#deviations rapidly became worst

[novankenn]

Coco's Search for a WAIFU or The Purgatory of Jaune

= Sixteen = (Master Chapter List)

Jaune was still upon his bed, silent and immobile. His eyes closed as he allowed his mind wander, seeking the answers to the desires of his heart. He was finding little of use, but he continued on, searching for a direction to follow. As he continued to meditate, the final bell of the day sounded.

The instant the classes let out, Beacon's halls became choked with the crush of students trying to make their way to Training Room One. Word had passed through the student body, and not a single one wanted to miss Nikos and Adel going at it. One a champion and THE strongest of the first year combatants. The other, infamous in her own right, but arguably one of the strongest second years.

The conflict made all the juicer by the whispers that it was about a boy. It was made even more unreal when rumour mill finally made it know, who that boy was. Jaune Arc, the weakest and worst student in all the history of Beacon. Some scoffed at the notion, but it didn't dissuade them from trying to get a seat.

It didn't take long for the bleachers and the observation room to be filled to capacity, while on opposite sides of the central sparing ring, the two women in question faced each other.

Yang: As agreed. This is a SPAR! First to bring the other into the red wins. Are we synced?

Velvet: (Standing besides Coco) Yes.

Nora: (Standing next to Pyrrha) Yep.

Yang: Standard rules apply. You will give quarter if asked. Also, as agreed, I have the authority to stop this SPAR at any point I see fit. So you will listen to my instructions when given. Understood.

Pyrrha/Coco: Yes.

Yang: Everyone out of the ring. (Yang steps back out as the protective barrier is raised.) BEGIN!

Gianduja spun up as Pyrrha ducked to the side and covered herself with Akouo. A hail of dust rounds tore up the floor and slammed into Pyrrha's shield. She grunted from the impact of the absolute body shaking force, that threatened to push her backwards. Digging in her heels, she pushed forward, using a slight tilt of Akouo to deflect the rounds over straight-up blocking.

Coco adjusted her aim, but something felt off. It was like her weapon was heavier than it should be. She struggled to keep the stream of rounds aimed at Pyrrha, but she found herself deviating. Gritting her teeth, she pulled against the force that was pulling her aim off.

Still hunkered down behind her shield, Pyrrha inched forward, closing with her opponent. Seeing that Pyrrha was pushing to get into melee range, Coco activated her semblance, instantly increasing the power of her rounds. The sudden added intensity caused Pyrrha to waiver. Gritting her teeth, she pushed against her shield and dove to the side, out of the line of fire.

Coco twisted on her feet, pivoting about to bring the tidal wave of rounds to bear upon her opponent.

CLICK! CLUNK!

Coco: SHIT!

With the stream of rounds gone, Pyrrha launched herself forward, Milo in spear form chamber to strike. Dropping her more than likely jammed gun, Coco dodged to the side, moments before Pyrrha's strike could land. Rolling to her feet, Coco counter-attacked. Pyrrha weaved away from Coco's punches and swapped Milo to sword form. Using Akouo for cover, she spun about in a low slash.

Coco saw the rapidly approaching weapon and kicked out, catching the blade with the sole of her boot and surprisingly knocking it from Pyrrha's grasp. Even though she was shocked at the force Coco had delivered with that kick, Pyrrha didn't hesitate to let the force of that strike help reverse the rotation of her attack.

Coco staggered sideways as Milo skittered across the floor. The edge of Akouo having smashed into her side. Coco shook off the hit and threw a flurry of punches and kicks, forcing Pyrrha to dodge, weave and block. Spinning about, Pyrrha attempted to once again strike Coco with Akouo's edge, only to have the fashionista intercept the strike.

The force with which Coco latched onto Pyrrha's shield and then ripped it from her grasp was something she had not expected from Coco. As Akouo clattered across the ground, Pyrrha retaliated. Throwing her own combos of kicks and punches, that forced Coco to cover up.

Pyrrha knew now she was faster are probably more agile, while Coco was much more gifted in the physical strength department. But Pyrrha knew other things as well. Strength did little if you were on your back. So instead of continuing to throw strikes, Pyrrha pulled a shoot. Driving her shoulder into Coco's gut, Pyrrha scooped her legs and drove her backwards into the floor.

Pyrrha: (Raining blows down on Coco's covered up head) Someone like you shouldn't be anywhere near Jaune! You're a selfish, manipulative cunt! Why would someone as shallow as you ever notice someone like Jaune?

Coco knew she was steadily loosing aura, but she really didn't care at this point. She just had to fight back. To give as good as she got, and make sure the Invincible Girl remembered her. Thrusting up with her hips, she interrupted Pyrrha's storm of punches, and in that short moment Coco grabbed Pyrrha's flowing locks and dragged her head down into the path of an elbow.

