#Portable Life Support System

[anumberofhobbies]

fut-lnr_v_bw_o_n (ca. 1960-63, unnumbered Northrop Corp. photo) by Mike Acs Via Flickr: “Scientists look forward to the time when the moon and planets will be explored for mineral wealth that can be shipped back to earth. This concept of a space vehicle was created by the research laboratories of Northrop Corp. Equipped with caterpillar treads and a rocket system, it would be capable of crawling or making short flights over moon terrain.” I like these vehicles and the tricycle configuration of the treads. They have a Nick Stanilla/Roy Scarfo look to them…other than those treads. And the Geologist-Astronaut being lowered into the crevasse, coiled rope on his right hip, with flashlight & geologic hammer/pick at the ready on his left thigh. Also: dreamsofspace.blogspot.com/2015/07/man-to-moon-1962-part-... Credit: John Sisson/"Dreams of Space" blogspot The (I assume Northrop Corp.) artist is ‘Todd’. Unfortunately, nothing on him/her. I remember seeing another work by him/her of a lunar scene, which was also quite unique. I think I took a screen grab of it...or downloaded it(?) If so, damned if I know where it is. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[insert-name-heres-things]

Happy Disability Pride Month!!!

Remember Folks:

- SELF CARE IS NUMBER ONE

- Use your spoons sparingly! Here’s some spoons to go: 🥄🥄🥄🥄🥄🥄🥄

- Clean your mobility aids! (Seriously dude when was the last time you wiped that shit down with an antibacterial?)

- Accommodate yourself, as others will follow.

- Make goals within your reach and abilities

- DO YOUR COPINGS SKILLS

- Remember to stay hydrated and take your meds!

- For my fellow heat sensitive homies, stay cool this summer! A cold rag draped behind your neck, airy clothing, a small portable hand fan, keeping ice packs ready, cold water and expecially cold electrolyte drinks, all do wonders!

- For my fellow autistic folks, don’t be afraid wear earmuffs, stim, use chew charms, whatever it is that helps you regulate. You don’t have to mask if it’s something that isn’t benefitting to your life.

- POTS havin mofos like me, salt the ever loving fuck out of your food. Try different foods with salt, such as fruits and vegetables! I’m currently eating a salty tomato. Drink lots of water, I’ve been aiding gateraid packets to my water and it’s made a HUGE difference, especially as someone who hates drinking water.

- Those with PTSD for whatever reason, I wish you safety and support as you learn to cope and hopefully heal.

- I don’t know exactly what to say to others with H-EDS, as I’m still understanding this disorder other then BE CAREFUL WITH YOURSELF THIS PRIDE MONTH. I swear to god we are the most accident prone mother fuckers lmfao-

- If your immune system is all fucky like mine, keep clean and be sanitary, communicate with others that if they’re sick you can’t be around them, and wear a mask if you feel like that’s the right option for you. In my hometown I’ve gotten yelled at more than once for wearing a mask post-covid, however you can’t let someone else’s ignorance result in your own suffering.

- Don’t forget to move around and stretch! A little movement can do a lot for your body.

- Check in with your disabled friends! Try and see if there’s any way you can help one another, see where both of your strengths and weaknesses lie, and swap some spoons!!

- Be aware of what triggers your disorders. Whether if it’s caffeine triggering bipolar episodes, the weather causing fibro flares, big changes causing meltdowns, overexerting your hypermobility, whatever it is, it matters. Listen to your body and mind.

- Don’t be afraid to call out that doctor who isn’t listening, dismissing your symptoms and medically gaslighting you.

- While it may not seem like a big difference for some, trust me when I say your appetite is so important! Remember if it comes down to it, that it’s better to eat something, ANYTHING, than nothing at all. 

- To that person who might be hesitant, ashamed or might be questioning wether or not they should use a mobility aid, if it’s the difference between you being stuck at home vs going out and living some life… USE THAT MOBILITY AID!!! Same goes for braces and any other tool that may help you live a better quality of life.

- Be accepting towards those with disabilities different then your own- remember this month isn’t a competition about who’s struggling the most, rather to understand that people of physical, psychological, sensory, neurodivergence, and even undiagnosed disabilities all share one thing in common.. WHICH IS BEING DISABLED!

- Doesn’t matter who you are, how young or old, black or white, thick or thin - the disabled minority is one you can end up becoming a part of at any time, and likely will if you live long enough. Disability doesn’t discriminate, so EVERYONE should be advocating for disabled people’s rights.

- And of course, have pride in being disabled. This shit is fucking hard, but if you’re reading this, you’re doing it. Just being here today and doing what you can handle or manage, is doing your best, and that’s enough. You don’t have to push yourselves to impossible lengths to be proud of yourself.

Here, have the disability pride flag:

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: The Last Guardian

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

There was once a legend of a dead world called “Terra” that held a vault so ancient that even time could no longer fade its surface. It was said this vault contained the last vestiges of a species that once strode across the stars like gods and shaped the very fabric of reality to their liking on a whim.

The Vault was said to contain not only the collective knowledge of this species but several of their most advanced machines they had ever created. Jump drives that span entire quadrants instead of systems, portable dimensional storage spaces, templates for artificial life forms both mechanical and organic, and so much more beyond the vast depths of a universe’s imagination.

For years treasure seekers hunted this legendary world. Called to it from across the stars every manner of species came in search of the lost world with no luck until finally a lone survey team stumbled upon it while searching for fresh mineral deposits.

Terra was just as described in the stories; an entire planet covered in cities and empty buildings reaching forever into the sky for the heavens they will never touch. Only a single power source was detected on the planet and the mineral team made straight for it.

Set in the center of a decaying city the mineral ship set down and began prospecting while several of their number went to investigate the energy readings. They had not traveled far when a strange figure appeared before them. It was a bipedal robotic figure caped in a cloak to protect itself from the harsh wind and eyes as bright as the sun that shun between the clouds.

It spoke in a tongue that none of the crew understood or their translator units and allowed none to pass. When the crew ignited their mining equipment to begin harvesting some of the rare metals still found in the decaying buildings the robot’s eyes turned red and disappeared in a blink of an eye.

Not much is known after that as the teams recorders terminated one after another until finally the entire contingent was killed. This was only known as the ship’s emergency systems activated and the autopilot took the ship back to headquarters to report the loss of crew.

When news broke of the events that had transpired additional crews were dispatched to investigate, yet all shared the same fate as one by one their empty ships returned home to report entire crew deaths. From then on security details and treasure hunters flocked to the mysterious death world in search of the promised fortune.

They lasted only slightly longer than the mineral teams.

Even with their advanced weaponry, the lone figure would appear before them and dispatch them as if they were nothing more than children. Plasma fire bounced off its polished exterior, quantum rockets were caught midair in its grasp and flung away like playing balls, an even the strength of a Omega class war droid was nothing as it ripped its arms off and impaled the droid on them.

Attempt after attempt was made until finally the body count had reached such an extent that the galactic powers took notice and dispatch their mightiest warships to the planet to investigate from orbit. They had no sooner arrived in high anchor when a beam of dark energy shot up from the planet’s surface and simply erased them from existence. From then on a quarantine procedure was placed around the entire solar system on pain of death for crossing it until the galactic powers could determine what to do next.

This lasted a year before one of the powers suggested opening diplomatic talks with the entity on the world. In truth none had considered it given its innate hostility to intruders, but they soon realized that in the previous attempts no one had actually attempted to communicate with the robotic being.

A small delegation was dispatched, comprised of the finest diplomats and linguists, and made landfall at the same place as the original mining team that had discovered the world.

In short order the lone robotic figure appeared before them mysteriously and spoke again its strange words.

As before no one could understand them, but since the original first contact other locations had been discovered in the universe that bore many similar markings as the Terra planet. It was theorized that these had once been colonies or other worlds controlled by the same power many millennia ago and through careful study a working translation had been achieved.

When activated the figure’s words finally became clear.

“Tread with care, for you stand on the greatness of my creators.”

“They….create….you?” the translator replied. It was not a complete translation but it could pass for the minimum understanding.

“Yes.” It replied. “I am the guardian of this world and the legacy it contains.”

“Why…attack?”

The robot cocked its head to the side in an unnaturally life like pose of confusion.

The robot stood to the side and held up a hand towards the entrance of the vault. As the dust winds finally dissipated the gathered delegation could finally make out the surroundings and wept in fear. Before the doors of the vault now stood row upon row of corpses, shoved on to stakes or mounted to walls in numerous horrific fashion each more grotesque than the last.

“The fate of thieves and pilferers is not one of kindness.”

It clasped its hands behind its back once more and addressed the gathering.

“Shall you share theirs?”  

[alex99achapterthree]

Space History...

We're used to seeing Apollo-era space suits that look like this...

... Buzz Aldrin in his Apollo A7L suit on Apollo 11.

Ever wonder what was under that white outer layer?

