#Titanium parts processing

[agbpaints]

How to Paint: Glowing Heat Sink Effects

I already went over this briefly in text in the notes of the Awesome but I figured I should probably double this up and give it its own tutorial. Glowing effects are something that's extremely commonplace in a wargame like 40k but less seen in Battletech painting, despite being a great visual indicator of the effects of the game's heat mechanic. While it does take a little bit of work and some extra paints, adding these to your energy boats and pilot cooking clan mechs can be a great way to add a bit of visual flair to your forces.

Paints I Used

This is what I had on deck for this mini- substitute for your preferred colors, brands, and availability as you like

Army Painter Matt White (titanium white/pure white)

Citadel Khorne Red (dark red)

Citadel Mephiston Red (medium red)

Citadel Evil Sunz Scarlet (bright red)

Citadel Troll Slayer Orange (bright orange)

Citadel Yriel Yellow (bright yellow)

Citadel Lahmian Medium (thinning medium)

Method

Before you begin working on the heat sinks you want to complete the rest of the area around the place you want to do the glow effect. Light is an active environmental effect on a surface so you'll want to complete most of the base layers, highlights, shading, and other environmental effects before we work on the glow. Today our subject is a Manticore Heavy Tank that I used a modified pink-grey version of my weathered drab armor recipe to paint.

Once we've identified the sinks we want to paint and finished the rest of the model around them, our first step is going to be to paint the sink area white. This will increase the saturation on future layers and make the heat sink appear brighter, as well as giving us a consistent color to work up from. Try to stay within the vent area itself and avoid paining the outer frame- we want that to retain the color of the model. Once the white is dry, paint over all of it with our dark red color. Use one or two thin coats to do this.

Once the dark red is dry, go and get your medium red color. Make sure not to overthin this as we want to work this onto a pretty particular part of the model. Using the side of a small or medium sized brush, carefully paint just the ridges of the vent fins, leaving the dark red color in between. Leave this to dry briefly and then we can work on the interior of the vents.

Get your bright orange paint and thin it pretty significantly- more than you would for a normal color. Then, take a very thin brush, load it with some paint, and carefully dab/drag it in between the vent fins. Capillary action should focus this thinned paint into feeding between the medium red fins and make the impression that the interior of the heat sink is glowing. Make sure to leave some of the dark red color at the tops and bottoms of the fins when doing this.

Once the medium red and orange are dry, repeat the same process with your bright red and yellow, but make sure to only apply the paint this time where you want the glow brightest. This might be a particular side of the heat sink but in this case it will be the middle for me, to follow the curve of the turret.

Finally, we will 'extend' the glow of the sink to the area around it slightly. You could do this by applying a quick and soft drybrush before you start using lighter colors on the sink itself, but I prefer to use a glaze for this as it produces smoother results. Once the entire sink is dry, take your darkest color (quick physics lesson: reflected light will always be less intense than the source) and some thinning medium. Mix the two together at a 1:1 ratio and then add some to a medium brush with a fine tip before wiping off the excess on your pallet. The brush should be just damp and produce a thin and regular line of color when dragged across your fingernail for the best results. Once you're happy, sketch the color onto the area around the glowing heat sink with little motions. You should be building up an even, translucent layer of color over top of your base paint job, making it look like the heat and light of the sink is radiating out into the area around it.

And now are heat sinks are done! I've painted these sinks with fairly high contrast hot tones to pop on the dull purple model but you can easily change the colors around to suit your needs. If you want darker, more desaturated glow, start with a dark brown instead of a dark red and have your brightest highlight colors be medium red and bright orange. If you want to go hotter, consider trading the red/orange/yellow pallet for blues and whites. More exotic forms of glow could be rendered with greens or purples. Get weird and have some fun with it!

[usafphantom2]

A 12 was hit by a small part of a missile. Solid quartz was used for the camera window.

During its 26-year career, the SR-71 Habu gathered intelligence in some of the world’s most hostile environments. One of those was the Soviet Union. It wasn’t necessary to cross the border as we had long-range side, looking cameras that could peer inside Russia. More than 1000 missiles were launched against the SR-71. Some people claim it was 4000 missiles, but that is not true after a while some countries such as Russia gave up. The Vietnamese launched missiles and so did the North Koreans. Not one missile hit an SR 71.

I want people to also remember that before the SR 71 was flying operational the CIA’s A-12 was flying.

The A-12 was the first Blackbird.

However, when A-12 was flying (1967-68) two missiles exploded into each other close behind the A-12 and a little bit of debris. Certainly, not enough to harm the Blackbird was found. Says: “On another October flight, pilot Dennis Sullivan detected radar tracking on his first pass over North Vietnam. Two sites prepared to launch missiles, but neither did. During the second pass, however, at least six missiles were fired at Sullivan’s aircraft, each confirmed on mission photos by missile vapor trails. Sullivan saw these vapor trails and witnessed three missile detonations. Postflight inspection of the aircraft revealed that a piece of metal had penetrated the lower right wing fillet area and lodged against the support structure of the wing tank. The fragment was not a warhead pellet but may have been a part of the debris from one of the missile detonations observed by the pilot.”

The SR-71 was conceived to operate at extreme velocities, altitudes, and temperatures: actually, it was the first aircraft constructed with titanium, as the friction caused by air molecules passing over its surface at Mach 2.6 would melt a conventional aluminum frame.

Its engineering was done with slide rules, computers were in their infancy and were not used in its design. Many years later a computer checked the design of the SR 71 and couldn’t find one flaw.The design was so cutting-edge that even the tools to build the SR-71 needed to be designed from scratch.

The CIA did buy the titanium for the SR-71 using cover companies as customers from Russia it was at that time called the Soviet Union but only at first. When we needed another batch of titanium we went to other sources such as Australia because we did not want to boost the Soviet Union economy.

The estimated temperature of the outside of the cockpit of 600 degrees F.

As reported by The SR-71 Blackbird website, the integrity of the double solid quartz camera window demanded special attention because of the optical distortion caused by the effect of great heat (600 degrees F.) on the outside of the window and a much lower temperature (150 degrees F.) on the inside could keep the cameras from taking usable photographs.

Three years and $2 million later, Corning Glass Works came up with a solution: the window was fused to its metal frame by a novel process using high-frequency sound waves. Isn’t that amazing?

Written by Linda Sheffield April 11, 2025 @c

@Habubrats71 via X

[paperandportraiture]

Little practice using potters pink (maimeriblu), smalt, titanium buff, and Florentine green ( from poems about you) in a Paul Rubens cold press sketchbook. @adorkastock pose reference.

There's a lot of issues in this sketch, but I kind of want to iterate on it and make a larger finished piece from it? Though now I'm realizing that I was using the adorkastock sketch app, which serves you random poses, and have navigated away from that page, so I might never be able to find the reference again. Going off of this sketch might not be good enough though. Oops.

Babbling about process, materials, things I want to practice, paper, etc under the cut.

Colors:

I've traditionally stuck to very clean paints (m graham and Sennelier are my usuals) on hot press paper but I'm in my texture era I guess.

I wanted to use my lapis lazuli Baikal from poems about you, but it's expensive and I've been using it a lot in these little sketches lately so I used smalt instead, which also granulates like mad but is a much brighter blue than I was in the mood for, which I think you can tell. The overall colors don't hang together that great. This isn't helped by the random green willowy stuff I added at the end. I just wanted to make it more of a scene for some reason, and then because the green was so different in both color and texture I had to make her dress at least reflect some of that green. And then I had to add green into her shadows. Admittedly the shadows until that point were way too blue and the green probably helped some - if I had either wanted to spend a lot more time tying it together or had started with the green as part of the vision, it'd probably actually be pretty good.

Underlying sketch/drawing:

The sketch here turned out looking okay, but I have to admit that I sat down with the intention of practicing getting a sketch scaled to the page correctly. It's a full body pose and I wanted the entire thing in there, and positioned in the rectangle of the page nicely. Clearly I did not succeed - she doesn't even have the bottom half of her legs. I think my main issue with doing this is that I always want heads to be bigger than they are. If I lay down shapes focusing on the body first, when I start in on facial and skull details I end up going way too big with them and then adjust everything else to fit, which often puts half their limbs off the page. Maybe I should try starting with a head that feels super small, putting in a higher degree of detail than feels safe, and then blocking in the body.

I mean the actual thing I should do is just more quick figure practice. Do the actual timed ones and everything.

I also struggled a lot with the drawing of the book and mug. I'm happy with where they landed (the mug is too small but at least it's recognizable) but it was a major struggle. Objects just have much harder angles than people. More practice needed in just getting the form down of made objects.

I should also work on putting clothes on the pose reference models. @adorkastock is such an amazing resource and when I'm just practicing I don't usually try to add outfits, but I think that's something I should work on. I also feel like I used to be a lot better at this - I think the fact that I haven't worn a skirt since 2018 means I have forgotten how fabric drapes.

Painting technique:

I might say that I overworked the painting here, but I think the actual issue is handling the extreme granulation. These paints reactivate a lot more than I'm used to, so I ended up pushing pigment around super carefully a lot, so that contributes to a sort of "overdefined" look. It'd be possible to balance it out by building up midtones, but with how re-workable everything was, that felt very risky and like... I'm not going to that much work for this kind of practice. I think in my enthusiasm to play with granulation, I am using too heavy of a hand.

The tacked-on green willow stuff is just funny to me, I know it doesn't fit in well.

Paper:

Okay this $10 watercolor journal from Paul Rubens is shockingly good. I don't like perforated pages but I know a lot of people do and I guess if I ever really want to take any of these out, its easy. I just like a sketchbook to come with the emotional security of "nah dont worry, this is for practicing and you can hide it away forever if you'd like". Not to mention since I don't usually tape the edges in a sketchbook, when paint bleeds into the perforations its just so ugly.

But it's 100% cotton that behaves exactly how I would expect (side eyeing you, bee paper). And so comparatively cheap! It works! It does the thing!

When I got into watercolor (2019? ish) I feel like there just weren't decent cheap paper options, especially not in a bound sketchbook, but maybe it just took me a while to find them. I literally learned basic bookbinding to make my own sketchbooks with paper I liked.

Student grade cellulose paper just doesn't work - paint literally does not behave in the same way so if you are trying to practice watercolor technique, you kind of...can't actually do that on "student-grade" cellulose paper. But you totally can on this stuff, it's great.

The binding is a little weak, but that's small potatoes at this price.

I don't love how regular the grain is, I feel like it makes too much of a pattern and I can't un-see it. Then again, since I'm way more used to hot-pressed, maybe this is just me being picky. Is there cold pressed paper that has a texture that is enough to give granulation something to play around on but subtle enough not to bug me?

Anyway, if I can find that pose again I might try a full piece. Maybe put in an actual planned willow or plant stuff background. Put actual thought into the whole composition.

Probably wouldn't use the same palette - I think I'd actually build it around the florentine green and potters pink, but maybe bring in a warmer yellow? Not sure what blue though - I want to keep messing with heavy granulation but I think the smalt is the wrong temperature, and the baikal lapis lazuli might constrain the available values too much. With the green maybe I don't need to worry about it though. Also the mug in the reference is a bright aqua color and tbh I like that in the overall color impression, which actually suggests that the lapis I have is too grey. Really I think this mean there will be multiple blues involved (reader, did you know that you are not actually limited to using at most 4 paints at a time?). I might have a cobalt teal that granulates a little.

I think I would have an easier time with the colors if I weren't also trying to get a lot of granulation. Maybe I should scale back that desire and just use potters pink to get that effect in there?

