#Sorting and Sticker Pasting Machine

[semcoinfratechworld]

How Cylindrical Cell Sorting Ensures Quality and Consistency in Production?

In today’s tech-driven world, batteries work like a powerhouse of every device we use.  One thing that we must understand is that behind the sleek exteriors and impressive capacities lies a crucial step: cell sorting. As a large number of batteries around there are made from cylindrical cells this time, we will also be focusing on Cylindrical Battery Cell Sorting and Sticker Pasting Machine.

This might sound simple, but it’s a highly technical process that ensures consistency and quality in the batteries. Let’s delve into the fascinating world of cell sorting and explore how manufacturers use it to create reliable and high-performing batteries.

Cell sorting, also known as battery cell grading, goes far beyond simply separating used batteries from new ones. It’s a meticulous process that involves evaluating individual battery cells based on a set of critical criteria. These criteria determine the health, capacity, and overall performance potential of each cell.

Imagine a group of students preparing for an exam. Cell sorting acts like a detailed assessment, analyzing each cell’s capabilities and assigning them “grades” based on their performance.

 

Criteria and Standards

So, what exactly do manufacturers look for when sorting cylindrical cells? Here are some key criteria:

State of Health (SOH): This metric indicates the remaining capacity of a cell compared to its original capacity when new. It’s like a battery’s “fuel gauge,” reflecting how much power it can still hold.

Internal Resistance: This measures the opposition a cell presents to the flow of current. Higher resistance translates to a loss of energy and reduced performance. Think of it as friction in a car engine; the lower the friction, the smoother the ride.

Voltage and Current Performance: These parameters determine the cell’s ability to deliver power. A cell with consistent voltage and high current output is a reliable performer, ensuring constant power delivery.

Physical Characteristics: Manufacturers also perform visual inspections to identify any physical damage like dents or leaks. Even minor imperfections can compromise safety and performance.

These criteria are often used in conjunction with established industry standards. These standards, set by organizations like the International Electrotechnical Commission (IEC), ensure consistency and reliability across different battery manufacturers.

Testing the Inner Workings of a Cell

To evaluate these criteria, battery manufacturing equipment suppliers provide machines for specific tasks. Some of the prominent tests and methods employ a range of sophisticated testing techniques. Here are some prominent methods:

Electrochemical Impedance Spectroscopy (EIS): This non-destructive method measures a cell’s internal resistance by analyzing its response to a small electrical signal. It provides a detailed picture of the cell’s health and performance potential.

Galvanostatic Charge-Discharge (GCD): This test involves charging and discharging a cell at a specific current to determine its actual capacity. It paints a real-world picture of how much power the cell can deliver.

Cycle Testing: This involves repeatedly charging and discharging a cell to simulate real-world usage and assess its lifespan and degradation rate. It helps predict how long the cell will perform reliably.

The specific tests employed can vary depending on the battery type and its intended application. However, the core principle remains the same: to thoroughly analyze each cell and determine its suitability for its intended use.

Technologies Enabling Precision Sorting

Technology plays a crucial role in enabling precise and efficient cell sorting. Here are some key players in the game:

Automated Sorting & Sticker Pasting Machine for Cylindrical Cells: These sophisticated machines can handle large volumes of cells, performing high-speed testing and sorting based on pre-defined criteria. Imagine a robotic assembly line meticulously analyzing and classifying cells.

Machine Learning (ML): Advanced algorithms can analyze data from cell testing to identify patterns and predict a cell’s performance potential. This allows for even more nuanced sorting and optimization.

Artificial Intelligence (AI): AI takes ML a step further, continuously learning and refining cell sorting algorithms. Think of it as a super-powered brain constantly improving the sorting process.

By harnessing these technologies, manufacturers can ensure consistent and reliable cell sorting, leading to superior battery performance.

Consistency and Reliability in Battery Power

So, what does cell sorting translate to in the real world? Here are the key benefits:

Enhanced Battery Performance: By placing cells with similar capacity and performance in a battery pack, manufacturers ensure consistent power delivery and overall performance. A well-sorted battery pack functions like a well-oiled machine, delivering optimal power output.

Improved Safety and Reliability: Identifying and removing cells with potential issues like high internal resistance or physical damage minimizes the risk of safety hazards within a battery pack. It’s like removing faulty parts from a car engine for smoother and safer operation.

Extended Battery Life: Cell sorting helps identify cells with high capacity and low degradation rates. These cells can be used in applications demanding long lifespans. 

SMD: Precise cell sorting ensures battery quality and consistency. Sophisticated tech like AI analyses each cell, optimizing performance and safety. A well-sorted battery pack delivers reliable power for all your devices.

[isaqlare]

new roots

— patrick zweig x afab!reader

— Angst, emotional vulnerability, slow recovery from toxic past — college!au + not proofread!

After losing both Tashi and Art in the wake of injury and heartbreak, Patrick drifts into college life—a version of it he never expected to live. That’s where he meets you: a quiet presence with gentle hands and eyes full of something he doesn’t know how to name. There’s no label between you. Just moments. Lingering ones. Unspoken ones. The kind that mean everything.

also, thanks to the person who requested this! mwahmwah

Patrick doesn’t talk about tennis anymore.Not in classes. Not in dorm conversations. Not even when someone recognizes his name from an old clip on YouTube or a high school headline they half-remember: Zweig Dominates Junior Open. One To Watch.

He pretended it’s another person and maybe it was. Because that Patrick, the one who lived on courts, who chased glory and leaned into every serve like it was survival died the moment Tashi pulled away.

the moment her injury turned their futures into fractured glass. The moment Art stopped looking at him like they were in this together. Now, college feels like a punishment. A quiet, gray echo of a life he never planned for. No racket. No spotlight. Just lectures and cold pizza and nights where he can’t sleep for the noise in his own head.

That’s where he’s at when he meets you. You meet him in the campus print shop.

He’s behind you in line, hoodie up, headphones in. but his printer code isn’t working and you offer help without even thinking. “Try logging in again. This machine’s got a short temper.” Your voice is soft, like morning.

He glances at you. Takes in the sticker-covered water bottle, the tiny star pendant around your neck, the scribbled class notes in your hand that look more like poetry than anything academic. “I didn’t ask for help,” he says.

“I didn’t ask for a thanks,” you reply. And just like that, something shifts. He watches you from then on. Not in a creepy way—more like someone remembering warmth after a long stretch of cold.

You never sit in the front row. Always near the windows. You write constantly, even when you’re not supposed to. You laugh in bursts, sudden and real, and your sadness (because it is there) hides behind eyes that see too much.

You start nodding when you pass him on the quad. Then waving. Then one day you sit next to him in the library and don’t say anything at all.

And somehow, that’s what starts everything.

Patrick doesn’t do softness well. Not anymore.

He’s all angles and silence and short replies. But you..god, you’re a patient sort of storm. You don’t force him to talk, but you show up. You lend him a pencil when his breaks. Share your granola bar when he forgets to eat. Leave a little doodle on his notebook every once in a while. Like one day, it was a racket with wildflowers growing through the strings.

He stares at it for ten minutes. Then tears the page out and keeps it in his wallet and never tells you.

One rainy evening, you find him smoking on the roof of the science building, hoodie soaked through, knee bouncing like it’s trying to run off without him. “You always look like you’re waiting for the sky to fall,” you say.

He flicks ash off the edge of the ledge. “Maybe I am.” You sit beside him anyway. Share the silence. Let it swell between you like a song you both know by heart. And it’s the first time in months Patrick doesn’t feel like he’s drowning.

It isn’t love. Not officially. Not technically. Not in a way either of you says out loud.

But there’s something in the way he walks you to your dorm after late-night study sessions unless you’d like to spend the night or the way he watches your hands when you talk, like the gestures themselves are telling him secrets.

There’s something in the way you touch his arm when he’s anxious. In the way you always seem to know when he’s spiraling, and how you never ask him to stop being a mess—just to let you sit with him.

He doesn’t talk about Art or Tashi. He doesn’t like to and he doesn’t like anyone forcing him too. That’s why you don’t, you understood him more than anyone did until.

It’s late. You’re walking back from an open mic night when Patrick stops outside the chain-link fence of the campus courts. The lights are off. The lines faded. But he stares like it’s church.

“Used to live on places like this,” he says suddenly. You turn to him. He’s not looking at you—eyes fixed on the dead net, hands clenched. “I’d measure my worth in wins. Serves. Applause. And then…” He laughs bitterly. “Then it all stopped. She got hurt. He picked her. Or maybe she picked him. I don’t know. I was just… out.”

He swallows hard. “Have you ever loved someone who looked right through you?” You nod. Quiet.

Patrick’s voice is hoarse now. “And I couldn’t even be mad. Because I loved them both. God, I loved them.”

You don’t speak. You just take his hand. And hold it. Not because you want something from him. But because you see him and that’s something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

You fall into something undefined. You’re not together. Not officially. But he sits closer now. Leans his head on your shoulder when he’s tired. Plays with your fingers when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

One night, you fall asleep on his chest during a movie and he kisses your forehead. And then pretends he didn’t. There are mornings where you brush his hair out of his eyes. Nights where you cry over your own heartbreaks and he stays, holds you like you’re fragile but sacred.

There’s so much feeling, so much almost that it hurts sometimes. But neither of you push. You just stay. Breathe. Heal, slowly. Together. He had found new roots in you, his new life with you in it.

It happens in the fall. You’re sitting under a tree, reading aloud to him from some dreamy novel about lost cities and people who find each other through music. Your voice is calm. Safe.

He closes his eyes and lets it wash over him.

Then, softly, like he doesn’t mean to say it out loud: “You’re the only thing that makes me feel like a person again.”

You stop reading and look at him. He’s staring straight ahead, ashamed maybe and you don’t kiss him. You don’t tell him you feel the same, you just reach for his hand and squeeze it.

and there’s no grand declaration but you were somewhat okay with that. No kiss in the rain. No sudden leap into relationship status.

But there’s a point, halfway through winter, where Patrick starts showing up at your door without being asked. Where your things mix on accident. Where your toothbrush is next to his and no one talks about it but there’s still pain in him. Still grief but there’s also you.

And it’s not perfect. It’s human.

He still sees Tashi in dreams. Still wonders if Art would’ve stayed if things had been different. But when he wakes up, it’s your face he sees.

You, with your soft voice and ink-stained fingers and the patience of someone who never tried to replace the ghosts, only offer him something warmer than cold memory.

So no, it’s not the ending. It’s a beginning. And beginnings are quiet just like the way you love him. And maybe, someday, he’ll say it back. But for now, you sit beside him in the library again.

Two people who found each other in the aftermath and stayed but you’ve matured throughout the months, the years together and that’s how now you were bringing him to visit your family for spring break.

a nervous wreck, looking at you as you approached the front door. “Are you sure they’ll like me? I mean—“ you quickly cut him off.

“of course they will, they love all my friends.” you smile, okay— maybe official labels haven’t exactly been put on you both yet but you were okay with where you were.

you found new roots with each other.