Coco: Fuck you! You self-righteous coward! Pathetic simpering bitch!

The onlookers were rather shocked as the spar devolved into a full on cat-fight as the weapons were forgotten, and skills were abandoned. The two women now rolled about, hands tangled in each other's hair, fists falling and striking without precision, and screaming obscenities at each other.

Coco: I know what I did was fucking wrong, you cow! But at least I did something! I got his attention! I made him notice me! All the while you cowered in your little fucking corner like a pussy!

Pyrrha: You would know about pussy, wouldn't you! How many did you dive, dyke, before you found out you needed cock?

Coco: You fucking slut!

Somehow, both combatants managed to break free of the other and roll to their feet. Gasping for breath, they wasted not a second before latching on to each other again. Hands grabbing hair, and closing upon throats.

Yang: Enough! I'm stopping this spar!

Neither woman paid Yang a lick of attention, as they continued their assaults upon each other. With a wave of her hand, others rushed the ring, and forcibly separated the two. Even then, they continued to struggle, spitting vitriol at each other.

As the audience slowly filtered out, those left, team RWBY, CFVY and the remainder of JNPR stayed behind. Keeping the pair of enraged women as far apart as they could, physically.

Yang: (Struggling to held keep Pyrrha contained) We need Jaune! These two are not going to stop without him stepping in!

Nora: (Also assisting in keeping Pyrrha away from Coco) He should be in the dorm, right, Rennie?

Ren: (Trying unsuccessfully use his semblance to alleviate the pure rage in Pyrrha) Yes. He should be there.

Yang: Rubes! Go get Jaune!

Ruby moved away from those holding down Pyrrha and vanished in a blur of rose petals.

Yang: (Shouting over her shoulder towards the ground, trying to control Coco) We're getting Jaune!

Velvet: Is that even a good idea? They're fighting over him!

Yang: We have to try! When he gets here, Ruby can go for Goodwitch!

[hello-galad]

His father’s death, after those agonizing three months, felt as a relief. At least now, Nie Mingjue thought, their father was not in pain anymore. He squeezed his didi’s hand tighter and stood straighter, but the wouldn’t stop the tears from falling…

[youwerenevermeanttofeelalone]

75+95 with Jason Todd?

I hope you don’t mind I’m adding 56 and 2 from another request because in my head they fit perfectly.

2. “Can I kiss you?”

56. Those period shirts with the puffy sleeves and the deep v and one staring at the other like… oh no he/she’s hot. 

75. Speaks in a terrible Shakespearean/Elizabethan style to woo/make the other laugh

95. “Do you talk to your mother with that mouth?”

“What if it doesn’t fit? Or what if I rip it?”

“Shouldn’t I be the one worrying about that?” you joked.

Jason glared at you. “Don’t be silly.”

“You might be huge,” you conceded, “but the shirt will fit, don’t worry.”

“What do I get if it doesn’t?”

“Uhmmmm...” You tapped your chin as you tried to come up with something. “A learning lesson to stop working out like a lunatic?”

“No way.” He shook his head. “I sleep like baby now.”

You shrugged, palms up in a ‘what do you want me to do then?’ gesture.

It would be the first time you tried your costumes on and everybody was a little nervous, but Jason looked like he was going to explode.

You were called before he was and now he was left with only Roy who had already told him to stop being dramatic and his nerves.

His costume should’ve fit him just fine — after all, yours did. You expected it to be tight, but perhaps it was time to learn a lesson yourself and stop expecting the worst.

Jason was already outside, all by himself. You could only assume it was Roy’s and Artemis’s turn.

The shirt fit him perfectly and now you wished he had been right. He looked way too good for no reason.

The v-neck served as a window to his hard chest and the puffy shirt made him look even taller than he was.

Life was being unfair to you. Nobody should’ve looked that hot in a cheap costume.

Realizing you were staring, you briefly deviated your gaze behind him where the door was still closed. “Well, looks like it fit.”

Jason blinked rapidly. It took him a few seconds to answer, “It fits you really well.”

“I— uh... I was talking about you.”

“Ah.” Jason looked down at his shirt. “Well, it didn’t pop...”

“I’m kinda sad you didn’t get to embarrass yourself.”

“Is that what does it for you? People embarrassing themselves?”

“Nah, I just like making fun of you.”

He gasped, bringing a hand to his chest to add flare. “You did wind me, h're I am baring mine own soul to thee and this is how thee payeth me.”

You went along with it. “How can I maketh t up to thee?”

“I’m not sure mine own broken heart can beest mend'd. ”

Biting your bottom lip to keep yourself from laughing, you peered up at him. Such a bad idea; why were you torturing yourself like this? Why did he have to look so hot? “There has to be something.”

