folks reliant on wheelchairs want - as the actual hand-moved wheelchair often gives them a certain control.

It should also be noted that ramps help not only wheelchair users, but also people with baby strollers, and folks who might use other mobility aids like rollators. Heck, in my life ramps have also helped me, when I was travelling with a large trunk. Really, ramps make life easier for a lot of folks! Heck, if we think about a solarpunk world, where hopefully a lot of folks would get around by bike, ramps would help as well.

Of course, in some cases (if feasible in the technology level) there might also be a need for some sort of elevator. Again, not only wheelchair users will make use of that.

Another thing that should help, would be a wider usage of stuff like orientation systems for blind people. Currently those things are fairly spotty. Like some places have them, other places don't. And even where they are implemented, a lot of folks do not know what they are and will walk over it and park their cars on it. Stuff like that, which will once again make stuff more dangerous and inaccessible for blind people.

Then there should more accessibility accomondations for people who are deaf or hard of hearing. Those could mean to install visual signals for warning systems, which often currently are mainly auditory. It could also mean a wider usage of stuff like subtitles if possible in the world. And it also could mean that in the world people are more encouraged to learn sign language.

But those are the obvious disabilities. The stuff folks think off first when they hear "disability".

But there are other disabilities. Personally, for example, I do have some issues with my bowels. So what would be important to me is easy access to toilets whereever I move around. Which also is to say: Yes, dear public transport. Not having a single accessible toilet in your fucking train is an accessibility issue and ableistic.

Or the one accessibility aspect that has slowly been taken away recently due to hostile architecture: Benches and other places in public to sit down on. Because a lot of folks just cannot stand/walk for a long while. This is true for old people, and recently increasingly too for folks disabled through COVID.

There is also the need for shaded areas. As there are several disabilities that do not deal well with direct sunlight. Be it people who react allergic against sunlight, be it people whose eyes cannot deal with too much light, or be it people who might just struggle with their circulation when in the direct sun for too long.

And then there is allergic people. Which is also a big chunk - and in some cases can be quite debilitating. And I might remind people: In a fantasy or scifi world there might be people allergic to some of the worldbuilding stuff. Like in the Witcher Triss is allergic against magic, and in the nice sapphic webcomic Always Human one of the two main characters is allergic against bio-implants. Hence, ideally in an accessible fantasy/scifi world it would be easy to access what kinda stuff is in a potion and what not, to allow folks to be safe.

Lastly, of course, there are neurodivergent folks and... about that I am going to talk tomorrow.

Oh, and by the way: If you are disabled and have ideas of how the world could be more accessible for you... Please feel free to add!

[blackstarlineage]

Neglect of African Languages in Favour of Colonial Ones: A Garveyite Perspective

Introduction: The Linguistic Colonization of Black Minds

Language is one of the most powerful tools of cultural identity, thought, and self-determination. It carries the history, traditions, and philosophies of a people and serves as a vehicle for independent thought. However, across the African continent and throughout the Black diaspora, African languages have been systematically neglected and replaced by colonial languages such as English, French, Portuguese, Spanish, and Arabic.

From a Garveyite perspective, the loss of African languages is not just a linguistic issue—it is part of a broader strategy of mental enslavement, cultural erasure, and continued colonial domination. The refusal to prioritize and preserve African languages has led to:

A disconnect between Africans and their ancestral wisdom.

A continued reliance on Western education, institutions, and media.

A lack of Black intellectual sovereignty, keeping African thought bound by foreign ideologies.

If Black people do not reclaim and elevate their own languages, they will forever be trapped within the mental frameworks designed by colonial and imperialist powers, making true liberation impossible.

1. The Historical War Against African Languages

A. Colonial Erasure of African Linguistic Identity

European colonialists understood that to control a people permanently, they must control their language.

During colonization, African languages were:

Banned in schools, government, and official records.

Replaced with European languages as the standard of “civilization.”

Demonized as “primitive” while European languages were glorified.

Example: Under British and French rule, African students who spoke their native languages in school were physically punished and humiliated to ensure they only spoke English or French.