[eightyuh]

do you sell stickers online? i would love to buy some! especially for wick's end!

short answer:

thank you so much for asking! 😭 currently, i only vend my stickers in-person at conventions, but i would love to have an online storefront! i'm totally open to suggestions!

long answer:

i'm touched that even though i only have 1 pilot, 2 legit chapters, no canon update for almost a year, and a trillion aus, that you would want such things 🥺😭🖤 thank you for asking, it makes me feel special

i've been researching beginner-friendly options that are NOT print-on-demand (Redbubble, etc) or Etsy/Ebay to sell my stickers + digital ringtones. i currently use a Ko-Fi store but wouldn't wanna continue with them for that sort of expansion.

in ADDITION: my sticker cutting machine actually broke the day before my last event! so i sold it for parts... and i do not have a cutting machine at the moment and haven't invested in a new one (all the money made from that comicon is set aside for it ... just haven't finished researching and pulled the trigger :"") its been busy). In between getting a Siser or a Silhouette. Cricut sucks btw.

i've also run a poll in the past asking if ppl would honestly order WE stickers if i made them ... and the result was no! which is completely fair; im not consistent or talented enough to merit such a demand at this point. i would love to earn that in the future ... but hearing you would want such a thing despite this makes me feel very happy. thank you <3

[natequarter]

in regards to my time lord companion oc: the whole thing starts when, for one reason or another, the time lords get caught in some sort of bureaucratic muddle which requires calling the doctor back. or he just wants to go back, i dunno. how he gets there (this is fifteen) isn't really important. what is important is that he and his current companion, a historical companion from the 1550s because i say so, happen to do some unprompted sneaking around in the citadel.

and, because the time lords suck... they stumble upon a series of time lord bodies, held in stasis. as it turns out, there were too many war-loomed soldiers left behind after the time war for time lord infrastructure to cope with, so they were put in stasis, and have been slated to be destroyed (because the time lords, again, suck, and generally do not consider these soldiers to be 'sentient' or equal in the same way they would ordinary time lords). the doctor tries to break the stasis, but only succeeds in breaking the machine full stop - defence protocols kick in, and only one (un)lucky soldier is actually revived.

which is a problem for the doctor! he now has on hand even more paperwork and dead people, as well as one traumatised, badly confused time lord for whom the war ended more or less a minute ago. as anyone would in that situation, the doctor fucks off out of gallifrey, and now has two companions with absolutely no familiarity with modern day earth!

as it turns out, his new time lord companion also doesn't have a name, or, like, a sense of identity at all, and so the doctor sets about trying to help them get used to living life outside of the influences of 1. war and 2. gallifrey, but also slowly begins to repair his relationship to traditional gallifreyan culture upon realising that this kid has... no experience with any of that whatsoever. they don't know gallifreyan law, procedure, music, literature, ceremony... any of it. meanwhile, his other companion is busy trying to get them into twentieth century scifi, because apparently that's what escaped tudor criminals are really into these days. are multicoloured stickers an acceptable substitute for the all-consuming guilt of outliving the sole reason you exist? the doctor is about to find out!

also they cannot for the life of them decide on a name, and are slowly growing their hair out. it's a metaphor. for stuff. the doctor happens to see a lot of himself in them, but he's also hopelessly out of his depth dealing with a victim of the very planet he keeps on trying to dodge, and it takes him time to get comfortable with actually... engaging with his past, so to speak. but it does get better, and they do find their own identity, and even a name - and eventually, become just as good as the doctor at this saving the universe business.

oh, and they're not going back to gallifrey for a long while yet.

[base0h]

Hello,

Heard you’re looking for ideas so…

Here’s a crack one: The Straw hats working in a department store

Would they become employee of the month? Would they be fired immediately?

a/n - IM WHEEZING AT THIS— you are GENIUS bro holy crap 😭🫶 dude luffy would get fired so fast it’s insane— and imma just add everyone bc why not 😂

Warnings ⚠️ - MAJOR crack, multiple characters, I’m kinda dumb and might’ve forgotten people

they didn’t even make it past the interview 💀

.✩ kidd (tried killing the interviewer for asking him why he wanted to work there “I really am passionate about restocking— MF IM BROKE.”), buggy, bonney, paulie (did the same thing as kidd plus he parked in the manager’s parking spot)

literally within the first few seconds of the interview they’re hired | “My name is—“ “Can you start within the next few seconds?”

.✩ jimbei, koby, sabo, koala, izou, kaku, vivi

got fired the same day they started

.✩ luffy (ate the entire produce section and then asked the manager “is there more stuff in the back?”), corazon (he accidentally burnt the place down 😀), sanji (confessed his love and asked several female customers to marry him at his cash register), brook (asked for some poor random woman’s underwear 💀)

employee of the month every single month

.✩ jimbei, koby (old people always say how sweet he is to the manager bc he always helps them get the things they can’t reach 😭🫶), tashigi (kids hate her bc she catches them and scolds them if they take an extra candy/sticker from the cashier jar), vivi (accidentally gave herself this title when she’s the manager 💀)

the manager of the store

.✩ nami (steals money from the safe sometimes), aokiji (he literally never shows up to work on time and doesn’t give a shit what the employees do), akainu, fujitora, shanks (bro also does not care and comes to work hungover), dragon (has not shown up once since the interview), sengoku, garp, dadan, vivi, magellan

the sale sign flipper guy

.✩ zoro (if he manages to actually find his way to the store), bepo, ace, shachi, penguin, queen (you legit can’t miss him as you’re driving by 💀), yamato, oden, cat viper, bon clay, ivankov

they work solely in the back to avoid human interaction as much as possible

.✩ mihawk, law, smoker (he’s the guy that mans the big crane machine that moves huge boxes), hawkins, king, katakuri, smoker, lucci

they’re the CEOs of companies that are partners with the store and provide goods for the store to sell

.✩ crocodile (provides gut/immune supporting, healthy, all organic animal/pet food), doflamingo, kaido, big mom, whitebeard, moria (sells and produces copious amounts of Halloween costumes and other decorations)

actually decent employees

.✩ usopp, benn, x drake, robin, nojiko, baby 5, monet, vergo, franky, icebarg, bellamy (SHADOW FROM SK8 PLS TELL ME YALL SEE IT), hachi, killer

they start tweaking because they asked a customer how they were and they ignored them

.✩ shirahoshi (sobbing), bepo, sanji (asked a girl who had her headphones on), Uta (will get so pressed that they ignored her when in reality they just had headphones on)

they’re the reason why the store’s still in business | they’re basically the mascot

.✩ chopper, bepo, carrot, cat viper, dog storm

the dude everyone goes to for questions/help | “Idk go ask ___”

.✩ franky (has beef with cash register 4 bc it stops working for no reason only during his lunch break and never when he’s not doing anything), icebarg, kaku, usopp, lucci, jack, king, robin, jimbei

they’re the reason why no one likes to shop there | they have several weird allegations or felonies of some sort

.✩ trebol, caesar, diamante, dellinger, pica (he drives this mini car and always somehow fits inside it and takes up two spots in the parking lot), absalom, hogback (people have gone missing in the parking lot it’s scary), moria (would you wanna shop if you saw bro? Ik I wouldn’t 😭)

jobless for life ✌️

.✩ rayleigh (he slays idc), roger, yasopp

a/n - I think i forgot people but eh 💀 the one piece brainrot is so back 🙏

[unadulteratedsoulsweets]

A DC X DP IDEA #21

A PENNY FOR MY AND YOUR THOUGHTS #1…

The Justice League tries to understand the intricacies of the Ghost Zone and ghostly physics. Batman, in particular, attempts to apply logic to the supernatural world, leading to some hilarious debates with Danny who in return explains to Batman how his family’s and his version of physics breaks all logic.

…

You know this idea kind of came up to me, I’ve had my share of DC X DP crossovers of stories over the past year, and let me. Now that I’m talking out loud I found this hilarious cause tell you this opinion of mine was in the back of my head ever since

Logic is always present in the DC franchise whether it is their machines or some great evil weapons there is always some sort of explanation that uses science-defined words that can be translated into comic science. From magicians as well to magic shenanigans there is always some sort of logic behind each interaction. Batman uses full time to counter-act everything, and I mean everything in case they turn to the other side.

And there is DP…

I mean in all logic there is an absolute quack. The Fenton’s way a lipstick can be turned into some sort of laser gun against a ghost, okay two questions first how did they manage to cram the function to fire away a small yet precise blast towards the intended direction and second how did they even modify an everyday looking lipstick into that. The Fenton creep stick is just a baseball bat with a green sticker yet for some reason works on ghosts. Let’s not forget that the two eccentric ghost hunters have designed and built many of the ghost-hunting devices, often using household objects or repurposed machinery. I mean I saw the YouTube vids about how to build a bomb or even how to make your weapon made out of everyday machinery yet there are still machine parts that cannot be found in everyday appliances to ensure a functioning and safe weapon.

 Let’s not also forget about the ectoplasm, the show repeatedly stated that ectoplasm is radioactive, sure there are the mutated dinners as well as some other stuff but the fact that it did’nt affect the other two children of the Fenton’s due to prolonged exposure of ectoplasm beneath there own home amazes me. I mean look at our everyday powerplant there is a huge distance between a power plant to civilization to avoid future problems, heck we are exposed to light radiation everyday. Doctors advise us to stay away from radiation or lessen our time spent with everyday radiation. Sure there are some fan fics about how the entire population of Amity Park is somehow contaminated and gained some sort of ghost ability like extra strength and glowing eyes but majority of them, Danny was the only one seeing that he had an entire dimension fall on him when he opened the portal.

Now mash the two fandoms together and you’ll see my mental image of Batman and Phantom debating the logic behind DP logics despite having the same two fandoms living in the same universe, while the rest of the League watches in great focus as they have never seen Batman so worked up before as well on how their new League member create such highly functioning weapons.

I mean if I saw someone create a staff turned into some sort of double-bladed lightsaber from household items, I would also question my sanity as well as my knowledge.

…

Just a thought of mine….don't mind me 😕😕😕

[yaderyngoch]

I made a comment a while ago about a JayTim Tailor AU, and then the brainworms wouldn't stop so now I've actually written it.

Disclaimer that I'm super new to the fandom so this is my first time writing for it, and I also written one little fanfic in the past 3 years for a different fandom so I am Rusty and they're probably very OOC lol.

--

Tailor’s shops, Tim had found, were rather soothing places. Quiet and smelling faintly of amber and cedar. His chosen shop was an octagonal room lined with built-in shelves and racks of suits and armoires of darkly stained mahogany. A table in the centre of the room housed a swatch book of different types of wool and lining silks that Tim liked to flip through just to feel the delicately woven fabrics.

On one side of the shop window, there was a mannequin dressed in a half-finished suit, one side left without the facing so onlookers could see the canvas and careful stitching that gave the suit its structure. On the other there was an old treadle sewing machine, though Tim doubted it was still functional. Nevertheless it helped add to the timeless sort of atmosphere of the shop, something that felt so far removed from all the computers and cold artificial displays Tim usually worked with.

He’d been coming to this tailor for a few years now. Bruce had recommended him, and Tim had been coming ever since. There was something calming about the familiarity. Coming in and greeting the salesman who recommended a few suits for him to try on, settling on one that he thought looked best before the salesperson called the tailor out to him. It was always the same tailor, an elderly man with small, quick hands and soft eyes by the name of Lucius Fox.

Tim waited for him now, dressed in a neat blue suit the salesperson had chosen off the rack for Tim. The shop did offer entirely bespoke suits, but Tim had always found that to be much more elaborate than he felt he needed. As long as he looked neat and presentable, it worked for him.

