#Module welding

[semcoinfratechworld]

Exploring Robotic Welding: How Automation is Shaping Module Manufacturing?

In the dynamic world of manufacturing, accuracy and productivity are critical. This is especially true for the fabrication of modules in a variety of industries, where welding is essential. This article will examine the cutting-edge welding technologies used in the manufacturing of modules, emphasizing the specifications and technical aspects that guarantee the best possible outcomes.

Robotic Precision: An Overview of Module Welding

Advanced module welding is primarily focused on robotic precision and automation. Moving the module to a designated station and conveying the equipment are the first steps in the process. This is where a highly developed positioning system comes into play. Once the module is precisely located, a special system is started.

The system calls the appropriate response program after reading the code information specific to that module. This is when the amazing servo three-axis mechanism steps in, using a camera to precisely locate the welding position. Notably, everything is perfectly aligned because these positions were decided upon before the welding process.

Each junction point's height is measured using laser technology, which ensures an unmatched level of precision. Equipped with this data, the servo three-axis modifies the distance as needed before starting the welding operation. Furthermore, the welding room is equipped with a watchful monitoring system. The machinery immediately resets all tooling and stops the welding process if an abnormality is found.

Technical Specifications and Requirements

In the manufacturing of modules, welding is a difficult task that calls for exacting specifications and a sharp eye for technical details. It is crucial to make sure that the laser's light path is unobstructed during the welding process when using vibrating mirror laser welding. The pressing block and the welding seam trajectory must be separated by more than 3 mm.

A well-thought-out fixture is used to shield the module from exposure during welding, except the bar sheet. Additionally, this prevents welding slag from interfering with explosion-proof valves. To further improve safety precautions, the pipeline next to the welding fixture has a flame-retardant sleeve installed.

Each pole column's compression mechanism is independent to avoid cell-to-cell short circuits, and insulation is used to preserve the system's integrity. To guarantee optimal functionality, there should also be no space between the busbar and the pole.

Meeting the Needs: Precision and Security

In module welding, requirements must be met precisely. By matching an external rivet circle or pole column feature, the system makes up for any deviation. The precise welding coordinates made possible by this compensation guarantee that the welding procedure is precise and in line with the pre-established positions.

There are anti-deviating mechanisms for offsets and defocusing in place to prevent problems caused by severe weld offsets and defocusing. The alarm is set off if any of these happen. During the addressing process, the addressing data can be linked to module information and is stored locally for improved visibility.

Moreover, oxidation is avoided during welding by using protective nitrogen. In addition, the system has an automated switch and alarm that activate when the protective gas runs out. This feature aids in reminding operators to quickly replace the gas.

The FPC Welding Platform: Increasing Productivity

The FPC welding platform greatly increases efficiency during the welding process. It is a flexible addition to the manufacturing process because it is made to accept separate welding tooling.

A CCD vision system is used to pinpoint the exact location of an FPC once it is inserted into the welding fixture. A laser ranging sensor determines the height of the FPC. The welding program is started after the vibrating mirror modifies the power as necessary. The FPC is welded by a robot that has a welding head attached to it. An industrial dust collector effectively filters the soot produced during this process.

Conclusion

Innovative welding techniques are changing the face of module manufacturing. These cutting-edge methods provide unparalleled safety, effectiveness, and precision. They play a crucial role in guaranteeing the accuracy and efficiency of welding procedures, opening the door for further advancements in the manufacturing industry.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

more words for your fight scenes (pt. 2)

Arrive

admission, alight, appearance, arrival, billow, butt in, come in, cross, disembark, embark, enter, foray, get back, get on, go ahead, immigrate, influx, intrude, invasion, lance, light, lunge, penetrate, pierce, progress, reach, return, stalk, trespass, turn up

Illegal behavior

assault, backstab, bleed, break, bribe, buy, conspire, contravene, delinquency, disobey, extortion, felony, foul, graft, hara-kiri, holdup, imposture, infringe, intrigue, kickback, larceny, loot, misconduct, misdeed/misdemeanor, offense, pick, piracy, poach, rip off, rip-off, robbery, shenanigans, smear campaign, speculation, stick up, take, theft, treason, victimize, violation

Join physically

link, merge, mingle, piece, splice, tuck, unite, weld, yoke

Jump

bounce, clear, dive, gallop, hop, lunge, plunge, rear, recoil, skip, start, vault

Leave

abandon, back, blow, bolt, break, break out, cringe, dart, depart, desert, deviate, digress, disappearance, distance, draw back, ebb, embark, exit, fall back, flee, fly, get along, get out, goodbye, go out, jilt, light out, maroon, parting, push off/push on, quit, recoil, renunciation, resign, retire, run, scram, segregation, shake off, shrink, strike out, takeoff, threads, trousers, vacate, withdrawal

Prepare physically

acclimate, accustom, braid, brush up, bundle, coat, disguise, domesticate, dress, embattle, fine-tune, fix up, fortify, gear, gild, gloss, grease, habituate, knit, make up, modulate, overhaul, pad, plaster, polish, prepare, preserve, primp, reform, refrigerate, regenerate, rejuvenate, renovate, round, set, shine, smear, square, strain, toughen, training, weather

Pull

drag, extract, lug, pluck, schlep, strain, tow, twist, wrench, yank

Push

advance, back, barge in/barge into, billow, blow up, bulge, burst, compress, crowd, crush, depress, drive, extrude, force, indent, insinuate, jam, jolt, knead, mash, mob, notch, poke, prod, protrude, pump, repel, roll, shove, slam, squish, tax, tip, trample, wrestle, wring

Weapon

A-bomb, armament(s), arrow, atom bomb, battery, bullet, catapult, defense, explosive, firearm, gun, missile, nuclear weapon, ordnance, rocket

NOTE

The above are concepts classified according to subject and usage. It not only helps writers and thinkers to organize their ideas but leads them from those very ideas to the words that can best express them.

It was, in part, created to turn an idea into a specific word. By linking together the main entries that share similar concepts, the index makes possible creative semantic connections between words in our language, stimulating thought and broadening vocabulary. Writing Resources PDFs

Source ⚜ Writing Basics & Refreshers ⚜ On Vocabulary ⚜ part 1 Writing Notes: Fight Scenes ⚜ Word Lists: Fight ⚜ Pain

[3ardnpc]

The Name of Love

SUMMARY: You knew him by three names: Mando, Din, and finally, riduur.

PAIRING: din djarin x gn!reader

WORD COUNT: 6.9k

WARNINGS: fluff, angst, canon typical violence, blood, hypothermia, happy ending

A/N: a repost from my previous blog! i've only written 2 full din fics so far but this is def my favorite one <3 thanks again to @xiadeptus for beta reading this

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You first knew him as the Mandalorian, the stoic and aloof bounty hunter that drifted in and out of Tatooine looking for work or ship repairs. The glinting armor was hard not to notice under the scorching twin suns, along with his infamous reputation that followed in whispers—whispers which mainly revolved around the strange, green child he carried around in a bag and the fact that he never showed his face. 

When you first got the job at Peli’s garage, thanks to the favor she owed your mother, the sight of the Mandalorian descending the ramp of his beaten-up Razor Crest had you slipping behind a couple of stacked crates with the rest of the quivering pit droids. He strode down the ramp toward your boss who was already reaching for the green child trailing after him. 

“There’s my little guy!” She exclaimed, scooping him up and cradling him in her arms. The child cooed and clasped her finger in his three-fingered grasp. His keeper watched on with hands on his hips; the helmet remained solely focused on the child. 

“We need a repair,” he said, the rasp in his voice still remaining despite the modulator. 

“Sure thing but, just so you know, it’ll cost you a little extra this time. Got a new hire.” She jerked her thumb in your direction. 

You took it as your cue to reveal yourself, noting the way his helmet turned, carefully looking you up and down, and his hand slowly moved toward the blaster at his waist, like he wasn’t above shooting the harmless mechanic’s assistant and a couple of droids. You lifted both hands, stained with oil, as a show of goodwill.  

“Aw, relax, Mando,” Peli drawled, swatting the air with her nonchalant attitude. “They’re not a droid.” 

His hand slipped off the handle, but remained at his side, ready to draw if necessary. 

You sent him a friendly half-smile and his gloved fingers twitched. 

“Fine.”

The remainder of the day was spent repairing the left wing and engine of his ship, which looked like it had seen the losing side of a gunfight, and you couldn’t help but wonder how he managed to limp down to Tatooine without crashing and burning once he broke through the atmosphere. 

The job would have been faster if you had some assistance from the droids, but Peli made it clear they weren’t allowed anywhere near the ship or the Mandalorian, making his disdain for them abundantly clear. You wondered the whole day what a droid could have done to make him hate even the smallest of droids. The theories you built in your head ran wild, ranging from a nasty betrayal by a trusted ally to tripping him in a crowded cantina, embarrassing him so badly he vowed to never show his face ever again.

You leaned against the rope of the swing suspending you off the ground, taking a break from welding metal back together, and watched the Mandalorian move below your feet. He walked with purpose, something a fearsome bounty hunter with a widespread reputation was expected to do; every step was carefully calculated like a predator hunting prey. Behind him was the child clumsily waddling, as fast as his legs could carry him, after the man. 

Your lips curved into a soft smile while observing the dichotomy of the two. It warmed your heart to see how attached the child was to his guardian. More questions formed in your mind about their relationship; the rumors didn’t contain the exact details of how the two came to be together. 

Maybe the child is his biological son and beneath all the armor is green, wrinkly skin and comically large ears tucked into the helmet, you joked to yourself. 

You pressed one of the buttons on the side of your swing to lower yourself to the ground. Your feet touched the floor, but you didn’t get up. 

“Your ship should be up and running in no time.” 

“Thank you for your help.” 

“No pro- Oh!” You exclaimed when something poked at your leg. A three-fingered hand was tapping your leg; large black eyes gazed up at you. You cooed, “Hello there, little guy.” 

