#Parcel Data

[istherewifiinhell]

Unbelievable talking to someone with a car who can drive who is at once condesendly incredulous at the idea you would walk to the shops and also disagreeing that the civil infrastructure isnt hostile TO walking based on the fact they walked to a restaurant exactly once. As if the fact that they are in the possession of the ability to walk that distance but as a rule. Drives the LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES. To the location. Instead. Every other time. Is not itself. All the evidence needed.

[walkingstackofbooks]

Picard season 3 has definitely got better as its gone on... but that might be because the plot has become relevant to my "Data/Julian-got-married-in-2378 AU" again and I'm enjoying imagining how to insert Julian into this series quite a lot 😅😅😅

[detroitography]

Mapping Merged Sidewalk and Parcel Data in Detroit

by: Ted Tansley After mapping DDOT bus stop assets in Detroit, I revisited the sidewalk reporter data to see if there was a way to map it out too. I found that the web app had a parcel data layer that was separate from the reports itself. In looking at it closer, I found that the parcel layer was from 2018, but I figured that it would work for what I wanted to use it for. My Code Data…

[eatliveescape]

Best Practices for Enhancing Your Shipping and Fulfillment Operations

Shipping and fulfillment are crucial elements of any business, directly impacting customer satisfaction and overall profitability. Ensuring these operations run smoothly requires a strategic approach, effective management, and the right partnerships. With customer expectations for faster shipping times and real-time tracking increasing, businesses need to optimize their processes continuously.…

[guerillas-of-history]

The number of Palestinians killed in Israeli-designated aid zones has risen to 397, with over 3,031 others injured, since 27 May, according to a 17 June report from the Gaza Ministry of Health.

Fifty-nine of the fatalities were documented that morning alone, as crowds gathered to access food parcels under the Gaza Humanitarian Foundation (GHF), a US-Israeli aid scheme established in May. More than 200 others were wounded in the same incident.

In total, 61 people were killed and 397 injured across the Gaza Strip in the last 24 hours. Six of the deaths were recovered bodies. Health officials say dozens more remain under rubble or exposed in the streets, unreachable by emergency crews due to ongoing Israeli fire.

Since 7 October 2023, Israeli attacks have killed at least 55,493 Palestinians and injured 129,320, according to official data. The actual toll is believed to be significantly higher, given the scale of destruction and the limited capacity to recover bodies.

June 18, 2025.

[allthecanadianpolitics]

The federal privacy watchdog says Canada Post is breaking the law by gleaning information from the outsides of envelopes and packages to help build marketing lists that it rents to businesses.

The office of privacy commissioner Philippe Dufresne says information collected for the marketing program includes data about where individuals live and what type of online shopping they do, based on who sends them packages.

The commissioner found Canada Post had not obtained authorization from individuals to indirectly collect such personal information.

Full article

Tagging: @politicsofcanada

[giuseppe-yuki]

spoiled

fernando alonso x cocker spaniel shapeshifter!reader

w.c.: 2k

warnings: one curse word

part my of shapeshifting!reader series

summary: as nando's precious cocker spaniel, you are spoiled rotten.

picture credits from pinterest :)

*side note- it has come to my attention that the cute puppy in the header is actually a king charles spaniel, not a cocker spaniel, so i apologize for that one. my headers are mainly used for aesthetic purposes, so feel free to imagine yourself as either breed :)

the word “no” was practically nonexistent when you were with nando. 

you want another birkin to go in your collection? here, have three. you felt like pizza for dinner? sure thing. pizza freshly made in italy is being flown in right now. wow, that baby pink aston sure is cute, isn’t it? here’s the keys to a brand new, custom made, db9 that has matching pink heart tire rims. 

it seemed like fernando’s singular goal in life as your boyfriend was simply to pamper and spoil you. when he found out your shapeshifting abilities, he became ecstatic. even more ways to spoil you! 

that’s how you found yourself sat on his lap, twin pink bows tied on each of your ears, inside of the aston martin meeting. mike krack was currently yapping about tire degradation and management, repeatedly smacking a labeled graph with his pointer stick. you usually didn’t accompany your boyfriend to these types of meetings, but you felt particularly clingy today, and who was he to deny your request? ignoring the bewildered looks of the engineers on the spinny chairs around you both, he leans down, presses a kiss to your head, and then combs his fingers through your freshly washed fur, making you sigh in contentment. 

however, mike’s loud voice snaps you out of your thoughts. 

”fernando!” he shouts across the long table, stopping his long spiel. “are you even listening, or are you paying all your attention to your dog?”

all the engineers at the table turn towards fernando, giving him quizzical looks at the canine in his lap. (except for lance, who looked bored beyond his mind picking at his fingernails) he simply just shrugs, still petting you. “eh, what can i say? she’s kind of high maintenance.” 

the aston martin team principal rubs his face in annoyance, but picks up his pointer stick and continues on with his presentation. 

he only gets in a minute of talking before loud knocking echos throughout the meeting room. curious, you hop off of fernando’s lap and pad towards the door. 

“what is it now?” the irritated team principal exclaims exasperatedly. 

the door swings open, almost hitting you, to reveal a rather disgruntled-looking delivery man holding a clipboard that looked like it had a book’s worth of papers clipped to it. you flee back towards your boyfriend in fear. 

“fernando…alonso?” the deliveryman asks, squinting his eyes at the name printed on the top-most paper. when he receives a nod of confirmation, he continues,”i have some deliveries for you, and this stack of papers you have to sign that make sure you have received the parcels.” he then thrusts the board out to nando. 

while your boyfriend sifts through each paper, hastily scribbling his name on each dotted line, the delivery man peers around the room in shock, as if he just noticed the handful of engineers and moderately pissed team principal standing in front of him. the man’s bored demeanor shifts to a more panicked one. “i - um- is this a bad time? should i come back later?” he stutters out, shifting nervously. 

mike crack starts, “obviou-” before being cut off by fernando.

“no, right now is fine- it would be great if you could set up my purchases in my garage as well,” your boyfriend says, ignoring mike’s glare at the back of his head. 

with a jaw-dropping two championships in his racing history, who was anyone to refuse fernando? mike had no choice but to begrudgingly end the meeting short and send the engineers away to analyze the new racing data. 

meanwhile, you sat prettily in the corner of nando’s garage. and no- not at one of the dirty sweat-stained barstools in the garage- your boyfriend would never let you stain your soft fur like that. no, you sat in a plush white satin dog bed in your special curtained off area. 

under fernando’s instructions, a swarm of deliverymen bat away your pale lacy curtains and filter in like a line of ants, one after another. they place box after box on the carpeted floor of your little area. it creates a glimmering tower of designer jewelry boxes and prim monogrammed paper bags. 

after they exit the premises, fernando kneels down onto one knee and wraps you into a tight hug. “you enjoy your gifts, mi princesa!” he points to the sunny outdoors. “i’ll just be outside, overseeing the builders making the new air-conditioned mini house for you, okay?” 

you wag your tail at him, and give him a kiss (lick) on the cheek as a thank-you. 

the second fernando exits the room, lance’s girlfriend pokes her head through the sheer curtains separating your corner from the rest of the garage. 

“hellooooo!” she giggles. “now what do we have here?” 

looking over the pile of assorted bags and boxes on the floor, she pokes a green patterned bag labeled, ‘gucci.’

she jumps giddily after seeing several other matching shopping bags. “i saw the deliverymen come in with fernando’s order, and i was wondering i could-”

you shift to your human form before she can finish her sentence.

“yeah, i guess you can help me open them…” you sigh, rolling your eyes in fake annoyance. 

lance’s girlfriend squeals in glee before ripping open a dior bag. 

“how about this one?” you question, twirling around in your bedroom a haute couture babydoll dress. 

from his position on the bed, wedged in between the plush pillows, your boyfriend rakes his eyes across your body appreciatively and pretends to think for a second. 