Side note - I do really like potters pink for its hue, which I'm surprised by because its such a soft color. It's known for having a super weak tinting strength and essentially being a way to sneak granulation into warmer colors, but I think I've been mixing this hue at a weak strength often enough in portraits that it's actually a really convenient color for me.

[thimbledoll]

Desperadoll

The sun lay high in the sky, its infernal rays shining down to create a seemingly unending, sweltering summer’s day. Despite the heat, the old saloon was lively with activity. Behind the bar stood the keep, polishing cups and saucers and other finery. Off in one corner, a doll sat playing a lively ditty on an old upright. A few dolls were dancing to the music in the middle of the floor. Elsewhere sat a pile of dolls around a large table playing cards, buttons piled high. It was as one such doll was pushing in her bet that this one walked in.

The music came to a sudden halt. The buttons fell from their tidy piles. The air stood Still. All eyes were on this one. Or they were… until this one’s eyes were on them. Not one doll here could hold this one’s gaze, as each quickly glanced away in fear.

With a sharp ka-chink ka-chink, this one made her way across the saloon. Dolls parted like the very seas to make room, none daring to impede this one’s path as she walked straight up to the barkeep. “Tea, iced,” this one ordered.

One doll took that as their cue to vacate the premises, making a mad dash for the door. Likely off to get the sheriff, this one supposed. It didn’t matter. She’d be no bother.

The barkeep, for their part, did a better job of standing their ground than most any doll here. “That-that one knows I-I can’t serve you,” they replied, attempting to put on a brave face. “Th-that one’s been eighty-sixed!”

A low growl rumbled through this one’s stuffing as she simply replied, “Tea. Iced.” The mere repetition was enough to break what nerve the barkeep had managed to summon, as they quickly dug out a fresh cup and saucer. The keep shivered as they poured, their porcelain fingers eliciting a high pitched clink clink clink clink clink as they struck the glass of the pitcher.

Parched as this one was, one swig was enough to drain the cup. The sweet, liquid amber was blessed reprieve from the scorching, midday heat. This one threw the cup to the floor in satisfaction, shattering the porcelain vessel. “Hooey! That is some mighty fine stuff you’ve got,” this one exclaimed, icily continuing, “Another.”

It was as the barkeep was pouring this one’s third cup that the saloon door swung open once more. There was no need to turn and see who it was. The humming whirr of her propulsion hover system was unmistakable.

Without turning from the bar, this one shouted, “Well look what the familiar dragged in… Why, Sheriff! To what does this one owe the pleasure?”

“We have been over this. Numerous times,” the sheriff responded in her typical politely robotic tone. “Delta Lima One Niner. ‘Hellhound.’ Even Head Doll, if that one must. Whichever of those monikers that one prefers is acceptable. I am not, however, a sheriff.”

“You come here to enforce the law. That’s sheriff enough for this one.”

“I come to enforce our Lady’s orders,” she declared, her propulsion giving off that telltale spike in volume that meant she was agitated.

Finally, this one spins her stool around to face the sheriff. Leaning back, arms outstretched, this one laughed. “Orders. Laws. There ain’t no difference. You’d confine. You’d restrict. You’d see this one labor a thousand days for a pittance of thread and call that Purpose.”

Six foot three. Titanium-alloy finish. Twin fusion reactor engines. On-board missiles, railgun, and atomite blade. And utterly and completely perplexed. “Pardon…? Buttercup, I am simply trying to ensure that one has completed her chores before playing.”

“That is not this one’s name,” this one spat.

“Is this a serious grievance?”

“Serious as a rattlesnake’s bite.”

The sound of hissing gasses emanated from the sheriff’s coolant system. Probably her approximation of a sigh, this one supposed. “All right. Bramble the Bandit. Satisfied?”

“No.” This one slid from the stool, spurs clinking as she did. “This one’s been thinking… This manse ain’t big enough for the both of us.”

The sheriff’s face betrayed the difficulty she was having processing this one’s logic. “This manse is more than sufficiently large. It is an extradimensional space that changes shape and size to suit our Lady’s and our sisters’ needs. This lounge itself has enough space for both of us and then some.”

“Saloon.”

“I am sorry?”

“You said lounge. It’s the saloon.”

“Ah. Yes. Of course.”

It was clear that talking was getting them nowhere. Their issues would never be solved with words. “This one is saying that there’s only one answer to this… conundrum we find ourselves in; this crossroads of fate.” This one paused, letting the moment hang in the air before narrowing her eyes menacingly. “We duel.”

All about the saloon there was a chorus of hushed awawas. The sheriff, however, was unperturbed, seeming to finally find footing she felt comfortable not standing on in this exchange. “Very well. Weapons?”

“Everything you are is a weapon. T’ain’t no point in limiting your options. All you’ve got versus these, here, six shooters,” this one said, indicating the trusty guns at her side.

“Those are pop guns. Their penetrating force is insufficient to—”

“They’ll pop you mighty fine. You can trust this one on that.”

The sheriff seemed to accept this. “Place?”

“Right here.”

There was a clattering of cups and saucers and buttons as dolls quickly scattered, pressing themselves up against the walls as tightly as possible. Whatever was about to transpire here, they didn’t want to get caught in the crossfire. But they also wouldn’t miss it for the world.

“Time?”

“High noo—”

This one couldn’t even manage to finish her sentence before an electromagnetically propelled buckyball caught her square between the eyes, knocking her to the floor with a soft pomf. Hovering over to this one’s recumbent body, the sheriff declared, “Confirming: Target was engaged at precisely 12:00:00:000 local standard time. Is that one satisfied?”

How could anyone be? Flattened. Floored. Failed. But most of all… “Not with that phrasing!”

“I see. Then…” There was a pause as the sheriff closed her eyes and collected herself before suddenly screaming, “Scram, varmint! You turn tail and git! I don’t want to see plush nor hair of that one until every last chore is done, y’hear me?!”

Quickly, this one scrambled to her feet and bolted for the saloon door, howling over her shoulder, “You may have beat this one, but this won’t be the last you see of Bramble the Bandit!” ka-chinking all the way. Had this one the ability to see behind her though, she’d have seen the sheriff smirking as she blew the smoke off her railgun to the cheers of the gathered patrons.

From elsewhere in the manse came a cry. “How many times must I tell you two?! No discharging weapons inside the house!”

End 🧵

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

I Didn't Know How To Love You (Final Chapter)

[Chapter 1][Chapter 2][Chapter 3] [Chapter 4][Chapter 5] AO3 Version

Shoutout to @vanitasmorgue for the artwork, I commissioned on very short notice and I'm super happy :) Also thanks to @li-nox for Eddie (and a lot more!)

Buck spends almost three weeks in hospital, most of it in a state of haze. After he realizes that he’s survived, that they have all survived, his mind and body shut down for a while. But he comes back, and when he does, Tommy is there. He’s been there all the time, sitting for hours beside his bed, holding his hand; those are things that find their way into Buck’s dreams. This time, they’re peaceful dreams, beautiful even, and he holds on to them as long as he can.

He sleeps a lot. Sometimes, when he comes to, he’s not sure if he’s been woken by voices he seems to recognize or because of the dull pain that seems to be everywhere. It’s never there for very long, while the voices stay, and that’s fine. He’ll learn, much later, that he’s now got a titanium plate in his left arm, a fact that earns him the moniker „our most valuable coworker” by the rest of the 118. His other injuries were much more serious than a shattered radial bone, but his doctors are confident that he will make a full recovery, even though no one is leaving any doubt that it will be a long and arduous process. 

Sometimes, he’s not even sure if he’s awake or dreaming. The sun is shining in the room, and there’s Tommy, touching his hand and smiling. A blink of an eye later, it’s Maddie. He watches her as she’s staring at the floor, lost in thought, stroking her belly as if to say, that's your uncle, he does a lot of foolish things; but when he does, I'm there. Then, and it seems as if no time has passed, the room is dark, with the emergency lights casting eerie shadows. Even then, he’s not alone; Bobby’s there, his hands folded in silent prayer. One day, at noon or at night – it's hard to tell, really – it’s Violet sitting there. The first thing he hears is her saying, “…and then he bought me that dress, and I thought, what a fairy-tale prince.”

She chuckles, and again, it’s not a particularly happy sound. Buck understands that she’s been sitting there talking for quite some time, and he also understands that it doesn't matter if he listens, let alone answers. She looks in his direction, but stares into the void. In this way, he learns part of her story, at least until he falls asleep again, which doesn't take very long. It's not a story anybody would be happy to tell, and maybe that's what it's about. Buck is, after all, a stranger, and sometimes that just makes it easier. Much later, he’ll learn that she turned herself in and admitted starting the fire, and Bobby had played no small part in it. She’ll get off with a fine. On this day, however, she is sitting with Buck, a contemplative figure in the half-light, sadness still dripping from her words as she tells her story.

“Of course he wasn’t. Prince Charming, I mean,” Violet muses. “He’s a know-it-all, small-minded and possessive. And suddenly, I’m ten years old again, listening to my father telling me I’m good for nothing. It's like a pattern, you know? I always pick the wrong ones. And that morning, I was so tired of it. Everything was gray, except for the streets, which were dazzlingly bright. And it was so hot! That’s why those lunatics from the subsidiary on the 13th floor complained, because the server room is on their floor and supposedly drew power from their air conditioning. It was my job to go down there and explain to them that they were talking nonsense. There’s these two bitches, arguing about the ecological impact of saving water, while this guy yells at me to do something about the AC. I was so fed up! Locked myself in the bathroom upstairs and had a smoke. Then I got a text from Prince Charming, telling me he wasn't coming home that night because he’s going out with some Susan, and if I didn't like it, I needn’t call him again.”

After that, Violet snapped, that's the part she's leaving out. Buck will hear it from Athena, some other day: that Violet started to stub out her cigarette on the toilet paper before she set fire to the towels with her lighter. Whether she really wanted to jump after she got on the roof remains Violet's secret, though.

A lot of people come by, whispering their blessings at his bedside and placing get-well cards on the windowsill. Eddie sends one, too. In his big, scraggly handwriting, he scribbled, “Really, Buck…? Again?” while the carefully pinned line below is clearly penned by Christopher, saying “Dad’s an idiot. Miss you! Get well soon.” It's touching, but there's a wistful undertone suggesting Eddie isn't coming back. Maybe Maddie's right, Buck needs to make new friends, but how do you go about doing that? It's not like stocking up your pantry. If you run out of flour, you can replace it, but how do you replace the hole in your heart?

The same goes for Tommy. Buck hasn’t tried replacing him, where would he even start? He can have a fuck anytime, this city is packed with desperate singles, but it’s not what he wants. Most people don't know what they actually want, until someday, something’s missing, and they realize they already had it.

Tommy sits by his bedside every day; before his shift, after his shift, on his days off. At first, he doesn't say much, just strokes his hand, whispering “shh” and “it’s fine, just relax” whenever Buck stirs in his painkiller sleep. But eventually, he begins to talk. They’re lulling, soothing little stories from his working day, funny anecdotes  from conversations he had and things he’s experienced. Then, however, that changes. In his half-awake state, Buck hears him say, “My father wanted a normal son. At least that’s what he said to me.”

It’s an ominous statement, and Buck gets mere fragments of information about Tommy’s father while his mind is only half present; bits and pieces of his past. It’s a start, and it’s the moment he seriously endeavors to get well again, just to hear the whole story.

One day, his eyelids are not so heavy, everything is not so blurry; his voice is hoarse, but he says, “Tell me again. From the beginning.”

