#International code of signals

[clove-pinks]

I'm a little annoyed by that maritime flag signaling article going around—you know, the one written by a novelist, who only seems to have a passing familiarity with the International Code of Signals developed in the later 19th century, and not any earlier maritime flag codes. Of course I'm going to be put out that there's no mention of my very special historical blorbo, Captain Frederick Marryat and his pioneering Code of Signals, but the writer missed the mark in other ways, too.

The limited vocabulary of code books invariably affects what will be communicated. Possibly the most famous set of flag signals of all time, Lord Nelson's message in Popham's Code at the Battle of Trafalgar, was also subject to revision and last-minute edits by the constraints of the code. The choice to spell out D-U-T-Y is a master stroke of meaning.

The writer can't imagine two ships signalling, "Emetic has been given without good results," but we know that all sorts of seemingly trivial conversations were had using maritime flags: including a discussion of spoilers for one of Captain Marryat's own novels! Ordinary people also used Marryat's code, designed for merchant vessels, to exchange clandestine messages in newspapers.

[bed-wed-behead-your-fave]

Charlie, International Code of Signals [yes the flag]

[beastlyanachronism]

in re. your comment on the ship's cat post, i believe we have the same tea towel!

Great minds think alike! ⚓

[averagejoey2000]

everyone on Tumblr

[ID Signal Flag Foxtrot, .._., "I am disabled, communicate with me"]

[beastlyanachronism]

The flag code says (below cut for spoilers):

England expects that every ship's cat will do its duty.

The Cat Conundrum, by Geoff Tristam

[eagle-warri]

i cannot afford another hyperfixation. why am i about to start hyperfixating on fucking flag code.

[lies]

Sometimes when I'm birdwatching

[jacibwrites]

Five years since Suitable made its way into the world. Grateful to everyone who has read it.

Suitable for All Methods of Communication by Jacquelyn Bengfort

published by Ghost City Press, can be found here

Read while sitting in bed listening to AM Joy

Author’s note explains the method of communication and I already know I’m gonna like this book

First poem, “Prayer,” and I’m blown away

BRAVO KILO DELTA VICTOR UNAONE

                 You are overhead                  I am adrift

I want to get a line from this poem tattooed on the inside of my wrist

Of course the trouble is KILO looks so random without context but it means something important you know?

“Love Song” has a refrain & I think someone could sing this, though I realize singing the “UNIFORM SIERRA UNAONE” part will defeat the purpose of communicating in signal

WWI was, I think, called “the writers’ war” and “Lament” fits it perfectly

Do you think the soldiers who fought in WWI would be disappointed if they saw us now

I think everyone in history would be disappointed if they saw us now tbh

“Ode” is, if I could be forgiven some Gen Z talk, a big mood. The ocean is so amazing and we all should be grateful we have it

I looked up the NATO alphabet to see if I could write a message in it. All I could come up with was this:

BRAVO ZULU TANGO YANKEE

             Wonderfully done              Thank you

[sadclowncentral]

we had a true lost in translation moment with flag signalling today

some background: the international code of signals is used as shorthand for communicating important information between vessels unto this day. everyone carries a flag alphabet for this purpose and you can raise flags separately or together to indicate conditions and requests.

so when my crew mate informed me that the navy boat we were passing had two signal flags up i asked him to relay me the message because i was busy downstairs.

here is what he saw through the binoculars:

the flag on the left is Alpha (I have a diver down; keep well clear at slow speed) and the right one is Bravo (I am taking in or discharging or carrying dangerous goods.) the vessel most likely had clearance divers out to remove underwater explosives and wanted others to steer clear.

however, my beloved crew mate only vaguely recalled that Alpha stands for divers and Bravo stands for dangerous. so imagine my surprise when they hesitantly relayed that

"the navy...wants us to know that their divers know how to fight?"

[clove-pinks]

I couldn't resist the challenge of deciphering this grand lady's signal flags—but she's from 1878, and those aren't Marryat's flags! Or the modern International Code of Signals, either.

Wikipedia has a handy chart of Commercial Code Flags 1857–1900 and that allowed me to read: PHFR [end message in international code]. Red Ensign indicating a British merchant ship.