Swallowing his spit, he dropped the act and bluntly asked, “Can I kiss you?”

“Sure.”

Jason didn’t have to be told twice. He cupped your face in both hands and brought your face closer to his. Slowly, he kissed you.

But neither of you wanted slow, he was just being polite to not scare you away — it became clear rather quickly as the kiss grew heated and your hands wandered up his arms.

He rendered you breathless whilst he grabbed you by the back of your head and angled your face to kiss you harder.

“Fuck,” you panted.

He nibbled on your bottom lip teasingly before pulling away. “Do you talk to your mother with that mouth?”

“Every single day.”

He playfully rolled his eyes. “We sh—“

Roy interrupted him, patting his back as he stood beside him, “Are we still playing video games tonight?”

“No.”

“What?” Roy teased, “you’re busy later or something?”

Jason didn’t take his eyes off you as he answered, “Hopefully.”

[elliebean714]

A/N~ Absolutely you can!! Hope this is up to your expectations!! This takes place before the events of Security Breach, deviated from cannon a little hope thats okay, Gregory is around 8, Ballora is kinda inspired by Scrap Baby and has Mrs. Aftons spirit.

Gregory x Ballora (Platonic)

Fnaf SB x Fnaf SL

Summary~ On a dark night, Gregory has to seek refuge in an abandoned building, with an abandoned animatronic~

Even though Gregory had been alone for a while now, he'd never get used to it. The cold dark lonely nights spent outside had become to much for the child. Especially during the rainy nights where the rain would drench his clothes, sticking the cold wet material to his skin, what little he had would be ruined for days on end. Tonight, there was a storm, forcing Gregory to enter the abandoned warehouse. He was hesitant, of course, he'd heard noises from inside, an odd mechanical sort of crying was often heard. But tonight, Gregory knew, if he didn't get inside, he'd become sick, the rain and cold worsening, he quickly made his way inside.

Inside was completely black, Gregory saw nothing. But he heard something. He quickly tried to find a place to hide, running his hand along the wall and finding an (thankfully) empty dumpster, he jumped in, quickly closing the lid on top of him. "I can hear someone c-c-c-" a mechanical voice cut through the creeping quiet, glitchy but feminine, "-crawliing through my room." As it finished, loud thumbs could be heard on the floor, before a sweet melody began playing, the tumps became quieter but whatever was making them was getting closer. Gregory's heart started beating rapidly as he tried to quiet his breaths, staying as still as possible, as silent as possible.

His efforts proved fruitless as a long, wired arm began slowly lifting the dumpster lid. Gregory screamed as he feared for the worst, "No, no. Don't be afraid, I do not wish you harm." The robot spoke gently, Gregory was still scared however, Ballora couldn't blame him, she'd known what she was, "I promise, I'll keep you safe." She offered him her hands, which, miraculously, where both still attached. He took one of her hands, she was cold, metallic and wiry yet still, Gregory knew she was doing her best to prove she was harmless. "Do you have a name sweetheart?" She asked softly, setting him down on the concrete floor, "Gregory," he replied "My names Gregory." She noded, "My Name is Ballora, what are you doing in here? Don't you have somewhere to go?" He shook his head, the memories of his last few years began flooding his head, tears welled in his eyes he remembered everything he tried to forget. "Oh sweetheart," Ballora heard his sniffles and opened her arms for him, he threw himself onto her, holding on tight "Aw Gregory. It's alright, your okay." She closed her arms around him and began standing "It's drier over here.".

Ballora danced gracefully with Gregory in her arms, he wrapped his legs around her waist, to ensure he remained at her side, and buried his head into her shoulder. She looked down and kissed the top of his head softly, "You're safe Gregory, don't worry.". Once they reached their destination, beside the speaker playing her soft tune, she tried to put him down on the less damp ground but he held on tight, "Don't you wish to rest?" Ballora inquired gently, which only caused him to burry his face deeper into her neck, "Did you just want to cuddle then?" She questioned, receiving a harsh nod from Gregory. Ballora felt an odd connection to the child in her arms, not just protective of the boy, but an odd, motherly, feeling she hadn't felt since her eldest son accidentally killed her youngest, before the darkest of depressions caught her. Before she was brought into her mechanical prison. She felt as though, somehow, fate had given her son back to her, and it would have to pry him from her cold, limp, decommissioned arms before it took him away again.

Hiiiii!!!! This was really fun to write! Thanks for the request! I hope it's what you wanted!!

~Elliebean714

◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆

[imma-fucking-nerd]

Malfunction

(Nines x Reader)

A/N: givin my mountain baby a little love cuz i still feel bad about how i had to do it to him in two birds 😔

——————–———–—————

"Goodmorning, (Y/n)," you were immediately greeted by Connor, your best friend, as you entered the precinct.