Key Takeaway: Language was one of the first tools used to break African cultural continuity—without it, an independent African identity becomes difficult to maintain.

B. The Role of Slavery in Destroying African Linguistic Traditions

The Transatlantic Slave Trade ensured that enslaved Africans were:

Separated from their tribes to prevent communication and rebellion.

Forbidden from speaking their native tongues on plantations.

Forced to adopt European languages instead.

Example: Enslaved Africans in the Americas had to create new languages like Creole, Patois, and Gullah because their original languages were deliberately erased.

Key Takeaway: The suppression of African languages was a form of cultural genocide, ensuring that future Black generations would remain disconnected from their roots.

2. The Modern Consequences of Prioritizing Colonial Languages

A. Mental Dependency on Western Thought and Education

Since most African nations operate primarily in colonial languages, they remain:

Dependent on European and Western education systems.

Forced to engage with the world through the lens of foreign ideologies.

Unable to fully develop their own intellectual traditions outside of Western frameworks.

Example: Most African universities prioritize teaching in English or French rather than in indigenous African languages—forcing students to master a colonial tongue before they can even engage in higher education.

Key Takeaway: A people who do not think in their own language will always be ruled by those who do.

B. Cultural and Generational Disconnection

Because African languages are not prioritized, many young Black people:

Struggle to communicate with elders who speak native languages.

Lose access to African storytelling, proverbs, and oral traditions.

Feel ashamed or disinterested in their linguistic heritage.

Example: In many African countries, younger generations struggle to speak their native languages fluently, even though their grandparents spoke them perfectly.

Key Takeaway: When a language dies, the knowledge, history, and wisdom attached to it also disappear.

C. Economic and Political Disadvantages

Because Africa does not prioritize its own languages, it remains:

Economically dependent on Europe and the U.S. for education and trade.

Politically divided along linguistic lines (Francophone, Anglophone, Lusophone Africa).

Less competitive in science and technology, since research is done in foreign languages.

Example: The Francophone vs. Anglophone divide in Africa has led to political conflicts, with France still exerting control over its former colonies through language-based policies.

Key Takeaway: When a people use a foreign language for business and politics, they give power to the nations that created that language.

3. The Garveyite Solution: Reviving and Prioritizing African Languages

A. Making African Languages Official in Education and Government

African nations must:

Make indigenous languages the primary languages of instruction in schools.

Encourage government documents, laws, and policies to be written in African languages.

Require fluency in at least one African language to hold public office.

Example: Tanzania’s decision to make Swahili the national language has strengthened its cultural unity and reduced reliance on English.

Key Takeaway: A nation that does not control its own language will always be controlled by others.

B. Promoting African Language Learning in the Diaspora

Black people in the Americas and Europe must:

Learn and teach African languages (Yoruba, Twi, Zulu, Amharic, etc.).

Integrate African language studies into Pan-African schools and cultural centers.

Use African languages in music, media, and entertainment.

Example: Black communities worldwide should offer Swahili, Yoruba, and Akan language classes just as readily as Spanish and French are taught in schools.

Key Takeaway: Language connects people—if the African diaspora learns its native languages, global Black unity becomes easier.

C. Creating African-Centered Media in African Languages

Black nations must:

Produce books, films, news, and social media content in African languages.

Develop African-language AI, translation software, and mobile apps.

Encourage African-language literacy from childhood.

Example: Nollywood (Nigeria’s film industry) has begun producing more Yoruba, Igbo, and Hausa films, showing that native languages can thrive in media.

Key Takeaway: Media shapes minds—African languages must be heard on TV, in music, and on the internet if they are to survive.

Conclusion: Will Black People Reclaim Their Linguistic Identity or Remain Mentally Colonized?

Marcus Garvey said:

“Liberate the minds of men, and ultimately, you will liberate the bodies of men.”

Will Black people continue speaking the languages of their oppressors while ignoring their own?

Will African nations rely on English, French, and Portuguese, or build policies around their indigenous languages?

Will the Black diaspora reconnect with African languages or remain disconnected from their roots?

The Choice is Ours. The Time is Now.