I couldn't find PHFR in International Signal Code books, not even an 1878 edition, but I suspected it would be the ship's name, as is usually the case for a ship painted with Marryat's flags. Here she is on a Mercantile Navy List, still sailing in 1919! PHFR – Guiding Star of Padstow, on the north coast of Cornwall, built 1875.

Although the auction site incorrectly gives her name as "Guiding Light," her correct name is at the bottom edge of the painting.

[sbcdh]

In 1967 the government discovered that specific syllable structures combined with specific vocal tones and ultra-low-frequency sounds could speed up the process of unconscious internalization by over 1500%. This became particularly useful for teaching low-level employees large amounts of information, as "hypnophonic learning" could be done while the subject was asleep.

Hypnophone use became standard for new employees of the IRS and SEC, as it made large scale memorization of tax code and financial law significantly cheaper and easier than traditional conscious education.

However, long term use causes the subjects long term memory to atrophy, requiring nightly repetitions of hypnophone use. Some enterprising employees found that the effects could be counteracted with low dosages of LSD to preserve neuroplasticity.

Roughly 1 in 7 employees encountered a strange phenomenon: Mild financial clairvoyance.

One in roughly 50 employees experienced more significant effects, generally those ensconced in large isolated IRS warehouses, which seemed to replicate the monastic lifestyles of historical sages, depriving subjects of ordinary stimuli in favor of becoming attuned to minute changes in the sub-finantial background grid.

Once it was learned that these "enlightened" employees could predict market trends before they happened, the technology was bathed in funding, patented, and made the soul property of the IRS.

Now, these "Plutophants" are kept in nigh-perfect sensory deprivation at all times, fed a constant hypnotic fugue stream of psychic conditioning in the form of "radiosonic neuro-induction" which contains a special form of the United States Tax Code modified for recursive hypnophonic induction, as well as a ticker tape wired directly into the users spine.

The effects achieved are nothing short of stunning. The invisible hand is no longer invisible to us. The market can be fine tuned with surgical precision. The price of bread has maintained a perfect 0.002% +/- variance for over 25 years now, and those who attempt to disrupt the guidelines are regulated by the SECs crack psychonautics division, who are now able to hunt market manipulation via their disruption in the financial dreamscape.

Very rarely, a Plutophant can become so attuned to the guidelines that they achieve a sort of catastrophic neuro-depatterning, their synapses begin to produce a counter-signal to the neuro-induction frequencies; jamming, and eventually overpowering the machine. Study is still ongoing, but it is believed that they somehow perpetuate their own neurological fingerprint into the financial causal background grid itself, literally becoming "one with the market."

Study is ongoing.

[balasora]

Yeah there's no back in my day about it that's just straight up spyware, computer coding side of Tumblr anybody want to take a crack at removing that bit of code from Windows while still keeping the system functional?

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐈𝐍𝐉𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐃

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

The forest was silent. Too silent. Xavier felt it in his bones before the emergency signal even reached his com-device. His muscles tensed, lowering his sword as the vibration against his wrist sent ice through his veins.

He abandoned the trail immediately, feet pounding against the earth as he raced back to the location informed about the injured hunters. His knuckles whitened as they dug into the skin of his palm until it almost bled. Despite never doubting your abilities for a moment, he was consumed by a desperate wish that he had been there to prevent this from happening.

When he finally reached the hospital, the fluorescent lights overhead cast harsh shadows across his face. The sight of you, broken and bloodied on the stretcher, caused something to fracture inside him. He stood paralyzed in the doorway, watching as medics rushed around your unconscious form, their voices fading to white noise.

“Hunter down, multiple lacerations, possible internal bleeding...”

One step. Two. He was beside your bed now, his hand hovering inches from yours, afraid that his touch might somehow hurt you more. A nurse tried to usher him away, but the look in his eyes made her step back. He was trying so hard to pull himself together, but the facade was crumbling.

“I’m staying,” he said simply, the words leaving no room for argument.

Days passed in a sterile blur. Xavier didn’t move from the uncomfortable chair beside your bed. He didn’t eat. There was a day when he slept like he was dead, with your hand clutched tight in his to feel your pulse. He’d just watched your chest rise and fall, as if his vigilance alone could keep you tethered to this world.

