#LED drivers Applications

[addohaislam2000]

Indoor lighting controls, LED drivers Applications, lighting control modules

100 - 277Vac, 29.4W, 350 - 700mA, 28-42V, [0-10V, TRI...], IP20 LED Driver

[oikarma]

left my message

pairing: lewis hamilton x reader

summary: you’ve heard about the legend but you’re not quite prepared to meet him in real life.

a/n: first part is like a smau companion i guess? but this is the actual interaction which makes the twt posts make more sense!! 

part one / part two

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

two days ago

you still can’t believe it. the paddock pass is smooth under your hands, so smooth it might just slip out and away. you’ve never been so close before, despite having watched many of the races on a grainy screen or far, far up into the grandstands. it didn’t make sense, really. when you were younger, your mother disapproved of flouncing around just to go to a racetrack—she certainly wouldn’t accompany you, with the engines roaring past, when your music on 70% volume was already deafening to her. but now, early decisions had come out, very much in your favor. mother was pleased, and that left you to go wherever you wished over easter.

so you’re here, standing in the ferrari paddock. it’s a gift on both guanyu and your brother’s part, flying you out at last minute’s notice when charles’s surgery was confirmed. an extremely generous gift you’re not sure you can repay anytime soon. it makes you feel a bit guilty, until you see how happy both of them are to see you. with college applications, you haven’t had much time to facetime your brother—he was overseas working—and the same went for guanyu. late family reunion, you decide. 

lando walks pass the ferrari garage and waves at you. it turned out you had rooms on the same floor after bumping into each other in the elevator. it wasn’t the first time you’d met him: you’d been present at a few of his karting competitions when you were younger. you weren’t “friends,” you’d argue, but you’d talked enough to be good acquaintances. he was also a familiar face in the uk. that is, before he moved to monaco. 

you grin at lando and turn back to guanyu, inside the garage. he’s trembling, even though his smile is wide and back is straight. charles has done well this season, and lewis is in the other seat. of course he would be nervous. you still remember how he sobbed when sauber released the news. formula one was the pinnacle of motorsports. being there was an achievement in itself, anyone knew. but when you were constantly outperformed by other drivers in other cars, it was hard to keep track of the fact.

you place a hand on his arm. “hey, you good?”

“yeah, i’m fine.” he reaches out for a one-handed hug. “glad to see you here. just a bit different from last year.”

“hey, come on. this is for everyone here for you. seeing you race is enough.”

zhou massages his temple. “what if it’s not? i don’t want to disappoint them again.”

“you won’t. your practice times are great! and if people think they do, they should try driving themselves.” you squeeze his hand. “where’s my brother? let him talk some sense into you.”

to that, he laughs. “oh, he did. told me that i should be happy i get the opportunity to drive and i think he’s right.”

you wince. sounds a bit harsh, but you know your brother means well.

“yeah, he usually is. probably a bit salty that he’s not a driver, too. but g’luck out there, okay? don’t crash.”

“i’ll try.” 

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

one day ago

once the sprint is over, you can tell a weight has been lifted off his back. fourth is great. fourth is amazing. max leads in first, lewis in second, lando in third, and guanyu in fourth. it’s not a shabby place in a lineup like that. points have been scored for ferrari and everyone is all smiles when they come to congratulate him.

lewis pats him on the back. “good to see you out there, zhou.”

“thanks. nice work today.” his data analyst taps him on the shoulder and guanyu is being led away. he waves goodbye at you.

the brit turns to you and offers a hand. “hamilton, lewis hamilton. i don’t think i’ve seen you around before.”

lewis! hamilton! is shaking your hand! meeting lando is less crazy because you’ve seen mini him stumbling off the track. but this is seven-time world champion, sir lewis hamilton. his braids are sleek and he’s perfectly polished: glowing, even. it should be illegal to stand around in a half-zipped race suit.

you shake his hand, making sure your grip is strong because your father said that’s the way to make an impression. “i’m yn. i’m guanyu’s friend.”

“oh, i see. you watch racing, much? i suppose you do.”

“yeah. he got me into it and i never stopped.”

lewis gives you a coy smile. “tell me, who’s your favorite driver?” he leans against one of the floating tables.

“i hate to break it to you, but it’s max.” 

his eyes widen dramatically. he teases, “oh dear, we’re starting off on the wrong foot already.”

“if it makes you feel any better, i meant current driver.”

“okay, okay. no restrictions. favorite driver of all time?”

“kimi.” 

he raises a thoughtful eyebrow. “you seem to have a type.”

“so who’s yours?” and you want to hit yourself right there because you just asked lewis hamilton who his favorite driver is. stupid, stupid, stupid. it’s probably senna. he’s too polite to say himself and you think you’ve heard that somewhere before.

“senna.”

bingo! quite the genius, you are. it’s hard to think around him, so that’s practically twice the achievement.

lewis sees your smile and asks, “why, do i have something on my face?”

“oh, no. i was thinking.”

“...about? nevermind, i won’t pry. tell me, yn, what else do you like to do?”

how conversational. if he does this one more time you might be convinced you’re friends. he’s probably just bored. 

“sorry, excuse me?” you see a couple of fans outside the garage. the pit lane tour guide is surprised to see lewis still there. “could we get a few photos, please?”

lewis turns to you, surprisingly apologetic. “see you around?”

“alright.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

(a/n: 1st of the convo is post-meeting lewis & 2nd part is post-gp)

[desiree-uk]

DXVK Tips and Troubleshooting: Launching The Sims 3 with DXVK

A big thank you to @heldhram for additional information from his recent DXVK/Reshade tutorial! ◀ Depending on how you launch the game to play may affect how DXVK is working.

During my usage and testing of DXVK, I noticed substantial varying of committed and working memory usage and fps rates while monitoring my game with Resource Monitor, especially when launching the game with CCMagic or S3MO compared to launching from TS3W.exe/TS3.exe.

It seems DXVK doesn't work properly - or even at all - when the game is launched with CCM/S3MO instead of TS3W.exe/TS3.exe. I don't know if this is also the case using other launchers from EA/Steam/LD and misc launchers, but it might explain why some players using DXVK don't see any improvement using it.

DXVK injects itself into the game exe, so perhaps using launchers bypasses the injection. From extensive testing, I'm inclined to think this is the case.

Someone recently asked me how do we know DXVK is really working. A very good question! lol. I thought as long as the cache showed up in the bin folder it was working, but that was no guarantee it was injected every single time at startup. Until I saw Heldhram's excellent guide to using DXVK with Reshade DX9, I relied on my gaming instincts and dodgy eyesight to determine if it was. 🤭

Using the environment variable Heldhram referred to in his guide, a DXVK Hud is added to the upper left hand corner of your game screen to show it's injected and working, showing the DXVK version, the graphics card version and driver and fps.

This led me to look further into this and was happy to see that you could add an additional line to the DXVK config file to show this and other relevant information on the HUD such as DXVK version, fps, memory usage, gpu driver and more. So if you want to make sure that DXVK is actually injected, on the config file, add the info starting with:

dxvk.hud =

After '=', add what you want to see. So 'version' (without quotes) shows the DXVK version. dxvk.hud = version

You could just add the fps by adding 'fps' instead of 'version' if you want.

The DXVK Github page lists all the information you could add to the HUD. It accepts a comma-separated list for multiple options:

devinfo: Displays the name of the GPU and the driver version.

fps: Shows the current frame rate.

frametimes: Shows a frame time graph.

submissions: Shows the number of command buffers submitted per frame.

drawcalls: Shows the number of draw calls and render passes per frame.

pipelines: Shows the total number of graphics and compute pipelines.

descriptors: Shows the number of descriptor pools and descriptor sets.

memory: Shows the amount of device memory allocated and used.

allocations: Shows detailed memory chunk suballocation info.

gpuload: Shows estimated GPU load. May be inaccurate.

version: Shows DXVK version.

api: Shows the D3D feature level used by the application.

cs: Shows worker thread statistics.

compiler: Shows shader compiler activity

samplers: Shows the current number of sampler pairs used [D3D9 Only]

ffshaders: Shows the current number of shaders generated from fixed function state [D3D9 Only]

swvp: Shows whether or not the device is running in software vertex processing mode [D3D9 Only]

scale=x: Scales the HUD by a factor of x (e.g. 1.5)

opacity=y: Adjusts the HUD opacity by a factor of y (e.g. 0.5, 1.0 being fully opaque).

Additionally, DXVK_HUD=1 has the same effect as DXVK_HUD=devinfo,fps, and DXVK_HUD=full enables all available HUD elements.

desiree-uk notes: The site is for the latest version of DXVK, so it shows the line typed as 'DXVK_HUD=devinfo,fps' with underscore and no spaces, but this didn't work for me. If it also doesn't work for you, try it in lowercase like this: dxvk.hud = version Make sure there is a space before and after the '=' If adding multiple HUD options, seperate them by a comma such as: dxvk.hud = fps,memory,api,version

The page also shows some other useful information regarding DXVK and it's cache file, it's worth a read. (https://github.com/doitsujin/dxvk)

My config file previously showed the DXVK version but I changed it to only show fps. Whatever it shows, it's telling you DXVK is working! DXVK version:

DXVK FPS:

The HUD is quite noticeable, but it's not too obstructive if you keep the info small. It's only when you enable the full HUD using this line: dxvk.hud = full you'll see it takes up practically half the screen! 😄 Whatever is shown, you can still interact with the screen and sims queue.