“i think-” he pauses for a grand effect- “it looks absolutely beautiful on you, mi amor.” 

even though he compliments you everyday, it doesn’t fail to make your cheeks heat up wherever you hear his praise. 

“why, thank you, nando!” you say, flashing a smile at him.

ducking behind the changing room divider, you slip on a more skimpy stirling green pajama set that lance’s girlfriend had somehow pulled from the stack of clothes earlier in the day.

you can practically hear nando’s jaw hit the floor when you daintily step out from behind the divider, hands shyly held together behind your back. 

“i’m guessing you like this one?” you joke, watching him blink back at you with an awestruck look. tiptoeing over a pile of clothes strewn on the ground and the pieces of expensive jewelry in various boxes, you run over to nando’s figure on the bed and prance onto his lap. 

face inches away from his, you take your hand and physically shut his gaping mouth. 

“speechless, huh?” you tease, tittering. 

fernando looks at you, the pajama set draped over you perfectly (why would it not? he had it custom designed to fit you), new van cleef necklaces hanging from your neck, and celine bangles adjourning your wrists, and he can’t help but think all the money he spent for you was worth it. 

his hazel eyes sparkle with adoration. “what can i say, mi amor? you take my breath away.”

you bat at his chest, giggling, before climbing off his lap and tucking yourself in next to him. like an automatic response, he protectively wraps his arm around you tucks your head into the crook between his neck and his shoulder. 

the twinkling stars, crickets chirping, and warmth of fernando’s body quickly lull you to sleep, but before you drift off, you place a soft kiss on your boyfriend’s stubbled jaw.

“thank you for all the gifts, nando. you’re way too good to me.” 

the next morning, you woke up early to drive to the paddock with fernando. it was race day, one of your favorite days to watch your boyfriend on the track. but, that also meant the swarm of celebrities, media, and fans of all ages that might step on your tail or ruin your little pink bows with their grimy hands. your ever so observant boyfriend took note of this right away and tucked you safely in between his arm and his body in your cocker spaniel form before a speck of dirt from the floor could touch you.

he doesn’t let you down until he arrives in his garage.

along with a couple of engineers, lance and his girlfriend are in there too. lance waves a polite hello to you and his older teammate, while his girlfriend shuffles over. she flashes a shy smile at your boyfriend before opening her mouth. 

“could you please tell your *ahem* girlfriend-“ she gestures to you in his arms- “thank you for letting me open all those gifts with her yesterday. it was really fun!” 

fernando lets out a chortle before nodding, “of course.” 

you let out a bark, as if saying no problem, and give her outstretched hand a lick. 

after your boyfriend peels away from you to go suit up with lance, you and lance’s girlfriend scamper back into your little sectioned off corner in the back of nando’s garage. you both sprawl yourselves on your satin white mini couch to wait for the the start of the race. you had to admit, having a boyfriend that spoiled you rotten was kind of nice. before you can get comfortable, however, the girl next to you practically launches herself off the couch.

“oww!” she yells, clutching her back. “what the actual fuck is that?”

you tilt you head in question, before you spot the offending material on the couch.

it was a swarovski diamond-lined dog collar with alternating green emeralds (you knew the possessive side of nando purposely put that in there to show what team you were rooting for). you laugh internally, before gingerly clutching it in your sharp canines and picking it off of the other side of the couch.

lance’s girlfriend shoots a playful glare at you. “wow…i literally helped you rip open all those boxes yesterday, and this is how you repay me? by nearly stabbing me to death with those ridiculously sharp gems?”

you roll your eyes, but give her a bark to apologize. jumping off the couch, you gently place the collar in front of her. knowing your intent, she bends down and fastens it on your neck, but not before exaggeratedly groaning and clutching her back as she knelt down.

in front of the full size mirror propped against the wall, you admire the way the collar glimmers like stars on your neck. then, the girl in front of you comes up with an idea. 

“hey! we should go show max’s girlfriend your sparkly new jewelry!”

max’s girlfriend is nowhere to be found when you arrive in the redbull garage. ignoring the redbull engineers’ weird looks, you pad through in your aston martin colors with lance’s girlfriend by your side. still, you are unable to locate the girl you had in mind. 

lance’s girlfriend shrugs. “that’s so weird! i wonder if she is still in his driver’s room or something?”

you tilt your head in confusion. she shouldn’t be, as the race was starting soon, so max must be in the garage! making up your mind to find max’s girlfriend, you pad over to the highest object next to you- max’s car. without thinking, you jump up onto the drs flap the back in order to have a higher vantage point. you only realize your grave error when lance’s girlfriend looks at you with wide eyes and nearby engineers let out gasps of shock. 

as if it couldn’t get worse, max walks into the garage with his girlfriend in tow. he scrunches his eyebrows when he sees you on his car. pointing at you he lets out a shout.

“hey! what is fernando’s cocker spaniel doing on my car? call fernando and tell him that’s a €50,000 fine!”

when fernando comes over to the red bull garage to collect you, you bow your head in shame, fully expecting him to chastise you, but instead he holds you close and laughs. leaning close to your ear, he whispers, “good job, baby! i know max will never fine me for you touching his car- his girlfriend would never let him. next time, collect more info on his steering wheel setup and rear wing…they’ll never catch you!”

a/n: jk! one last fic for the current grid :)

taglist: @ilivbullyingjeongin @ale-522 @formula1-motogpfan @aceyalonso @my0hmary 

@mbappebby @madkohi @rakshatos @heartsforleclerc @papaya-twinks

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Petard (Part I)

Few things are more wrong than "if you're not paying for the product, you're the product." Companies sell you out when they can, which is why John Deere tractor milks farmers for needless repair callouts and why your iPhone spies on you to provide data to Apple's surveillance advertising service:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

When a vendor abuses you, that's not punishment for you being a cheapskate and wanting to use services for free. Vendors who screw you over do so because they know they can get away with it, because you are locked in and can't shop elsewhere. The ultimate manifestation of this is, of course, prison-tech. A duopoly of private equity-backed prison-tech profiteers have convinced prisons and jails across America to get rid of calls, in-person visits, mail, parcels, libraries, and continuing ed, and replace them all with tablets that charge prisoners vastly more than people in the free world pay to access media and connect with the outside. Those prisoners are absolutely paying for the product – indeed, with the national average prison wage set at $0.53/hour, they're paying far more than anyone outside pays – and they are still the product.

Capitalists, after all, hate capitalism. For all the romantic odes to the "invisible hand" and all the bafflegab about "efficient market hypothesis," the actual goal of businesses is to make you an offer you literally can't refuse. Capitalists want monopolies, they want captive audiences. "Competition," as Peter Thiel famously wrote, "is for losers."

Few lock-in arrangements are harder to escape than the landlord-tenant relationship. Moving home is expensive, time-consuming, and can rip you away from your job, your kid's school, and your community. Landlords know it, which is why they conspire to rig rents through illegal price-fixing apps like Realpage:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/27/ai-conspiracies/#epistemological-collapse

And why they fill your home with Internet of Shit appliances that pick your pockets by requiring special, expensive consumables, and why they tack so many junk fees onto your monthly rent:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/01/housing-is-a-human-right/

Tenants aren't quite as locked in as prisoners, but corporations correctly understand that you can really fuck with a tenant over a long timescale without losing their business, and so they do.

Ironically, monopolists love each other. I guess if you loathe competition, a certain kind of cooperation comes naturally. That's why so many landlords have forged unholy alliances with internet service providers, who – famously – offer Americans the slowest speeds at the highest prices in the rich world, trail the world in infrastructure investment, and reap profits that put their global cousins in the shade.

Many's the apartment building that comes with a monopoly ISP that has a deal with your landlord. Landlords and ISPs call this "bulk billing" and swear that it reduces the cost of internet service for everyone. In reality, tenants who live under these arrangements have produced a deep, unassailable record proving that they pay more for worse broadband than the people next door who get to choose their ISPs. What's more, ISPs who offer "bulk billing" openly offer kickbacks to landlords who choose them over their rivals – in other words, even if you're paying for the product (your fucking home), you are still the product, sold to an evil telco.

