#Estimation Engineer - Systems

[arolesbianism]

Shaking and crying as I finally start working on some more long term oxygen production systems as if it's much more complicated than building a room with like 5 buildings inside all of which you can unlock without even building an advanced science station

[nnctales]

Exploring the Diverse Landscape of BIM Software in Construction: A Comprehensive Guide

Introduction: In the ever-evolving field of construction, Building Information Modeling (BIM) has emerged as a transformative technology that revolutionizes the way buildings are designed, constructed, and managed. BIM software plays a pivotal role in enhancing collaboration, improving efficiency, and minimizing errors throughout the construction process. This article delves into the various…

[slyandthefamilybook]

okay because I'm seeing some misinfo, here's the story on the Key Bridge collapse

What was the Key Bridge?

The Francis Scott Key Bridge (also called the Key Bridge, the Beltway Bridge, and the Outer Harbor Crossing) was steel-arch continuous-through-truss bridge spanning the Patapsco River south of the Baltimore Harbor. The bridge took 5 years to build and cost an estimated $145 million ($735 million in today's dollars). The full bridge project (including approaches) was 10.9 miles long, but the stretch over the Patapsco was 1.6 miles long and 4 lanes wide, and comprised a length of I-695, the Baltimore Beltway. It traveled between Hawkins Point and Dundalk, and in addition to the I-895 Harbor Tunnel was the primary way for Marylanders to cross from the Eastern Shore to the West. The bridge carried an estimated 11.5 million vehicles per year. There is a lane for ships to pass under the Key Bridge with enough clearance.

Was it structurally sound?

The bridge received its latest inspection in 2022 and received a 6/9 score, which is considered "fair" by federal standards. There was a concern with one of its columns, which was downgraded from a health index of 77.8 to 65.9, but it is not clear yet if this was one of the columns struck by the ship. In 1980 the bridge was struck by a different cargo ship which destroyed a concrete support structure, but the bridge itself was unharmed. There is as of yet no evidence that the bridge collapsed because of poor condition. Experts say the lesson to be learned is about the size and weight of modern cargo ships, and that the bridge was not to blame. Engineers have noted, however, that the bridge's piers lacked protective devices such as fenders.

What was the ship?

The MV Dali is a container ship flying the Singapore flag. It is owned by Grace Ocean Private Ltd. and operated by Synergy Marine Group Ltd. The ship is currently being chartered by Maersk, a Dutch shipping company. It was built in 2015 by Hyundai. The ship is 980 feet long and 157 feet wide. The ship's gross tonnage (its internal volume) is 95,128 tons (190,256,000 pounds). Its deadweight (the weight of cargo it can carry) is 116,851 tons (233,702,000 pounds). The ship was carrying 3,000 containers. The engine is a MAN-B&W 9S90ME putting out 41,480 kilowatts (55,626 horsepower).

Over its lifetime the Dali has been inspected 27 times, and only 2 faults were ever found. On June 27, 2023 the Dali was held in port in Chile due to an issue with the propulsion system. According to an inspector the pressure gauges on the heating system were "unreadable". The fault was fixed before the ship left port.

The Dali is crewed by 22 Indian nationals including 2 maritime pilots.

What happened?

The Dali arrived at the Port of Baltimore on March 23, 2024. At 12:44 AM on March 26, 2024 the Dali left port, beginning its journey to Colombo, Sri Lanka. At 01:26 AM the ship suffered a "complete blackout" and began to drift out of the shipping lane. It is not yet known what caused the electrical failure. The backup generator did not power the propulsion system. At around 01:26 AM the crew of the Dali sent a mayday distress call to the Maryland Department of Transportation (MDOT) informing them of the loss of power and that a collision with the Key Bridge was possible. The anchors were dropped as an emergency measure to attempt to slow or stop the vessel. At the request of one of the pilots traffic flow over the bridge was immediately halted. Black smoke was seen coming from the Dali, which experts believe was the result of the crew managing to restart the power system to regain some maneuvering capability.

At 01:28 AM the Dali, traveling at 8 knots (considered to be a fast speed) collided with a support strut beneath the Key Bridge's metal truss at the southwest end of the bridge. A Baltimore resident said he heard the collision and that it "felt like an earthquake". Emergency teams began receiving 911 calls at 01:30 AM, and the Baltimore Police Department were alerted at 01:35 AM. One of the officers present radioed that he was going to go onto the bridge to alert the construction crew as soon as a second officer arrived, but the bridge collapsed seconds later.

What was the damage?

The Key Bridge has completely collapsed. The metal truss relies on structural tension from the bridge itself to maintain its rigidity. As soon as one of the support columns was destroyed, the rest of the bridge quickly followed.

The damage to the Dali is reported as minimal. The ship was impaled by the bridge's structure above the waterline, but has maintained watertight integrity. The crew has not reported any water contamination from its 1.8 million gallons of marine fuel. 13 containers carrying potentially hazardous material were damaged, and are being inspected by a team of Coast Guard divers. At least 5 vehicles including 3 passenger cars and a cement mixer were detected underwater, but authorities do not believe they were occupied

Who was hurt?

The crew of the Dali reports no casualties, except one crewmember who was hospitalized for minor injuries. There was a crew of 8 construction workers on the Key Bridge filling in potholes. 2 were immediately pulled from the water by rescue crews, with 1 being rushed to emergency care and the other reporting minor injuries and refusing treatment. The hospitalized worker has since been discharged. 1 of those rescued was Mexican. The remaining 6 remain missing. Of those 6, 2 have been identified:

Miguel Luna from El Salvador

Maynor Yassir Suazo Sandoval from Honduras

Of the remaining 4, 2 are Guatemalan nationals. Neither have been identified, but the Guatemalan Foreign Affairs Ministry has stated that they were a 26-year-old from San Luis, Petén, and a 35-year-old from Camotán, Chiquimula. The other 2 are presumed to be Mexican.

Rescue Efforts

The Coast Guard was immediately deployed for search-and-rescue operations. Military Blackhawk helicopters were seen over the river. Rescue efforts were ended at 07:30 PM on March 26, 2024 due to darkness, fog, and cold temperatures. Rear Admiral Shannon Gilreath said "Based on the length of time that we've gone in the search, the extensive search efforts that we put into it, the water temperature -- at this point, we do not believe that we're going to find any of these individuals still alive". Recovery operations resumed at 07:30 AM on March 27, 2024 with all 6 workers presumed dead.

No divers have yet entered the water underneath the bridge. Supervisory Special Agent Brian Hudson of the FBI's Underwater Search and Evidence Response Team said "the debris field is pretty sizable and I know that’s why they’re hesitant to send divers down because some of the debris is still shifting, the heavy weight of the rocks". The FBI has deployed Remotely Operated Vehicles (ROVs) equipped with cameras and SONAR.

Aftermath

At 05:08 AM on March 26, 2024 Transportation Secretary Pete Buttegiege posted on X (formerly Twitter):

"I’ve spoken with Gov. Moore and Mayor Scott to offer USDOT’s support following the vessel strike and collapse of the Francis Scott Key bridge. Rescue efforts remain underway and drivers in the Baltimore area should follow local responder guidance on detours and response."

At 07:30 AM on March 27, 2024 President of the Maryland State Senate Bill Ferguson posted on X (formerly Twitter):

"Over 15,000 in the Balt region rely on daily operations at Port of Baltimore to put food on the table. Today, with Del. @LukeClippinger and colleagues representing Port, we are drafting an emergency bill to provide for income replacement for workers impacted by this travesty."

At around 09:40 AM on March 26, 2024 Maryland Governor Wes Moore and Baltimore Mayor Brandon Scott declared a State of Emergency to take effect at 10:30 AM March 26, 2024, and to last 30 days. Baltimore's Emergency Operations Plan was put into effect.

More than 1,000 personnel from the US Army Corps of Engineers (USACE) have been deployed to assist with clearing the debris and rebuilding efforts. President Joe Biden has pledged that the federal government will pay for the entire reconstruction of the bridge.

Jennifer Homendy, the chair of the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) has recovered the Dali's data recorder, and will be inspecting both the Key Bridge and the Dali to determine the cause of the crash and the collapse. She says the investigation could take up to 2 years to complete.

Was it intentional?

According to William DelBagno, head of the FBI's Baltimore field office: "There is no specific or credible information to suggest there are ties to terrorism in this incident".

Secretary of Homeland Security Alejandro Mayorkas said: "There are no indications this was an intentional act".

At least 3 people have been killed in accidents related to ships operated by Synergy in the past 6 years. In 2018 a person on board a Synergy ship in Australia was killed in an accident relating to the vessel's personnel elevator. In 2019 an officer aboard a Synergy vessel in Singapore fell overboard while performing maintenance. In 2023 at least one sailor was killed when a Synergy ship collided with a dredging ship in the Philippines. In the first two cases safety inspectors noted that proper safety procedures had not been adhered to.

Sources

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

[shadesofmauve]

Alliance Normandy SR2 interior redesign: Introduction

The Normandy is a sexy sexy spaceship, but the interior we see is defined by game play: corridors are extremely wide so Shepard doesn't get stuck on the scenery, the crew is sparse because animating crew members takes resources and NPCs are also obstacles Shepard could get stuck on, you need larger spaces for camera angles, etc.

I wanted to see if I could redesign the space to fit a crew of 70–90... ...and I got carried away.

This post covers the rules I set myself and the basic process. Each deck will get a separate post (check back for links):

Intro

Loft

Command deck

Crew deck

Engineering deck

Hangar deck

Design rules

Keep major elements in basically the same places. This is the Normandy as she exists in my fic Sunset & Evening Star, and readers shouldn't have to study a floorplan!

Use only space that's 'available' in the game. If we can access it as the player, it's fair game. If it's a mysterious void in-game, I assume it's full of Important Spaceship Parts and the only access is for ship maintenance.

The elevator shaft is vertical. No Willy Wonka/ST turbo lift shit.

*There are inertial dampeners; if there weren't none of this would work. But as an author I like to imagine that any system can be overloaded.

Step one: Align & scale the deck maps

I aligned the deck maps around the elevator, the only element that shows up on every one. Each is shown at a different scale, so I eyeballed their relationship based on furniture, which is the only thing required to have a relatively consistent size. This is a big assumption; game designers resize whatever they need to! Shepard's bed, for instance, has pillows about a meter square. Presumably they needed room to made the pixel dolls have sex. Shepard's bed can therefore not be trusted, and to a lesser extent neither can anything else.

(There are also floor panels that look a lot like standard 4'x8' construction sheet stock, but A) developers can re-size those as needed without the player noticing, and B) If we're still using imperial units to construct spaceships in 2184 I hope the reapers eat us.**)

**...that said, I used a scale of 1px:2ft to draw this. I'm so sorry. I'm American and I've done construction, it's easy for me to visualize. (The scale was two inches to the pixel, if you're curious.)

Step two: Redesign over the existing space

This is where I saw how much I could fit in the space the game design allowed (given my guesses on scale). Y'know, the fun bit that I thought I'd be spending most of my time doing!

(I was so wrong).

Redesign goals

The Alliance refitted the Normandy for an Admiral. Admirals don't captain their own ships, so I needed to account for an Admiral and their staff as well as the captain and crew.

Align bunks fore-aft, so that the most common major inertial vectors* will hit sleeping crew in the least dangerous direction.

