#Train Speed Reduction

[townpostin]

Naxalites Call For Bandh In Kolhan Division On July 9-10

Train Speeds Reduced, Security Heightened In Response To Protest Authorities implement precautionary measures following recent encounters with Maoist leaders. JAMSHEDPUR – Various Naxalite organizations have announced a bandh in the Kolhan division from midnight July 9 to midnight July 10, protesting recent encounters with Maoist leaders. Trains passing through the Naxalite red zone will operate…

[pddparthi]

Unveiling the Power of Epicyclic Gearboxes: From Basic Principles to Advanced Applications

Introduction: The world of machines is driven by gears, and within this realm, the epicyclic gearbox, also known as a planetary gearset, stands out as a marvel of engineering ingenuity. This intricate system of interlocking gears offers a unique ability to achieve both speed reduction and torque multiplication, making it a cornerstone of various applications. Whether you’re fascinated by the…

[s0rr3l]

BLACK MYTH: WUKONG OC

Name: Lǐyú (carp)

Age: 25

Height: 5''11 ft/180 cm

Pronouns: They/Them

Story

A traveller out of time and space, Lǐyú finds themselves stranded on Black Wind Mountain, alone and at the mercy of its hostile inhabitants.

Taking pity, the Keeper of Black Wind Mountain takes them in and assigns them the position of <Shrine Caretaker>, a minor position that oversees the upkeep and maintenance of the various shrines within Black Wind Mountain.

Under the elder Keeper’s care, Lǐyú begins to familiarise themselves with their new circumstances through the Keeper's guidance. Inbetween duties, Lǐyú takes the time to learn and record the world about them in an effort to understand and survive.

This routine persists for several weeks, until the arrival of a certain monkey.

Lǐyú is an optional (Companion) to the [Destined One], who may join your party after accepting the request of the Keeper of the Black Wind Mountain.

Accepting Lǐyú as a (Companion) will unlock their personal quest <<Long Way From Home>>.

((More info about their stats/abilities below!))

Stats

Although physically weak, Lǐyú is a valuable companion of the Destined One and shows surprising tenacity against the challenges of this new world.

(Companion) Lǐyú has 5 stats to upgrade from LVL 1. Stamina Recovery Rate and Damage Reduction stats are unlocked after clearing Chapter 1 ‘Black Wind, Red Fire’.

Abilities

[Luck that goes against the Heavens]

Lǐyú's fortunes are known to dip and rise in unusual patterns.

While they often come across opportunities to gather precious materials, ingredients or equipment, it is always accompanied by mortal peril.

Their Luck is so unnatural that it defies the natural balance of the world, so fortuitous encounters often come with the risk of danger in an effort to suppress their Luck.

(Companion) Lǐyú has MAX LVL [LUCK].

Can inflict one of the following debuffs to enemies within their range: Increased Miss Rate, Reduced Critical Hit chance, Reduced Movement Speed, Reduced Resistance to the Four Banes

Grants one buff to allies, 2 buffs to Companions (for more information, please see BUFFS page)

Increase the rate of EQUIPMENT/LOOT drops and discovery of precious ingredients/materials

Due to their nature, (Companion) Lǐyú will influence the [Destined One]'s own [LUCK].

Warning: should Lǐyú enter the STRESSED state, their [LUCK] will start to indiscriminately target allies and foes alike.

Will attract enemy AGGRO within a certain radius if not using Stealth

Allies and Companions will be afflicted with one random debuff: Increased Miss Rate, Reduced Critical Hit chance, Reduced Movement Speed, Reduced Resistance to the Four Banes

Introduces random environmental hazards

It is recommended that the [Destined One] keep Lǐyú's STRESS to a minimum.

Skills

(Companion) Lǐyú should come equipped with the following skills prior to joining the [Destined One].

Shrine Caretaker: Taught the basic upkeep and care of shrine maintenance. Allows Lǐyú to access the hub-world like the [Destined One].

Stealth: the ability to sneak past lesser yaoguais. However, skill will increases STRESS on Lǐyú. Can be upgraded.

Additional skills can be attained or unlocked through the completion of quests or advancing the main storyline.

TIP: Lǐyú is purely a support type (Companion) with little to no attack skills and prone to causing unexpected changes to main storyline. May the [Destined One] keep this in mind.

Spells

Due to limited Mana, Lǐyú cannot perform any spells.

Upon the completion of the <<Teacher for a Day>> quest, Lǐyú can begin training to increase mana and unlock [Spells].

In Chapter 3 ‘White Snow, Ice Cold’, Lǐyú can trigger the optional side quest <<Teacher for a Day>> upon meeting (Companion) Zhu Bajie.

Curios

Due to limited space, can only equip one curio at a time.

Upon meeting the Yin Tiger or upgrading to Legendary quality armour, Lǐyú can increase their curio slot by +1.

Current slot:

Wind Chime: Rare quality. Found while exploring the ruins of an old temple at the bottom of the mountain. Slightly increases movement speed. “Hark, the wind rises! That yaoguai must be coming this way!”

Inventory

(Companion) Lǐyú starts off with 10 inventory slots. These are their starting equipment:

Journal: Never seems to run out of paper. Lǐyú can use this item to access daily observations, enemy weaknesses and important landmarks/discovered secret realm locations.

Gourd: unknown quality, gifted by Yuan Shoucheng. A mysterious item that will grow along with it's user, has yet to show any special abilities. Can be upgraded.

Backpack: unknown quality, bigger inside than out. Carries all of Lǐyú's belongings.

Smartphone: rare quality. A keepsake from Lǐyú's world. Interacting with this item with the [Destined One] can trigger side quest <<???>>. “What a marvelous device!”

Fruit Leather: peach-flavoured. A consumable item that can raise the [Destined One]'s favourability.

Equipment

(Companion) Lǐyú starts off with the following equipment:

Old Temple Garb: rare quality. Gifted by the Keeper of Black Wind Mountain, who claims it was left behind by the previous Shrine Caretaker.

Cotton wristwraps: common quality. Plain but sturdy, in surprisingly good condition.

Cotton legwraps: common quality. Plain but sturdy, in surprisingly good condition.

Sneakers: unknown quality, but undeniably tough. A foreign brand gifted by their best friend. Claims to be both water-proof and fire-proof.

Hoodie: rare quality. A limited edition print from Lǐyú's favourite brand. Offers no defensive abilities but brings a sense of comfort. Can decrease the rate of Lǐyú's STRESS.

Quest Objectives

<<Long Way From Home>>

Lǐyú's final objective is to return to their original world. This can be completed by first completing main quest <<Revive Sun Wukong>>

(This objective is an optional side quest available to the [Destined One]. It is not compulsory for the completion of main quest <<Revive Sun Wukong>>)

<<Hug Auntie>> (must complete main quest objective)

<<Eat hotpot with friends>> (must complete main quest objective)

<<Red String of Fate>>

Secret side quest that triggers randomly depending on the relationship status between (Companion) Lǐyú and the [Destined One].

To unlock post-game content, the [Destined One] must complete main quest objective <<Revive Sun Wukong>>.

Endings

There are currently three available endings depending on whether the [Destined One] will complete Lǐyú's personal quest <<Long Way From Home>>

<<Till We Meet Again>>

Normal ending. Lǐyú returns to their original world after the [Destined One] fufills their destiny.

<<Promise>>

Secret Ending. Unlocked after the successful completion of the following side quests:

<<Long Way From Home>>

<<Red String of Fate>>

<<Fishbowl>>

Secret Ending. Unlocked after the successful completion of the following side quests:

<<Red String of Fate>>

<<???>>

Depending on the [Destined One]'s actions during CHAPTER 3, can trigger side quest <<???>>

(To achieve this ending, the [Destined One] must fail to complete side quest <<Long Way From Home>>)

[sephrxn]

when you try to reassure me (i, a chronically ill person who almost died from a severe infection) that i should just “relax” and “regulate my nervous” and “stop stressing” you know what would ACTUALLY keep me from stressing? actual infrastructure and real fucking support. i dont WANT to be “relaxed’.

i want a cardiologist that listens without dismissing my ER trip as “normal” or tries to tell me that I should just work out more.

I want informed consent so I don’t spazz out from a botched IV.

i want the ER doctor to not tell me that my infection that I nearly died from wasn’t “that serious”.

I want a professor who actually respects my accommodations, and doesn’t demand explanations or treat accomodations like a suggestion.

i want a mother and community that is not constantly gaslighting me 24/7 and blaming my real, physical symptoms on stress, "bad vibes", dumb arbitrary shit, or reductive pseudoscience.

i want people who actually fucking listen.

I want my school disability office to not move at the speed of molasses, so I know my health is being treated like a legitimate concern and not some bureaucratic matter.

how am i not supposed to "stress" when healthcare and medical infrastructure ARE NOT designed for conditions where there isn't a "end all, fix all cure" (doctors are only trained to diagnose and treat, not actually listen).

stop blaming everything on “stress” if you can’t even acknowledge that the very systems that are set up to protect us fail us almost on the daily.

[railfangxy]

The Embodiment of Streamline Moderne

Most steam streamliners have shrouds to bring the engine into a Moderne style. Be that styling the engine to look as new as its consist does on the inside, OR embracing a look that borrows from contemporary diesel power.

Seems the Pennsylvania Railroad T1's were the exact opposite, at least at first. A futuristic design concept by Raymond Loewy was adapted to fit the outline of a steam engine

Just look between these two and the resemblance is clear

The T1's are already fairly modern machines as far as steam locomotives go. True, they are reciprocating machines so they still use cylinders and rods compared to individual steam motors, or a steam turbine drive. However, there's two or three aspects about them to complement their forward styling.

First is the duplex drive. The concept was to create a locomotive that was easier on the track at higher speeds by splitting up the driving wheels. More cylinders are needed, but the actual reciprocating mass is reduced. The T1's weren't the first iterations of this, on or off their home railroad, but they came with something else.

Second is poppet valves; more familiar with stationary steam engines, and persist today in internal combustion engines. Compared to piston valves, poppets allow for more precise timing of admission and exhaust to the cylinder, thus more power can be obtained. Poppet valves were tried a few times in the US in the 20s, and saw use elsewhere, but almost nothing like what the T1's had

Lastly is the Franklin System of Steam Distribution. This is a form of valve gear, large based on Lentz gear as it uses oscillation cams and has valves positions more like a piston. However, there's multiple sets of these valves, and the actual reciporicating mass is miniaturized and housed in a gearbox casing. In addition to the slight power boost offered by poppet valves, this further reduction of weight means the engine puts less energy into moving itself compared to its train. In addition, this protected the motion and meant maintenance requirements were actually lower compared to conventional valve gear.