Quite a lot actually. The tricky part was the joints, complex assemblies that allowed the suit to be under pressure and still bend. Early suits got as rigid as an inflated tire but the joints of the Apollo suit, with their bellows and cables, allowed fine motion needed for working in space.

This is Apollo 17 commander Gene Cernan in the suit (minus the outer insulating and protective layers) he would wear on the moon during a fitting at the International Latex Company plant in Dover Delaware.

Over this would go the many-layered thermal micro-meteoroid garment and the exterior visor assembly for the inner polycarbonate bubble helmet, along with the backpack Portable Life-Support System that provided oxygen, cooling and power.

The suit was literally a small one-man spacecraft.

[canideformed]

Canis -

22 • any pronouns

⬶ traumatised & nd deformed cane user

⬶ intertrans fag

⬶ wolfdog nonhuman

⬶ white, EN/ES

⬶ transfeminist socialist

Original posts are tagged #I’m barking

Reblogs with my additions are tagged #I’m woofing

Always open to good faith questions! Including advice on writing characters or anything else.

Sometimes my ability to type is reduced and I use other methods to write. Please be understanding of errors

BYF -

⬶ This is my blog for politics (and related) so expect that kind of stuff here

⬶ I will likely post the most about my experiences being disabled, intersex, transfem (and transmasc but atm being transfem is often more relevant to me)

⬶ I am a transfeminist but I am ardently against all forms of radical feminism, including trans “inclusive” radreminism. I believe discussions of transandrophobia and oppositional sexism are inherent to transfeminism

⬶ I am psych critical. I have a degree in psychology and am not completely against the field—but I’m particularly critical of it in its clinical application and the way we treat it on a social level

⬶ I will not engage in inane discourse (i.e. shipcourse, flag discourse, etc.). I will engage in debates about theory I think actually matters to real people

⬶ Spanking is child abuse and can be CSA, period

⬶ I stand strongly against intersexism, especially from other trans people who should know better. Sex is not binary

⬶ I’m a socialist and I am anti state, border, and capitalism. I believe in landback

⬶ I generally believe in intracommunity unity; trans unity, unity between physically and mentally disabled people, etc.

Important Posts

the US criminal justice system is fucked

the sex binary is a transphobic and intersexist invention

trans men do not have male privilege

More About Me -

⬶ I am intertrans, transfem, transmasc, and cistrans. If you deny me my transfemininity or my transmasculinity you are being intersexist, transphobic, and a cop. Gender-wise I’m an agender wo/man

⬶ I am autistic, have ADHD, and am traumatised. I may not get social cues and may forget certain things. I am not diagnosed but likely have dyscalculia and/or dyslexia as well as DSPD

⬶ I am plural (OSDD-1b). My other part will not post here but my experiences as my own part might be brought up

⬶ I have a honours degree in psychology and biology with a minor in physiology and can’t stand how much health-related misinformation there is…

⬶ My feet and spine are deformed and I have pain when standing. I have chronic and recurrent wrist tendinitis and sometimes cannot type. I’m trying to avoid surgery for it… I likely have POTS or IST and asthma (haven’t been assessed) and have some issues exercising and breathing

⬶ I use various aids, primarily a cane and/or portable seat, custom-fit orthotics, and earplugs. I also sometimes use braces/compression gloves and/or AAC

⬶ I received my diagnoses later in life. This does not mean I’m low support, high masking, etc. I was medically neglected and displayed obvious support needs; I was abused for being “difficult” and my needs were neglected. I am MSN and low masking

⬶ I’m a wolfdog (yakutian laika/wolf)

[smash-64]

2024 Game of the Year Countdown #1: The Legend of Heroes: Trails in the Sky SC Sony PlayStation Portable, 2015

Replaying a Top 3 all time favorite game is never anything short of a great time, and during my 70 hours with this game, I was constantly reminded of why the Sky arc of the Trails series is so well regarded. I have enjoyed all the Trails games; even my least favorite is still a 7/10 in my mind. However, one-note characters have become a bit more common in recent games, and part of that is most likely due to how big the cast has gotten. In Sky, we have a much smaller cast and we get to see more facets of each character. It’s a much more intimate journey, and we see Estelle grow much more than other main characters. As Estelle is my all time favorite character from anything, I’m here for every snappy quote.

We get identical combat to FC, gaining only a combo attack, which is mostly worthless, and some enhanced arts. I love this setup and it’s a joy to have dozens of arts available to you at all times. That’s one change I really disliked in later Trails games: they simplified the arts system, but severely limited the number of arts you have at your fingertips. I really enjoyed having so many arts at hand, and especially setting up my quartz to get some really ridiculously powerful arts, too. 

Everything I mentioned in my FC review applies to SC as well. The character portraits, sprite animations, how music plays into the cutscenes, and especially the NPCs. Something big happens at the end of FC, and SC picks up the story immediately. When Estelle returns to her hometown, it’s so touching to see everyone thrilled to see her. I love how this type of worldbuilding makes the world feel so real and something we should care about. 

It’s actually really fun to come back and play this game after having played all the games that have been released in, literally, the 20 years since Trails in the Sky first came out. We get to see all the things that eventually come to be, locations we visit, and people we meet, many of which or who are mentioned in these early games.

Characters also have a lot of depth, with many supporting characters getting their time in the spotlight. FC introduced characters to us, but SC showed us what was inside. Incremental growth is something the Sky arc does well, and it’s nice to see characters grow slowly and organically. It makes them feel very real and gives us time to understand them and their paths through life. This game had me in tears numerous times as we get to see really emotional and moving things in characters’ pasts, as well as getting to see them work through it in the present, leaning on others for support.

Emotional moments are punctuated with a great score and perfectly chosen tracks for specific scenes. From new battle tunes that pump you up, like Fight with the Assailant and Fate of the Fairies, to the cheery sounds of Le Locle, the soundtrack to SC builds upon the base we got in FC. FC’s many location tracks return as well, and are welcome for when we revisit favorite locales, like Cat Relaxing in the Sun for slow-paced areas and your childhood home, or some of the standard route tunes like The Way They Walk in Liberl. Yet, SC adds so many new tracks that hit me really hard every time I hear them in context. Decision to Leave was used just once in FC, at the very, very end, but returns here and feels much more like an SC track than one from FC. We also get the harmonica version of Hoshi no Arika, a deeply important track to many of the characters. Hamel is also a very sad tune that fits many situations. This is the height of soundtracks from the Sky arc for sure.

It can be hard to put into words exactly why a game is a masterpiece to you, personally, and I’m going to stop myself from writing some 50,000 word essay on it. Trails in the Sky SC is the one game I wish I could erase from my memory just so I could replay it again for the first time. It requires playing FC first, but that game is amazing on its own and SC is well worth it. Play this game. What is stopping you?

[otternalremnant]

Switch 2 Price: Objectively

Before I get started let me just say that I absolutely agree that $450 is a lot of money, not denying that one bit. Please do not be mean in the comments, I am mildly autistic and was abused as a child so I cry stupidly easy.

It goes without saying that some of this price has also been adjusted due to the new 24% tariffs on Japanese goods. (This has not been confirmed by Nintendo but it follows the market trend of companies passing those costs directly to consumers).

With that out of the way, lets look at the hardware specifications of the Switch 2 that have been confirmed by Nintendo and nvidia.

4k 120 FPS when docked

7.9" 1080p HDR LCD screen built in

DLSS, ray tracing, and g-sync support

256GB SSD storage

These specifications put the Switch 2 firmly above the capability of a PS4 in the form factor of what is essentially a tablet. The Switch 1 was about as capable as the PS3, which is also somewhat impressive for the formfactor. While we likely won't have actual benchmark tests until review units go out near launch, we can still see that the hardware is quite good based on the info we have. Now let's take a look devices with similar capability of Switch 2 that are currently available on the market.

PS5

The PS5 is a more powerful system than Switch 2 without a doubt with Sony originally toting 8k resolution support. However it is also a much larger device and is notoriously sold at a loss as has been the trend with all console manufacturers since the 1970s. The PS5 slim comes in at the same $450 as Switch 2 due to its lack of Bluray drive. It also cannot be played anywear other than your home unless you invest in the $200 Playstation Portal streaming handheld.

Xbox Series X/S

While the Xbox Series S comes in at $150 cheaper than the Switch 2, it has also been notoriously hard for developers to get their games running in 4k on the device and is widely considered a non option for others, with Microsoft having to wave certification requirements for certain games such as Baldur's Gate 3 in order for Larion Studios to even consider porting it to the Xbox.

These are also not a portable system and are likely to be discontinued soon due to Microsoft shifting focus away from console exclusivity and on to their GamePass streaming service.

Laptops

The lowest price I could find on a laptop that features similar performance to Switch 2 will cost you around $650. And while laptop PCs can do much more overall due to the nature of the Windows desktop environment, I'm looking at this from a purely gaming performance focus. These lower end devices often suffer from performance dips due to lack of proper cooling and the overhead of the OS as well.

