#angle sensor

[tchaikovskaya]

Is the general disappearance of the “unexpected item in bagging area” issue in self checkouts a result of like…. the intersection of labor costs x inflation of food prices x shrinkage calculus ? Like they trust if you’re already using self checkout and have at least a $10+ subtotal then you have enough shame and conscientiousness to probably pay for 80% of it? Enough to not worry about the weight of the grocery bag on the other side of the till in terms of ounces of weight being off?

[sw5w]

I Will Not Defer

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 01:28:35

[kamalkafir-blog]

KODAK PIXPRO FZ55-BK 16MP CMOS Sensor Digital Camera 5X Optical Zoom 28mm Wide Angle 1080P Full HD Video 2.7" LCD Vlogging Camera (Black)

Price: (as of – Details) KODAK PIXPRO FZ55 Friendly Zoom digital camera (Black), 5X Optical Zoom, 16MP CMOS Sensor, 28mm Wide Angle Lens, 1080p Full HD Video, 2.7″ LCD, Rechargeable Li-ion Battery (included) 16 Megapixel CMOS Sensor5X Optical Zoom – 28mm Wide Angle Lens1080P Full HD Video – Vlogging CameraSD Card Compatibility: At least Class 10, no more than 512GB (SD, SDHC, SDXC)2.7″ LCD…

[medickpidia]

Information 

The KODAK PIXPRO FZ55-BK is a compact yet powerful point-and-shoot digital camera designed for everyday photography and vlogging. With a 16-megapixel CMOS sensor, 5X optical zoom, and 28mm wide-angle lens, this camera delivers sharp and detailed images with ease. It also records 1080P Full HD videos, making it ideal for capturing precious moments on the go. Its lightweight design and intuitive controls make it perfect for beginners, travelers, and vloggers alike. 

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The 16-megapixel BSI (Back-Side Illuminated) CMOS sensor ensures crisp, clear, and vibrant images, even in low-light conditions.

Supports various scene modes for optimized photography, including portrait, landscape, night, and more.

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The 28mm wide-angle lens is perfect for landscape shots, group photos, and vlogging.

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Face detection helps focus on faces automatically for sharp portraits.

Beauty mode enhances skin tones and smoothens features for flattering selfies.

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Capture bright and clear images even in dim lighting conditions with specialized low-light settings.

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Various preset scene modes optimize settings for different shooting environments, including portrait, landscape, night, sports, beach, and more.

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Supports microSD/micro SDHC cards (up to 32GB) for storing thousands of photos and videos.

Specifications

FeatureDetailsSensor16MP CMOS SensorZoom5X Optical ZoomLens28mm Wide-AngleDisplay2.7-inch LCDVideo Resolution1080P Full HDStabilizationDigital Image StabilizationBatteryRechargeable Li-ion BatteryStoragemicroSD/micro SDHC (up to 32GB)ConnectivityUSBWeightLightweight & Portable

Who Is It For?

✅ Beginners – Simple point-and-shoot functionality makes it easy to use. ✅ Vloggers – Full HD video recording and a compact design make it great for on-the-go content creation. ✅ Travelers – Lightweight and portable for easy carrying. ✅ Families & Casual Users – Ideal for capturing everyday moments and special occasions.

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[futureelctronic1177]

Panasonic: Grid EYE Wide Angle Type Sensor

https://www.futureelectronics.com/resources/featured-products/panasonic-grid-eye-infrared-array-sensor . Panasonic announces the latest Grid-EYE Wide Angle Type Infrared Array Sensor. A built-in lens includes an improved 90-degree viewing angle and features a compact SMD design using MEMS thermopile technology. https://youtu.be/oD2oQUHT6QU

[futureelectronic1527]

Panasonic: Grid EYE Wide Angle Type Sensor

https://www.futureelectronics.com/resources/featured-products/panasonic-grid-eye-infrared-array-sensor . Panasonic announces the latest Grid-EYE Wide Angle Type Infrared Array Sensor. A built-in lens includes an improved 90-degree viewing angle and features a compact SMD design using MEMS thermopile technology. https://youtu.be/oD2oQUHT6QU