Under Biden, the FCC banned the practice of ISPs paying kickbacks to landlords, over squeals and howls of protests from industry bodies like the National Multifamily Housing Council (NMHC), National Apartment Association (NAA), and Real Estate Technology and Transformation Center (RETTC). These landlord groups insisted – despite all the evidence to the contrary – that when your landlord gets to choose your ISP, they do so with your best interests at heart, getting you a stellar deal you couldn't get for yourself.

This week, Trump's FCC chair Brendan Carr – who voted for the ban on kickbacks – rescinded the rule, claiming that he was doing so to protect tenants. This is obvious bullshit, as is evidenced by the confetti-throwing announcements froom the NMHC, NAA and RETTC:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2025/01/fcc-chair-nixes-plan-to-boost-broadband-competition-in-apartment-buildings/

Reading Jon Brodkin's Ars Technica coverage of Carr's betrayal of millions of Americans, I was reminded of a short story I published in 2014: "Petard: A Tale of Just Desserts," which I wrote for Bruce Sterling's "12 Tomorrows" anthology from MIT Tech Review. It's a fun little sf story about this same bullshit, dedicated to the memory of Aaron Swartz:

https://mitpress.mit.edu/9780262535595/twelve-tomorrows-2014/

Realizing that there were people who were sounding the alarm about this more than a decade ago was a forceful reminder that Trumpism isn't exactly new. The idea that government should serve up the American people as an all-you-can-eat buffet for corporations that use tech to supercharge their predatory conduct has been with us for a hell of a long time. I've written a hell of a lot of science fiction about this, and sometimes this leads people to credit me with predictive powers. But if I predicted anything with my story "Radicalized," in which furious, grieving men murder the health industry execs who denied their loved ones coverage, I predicted the present, not the future:

https://prospect.org/culture/books/2024-12-09-radicalized-cory-doctorow-story-health-care/

Likewise in my story "Unauthorized Bread," which "predicted" that landlords would use "smart" appliances to steal from their poorest, most vulnerable tenants:

https://arstechnica.com/gaming/2020/01/unauthorized-bread-a-near-future-tale-of-refugees-and-sinister-iot-appliances/

It's not much of a "prediction" to simply write a story in which "Internet of Things" companies' sales literature is treated as a straightforward idea and writing about how it will all work.

The same goes for "Petard." The most "predictive" part of that story is the part where I take the human rights implications of internet connections seriously. Back then (and even today), there were and are plenty of Very Serious People who want you to know that internet service is a frivolity, a luxury, a distraction:

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2010/10/04/small-change-malcolm-gladwell

They deride the idea that broadband is a human right, even after the pandemic's lesson that you depend on your internet connection for social connections, civic life, political engagement, education, health and employment:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/03/30/medtronic-stole-your-ventilator/#fiber-now

Writing sf about this stuff isn't predictive, but I like to think that it constitutes an effective rebuttal to the people who say that taking digital rights seriously is itself unserious. Given that, I got to thinking about "Petard," and how much I liked that little story from 2014.

So I've decided to serialize it, in four parts, starting today. If you're impatient to get the whole story, you can listen to my podcast of it, which I started in 2014, then stopped podcasting for four years (!) before finishing in 2018:

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_278

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_292

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_293

https://archive.org/details/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_294_-_Petard_04

#

It's not that I wanted to make the elf cry. I'm not proud of the fact. But he was an elf for chrissakes. What was he doing manning — elfing — the customer service desk at the Termite Mound? The Termite Mound was a tough assignment — given MIT's legendary residency snafus, it was a sure thing that someone like me would be along every day to ruin his day.

"Come on," I said, "cut it out. Look, it's nothing personal."

He continued to weep, face buried dramatically in his long-fingered hands, pointed ears protruding from his fine, downy hair as it flopped over his ivory-pale forehead. Elves.

I could have backed down, gone back to my dorm and just forgiven the unforgivably stupid censorwall there, used my personal node for research or stuck to working in the lab. But I had paid for the full feed. I needed the full feed. I deserved the full feed. I was 18. I was a grownup, and the infantalizing, lurking censorwall offended my intellect and my emotions. I mean, seriously, fuck that noise.

"Would you stop?" I said. "Goddamnit, do your job."

The elf looked up from his wet hands and wiped his nose on his mottled raw suede sleeve. "I don't have to take this," he said. He pointed to a sign: "MIT RESIDENCY LLC OPERATES A ZERO-TOLERANCE POLICY TOWARD EMPLOYEE ABUSE. YOU CAN BE FINED UP TO $2000 AND/OR IMPRISONED FOR SIX MONTHS FOR ASSAULTING A CAMPUS RESIDENCE WORKER."

"I'm not abusing you," I said. "I'm just making my point. Forcefully."

He glared at me from behind a curtain of dandelion-fluff hair. "Abuse includes verbal abuse, raised voices, aggressive language and tone –"

I tuned him out. This was the part where I was supposed to say, "I know this isn't your fault, but –" and launch into a monologue explaining how his employer had totally hosed me by not delivering what they'd promised, and had further hosed him by putting him in a situation where he was the only one I could talk to about it, and he couldn't do anything about it. This little pantomime was a fixture of life in the world, the shrugs-all-round nostrum that we were supposed to substitute for anything getting better ever.

Like I said, though, fuck that noise. What is the point of being smart, 18 years old and unemployed if you aren't willing to do something about this kind of thing. Hell, the only reason I'd been let into MIT in the first place was that I was constitutionally incapable of playing out that little scene.

The elf had run down and was expecting me to do my bit. Instead, I said, "I bet you're in the Termite Mound, too, right?"

He got a kind of confused look. "That's PII," he said. "This office doesn't give out personally identifying information. It's in the privacy policy –" He tapped another sign posted by his service counter, one with much smaller type. I ignored it.

"I don't want someone else's PII. I want yours. Do you live in the residence? You must, right? Get a staff discount on your housing for working here, I bet." Elves were always cash-strapped. Surgery's not cheap, even if you're prepared to go to Cuba for it. I mean, you could get your elf-pals to try to do your ears for you, but only if you didn't care about getting a superbug or ending up with gnarly stumps sticking out of the side of your head. And forget getting a Nordic treatment without adult supervision, I mean, toot, toot, all aboard the cancer express. You had to be pretty insanely desperate to go elf without the help of a pro.

He looked stubborn. I mean, elf-stubborn, which is a kind of chibi version of stubborn that's hard to take seriously. I mean, seriously. "Look, of course you live in the Termite Mound. Whatever. The point is, we're all screwed by this stuff. You, me, them –" I gestured at the room full of people. They all been allocated a queue-position on entry to the waiting room and were killing time until they got their chance to come up to the Window of Eternal Disappointment in order to play out I Know This Isn't Your Fault But… before returning to their regularly scheduled duties as a meaningless grain of sand being ground down by the unimaginably gigantic machinery of MIT Residency LLC.

"Let's do something about it, all right? Right here, right now."

He gave me a look of elven haughtiness that he'd almost certainly practiced in the mirror. I waited for him to say something. He waited for me to wilt. Neither of us budged.

"I'm not kidding. The censorwall has a precisely calibrated dose of fail. It works just enough that it's worth using most of the time, and the amount of hassle and suck and fail you have to put up with when it gets in the way is still less than the pain you'd have to endure if you devoted your life to making it suck less. The economically rational course of action is to suck it up.

"What I propose is that we change the economics of this bullshit. If you're the Termite Mound's corporate masters, you get this much benefit out of the shitty censorwall; but we, the residents of the Termite Mound, pay a thousand times that in aggregate." I mimed the concentrated interests of the craven fools who'd installed the censorwall, making my hands into a fist-wrapped-in-a-fist, then exploding them like a hoberman-sphere to show our diffuse mutual interests, expanding to dwarf the censorware like Jupiter next to Io. "So here's what I propose: let's mound up all this diffuse interest, mobilize it, and aim it straight at the goons who put you in a job. You sit there all day and suffer through our abuse because all you're allowed to do is point at your stupid sign."