If you know anything about the T1 that last part may sound odd, but the first engine to use the Franklin system did indeed require less maintenance than others in its division. The streamlining made access tricky, but it was really a problem when it came to making repairs not general maintenance.

All this and more set the T1 apart from anything that came before, or really since. It's only fitting they look the part of being a vision of the future. Just had no idea where the styling originated for them to look so much more modern on the outside, when they were already steps forward on the inside.

The best part about the iconic profile is that it never really left. I don't just mean the later T1's or the similar looking diesels. The prototype T1's kept the Loewy influence up front right til the end. Just iconic

[spikemd]

Just reblogged a post about harm reduction, and it reminded me that in my own personal life, learning about harm reduction was what finally started the cognitive dissonance that allowed me to start questioning my conservative Catholic upbringing. I was doing basic science research and shadowing with an infectious disease doctor once a week the summer after my freshman year of college, and he gave me ‘And the Band Played On’ to read as homework (which as a teen who read the focus on the family book on puberty as “sex ed” was truly a startling experience), and in the midst of that I met real life gay men who’d live through the start of the AIDS epidemic. And I just couldn’t understand how it made sense to say “condoms are bad, hard stop,” when even if I didn’t “agree with the lifestyle” (deep sigh from my now-bisexual self), I still didn’t want people to die or get a disease if we could prevent it. That’s where I started questioning the mentality of consequences and punishments and burdens that had been deeply instilled in me from childhood. That concept opened the door to supporting needle exchange and rejecting my anti-abortion upbringing and making the speed run from homophobic to ally to oh wait this is me. The next decade of questioning everything while I trained in medicine was exhausting and unsettling and fundamentally changed me, but I’m so grateful I had the chance to change.

For me, the concept of harm reduction was the crack that let the light in.

[usafphantom2]

#TomcatTail

#TomcatTuesday

That Time at Top Gun I Got Jumped by an F-5

Disclaimer: This #TomcatTail occurred almost 30 years ago and while I’ve got the lion’s share of the details correct, there may be a few errors but not in anything substantive to the story. Sorry, I’m old.

Getting selected to attend Top Gun in March of 1995 was pretty cool. Back in those days, TG was still at NAS Miramar so a good bit of training occurred in the Top Gun hangar and out over the water off San Diego. Other elements of training involved training ranges near El Centro/Yuma, Fallon, Nevada and China Lake, CA (emitter hop). All in all it was a great experience but it did have a couple “others”.

First, both the selected pilot and RIO are supposed to be cruise qualified, having done a deployment as they would likely become Pilot and RIO training officers after they graduated. Unfortunately, the luck of the draw had it that a non-cruise-experienced RIO got the nod to attend with me which made it just a bit more challenging. No dig on my RIO, it’s a really hard thing for anyone to do, but it made for some extra work on me in a learning environment.

The second “other” – and I know you aviators out there will be shaking your head in recognition – was that when I went through there was a HUGE budget problem in the flying hour program: not enough money for gas (when is there, right??). My CO’s solution was to only partially fill all the jets for each flight (internal fuel only) and NOT fill the drop tanks. Your normal fuel load of 20,000 pounds was reduced to 16,000 pounds (yes, 20% reduction). Not my favorite CO, BTW. I asked “can I at least take the drop tanks off so I don’t have the drag penalty?”, his answer was, in a word, “no.” D*ck. Any other classmates have this problem? Nope. Double D*ck.

That was my challenge all the way through Top Gun; an inexperienced RIO (still love him like a brother) and a 20% fuel penalty for every flight. My RIO got better pretty quickly and generally rose to the occasion, and for my part (having always been a Friend of Maintenance or FOM) I managed to often times sweet talk the Sailors fueling the jet to “accidentally” fill up the drops. I always had a great relationship with Sailors (my Dad was Enlisted before he became a Naval Aviator), so it wasn’t that hard to get ‘em to help me out on occasion.

It was a pretty lengthy syllabus (I counted 28 hops in my logbook just now) with your standard “small to big” training focus. 1v1s, 2v2s, 4v4s, the infamous “Flanker Hop” against high alt/high speed Vipers, threat emitters at China Lake, and Strike missions around Fallon, Nevada. The instructors were absolutely top notch and literally everything you did (from brief, to flight, to fight, to debrief) was critiqued. It’s like applying Blue Angel precision to the fighter environment.

With that, we come to the story of getting jumped by an F-5. As I recall, the hop was a four plane Self Escort Strike (Fighter/Bomber configuration) at the training range around Fallon, Nevada carrying two each inert Mk 82s (cement 500lb bombs). We’d fight our way in from the east on the north side of the range, hang a left at the right time to attack the Bravo 19 target complex to the south, and egress/hook out to the west after that (picture counter-clockwise flow). We were in a four plane and the section of F-14Bs were in the lead, and I was Dash-2 in the section of F-14As.

Side note – one crew per squadron was selected per class so they generally ran 2 sections of Tomcats and two sections of Hornets (maybe a few more). At the time, I was in VF-24 in the F-14A so I got crewed up with another Pilot/RIO [admission – for the LIFE of me I can’t remember their squadron……VF-213?.....31?... ...dunno….it was 1995 and they were flying A’s out of Miramar] and we’d swap leads every other mission/syllabus hop. Today “Stinky” was in the lead (not his real callsign).

We started the run from the east headed west along the northern boundary of the working area. We were one mile combat spread (each jet 1 mile apart) in a line abreast and I was on the far right (northernmost fighter); lead fighter in the B was on the far left and Stinky was 1 mile to my left. Break those hands out again if it helps. Looks about like this:

◄ - Dash 4 (me)

◄ - Dash 3 (Stinky)

◄ - Dash 2 (F-14B)

◄ - Dash 1 (Lead F-14B)

The expectation is that we’d see some long-range contacts (we did) and fire some BVR weapons (we did) and then make our way to the target area and get jumped either in the middle during our turn south (we did) or immediately off the target after we released (we did).

So we’re “haulin’ the chili” as we used to say, ingressing at 480kts and nearing the swing south. Parenthetically, we liked to travel at speeds in multiples of 60 because that made the time/distance calculation easier…..480kts = 8 miles a minute means 16 miles away = 2 minutes. We hit the turn point and start this sweeping gentle “wheel” to the left and steady up on a southerly heading as I get back in position having been on the outside of the turn. Right when we settle back in and we’re all 1-mile line abreast, my RIO shouts out on the tactical frequency “BOGEY RIGHT THREE O’CLOCK ONE MILE!!!” I look over and sure enough there’s an F-5 at one mile away on my altitude pointing right at me. Dang it.

Here’s where it gets funny. Stinky calls out on the radio “We’re clear!”, meaning he thinks we don’t need to engage and can blow through. Well yes, Stinky, YOU are clear because the F-5 is TWO miles from YOU and has no chance of catching YOU, but I’VE got him in my knickers and I HAVE to honor his presence and engage. So I do.

INTERMISSION – I will say that Stinky was a resoundingly gifted Tomcat pilot and was as good at ACM as anyone, but this was NOT the first time he’d left me to engage as he blew through. It happened on a previous 2 plane ingress; I got jumped and he kept going. Not the coolest move, naturally, and the Instructors were savage in their critique but honestly I didn’t have to worry about it after Top Gun because he wasn’t in my squadron. We now return you to your previously schedule dogfight.

So bam, max performance turn to the right to take the F-5 down my right side close aboard to try and neutralize the threat and then figure out what’s next. I figure that if I want to have a snowballs chance in hell to get back to my division, I had to steer the fight properly. So he goes down my right side and I take the fight two circle (continue the right turn, but mostly in the vertical), come out of blower to get the speed down and turn rate to increase quickly and pull hard to get nose on. It works pretty well because the F-5 turns about like a Phantom (meaning: it doesn’t). I get the nose to rate around quickly and pull down to get nose on the F-5 and call a quick “Fox 2” on him. Fortunately for me, we’re kind of pointing the way we were going originally, so it’s blowers to Zone 5 and try and find our buddies. Honestly, I think that was a gift from the Instructor to configure it so I’d bag him and be able to continue. They were always good like that.

My RIO finds them on the pulse scope pretty quickly; they’re a number of miles ahead but we’re heading down hill toward them in full grunt, haulin’ and extra helping of chili. I get a visual and aim for the Dash-4 position to the right of Stinky where I was previously. By this time we’re getting close to the roll in point on the Bravo 19 target. The plan is to do a “John Wayne Left”, where – just like in the movies – we all roll in on the target leftward, one after another. We’ll likely even mentally make that noise from those movies…..”Brrrrr…..Brrrrrr…..Brrrrrr”. The timing works out absolutely perfectly (rather be lucky than good). I’m sliding up into position when Dash 1 rolls left….Dash 2 goes……my RIO gets Air-to-Ground read into the system, good symbology…..Stinky goes….then I go.

Master Arm on, roll left, pull nose to the target, 45° dive set, symbology tracking (a vertical line through the target with a que marker marching down to a release marker), que marker hits release marker, press the bomb button (“pickle”), thump-thump, and we’re off target. I pull out hard, roll wings left to look back briefly at the target (a hit, or at least close enough) and find and join on Stinky in spread again.

The B guys get jumped from the north now and me and Stinky have a couple bogies on our nose to the west. We’ve split into roughly separate sections so now it’s time to fight our way out. Fortunately for us, the bogies are right on our nose, so discretion being the better part of valor we blow through as we accelerate through the number at about 5,000 feet off the deck. Not a good idea to hang out over simulated bad guy country after you just bombed the shit out of ‘em. “Evaluate the bug” says Stinky…..”good bug” says the Instructor. Success.

We come back for the debrief and it goes fairly well. For those that haven’t been through, “fairly well” means you get talked to about each and every point of the flight for about 3 hours. Stinky got savaged for not honoring the threat to his wingman but again, no big deal to me. And then we go to the tapes to evaluate our strike run. It comes to my turn and we roll tape. The vertical line (Bomb Fall Line, I think) tracks over the target, que hits, bombs come off, and the instructor hits pause.

“So how fast were you going at release?” Uh oh. I had no idea. So you know, there are actually limits to how fast you can drop ordnance based on how much testing had been done on the airframe. At that point the Tomcat wasn’t cleared for supersonic release. Conjecture was that depending on speed and airflow that a released bomb may get “stuck” in the air around the jet and clatter around in the tunnel between the engines. On the “good/bad scale”, that’s clearly on “bad.”

“I’m not sure, Sir. I was trying to get into position on time to roll in with the division and I didn’t check.”

“Well, based on what we could see on radar, you joined your division nearly supersonic, right around 600 knots. Then you rolled in, so I figure you may have dropped past the number. Congratulations, you’re a test pilot.”