He tugged at the cuff of your pants, waving his arms in the air. You waved back, fighting back the urge to smooth your fingers over his floppy ears.

“He wants you to hold him.” 

“Ah,” you chuckled, cheeks warming. You didn’t have much experience with children; in fact, you didn’t know the first thing about caring for one. They had so many needs, so many different ways of communicating them too. The pressure to mold them into upstanding beings—it was just too much. But, you could definitely hold a child, especially one as cute as him. 

You pulled him into your arms and he immediately found the strings of your shirt vastly entertaining.

“I think he likes me,” you quipped. 

The child’s babble sounded like a positive response. 

“Me too,” the Mandalorian said, leaning against a crate and watching the two of you. 

There were multiple rotations between their visits. Each visit brought a new scratch, ding, or completely wrecked engine that made you look on in disbelief, but you were eager to see the two nonetheless. They brought stories of their adventures, bounties, and new people they met. 

You would be the first to greet them, standing at the base of the ship’s ramp with a wide grin and many questions budding on the tip of your tongue. 

“Hey.” 

The modulated voice made you snap out of your thoughts. 

“Yes, sir?” 

You could hear him huff behind the modulator. He said to just call him Mando the first time you called him sir, but you never picked it up, finding it too entertaining to hear his exasperated sighs. 

“Want to get off this planet? I’ve got a job proposition.” 

Your goodbyes were easy—a hug for Peli, head pats for each droid—and suddenly, you found yourself sitting in the cockpit of the ship you had been repairing for the past few rotations. 

You quickly learned space was cold and you were not prepared. The thin clothes you were used to on Tatooine wouldn’t cut it anymore and it left you shivering in the passenger seat. 

You sunk down your seat, wrapping your arms around yourself to find a semblance of warmth. 

You weren’t sure what your purpose was in the time between ports, but even if you knew, you were frozen to your seat and unable to move without feeling stiff. 

Soon, you fell asleep, lulled by the stars and the sound of beeps and hollow groans of an old ship.

You woke to fabric being draped over your body and a glimmer of beskar. 

The hands over the fabric paused; the Mandalorian stepped back, hands returning to his side, flexing at his waist. “Should have told me you were cold.”

You gripped the fabric and realized it was one of his thick, woolen capes which smelled of caf beans and leather. You resisted the urge to nestle your cheek against the wool and savor the comfort it offered.

“I didn’t want to be a bother.” 

“You’re a part of my crew now,” he said firmly. “We take care of each other.” 

Your heart stuttered, fingers curled tighter around his cape, and you muttered a pathetic, “Yeah.” 

From the kindness he offered, you made a silent promise at that moment; as long as the three of you were together, you would do anything to protect them. 

It wouldn’t be long before you realized he felt the same. 

—

Then, you learned his name, his real name—Din Djarin. It had been a while into your partnership. You learned far more about the two than your theories could have imagined—his Creed, his force-wielding child. 

The three of you had a good routine. He would scout out bounties while you either worked on the ship or found other mechanic work elsewhere if the ship was (miraculously) undamaged. Grogu would be passed between the two of you. If Mando’s bounty was too dangerous for him to follow you’d take him for the day, letting him pass you random tools and praising him for helping. And at the end of the day, the three of you reconvened with separate checks that would go toward supplies and other basic necessities. If it was a particularly rough day, you would be forcing him onto a crate and checking his wounds. 

“I’m fine,” he would insist, attempting to push your wandering hands aside. But, you could see the unsteady shake of his hand and the sliver of skin and blood showing on his waist where he was cut. 

It was a simple routine, but it worked. You had no complaints… 

…Well, just one.

“ Kriff, we’re gonna crash!” You cried, shutting your eyes to avoid seeing your imminent doom that took the form of two towering cliffs of ice far too close together for the ship to slip through. The two tailing bounty hunter ships had followed you from Nevaro, after accusing Mando of stealing a bounty from them, which he rightfully caught. 

You knew working for a bounty hunter wasn’t going to be easy, comfortable, or safe—but, you trusted him. He was good at what he did and you never doubted it. 

The ship turned on its side, jerking your entire body to the right, and left you at the mercy of the belt across your body to keep you in your seat. You could hear the scrape of ice across the bottom of the ship and cringed, knowing you’d have to repair that (if you even made it out of this alive). 

When the ship slipped free from the narrow gap and straightened. you let out a breath and opened your eyes. Snow, miles, and miles of it, touched everything your eyes could see. 

He glanced at you over his shoulder. If you could see his face, you’d guess it was smug. 

You were getting better at reading your faceless partner. He didn’t say much but his body did with every head tilt and shrug. And you would catch yourself spending a lot of time just observing him. 

“You’ve gotta stop piloting like that,” you huffed, cradling your head when you feel the slightest throb. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days.”

“Don’t plan on it,” came his monotone response. 

The ship cruised, his helmet scanning the horizon, and kept low in the meantime. There was no sign of the other two ships. 

You unbuckled your seatbelt and stood; a wave of dizziness had you staggering. When your hand flew out to catch on to something, you found his, already reaching out to steady you in his strong grasp. The brush of his thumb over your knuckles made your breath catch.

“I have to lie down.” To stop your heart from racing at his subtle touches. 

You thought you had gotten used to it by now—the way he made you feel safe. Whether it was his hand hovering over the base of your spine as he guided you through a crowded market or how he would always position himself between you and whatever shady character he had dealings with. The small gestures piled up and toyed with your mind. You understood the signs—heart racing, nervous tension in your chest—the budding symptoms of love. 

“We’re not in the clear yet.” 

You brushed the heat crawling over your neck off and said, “Can’t we land somewhere and wait them out a while? I’m gonna be sick if you start flying upside down.”

The beginning of his argument was cut off by the cockpit door opening. You slipped out and down the ladder into the cargo hold. Some crates shifted to the right of the ship as a result of the sharp turn. You weren’t concerned with them as much as you were with your makeshift bed space, a flimsy sleeping bag and some blankets, which were also flung off to the side. One of your blankets was stuck under a crate, too heavy for you to lift by yourself. 

You groaned, weakly tugging at the fabric peeking out beneath. You were cold, tired, and sick—you already hated this planet. 

You heard a curse from above and Mando shouted, “Hold onto something!” 

You didn’t have time to react before the ship was nose-diving, throwing you against the wall. You clung to the ladder as the ship's sporadic movements jostled your entire body. It continued for a few more seconds before settling and the engines cut out. Everything was finally still, except your heart. 

You heard the creaks of ice settling beneath the ship, then cracks. It wasn’t long before the ice gave way to the weight, shattering into a cavern below and dragging the ship with it. 

You don’t remember hitting your head, just the scream that came before it. But, when you finally came to, numb and confused, Mando was rattling your shoulders with a panicked voice.

“Wake up.” 

You could have sworn in your daze there was a desperate ‘please’ added at the end. 

You groaned, peeling your eyes open, “Mando?” 

He sighed like a massive weight was lifted off of him. “Yeah,” he said, there was a hint of a smile in his voice. He carefully slipped his arms behind your shoulders and knees. “It’s me. I’ve got you.”

You were half aware of him lifting you, too dazed by the cold settling under your skin and making a home deep in your bones.  

The hull was dusted with snow and frost. You spotted a large hole in the side of the ship, crudely covered with a tarp and some crates. 

“Got t’ fix,” you mumbled, leaning your head against his shoulder pauldron. You didn’t even know where to start with something that large on this barren planet. If you weren’t so cold, the dread would have set in, realizing you were stranded on a barren planet with little resources to dig yourselves up from a cold grave. 

“Not right now,” he grunted, kicking your toolbox aside—the one he gifted you on Nevaro after you eyed it at a stall for too long. He approached the small corner beside his bunk, which was caved in, where there was little snow piled. He set you down, supporting the back of your head with his hand as he laid you against the wall. “I’ll be right back.” 

You could’ve protested if your mouth or eyes didn’t feel frozen shut; all you wanted to do was drift off.

“Hey, hey,” he said. He ripped a glove off and pressed his warm hand to your cheek. “Don’t fall asleep.”

You moaned, pushing closer to the warmth, and tried to focus on his visor. 

“There you go. Good.” 

With your thoughts slowly catching up, you glanced around his shoulders, not seeing a floating pram anywhere. You wanted to get up and rush around him in search of the child, but all you could muster was a sharp turn of your head that still sent pain down your neck. “Where’s-”

Mando brought your face back to him. His steady voice pulled you out of your panic. “He’s fine. He’s up in the cockpit; I’ll bring him down after I get you some blankets.” 

“Okay.” You rested your head against the wall and watched as he untied his cape and slipped it over your shoulders, tucking it close around your body. 

He disappeared up the ladder. You heard his faint footsteps, scouring the upper level. He returned soon, a few blankets slung over his shoulder and Grogu tucked in his other arm. 

He set Grogu down and moved you forward just enough for him to sling more blankets over your shoulders.

If you could feel your face, maybe you’d laugh at how ridiculous you looked and felt, like a small child being coddled by a worried parent. But, he wasn’t a worried parent, he was your employer—your incredibly kind and caring employer, who you often dreamt of as more than an employer, more than a friend. 

“Aren’t y-you,” you chattered, “cold, too?” 

You worried about him under all that shining armor; he could be hiding an injury like he always did, pretending he was fine and limping off somewhere else to lick his wounds alone. You wished he wouldn’t be so stubborn all the time. 

Grogu crawled into your lap, playing with the tips of your frozen fingers. Mando said something about his armor keeping him warm, but you didn’t register any of it when his hands enveloped yours—calloused and warm.  

“Try to keep your arms and legs moving,” he said, massaging the palm of your hands. Then he directed his attention to Grogu. “Okay, kid, keep your buir warm. I’m going to repair the ship.” 