"How?" he said. I knew I had him.

#

Kickstarter? Hacker, please. Getting strangers to combine their finances so you can chase some entrepreneurial fantasy of changing the world by selling people stuff is an idea that was dead on arrival. If your little kickstarted business is successful enough to compete with the big, dumb titans, you'll end up being bought out or forced out or sold out, turning you into something indistinguishable from the incumbent businesses you set out to destroy. The problem isn't that the world has the wrong kind of sellers — it's that it has the wrong kind of buyers. Powerless, diffused, atomized, puny and insubstantial.

Turn buyers into sellers and they just end up getting sucked into the logic of fail: it's unreasonable to squander honest profits on making people happier than they need to be in order to get them to open their wallets. But once you get all the buyers together in a mass with a unified position, the sellers don't have any choice. Businesses will never spend a penny more than it takes to make a sale, so you have to change how many pennies it takes to complete the sale.

Back when I was fourteen, it took me ten days to hack together my first Fight the Power site. On the last day of the fall term, Ashcroft High announced that catering was being turned over to Atos Catering. Atos had won the contract to run the caf at my middle school in my last year there, every one of us lost five kilos by graduation. The French are supposed to be good at cooking, but the slop Atos served wasn't even food. I'm pretty sure that after the first week they just switched to filling the steamer trays with latex replicas of grey, inedible glorp. Seeing as how no one was eating it, there was no reason to cook up a fresh batch every day.

The announcement came at the end of the last Friday before Christmas break, chiming across all our personal drops with a combined bong that arrived an instant before the bell rang. The collective groan was loud enough to drown out the closing bell. It didn't stop, either, but grew in volume as we filtered into the hall and out of the building into the icy teeth of Chicago's first big freeze of the season.

Junior high students aren't allowed off campus at lunchtime, but high school students — even freshmen — can go where they please so long as they're back by the third period bell. That's where Fight the Power came in.

WE THE UNDERSIGNED PLEDGE

TO BOYCOTT THE ASHCROFT HIGH CAFETERIA WHILE ATOS HAS THE CONTRACT TO SUPPLY IT

TO BUY AT LEAST FOUR LUNCHES EVERY WEEK FROM THE FOLLOWING FOOD TRUCKS [CHECK AT LEAST ONE]:

This was tricky. It's not like there were a lot of food trucks driving out of the loop to hit Joliet for the lunch rush. But I wrote a crawler that went through the review sites, found businesses with more than one food truck, munged the menus and set out the intersection as an eye-pleasing infographic showing the appetizing potential of getting your chow outside of the world of the corrupt no-bid edu-corporate complex.

By New Year's Day, 98 percent of the student body had signed up. By January third, I had all four of the food-trucks I'd listed lined up to show up on Monday morning.

Turns out, Ashcroft High and Atos had a funny kind of deal. Ashcroft High guaranteed a minimum level of revenue to Atos, and Atos guaranteed a maximum level to Ashcroft High. So, in theory, if a hundred percent of the student body bought a cafeteria lunch, about twenty percent of that money would be kicked back to Ashcroft High. They later claimed that this was all earmarked to subsidize the lunches of poor kids, but no one could ever point to anything in writing where they'd committed to this, as our Freedom of Information Act requests eventually proved.

In return for the kickback, the school had promised to ensure that Atos could always turn a profit. If not enough of us ate in the caf, the school would have to give Atos the money it would have made if we had. In other words: our choice to eat a good lunch wasn't just costing the school its expected share of Atos's profits — it was having to dig money out of its budget to make up for our commitment to culinary excellence.

They tried everything. Got the street in front of the school designated a no-food-trucks zone (we petitioned the City of Joliet to permit parking on the next street over). Shortened the lunch-break (we set up a Web-based pre-order service that let us pick and pre-pay for our food). Banned freshmen from leaving school property (we were saved by the PTA). Suspended me for violating the school's social media policy (the ACLU wrote them a blood-curdling nastygram, and raised nearly $30,000 in donations of $3 or less from students around the world once word got out).

Atos wouldn't let them re-negotiate the contract, either. If Ashcroft High wanted out, it would have to buy it's way out. That's when I convinced the vice-principal to let me work with the AP Computer Science class to build out a flexible, open version of Fight the Power that anyone could install and run for their own student bodies, providing documentation and support. That was just before Spring Break. By May 1, there were 87 schools whose students used Ftp to organize Atos alternative food-trucks for their own cafeterias.

Suddenly, this was news. Not just local news, either. Global. Atos had to post an earnings warning in their quarterly report. Suddenly, we had Bloomberg and Al Jazeera Business camera crews buttonholing Ashcroft High kids on their way to the lunch-trucks. Whenever they grabbed me, I would give them this little canned speech about how Atos couldn't supply decent food and were taking money out of our educational budgets rather than facing the fact that the children they were supposed to be feeding hated their slop so much that they staged a mass walkout. It played well with kids in other schools, and very badly with Atos's shareholders. But I'll give this to Atos: I couldn't have asked for a better Evil Empire to play Jedi against. They threatened to sue me — for defamation! — which made the whole thing news again. Stupidly, they sued me in Illinois, which has a great anti-SLAPP law, and was a massive technical blunder. The company's US headquarters were in Clearwater, Florida, and Florida is a trainwreck in every possible sense, including its SLAPP laws. If they'd sued me in their home turf, I'd have gone bankrupt before I could win.

They lost. The ACLU collected $102,000 in fees from them. The story of the victory was above the fold on Le Monde's site for a week. Turns out that French people loathe Atos even more than the rest of us, because they've had longer to sharpen their hate.

Long story slightly short: we won. Atos "voluntarily" released our school from its contract. And Fight the Power went mental. I spent that summer vacation reviewing Github commits on Ftp, as more and more people discovered that they could make use of a platform that made fighting back stupid simple. The big stupid companies were whales and we were their krill, and all it took was some glue to glom us all together into boulders of indigestible matter that could choke them to death.

I dropped out of Ashcroft High in the middle of the 11th grade and did the rest of my time with homeschooling shovelware that taught me exactly what I needed to pass the GED and not one tiny thing more. I didn't give a shit. I was working full time on Ftp, craiglisting rides to to hacker unconferences where I couchsurfed and spoke, giving my poor parental units eight kinds of horror. It would've been simpler if I'd taken donations for Ftp, because Mom and Dad quickly came to understand that their role as banker in our little family ARG gave them the power to yank me home any time I moved out of their comfort zone. But there was the balance of terror there, because they totally knew that if I had accepted donations for the project, I'd have been financially independent in a heartbeat.

Plus, you know, they were proud of me. Ftp makes a difference. It's not a household name or anything, but more than a million people have signed up for Ftp campaigns since I started it, and our success rate is hovering around 25 percent. That means that I'd changed a quarter-million lives for the better (at least) before I turned 18. Mom and Dad, they loved that (which is not to say that they didn't need the occasional reminder of it). And shit, it got me a scholarship at MIT. So there's that.

#

Network filters are universally loathed. Duh. No one's ever written a regular expression that can distinguish art from porn and no one ever will. No one's ever assembled an army of prudes large enough to hand-sort the Internet into "good" and "bad" buckets. No one ever will. The Web's got 100-odd billion pages on it; if you have a failure rate of one tenth of one percent, you'll overblock (or underblock) (or both) 100,000,000 pages. That's several Library of Congress's worth of pointless censorship — or all the porn ever made, times ten, missed though underfiltering. You'd be an idiot to even try.

Idiot like a fox! If you don't care about filtering out "the bad stuff" (whatever that is), censorware is a great business to be in. The point of most network filters is the "security syllogism":

SOMETHING MUST BE DONE.

I HAVE DONE SOMETHING.

SOMETHING HAS BEEN DONE.

VICTORY!