So while testing this out I noticed that the HUD wasn't showing up on the screen when launching the game via CCM and S3MO but would always show when clicking TS3W.exe. The results were consistent, with DXVK showing that it was running via TS3W.exe, the commited memory was low and steady, the fps didn't drop and there was no lag or stuttereing. I could spend longer in CAS and in game altogether, longer in my older larger save games and the RAM didn't spike as much when saving the game. Launching via CCM/S3MO, the results were sporadic, very high RAM spikes, stuttering and fps rates jumping up and down. There wasn't much difference from DXVK not being installed at all in my opinion.

You can test this out yourself, first with whatever launcher you use to start your game and then without it, clicking TS3.exe or TS3W.exe, making sure the game is running as admin. See if the HUD shows up or not and keep an eye on the memory usage with Resource Monitor running and you'll see the difference. You can delete the line from the config if you really can't stand the sight of it, but you can be sure DXVK is working when you launch the game straight from it's exe and you see smooth, steady memory usage as you play. Give it a try and add in the comments if it works for you or not and which launcher you use! 😊 Other DXVK information:

Make TS3 Run Smoother with DXVK ◀ - by @criisolate How to Use DXVK with Sims 3 ◀ - guide from @nornities and @desiree-uk

How to run The Sims 3 with DXVK & Reshade (Direct3D 9.0c) ◀ - by @heldhram

DXVK - Github ◀

[tyrannosaurus-maxy]

Despite the head start in life, Max has the gift of hunger and application. He has the council estate grit because that’s what Jos put into him, by example and occasionally more directly. The way he did that won’t be found in any parental guidebook and could occasionally stray into what has been criticised as abuse. Take the incident, now racing folklore, at Naples in 2012 when a silly error by Max on track led to Jos being so furious that he left his 15-year-old son at a service station. There was also the time Jos made him walk the several miles from the circuit back to the hotel after another incident on track. Walking in his race suit and carrying his helmet, Max was picked up by a passer-by and given a lift back to the hotel. Upon seeing him arrive earlier than expected, Jos asked how he’d done it so quickly. When Max told him, Jos insisted on taking him back to where he’d been picked up, dropping him off there and making him complete the punishment. Jos’ way of making his points wasn’t gentle, quiet or subtle. Max was enlisted to the cause – the cause of making him the best racing driver he could possibly be – and Jos knew only one way. Compromise or bruised feelings didn’t come into it. But for that to work, Max needed to be more than only vastly talented. It also demanded a very special personality, combining the assertiveness and drive required to be a successful racer but not the often-associated rebellious qualities. It required the resilience to withstand the extremity of Jos’ approach but without replicating his faults.

Unstoppable by Mark Hughes, 2023

[blathannabeaga]

.☽༊˚ one-word prompts; coffee

jim street x reader

feat. uniformed!reader, s5-ish swat academy instructor!street, references and brief descriptions of gun violence and injury (not to reader or street), hurt/comfort, mutual pining

Loud as the ER’s waiting room is this late into the evening, the furore only barely reaches your ears above the blood still rushing through your head. It’s an all-consuming, dementing noise that no amount of deep breaths or kneading at your aching temples to do away with - and your only break from it is the series of three, succinct shots that your mind has been playing on loop for the last hour. 

After the first, your hand is flying to your duty belt and wrenching your sidearm loose as you bolt backwards from the passenger door of the car and find cover at the rear of your adjacent squad car. The second, and despite your shouts at him Eric is dropping from sight on the driver’s side as the engine revs back to life.

The third and the car is tearing off down the empty street, kicking up gravel in its wake as you roar the plate number into your radio before your voice dies in your throat at the sight of Eric strewn back against the pavement. The burst of darkness spreads alarmingly fast across his side, visible even under the flickering streetlamps, blood pooling on the ground and soaking into the knees of your pants by the time you lurch over to him and drop to his side. 

The accursed sequence replays once, twice, ten times over as you haunt the hospital halls in wait of news. People come and go - a sweet nurse, tending to the scratches on your palms and uttering assurances that fall on unhearing ears, your watch commander who offers only a tight squeeze of your shoulder before heading away to begin the hunt for the assailant. What’s immovable is, for all your half-hysterical scrubbing, the dried, rust-coloured stains sunken into the beds of your nails and the grooves of your palms - and the persistent churning of your stomach as more and more time passes with no news.

The thought of Eric beyond those sterile double doors only sickens you further, and you hang your head in your hands as guilt floods you anew. The only partner you’ve known since you made it out of the TO programme, the man who took you on as a pseudo-little sibling after about a fortnight of knowing you. Eric, whose most deceptive action in all the time you’ve known him has probably been sending off your application for SWAT behind your back after months of indecision and self-doubt. Eric, who had you had to beg to give in and stop the Sedan with license plates that didn’t match the tags just to give one of your last shifts together some excitement.

And what if that’s what led you here? If your self-obsessed overthinking your performances in CQB drills and a certain set of dimples, and a stupid want to bid your patrol days goodbye with a bang had distracted you from what was really important? Distracted you from piquing the desperation behind the man’s eyes, the disjointed way he spat oddly pre-prepared answers back to Eric’s routine questions, the glint of the pistol barrel under the indifferent streetlights above-

A set of heavy boot treads coming in your direction disrupts your agonising. You fear it’s someone from your station coming to commiserate or lay blame, neither of which you’re ready to contend with - until a hand wearing a familiar watch comes patiently into view, pushing a warm paper cup of coffee into your hesitant grasp in lieu of a greeting.

Steam ebbs up through the plastic lid and brings with it the fragrant scent of fresh, sweet coffee as Street takes a seat beside you. The warm press of his thigh against yours is more grounding than you’d like to admit, but you don’t have to - he doesn’t press you for so much as an acknowledgement of his presence, and instead just sits quietly alongside you for you’re not quite sure how long. When the silence is finally broken, it’s unexpectedly by you - which takes both you and Street by surprise.

“Azzura’s.” Your voice is ragged from having not spoken in so long, but seeing the name of your favourite coffee shop emblazoned across the side of the cup’s green sleeve has you speaking before you realise it. 

“I do listen to your nonsense, sometimes.” That smug waver to his voice that you’ve grown so fond of is still present, if subdued somewhat for the circumstances. He bumps his shoulder softly with yours, and takes a sip from his own cup before rolling it idly between his hands. “M’still hoping that one day you’ll return the favour, but I’m not holding my breath.”

At the sound of your quiet chuckle, he looks over at you and cracks a smile of his own. “Yeah, I wouldn’t.” 

Your voice cracks on the last word, and you hastily look away. It’s probably a good thing, because the earnest sympathy behind Street’s eyes would probably be your last straw.

“He’ll be okay.” Street knows how hollow it sounds, but it’s all he can think to say because he truly believes it. Leaning down, he places his cup on the floor at your feet and folds his hands together as more staff bustle past you. “From everything you’ve told me about him, I can tell he’s not the kind of guy who’ll go down easy.”

“A center-mass shot and another to the vest might have something to say about that.” It spits out meaner than you intend, but the venom isn’t meant for Street and he understands that. Coffee splashes inside the cup as your hand trembles, and he quietly takes it from you to join his before reaching to the side of his chair. 

“I grabbed your go-bag from your locker.” He sets your backpack down at your feet, and you realise you’d not given a thought to your soiled uniform all evening. You murmur your thanks but before you can speak any more, a stretcher surrounded by staff swings a corner beside you and Street lugs another bag out of their way, spiking your anxiety markedly.

“Did you clean out my whole damn locker while you were at it?” Though you laugh as you say it, nervousness is written all over your face and voice. Christ, have you been kicked out of the Academy like that? And like this, no less- 

“You wish. Luca’s not gonna let you go anywhere until he gets a rematch to prove his arm-wrestling skills aren’t so easily shown up by a rook.” Street waves off your thinly-veiled concerns, mercifully with only a small grin, before turning the bag around to show his name printed in thick letters across the front. “That one’s mine.”

Confusion pulls at your features, and you soothe a still-shaking hand over your face.

“Eric’s a damn fine cop, but you don’t know him.” You tell Street, propping your elbow on your thigh as you look over to him with your head rested in your hand. You’re looking for an ulterior motive, a betrayal of his eyes or twitch of his lips to tell you what the endgame is here, but when you don’t find it you press on with a shrug. “Why would you post up here in the middle of the night to wait on him?”

“You’re right, I don’t.” He nods in agreement, but meets your eyes and you find that there isn’t a scrap of insincerity to be found. “But I know you, and I know how important he is to you.”