He flipped through that fabric swatch book, tracing fingertips along the pinked edges of soft blue wool and reading the sticker on the back of the previous swatch as though he had any idea what any of it meant. Camel hair, it said. Tim didn’t think the fur of a camel would be particularly soft or good for suitmaking but evidently he was wrong.

“Mr. Drake?” Called a voice from the door to the tailor’s workshop itself, a voice lower and smoother than Tim had been expecting.

Tim looked up to see a man walking towards him, tall and broad with a streak of white through dark hair, a ruler and chalk in one hand and a pincushion secured to the other wrist with a band of black elastic. He’d forgone the jacket of his three-piece suit, the sleeves of his dress shirt neatly rolled up to his elbows, a tape measure draped around his neck. The suit was fitted just enough to display a figure far sturdier than Tim would’ve expected for a tailor, just hints of a broad chest and arms that filled out the sleeves far better than most.

His face was just as chiselled, with sharp green eyes that seemed to shimmer with amusement, the corner of his mouth turning up just slightly.

It took Tim far too long to realise he’d been staring, and he quite quickly flicked his eyes back down to the book before him, feeling warmth rise on his cheeks. “Yes, that’s- uhm.” He cleared his throat. “That’s me.” He looked back up at the Tailor. “Sorry, I just was expecting someone… else.”

The Tailor smiled in something between understanding and amusement. “Yes, Mr. Fox is out for the week so he’s left me to handle the shop. I’ll be taking care of you today.” The blush rose higher on Tim’s cheeks, and if he didn’t know better he’d assume the Tailor was doing that on purpose, with that honeyed voice of his and those smoothly spoken words. “My name is Jason.”

“Tim,” he answered, picking at the band of his watch.

“A pleasure to meet you, Tim,” answered Jason, and Tim was almost irritated at how well such a simple and common name rolled off Jason’s tongue. Jason gestured towards the pedestal in front of the three-way mirror, a platform just a little bit above the ground that made fittings easier, evidently. “Stand up there and face the mirror,” said Jason, tone polite and professional despite the command.

Tim nodded, trying not to follow Jason’s order too quickly and trying even harder not to fidget. He’d gotten better at it over the years. At his first fitting, Mr. Fox had smacked him upside the head with a ruler and told him to sit still. Now though, he had a feeling he’d find it just as difficult to behave as he had back then.

Jason came to stand close behind Tim, and it was with another small amount of irritation that Tim noticed even atop the pedestal, Jason was still slightly taller than him. “Tell me a little more about how you like your suits to fit.” His voice was softer now that they stood closer together, a gentle sound rather close to Tim’s ear. Tim couldn’t tell if he could feel the body heat radiating off of Jason, or if it was his own body that was warming up.

“Well… I’m not really sure I have much of a preference. Mr. Fox just fixed whatever he thought looked bad.” Tim wasn’t particularly meticulous when it came to fashion.

Jason hummed in understanding, stepping back just slightly to sweep his eyes over Tim, analysing the way the suit fit him with a careful, sharp stare. “Well, Mr. Fox is very good at what he does, but between you and I? He's also ancient and tends to prefer older, boxier styles, which I don’t think particularly suit you.” Tim felt rather like a blank canvas, where Jason could see the vision of the finished piece and Tim couldn’t. “You have a much narrower waist than most of the men I see. I think you’d look far better in something that showed that off a little more.”

Tim tugged at the hem of the jacket, trying to see what it was that Jason saw, but as far as he was concerned a suit was a suit and as long as it fit he wasn’t sure the cut of it made much of a difference. It was something to wear to a formal event and want to take off as soon as he got home. As far as he knew, the one he had on already fit fairly well for the most part.

“Here, I’ll show you what I mean and you can see what you think,” Jason continued, stepping closer to Tim again, standing right behind him so that in the mirror he could see his own silhouette overshadowed by Jason’s. Jason stroked gentle fingers up Tim’s spine, a featherlight touch to smooth out the wrinkle at the base of his neck. Tim suppressed a shiver as Jason leaned in close to place a pin to mark where the extra fabric near the collar needed to be taken in.

“Generally, off the rack suits were designed to fit men with far worse posture than you,” Jason explained, moving on to pin the sides of the suit. He sounded… appreciative, nearly praising despite the aforementioned posture making more work for him.

Tim could definitely feel his body heat now, attention narrowed down to where he could feel the delicate brush of skilled fingers along his waist, sliding a pin through the fabric with ease and precision Tim wouldn’t have associated with larger, stronger hands, far less wrinkled than Mr. Fox.

Tim could feel the warmth of Jason’s breath, could see him leaning in close in the reflection of the mirror. Now that Jason wasn’t looking at Tim’s face, Tim couldn’t help but stare at Jason’s, at the piercing, intense gaze, careful and precise in his work. He was much younger than Tim assumed most tailors were, likely only a few years older than Tim himself.

Jason moved to the other side, momentarily placing a hand on Tim’s waist to pull away the fabric needed. Tim wondered what he was thinking, so focused and diligent, fingers so much more skilled than Tim would’ve expected. It was an art, really, and there was beauty in simply watching the way Jason worked, in feeling each gentle brush of fingertips along the fabric, light and delicate and telling of so much skill in those hands. Some part within Tim desperately wanted to ask for more, for a taste of what those feathery sweeping touches promised.

“How does that feel?” Tim snapped his eyes away from Jason’s face and back to his own reflection, reminded quite quickly that Jason was a professional only doing his job and Tim desperately needed to get it together. Jason was reminding Tim that he desperately needed a few things.

“Uh… what?” Tim asked, feeling suddenly rather silly and realising he hadn’t been paying any attention at all to any of the things he was supposed to be paying attention to.

Fortunately, instead of the irritation Tim had been expecting, Jason simply laughed, a low chuckle rumbling in his throat. “The suit. Does it feel too tight? Too loose?” Oh- right. That was why Tim was here.

He looked at his silhouette in the mirror again, this time actually looking at himself instead of at Jason, and found he quite immediately knew what Jason had been talking about before. More than just fitting him better, Tim felt like he looked more… like himself. Not someone putting on a costume to go play the character of some high-society heir. He looked… really good, and good in a way he hadn’t expected to see in himself.

“Well?” Jason asked, smirk tugging at his lips again. “You seem quite easy to leave speechless, but I would appreciate at least some feedback.”

“Oh- sorry. It feels good. Thank you,” Tim answered, looking back at Jason in time to see his satisfied smile.

“Good,” said Jason, stepping closer again. “Now for the sleeves, I think they’re a little long for you, hmm?”

Tim nodded, knowing at least that much needed to be fixed. The hem of the sleeve was barely above his knuckles. Jason leaned in, left shoulder brushing Tim’s right as he slid one hand past Tim’s hip, one hand on either side of Tim’s.

Tim’s breath hitched, trying to calm the way his heart raced at their proximity. He knew this was part of the fitting, that this was the easiest way for a tailor to roll up his sleeve. Mr. Fox had done it too, but when Jason touched him, it was… different. No- Jason was just doing his job. He was a professional, Tim shouldn’t be thinking these things.

Jason’s index finger brushed Tim’s palm as he started to roll the sleeve up, tucking the excess fabric inward so it looked more like what the finished product might be. He slid two fingers beneath the sleeve to help smooth out the folded edge, the backs of them brushing along the sensitive skin of Tim’s wrist. Tim would be surprised if Jason couldn’t feel his racing heartbeat like this, but if he did, he didn’t say anything of it, simply curling his fingers and bringing them down slightly to bring the sleeve down just a little.

“How’s that?” Jason asked, voice hardly above a whisper now that he was practically speaking in Tim’s ear, their faces only a few inches apart. He slid his fingers out of the sleeve, pulling away again so Tim could examine the length for himself.

“Yeah,” Tim answered breathlessly. “Yeah, I like that.” He realised now that Jason had pulled away, he very nearly felt cold. But at least the distance gave Tim room to catch his breath and chase away those creeping thoughts.

Then, Jason stepped in front of Tim, between him and the mirror, and Tim’s heart stuttered in his chest. Tim had nearly forgotten about how Tailors marked the second sleeve, and he was swiftly reminded when Jason dropped to his knees in front of him.

Tim immediately held his breath, staring directly forward and absolutely refusing to look down.

“You know, I can’t do this if you don’t relax,” Jason teased. It was then that Tim realised he’d balled his hands into fists, and then that he knew that Jason definitely knew what he was doing. He released the breath he’d been holding, unclenching his fists and relaxing his arms at his sides.

Jason hummed in satisfaction, and Tim felt that gentle brush of warm fingers against his own as Jason held the ruler up to measure the new length of the sleeve from the tip of his thumb, sliding a pin into place before repeating the process with the other sleeve. Tim was trying not to tremble, trying to ignore what he could see of Jason in his peripheral vision, trying not to wonder what it might be like if he used that tape measure for something other than its intended purpose.

Finally, Jason stood again, face so close to Tim’s that Tim could make out the different shades of green and blue in his eyes.

“Wonderful,” he said. “Now, if you’d please remove the jacket, it’s time to mark the pants.”

Tim was going to die in this tailor’s shop.

[bakurapika]

GOOD NEWS!! THE VIBES ARE CORRECT

i believe i am truly achieving the official character art in doll form

oh and uhhhh i haven't had capacity to do anything other than a single pic which is NOT styled etc. i will figure out peter's wig later. but elena's hair is in and the wig caps arrived, so they do both have non-placeholder hair now

yes that is a rescue american girl beside them. i never said i was good at this.

i got to take off the bandages on rumi's face up when he arrived and then had to wrap him right back up again to attempt to make a wig cap. I would really like to do the doll justice so i KNOW i may not get it on the first try, but i'd still like to hope. no wigs match him but i had some yarn i bought specifically due to the rumi vibes, so i have tentative plans to make a wig that way. I also dropped [HIGH NUMBER WITHHELD] at joann for fabric and other fun bits, and have been spending all my breaks at work watching tutorials on hand rolling sheer seams.

Current plan is to carve the horns out of a hot glue stick and then test different methods of paint. I just remembered I have some very thin shimmer paint that i usually need a million coats of , but i bet that would be an option for coloring the surface while still keeping some transparency, since actual stone or glass shaping is sort of beyond my ken for now.

tbh i might as well also copy/paste my notes from before i went shopping under a cut as being my plans going in.

I did stick to the plan but fabric wise, found a nice dark purple for the sleeves and a vague star and flower pattern that is ok for the lining.

Actually, I think everything but the sleeves is SUPPOSED to be stiff. So everything except the sleeves can be normal cotton etc. Although I think it would be nice to have the inner be lined (you wouldn't see it much anyway) and then the outer still be the galaxy design.

I should invest in a (NEW!!) method of marking up the fabric. A fabric pencil maybe. Or even use a mechanical pencil?

Should probably also invest in a fabric paint set.

Depending on options available, the gauzy part could be a solid color (either lilac or black or in between) painted with a gradient. May want to reference dollightful videos as I know she's done something similar before. The flowiness and thinness of the fabric is probably more important than the color matching, especially given how it'll be thicker when scaled down. May need to iron it or otherwise give it some kind of heat treatment at the end of all this?

I wanted to go spandex for the shoes but I'm not sure that's the right call anymore. To get down to the meat and potatoes, in order for everything to be tucked in where it should be, I think the top and bottom should be a single layer.