Hand-wringing parents don't want their precious offspring looking at weiners and hoo-hahs when they're supposed to be amassing student debt, so they demand that the Termite Mound fix the problem by Doing Something. The Termite Mound dispenses cash to some censorware creeps in a carefully titrated dose that is exactly sufficient to demonstrate Something Has Been Doneness to a notional weiner-enraged parent. Since all the other dorms, schools, offices, libraries, airports, bus depots, train stations, cafes, hotels, bars, and theme parks in the world are doing exactly the same thing, each one can declare itself to be in possession of Best Practices when there is an unwanted hoo-hah eruption, and culpability diffuses to a level that is safe for corporate governance and profitability. #MissionAccomplished.

And so the whole world suffers under this pestilence. Millions of times every day — right at this moment — people are swearing at their computers: What. The. Fuck. Censorware's indifference to those minute moments of suffering is only possible because they've never been balled up into a vast screaming meteor of rage.

#

"Hey there, hi! Look, I'm here because I need unfiltered Internet access to get through my degree. So do you all, right? But the Termite Mound isn't going to turn it off because that would be like saying 'Here kids, have a look at this porn,' which they can't afford to say, even though, seriously, who gives a shit, right?"

I had them at 'porn," but now I had to keep them.

"Look at your tenancy agreement: you're paying twenty seven bucks a month for your network access at the Termite Mound. Twenty seven bucks — each! I'll find us an ISP that can give all of us hot and cold running genitals and all the unsavory religious extremism, online gaming, and suicide instructions we can eat. Either I'm going to make the Termite Mound give us the Internet we deserve, or we'll cost it one of its biggest cash-cows and humiliate it on the world stage.

"I don't want your money. All I want is for you to promise me that if I can get us Internet from someone who isn't a censoring sack of shit, that you'll come with me. I'm going to sign up every poor bastard in the Termite Mound, take that promise to someone who isn't afraid to work hard to earn a dollar, and punish the Termite Mound for treating us like this. And then, I'm going to make a loud noise about what we've done, and spread the word to every other residence in Cambridge, then Boston, then across America. I'm going to spread out to airports, hotels, train stations, buses, taxis — any place where they make it their business to decide what data we're allowed to see."

I whirled around to face the elf, who leapt back, long fingers flying to his face in an elaborate mime of startlement. "Are you with me, pal?"

He nodded slightly.

"Come on," I said. "Let 'em hear you."

He raised one arm over his head, bits of rabbit fur and uncured hides dangling from his skinny wrist. I felt for him. I think we all did. Elves.

He was a convincer, though. By the time I left the room, I already had 29 signups.

#

All evil in the world is the result of an imbalance between the people who benefit from shenanigans and the people who get screwed by shenanigans. De-shenaniganifying the world is the answer to pollution and poverty and bad schools and the war on some drugs and a million other horribles. To solve all the world's problems, I need kick-ass raw feeds and a steady supply of doofus thugs from central casting to make idiots of. I know where I can find plenty of the latter, and I'm damn sure going to get the former. Watch me.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/30/landlord-telco-industrial-complex/#captive-market

[drdemonprince]

In reading your latest piece, I think I've stumbled onto something akin to a personal epiphany. You describe transition as an act of "want" (Chu's longing for gossip and yours for the life of an eternal bachelor) and I've realized that I think as a consequence of growing up autistic, I've obliterated the concept of personal want. I don't know if I truly ever want anything? How do I even know what I truly want (versus what other people tell me I should want)? Is there an opposite of resentment I can tune into so I can tell what I want when my conscious mind is unable to provide me an answer?

I think the place is to start with what you don't want. What I describe as "wanting the bachelor life forever" in my piece is actually a desire born out of negation: I don't want kids, I don't want marriage, I don't want responsible adulthood and the weight that that carries, I want to feel free-roaming and open to random experiences. What i knew most viscerally for myself was what felt wrong, and owning up to those feelings no matter how socially inconvenient they might be was what made it possible for me to articulate what I proactively did find desirable.

I recommend rejecting a lot of things, disappointing a lot of people, being disobedient, setting boundaries, all of that stuff that I have been writing about for a very long time (check out the pieces on those subjects if you haven't already, but from the sound of it you probably have). And then when it comes to positively desiring things, you've got to start small. Find a little thing to look forward to every day, or every week. In my household, Wednesdays and Fridays are Dunkin Donuts days. Instead of making coffee at home, you get a little treat. That makes getting a coffee out of the house still feel precious and special while also making it attainable, and gives the work week a little horizon to peak over at its mid point.

I so look forward to the weekly streams on Friday with @testdevice, too. Afterward I usually get a meal somewhere and then go out for some kind of weekend activity -- drinking and watching Drag Race at Roscoe's, a movie, dancing, whatever. I make forming plans for the weekend a task I set out for myself at the top of every week. I find street festivals, concerts, craft fairs, protests, little things to do that I know will be meaningful to me. Small pleasures parceled out on a regular schedule provide a pleasing structure to life. It makes the forward march of time feel more exciting and keeps daily life from being defined by obligation and drudgery. Sometimes it's something like playing a video game at home or meeting up at a friend's house for a movie night and snacks. However you can swing it, you gotta have little things to look forward to, I think, in order to enjoy being alive and to get into the habit of thinking more expansively about what you want. you can making finding things that you want to do a regular project, a practice.

A lot of life is experimenting with new experiences and relationships with other people to find out what you actually like. It's not some profound act of introspection. People block themselves off from a lot of meaningful aspects of life by thinking the answers come from plumbing the depths of their soul and finding their true calling or true desire divorced from everything else. There is no self outside of experience and social connection.

And so the best way to find out what you want is to try a lot of different things. Go watch your friend at their competitive poker tournament. Volunteer to clean litter off the beach. Foster a bunny rabbit. Make a casserole. Darn a sock. Buy some handmade jewelry. Visit a museum with a coworker you kinda might like the company of. Invite someone over for dinner. How it plays out and how you feel about it is all data about the kind of person you are becoming.

I also wouldn't get too bogged down in the idea that wants can only come from the pursuit of happiness. I got a few really well intentioned asks this week that I never answered about what brings me joy, what makes me happy. Truth is, I'm not someone who experiences happiness easily and i might never be. That is okay. I still have a life that holds meaning because I AM very good at finding things interesting. i like talking to people, learning from them, watching things play out in real time.

You don't have to feel some kind of abiding soul connection to an activity or sense that a way of life will absolutely make you happy in order for it to interest you, help you grow, bring your life meaning. Other people might not want to read long history books about genocide and the social construction of race in order to bring their life pleasure, but those activities engage my mind and make me feel more firmly rooted in the actual world. they're interesting and rewarding to study, and so i do it. i say yes to a lot of invitations purely because i've never seen what horse racing is like or because i want to see if i'll still get nauseated if i ride a boat now as an adult. it's interesting. it might not make me happy or be fun. but i like a life better with those experiences. those are the things i gravitate to and want. and you can find what you want, too, and it will always keep changing probably.

[detroitography]

Event: Detroit Data Forum: Property and Parcels

Welcome to our Data Forum where we will explore a new category of data each month. This month we will be focused on property data, the relaunch of Property Praxis, and the important details when trying to utilize parcel data. We’ll be joined by Chase Cantrell of Building Community Value, Joshua Akers, instigator of Property Praxis, and Aaron Mondry from Outlier Media writing on the “speculators…

[alicedopey]

Birthday Girl

Pairing: Jake Jensen x Reader (Zombie) Genre: Romance Words Number: 881 Warnings: None A/N: Just a little something for my sweet Lady December. Happy birthday, @thezombieprostitute !

You squinted at your computer. All those data and resources were going to kill you...or make you blind. The end of the year was always hectic and you could not wait for the holidays just to enjoy some cozy time at home and relax. 

“Zombie, tech guy is here for you.  Jack…James….”

You frowned at her. Since the moment he had started working here a few months ago, most of your colleagues were looking at him disdainfully and calling him the weird nerd behind his back, which was not fair considering how sweet he was and how good of a job he was doing so far. The two of you had bonded over your love for Tetris and it was always a joy to have him pay you a visit – which you would admit was becoming more and more frequent but you did not want to read too much into it.