Something between a laugh and a noise of surprise breaks from your lips, but there’s no malice behind it. You turn your smile to the floor and wring your hands into your lap, but knock your knee against his as you speak. “When you said we could spend time together outside of HQ, I had kind of envisioned it being under better circumstances.”

“That mean you want me to leave?” He asks, moving in closer but lowering his timbre to convey a level of seriousness you find disjointed with who you so far know him to be.

“Not even remotely.” You tell him, and you mean it so truthfully it almost hurts - and his hand is already enveloping yours by the time the double doors at the end of the hall open, and a grave-faced surgeon emerges calling your name.

[didalexiabreakupwitholgaisback]

https://x.com/angelperezpx/status/1884645117555814719?s=46

what the hell?

so ángel is more reliable than rut vilar (although he massively screwed up the lieke martens news), but certainly not as reliable as maria tikas. either way, this seems more like agent led discussion to force better offers for ingrid. remember all the breaking news about salaries and offers from other teams during alexia and aitana's renewals last year (cough *3 million from chelsea* cough). same thing is happening now. this is basics negotiations tactics, my friends!

as for keira, we know she is going to leave at some point. it doesn't make sense for barça to sell her now unless there is a *really* good offer on the table, but we'll see. but she has been ready to go since the summer 🤷‍♀️

esport is just rut vilar, so there's nothing new from the earlier morning report that is different from what was reported yesterday.

and honestly, what you have listed in your ask is not applicable just for ingrid but for any player. players are the drivers of their own careers and if they are unhappy for any reason or have different expectations, then it's absolutely fair to ask.

but again, i think this is 100% agent driven. rut vilar does not have a secret microphone in the locker room of barça 😅

this is true for every single player on a football team. you have to be your own advocate.🙏

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

BRICS launches competition for women-led startups

The Brazilian presidency of BRICS – a bloc currently comprising 11 countries – is launching a competition to boost female entrepreneurship as a driver of economic development and sustainable innovation. The initiative aims to highlight women-led businesses that provide practical and innovative solutions to challenges faced by their communities and markets. Applications are open until May 4, 2025, and must be submitted through the official website of the Brazilian presidency of the bloc.

The BRICS Women’s Startups Contest 2025, as the competition is called, is held in collaboration with Sebrae, which promotes the competitiveness of small businesses, industry group CNI, and the BRICS Women Business Alliance (BRICS WBA). The initiative aims to attract up to 2,000 applications, highlighting the reach and significance of the action in strengthening female entrepreneurship.

The competition is open to women-led startups from BRICS member countries (Brazil, Russia, India, China, South Africa, Egypt, Ethiopia, Indonesia, Saudi Arabia, Iran, and the United Arab Emirates) and partner nations (Belarus, Bolivia, Kazakhstan, Cuba, Malaysia, Nigeria, Thailand, Uganda, and Uzbekistan). Startups from Kyrgyzstan, Mozambique, Lesotho, Zambia, and Zimbabwe may also participate, provided they operate in BRICS markets or present solid expansion plans for BRICS member or partner countries.

Continue reading.

[sngl-led-auto-lights]

Why the headlights of a vehicle are generally yellow in colour rather than white?

The use of yellow headlights in vehicles, while less common today, stems from a combination of historical, functional, and regulatory factors. Here's a structured breakdown of the reasons:

1. Historical and Regulatory Context

France's Mandate (1936–1993): France required selective yellow headlights by law, believing yellow light reduced glare for oncoming drivers. This regulation influenced vehicle design in Europe and former French colonies.

Selective Yellow Filter: This tint filtered out blue wavelengths (below 500 nm), which scatter more in fog and rain, improving visibility in adverse conditions.

2. Functional Advantages in Adverse Weather

Reduced Scatter: Yellow light (550–600 nm) has longer wavelengths than blue-rich white light, minimizing scattering in fog, rain, or snow. This enhances contrast and reduces "whiteout" glare.

Improved Penetration: In foggy conditions, yellow light can illuminate road markings and obstacles more effectively than white light.

3. Human Vision Considerations

Scotopic Sensitivity: Human eyes are more sensitive to green-yellow light (≈555 nm) in low-light conditions, making yellow headlights appear brighter at night.

Glare Reduction: Yellow light contains less blue, which is harsh on dark-adapted eyes, reducing discomfort for oncoming drivers.

4. Bulb Technology and Aesthetics

Halogen Bulbs: Older halogen bulbs naturally emit warmer (2700–3500K) light. Without coatings, this appears yellowish.

Vintage Appeal: Yellow headlights are associated with classic cars (e.g., Citroën 2CV, Volvo Amazon), appealing to enthusiasts.

5. Modern Shifts and Exceptions

Regulatory Changes: Most countries now permit white light (e.g., ECE and DOT standards), favoring LEDs/HIDs with superior brightness and adaptive beam patterns.

Niche Applications: • Rally/Racing: Yellow auxiliary lights are used for fog penetration (e.g., WRC, Le Mans). • Aesthetic Choice: Some drivers install yellow tints or LED pods for a retro or off-road look.

6. Trade-offs with White Light

Brightness vs. Comfort: White light (5000–6000K) offers better color rendering and range but can cause glare in poor weather.

Technological Solutions: Modern cars use adaptive headlights, automatic high beams, and fog-light integration to mitigate weather challenges without relying on yellow filters.

Conclusion Yellow headlights were historically favored for their glare reduction and fog performance, driven by regulations like France's mandate. While white light dominates today due to advancements in LED/HID technology and adaptive systems, yellow remains relevant in motorsports, niche markets, and as a stylistic choice. The shift reflects a balance between safety, regulation, and technological progress.

[offender42085]

Post 1395

Colleagues described him as "stellar" and "straitlaced."

Doitchin Krasev aka Krastev, Federal inmate 13492-023, born 1978, incarceration intake May 2010 at age 32, discharged January 2012 and deported

False Passport Application, Identify Theft

Doitchin Krasev was a clean-cut kid from Eastern Europe who lived with a host family in the United States and went to a pricey private college in North Carolina.

Later, he worked at a pizzeria in Denver and then moved to Oregon, where he was a liquor control investigator. Colleagues described him as "stellar" and "straitlaced."

In a court proceeding in May 2010, details of Krasev's past emerged less than 24 hours after federal agents definitively identified him by showing his photo to acquaintances on the East Coast.

Investigators believe that Krasev has used three names since he was in college and that he worked in Oregon under the name of Jason Evers, a 3-year old Ohio toddler who had been kidnapped and murdered in 1982.

As a boy, he moved to the United States from Sofia, Bulgaria, to live with a host family in the Washington, D.C., area. His host father had been an attorney with the federal government at the Office of Management and Budget during the Reagan administration. His host mother was a physician.

HIs American host parents had befriended Krasev's parents, Dincho and Baychinskia Krastev, while he was visiting Russia and Eastern Europe and researching ways to help the scientific community recover after the collapse of the Soviet Union.

At the time, Dincho Krastev was a mathematician and director of the Central Library of the Bulgarian Academy of Sciences, while his wife is one of the leading Jungian scholars in Eastern Europe.

Krasev attended Davidson College outside Charlotte, N.C., in the '90s, but did not graduated from the school. He told his host family he'd dropped out of college. At that point, his host family said that they lost track of him after that.

In 1996 Krasev stole the identity of Jason Evers. He moved to Denver in the late '90s, and worked as a waiter or a bartender at a Pizzeria Uno restaurant where he was known as Daniel Kaiser.

He moved to Portland in 2002, wherein he got a job as an inspector for the Oregon Liquor Control Commission. In his application he told the agency that he'd previously worked as a private investigator in Colorado.

In his career he worked for the Bend Oregon office, and then went to the Nyssa Oregon office near the Idaho border. He later transferred back to Bend as the regional manager and returned to Nyssa in early 2010 as an investigator.

Krasev was taken into custody in April 2010 at his rental home in Caldwell Idaho. He has been charged with falsifying a passport application and identity theft. He was found out when processes were enhanced within the State Department, and the name of Jason Evers -- with an active passport -- was checked against databases of deceased Americans.

After his arrest, he refused to reveal his true identity, citing security concerns.

In the course of the investigation, officials got a tip from the Denver man who knew him as Daniel Kaiser. The tip led investigators to driver's licenses under that name in Colorado and North Carolina. From there, investigators tracked down Krasev's real name on the East Coast.

His birth certificate and Social Security number matched the death certificate for Jason Evers, killed in Cincinnati in 1982 during a botched kidnapping by a 17-year-old boy who wanted money for a new car.

Standing 5-foot-11, neatly barbered with blue eyes, Krasev was a perfect fit for an investigator's job with the Liquor Control Commission, said a local Sheriff's deputy, who said he met Krasev through his wife, who knew Krasev's girlfriend.

"He never set off any bells and whistles when you met him," the deputy said, describing Krasev as "straitlaced, clean-shaven, professional ... He kind of looks like Lance Armstrong."

Although Krasev rented a home in Caldwell, Idaho, he used to live in a house he owned in nearby Fruitland, Idaho -- both not far from Nyssa. A neighbor who lived beside Krasev in Fruitland's Applewood subdivision said he was a good neighbor. "The property looked much nicer when he was here -- he took good care of it," she said.