[paradoxicwashere]

Alright theory time

It's a pretty poplar interpretation that at this point in the dialogue, Gregory's overridden and the Mimic reclaims control of the speakers (Regardless of how either of them are somehow accessing the speaker system)

But the thing that bugs me about this is: why? Why does the Mimic try to trick Cassie into believing that Gregory betrayed her if he's just gonna try and kill her with the elevator drop anyway.

Option 1 is the Mimic isn't trying to kill her, kinda trying to Mother Gothel his way into keeping Cassie on his side by making her think Gregory betrayed her

Or Option 2: The mimic is completely delusional things Cassie is on his side and here's how we can interpret what he's saying to support that, because so far afaik (in Ruin at least) he can only communicate through other people's voices, so he *has* to sound like Gregory

'It's not you're fault, I know you did it for me'

The Mimic knows Cassie was trying to save him, she did all of this for him. It was that bastard Gregory who trapped him here in the first place that is trying to take Cassie away.

"But we can't risk being followed"

Cassie and the Mimic are a team now, right? But if that elevator makes it to the top, Gregory could come back down and ruin everything again - So 'We' as in Mimic and Cassie, can't be followed - and the Mimic is sorry that they're going to hurt their new friend.

Obviously this is all completely speculative and relies on my lack of knowledge of how mimic acts in the books *but* it also does make some sense and solves my personal gripe with Grimic Elevator theory.

One final note, Mimic was no longer being held back by Roxy, so when we here 'Roxy' say Cassie's name in the credits, there's an unfortunate chance that's just the Mimic trying to win Cassie over again.

[advancedelevatoraccesscontrol]

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[love-and-deepspace-wiki]

LCBI (Linkon City Bureau of Investigation)

Type: Law Enforcement Organization

Location: Linkon City

Timeline: Savage Overture Event. Praedator Timeline

Details:

The LCBI is a law enforcement organization that was established five years ago. It was formed due to increasing pressure from the public and leaders of various groups to handle Praedator-related criminal activity.

LCBI Building/HQ:

The LCBI HQ is described as "a towering building" with eaves and glass doors at its entrance. The building has multiple floors, accessible via a staircase and an elevator. Floors that have been specifically mentioned are the ground floor, floor B1, and the rooftop.

Specified Staff:

A "60 yr old researcher" who wears a wig

The Bureau Chief

Enforcer: Their role being to apprehend Praedators and bring them to justice.

Enforcer assistant

Enforcer Captain

Janitor

Operation Sector Manager

Operation Sector Manager's Secretary: Winona

Special Enforcer

Departments:

Behavioral Assessment Committee

Financial Department

Forensics Department

Investigation Department

Operations Sector I

Operations Sector II

Research Department

Security Division

Transportation Department

Areas & Locations:

The rooftop

The ground floor

A cafeteria

Floor B1: Specific areas located on this floor include the LCBI Command Center and the testing arena.

A copy room: An area housing printing/copying equipment

The photo studio: An area used for the creation of wanted posters

The conference room: The site of all LCBI meetings mentioned in-game

Underground Interrogation Chamber: The underground interrogation chamber houses the LCBI's interrogation room.

Interrogation Room (below): The door to the interrogation room, when closed, is said to silence all "sounds from the outside world". It is furnished/equipped with a table, a chair with restraints that are controlled via a control panel, surveillance cameras, and a listening device attached to the wall that is controlled by a switch.

LCBI Equipment:

Specific LCBI equipment and/or tools mentioned in this timeline include:

Patrol cars

Vehicles/vans

"LCBIs system"

Interesting Facts:

The LCBI provides housing for their employees, referred to as "Employee Apartments"

The protagonist's Enforcer ID card bears the text "LCBI Operations Sector I Special Enforcer <player name>"

The protagonist's schedule includes a weekly morning meeting

[beardedmrbean]

Amy Gleason, a former emergency room nurse-turned-health care technologist, was scared. It was 2010 and no doctor could figure out what was behind her daughter Morgan’s strange constellation of symptoms, including rashes and muscle weakness so severe that she could no longer walk upstairs.