[sparkles-oflight]

I thank any fucking god for the fact my teacher changed the deadline of our assignments (I'm still procrastinating on my report) because we didn't have the equipment. My camera vs the school's

[sunset-synthetica]

robots with human genitalia are sooooo boring. they should have weirdly sensitive sensors instead. their brain should be confused about how to interpret certain sensations and makes them pleasurable as a result. overstimulating them makes their power source go all crazy. they should be weird about really mundane stuff like recharging or interfacing with other tech. they should make their wires twist and mingle on purpose because if they get the angle right it feels sooooo good. putting new batteries in them or plugging them into an outlet makes some of them horny because it's all this new energy flowing through them and before the initial jolt wears down, it has them all overly sensitive and wound tight and stuff.

[sw5w]

Vulture Droid Starfighter

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 01:58:35

[karingottschalk]

Panasonic Australia: The LUMIX G9II, “Capture the Decisive Moment” – Press release

[alphacontromatic1]

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[boreal-sea]

I just get incomprehensibly bewildered every single time I hear about commercial airline fuckups. Coming as I do from the world of naval aviation, the shit commercial airlines get up to confounds me.

Did the navy try to rush us during peak flight schedule? Yeah, course they did. And you know what we were trained to do? To tell them to go fuck themselves, because safety came FIRST. I’m serious. I always performed full inspections. I pissed off people weekly for finding flaws that made the jets unsafe to fly. I once told a guy two ranks above me “no” and stood there and refused to do the task until it was safe to do it. I made him and the pilots wait the full 5 minutes. After the jet took off, he came up to me and admitted I’d been right. Yeah, I know. You’re welcome for me refusing to do a thing I knew would catch the jet on fire with the pilots inside.

And navy jets have REDUNDANCY. They have two of everything. Learning some commercial jets only have ONE piece of equipment, a sensor that records the angle of the plane, that was connected to a computer that could override the pilot’s input and force the jet to careen towards the ground? Yeah. Terrifying.

I look at commercial aviation and go “look what you’ve done. You’ve ruined a perfectly good form of transportation.”

Anyway trains are better and if I could get where I’m going next month without flying I would.

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter three

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: a terrifyingly familiar presence breaches your last safe space, and now a simple and heartfelt gesture becomes a violation. in the aftermath, fear finally makes you reach out for help.

⤿ warning(s): stalking, panic attacks & unhealthy coping mechanisms.

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 2.7k

The day begins the same way the last three have: 05:30, kettle on, one level tablespoon of Assam spooned into the infuser. While the water climbs toward a boil you unlock your phone, already braced for what waits. A fresh number—there is always a fresh number—has delivered its dawn bulletin:

Left at 05:01 yesterday.

Early bird. Porch light flickered twice—loose bulb?

Navy coat looks sharp against the fog, pretty girl. 

They never mention the hospital, never a word about ORs or co-worker names. The watcher keeps to the edges of your private life, and somehow that makes the trespass worse. You capture a screenshot, block the number, and delete the thread. The image joins dozens of others in the hidden laptop folder named Archive—date‑stamped, time‑stamped, waiting for the moment you finally believe the police will do more than shrug.

Four‑minutes steep exactly. Mug warmed. First swallow. Routine: a ladder you climb every morning. Eggs scrambled ninety seconds, plate rinsed, shower seven minutes. Before dressing, you check the tiny motion‑sensor camera you mounted inside the apartment entryway two nights ago; its LED blinks a steady red reassurance. The matching camera on the fire‑escape window does the same. No motion alerts overnight. Still, you test the deadbolt twice and angle the hall chair beneath the knob until you return.

The drive is identical to yesterday’s and the day before—same streets, same mirror checks at every light. No car follows twice, but you look anyway. At 06:50 you badge through the employee entrance. Stepping into hospital feels like sliding into armor: fluorescent lights, antiseptic bite, the hum of vents. The messages have never followed you here.

You adjust your usual gray scrubs and square your clipboard. Pre‑op checklist in your left hand, suture cart in your right, you call out “sponge count zero” with the same crisp authority as always. But small hesitations creep in: rereading the cefazolin vial, tapping the clock twice to verify time‑outs. 