When your squad members came to visit, they brought news—the mission area had been mysteriously cleared out. No Wanderers remained. Not one. The cleanup had been thorough, leaving no traces behind. Nobody had seen who did it.

One of your colleagues shifted uncomfortably under Xavier’s gaze. “Strangest thing. Like they vanished overnight. Even the nest we couldn’t breach was empty.”

Xavier simply nodded, his thumb tracing small circles on your palm.

When the doctor suggested he get some rest, Xavier simply shook his head, eyes never leaving your face. He wouldn’t leave your side until he was completely assured that you were going to be okay.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” he promised, the words meant only for you despite your unconscious state. “I’ll always be here.”

Only when you stirred slightly, days later, did something change in his expression—a softening around the eyes, the faintest tremor in his steady hands. He leaned forward, close enough that only you could hear the whisper.

“I will always find you. Always.”

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

The operating room doors burst open as another trauma case rolled in. Zayne was mid-consultation when his pager buzzed with the emergency code. Standard procedure—until he glimpsed your face beneath the oxygen mask. Despite his professional exterior, panic was building inside him like a storm, threatening to break through his carefully maintained composure.

His clipboard clattered to the floor. “Get Doctor Dean,” he ordered sharply, already moving toward the gurney. “I know this patient.”

“Sir, protocol states—” the resident began.

“Get. Doctor. Dean.” His voice cut like a scalpel. The young doctor scrambled away as Zayne reached for your hand, his practiced fingers automatically finding your pulse.

“BP dropping, multiple trauma, suspected hemorrhage,” the paramedic rattled off. “Combat injury, ambush scenario.”

Zayne’s mind raced. As a former combat medic who’d seen countless injuries, he’d treated soldiers under artillery fire, but this—this was different. This was personal. Seeing your blood soaking through the bandages twisted his insides in ways combat never had.

“Doctor Zayne, you need to step back,” Doctor Dean said firmly, already moving to intercept him. “You know protocol.”

“I’m her physician,” Zayne countered, his voice tight as he tried to get closer.

Doctor Dean blocked his path. “Your emotions will compromise your judgment. We’ve got her.”

Zayne’s fists clenched at his sides as they wheeled you toward the operating room. Every instinct screamed at him to follow, to take control, to fix you himself. Instead, he was forced to watch through the observation window, a spectator to your fight for survival, his mind a whirlwind of unbridled fear.

Hours passed like years. His colleagues offered coffee, suggested he rest. He didn’t respond. His eyes never left the monitors displaying your vital signs, gripping the observation window’s edge so tightly his knuckles turned white.

In your recovery room, Zayne sat perfectly still, your hand clasped between both of his. His thumbs pressed against your wrist, monitoring your pulse as if the machines couldn’t be trusted. Others who passed by the room hardly recognized the distinguished cardiac surgeon in the haggard man who refused to leave your side.

Yvonne entered to adjust your IV, giving Zayne a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Doctor Zayne, you should get some rest.”

“I’ll sleep when she wakes up,” he replied without looking up, his professional demeanor completely abandoned.

When your eyelids finally fluttered open, his composure cracked just enough for you to see the storm that had been raging beneath.

“Don’t you dare,” he whispered hoarsely, “ever scare me like that again.”

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

The gallery was packed for Rafayel’s showcase, champagne flowing as critics and collectors mingled among his latest masterpieces. Thomas beamed at the turnout, already calculating the evening’s profits.

Then Rafayel’s phone rang.

The transformation was instant. The smile vanished from his face, replaced by an expression Thomas had never seen before—horror and fear combined. All thoughts of the gallery, the collectors, his artwork—everything disappeared in an instant.

The champagne flute shattered on the marble floor. Rafayel was already moving, shoving through the crowd without a word of explanation.

“Rafayel! Where are you—the collector from Rome is waiting to meet you!” Thomas called after him, but Rafayel was already gone, racing down the steps two at a time, car keys in hand.

The sports car’s tires screeched against the asphalt as he tore through traffic lights, honking frantically at slower vehicles, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. When another driver cut him off, Rafayel slammed his fist against the horn, a string of curses falling from his lips. His hands shook violently on the steering wheel, heart racing faster than the car.