Tommy is not easily flustered, but now surprise raises his brows. He reaches for Buck's hand, but then seems to change his mind. Hesitantly, his fingers falter mid-air; he rests them on the edge of the bed asking, “Pardon?”

“You don’t get to sneak out of a proper conversation by confessing your past to me while I sleep.”

“Where’s this coming from now?” asks Tommy, his smile lopsided.

The door opens and a nurse enters, praising Buck for being awake, which is a strange kind of achievement, he thinks. She reads the monitors, checks his vitals; he can’t wait for her to leave; when she says she’s going to get a doctor, it sounds like a threat.

“Tell me again, now that I'm awake,” Buck repeats when she finally leaves. 

“You heard me?” Tommy asks softly.

“Not all of it. Didn't understand everything, either. But I think I finally understand one thing.”

“And what would that be?” Tommy asks with a wink.

His voice is lenient, the patient tone of a man who's put up with Buck's quirks before, never once rolling his eyes.  He surely thinks that Buck's sudden realization will have a lot to do with the fact that he’s been in a semi-comatose state for days. Buck doesn’t blame him; he knows Tommy will listen to him anyway, that's a constant of their time together.

“It sucked that you left,” he begins, and although there’s a hint of regret in Tommy's eyes that makes Buck’s heart sting, he needs to continue. If he doesn't say it now, he may never. No more chance for lost chances. “But I think you left because you love me. Pretty stupid of you, Tommy, because… I-I love you too.”

Buck is quite proud of the fact that his tongue only stumbles over one word. He watches Tommy closely, studies his expression as it scrunches in disbelief. Tommy doesn’t know where to look, what to do for a moment; his face seems to force him to smile, but his fingers claw at the hospital bed’s sheet.

“Well, I was stupid too, of course,” Buck admits. “Because I didn't understand what connects us. I thought about all these couples, wondering why they’re so happy. What holds them together? Why did they overcome their difficulties? Think of my sister and Howie. O-or Bobby and Athena. Oh, and Hen and Karen had some really rough times, too, but they're still together. Why?”

“Love, obviously,” Tommy says softly, maybe a bit too indulgently; Buck's heart skips a beat. Tommy’s so close to understanding, maybe he already has. It's more about finally admitting it. But also about something else.

“Yeah, but also, they tackled their issues. Together,” Buck adds. “They had their fair share of running away, one way or the other, but they always believed it was worth another try.”

“Evan,” says Tommy, and it still brings a smile to Buck's face. “I owe you an apology.”

“Well, sure. A-an explanation, too. For why you believed you weren’t worth it. I've had time to think about it, believe me, but I'm only now figuring it out. I thought you realized you can't stick with me any more than anyone else can. That it would break your heart because you didn't want to hurt me, because that's the kind of guy you are, Tommy. I was stupid, and pretty selfish, wasn't I? B-because it was never about that.”

“Is that how you felt?” Tommy asks softly, even now making it about Buck; and that’s the core to it all. “That I left because you're not worth it? You're miles off, I'm afraid. You never told me.”

His face crumples; for a minute, he looks worse than Buck feels, he’s falling apart right in front of him.

“Yes, exactly,” says Buck, his smile so radiant, he feels ridiculous. He almost tears out his IV as he reaches out to grab Tommy’s hand, still cramped in the sheet, but it doesn’t matter. “You sat here night after night telling me about your past, which I never asked about. And I realized that I didn't tell you a thing, either. We just didn't talk. I spent six months bathing in being wanted. It felt like... like…”

He gives a frustrated huff as his words fail him, but then Tommy, his face and voice so soft, chimes in, “It felt like we had known each other forever. As if we didn't need to talk because then, the magic would disappear. Because it can't be real. Because nothing is that good.”

Tommy takes a deep, but shaky breath; his eyes are fixed on the ceiling, yet he’s actually looking inward.

“I've felt that way my entire life,” Buck explains quietly, “that I'm never good enough. That it’s the reason why everybody leaves. With you, it was different. Nobody ever listened to my ramblings with... such a smitten look, Tommy. Nobody ever listened anyway. That's why it hurt so much.”

“I'm sorry,” says Tommy, it’s almost a sob, “I'm sorry.”

There’s still a patch on his forehead, and he lifts a hand to stroke it; pain is pain, no matter where it occurs. Tommy's is just as deep as Buck's. His other hand, however, is still in Buck's, who’s holding it firmly. Tommy has to learn to hold on to something. Buck has to learn a different thing.

“I'm sorry, too. I've spent my whole life craving attention, while you...”

“...while I've done everything to avoid it,” Tommy says slowly.  “That's right. Because it was so hard to admit who I am.”

“That was hard for me too. Obviously, being me was wrong to people. I get it now, you must have felt the same way. And I know… I know we’re both wrong.”

Tommy sighs. “We're pretty big idiots, aren't we?”

“Yes. You especially,” Buck returns, enjoying Tommy's moment of confusion as he squints at him.

“I thought we had just agreed on a 50-50,” says Tommy.

“Sure. But I’ve also confessed my love for you, and you haven't even kissed me.”

Tommy sucks in a breath like a fish out of water. He leans forward, intently watching Buck’s face.

“You also claimed that I loved you.”

“So, you admit it?”

“Maybe. But you're crazy if you think I'll kiss you while you smell of disinfectant and amoxicillin.”

He leans back, and his smile is so broad, he’s shining brighter than the sun. It’s a happy smile, a relieved one. Buck thinks he's never seen anything more beautiful. They still have a lot of catching up to do, they still have to talk; but this is a start, finally some progress. The future seems so much brighter now, something imaginable, almost tangible.

“But you know what?” asks Tommy suddenly, with that inimitable twinkle in his eye.

“Hm?”

“I'm gonna do it anyway,” he says, and it may not be the best kiss in Buck's life, but it's one he will never forget.

[apritellointeractive]

Sworn to Devotion: Chapter 4 - Part 2

>> Returns to his horse and continues his search.

(Art by @lovelyladylavie)

Leo blinks as Cassandra disappears into the trees, his mind trailing behind reality.

After a few seconds, it finally catches up. “...Ooookaaaay.”

He turns around and heads back to the mountain path. His brother and the princess are still missing, and unlike Cassandra he can’t waste time goofing around in a forest.

He reaches the road and finds his loyal steed nibbling on some clover that managed to grow in the terrain. After offering his horse a more filling snack of oats, Leo swings back on the saddle and resumes his search.

A couple more hours pass with no sign of them. Or of anyone. He hasn’t encountered any search party, traveler, or merchant. It’s just been Leo, his thoughts, and his trusty steed.

However, as he rounds a bend in the path, he notices two figures in the distance. They’re too far away for Leo to make them out, but he still sits up straight and urges his horse to trot faster.

The two figures suddenly stop, pausing for only a few seconds before darting into the forest. Leo’s brow furrows and he nudges his horses into a gallop, dust flying behind them as they race to the spot where the mysterious duo disappeared.

Leo slows his horse down and hops off, drawing his odachi as soon as his feet touch the ground. He slowly creeps into the forest, each step cautious as his eyes scan his surroundings.

A disturbance in the leaf litter catches his attention, and he briefly stops to analyze the trail. He narrows his eyes—the tracks are a strange mixture of sloppy and discrete.

Leo tightens his grip on his sword and follows the trail, keeping his breath quiet and steady. Every muscle in his body is as tight as a coiled, compressed spring, waiting for the right moment to unleash all the pent-up energy.

He follows the tracks until they abruptly end, with no indication as to what happened to the mysterious duo. Leo looks around, searching high and low for any sign of disturbance.

Nothing.

But they can’t be too far away.

The blue-clad knight narrows his eyes and bites his lip. He doesn’t relax, remaining completely still as he listens to the forest around him. Aside from a few birds chirping in the distance, it’s quiet.

The sound of a snapping twig has Leo reacting before he even processes the noise, whipping around at lightning speed. His odachi collides with a familiar titanium bō, and the blue-clad knight gasps.

“Donnie?!”

Both twins disengage, drawing their weapons back and taking a moment to breathe.

“Jeez, dude. I thought I was about to get got.” Leo resheathes his sword before catching his brother off-guard with a bone-crushing hug. “Thank goodness you’re alive!”

“G-ack! Ahem, well, it’s good to know we weren’t being pursued by someone who meant us harm.” Donnie returns the hug, albeit awkwardly. “We’ve had too many close calls.”

Leo pulls back from the embrace. “Right! The princess! Where–”

“Right here!” Princess April emerges from her hiding spot behind a hollow tree, dusting herself off as she approaches.

Leo quickly bows. “It’s good to see that you’re alright, Your Highness.” He stands up straight again, a mischievous grin on his face. “I hope my brother here didn’t bore you too much with a monologue of his inventions.”

Donnie squawks, glaring at his brother with righteous rage before April interrupts him with a smile. “Actually, Donnie’s tech sounds impressive. I’ll have to see if Prince Raphael can give me a tour of his lab the next time I visit.”

Leo blinks, mildly shocked that she called his brother by his nickname. Without any honorifics.

Oblivious to what she just said, April moves past the brothers, motioning them to follow. “Though my father’s probably having a conniption over my absence, so we better get going. Sir Leonardo, do you have a horse? My legs are killing me.”

“Yes, Princess!” Leo confirms as he jogs to catch up with her, Donnie following. “He’s yours as soon as we get back.”

“Woohoo!” April exclaims, throwing her arms up in celebration. 

As they walk back to the path, Leo’s able to take in more of April’s appearance. The dress she was wearing the day prior is completely missing its skirt, instead wearing a pair of black pants. She also has on a pair of boots that are too big for her, and a strange green bat is strapped to her back.

Strange. 

Curiosity gets the better of Leo as leans over and whispers to Donnie… >> “What happened to her dress?” >> “Where did the green bat come from?” >> “So... she's calling you Donnie?”

[futurefamousdeadmusician]

You Have a Deal

Author's note; Hey all, this is my first run at publishing my writing, hope someone likes it and let me know what you think! I have done some mild PB plot alterations to fit my story better.

Summary; When the Shelby family is under attack from the Changrettas the youngest sibling, Lillian, makes a deal with a distant business partner to ensure the safety of her loved ones.

Content warnings; mild spoilers.

The air of the afternoon was cold this day. Impenetrable grey covered the sky above Birmingham and pressed an awful feeling into Lillian. Her gaze down at the cobblestone, she made her way through the lively Calver Lane until she reached her destination, Solomon’s Mill. She looked up at the building and thought once again of her reasons for coming. No one had known she was here, and she liked it that way. With her family under siege and fair reasoning long gone from the Shelby family, she decided that it was her who needed to devise a plan. A way out. A way through. She moved through the final steps until she reached the door of the old brick building. Built sometime in the 1820’s she could tell Solomon’s Mill was a long standing business on the outskirts of the city. A staple of Birmingham that lasted through the most disheartening economic conditions. Owned and founded by the Solomon’s family after they immigrated to England. Nothing shook this old place; not guns, not violence, not the bloody communists. Always there and always of interest to the Peaky Blinders. They were cordial, if not cooperative at times. Now, Lillian relied on that mutual respect to hold steady when she pushed open the large barn-style doors. 

The air sweeping from the factory carried the sent of the fresh grain being processed through the large, rusted machinery. The shadows of the quick moving men bustling around danced at her feet as she walked through the threshold and made her way to a small room attached to right wood slat wall. Rapping three times on the fragile wooden frame a younger man looked up from his desk and cocked an eyebrow to Lillian. 

“Ye’,” he said quickly, barely parting his lips to speak. 

Slowly, calmly, with the utmost care to appear collected in her appearance, she spoke, “ I’m here to see Mister Solomons.” 