Oops. “Uhhh…..thank you Sir.” What a time to be alive!

@RSE_vb via X

[ferraris-gf]

explaining f1: drs

little warning on this one, i am not an engineer or physicist or anything professionally related to f1, so this is my completely novice explanation based on my own research. it’s not supposed to be super technical, but if anything is way off please let me know!

drag reduction system

f1 cars pump out huge plumes of disturbed air in their wake, making it inherently difficult for driver behind to get into a position to make a pass.

introduced in 2011 as a way to increase overtaking, drs is a device fixed to the upper element of the rear wing of the car. usage has varied, but the current regulations allow drivers to activate the system in designated zones during the race.

when in these zones, drivers can lift the rear wing flap to reduce drag, increasing their top speed.

usage

drs can only be activated if a driver follows a rival through the preceding detection zone with a margin of less than one second.

drivers can activate drs one lap after the race begins. during yellow flags, a virtual safety car or a full safety car, use of the system is prohibited (read more about safety cars here), as well as in red flags.

drs is activated by pressing a button on the steering wheel, but this is only possible when the driver breaks a detection zone within one second of the previous car.

there is no limit on how often drivers can use this, soap long as they have met the requirements, they could use it in every zone of every lap.

on average, drs increases the top speed of the car by about 6 or 7 mph.

particularly in the midfield, a common phenomenon in races is what is known as a 'drs train'. this is a sequence of cars all within drs range of one another, which effectively negates the advantages of the system and can hinder overtaking.

[stevebattle]

MITEE 7 (1994) by David Otten and Tony Caloggero, MIT. MITEE Mouse 7 won the 15th All Japan Micromouse Competition in 1994, with a time of 11.81 seconds. It's a four wheeled mouse with DC motors. MITEE 7 also took part in Techno Games in 2002. "In its Heat it fought against returnee Dash 2A. Mitee Mouse 7 raced through the maze at incredible smooth speeds. It slipped through corners and even avoided twisting and turn, opting to go diagonally ahead. The robot sped through to the centre at a World Record time of 9:65 seconds." – Techno Games Wiki.

"MITEE 7 is another of Dave Otten's successful micromouse designs in collaboration with Tony Caloggero. This is a four wheel drive, four wheel steering mouse. While mechanically, and computationally, more complex than two wheel machines, there are a couple of significant advantages to a four wheel mouse. Chief of these is in going quickly. As you accelerate a mouse, weight is naturally transferred to the rear of the vehicle. If you only have two driving wheels as in a typical wheelchair design, this will mean reduced downforce on those wheels and a reduction in the possible acceleration you can achieve. With four wheels working together, they all get to do some work whatever the weight distribution. Each motor need only have ½ the torque needed in a two-wheel mouse and can be correspondingly smaller. There are eight DC motors to look after in this mouse - one each todrive the four wheels and one each to steer them. Sensing is with the same PSD based side-looking sensors that have been used in other MITEE mice. Encoders and gear quadrants form part of a digital servo loop for steering. The green and yellow wires passing down through the gears provide power to the drive motors." – Pete Harrison.

The first video is an excerpt from "UK Micromouse 1998" showing MITEE 7 on a training run, while the second snippet is a full-speed race to the centre (from the same source).

[charliedawn]

Tomato Soup Girl

Synopsis: Eddie is impulsive and touch-starved. You are shy and suffer from severe touching anxiety. You two are not meant to meet…BUT. You love tomato soup. Eddie does too. A fight for the last can ends up changing your life forever.

Where is it? Where is it?

Your shoes squeaked as you speed-walked down the narrow aisle in the convenience store, eyes scanning each shelf. Canned goods, canned goods, where—there. You spot it.

The last can of tomato soup.

You all but sprinted, your breath catching in a thrill of victory. Only a few more steps and it’d be yours. The red label glistened. Your hand reached forward—

Another hand touched it at the exact same time. You whipped your head to the side, your fingers tightening around the can. He was tall. Messy curls. Torn denim vest. Rings on his fingers. A smirk on his lips.

Eddie Munson.

You knew of him—most people in Hawkins did. He looked down at your hand on the can, then back at you.

“Well, well,” he said with a grin. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a standoff.” He mock-drew an imaginary pistol from his hip and clicked his tongue. “High noon, aisle three.”

You blinked at him. It didn’t make you laugh. Your grip tightened around the can.

He squinted theatrically, then leant in just slightly. “You look like a woman who takes her soup very seriously.”

“I do,” you confirmed a little too fast, too breathy. Panic flit in your chest like a moth. What’s gotten into you? Why are you talking? But more importantly, why is he still holding the can?

Eddie arched a quizzical brow at you. “Tomato soup. Excellent choice. Fit for the most delicate of palates.”

He wanted to sound funny. Maybe he was.

You weren’t sure what was funny anymore.

You tried to reach for the can once more, but he held it up. You gulped. Was this a fight? Were you seriously gonna fight over a can of tomato soup? You hadn’t fought anyone for anything since second grade—and that had only been a crayon. You had absolutely no combat training other than the occasional sales-attracted moms during price reductions periods…

“I just…” You glanced at the can, then back up at him, heartbeat starting to race. “I need it.”

He smiled. “Yeah. I see that. But see the problem here is…my hand was on it first.”

You didn’t want to abandon your precious. You unexpectedly grabbed the can, yanked it down and right out of his hands. He let go with a surprised chuckle, raising his hands in surrender. You cradled it against your chest, like it was a newborn baby and Eddie Munson was a raccoon who might try to take it away from you.

“Damn,” he exclaimed, tilting his head curiously. “You must really like soup.”

You gave a weak nod, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere behind his left shoulder. It was too much—his voice, the attention, the embarrassment heating your face like someone just lit a match behind your ears.

“I—I might have a problem.” You finally confessed.

He laughed—genuinely amused. “Right. Like…an addiction?”

You shrugged. He understood.

“I respect that. Tomato soup girl.” He stepped back with a theatrical bow. “I’ll let you have this one. Clearly—you need it more than me.”

You clutched the can tighter. “Thank you,” you mumbled.

He squinted again. “Didn’t catch that.”

“…Thank you,” you said louder, eyes finally flicking up to meet his.

Eddie laughed again. “Okay. You’re priceless. And I’m Eddie by the way. In case you were too focused on the soup to catch my name.”

He extended a hand. You didn’t take it. You only nodded slowly, unsure what to say, heart still thudding.

He backed away slowly with a wink and a lopsided grin. “Okay. I get it. No touching the soup girl. Welp. See you around.”

You watched him go. Then looked down at the can in your hands with a small smile.

Worth it.

…

A few days later

You shouldn’t have come to the store today.

But the craving hit again like it always did—warm, savory, nostalgic comfort in a can. Tomato soup wasn’t just a meal; it was a ritual. Something about it filled a space in you nothing else quite can. And you’d hoped, hoped, that today would be different. That he wouldn’t be here. That you’d just grab your can, pay, and disappear.

But fate has a sick sense of humor.

Because Eddie Munson was here again.

You spot him near the freezers. You ducked your head instinctively, pretending to study the side of a cereal box with the intensity of a nuclear physicist. Your fingers twitched around your basket and tried to reason with yourself. He’d probably forgotten about you.

Still, your entire body coiled tight like a spring. You kept your shoulders small, your steps quiet, movements cautious. You didn’t even go straight to the soup aisle. You stalled in baking goods. Pet food. Feminine hygiene. Anything to avoid—

“Hey there, Soup Girl.”

You froze. You didn’t even have to look to know it was him. You turned slowly, every cell in your body screaming to bolt. But it was too late. He was already beside you, holding a pack of microwave pizza and giving you that signature crooked grin.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.” He rocked back on his heels. “I was beginning to think you only appeared when the soup shelf was down to its last breath. Like a sorta soup leprechaun.”

You tried to force a smile, but it landed somewhere between a wince and a grimace. “Hi.”

He tilted his head slightly, smile faltering as his eyes narrowed. The way you were hunched slightly, shoulders pulled in like you were trying to disappear. The way your eyes flicked around the store, always moving, never landing. The way you were holding your basket with both hands like it was a shield. You could feel him watching you. It made your stomach twist. Great. Someone else to take you for a freak…

But then, he did something unexpected.

“…You alright?” he asked—genuine concern in his voice.

You nodded automatically. “Yeah. Just—tired.”

He didn’t push. Just nodded slowly. “Yeah. Been there.”

You didn’t know what to say. He didn’t either, apparently, because for a second he just stood there. Why were you finding yourself in another awkward situation?

“I gotta be honest,” he finally spoke up, scratching the back of his neck, “I wasn’t expecting to meet someone as intense about tomato soup. I’ve been thinking about that can battle all week.”

Your mouth twitched and some inner demon forced you to speak up. “I won.”

He blinked and you did too. Why did you say that? What evil spirit possessed you to sound like a bratty kid who had just won a game of marbles?

You were about to apologise when Eddie gasped in mock betrayal—one hand landing dramatically over his heart. “You stole it. Robbed me blind in broad daylight. I should’ve called the police. But they’d probably take your side, huh?”

You nodded, letting your lips curl just a little. “I have soup immunity.” Okay. You really should stop talking now. Nobody wanted to talk about soup. Nobody cared about soup.

Eddie smiled again, and it was different this time. He seemed to be enjoying the conversation immensely.

“Hey,” he continued after a moment, “I was actually thinking…maybe next time, you and me split a can. I’ll bring the paprika, you bring the grilled cheese.”

You blinked. That was unexpected. But what happened next was even more unexpected. Your laugh escaped before you could stop it. It surprised you greatly, the sound. You weren’t supposed to laugh. Not here. Not now. But something about the offer—ridiculous and small and oddly kind—settled in your ribs like warmth from a stove. Eddie’s face lit up like he had just unlocked a secret level in a video game. But he didn’t lean in, didn’t crowd you.

Then, after a beat, he stepped back and winked. “I’ll be around. Same aisle. Just in case you’d want to…I dunno. Talk for a bit.”

You didn’t say anything. But you still smiled a little when he turned around to leave. It seemed like Eddie Munson had infected you somehow…

A few minutes later

You told him you wanted to apologise for the tomato soup incident. He insisted that there was no problem, but you were hella stubborn when your wanted to be…So he ended up accompanying you back home.

Once inside, you realised that he was incapable of staying still for more than a few minutes. He looked and touched everything. He ran his fingers over a chipped lamp, picked up a crooked pen, flipped through a half-finished notebook, like he was reading your life in fragments. He wanted to say something nice but…your place was a junkyard.

And he lived in a trailer.

He opened your cupboard and huffed a laugh.