Plumbing should be stacked when possible. (I don't know spaceships but I know about plumbing columns. Glamorous!)

Step three: Adjust to the hull

One modeler figured the ship had to be ~370 meters long to fit the decks as-is, which would leave them using only ~20% of the length. One dev is quoted as saying she's 170m. Fan estimates comparing it with other ships suggest somewhere from 210–230 meters.

The hangar deck is the one*** place the interior aligns with the exterior for certain. The hangar needs to fit two kodiaks in the space between the bay door and the elevator, and each kodiak needs to fit 12 people plus the pilot. Additionally, as the lowest deck the hanger is limited in width by the inward curve of the hull (and that limit changes based on how low you go, which is why the drawing above includes a front elevation).

***Yes, we also see Joker piloting right up in the nose. This is impossible to achieve and also stupid, so I've elected to ignore it.

Sizing it to the smallest reasonable hangar — and after drawing a rather stubbier kodiak — I managed a 194 meter hull; ~217 if you include thrusters. At this size the liveable area takes up just over a third of the hull length. It's still an awful lot of nose, but that nose means 136 meters for the main gun, which for my purposes is still a rail gun (so size matters). Sadly it can't be a hull-length gun; it would run into first the elevator, and then the eezo core.

I did NOT pretend to figure out where the Make Spaceship Go parts are, or the Keep People Alive parts. There's a LOT of 'wasted' space; assume it's all in use and accessible through engineering access-ways, though how comfortable or safe they are is questionable.

———

Thanks to @swaps55 for the amazing high-res screenshots of the game maps, and to @faejilly and @sheepishwolfy for the long-ago talks about crew size that started all this!

[transport-methodology-101]

From top:

1970 Oldsmobile 442 W30. The "455 W30" refers to engine & performance package available for 1970 Oldsmobile 442. W30 package included a 455 cubic inch V8 engine producing 370 horsepower, forced-air induction, a special air cleaner, an aluminum intake manifold, and other performance enhancements. It was the ultimate high-performance Oldsmobile of its time, and the 1970 model was even selected to pace the Indianapolis 500. Only 3,100 Oldsmobile 442s were assembled with the W30 option in 1970.

1970 Chevrolet Chevelle SS 454 LS6. Powered by LS6 version of 454 Turbo-Jet engine, producing 450 horsepower & 500 lb-ft of torque. Acceleration from 0 to 60 mph in around 5.5 seconds and complete a quarter-mile in the low 13-second range. The 1970 Chevelle SS 454 LS6 is often referred to as the "King of the Muscle Cars" due to its powerful engine and limited production numbers. Only 4,475 Chevelles produced with the L56 engine option making it a highly sought after. The 1970 Chevelle SS 454 LS6 Convertible is especially rare, with estimates suggesting only 20 to 25 still exist.

1970 Buick GS 455 Stage 1. "Stage 1" denotes a performance upgrade package & this version produced 360 horsepower & 510 lb-ft of torque. Motor Trend recorded 13.38-second quarter-mile time at 105.5 mph, making it the quickest car they tested in 1970. In 1970, Buick produced 10,148 GS 455s (including GSXs), with only 2,697 equipped with Stage 1 package. rare and valuable muscle car. Some sources suggest the horsepower was underrated to manage insurance cost ( but you didn’t hear this from us ; )

1970 Pontiac 400 GTO Ram Air IV. Most powerful engine available for the GTO. 400 cubic inch displacement of engine & Ram Air IV high-performance induction system, rated at 370 horsepower. A 1970 GTO Judge Ram Air IV sold for over $1.1 million, highlighting the model's rarity & desirability making this Ram Air IV, world’s most expensive GTO. Stricter emissions regulations began to impact engine performance in the following years & its performance charisma dwindled.

[mantisgodsdomain]

The part that you haven't heard about in more detail here, for reference, is our miscellaneous research on typography, calliography, and type design, because we haven't done it in anywhere near as much detail and still arguably know nothing. In this case, you get to hear "oh yeah we're relearning cursive" as part of an unrelated ramble. This is because if we don't have at least one thing to chew on throughout the day, we wind up in a dull, grinding state of mind where we start losing chunks of important things, such as our ability to not be a huge asshole and/or hit people with sticks.

Sometimes, this means gnawing on plots, either ours or others'. Sometimes, this means learning new things. If we're operating on any subject in particular, we prefer to keep a level of basic competence high enough to let us feel like we have reasonable authority in saying something. If we are expressing an opinion, we want it to be one that is informed, because seeing people say things where they obviously don't know what a single word in that sentence actually means makes us want to chew through glass and people spreading blatant misinformation and unexamined, unbelievably blatant bias makes for our absolute least favorite dish. If we don't know something, and it's worth knowing, then we should bother to learn, because it is worth it to know at least enough to know when someone's bullshitting you, and be able to apply the knowledge you have acquired in one field to other ones over time. Many things work along the same basic lines - if you look at enough of them, then eventually, you'll learn the intersections, and the way one thing interacts with another.

In unrelated news, now that we are officially in formal education again and thus interacting with people who feel very confident in the idea that they are bringing an objectively correct perspective to the room, we are learning that apparently our "basic level of knowledge that we feel like we need to possess to feel even vaguely confident talking about the subject in any context" is most other people's "at least bachelor degree level knowledge". We are unclear on if this is a new discovery or not, as last time we were in an actual physical school it went badly enough that our memory of the year it occurred in is functionally irretrievable. This is not good for the superiority complex, probably.

is the fountain pen thing why your broskis been rbing the occasional fountain pen post or was that shared brainrot

It depends which broski you're talking about but probably. We have been exploring the ins and outs of the fountain pen since, like, the start of this month and we have already regaled our MOTW group with "hey did you know that you can buy a fountain pen that looks like a shark for three dollars" and similar such thoughts.

Though not all of our miscellaneous interests make it onto this blog, as we try not to post on things until we are reasonably informed on them, our close friends get to be regaled with the lovely story of whatever niche subject that we have dedicated our time and energy to learning things about every week or so, and we've been talking about pens for slightly longer as we learn more thoroughly how to work with them, and being told about things by an enthusiastic insect tends to get you looking at things (whether you like it or not)

[incognit0slut]

Much Ado About Nothing (Act II, Scene I: The Suspicious Scheme)

The three times you sense something strange when everyone pairs you with Spencer, and the one time you understand why.

Part warning: Definitely inaccuracy in autopsy procedures and Spencer’s educational background, it’s hard writing a genius Words: 5.6k (not proofread, I’ll do it when I have the time so please excuse me if you see any mistakes) A/n: I tried to make this part shorter but I gave up. I hope you don’t mind reading more😌

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

I. The Forced Partner

There was usually a system when Hotch paired the team up, a method to his leadership that balanced skills and personalities to get the job done efficiently. But as Spencer and you were directed to the autopsy room together, you couldn’t help but wonder if Hotch was pushing his luck—or preferably yours.

It was weird. Two weeks had gone by since the last case where he had to witness you both sparring, and you would’ve thought he’d keep you apart. Yet here you were, together again, stepping into the cold, sterile room. 

The faint smell of antiseptic filled the air as you pulled on your gloves, the latex snapping against your wrists. A woman in blue scrubs, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, turned to greet you and Spencer. She extended a hand. 

“I’m Dr. Nina Patel, I’ll be overseeing the autopsy today. You must be from the BAU.”

You nodded, shaking her hand firmly. 

“Agent Y/N Y/L/N, and this is Dr. Spencer Reid,” you introduced, gesturing towards Spencer, who offered a brief nod and a tight lip smile in greeting. Dr. Patel returned the gesture and motioned for you both to approach the table. 

“Our Jane Doe was found early this morning in an alleyway downtown," she explained, pulling back the sheet to reveal a woman appearing in her late thirties. "There are no apparent injuries, and no ID was found with her.”

Spencer stepped closer. "Any indication of the time of death?" 

"Preliminary estimates put the time of death at approximately eight hours before she was found."

You watched as she started pointing to various parts of the body. 

"She was also found with her clothes in perfect condition. It’s possible she was placed there post-mortem."

Spencer raised an eyebrow. "Could suggest transportation from another location.”

You moved to the head of the table, examining Jane Doe's hands and nails. "No defensive wounds," you added. "She didn't fight back, or more likely, wasn't conscious during her final moments."

Dr. Patel nodded as she considered your observations. “It’s plausible that a strong sedative was used, which would leave minimal to no struggle marks. We’re running some tests as we speak.”

Spencer chimed in quickly after that. “The Unsub might have used succinylcholine, or even benzodiazepines,” he suggested. Then, turning toward you with a condescending tone as if simplifying it for your benefit, he added, “They’d metabolize quickly and would require a toxicology screen to detect definitively.”

You rolled your eyes.

“That’s impressive, Dr. Reid,” Dr. Patel remarked, her eyes lingering on him a moment longer than seemed strictly professional. You narrowed your eyes at her. “Did you study pharmacology formally, or is this a passion of yours?”

“I actually did a bit of formal study during my Ph.D. programs.”

“Oh, really? What did you study?”

“Chemistry and Engineering. Pharmacology intersects quite a bit with those fields, especially when looking at biochemical reactions.”

Dr. Patel seemed genuinely impressed. “That’s quite a formidable educational background. No wonder you’re so thorough with your analyses.”

You could feel a knot tightening in your stomach. Her admiration was professional, sure, but the way her eyes softened when she looked at him, the way her voice dipped just so—it was a tone you recognized all too well.

She was flirting with him.

You watched them, your gaze sharp and assessing. Although it wasn’t like Spencer to notice her advances; he was smart, yes, but his brilliance often left him oblivious to the layers of personal interaction that didn’t involve textbooks or theories. And Dr. Patel, with her easy smile and obvious interest, seemed to have her focus on him rather than the body lying between you.

You cleared your throat, louder than necessary.

“Can we continue?” 

Dr. Patel seemed to catch your eye, her expression shifting back to professional as she nodded. “Of course.”

She resumed her explanation, detailing the various findings and pointing out subtle indicators on the body that might have otherwise gone unnoticed. Spencer listened intently, his gaze shifting between Dr. Patel and you, noticing the subtle tension in the room, but didn’t comment.

It wasn’t until you had all the information you needed—and after you caught one last flirtatious look from Dr. Patel directed at him—that Spencer finally spoke up.

“She seems nice,” he remarked as you both stepped outside the building, heading toward the parking lot.

You shrugged. “Sure, if you say so.”

Spencer glanced at you, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. “Am I missing something?” 

You looked over at him, debating whether to explain, before you finally sighed. 

“It’s just... she seemed a bit more interested in you than the case,” you said, trying to keep your tone light but failing to hide your slight irritation.

And then he noticed it. The subtle tension in your voice, the way you avoided his gaze, the underlying frustration—it clicked. “Wait, are you... jealous?”

“No, I’m not!” You replied quickly, then softer, “I’m not.”

“You sound like it.”

You scoffed. “No, I sound like a friend trying to remind you that we have a case to focus on.”

“Oh, so now we’re friends?”

“I meant that in the broadest, most professional sense of the word.”

“Right,” Spencer replied sarcastically. “I didn’t realize jealousy was part of professional behavior.”

“I wasn’t jealous,” you snapped. “Stop making it into something it’s not.”

“Sure.”

“Reid.”

“Y/L/N,” he shot back in the same flat tone.