“Hm?” You cocked your head at the word. Sure, he liked sneaking Mando’a words into his sentences from time to time—sometimes calling you mesh’la or cyar’ika, which made you blush because of how sincere he sounded—but you just assumed they were nicknames. You assumed buir meant babysitter or something along those lines, too. “Stealing my job, Mando?” you quipped instead. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

When his hands slipped from yours, your fingers twitched, almost asking him not to go. You would warm up faster if he were with you.

He slipped past the tarp, into the cavern of snow. Grogu’s babble drew your attention; his arms were raised.

You apologized, “Sorry, kid, I’d lift you up, but my arms are a bit sore right now.”

He continued to babble as he found comfort nestled in your lap instead. You rested your head against the wall and stared at the opening where Mando left, still feeling the ghost of his warmth on your hand. 

The minutes you spent slowly flexing your hands and feet paid off; your strength was slowly returning. Grogu crawled off of your lap and watched as you, with the grace of a newborn calf, pushed yourself onto unsteady feet.

“Okay, kid, let’s go help your dad.” You scooped him up and braced yourself with Mando’s cape, making sure the two of you were snug beneath the fabric before pushing aside the tarp and stepping outside into the frigid weather. 

The cold winds were the first to greet you; already, your cheeks were growing numb. Grogu let out a disapproving grunt, clearly not favoring the cold either. 

You stayed close to the side of the ship in case your legs gave out and rounded the tail end before finding Mando, with frost coating his armor and hands on his hip, staring at a jumble of wires hanging from an open panel. 

Upon seeing his father, Grogu cheered in your arms, alerting the Mandalorian whose head snapped in your direction. 

He was already approaching you before declaring, “You need to rest.” 

“I can’t cozy up in there while you’re out here all by yourself. Look at you.” You drew a line in the frost coating his chest plate. “You must be freezing under all that.” 

“I said I’m-”

“Fine,” you finished. “I know, I know—you’re always fine, Mando.” 

You were growing tired of his stubborn attitude concerning his well-being and of standing for so long. You were beginning to sway without realizing it, but Mando’s quick hand on your shoulder steadied you. 

“I got you,” he murmured. He took Grogu from you and moved to your side. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, silently guiding you back into the ship’s hull and onto the spot where the blankets were piled. 

Once you were settled, you expected him to wander back out but, to your surprise, he began detaching pieces of his armor. 

You watched, mouth agape, as one by one the shining beskar revealed a dark flight suit that molded with the contours of his body. The helmet, of course, stayed.

He eased himself onto the floor beside you and wrapped the three of you beneath the blankets. Your eyes widened when his arm pressed against yours. You dared to rest your head against his shoulder; you relished in the comfort of his presence, finally feeling warmer than ever. His body began to relax gradually with your head on his shoulder and his chest rose and fell in an even rhythm. 

With Grogu resting in your lap it almost felt like the three of you were a family, settling in after a long day. 

“You’re always protecting everyone,” you said, exhaustion beginning to creep over you once again. “We’re a crew, right? Let me take care of you too.” 

You knew the irony in saying that while he was taking care of you, but you hoped he would remember it. 

He slipped his gloves off to flex the stiff muscles. “I’m,” he started, “just not used to this.” 

“Having a crew?” You guessed. 

“Having someone care.”

Your mouth dropped open with a response dying on your tongue. Instead, you resolved to take his hand and curl your fingers through his. They were stiff from the cold, but relaxed once your thumb ran over the ridges of his knuckles. 

“You’re a good man and I trust you with my life. Don’t think for a second I don’t care about you, Mando. I-” You cut yourself off.

You what? Loved him? Kriff. He just started opening up to you. Telling him you were in love with him right after would surely make him run in the other direction. You doubted he felt the same. You could read him, but not that well. 

“Din.”

You snapped out of your thoughts, relieved he didn’t attempt to figure out what you were going to say. “What?” 

“My name’s Din.” 

He was looking at you now. Maybe if you squinted hard enough you could catch a glimpse of his eyes behind his darkened visor, but you wouldn’t disrespect his Creed and you didn’t think you could handle seeing his strong gaze, boring into you. 

So, you turned your eyes down toward your intertwined hands; you tested his name on your tongue and smiled. 

Getting off the ice planet took work—a mix of frustration and determination—and you swore to get a nice vacation on some far, far away planet, preferably with a warm, sunny beach. 

But, the ship needed heavier repairs, forcing the three of you to find the nearest planet, Trask, for maintenance. A dock worker was quick to offer his services, charging more than necessary, once you landed. 

You frowned when Din agreed without hesitation, dropping the credits into his slimy hands. You could have rolled up your sleeves and got to work yourself with better equipment at hand, but Din insisted on the three of you getting some real rest after the stress of the past three days. 

The place was seedy, smelled of fish, and you couldn’t shake the feeling of unwanted eyes stalking the three of you as you passed through the quiet harbor. You and Din walked on either side of Grogu’s floating pram. 

You, with a scowl glued to your face, pulled your cape, one of Din’s, tighter around yourself. The toolbox Din gifted you was clasped in your hand, deemed too precious to leave behind while strangers fixed the ship. You leaned into Din and whispered, “We should just go back to Tatooine for the repairs; I can do it.”

“I know you can, but the ship’s too damaged and you know it.”

You huffed. 

Grogu mimicked your huff, putting on his best grouchy face, and your frown lightened into a smile, pointing at the boy. “See—even he agrees with me.”

Din let out an amused hum. “When did the two of you decide to team up against me?” 

“We hold secret meetings when you’re out and conspire against you.” 

“Guess I should watch my back,” he deadpanned. 

Night fell quickly on Trask and before you knew it, the streets were oddly quiet, only lit by dim street lights in rounded sections. 

Din’s stride grew cautious; his helmet subtly turned to scan the area. 

You also took caution, straining your ears for anything out of place, but all you heard was the nearby tide pulling in and out. 

There was a shift in the gravel behind you. Din’s hand shot out to shove aside Grogu’s pram, sending him off to a nearby stack of crates, and he could only brush your shoulder before turning and deflecting a blaster shot with his vambrace. The heat from the blast radiated in the air around you. 

“Run!” He barked, ripping his blaster from its holder and firing off a shot into the dark. 

Your feet hesitated and your heart stuttered when another blast hit his chest plate, forcing a grunt from him. But, the sound of worried coos snapped you out of it. You turned and ran toward Grogu who watched the fight with large eyes.  

Three figures emerged from the darkness, dressed like pirates, and armed with unrelenting blasters all aimed at Din.  

“Give up the armor, Mando.” One of them demanded.

“It’s time to hide, okay?” You said, tucking Grogu into the pram. Your thumb brushed over the mythosaur necklace he always wore like a lucky charm and you were praying it would work. You pressed the button on the outside of his pram to shut it. 

The fight was coming to a close by the time you turned back, much to your relief. Two were knocked out cold, sprawled across the floor while the remaining one continued to fight. Both of them resorted to hand-to-hand combat after they managed to disarm one another. 

Just when you thought you could relax, the remaining pirate pulled out a blade and took a swipe at Din, plunging it deep into his side and back out. Your breathing stopped when Din staggered and fell to his knees. 

The pirate grabbed him by his cowl, pressing the bloodied blade to his throat, and sneered, “Give up.” 

Your hands shook. Not like this, you thought. You couldn’t— wouldn’t —lose him. You dropped your toolbox and fell to your knees, wrenching it open to look for anything that would help. You pulled the largest item free, the hammer, and ran. Adrenaline pushed your feet toward the two and, putting all your weight into it, you swung at the pirate's head, sending him stumbling back.

Only dazed, the pirate sent you a menacing glare, lips pulled back into a snarl, and spat out curses, promising you’d regret it. 

Your hand clenched the hammer, heart racing, ready to swing again as he prepared to lunge at you. Not even fear or the promise of death would stop you from saving Din.  

Then, something ignited, cold and droning like echoes of the abyss, behind the pirate. 

You smelt the smoke before the nauseating burnt flesh. It made your stomach roll.

A haunting glow emitted from the pirate's chest before it was sliced clean through. He fell—lifeless—with a thud, crimson leaking from the gash and pooling around him. 

Din stood over him—one hand clutching his waist and the other holding the darksaber. His chest rose and fell; his helmet was fixated on the body. You could hear the leather of his gloves cry as his hand tightened around the hilt of the saber.  

You never saw him use it before. It looked more like an accessory on him rather than a weapon. He once explained its bloody history and how he came to acquire it. The weight of its importance haunted him, a burden he never wished to bear. 

“Oh, Maker,” you cried, rushing toward him. The darksaber unignighted; the heavy atmosphere disappeared along with it and time continued. You dropped the hammer and pressed your hand to his wound. Blood seeped through his fingers and onto yours. 

He grunted, “I’m…” 

Your wavering voice saying his name made him pause. 

“Let’s get out of the street,” he said instead. He waved Grogu’s pram forward with the controls on his vambrace. It opened, revealing the whimpering child. 

The three of you limped all the way to an inn. When the innkeeper sent you a weary look, you demanded the first room available and a medical kit—whatever the price. After slapping the credits on the counter, you snatched up the kit and dragged Din toward the room, not caring about the drops of blood staining the hallway.  

The room was small and gray; a single bed set in the middle of the room, a nightstand on either side, and a fresher. You eased him onto the bed, where he slumped and groaned.

The medical kit was meager; a suture kit, antiseptic wipes, and a few bacta patches, but it would do. You dashed to the fresher to wash your hands. You scrubbed them viciously, watching his blood run down the sink. Tears blurred your vision. The red wouldn’t stop running. 

When you emerged from the fresher, his shirt was already rolled up and he was attempting to clean his wound. Grogu was asleep in his pram, wiped out from all the excitement. 

You released a tired sigh. “Let me.” 

You moved to take the cloth from him, kneeling at his feet and wiping around the area of the wound gently.

“Don’t do that again,” he rasped.

“Save your life?” The playful tone you attempted fell flat. As much as you wanted to be amused, the fear of losing him still suffocated you. He was safe, your thoughts repeated.