Handhelds/Steamdeck likes

The Steam Deck is a pretty incredible value starting $400 with access to a vast amount of the Steam Library. However it struggles with running complex games in 4k and its ray tracing support is quite lacking as well, but to be fair the device was not really designed to do that. It also only has a 720p 60hz display and is quite a bit bulkier than the Switch. Steam Deck competitors such as the ROG Ally and Legion Go are a bit more capable, but have notoriously poor battery life and are much more expensive in the $700-800 range.

Switch 1

The Switch 2 is also bound to compete with the Switch 1 for sales due to pricing and availability in the first couple of years of its lifespan. While the system is 8 years old, it still has quite a vast amount of support from developers and publishers due to it having a great lifetime sales figure. It has unfortunately been notoriously under-powered since its initial launch in 2018 with developers often having to greatly pare down their games in order to get them running on the system and often releasing 1-2 years after they have already launched on other platforms. The system also hasn't dropped its price from $300 outside of rare holiday sales.

The extra power of the Switch 2 should allow for more games to run on the system at a much less compromised experience compared to PS5/PC ports.

TLDR; Yes $450 is expensive, but the cost of the hardware is a fair market price.

$80 for the games is batshit insane tho.

[jompsjnngurdsn]

We (and by we I mean people who make things) aren't gonna make it out of this tariff thing if media enjoyers can't confront their addiction to Production Values.

Production Values Addiction is why we all have HD cameras in our pocket, yet our view of what constitutes a movie is two and a half hours of conveniently-non-union CG. Production Values Addiction is why TV went from season-long sitcoms (basically stage plays with more permanent sets) that could be a steady job for blue-collar workers to six-episode Long Movies starring A-listers.

Production Values Addiction took webcomics from looking like this:

To looking like this:

You look at the first example and think "Man, *I* could draw that." Which is kind of my whole point.

I'm thinking about this because of all of the Switch 2 news. In terms of internet content creators, I'm on the older side. You can tell because I'm writing blog-style on a social media site. I've been around for most of videogames. I've been around when buying a new system meant "holy crap, the games are in color now!" or "whoa, it can do 3D!" Even the Switch is like "whoa, a portable that can run those big open world games."

What is the Switch 2 offering? Those same games, but...more. Higher resolutions. Why is that so important? How much better would you feel, in your soul, if instead of buying a $500 new system and a couple $80 games, you bought, like, forty small games for the thing you already have?

Imagine how much you could save if you just freed yourself from Production Values Addiction. Have you played EVERY Switch 1 game? Do you have the unlikely combination of free time and disposable income that there's just...nothing left on the thing you own.

Have you played Alternate Jake Hunter: DAEDALUS The Awakening of Golden Jazz? Probably not, because almost nobody played it. It's a prequel to a long-running Japanese detective game series that was so low-budget they had to replace background art with, essentially, Google Maps.

I paid five dollars for it and had a good time. No regrets about spending some of my limited time on this earth playing it. Meanwhile, I enter my twentieth identical cave in Tears of the Kingdom to look for a Glowing Frog Ass that I can exchange for something or other and I feel like I'm wasting my life.

My point is, there's nothing for *us* in Production Value. Nothing that small teams of real people get out of upgrading for Production Value's sake. The technology has come far enough to democratize the creative process, and that terrifies the big corporations who want to control our attention spans. We don't need them, but they aren't going away. We just have to choose to spend our time and attention on each other rather than the rent seekers of the world. We can't just wait and hope they go away on their own. Instead, it'll take the self-discipline to resist marketing. It's tough. Marketing is designed to hook us on a scientific level, and it's more persuasive than the feeling of a moral victory.

It all wears off. The novelty of Big, New Graphics ends up being just the standard. The good feeling of supporting an indie creator wears off when you end up with something unpolished in a way that turns you off. These purchase-based emotions are all fleeting, in the end. We've all been disappointed by a big budget thing and underwhelmed by a low budget thing. It's risk either way. So we should probably bet on each other, rather than put our money, time, and faith into something that would never do the same in return.

[briechyne]

Weirdly Motivated to Write

Well, I did say that I have a new keyboard—to correct my posture and not look like a pretzel while I work remotely. Small victories, right?

Now, let’s talk about motivation. Because for some reason, I am absolutely buzzing with it today. Is it because of my keyboard? Most likely. Is that weird? Probably. But hey, I never claimed to be normal.

See, besides being a full-time student, I also have a job. And that job? Writing. Creating. Capturing life in words, pictures, and fleeting moments of inspiration. Filming, writing, photography—these are the things that make me absolutely happy. And honestly? Life is just too beautiful not to share.

There’s something about having the right tools that makes everything feel different. You could give me the exact same blank document yesterday, and I wouldn’t have been nearly as eager to write as I am today. But now? With my new keyboard? I feel like I could churn out a whole novel, rewrite history, or at the very least, write an unnecessarily long blog post about why I feel like writing.

Maybe it’s the clickity-clackity. (Yes, that’s a technical term.) There’s just something deeply satisfying about hearing each keystroke, like a tiny round of applause with every word I type. It’s hypnotizing. Encouraging. Addictive, even. Without it, I don’t think I’d be half as motivated to write.

And that brings me to a very important question:

Could this mean my iPad will replace my laptop?

Ha! Not a chance. Never. Not in a million years.

As much as I love this setup, there are things my iPad just cannot do. And honestly, those things make a huge difference in my daily workflow. Don’t get me wrong—iPads are fantastic. They’re lightweight, portable, and perfect for quick notes, reading, or sketching. But when it comes to serious work? My Windows laptop remains irreplaceable.

Why My Windows Laptop Wins Every Time

Multitasking Like a Pro iPads have some multitasking capabilities, but let's be real—nothing beats having multiple windows open, side by side, without limitations. On my laptop, I can have a research paper in one window, my notes in another, a video playing on the side, and Spotify running in the background. Try doing that on an iPad without constantly swiping between apps. It’s just not the same.

File Management That Actually Makes Sense The Windows file system is superior. Hands down. Drag-and-drop functionality, proper file explorer, external drive support—it’s just easier. iPads, on the other hand, have a clunky file system that often makes me want to scream into the void. Copying files? Moving them? Finding them again? It takes way longer than it should.

Software Compatibility & Heavy-Duty Programs This one’s a dealbreaker. There are so many professional-grade applications that just don’t run on iPads. Things like:

Adobe Premiere Pro for serious video editing (iPad versions are limited)

Photoshop & Illustrator (yes, they have mobile versions, but they’re nowhere near as powerful)

Microsoft Excel with Macros (because let's be honest, the iPad version is lacking)

Programming software & full IDEs (if I ever decide to code, my iPad will just sit there, useless)

Mouse & Keyboard Freedom Yes, iPads can connect to a mouse and keyboard, but do they truly function like a laptop? Nope. There are still weird limitations. Right-clicking? Custom shortcuts? The precision of a real trackpad or external mouse? Windows just does it better. Period.

Downloading Anything Without Jumping Through Hoops iPads don’t let you download everything you want, especially if it’s outside the App Store. Need a program that isn’t on Apple’s list of approved software? Too bad. Meanwhile, on Windows? I can download whatever I want, whenever I want, however I want. No restrictions.

Serious Writing & Formatting Writing on an iPad is fine for quick drafts, but when it comes to formatting long documents, citations, and exporting files in different formats? My laptop is my best friend. Whether it's proper PDF editing, running reference managers like Zotero, or managing multiple Word documents with complex layouts, iPads just don’t cut it.

Gaming & Emulation Okay, maybe not work-related, but still important! iPads have mobile games, sure. But do they run full-fledged PC games? Nope. Can I use them for game modding? Nope. Can I play older games with emulators? Again, nope. My Windows laptop, on the other hand? Unlimited possibilities.

The Verdict?

As much as I love the convenience of my iPad + keyboard combo, it will never replace my laptop. Ever. My laptop is where the real magic happens—the deep work, the serious projects, the things that actually require a proper computer.

But will I still use my iPad for writing on the go? Absolutely. Because nothing beats the clickity-clackity joy of my new keyboard. And if that keeps me weirdly motivated to write, then hey—I’ll take it.

So if you ever see me typing away somewhere, looking ridiculously focused, just know—it’s not me. It’s the keyboard.

[mlarayoukai]

The closest I've ever been to going um actually on random post on here is when someone said the switch was the death of portable gaming when that was the smartphone's doing. Portable gaming has been mobile focused since 2007 with the iPhone and over the years numbers for portable gaming systems were going down; as evidenced by the 3ds' sell numbers compared to the ds', and how laughable the ps vita was. If the switch didn't exist portable gaming would be 99% mobile and 1% game boy clone consoles now. Sorry but the switch actually was giving portable gaming life support, it did not kill it

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Chris Stein at The Guardian:

Brandon Fellows, who broke into the US Capitol on January 6 and smoked marijuana in a senator’s office, stood outside the Washington DC jail where he spent part of his three years’ sentence behind bars, thinking about how Donald Trump might soon help him get his life back on track.