Dear God, why was he so infuriating? How he had this ability, this perfectly annoying talent to get under your skin without seeming to try was beyond you. You both stared at each other for a while, until finally, you broke the silence with an exasperated sigh.

“Let’s just go,” you muttered, brushing past him.

You walked a few steps ahead, trying to shake off his words. It was absurd. The very idea was ridiculous when you were focused on the case, on solving the mystery—nothing more.

You were not jealous.

II. The Unavoidable Flight

“I’m telling you, she was definitely flirting with him,” you said, your voice a mix of disbelief and annoyance as you and Penelope made your way toward the plane. “It was so obvious, the way she kept looking at him, the tone of her voice. I mean, does professional decorum mean nothing anymore?”

“Why are you acting so surprised? Wonder Boy is actually quite the catch,” Penelope responded. “He’s not my type, but he clearly has admirers.”

Your eyes involuntarily drifted toward the man in question, who was walking a few paces behind, engaged in conversation with JJ. He was casually gripping the strap of his satchel bag, laughing at something JJ had just said. You narrowed your eyes.

“Well, I don’t understand what they see in him.”

“It might be that genius brain of his—totally irresistible to some.”

“It’s annoying, is what it is,” you grumbled, quickening your pace as the plane came into view.

Penelope responded with a sly grin. “You know what you sound like?”

“What?”

“Like someone who’s maybe a little jealous.”

You frowned, hating how she was the second person to conclude your irritation with something else. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on. You seem unusually focused on how others interact with him.”

“I’m focused on maintaining a professional work environment,” you defended, trying to keep your voice even as you approached the steps of the plane. “Not about… whatever you’re implying.”

“Fine. If Dr. Patel makes her move and actually calls him, what would you do?”

Your eyes widened. “What? Who did you hear that from? Did he tell you? When did she call him?”

“Hypothetically, oh my god,” Penelope laughed, stepping onto the plane as you followed, slightly flustered. “I’m just saying, hypothetically, if it happened, what would you do? How would you react?”

You paused at the entrance, processing her question. “I’d do nothing.”

“Nothing? Really?”

“Yes, I’d do nothing because I’m not jealous.”

“That’s what any jealous person would say.”

You narrowed your eyes at her as you walked past the entrance, and when you caught her making herself comfortable on the long couch by the front, you quickly made your way to the back of the plane.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

“To find a spot where my supposed jealousy isn’t your inflight entertainment,” you replied, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I knew you were jealous!”

“Supposed jealousy!”

Her laughter trailed after you, ringing down the narrow aisle as you navigated through the plane, bypassing Rossi, who was typing away on his phone, and Hotch, who sat across from him with his eyes closed, leaning back against his seat. You walked further down the aisle until you spotted an empty spot at the very back of the plane, looking very isolated and inviting.

It was perfect.

“Garcia! That’s my usual spot,” Spencer’s unmistakable voice echoed through the plane as you made yourself comfortable in your chair.

From the corner of your eye, you could see him standing over Penelope, a hand gesturing toward the seat while his other hand clutched his bag.

“But it’s so comfortable,” Penelope responded, settling deeper into the plush seat. “Come on, Reid, I don’t travel as much as you do. Let me have it.”

Spencer paused, his initial protest fading as he took in Penelope’s exaggerated comfort. “Where would I sit?”

“You can sit…”

You quickly closed your eyes. Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t–

“Over there! There’s an empty spot in front of Y/N.”

You were going to kill her.

You sank deeper into your chair, hoping to avoid any forced small talk or, worse, awkward silence with him. Maybe if you were lucky enough, he’d pick another chair—perhaps next to Hotch, or Rossi, or—

A cough interrupted your thoughts.

“I know you’re pretending to sleep.”

Reluctantly, you opened one eye, peeking at him.

"Mind if I sit here?"

For a moment, you considered ignoring him, but the look on his face told you he wasn’t going to let it go. You rolled your shoulders, giving up the pretense, and sat up straighter.

“Actually, yes, I do mind.”

He raised an eyebrow but lowered himself onto the seat anyway, clearly unfazed by your objection.

"Reid,” you warned him. “I’m serious.”

"I know you are.” His eyes briefly swept around the cabin as he settled into the seat across from you, placing his satchel bag on his lap. "But every other seat is taken. Unless you want me to stand in the aisle for the next few hours?"

You rolled your eyes, letting out a resigned sigh as you crossed your arms. "Fine, but I'm reserving the right to nap, and you're reserving the right to not disturb that nap."

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

He leaned forward in his seat. “Do you know that you snore when you sleep?”

You gasped. “I do not!”

“You do. You sound like a little chainsaw.”

You gaped at him. The idea of a rough, grating noise being associated with you was almost laughable, and yet here he was, completely serious. You were unsure whether to be amused or offended.

“A chainsaw? That’s what you’re going with?”

“Well, considering the average chainsaw operates at around 90 decibels, I'd say it's an appropriate comparison."

“Don’t make me throw you off the plane.”

He shrugged, leaning back in his seat. “Just so you know, certain sleep positions can actually help reduce snoring. Maybe you should try—ouch!”

You nudged him with your foot, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make your point clear. He rubbed his leg and glanced up at you with a wry expression.

“Consider that your first and only warning,” you stated firmly before closing your eyes, signaling the end of the conversation.

“See, your position is all wrong, if you slightly elevate your—”

“Good night, Reid.”

There was suddenly a moment of silence, the kind that feels almost tangible, stretching out in the small space between you. Then, you heard it—a slight, barely audible chuckle.

You wondered if your mind was playing tricks on you, the sound so faint that it seemed it could easily be a figment of your imagination. But no, there it was again, a soft, amused sound that had you frowning even with your eyes closed.

“Good night, Y/N.”

Maybe you were already dreaming.

III. The Lock-in Incident

“Y/N,” JJ’s voice chimed from behind you while you were gathering a stack of folders on your desk. “Can you take these down to the filing room? Spencer’s already down there reorganizing some of the older case files.”

You eyed the thick folder in JJ’s hands. When there wasn’t an active case, the team often spent time organizing and maintaining the archives. As tedious as it was, it was a necessary task, and normally, you wouldn’t mind lending a hand.

But the sound of his name made you pause because working with him in a confined space seemed very much unappealing.

“Why are you asking me?”

“Aren’t you going there?” She asked, her gaze shifting to the folders in your hands.

Internally, you groaned. Yes, you were headed there, that had been the plan. But now that you knew Spencer was there, every step towards that cramped, paper-stuffed room felt like walking into a minefield.

“Maybe you should go down there instead.”

“I can’t,” she responded, already adding her folders to your pile. “I’ve got to finish my other reports before the end of the day.”

Your eyes glanced over to Derek’s desk across from you. “Morgan?”

He turned over a page in the file he was reading, not even looking up. “Sorry, Pretty Girl, I got my hands full with this case report.”

“Oh, come on.” You stormed over to him, desperation edging into your voice. “I’ll do you a favor—anything you want.”

Derek glanced up, finally giving you his attention, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Anything I want?”

“Within reason.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Sorry, but I really can’t. This report’s due in an hour.”

Frustrated, you glanced over towards Emily’s desk, hoping for a backup, but groaned when you saw it was empty.

You finally sighed, feeling the weight of your options—or lack thereof—settle on your shoulders. You gathered the heavy folders in your arms, the paper edges digging slightly into your skin. It was just a few hours, you reasoned; you could manage Spencer. He could be insufferable, but you had your own ways of being equally annoying.

With a deep breath, you headed toward the filing room, mentally preparing yourself. He was already busy sorting through a pile of disorganized paperwork when you got there, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“I have more work for you,” you announced in a sing-song voice.

Spencer looked up, his eyes scanning the sight of the hefty folders in your arms. “Nope. They’re yours, not mine.”

You paused, leaning on the table filled with sorted files. “Are you sure you want me to do this by myself? Because, you know, I might just rearrange what you’ve already organized here. It would be a shame if all your hard work got… scrambled.”

“Don’t even think about it,” he quickly warned. “Hand them over. I’ll do it myself.”

You moved closer and placed the folders next to his neatly arranged stacks, deliberately nudging them just enough to seem accidental.

“Really?” he said, a hint of exasperation in his tone as he carefully realigned the folders you had nudged. “You know, we could actually get this done much faster if you’re not acting like a child.”

“Oh, please. Like you’re the mature one.”

“At least I’m trying to get the job done, not make it harder.”

“Maybe if you weren’t so uptight about every little detail, it wouldn’t be so hard,” you shot back, grabbing another stack of files to sort.

“I’m not uptight. I’m precise. There’s a difference.”

“Sure there is.”

Spencer opened his mouth to retort, but before he could get the words out, the sudden sound of the door clicking shut echoed through the cramped room. Both of you turned around simultaneously.

“Did that just…?” He began, stepping towards the door and trying the handle. It didn’t budge. He jiggled it again, more forcefully this time. “Great, it’s locked.”

“What?” You walked over, a sinking feeling in your stomach. “Who the hell locked it?”

“I don’t think anyone did. These old doors… they stick. It’s probably just jammed,” Spencer explained, though his voice carried a hint of doubt.

Yeah, right, you thought, your skepticism growing. Despite his logical explanation, you couldn't shake the feeling that this was more than just a coincidence. The timing was just too perfect, and you had a sneaking suspicion that someone might have been behind this.

But then the reality of the situation sank in. Your immediate concern shifted to the fact that you were trapped here, with him, until someone realized you were missing. The prospect was both frustrating and daunting.

“Look, let’s just keep working,” he suggested. “The sooner we finish, the sooner we can figure out how to get out of here.”

You nodded, though a part of you wanted to argue. “Fine. But if we’re still stuck here by the time we’re done, you’re explaining this to Hotch.”

“We’ll get out, don’t worry.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.” You picked up a folder from the pile, flipping it open to look over its contents. “How do I do this?”

“Sort them by case type first, then by date within each type.”

“So, this one would go under…?”

“Unsolved homicides,” Spencer replied, taking a quick peek at the document you held open. “And make sure it’s in chronological order with the others.”

You moved to the designated shelf, sliding the folder into its appropriate spot before returning to grab another. “Wait,” you opened the file, your eyes scanning the page. “I think this was my first case.”

You read through the document and nodded.

“Yes, look, it’s the one where the Unsub was targeting families with children,” you reminisced, your mind going back to the time when you were still new to the job. “That was such a hard case. Remember how I couldn’t stop crying? And how Hotch had to debrief me because I was still shaking even after we made the arrest?”

When you were met with silence, you looked up to see his back facing you, seeming too busy as he organized his files. You closed the document in your hands and walked back toward the shelf.

“Of course, you don’t remember,” you muttered under your breath. “Why would you even remember?”

A twinge of disappointment settled in your chest, even though you hated to admit it. It was stupid, really, to expect him to recall every little detail from the past, especially when it had to do with you. But just as you turned to grab another file, Spencer’s voice stopped you.

“October 19, 2011.”

You paused, turning slowly to face him, your brows furrowing in confusion. “What?”

“The date you started working here,” Spencer said, still focused on his task. “You wore a black blouse and the brightest shade of red on your lips.”

You blinked, trying to understand what he was getting at.

“The case was in St. Louis,” Spencer continued, now looking up to meet your gaze directly. “Your first field assignment. You told Hotch you were ready, but the case really got to your head.”