Krasev kept to himself, the neighbors said. But when he moved into the three-bedroom, 1,400-square-foot home beside theirs, they took him a loaf of homemade bread as a welcoming gift. A day or two later, he brought them homemade chocolate chip cookies.

The neighbor said they had a dog, Krasev drove a compact car and his girlfriend were "a cute couple" -- "They were very cordial. Just good neighbors."

His war-hero-grandfather and namesake fought the Nazis, his parents are respected scientific scholars in Bulgaria.

If Krastev had not applied for a passport, if the State Department had not begun running its own checks on death certificates, Krastev might still be Jason Robert Evers, living halfway around the world from his native Bulgaria.

Doitchin Krasev lived with his American host family from 1992 to 1994, graduated from the prestigious Georgetown Day high school and earned a scholarship to Davidson College in Charlotte, N.C.

However, as Krasev entered his second year at Davidson, his grades were poor, he seemed unhappy and ready to drop out according to American host family. He told his host family in a phone call that he was going to drop out of college, and they never heard from him again.

Chris Galvin, who had befriended Krasev in Denver in the late 1990s, said he was sure there was something painful in the past that Krastev was trying to avoid.

They played tennis, poker, pool and chess together, and Krastev would let slip clues to his past when they drank a little too much. Otherwise, Galvin said he was a good friend and one of the most intelligent people he has ever known.

"But I always felt like he was running when I knew him," Galvin said.

Galvin and a college friend, Gary Franks, once took a Colorado ski trip with Krasev, and Franks was having morning coffee this week when he recognized Krasev from photos on newspaper websites.

Franks called Galvin, leading to a crucial tip that helped federal investigators identify Krasev. The response from his friends and family has been overwhelming relief that Krasev has resurfaced, and that he was not hiding something sinister.

However, Galvin said he feels guilty about his contribution, wondering whether he betrayed the trust of a friend, and hopes Krastev does not have to pay too dear a price for his actions.

Krasev was released from federal prison in January 2012 and deported.

5m

[rocket-enjoyer]

Quick Astropolitics Rundown: The Asteroid Belt Federation

The Asteroid Belt Federation. Certainly one of the more interesting powers in the solar system. Simultaneously a combined effort for both security, prosperity and power, yet divided in many, many aspects.

Alright, let's start off with

History:

I'll try to keep this section brief. The asteroid belt was colonized by martian conglomerates for mining metals, fissiles and volatiles. At the beginning of the Martian Civil War (Mind you, never call it that if you are anywhere near someone from the Belt; they will proceed to kick your ass. Just call it the revolution or anti-conglomerate war.) the asteroids' leadership were quickly overthrown without much trouble. People from different asteroids had entirely different views on what socialism or communism or whatever actually is and how it's achieved, however, which led to different asteroid families (at the time not capitalized) being run entirely differently. Every attempt from the conglomerates to take back asteroids failed. Firstly their constellations were not armed and armored for the task at hand: some invasions were entirely prevented through creative application of mass drivers, while others ended in the discovery that troops trained mostly for intimidating workers and shooting unarmed people had not signed up to be the ones being shot at. In the belt, the formation of the Martian Republic was seen as a loss, not a victory or an end to pointless fighting. After communication between asteroid families was set up, the Federation was set up in 2141.

Politics:

For all of its existence, the politics of the Asteroid Belt Federation has been a total mess. The Families of the asteroid belt are entirely different in internal politics, perspectives and needs, and the interactions between them and federal decisions are fascinating to watch. Here's some notable Families:

Ceres: the crown jewel of the Federation. It has the largest economy and population of any Family and the most political weight when it comes to federal stuff. Their perspective is often very different and more liberal to that of other Families, which makes them relatively hated - people often joke about them vetoing or otherwise single-handedly taking down proposals other Families are unanimous about. Though, at least as an outsider, I consider this actually beneficial to the Federation. Their politicians seem far more competent than the other Families' and they have not yet succumbed to populism or dictatorship even once. Perhaps this is by miracle, but by now I think it's not a coincidence.

Vesta, the jealous little sister of Ceres. Second at everything, from the size of their economy to upholding of democratic values. By now they're practically entirely controlled by a single family. Of people. I know, it's a little confusing. That dynasty has crumbled their economy and led to little development in a while, but through sheer industry and export they are still very significant. There are lots of good, competent people working between the cracks of their broken system, helping people and overall making everything work. If they all somehow organized, they could overthrow the leadership, but it seems they think that's somehow impossible. My best wishes to Vesta. I'm sure they'll climb out of this rut eventually.

Eos has a significant spy and information warfare network across the entire Federation and even the rest of the solar system. They clearly think of themselves as the OO of the Asteroid Belt Federation, but really, they aren't all that impressive. Or, at least, the other Families seem to think so. I suppose it gives them lots of jobs that aren't just mining. They're under a one-party system, but it's kind of funny to watch their incompetence.

Hilda is a particularly pacifistic Family that often just slows down military discussion, which has caused some frustration since the JMR invasion of the Trojans. They're a direct democracy.

There's a bunch more, like the Trojans and Greeks, poor old ignored Koronis, universally loved Schubart, but we're out of time here.

Since the Federation's decisions are made on multiple levels, with the most important parts done by councils filled with people from the politics of different Families, every Family is very important to the entire Asteroid Belt Federation. Big decisions also therefore take very long times to make, except in urgent situations where the High Federal Council, formed of only a few people, can take full control.

Astropolitics:

Currently, the Asteroid Belt Federation is in a particularly strange spot. They, especially the Trojans and Greeks, previously allied with the JMR due to the JMR's fairly stable democracy, need for metals, large economy and commitment to non-capitalist economics. However, with the 2270 sweep election of the Jovian Might Party and subsequent invasion of the Trojans, the Federation has entirely turned against the JMR and their main trading partners are now Earth nations and Mars - something previously considered entirely ridiculous due to their capitalist economies.

Ever since the end of the Martian Civil War, they've had problems with the Martian Republic mining uninhabited asteroids in the asteroid belt. With their recent increase in eagerness to sell Mars metals, they're likely to face less border scuffles with the Martian Republic.

Conclusion

The Families disagree with each other on damn near everything. They are most united by a common enemy, be it Mars or Jupiter. However, in any case, they must stay united; without the Federation, their astropolitical position would be far, far worse. The Federation's treaties forcing the member Families to defend each other no matter how they may disagree with one another has kept them a relevant piece on the solar system's great chess board so far, but it's a volatile position. If they succumb to infighting, they'll likely be seen as a mere source of cheap metals instead of the dysfunctional but overall lovely collection of people with a stranglehold on the solar system's metals.

Also, for all of you typing up your comments about how it's aCtUaLLy the Confederate Union of Asteroid Families: YOU ARE WRONG. Sure, they called themselves that for most of the 2100s, but that was last damn century! If they still called themselves that, you'd think their politicians would use that name, if no one else, right? The name change was part of a late-2100s movement to make the federal government more powerful and unite the Families more, and if you were really as smart as you pretended to be, you would already know that! It's TECHNICALLY still more a confederation than a federation, but that's not what its NAME is. People should get this right more.

[abboudlawfirm-tucson]

How Can a Personal Injury Attorney Help with Vacation-Related Injuries?

Vacations are a time to relax, explore, and make lasting memories. Unfortunately, unexpected accidents or injuries can disrupt your plans, turning a joyful trip into a stressful experience. From slip-and-fall accidents at resorts to car accidents on unfamiliar roads, navigating the aftermath of a vacation-related injury can feel overwhelming. This is where a Tucson personal injury attorney steps in to provide guidance and support.

Common Types of Vacation-Related Injuries

Vacation-related injuries can occur in a variety of settings, often due to negligence or unsafe conditions. Some common examples include:

Slip-and-Falls at Resorts or Hotels: Wet floors, poorly maintained pathways, or uneven surfaces can result in serious injuries.

Car Accidents: Driving in unfamiliar areas or renting a vehicle can increase the risk of accidents.

Swimming Pool Incidents: Poor maintenance or lack of supervision at pools in hotels or vacation rentals can lead to injuries.

Recreational Activity Injuries: Activities like zip-lining, jet skiing, or scuba diving can pose risks, especially if safety protocols are ignored or equipment is faulty.

Food Poisoning: While not a traditional injury, foodborne illnesses can cause significant health complications during your trip.

These injuries are often preventable and occur due to someone else’s negligence.

Determining Responsibility for Vacation Injuries

Liability for vacation injuries often depends on the circumstances of the incident. Identifying who is responsible is crucial for pursuing compensation, and a Tucson personal injury attorney can investigate to determine the liable party. Potentially responsible parties include:

Property Owners: Hotels, resorts, or vacation rental owners must maintain safe conditions for their guests. Negligence in addressing hazards can make them liable.

Tour Operators or Activity Providers: Companies organizing recreational activities must ensure proper safety measures. Failing to provide adequate equipment or instructions can lead to liability.