I'd been planning from the start to make the boots attached to the pants.

So I think it's a heel/sole shoe form (using one I already have if it fits - making my own with cardboard, air dry clay, something else similar if it doesn't) with white fabric stretched on top. This goes up to the waist.

Note that in the reference images, the fabric for the pants is in fact stiff and creased, like trousers or jeans. Spandex may not be ideal here.

However, the top could maybe be made with a spandex and thus be slipped over the top. Since his head and arms … and chest if needed… will be detachable, it won't even need that much give to it though. I think that, instead of a bulky fastener like in most doll clothes, would be better, even if it means you'd have to reassemble him to change his clothes, since I don't intend to get him out of costume. If I took him apart entirely and shimmied his torso in, the tiny neck piece may not even be a big problem.

All that to say that the shirt may not need to be spandex after all. Another thing to be aware of is that the gold bits will probably be paint and not very stretchy.

Gloves and jewelry, based on the zoomed-in face reference pic, are possibly optional and I'll treat them that way for now. The tattoos are important though and I'm not sure how to achieve that - possibly buying some cricut paper and hand carving that with an exacto blade? Need to make sure that is possible though.

This article says that "clear transfer tape" is needed too - I thought that was built in.

I think I might want to buy an actual brand name exacto blade for this. My shitty dollar store ones are in fact shitty.

Anyway. Shoes part 2, I was going to say any dark fabric with gold paint. However, they need to allow for posability! They're going to restrict that even more with the pants in place.

I do want the black bits to be separate, not only because that's more practical to make, but because they clearly are in the design. They're shoe covers.

The darker belt bits and those particular gold embellishments may need to wait until I have the main clothing done.

Also, for the sake of the ankles bending, may in fact want to have just a thin strip of fabric running up the calf or something? The white only starts showing again just below the knee.

So to summarize for shopping list.

1 - fabric paints, variety of colors or enough to mix. 2 - fabric paint, gold metallic. 3 - lilac fabric, ideally a cotton print with star designs. 4 - gauzy outer layer, the thinner the better, lilac or black or in between. 5- white fabric for pants, needs to have SOME give for joint posability 6 - black fabric for shirt and shoe covers. Enough stretch for the knee

Also should look up any options to finish fabric that aren't hemming. Eg melting?

[sergiosimptellitto]

The director and the Dare

Chapter 1: Bet

The Cine Elettra Studios didn’t look like a dream. They looked like a half-demolished opera set.

Clio stopped just past the main gates, one Converse already dusty with plaster. The old security guard hadn't even looked up from his crossword—just waved her through with a grumble and a flick of the wrist like he was shooing a pigeon.

Inside, a statue of some forgotten patron saint of cinema presided over the cracked courtyard, covered in pigeon droppings and two protest stickers.

Clio's heart raced—not from awe, but from caffeine and nerves. She clutched her bag tighter and stepped forward.

She had made it. Sort of. The studio had sent a welcome email that looked like it had been written by a drunk fax machine. There was no mention of a supervisor, no schedule. Just:

Arrive before 9. We’ll find a use for you.

Her bag was heavy with notebooks and printed screenplays—none of them hers. She had wanted to bring her script, her own first attempt at a screenplay—half love story, half housing crisis—but had left it on the floor of her bedroom. Too obvious. Too hopeful.

This wasn’t about ego.

This was about producing.

That was her in.

Not directing.

Not writing.

Producing.

Pulling the strings behind the curtain while everyone else squabbled for the spotlight. She didn’t want fame. She wanted influence. And eventually: control.

Of course, one day she would become a screenwriter and have her own projects published. But for now, baby steps.

Clio dodged a dolly track as a crew rolled past her with a camera the size of a Vespa. A man on a walkie-talkie shouted something in Roman dialect she didn’t understand. Someone else offered her a cigarette without looking at her face.

She declined, nodded like she’d done this a hundred times, and pressed deeper into the noise.

It was chaos. Glorious, messy, yelling, powdered-wig-wearing chaos.

She liked it.

She liked how real it was. How imperfect. There were cords on the ground and extras eating cheap brioche out of catering trays and a man in a neon vest arguing about shadows with someone in a cravat. This wasn’t theory. It wasn’t essays or lectures or watching Cassavetes in the dark. It was all moving parts—hot tempers and exhausted runners and last-minute rewrites on soggy paper.

And Clio wanted to run it. All of it.

She made her way toward the main building, where the administration offices were, or at least were rumored to be. Her phone buzzed in her bag—her mother, probably. Or her ex. Or the friend she’d screamed at last week for saying women didn’t make good directors because “they focus too much on emotion.”

She ignored it.

She had to focus. This was day one.

Her internship. Her foot in the door.

A voice called out ahead of her.

“You. With the fringe. Are you lost?”

Clio turned. A tall woman in black heels and an expression like a permanent eye-roll was holding a clipboard like it was a weapon. Around her neck hung an ID badge that read: SILVIA – COORDINAMENTO PRODUZIONE.

Clio stepped forward.

“No, I—I’m the new intern. Clio Gaitán. From Roma Tre.”

The woman skimmed her up and down like she was scanning a bar code

“You're late.” “It's 8:42.” “And coffee’s at 8:30. Come on.”

She turned and walked off before Clio could reply.

Inside, the office smelled like old paper and hairspray. A vintage Fellini poster curled on the wall above a fax machine. Silvia didn’t slow down.

“You’re assigned to the pre-production team for La Vita Imprudente.” “That’s the... new Elica film?” “Yes.” “I thought that was still just a rumor.” “It was. Until two days ago.”

Clio blinked. Franco Elica. A name that buzzed like a dying lightbulb. A filmmaker who hadn’t worked since before she’d enrolled. Who once threw an espresso cup at a distributor for calling him "mid-period." A man half legend, half cautionary tale. And now he was making something again?

Franco Elica.

Italy’s golden boy of cinema—until he wasn’t.

Director.

Disgraced genius.

Romantic narcissist with a cult following and a God complex.

They say he once threw a shoe at a critic mid-premiere.

They say he wrote an entire script because a woman walked past him eating cherries.

They say… he hasn’t made a film in six years.

Until now.

He’s the director those boys quote.

You know the ones. The self-anointed cinephiles in black turtlenecks who “know their way around cinema,”

who mistake gatekeeping for taste and misogyny for depth.

The kind who furrow their brows and sigh dramatically when you admit—God forbid—you enjoy a romcom.

Who claim emotional storytelling is “formulaic”

but will worship four hours of grayscale silence from a Soviet arthouse relic

where a man contemplates mortality by staring into a bowl of soup

and the only woman speaks twice—once to be slapped, once to die.

They call that brilliance.

They call that truth.

You call it what it is:

pretentious, derivative, and quietly hostile to your existence.

And now, that man—the myth, the menace—is directing again.

And somehow, you are on his set.

Silvia handed her a stack of call sheets and post-it notes scribbled with phone numbers.

“You’re assisting the line producer for now. Don’t speak unless asked. If anyone offers you wine before noon, say no.” “Noted.” “And don’t get attached. Films fall apart every day.”

Clio smiled faintly.

“Then I’ll just help hold it together.”

Silvia gave her a long look.

“Ambitious?” “Focused.” “Same thing. For now.”

As Silvia disappeared into a flurry of shouting down the hallway, Clio stood in the middle of the buzzing office, surrounded by phone cords and calendars and arguments.

She grinned.

She was finally inside.

And the movie hadn’t even started yet.

Franco Elica not a man. A liturgy.

At least, that’s what his disciples said.

The young ones—film students, dropout philosophers, aspiring auteurs with Camus paperbacks and nicotine-stained fingertips—spoke of him in the tones usually reserved for saints or war criminals. They quoted his interviews like scripture, dissected his commentaries like forensic analysts poring over sacred text.

To them, he wasn’t aging. He was aging well.

He wasn’t reclusive. He was elusive.

He wasn’t difficult. He was demanding truth in a world of compromise.

There were essays written about how his early films anticipated the death of postmodernism. Master’s theses claiming his use of silence redefined grief. One particularly deranged admirer had a tattoo of his 1993 Palme d’Or speech transcribed across her ribs.

He was loved.

And he was loathed.

The critics had sharpened their pens into scalpels the moment his career dipped below divine.

They called him indulgent. Regressive. Obsessively male.

They accused him of romanticizing dysfunction, aestheticizing abuse, hiding mediocre storytelling behind beautiful women and metaphors about train stations.

The New York Times once called his work “a tender elegy to narcissism—if narcissism could wear a velvet suit and quote Pasolini mid-slap.”

La Repubblica described his last public appearance as “an opulent collapse: Visconti without the grace, Antonioni without the silence.”

He didn’t respond. Not in interviews, not in letters. He didn’t need to.

He knew how to vanish. And that was power in itself.

But something had changed.

Franco Elica had been quiet too long. The last film had stalled mid-shoot. The one before that never made it past casting. He had retreated somewhere along the Adriatic coast, grown a beard, whispered strange ideas into expensive dictaphones. The world moved on—streaming, branding, women speaking, screens shrinking.

And now, without warning, he was back.

A script. A cast. A name. A budget.

The studio called it a comeback.

The papers called it an accident waiting to happen.

Franco called it Cinema—capital C, whispered with reverence, like it was a dying religion and he was the last true priest.

The cameras weren’t rolling.

The lights weren’t placed.

The actress stood waiting in a faux 1950s kitchen, holding a cigarette she wasn’t allowed to light, wearing a robe that itched.

But none of it mattered.

Because Franco Elica had entered the building.

He floated in like he had been summoned from a higher plane—though truthfully, he had simply woken up late and arrived in the same clothes he’d fallen asleep in: tailored linen pants, a vintage Cinecittà crew T-shirt, and an open dressing gown the color of burnt rosé.

No one commented.

He wore sunglasses indoors.

Spoke in riddles.

Held a cigarette he never lit and gestured with it like a conductor.

And when he spoke, the room paused—not out of respect, but out of a strange mixture of terror and awe. Like maybe, just maybe, if they listened hard enough, they’d catch a glimpse of God between the smoke and the nonsense.

He stood center-stage. Hands behind his back. Inspecting a fake window.

“The lace curtain,” he murmured, voice rich with sadness. “It tells us everything. The death of desire. The childhood of memory. It must be... limp. Like a forgotten handkerchief. Like a mother's sigh.”

A second passed.

Then another.

Then the set decorator sprinted to the curtain and began shaking it apologetically.

Franco did not nod. He never nodded. He simply moved on—drifting past interns, past confused crew, past the actress still waiting for a cue—until he reached the edge of the soundstage and stood like a man surveying ruins.

Then came Luca—his assistant, or possibly just a lifelong devotee who refused to be dismissed.

Luca was thirty-four, wore button-ups too tight for his chest, and spoke in the vague erotic tone of someone describing cheese or Italian cinema. He was the type who cornered interns to monologue about Tarkovsky and once said Almodóvar is just a woman’s idea of a man trying to understand women.

He grinned as he approached Franco now, eyes gleaming.

“The air feels charged today,” he said. “Like something is about to bloom. Or break.”

Franco said nothing. He was staring at the espresso machine as though it had insulted his ancestors.

Luca stepped closer.