You found yourself at a loss for words, realizing what he was trying to do.

“You cried when you came back from talking with the victim’s family. You cried when the second victim was found. You cried when we finally caught the Unsub.”

You continued to stare at him, not knowing how to process his words.

“You also cried when I sat beside you on the plane.”

He remembered.

The realization struck you hard, almost like a physical blow. A part of you had convinced yourself that he barely noticed you, that any memory involving you was erased from his mind. But here he was, recalling not just any memory, but your first week when you joined the team, right down to the color of your lips.

“You…” The frown on your face deepened. “You remembered.”

There was a pause as he looked at you, his eyes carefully assessing your reaction. “It’s hard not to."

You held his gaze. Sometimes you wonder what would happen if you were still on good terms. Would you smile at him now? Would you tell him that, yes, you also remembered how he allowed you to lean on his shoulder during that flight back home, despite the awkwardness of your first meeting when it seemed he’d rather keep his distance?

You shook your head, looking away from him. It was wishful thinking. Letting yourself dwell on what could have been would only lead to another heartbreak. You had learned to protect yourself, to keep your distance, because hoping for a return to those days would only make the present hurt more.

“Right,” you said, trying to keep your composure as you gripped the folder in your hand. “I forgot you have an eidetic memory.”

Spencer didn’t say anything, but you could feel his eyes on you, a quiet, lingering gaze that you felt more than saw. The room suddenly felt incredibly small, the walls seeming to close in around you as your fingers fumbled slightly with the papers, grabbing another file.

You needed to get out of here. You needed to regain control. The faster you finish your work, the sooner you can escape him.

IV. The Table For Two

“You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” You pressed, arms linked with JJ as you both walked down the sidewalk, your stride matching the quick tempo of your rising irritation. The accusation in your voice was clear, but JJ just offered a casual shrug, avoiding direct eye contact.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You expect me to believe it was an accident?” Your skepticism was palpable, and you watched as a small smirk played at the corner of her lips. “That the door coincidentally locked itself when we were both inside?”

“The doors are old,” she said, keeping her gaze forward, her steps even and unhurried. “You know how it is, sometimes if you even just shut them too hard, they jam. Could happen to anyone.”

Her tone was too nonchalant, too practiced, and you tugged on her arm, pulling her to a stop. “Right, and I suppose it was also just chance that the door closed by itself?”

JJ paused, finally facing you with a raised eyebrow. “I didn’t do it.”

“Then somebody did.”

“Y/N,” she replied, her smile broadening in a way that only heightened your irritation. “Nobody did.”

You groaned, resuming your walk as you pulled her along. “You guys are so annoying.”

JJ laughed. “How did you get out of there anyway?”

You sighed, the memory of the escape bringing a frown to your face. The entire time you were locked in that room, you had done everything possible to avoid talking to him, focusing on shuffling through files and pretending to be absorbed in the work.

After what felt like an eternity of awkward silence and strained small talk, you both gave up trying to ignore the situation and started moving around the cramped space, phones held high, desperately trying to find a signal. When you finally managed to get a single bar, you quickly dialed Penelope, who answered with her usual upbeat tone, clearly amused by your predicament.

"We had to call Garcia to let us out,” you said, your tone dry. “She found the whole thing hilarious."

JJ's laughter grew as she imagined the scene. "She would have loved that. Probably made her day to rescue the two of you."

“She’s already teasing us about it.”

Her laughter slowly died down as she gave your arm a light tug. “Did anything happen while you two were in there?”

You hesitated, recalling the awkward silence, the shuffling of papers, and that brief, tensed exchange. “Not really,” you admitted. “We just tried to organize the files without screaming at each other.”

“But did you talk at all? I mean, really talk?”

“Jennifer,” you warned, the tone of your voice hinting that she was treading on uncomfortable territory. The thought of delving deeper into what had—or hadn’t—happened in that room was not something you were eager to talk about.

“I know, I know, it’s complicated,” she conceded. “Just thought it seemed like a good opportunity to maybe clear the air between you two.”

“Well, you thought wrong. There’s nothing to talk about.”

JJ looked at you skeptically, her eyes narrowing slightly as if she could see right through your defenses. She seemed on the verge of pushing further, but then her phone rang, interrupting the moment. She glanced at the screen and sighed, giving you an apologetic look. "Hold on, I need to take this. It's Will."

You nodded and watched as she stepped a few feet away to answer the call. You waited and tried to give her privacy, but it was hard when her words were clear as you listened to her talk, and the more she spoke, the more you narrowed your eyes at her.

“…right now… sure… no, it’s fine… I can be there in ten… of course, honey...”

You crossed your arms when JJ finally ended the call and turned back towards you.

"I need to head home,” she said, a bit too casually. “Will got called into work unexpectedly.”

Suspicion started to creep in as you processed her words. The timing was impeccable—a little too perfect. You both were supposed to meet up with Penelope and Derek for dinner, and it was almost guaranteed that Spencer would be there too, considering Derek had taken it upon himself to drag him along at any given chance under the pretense that ‘the kid needs to go out more’.

But the thought of JJ bailing on you on such short notice seemed out of pocket, even for her.

"Really, right now?" you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly. She shifted on her feet, her smile a bit forced. “Is everything okay?”

JJ nodded, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—something that looked more like amusement than guilt. "Yeah, I just need to get home to the kids. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

The more she spoke, the more your suspicion grew. Her demeanor seemed too casual, almost rehearsed, as if she was trying to assure you while simultaneously eager to leave. It felt like she was in on some inside joke that you weren't aware of.

“Well, if you really have to go…”

“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” JJ flashed a quick, almost relieved smile and gave you a hurried kiss on the cheek. “Have a good time tonight, and fill me in on all the details later.”

“Details? What details?” You called after her but she was already walking away. “JJ! Why do I have to fill you in the details?”

She simply waved a hand without turning back, leaving you standing there with a growing sense of unease. You slowly resumed your walk, taking out your phone to call Penelope but stopped in your tracks when you saw a message from her, sent five minutes ago.

Hey, Sweetie, so sorry I can’t make it to dinner tonight! Something urgent came up. Have fun without me :)

Your stomach dropped as you read the message. First JJ, and now Garcia? It was starting to feel like you were being abandoned, or worse, you were being set up. You glanced around, half expecting to see Derek lurking in the shadows with a mischievous grin, orchestrating this whole fiasco.

It wasn’t until you arrived at the restaurant and spotted Spencer alone at the entrance, trying to avoid any immediate contact with the other patrons, that you realized your suspicion was confirmed. The pieces clicked together almost too neatly, and the man seemed as surprised to see you as you were to see him.

His discomfort was evident as he adjusted his stance, gripping the strap of his bag, eyes darting to you as you approached him.

“Morgan’s late,” he announced as a greeting.

“He’s not coming,” you said, unable to keep the annoyance from creeping into your voice. “And neither is JJ or Penny.”

“He told you that?”

“No,” you replied with a sigh. “But it’s pretty obvious now, isn’t it?”

"What is?"

“That we’ve been set up,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “They’re not coming, and I’m willing to bet they never planned to.”

He frowned, his brows knitting together. “You think they did this on purpose? Why would they—”

“Come on, Reid,” you interrupted. “They’ve been nudging us to talk for weeks. What better way than to leave us no choice?”

Spencer’s gaze hardened slightly. “I don’t need to be manipulated into having a conversation,” he said sharply.

“And you think I do?” You retorted. “I’m not exactly thrilled about being tricked into a dinner date either, if that’s what this is supposed to be.”

“It’s not a date,” Spencer replied quickly, almost defensively.

“Well, that’s one thing we agree on,” you snapped, then sighed, trying to rein in your temper. “Look, I don’t want to argue. Let’s just forget this ever happened and go home.”

There was a pause as Spencer looked around, his eyes settling back on you. “You want to go home?”

“You don’t?”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “I mean, we’re already here. Might as well stay and eat. It’s not like I have any better plans.”

You blinked, taken aback by his response. A part of you had expected him to jump at the chance to escape, but here he was, suggesting you to stay.

It seemed like a bad idea. The tension, the potential for awkward silences, the possibility of yet another argument—it all pointed to leaving being the better option. But against our better judgment, you found yourself considering his suggestion more than you wanted to admit.

Maybe it was the hunger gnawing at your stomach, or perhaps it was the realization that leaving now would only make things more awkward the next time you saw each other. Dinner with Spencer was the last option you’d choose, but it was better than coming home to an empty fridge.

“Fine,” you finally said, brushing past him. “But you’re paying.”

Spencer looked momentarily surprised but then nodded. “Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

You rolled your eyes as you walked into the restaurant, but immediately stopped in your tracks when you took in the setting. This wasn’t just a restaurant, it was a place designed for dates. The realization made you pause as you looked around the room in horror.

The dim lighting cast a soft glow on polished wood and fine china, while a gentle melody played subtly in the background, setting an unmistakable romantic mood. Just as you were taking in the scene, a hostess approached with a warm, inviting smile. 

"A table for two?" 

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks as you realized how the evening was poised to look. Turning slightly to gauge Spencer's reaction, you found him even more flustered, his face turning a shade redder as he stammered a response. "Uh, yes, that's—um, that will be fine."

The hostess nodded and led you to a small, intimate table near the window. Spencer fidgeted with the strap of his bag as you both sat down, his eyes darting around the room before finally settling on you. "This is... not exactly what I expected.”

You took the menu from the hostess before she left you both alone. “I’m going to kill them,” you muttered, shaking your head.

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bit extreme.”

You sighed, flipping through the menu without really seeing it. “They’re always meddling. They don’t know when to stop. I'm also convinced that being locked earlier was also part of their plan. And this—this is just so...” 

“Annoying?” He offered.

“Infuriating,” you emphasized, throwing your hands up. “It’s infuriating. And embarrassing. And—”

“And yet, here we are,” he cut in, feeling the same way. Spencer paused for a moment, then leaned in slightly, sending you a pointed look. “You know, maybe we should just give them what they want.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s a fact that humans are generally satisfied when they get what they want. And since what our friends want is for the two of us to get along, maybe we should just... pretend that we do.”

“Reid,” you pressed, mirroring his posture as you leaned forward. “They don’t want us to just get along. Look around us. They want us to really get along.” 

Spencer paused, considering your words, his gaze lingering on the candlelit table and the other couples around, deep in conversation. He seemed to realize the full extent of the setup, the romantic undertone that wasn't simply incidental but intentional.

“You’re right,” he finally responded, leaning back in his seat. “Forget what I said. It was stupid.”

You studied him as he opened the menu, the candlelight casting a soft glow on his face. He was right. Not only was it stupid, it was crazy. Pretending to be civil with him was one thing, pretending that you shared some kind of unspoken, lingering feelings was another thing. The mere thought of it made your heart race, but you couldn’t tell if it was from anxiety or nervousness.

You quickly shook your head. It was ridiculous. How could you even begin to pretend to have feelings for someone with whom you shared such a complicated past? How could you act like there was something more between you when the reality was so different?

The whole idea was far-fetched, almost laughable. You couldn’t imagine yourself romantically involved with him, even if it was just for pretend.