Once the wound was cleaned you pulled the needle from the kit. You were in over your head and a bit nauseous. Cleaning wounds was easy, but stitching them up was something else. 

You’ve seen him cauterize his own wounds and pinched your nose when the smell became too much. He didn’t deserve the scars they left behind and this was your opportunity to finally take care of him. 

You willed your hands not to tremble as you notched the needle through his skin, apologizing when he sucked in a sharp breath or flinched.

“I told you to run.”

Your voice was finally firm when you said, “I’m not going to leave you.” 

He was your partner, through and through, and you cared for him. 

When you were finished, you unwrapped a bacta patch and laid it over the suture. You smoothed over the patch and withdrew your hands. 

He was already sitting up taller, no longer hunched over or wheezing. You knew it was a good sign but you still trembled all over.

You raised your head, but your eyes were stuck on his cowl where a sliver of his blood was left from the blade. The tears were returning, flooding your bottom lashes. 

Would that pirate have killed him right there on the street, stripped him of his armor, and left him like trash? You would have had to drag his body back to the ship—would have to tell Grogu his father was dead. 

“Cyar’ika, look at me,” he said, finding your cheek with his palm. “Just breathe.” 

You didn’t realize you were gasping for breath, tears running down your cheeks until your eyes finally connected with his visor. 

“I just can’t lose you, Din,” you cried. “I can’t .”

There was so much you wanted to say—so much he needed to know. You were so close to losing him and losing the chance to admit how you’d grown to feel over the course of your partnership.

He guided you onto the bed and held you until the tears stopped and subsided into sniffles. Your face was buried in his cowl and your arms were thrown around his shoulder. 

“I can’t lose you either,” he admitted, a waver in his voice. You were so close you could almost hear the sound of his real voice. His words were tender and sincere. 

Your breath hitched and a realization washed over you. 

He pulled back and you pulled yourself out of his neck with wide eyes. Cold metal met your forehead. 

“You mean far too much to me.” 

For a man of few words, he still said so much. Your hand brushed below the rim of his helmet. “I love you, Din,” you confessed.

Your heart pounded as you waited for his response—for even the sharpest intake of breath. But, it was silent—all but your heart remained still as he processed your words. Your hand slipped away, back to the safety of your personal bubble, which was beginning to shrink as the silence became an oppressive weight on your shoulders. 

Say something, you wanted to shout. Did you read his words wrong? Was it just appreciation for his… employee? 

“Close the curtains and turn off the light.”

Your brows furrowed and you cocked your head to the side. “What?”

“Please.”

You stood with a frown and shuffled to shut the curtains, then made your way to the light switch. You took one last glance over your shoulder, before flipping the switch and submerging the room in darkness. You could hardly see his silhouette as you shuffled back to the bed with your hands out in front.

A calloused hand found your wandering ones, carefully pulling you down to sit beside him once again, not letting go. Then, you heard a click and a hiss, like he was detaching his—

Your eyes widened when you realized what he was doing and you tried pulling away. Even in the darkness, where shadows fell across the silhouette of his body, you couldn’t risk seeing him—no matter how curious. 

“Din, no-” 

“It’s alright,” he reassured. The low rasp of his voice was no longer modified by his helmet. He chased after you in the dark; his hand moved to the back of your neck, drawing your face closer to his. You could feel the warmth of his breath brushing across your lips. 

The smell of caf and leather drew you closer you and you fell into its embrace. It was your safety, your haven—the home you found in him, along with his son and his beaten-down ship. 

“ Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum, ner cyar’ika, ” he whispered into the darkness, gentle devotion laced in his words. “ I love you .” 

When he kissed you, it was slow, a tender meeting of lips which you both relaxed into. The weight off your shoulders disappeared and all you could do was smile against his lips and draw him closer. 

That night you traced his features in the dark, committing every outline and curve to memory, with a content smile and full heart while he held you close. You didn’t need to see his face to love him; it could wait—forever if it meant you’d still have him.

“You know,” he said in the darkness with you tucked close under his arm, “you wield a hammer well. It reminds me of someone I know.”

“Really? Who?”

It was nearly a full cycle before you met the Armorer, the mysterious figure Din would mention from time to time, a woman he seemed to respect. 

You were nervous. Though he never said it directly, she was like a maternal figure and you wanted to make a good impression. 

Ever since Trask, the two of you were closer than ever. He had no reservations when it came to you. His hand would lay firmly against your lower back as he crowded around you, guiding you through busy markets, pulling you close whenever someone bumped into you. You no longer slept alone, trading out your flimsy sleeping bag for a cozy spot in his bed. At night when the lights were out, you’d finally get to kiss him and share dreams. 

The covert was located on a barren planet. You wouldn’t have guessed there was any life if it weren’t for the scattered Mandalorian sparing at the mouth of a cave. 

By the time you landed near the lake, only two Mandalorians emerged to greet you. 

“It’s been a while.” A large, blue man said upon approaching, greeting the three of you with a simple nod. He towered over everyone, a mass of muscle and armor that radiated intimidation. 

As he approached, your foot slid back as you bent your neck to meet his visor and you bumped into Din. He rested a hand on your shoulder. “This is Paz, my brother.” 

“It’s nice to meet you,” you said, sticking a hand out. 

The hand that takes yours is firm; he shook once and let go. The hand on your shoulder squeezed. 

“It seems your clan has grown.” The figure to Paz’s right spoke, her visor trained on the hand over your shoulder. You needed no introduction for her. It was obvious in the way she spoke, authoritative and clear, that she was the Armorer. 

Your lips quirked. A clan, huh? 

She welcomed you briefly and Din requested a private audience in her forge. When Din handed Grogu off to you, he said, “Stay with Paz, cyar’ika.”

“Cyar’ika?” The Armorer paused. “Have you claimed them as your riduur?”

You cast Din a curious glance. Riduur?

“I… haven’t,” he said carefully.

“I see.” She resumed her pace and disappeared into the cave.  

Din followed, not before pressing his forehead to yours. It was like a kiss, he explained once. You were fine with it. You knew as soon as the day was over, he’d make up for all the kisses you’d missed out on.

“He seems to like you.”

“I would hope so,” you quipped, turning to Paz once Din was out of sight. “He loves me, after all.”

You finally got your well-deserved vacation—on a planet called Pabu, with bright blue skies and a sparkling blue ocean—and more than you could have ever wished for. 

Gentle waves lapped at your bare feet as you leaned back against the palm of your hands to soak in the last of the dying sun. 

Relaxing like this felt rare and fleeting; part of you was worried some other danger would rear its ugly head and ruin the tranquility. But, a quick glance toward Grogu, who was splashing in the water, and Din, standing watch to make sure he didn’t snatch up any crabs as a snack, dispelled any worry and replaced it with a warmth that spread through your chest like the sun's rays. 

You cracked a smile at the Mandalorian who was barefoot as well, after you convinced him to step into the waves, with his pants rolled up to the bottom of his knees. 

“Stop that,” came Din’s chastising demand. Grogu was levitating a poor crab toward his mouth before letting it fall back into the water with a grumble, his ears pulled back as he looked up at his father with a pout. “You’ll ruin your dinner,” he reasoned, reaching down to scoop the fussing child from the water. 

You stood, wiping away sand clinging to your thighs, and walked over to the pair. Din’s helmet followed you as you approached, his shoulders were far more relaxed than you’d ever seen them. 

Even when you stood in front of them, finger brushing along Grogu’s ear as he cooed, his gaze did not stray. You just thought it was your bathing suit; it showed off more skin than usual. Which, you admit, you hoped would catch his attention.  

“Problem?” You teased, looking at him with a sly smile. 

He shook his head slowly. He was uncharacteristically quiet, more so than usual. Ever since his private chat with the Armorer, he’d been distracted. Staring more than usual—at you, the controls of the ship, the floor—like he was lost deep in thought. 

You looked out at the sunset, a wash of orange and gold against a glittering sea. You let out a wistful sigh. “I could spend forever here with you two.”

“You mean that?” 

“Nothing would make me happier.”

His hand drifted toward the pouch on his belt, fingering the hem. A nervous habit, you assumed, he picked up after visiting the Armorer. 

You rested your hand on his and asked, “Are you sure there’s no problem?” 

“Marry me.”

You froze, mouth agape.

“M-marry you?”

“I wish for more days like today, too—safe, peaceful days together with our son.” He opened his pouch and pulled out a silver ring that glittered against the setting sun, reminding you of his armor. 

Your hand slipped from his to your mouth, covering up the shock written across your face. Your watering eyes moved between the two who’ve grown so close to your heart. They were your life, your home, and you’d spend forever with them. You knew your answer—you’ve always known, ever since he asked you to join them. In your heart it was always—

“Yes,” you cried, throwing your arms around the two of them. “Yes, absolutely!” 

You stayed tucked in his arms with Grogu nestled between the two of you. And, in the foreground of a golden sky, he asked if you would cite the Mandalorian vows. 

Riduur, he said, you would be mine, and I you. Our hearts will be written together in song.

“Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde.”

“We are one when together, we are one when parted, we share all, we will raise warriors.”

Finally, he was no longer just the Mandalorian or Din, he was your riduur. 

[hummingjay]

New oc for thee: SKUR "Großer Skua”

Under the cut are numerous doodles and SO MUCH YAP it’s very long so be warned.

SKUR

Schwere-Kommando-Ungeheuer-Replika

Heavy-commando-Behemoth-Replica

Großer Skuas, or Schwere-Kampf-ungeheuer-Replikas, “Great Skuas”, often simply referred to as Skuas, are heavy commandos utilized by the nation in dangerous raids. These units are large and bulky, wearing heavy armor and welding weapons that are usually too heavy not to be on a mount. They operate in small groups, usually one to three, commanded by a KLBR, STAR, LSTR, STCR unit, or with an infantry force.