“Jake.” You cut her off a little bit sharply and raised from your seat. She was not impressed and just rolled her eyes before going back to her own desk. You went out of your office and a smile appeared on your face the moment you saw his bright own smile on his ever overly cheerful face.

“Hello, there.” You asked. “To what do I owe the pleasure to your face today, Mister Jensen?”

His cheeks pinkened and he pushed his glasses up his nose nervously. “Yeah, err…is there any way we could go somewhere more private?” He sent an embarrassed glance to your colleagues who were watching the two of you through the glass doors. 

You glared at them again. How nosy they could be sometimes. “I guess we could go to the breakroom.”

He nodded and you led the way, quite worried. Why would Jake act so suddenly bothered by your colleagues and what they could think about the two of you talking? He had always been very shy and awkward but never truly embarrassed.

Maybe he had some bad news. You heard how talented he was so it was possible he was offered another job far from here. Far from you.

You sighed and opened the door of the breakroom. Luckily, it was empty. You turned to look at Jake when you heard the door close itself behind him. His demeanor seemed to be more joyful. 

“Perfect. I just wanted us to be alone to give you these.” He smiled, handing you two parcels. Lost in your inner thoughts, you had not even noticed them before. “Happy birthday, Zombie.”

 “Oh Jake, that is so sweet of you.” You said in a whisper as you took them and sat on the couch to open them. He had neatly wrapped them in red and green wrapping papers and had put a sparkling golden bow on each one. 

He cleared his throat. “I know it’s not a lot but I think you might like them.”

You ran your hand over the first package softly. “I am certain I will like them, Jake. Just remembering the fact that today is my birthday is more than enough”. You looked up and saw he was blushing again. It always made him look so cute. If only he could find you cute as well.

He cleared his throat again and you blinked, chasing your thoughts away. “Well, aren’t you going to open them? Unless you want to be alone…”

“Of course not! Please stay.”

He smiled and sat down next to you on the couch as you cautiously opened the first parcel. You gasped when the content was finally revealed: three little cats from the Sylvanian Families. “Aww, they are so cute.” 

“You told me you love cats and I heard you talking about those cute little figurines so I figured you would be happy to have them.”

You gave him a wide smile. “I am really happy Jake, thank you.”

“You are more than welcome.” He whispered. “Come on, open the second one.”

The second gift was a crochet kit of Christmas ornaments. It was truly adorable. You had only known this man for a few months and he was already knowing you better than anyone here. You could not help yourself and hugged him as tears burnt your eyes.

“I take it you like the second one as well?” Jake asked and hugged you back. 

“I do. Thank you, Jake. So much.”

“It was nothing.”

“It was a lot, believe me.”

You leaned away from him and he let you go gently. “Thank you for this, really. You did not have to do…”

“I wanted to.” He cut you off. “Actually, there is something else.” His cheeks took a nice shade of pink again and he cast his eyes down, rubbing his neck nervously.

“Yes?” You took his other hand in yours. That made him stop and he looked at you.

“I wanted to invite you to have dinner with me in some nice little restaurant to celebrate. I know the owner. I promise it’s not crowded and the food is good. What about Friday? If you are free, of course.”

 “Friday sounds great.”

He gently squeezed your hand. You smiled and he smiled back. There was something else there. Something more. And you could not wait to explore it with him. 

[aaami]

Mmmhmhllhkfkfkfkghhhhhgggghhh

Getting so annoyed I even contacted cdjapan and asked if they might have any idea what this "missing information" with my parcel might be. There isn't anything I can do even if they have an answer, but mmhh, I guess it's better to let them know about the situation in case the stupid package gets sent back and I have to start asking for refunds :/

I trust they have included all the needed info in the electronic data or whatever and the issue is likely in Finland post's end, tho

[rebel-hunk-enjoyer]

for the wip game: tell us about the dead letter, please?

Oh, thank you!!! 'dead letter' is my baby, my rotten soldier, my sweet cheese, my good time boy, my pal, and also my beloved.

Mostly I'm inspired by the idea that we don't actually see Kallus with his bo-rifle after Bahryn? I went back over the episodes and it's just gone, conceptually, after the ice moon stuff. He's limping his ass through the star destroyer and it isn't even on his leg anymore so, like, hey what is up with that?

Naturally, I got to thinking what if he got sentimental about it after learning more about the Boosahn Keeraw from Zeb and put it somewhere safe? Then I chucked the meteorite into the safe location, too, because I could definitely imagine Kallus not wanting to have sentimental objects hanging around his quarters as a paranoid ISB agent who doesn't want to give anyone anything to hold over him.

From there it kind of turned into ... Kallus is a double agent, he's very paranoid, he knows the chances of him getting out of this situation alive are VERY SLIM, why in the actual fuck would he not take the opportunity to leave when Ezra came to extract him? Why go through all the trouble of (badly) framing Lyste and staying? It wasn't part of his original plan because it was SO sloppily done, to the point that he gives himself away to Thrawn in doing it, so WHAT in the world would be so important?

And from there it became, well, classic spycraft stuff: a dead letter, to Zeb, giving him the location where Kallus put his bo-rifle and the meteorite ... and a "secret project" Kallus started working on right after Bahryn but before he fully became Fulcrum: gathering all Imperial data he could possibly find on every remaining lasat in the galaxy. Because look if there are Alderaan remnants out there, there are definitely lasat, and it sort of becomes Kallus' little side thing he works on for Zeb and Lasan and his own redemption and it keeps him sane while he's spying and drives him on when he feels weak and he absolutely did not have everything prepared for it when Ezra came to extract him!

Ahem! So, um, here's a big chunk of that 😅😅

Captain Orrelios.

Garazeb.

You will only receive this message in the event of my demise. 

I do hope that it was a good death, but am aware it may have come at the end of enhanced interrogation. Please know that I will have done everything in my power to die before breaking, but I do implore you to move with caution and haste to act on this last piece of information I must impart.

It is information for you and you alone.

Alexsandr Kallus looks up from his data pad to meet the stare of the lasat towering over him. Zeb looks furious and is holding a message recorder at arm’s length between them. 

The device is familiar and the message is one Kallus recorded after careful deliberation and planning, when the stress of operating as a double agent under Admiral Thrawn’s nose had been at its peak.

After encrypting the message recorder with biometrics lifted from Zeb’s Imperial arrest records, Kallus had sealed it in a nondescript parcel addressed to a location used by Fulcrum agents for dead drops. The parcel had been left on hold with a package service, payment for its delivery only provided when Kallus failed to use his Imperial credentials for forty-eight hours, as a kind of dead man’s switch. Once the drop location was checked, the parcel would be secreted to the rebellion and passed to its intended recipient: Captain Garazeb Orrelios. 

All told, between the forty-eight hour window and a parcel delivery service and then a Fulcrum drop location, it should have taken about a week for the message to reach Zeb - in an ideal situation.

(It does not pass Kallus’ notice that in an ideal situation, he should have been dead.)

Naturally, the events played out differently, what with Kallus failing to use his Imperial credentials for forty-eight hours not because he died after prolonged interrogation and torture, but because he escaped the Chimera by the skin of his teeth and was accepted into the fold of the rebellion. 

The receipt of the message would not have been out of place a week after the Battle of Atollon, the serious and dire intonation of his recorded voice befitting such heavy losses and uncertainty, but it’s been much longer than a week. It’s been weeks and then months. It’s been so long, in fact, that Kallus just assumed the dead drop was compromised and the parcel forgotten in a rubbish heap somewhere. He’d made a mental note to take care of it once he had the means, just he hasn’t had the means since his defection.

Kallus leans back in his seat and takes a slow sip of caf, holding Zeb’s stare. “Rebellion mail service is shit, I see,” he finally says.

That clearly isn’t the reaction Zeb wanted, given the way he curls his lip and shows a fang. “What the hell is this about?” he demands. 