“Move!” he screamed, swerving dangerously into the next lane. “Get out of my way!”

The hospital parking lot wasn’t meant for the kind of turn he attempted. The car scraped against a concrete pillar, but Rafayel didn’t spare it a second glance as he abandoned it half in a disabled spot, keys still in the ignition..

At the reception desk, his hands trembled so violently he could barely hold your ID card. “Where is she?” he demanded, voice cracking. “Please, I need to see her now.”

When they finally led him to your room, Rafayel froze in the doorway. Tubes and wires connected you to machines that beeped rhythmically, monitoring the life still flickering within you. Your skin was ashen, eyes closed, chest barely rising with each shallow breath.

“No, no, no,” he whispered, approaching slowly as if afraid you might shatter. He sank into the chair beside your bed, taking your limp hand between his. “Cutie, please. Can you hear me?”

A nurse offered him a blanket as night fell, but Rafayel shook his head. Hours passed. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. There would be no painting, no eating, no sleeping—nothing until you were stable.

When his phone rang—Thomas, undoubtedly—he silenced it without looking.

As dawn broke, a doctor found him still awake, your hand pressed to his lips, whispering promises only you could hear.

“She’s stabilizing,” the doctor said gently. “But recovery will take time.”

Rafayel simply nodded, eyes never leaving your face. “Time is all I have to give.”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

The notification from Mephisto came during a crucial meeting with the N109 Zone’s security council. The mechanical crow landed urgently on his shoulder, displaying the screen that showed what had just happened. Usually, Mephisto watched over your missions, keeping Sylus informed, but this time—something had gone terribly wrong.

He stopped speaking so abruptly that everyone at the table turned to stare. The blood drained from his face as the footage streamed directly to his personal display—you, surrounded and overwhelmed, fighting until you couldn’t anymore.

“Boss?” one of them ventured. “Should we continue with—”

“Meeting adjourned,” Sylus declared, already on his feet. “Indefinitely.”

No further explanation. No delegation of responsibilities. The council exchanged bewildered glances as the leader strode from the room, his coat billowing behind him, a storm of fury and fear brewing beneath his composed exterior.

Minutes later, the distinctive roar of his motorcycle echoed through the compound as he tore toward Linkon City, weaving through traffic at speeds that turned the world around him into a blur. The only clear thought in his mind was reaching you.

When he arrived at the emergency ward you were in, no one dared question why this person with an imposing, dangerous aura was storming through their halls.

The doctor who approached him looked nervous when Sylus started to ask questions, not bothering to mention who he was. “Mister, she’s lost a significant amount of blood. We’ve managed to stabilize her, but—”

“Show me,” Sylus commanded.

Your room was silent save for the mechanical beeping of monitors. Sylus stopped in the doorway, taking in the sight of you lying motionless, bandages covering much of your visible skin, an oxygen mask obscuring half your face.

Without a word, he pulled a chair to your bedside and sat, taking your hand in his.

“I need the names,” he said to the empty room, calling either Luke or Kieran. “Everyone involved. Every detail. Now.” Whether it was Wanderers or some shady people who did this, he would eliminate them all, leaving no traces behind.

As night fell, he remained at your side, one hand holding yours while the other tapped commands into his device, as he kept tapping his feet from either impatience or anxiousness. He wouldn’t let himself breathe peacefully until he knew you were okay.

Only when you stirred slightly, a small sound of pain escaping your lips, did his facade crack. He leaned forward, brushing hair from your forehead with such gentleness.

“Rest,” he murmured. “I’ll handle everything else.”

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

Caleb’s comm device blared the emergency alert in his office—a sound it was programmed to make for only one person’s vitals. The color drained from his face as he stared at the readout, the severity of your condition displayed in harsh red numbers.

Nothing else mattered. Not Skyhaven, not his duties, not anything except reaching you.

The hangar technicians scrambled as he approached, his expression sending them into immediate action. “Prepare my craft for immediate departure,” he ordered, already climbing into the cockpit.

“Sir, the preflight checks—”

“Now!” The word echoed through the hangar, silencing all objections.