[tooies]

the fermi paradox is so funny to me because people make it out to be some kind of cosmically horrifying unexplainable mystery but it's literally so easily solved by the speed of light. like everything in the universe is very far apart and there is a hard limit on how fast something can travel. like we've been sending out signals into space looking for alien life for what, 50 years? because of the speed of light, that means that these signals have traveled for, at most, 50 light years (shocking). if i go on space engine to check roughly how many known star systems exist within a 50 ly radius around earth, we get a grand total of: 776. even if we add in procedurally generated ones to get an estimate that accounts for star systems we don't know about then our total goes up to 3,407. our current estimations for the number of stars in the milky way alone is around 100 BILLION. our messages have only reached like 0.000003% of the total number of stars in our galaxy alone. and even if there are any stars with life within that radius, who says they would be able to receive these messages? single-celled life first evolved ~4,000 million years ago while multicellular life only came to be around ~1,600 mya. primates only evolved within the last 100 million years. we've only been able to receive signals for a few centuries. and if these aliens did receive our signals and were able to send them back, it would still take a while for those signals to then get back to us. if they were 25 ly away (a radius that contains 122 known star systems, btw) then it would take 25 years for the signal to get there and then another 25 years for it to come back. and this isn't even getting into the fact that these signals would become less intense the further they go due to the way light works. either way it's just so fucking funny to me that people think that "powerful aliens KILLED them ALL and they're coming for US NEXT" is anywhere near the most plausible explanation

[reasonsforhope]

"In a first-ever human clinical trial, an mRNA cancer vaccine developed at the University of Florida successfully reprogrammed patients’ immune systems to fiercely attack glioblastoma, the most aggressive and lethal brain tumor.

The results in four adult patients mirrored those in 10 pet dog patients suffering from brain tumors whose owners approved of their participation.

The discovery represents a potential new way to recruit the immune system to fight treatment-resistant cancers using an iteration of mRNA technology and lipid nanoparticles, similar to COVID-19 vaccines, but with two key differences: use of a patient’s own tumor cells to create a personalized vaccine, and a newly engineered complex delivery mechanism within the vaccine.

“Instead of us injecting single particles, we’re injecting clusters of particles that are wrapping around each other like onions,” said senior author Elias Sayour, M.D., Ph.D., a UF Health pediatric oncologist who pioneered the new vaccine, which like other immunotherapies attempts to “educate” the immune system that a tumor is foreign.

“These clusters alert the immune system in a much more profound way than single particles would.”

Among the most impressive findings was how quickly the new method spurred a vigorous immune-system response to reject the tumor, said Sayour, principal investigator at the University’s RNA Engineering Laboratory and McKnight Brain Institute investigator who led the multi-institution research team.

“In less than 48 hours, we could see these tumors shifting from what we refer to as ‘cold’—very few immune cells, very silenced immune response—to ‘hot,’ very active immune response,” he said.

“That was very surprising given how quick this happened, and what that told us is we were able to activate the early part of the immune system very rapidly against these cancers, and that’s critical to unlock the later effects of the immune response,” he explained in a video (below).

Glioblastoma is among the most devastating diagnoses, with median survival around 15 months. Current standard of care involves surgery, radiation and some combination of chemotherapy.

The new report, published May 1 in the journal Cell, is the culmination of seven years of promising studies, starting in preclinical mouse models.

In the cohort of four patients, genetic material called RNA was extracted from each patient’s own surgically removed tumor, and then messenger RNA (mRNA)—the blueprint of what is inside every cell, including tumor cells—was amplified and wrapped in the newly designed high-tech packaging of biocompatible lipid nanoparticles, to make tumor cells “look” like a dangerous virus when reinjected into the bloodstream to prompt an immune-system response.

The vaccine was personalized to each patient with a goal of getting the most out of their unique immune system...

While too early in the trial to assess the clinical effects of the vaccine, the patients either lived disease-free longer than expected or survived longer than expected. The 10 pet dogs lived a median of 4.5 months, compared with a median survival of 30-60 days typical for dogs with the condition.

The next step, with support from the Food and Drug Administration and the CureSearch for Children’s Cancer foundation, will be an expanded Phase I clinical trial to include up to 24 adult and pediatric patients to validate the findings. Once an optimal and safe dose is confirmed, an estimated 25 children would participate in Phase 2."

-via Good News Network, May 11, 2024

-video via University of Florida Health, May 1, 2024

[afeelgoodblog]

Best News of Last Week - December 11

1. Biden administration to forgive $4.8 billion in student loan debt for 80,300 borrowers

The Biden administration announced on Wednesday that it would forgive an additional $4.8 billion in student loan debt, for 80,300 borrowers.

The relief is a result of the U.S. Department of Education’s fixes to its income-driven repayment plans and Public Service Loan Forgiveness program.

2. Detroit on pace to have lowest homicide rate in 60 years this year

A partnership to reduce Detroit crime is being praised with the City on pace for the fewest homicides in 60 years.

"This is the day we’ve been waiting for, for a long time," said Mayor Mike Duggan. The coalition which includes city and county leaders that Detroit Police Chief James White formed in late 2021 to return the criminal justice system in Detroit and Wayne County to pre-Covid operations.

3. Dog that killed 8 coyotes to protect sheep running for Farm Dog of the Year

Over a year ago, Casper was stacked up against a pack of 11 coyotes, and he overcame them all to protect the livestock at his Decatur home. Now he needs your help.

Casper, the Great Pyrenees livestock guardian dog, needs the public to vote for him to become the American Farm Bureau's "Farm Dog of the Year: People's Choice Pup" contest.

4. Shimmering golden mole thought extinct photographed and filmed over 80 years after last sighting

De Winton's golden mole, last sighted in 1937, has been found alive swimming through sand dunes in South Africa after an extensive search for the elusive species.

5. About 40% of the world's power generation is now renewable

The International Renewable Energy Agency (IRENA) and World Meteorological Organization (WMO) have released their first joint report to strengthen understanding of renewable energy resources and their intricate relationship with climate variability and change.

In 2022 alone, 83% of new capacity was renewable, with solar and wind accounting for most additions. Today, some 40% of power generation globally is renewable, due to rapid deployment in the past decade, according to the report.

6. Jonathan the Tortoise: World’s oldest living land animal celebrates 191st birthday

The world’s oldest living land animal - a Seychelles giant tortoise named Jonathan - has just celebrated his 191st birthday. Jonathan’s estimated 1832 birth year predates the invention of the postal stamp, the telephone, and the photograph.

The iconic creature lived through the US civil war, most of the reign of Queen Victoria, the rise and fall of the Soviet Union, and two world wars.

7. New enzyme allows CRISPR technologies to accurately target almost all human genes

A team of engineers at Duke University have developed a method to broaden the reach of CRISPR technologies. While the original CRISPR system could only target 12.5% of the human genome, the new method expands access to nearly every gene to potentially target and treat a broader range of diseases through genome engineering.

---

That's it for this week :)

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Buy me a coffee ❤️

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[drnikolatesla]

Tesla’s Wardenclyffe Tower: Built on Sound Math, Undone by Cost and Misunderstanding

Let’s set the record straight—Nikola Tesla’s Wardenclyffe Tower was a high-voltage experimental transmission system grounded in quarter-wave resonance and electrostatic conduction—not Hertzian radiation. And the math behind it? It was solid—just often misunderstood by people applying the wrong physics.

In May 1901, Tesla calculated that to set the Earth into electrical resonance, he needed a quarter-wavelength system with a total conductor length of about 225,000 cm, or 738 feet.

So Tesla’s tower design had to evolve during construction. In a letter dated September 13, 1901, to architect Stanford White, Tesla wrote: “We cannot build that tower as outlined.” He scaled the visible height down to 200 feet. The final structure—based on photographic evidence and Tesla’s own testimony—stood at approximately 187 feet above ground. To meet the required electrical length, Tesla engineered a system that combined spiral coil geometry, an elevated terminal, a 120-foot vertical shaft extending underground, and radial pipes buried outward for approximately 300 feet. This subterranean network, together with the 187-foot tower and carefully tuned inductance, formed a continuous resonant conductor that matched Tesla’s target of 738 feet. He described this strategy in his 1897 patent (No. 593,138) and expanded on it in his 1900 and 1914 patents, showing how to simulate a longer conductor using high-frequency, resonant components. Even with a reduced visible height, Tesla’s system achieved quarter-wave resonance by completing the rest underground—proving that the tower’s electrical length, not its physical height, was what really mattered.

Tesla calculated his voltages to be around 10 million statvolts (roughly 3.3 billion volts in modern SI), so he had to consider corona discharge and dielectric breakdown. That’s why the terminal was designed with large, smooth spherical surfaces—to minimize electric surface density and reduce energy loss. This was no afterthought; it’s a core feature of his 1914 patent and clearly illustrated in his design sketches.

Now, about that ±16 volt swing across the Earth—what was Tesla talking about?

He modeled the Earth as a conductive sphere with a known electrostatic capacity. Using the relation:

ε × P = C × p

Where:

ε is the terminal’s capacitance (estimated at 1,000 cm)

P is the applied voltage (10⁷ statvolts)

C is the Earth’s capacitance, which Tesla estimated at 5.724 × 10⁸ cm (based on the Earth’s size)

p is the resulting voltage swing across the Earth

Plugging in the numbers gives p ≈ 17.5 volts, which Tesla rounded to ±16 volts. That’s a theoretical 32-volt peak-to-peak swing globally—not a trivial claim, but one rooted in his framework.

Modern recalculations, based on updated geophysical models, suggest a smaller swing—closer to ±7 volts—using a revised Earth capacitance of about 7.1 × 10⁸ cm. But that’s not a knock on Tesla’s math. His original ±16V estimate was fully consistent with the cgs system and the best data available in 1901, where the Earth was treated as a uniformly conductive sphere.

The difference between 7 and 16 volts isn’t about wrong numbers—it’s about evolving assumptions. Tesla wrote the equation. Others just adjusted the inputs. His premise—that the Earth could be set into controlled electrical resonance—still stands. Even if the voltage swing changes. The vision didn’t.

Wouldn't that ±16V swing affect nature or people? Not directly. It wasn’t a shock or discharge—it was a global oscillation in Earth’s electric potential, spread evenly across vast distances. The voltage gradient would be tiny at any given point—far less than what’s generated by everyday static electricity. Unless something was specifically tuned to resonate with Tesla’s system, the swing had no noticeable effect on people, animals, or the environment. It was a theoretical signature of resonance, not a hazard. While some early experiments in Colorado Springs did produce disruptive effects—like sparks from metal objects or spooked horses—those involved untuned, high-voltage discharges during Tesla’s exploratory phase. Wardenclyffe, by contrast, was a refined and carefully grounded system, engineered specifically to minimize leakage, discharge, and unintended effects.

And Tesla wasn’t trying to blast raw power through the ground. He described the system as one that would “ring the Earth like a bell,” using sharp, high-voltage impulses at a resonant frequency to create standing waves. As he put it:

“The secondary circuit increases the amplitude only... the actual power is only that supplied by the primary.” —Tesla, Oct. 15, 1901

Receivers, tuned to the same frequency, could tap into the Earth’s oscillating potential—not by intercepting radiated energy, but by coupling to the Earth’s own motion. That ±16V swing wasn’t a bug—it was the signature of resonance. Tesla’s transmitter generated it by pumping high-frequency, high-voltage impulses into the Earth, causing the surface potential to oscillate globally. That swing wasn’t the energy itself—it acted like a resonant “carrier.” Once the Earth was ringing at the right frequency, Tesla could send sharp impulses through it almost instantly, and tuned receivers could extract energy.