“It’s a dead letter,” Kallus says, but sees no corresponding recognition in Zeb’s face at the particular phrase. “I set it up so you’d get that message a week after I stopped using my Imperial credentials,” he explains. “Which I thought would only happen if I was caught spying and executed. It should’ve been here months ago.”

The entire concept of a ‘dead letter,’ if anything, seems to unsettle the lasat warrior and he hunches his shoulders as if spooked. Or perhaps it’s the almost disinterested way Kallus explains the morbid though practical concept.

“They said the drop you used ended up behind a blockade,” Zeb offers. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with the device and just keeps holding it out between them. “They just managed to get back to clean it out and shut it down.”

“Well,” Kallus says slowly, finally glancing down at the device, but then quickly back up at Zeb. “I can tell you the intel is still good. I’ve been checking back on it when I can.”

Zeb’s uncertainty multiplies and he finally drops his arm. “What, that’s it?”

“Yes?” Kallus asks, feigning confusion. He knows damn well Zeb wants him to explain more, to tell him what other information the device contains and why it’s information just for Zeb, but every ounce of his brain power is currently going into maintaining his composure. 

A dead letter, where most spies are concerned, shouldn’t be embarrassing. But Kallus isn’t most spies, is he? No, Kallus is sentimental and romantic, with a penchant for drama, and had nursed his extreme levels of Thrawn-induced stress by putting together an elaborate, emotionally-stunted kind of love letter to his former enemy turned rebellious inspiration. It’s right there in the opening address, for kriff’s sake, when his voice goes a little soft on Garazeb. 

Of course, it’s one thing to spend his stress-filled, sleepless nights as a double agent thinking too fondly of the being who showed him kindness and encouragement where neither was warranted. It’s something else to finally defect to the rebellion and into the reality of a simple friendship with Zeb and only that. It takes a little adjustment on Kallus’ part and he does throw himself into his rebel intelligence work for the welcome distraction, but somewhere between deprogramming therapy and getting off the regimented Imperial sleep schedule, he did stop spending his nights fantasizing about Garazeb Orrelios.

For the most part.

But what happens in his dreams is beyond his control and he does feel guilty about it in the morning, so Kallus counts it as progress towards getting over unreciprocated feelings.

“You can tell me the intel’s still good but you can’t just tell me the intel?” Zeb asks bluntly. “There’s just coordinates and stuff in the data on this thing, Kal!”

Kallus turns his attention back to his data pad, now feigning distraction to build up to an excuse that will see him away from the conversation and back to work. “No, I can’t just tell you,” he admits, adding an edge of impatience and then an apologetic smile, so waving the data pad will make it seem as if he was short due to something work-related. “Zeb, it’s a large file on hard copy storage - I couldn’t begin to recall it with any accuracy. I’m sorry - I need to get back to the office.”

It all adds up to an easy excuse and Zeb accepts it with a playfully frustrated huff. “Fine, yeah, get back to translating Imp droids - ”

“Decrypting Imperial transmissions,” Kallus corrects.

“ - whatever,” Zeb grumbles. “But before you go, tell me why it’s just for me?”

Kallus makes sure the face he pulls seems aimed at his data pad and silently panics while staring hard at the progress bar on his decryption algorithm. He tries to think of a reasonable, platonic, and perfectly sane answer to that question and comes up woefully short.

“Because you were the only person I trusted at the time I recorded that,” Kallus admits and it doesn’t sound half bad to his ears. It’s true and he manages to make it sound not just sane and reasonable, but passably platonic!

“Aw,” Zeb answers, a little sarcastic and dissolving into a sneaky kind of laugh. “But you trust a bunch of us now, right? I could just give this over to Hera and - ”

“No!” Kallus objects with a sudden jolt of panic. “No, Zeb,” he corrects himself and even tries to add a laugh that isn’t too awkward. “It’s fine, I can grab it as soon as I have the chance.” If the suggestion had occurred to him sooner, maybe he could have put forth the idea with more finesse, but it’s out now and Kallus is reasonably sure Zeb will jump at the opportunity to shirk the chore.

Except he doesn’t.

“Nah, you’re always so busy now,” Zeb says with a dismissive wave. “I’ll put it on the mission roster and take care of it when I can. Nothing too important, right?”

Kallus bites the inside of his cheek in an effort to maintain his composure. It’s vitally important information, actually, but comes with an incredibly embarrassing dose of sentimentality that Kallus isn’t sure he’ll be able to survive Zeb uncovering. “You’ll want it,” he admits, because that much is true. “But it’s not a ‘requisition a ship for an off the books op’ kind of priority.”

This is now damage control. If he can downplay the priority of the intel - without lying about its importance - and stall Zeb from going, Kallus might be able to get to it first. 

“Gotcha,” Zeb says, finally pocketing the device.

There’s a long, awkward pause that Kallus only notices when Zeb starts giving him a curious look. “Didn’t you have a thing?” Zeb asks, pointing at Kallus’ data pad.

“Oh,” Kallus says and after a stilted pause regards the data pad with a stern look again just to keep up pretense. “I did - I do, yes. I need to get back to the office about it.”

Smooth. Very smooth. Kallus grabs his empty mug and beats a hasty retreat, absolutely refusing to think about the way Zeb laughs, all soft and warm and something, on his way past.

[atlurbanist]

Dead spaces in Downtown Atlanta need careful repair

Darin Givens | May 15, 2025

Adding new things to Downtown Atlanta is great. No doubt about it.

But for Downtown to truly thrive, we also need to address its lingering dead spaces in a very intentional way. The vibrancy of new investments will only extend so far; it will end at every giant parking deck, car-sewer road, empty building, and data center. They're Downtown's kryptonite.

And we really have to address those dead spaces in a targeted way. We've got decades worth of examples of big investments in Downtown Atlanta that were supposed to make the whole district a lovable, vibrant place through trickle-down effects, but it didn't happen.

I understand the reason people want to believe that one or two major projects will "save Downtown" by lighting a fire that spreads. Savior stories are appealing. But it hasn't worked that way. The land-ownership challenges are huge, and the hurdles posed by the effects of decades of car-centric design are huge too.

The hard work done by the Atlanta Ventures group in South Downtown (not pictured) shows the importance of being thoughtful about each parcel. They're doing it the right way. It's difficult, but the payoff will be massive for that subarea. We need this level of attention across all of Downtown.

Now, obviously, there are some wonderful things that already exist in Downtown and they're very encouraging to see. It's worth visiting today, in certain places and at certain times of the week.

I feel that it's important for us to recognize these sparks of goodness while also envisioning the potential greatness that can come from a holistic repair of dead spaces -- this is something that could make Downtown lovable every hour of the day.

[jellyfishjulie]

Actually fr I'm way too scared to confront him about it, feeling kinda sick to my stomach

Trying to get info on gardening with native plants has so many of the same issues as trying to id bugs, but only finding pest control websites - so much material online about "getting rid of this stubborn weed" but zero info on what actually makes it a weed?? I'm out here googling "what's so bad about common yellow woodsorrel" and getting nothing. Girl if it's native and edible and beneficial to pollinators and self seeding and competes out nonnative weeds and it's PRETTY....... literally WHY are you ripping it out of your garden?

[minniethemoocherda]

Iridescent: Chapter 37

A/N: Sorry this update was a little late! I was away for the bank holiday weekend so I've only now had the chance to use my laptop! I hope you guys enjoyed it despite the wait!

I also wanted to give a special shout-out to The_Chaotic_Anon on Ao3 who as they have been catching up with this fic, have been leaving comments on every single chapter! Their enthusiasm and encouragement is admirable and amazing! It has meant more to me than I can say and given me so much motivation to finish this fic as fast as I can!

I know it has been a long journey! But I just wanted to thank every single person who has stuck with me and commented on this fic! You're support is beyond incredible! If it wasn't for you all I would've probably given up on this fic a long time ago! I love you guys so much! Xxxxxxxx

Ao3

For once Prowl couldn't concentrate on paperwork. The numbers of energon input and consumption blurred into one on the screen of the datapad that he'd been staring at for the past hour.