Soup. Sooo much soup.

He took one out and smiled. He then realised that you had dated all of them with the exact day of purchase. If he was a freak, then you should be given the crown. He shook his head and then saw one on the counter…

Well well well. What do we have here? Why did that one deserve special treatment from her sisters? He looked at it and his eyes widened slightly when he saw that there was no date on that one. Just a name. His.

You returned at that moment with two glasses of juice and found him with the can you had purchased the day you both met. You opened your mouth to say something but, you then realized that there was nothing to justify. You just wanted to remember that day. There was no shame in it. You had made a friend. You wanted to remember that.

Eddie looked back at you and smiled.

“Hey, Soup Girl. Wanna share that one?”

Your blinked before smiling back.

Yeah. He knew…

…

The soup bowls were warm between your palms, radiating a comforting heat that curled around your fingers. You sat at opposite ends of the couch, a shared can split evenly, steam rising between you like a peace treaty. Eddie didn’t talk much at first. Neither did you. But it wasn’t awkward. Just…quiet. He seemed to belong here, in a strange way. Sprawled out on your old secondhand couch like it was made for him, legs wide, shoulders loose. His spoon clinked gently against the ceramic bowl every so often.

Then it happened.

You both reached for the salt at the same time.

Fingers brushed. Just for a second.

But your body betrayed you. A small, instinctive flinch—shoulders twitching back, breath catching in your throat like a hiccup. You hadn’t meant to react. It wasn’t even a bad touch. It wasn’t bad at all. That was the worst part. Eddie noticed immediately. His hand froze, then withdrew slowly, carefully, as if he were pulling it back from the edge of a cliff.

“…You good?”

You stared down into your soup for a second, your spoon barely moving. Your pulse thumped in your ears. You hated this part—the freeze, the fear, the way your mind tugged in two directions like a fraying rope.

You took a breath.

“I just…” you started, voice low. “I don’t like being touched.”

You braced yourself for something—a laugh, a joke, a change in his face. But Eddie didn’t do any of those things. He just blinked. Absorbed it. Then he smiled.

“Cool,” he commented simply, with a little nod. “Then I won’t touch you unless you say I can.”

A beat passed. Then another. And then, with the kind of grin that made you suspicious of its owner’s brain-to-mouth filter, he added, “But I will say—you’re missing out. I give a mean hug. Like, award-winning. I was robbed of a title once. Rigged competition. Big scandal. Whole town talked about it.”

You let out a breath that might’ve been the beginning of a laugh. Your lips curved, just barely. Not ready. Not fully. But something inside you warmed. Not just from the soup.

“Mm,” you hummed, spoon hovering over your bowl. “I’ll add that to the list of things I’ve missed out on.”

Eddie didn’t press. Didn’t scoot closer. Just smiled, as if your smile was something rare and he didn’t want to scare it off. You ate the rest of your soup in silence. But this time, it felt like sharing something. Even if it wasn’t a hug.

Not yet. Maybe someday.

“Hey,” Eddie said and snapped you out of your thoughts, suddenly rubbing the back of his neck. “Would it be…weird if I came back sometime? You know. Just to hang. Talk. Share soup and stuff.”

You blinked at him. The question was casual, but something behind it wasn’t. You felt it. That tiny fear of being too much. Or not enough.

You nodded with a smile. “Anytime.”

He grinned like you’d handed him the moon. What you didn’t expect was for ‘anytime’ to mean literally every night after that…By the third evening, you opened the door to find him holding two grocery bags like he was ready to pitch a tent and declare squatter’s rights, you just stared.

And accepted your fate.

You couldn’t possibly throw him out when the squatter in question was beaming at you and greeting you at the door with a: “Soup challenge night, baby.”

You blinked. “…Soup what now?”

Eddie pushed past you and plopped the bags on the counter. “I hit every grocery store in a ten-mile radius. We are ranking every soup flavour and brand I could find. This one’s organic. This one’s not. This one says ‘homestyle’ and I think that’s a trap.”

You looked at the cans in disbelief. “How many did you buy?”

He grinned at you. “Enough to question my life choices, not enough to regret them.”

You huffed a laugh despite yourself and began heating the first can. He handed you a notepad and four categories scrawled across the top in his messy, looping handwriting:

1. Vibe

2. Slurpability

3. Emotional Damage

4. Soup-to-Soul Ratio

You glanced at him sideways. “Emotional damage?”

He shrugged. “Some soups just hurt, man.”

And so began the nightly ritual. Each night, a new soup. A new score. A new round of Eddie’s ridiculous, heartfelt commentary (“This one tastes like getting stood up at prom but making friends with the janitor instead”), and your increasingly sarcastic but secretly delighted responses. It seemed he was rubbing off his confidence on you as you started being more and more comfortable around him. At first, he always sat on the opposite end of the couch. Always gave you space. But over time, the gap shrank by inches, then not at all. Still no touching. Never without permission. But the nearness wasn’t scary anymore. It was warm. Familiar.

Somewhere between can #8 and #12, you caught yourself laughing so hard you had to put the spoon down. You looked over and saw him watching you. And for the first time in a long time, you realized something:

You liked him. A lot. That man had just barged into your life unexpectedly and had little by little became a part of your daily life…

Even if he was Eddie Munson. Maybe especially because he was Eddie Munson…

…

It started as nothing.

Just a quick trip to the store. You and Eddie, as usual. He was still riding high off last night’s soup ranking—had made you watch him act out a dramatic Oscar speech for Best Supporting Broth. You’d laughed until your stomach hurt. You were now in the canned aisle again, when someone called out.

“Munson!”

Eddie turned, his arm brushing yours. A guy walked towards you—someone around your age, all smirk and swagger, holding a six-pack and dressed like he knew people would look. You didn’t recognize him, but the familiarity in his eyes when he looked at Eddie made your chest tighten.

“Didn’t know you got yourself a girlfriend, man,” the guy teased, eyeing you like you were part of the punchline. “She the reason you keep buying soup like it’s the apocalypse?”

You froze. Your palms began to sweat. You tried to keep your expression neutral, but it always betrayed you when it mattered most. Before you could answer—before Eddie could say a thing—the guy stepped forward and, in what he probably thought was good humor, slung an arm around your shoulders.

“What did you do to him, huh?” he said with a mock-pout before smirking. “What’s your secret, huh? Witchcraft? Now Eddie seems to be attached to your hip 24/7.”

It was like your whole body locked up. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

Too close. Too sudden. Too much.

The air left your lungs. Then, just as quickly, the weight lifted. Eddie had peeled the guy’s arm off you without raising his voice, but with a grip that said he absolutely could. His body was suddenly between you and the other guy.

“Hey,” Eddie started, tone casual but steel-laced. “Let’s not touch people who didn’t ask to be touched, yeah?”

The guy blinked. Laughed like he wasn’t sure whether it was still a joke. “Relax, man. I was just kidding—”

“Yeah,” Eddie interrupted, smile gone. “She’s not laughing.”

Eddie didn’t look back at you, didn’t make a show of checking on you. He just held his ground. The guy backed off with a shrug, mumbling something about people being too sensitive these days, and wandered off.

Eddie turned then and looked at you. His expression was soft with concern. “You okay?”

You managed a nod.

He let out a small breath and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Okay. Good. Because that guy? He can bite it.”

You smiled faintly, trying to shake off the tremor in your chest.

“Sorry,” you muttered.

Eddie tilted his head, frowning like you’d just said something in another language. “What are you apologizing for? Being uncomfortable when someone touches you without permission? That’s not a you problem, Soup Girl.”

You looked at him and for the first time, you didn’t feel embarrassed for needing space.

Because he’d protected it.

Without turning it into a scene.

Without turning you into a victim.

Just…stood up for you. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Eddie gave a sheepish little shrug. “No one messes with my soup girl. Besides me.”

And somehow, that made you laugh again—small, breathy, real. The trip ended with him insisting you pick out two cans today. The car ride home was quiet. Not awkward. Just filled with that kind of electric silence that buzzed under the skin. And then, your mouth worked before your mind could truly process it.

“You can stay the night, if you want.”

You didn’t even look at him when you said it. Just gripped the wheel a little tighter and tried to pretend you hadn’t felt your own heart skip. You expected hesitation. A polite no. A joke, maybe. But instead—

“Yeah,” Eddie replied, like it was obvious. “I’d like that.”

He was trying to play it cool—but his knee kept bouncing, bobbing up and down with restless joy. His fingers drummed against his thigh in rhythm, and every few seconds he snuck a glance at you.

You didn’t look back. But you felt it.

One corner of your mouth curled.

It was ridiculous, really. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t a date. It was just…dinner and maybe a movie. But you could tell, by the way he bounced like a restless kid, that this meant something to him.

And, okay, maybe it meant something to you too.

…

By the time you pulled up to your place, Eddie had tried to tone it down, smoothing his palms over his jeans and muttering to himself under his breath like he was giving himself a pep talk. You unlocked the door and he followed you in, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes immediately darting around like he was trying to take mental pictures of everything again. Like your weird soup-stocked home had become his favorite museum exhibit.

“You sure you’re cool with this? Like—me crashing here? I don’t snore, but I do occasionally sleep-talk about dragons. Fair warning.”

You raised a brow. “You sleep-talk?”

He chuckled awkwardly. “Only the important stuff. Soup recipes. Black Sabbath lyrics. Once I did a monologue from The Lord of the Rings in my sleep. My uncle taped it. He was disturbed.”

You snorted. “I’ve survived worse.”

He smiled—wide, a little crooked, a little stunned. “I can sleep on the couch. It looks amazing. Real comfy.”

You hesitated for half a beat as you looked at the couch which would obviously be too small for him to be truly comfortable. “You can sleep in my room if you want.”

Eddie blinked. “Wait. I get your room?”

You shrugged. “We can share. You’ve been nothing but respectful. I trust you.”

You went to grab extra blankets, and he wandered into your room like it was holy ground, careful not to touch anything for more than a second. He sat on the edge of your bed like it was made of glass. Then, a moment later, he flopped back with a groan and mumbled toward the ceiling:

“Sleeping at Soup Girl’s house. In her bed. With her.” He smiled. “Metal.”

A few minutes later

You hadn’t meant to walk in like that. You were just bringing him extra blankets and a spare shirt—something soft and oversized from the back of your drawer. But as you stepped in and looked up—

You stopped.

Eddie was standing near the bed, shirtless, backlit by the low glow of your bedside lamp. The room felt impossibly small, and he felt impossibly present in it. His skin was pale, scattered with freckles and ink, tattoos sprawled across his chest and arms. There was a mess of scribbles—flames, skulls, various creatures and a tiny dice—and lines of script you couldn’t read from here. His jeans rode low on his hips, exposing the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband.