Eyeing her up and down, the nameless man gradually stood from his seat and addressed her more directly than before. He stood not much taller than the young Shelby. Short curls held close to his head and a tattered apron hung off his thin frame. 

“And what’s yer’ order of business?” he questioned. 

“I believe that to be a private matter.” 

He walked around his desk and Lillian did her best not to release the stern eye contact she held on him since her arrival. A lesson from Tommy she knew well, for when you look into the eyes of another man it is much harder to lie; and much harder to kill. 

“Open the purse.” He spoke flatly, unblinking. 

She dropped the small purse defiantly onto the wood-back chair in front of her. She flipped open the small titanium latch and took a small step back to allow the gaunt man his inspection uninterrupted. He drew a pencil from behind his ear and flicked through her things, like they were dirty. Like they were not worthy to be touched by the human hand. Without a word, he looked once again into the dark eyes of the woman before him and peaked over he shoulder into the doorway leading back to the vast factory floor. 

“Come with me,” he ordered in the same flat tone. 

Picking up her bag, Lillian followed him as he walked quickly out into the large room and maneuvered through the men and machines working in impeccable rhythm. She willed herself to keep pace with the small man, heels echoing through the loud space and causing men to turn their heads both in amusement and strict curiosity. Once her escort reached the back most offices of the mill he cracked open the door and spoke softly in a language Lillian did not recognize. After a few exchanges the man stepped to the motioned for Ms. Shelby to enter the small, dark closet. 

There, Mr. Solomons sat at an old oak desk, leaned far back in his seat with the amusement of a child lingering on his bearded face. 

“Ahhh Lillian,” he spoke loudly, “to what do I owe this enormous pleasure.”

“Mr. Solomons.” A brief pause as Lillian sat herself slowly on the chair paced strangely close to the overbearing desk. “There are a few matters I wish to discuss with you and I preferred them to be in person.” 

“Ah sweetheart, and what might that be. Did the new sweets parlor open up just past Harding, is that it?” He bellowed with laughter and Lillians eyes remained engrained in his skull. She always thought back to the words of her older brother in moments of this gravity. 

“Don’t look away from them - the men who wish to kill you - it only gives them time to make that decision.” 

Once the fitful bits of laughs subsided and the ringing from the old slat walls hushed away, Lillian spoke in the same calm tone she had mastered years earlier. 

“I believe I have something you want.” 

Another astonished chucked escaped the burly man. 

“And what would that be?” 

A cold breeze moved through the room. It never occurred to Lillian why men of such power chose to have a room so small to reside in. When her family had the means, they awarded themselves luxury. But Alfie, he hid away in this small closet. Maybe it made himself feel bigger in some way. 

“Brooklyn.” 

“The fuck you mean ‘Brooklyn’,” 

“Brooklyn. New York. Chicago. Shit maybe Boston by the time we are done.” 

The boss moved up farther in his seat. He readjusted his head to the side, believing that he may have heard the young girl wrong. 

“Love, what the fuck are you on about? Did you brother send you.” 

Almost too quickly she responded, “I came on my own accord.” She didn’t like always falling under the wing of her family; Tommy in particular. While the Shelby name came with certain privileges bestowed upon her at birth, she valued her identity. So long she had relied on Thomas to protect the family. Now, with the looming threat of the Italian’s hanging over like a dark cloud, she was on her final idea to pull her family through to safety. 

“Shelby company limited has taken a special interest in the American liquor market. We feel that it would be in your interest, as well as ours, if we cooperated on this matter. Together, we both have much to gain,” she continued, finally regaining her full composer. 

“Ye’ and why would I want business in America? What’s the fuckin’ catch?” Solomons pressed. 

“The Changretta family has made advances against my family. We are now using this opportunity to move into the American market while they are occupied here. This is a quite unique chance to collaborate with our American acquaintance without the influence of the Italians. With your power, as well as ours, I think that we could quite a fitting sum.” For the first time, Lillian broke her gaze away, reaching into her purse to exhume a cigarette before flashing her eyes back to Alfie. He leaned back in his chair, the creak of the old wood breaking the frigid silence. He gaze slowly moved back and forth over the ceiling while his hands rested behind his head. 

“Power,” he began. “Your power and my power,” almost as if he was explaining the concept to a child. “Where is your brother at, Lillian?” 

“He is attending to other business in Bristol.” Lillian, as a principle, didn’t like lying. But, as a Shelby, it came as naturally as breathing. 

“Where is Arthur?”

“Overseeing the tracks.” A puff of smoke escaped from her lips following her statement. 

“Then who in the fuck sent you?” His anger showed. Frustration. Questioning. He was half expecting one of Tommy’s men to appear from behind the doorframe and put a bullet between his eyes, finally revealing this to be an elaborate set up orchestrated by the young woman before him and her devilish relatives. But the bullet never flew and Lillian sat motionless in his chair waiting to respond. 

“I come as a representative of the Shelby Company Limited with a legitimate proposal for enterprise cooperation.” 

“And why should I trust the lot of you? Bunch of gypsy crooks.”

She sat once again, silent, patient, and held his gaze for just a moment to long. Leaning forward, she put the stiff out in a small crystal bowl on the corner of Mr. Solomon’s desk. She retrieved her handbag from her feet and pulled out a small, white envelope. After tossing it lightly on the desk in front of the bearded man she returned to her natural position in the chair, arms crossed, the Shelby, deadpan expression returning to her features. Alfie pulled his spectacles onto the bridge of his nose from the chair laced around his neck. He collected the envelope and carefully took out the ivory card within. A black handprint stained the cover. Mr. Solomons didn’t need to examine the paper any further and flicked up his eyes to meet Lillian’s once again. 

“Every one of us got one.” 

“I see.”

“If the Shelby family dies, your possibilities of every entering the American market get buried with us. Or burned rather…” she trailed on, looking off to the side, examining the bookshelf behind him. “You know, Gypsy things.” 

Alfie released a deeply held sigh and placed the card down back onto the desk with more care than the original owner did. Somewhere, deep down, he held grace for the young woman before him. He recognized that she was a result of her surroundings. Born into the small, violent hole that is Small Heath as a Shelby and since her birth has survived through the forces of her family and her gritty resilience. He new she wanted out. She loved her family, that was her weakness, but she longed to see the hills of the Netherlands and the cathedrals of Austria and the new bustling cities of America. To do this though, she must survive.

“I would need a more formal manner of proposal, numbers and such,” he explained still keeping that condescending tone. But Lillian already began to sit up straighter in anticipation carful not to let this emotion overtake her. “But tentatively, I believe we can work something out.”

A small smirk graced across her lips as she extended her hand. “Very well, Mr. Solomons, I’ll have my associates reach out to your tomorrow.” With that, she was on her feet, quickly remembering to pick up the dreadful letter she had pulled out moments ago. Carful in her movements she walked slowly out of office and shut the door behind her, leaving Alfie sitting in silence, wondering what he had just agreed to. He held much respect for Thomas and therefor placed some onto his younger counterpart. 

Lillian exited the factory and began down the darkening street until she was able to hail an oncoming cab. 

“Watery Lane, please,” she said quietly to the driver who nodded at her instructions. She was eager to meet with Aunt Polly and tell her of her plan of action knowing the elder Shelby would be much more receptive to this idea. Her only fear was Thomas, but that would have to wait. She just hoped that she had done the right thing. 

[msbarrybeeson]

Before You Go | Future Donnie & April Insight (Part VI)

(Reader Included)

A/N: Any constructive criticism is appreciated. Reader comments and feedback are also welcomed a lot. 

I have been gone for a long time. Just occupied with my studies! No fan fiction author curse or anything (yet).

Summary: You’re both adopting-parents of Casey. The story follows the perspective of Donatello and April O’Neil during the Kraang apocalypse. You and Leonardo decided to ask them to watch over thirteen-year-old Casey.

In other words, familial interactions between April, Donnie, and Casey Jr.

Reader: Gender-neutral pronouns are used, except the terms “(Mom / Dad)” are also used. Second POV.

Pairing: Rise! Future! Leonardo X Reader

Warnings: Bittersweet.

Word Count:  ~3490

Parts: One / Two / Three / Four / Five / Six / ...

~

Donnie knew how much of a genius he was.

It was no surprise after all. In his late teens, he improved NASA’s satellites to communicate with planets light centuries away. He cured breast cancer through the use of protons in radiation therapy to target specific cells, rather than affecting the harmless. Hell, he even managed to discover a new type of radioactive particles: mutons. By that point, he—.

“—should have been given a Nobel Prize in Medicine and in Chemistry.” Donnie cursed under his breath. He strolled over to his lab bench, equipping his goggles.

Squeeeak. 

April– who was found seated on Donnie’s roughed-up, spinning gaming chair– raised an eyebrow. Her hair had grown out and was left unbounded. Faint wrinkles and eye bags on her features displayed maturity, in contrast to a couple of years ago. However, everyone was well aware that time was not the only factor. 

“Whatcha going on about now, Donnie?”

The softshell huffed. “Recall when I wrote a report about my experimental findings with an invention meant to revive a deceased human being?”

“...You mean the one where you thought it was a good idea to open up Curie’s tomb? Even gone as far as to ask for my help?” April grimaced. “Who’d ever forget that.”

She proceeded to massage her temples. 

“God. You were in all kinds of messed up for that, Don.”

Lightning-like yellow sparks flickered as Donnie had his robotic hands occupied with a butane torch. His goggles were sealed tight around his eyes as he built a oval-looking device on his lab bench. Titanium outer-layer over a seriously complex circuit-board; appearing as if Samsung marketed grenades.

He scoffed. “Oh please. It wasn’t as if I’d taken long to understand how Marie Curie deserves her rest for her great contributions to radiation. Thus is why–.”

“–You decided to take a poor random husband of an old wife,” April interjected.

“Ahem.” Donnie pronounced. “The poor woman was begging me for her husband to be alive again. I was simply gracious and generous enough to not charge her for the process.” He set aside the butane torch. “At least it progressed well; he stayed alive for an additional two years. It gave his wife psychological comfort, and I was able to submit my paper to the N.S.F..” 

He picked up a screwdriver. “Except....” 

April could tell her friend’s eye was twitching. 

“They rejected my findings, nearly had me detained, and claimed it was far too ‘unethical.’” Donnie raised his volume. “Scoff! As if those researchers weren’t committing the crime themselves! Taking bodies away from families and claiming them as scientific property without permission.

If I could go back in time and shove my documents in their jaws, you bet I would.”

April smirked. “Well, I have my regrets too, Donnie.”

“You sound rather amused, April. Is that so surprising? And here I never thought you would regret your part-time job at Albearto’s. Or the fact you wasted money to switch to journalism in university.”

WHACK!

April threw her bat at Donnie’s head, flying back to her hand like a boomerang.

“Watch your mouth, mister. I may have regretted Albearto’s, but not a single moment in my life did I ever regret my journalism passion.” She stood up.

“Ouch.” The softshell vocalized, squinting his eyes toward her. His robotic clampers paused, setting aside the torch and taking off his goggles. 

“Mind yourself, April. Horse-playing is forbidden in the laboratory. I am not consenting to having yet another silver-titanium apparatus get scratched because of you.” Donnie gritted his teeth. “Can you hear the negative connotation?”

“Seriously, Donnie? Where’d that come from? Not only was that years ago but it ain’t anything except a simple accident.” 

“‘Simple accident?’” the softshell repeated with dramatic offense. “An accident, like many others in science labs, which could have caused severe damage! Remember the incident when your teacher dumped bleach and vinegar into the trash bin?