In the reflection of the screen, all he could see was that same empty glass of Jazz's visor as the spy had walked away from everything they'd had and everything they could have been, like it had all meant nothing.

And now Prowl was behind on reports which meant that everyone else was working with out of date data until he'd finished which could give the Decepticons precious extra moments of advantage that could mean the end for them all in this godforsaken war.

Suddenly the screen cracked beneath his servos.

Prowl managed to resist the urge to flip the table. This was why Prowl never should've slept with the saboteur in the first place. He had emotionally compromised himself and now the entirety of the Autobots and their species could pay the price for his selfishness. Today it was the data-pad. Tomorrow, one wrong move could result in the entire army being broken into piece.

Biting down the building anger, Prowl forced his energy into finding a new datapad. He reached into his desk draws for a replacement.

Despite the organised appearance of the rest of his office, the draws below Prowl's desk were a dumping ground of mess. He rummaged through old forgotten sweets, out of date notes and confiscated contraband. Just as his tips of his servos stroked the hard screen of a datapad, the back brushed against the feeling of an something wrapped in tarp. In an instant, Prowl's completer supplied him with the knowledge of what it could be.

Prowl had forgotten about the present that Jazz had gifted him all those months ago, back when they had barely been acquaintances, let alone anything more. Back when Prowl had hated his existence and the idea of sleeping with him, let alone fall for him would have been considered of sign of insanity.

In the present, Prowl carefully pulled out the parcel. Its tarp wrapping was slightly frayed around the edges, but other than that it looked as unassuming as the day Jazz had left it on his desk.

Aware that this was the last piece of Jazz may ever be able to have, and still not entirely convinced it wasn't some sort of prank, Prowl slowly opened it.

Inside was a bookend made from a sheet of slick black metal, curved exactly at a ninety-degree angle. On the angled side was the engravement of a figure with wide wings and a chevron crown falling from the surface of Luna-2. A scene from the legend of how Praxian's lost their wings. Although due to the way it had been drawn, it almost looked as the bot was rising instead of falling. A twist the usual tale, as though the loss of flight was not a curse, but instead a gift. The bookend had to have been handmade. Factories for frivolous gifts such as bookends had been shut down eons ago. But the detail of the design made it appear professional.

Prowl placed it on his shelf, propping up his datapads in an even line. He couldn't help but admire how it fit perfectly. The bookend was practical yet stylish. A sentiment that could have described the one who created it.

It was no wonder then that Jazz had not taken a liking to Prowl. Who could never have been described as stylish, only blunt and void of life. They were simply too different. It was foolish for Prowl to ever think that a mech like Jazz could have felt anything more towards him than pity.

The door to Prowl's office burst open. For a moment, Prowl's spark betrayed him with a traitorous soar of hope that Jazz had once again broken in to his office.

Instead it was one of the few who had gifted the code.

"Do you want me to kill them for you?" Bluestreak beamed as she bounced over to his desk.

"What?" Prowl said eloquently, his tact net for once having no idea what his sister was talking about.

"Obviously I could shoot him with a sniper." Bluestreak yammered on as though this all made complete sense. "You know, make it look like an accident. But if you wanted something more painful then Sunstreaker showed me how to gut a mech alive. Plus he and his brother have already said they'd help me if I ever wanted to hide a body! And I know Bumblebee would be upset at first but I'm sure he'd get over it eventually!"

"Who's body?"

"Jazz."

Prowl sighed, sitting back down behind his desk.

"Why would I want to kill Jazz?"

Bluestreak stared at him like he was the one talking crazy.

"For breaking your spark."

Whatever explanation Prowl had been expecting Bluestreak to say it most certainly had not been that.

"He did not break my spark." Prowl then leant forward, his tact next soon catching up to the implications of those words. "And why would you think that he had?"

Bluestreak bit down on her lip in an attempt to physically stop herself from talking.

"Bluestreak." Prowl warned which was all it took to burst the damn.

"Okay so don't be mad but I may have snuck out of the medbay to see you after you came to talk to me the first time because I could tell you were still pretty upset. So I went to your room but then I saw Jazz head inside and I thought that maybe he was going to drop off some last minute paperwork or prepare for a mission or whatever. So I waited for him to leave and I waited and waited and waited.. and then he didn't."

Prowl opened his mouth, his battle computer having already started convicting excuses for why Jazz would be spending the night in his berth, before his logic circuits soon cut it off, concluding that it would be pointless.

"We were not … in a relationship." Was all he said instead.

Bluestreak scrunched up her nose.

"That was so not what I meant when I said that I thought it would benefit you to make friends but still, I think he was good for you. These past few months have been the happiest I've ever seen you. Actually from what Bumblebee's told me, I think you were both good for each other." She stated, again sounded so much wiser beyond her years.

A moment later, that brightness was back as she perked up with an idea.

"Wait you' guys were doing … all that before Blackout came back right? You've made me read through the Autobot rule book like a million times so I know that if a relationship starts before a promotion or demotion then as long as you declare it to your superiors then its all good! Plus you love paperwork so why don't you just do that!"

"Jazz made it very clear that he did not want that." Prowl replied unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"You sure you don't want me to kill him?" She asked.

"No."

"Fine." Bluestreak crossed her arms over her chest. "I was going to offer to kill Blackout as an alternative but I'm going to assume you don't want me to kill her either?"

"You would be correct."

Bluestreak uncrossed her arms.

"Look, I didn't just come here to offer an assassination."

She placed a cube of energon on his desk.

It wasn't until the cube was in front of him that Prowl realised how low his levels had gotten. But it he drunk it now, then Bluestreak would know that she had been right to be worried. He looked back up to her optics to find himself fixed by her stare. She must have figured out his chain of logic. Sometimes it was annoying how well she understood him.

Reluctantly, Prowl took the cube.

Bluestreak sighed. Prowl couldn't tell if it was in annoyance or relief.

"I can't take care of you like I used to as a sparkling. I've got missions now. I'm not going to be on base forever. And without Jazz to bring you your fuel I know you haven't been getting enough because I haven't seen you in the rec room since Blackout came back."

He hadn't seen it that way. But now realised that until she had left for boot-camp, Bluestreak had always been there, waiting in their quarters of bothering them at their desk to make him sleep and eat. It would explain why the rate of his crashes had increased exponentially after she'd gone.

"I should have been the one taking care of you." He stated.

Bluestreak smiled in response.

"It was the only responsibility I could have as a kid. I enjoyed having something to do on those bases instead of being a burden. But that's not what I'm hear to talk about. My point is that just because Jazz is an idiot for shutting you out, that doesn't mean you have to shut yourself from everyone else. You made friends with Red Alert, you actually interacted in the rec-room and you refuelled the amount that your supposed to. You are brave and smart and loyal. Jazz can go fuck himself. You deserve to be with someone who sees how amazing you are."

The pure pride in Bluestreak's voice brought a warmth to Prowl's spark he thought he had lost the ability to feel.

"Thank you." He told her, even though the words felt inadequate to express the amount of gratitude and love he felt.

But Bluestreak had always been able to understand what he struggled to show. Practically climbing over the desk as she pulled Prowl into a hug he could have never refused. Because he would do anything for her. And as usual she was right.

What he'd had with Jazz had made him happy. But it wasn't just that. It was how over the past months, Red Alert had come to trust him enough to use his own chess set, it was how mechs in corridor actually said hello to him instead of whispering behind his back and how he let himself make music even without purpose or even a need to be good, only a need to express.

Eventually, Bluestreak let him go, skipping back to the door to return to whatever chore she'd sneaked off from.

Just before Bluestreak could shut the door, she poked her head in one last time.

"Are you sure you don't want me to kill him?"

"Yes." Prowl sighed.

"Okay!"

Bluestreak said with a wave before leaving his office.

Prowl made a mental note to once again refer her to Rung.