Your breath caught.

You slapped a hand over your eyes on instinct. “Oh—shit. Sorry, I didn’t—”

Your voice died. Because his hand gently reached for yours. Eddie didn’t pull. He didn’t force. Just touched, asked, wordlessly, with the pads of his fingers against your knuckles. Light. Careful. You didn’t back away and slowly he removed your hand from your eyes. He was giving you permission to look. After a moment, you did. Your eyes danced over his chest and you held back a gasp. He knew that you were admiring. He could see it in your eyes. That small spark of light. He slowly interlaced his fingers with yours, and your breath hitched. Then, without a word, he lifted your joined hands—guiding yours to rest against his bare chest.

You felt the heat of him. The rhythm beneath your palm. A steady heartbeat. Real. Alive. And even then, he didn’t speak. He just covered your trembling hand with his own— anchoring, comforting—and let you stay there. Let you choose. You stared at the tattoos on his chest instead of his eyes. Your lashes fluttered, your breath uneven. His ink looked like stories carved into skin. There was so much of him. Too much. Too close. And yet—

You weren’t afraid of him. His thumb brushed yours gently. He did not urge you. If you wanted more, you could. If you didn’t, same thing really. He was already enjoying your curious gaze on him. It was like trying to reassure a timid fawn on the side of the road to come along. And then, he leaned forward. Close enough to press the lightest kiss against your cheek.

You stiffened. Froze. But you still didn’t pull away.

Eddie chuckled, voice soft and warm near your ear. “Hey. It’s okay,” he murmured, his lips just barely brushing your skin. “I promise I’m not gonna bite. Aaaand I got all my shots. Swear.”

You laughed. A shaky, breathy sound. You weren’t ready for more. And he didn’t ask for it. But you stayed. Hand to his heart. His hand over yours. Two people standing in the quiet, in the soft glow of lamp light, in a room that was starting to feel a little less yours, and a little more like both of yours.

…

An hour later…

Your back was to him. His was half-turned, one arm under the pillow, the other curled up near his chest. The tension of earlier had faded, replaced by something sleepier. Softer. Like exhaling after a long, hard day.

You thought he might’ve fallen asleep.

Until you heard his voice.

“…Y’know, I’ve never actually done this before.”

You blinked at the ceiling. “Done what?”

He hesitated. You could almost feel the sheepish grin before he said it. “A sleepover. With a girl.”

You smiled into your pillow. “Seriously?”

“Seriously seriously.” He shifted a little. “Like, not the kind where there’s kissing and making out and then everyone leaves before breakfast. I mean…this.”

You turned slightly, just enough to peek over your shoulder. He was staring up at the ceiling now, hair a messy halo, one leg half-kicked free from the blanket.

“I never stayed,” he murmured. “And no one ever asked me to.”

You swallowed. Something about that hit deeper than you expected. “You can stay as long as you want. I already made it clear that I do not mind your presence. You are like my…forever guest.”

He turned his head just enough to look at you. You couldn’t see much in the dark—just the shape of him, the curve of his nose, the glint of his eye. But you felt the weight of his gaze.

“Yeah,” he whispered with a smile. “Guess I am.”

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then his voice again, a little quieter. “Thanks. For letting me stay.”

Your voice cracked a little, soft with sincerity. “Thanks for staying.”

He smiled. And after a moment, he asked, “Can I like…scoot a little closer?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”

So he did. Just enough for his knee to lightly bump yours beneath the blanket. He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t try to make it more.

But you felt it. That warmth again. That silent comfort. And in the hush of the night, you fell asleep next to Eddie Munson—feeling, for once, like maybe letting someone in wouldn’t be so bad.

In the morning

You blinked a few times when the sun hit your eyes. The room was still. And then you noticed it. Eddie’s breathing. Slow. Even. Close. You turned your head and found him lying on his side, facing you. His mouth slightly open, lashes dark against his cheekbones, curls tangled over his forehead. One hand had snuck out from the blanket and rested near yours, close but not quite touching—like he’d reached out in his sleep, then stopped just short.

You didn’t want to move. But you must’ve shifted, because a moment later his nose twitched. His brow furrowed just a little—scrunching like he was confused about waking up. And then, his eyes cracked open.

Sleepy. Brown. Soft. Chocolate buttons…

“…Hey,” he rasped, voice low and hoarse with sleep. “Still here.”

You smiled, voice barely above a whisper as you replied. “I noticed.”

He gave a sleepy grin, slow and genuine, then stretched one arm above his head with a dramatic groan before flopping back down, half on his face. His curls puffed against the pillow.

“Your bed’s cursed,” he muttered. “Too cozy. I’ll never leave.”

You laughed quietly. He peeked at you again, through the tangle of his hair.

“…This okay?” he asked. And he meant the moment. The space. The proximity. The fact that you hadn’t woken him up and shoved him out the door the second the sun rose.

You nodded, feeling something soft unfurl in your chest. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding something in. Then rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling with a small smile. “I dreamed I turned into soup and you ate me. Spoon by spoon. Before giving me a D for lack of flavour.”

You blinked and laughed. “That tracks.”

His own mouth twitched into a smile. “You’re brutal in dreamland.”

You both lay in silence for a beat. And then, his voice again—warm, content, a little amused. “…Hey. You want me to do breakfast? I make amazing scrambled eggs.”

You smiled and nodded. He looked at you and answered you with a smile. His hand lifted…as if to touch your cheek. But he stopped himself and coughed before quickly getting out of bed. He then walked to the kitchen and looked at what he could cook without making a mess. He did not see the way you looked at him from behind and smiled…a smile that anyone would recognise. It was the kind of smile you gave when your eyes settled on the object of an affection deep and true.

He stood up with a couple of eggs in his hand and started making scrambled eggs. However, he cursed when he saw what time it was. He then turned around to tell you that he had band practice today and that he needed to leave—but that he would be back tonight.

Your eyes did hold a certain disappointment, but you quickly chased it away. You smiled again. “Sure. Have a great time.”

He nodded and quickly got dressed before leaving in a hurry. You then looked at the scrambled eggs and took a bite.

Not the most amazing scrambled eggs.

But still…pretty good.

That night

You’d made dinner. Well—tried to. It was mostly assembled stuff. Things that didn’t require too much time or effort. Pasta, some garlic bread, the good kind of cheap soda in glass bottles. You’d even set the table.

You weren’t sure why.

Maybe it was the new normal. Eddie coming over. Talking. Laughing. Ranking soup like wine snobs. Sleeping over. Waking up beside him and pretending it wasn’t the highlight of your week…You knew he would come back eventually.

You just didn’t expect later to be…this late.

The food had gone cold. You’d reheated it once. Then again. Eventually, you stopped checking the clock and just sat on the couch in your hoodie, legs tucked beneath you, trying not to admit you felt a little foolish.

And then the door opened.

You looked up just as Eddie stumbled in, wind-chilled and glowing from the rush of post-practice adrenaline. His eyes spotted the two plates and he smiled. “Sorry I’m late, sweetheart.”

He said it so easily. So casually. And in the same breath, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek. It was fast. Barely there. But it hit like a live wire. Your body didn’t move. But your brain? Fireworks. Sirens. Screaming goats. Something internally short-circuited.

Sweetheart. He said sweetheart.

He kissed you. On the cheek.

Which, yes, was technically innocent. A blip. But it was still something. Your throat tightened. You nodded stiffly, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way your entire soul had flinched. But Eddie wasn’t dense.

He stepped back slightly, his brow furrowing. “…Everything okay?”

You forced a smile. “Yeah. Just—tired.”

“Hmm.” His gaze searched your face for a beat longer, then softened. “I mean it, though. I’m really sorry. Practice ran long, and Gareth broke a string, and then we had to run back to get his amp because apparently some people forget half their gear when they’re in love with their own solos…” He trailed off, realizing you hadn’t really responded. So he changed tactics. “…Is that garlic bread?”

You nodded, still frozen.

“Jesus H. Christ, you’re a saint.” He gave a little bow of reverence, then sat down opposite you. You sat there. Still warm from where his lips touched your cheek. Still trembling from the word sweetheart. You had no idea what this meant.

But you knew it meant something.

You then both ate in silence…

…

You stood in the doorway of your bedroom, watching Eddie fuss with the blankets on the bed like he was trying to win a wrestling match against them.

You smiled—tired but genuine.

He looked up and caught your gaze. His hair was a mess, his band tee crooked from where he’d peeled off his jean jacket, and one sock was hanging halfway off his foot. And yet, he looked completely at home.

Which was…becoming a problem.

Because you couldn’t tell if this was just Eddie being Eddie—or if you were slowly falling off a cliff you weren’t ready to name. You lingered in the doorway for a second longer before getting under the blankets as well. Then, as lightly as you could muster you whispered: “Goodnight…darling.”

You turned to sleep. And he spun. A full, dramatic 180, like someone had slapped him with a metal album and told him to pay attention.

“What did you just call me?” he asked, voice halfway between scandalized and stunned.

You blinked. “I said goodnight.”

He squinted and scooted closer. “No, no, no, no. You definitely added a little spice at the end of that sentence.”

You shrugged, heat creeping up your neck. “I was just…being polite?”

“Oh no,” he said, now grinning. “You hit me with the d-word. That’s a loaded word. That’s old Hollywood. That’s flirtier-than-soup flirt, and you know it.”

You scoffed, trying to retreat. “I was being subtle.”

He chuckled and shook his head in disbelief. “Oh, it was subtle, alright. Like being hit with a brick or a car. You can’t just casually call a man darling and then go to sleep. That’s not how things work. You can’t just do that to me.”

“Why not?” you challenged.

“Because,” he said, breaching into your personal space—“now I have to wonder what happens if I call you sweetheart again.”

Silence. Thick. Electric.

You both froze.

So…that was on purpose? The casual ‘sweetheart’. He knew what he was doing calling you that.

His voice softened. “You okay with me…calling you that, right?”

You swallowed. Then nodded. Slowly. He smiled. “Then I’m definitely not stopping. And I mean…if you want to keep calling me darling again. Please. Do.”

He tried to reach for your hand, but you retreated. You couldn’t handle much more right now. He backed up, hands raised. “Okay. Message received. I will…keep to myself. Goodnight, sweetheart.”

He then decided to leave the bed and go to the couch. He understood the need for space.

You hid your face in your hands.

You were so screwed.

…

In the morning

You woke up to warmth. A lot of it.

And pressure. And…tangled limbs?

For a brief moment, your sleep-fogged brain tried to make sense of the situation. You could barely move. Something was wrapped around your waist. One of your legs wasn’t where you left it. And there was a knee suspiciously close to your ribs.