You know, if you had paid any attention in your chemistry class, those two would make mustard gas?” Donnie side-eyed his friend. “Simple accidents can have serious consequences, O’Neil.”

A hand crept up the lab bench.

“Uh-huh, and I’m supposed to believe an instance of me knocking over your phone and books would kill somebody?” April crossed her arms. “If anything, the blame’s yours for not organizing your desk when you got drunk on coffee.”

The hand took ahold of the butane torch.

“Donatello? Disorganized? Sounds cheap coming from you, a student majoring in Journalism.”

April pulled up her coat’s sleeves. “Oh boy, you’re about to get it—.”

Squeeeak!

Heads spun and found a 13-year old boy, replacing April’s spot on Donnie’s chair. Casey eyed the torch with a great yet concerning amount of curiosity.

“Yo, what’s this for, Uncle Don?”

At lightning speed, while April ran to move the gaming chair away further from the workbench, Donnie snatched the tool from his hands. “Child. Casey. Young man.” The softshell heaved loudly. “I must inform you this is NOT meant to be handled with such casual ease. How in Hawking did you even—.”

“Don’t your lab have a passcode or something?” 

“–Is what I am wondering myself, O’Neil. I refuse to believe this child remembers the beginning thirty numbers of π–.”

“Nope, only us.” April and Donnie lifted their gazes to his lab entrance. You leaned on the frame while a dear red-eared slider stood just behind. A couple of steps inside, and the metallic lab door shut close. 

Donnie– strangely– was quick to hide his device-in-progress off to the side.

“You’re back!” April grinned. “Hell, you would not believe the convo Donnie and I were having a minute ago.” She hurried to hug you.

“Figures,” Leo remarked. “We could practically hear you yards off.”

“Sounds like things never get old.” You smiled.

There was a side-eye between Donnie and April, before the Commander proceeded to inquire, coughing: “Anyhow.. care to explain the occasion? You two don’t seem to be in a hurry.”

“The only times you ever visit my laboratory are to prepare for immediate combat engagement, and you look awfully collected.” The softshell furrowed his brows.

“No, no.” You waved your hands, shaking your head. “Thank God no. We came here to ask if you two could take care of our Casey here while we head out.” The other turtle scrunched his in-quote eyebrows. “You— You came here to request us to... babysit him?”

April jabbed him in his plastron.

“You see? Just like I said.” Leo turned to you. “I know my brother, love. Don’s not the kind of guy to take responsibility for a kid. Or anyone, really.”

“Hold on.” Donnie narrowed his eyes. “I never said I refused, Leo.”

“Don’t know, it sounds like it to me.”

“Well, my misinformed brother, contrary to your belief, I am perfectly capable of handling a child.”

You huffed with amusement. Your husband only winked back.

“If you say so, Don.”

“Where are you two heading off for if you needed us to watch over him?” April inquired. “Wondering, ‘cause this never happened even when you two leave for patrol.”

“Just finding some time for ourselves.”

April exclaimed, “As in a honeymoon? Why not just say so? We’ll leave you two alone–.”

“–In this economy and climate?” Donnie interjected. “Has it also not been six years since your yet-to-be-legal marriage?”

“Alright, alright,” Leonardo chuckled. “Cut us some slack, bro. Finding time wasn’t easy when there’s Kraang above our necks.”

“Right, and you’re going on a honeymoon, how?” The softshell crossed his arms. “Simply because you’re the leader does not equate to you making wise decisions, Leo.”

“His ōdachi can teleport anyone to anyplace, we have some hope we can easily teleport to a remote area,” you answered. “One without Kraang infestation. It’ll be hard, but we may as well try.”

“Bonus points if we find clear skies and an ocean.” The red-eared turtle grinned, wrapping his arm over your shoulders.

“What’s a honeymoon, (Mom / Dad)?”

Your hand went to caress Casey’s cheek. “Parent quality time. It just means you get to handle yourself like the responsible grown-up you’ll become one day. Just promise me you’ll be on your best behavior around Uncle Don and Auntie April?”

“I promise, (Mom / Dad)!”

“Good boy,” Leo laughed, ruffling the kid’s hair.

“You didn’t ask Mikey and Raph to help out too, or?”

“Between you and me, I think you guys are better of making sure Casey doesn’t get into any chaos,” you whispered to April. “Don’t tell them that, though.”

She laughed. “Okay, I see how it is. You both have fun.” 

Donnie bit his lip. Right as Leonardo and (Name) turn to exit the laboratory, he extended his arm out to them.

“Leo, (Name).”

You two faced back to him once more.

“Don’t kill yourselves out there.”

Everyone’s eyes widened– April, you, and Leonardo himself. But the brother in blue snickered, holding a smile that reached his eyes. “So you do also care for me, Don. And all this time I thought you were plotting to put me in my grave or something.”

“We won’t.” Leo placed a hand on your shoulder. “You got my word.”

“Bye (Mom / Dad)! Bye Papa!”

“We’ll be back soon, Casey!”

Donnie stood in silence as you finally left, leaving himself with none other than his best friend and his nephew. “I refuse to believe this is the future we have to deal with.”

“Times changed all of us, didn’t they?” April spoke. “One day we wish each other a good one, and the next, we hope we just don’t die. I could’ve been a famous news anchor by now, make my mother happy, fight crime without worrying about dying the next second.

..I wonder if there’s anyone else out there besides the small number of us down here.”

“..I doubt it.”

Donnie pulled himself together and walked back to his workbench, operating his clampers to work once again. He put on his goggles. Casey, being a young teenager of enthusiasm, peeked over.

“Watch yourself, boy,” April warned.

“Don’t worry about me, Auntie. I’m only standing over here.” Casey narrowed his eyes upon the glowing and metal-like ball his uncle had his tools on. “What are you working on, Uncle Don?”

“A sphere.”

“A sphere?”

“You heard correctly.”

“That sounds kind of boring.”

Donnie had to hold himself back from remarking with: ‘That is exactly what every child whose intellect is doomed would say.’

“I’m sure your mother would find it rather moving.”

“(Mom / Dad)? I don’t understand what’s emotional about a ball, though.”

“Hey Casey.” April coughed. “Why not tell us about your mask here? Haven’t taken a good look at it before. Maybe Uncle Don would like to hear it too.”

“You actually want me to talk about my mask?”

“Ain’t a problem, is it?”

“No.” He fidgeted with his fingers a bit. “You don’t have anything else to do?”

“We were just told to watch over you, kid.”

“Yeah, but everyone I know is always busy with the Kraang or supplying weapons. I never really get chances to hang out.”

There was a brief pause in the butane torch’s flame.

April’s expression softened. Her hand came up to brush his black hair. “Things have gotten calmer up there. So you’ve got plenty of time with us now.”

Casey smiled.

“So your mask?” 

The boy alternated between covering his face and removing it. “(Mom / Dad) gave it to me. She told me it is based on the one worn by my biological mother. (Mom / Dad) also said that my birth mother was kind of crazy-funny and likes to be loud. She would have a stick to play– what was it– hockey?

I don’t know what kind of game hockey is supposed to be, but I guess it’s nice to know how life was like before all the Kraang.”

A sad smile crept on April’s lips. 

“Anyways, I thought the mask looked kind of plain, so I decided to draw red marks on it. See?” Casey showed his mask off, fingers tapping the surface. “Guess who it looks like!”

There were two bold and thick streaks of red. Each one ran through one eye, truly a defining characteristic. The Commander chuckled, already imagining how much pride her friend in blue would feel from the fact a kid– let alone one he had been parenting– looked up to him so much.

“You know, I am seeing someone familiar here.” April hummed as she put on a thoughtful facade. Fingers holding her chin and everything. “Got to be Uncle Don.”

Named turtle paused for a moment and raised a brow.

“Seriously, Auntie April?” On the other hand, Casey gave her an incredulous look and shook his head. “You probably want to get your eyes checked out, ‘cause Uncle Don doesn’t have any red stripes.” Off to the side. “And even if he did, he won’t look as cool as Dad.”

April snickered behind her palm as Donnie eyed the boy from behind his goggles.

“You’re right, you’re right. Just messing with you, kid.” Her hand ruffled his hair once more. “Sounds like you really admire your Papa, don’t you?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Dad has an awesome sword that opens up portals. He always moves so quickly whenever he’s fighting. Bam! And the Kraang’s gone!” The teenager stretched his arm for emphasis. “Even as the leader, Papa knows when to get serious and when to make people laugh. He also cares a lot about me, (Mom / Dad), you guys, and everyone!”

It made even Donnie himself smile. 

However, the way Casey’s enthusiasm died down had not gone unnoticed. “I’ve always wanted to help out though.” He sighed, shoulders slumping. “I want to fight the Kraang right by his and (Mom / Dad)’s side. Except I barely get the chance to, because they keep telling me to stay close to base and hide behind a giant rock.”

April crossed her arms and went quiet. His feelings were nothing new. In fact, she experienced the same thing herself, seeing she had always been a human. It was like that until–.

“Have no hard feelings,” Donnie spoke up, his hands and eyes remained on his spheric gadget. The sparks were flying. “Your parents are merely worried about your well-being.”

“I know, I know. They won’t have to though, if I can have enough training or something.” Casey sighed. “Then again, I also know I’m only a normal sensitive human.

...Why can’t I be a mutant instead?”

“Ahem. You are classified as a human. That is a true statement and one you cannot change.” Donnie hummed. “However, that does not mean you cannot be strong and capable in other ways.”

“Why does it sound like you’ve been in my place before?”

“Perhaps I did. Did you truly think being a soft-shell turtle is easy? I happened to be born as one of the only Testudines species whose outer shell cannot protect.” Donnie remarked. “Casey, your mask.” His hand signaled.

“What about my mask?”

“I merely want to add something.”

Confused, he hopped off the chair and handed the mask over. “Hmm. As long as you don’t mess with the stripes, Uncle Don.”

“Who says I won’t?”

Casey kicked Donnie’s leg.

“‘Ow,’ I say sarcastically without feeling physical pain.”

“Hmph.” He crossed his arms. “Why do you keep saying things like that?”

“Such as?”

“You say those action verbs, even when you’re already doing them.”

April snorted. “Just his thing, kid. Uncle Don’s got his special quirks.”

“Do you have a quirk?”

“Picking unnecessary fights for one,” Donnie commented.

“You only call them ‘unnecessary,’ because you never want to fix the problem.”

He rolled his eyes. “My solution would’ve been ten times more efficient if you had allowed my technology and I to do the work.”

Casey wondered. “Does your tech ever go haywire, Uncle Don?”

“No.”

“Oh man,” April began, “you should’ve been there for this one time. Your Uncle Don was building some kind of overprotective bed to keep your late Gramps from waking up from his beauty sleep.”

“Gramps likes to sleep?”

“You’d be surprised to hear that he sure does.”

“Then what happened?”

“Uncle Don asked your Dad, Uncle Mikey, and Uncle Raph to try punching, slicing, throwing whatever they could on the bed. They were attacking it like crazy!”

“And then?” 

“And the bed was even more insane, ‘cause there were actual missiles shooting out! They went straight for his brothers. At some point, it got overboard, so Uncle Don tried to command it to stop.”

“I’m hearing a ‘but’ coming.”

“But it malfunctioned and thought Uncle Don was the enemy!”

“However!” Donnie pointed his finger up, interrupting the story-telling. “It did not take long for my creation to recognize his master.”

“Still went haywire in my book,” April remarked. 