Car Rental Companies: The rental company may be held accountable if a poorly maintained rental vehicle contributes to an accident.

Other Drivers: When another driver’s negligence causes a car accident, their insurance may cover your damages.

How a Tucson Personal Injury Attorney Can Assist

Navigating a personal injury claim after a vacation injury can be complex, especially when dealing with unfamiliar laws or multiple insurance policies. A personal injury attorney can offer critical support in areas such as:

Thorough Investigations: Collecting evidence, interviewing witnesses, and reviewing accident reports are essential to building a strong case.

Dealing with Insurance Companies: An attorney will manage communications, ensuring you are not pressured into accepting a low settlement.

Navigating Local or International Laws: If the injury occurred in another state or country, your attorney will help you understand and adhere to the applicable laws.

Calculating Damages: They’ll account for all your expenses, including medical bills, lost wages, pain and suffering, and property damage, to ensure fair compensation.

Steps to Take After a Vacation-Related Injury

Taking immediate action is crucial to protect your health and legal rights if you've been injured on vacation. Here���s what you should do:

Seek Medical Care: Prioritize your health and keep all medical records and receipts.

Document the Incident: Take photos, collect witness information, and note the conditions that led to your injury.

Report the Injury: Inform the relevant party, whether it’s a hotel manager, tour operator, or another responsible entity. Request a copy of any accident report filed.

Consult a Personal Injury Attorney: Contact an experienced attorney as soon as possible to begin building your case.

Why Choose a Tucson Personal Injury Attorney?

Vacation injuries can leave you dealing with physical pain, emotional distress, and financial burdens. A Tucson personal injury attorney can provide the expertise you need to navigate legal complexities and protect your rights. From investigating your claim to negotiating with insurance companies, they aim to help you recover the compensation you deserve and get your life back on track.

If you’ve been injured on vacation, don’t face the challenges alone. Contact a trusted Tucson personal injury attorney to explore your options and take the first step toward recovery.

[apas-95]

I would have thought we had generally come to accept that 'circle the wagons, and rally around those in our communities most complicit with harmful structures, on the basis of our shared community' is not only harmful on an intra-community level, in that it ignores entirely that our communities also encompass those directly victimised by these harmful structures, that we are excusing and empowering; but also on an inter-community level, by directly agreeing with and reinforcing the conflation between these harmful sections of our community and the community at large.

If your goal is really to oppose the rhetoric of 'all [x] are secretly [y]', then refusing to engage and oppose [y] in our community - going so far as to justify [y] on an intra-community level based on the notion of shared inter-community oppression - is doing precisely the opposite. This is applicable to social groups in general, but to give a specific and local example: the defence of race fetishism among white trans women on Tumblr earlier this year stands as a fairly clear one. The argument used, that white *cisgender* people would not receive as much open backlash for their racism as white trans women would - that, due to transmisogyny, white trans womens' racism was given disproportionate attention, was, while referring to a real dynamic, an argument being used to specifically defend harmful behaviour through silencing all criticism on the basis that it was inextricable from transmisogyny. This argument is ridiculous, and, even if it weren't for the fact that the principal driver of criticism was in fact other trans women struggling against *whiteness*, rather than transmisogyny-exempt people fighting against trans women, would be completely immaterial - because, through the application of correct political theory, it is entirely possible to distill and separate the reactionary, transmisogynistic aspect of the criticism from the correct, anti-racist aspect of it. Rejection of that fact led to a position that functionally demanded a complete silence on any harmful behaviour carried out by trans women - even from those within our community - because it would, yes, always be tinged with transmisogyny due to the context of a transmisogynyst society. It is a position beyond even standpoint epistemology, one that disallows criticism entirely. Again, it is a backwards position - the application of correct political theory to incorrect ideas still produces correct conclusions, from the people to the people. It is possible to separate out the different aspects, here.

This is, again, not a unique phenomenon among any given community. It is a fairly universal dynamic. It is present in defences of US imperialism from oppressed segments of the US population; it is present in accusations of antisemtism, made in defense of the Israeli occupation; and yes, it is present in whatever community you are a part of.

[mariaofdoranelle]

Fake It Till You Make It

Rowaelin Month masterlist

@rowaelinscourt

I got my driver’s license this year, so I wrote this a few weeks ago for today because I’m kinda invested in DMV horror stories loll

Warnings: language

Words: 1,2k

For Rowan, becoming an employee at the Department of Motor Vehicles—also known as DMV—was a fairly easy process. He was unemployed, they had spots open, all the pieces fell right into place.

The hard part was staying in this damn job.

He grabbed the information of the next applicant he was going to examine. A 62-year-old woman who failed her driver’s license exam five times. Rowan tensed. As long as she didn’t kill anyone with that car, it’d be alright.

He crossed the threshold between the restricted area for employees and the waiting room, stepping inside that crowded space that reeked of cheap room deodorizers.

“Evalin Ashryver?” he called over the low chatter.

The woman who approached him was… not what he expected. Apart from the gray roots in her hair and conservative clothing, this woman didn’t look 62 years old at all.

"Ma'am, can I see your ID?"

The charming smile she gave him hit Rowan right between the legs. He looked away, waiting while she searched her purse. Holy rutting Mala, he needed to get a grip. The woman was old enough to be his mother.

She handed him the ID, and Rowan held it right by the woman's side to examine it.

She looked like the same person in the ID, but not quite. In the picture, the nose was a bit different, and it showed more signs of her age. Sagging skin, a few more wrinkles. But is there anything doctors couldn't do these days? It was the exact same shade of blonde hair, the exact same blue eyes with golden hues.

He cleared his throat and handed back the document.

“Ma’am don’t get me wrong, but…” Rowan trailed, carefully selecting his next words. “You should consider replacing your ID.”

Evalin tilted her head, exposing her neck that looked way too smooth and lickable for someone twice his age. “Is something wrong with it?”

“Your fillers.” Rowan gestured to his own face with a swift twirl of his finger. “It could confuse a security agent.”

Her grin was bright, assuring him that she wasn’t embarrassed. "I have a very good doctor, thanks."

Evalin's slow smile built, her eyes studying his biceps and shoulders.

Was this unbelievably hot old lady flirting with him? Rowan took a step back and gestured for her to walk ahead of him. He didn't mind her age, but he also noticed the wedding ring on her finger.

Rowan cleared his throat and led her to the garage. He braced himself when she started the car, his stomach as hard as his muscles felt tight, but the deadly driving he expected never came. It was actually smooth, and the car didn’t stall once.

Weird. That was the kind of conduct he expected from an experienced driver, not someone who failed this test five times.

He narrowed his eyes at Evalin, studying her relaxed posture. "I see you’re not nervous.” Rowan was sure of it, but his tone made it sound like a question. It was strange, seeing a repeater so at ease when most of them reeked of terror and anxiety.

"I had lots of practice with my daughter." Evalin wiggled her eyebrows. "She's single, you know?"

Rowan froze. Something dawned on him, an odd gut feeling, but it made him inspect that woman further.

"Is she?"

"Yep. Her name's Aelin. I can't show you a picture now, but she looks a lot like me." Evalin—was that really her name?—winked. "But with cuter clothes."

Rowan gestured for her to take a turn to the left—not the regular path the DMV used for this exam. Evalin didn't seem to notice this change, which was unusual for someone who was doing this for the sixth time.

"And I'm assuming your daughter was very invested in your exam?"

"Aelin's the most wonderful person who ever existed." She let out an affectionate sigh. "She's clever, fascinating, very, very talented. Not to mention that she's a rare, staggering beauty."

“I’m sure she is,” Rowan sneered with his arms crossed. That woman couldn’t be serious.

He told her to make another atypical turn. Another one she didn't question. Another one she did with too much ease for someone who historically struggled to drive.

She didn’t even pretend to have a hard time. That woman—who wasn’t Evalin, and he suspected it was her daughter—was so confident about this she didn’t even notice Rowan gave her the directions to the nearest police station.

"Can you parallel park in front of this building, please?"

She did it in a matter of seconds, on her first try.

"How did I do?" she asked with a big, smug smile. Aelin had no clue about the route she was supposed to do for this exam, but at least she knew that parallel parking was the last part.

Instead of answering, Rowan swept a finger against her hair.

It came out with gray paint.

He gave her a bored look. "Fake gray roots? Seriously?"

She crossed her arms, eyes narrowed. "It's blonde spray to cover gray roots. You're colorblind."

"And you're under arrest for identity theft."

Her mouth fell open, and it took a second before she yelled, "You're from the DMV, you can't arrest me!"

"That's why we came to the police station." He left the passenger side, rounded the car and opened the driver's door. "Come on, Aelin."

"It's Evalin."

"Aelin."

"E-va-lin," she repeated as if he were mentally disabled.

“Well, E-va-lin, can you please explain your identity issue to a police officer?”

Aelin leaned back on the driver’s seat and crossed her arms. Her head was cocked to the side, her lips pursed as her probing gaze focused on him for a moment.

"If you don't snitch on me, I'll let you take me on a date."

He raised his brows, surprised by this offer. "What makes you think I'll accept that?"