When Morgan was finally diagnosed with a rare and potentially life-threatening autoimmune disorder after more than a year, Gleason became determined to empower other patients so they didn’t face similar delays in diagnosis.

“If a doctor had seen all of these visits and activity on one single screen put together, they probably would have wondered why this 10- or 11-year-old is going to the doctor all the time,” Gleason said in a 2020 TEDx talk. “And maybe that would have sparked a faster diagnosis.”

Until recently, Gleason, 53, had been a relatively low-profile health care data cruncher with a passion for simplifying access to electronic medical records.

Then, at the end of February, the White House announced Gleason had been named the acting administrator for the Department of Government Efficiency, elevating her to a prominent position in the Trump administration.

Gleason previously worked on projects related to health data at the U.S. Digital Service, DOGE’s predecessor, overlapping with Trump’s first term and the Biden administration.

However, the White House has not provided details about why, exactly, it selected Gleason to lead DOGE — a task force unit at the center of the administration’s efforts to streamline the federal government. 

The move has led many to question whether Gleason is truly in charge or whether the power resides with Elon Musk, the world’s richest man and a special government employee who has been the face of DOGE.

For weeks, the administration evaded questions about who was actually at the helm; the White House said Gleason was the acting administrator only after administration lawyers were unable to answer who was in charge of the agency when questioned in court. Gleason does not appear to have made any public comments since the White House announced that she was DOGE's top official.

The administration has also revealed very little about who else works for DOGE and what they do, despite Musk’s claims of transparency.

Even with Gleason’s title, Musk still seems to hold sway. As recently as Tuesday, Trump referred to DOGE as “headed by Elon Musk,” setting off fresh legal questions about the group’s operations. The working relationship between Musk and Gleason is unclear, and a DOGE spokesperson did not respond Friday to questions about Gleason’s job responsibilities.

Gleason also did not respond to a request for comment for this articles. In interviews, former colleagues described her as highly intelligent and the most valuable asset wherever she works.

“It’s exactly the kind of person you need in a role like this,” said Dr. Gregg Alexander, a pediatrician in London, Ohio, who has known her for about 20 years. “She’s always tried to do the right thing.”

Still, some former colleagues worry that in her DOGE role, Gleason will be inadvertently complicit in cuts to programs that have personal significance to her — including research for rare disease funding. DOGE has threatened dramatic budget cuts to federal health agencies such as the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and the National Institutes of Health.

The condition that Gleason’s daughter, who is now in her mid-20s, was diagnosed with is called juvenile dermatomyositis. The extremely rare disease is a form of juvenile myositis, in which a child’s immune system attacks its own cells and tissues.

Therapies discovered over the years thanks to partnerships with NIH have improved the prognosis for juvenile myositis, said James Minow, executive director at the advocacy organization Cure JM Foundation, where Gleason served as a board member and vice president for research from 2014 to 2018, according to her LinkedIn profile.

But with the Trump administration trying to cut NIH grant funding, Minow said he worried that DOGE could hamper the rare disease research that Gleason’s family and so many others depend on.

“Amy is a very thorough thinker, and I think that she’ll be one who will make very solid, reasoned recommendations to the president as he looks at fulfilling what he sees as his mission to reduce the size of government,” Minow said. “Obviously, Cure JM is wanting to do everything we can to protect NIH’s investment.”

Gleason’s friends and former colleagues describe her as apolitical. From 2018 to 2021, she worked for the U.S. Digital Service, an agency created by the Obama administration after its chaotic rollout of HealthCare.gov. Much of her stint was dedicated to partnering with the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services to improve patient access to health care records, she said in her 2020 TEDx Talk.

During the latter part of her time there, she worked on the data team for the White House Coronavirus Task Force, creating databases from hospitals and labs that governors and the public relied on to track the virus. Her LinkedIn profile says she rejoined the U.S. Digital Service in January of this year as a senior adviser, though The New York Times reported she was reintroduced at the agency in late December, ahead of Trump’s inauguration.

A long history in the private sector

Gleason has also worked in the private sector at various health care management companies and startups. She held vice president positions at Allscripts, which provided software for electronic medical records, and worked from 2011 to 2018 at CareSync, a Florida-based medical technology startup that she co-founded, according to LinkedIn.