Then you blinked your eyes open.

Eddie. Asleep.

Practically wrapped around you like an overgrown, snoring octopus.

One arm thrown across your stomach, the other trapped under your neck like a pillow he’d claimed in the middle of the night. One leg hooked around yours. And his face—sweet God—his face was pressed into your shoulder, lips slightly parted as he breathed against your skin, dark curls everywhere.

Your first instinct? Panic.

You didn’t do this. This wasn’t normal. You weren’t even sure how it happened—he was on the couch last night. Right? You stared at the ceiling in stunned silence for a moment. Carefully, you moved your fingers.

“…Eddie?”

His grip tightened. You blinked again. He mumbled something. Then nuzzled closer. You felt his breath brush your collarbone and had to force yourself not to make a sound. It was terrifyingly sweet. Intimate. And so unexpected it made your brain short-circuit.

“…Eddie,” you tried again, a little firmer.

His eyes cracked open slowly, heavy with sleep. He looked at you, confused. Then down. Then back at you.

“…Shit.”

You both froze.

He didn’t move—just groaned into the pillow. “I swear I started on the couch.”

“I believe you,” you reassured him quickly.

“I have a history of unconscious bed invasion,” he mumbled. “Wayne’s been trying to cure me of it for years. Same with the sleep-walking. But he never found a solution.”

You laughed, half-nervous, half…surprised. Because this was new. But not scary. Not wrong. Not unwelcome.

He lifted his head, hair a complete mess. “Are you okay?”

You hesitated—then nodded. “Yeah. Just…surprised.”

He smiled sheepishly and began the slow, delicate process of detangling himself from you. “I can go back to the couch.”

You caught his arm gently. “You don’t have to.”

His eyes flicked to you.

You added, under your breath, “But maybe…fewer limbs.”

He grinned. “No promises.”

And when he settled back beside you—this time with a little more intentional space—you couldn’t help but smile to yourself.

Invaded? Maybe.

But it was the nicest invasion you’d ever known.

…

A few weeks later

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the old floorboards. You and Eddie were nestled under the blankets, the steady rhythm of his breathing next to you grounding every flutter in your chest. He reached out, fingers brushing your cheek gently, and leaned in, just like always—aiming for that familiar, safe spot on your cheek.

But this time, your head turned instinctively.

The moment your lips met, time did a little somersault.

Eddie’s eyes fluttered open, wide and a little startled, but there was something else in his gaze. You froze, cheeks flushed, heart thundering louder than a drumline.

He whispered, barely audible, “Well…didn’t see that coming.”

You laughed nervously, your voice barely above a breath, “Neither did I.”

But when he shifted closer, resting his forehead against yours, all the awkwardness melted away.

…

It didn’t happen all at once.

First, it was little things—his jacket over your chair, his band tee in your laundry, the scent of his shampoo faintly clinging to your pillow. Then came the louder signs: his boots by the door, his guitar leaning against the wall, that half-used can of hairspray in your bathroom that somehow multiplied instead of ran out.

You didn’t ask him to move in.

He just…kept showing up. More and more.

Until one day, he never really left. He invaded your space like a slow sunrise. Not with a bang, but with a steady warmth that filled all the cold corners. He made your mornings louder. Your evenings dumber. Your nights safer. He’d play riffs in the kitchen while you stirred soup. He’d leave scribbled “rate my performance” notes next to your toothbrush after humming into your hair while you brushed. He’d fall asleep tangled in your blanket, one sock missing, a comic book open on his chest.

And you—who once tiptoed through the world like a whisper—found yourself laughing in full volume now. The place still looked like a junkyard. But now it looked like your junkyard—to the both of you. And one quiet afternoon, while you folded laundry and he laid on the couch tossing a pillow at the ceiling like it was a game, he murmured without looking at you:

“I think I live here now.”

You didn’t even pause. “Yeah. I noticed.”

He finally looked at you—crooked smile and all. “You good with that?”

You smiled. Soft, sure. “I’ve never been better.”

He stood up and before you could comprehend what was going on, you were spun in the air. You screamed and laughed as Eddie kept spinning you around and laughing with you.

Nothing seemed wrong anymore. Only right.

…

A few days later

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet for a night Eddie was supposed to come back humming with leftover stage energy and smelling like smoke and adrenaline. You’d been waiting—half-worried, half-knowing. And when the door finally creaked open well past midnight, you didn’t need to ask. One look at him, at the slumped shoulders and uncharacteristic silence, told you everything.

He didn’t say a word. Just muttered something about being tired and disappeared into the bedroom.

You gave him space. For twenty minutes.

Then you grabbed the emergency cereal box—the one with the ridiculous cartoon mascot and way too much sugar—and crept quietly into the room. He was cocooned in your blankets, his hair a mess over your pillow, one leg sticking out like he’d given up halfway through sulking. You didn’t say anything. Just lifted the blankets and began to worm your way in beside him, dragging the box with you like it was a peace offering.

Eddie cracked one eye open. “…Is that the good kind?”

You nodded solemnly. “The forbidden marshmallow kind.”

He huffed, a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was something. You settled beside him, balancing the box between you both. You didn’t ask about the show. He didn’t offer. You believed he would tell you on his own eventually. You let the silence do the comforting, broken only by the soft crunch of cereal and the rustle of blankets. At one point, his shoulder brushed yours and this time—you didn’t flinch.

Eventually, he did tell you.

“…It was a stupid gig,” he finally muttered, still not looking at you. “Crowd was dead. Half the mics didn’t work. Gareth broke a string. Again. Some asshole yelled ‘Freebird.’”

You nodded solemnly, chewing beside him. “A classic tragedy.”

“Not even the good kind,” he grumbled. “Like, at least let me go down in a blaze of glory, not…defeat by shitty performance.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, gently.

“Well,” you said thoughtfully, “if it makes you feel better, most geniuses were misunderstood.”

He snorted, finally turning a little to glance at you—hair in his face, eyes tired, but the faintest tug of a smile playing at his lips.

“…Thanks, sweetheart.”

You held the box out to him again. “Cereal is love. Cereal is life.”

He grabbed another handful and sighed, letting his forehead knock lightly against yours. “I’m keeping you.”

You restrained a laugh. “A) I am the owner. B) You live here.”

He smiled. “Doesn’t make me keeping you any less true.”

You didn’t say anything after that. You didn’t need to. You just lay there, munching cereal in the quiet, sharing the warmth, letting him feel safe and seen again.

Bad show or not—he’d still end the night in bed, with you.

A month later

He didn’t know you were coming.

He was mid-rant backstage—about how the lighting sucked, and Jeff’s drum sticks had disappeared, and he couldn’t find his pick (it was in his pocket, it’s always in his pocket). He was anxious in that way he got before every gig, pacing and twitchy and talking too fast.

And then they called Corroded Coffin up.

He stomped on stage, full of bluster and sarcasm and eyeliner—like always. Grabbed the mic. Looked out at the crowd. Ready to put on a show for a room full of strangers who might or might not care.

And then he saw you.

Front row.

Wearing one of his band’s old t-shirts, one he didn’t even know you had. You didn’t wave. You didn’t shout. You just smiled—big, warm, eyes lit up like you were proud of him before he even strummed the first chord. He froze for half a second. Long enough for Gareth to glance sideways, confused. Long enough for Eddie’s heart to skip a full beat and crash land in his chest. You’d come. On your own. You didn’t have to. He hadn’t even offered you to come—knowing how you hated big crowds.

But you were still there. His Soup Girl.

For him.

He tried to recover quickly—cleared his throat and leaned into the mic, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“This one…” he said, voice a little rough, “is dedicated to someone in the front row who snuck in like a ninja and didn’t even tell me she had bought a ticket to one of our shows.”

You saw his eyes flicked to yours again. A flash of teeth in his smile. That little, stupid, boyish tilt of his head.

“This is for my Soup Girl. My sweetheart. She knows who she is.”

The crowd whooped like they knew a love story when they saw one. And as the first notes rang out, you watched Eddie light up the stage—loud and alive and utterly himself. But every time he looked your way, he played just a little harder. Smiled just a little wider. And when the show ended and he leapt off the stage straight into your arms, sweat-damp and breathless, he didn’t even wait before whispering in your ear:

“You came.”

You nodded, still smiling, and whispered back, “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

He kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then buried his face in your neck like he’d explode otherwise. He never said it out loud—not that night, anyway—but that moment? That was the one where he realized something important.

He was gone for you. Completely. And so were you…

…

Later that night

“So…soup for dinner?”

The question had been casual—almost a reflex, the way he asked it. One hand on the wheel, the other draped over the gearstick, humming along to some half-forgotten tune on the radio as golden light spilled in through the windows.

You looked at him and smiled. “Not tonight.”

He blinked, then glanced over in full. “Wait—what?”

You nodded. “Tonight you get to choose.”

There was a beat of silence. The car kept moving, but Eddie had stopped. Not literally, but in that way people do when something settles too deep to ignore. He glanced at you. And something in his eyes changed. His smirk didn’t come, no teasing, no gasp of pure disbelief. Just…that expression. Like you’d slipped a hand inside his chest and placed something solid where he’d only had static before.

“You sure?” he asked quietly. “We might be violating some soup treaty.”

You smiled again. “I trust you.”

That was it. Just three words.

But it did something to him. He didn’t say much after that. Just nodded slowly and looked back at the road. You didn’t need to look at him to know. You felt it—the way his fingers tapped the wheel like they were holding in something big. The way he glanced at you again when he thought you weren’t looking. Like he couldn’t believe you were still sitting there—with him.

You’d told him you loved him, without saying the words. You’d given him the choice.

And when he pulled into that tiny, run-down diner he’d always been too embarrassed to suggest before—his favorite, the one that served greasy grilled cheese and chocolate milkshakes that came in metal cups—you didn’t ask any question.

You just unbuckled your seatbelt and smiled.

Eddie grinned. Wide. A little dazed. A little crooked.

“Love you too, sweetheart.”

You heard and looked back at him. And you smiled. The brightest smile he had ever seen and if he hadn’t been completely obsessed with you before, he sure as hell was now. He took your hand and you laced your fingers. The way you looked at him like he was made of something rare, like he was wanted and not just tolerated. The way your fingers fit between his like they’d been waiting for him this whole time. There was no big music swell. No flashing lights. Just the hum of the streetlamp outside the diner and the warmth of your hand in his.

Eddie stared at your joined fingers like he couldn’t believe it.

“You’re unreal, y’know that?” he asked, voice lower, gentler than usual before he grinned at you. “Like—someone should check if you actually exist.”

You chuckled. “You’re holding my hand.”