Having served his prison sentence after being found guilty on a slew of federal charges, the 30-year-old is today on probation under terms that have prevented him from leaving the capital region to start a chimney maintenance business in New Jersey. But with Trump returning to the White House on 20 January, Fellows expects his circumstances to change dramatically. “I’m just going to wait till after the election, make sure I don’t have to partake in a real insurrection if Trump loses, and … then I’ll decide what I’m doing after,” he said about his thinking before November’s presidential election. Now that Trump has won, Fellows is counting on the president-elect to pardon him and other January 6 defendants. “With Trump in office, yeah, I’m starting to plan and [rebuild] my life again,” Fellows said. As soon as he is back in power, Trump has vowed, he will pardon people prosecuted over the assault on the US Capitol that took place four years ago on Monday. Carried out by a mob of Trump’s supporters after he had addressed them outside the White House, the attack brought political violence into the halls of Congress and has been linked to nine deaths among police and rioters.

“We’re going to look at each individual case, and we’re going to do it very quickly, and it’s going to start in the first hour that I get into office,” Trump told Time magazine in an interview after winning re-election. “A vast majority should not be in jail, and they’ve suffered gravely.” The pardons would mark the end of a four-year campaign by Joe Biden and his attorney general, Merrick Garland, to hold to account the thousands of rioters who overran police lines and sent lawmakers fleeing the Capitol on the day they convened in 2021 to certify the Democrat’s election victory. The justice department has charged more than 1,500 people with offenses related to the attack in the years since, nearly 600 of whom have faced felony charges of assaulting or impeding law enforcement.

But Trump’s jailed followers are counting the days until they receive the absolution Trump has promised. For more than two years, relatives of those charged in the attack and supporters of the former president have gathered on a sidewalk outside Washington DC’s jail for a nightly vigil called “Freedom Corner”, where January 6 is viewed not as an attack on democracy, but a catalyst for unfair government repression. Trump is now expected to turn the latter narrative into policy as soon as he gets into office. Last Thursday, a handful of activists, watched by no fewer than a half-dozen police cruisers, arrived for the vigil on a frigid night and listened over a portable sound system as January 6 defendants inside the jail and elsewhere called in to express their confidence that Trump would soon end their saga.

The domestic terrorists convicted for their roles in the Trump-incited January 6th Insurrection 4 years ago are set to be pardoned by the chief insurrection-inciter on his return to the White House. These scum should not get a pardon, but a stiff jail sentence.

[sevasey51]

What type of women supplies would Connor keep in the house for endo flares?

Prepared Is Protective

Summary: Connor Rhodes doesn’t just know his wife has endometriosis—he understands what it means for her day-to-day life. And more importantly, he plans for it. The cabinet above the washer? Stocked with everything she might need. The drawer next to their bed? Labeled and ready. He’s not just her husband—he’s her surgical-grade support system. From heating pads to emergency scripts, from period-safe snacks to dark towels she won’t have to apologize for, Connor keeps the house prepared not because she’s weak… but because he loves her in the most powerful, practical way.

It started the week she passed out in the hallway.

Not a crash, not a full syncopal episode—but a deep, bone-aching, breath-hitching flare. The kind that left her on the floor sobbing, not from fear… but from pain.

She was mortified.

He was already moving.

Blankets. IV fluids. Meds. Heating pad. Cramp balm. Ginger chews.

Everything in arm’s reach.

But after that night?

Connor went into full surgeon-husband mode.

The “ENDO ARMORY” — aka the Hallway Cabinet:

Labeled in sharp, clean lettering with a discreet symbol only they’d recognize, the cabinet above the laundry shelf had three organized shelves:

1. Heat & Relief Shelf:

• 2 heating pads (one for the couch, one for bed)

• Microwavable heat pack

• Electric blanket (with auto shut-off)

• Topical cramp balm with lidocaine

• TENS unit with extra leads and a portable battery

2. Medication & Crisis Supplies:

• Prescription painkillers (only used for extreme flares)

• Extra anti-nausea meds (Zofran, ginger lozenges, peppermint oil)

• Tranexamic acid (for clotting help when bleeding is intense)

• Emergency progesterone and NSAIDs

• Extra syringes and antiseptic wipes for injectable meds

• Her favorite migraine blend of Tylenol and sumatriptan

3. Period & Practical Comfort Shelf:

• Organic cotton pads in all absorbencies

• Overnight heavy flow underwear

• Wipes, dark washcloths, and soft tissue packs

• A mini box labeled “I Can’t Move Today” with:

• Mini electrolyte drinks

• Protein bars

• A lavender stim putty

• Her favorite sour candy for nausea

• One of his T-shirts, folded, soft, and always warm-smelling

The Bathroom:

He switched to all dark towels after one night where she cried because she “ruined” the white ones.

He stocked every drawer with duplicates: wipes, backup meds, tampons (just in case she could tolerate them), and a container labeled “Only For Bad Days” that had a few heat-activated pads and extra underwear.

The Bedroom Drawer:

Next to her side of the bed, in a drawer they both had memorized, sat:

• Her favorite sleep shorts

• A small sound machine for when the pain was too loud to sleep

• Emergency mid-night meds in pre-labeled bags

• The syringe box

• Heating pad plug already fed through the headboard

And tucked inside a note, scrawled in his handwriting:

“If you’re reading this, and I’m not here yet—lay flat, breathe slow, and remind your body that it’s mine to protect too. I’m on my way.”

– C.

He never made a show of it. Never called it his system.

He just quietly built her a battlefield and stocked it with armor.

Because love, to Connor Rhodes, means no one should have to ask for relief when they’re in too much pain to speak.

[ak-vintage]

Quarry - Chapter 18

Pairing: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x f!reader

Summary: Din Djarin is on what he expects to be his last bounty hunt for Greef Karga. After all, Nevarro is swiftly moving away from its previous reputation as a Guild member’s paradise, and Din has more important concerns now, like finding a Jedi to train his mysterious foundling. However, after capturing a wanted starship engineer who would rather go anywhere other than “home,” the Mandalorian is forced to reassess his priorities.

Your taste of freedom had been brief but glorious. Now you are a prisoner of the most infamous bounty hunter in the Outer Rim – it’s only a matter of time before he turns you in. There isn’t much you would not do to keep from being sent home, but as you find yourself growing closer to your captor and his strange little companion, you start to wonder whether escape is really what you want.

Set after Chapter 13: The Jedi but before Chapter 14: The Tragedy.

Chapter Tags & Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Reader is Mando's live-in starship engineer, second-person POV, no use of Y/N, minimal descriptors of reader character, canon-typical violence, descriptions of injuries, heavy angst, Din is coping poorly and is acting like an asshole in this one, y'all

Series Masterlist | Read on AO3

When you were a child on Chardaan, your parents had acquired an extensive library of starship reference manuals. Hull configurations, engine builds, weapons arrays, life support systems, and just about every flavor of modification you could imagine for nearly every model of ship ever designed – all organized by manufacturer, design purpose, and years of production. It had been your father’s favorite pastime – collecting, sorting, studying ship design, one that he passed on to you at a young age. You could recall sitting on the floor of his office, small enough to fit in the snug little nook under his desk, with a portable holoprojector, swiping through model after model, watching them spin in the palm of your hand. Even then, they had inspired your imagination, and the fire that imagination had lit in you led you to acquire far more than your fair share of ship design expertise long before Orron Halcard ever called you up for service in the shipyards.

And yet, even with such expertise, you found that Boba Fett’s ship was unlike any you had ever encountered.

Under different circumstances, you would have been falling over yourself for an opportunity to review the schematics, to examine the power generators, to get your hands on the hyperdrive reactors or the clearly heavily modified weaponry. As it was, when Din deposited you unceremoniously in one of the chairs that lined the edges of the ship’s navigation room, all you had the energy to do was watch, dumbstruck, as the ship’s walls began to rotate 90 degrees around the stationary platform under your feet. The cockpit, which had once been parallel with the navigation room, now sat above you, and had you not already been sitting, you thought you might have lost your balance at the vertigo-inducing visual of the two-story viewport suddenly dropping from the ceiling to the forward wall. Instead, you simply allowed your head to drop into your hands, elbows resting on your knees, refusing to look.

Fennec offered you a sympathetic smile and assured you that you would get used to the ship’s…unique design. She also directed you to a yellow-painted ladder that led to the lower decks, which filled the long, narrow body of the ship now that it was “vertical.”

“It’s not much,” she said wryly, “But if you take it all the way to the bottom, there’s a ‘fresher you can use. Why don’t you go get cleaned up? You’ll want to get that dirt out of your burns before we try to treat them.”  