Her LinkedIn profile adds that from 2021 to 2024, she was vice president of product at Main Street Health, which provides care for people in rural areas, and at Russell Street Ventures, a firm dedicated to launching innovative health care.

Both Main Street Health and Russell Street Ventures were founded by entrepreneur Brad Smith, an early senior DOGE member who was previously named as head of the Center for Medicare & Medicaid Innovation in 2020 during Trump’s first administration.

Smith did not respond to a request for comment; according to anonymous sources who spoke to The New York Times, Smith began advising on Musk’s cost-cutting moves late last year and brought Gleason in on the talks. NBC News has not confirmed the report.

Tom Cooke, a retired health care executive who worked closely with Gleason more than 15 years ago, said her position at DOGE was “kind of a curveball.”

“I’ll put my politics on my sleeve: I don’t trust Elon Musk at all in this role. I trust her completely,” he said. “I am confident that she will use her voice strongly and that she’s a straight shooter, whether it’s news that people above her want to hear or not.”

Cooke described Gleason as having an effervescent personality and an unflappable work mentality.

“Professionally, I put a lot on her plate to get done in a very short period of time, and was amazed by her ability to achieve that,” he said.

And on a personal level, “I’ve seen her be really thoughtful with folks that she may have had just a little bit of interaction with,” he said. “She just has a way with people.”

Others were also surprised by her DOGE title. One former health care IT colleague said via a LinkedIn message that “it did seem to come out of nowhere.”

“I was shocked to hear of her appointment to DOGE, having been a fierce and committed patient advocate,” wrote the former colleague, who has known Gleason for 15 years and spoke on condition of anonymity because she was concerned speaking out against the Trump administration could have career repercussions. “To go from such a position of kindness to a position that eliminates jobs for thousands of working parents seems like such a dichotomy in values.”

A graduate of the University of Tennessee, Knoxville, Gleason is an avid football fan who likes to needle friends who root for anyone other than the Tennessee Volunteers, said Alexander, the pediatrician. He added that she has a “tremendous sense of humor” and loves to travel.

Gleason’s interest in streamlined medical records and other improvements for patients dates back decades. In 2021, she told the “Tell Me Where IT Hurts” podcast, which examines the intersection between health care and technology, that she started out as an emergency room nurse and “quickly realized how powerful health care technology could be.”

Gleason has said the best career advice she has received was from her parents. She told another health care podcast in 2023 that her dad taught her mistakes are a learning opportunity, and her mom encouraged her to follow her dreams.

“I’ve had a pretty great career trying a lot of new things and following my passions as I develop new ones as well,” she told the podcast.

[systemcanid]

Solver/Cyn note.

Cyn gave the DDs new bodys to better take out the competition (other solver users). But why didn’t she try to take other hosts? She tried with Nori, but that didn’t really go well. The humans were the ones to give her access. She had the humans taken care of with ease buuut one issue. Yeva. She knew what was happening based on her own experiences. She knew that this wasn’t Nori’s solver but something else.

How? The color of the visor. Nori’s regular solver is purple. Cyn’s bright yellow stood out too much in the now diversified visor colors. Making it harder to blend in even if she had better access. As we know, Cyn is a shitty actor. Any differences to the visual appearance would not help any especially now that she knows there are other users.

“Didn’t Cyn take over in episode 4 with Uzi?” No. Cyn was observing. Uzi’s visor never went yellow. The solver virus allowed Cyn limited access. Even as the administrator while she was still so far away.

I like to think of the solver as an executable that behaves differently in different systems. That episode was started by Uzi’s jealousy over not fitting in after N and V were so easily accepted even after killing so many drones. Even one right in front of them in that episode. A second later on. That caused her to overheat. It swapped to fear as the solver started going haywire. The more fear it was fed, the less control Uzi had over her solver.