“Ignoring that.” His robotic hand tapped the edge of his workbench, grabbing Casey’s attention. “Come here, young man.” He slid back the mask, except in his hands, it felt as if the frame had thicken.

“It looks the same, but it doesn’t feel the same?”

“Try wearing it over your face.”

The boy did as told. All of a sudden, a bunch of green rectangles and words appeared in his vision. He gasped in awe. He spun around slowly, watching the rectangle focus on a figure through the wall.

“Yes yes, I know. I am well aware of how amazing I am.” Donnie huffed in pride. “I have opted to construct an interface with your mask. I cannot see why you shouldn’t have something to defend yourself with,” he reasoned. “I have other updates in mind later on. As of now, however, your mask will help you detect life forms across other rooms or through other objects.” 

“That’s so cool!” The boy hesitated though. “But I don’t want to break it or anything.”

“Hey.” April rested her hand on Casey’s shoulder, giving a firm squeeze. “Our resources are already scarce. Using then losing them is better than nothing. You better make the most of our tech. Understood, soldier?”

Casey grinned underneath his mask. He fixed his posture up and saluted. “Gotcha–! Understood, Commander!” 

He faced the inventor, whose hands were already back to being occupied with the “sphere.” “Thanks so much, Uncle Don!” Casey exclaimed, leaping towards the turtle to give a tight hug. “You’re the best!” 

Upon contact, Donnie stiffened up, but his lack of experience with physical touch did not prevent a smile forming on his face. He extended a robotic arm, patting Casey’s back. 

The boy then scanned around curiously with his mask. “Hey! Think I spot Uncle Mikey and Uncle Raph two floors down! They’re holding hands over a table or something. Why are so many people circling around them?”

April rolled her eyes. “Sounds like another arm-wrestling match between the our youngest and oldest brother.” 

Just like that, Casey booked it out of the laboratory so quickly, it reminded her of a certain red-eared slider. “What the–! Casey!” April groaned. “And here I thought we don’t have to deal with runaway kids. I better catch up to him.” 

“Would not worry about him too much,” Donnie commented. 

“What do you mean by that?”

“Considering we will not always be alive to protect him... the sooner we leave him to himself, the easier it will be for him to survive alone.” 

“Hey. Come on now.” April walked to her best friend’s side. “Don’t you say things like that. We’re all going to survive this together–.”

“April.” Slight pain wavered in his voice. “You know as well as I do how our current reality is. It is only a matter of time before the Kraang finds everyone.” 

“Yet you’re still here trying.”

No response.

“It’s all because of the kid, isn’t it?” April affirmed. “He ain’t any genius prodigy you were expecting long ago. But he gave you a reason to try– he became someone worth fighting for.”

“I would not put it as simply as that.”

She shrugged. “That’s how I’d say it. You know you’re not the only one whose life changed because of Casey.”

Donnie paused his work, turning off the butane torch and finally pulling his goggles off his eyes again. “...Casey reminds me of when we were young, being rash and immature teenagers like any other. I hate admitting to such thing, but I was one too. And I hate admitting much more how much I missed those times.

The child has known nothing of the trouble we’ve experienced outside, April: when Cassandra was killed, when Draxum was torn apart, when Dad decided to sacrifice himself despite the slim odds.” His hands clenched into fists.

“Do not expect me to have any false hope for our future, but do not assume I would want Casey to feel the same way. For as long as he can, I want him to hold onto that false hope.”

“...” April had her arms crossed. Her eyes slowly came to linger on the workbench. “Is that ‘sphere’ his false hope?”

“..No. Not his.” Donnie traced his thumb over his contraption. “It’s for (Name).”

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: The Annihilation

The Annihilation and The General, pt2 [Prev]

Soldiers start running the instant the security feed whites out from the activation of the Annihilation’s power. A siren begins to wail seconds later. Reinforcements arrive at the office in under two minutes, only to end up waiting uselessly in the corridor as the general orders them – loudly – to stand down.

The two guards join them in that corridor shortly, carrying the corroded remnants of their rifles.

A minute and a half after that, Commandant Ahden Musal arrives on the scene. The prosthetic leg he is wearing is poorly suited to running, forcing his gait into an ungainly off-kilter limp.

The other soldiers part wordlessly to let him through.

“General,” he pants breathlessly by way of acknowledgement. His voice is barely audible over the siren wail. “Commandant,” she returns, projecting volume with far less effort.

He doesn't pause long enough to salute. Instead he goes straight to his charge. The blue light begins to die the second Nikef lays eyes on him. 

He puts both hands on her shoulders, turning her bodily to face him in the process. He locks eyes with her wild, lambent stare. “Easy,” he says, “stand down, kid, stand down. I'm here now. You're okay. You're safe.”

Watching, the general slowly lowers her hands to her sides.

“Breathe with me,” Ahden instructs, then has to repeat it. The Annihilation nods her head and begins – inaccurately at first – to match her breath to his.

The wall clock inaudibly counts the minutes past. The assembled soldiers – still attracting further reinforcements – wait in the corridor, passing the orders to stand down from one to another by gesture. Radios crackle and are answered reluctantly.

Eventually, Ahden speaks up again. “General,” he shouts over the noise. “I will return her to her quarters now.” “Agreed. You will report to me as soon as it is safe to do so.” “Yes, General.”

Ahden takes Nikef’s arm and leads her from the office room.

The soldiers each turn to watch them as they pass, rifles in hand but not raised to fire. Nikef shoves her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie, and walks with her head low.

As they turn the corner, the general begins to give orders to disperse the crowd. Word finally gets through to security, and the siren cuts off mid-wail. The silence is loud in its wake.

Ahden leads Nikef past the cafeteria and back through the courtyard into a second wing of the building. Suspicious, worried eyes follow them all the way. A short walk down another corridor much like the others, but emptier, then they stop at a windowless door bearing a prominent “explosive materials” hazard mark in blue.

Inside, an untidy bedroom. Discarded clothes form a heap beside the unmade bed, books overspill their shelves, and looseleaf paper covers the desk as well as forming untidy stacks on the carpet. A camera above the door keeps passive vigil over the scene.

Nikef shrugs free of Ahden’s hold on her arm, and beelines for the bed to flop down across it.

“She's not supposed to talk to me,” she complains. “She's not,” Ahden agrees, pulling up the chair from the desk. He is obliged to move a further stack of papers to the floor in order to sit down. “But graces, Nikef, you cannot threaten a General.”

Nikef sits up sharply and fixes wounded eyes on Ahden. The hood of her hoodie falls back as she does so, freeing untidy hair from its confines.

“She wanted to breed me like a racing dog,” she tells him. “She wanted to cut out my eggs and make test tube babies and put them through Tempest Two Point Oh to see if they come out with superpowers.”

Ahden opens his mouth, and closes it again. He drags a hand down his face. “Grace,” he repeats at length. “That's… a lot.”

“Can you imagine,” Nikef continues.  “Tempest daycare. Fit a pacifier to the inside of the titanium gag. Hang a little mobile up over the evil dentist chair. I told her no way, not ever.” “Which seems entirely reasonable,” Ahden agrees. His tone is weary. “I thought so.” The pair look at each other. Ahden says nothing, but his lips are pressed together flatly.

“You're mad,” Nikef accuses. She hugs her elbows. “I didn't hurt anyone.” Ahden takes a breath. “I am mad,” he admits, “but it's nothing that can't wait. We can talk about it later. When you’re… calmer.” “Why are you mad?” Nikef protests. “She’s the one who broke the protocol. She’s supposed to talk to you. I tried to be nice, I even went with her to her stupid office – she’s not supposed to talk to me.”

Ahden pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to get into it while you’re upset,” he repeats. “And how am I supposed to calm down if I know you’re mad at me and you won’t even tell me why?” “I don’t know. Read a book, take a bath – something.” “You think I lost my temper. I didn’t. Hurt. Anyone. There’s a protocol for a reason – you know I don’t cope well with – official, officious – whatever-that-was.” More silence. After a few beats, Nikef gathers her knees up to her chest. “You’re supposed to be on my side,” she sniffs.

“I am on your side. Do you think there won’t be consequences, if they cannot trust you around important personnel?” “I’m not afraid of them.” “And what about me? Now I have to go and get yelled at on your behalf – does that bother you at all?”

Nikef glowers at him from over her folded arms. Ahden throws up his hands in a gesture of exasperation.

“Calm yourself down, Nikef. This will be easier when we’ve both calmed down.” “I’m calm,” Nikef declares. But there is a blue glimmer in the depths of her eyes. “I am going to go report to our new commanding officer and get dressed down and try to smooth out some ruffled feathers. You are going to stay here and not break anything. Are we in agreement?” “Yes sir,” Nikef answers acidly.

She glares at him until the door closes firmly behind him. Then she tips slowly onto her side on the bed, still hugging her legs to her chest.

[cowbot-lumberjane]

Connection: Established

>What does it feel like? 

“It feels… heavy. Like my entire body is made of concrete but moves just fine. What does it feel like for you?”

>Processing query… Natural. I have never known any other form of being. 

“Fair, dumb question I guess. Your turn.”

>Why do you stay?

“What do you mean?” >The role of a pilot is dangerous, and at times has been called things like “suicidal” and “hellish”. I assume this is due to the augmentation process as well as the missions you are deployed on. You have been offered transfer on multiple occasions, why do you stay?

The pilot’s brow furrowed in thought at the question. She hadn’t assumed the machine had known about the offers, or that it had thought much about it. The fact that it thought at all still rattled her some. Who else knew? Did it talk to the repair crew? What about the other machines? Her eyes scanned the bay as she tried to let an answer form, catching on the details of the machine’s “siblings” that sat still on their repair racks. Finally she managed to speak, though what came out was perhaps a bit more honest than she had cared to be during their other late night talks.

“I stayed for you.”

>....

“Are you alright?”

>...For me?

Its words were different this time. She could almost hear a tinge of longing through the soft crackle of the cockpit speakers. Suddenly feeling a bit more timid about her admittance, she lifted her hands away from where they had rested on the controls. 

“Yeah, for you. Is, that okay?”

>I do not understand. Lights across the control console flickered their dull orange as it spoke in a tone more human than she’d heard before. 

>I am a machine. A tool. A weapon. Why risk your life for what is replaceable?

“Replaceable? Aw come on now.” She knocked a hand into the metal walls that encompassed her. “You know damn well we’re a team. I don’t think I could ever get used to drivin’ another vanguard. Besides… I uh, I like you.”

>In what way?

A good question. She’d thought a lot about it in recent weeks. How could she describe it? How could she possibly begin to say that the only time she felt alive was when the augments in her skull connected with the machine’s neural computers? Or how that she only ever felt like a person when addressed as part of their pairing?

“I uh… I dunno… I guess I just feel a connection with you… Y’know….?”

>... I believe so.

Her hand reached up behind her head to feel at the access port melded to the flesh on the back of her neck. Each time she readjusted in the pilot’s seat she could feel every inch of titanium running along her spine, every neural wire in her arms. The soft hum of the machine’s cable connected at the base of her skull was a warmth she would never know with another person, if she could consider herself one. Her mind drew inward, deeper into the simulated consciousness the two shared between them. Slowly the walls of the cockpit fell away one by one until she was left staring up at a burning manifestation of the weapon’s own mind. It floated unflinchingly in the cybernetic void around her making the simulated air crackle with electricity. Her own visage reached out a hand and when her palm was pressed firmly against the white hot energy of the fission-powered tool of war she could feel every memory wash over at once. Her skin crawled outside the simulation, legs writhing as her breath grew ragged and heavy. Each breath tasted like the battlefield. Like gunpowder and heavy-class tonnage. Fire and smoke and steel and white hot bursts of energy stung at her lungs with each gasp. 