Margot’s eyes track each pause. She eventually corners you by the blanket warmer.

“Nightmares?” she asks, voice low.

“Just the usual insomnia,” you answer, pinching your lower lip. A nervous habit. Your smile feels brittle, but it holds.

Fin notices too; his jokes grow louder, as though volume can fill the quiet shadow clinging to you. Jules slips extra Hershey Kisses into your scrub pocket. Even Dr. Garcia joins in by firing off sarcasm like covering fire whenever an intern looks as if they might ask why your phone stays face‑down on the desk, silent yet weighty.

Slowly but surely, the afternoon bleeds into evening. 

You finish vitals, sign the narcotics log, and at 19:04 bypass the stairwell that leads to the roof—no silhouettes against twilight tonight. Instead you head straight for the lot, head down, keys ready.

The cameras in your apartment greet you with their steady red eyes when you arrive. Door locked, sweep performed—closet, shower, under bed—all clear. Only then do you change into a soft purple T‑shirt and loose pants. You have long since stopped parading around in your underwear. 

The phone buzzes the moment the fabric falls over your head. New number:

Purple again. My favorite.

You freeze. Curtains closed, lights low—and still they see. Screenshot. Block. Delete. You drag the dining chair beneath the doorknob and place the kitchen scissors back on the nightstand, steel glinting like a talisman. Then, a mug of valerian tea, strong enough to taste like soil, goes down in three determined gulps.

Lying in bed, you count the protections: two cameras, one chair brace, scissors within reach, every screenshot archived. Routine is armor. Repetition is a prayer. You breathe in for four, out for eight, the same cadence you teach anxious PACU patients, and tell yourself that as long as the messages stay outside the hospital walls, the armor will hold.

Sleep comes in splinters, broken by phantom creaks and imagined footsteps. At 02:47 you wake up, heart sprinting, and check the camera feed: empty hallway, silent fire escape. Dawn is only a few hours away. Soon the kettle will hiss, the tea will steep for exactly four minutes, and another text will arrive—about a porch light or the time you start your car—but never about scalpels, never about sponge counts.

Despite the hour, you’re halfway through wiping down the already‑clean kitchen counter—busywork to quiet the apartment’s hush—when your phone vibrates. For once the screen doesn’t show an unknown number.

It’s Jack.

Haven’t seen you on the roof in a bit. Everything okay?

The text lands like a gentle hand on your chest. You swallow against the sudden tightness in your throat, thumb hovering. Finally you type back:

I’m alright—just busy. See you tomorrow?

Three dots pulse, then: Works for me. Sunrise tea?

He doesn’t mention anything about the hour or how you should be asleep and not messaging back. You’re grateful. 

Sunrise tea, you confirm, and set the phone facedown.

Pacing the kitchen, you notice how full the fridge is: a dozen nearly‑dated eggs, chicken thighs you’d planned to roast, wilting cilantro, limes, onions, and two unopened cans of black beans. You haven’t cooked a proper meal since the messages started; take‑out cartons and tea have been enough to survive. Now the sight of real food sparks something steadier than dread—a need to do, to give.

An apology, you decide, should be edible.

You wash your hands, set the chicken on the board, and fall into the rhythm your muscles remember: trim fat, score skin, rub with salt, cumin, smoked paprika. Onions sizzle in the cast‑iron, releasing a sweetness that chases the apartment’s stale anxiety. Beans simmer with serrano and garlic; rice toasts before absorbing broth. Cilantro stems thunk under the knife; lime zest perfumes the steam fogging the window. 

When everything’s done you portion a generous serving into a sturdy glass container, your favourite one: rice pilaf on one side, glossy black beans on the other, two pieces of golden‑skinned chicken nestled on top. Into a tiny jar goes some honey‑lime dressing. You label the lid in block letters—Jack—and slide the meal into one of your spare tote bags. 