“You know what it is?” he continued, conspiratorial now. “It’s because you’re circling back. Returning to the source. Art needs a rupture to flow. That’s why your best work came after she left.”

Franco’s jaw tensed almost imperceptibly.

He took a slow, deliberate sip of espresso. Black. No sugar. No milk. No humanity.

“The one with the red boots,” Luca added, unnecessarily. “She was insane,” Franco said, at last. “Exactly,” Luca beamed. “But she moved you. You wrote Notturno per un Addio in six days. You shot the lake scene in one take. Genius like that doesn’t come from peace, maestro. It comes from pain. What you need is—”

Franco waved him off with the grace of a declining Pope.

“What I need,” he said, dry, “is a woman who won’t inspire me.”

Luca laughed like that was the punchline of the decade.

“Which means you’re doomed, maestro. You only fall for muses.”

Franco didn’t argue. Instead, he turned to look at the set again, at the actress still waiting for his direction, at the lace curtain trying its best to wilt.

“Tell wardrobe,” he said suddenly. “No bras.”

“For the actress?” “For the film,” Franco corrected, tone solemn. “We must feel the weight of reality. A brassiere is a cage. A man would never wear one. Why should she?”

Luca nodded like he was hearing gospel. Then whispered:

“God, I missed you.”

Which sounded and felt more like “I missed you, God”

And just like that, the revival began.

The legend of Franco Elica—half myth, half erotic fever dream—was in motion again.

Deep down he knew: all he needed now was the right woman to undo him.

Franco paused mid-stride.

A sound—soft, bright, female laughter—spilled from a corridor near the lighting bay.

Not the performative giggles of actresses, not the sharp smirks of producers’ wives. This laugh was different. Unstudied. Slightly hoarse from too much coffee, too little sleep.

Untrained. Real.

He turned, slowly. Like a dog catching the scent of something that didn’t belong.

Then, a flash—not even a full glimpse.

Just a blur of movement.

A tangle of frizzy, dark curls, bouncing behind a shoulder.

A voice trailing behind her, melodic, fast, rising into a question. Was that—?

“¡Perdón! Siempre dejo manchas de café a donde voy, es mi distintivo…”

Spanish.

Not the Castilian crispness of Madrid.

Not the Latin heat of Buenos Aires.

No.

Something…different?

Franco’s feet were moving before his brain caught up.

He rounded the corner, heartbeat sharpening into the tick of a metronome.

She was gone.

All that remained was a paper coffee cup. Left sitting precariously on a prop crate.

Plain white.

Lipstick mark—faintly berry-stained.

Coffee ring seeping through the bottom like a worn-out echo.

A note scrawled in looping black pen, just above the cup sleeve:

No caramel. This is cinema, not Disneyland.

He stared at it for a long moment, then picked up the cup like it might still be warm.

Fade to black.

The espresso machine groaned like a dying animal.

Faded Godard posters clung to the cracked walls. A dusty bookshelf leaned toward collapse under the weight of unread screenwriting manuals and someone’s half-finished manifesto. This was the kind of place that thought it invented cinema.

Clio Clemence Gaitán Solano stirred her espresso slowly, as if imagining it was the eyeball of someone who deserved it.

Across from her, Matteo, in a leather jacket two decades too late, shoved a sugar cube into his mouth like a dare and grinned.

“I’m telling you, Clio, men date who they want, women date who they can. That’s how it’s always been.”

Clio blinked.

Then blinked again, slower, like she was buffering.

“Did you read that blog of yours, or did it just manifest in your testosterone cloud?”

“I'm being objective. Look at Elica, for example—brilliant, uncompromising, raw. And even he lost it the second he stopped dating actresses. His best work? All of it during his relationships. Then they leave, he spirals, he writes something even better. It’s like—alchemy.”

“Or a pattern of codependency mixed with unprocessed grief and a God complex.”

“Genius, Clio. That's how genius works.”

He picked at a croissant like it owed him money.

“He just needs one real woman. You know. One good muse to shake the rust off. After that? Boom. He’s back.”

Clio sipped her coffee in silence. Not because she agreed. But because she was weighing the moral price of bludgeoning him with a paperback copy of The Second Sex.

“So what’s your plan?” Matteo asked. “Still hoping to, what, produce? Big girl dreams.”

“I am going to produce.”

“Sure. With what money? With what last name? No offense—wait, I am going to offend you, but honestly, women always go for the bad boys and then pretend to be surprised when he turns into a cheater, idiot or abuser, or all of the above.”

Clio inhaled slowly.

“You ever get tired of being the punchline of your own theories?”

“I’m serious. Look at the women who make it. Behind every breakthrough? A man who let them in. One way or another.”

“You think we get in by osmosis? Or are you suggesting we crawl in?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger, Cleems. I’m just saying—you can’t not play the game and still expect to win. You wanna be the first girl on the call sheet? Be the last girl in the director’s bed.”

Clio smiled now. But it was the kind of smile that preceded global disasters.

“You want a bet?”

Matteo paused.

That was dangerous.

“A bet?”

“I’m going to get on a real set. A major production. I’m going to help make a real film. And I’m going to do it without touching a single man in the process. Not a flirt, not a fling. Not even a footsie under the craft service table.”

“You won’t make it past pre-production.”

“Watch me.”

She grabbed her coat.

Matteo raised his eyebrows.

“You’re not even in a production.”

“Aren’t I?”

“You’re bluffing.”

Clio smirked, pulling her curls into a french twist with a plastic knife and the practiced hand of a girl who’s always underestimated.

“We’ll see.”

“You swear you won’t touch a single guy?”

“Not even if he’s Franco Elica himself.”

“Elica? Please. That man invented sex in cinema.”

Clio gave a long, dramatic pause.

“Then let’s see how he does without it.”

She left.

The door shut behind her.

And across town—

Franco held the paper coffee cup in both hands like it was communion.

The lipstick. The faintest whiff of berry-scented chapstick. The inked scrawl on the side.

No caramel. This is cinema, not Disneyland.

He didn’t know who she was yet.

But he knew he wanted her.

Not to cast.

To write.

If not a new actress or face, at least…

A new muse.

[bubacorn]

.

i think what's really fucking me over, especially in this present slump (how do i even count them if they're never really over, just morph into the next, even worse one?), is that i just don't want anything. if i reached out, i would need to give something, but i can't even do that. i can't write, i can't think comfort, i can't think anything that isn't that i want my bones to weigh me down into my shitty mattress. i'm tired of thinking in differences and having to gap them or pretending they're not there when they're very obvious. it's just a deadlock. i can't break down because there is no 'audience' and it would just fuck me over even more, mentally.

the way i'm going, i'm not sure what will be left for later. i should probably be interested in stuff and know what i want to get into, but i don't. i don't want anything at all. but i don't think it's a good thing to admit that at an entry exam. i looked into a Connell source yesterday because i thought i'd find something good, but i didn't. all i got was the feeling that i couldn't care less about it. i should want to research that. i should want to care about something related to that. but no. and i'll talk about the same research ('research') three times, but i don't remember anything about it, and neither do i care. all i remember that it was faintly fun somewhere. the rest of it is blank. i could probably carry on doing that, but i also just can't find it in me to care. but i can't not care and let it go completely because again, there won't be anyone there to say 'it's alright', because i've been doing fine all this time. i've been doing a 'good job'. i've been 'effortlessly' getting through it.

i have no idea how to want comfort or how to ask for it in a way that works for me. most of the time, i just note that i shouldn't want it because whatever i'm struggling with is silly and a bother, and comfort just isn't for me because then i feel guilty that i don't feel better. it annoys even me, i won't go and tell it to others, especially not lead with it out of the blue. i dislike the idea that it will just become a written work like it's all a story. i dislike that i can't go anywhere and say 'here i am' because all i feel is that it's tolerated, even though i know it's not like that. i dislike that i can't get a grasp on myself and i can't give voice to myself because all i know is that i shouldn't be there.

and then in my 'field', i get half-assedly accused of plagiarizing and feel nervous that i will be again, but even more nervous that it doesn't matter. it doesn't matter. i could've been using AI for years and it wouldn't have gotten more than the occasional finger wag. and i shouldn't want to dig myself into the ground from that. but i'm also between worlds, and my 'problems' just aren't problems where i come from. i should be able to navigate this world, but at the same time, i'm nothing from nowhere and even less, and stupid, and not good enough and not right in this place, and it's very apparent. you can't exactly leave class behind. and i thought i could be in academia, maybe. i thought i was maybe even good at it. but even that place, where i thought i could go to, means nothing. it never did, anyway, but with this, too? my voice is apparently suspicious and the work i do means nothing when something thrown into the delusion machine and presented with confidence is received better. and i don't have anywhere else to go. i barely have any skills. and i don't want anything at all.

i drank my coffee this morning. 3in1, the (to me) fancy brand kind, with a spoon of sugar. it's a little guilty because of the price (~100 for a packet makes my stomach clench, even though i know it's ridiculous), but i sort of like the taste, even if it's technically, supposedly, wack. i realized i don't know what coffee is supposed to taste like, without the guilt and fear, and feeling out of place and bitter about the porcelain with a sticker that reminds me of time and past versions of myself whose functioning i can't fathom

[vikenticomeshome]

Cyberchase - The Hacker's Most Humiliating Defeat

I wanted to draw attention to what may well be The Hacker's most humiliating defeat. Yes, I am aware that he has gone through his villain decay during the show's long run. However, my go-to example is from way back in the early days, specifically April 14, 2003. This was when they released "Numberless Poddles", an official webcomic made for the pbskids.org website.

The basic plot is that The Hacker stole the numbers off the Poddles of Poddleville. He also stole their record book containing all of their numbers. Finally, he made them forget everything. We learn from the comic that, in Poddle society, the number a Poddle is given dicatates what they are supposed to do. Without their numbers, nobody knows what to do, and Poddle society screeches to a halt. That is a much more dystopic description than we ever got in the show.

This comic is weird. They made the backgrounds using screenshots from Season 1 Episode 7, "The Poddleville Case". This was a tweaked version of the original 1999 pilot, which was known for a wonkier art-syle than what became the final show. Then, they sort of stuck their own drawn images over the backgrounds. Their drawings are in a completely different style, which clashes with the backgrounds. Still, I recommend any fans of the show to read all of the official Cyberchase web comics. They were taken off the site years ago, and the Wayback Machine Archives are missing pieces. However, they have been restored in full as part of Blue Maxima's Flashpoint Archive Project. Anyway, before we get to The Hacker's humiliating defeat, here is one example of the disconnect between the original pilot screenshot and the art. There is a scene in the comic where Motherboard gives instructions to the kids. For the background, they used a screenshot of the pilot where Motherboard gave instructions to the kids. That's about the easiest way they could have assembled a comic panel with Motherboard an the kids. However, Digit is also in this comic. Recall that he wasn't in the original pilot. How did they add him in?

It's like they put a sticker on top of some grainy VHS footage. Would you like to see The Hacker's double chin? No. Too bad.

Yeah, they wanted a shot of The Hacker, Buzz, and delete with The Hacker in this pose. But they didn't like his face, so they drew another face. You can see his iconic chin from the pilot sticking out, though they covered up most of it. The face from the background shot would have worked though, so I'm not sure why they changed it. Oh, and don't mind the Poddle eggs. They aren't part of this story. They're only here because the webcomic uses screenshots from the pilot.