"Because not every man gets to take me out, and you'd rather do that than spend your evening filling all the paperwork it takes to explain why you took an examinee to the police station."

To be honest, she had a point.

Rowan hated this job. He didn't give a fuck about it, especially since most people forgot every driving rule the second they got their license. Aelin committed a crime, but who didn't? As far as he knew, she wasn't a serious threat to society.

"Get off the car."

She sighed, shoulders slumped in resignation, but complied. However, he stopped her as soon as she closed the car door.

"Are you vegan?"

"What?" She blinked. "No, I'm not," Aelin said in an uncertain tone.

"Good. Meet me at Emrys' Steak House at seven." He gripped the door handle to get back to the DMV, but before he left, Rowan looked her up and down and said, "I'm not expecting sex, but please don't wear your mother's clothes."

“Oh.” Aelin perked up, her eyes sparkling this time. “Okay. Did mom pass?"

That bold question made him snort. “I didn't even meet her, so no.”

She smirked. "You wanna meet my parents already? That was fast."

Rowan shook his head in disbelief and got in the car, but not without watching Aelin walk away from him, her hips swaying since she knew he was watching.

There was no way someone could look this good in her mother’s granny clothes. Rowan drove away with a smirk on his face.

If that woman could flip his boring morning routine on the DMV like this, he couldn’t wait to see what she’d pull tonight.

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[doctorvikjain]

general information.

full name dr. vikram aarav jain

nicknames vik / viki ( by odette only ) / jain / dr. jain

age 38

date of birth june 1st, 1986

place of birth great neck, new york

zodiac gemini sun / aquarius moon / scorpio rising

gender cis male

nationality first-generation american

religion atheist

occupation clinical pharmacologist

orientation aromantic bisexual

physical attributes.

face claim dev patel

voice claim dev patel

height 6'2

weight 187 lbs

build lean muscle

exercise habits low impact exercise / yoga

allergies pollen ( tree + grass + weed ) / insect stings ( bee + wasp + fire ant )

afflictions mixed connective tissue disease

hair color dark brown

hairstyle somewhat long / styled away from face

eye color dark brown

glasses/contacts occasionally

dominant hand right

tattoos none

scars burn scars spanning upper left torso / stab wound on left pectoral

piercings none

jewelry/accessories a thin gold chain necklace

background information.

hometown great neck, new york

current residence new york, new york

spoken languages english / hindi / gujarati

driver’s license yes

familial information.

relationship status single

mother priya jain, deceased sept. 1999

father aarav jain, deceased sept. 1999

siblings odoti jain, deceased sept. 1999

other none

children none

pets odette winters / human, test subject

personality.

positive traits observant + intelligent + organized + meticulous + adept

negative manipulative + deceitful + cruel + duplicitous + selfish + detached

likes elaichi chai + painfully hot showers + antique medical textbooks + silence

dislikes cold weather + mindless conversation + nosy minds and hands + rain

moral alignment lawful evil

mbti intj

meticulous and organized, vikram has a compulsion to keep his surroundings as tidy as his mind ; nothing out of place, nothing askew. a fortuitous trait for as studious a mind as his, he has demonstrated a profound and lifelong passion not just for academics and research, but the pursuit of knowledge simply for knowledge’s sake. he is a naturally curious creature with an innate desire to understand the world around him and the exact mechanics by which it operates, a trait perhaps due in part to the distinct disconnect he’s felt from everything — and everyone — around him for as long as he can remember. this sense of alienation led him to pursue a doctorate in medicine as well as a phd in pharmaceutical science — to not only understand how people truly work when broken down to their most essential parts, but to learn how he can manipulate those basic functions through the application of very specific chemical compounds. if you can’t beat them, learn how to control them.

for as estranged as vikram feels himself to the world at large, you would never guess it to speak to him ; the mask he wears for the world is carefully crafted, a polite and professional visage modeled after years upon years of observing the social interactions of others, learning by careful scrutiny of example what qualifies as acceptable behavior  — how long to maintain eye contact, when it’s appropriate to smile during a conversation, how to sound like he cares. and he does it well ; to be fortunate enough to know only the vikram he chooses to present himself to be is to know a soft-spoken and mild-mannered man, sympathetic and polite to the degree that his manner of speech at times almost feels anachronistic. vik is intelligent and articulate, punctual and reliable ; he makes an effort to appear as such, to walk a line between unassuming and invaluable that would leave his closest friends and colleagues shocked should they ever discover what he does behind locked doors. 

in truth, dr. jain is a cruel man. he has very little regard for human life in comparison to the scientific gain that can be offered in its sacrifice. he does not wish to make people better on an individual basis — he is not a physician — but he wishes to make people, as a whole, better, and oftentimes found himself biting his tongue professionally to keep from overstepping any ethical boundaries when it came to the testing of new pharmaceuticals. but the skew of his moral compass extends beyond big pharma ; he has no qualms with torture and has, on multiple accounts, overseen and personally administered chemical compounds against the will of the recipients with the intention to reconfigure or otherwise permanently damage their cognitive and executive function.

biography.

TRIGGERS - neglect / animal abuse / death / physical + chemical torture / medical procedures

even were he to truly think on it, vikram jain would be hard-pressed to procure but a single memory of a time that he did not feel estranged from the world around him ; as a child, he provided his parents more strife than he ever did pride, though not for a lack of effort on his part. vikram was a peculiar child, abnormal in both the eyes of his parents and his peers ; he was quiet and observant, with wide, owlish eyes that seemed to silently soak in everything around him. for the first several years of his life, vikram was non-verbal — in fact, he did not speak aloud until the age of four, by which time he could do so in complete sentences to clearly articulate his thoughts. and even after he did find his voice, socialization did not come easy. children could be cruel, after all, and not least of all toward what they do not understand. and poor vikram, for all that he sought after it, never truly felt like they understood him. his parents, aarav and priya jain, would protest that they did everything they could to give their son a normal childhood and that it was a fault of his own that he resisted. the unfortunate truth of the matter was that they were ill-prepared to handle the idiosyncrasies of a child such as vikram, and rather than try to address his needs and figure out where the disconnect began, they resorted to ignoring it, stifling it ; overstimulated outbursts were punished, subtle self-soothing tics scolded away. 

vikram, of course, could never quite understand what it was he’d done wrong and rather than lay himself out for continued lashing, he withdrew upon himself. it wasn’t difficult; he’d never really understood the value of such connection or emotional intimacy. what should’ve been a warm embrace from his mother only ever made his skin prickle and crawl and any attempted heart-to-hearts with his father — an emotionally stunted man in his own right, in different ways — only ever left both parties feeling more frustrated than before. the only exception to this unwritten rule of distance came in the form of a younger sister, odoti. at first, he showed apathy toward her at best — and near disdain for her constant crying and screeching at worst — but by the time she’d grown from a drooling, babbling infant into something at least resembling a small, cognizant human, vikram found himself strangely endeared to her. perhaps it was because of her own apparent fascination with him, or the resulting truth that she was, in fact, the first person who didn’t look at him like he was strange. like he was some sort of anomaly. no, odoti only ever looked toward him with admiration and curiosity and something vikram still thinks, to this day, is the closest he’s ever really felt to understanding genuine, unconditional love. or something he would think, at least, if he ever allowed himself the opportunity. he does not. 

as a young boy, vikram was possessed with a curiosity of his own. a morbid fascination, more like, and one he kept hidden from the likes of everyone around him — odoti included. he had an affinity for experimenting with chemicals — caustic cleaning supplies stolen from beneath the sink or shoved into his backpack from the janitor’s cart at school, various jugs and cartons of automotive fluids, anything he could get his hands on. he’d mix the solvents and solutions with food and leave them out for wildlife and feral animals, hidden away in inconspicuous places. and then vikram would do what he did best. observe. he’d take careful note of which chemicals sedated them and in which dosages, which caused behavioral changes or made them ill and which ceased vital functions altogether. when they did die, inquisitive young vikram would often inspect their corpses, oftentimes hiding them away and returning weeks or months later to collect the bones. he had quite the collection once he’d cleaned and bleached them all, and he insisted — to his parents’ horror — that it was all locally sourced roadkill to alleviate suspicion about their origins. it wasn’t that he thought what he was doing was shameful ; on the contrary, vikram saw nothing wrong with his behavior — but he expected everyone else to disagree, to misunderstand and misjudge him. he’d grown tired of being  scolded. it was easier, he found, to just be private.  

for years, vikram managed to maintain his morbid pastime. he grew bolder, mixing volatile compounds in glass measuring cups in his bedroom behind locked doors ; he fancied himself a scientist, a chemist. he was just shy of twelve years old when his experiments finally proved beyond  the realm of his control. as he would discover, it takes only moments for an open container of acetone to evaporate enough to cause a flash ignition if there is an open enough flame, even one so small as a candle, near enough by.  the curtains behind his desk were the first to catch and, for a moment, it was all vikram could do to stare on as the flames began to swallow up the fabric, lapping at the walls and warming his skin. he should’ve anticipated it — he wasn’t stupid, he’d read the warning labels on everything he touched meticulously and at least thrice over. but vikram could hear their voices as he watched the fire grow brighter and stronger — his parents, his teachers, his peers. scolding him, mocking him for being so foolish, so careless! they were screaming at him, their voices drowning out the roar of the flames and instead setting every single one of his nerves alight. 