“Yeah, well,” he breathed, grinning again, “I’ve hallucinated worse.”

You tugged him towards the diner.

Inside, the place smelled like melted butter and old coffee. The waitress didn’t even blink at the sight of the two of you—just gave a tired smile and led you to a cracked booth by the window. Eddie ordered for both of you like he’d done it a hundred times in his dreams. You didn’t stop smiling. Not once.

That night, between bites of grilled cheese and the clink of milkshake cups, something settled between you. And neither of you needed soup to feel full anymore.

“You wanna know something funny?” You asked at the end of dinner.

Eddie blinked, half a strawful of chocolate milkshake still in his mouth. He slurped the rest of it up dramatically before leaning forward across the sticky table.

“Always,” he confirmed, eyes twinkling. “But only if it’s, like, ha-ha funny and not cry-in-the-shower funny.”

You smirked, playing with a napkin between your fingers.

“It’s about the soup,” you admitted.

Eddie gasped, clutching his heart. “My god. I knew this day would come. You’re leaving me for soup.”

You snorted, then rolled your eyes. “No, dork. Just…the day we met? That dumb fight over one stupid can of tomato soup?”

He grinned. “The beginning of our epic, soup-fueled saga. Yeah?”

You nodded before admitting. “I actually don’t even like that brand all that much.”

Eddie’s mouth dropped open like you’d confessed to arson.

“You’re joking. You mean I nearly sprained my wrist dueling a total stranger in a canned goods aisle over soup you didn’t even like?”

You shrugged, that playful gleam in your eyes. “It was the last can. You wanted it. I panicked. And…I dunno. Something about you made me want to get it before you did.”

Eddie stared at you, then burst out laughing. Loud, nose-crinkling, head-thrown-back laughing. A few patrons turned to look, but neither of you cared. When he finally calmed down, he reached across the table, curling his fingers lightly around yours.

“Well,” he said, voice still warm with laughter, “for the record…I’m really glad you were stubborn about that can of soup.”

You squeezed his hand. “Me too.”

The waitress came by to drop off the check, and Eddie reached for it without letting go of your hand.

“Next time,” he said, “we battle over waffles.”

“Loser does the dishes?” you offered.

Eddie’s grin went lopsided. “Deal.”

[catenary-chad]

I’ve made blanket statements about “rail freight is a profitable business and passenger service is usually a money pit” but there’s some pretty interesting nuance relevant to Stex that becomes more significant in Europe.  

Longer distance bulk freight is a profitable business.  It made up 80% of BR’s freight revenue and was its only profitable freight segment.  This is “trainload freight” that’s a long line of all the same thing (grain, oil, stone, etc).  A lot of longer distance bulk loads in continental Europe are handled by barge vs train.  

Car/Wagonload freight is unprofitable in Europe and low-profit in the US, and economically undesirable to large rail companies because of that.  The Freight (and Components!)  in Stex fit this since they’re a mixed group, though I think that was done because a line of identical characters would be boring.  

It has a much harder time competing with road transport because logistics of getting things in and out of rail yards and general clunkiness of rail freight makes it much more time-consuming over short distances.  Roads are also uncritically fully government funded and trucking companies pay low access fees to use them vs higher access fees on rails. In Europe it’s even more slanted towards roads with cheap trucking labor and antiquated buffer and chain couplings adding a ton of time/labor to adding/removing cars, these are finally planned to be phased out by 2030 to make rail freight more competitive.  

Passenger-freight prioritization is an issue pretty much worldwide, to different degrees and in different ways.  Yes, passenger trains do dominate the rails in most of Europe, yes they’re higher priority and cleaner/better maintained…. because they have live cargo with higher standards and even perishable goods don’t mind being an hour late, humans do!  There’s just a greater need to move large quantities of people (who handle the clunky transfer and last-mile moves themselves) and more benefit to getting a ton of small individual passenger vehicles off the roads vs a smaller number of trucks.  

It’s apples to oranges to compare coaches more in line with intercity/long distance luxury to carload/wagonload freight.  Intercity passenger trains can be profitable in a system where infrastructure maintenance costs aren’t considered.  But they’re better compared to longer-distance trainload freight in terms of being a faster direct train with fewer stops, which is financially sustainable even in fully private systems.  Regional and local passenger trains are a fairer comparison and those are far less profitable. The old US long distance luxury trains the coaches are visually based on were absolute money pits mainly run for PR reasons.  Belmond’s trains are probably their closest modern equivalents, and seem to be far more stable but ultimately they’re a niche luxury market vs essential service.   

Modernization is also the furthest thing from a threat to rail freight and if anything, notorious choo choo killers Dr. Richard Beeching and Al Perlman often have their major freight improvements looked over.  See also the buffer and chain coupler situation (I take psychic damage remembering that fact as an American).  It’s arguably more of an issue in Europe with the far smaller advantages of rail freight, any reduction in labor cost and turnaround time is VERY valuable.  Small freight lines in the US get away with some ridiculously antiquated equipment (Iowa Traction lol) but that’s an even weirder separate rabbit hole.  Electrification is an incredibly positive thing for rail freight since it allows a major increase in speeds, increasing capacity in congested non-electrified areas.  That’s mostly a factor in the UK though, since continental Europe is much more electrified and just struggles with lack of physical tracks (though this is also a UK problem and a main reason for HS2).  Battery and hydrogen power just aren’t energy dense enough to viable for freight usage and English-language media constantly undersells how absurdly OP electric trains are.  It’s not like electric cars, they are so much lighter and more powerful than combustion alternatives that they were desired for capacity/power reasons before global warming was even a thought.  

In short: passenger/freight just doesn’t make sense as a class thing and the comparison canon makes isn’t even a fair one.  It obscures the actual issues facing rail freight (lack of capacity and struggle to modernize).  I don’t even think the intercity vs carload combo was even picked for that deep of reasons, unit trains and lower-end passenger trains are just less fun and popular as toys and onstage characters. Mine trains and subways are an extreme example, they’re almost nonexistent as models despite being otherwise well-preserved and publicly recognized. 

Trucker Caboose is a timeless and international villain (and cabooses are very much still used on occasion, though I can’t speak for how recognizable they are internationally).  Weirdly enough this is a situation where steam engines would be a solid villain too, representing refusal to improve practices and infrastructure (one was used to protest this in Germany recently lol).  

Ironically, Greaseball is a far less effective villain in the context of European freight, American freight diesel locomotives like the EMD Class 66 were very positively received in Europe.  On the business end that is, they were physically unpleasant for actual employees. He’s almost a kind of crappy superhero- while relatively dirty, inefficient and “stupid” vs other diesel manufacturers, EMD engines are notoriously reliable and maintainable and even smaller models like the SD40 are very powerful by European standards.  Making him the “biggest and the strongest” makes more sense with him as something like a Class 66, though he would not be competitive speed wise (compared to a 50s-era EMD E9 that’s relatively weak but would be competitive on rugged, curvy tracks the Nationals couldn’t use their full speed on).   I think I get why Europeans seem to skew towards him being a less malicious himbo, that’s the actual role an American diesel engine would have there vs symbol of hegemony (see my Greaseball post on how he gets even worse than the workshop when played true to US reality)

[race-week]

I'm a new fan and I still don't know what DRS is because people use it as a gotcha moment but nobody ever explains it for newer fans... Can you please explain? I didn't see it in the glossary

DRS stands for Drag Reduction System

It is essentially a system that opens that opens a flap in the rear wing of a car in order to reduce the drag and improve the aerodynamics.

The above photo shows a car with its DRS open (left) versus what it looks like closed (right)

DRS allows the car to gain straight-line speed, due to the drag reduction, and can actually increase speeds by 10-12 km/h (depending on the track and the car).

The system is controlled by a button on the steering wheel that drivers press at the designated times.

On a track there will be specific DRS zones, where (if a car meets the criteria) a car will be able to activate DRS and get this drag reduction down a straight.

You can see the two DRS zones on the above map (the green lines between T5 and T6, and then T15 and T16)

Now if a driver was within one second of the car ahead of them when they reached the corresponding DRS detection zone, they will be able to activate DRS at the DRS zone and their rear wing will open, giving them more speed down the straight and hopefully they’ll be able to overtake their competitor.

DRS can also be used in qualifying, without needing to be within a second of the car ahead.

Essentially DRS is a way to increase the cars straight line speed without harming the cars cornering speeds. It also allows drivers more opportunities to overtake.

However you can also get DRS trains where there is multiple cars in a row all getting DRS off of each other, with no one being able to overtake the car ahead.

[valtionrautatiet-official]

An introduction to VR multiple units, part 1: Sm2

The robust milf of our fleet, probably familiar to everyone who has ever traveled with out commuter trains: the Sm2 electric multiple unit.

A pair of Sm2 units in different liveries on the A train service from Helsinki to Leppävaara. My photo from 2015.

The Sm2 class units are an updated version of the older Sm1 class. Externally the two were almost identical, but the Sm2 was easy to tell apart as the slightly sleeker of the two classes – the Sm1 had horizontal stiffenings on the sides, while the Sm2 with their bodies of aluminium (instead of steel) have flush sides. The aluminium body also meant a notable reduction of weight, which resulted in a corresponding reduction of electricity consumption. All this while retaining the sexy chunky exterior looks.

An Sm2 in the hot original livery at Kannelmäki station on the M train service to Vantaankoski. Today, the letter M is used to designate our commuter train service around Tampere. My photo.

A total of 50 Sm2 units were delivered by Valmet between 1975-81. One unit consist of an Sm2 power car and an Eioc control cab car at the other end. They were used in the Helsinki commuter train network alongside the Sm1:s, which which they could be coupled together to form ten-carriage trains if needed. As they are fairly reliable, the Sm2 units have occasionally been used on long-distance trains and at least on one occasion even an Intercity, but their relatively low top speed of just 120 km/h has made them less than ideal on long-distance services.

Original interior of the Sm2. Photo Skorpion87, Wikimedia commons.

All Sm2 units were modernised between 2002 and 2010, with the interiors rebuilt and a new red-white livery applies to the exterior. Overall, the refit followed the pattern set by refits carried previously on the Sm1:s, the two classes remaining near-identical (and fuckable) inside and out.

An Sm2 after the first rebuild, photographed at the Helsinki main station in 2009. My photo.

The star of the Sm2 started to decline with the acquisition of the new Sm5 units (Stadler Flirt) for HSL's (Helsinki Regional Traffic Authority) commuter network starting 2008 (These are owned by Pääkaupunkiseudun junakalusto oy, not us). A total of 81 Sm5's were delivered by 2017, which meant that the Sm1, Sm2 and Sm4 units were retired from the HSL routes.