But the main point of this post was to talk about The Hacker's humiliating defeat. Skipping ahead, the kids find the stolen book in the Poddleville Vault on Mount Poddle. I don't know if this is supposed to be the Poddle Power Vault from the show or not.

I'm sorry, I have to include two more bizarre comic panels. Remind me, how big is The Hacker?

The answer is very small.

Okay, okay, the kids have found the Poddleville Record Book, and now they have to get past Hacker. Is there anything nearby that they could use?

This was back in the day, when The Hacker was still physically intimidating. He could easily pick up the kids, and they usually just ran away from him. This was back in the day when Delete had stretchy arms and used them to capture the kids. And yet, in this official web comic, the kids defeat The hacker, Buzz, and Delete with giant "Happy Birthday" hats.

And then they lock him in the vault and leave him to die, I guess.

How long do you think it took him to figure out the vault code?

Okay, I have to include one more wacky image from the web comic. Here we are at the end. Motherboard is on a flat-screen TV on the stage congratulating the kids for stopping The Hacker. Matt even gets to insult The Hacker.

Wait, why is the Poddle known as "Triangle 2" panicking? Didn't the kids just save the day? Let's look at the background after the new drawings have been removed.

Wait, is this the scene from the pilot where the mayor is holding a press conference to talk about the stolen Poddle Eggs?

Yeah, they just took this shot from where the tent is about to collapse and erased the mayor.

[semcoinfratechworld]

Optimize cylindrical cell processing with efficient sorting and sticker pasting machines designed for accuracy and speed in battery production.

[moonillfated]

✩░▒▓▆ 𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 ▆▓▒░✩

"'Cause I'm losing what's left of my dignity, a small price I'll pay to see that you're happy. Forget all the disappointments you have faced, open up your worried world and let me in." 🚬

Or; Two rockstars talk about constellations, trash polka, and sparklers that smell of fake IDs & leftover cereal.

☆ Merry X-Mas @raggedy-dxctor

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There's a buzzing stuck under Corin's skin, electric and charged. Somehow, he thinks while his blood rushes with glitter missiles, it never gets old to feel this whizzing rush after a performance. Sharp, tangy citrus clings to his hair - pomelo soda whose sparkling bubbles wet his hazel locks, excitement forces you to spill a whole juice can at the final vocal pitch of Puppy Love. Somehow, even though sour acid of tonic makes his eyes burn, he blinks evenly against the flashing spotlights. Mirth, sequins- there's leopard print beneath that makes his knees buckle, his nose twitch. Dressed in primary colors and geometric spangles, 'you look like a fruitloop' says a cocky voice, slight smokers rasp. For a hot minute he's in on a different stage, between nicotine, blueberry rum rinsed leather - standing like a gunslinger or gargoyle with razor lyrics.

More neon beams onto his sweaty face as he closes his eyes, simply bathing in whatever syrupy vapor decides to float his way. All sorts of gifts are thrown at him, flowers and clothing articles - the cheers of the crowd fade into a low hum, like fireflies or the static of a boombox. And he can't help but grin, alive and lungs full of candid fog that creeps put of the machine. Tounge stained with mandarin cough drops, Corin blows a playful kiss at his audience and waves. He smells the acetone of his neatly applied nail polish on his curled fist around the microphone. Lights drop like molten gold from the ceiling of the backdrop, cheap, popsicle wrapper tattoos line his arms - rhinestone stickers, he's pretty sure specks of a glowstick are jumbled with his freckles, like the briolette, kandi bracelets wrapped around his wrists.

"Thank you everyone, for coming tonight!" Corin shouts, beaming at the loud screaming he gets in return. A flamingo platform with a number - like watching surfing videos. Transparent ballyhoos hug and wrench him to remain longer, pleading for encores or just a little chat. It warms his heart that so many individuals love his gigs, how lionized and feted he felt upon stepping up that familiar vinyl. He skips down the steps, grinning softly when his managers and team shove a bottle of fresh water into his sweaty palms. He poured his soul into every single note, made sure to swallow melodies like cinnamon whiskey. There's a hand on his shoulder, a pat from his drummer and member compliments, air clinging heavy to tunes, reluctant to let them dwindle into oblivion. He peeks behind the curtains at the swaying sea of bodies still raw, full of energy, faces blurred into flushed cheeks and mascara striped tears. Corin snickers, perks his sticky lips, and dissappears behind the seashell curved amphitheater before his supervisors can even realize he's gone.

He has never snuck out as a teenager before, but Milo described the thrill of breaking patterns, busted knuckles, and scatterbrained limericks he wrote on license plates. He rummages through his messy suitcase and pulls out the patched, shearling aviator bomber. He steps over setlists, ginger ale cans, tinsel - nearly trips and breaks his nose. It feels tipsy to tip-toe across the dressing room, still high on cologne and adrenaline, helium miasma, sonic bubbles. He just needs to manage to slip past unseen, a little shadow in denim and disco, guided by nothing but the distant flicker of an exit sign.

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It's rare their schedules mix, allign. Scuffed, road-worn converse tap along the cool pavement. He curses, pulls his jacket a bit tighter, and hisses through his teeth. Thankfully, Corin didn't have any unfortunate run-ins with fans that yanked at the chainlink fences behind the vents. He did see all the posters with out of pocket messages, camera clicks from paparazzi. Slowly, the moon winks at him behind the tattered clouds, twinkles of metal halides, traffic poles - he allows himself the freedom to pick up a penny. The spot they agreed to meet up at is not far away from his concert location, down the alley and up the main subway road. Tyres reek of blistering rubber, he hears them before he notices the black Trans Am pull up beside him - bronze firebird bastard.

He stops, crosses his arms, taps his foot impatiently. The driver of the old timer brings his vehicle to a low, gravelly bellow. Once he comes to a halt, rolling down his tinted window, the ebony haired male at the wheel lulls his head to the rim. "Get in." He instructs, scratchy, husky - eyes zipping to his rear view mirror. And he does, all too comfortable and familiar. The seats are cold, worn surfaces that have him scooting further inside until he settles snugly into the passanger spot. It smells of remote Septembers, tobacco, parrafin paint, and horror movie nights. All of a sudden, he is ten and in New Jersey, there's a boy with a bruise on his jaw and he is the only person who approaches the snaggle-toothed delinquent. Now he sits with the same man, looking at his inked limbs that he remembers patching up one too many times, gauze, bandaids.

"Did anyone see ya'?" And there's playfulness to the question, eager and bone crushing. He rolls his brown eyes, going to turn up the radio as Milo hurries up the roaring car. It swerves almost lazily. "I wouldn't be here if someone did, idiot." Corin flops his head against the rest and glances at his friend waggish, pure - of course the younger male refuses to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his stare, drifting his icy orbs, illuminating diodes. There's no riposte, no jab or snarky comment. Even though he was fully expecting one back, it's surprisingly nice to bathe in silence that will never feel awkward. Jumping out of his skin, the spikes of the tallers cufflinks graze his bare knees through the rips, holes of his baggy jeans. A few creative vulgar phrases later and fidgeting with the glove box, he slams the compartment hard until it pops open. Puzzled, he observes the cluttered drawer, not bothering to catch the fallen zippo or dice keychain.

"Grab that shit for me, would ya'?" He doesn't get what first, but one tattooed finger points at a cardboard container. He reaches and takes it - Blockbuster Sparklers, he steals a bounty bar too. Comics, epipen and cellophane, altoid mints and cash. It's all so chaotic but neat at the same time, Corin scoffs at the british branded hinge-lid packs of burning cancer on top of a guitar chip pouch, Woodbine. "This?" He holds it up, dangling the white case to make sure he didn't mix it up with a cigarette receptacle. Milo nods curtly, abrubtly cutting a serrated corner to escape the bustling gridlock so they get out of the city hub faster. He shuffles a bit to regain his position and shoots an offended glare at the pale bassist. "Still can't believe you're legally allowed to drive." To prove the point, he veers his beloved vintage car more promptly down a busy boulevard.

"I will file a lawsuit, in case you forgot we're both kind of famous." Milo gives him a look, annoyed and snide. Corin huffs as he peels open his chocolate and bites a mouth full of creamy coconut. It's only ten minutes more until he parks by an abandoned warehouse, always the same, empty lot by the toyons, where the meter maids never check. It's impressive how well he knew the Los-Angeles streets, every lane, crescent. Ceasing their bickering for later, the lead vocalist and shredder both leave Milo's ride to tackle the vacant depot. Vandalized graffiti masonry, ivy shrouded walls that coil all the way up towards the flat roof. He fiddles with the keys and locks the car with a dramatic jingle, confident, arrogant even. Fishnet sleeves, biker jersey with random pins he most likely pocketed off of his devotees, Corin follows the flashy M sewed onto his lanky back - not being able to resist shoving him.

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If there's one thing Corin never expected to do, it's to associate torrid smoke with home, to make his toes curl. It clings in the late night, summer breeze and roves, tangles with the scent of rotten heat. He takes a sip of his capri sun, plops a fourth haribo sour worm, and inches just a tad closer to the slates to watch all the town's flickering lustre. "Deneb is such a fuckin' diva." He hears Milo grumble, puffing out a cloud of toxins.

"Deneb?" He asks, chewing the pink and yellow gummy. His friend drones, taking a deep drag. He raises his pointer, chipped black. "That guy." Following his directions to see a cluster of stars that spiral like a bird, wings spread and twinkling. "A real show stopper." Apparently he was an astrologer too, not just a lavish strummer. Corin never payed attention to constellations much, nor did he openly research their names and shapes. This one however was exactly like Milo said, a peacock amongst the vast midnight blue. "Takes one to know one." He nudges his side light-heartedly, laughing, alive and full of holograms, singapore sling with too much pineapple. It glistens just as he gets a punch delivered to his shoulder, exactly with the clenched hand decorated in trash polka designs - some crimson, obsidian calligraphy and ravens.

"Shut the fuck up and hand me the firecrackers." He pops another candy into his mouth and hands him the dangerous toys. Milo rubs out his coffin nail onto the bricks, it sizzles and dissolves into a pile of rutilant ashes. Corin holds his one out and waits till the other lights it, gasoline and blaze, until it crackles wickedly against the thin skin of his hands like popping kerosene. He's twelve again, for the second time after his tiring show, in prep school - on the creaking laminate of their gym. A boy with a grumpy sneer, bleeding nose, another kid with granola bars and Alcott's novel clutched firmly. A few years later, those same fingers hold a bowl of leftover cheerios, fake IDs, switchblades and rosaries. But right now, even with all the hectic work their lifestyles include, it's just two people breathing something rich, voltaic.

[wytfut]

keeping in the groove...

In my physical state, its easy to let the doldrums to grab you by the nutz and change your point of view about everything in general.

It can be a battle. I'm sorry but its been 9 long months of unknowns. I second guess everything about my physical state.

....

Because of this, I've felt a bit displaced in my regular activities. Really miss tinkering on my Bike, the rat truck, or just general maintenance on anything. Putting around on the acreage. Hell just jumping on the X and going for a nice ride.

Watch way too much TV.... good lord!!

...

In recent weeks I've been contacted by a young man (Johnny Gilbert Jimenez) in Vail Arizona, who just happened to watch one of my videos. Surprise to me, didn't know anyone watched them.