by the time vikram snapped out of his haze, nearly half of his bedroom was engulfed in flames. and in truth, the only reason he’d been pulled from his internal cacophony was because he could feel the sting of the fire against his arms and flesh, the burn of smoldering cotton and sizzling flesh.  he didn’t tell them before he fled the house in a panic, made no effort to rouse his parents or his sister as he scrambled into the bushes  of the backyard and tried to calm down even as the blaze grew brighter. by the time he could see the glow through the kitchen windows, he could already hear  his father shouting. vikram was too far away to make out the words, but he sounded desperate, frantic. his mothers wails wove in between the curses, choked and gasping. this, vikram found, did not upset him, for they could not know that they need direct their anger at him. in fact, if only he could hide long enough, they’d never know the chance to scold him again. but odoti… he’ll never forget the sound of her screaming his name, how the sound of her fear was visceral enough to carry her plea through blistering walls. when emergency services finally arrived to put out the flames, the firefighters on the scene found him trembling in the brush with his  hands clamped over his ears and his eyes pressed shut in a pair of filthy, burnt pajamas. there were no other survivors.

with all of his remaining family residing out of the country and no viable guardians to speak of, vikram was a ward of the state by the time he reached his thirteenth birthday. he ended up in a boarding school for young men where he quickly flourished in academics but floundered socially  with the same haste. it was not the words of his peers that bothered him — vikram was used to mockery and he took no offense to childish insults and name-calling, even at the expense of his newfound scars and rumored history — but the physical harassment. that he should be intentionally injured in a facility meant for learning just or simply existing, a truth which he could not help, was nothing short of baffling to vikram. but he had a keen eye for observation  and an analytical mind and it did not take long for vikram to begin studying the behaviors of his peers, picking out details in micro-expressions and subtle changes in speech patterns and intonations as they engaged with each other. things he could’ve noticed ages ago, if only he’d bothered. things he wasn’t doing. he scrawled notes in his journal, practiced making faces back at himself in the bathroom mirror when there was no one around to see. 

slowly, carefully, he began to craft a newer version of himself based on his findings — a mask, the illusion of a more socially palatable vikram. polite and charming, always listening and never over-sharing; he learned when to smile and how to laugh loud enough to blend in but not so loud as to get noticed.  he learned when it was better to bite his tongue and withhold his opinions — in his case, the answer was often — and how to ignore the desire to crawl out of his skin at the slightest degree of platonic contact. more importantly, he learned how to wear this mask always. it helps in a way, he thinks even still, the level of control it allows him over how others respond to him, how they treat him. it allowed him the privilege of survival by means of camouflage in a cage full of predators ( perhaps maybe one day he could become the predator… ) until his eighteenth birthday, when the call of higher education pulled him beyond the walls of the boarding school where he’d spent most of his formative years. 

as it happened, vikram flourished in a different environment. nobody paid any mind to him at university and outside of lectures and labs; he spoke up enough during discussions that people knew who he was well enough, but nobody ever sought him out or made an effort to befriend him, not truly. this, he decided, was the ideal — the sweet spot socialization. it offered him a chance to observe without actively engaging. nobody could ever say who it was that invited him to parties, but at the same time, no one ever batted an eye at his presence, nursing a beer in the corner with a soft, disarming smile. the thing about college students, vikram discovered, was that they seldom had to be coerced into taking drugs. as he learned about prescriptions and pharmaceuticals in his lectures, he learned about street substances — stimulants, hallucinogens, an assortment of psychotropics — in crowded apartments and abandoned warehouses. between these parties and the lectures and his coursework and dissertations, vikram seldom had time for sleep. he adapted, swiftly learning to live without.

by the time he was twenty-five, dr. vikram jain possessed not one but two degrees — a doctor of medicine and pharmaceutical science. though he was not necessarily lacking in bedside manner, he ended up pursuing a career in clinical pharmacology that left him in a lab rather than a hospital, designing and conducting human trials for new drugs in development. and what might appear on the surface a dream job to vikram was rather a test in patience and self-control, a constant practice in biting his tongue to maintain an appearance of morality. it was a tease, is what it was, and vikram found he could only take so much before he grew bored of the limits and boundaries forced upon him by the pharmaceutical research company that hired him, of the countless medical boards churning out guidelines for ethical practices. unexpectedly adverse side effects for blood pressure pills or anti-inflammatories weren’t enough — vikram wanted more.

but the luxury of big pharma was that, at the very top of the ladder on which vikram remained perched on a relatively lower rung, were a bunch of wealthy bastards with morals just as disaligned as his own. one would need to, vikram supposed, to profit so unabashedly from such a corrupt industry. how he came to do freelance work for such individuals is neither here nor there ; a stroke of luck, a matter of simply being in the right place at the right time and being observant enough to catch just enough of a conversation to deem it worth inserting himself into. and if vikram had any woes about ennui, they vanished in the blink of an eye under the new employ of these men. he was allowed the creative freedom to explore experiments he’d only ever dreamed about under the simple condition that he’d administer very specific courses of very particular, mind-altering drugs at their beck and call. the financial compensation was alluring enough in its own right to make the offer worthwhile, but it was the true respect and appreciation for his particular skill set finally being recognized that made vikram realize he’d found his calling.

he can vividly recall the day they brought it to him — odette winters. vikram knew there was something special about her the moment he’d gotten his hands on her ; she was a fascinating specimen, reacting to his procedures in unexpected ways. her body did not take to the drugs like the others, nor did her mind ; no, it was a challenge to concoct the correct regimen to do the job, and vikram … well, he’d always enjoyed entertaining tasks that stimulated his brain. ( surely his fondness for her had nothing to do with the way her name sounded so terribly similar to the only one he’d ever missed, the way he could see a familiar spark in her eyes that caused his chest to ache. ) when it was whisked away from his lab the first time in a state of drooling half-sedation, he did not expect to miss it. he knew better than  to get attached to ferals and strays, that they never lasted very long in his hands. but she was a curious one, and his mind often wandered back to the file he’d compiled on her. a silly pastime of thought, nothing more.

until he heard a voice call out to him, shouting to him in a desperate plea one evening when he was prowling the streets of the city’s underbelly in search of something new to entertain him and suddenly vikram was taken back to 1999 — to a crisp september night and the acrid smell of smoke and the prickle of thorns in the bushes and the sound of his sister’s terrified screams. odoti. no, no, odette. it was kismet, vikram remembers thinking in that moment ; he was not a spiritual man by any means, nor did he ascribe much to the notion of fate, but there was no other explanation for why chance might have brought it to him twice unless it was meant to be there. meant to be with him. he protected it that night in the alley, and when he did, it felt like he’d been given a second chance. he brought her home, cleaned her up and tucked her in on his sofa with a heavy quilt and an even heavier dose of sedatives, their bitterness masked by the warm spice of a hot cup of chai. he wanted to keep it, in the way as a child he’d wanted to keep many of the animals he experimented on until they grew ill and perished. but this was different in a way that was unfamiliar for vikram. discomforting, even. for all that he desired to poke and prod at it — and he would — he also felt a strange compulsion to protect it. 

for years, he kept odette close ; it would come and go as it pleased in the same way a stray cat might, but he made sure she knew his door was always open — and that it was never wise to stray too far. he continued to test on it, insisting that every new session was another attempt at helping them, at making them better. he was a doctor, after all, someone to be trusted ; and more than that, he cared for it. and to a degree, vikram wanted it to rely on him if only for the guarantee it gave him that it would never leave. ❝ oh, but you cannot tell anyone what’s happened, can you? no, of course not, poor thing. they’d be so angry, wouldn’t they? so ashamed, your father. no, that simply won’t do. they don’t understand that it isn’t any fault of yours, that you’re perfect, odoti, they won’t — but i do. i’m the only one. i’m all you’ve got. ❞ whether it believed him or not, it remained close, decorating his office with its bizarre works of art and showing him affection the likes of which he’d never actually known but which felt innately impossible to refuse. for years, they existed like this. 

that is, until one unfortunate night when he’d had unexpected company in his lab in the form of a very particular set of employers. and while vikram had foreseen an unfortunate unfolding of events — he knew its mind well enough by now to expect it to react poorly to the sight of them the moment he heard the rumbling of familiar voices outside his door — he couldn’t have anticipated exactly how volatile it would become, nor how quickly. it attacked one of the men with all the blindly feral rage of a frightened animal ; a pet he’d not meant to keep, and here it was biting at the hand that feeds him! he could forgive it, of course, if only he could remove it from the man before it caused any serious damage. but, like an oiled snake, lithe and venomous and ready to strike, it slipped right through his arms. and then it turned on him. if he’d anticipated a knife in the chest from the creature he held dearest, he’d not known it would be so literal. 