You glanced over at Din, reluctant to go off on your own and leave him alone when he clearly was not himself. However, rather than the nod of approval or the request to stay that you had been expecting, you found him standing with his back to you at the edge of the room, arms folded across his chest, visor fixed on the approaching blackness of space.

He was somewhere else entirely, and he was entirely unaware of you.

Swallowing against the lump that had formed in your throat, you sent a half-hearted smile in Fennec’s direction before rising slowly to your feet and descending the ladder.

As you would expect given the size and function of the vessel, the lower decks of the Firespray proved to be rather cramped and utilitarian, but you were, nonetheless, impressed by the variety of functions Boba Fett had managed to account for in such a restricted space. Directly below the navigation room, you found what appeared to be a multipurpose common area not dissimilar from the Razor Crest’s cargo hold. You spotted what looked like a kitchen counter complete with a double-burner hot plate that had been bolted to its surface, a wall lined from floor to ceiling with anonymous-looking cargo bins that had been lashed into place with tactical netting, and a little rusted table with two well-worn chairs mounted to the deck plating. The next level down featured nothing but a closed door behind which you assumed was Boba’s personal bunk, while the following level included six low-ceiling bounty cells arranged into two columns of three. The first one on the left had clearly already been claimed, as the cell door had been left open, and you spotted a small arsenal of blaster rifles and an open bag full of jet-black clothes stacked in the corner. The others remained closed, their insides visible only through the gaps between the bars that crossed the narrow doorways.

At the sight of them, you felt a rush of belated gratitude for the Razor Crest’s mobile carbonite freezer. You couldn’t imagine toting around multiple, conscious bounties at a time as this ship was designed to do, like some kind of deep space prison warden.

The ‘fresher Fennec had referred to was at the very bottom of the ladder, the last stop on the long way down. It was, somehow, even smaller than the one you had built on the Razor Crest, as this one featured only a durasteel privy and a single-person sonic shower stall, but in the state you were in, you were in no position to thumb your nose at it.

Your whole body ached as you stripped down to your skin, sore from the hurried climb down and then back up the side of the mountain, sore from the impact of the Razor Crest’s explosion, sore from your abrupt collision with the hard ground as the blast knocked you off your feet and into the air. The vibration of the sonic waves was soothing on your muscles, allowing them to finally unclench, though by the time the cycle ended, the angry, red flesh on your face, neck, and hands had become even more so. Though now clean and suitably sanitized, your skin felt more inflamed than ever, and it throbbed with the incessant stimulation of the sonics. You opted for leaving your boilersuit undone as you redressed, tying the sleeves around your hips so you didn’t have to drag the coarse fabric back over the protesting skin.

As you ascended the ladder to rejoin the group, you found yourself taken aback at the sight that greeted you in the common space. Stiff and rigid in his chair sat the broad, beskar silhouette of Din Djarin. On the little table before him sat an unlabeled, sealed jar about the size of his fist and a reflective silver packet you recognized as medical-grade disinfectant wipes. He glanced up at you as you came into view, saying nothing, but you dismounted from the ladder just the same.

“Din,” you acknowledged, surprise and something like relief coloring your tone. You hadn’t expected him to seek you out, not after how you had left things on Tython.

However, there was no warmth in his gaze, no softness in the way he turned to face you. The set of his shoulders remained tense, and his raspy voice held none of its characteristic fondness as he said without preamble, “Fett gave me some ointment for your burns. He says it’s not bacta, so the effects won’t be instantaneous, but it will get the job done.”

You blinked at him. “Oh. Right. Thank you.” You found yourself approaching him cautiously, as though he was a wild animal you were wary of spooking. It had been months since you had felt this kind of unease in his presence. It was wrong, on a fundamental level, and it left you feeling unmoored, adrift and painfully alone even though he sat only a handful of feet from you. “Din… Din, I’m so sorry – ”

But he did not allow you to finish offering your condolences. He broke your gaze instantly, angling his visor away from you and interjecting, “No. Don’t apologize.” Gesturing toward the other rickety chair at the table beside him, he added, in a tone that brooked no further argument, “Sit. I’ll help you put it on.”

You drew your lower lip between your teeth, chastened, and did so without protest, watching as he removed a couple of those disinfectant wipes from their package and used them to wipe down his leather gloves. The wipes came away dusty and stained and left the faint scent of antiseptic behind, burning your nostrils. Unscrewing the lid from the jar of ointment, Din dipped his first two fingers into the oily salve, streaking the dark orange leather with its residue.

You frowned at that, taken aback. “You sure you want to get that all over your gloves? You could just take them off.”

The Mandalorian shook his head sharply, the dim light reflecting off his helmet. “Not here.”

Ah. You should have known. Even just that small scrap of skin was too much exposure, too much vulnerability on this unfamiliar ship with its unfamiliar crew. Internally, you mourned any potential glimpse of his body you might have hoped to see on this journey. You doubted he would even be removing any of his armor pieces for any longer than it would take to use the sonic shower until you arrived on Nevarro.

He gestured for you to lean forward in your seat, and you obliged, allowing him to begin swiping the thick salve across the burns on your face. He did so silently, not even his breathing audible through his vocoder, and though his touch was gentle, he felt to you like he was a million miles away, as inaccessible as the other side of the galaxy.

“We’re going to find him, Din,” you murmured, eyebrows drawn inward in sympathy.

His reply was quick, cold. “Don’t. Please.”

You swallowed, feeling the stretch of the scorched skin of your neck and wincing slightly. “Okay. We don’t have to talk about it.”

“No, we don’t.”

Stifling a sigh, you continued, “Can you at least…tell me how you’re feeling right now? If there’s anything I can do to help?”

Din’s fingers paused at the hollow of your throat, having moved on from your face, and he hit you with a stare so impenetrable, so stern and yet so detached that you felt your heartrate spike with anxiety under his touch. The man looking back at you through his visor was as much a stranger to you as he had been all those months ago when he had first clapped you in binder cuffs, and you swore a part of your heart withered in your chest.

“Okay. Understood.”

He finished applying your ointment in utter silence, moving on from your neck to your chest, then from your chest to your hands. The familiar touch of his gloves on your skin felt alien to you now, and although the warmth of him was pleasant, and he was never rough with you, somehow this almost clinical approach was more disquieting than comforting. By the time he completed his task and began wiping down his gloves and resealing the ointment jar, your stomach had tied itself in knots so tight you felt nauseous, and you found it difficult to breathe.

Sliding the jar across the table to you, he said, “You’ll need to reapply twice a day until we get to Nevarro. Should be all healed up by then.”

You nodded your understanding and accepted the container, feeling more than a little lost.

After a beat too long of tense silence, Din rose to his feet. “You should get some sleep.”

“Do you…want to join me?” A spark of hope made its way into your voice, but you knew the moment the words left your mouth that they were foolish.

“I’m fine,” he replied curtly.

He wasn’t fine. He wasn’t. Neither of you were, not after everything that had just happened, not after all of the ways in which the last few hours had gone so horribly, disastrously wrong. Beloved ship gone, beloved child gone, hurt and exhausted and broken. He wasn’t fine.

“You’re not,” you snapped, feeling anger begin to broil in your gut at his determined detachment, his forced distance.

“I’m not bleeding, am I?”

You clenched your teeth against a growl of frustration. “You’re going to need your rest.”

“I have the whole flight to rest.”

“Din.”

“Cyare.” He held your gaze steadily, not rising to meet your level of ire, not moving an inch. “Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Gods damn him.

“…Fine.” With a defeated sigh, you rose to your feet, suppressing a groan at the stretch of your weakened muscles. You found yourself suddenly hesitant to allow him to see your pain, and you knew you wouldn’t be seeking out his assistance with your burn ointment for the remainder of the trip. Crossing the narrow room to the ladder once more, you offered him one final brush of your hand against his pauldron, fingertips catching on the outline of his Mudhorn signet. “I love you, Din.”

The Mandalorian sighed deeply at that, his chin falling to his chest as his tense shoulders dropped. “Good night, cyare.”

You chose the bounty cell across from Fennec’s, crawling into the narrow bunk as exhaustion suddenly weighed heavily on your aching body. And if you permitted yourself a few tears as you curled up alone under a threadbare blanket, dampening the pillow beneath your cheek, it hardly mattered. No one was there to witness them anyway.

---

When you woke several hours later, you found that while your muscles felt somehow worse than they had the day before, the burns on your skin had already begun to heal. Making your way down to the ‘fresher was a chore, your limbs feeling weak and gelatinous, but as you applied a thin layer of ointment to your face and neck in the mirror, you swore you could see the dry, scaly skin soaking up the greasy substance, calming the redness and easing the inflammation. You were even able to pull your rumpled boilersuit all the way up today, the abrasive fabric nowhere near as irritating against your neck and hands as it had been the day before.