This guy (very polite, respectful..... military guy) received a 1999 Excelsior Henderson as a gift from his boss. This X is a 6000 mile virgin. What a nice gift (or is it..... LOLOLOLOL!!, as Luke would say)...

Absolutely no updates other than at some time a past owner had fooled around with the fuel system (we found that issue). It has the 1999 tires on it.... thats how much of a virgin it is.

He's doesn't have any wrenching skills that I can tell from here. Far from a large assortment of tools. He does have his father, and grandfather helping him. So he does have a support group of sorts there. They know nothing of EH's, but they have some limited wrenching skills/experience (vehicle maintenance?)

Helping him has been all text, email, video phone, phone calls, and throwing rocks at each other.

He initially tackled a leaky slave cylinder on the clutch. He got pretty deep with replacing the "O" rings on that slave cylinder. I don't know type/brand of "O" rings he used, but its working so far.

I winched as he sent me a video of him putting around on his new prize. As I knew he hadn't cleaned any of the fuel system. With him riding it, knew it was going to be long row to get this machine up to speed. Yes,.... injectors plugged, fuel pump became questionable, etc.

Language has been an issue.... he doesn't know what a fuel rail is, Stator, throttle body.... none of it, nor does any of his support group. Its all carburetor, thingie, "this funny shaped thing", etc,

He's not familiar with "parts houses" or their products.

Its been surprising being fresh out of the military, he's not real patient.

His goal is to ride it....in the mode of "right now!".

My goal is to get it running dependably, safely, low dollar, as soon as possible. The rest of the updates can be done on the way, much like I did.

All the while, he swears he's in this to the end.

...

I'll be honest. Its been a new adventure for me. I get excited and jump from my chair to take his call/answer his text/answer his email. Its just the X disease coming all back to me. horrible addiction, X's are..

Have my hard of hearing ear pinned on the phone, listening to his Pop and grandfather giving advice or giving him a hard time. Last night he had me listening to his X, trying to trouble shoot his current issue. No its not ridable yet....

And yeah... he's chomping on the bit wanting to ride. Yet here we are further back than when he got it.

I feel like I should be bitching or giving up on him (grumpy pants). But then I realize, I've been fooling around with X's since 2001. To a point its almost second nature how I react to their specific issues.

With everything he looks at on his X, everything is vague and unfamiliar. So I encourage.

I sent him a CD of the parts book, copied the shop manual also. An X tshirt, patch, a pin, and a couple stickers.

All to encourage him to keep going, as he can afford it, and have patience.

......

Bowls me over when we discuss issues, that I haven't talked about since the early years. ... example: OEM plastic backing plate for the throttle body, warps from the engine heat. Letting unfiltered air go directly into the engine. Example: we as a community have found the perfect "O" rings for the slave cylinder, that work everytime.

......

We'll get it or we won't. I'll probably be more disappointed than him if we don't attain the goal. Bothers me, knowing an unknown number of X's are sitting all over the world broken, covered with dust. Owners scratching their heads, not knowing what to do. I don't want this one to be another one of these numbers.

I was helping another guy in Arizona this past fall with an X. He was in his late 40's and a pretty good wrench.... worked on European bikes as a hobby. This was a Deadwood with 1500 miles on it. Bought it from his neighbor (original owner) for $1500. Fuel system was a murder scene, and I really thought he was going to go for it. He let me know in January, he didn't have the patience for it anymore. And it was for sale. Only issue other than the updates was the fuel system. He also had watched one of my videos (whoa.... 2 viewers!!)

Love seeing younger guys like Johnny coming into the X community. Maybe some of them will pick up the ball and carry on with this madness.

Can only hope.....

Anyway about this.... its giving me something to do, beside moping around the house. Thats a plus. Now if I could only get him to work on it every day ..... hmm

[ravewulf]

People I'd like to Know Better

I was tagged by : @handsofred

Last song: One More Time - Kylie Minogue

Last movie: I'm not sure, I don't watch movies very often. But! The last video I watched on YouTube was putting this on loop for a little bit cause I love Hank Howell 🥰

Last tv show: Outlaw Star (I bought the Blu-ray, ripped it to my computer, and am working on re-encoding it to make the files smaller. I may have stopped to rewatch a few episodes)

Last thing I googled: highest atsc channel number (see the next section)

Looking forward to: Getting to the point where I can finally call my retro computers "done enough" so I can move on to other things (like writing fic). I've made a ton of progress over the past couple months and I'm so close.

Recreating my old Compaq Presario SR1215CL - Done!

Windows 98 SE computer with dual sound cards (Yamaha OPL3/XG midi & Sound Blaster Audigy) - Add case stickers/labels (the case looks kinda plain without them)

Early HP Media Center computer (TV/FM tuner, Win98 SE/XP Media Center/Vista Ultimate. And, yes, the TV tuner even works in Win98) - Fix keyboard LEDs, need to decide on a powder coat color for the side panel (was sent out to have perforated holes added via CNC machine but sanding down the drilled holes meant removing the original paint)

HP Media Center m8100e (water-cooled Phenom II X4 955 OC'd to 4 GHz, ATSC TV tuner, Blu-ray burner, 10 gigabit network card, XP Media Center/Vista Ultimate/Win7 Pro/Win10 Pro) - Sort out TV tuner drivers and configuration (upgraded to a newer revision card with supposedly better TV reception)

Ultimate Vista Computer (water-cooled Phenom II X6 1090T OC'd to 4 GHz, 32GB RAM, GeForce GTX 980, NVMe M.2 SSDs, 10 gig network card, ATSC TV tuner, Vista Ultimate/Win7 Pro/Win10 Pro) - Install and configure TV tuner, install Win7 (Vista and Win10 are all set), play around with RGB LEDs to see what makes it look best

I'll make a larger post (or one post per system) with full specs and pics once I'm done cause some of the hardware is massively overpowered for the target eras/Windows versions

Tagging : @anothersigh @goddessoflove1998

[nyarlathotep420]

It's A Metaphor

The wind howls as it drifts past the dunes and shrubs that cover the outback. Sand is picked up and thrown into the air by the hot breeze, dancing about in unison with the occasional patch of dead grass. The torrid earth clashes with the deep blue sky as though they are fighting for dominance. Lonely clouds drift through the air, small and distant from one another. Each cloud takes on a unique form as it wanders its lonesome path. Far beneath them, snakes slither through the sand, pushing aside the smallest of pebbles and grains of sand as they leave a barely visible mark behind them which is soon covered by the sand being tossed around by the wind. Lizards bathe in the sweltering heat of the sunlight on simmering rocks and stones, perfectly tranquil and oblivious to all worries that any other creature in the world may have.

The scolding sun beams down on a seemingly unending set of metal train tracks. The rusted tracks sit covered in a blanket of dust and dirt. Back in the day, every part of the two metal lines would’ve reflected the scolding sunlight all day long and be cold as ice throughout the night. Now only a few parts poke out from the rust that covers it and they shine in the face of a girl who sits on the ground close to the tracks. Her hair blows in the warm breeze and sand is kicked up into her eyes. She lifts up her pale hand to hide her chocolate-brown eyes from the dust. Her watch takes the brunt of the impact from the sand as it reflects the run’s intense rays. Her yellow jacket waltzes in the wind, almost mimicking the sound of fire crackling. The teenager stands up and walks closer to her friend. She sits down next to them and leans against them. Their cold and metallic exterior is actually quite comforting for her after knowing them for so long.

The automaton sits with its legs out straight, looking directly forward and showing no emotion. Its face is more like a camera than that of a humans. No mouth, no eyes, no emotion. Its green titanium paint is faded and chipped although it is covered in newly applied stickers. It is brightly coloured and can easily be told as those of a teenagers. Some have smiley faces, and some have vulgar words. Covering most of the arms and torso of the robot is a Hawaiian-style shirt with the buttons undone. Its bright orange and yellow contrasts with the green and grey of the metal of the machine but blends in with the red sand of the outback. Its large size casts a long shadow in front of it which stays equally as still as it does.

The girl watches the shadows, her knees to her chin and her hand wrapped around her wrist. She observes as the silhouette of her hair blows in one direction and then the other, but the robot’s shadow doesn’t move an inch.

“When will this fucking train get here?” The girl asks impatiently.

The automaton shrugs its shoulders slightly and moves its camera-like face towards her as to view her as she speaks.

The girl turns to the machine as it makes its gesture to her “It was a rhetorical question; you wouldn’t get it though.”

The robot's rectangular head moves up and down as it nods in agreeance with her statement. She is right. They do not understand it. Humans are far too complicated.

“I can’t believe we have to do this. I reprogrammed you, that should be enough not to scrap you. I get that you guys have done some bad stuff in the past but I’m a fucking good programmer, you’re safe now, right?”

The robot continues to nod in response to her rambling. It doesn’t completely understand what the girl is talking about, but they still agree with her despite that.

“At least when this fucking train arrives we’ll be able to jump on it and get you away from them. Maybe people will appreciate my work somewhere else… man, having to wait for this train is killing me.” The girl drags her hands down her cheeks as she expresses her impatience.

The machine tilts its head in confusion as if it is a dog of some sort. It silently stares at the teenage girl, waiting for an explanation.

The girl waves her hand in front of the robot and looks down in fatigue “You wouldn’t get it, it’s a metaphor.”

The robot nods and looks back up at the tracks while the girl rests her head against their shoulder. There is a minute of silence between the two as they listen to the whistling of the wind crawling through the sea of sand.

The silence is broken by the distant sound of a train clacking along the rusted tracks in the dust. The rattling of the metal grows louder as the speck in the distance becomes larger, revealing the train.

The girl stands up with a grunt, her hair flicking in the hot breeze. Dust is thrown at her eyes by the wind, forcing her to squint and raise her hand above her eyes. The sound of the train grows ever louder, like a beast with a million legs running along the steel in the ground. She reaches into her bag, digging through its contents. Her fingers trace wires and slide along pieces of spare machinery as she searches for such an everyday object as her sunglasses.

The machine gets up from the ground in an unnaturally efficient way and stands with its hands to its sides and its head straight forward. Its head clicks as it turns to face the girl and its lens observes her in mechanistic curiosity.

Her pale skin shines in the calescent sunlight as she fumbles through her bag. Finally, the girl latches onto the familiar feeling of her sunglasses and leads them through the several items contained. She loosely clutches the facewear in her hands and brings them up closer to her and further from her bag.

Suddenly the wind howls louder as it changes directions and increases in strength. It flicks the girl's hair back and makes her jacket rustle intently behind her. She lifts her arm up in a futile attempt to stop any more dust getting into her eyes but in doing so she puts her sunglasses in the line of fire. Her grip on them loosens and they slip out of her hand, flying off with the gale.

In one precipitous movement, without thinking, the girl spins her entire body around in an attempt to snatch her glasses away from the thieving wind. Not a thought crosses her mind as she twists her body in a circle besides not losing her sunglasses before the train comes. Due to her body contorting itself, her legs are thrown off balance and she trips over.

The teenager's foot is caught on the metal rails and gravity thrusts her to the ground. Her back cracks down onto the steel running along the ground.

The mechanoid barely has any time to register the events unfolding before it. The only thing bionic sentience can manage in the time frame is moving its head to look at the girl. It pushes its hands against the ground and begins to lift itself to its feet as quickly as it can (unfortunately this is not very quick).