the pain was searing, white-hot, as vivid crimson began to soak through the pristine white of a lab coat. but more than that, it felt almost karmic. hard-earned and well-deserved. he saw his sister in it for a second, in its eyes, and even with the hilt of a knife jutting from his pectoralis major, he couldn’t find it in himself to be angry with it. not even when it yanked the blade free before he could protest. not truly. ❝ out! get out! ❞ he’d insisted anyway, his words wet and crackling but sharp as he stumbled toward his desk, one hand wet and sticky as he clutched it to his chest in a desperate attempt to apply pressure to the wound. not in an attempt to scold her, but to protect her. she needed to leave ; the man on the floor had not come alone and he expected that they’d be back for her sooner than later. that someone would be back for her. but his dot was a stubborn creature, and one of the last things vikram can recall is the sight of her tearful face and the sound of her apologies as she fluttered over him, desperate to help. ❝ do not cry, ❞ he managed to mumble, dizzy and hoarse, ❝ remember… remember what i said. ‘s not your fault, odoti. ❞

and that was the last time he would see it. when vikram woke in a hospital bed less than a day later,it was to a swift and unfortunate series of discoveries ; not only had she managed to puncture his lung, but in the process of calling for aid, she’d gotten herself detained. institutionalized. of course he had no intention of pressing charges, but they’d deemed his odette a danger to itself and others and they’d kept it, stolen it away from him as if it had not been thriving under his care before the incident. life went on for a few months following. vikram had never been the healthiest himself, in spite of his profession ; recovery was slow and unpleasant and the break from work it forced upon him was torture for idle hands and an overworked mind. and even when he could return to his day job in clinical pharmacology, it was several weeks still before he could return to his true passion. he’d only just begun to dip his toes back in when the outbreak hit new york.

a man with a skill set such as vikram’s was invaluable in a world as lawless and anarchic as his had become ; he’d been selected and sought out by one of his private clients, offered security and protection in exchange for his medical expertise at access to a camp of survivors stationed at the hotel elysee in midtown. seeing an opportunity and no reason to refuse, vikram remained at the hotel elysee for several months ; the men he chose to align with were a vicious lot, cruel and thieving, but their efforts meant that vikram lived in luxury. his suite was not a modest one, and he’d been gifted an additional adjoined set of rooms to transform into a makeshift infirmary of sorts. what he did behind the locked door of that second room was a business entirely his own. he thrived in this camp through the winter, all the way up until the moment of its collapse — a power struggle that ended in foolish decisions and bloodshed and rendered the hotel overrun by biters. it was by the skin of his teeth that vikram managed to escape, but he was fortunate in that he’d already had his belongings packed. he’d seen it coming. perhaps not to this degree, but he’d anticipated some sort of catastrophe all the same. 

it was not chance but a fortunate tip that led him to the wexley, received from one jeremiah rose — a contact he’d not anticipated coming across in the wilds of this new city, though he should’ve guessed the other man was resilient enough to survive. he does not know what to expect upon his arrival, but vikram has grown accustomed to a certain standard of living in the new world order, and he has every intention of gaining that back. 

headcanons.

vikram would occasionally engage in non-consensual ( but explicitly platonic and non-sexual ) behavior with his test subjects while they were sedated ; this self-soothing behavior for the touch-starved man included draping their arms around him in an embrace or climbing up beside them on the exam chair he’s strapped them to and resting his head on their shoulder for a while.

vikram has moderate scarring on the left half of his body from burns received during the fire he started in his home as a child, mostly spanning his shoulder, chest and upper arm. these are mostly hidden by his wardrobe choices, although if one were to look closely enough at his collar they might catch a glimpse of the glossy, disfigured skin creeping up his neck. 

he suffers from a connective tissue disorder that causes chronic pain he keeps under control with a careful cocktail of drugs for himself, and he made sure to utilize the raiders from his previous camp to ensure he had an ample supply, even after he left the hotel elysee. on his worst days, vikram employs the use of a cane, but years of practiced control over his expression mean that his pain is carefully concealed.

this condition is what complicated his recovery from pneumothorax after being stabbed in the chest; he still experiences sporadic, stabbing chest pains that have been known to steal his breath away for moments at a time and his lungs tend to rattle a bit at times if he breathes too deeply, lending to a dry cough he often smothers into a handkerchief.

supply list.

one nondescript black duffel bag containing the following:

a variety of various pharmaceuticals ( narcotics / opiates / stimulants / muscle relaxers / cns depressants / antibiotics / anti-inflammatories / mood stabilizers )

an extensive first aid kit ( including but not limited to gloves, gauze, various bandages and dressings, medical tape, tweezers, scissors, antiseptic, antibiotic ointment, isopropyl alcohol, several needles and surgical thread )

a rubber apron and a pair of reusable elbow-length gloves 

two changes of clothes / three pairs of socks / a sweater / a lab coat 

a personal supply of nutritional supplements and vitamins

a beretta 30x tomcat with 32 rounds of ammunition

custom made support cane with engraved handle and concealed 18’ stiletto blade

[thebirdandhersong]

songbird's life sparknotes (both joyful and painful moments) from the past little while:

read Brian Doyle for the first time and it broke me :')) it BROKE me. If you haven't read his work, I highly recommend. That man has a tender voice much like Mary Oliver and Frederick Buechner.

read a bajillion things (book count: 72), a third of which were picture books about nature

I had one really bad day where I broke down WEEPING because on top of losing my favourite sweater (a gift from a good friend who moved away -- every time I wear it, I feel like I'm being hugged by her), being overwhelmed by schoolwork and job applications, and encountering Worse boy problems, I found that someone had been stealing from my one-pint box of French vanilla ice cream (which was literally the only thing holding me together). This hit so hard when I found one scoop's worth of ice cream left in that container

found my favourite sweater (THANK GOD)

read a bunch of Robert Macfarlane and John Koenig and Jenny Offill and Mary Oliver

listened to a lot of acoustic indie soft sad music and then had to pull myself together and listen to acoustic indie soft happy music to feel better

found that I did not, in fact, enjoy Paradise Lost, or Milton, in general

had to force myself to stop listening to Lizzy McAlpine and Phoebe Bridgers because that ish was breaking my heart

got my heart broken even more exponentially by real life, non-musical events that were unfortunate and annoying and caused a great deal of inner turmoil

learned to play guitar! and am learning to finger-pick the strings (a difficult endeavour that I have yet to master)

survived midterms. Barely

led Holy Week devotions at the dorm and LOVED it

was chosen to present a paper at the department student conference (!!!!!!!!) so am working on that now

lots of family and friend time!

was driven around for 30 min by the world's worst driver (godson) and thought I was going to die or throw up. I did neither, fortunately

cried at every Christian club meeting and church service I attended (I kid you not) because I was overwhelmed by God's grace and loving-kindness despite Everything. also partly because Everything was a lot

LOTS of walks to the sea!

Sunday mornings playing guitar under the trees. You guys it's so good it really heals my heart :')

ICE CREAM DATES WITH THE GIRLS

the boy situation got, astonishingly, Worse and then better and then even WORSE. when I was asking for prayer a second time here during Lent, it was specifically because I had two-ish days of straight up agony. It was not a good time.

the boy situation 1 (spoiler: a second one appeared. Lol what is life) ended up resolving in: the boy I was horribly in love with (the one mentioned in previous posts) is semi-dating my good friend now

the boy situation 2 (a recent and unexpected development that has caused a surprising deep stab of pain! fun times) has now resolved as of today in: I'm literally never opening my heart to anyone ever again :) I cannot deal with this anymore :) I cannae DO THIS :) God help me (a fool and a clown) :) I CAN'T TAKE THIS NO MORE

however God is good and I am resolutely holding onto hope. The sun is here, the cherry blossoms are blooming splendidly, and I have school and work and future things to worry about!

[train-of-the-day]

Train of the day is: Metrovagonmash Ev! ( X )

These trains were ordered by Hungary in 1966, and were put in use in 1970, with 36 additional units coming in '72. Cars number 100, 101, 102, 103, 104(named "Tamara") are slightly different than the others, most notably because of their inconsistent handholds and the fact that they had neon lights installed instead of the traditional ones with light bulbs (nicknamed "boobielights")that was prevalent from 105 on.

Later, new units were ordered, these were given the name Ev3. They had stronger engines, but had less standing space as a closet had been installed into the driver's cab, extending it to the first door. Official records(no source found!:( ) state it has just as much as the Ev, but obviously, their floorspaces are not identical.

Between 2000 and 2002, 45 units were refurbished and were given the name "Barbiemetro", which was only applicable to 2 units, as the rest had off-white interiors. A series of red-yellow-white lights were also installed on the exteriors. Red means the unit has faulty traction motors, yellow means the brakes are under pressure, and white means the doors are open. Aside from all the lights getting replaced with LEDs, they got an increase in standing space and seats.

While they are an iconic vehicle of the Budapest metro system, the one thing they were notorious for was getting caught on fire, as the interior coating was flammable. It happened so often that a website had been made counting the days from the last time line M3 caught on fire.