So—was it feasible?

According to Tesla’s own patents and 1916 legal testimony, yes. He accounted for insulation, voltage gradients, tuning, and corona losses. His design didn’t rely on brute force, but on resonant rise and impulse excitation. Tesla even addressed concerns over losses in the Earth—his system treated the planet not as a passive resistor but as an active component of the circuit, capable of sustaining standing waves.

Wardenclyffe wasn’t a failure of science. It was a casualty of cost, politics, and misunderstanding. Tesla’s system wasn’t just about wireless power—it was about turning the entire planet into a resonant electrical system. His use of electrostatics, high-frequency resonance, and spherical terminals was decades ahead of its time—and still worth studying today.

“The present is theirs; the future, for which I really worked, is mine.” —Nikola Tesla

[bullet-prooflove]

Engine Parts: Tyler Owens x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @hunterthecharmer @heylookwhoitis @shakespeareanwannabe

Companion piece to:

The Mechanic - Tyler faces a problem when Boone brings his mechanic ex girlfriend back into the fold.

Rigs -Tyler reflects on history with you

Ford Mustang - Tyler extends an olive branch.

The garage is a minefield of memories for Tyler, everything from the song on the sound system to Ford Mustang you’re still working on because it required ‘extensive restoration’. The thing had barely been more than a shell before he’d helped you tow it home. Now all it needs is a little more work on the engine and a new paint job.

Four years is how long you’d estimated it would take to fix up if the two of you worked on it together. Even then you were thinking in the long term, and it turns out he was too.

It’s why he bought that ring when he was passing through Arkansas, the one with three sapphires embedded in the silver band because he was paranoid that any stone that stuck out would get caught when you were wrist deep in engine parts. He’d carried it around for weeks, waiting for the right moment and then it was gone in the blink of an eye, swept away by the harsh winds of the tornado that almost killed you both. He wonders if anyone ever found it, if his misfortune gave way to someone else’s happiness.

When he sees you working there inside the garage, your upper body tucked under the hood, singing along to Zach Bryan’s ‘Sun To Me’  it takes him back to the weekends you spent teaching him how to take apart an engine. His thoughts slip to the evenings sat on the picnic bench out back, sipping beers and staring up at the stars, the nights he spent tangled up in your sheets, whispering sweet nothings against your skin.

Time hasn’t dulled any of those memories, in fact it’s sharpened them because Tyler re-lives every detail of your relationship when he’s alone those motel rooms. It’s you he thinks of when he looks in the mirror and sees those scars that linger on his own skin, the ones from the rodeo and the ones that came after.

“Sophie.” He says softly so he doesn’t startle you. “Can we talk?”

You don’t say anything as you use that rag to clean your hands. Instead you open the old refrigerator tucked alongside the work bench and take out two beers, snapping off their caps with the magnetic bottle opener, before drift past him and head towards the picnic table around the back. Tyler follows a step behind, the scent of orange blossoms and motor oil flooding his senses.

“You wanted to talk.” You say as you take a seat on the bench. “So talk.”

He doesn’t know what to say as he sits down, there are so many thoughts, so many feelings riling up inside of him, he finds it difficult to articulate. He should outline the program, tell you the work he’s been up to, explain why they need you on this project but being back here, it fucks with him. It brings back everything he’s spent the past three years trying to shove into a box inside his head.

“You left.” He says abruptly as you raise the beer to your lips and you pause before you set it back down and meet his gaze.

“And you didn’t follow.” You say, shrugging your shoulders. “I guess there are somethings that just aren’t worth chasing.”

Your words, they eviscerate him. They cut like a knife into his chest, tearing out his insides until all he can feel is the agony spilling out of him.

“Is that what you think?” He asks you, his voice raw with emotion. “That it didn’t mean anything to me, that you didn’t mean anything to me.”

You don’t answer and he understands in that moment that he fucked up back then, that he’s been fucking up ever since.

“Sophie…” He begins, his hand reaching out for yours. “Something awful happened to you, something traumatic and I was responsible for that. I…” He trails off, his eyes stinging as he gropes for the words. “I thought you needed a clean break, away from me, from the Wranglers.”

“I left because I didn’t want to chase anymore.” You tell him as his thumb strokes over the hollow of your wrist. “I needed to come home and recover, I wanted you to come with me, to take some time away from it so we could do that together but…”

“But I needed to face it.” He says quietly. “Because if I hadn’t I would have never gone back.”

“I can’t go back.” You tell him. “If I do this, I can’t chase. I’m happy to work with your crew, maintain the rigs either here or out there but I’m not heading into the storm with you.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” He tells you, squeezing your hand lightly. “You’d be support only, tailoring the rigs to what we need, ensuring that they can function under intense conditions. Those are the only things that I’d ask of you, I promise.”

It’s his sincerity that convinces you, the intensity in his eyes as he studies your features. He’s willing to try to make this work and you guess you can too because the goal here, it’s so much bigger than the both of you. The project he’s apart of, it saved lives a couple of months ago, it’ll do it again with the right equipment.

“No cameras.” You say as you pull away, your fingers slipping out from underneath his. “You can take videos of the rigs, the workshop, the alterations that have been done. I’ll even coach Dani or Boone to explain it but I don’t want to be camera. It’s taken long enough for the people in this town to get used to the way I look, I don’t need it to be a topic of conversation on the internet.”

His jaw clenches as his eyes linger on the scar. To him it’s a symbol of your resilience, your strength. You took on Mother Nature and you lived to tell the tale. It’s only now that he realises how self-conscious you are, how much of your confidence has been stripped away.

“Alright.” He promises you as he takes a sip of his beer. “No cameras.”

Love Tyler? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[noisylime]

Form and Figure

1. Registration

parts: next

battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

(eventual smut)

Art 111: Intro to Drawing

4 Credits. Lab & Studio

Instructor: Wayne, Bruce [email: b.wayne@gu.edu]

Course Description:

In this class, you will learn the basic elements of artistic composition, including line, shape, form, value, and perspective. Theory learned in lectures will be applied to various still life drawings using charcoal, pencil, and marker. This course is highly interactive, with each class requiring participation in studio time. Professor Wayne teaches a mixed lab and lecture course with availabilities for additional studio time outside of regular class hours. Materials not provided.

Course materials estimated price: $145.

To browse GU Bookstore bundles click here.

The phone alarm blasted through your skull, sounding like one of the commuter trains that rattled over your apartment had derailed and crashed through your ceiling. That actually sounded preferable to waking up at the ungodly hour of 6:30 am. The course calendar for Fall term at Gotham University opened in five minutes and you still hadn’t decided what classes you were going to take. It was your first term back in a long time.

Going to an out-of-state school had seemed like a way to find yourself on your own terms, and Gotham was far enough from home to feel like another planet. Two years of general education classes with a smattering of electives hadn’t quite been the elucidating experience you expected, but it had been fun. That had all gone to shit when you’d had to leave Gotham at the end of your sophomore year, taking an extended break from school to care for your dad. You’d called it taking a ‘gap year’ but it was closer to three.

Well, that was all over. Now you were a super-senior-aged-junior with enough trauma to stop your academic advisor from pushing you too hard to declare a major and almost enough credits to cobble a degree together.

You were currently waffling between majoring in civil engineering and English lit, both of which felt equally uninteresting. Last night you had planned out schedules for each option and decided to literally sleep on it, putting sticky notes with class codes scribbled on them under your pillow.

Rubbing sleep out of your eyes, you cracked open your laptop. You still had a few precious minutes to make a decision. The clarity you had wanted hadn’t miraculously come overnight, both options still sounded unbearable. You reached under your pillow and decided to go with whichever one you grabbed first. Civil Engineering, on a yellow crumpled 3x3 sheet.

Well, at least you were being decisive, which Titus would say was an improvement. Your friend since freshman year at GU and roommate for the past three months, he worked nights as a bouncer at a club, Mora’s.

Typing the codes into the school’s course registration system was a race to see if you could finish before the website crashed. Once you had double checked the numbers you clicked ‘submit’ and held your breath.

“You’re fucking kidding me!” you blurted as the schedule notification popped up. You’d gotten in to three of your four classes. And the fourth… “Waitlist full? It hasn’t even been two minutes!”

You closed the laptop and carried it out to the kitchen, sitting at the counter and pouring yourself a bowl of cereal. Crunching on Honeycomb violently expressed your dissatisfaction at the college experience to anyone who would listen.

“Damn, you’re up early,” Titus said, closing the front door behind him. He was wearing a smart black leather bomber over a white tee shirt, some gold jewelry accenting the outfit. He didn’t dress like your stereotypical idea of a bouncer, choosing to match the glam and glitz of the interior of the club. On the rare occasion a patron got on his bad side, misjudging his strength based on his appearance, they found themselves thrown to the curb in the blink of an eye.

“Hey,” you said.

He stomped off his military boots at the doorway and walked over to you, giving you a side hug which you accepted gratefully despite the glitter that transferred onto your black tee.

“What’s going on?” he asked, detecting your sour mood.

“Trying to sign up for classes. Everything’s full,” you said around a mouthful of cereal. You tapped the spoon on your closed laptop thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s not worth it, you know? College? It seems overrated.”

Titus plonked his backpack on the counter and pulled up onto one of the barstools. When Mora’s had remodeled over the summer he’d grabbed them from the dumpster, polished the stainless steel and conditioned the leather. You’d told him you could buy a set of stools that weren’t so beat up. He had waved your offer away, saying they had ‘character’ which apparently included the metallic squeak from the chair when he swiveled to face you.

“Honestly?” he said. “Yeah, it is. So overrated.” He grabbed a handful of cereal and popped a few of the hexagons in his mouth, crunching loudly. “My marketing degree does come in handy working at Mora’s, though.” He elbowed you playfully when you laughed.

Moving back to Gotham, getting this apartment with Titus, it hadn’t come cheap. You were lucky to not have to work through college for the time being, but it came with a catch. Your inheritance from your dad was locked behind a condition: finish school, get a degree.

“How was work?” you asked, wanting to think about anything other than the upcoming term.

“Broke up a few fights, had some drinks thrown at me, nothing crazy.” Titus pulled a handful of cards out of his pocket and slid them across the counter to you. “Some kids tried to pass these off as legit.” He crossed his arms on the countertop and laid his head down on them, closing his eyes.

You thumbed through the small pile of cards. The IDs were obvious fakes, the lamination had blistering from a defective card printer and the photos looked like they might be from a high school yearbook. “‘Drew Peacock?’ No fucking way. That’s so funny.”

“Yup. Droopy Cock, ha ha,” Titus said dryly, voice muffled from underneath his crossed arms. “And get this, there was a guy at the bar trying to tell everyone he knows the Batman. Like, actually knows him personally.”

He put on a faux sleaze-bag voice, dripping in slime. “’Hey lady, if you come back to my place I can ask him to come too.’ That type of thing.”

The Batman. Gotham’s resident vigilante, the Dark Knight himself. He was practically a myth, taking the law into his own hands.

“Are people into that kind of thing?” you asked.

“You’d be surprised,” Titus chuckled. “People are into all kinds of crazy shit. There’s something about the mask, the mystery. Gets people going.”