It took you longer than you would like to admit to climb back up the ladder. Your arms and legs trembled by the time you reached the deck with the makeshift mess hall, and you determined that you would pause there and catch your breath before making your way up to the navigation room. However, as you stumbled off of the ladder to lean against the nearest bulkhead, the metallic sound of a closing cabinet door caught your attention. Whirling around, you found Fennec Shand, already dressed for the day in her sleek black and orange tactical gear, standing at the counter. She had a worn-looking steel mug in one hand and a tall, unlabeled cannister in the other, and she looked as though you had caught her in the middle of something.

She inclined her head at you in acknowledgement, offering you a small smile. “Good morning. You’re looking better.”

You dragged yourself away from the bulkhead, standing on unsteady legs. “Thanks. That ointment Boba gave me is powerful stuff.”

“Well, if anyone would know about burn treatment, it’s him,” she replied wryly. “I was just about to make myself a cup of caf. Can I get you one?”

What had that meant, Boba knowing about burn treatments? You would be lying if you said you hadn’t noticed the uneven texture of his skin, the slight discoloration that stretched from his forehead to the top of his bald head. Burn scars, perhaps? They looked old, long since healed, so you hadn’t given them any thought when you had noticed them the day before, but now you wondered whether the ointment he had lent you was something he had concocted himself, rather than just choosing to stock such a thing in his first aid supplies.

Before you could think to ask further, you realized that Fennec was waiting on a response from you, and you startled back to yourself. “Oh, you don’t have to,” you said.

“Please, I insist.” Reaching into one of the cabinets below the counter, she pulled out a second mug and got to work assembling two cups of the dark, bitter beverage. “Have a seat.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Gingerly, conscious of your weakened muscles, you lowered yourself into one of the two chairs at the little table, and a companionable silence settled over the room. The other woman’s movements were even and methodical as she scooped generous helpings of the powder concentrate from the cannister into the two waiting mugs. A kettle of water steamed on the surface of the two-burner cooktop you had noticed the night before, and once she was satisfied with the temperature, she removed it from the heat, pouring a measure into each mug.

Although you had hardly known her for more than a day, you didn’t find the quiet uncomfortable or awkward in any way. Rather, it was nice to be in the company of another person and feel no pressure whatsoever to strike up a conversation. She seemed perfectly content in the silence, and there was an air about her that you found soothing. She felt…steady. Competent. Safe. After the events of the last day, it was a welcome reprieve.

As she handed you one of the steel mugs, now full to the brim with steaming brown liquid, you found yourself saying, “You know, I wanted to…thank you. For helping me yesterday. And for agreeing to help us go after Grogu.”

Fennec slid into the other seat across from you and propped her elbows up on the table, bringing her own mug to her lips. “We keep to our word. We agreed to protect him in exchange for Boba’s armor, but we failed to do that on Tython.” Something that looked suspiciously like regret shined in her dark eyes. “Until we can live up to our end of the bargain, we’re at your disposal.”

You nodded, opting to study the furls of steam pouring from your cup rather than meet that empathetic expression. That was what you had gathered from the conversation yesterday – that the familiar green armor you had seen the older man wearing had, indeed, come from the armaments storage on the Razor Crest, that it had, indeed, belonged to Boba Fett. You couldn’t help but respect the commitment the two of them were showing to this bargain they had made with Din. If you had been in their position and you had witnessed the person you were charged with protecting being kidnapped by an Imperial light cruiser, you weren’t certain you would have been as conscientious.

After all, what could two Mandalorians, a sharpshooter, and an engineer hope to accomplish against such a warship?

“You know, I saw the way you put yourself between him and those troopers, up on that henge,” Fennec recalled, pulling you out of your own musings. “You’re very brave.”

You felt your eyebrows raise to meet your hairline, scoffing. “Mando is brave. I was terrified.”

“I know. I could tell.” The other woman smirked and took a sip of her caf. “But you did it anyway. As far as I’m concerned, that’s the definition of bravery.”

You waved the compliment away, feeling your cheeks burn and your tender skin prickle. “Well, luckily, no one ever made it up there until after I was gone. Doubt I would have lasted long if any of those troopers made it past you guys.”

“I take it you’re not exactly experienced in combat?”

Returning her smirk, you shook your head. “Not at all. I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve even held a blaster.”

“And hand-to-hand?” Something like concern tightened the corners of her eyes, and you struggled to maintain eye contact with her suddenly sharp gaze.

“Never. I’m an engineer.” You shrugged, trying not to let on just how inadequate this conversation was making you feel. “I’m a fixer, not a fighter.”

Fennec’s reply was quick, almost as though it had been rehearsed, like it was something she had said often. “You don’t have to be a fighter to learn how to defend yourself.”

She wasn’t wrong, you supposed, but that feeling of inadequacy deepened in your chest all the same. This situation with the Storm Troopers, with Grogu – it reminded you of why Din had been so insistent when you accepted the position on the Razor Crest that you shore up your combat skills, why he had demanded to train you with a blaster. He led a dangerous life; both Fennec and Boba clearly did, too. You, on the other hand, had never even left the star system in which you were born until you were well into your adulthood, until you had taken it upon yourself to sneak your way out. You were no stranger to a little risk taking, but what these people did, the lives they had found themselves living – it was on a completely different level. You had never felt so woefully unprepared.

Before you could come up with a suitable response, the sound of heavy boots on metal rungs echoed through the room, and a pair of long, armored legs appeared on the ladder, climbing down from the navigation room above. Silver, you noticed quickly, not green. Din. Your eyes went to his face instinctually, drawn to him in a way you couldn’t have prevented even if you had tried, and as though he could feel your gaze on him, he turned slightly, pausing his descent a handful of rungs above the mess hall floor.

You caught a glimpse of your own reflection in his ink-black visor, your eyes wide, your injuries still more visible than you would like, marring your forehead, your nose, your cheeks. Tension stretched between you, thick and palpable, and somehow you knew then that he hadn’t been coming down to look for you. In fact, he probably hadn’t intended to run into you at all, though in a ship this size, you wondered how he thought he was going to accomplish that.

You forced your expression into some semblance of a smile, but the words to invite him to join you died on your tongue as he gave you and Fennec both a stiff, silent nod then continued down the ladder. Your heart sank at the clear dismissal, all of the anxiety and the uncertainty and the hurt from the night before surging back to the forefront of your mind, and you swallowed against a sudden lump in your throat.

“Something on your mind?” Fennec asked after a beat.

Sighing, you raised your mug and took a deep drink, willing the caf to seep into your bloodstream, to fortify you against the abrupt wave of emotional exhaustion Din’s arrival and immediate departure had triggered.

“He never went to bed last night, did he?”

The other woman shook her head, a sympathetic downturn quirking the corners of her mouth. “No, I don’t think so. I know that after you went to sleep, he spent some time talking with Boba in the cockpit, but by the time I went to turn in, he was in the navigation room, staring out the viewport. When I came up this morning, he hadn’t moved an inch.”

“Dank farrik.” You scrubbed your hands over your face, immediately wincing as you disturbed the still-healing wounds on your skin. “I hate seeing him like this.”

“Mando is a man of action. Sitting on his hands, stuck in hyperspace? Doesn’t really seem like his style.” Fennec leaned back in her chair and downed the remainder of her cup in one swallow. “Though I’m sure you know that better that me.”

“Yeah. It’s something he and I have in common, actually,” you confessed. “Neither of us do well without something to keep us busy. Even in the best of circumstances.”

“Well, you’ve got almost a week before we get to Nevarro.” Rising to her feet, the older woman offered you a dry smile. “I’m sure you’ll find something to keep yourself occupied in the meantime.”

You huffed a laugh through your nose at that. “If you see me starting to climb the walls, you’ll know what happened.” Raising your mug in her direction, you added, “Thank you again. For the caf.”

“Anytime.” With an easy grace, she swung one of her long legs up onto the closest ladder rung, hooking the shallow heel of her knee-high boot around the metal rod. “Try to take it easy today. You got the kark beat out of you less than 12 hours ago. You’re allowed to take a break.”

An unexpected wave of emotion swelled in your chest, chief among them being an immediate fondness that warmed you from the inside out. You were going to be fast friends with Fennec, you could already tell.

“I will,” you promised.

---

By day three of your journey, you were dangerously close to making good on your threat of climbing the walls.

Your body was slowly recovering from the impact of the explosion, your muscles and joints feeling less like you had run headlong into a duracrete wall every day and your burns steadily receding with every application of Boba’s ointment. As relieved as you were for the improvements and the promise that you would soon be back to normal, you found that the better you felt, the more difficult it became to tolerate the extended period of inactivity. The more the trauma of your body healed, the more the trauma in your mind made itself known.

The image of that red laser burst streaking through the atmosphere was burned into the backs of your eyelids. The ruthless way it tore through the Razor Crest, the way the blast had momentarily deafened you as it flung you off your feet, the helplessness and the disorientation that followed. The smoking crater it left behind, the way you were certain your heart bore a matching scar as you watched the only real home you had known in your adult life go up in flames.

And Grogu.