The apartment smells of cumin and toasted garlic, of normal life. The cameras still blink red, the chair still braces the door, the scissors still gleam, but cooking has threaded warmth through every corner. You finish the last dish, the one’s that’s for you, dry your hands, and stand for a moment in the quiet kitchen, breathing in the proof that you can still create comfort instead of just barricades.

Tomorrow at dawn you’ll climb to the roof, hand Jack the container, and share five minutes of sky. Routine will tighten around you again, one careful knot at a time—but tonight you fall back asleep with the scent of lime and cilantro on your pillow, and relief, thin but real, settles in your chest like steam escaping a cooling pot.

. . .

You arrive at the hospital just past sunrise, thermos in one hand, tote slung over your shoulder, and—for once—a real, living sense of calm beneath your ribs. Not the fragile kind you usually glue together with caffeine and a tight jaw, but something gentler, something earned. You even caught a pocket of golden morning light in the parking lot, the kind that made the hospital look almost soft at the edges. 

Dr. Miller catches sight of you just as you pass the nurse’s station. He’s leaning against the counter, coffee in one hand, chatting with a pair of interns, but pauses when he sees you. His eyebrows lift, and he gives a slow, amused smile. “Well, you look dangerously close to content. Should I be worried?”

You huff a laugh, smoothing your coat as you badge in. “Don’t start rumors, Dr. Miller.”

He points at the canvas tote on your shoulder. “Big plans?”

You nod once. “End of shift.”

He doesn’t ask more, just grins, and you take that grin with you like a good omen. The rest of the day moves at a steady clip: vitals to log, meds to verify, a code yellow that resolves without anyone crying. You let yourself coast on the rhythm of it, not in that desperate, overcompensating way you usually do, but in a way that feels like a return to something—like an exhale. 

You slip into the lounge at 18:45, already imagining the click of the container’s lid, the familiar smell of the garlic and cumin, the soft weight of it in your hands as you climb the stairwell to the roof. You open as the lights inside flickers to life, cold and blue, attention on the glass container exactly where you left it, lid on, untouched. 

Except—no. Something’s wrong.

The lid is snapped shut, perfectly aligned. The container looks full. But it isn’t. You can feel it before you even lift it—something in the tilt, the balance. Your stomach lurches as you peel the lid off  and confirm what you already know. The food is gone. Not spilled. Not disturbed. Not even a forkful left to scrape from the edges. Just... empty. Clean. Wiped down.

A rare mix of anger, rare but hot, pulses against your ribcage, but before you can storm out and demand answers, you feel the paper crumpled under the container. Your breath stops. It’s your note—the one you’d carefully taped to the top that morning: NOT FOR GENERAL CONSUMPTION. HANDS OFF GREMLINS, it reads in your blocky caps. But now that line has been crossed out in thick, decisive strokes. And underneath it, slanted and dark and horrifyingly familiar: 

That was great, thanks pretty girl.

The world tilts. Your lungs forget how to work. You’ve seen that name before—only in texts, never spoken, never written. Anonymous. Cryptic. Repetitive. A whisper against your spine on nights when the lights were off and your phone lit up with unknown numbers. But this—this isn’t a text. This is here. This is your space, your name, your cooking, your boundary, and someone has walked right through it with ink-stained hands and a stomach full of what you made with care.

A hot flush crawls up your neck, floods your ears. You stagger back a step and catch yourself on the counter. The container slips from your hand and hits the lounge table with a muted thud. The silence in the room turns sharp. 

Then, you shove the fridge shut. The door clangs and rattles in its frame. The room feels like it’s shrinking, like the air has gone sour, too full of other people’s breath. You snatch the note and crush it in your hand. Your teeth clench so hard your jaw pops. You don’t remember turning, but you’re already out the door, slamming into the corridor.

Fin is halfway down the hall with a tablet in hand. He startles and drops it when you barrel past. “Boss? Are you okay—?”

You don’t hear him. You don’t answer. The world has narrowed to one screaming thought: Find Gloria. Now. You need the Chief Medical Officer, need her badge, her keys, her authority. She can pull the security feeds. She can call the police. She can make this stop.