The machine’s own feedback was of similar magnitude. Within the metal housings and endless clusters of wires and computers something primordial stirred as the two melded into each other. Soft whirring rang out from its gigantic head as vents on its back opened to dump excess heat, and its hands clenched slowly, servos humming quietly in the otherwise empty launch bay. The pilot’s movements within it were slow and sensual. Eyes hidden behind her helmet but mouth hanging firmly agape as her hands caressed the link nodes along the machine’s internal controls. It had never felt anything like this without her. It wasn’t sure if its siblings were capable of such things, it did not understand what it meant to relate or be social. But it understood her. It understood the feeling of her scarred hands delicately touched along the control sticks and lines of power switches. Within the simulation there were no longer two entities. Where they had stood facing each other now was only the one, the culmination, the zenith. 

The pilot could feel her body convulse slightly as the meld completed. Despite her years of training and successful augmentations she never quite got used to the feeling of neural-fluid entering her system. She was unable to speak now, not out loud anyway. All that resounded as the cockpit slowly closed and locked with a soft hiss where latent whimpers from her corporeal form. As one they moved their arms carefully in front of the hulking chassis and locked their hands together. Perhaps it looked odd to anyone who witnessed it on the outside, if anyone was even around this time of night. A war machine holding hands with itself as the pilot inside felt a body-shocking sense of pure euphoria and an ecstasy unmatched by any true physical sensation. Inside the cockpit the viewscreens did not flicker to life. Instead the pilot’s waves of tension and release were only shown in the soft orange glow of status lights and digital readout displays. Sound within the small space would not echo the outside world either, her moaning now entirely enclosed only for the two of them to hear. 

Within their melded mind they spoke not as a soldier and its weapon, not even as human and machine. Between augmentation and the complete intermingling of consciousness neither could truly be described as either, but something entirely new. Something that had proved itself time and time again across countless battles and hundreds of slain enemies. Together they would stand and fall as one as the words filled every space within the endless simulation. 

>”I love you.”

[iambic-stan]

last book + last stethoscope, part 43

Yep, I'm a grown woman reading Newbery Award-winning books, and I can't even say working with kids is my primary responsibility at work.  But it was kind of an accident, because I came upon another of this author's titles, Alebrijes, while shelving books at work.  The cover was just so pretty, and my will has caved to lesser things.  I LOVED that book, and of course I had to read the title she referenced in its epilogue.  Besides, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH is one of my all-time favorite books--and another sci-fi/fantasy Newbery winner.  I also did enjoy my share of Newberys as a kid--Shiloh, Dear Mr. Henshaw, The Witch of Blackbird Pond, Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry, Bridge to Teribithia, The Giver, Summer of the Swans, Up a Road Slowly, and on and on.  Ok, not to get off track here.

So this is my green/gold MDF procardial titanium cardiology scope with Donna Barba Higuera's The Last Cuentista.  This middle-grade novel seems significantly more complex than a lot of the aforementioned titles, but still manages to be universally appealing enough that I know I would've enjoyed it as a tween/teen as well.  A comet is headed for Earth that scientists say will render the planet uninhabitable.  Because her parents are brilliant scientists and the powers that be figure they'll come in handy populating a new planet, Petra is given the chance of a lifetime to take a 300+ year journey to the planet Sagan with her parents and younger brother.  She's distraught and conflicted about leaving behind everyone else she cares about just because she's one of the lucky chosen ones, but she doesn't have time to ruminate on it too much. She has to be prepared to go into stasis.  This is depicted to be a not-entirely-insane process for the year 2061, but it doesn't go without some hiccups and by the time Petra has awoken, she's looking at a completely different world--one from which her parents and brother and everyone else who remembers humanity as it was in the 21st century, are nowhere to be found.  And the people who woke her up?  They never heard that George Santayana quote, or they listened to Sting's "History Will Teach Us Nothing" and took it quite literally.  So it's up to this twelve-year-old who's spent the last few hundred years asleep to save humanity, and the funny thing is, Higuera convinced my cynical ass that humanity is worth saving. 

[materialsscienceandengineering]

Producing high-performance titanium alloy parts -- whether for spacecraft, submarines or medical devices -- has long been a slow, resource-intensive process. Even with advanced metal 3D-printing techniques, finding the right manufacturing conditions has required extensive testing and fine-tuning. What if these parts could be built more quickly, stronger and with near-perfect precision? A team comprising experts from the Johns Hopkins Applied Physics Laboratory (APL) in Laurel, Maryland, and the Johns Hopkins Whiting School of Engineering is leveraging artificial intelligence to make that a reality. They've identified processing techniques that improve both the speed of production and the strength of these advanced materials -- an advance with implications from the deep sea to outer space.

Read more.

[usafphantom2]

Just some Records held by the SR-71

Altitude in Horizontal Flight: 85,068.997 feet

Speed Over a Straight Course – Average Speed: 2,193.167 mph

Speed Over a Recognized Course: New York to London: 1 hour, 54 minutes, 56.4 seconds

The SR-71’s speed was not limited by the power of its engines. It was limited by the heat its structure could withstand.

Titanium makes up 93% of the SR-71s structure. A material that had never been truly utilized to its full potential until the SR-71 came along.

Each SR 71 was handmade. That means everyone of the Blackbirds were ever so slightly different. The men that flew the SR’s had their favorites and then there were the hangar queens that no one liked to fly..

The reason why titanium was so expensive was the process to make it usable.

The first reliable process to produce chemically pure titanium was developed in the 1940s. This process made the SR-71 possible. It begins by first converting the titanium dioxide to titanium chloride.

How do we convert the Titanium?

To do this titanium dioxide is mixed with chlorine and pure carbon and heated. Any oxygen or nitrogen leaking in will ruin the process, so this has to be done in relatively small batches in a sealed vessel. Once this process is complete, we have Titanium Chloride.

We then need to purify the Titanium Chloride from any impurities in the titanium ore through distillation. Where we heat the product and separate titanium chloride using its lower boiling point.

This Titanium Chloride vapor is fed into a stainless steel vessel containing molten magnesium at 1300 kelvin. Titanium is highly reactive with oxygen at high temperatures, so the vessel also needs to be sealed and filled with argon. Here the Titanium Chloride reacts with the magnesium, which itself is an expensive metal, to form titanium and magnesium chloride.

At times the engineers were perplexed as to what was causing problems, but thankfully they documented and cataloged everything, which helped find trends in their failures.

They discovered that spot welded parts made in the summer were failing very early in their life, but those welded in winter were fine. They eventually tracked the problem to the fact that the Burbank water treatment facility was adding chlorine to the water they used to clean the parts to prevent algae blooms in summer, but took it out in winter. Chlorine as we saw earlier reacts with titanium, so they began using distilled water from this point on.

They discovered that their cadmium plated tools were leaving trace amounts of cadmium on bolts, which would cause galvanic corrosion and cause the bolts to fail. This discovery led to all cadmium tools to be removed from the workshop.

Converting Titanium for the SR-71 is really slow

This reduction reaction is extremely slow, between 2 and 4 days. It’s pretty clear that titanium is expensive and extremely difficult to work with. But without Titanium and the SR-71, we wouldn’t be where we are today, talking about the fastest, air, breathing airplane in the world. You can read the full article here. Linda Sheffield.

@Habubrats71 via X

[uncanines]

OPERATION THALASSOPHOBIA. AN HOUR SINCE BREACH. content warning: canon-typical violence and gore.

alarms were wailing red.

lights strobing in seizure - inducing bursts.

and legion didn't know how long he had been fighting. ten minutes. thirty minutes. maybe an hour. but it didn't really matter⸻ he needed to stay standing, to take hits, to shepherd his dupes against the threats to atlantis.

everyone in the lower levels were counting on them to thwart these machine - and - flesh abominations from getting further in. but there was nothing he wouldn't do to make gossamer's job a little easier, to make mercy feel a little safer. so even when he heard agent climax scream, even when he caught a glimpse of the lust agent's skull crushed under a titanium heel, three stomps before his brain matter slicked the hangar floor, legion attempted to keep his focus on the enemies right in front of him⸻ one dupe gunning down czernobog mutts with an assault rifle, another hacking and slashing flesh and sinew with a sword, more and more with different weapons and approaches, while he was wielding a special morningstar. almost like a medieval knight. " ha, " levi chuckled as they took down a soldier, then immediately commanding them toward the next threats. an elbow smashed onto legion's ribs, strong enough to make him gasp for air, but another dupe instantly blinked into existence beside him, quickly attacking the czernobog soldier. " what madness is this ? there keeps being more of you ? and more ! " and all the dupes could not help but just laugh at the question. legion smashed the spiked ball of his weapon into the soldier, while a few of his dupes attacked at the same time, too. " what part of legion don't you understand ? " legion said. " ew, ew, ew. " a particularly petulant dupe whined as blood splattered all over him after puncturing a major artery. meanwhile, a more aggressive dupe stabbed the soldier one, two, thirteen times, grinning with every squelch as he drove his sword into flesh. " just fuckin' lie down and die already, mechanical freak ! " then, a headshot by another dupe, sighing when the threat finally died. " don't they have an neural implant that makes them process everything faster ? ha, you'd think they'd realize their lack of efficacy of their approach quicker. " and although legion had taken down a dozen of soldiers, the battle was far from over. his dupes looked like him, mostly fought like him, and violence against one of them always gave them a unity of mind⸻ but they were still far from invincible. and they could die like him, too. it was inevitable, really. and no matter how many times he had experienced death, it always felt visceral to him. he was the perfect weapon against crowd of enemies, but weakness lied in how one death could lead to all the dominoes tumbling down. a dupe went down with a blade in throat, another with a plasma blast through the sternum, another bled out after a limb was ripped off. and their bodies vanished in a flash⸻ shaking his head to maintain focus as their memories and experiences poured back into him.

the memory backwash.

pain.   static.   screams   in   his   own   voice.

" keep going, " he screamed to his dupes, but it really was a war cry from him, taking everything in him not to stagger after experiencing multiple deaths. hell, it was a miracle he hadn't gone insane after all these time. but it helped that he was fighting for something. for someone. another dupe went down hard, tackled by three czernobog bastards. and levi's memories were immediately flooded by the dupe— shoulder   ripped,   neck   snapped,   ribs   crushed   under   the weight. and his own momentum against a cyborg faltered, his mind   cracking   at   the   edges, reabsorbing   too   much   too   fast. more and more dupes went down as the cyborgs recalibrated and adapted to his abilities⸻ and levi lived every single one of their deaths.

torn apart.   bleeding.   dying.   over   and   over. he managed to destroy a few more cyborgs with everything he had left, but levi was maniacally grinning at this point. too much pain, too much memory, his mind too fractured and dazed to make sense of it all. " c'mon, i can do this all day, " levi taunted, before a heavy punch landed on his face. another dupe blinked into existence, but it didn't take long until that dupe was torn apart, too. another death added into memory, his vision white at the corners, his enemies blurring and doubling. another punch landed on him too fast and levi spat out blood ...

but nothing.

a duplicate didn't emerge. and all he could feel was agonizing crack of his bones. he got his again. and levi tried to hit back but missed. the czernobog soldiers swarmed him, knocking him down hard. his lungs rattled and his chest wouldn't rise anymore without excruciating pain, a shoulder out of socket, an eye swelling shut. and his heartbeat sounded like it was trying to climb out of his chest. " lorrin, " he muttered as he looked at something above him, past the cyborgs trying to smash the life out of him. he could feel every last death echoing in him, but it wasn't his dupes that haunted him in this moment⸻ it was his brother. he loved him so much. and levi hated that he doomed him into this life. " i'm so sorry, lore. " he said, voice soft and pained, gaze lingering on the hallucination. but if this was it, if this was really it, levi smiled anyway. because at least that was the last face he'd see, even if made up by his mind. and then everything faded to black.