HER solver being the key. Every user has their own. Even if it goes haywire, it’s still part of their program. Not someone else’s control. We only see different after Cyn comes to the copper 9 as Tessa. The nulls start to show up in dead end when Uzi tries to use her solver and you get a moment where Cyn briefly does get control before she passes out on the table. Getting her yellow visor and all. Cyn is only able to do that because she’s in the area.

Best example I got is a Bluetooth connection. Closer you are, stronger the signal. Further, the more chance you have of losing that connection. If you have headphones or speakers with that function, you can understand the frustration of going to another room only to realize that your headphones disconnected and you left your device in the other room.

In the elevator, you see Uzi struggling to fight Cyn’s control. Cyn was trying to convince N how dangerous Uzi was, putting them in more danger and stressing Uzi out even more to make her lose control again. In mass destruction, at the chapel, you see Cyn, after realizing N can’t be swayed to take Uzi out, toy with Uzi. Resting the sword on her core. Adding more stress as now, she wants Uzi as a host. Still acting as Tessa to keep the act up. She needed Uzi to give into her fear and stress to give her an opportunity to take over as she was overheating.

When N gets Nori riled up, Uzi learns she CAN fight back and resist the ping. That it is possible to remain in control and that allows her to be a little more confident an calmer. Cyn needed Uzi stressed because her pings are not as effective when drones are in their right mind. When in the hallway, hiding from Cyn, both her and N have responses to the ping. For N, he starts having the effects of a panic attack (and possibly ptsd flashbacks?) while you still see flashes of yellow in Uzi’s visor. Uzi seeing N needs her allows her to focus on helping him and both of them can stay calmer.

After Uzi shows up to save V and N is the best example. Uzi’s confidence has skyrocketed. So much that when Cyn tries to ping her again, she’s able to reverse it. Cyns the one that’s stressed now. Frustrated by V going against her, N’s core being knocked out of her hands by a worker drone, and now Uzi showing up after she tried to get rid of her.

My point being, Cyn is the admin of the DDs. But it’s the solver that provides the potential. Cyn failed because she relied on the ping too much. Wanting to use other drones like toys how she saw Tessa as doing. When that failed, she did still have a lot to use and still be a major threat, even manipulating Uzis feelings towards N against her when she was hit with the pickax. It was her once again reusing one trick over and over that took her out.

She once again is a shitty actor. She really didn’t have to act much on earth. She mainly relied on brute force and her pings. The humans posed no threat to her or her drones. Unfortunately, even tho the improve she did as Eldritch J did help her projections be a lot more convincing, the tell comes in during the swap/start of them. The glitches.

Uzis learned to look for them and predict her movements. Allowing her to directly snatch her core and end up eating it. Cyn did get part of what she wanted though. She got to stay close to N as part of Uzi. Still they are separate. Uzi is now admin and now has access to Cyn’s solver and possibly others based on how many Cyn has eaten. Just makes me want so much more.

[dostoyevsky-official]

Doge v USAid: how Elon Musk helped his acolytes infiltrate world’s biggest aid agency

USAid security personnel were defending a secure room holding sensitive and classified data in a standoff with “department of government efficiency” employees when a message came directly from Elon Musk: give the Doge kids whatever they want.

Since Donald Trump’s inauguration last month, a posse of cocksure young engineers answering to Musk have stormed through Washington DC, gaining access to government computer systems as part of what Senator Chuck Schumer has called “an unelected shadow government … conducting a hostile takeover of the federal government”.

Some US officials had begun calling the young engineers the “Muskovites” for their aggressive loyalty to the SpaceX owner. But some USAid staff used another word: the “incels”.

[...] The Guardian has identified three calls by Musk to USAid’s political leadership and security officers in which he demanded the suspensions of dozens of the agency’s leading officials, and cajoled and threatened senior USAid officials to give his acolytes private data and access to restricted areas. At one point, he threatened to call in the US Marshals Service.

One USAid employee said that the calls by Musk, two of which have not been previously reported, showed he had effectively usurped power at the agency even from the Trump administration’s political leadership. “Who is in control of our government?” the person said. “[Doge] basically showed up and took over.”