You’re moving before you think to move, feet pounding the tile, vision blurring at the edges. You don’t realize you’re shaking until your elbow clips the corner of the nurse’s station and jolts you. Jules tries to intercept you, her mouth forming your name in alarm, but you dodge past. Margot reaches out, grabs your arm, and for a second your momentum dies.

“What happened?” she demands, voice low, sharp, anchoring.

You look at her. You try to speak. Nothing. Just breathless silence. Then, rasping through a throat too tight to breathe, you say, “Need Gloria.”

She gets it instantly. Her eyes go cold. She lets you go. Already calling instructions behind you as you sprint toward the elevators.

Your fingers hurt. You look down and realize the note is still balled in your fist, crushed so tightly your nails have dug half-moons into your skin. The static in your head has turned into a roar. You feel cracked open, like your worst fear has been confirmed and now all your secrets are leaking out of you for the world to see. All this time, you thought if you could just hold on—just stay composed, stay ahead, stay vigilant—you could keep this from touching the parts of your life that mattered. But now it has. Now it’s here. The hospital was supposed to be your safe place, your fortress. But someone breached it.

The elevator doors open. Thankfully, nothing but an empty gurney is inside. You step in without hesitation, eyes fixed forward, spine locked. You don't even blink when the doors slide shut.

You get out the seconds the doors open and round the corner toward Administration so fast the world blurs, shoulders locked, chest heaving, pulse hammering in your ears so loud it drowns out thought. You barely register the sound of a door opening until a figure steps out from the consult room ahead—short but solid, dreadlocks brushing her shoulders, clipboard hugged tight to her chest.

You collide before either of you can brake.

Papers scatter like startled birds. A pen skitters across the tile and bounces under the nearest corner.

“Whoa—hey!” Kiara grabs you, steady hands catching your elbows before you fall. 

“Slow down, honey,” she says, trying for lightness. “What—”

Then she sees your face.

Whatever was holding you together unravels in a blink. Your eyes fill, your mouth opens, but nothing coherent makes it past your lips. The crushed note slips from your hand, landing between you. The marker-scrawled name glares up from the paper like a fresh wound.

Kiara’s clipboard hits the floor beside it.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she breathes.

Her arms come around you before you can bolt or speak or even breathe. And the second she does, the sob rips out of you—gut-deep, involuntary, raw. You bury your face against her soft sweater and shake, fists twisted in the soft cotton, the fabric quickly going damp with tears. Your legs threaten to give. Kiara cradles the back of your head like she would a grief-stricken mother in a quiet room, voice low and steady in your ear.

“I’ve got you. You’re okay. Breathe with me. In, two, three…that’s it. Out, two, three.”

You try. You try to follow her rhythm even as your chest jerks, lungs refusing to cooperate, every breath full of glass. The hallway seems to narrow around you, fluorescent lights too sharp, voices too distant, the floor too unsteady beneath your feet. 

You gasp, trying to speak—Gloria, fridge, note—but your tongue won’t work. The words hit the back of your throat and collapse.

Kiara doesn’t push. She doesn’t ask. Not yet. 

She bends, scoops the note up from the floor, her arm never leaving your shoulders. Her eyes flick over the overwritten scrawl. Her expression goes from gentle to granite.

“Okay,” she says, voice gone iron. “We’re taking this to Gloria. Right now.”

It’s almost scary how easily she connects the dots without a single ounce of context. For now, you can only nod, your body still trembling, your mind clawing for control that just isn’t there anymore. But you’re not alone. Kiara keeps an arm firmly around you as she pulls her phone from her pocket, dials with one hand, presses it to her ear.

“Gloria? Yes, it’s Kiara. I have an urgent security issue. Clear your office.”

A pause. Then a quiet “Thanks.” She ends the call, squeezes your arm, and begins steering you gently toward the elevators.

“She’s waiting. Margot’s on her way too,” Kiara tells you as she guides you through the hallway. 

You nod again, unable to speak, but this time it’s not empty. The words aren’t caught in panic—they’re being held for you, steadied. And for the first time since the messages started, since the stalking began, since the fear turned chronic and tight and unseen—something inside you loosens.

Not gone. But held.

Held by hands stronger than your own.

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