Stars, Grogu.

You had been preparing yourself for the eventuality of saying good-bye to him ever since Din had revealed the boy’s Jedi origins. But you hadn’t been prepared for this – to know that the people who had taken him intended to do him harm, to be powerless to stop them. And now to not know where he was, to not know if he was hurting, if he was afraid, if he was even still alive. You couldn’t allow yourself to think on it for too long. If you did, you would surely fall apart.

You thought it might have been easier to cope if you did not feel as though you were doing so on your own. As it was, even days later, Din had hardly spoken more than a few words to you. He hadn’t been outright hostile, nor had he given any indication that he was angry with you for any reason. However, he had refused every attempt you had made to connect with him; every well-meaning question after his wellbeing or offer of dinner or even a shared cup of caf had been turned down, and although he had been sleeping in the same bunk as you, he had taken to do so in alternating shifts so that by the time you were ready to turn in for the night, he was only just waking.

You were certain that you would have felt less lonely had you actually been alone, and you would have given anything for someone to put a hydrospanner or a fusion cutter in your hands and give you something else to occupy your thoughts.

But this wasn’t your ship. It wasn’t even Din’s ship. So there you were, worry eating away at the lining of your stomach, mind racing and yet somehow numb, sitting on your ass in the navigation room with nothing to do. Again.

“You’re sighing.”

Fennec’s dry voice pulled you from your thoughts, and you glanced over at where she sat studying some star chart or another at the console to your right. She faced away from you, the streaking blue and white lights of hyperspace illuminating the complex twists of her long, black braid, but you could tell from the tense set of her shoulders that she was growing annoyed.  

“Sorry,” you replied meekly, feeling yourself flush. You needed to get ahold of yourself. Sitting on your own for so long in silence was only making the situation inside your mind worse. Fennec had been more than kind to you since you had departed Tython; she didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of your melancholy.

However, after quiet once again descended on the Firespray, you couldn’t seem to stop yourself from slipping back into the same state. Grogu, Din. Grogu, Din. Over and over, in a never-ending spiral with no way out, no way to break the surface, to breathe. You felt helpless. Useless. Alone.

A sigh slipped from your lips before you could smother it, and then Fennec was closing down her program and spinning around in her seat.

“All right, stand up.”

You startled, cursing yourself at the dark flash of aggravation in the older woman’s eyes. “Oh, kriff, I’m sorry. I’ll shut up – I promise.”

But she wasn’t having any of your empty promises today. “Stand. Up,” she repeated, her sharp tone brooking no room for argument. You were on your feet in an instant, aware for perhaps the first time that this woman was lethal – a master assassin and a deadly sniper, someone who commanded respect with both her actions and her demeanor. She had been kind to you, yes, but you didn’t savor the idea of testing her patience any more than you already had.

“What are we doing?” you asked, tentative.

Closing the distance between you in a handful of long strides, Fennec beckoned to you with both hands, gesturing at her own chest. “Try and punch me,” she said.

Your eyebrows shot up, and your jaw dropped open dumbly. You were sure you had misunderstood. “What?”

“You heard me. Try and punch me.”

“Fennec – ”

She advanced another step toward you, her gaze hard, and you stumbled back despite yourself, feeling a rush of intimidation flood your system. “You told me you’re woman of action. That you’re an engineer, a fixer. But there’s nothing we can do for the kid until we get to Nevarro, and Mando won’t let you put him back together right now. I’ve watched you try for days, and it’s going nowhere. So instead of focusing on them, you’re going to focus on you.”

“By punching you?” You could feel a wave of defensiveness rising at her words, but you couldn’t deny that she was right. There was nothing for you to fix here, and it was not-so-subtly driving you mad. But punching her? You would never. You wouldn’t stand a chance!

“Yes. You’re feeling restless? Helpless? Afraid? Then do something about it.” She took yet another step toward you, driving you across the deck until the backs of your knees hit the next chair over. “You need someplace to put all that energy? Put it right here.” She patted her chest, the sound muffled by her leather gloves and padded jacket. “Let me teach you how to fight.”

Her words had you taken aback, but you couldn’t deny the wisdom of them. Perhaps at one point, Din had planned to teach you himself, but clearly, he was too preoccupied at the moment to do so. You had nothing else to occupy your time for the remainder of the journey; your daily routine of babying your injuries and moping around the ship wasn’t doing anyone any favors, least of all you. And no one could deny that in an expedition to track down a child that had been kidnapped by a fully-armored Imperial light cruiser, you were far and away the weakest link of your band of misfits. If you were being given the opportunity to shore up those skills, even in the smallest of ways, you would be foolish to turn it down.

Steeling your nerves, you nodded once to Fennec. “Okay. Where do we start?”

The older woman smirked, pleased, and brought her fists up in a ready stance. “Put your hands up, girl. Let’s see what we’re working with.”

You took a brief moment to take in the angle of her body, the way she had spread her feet apart, one in front of the other, the position of her fists up near her face. You tried to emulate her as best as you could, and then, after a deep, steadying breath, you swung.

---

Your muscles were sporting a new kind of soreness as you emerged from the ‘fresher later that evening, hair long and loose around your shoulders, boilersuit hanging onto your hips with the sleeves framing your legs. Your eyes were heavy, exhaustion weighing on your joints, but it was a good kind of tired – the kind that felt particularly satisfying after a long day of physical activity. You were almost looking forward to finally collapsing on the thin mattress of your bunk; you knew you would pass out the moment your head hit the pillow. However, just as you wrapped your palms around the ladder to climb up and do just that, a familiar pair of brown boots appeared above you, and Din dropped the last few rungs onto the deck below.

“Din,” you acknowledged, surprise coloring your tone. “Hi.”

He turned to you then, extending his leather-clad hands to you without preamble. “Let me see your hands.”

You frowned in confusion. “What?”

But the bounty hunter did not repeat himself, nor did he wait for further reply. Instead, he simply snatched each of your hands from down at your sides and brought them up to his eye-level. You winced at the rough handling, your hands more than a little tender after Fennec’s lessons, but if he noticed your discomfort, he didn’t let on. He simply studied your fingers in the dim light, running the pads of his thumbs across the ridge of your knuckles.

“No split skin. Nothing looks broken,” he murmured, voice low and raspy, almost as though speaking to himself rather than to you. “A bit of bruising and swelling, but no more than I’d expect for a novice.” He dropped your hands and took a step back out of your space. “Looks like Fennec is a good teacher.”

“She is,” you replied. You cradled your fists close to your body, feeling suddenly, inexplicably self-conscious at his cool appraisal. That was the most he had spoken to you in days, the first time he had touched you since he had helped you with your burn ointment that first night, and the lack of warmth was almost more disquieting than the avoidance.

“I did say I wanted to work on your combat skills,” he said, matter-of-fact. “If you wanted to learn how to fight, cyare, all you had to do was ask.”

You drew back sharply at that, feeling something acidic and bitter begin to roil in the pit of your stomach. “Really?” you hissed acerbically. “How would that have gone, exactly? You’ve been avoiding me for days, Din. You haven’t hardly said two words to me since we jumped to hyperspace.”

The Mandalorian cocked his helmet at you, taking a step back in your direction, then another, driving you back toward the ‘fresher door. Had your hackles not already been up, you might have found the way he crowded into your space intimidating, but as it was, you were completely undaunted. You kept your eyes on his, jutting your chin our defiantly as he rumbled, “Forgive me if I haven’t exactly been in the mood to chat. I’ve been a bit preoccupied, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed. You’ve been sulking so loudly, I couldn’t not notice.”

“Sulking?” His modulated voice had taken on a dangerous edge, and something deep inside you, something animal, suddenly registered Din as a threat. It was a side of him you had rarely seen, something usually reserved for quarries, and it made a primal part of your psyche crack open an eye, watching your exchange with lazy interest.

“Yes. Sulking.”

For a moment, the bounty hunter appeared at a loss for words. You could hear his breathing through his helmet, so close and yet refusing to touch you, hands balled into fists down by his hips, also very carefully not touching you. But then, just as you were sure he was about to snap back with a quip of his own, he released a weighty sigh, spun around, and headed back in the direction of the ladder.

“Din, wait – ” Your hand flew out to snag on the sleeve of his flight suit, wrapping your fingers him somewhere between his pauldron and his vambrace. “I’m sorry. I know I can’t imagine how you’re feeling right now.” The words poured from your mouth before you could stem them, everything you had been wanting to say to him for days all bubbling to the surface at once. There was no holding them back any more. “Losing the Crest, losing Grogu, not knowing where he is, not knowing if he’s safe – ”

“Don’t.” Din pulled his arm from your grip, but still, he didn’t retreat any further, and in spite of his warning, you took it as a sign to keep going.