“Yeah, well, not me. Someone who gets off on beating the shit out of people in dark alleys? No thanks,” you said. You’d never seen the Batman and you never wanted to, the whole thing creeped you out. You preferred your men nice, bubbly, and vanilla.

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” Titus said. He stood up off the bar stool wearily and stretched, limbs creaking and cracking from a long shift. “Anyway, I’m going to crash. Get a good schedule for me, ok?”

Titus headed to his room, shedding layers of dark leather on the way. You opened your laptop and begrudgingly returned to the registration portal. Clicking through the remaining open classes, you hoped for something to catch your eye. Pottery? Yawn. Statistics? Please.

While you were browsing the course catalog, an email notification popped up in the corner of your screen. An announcement from the school’s Fine Arts department.

“Due to the high demand for Professor Wayne’s Art 111 course he has graciously agreed to open up another slot, available now. Seats are first-come-first serve. The course is open to all students, regardless of pathway.”

You were desperate to be done with registration and had no better ideas, so you took the email as a sign. You copy-pasted the course code into your schedule, clicked ‘submit,’ and waited while the loading icon swam laps around your cursor. Once you got a confirmation email of your Fall schedule change, you let out a sigh of relief.

It was only after you had signed up you started to wonder what you’d just gotten into. You skimmed through the course summary. Taught by Professor Bruce Wayne. That name rang a bell, but you couldn’t quite place it. The only catch was that it was a night class. That would have been nice to know before signing up. Too late now.

“You will learn the basic elements of artistic composition, including form, shadow, value, line…” you mumbled, reading the course description. The class sounded slightly better than abusing Titus’ goodwill to get a job at Mora’s washing dishes, spending the next fifty years paying back your loans while your inheritance sat in a trust fund you couldn’t access.

It hurt, knowing that your dad was making you jump through hoops for support even after he was gone. You’d taken care of him more than almost anyone, wasn’t that enough? Well, Dad, I’m doing it, you thought.

You closed your laptop and checked the time. Still painfully early. Going back to sleep might have been nice, make up for some of the stolen time, but you were too wired after the stress of registration. Instead, you tossed on a jacket and boots and headed out into the soggy Gotham morning in search of a real breakfast. One week left of break, you might as well try to enjoy it.

* * *

Standing in the checkout line at the GU bookstore, you again wished that you had looked at the course description of Art 111 a little more closely. Your arms were wrapped around a stack of art supplies carefully balanced atop two massive pads of paper, one was something called “newsprint,” and the other was “medium weight dry media cold press drawing paper.”

“What’s the difference, paper is paper,” you grumbled to yourself as you moved forward in line. The bookstore had just opened for the term and the line was as slow as you remembered it being back before you left Gotham. Some things never change, and apparently the number of cashiers at the GU bookstore was one of them.

You studied your pile of drawing implements, hoping you had gotten everything Professor Wayne’s syllabus had listed. Charcoal (vine and compressed), a kneaded eraser, a vinyl eraser, a set of sketching pencils in hardnesses 2H, HB, B, 2B, 4B, and 6B, a pencil sharpener (“please make sure your sharpener has a receptacle so we can avoid shavings on the ground”), a ruler, tape, and some other items buried underneath that you couldn’t remember. It was so much stuff that you’d resigned to a second, later trip to the bookstore for your actual textbooks once you had seen the size of the paper pads.

There were a few things you’d added that weren’t required, but you thought you might need. A pencil case, a few colored pencils just for fun, and a portfolio case to fit your supplies in. Wandering around the notoriously rainy campus with a big glob of wet paper sounded awful, so you’d splurged for the portfolio that was specifically labeled as waterproof.

When you finally reached the cashier, they eyed your mess of supplies warily. You plopped them onto the checkout counter, wringing your hands that were sore from holding it all for too long.

The cashier tallied up your total, beeping each item with a handheld scanner. You watched with unease as the price on the screen kept going up. Thanks, Professor Wayne, you thought. Real nice first impression, making me pay two hundred bucks for your class before I even get in the door.

“Student ID?” The cashier asked. She pointed at a sign hanging from the back of the cash register advertising a promotion. “It’s 10% off if you have it with you, this week only.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” you said and dug through your wallet for it. “Here you go.”

They took the card and turned it over, inspecting it. “This is from three years ago.”

Shit. You hadn’t had a chance to get a new one yet since moving back. “I’m getting a new one soon,” you said. “Like, tomorrow. I’m getting back to school after taking a break for a while.”

“Sorry, the discount only applies with current school year ID,” the cashier said.

“What? It doesn’t say that anywhere on this,” you said, pointing at the sign. “It just says ‘with student ID.”

The cashier gave you a look that said “I don’t make the rules.”

“Your total is two hundred and thirteen dollars and forty three cents,” they said flatly.

You scoffed. Typical GU, pinching pennies despite somehow pulling endless tuition out of their students. You didn’t like it on principle. If you were stuck taking classes here, you wanted to do it as cheaply as possible.

Someone behind you cleared their throat. You turned to see a student, probably four years your junior, wearing a flat cap and stiff brown sweater over a button down shirt. A collection of supplies that looked suspiciously similar to your own selections were organized in a shopping basket on the ground in front of him. Since when did they have baskets? He raised an eyebrow then moved his gaze to your scramble of items on the counter disapprovingly.

“What?” you said.

“Are you done?” the kid asked. As if you, and not the lack of cashiers, was the reason the line was stuck at a snail’s pace.

“Excuse me?” 

“I said, aren’t you going to check out? There’s a line,” he said, gesturing behind him at the ever-growing retinue of students, some of which were turning away awkwardly to avoid your gaze. He smiled smugly. “Or are you going to keep arguing about the senior discount?”

You just stared for a second, not believing what you’d heard. He waited for you to retort back, then when he realized it wasn’t coming, rolled his eyes and turned away.

Silently, you pulled out your card, paid the full price, and left with your armful of stuff.

* * *

“Seriously, when did people get so rude?” you asked Titus the next day, at Mora’s. You were eating together before his shift started to celebrate your first day of the term. Since you still had Art 111 class later in the evening, you’d brought your massive portfolio bag full of supplies with you to Mora’s, garnering a few looks on the way in from patrons you had almost smacked.

“Tell me about it,” he said, mid-bite into a hot Italian sub slider. “They’re fucking awful. Not us, of course.” A pickled pepperoncini fell off the sandwich onto his plate. You’d gotten a seitan pork roll and a slice of pie. It was your dinner, but for his schedule the meal was closer to brunch.

“I don’t know how you can eat those,” you said, pointing at the stray pepperoncini. “They’re way too vinegar-y.”

“Says the person having a Hot Shot,” he retorted. The drink was a Mora’s staple, half tequila half jalapeño brine. “The most brine-y drink on the planet.”

“Hey, there’s something about it, okay? We all have our vices,” you said, sipping the small glass. It was not a drink necessarily meant for sipping, but you liked to make it last.

A handful of Titus’ rings sat on the booth table from when he’d taken them off to eat. You picked up one of the pieces of jewelry and found that it was surprisingly heavy. It was meant for two fingers, the thick bands tapering to a slight point at the tip of each knuckle.

“Aren’t these illegal?” you said, turning it around in your hand. Titus grinned.

“What do you mean?” he asked coyly.

There was a third loop on the bottom, a wide oval that sat in your palm, giving you some grip. You glanced around to make sure no patrons were within hearing distance, then slipped it on and made a fist, miming a boxing jab. “Brass knuckles? Right? Aren’t these kind of retro?”

“That, my friend, is a gold statement ring.”

“It’s pretty heavy for a ring.”

“Maybe it moonlights as a paperweight.”

You chuckled. “You ever use it? Like actually on someone?”

He leaned back in the dark green velvet seat and sipped his blackberry lemonade. “Do you really want to know? I thought you didn’t like people who beat up bad guys in alleys,” he teased.

“Just wondering if they actually work,” you said, feeling the weight of the ring in your hand. It felt reassuring, the grip in your palm felt like it could do some real damage. “This kid on campus might need a good whack.”

Titus got serious and sat the four legs of his chair back on the ground. He held out a hand and you dutifully slipped the ring off and handed it back.

“Honestly,” he said. “It’s pretty brutal. It doesn’t look like much but it will fuck you up. And not just on the receiving end. You can shatter your wrist holding one wrong. You gotta really straighten out your hand, use your whole arm. It’s more of a threat than anything. If someone thinks I’m gonna pop them in the face with this then they might rethink trying to pick a fight.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll stick with my taser.”

Titus nodded. “Probably a good idea.” He twirled the ring around and held it up, showing you some detail you couldn’t make out.

“What am I looking at?”

“Right on the knuckles here, see that?”

You squinted and bent over your plate, finally seeing a small symbol embossed on each point of the ring.

“Is that, what is that? A ’T’? And a snake?”

“It’s ’T. S.’,” he said. “If I ever do have the misfortune of using these on someone, they won’t forget who did it in a hurry.” He downed the rest of his lemonade. “I’ve really only used them once or twice. It’s more for show, you know, fit the ‘tough bouncer’ look.”

A woman came over to the booth and Titus pocketed the ring in a flash.

“Hi Nicole,” Titus said. “How’s it goin’?”

She flashed you a business-womanly grin. She was dressed fashionably, a look fitting for the club’s manager.

“Hello Titus,” Nicole said. “You’ll be at the door at five, right?”

“Yes, of course. I was just about to head down there in a minute.”

“That’s great, I’m just making sure.” She turned to you and noticed your half-eaten plate of food. “How is everything, darling? Can I get you anything? On the house, of course.”

“Oh, no, everything’s delicious. Thank you! I’m just nervous, can’t eat that much. I’ve got class tonight in a bit, and I haven’t been to school in years, so it’s, you know—”

“Scary,” Titus finished. “School’s hard, always stressful.”

You nodded in agreement.

“Oh, night classes! That’s exciting, what school?” Nicole asked.

“GU.”

“That’s so nice. Well, I hope you have a good first day. And Titus, make it 4:50 if you can, would you please?”

He agreed, and Nicole left the two of you to talk to a table of patrons across the room.

When she was out of earshot, Titus said, “Four fifty? Come on. We aren’t even busy until six.” He shook his head and sighed. Then, after a pause, he picked up his fork and pointed with it at your plate. “Do you want that pie?”

“Go crazy,” you said, and pushed the plate across the booth table. Titus had comped the food, taking it out of his paycheck at the employee discount. As far as you were concerned, it was all his anyway.

“So, what’s this class tonight?”

“It’s this ‘intro to drawing’ course,” you said as you fiddled with your silverware. “I just had to pick something random to fill out my schedule. It’s basic stuff, I think, but it sounded interesting. Professor Wayne something.”

“You know, that actually sounds fun,” he said, then stopped in his tracks. “Wait a minute, did you say ‘Wayne’?”

“Yeah. Why, do you know him?”

“Do I know him?” He let out a quick bark of laughter.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“You really don’t know who he is?”

“No? Should I?” You dug in the recesses of your memory and came up empty-handed.

“Damn, that is so wild.” Titus ran a hand along his close cropped hair. “You’ve been away from Gotham for way too long, girl. The Waynes are old money Gotham, the family’s been around for, like, ever.”

Old money Gotham brought to mind art deco buildings, caviar and expensive wine, limousines with private drivers. Your mind filled with a vague picture of an old man, possibly bald with a beard, wearing an expensive old-fashioned suit and a pocket watch. You couldn’t stand the upper crust types in town, throwing charity galas that only benefitted themselves.