The journey that should have taken hours was compressed into a white-knuckled descent that violated at least six safety protocols. As the craft touched down on the hospital’s landing pad, security personnel rushed forward, only to stop short when they recognized the Colonel’s insignia.

“Where is she?” he demanded of the first orderly he encountered inside, frantically searching for you.

His uniform opened doors that would have remained closed to others. When he reached the ICU, the attending physician intercepted him, datapad in hand.

“Colonel, she’s sustained significant trauma. We’ve induced a coma to manage the—”

“Take me to her.” It wasn’t a request.

The sight of you connected to life support sent a visible tremor through his body. This was worse than any nightmare he’d ever imagined.

“I should have been there,” he whispered, sinking into the chair beside you. His fingers brushed against yours, then curled around your hand. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

His mind was already calculating retribution. Whoever had done this—be it Wanderers or other enemies—they will pay for this.

Days passed. Nurses came and went. Messages from Skyhaven accumulated, unanswered. Caleb remained unmoved, his thumb tracing circles on your palm as if trying to coax you back to consciousness through touch alone. 

“Colonel, you should rest,” she suggested gently.

“I’m fine,” he responded, voice hoarse from disuse.

When you finally began to stir days later, Caleb was there, his face the first thing you saw as consciousness returned. Relief washed over his features as he pressed his forehead to your hand, shoulders shaking with silent relief.

“Welcome back, sleepyhead,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your knuckles. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Behind his smile, the knowledge that those responsible had already answered for their actions. But that was a conversation for another day. For now, you were awake, and nothing else mattered.

Another draft out. Also based on this request.

[hotdigitallegend]

astro observations ☿⌁ // neural downloads

1. mercury in gemini 🧠⚡

these ppl are working with 8 mental browser tabs at once and still hit you with the funniest line you’ve ever heard. humor is their weapon & it’s laced with data. don’t try to lie to them, they saw the glitch in your sentence before you finished it.

2. ♄ saturn in the 8th 🕳

emotionally mature but deeply suspicious. won’t let you in unless you pass 17 internal audits. their trust is sacred code. once you’re in you’re encrypted into their soul forever. betrayal? system wipe.

3. ♀︎ venus in pisces ☁︎

in love with the ghost of someone who might not even exist. writes poetry to memories that haven’t happened. you don’t date them, you step into a dream where boundaries dissolve and nothing is as it seems.

4. ☽ moon in aquarius 🧊📡

they feel like wi-fi signals; subtle, everywhere, kind of cold but you need them. emotions processed like code: “analyzing… uploading… archived.” they care, just not the way you’re used to. love feels like space.

5. mars in libra ⚖︎🗡

fighting you with charm and calm logic. conflict is art to them. they’ll seduce you mid-argument, serve justice with a velvet glove, and have you apologizing for starting it. beautiful, terrifying, diplomatic assassins.

6. neptune in the 1st 🫧👁

you look at them and forget what you were saying. people project fantasies onto them like screensavers. they shapeshift in real time, and sometimes even they forget who they are underneath the projections.

7. chiron in the 5th ���🕯

childhood wounds covered in glitter. pain woven into performance. they turn trauma into theatre and applause into medicine. healing comes through creation, when they laugh, cry, dance… they’re rewiring the past.

8. uranus in the 11th ⚙️👽

never part of the group, always above the group. an update to whatever room they enter. brings revolution in casual conversation. weird? yes. necessary? absolutely. the alien.

9. sun square pluto 🔥☠️

that constant internal death & rebirth cycle. .yeah, it’s personal. ego forged in disorder. always on the edge of either total destruction or pure transformation. you never meet the same version of them twice.

10. 6th house stellium 🧼📋

hyper aware. skin always smells like eucalyptus. thrives on routine but hides an existential crisis under their to-do list. self-worth tied to how much they can fix, even if it means breaking themselves first.

11. mercury retrograde natally 🔁📉

think in spirals. their voice bends time, memory, and meaning. misunderstood as kids, prophetic as adults. when they speak, listen again - it’s layered.