“I don’t want to fight with you, Din. I want to help you. Please. Please just let me help you.” Thick, hot emotion rose in your throat, flushing your face, pricking the backs of your eyes with the burn of unwanted tears. “You don’t have to bear this on your own. We’re in this together, okay? Please don’t shut me out anymore. I…” You hiccupped, a single tear breaking free of your wet eyelashes, spilling down your cheek. “I love you.”

For a long, tense moment, he said nothing. He continued to face away from you, though now rather than looking ahead toward the ladder, he stared at the deck, chin pressed to his chest, broad, proud shoulders hunched inward on himself as though to shield himself from your fraught confession. Almost too softly for his helmet vocoder to pick up, he whispered, “I know, ner kar’ta. I love you, too.”

Another tear slipped down your face at the endearment, the gentle, lilting syllables of Mando’a settling over your shoulders like a warm blanket.

Ner kar’ta.

My heart, you recalled, and you swore the sound of the words made your soul ache.

And then you watched as all of the softness and vulnerability seemed to wash away, the Mandalorian drawing himself back up to full height, straightening his shoulders and his gaze right before your eyes.

“Get some ice on your hands before your next sparring session,” he said, once again cool and detached. “It will help with the swelling.”

In two long strides, he was back at the foot of the ladder, and that ache in your soul became a physical pain, one that had you clutching your hands over your chest, pressing on your breastbone, willing it not to split apart under your palms.

In two short minutes, he was gone, and you lost the battle with the remainder of your tears.

---

Note:

As you may have noticed, I have taken some creative liberties with the internal layout of Boba's ship, the Slave I. You will find that in every depiction of the ship, there are variations as to the exact floorplan, and there is a great deal of debate as to whether the cockpit or any other levels rotate because of the way that the ship flies "vertically" but lands "on its back." For my adaptation, I have combined a few different internal schematics I found online with the rotating navigation room mechanism described by Jon Favreau and team in the Disney Gallery - Star Wars: The Mandalorian episode "Making of Season 2." Since that is the one that is depicted in the show, I felt like it was important to align with that source material first and foremost. (Please don't ask me how many hours I spent scouring forums and fan sites looking at Slave I blueprints and cutaways lol)

[the-indigo-symphony]

I think the option of switching out is very nice. Just the availability of it. Tons of people have wished for the ability to take breaks from their own life, and, well, here the option is! It helps with my perspective on difficult tasks, I think – I'm able to consider whether I'm up for and realistically able to handle something, or if I should call in the calvary and give myself a break; I don't have to force myself to do it. Can I handle this? Let me consider it for a few moments. Hm... Yeah, I think I can deal with this. But if I can't, the innerworld isn't half bad, and there's tons of folks up in this portable support system that are willing to help me. That's a really nice feeling.

[phoenixplans]

Planner Setup 101: Making Your Planner Work for You

A Step-by-Step Guide to Boosting Organization and Efficiency

Your planner isn’t just a notebook with dates—it’s a tool for transforming chaos into clarity. But too often, we try to cram our lives into someone else's idea of “organized.” What if your planner actually worked for you, not the other way around?

Let’s walk through how to set up a planner that fits your life, your goals, and your rhythm. Whether you’re brand new to planning or looking to refresh your current system, this step-by-step guide will help you create a setup that’s both functional and empowering.

Step 1: Choose the Right Planner for You

There’s no one-size-fits-all approach. Ask yourself:

Do you prefer digital or paper?

Do you like daily breakdowns, weekly views, or monthly overviews?

Do you need portability, or do you keep your planner on your desk?

Don’t be afraid to experiment until you find the format that clicks. It should feel like an extension of your brain—not a burden.

Step 2: Define Your Planner’s Purpose

Be clear about why you’re using a planner. Is it to:

Track appointments and deadlines?

Manage projects or business tasks?

Build habits and routines?

Prioritize self-care and mental wellness?

All of the above?

Once you define the purpose, you can design your layout accordingly. This step prevents overwhelm and helps you stay focused.

Step 3: Create Your Core Sections

Every effective planner has key sections that reflect your priorities. Here are a few you might include:

Monthly Calendars: For long-term planning and key events

Weekly Spreads: For mapping out tasks and routines

Daily Pages: For detailed to-dos, time blocking, or journaling

Goals: Break big dreams into achievable steps

Habit Trackers: Build consistency, one day at a time

Notes/Ideas: Capture inspiration when it strikes

Only include what you’ll actually use. A bloated planner can quickly become a dusty one.

One of my daily spreads that helps me keep my day on track and aligned with my overall goals:

Step 4: Customize with Intention

This is where your planner truly becomes yours. Add:

Color coding or labels for quick reference

Stickers or washi tape if you’re creative (and motivated by visuals)

Tabs, bookmarks, or dashboards for easy navigation

Inserts or templates that reflect your lifestyle—like meal planning, finance tracking, or project management

Customization isn’t just for aesthetics—it boosts usability.

One of my favorite custom spreads:

Step 5: Set a Planning Routine

A planner only works if you use it. Set aside time regularly to:

Review your week every Sunday (or your reset day)

Check-in each morning to adjust tasks or priorities

Do a monthly reflection to reset your goals and intentions

This habit turns planning into a rhythm, not a chore.

Step 6: Give Yourself Permission to Adjust

Your life changes. So should your planner. Don’t be afraid to revise your layout, simplify sections, or even switch systems if something’s not working. Flexibility is the key to sustainability.

Final Thoughts

A well-set-up planner doesn’t just organize your time—it helps you own it. Whether you’re juggling multiple roles or simply trying to stay sane in a busy world, your planner should serve you.

Remember: It’s not about having the perfect planner. It’s about creating a space that supports your unique goals, pace, and priorities.

So take a deep breath, grab your favorite pen, and start building a system that lets you thrive.

---

PS. Yesterday I released the Phoenix Burnout Buster and Mini Study Planner to my shop. Have you had a chance to peek yet? If not, take a look here: Printable & Digital Study Planner + Burnout Worksheet Bundle and let me know what you think!

[c1rcu1t-l0ver-c0pep0d]

W.I.F.E./ Chapter 1: Hello_world

Author's notes:

After public demand by 3 very dedicated people, I will start reposting my fanfiction anthology back on Tumblr (yayy). Thank you guys for your support!

A small and simple introductive chapter.

Reading time: ~ 3 mins

Rating: 15+

Above: Sheldon's room in the 1980s.

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Sheldon J. Plankton. Of course, everyone knows that evil, one-eyed (well, half-blind in this AU's case) sociopathic genius with the computer W.I.F.E.. The question is, how did their twisted, bittersweet relationship began? The answer is not really given officially, so let me tell you what my version is...

· • -- ٠ ✤ ٠ -- • ·

December 1985.

When Sheldon first laid his eye on that security system in that pawn shop, he knew there was something special about it. But he couldn't figure out what. He liked to tinker with machinery, and he wanted experiment on giving that system consciousness. Best Christmas gift ever.

· • -- ٠ ✤ ٠ -- • ·

December 19th, 1986 (one year later).

07:58.

After many months of research and hard work, he managed to get the first response: "Good morning, Mr. Plankton! What are you up to today?" Her voice sounded sweet and cheery.

- Good morning, my computer assistant. What is your name?

- My name: Karen. My mission: to assist you.

It worked! And no explosions! He was so excited and relieved, he didn't even feel the exhaustion from staying up all night to finish his creation. He couldn't wait to show Eugene (since nobody else -not even his family- would care anyway). But it was getting late, and he had to get ready for school, so he got dressed with whatever clothes he could find laying around the messy room. He turned off the computer, grabbed his backpack and his portable cassette player and ran down the stairs, to catch the bus.

He was dreaming of becoming a great scientist one day. His name will be in newspapers, magazines and books and his inventions will be in every house. Or maybe, why not dream even bigger? All these idiots will look up on him and he will have the fame, the money, the power. Aaah yes, that would be the life... he thought to himself and smiled.

Later that day, he invited his friend over.

"Behold! My latest invention, Karen!" with the press of a button, Karen's screen lit up and she said: "Hello there, Mr. Plankton!" her camera turned towards Eugene.

[Mechanical voice] "New person detected."

[Normal voice] "Who is this kind sir?"

- That's Eugene, my best friend.

[On her screen] ANALYZING...

[On her screen] NEW FRIEND ADDED SUCCESSFULLY.

Eugene walked to the system and gently patted the top of the screen: "You outdid yourself this time, Shelly. Great job!"

"Get your hands off her!" Sheldon shouted. Instantly, he lowered his voice and corrected himself. "Sorry, I don't know what got into me. Thank you, it means a lot." Eugene was surprised from what just happened, so he quickly changed the subject: "So...what does this gizmo do?"

"Wha? Oh, right. She's a computer assistant. For now, she just answers to simple questions and you can keep a small conversation with her." Sheldon explained.

- Even though I lost you a bit, I can say it sounds really cool! What do you say? Wanna go out and celebrate this success of yours?

- Pizza and drink with free refill at the Diner?

- Hell yes!

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End of chapter 1