Skuas use a wide variety of heavy weapons, from machine guns and grenade launchers to flamethrowers and shotguns. Whatever the weapon, they’re always hyper-powered and usually too heavy for most units to even carry, much less use. They can unmount vehicle machine guns and use them in a man-portable fashion. Their armor is strong enough to block shotgun rounds at point blank range. Despite their large, heavy appearance, Skuas are deceptively fast. They carry cargos of ammunition and gear, and can be used as workhorses for transport. 

Skuas are the perfect soldier in a way that an angel is the perfect human. They’ve been stripped from their humanity in a barbaric defiance of the natural order of creation, leaving an abomination whose sole purpose is bringing death in the most destructive manner possible. They feature skinless, fleshless, skull-like-heads, and many of their internal organs have been replaced with mechanics. They have no stomach and run instead on pressurized gasolines, and can create improvised fuels from processing and liquidizing organic matter, allowing them to attain fuel in the field and go without supplies for close to years. They can go without fuel for up to a week, and their fuel-processing systems allow them to live on diets of wood and even flesh. Their internal fuel systems and generators are located where their stomach and other organs used to be. Connected to the fuel system and remaining heart and lungs is a sophisticated engine that emits a low whir or hum. With no lips, their voicebox is located directly in the back of the throat, and sounds more mechanical than a normal replika. Their voice tends to be unsettling, like it’s not real or that it cuts through one’s ears. They will often cough the exhaust from their internal engine systems. 

Skuas do not feel pain, and will instead feel a dull pressure when damaged, only so that they’re aware of their wounds. They must be watched closely as they see no difference between a pinprick and decapitation. They feature air filters in the neck and are immune to toxins, and can breathe even through even the thickest smoke and dust. Advanced cooling and ventilation control systems allow them to survive in both extremely hot or cold environments. Their joints are more mechanical, mixing machine pistons with their pseudo-flesh to strengthen them. Their cranial construction and nervous system are organic and interconnected with their machine structures and systems. They lack conventional eidetic modules and utilize instead camera-like lenses that are more immune to flash-grenades and cannot be blinded by debris. A built-in decibel limit also prevents becoming deaf, temporarily or otherwise. Arteries and veins are seamlessly integrated with the other mechanical systems. Though they possess no stomach, intestines, liver, kidneys, and other artificial internal organs that replikas typically have, they still have their heart, blood, and lungs to pump oxygen into the fuel systems. 

Skuas operate well alone and in groups. One can be sent on a near-suicidal operation or can serve as support for a larger infantry. 

Skuas are generally led by a handler, usually an Elster, Kolibri, Storch, or Starling unit. Each handler type fulfills a different role. Elster units lead Skuas far into unsurveyed enemy territory with little information and even less support. Storch-led Skuas operate raids. Starlings lead Skuas among other infantry, and Kolibris will operate a wider variety of roles in-high-stakes operations. Roles may vary, such as Elster units leading a defense campaign or a Starling leading a raid.

The commanding handler of Skua units must be evaluated for loyalty, as Skuas are easy to manipulate due to their unwavering, unquestioning, and extreme obedience. Commanding officers’ sole role is to manage the commandos, dealing with maintenance and orders. While not higher ranking than other officers, having the deadly and intimidating behemoths under their command affords handlers an uncanny authority. Skuas will develop close bonds with their commander, and are extremely protective of them.

Due to their skinless, faceless nature, Skuas are difficult at best to read. It is hard to gauge their emotions by their voice, which itself is monotone and formal, and their demeanor is similarly difficult to gauge. Their commanding handlers are expected to understand the subtle signs that signify their mental state, such as a clenched jaw in anger, and the activation of ventilation systems located in the neck and spine when flustered. Skuas do not possess tear nor mucus ducts, and will emit sporadic growls and hums instead of crying. Similarly, harder, louder, more aggressive growls can be heard if the Skua is particularly angry. When especially happy or content, they will produce deeper, louder humming sounds akin to purrs. Skuas also lack sweat glands, using their internal cooling and ventilation systems to stay at optimal temperature. Oddly, a byproduct of their unorthodox nerve system is that they enjoy being pet. Handlers discover a ‘sweet spot’, usually located on the torso.

Skua personalities appear dull and empty. They speak in monotone voices and tend to be very passive. In combat, they are aggressive and destructive, yet calm, causing maximum damage in minimal time. They fight in an oppressive fashion, fighting in such a manner that enemy combatants hardly have a chance to fire back. Unlike other combat units, they show no affinity nor fondness for violence, it’s simply a task that must be done. Skuas are wholly and entirely obedient to commanding units, utterly unquestioning of the even most appalling orders. While deep down, a sense of morality can theoretically be found, said ethics are completely ignored when an order contradicts what little there is. They will not go out of the way to cause maximum collateral, but have no qualms about it. For these reasons, Skaus can also function as executors. Their obedience makes them easy to manipulate, and are generally under the command of a replika instead of a gestalt. Upon further interaction, Skuas will reveal a calm and soft personality, akin to MNHR type units. When interacting with other units, they will minimize movement, as they do not know their own strength and can cause injury. They tend to not speak, aware of the intrinsic unsettling quality of their voice.

Skuas are physically terrifying to most units. Faceless, monstrous, destructive, and smelling of exhaust, they’re avoided almost entirely. They serve as omens to mass destruction to the enemy. Skuas themselves have no particular fondness for specific units. If any treats them as more than a demonic tool, they will attempt to befriend the person. Showing affection to the unloved units is an effective and easy way to gain their trust. Underneath their corpse-like and violent exterior, Skuas are gentle souls. They are fascinated by gestalts and their lives, as well as other replikas, and display a childlike curiosity with the world. They stabilize their persona by drawing and sketching. They may tattoo each other’s armor so that others can tell them apart, usually drawing little more than numbers. Often, one can find Skaus hidden just off the area where Eules work, as they listen to their singing and music. They enjoy looking for flowers when off duty, and will decorate each other with them.

Naming conventions are random. They have no preference for names and are generally named by their commanding officer, sometimes others, very rarely themselves. More personalized names stem from commanders. More generic names will come from nearby compatriots. 

While technically female, Skuas are often referred to as “it” by others, not afforded the luxury of humanization. They make no movements to correct the notion. They are seen as unmanned combat vehicles rather than replikas, and they know it.  Handlers are to refer to them more humanely, and are to provide names if a unit doesn’t have one.

The gestalt template for the Skua unit was a gunner in an aircraft crew, chosen for their keen eye, unyielding loyalty, and will of steel. Skuas are to be kept on-ground purely as foot soldiers to minimize resurfacing memories. Degraded Skuas are extremely dysphoric and must never look into a mirror. When degraded, Skuas remain mostly obedient but erratic and confused. They become unsteady on their feet and will attempt to board aircraft. Obedience will not decline, but they will question unfamiliar commanders. Late-stage degradation will reveals mania and violence. Decommission degrading Skuas immediately as soon as degradation is confirmed. They can easily be disposed of by having their handler disarm them, though convincing their handler to do so may be difficult. Use anti-armor rounds for a quick operation.

[minniethemoocherda]

Iridescent: Chapter 24

A/N: Less than a month to Transformers One! Also so excited to hear whatever Studio Trigger is working on! Xxxxxx

Ao3

FF.net

Prowl had walked onto battlefields with a more than 99% chance of failure.

There was no reason for him to feel that same sense of dread going to visit his sister.

Yet as Prowl opened the doors to the makeshift med-bay, the energon pulsing through his spark felt as stodgy as the tar-like substance the twins called moonshine, clogging up his arteries and threatening to choke the flow to his veins.

Inside he could see that Bluestreaker was sat up in her berth, a serious state of determination on her face as shaky servos added extra details to the Happy Upgrade Day Poster that she had previously made in what felt like vorns ago.

Sunstreaker was sat by Bluestreak's side while Sideswipe was beside Bumblebee. The twins made themselves scarce when they saw Prowl presence and Bumblebee tactfully decided to feign being asleep.

When Bluestreak noticed him heading her way, that serious scowl quickly slipped away into her signature sunny smile. For once that smile was unable to lift his soul as for the first time, Prowl was able to take in the sight of her injuries in person.

The metal of her skin was still singed black, the windows of her wings were shattered and whilst she tried to shift herself to hide it, welding scars were still visibly seared into her back.

"I’m sorry." Prowl said.

Bluestreak looked at him as though he had just told her he wanted to quit his job as a tactician and become a pole dancer.

"Why?" She asked. In the tilt of her head, Prowl saw the youngling he cradled in the ruins of Praxus and for the first time since that day he felt tears prick the corner of his eyes.

"Because I made a promise that I would protect you.” He closed his optics, trying to force those tears from falling. But all he could see behind his closed eyes was the lifeless look of her body. “I failed you.”

Prowl felt a hand close over his balled fist. He looked up to see bright blue eyes gazing at him with love and admiration that he felt he did not deserve.

"You did the right thing Prowl. I can't hate you for that." Bluestreak smiled. "You are the reason three lives were saved instead of two. If you'd tried to save me instead then Ratchet would be dead and who knows how many people would have died because of that. And don’t even think about trying to work it out!” She scolded, pointing a shaking finger at him.

Prowl couldn't deny the logic in her statement, nor could he deny how her eternal endeavour to look on the bright side, brought light into his own life.

Suddenly all the anger he’d been stabbing at himself, redirected in brain towards Silverstreak for attempting to snuff out that ray of light.

Prowl could not understand the logic of why a Praxian would betray them to the faction that nearly annihilated their race. But then again, Prowl had found that logic rarely dictated any of the Decepticons actions. And when they had obliterated Praxus, the entire Deception faction had been too large a concept for Prowl's brain module to focus the entirety of his hatred towards, especially when he had more than enough reasons to hate them already. Now all of Prowl’s laser focused anger was directed at one singularity, Silverstreak. And he would not rest until she was brought to justice. Which in Prowl's mind equalled death, regardless of what the Prime's stance would be on the matter.