Security staff initially rebuffed the engineers’ efforts to talk their way into the secure rooms, called sensitive compartmented information facilities (Scifs), because they didn’t have the necessary security clearances. But that evening, Musk phoned a senior official at USAid to demand access for his subordinates, the first of numerous calls to officials and employees of Doge at USAid that have continued into this week.

[...] Inside the building, chaos reigned. Areas that were once declared restricted, with limitations on electronics such as phones and watches, suddenly loosened their security protocols to allow in uncredentialed outsiders. Doge employees were said to obscure their identities to prevent online harassment, a tactic that was repeated at other agencies. And Peter Marocco, the controversial new director of foreign assistance at the state department, was stalking the halls and meeting in private with the Doge employees.

By Friday, things had gone further downhill. After a tense all-hands meeting with senior staff, and outsiders in the sixth-floor conference room, the young engineers rushed around the offices with their laptops, plugging cords into computers and other electronics as they gathered data from the agency.

[...] The argument over access to the Scif had grown verbally heated and senior Doge staff threatened to call in US marshals to gain access to it. During that standoff, according to one account made to the Guardian, a call was again made to Musk, who, as Bloomberg first reported, repeated the threat to involve the US Marshals Service.

Inside the building, staffers said that Doge cultivated a culture of fear.

“It’s an extreme version of ‘who do you trust, when and how?’” said Kristina Drye, a speechwriter at the agency, who watched dozens of senior colleagues escorted out of the building by security. “It felt like the Soviet stories that one day someone is beside you and the next day they’re not.”

People started meeting for coffee blocks away because “they didn’t feel safe in the coffee shops here to even talk about what’s going on”, she added.

“I was in the elevator one morning and there was an older lady standing beside me and she had glasses on and I could see tears coming down under her glasses and before she got off her elevator she took her glasses off, wiped her eyes, and walked out,” she said. “Because if they see you crying, they know where you stand.”

[none-shall-caricature-me]

Kuras's Atonement + His Past with the Senobium - A Theory

So the latest Kuras character lore came out, which hints at Kuras or one of his fellow angels being the 'otherworldly teacher' who taught humans stuff like writing, art, WAR, etc. Inventions that can be used for good, bad or in between. Hence there are differing views of this entity - as benevolent or a harbinger of ruin.

Moreover, the caption states (it's highly plausible that Kuras says it) - “Hope. A strange concept, after so long seeing myself as the agent of ruin.”

This, plus an earlier stats post that puts his empathy at 2 / 5 lead me to the folllowing conclusion -

We know that Kuras is atoning for a past blunder by entering the human world and setting up his charitable interventions. That catastrophe was probably the event of him introducing all these new concepts to humans WHILE lacking the lived human experience to truly foresee, understand and empathise with the consequences. For example, war happens for resource access, profiteering, ideology, punitive 'destroy those sinners' rage etc. Perhaps Kuras introduced war hoping to elevate the humans he considered righteous or wiser over those he thought evil, lesser or dangerous, but this judgemental aloofness meant he overlooked the reasons WHY people do evil, overlooked moral greyness. And then this spiralled out of control because he failed to grasp and predict humanity's vices.

It's like how less intelligent animals commit atrocities ultimately for survival and genetic lineage, but more intelligent animals like dolphins, otters and above all, humans will commit atrocities and shape exploitative systems for non - strictly essential reasons.

But why didn't he correct his mistake ? Maybe he lost hope for humanity out of disgust and left them to their sordid devices. But that fixed nothing and only led to more suffering. Or maybe his specific kind of inhuman purity (and I mean 'pure' in a very NEUTRAL sense) prevented him from understanding humans enough to do anything about it all. And then he went into exile in the mortal world to finally try to decode and dialogue with humanity through with an open mind instead of an untouchable omniscience.

Perhaps that's why he hates the Senobium. They seem to pursue knowledge and innovation for all kinds of reasons at ANY cost, treating living creatures as a lab simulation. Earlier he had good relations with them, back when he stuck to his original path. But now it's just a reminder of his biggest sin.

Possibly a stretch, but what if he had a hand in the Senobium's initial establishment + growth ?

REFS FROM RED SPRING STUDIO'S TWIITER -