The girl feels the tracks rattle intensely as the train rushes along them without any sign of slowing down. Just as the machine did, she lifts herself off the ground quickly (much faster this time). The girl regains her posture and stands upright, looking down the middle of the two rusted steel lines drenched in dust. She barely has time to register the train hitting her.

The girl's friend stands up with its arms to its side, only to witness her demise.

The large metal beast charges at the teenage girl like a bull. It slams into her fragile body, making her bones crack and shatter. Her skin is torn from her flesh, ripping off into pieces. Her legs bend backwards as the sheer speed of the train forces her limbs to crumble. The girl's lungs are crushed along with the rest of her internal organs which are smashed into a paste. Her blood spurts out of her body like a water sprinkler of sanguine liquid. It paints the front of the vehicle red as her entire body smashes against it. The teenage girl's head splits open, her skull shattering. Her brain splats onto the train like spaghetti being thrown at a wall. This teenage girl is mutilated beyond recognition in a time that not even the mind of the machine can comprehend.

Just as soon as it came, the train rushes off down the tracks, slowly fading into the distance. The girl's body is nowhere to be seen for the vehicle took her with it. Blood covers the automaton, dripping from its limbs and seeping into the cracks of its hardware. It stands with its head turned to where the girl once stood, its arms straight to the side and not an expression on its face, for it could not express emotion if it wanted to. Right now, if it could, it would scream.

The desert is once again silent save for the constant wind howling and shoving sand out of its way. The mechanoid looks down at the tracks, witnessing the few drops of blood that are left of her. It stares at the dark red as the sun forces it to shine. Like a deep abyss, the computer lets itself drift off into its equally dark thoughts.

“What does a machine think of at this time?” you may find yourself asking. Well, it was asking itself the exact same thing.

The girl waves her hand in front of the robot and looks down in fatigue “You wouldn’t get it, it’s a metaphor.”

The robot looks to its side in pure confusion, now snapped out of its thoughts. What it sees is most shocking, even to a being of code. The girl sits next to it, perfectly intact, as if nothing had happened. The robot is no longer standing. It sits with the girl's head resting on its shoulder. It stares at the top of her head in pure and utter confusion. There are longer drops of blood on the tracks or on the machine itself and there is a living, breathing teenager right next to it.

It sits completely still as its mind races, failing to come to any logical conclusion behind the situation. Before the machine can come up with any explanation of what is happening before it, the pair hears the sound of the train rolling down the tracks once again. It rumbles along the rickety railing, charging forward exactly as it had done a few moments before.

The girl stands up and begins to rummage through her bag that hangs down beside her, looking for her glasses. The machine watches her in bewilderment, not entirely sure what to do in this situation. Her hand threads itself through her bag in the exact same manner as a few moments before.

She grabs out her glasses and holds them up beside her. The mechanoid remembers what happened the last time, the images flashing into its mind as the events unfolded before it once again.

Before anything happens, the robot stands up. The girl does not take notice of this, and the wind begins to blow harshly as if it had been angered by this teenager once more. It howls and roars as if knocks the glasses out of her hand and steals them once again, drifting off into the gale.

The automaton witnesses as the girl quickly spins around and trips over on the corroded rails. It listens as the sound of the girl's back slamming onto the steel and her grunt of pain is drowned out by the deafening sound of the train racing forth.

The train charges forward with malicious intent, determined to tear apart the young girl twice over. The machine watches, feeling powerless in its moment of shock and confusion. As of this moment, it can not come to any sort of logical conclusion about the events unfolding before it once again. Its shirt folds and flows in the wind and the stickers that cover its body begin to slowly fall off over time. Wind rushes past as time feels as though it slows down.

The teenager stands up and the robot watches in helplessness. The vehicle once again slams into her body and crushes her organs. Her skin is torn and ripped apart in the exact same way as before. The robot is covered in blood and viscera, staining its shirt, and hiding its stickers as the gore seeps into its wires and hardware.

The train rushes off as fast as it came and fades into the distance, once again stealing the corpse of the teenage girl away from her friend. The robot stares off into the distance down the tracks, dripping with carmine liquid, still warm from sloshing around in her body, now exposed to the outside world. For the second time, the automaton is left with nothing but the sounds of the outback to keep it company. It stands with its metallic feet in the sand and the hot breeze smashing into its solid body.

The girl waves her hand in front of the robot and looks down in fatigue “You wouldn’t get it, it’s a metaphor.”

The machine looks to its side at the living girl sitting next to it. It happened again.

She leans against the hunk of metal much like the two previous times this has happened. It is not long before the robot realises that the exact same thing is going to happen again for what seems to be a third time. It looks at the tracks as it ponders the situation while the girl looks at her shadow as it sways and moves in the wind.

The tracks begin to shake and rumble with the sound of a distant train as it begins to get ever closer to the pair. A lizard that was sunbaking on the tracks quickly rushes off as soon as they begin to rattle.

The girl rises up from her seated position and stands close to the rails. The machine looks at her as she gets up with a quiet grunt. It continues to stare at her as the dust gets blown into her eyes and she raises her hand up above them. Soon after, the mechanical person also stands up right next to her. It stands up, perfectly still and stiff, not moving an inch in the harsh wind.

The teenager reaches down into her bag, beginning to search around inside of it for her sunglasses. She looks off into the distance at the train rolling along the tracks as she scrambles to locate her sunglasses in time. The mechanoid's mechanical legs take two perfectly programmed steps towards the girl, the sand at its feet being shoved to the side. It reaches its steel arm out to her and latches its cold hand onto the soft flesh of her arm.

The girl looks up at the tin man with a look of confusion and annoyance. With one yank of her arm, she releases herself from the grip of the machine.

“What the fuck is your problem?” She says to it, not expecting a response from the mute machine.

The robot leans back in shame. The lens in its head shines in the sunlight like a glimmer in the eye of a human. It watches her as she rummages around in her bag, becoming increasingly agitated with her situation. The automaton puts its arms back to its sides as the teenager lifts the sunglasses out of her bag and holds them.

As always, the wind begins to blow even more harshly than before and knocks the sunglasses out of her hand. In desperation, she turns and trips over the tracks again. The mechanical person does nothing but watch as she slams onto the metal that lines the ground of the searing outback.

As she stands, her body instantly becomes a pinata of bone, muscle, and blood. It sprays out in a macabre display of gore. It tears her apart and rips her nearly in half. Her bones are all but powder by the time the train hits her and crushes the entirety of her body against its speeding steel. Nearly every piece of her body is splattered across the front of the train as it speeds across the railway and off into the distance.

The machine is once again left alone in the outback, blood-soaked and covered entirely in what was once its friend. The incarnadine slides off of the metal-plated machine and drips onto the sand below. The wind howls in sorrow at the loss for a third time in a row.

The girl waves her hand in front of the robot and looks down in fatigue “You wouldn’t get it, it’s a metaphor.”

The girl's friend doesn’t waste a second this time around, knowing exactly the outcome of the situation if it doesn’t do something about it. To the teenager's surprise, it stands up as quickly as it possibly can and turns around, looking down at her as she looks at the machine in confusion.

The mechanoid starts to wave its arms about frantically. The girl stands up and looks at the machine with a perplexed look on her face. It grabs onto the side of her arms and starts to shake her, desperately trying to communicate to her what is going on. It wants to yell, it wants to scream, it wants to make any sort of noise to indicate the message that it is trying to get across to the teenager, but it simply cannot, no matter how hard it tries for it does not have a mouth. It becomes more desperate as it realises that what it is doing is not making any impact on the girls understanding. The automaton starts to slow down in its movements, and it loses hope.

“What the fuck?” The teenager says in response to the machine's rapid motions.

She looks at it in complete confusion and slight irritation that she cannot understand what the robot is trying to do. The mechanoid steps to its side and looks down at the ground, watching as the wind blows against the tiny dunes of sand. It attempts to come up with any sort of solution to its problem, but it cannot find any, so it simply stares at the ground, refusing to look back up.

Dust is blown into the eyes of the girl who decides to get out her sunglasses in an attempt to stop such a thing from happening further.

A few moments later, the girl's friend hears the sounds of her body being crushed and strewn across the face of the train. The backside of the robot is covered in her blood and viscera. It watches as the blood drips down onto the ground, drowning the sand in crimson red.

Robots cannot cry, but if this one could, it most certainly would.

The girl waves her hand in front of the robot and looks down in fatigue “You wouldn’t get it, it’s a metaphor.”

The wind blows throughout the outback, the sun beating down on the pair. One of flesh and one of metal. The tracks sit in the scorching sunlight, heating up by the moment. They run for what seems like forever. If one were to stand and look at them, they’d feel as though they simply went on across the world and back around the other side again.

The machine watches the girl rise up from the ground and get out her sunglasses. It watches as the wind tears the items from her hands and off into the distant sky. The automaton witnesses the teenage girl catch her foot on the side of the tracks and fall backwards onto them. It refuses to watch any further.

As the girl stands up, so does the machine. It turns around and walks off in the same direction as her sunglasses. The mechanoid listens to the sound of her bones being crushed and her body being dragged away by the vehicle.

It looks down in the sand at the sunglasses stuck inside of a bush. The wind makes its bristles dance and sing as they rub against each other, moving the sunglasses with them. It looks at its reflection in the pair of shades. Viewing itself intently, looking at all of its imperfections and at its lack of a mouth. It has no way to communicate with anything or anyone. No way to show the outside world what it is thinking or what kind of torture it is experiencing.

The girl waves her hand in front of the robot and looks down in fatigue “You wouldn’t get it, it’s a metaphor.”

The robot looks at the girl as she leans against it in the exact same way as before. Her hair blows in the wind in unison with her jacket as her eyes follow the shadows on the ground. The computer inside of the bionic person's mechanical head ticks over with ideas and possible solutions, most of which it decides would not work.

The machine looks over at the girl and stares at her face. Her brown eyes shimmer in the sun and her skin is illuminated by the rays of light. Her hair blows gently, each strand dancing like it has a mind of its own. It stares at her eyes that look like the bark of an oak tree which stands strong and immovable. It searches her eyes before moving its gaze further down at her eyes. Bags hang beneath them, dark like an abyss. At a second glance, the machine notices that wrapped around her eyes are veins that stretch across the white void white the roots of the same tree. The teenage girl yawns and raises her hand to her mouth, something that the machine didn’t notice she did before.

Slowly, the girl's friend raises its arm up from the sand and reaches it across the back of the teenager. The sunlight makes the metal of its arm shine in its face, but it soon faces as its arm is covered from the sun by the girl's torso. It wraps around her like a snake and rests once it reaches her other arm. The robot pulls her in closer and she huddles up against it.

The tired teenager can’t help but close her jaded eyes in the gentleness of the arms of the machine. Her friend holds her next to it, surprisingly comfortable for the side of a robot. The teenage girl lets the waking world fade away and disappear into darkness as she falls asleep. She rests against the torso of her friend and snores gently as she forgets about all that weighed on her mind.

The robot watches and listens as the train rolls past the pair and off into the distance, with not a drop of blood on it. No gore, blood, or viscera rests on the train tracks, simply the rust growing on it from its age.

The machine does not fear nor stress about the two getting to where they need to go in time because it knows that they will find a way. 

Above: Inspiration for story, by lemurdibuja on Instagram.