Prowl was distracted by his thoughts as Bluestreak tried to stifle a yawn.

"I will let you rest." As Prowl stood up to go, the hand over his wrist refused to let go.

"Wait!" Bluestreak cried, looking every bit like the child who once was unable to sleep without nightmares. "Stay with me? Please? For a little while. Just until I fall asleep." Unable to refuse her request, Prowl nodded, sitting by her side until her breath evened out and her hand went limp.

When Prowl finally left the med-bay, before he could give himself time to think about it, he opened up a private comm.

"Hey Prowler. What's up?"

Prowl was unsure what to say. He had not been in this position to request such a thing before. He did not know how to request what he was asking for. Thankfully, Jazz understood what he was unable to find the words for.

"I'll be there in five minutes."

For once Jazz was actually on time as five minutes later, when Prowl arrived back at his quarters, the spy was waiting outside the door. Neither said a word until they were both inside and Prowl closed the door.

"Bluestreak forgave me." He told him.

"She's your sister." Jazz stated as though that was supposed to explain everything. Hands that Prowl knew had killed hundreds, potentially even thousands gently cupped his face. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

Then Jazz's lips were on his and they didn't talk for the rest of the night.

[typosandtea]

Power armour!!

New details and stuff about the T60 / power armor in general that I’ve noticed in the show!

Minor spoilers below for the tv show as some things relate to certain scenes.

They absolutely nailed the power armour in the show! I’m so glad they used practical effects for a lot of it, looks great and has some weight to it which I think cgi can lack! Sure it looks a tiny bit goofy but it always was going to, adding a lot to your height and forearm length while still being able to move properly will do that I think. I think they did a great job :)

The faceplate is hinged to open upwards.

You can jump extra far / power jumping

The grip strength is very high (enough to crush a guy’s skull one handed)

The throwing strength is very far (vending machine like 50m?)

These T60s have the jet packs included as a part of the forearms, which is neat I think.

The helmet has its own little hood for comms as a part of the helmet, on top of the operator wearing the silly danse hat, which seems to be an actual hood that’s part of the power armour jumpsuit / knight uniform.

The HUD is in the lower part of the helmet, which seems obvious but the games have no helmet and you still have a HUD so .?? Sole is connected to the armour telepathically, and Danse just Knows. /joking

The back of the helmet opens, you can see the back of the head and there’s also a drinking water fill port.

Possible retcon but voice modulators are strong enough to make people unrecognisable by voice (or that’s just what this BOS chapter does for scary points)

head-cannon but: the strength of the voice modulators also may partially explain why Danse talks like that, no tone or facial expressions mean you’ve got to talk in exact details! (I still think he ate a thesaurus :) )

Fusion cores are keyed!

And the removing said core with the key puts the armour into standby mode, disabling the armours internal manual open overide (new fear)

Some of the important wiring and or control components are on the outside of the helmet in knife range (???)

The handles on the front are for personnel transport during drops lol

The shoulder pieces are also for dropping you from a vertibird, and for maintenance at a power armour station.

You can in fact sit down!!! Assuming the thing you’re sitting on can hold the armours weight

Armor is actually bullet proof again (I understand that it’s only not included in the modern games for gameplay reasons but still)

The actual armour pieces can be popped off the sealed frame easily.

The armour does have storage scattered through it, as Maximus mentions having some radaway stashed.

Grenade in the chest plate front will blow the head and helmet off

Machine gun point blank will kill through the helmet

There is a flaw in the chest plate just below the welding that an armour piercing? round can break for the kill.

Things that aren’t directly shown but I think are a reasonable leap in logic:

If the armour has a hydration system I think it likely has other life support systems like those mentioned in fallout 2 (water recycling of some sort)

Another gameplay discrepancy but, Fusion cores in the show must last a really long time as it powers an entire vault for prolonged periods of time and Maximus only has the one core, either that or power armour is such a energy guzzler that it can use an entire communities long term worth of power in a short time.

I’m sure that there is probably more that I’ve missed!

[auspicioustidings]

What would the 141s college degrees be if they went to school

Ok so a bit of a change to prompt, but I think Soap and Gaz go to university while Price and Ghost go to college. For context college here is further education while university is higher education (eg uni is degree level).

Soap has got to be some sort of chemistry mechanics dual degree and not one person actually knows that. Like he's a bit of a party boy, on the football team and generally comes off as super laid back so nobody would guess that he is absolutely top of his class in a very difficult course. The uni ran their first mini highland games purely because they knew anything that he was doing in a kilt was going to do well and it outperformed expectations because the chance to see John MacTavish caber toss was not something anyone was passing up.

He knows Gaz because they are on the football team together. He is the opposite of Soap, everyone assumes he is doing some super technical degree because he is just so clever, but he's actually nowhere near the sciences and is somewhere in the literature department. He put the Scots poetry module to good use and was a menace for a semester with how he kept making Soap blush by coming out these beautiful romantic lines in Scots.

The archnemesis of the football team in this uni the rugby team in the college that has a campus right next to theirs because both teams do massively well. Is part of it because Soap and Gaz bristle when they hear people fawning over Riley and Price instead of them? Maybe a little. They think it's ridiculous, football is the superior sport to them and they hate that at their games some people are wearing rugby shirts thinking it's still showing support because the uni and college are the same area. It's even worse because Riley and Price do not view them as the rivals for fame and adoration that they should! They are always really nice to them and come watch their games and Simon keeps offering to spot for Soap when they're in the gym and Price brings Gaz soup when he's sick :(

Ghost is doing hairdressing. This is fully from one throwaway comment from Tommy (he cuts his brothers hair) that he's good at it and he wishes he could do Beth's because her salon trips cost a fortune and while she loves getting her hair done she doesn't do it often because of that. Simon Riley is such a fucking family man that he runs with that, thinking nothing of dropping all the time and money required just so he can make his sister in laws day a little better. And if he can do his mums hair as well? Even better.

Price is doing a bunch of night classes for woodworking and welding. He owns his own place where he runs classes but likes to make sure he keeps up to date with any new techniques by attending new courses when they pop up. He's a favourite of the college because he's been doing that for years and has taught a couple of workshops for them. His workshops have a massive waiting list.

Ghost and Price are laid back and on the rugby team because they enjoy the game. They see Soap and Gaz as these hot-headed young men with a lot of heart and are oblivious to the fact that while they view them as mates, Soap and Gaz think there is a bitter rivalry happening. After all Gaz always let's Simon practice on his hair and he seems to enjoy it? Like he always sighs in such contentment when he's getting his hair washed. And Soap has started attending Price's home shop for some classes! Although Price is sort of confused because the man doesn't seem to be paying attention half of the time to the actual project he is supposed to be doing (of course he isn't, he's busy going bright red anytime Price rolls his sleeves up).

[mariacallous]

US space officials do not like to talk about the perils of flying astronauts on the aging International Space Station, elements of which are now more than a quarter of a century old.

However, a new report confirms that NASA managers responsible for operating the space station are seriously concerned about a small Russian part of the station, essentially a tunnel that connects a larger module to a docking port, which is leaking.

Russian and US officials have known that this small PrK module, which lies between a Progress spacecraft airlock and the Zvezda module, has been leaking since September 2019. A new report, published Thursday by NASA's inspector general, provides details not previously released by the space agency that underline the severity of the problem.

New Details About the Leak

For example, in February of this year NASA identified an increase in the leak rate from less than 1 pound of atmosphere a day to 2.4 pounds a day, and in April this rate increased to 3.7 pounds a day. Despite years of investigation, neither Russian nor US officials have identified the underlying cause of the leak.

"Although the root cause of the leak remains unknown, both agencies have narrowed their focus to internal and external welds," the report, signed by Deputy Inspector General George A. Scott, states.

The plan to mitigate the risk is to keep the hatch on the Zvezda module leading to the PrK tunnel closed. Eventually, if the leak worsens further, this hatch might need to be closed permanently, reducing the number of Russian docking ports on the space station from four to three.

Publicly, NASA has sought to minimize concerns about the cracking issue because it remains, to date, confined to the PrK tunnel and has not spread to other parts of the station. Nevertheless, Ars reported in June that the cracking issue has reached the highest level of concern on the space agency's 5x5 "risk matrix" to classify the likelihood and consequence of risks to spaceflight activities. The Russian leaks are now classified as a "5" both in terms of high likelihood and high consequence.

At the time, NASA would not comment on, or confirm, the space agency's concerns about the risk matrix rating. However, the new report confirms the agency's concerns.

"In May and June 2024, ISS Program and Roscosmos officials met to discuss heightened concerns with the increased leak rate," the inspector general's report states. "The ISS Program subsequently elevated the Service Module Transfer Tunnel leak risk to the highest level of risk in its risk management system. According to NASA, Roscosmos is confident they will be able to monitor and close the hatch to the Service Module prior to the leak rate reaching an untenable level. However, NASA and Roscosmos have not reached an agreement on the point at which the leak rate is untenable."

An Uncertain Future in Low Earth Orbit

The report comes as NASA is considering the future of the space station. The US space agency and Russia have an agreement to continue flying the station through 2028, and NASA would like to extend operations to 2030. NASA had anticipated that it would agree to this extension more than a year ago, but as of yet no agreement has been finalized.

Once the station reaches the end of its life, NASA intends to transition its activities in low Earth orbit onto private space stations, and it has funded initial development work by Axiom Space, Northrop Grumman, Blue Origin, and Voyager Space. Northrop has since dropped out of the competition—determining that it would not be a profitable business. There is general uncertainty as to whether any of the private space station operators will be ready in 2030.

NASA's other potential option is extending the life of the space station beyond 2030, but this would require a lot of work to ensure the space station's structure remains viable and yet another extension agreement with Russia. The US partnership with that nation has been severely strained by Russia's invasion of Ukraine.