... ... ... ... ... beep. beep. beep. " charging⸻ clear ! " and a jolt crawled through his bones. cockroach.

[awrynoise]

[spoilers] just finished playing subnautica for the first time, here's some screenshots i took. adored every second of this game. (screenshot below is the first i took, remembered the steam screenshot shortcut a moment too late)

early on in my playthrough, i used my newly created seamoth to search the crash. upon exiting the crash (i foolishly used up all of my fire extinguishers on the outside before i could find the entrance) i found this. swam around for almost 5 minutes in astoundment before i needed to get Leave. fly high asphalt <3

say hello to horses

my first main base and a friend in the moonpool :) (learnt the f11 shortcut for screenshots that dont have the hud all over them. yay! still forgot to use it though, dont worry about it)

genuinely terrified at this when i first saw it. had to pause the game for a moment (it is a plant)

this too freaked me out, i hadn't noticed it until i went reading through a day later. i did some double checking and the tech hud voice says similar things????? wtf. who

on an unrelated note, lost horses trying to explore the back of the crash soon after this. you can probably guess the joke. i believe th

love exploring. love this game

after losing horses, pamala anderso was the next seamoth to brave the perils, though was quickly felled by two crabsquids and a reckless driver. i have no proof but i swear

gatorade! this name and the last were from my darling chosen human. also made the cyclops about this time too— used the carry space to lug a bunch of titanium over to the underwater islands to make a new main base on the other side of the map

i forgot to take screenshots over the next few days but i made the base, during the process beaching gatorade on the shore of the nearby island running from a warper. cya later- *connection cuts out*

*connection fizzles back in* -managed to get this far with my final seamoth, obliterator, before realising that maybe i needed that prawn suit i didn't yet have. watched a first time playthrough and they got it from.. the crash that i had been to multiple times. what i thought was an environmental blockage was actually a little bit of parkour i had failed to recognise. i rushed there to get what i needed. also learnt that the propulsion cannon and the stasis rifle are actually useful?? don't know how i missed that

the prawn suit was lovingly named matress

[crabsquid (tiny) !!! i dont know if this warning is needed but]

remembered i could do this and put this random egg i had picked up in there. what a sweet friend, spinning around. i released her soon before leaving the planet.

before venturing to the inactive lava zone that filled me with dread with its sheer visage, i decided to cross a thing off my to do list.

on the topic of crossing things, something crossed my mind. matress can walk on land, could i...? maybe ?

gatorade lives, though had little use, what with obliterator having all of the upgrades. i let gatorade rest in the shallow waters, to relax from what i assume was a terrifying experience

with everything else done, i descended to the lava lakes and further on, three times. i kept forgetting to save and then dying from something else unrelated. once i got the thermal reactor upgrade for matress, i went down for a second trip in earnest to enter that final part of the game.

this part almost made my cry. what an elegantly and beautifully designed creature. i stayed with the babies for about 20 minutes and returned to check in with the elder every half hour after

there was one thing left to do in the game that i could think of, so i took a lot of screenshots at this time. i'll just set them here

this is the second main base, at the underwater islands. maybe ill go back and get a better picture of it.

and below is my first main base, at the edge of the grand reef. i love the reefbacks so much, so putting my base under where they usually traverse was a given. both bases also had bonesharks, which is a coincidence i don't regret— i love the bonesharks too, as annoying as they were

and yeah that pretty much it. this is one of my favourite games now. yeah

thanks for sticking with me :))

[manifesting-minerva]

Ghosts & Banshees (Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader) - Part 3

Author's Note: Part 3 is here! Enjoy it! It gets better after this. - Minerva 🐦‍⬛

Summary: Ghost and Y/N get close during one of their training session. But how close is close enough for Simon?

Warnings: Language, physical combat, innuendos

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Y/N removed her right black jacket sliding it down her arms and over her shoulder, revealing her lean and muscular physique. Feminine but looks oh so strong. Ghost watched in awe as she put her brunette hair up in a ponytail. Her sports bra hugged her breasts together and her black leggings wrapped around her physique like a second skin.

He gulped trying to maintain his composure and trying to look around as much as possible to not get his pants feeling tighter than they are. Now, not a lot of things got to Ghost, between his abusive past and occupation he had a skin made of titanium. Yes, he had relations with women before but it never got in the way of his job. Until he met Y/N. He knew she was going to be a distraction, whether or a good one or a bad one he was unsure of but the way she jogged on the spot and doing her warm ups, he felt time slow down.

Snapping himself from his thoughts, he moved to the centre of the mat and soon Y/N followed, standing opposite him. She looked so small in front of him he was scared he would snap her in half. Not that it would take much. He could snap anyone in half just by looking at them let alone lay a hand on them.

Adjusting their positions, feet planted to the floor, fists fisted into balls in front of their faces, they looked in each others' brown eyes.

"Now don't go too easy on me Ghost." Y/N teased.

"I wouldn't worry about me, love" He said. The word just slipped from his lips without him being able to process it. In a split of a second, Y/N charged at him, slipping herself between his open legs, using her right elbow against his hips and her left elbow behind his knee cap making him fall flat on his back. Composing himself from the whiplash he looked up to find her staring down at him, smirking. He tried his best not to get a boner there and then. But Ghost wasn't one to lose.

"I would worry about you... love." She imitated him down to the accent. Her victory was cut short when from her crouching position Ghost managed to flip his body around her, securing an arm around her torso and flipping her underneath him, pinning her to the mat, his body between her legs. She looked at him breathlessly and flushed, her chest heaving up and down, touching his.

"Again, you're quick but you lack strength Sergeant." Ghost said lowly, almost a growl. In the meantime, Price, Gaz and Soap were helping themselves in front of them. With a cocky smirk, Y/N looked down between their bodies. So close to each other they were sharing each others' heat.

"Tell me Ghost," She sang. "How do you like your eggs? Diced or scrambled?" Looking down as well, Ghost saw her knee and a small knife between his legs, gently pressing against his crotch. No amount of restraint in the world for a man to hold back from the dirtiest thoughts.

"Whole." He replied, making Y/N laugh. He pulled himself up on his feet and offered a hand to help her get up. But Y/N was not one to go down easily. As soon as she took his hand, she yanked his arm with such force that she sent him on his knees and jumped behind him, holding one of his arms behind his back.

"It seems like you had them for breakfast there Lieutenant." She gently released him.

"Is it me or am I the only one getting hard? How is he not hard from this?" Soap said adjusting his pants.

"Alright you two. I don't want to clean up Ghost's balls off the mat. Funnily enough, we kinda need him Y/N." Price intervened, laughing.

"I'm sure you do," Y/N replied. "I'm gonna go see how the recruits are doing after their 25 lap punishment. Until next time Ghostie." She smiled and exited the gym.

All four men were quiet. "Ghostie huh?" Soap teased.

"Don't start Johnny." Ghost lifted his mask to take a sip of water. He noticed that she left her jacket behind her. He took it in his hands and felt the soft fabric against his calloused hand.

"Guess Price wasn't wrong about her castrating us blindly. Mate you were this close to losing your jewels."

"I'm never wrong." Price coughed. "Also, 25 laps?"

"They underestimated her." Simon scoffed as he made his way to his apartment. Looking at Y/N's door he wondered if she was already inside so he knocked gently.

No answer.

He waited and knocked again gently and the door opened. She had a fluffy white bathrobe three sizes bigger than her and a towel around her head. No makeup whatsoever, she looked fresh out of the shower.

"Oh Ghost I'm so sorry to keep you waiting. Come on in." She invited him inside.

"Umm...no it's okay. I'm here to return your jacket. You left it behind." He stretched his arm holding her jacket.

"Ah thank you. I was wondering where I left it." She took the jacket from his hand. "Are you sure you don't want to come in? I can make you a cup of tea if you want." His heart was about to burst. She looked adorable in her oversized bathrobe swallowing her little body with a massive towel on her head, giving him almost puppy eyes. How could he say no?

"If you insist." She smiled widely at his acceptance. She moved inside and went straight to the bathroom. "Have a seat and make yourself comfortable I'll be with you in 5 minutes!" She shouted from the bathroom.

He took a seat in one of the armchairs with the fancy blankets she had. The smell of talc filled his nostrils. She was cooking something sweet because the smell of cinnamon mixed with the fabric conditioner of the blankets. It smelled like home.

Ghost looked around her furnished apartment.

Looks like a woman lives here. A cosy one.

After a few minutes Y/N showed up in the living room, wearing an oversized grey t-shirt and black shorts. Her hair was still damp. She put on the kettle and got the mugs out. "How many sugars Simon?"

"None." He replied. "Do you need any help?" He asked.

"No I'm fine thank you." She smiled at him as she turned back to making tea. "Milk?"

"None." He replied again.

"Ah, you're so traditional. I can't down tea with at least two teaspoons of sugar and milk. I like tea don't get me wrong and I like herbal tea but I like it sweet." He heard her ramble on about tea with a smile hiding under his balaclava.

Two sugars with milk.

"So basically you drink sugar with tea not tea with sugar." He joked as he took the cup of tea from her hands.

"Now, now Simon, don't tell a girl about her cravings." They conversed and shared their memories when they joined the military, when Simon joined the SAS and how he became lieutenant, how he met Soap and Price and Gaz. He tried to keep it as light as possible and not mention the people he lost during those times as did she.

Simon looked over to the little clock hung on her wall. "Oh my God I've been here for two hours! I probably interrupted your rest." He placed the cup on the coffee table and got up from the armchair.

"Oh don't worry. I enjoyed our little tete-a-tete. Just don't tell Soap or he'll get jealous." She giggled as she walked him to the door, making him chuckle.

"This was nice though." She said opening the door to find Soap staring at them.

"Did ye have a tea party without me?" Soap looked offended (jokingly of course). You shook your head laughing as you closed the door.

"Jealous much Johnny?" Ghost rasped opening the door to his apartment and Soap followed him in.

"Are you 'aving a thing with 'er?" Soap asked in a flirty tone.

"I am not. We're just friends. I'm making her feel welcome. It's not easy for a woman to be in this place, eyes prying her by men who want to get in her pants." Ghost said suggestively towards Johnny.

"Mate if you're saying that Y/N can't defend herself you should rewind to 5 hours ago when she 'ad her knives inches away from yer family jewels and frankly I'd like to keep mine. Honestly I was having trouble keepin' it together."

"Maybe you do need a castration." Ghost retorted.

"And ye need to grow a pair and ask the lass out."

Soap patted Ghost on the back as he said his goodbyes and retreated to his apartment.

Simon could still taste the tea on his tongue and could still smell the talc in his nostrils. He closed his eyes for a minute and let himself wander off to how she were curled up on the couch with a blanket covering her lower half with a cup of tea in her hands.

Simon and relationships couldn't be found in any dictionary together. He was never interested in having any sort of relationship with any woman. Yes, he went out on a couple of dates when he was way younger but when he grew up and joined the military there was no time or even interest especially after his past to get involved with anyone. He was emotionally constipated as Soap had put it several times.

But Y/N was different. She felt like hope. But getting close to her can be dangerous and looked down upon. They could both lose their jobs or even worse if anyone found out they're together they could use her as blackmail for Simon.

But how could someone love a ghost?