“What, so he’s rich?” you asked.

“Beyond belief. He’s a billionaire, I think.”

You scoffed. “He had me buy all this stuff, like two hundred bucks of supplies on top of tuition. Must be a cheapskate.” You gave the portfolio bag a tap with your foot.

Titus shook his head and downed the rest of his lemonade. “That’s rich types for you.”

“But he teaches at GU? I don’t get it, what would be the point? Some kind of vanity project?”

“No idea.”

“If I had that much money, I wouldn’t do shit. No school, no teaching, just relaxing.”

“You and me both.” Titus checked his phone and saw the time. “Shit, I’ve got to run. Look, tell me how it goes, okay?”

You said goodbye to Titus, lugging your portfolio bag and backpack out the side door of Mora’s. You headed to the nearest subway station and boarded the line headed for Gotham University. Well, you thought, I guess I’ll see what all the hype is about.

Shoutout to @ellesthots for letting me borrow her creation, Mora's. This fic is not related to Fateful but I wanted to include a piece of it since she's inspiring me to write this. Thank you Elle!

Thank you for reading, more coming very soon! Thoughts & comments are welcome and appreciated <3

[spacemothsota]

How big can cyberformed humans get? There has to be a point where they can grow to be as big as a normal Cybertronian. If they stayed the same size they were, it would be harder for them to assimilate despite being the size of a minion or cassette.

Hi Anon! Great question!

In fact, Cyberformed humans never remain human-sized. They are full-fledged Cybertronians. In "Part 2", the last point "Pre-bot", I already wrote that the bodies of former humans are formed with their individual characteristics. This means that he will be like a full-fledged Cybertronian, the size and body depend solely on his frame type (but with an individual design, model, and only some details can be inherited from the one who donated nanites). If a person is strong and powerful, and in the early stages he gets tank parts, most likely he will be the size of a tank. It all depends on the frame, of course, if a person consumed too many nanites of one frame during infection, there is a chance that he will become exactly this kind of Cybertronian (for example, this happened to Alexis, she is a seeker. Starscream is extremely proud of himself). A person, in general, inherits features along with the frame, for example, the fact that seekers need society and are afraid of tight spaces (for a former person, this can be an extremely unexpected phenomenon if he did not suffer from such phobias before). In fact, Cybertronians do not quite understand what exactly determines the predisposition to a particular type of frame in people. So when a person goes through the last stage, some Autobots make bets on who exactly the former person will be.

People grow during the "Pre-bot" phase as if in a dream, they are surrounded by energon and the necessary elements for growth, which is why the flasks change in the process. Roughly speaking, everything starts with a human-sized flask (probably a little larger), but the larger the former human's body becomes, the more spacious the flask they are changed to continue growing. Why aren't they immediately placed in a larger growth flask? This is so that the body does not rush to build up everything at once, the slow growth process helps to fully form all the systems slowly and gradually. (It goes without saying that compared to the Autobots and Decepticons who have been through a war for millions of years, cyberformed bots are the healthiest and not exhausted by wounds and damage). Simply put, by the time they wake up, their bodies are already ready and they do not need to go through the growth stages of humans and other organic species.

In short, they can be quite large (assuming they are not minicons or cassettes themselves, of course, but there are several minicons among the Cyberformed). And in anticipation of questions, I prepared a list of frames and people. So you can estimate who is what size (I will try to arrange them in the height list, but some Cyberformed bots may be, well… Larger than expected. Well, like… A truck is not all the same, remember. Because for example, Optimus, Motormaster and Sentinel are trucks, but most likely they have a difference in height).

List of frames and characters:

Tanks: William Lennox, Robert Epps, Agent William Fowler Trucks: Cade Yeager, Jack Darby, Red Seekers: Alexis, Chip Chase, Sara Lennox (I'm not sure). Scout-Class Space Satellite: Rafael Esqivel (he's about the size of Soundwave, maybe a little shorter, but not much) Cars: Carly, Mikaela Banes, Sam Witwicky, Tessa Yeager, Charlie Watson (minicon), Miko Nakaday, Verity Carlo, Danny Clay (he's just a car, but to Junkion's he's one of them) bro) Race Cars: Shane Dyson, Raoul, Noah Diaz Helicopter: Seymour Simmons

Rescue Bots: · Charlie Burns - police car · Kade Burns - fire truck · Graham Burns - engineering vehicle (haven't decided on a model yet) · Dani Burns - medical helicopter · Cody Burns - forestry helicopter Mining Equipment (other production): Sparkplug Witwicky, Spike Witwicky Insecticon: June Darby (moth type: Argema mittrei) Dinobot: Daniel Witwicky (minicon, he transforms into Galimim) Beastbot: Russel Clay (minicon, transforms into a cybercat, probably a more bigger than Ravage)

This is a list of those with whom I have more or less decided, of course there are those whose frames I have not decided on in their list: Isaac Sumdac, Sari Sumdac (she will probably be a minicon), Green Family (Doc. Green, Fransin, Professor Baranova, Sisi), Woodrow Burns and Izabella.

You may not agree with my choice and have your own idea of ​​what this or that character transforms into (this is normal). When I make articles about characters with their design and model, perhaps there will be a little more clarity. I will also write what this or that character does on Diego Garcia.

For the rest, to understand what Cyberform AU is: Character List Lore parts: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Answers to questions: Q&A1, Q&A2

[shadesofmauve]

Alliance Normandy SR2 redesign: Deck 1

The Alliance refitted Deck 1 for an Admiral, but they were working from the original Cerberus SR2 layout, which is decadent even for the shiniest of top brass. The Illusive Man is absolutely a believer in the Great Man theory of history, and the belief that a Capital-L Alpha-human Leader both requires and deserves luxury. From his point of view, this is the bare minimum. Why is there a fish tank on the stealth frigate? Because the Illusive Man decreed it thus. Then he went back to snorting space-blow off the ass of an asari hooker.

(During the refit, Anderson performed some interesting conversational and logistical gymnastics to keep the giant bed and the fish tank, without seeming like he was personally invested in a big comfy bed and a fish tank).

General note: I drew bulkheads one foot thick throughout. It matches the game's thick walls, makes the plans legible when zoomed out, and allows plenty of space for wiring, plumbing, life support, etc. The ladders and central elevator access every deck of the ship, and the elevator has doors both fore and aft.

Redesign/refinement

The loft is more refined than redesigned. The head is pushed out to use the empty space around elevator, and I added a tiny private cabin for two admiral's aides. (On Rhi Shepard's Normandy these were never completed, which she is deeply thankful for; fraternization is hard enough as it is).

The hull outline comes in and clips the ladders. This is a limitation of plan-view; that is actually the hull outline at the top of the space, where it's narrowest. The ladders aren't hanging outside the ship, they just have slightly less head-room (still not a problem, even for a turian).

Inside the cabin, the L desk is rotated 90 degrees, because no N7 in the world wants to sit with their back to the door. This also makes it more comfortable to have working meetings with subordinates. The extended wing of the folds and can be stowed out of the way under the rest. Pushing the head out into the corridor also means better visibility and more usable pace here.

To the left of the door, a small stowable table is a space for more casual conversations or private meals. It's also a place for more formal meals; with the L of the desk folded away, the small table can actually extend to seat eight, allowing the admiral to wine-and-dine visiting dignitaries or senior staff.

Rhi Shepard refers aloud to her model ship collection, but in her heart they're toy ships. The lack of fish is absolutely NOT because of her horrible track record with previous fish; it's because using the stealth systems means accumulating a lot of heat, and water is an excellent auxiliary place to store heat. It may not seem like much next to the ship's massive built-in heat-sinks, but every little bit helps, and with an estimated 4' height, that is a 485 gallon fish tank*.

*Thank you Aquarium Volume Calculator, which is also how I learned that aquarium stocking sizes are given in "inches of fish." This tank can hold about 598 inches of fish. A marvel.

The seating area is basically unchanged, except that admirals rate their own coffee maker. I also added a frosted translucent panel dividing the living/entertaining area from the sleeping area, because sometimes you want to entertain guests without feeling that all focus is on the sybaritic splendor of your bed. The panel also displays media (from either direction).

Normandy redesign posts

Intro

Loft

Command

Crew

Engineering

Hangar

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Ilana Berger at MMFA:

As President Donald Trump’s administration orders mass layoffs and cuts to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, local meteorologists and influencer storm chasers — including some weather experts who previously claimed to avoid politics or expressed right-leaning views — are speaking out in support of federal employees and the essential information provided by the agency. 

Trump’s funding cuts and layoffs will hobble NOAA and the National Weather Service, potentially restricting access to a vital public good that costs taxpayers very little

NOAA and its subsidiaries, including the National Weather Service, employ thousands of scientists, engineers, and other experts to conduct vital research that is shared with the public. NOAA’s products and services range “from daily weather forecasts, severe storm warnings, and climate monitoring to fisheries management, coastal restoration and supporting marine commerce.” The NWS estimates that the critical information it provides costs just $4 per U.S. resident per year. [National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, accessed 3/14/25; The New York Times, 2/8/25]  

Project 2025 — the right-wing plan for a second Trump administration organized by The Heritage Foundation with over 100 conservative partner organizations — called for NOAA to be “broken up and downsized” and urged the National Weather Service to “fully commercialize its forecasting operations.” Weather experts across the country have expressed alarm at Project 2025’s plans to dismantle NOAA under the new administration. Project 2025 architect Russell Vought, who now heads Trump’s Office of Management and Budget, has promised, “We want the bureaucrats to be traumatically affected.” [Media Matters, 5/31/24, 9/27/24, 2/28/25; ProPublica, 10/28/24]  

Starting on February 27, the Trump administration has laid off more than 800 NOAA employees, plus another 500 who resigned if the agency promised to pay them through September. According to The New York Times, “The two rounds of departures together represent about 10 percent of NOAA’s roughly 13,000 employees.” On March 12, NOAA announced in an email to its staffers that the agency would be laying off another 1,029 employees, or roughly 10% of the agency’s remaining workforce. [The New York Times, 2/27/25, 2/28/25]  

The Associated Press: “After this upcoming round of cuts, NOAA will have eliminated about one out of four jobs since President Donald Trump took office in January.” “This is not government efficiency,” said former NOAA Administrator Rick Spinrad. “It is the first steps toward eradication. There is no way to make these kinds of cuts without removing or strongly compromising mission capabilities.” [The Associated Press, 3/12/25]  

The NWS’ National Hurricane Center has made great strides in tracking dangerous storms, but Trump’s layoffs are threatening that progress. A February preview of a report from the National Hurricane Center concluded that for the first time, the center managed to “explicitly forecast a system that was not yet a tropical cyclone (pre-Helene potential tropical cyclone) to become a 100-kt (115 mph) major hurricane within 72 hours.” However, experts fear that funding cuts and layoffs at NOAA’s Office of Aircraft Operations will impact the ability of the agency’s specialized “Hurricane Hunters” to collect data used for tracking and predicting destructive storms. [National Hurricane Center, 2/24/25; Yale Climate Connections, 3/6/25]

Meteorologists and storm chasers of all political persuasions issue dire warnings that the Project 2025/DOGE-inspired cuts to the NOAA and the NWS threaten public safety and forecast accuracy.