Sm2 interior after the first rebuilt. Photo Edvardbeijar, Wikimedia Commons.

However, the Sm2's can still be occasionally spotted in Helsinki on longer-distance commuter services we operate to destinations outside the HSL area. Primarily they were moved to the local services around Tampere and the lines linking Riihimäki, Lahti, Kouvola and Kotka to each other. 36 Sm2 units remain in use for these services, and most of them have been given a light refurbishment, including repainting in our current white-green colours, as seen in the first photo.

The 14 retired units have been stripped for spare parts to use in the remaining units; in 2022, we entered a tentative agreement to sell them to our startup competitor Suomen Lähijunat Oy, who plan to heavily modernise them and use them on commuter train services in and around cities we currently don't offer local train services in, for example Turku. Suomen Lähijunat had some trouble securing funding, but the deal was eventually finalized at the end of November 2023.

Suomen Lähijunat's vision of a rebuilt Sm2. Photo Suomen Lähijunat/Idis Design

Meanwhile, we have signed a contract for 20 new Stadler Flirt units of our own (the Sm7 class) to be delivered starting 2026. (We also have an option for 50 additional units). With the delivery of these, our remaining Sm2's will be phased out. So if you want to experience traveling inside our hot milfs from the 1970s, you still have a few years!

[probablyasocialecologist]

I want to address a problem that seems to arise repeatedly in public discussions about green growth and degrowth. Some prominent commentators seem to assume that the debate here is primarily about the question of technology, with green growth promoting technological solutions to the ecological crisis while degrowth promotes only economic and social solutions (and in the most egregious misrepresentations is cast as “anti-technology”). This narrative is inaccurate, and even a cursory review of the literature is enough to make this clear. In fact, degrowth scholarship embraces technological change and efficiency improvements, to the extent (crucially) that these are empirically feasible, ecologically coherent, and socially just. But it also recognizes that this alone will not be enough: economic and social transformations are also necessary, including a transition out of capitalism. The debate is therefore not primarily about technology, but about science, justice, and the structure of the economic system.

[...]

Ecological economists point out that when we scale back our assumptions about technological change to levels that are, to quote the physicist and ecological economist Julia Steinberger, “non-insane,” and when we reject the idea that growth in rich countries should be maintained at the expense of the Global South, it becomes clear that relying on technological change is not enough, in and of itself, to solve the ecological crisis. Yes, we need fast renewable energy deployment, efficiency improvements, and dissemination of advanced technology (induction stoves, efficient appliances, heat pumps, electric trains, and so on). But we also need high-income countries dramatically to reduce aggregate energy and material use, at a speed faster than what efficiency improvements alone could possibly hope to deliver. To achieve this, high-income countries need to abandon growth as an objective and actively scale down less necessary forms of production, to reduce excess energy and material use directly.

[...]

Degrowth does not call for all forms of production to be reduced. Rather, it calls for reducing ecologically destructive and socially less necessary forms of production, like sport utility vehicles, private jets, mansions, fast fashion, arms, industrial beef, cruises, commercial air travel, etc., while cutting advertising, extending product lifespans (banning planned obsolescence and introducing mandatory long-term warranties and rights to repair), and dramatically reducing the purchasing power of the rich. In other words, it targets forms of production that are organized mostly around capital accumulation and elite consumption. In the middle of an ecological emergency, should we be producing sport utility vehicles and mansions? Should we be diverting energy to support the obscene consumption and accumulation of the ruling class? No. That is an irrationality that only capitalism can love. At the same time, degrowth scholarship insists on strong social policy to secure human needs and well-being, with universal public services, living wages, a public job guarantee, working time reduction, economic democracy, and radically reduced inequality. These measures abolish unemployment and economic insecurity and ensure the material conditions for a universal decent living—again, basic socialist principles. This scholarship calls for efficiency improvements, yes, but also a transition toward sufficiency, equity, and a democratic postcapitalist economy, where production is organized around well-being for all, as Peter Kropotkin famously put it, rather than around capital accumulation. The virtue of this approach should be immediately clear to socialists. Socialism insists on grounding its analysis in the material reality of the world economy. It insists on science and justice. Yes, socialism embraces technology—and credibly promises to manage technology better than capitalism—but socialist visions of technology should be empirically grounded, ecologically coherent, and socially just. They should emphatically not rely on speculation or magical thinking, much less the perpetuation of colonial inequalities. Green growth visions fall foul of these core socialist values.

[bulujustwantstowritexx]

- World Setting Info

- Aura:

An aura is an individual's innate supernatural potential, manifesting as diverse abilities. Users may exercise conscious control, experience involuntary activation, or remain unaware of their aura altogether. Not a lot of people possess auras. This power is immutable, fixed from birth. Types include;

     • Generational auras: passed down from generations.

     • Singular auras: Unique auras, distinct from parental traits.

     • Hybrid auras: A combination of both parents' abilities.

     • Sensory auras: Enhancement of senses. The only type observed to be achievable through rigorous training, albeit highly demanding.

     • Conditioned Auras: These auras activate only under specific circumstances, often requiring unique physical constitutions to accommodate for the condition, or in some cases, manifesting alongside disabilities. Healing auras are an especially rare subtype of these.

- Flux:

Flux is a specialized energy vital for perceiving kryl and alters. Both kryl and alters naturally generate flux as a fundamental component of their physiology. Skilled fluxers can differentiate between human, kryl, and alter flux signatures, demonstrating a heightened sensory ability.

- Fluxers:

Fluxers are specialists trained to engage and eliminate kryl and alters. While some fluxers possess auras, this is not a prerequisite for their role. They are trained to use flux to combat kryl and alters.

- Kryls:

Kryls are supernatural entities, capable of inflicting harm and death upon humans. Notably, many kryls have the capacity to transform humans into alters. Their presence remains imperceptible to individuals lacking flux sensitivity.

- Alters:

Alters are humans transformed by kryls, exhibiting extraordinary physical resilience, speed and rapid regeneration, rendering them impervious to conventional weaponry. Flux-infused attacks are necessary to inflict significant damage. Moreover, if an a person possesses an aura, it will remain unchanged after transformation. Unlike kryl, alters are visible to all individuals, regardless of flux sensitivity.

- Violet Mooncrest:

Violet Mooncrest is a flower known for its poisonous properties to alters. It induces physiological distress in these beings. Exposure can lead to symptoms such as fatigue, vertigo, and angina, and in substantial quantities, a discernible reduction in their regenerative abilities.

- Trackers:

Trackers are information specialists who identify and assess kryl and alter activity within designated areas, relaying critical intelligence regarding their strength and numbers to fluxer organizations. Most trackers possess sensory auras.

- History

In the year 1935, a war erupted across Europe, rapidly encompassing other nations. However, Japan's participation in the war was abruptly put to an end in 1939 after four years of participation, due to the unexplained deaths of influential military and government officials who advocated for continued military expansion. The concept of fluxers was seen as witchcraft, most considered them myths, and anyone claiming to be one was treated in ways that weren't humane. Following Japan's withdrawal from the war, a significant number of the remaining fluxers largely chose to either continue living in isolation or affiliate with clandestine organizations. Subsequently, a new and alarming development emerged in the same year: Kryls began to demonstrate the capacity to transform human beings into a non-human state, resulting in the resurgence of “alters,” beings whose existence in ancient history had been a topic of debate among historians for years. Initially, the government persistently refused to acknowledge the evolutionary capabilities of kryls and alters were treated as aberrations and met with immediate execution. However, this denial was shattered by a series of human fatalities and massacres perpetrated by these beings, leading to widespread carnage and a lockdown period from 1940 to 1942. Faced with this crisis, the government was compelled to seek assistance from the fluxers. After the end of the lockdown period, fluxers had become common knowledge but upon discovering that a number of fluxers possessed exceptionally dangerous powers, the government established the Bureau of Anomalous Regulation (BAR) in mid 1943, a specialized government department composed of people tasked with overseeing flux-related activities nationwide. Later, in mid-1946, certain government-sanctioned organizations, such as The Steel Dice: Flux Operatives Agency, were permitted to utilize flux for legitimate purposes. In the current era of 1956, the existence of kryls and alters remains a threat, but being a fluxer is a recognized and legal profession, and their existence is widely acknowledged among the general public. While a significant proportion of flux-related incidents are associated with criminal activity, these sanctioned organizations operate openly. Nevertheless, the nature and mechanics of auras, alters, and kryls remain largely shrouded in mystery and are subjects of ongoing study.

[sleepycatten]

PSA about hair removal

This post is for anyone who's seeking hair removal, but especially for the many other trans women / trans fems I see being given misinformation by laser or electrolysis technicians, especially in the US and UK 🥺

Laser hair removal

* Permanent hair reduction.

* Always shave the area closely beforehand. Laser is less effective if you do not shave.

* Ideally look for a clinic that uses something like a Candela GentleMax Pro or newer. Such machines are less painful & more effective than ones like any of the Alma Soprano devices.

* 6-8 sessions will typically be the sweet spot before moving on to electrolysis.

* If the technician or clinic tell you not to use numbing cream, that's a massive red flag against their knowledge. A technician does not need pain feedback from you to know they're using safe levels!

Electrolysis

* Permanent hair removal.

* You must let the hair grow at least a few mm before a session.

* Ask your electrologist for an estimate of how long it will take to clear an area, as their expertise and speed will vary. For example, NHS Scotland estimates it can take 250-400 hours to fully clear a face of facial hair. My own highly-experienced electrologist estimated 100-150 hours max for me, but has nearly cleared my face in under 25 hours. She's not yet taken more than about 120 hours to clear someone's face / neck fully.

* Again, numbing cream is not only absolutely safe, it's in fact highly recommended if you cannot afford local anaesthetic injections.

* For most folks, it's as much a mental challenge as it is about physical pain management. Even with numbing cream and strong painkillers, it's gonna hurt, especially in 2 hour+ sessions and around sensitive areas (especially the top lip and around the mouth).

* Aloe vera gel helps with post-electrolysis swelling and recovery.

Numbing cream

* The most common brand of numbing cream is EMLA, which is 2.5% lidocaine and 2.5% prilocaine.

* The strongest cream I've found without prescription is Tattoo Numbing Cream, which is 5% lidocaine and 5% prilocaine.

* If you can get a stronger cream on prescription at an affordable cost, this is definitely something to consider.

*To help with absorption, exfoliate and clean the area before applying cream, apply 60-90 mins before a session, and cover in an air-tight, water-tight dressing (cling film / plastic wrap works well).

Sadly, I can't provide much information on local anaesthetic injections. In the UK, they're typically arranged either by a medically-trained specialist at an electrolysis clinic or separately (such as at a dentist's) immediately before attending a session.