"Extending the ISS past 2030 will require significant funding to operate and maintain the station, acceptance of increased risk stemming from its components and aging structures, and assurances of continued support from NASA’s international partners," the new report states. “Further complicating matters is the likelihood that NASA may continue to face a flat or reduced budget, inflation, and supply chain challenges.”

[materialsscienceandengineering]

The use of femtosecond lasers to form glass-to-glass welds for solar modules would make the panels easier to recycle, according to a proof-of-concept study conducted by researchers at the U.S. Department of Energy's National Renewable Energy Laboratory (NREL). The welds would eliminate the need for plastic polymer sheets that are now laminated into solar modules but make recycling more difficult. At the end of their useful lifespan, the modules made with the laser welds can be shattered. The glass and metal wires running through the solar cells can be easily recycled and the silicon can be reused. "Most recyclers will confirm that the polymers are the main issue in terms of inhibiting the process of recycling," said David Young, senior scientist and group manager for the High-Efficiency Crystalline Photovoltaics group in the Chemistry and Nanoscience department at NREL. Young is lead author of a new paper outlining the use of laser welds for solar modules. The paper, "Towards Polymer-Free, Femto-Second Laser-Welded Glass/Glass Solar Modules," appears in the IEEE Journal of Photovoltaics.

Read more.

[semcoinfratechworld]

Discover the meticulous process of lithium-ion battery pack manufacturing, where individual cells are sorted, grouped, and assembled into high-performance modules. Key stages include battery sorting and grouping, spot welding, module assembly, and rigorous testing for safety and reliability. Learn how advanced techniques ensure optimal performance, safety, and adherence to industry standards in applications like electric vehicles and energy storage systems.

[pearls-and-vignettes]

Spaceway 70 - Anna

The makeshift cell has a steel table and chair—like in old detective films. He reconfigured the room lock with a passkey only he knows, though he doesn't know how to turn off its failsafe.

With a shudder in the station, the lights turn off for a moment, and a different set of colder lights take their place, dimly. I walk through the now-unlocked door and into the hallway outside. A wall panel confirms my fears.

[Alert: Hull breach in multiple sectors | Primary power offline | Check workteam communications for further instructions]

He's scared. Worse than that, he's scared and paranoid. Pablo has the fear from another life of destruction and bloodshed in him. Maybe it's warranted—I couldn't say. Only he knows his past.

Out in the next sector I finally see someone. Two new guys, lazing on some hallway chairs.

"Anna!" One of them says brightly.

"Good evenin'," I float back.

"Quite hot in here?"

"Aye," I say tersely "A waste reactor's nearby. Makes heat. Ventilation won't be turned on 'till someone turns it on."

"Then who will?" The other man says, daftly.

"We don't waste power on climate control when there's a big hole in the ship."

Another pause, the two men look at each other. It's possible they have thoughts going through their heads, though that's difficult to confirm.

"Aren't you two supposed to be working this emergency?"

"Haven't got an assignment yet," One of them replies whilst the other is still taken aback by my question, almost falling off his chair. A moment, then he too regains his composure.

"Keep your pagers out, lads," I bark, wanting to laugh. I puff my chest and walk with intent, into the next room.

I enter my quarters to the right; a modest room, yet a little more spacious than most. To my left, a workbench with some parts scattered around a broken network module, and my PDA.

[Hello, Anna]

[32.061]

[[%% DIRECT COM %%]]

[Notice - There seems to be a system outage; operating in P2P mode | Ten unopened messages - Priority: Low - Three unopened messages - Priority: Medium - Five unopened messages - Priority: High]

I punch in my code.

[=-= Carol F. =-=]

[CUR.32.050 > L | You got your PDA on you?]

[CUR.32.053 > M | Of course he took it. Meet me at central processing when you can -- they hit deep and I need welding done. All the fabricators are out patching the hull.]

[CUR.32.057 > H | A big chunk of power routing is out. I paged John for a fabricator or two but he says he's tied up. Please be here ASAP!]

[=-= Pablo C. =-=]

[CUR.32.049 > H | ==TO GROUPS: W.G. LEADERS, SPECIALISTS, ADMIN== | Attention -- we have been attacked -- this is a matter I will handle personally -- communicate emergency plans with your workgroups.]

[=-= Jonathan L. =-=]

[CUR.32.055 > H | I know you're busy. We need to patch an LS manifold. I have a fabricator to spare. Just ping me when you're free.]

[CUR.32.057 > M | On top of that, all the cable to kitchens is out. I have a few workers patching it up but we need you for some tight wiring.]

No rest for me. I grab my toolbag from the foot of my bed and run to a utility closet in the hallway. The reserve welding cart creaks from disuse as I roll it toward me, yet it still seems to work just the same. I dust off some goggles and shove them in a pocket as I make for Carol.

Eventually, I arrive at central processing, winded from running with so much stuff. Carol is buried deep in her assistant, probably typing out one communication after another.

"God, this thing is so slow!"

"I'm here..?"

"Yes. Hi, Anna," she finishes another message before she finally looks up, "Let's fix this thing so I'm not stuck on peer to peer."

She moves to the wall, which holds an impressive array of cooling pipes and circuits. Indicator lights flash off and on erratically whilst a monitor spits out warning after warning. At the far end, away from the corner where she started, there is a series of busted conduits supposed to hold thick cable against a hastily repaired wall.

"Here, where the cables go into this contactor array."

She pries the panel off the array's enclosure and exposes a beautiful mess of small, printed traces and goliath cables interfacing with one another. The leftmost portion of this box has severed wire and shattered boards.

"I isolated this module from the rest of the processor. And there's no voltage through the cables." She hands me a drawing and walks to an electrical cart. "Just replace the broken components. It doesn't have to be pretty." The cart, being twice the size of mine, is filled with wires of all gauges, components of all kinds, a work surface with a solderer, and has board printing capabilities. "All the files you might need are on that printer."

"Got it," I reply.

She looks back to her PDA and her eyes betray her exasperation, briefly. "I'll be back in a few to turn it on and debug," she shouts whilst having one foot already out the door. I grab a screwdriver and begin to pull away at the broken components. When they don't budge, I pull out the angle grinder. Rinse and repeat.

At least I have a simple life...

[elle-thereafter]

At long last, after a break in September spent writing different smut, we have Chapter 24 of Gate Building! Be teased under the cut.

The key is brightly magical, brighter even than the mansion they're standing in, and Percy has to modulate the evocation of his detection spell down a bit more to look at it comfortably. Both the blade and the locket-like head are made from solid silver and emanate abjuration signatures that are stunningly pure and intriguingly complex. By contrast, the pattern-welded stem and bow of the key are a swirl of opposition: bright pink enchantment, brilliant white abjuration, and sulphurous green necromancy, threaded with barely-there veins of eggshell blue divination that can't possibly be enough to bind it all. The aether vibrates as a wave of antipathy twists through it, making the key's aura almost dance, and when Percy looks for them he sees the tacks everywhere: little pinpricks of aether along the edges, bonding the spells together through the welded metal. "The key's spells can't coexist in a single metal, they'd tear it apart trying to push off each other. But if you pair your metals and spells carefully, you can fold them together and stretch the metal thin, allowing the latent aether bonds to hold it all in place. That's why the key has to be pattern welded, you can't make it any other way." It's beautiful, a strange harmony sown from discord, and for a moment Percy just watches it shimmer. The key's head is particularly captivating: the iridescent circular bow of the pattern-welded key oscillates through a powerful abjurative enclosure, a cage of delicate silver filigree Percy previously assumed was a mere finishing detail. But it's not finished, Percy reminds himself as he stares at the carefully formed hollow, remembering the sapphire. He'd almost forgotten it, almost forgotten how panic-stricken Perran looked the moment he was asked about it, how immediate and vehement Perran's denial was. A shard of uneasy suspicion cracks ice cold down the back of Percy's neck: he and Vex have tied themselves to the making of Perran's keys and to whatever secrets Perran is holding about their missing pieces. Time to find out what you're hiding. And who you're hiding it from. On impulse Percy twists right, whispering in Abyssal, and watches the stream of violet illusion aether flung from his fingertips coalesce in the key's hollow, taking on the shape of the missing sapphire that should sit in the centre of it. Perran makes a startled, panicked sound and his hands draw back, dropping the key's box like it's burned him. Percy's reflexes don't fail: he catches it before it's had time to travel more than a few inches, so smoothly and cleanly the key barely jostles in its nest of velvet. When Percy looks up Perran is breathing sharp and shallow, staring wide-eyed and spooked at Percy's illusion.

Read the whole chapter on good ol' AO3.

[houyin]

"we got us a problem." his hand has broken off from the wrist. again.

"You're lucky I'm here. I doubt your machinist would appreciate having to fix you all the time."

It was a tease, one marked by the tug of his lips he doubted the Ranger would miss in the slightest. Prompting Brandy to sit next to him, Ren fetched the toolkit he usually saved for SAM on these missions as her suit sometimes needed spot repairs they couldn't wait for base to fix. The swordsman made a quick assessment of the damages, of the splintered wiring and joints that had been popped from their sockets. Thankfully, it was a swift affair; by the looks of it, the metacarpus' ball sockets had become dislodged and the silicone tendons torn.

As he aligned the joints of their metacarpus and locked them snugly in place, Ren found a small welding torch and began to solder the disconnected wires back together, mindful of the nervous connections that needed particular care. Though his memory was fractured, hazy recollections of the many prosthetics Yingxing used to make and maintain for Incomplete Ones and amputees alike ran alongside his concentration, a bit of nostalgia he didn't mind for once. Sparks scattered in Ren's scarlet gaze as he finished welding these parts back together, testing the range before determining the rest was a simple affair of aligning their socket back together.

Tenderly, Ren personally manipulated the phalanges from the testing module that needed to run through a range of motion to confirm a connection, a small chime sounding with every success. Pleased with his work, Ren stashed his tools away, simply grateful that his arthritis hadn't flared up too badly for once.