12. jupiter in cancer 🫀🌊

empathy is their mother tongue. nourishment as a worldview. they want everyone to be full - emotionally, spiritually, and physically. loves like soup simmering all day, comforting, warm, made from scratch.

[blaqcats-fics]

unfortunately, i usually don't keep track of birthdays specifically in fandoms. so, imagine my shock when i found out that i share a birthday with bruce wayne (feb 19) — based on silverage and modern-age Batman. it is also a shock that i also just found out this man is a pisces. so in honor of both of our birthdays, here’s just a fun little skit!!

It starts with a podcast.

Tim’s the one who’s listening to it, earbuds in, looking for background noise while he codes. He barely registers the conversation until he hears the words:

“You know who gives me serious Pisces energy? Batman.”

Tim blinks. Rewinds. Listens again.

“I mean, think about it. Secretive? Brooding? Carries the weight of the world on his shoulders but refuses to talk about his feelings? Classic water sign behavior. Probably cries in the Batmobile.”

Tim immediately forwards the clip to the family group chat.

Steph is the first to react.

Steph: HOLY SHIT WAIT IS BRUCE A PISCES??

Damian: Don’t be ridiculous.

Steph: NO. THIS MAKES SENSE.

Steph: Moody. Overdramatic. Keeps adopting kids for no reason other than his feelings?? Classic Pisces.

Dick: If Bruce is a Pisces, that would explain SO MUCH.

Damian: This is stupid. He doesn’t even believe in astrology.

Steph: Because he’s a Pisces and doesn’t want to be perceived.

Dick: Wait when is his birthday again??

Tim double-checks. Then he stares at the date.

Tim: …Feburary 19th.

Silence.

Then:

Steph: OH MY GOD.

Dick: OH MY GOD.

Damian: This means nothing.

Jason: No. No. It means EVERYTHING.

—

When Jason jumps on board, things escalate.

Because Jason starts compiling evidence.

“Think about it,” he tells Dick later that night. “He’s moody as hell. He broods. He internalizes everything. He loves tragedy. I bet you anything he listens to sad music while doing patrol.”

Dick, who has personally witnessed Bruce listen to Chopin while looking out over Gotham like he’s in a Victorian novel, has no counterargument.

—

Alfred’s reaction is the worst.

“Master Bruce is, indeed, a Pisces,” he says when asked. “It explains quite a bit, I’ve always thought.”

Bruce is right there.

He looks up from his paperwork, eyes narrowed. “It doesn’t explain anything.”

“Of course, sir.” Alfred’s voice is as dry as the Batcave itself. “It is mere coincidence that you have the emotional repression of a particularly stubborn fish.”

—

Now that they know, they start noticing everything.

“He’s so sentimental,” Steph says, watching Bruce silently look at the Bat-Signal with his arms crossed. “Like. Deeply sentimental. I bet he has an old love letter tucked away somewhere that he rereads when he’s feeling tragic.”

Jason hums. “He does keep Selina’s notes.”

Tim gasps.

“Oh my god,” Dick whispers. “He’s the most Pisces to ever Pisces.”

—

The final straw is when Cass catches Bruce watching a French noir film in the dark with a glass of scotch.

She takes a picture.

It’s sent to the group chat immediately.

Cass: Look at this. Look at him.

Tim: That is the most Pisces shit I’ve ever seen.

Jason: He’s mourning a past life rn.

Steph: He’s thinking about his tragic love affairs. Probably wishing he could save them.

Dick: He’s gonna write poetry about it later.

Damian: All of you need to be stopped.

—

Eventually, Bruce notices.

Because of course he does.

“What,” he says, standing in the middle of the Batcave, staring at them like they’ve personally betrayed him, “is happening?”

Nobody speaks.

Then Damian, who has had enough, scowls and says, “They have been discussing your astrological sign.”

Bruce blinks.

“They are also keeping a list of your most Pisces-like behaviors.”

Jason immediately hurls a smoke bomb to escape.

It doesn’t end there.

—

A week later, Clark drops by.

“I heard you were a Pisces,” he says, grinning.

Bruce throws a batarang at him.

[peregrineggsandham]

we could go back to telegraphs instead of social media. send your mutuals unspeakable strings of morse code at 4:30am