Taking Brandy by their chin, he angled their face away to leave a small, teasing kiss to bronzy skin of the Ranger's neck, smirking into the flesh.

"I'm giving you a discount this time around. Next time, I might demand a little more," Ren joshed with a tender softness in his gaze, mellow like a smoky ruby on the cyborg.

[tachyon-omlette]

can't sleep. posting updated Eda physiology diagram

more in-depth descriptions under the cut (feat. a rethinking of how dark energon/angolmois exists)

I use the term "cell-spawned" as a reference to how Armada Sideways was "grown from Unicron's own cells", implying there may be a difference between Unicronians that were once Cybertronians (ex. Galvatron) & those that were fully created by Unicron, like Sideways. or Eda.

cell-spawned Unicronians have 2 sets of major systems: molten metal & angolmois (dark energon)

the molten metal system is a vascular system equivalent, but a little different. ingested metals r smelted down until they're more liquid than solid (& as a consequence a Unicronian's internal temperature is extremely high), then passed through a network of arteries that deposit new metal around the antispark chamber & beneath external plating. this allows the antispark chamber to be reinforced even as its cargo slowly strips away the inner layer, & allows external weathering/surface-level injuries to be sheared off in favor of allowing new metal to grow underneath (which means neither Eda nor any cell-spawned Unicronian bears scars save for what they willfully upkeep). the metal is also infused with heat-resistant nanites once it enters the "bloodstream"; these nanites are what implant proximity sensors on exterior-facing plating & direct the flow of new metals to any pierced-armor injuries (the result of which leaves a scar that appears like a large weld, which can be sanded down or otherwise weathers away on its own). surface-level pierced-armor injuries are usually somewhat painless in the injured area, but release trapped heat & reduce mobility until that heat can be restored.

the dark energon aka angolmois system is, however, very different - where most things have interpreted angolmois as energon but Scary, in my mind it's more accurately an opposite: less fluid & more viscous like tar, a pitch-black that opalesces with deep purples & glitters like the night sky, and cold like the void of space. angolmois systems are more heavily-guarded than a Cybertronian's energon system; it is circulated usually where it is needed to cancel out or counterbalance the excessive heat generated by the molten metal systems (ex. the cpu/brain module & other finely-tuned systems), thus preventing a Unicronian from simply melting themselves down on accident. it also runs through major support structures like bone marrow, emitting a natural cooling that makes excessive heat integral to the use of limbs and digits, lest they grow frost - the rupture of an angolmois line is, thereby, equivalent in pain to a broken bone, & for a cell-spawned Unicronian who feels barely any or even no pain with more common & superficial scrapes, it is often a crippling injury. angolmois leaks are harder for the molten metal system to repair & often create systemic injuries by virtue of the extreme cold structurally compromising most metal it touches, & the damaged structures often require direct patching in order to aid the molten metal repair systems & prevent a total freeze-down. for cell-spawned Unicronians like Eda, angolmois can be naturally replenished by tapping into the entropy of the universe, whether that be through simply waiting (either lucid or in stasis) or artificially increasing localized entropy (i.e. causing problems & destruction & chaos wherever they are currently); for more severe cases the latter route is often necessary.

angolmois is still the most direct route to corruption, as it freezes & kills whatever it touches & often is difficult to recover from (ex. if some lands on a field of wildflowers, the wildflowers it lands on will die, along with the microorganisms living in that patch of soil. if it is removed, then only that place will have a dead area & over time will naturally repopulate; if it seeps into the ground, the entire field may die & will become hard or even impossible to repopulate a la the Prime Kindergarten from Steven Universe). for Cybertronians, coming in direct contact causes freezing injuries & in severe cases requires amputation. ingestion causes internal damage & generates and/or exacerbates inner turmoil(s).

any questions ?

[heart-full-of-lust]

The Thesis

Dr. Lila Voss’s office smelled of ambition and ethically sourced espresso. Tenured feminist sociologist. Author of *Patriarchy’s Puppeteers: Gaslighting in the Digital Age*. Speaker at three international conferences this year alone. Her walls were a mosaic of accolades, her laptop a fortress of case studies on male manipulators—incels, cult leaders, pickup artists.  

She didn’t flinch when the email arrived.  

*Subject: Case Study #2271 – “The Handler”*  

Attached: A Vice article about a hypnosis podcaster targeting “disillusioned wives.” Comments section littered with *“He changed my life”* and *“I’m finally *free*”* from women whose selfies showed hollow eyes and too-red lips.  

Lila snorted. *Another dime-a-dozen narcissist.* She skimmed his tactics: embedded commands in ASMR tracks, TikToks synced to binaural beats, a $500/month Discord for “obedience modules.”  

“Amateur,” she muttered, highlighting a transcript.  

*“You’ll crave strangers’ hands… not because you’re *easy*, pet. Because you’re *enlightened*.”*  

She drafted her rebuttal in her head already: *This isn’t liberation—it’s lateral oppression. Women trading one cage for another.*  

---  

**Day 1 of “Research”**  

Lila clicked his latest video. *For science*, she told herself.  

The man had no face—just a voice like burnt honey and hands too elegant to be real. He spoke about “untapped potential” and “shattering mediocrity.”  

*“You’re not *dirty* for wanting more… You’re *divine*.”*  

She rolled her eyes. *Basic neuro-linguistic programming. Preys on insecurity.*  

But then:  

*“Breathe in… and as you exhale, imagine your *pride* as a chain. Heavy. Rusted. *Useless*.”*  

Her pen froze.  

*Why did my chest tighten?*  

---  

**Day 7**  

Lila awoke at 3 AM, thighs welded together. Dreams she couldn’t—*wouldn’t*—name.  

She opened his Discord. “Phase 4: Eternal Collar Protocol” glowed onscreen.  

*Hypotheticals*, she reasoned. *I need to understand the pathology.*  

A user named @RebornBitch93 posted: *“Did my first gloryhole today!!! He said I’m a *natural* 😇”*  

Lila’s critique died in her throat.  

Her hand drifted south.  

---  

**Day 14**  

The department chair raised eyebrows at her revised syllabus.  

“*Erotic Surrender as Counter-Hegemonic Praxis*? This seems… unlike you.”  

Lila smiled, shark-like. “The Handler’s followers believe degradation empowers them. I’ll prove it’s faux agency—women confusing *submission* with *autonomy*.”  

Her voice didn’t shake. Her skin did.  

---  

**Day 21**  

The video titled *“For Academic Use Only”* lived in a password-protected folder.  

In it, Lila sits cross-legged, hair in a frayed bun, reading his triggers aloud:  

*“Hearing a cash register = clitoral throbbing.”*  

A beat.  

*“The word ‘please’ = gag reflex disabled.”*  

She clicked *play*.  

Five seconds in, her head lolled.  

*“No,”* she slurred to empty air. *“I’m… immunun…ne…”*  

---  

**Day 30**  

Her lecture hall seats 300. Today: standing room only.  

“We must reject,” she declared, back straight, “the capitalist-patriarchal notion that *desire* equals *freedom*.”  

A student coughed. *“Please elaborate, Dr. Voss?”*  

Lila’s breath hitched.  

*Click* went the cash register in her mind.  

Her blouse was unbuttoned to her navel before she reached the podium’s edge.  

---  

**Epilogue**  

@RebornBitch93’s latest post trends on X:  

*“Met my mentor today!!! She says every feminist theory has a *practical application* 😍”*  

The photo shows Lila, red lips glazed, kneeling beside a faceless man’s Oxfords. Her locket—a tiny microphone—gleams.  

Caption: *“Case Study #2271: CONCLUDED.”*  

Her old books collect dust.  

His audio courses? Required reading.

[lonestarbattleship]

June 25, 2023 Update from the Battleship Texas Foundation

On the deck of Battleship Texas.

"BATTLESHIP TEXAS UPDATE

DRY DOCK TOURS

Dry Dock Tours are BACK! Until July. For more information please visit: battleshiptexas.org/drydock

SHIP REPAIRS

TORPEDO BLISTERS - The torpedo blister modules are produced in the fabrication shop and are transported to the dock where they will be attached to the ship’s hull. There are currently three more torpedo blister modules under construction in the shop!

The new torpedo blisters are a slightly different design and square off at the bottom below the waterline. This design change will make the new blisters easier to maintain increasing their longevity.

Original torpedo blister tops meet the new bottoms.

New torpedo blister bottoms on Battleship Texas.

COATING - Yes, the inside of the blisters, and the ship’s hull will be coated to protect against possible corrosion.

HULL - As work continues moving aft, any holes in the ship’s original hull are being repaired. New plates are added to thinner areas and smaller holes are welded up. The ship’s hull is being primed temporarily as the repairs are made.

Repairs made to the torpedo blisters of Battleship Texas.

Repairs made to the hull of Battleship Texas.

STERN - New plating continues being paced onto the ship’s stern. As the new plates go on, they are welded to the repaired framing done while the ship was still at San Jacinto Battleground State Historic Site in 2013-2014.

Repairs made to the hull of Battleship Texas.

LEAK TESTING - Yes, all welds are being test for leaks. This is done via vacuum box, dye penetrant or magma flux depending on the area.

DECK REPAIRS - Workers had begun repairing the deck on the ship’s signal bridge. They will work their way up on the ship’s foremast repairing everything from holes to corroded areas as needed.

The aircastle of Battleship Texas. The 5”/51 cal guns have been removed for restoration and will be replaced.

Gun shields that surround the midship 20mm and 3” guns. These have been cut down to a more accurate height.

Original deck on the navigation bridge being repaired.

Removal of doubler plates on the signal bridge.

GUN SHIELDS - We have begun cutting down the gun shields surrounding the midship 20mm and 3” guns to make them more accurate. These were installed in 1988-1989 and are taller than they were in 1945.

Visit our website at battleshiptexas.org

Thank you all for the support and,

Keep Calm And Flood Your Blister Tanks"

Posted on the Battleship Texas Foundation Group Facebook page: link