"Goodmorning Connor," you responded with a smile just like you did every day.

Looking over his shoulder you surprisingly saw Hank at his desk. You noticed that ever since Connor became a deviant he had managed to slowly get his father figure to come to work on time.

"Morning Hank," you called out to the older man to which he responded with a lazy wave.

After saying your greetings to your friends and having a little smalltalk you headed to your desk. As you put your things down you lifted your gaze, locking your (e/c) eyes with hard steel grey ones. A stare that never failed to make a shiver run down your spine. Even so, you lifted up your hand and offered the stoic android a small wave.

"Morning Nines," you said with a kind smile.

He didn't reply. He never did. But you never stopped greeting him anyways because despite the fact he may not have deviated yet, doesn't mean he's any less a person. However that didn't exactly mean you weren't a little scared of the guy. With the way he stared at you, you could only imagine he was thinking about ripping your head off. Or maybe he wasn't. To say he was hard to read was an understatement.

When you brought your attention back to starting your work, the androids eyes never left your form. What you didn't know was that he didn't hate you like you thought he did. Quite the opposite actually. He found you intriguing. It always puzzled him why you would waste time trying to talk to him. He was just a machine. There was no point.

However the more time went on the less true that seemed to become because whenever you shared a kind smile with him something in him shifted. Changed. As if there was some sort of virus in his programming causing these strange feelings. If he had a dollar for every scan he ran on himself to find out what the hell it was he'd be a billionaire. But alas they all came up with nothing.

That wasn't the only time he'd experience one of these malfunctions, so to speak. They'd also happen whenever he saw you talking with the RK800, Connor, his predecessor. But this feeling was far less desirable than the other. It made Nines insides feel like they were clenching, like he was suffocating from a lack of.... He didn't even know.

You always seemed so comfortable with him and were never not smiling. You'd even hug him after almost every interaction. But he didn't like it. Not one bit. Why were you giving the lesser model so much if your attention? He was the superior one after all. But then he'd ask himself why did it even matter? It wasn't like he cared. He couldn't care. He was a machine. That's all.

At least that's what he'd tell himself. Over and over and over again. Even when he would see the little Software Instability ^ in his peripherals. It must have just been a mistake. An error. A malfunction. Something. He couldn't actually be becoming the very thing that was impossible for him to do.

But when you glanced up and locked eyes with him for just a second, that feeling would return once again. Then he'd end up playing the memory of that moment over and over just to feel it again. Until he'd get snapped out of it by Gavin, or even himself.

It was maddening. You were maddening. You were consuming his every waking moment and you didn't even know it. That was probably the worst part. You had absolutely no clue the hold you had over him. In fact, you were afraid of him, and he knew it. What he didn't know, or understand, was that it hurt him. He'd never hurt you. He ran so many simulations in his head of situations where he'd be ordered to hurt you but he just couldn't. Something that was harder for him to convince himself was at all logical.

Software Instability ^

As the hours went by Nines found himself replaying his favourite memory of you. It was one of the few times you had tried striking up a conversation with the RK900 in the earlier months of his time at the DPD.

"So, I know everyone calls you Nines, but you do have an actual name like Connor or...?" you questioned seemingingly out of the blue, tilting your head up to the tall android.

"I was not registered with an official name, no," he replied simply with his usual monotone voice, glancing down at you.

"Well....would you want one?" you offered with a small smile.

He watched you silently for a moment before responding rather coldly, "I'm a machine. I don't want anything. Nines is a sufficient enough way to address me."

You frowned slightly at his answer and it was the first time he felt the ghost of what would become a powerful feeling.

"Alright well.... If you ever change your mind let me know," you said, your lips curving upwards once more.

Everytime he'd think back on that memory the tiniest of smiles would tug at his lips. It was the first time a human offered him any kindness, or anything at all really, let alone a name. Something that was uniquely his. He told himself he didn't need one but he sometimes wished you'd name him yourself. A thought that would be quickly shoved away, and the tiny smile gone even quicker.

Software Instability ^

By the time he was pulled back to the present it seemed like it was already the end of the day. While he was lost in his own thoughts he was still thankfully able to do his work. Maybe not as flawlessly as normal but it was finished nonetheless. The last thing he wanted was his partner, Gavin Reed, on his case for slacking.

The only people left in the office at this point were himself, Connor, Hank, and you. That was, until Hank and Connor made their way out. But not without stopping at your desk of course. He watched as you said your goodbyes, giving Connor another goddamn hug, with that brilliant smile on your face.

Software Instability ^

Once you were done wishing Connor and Hank a goodnight, you turned back to your desk to finish up a few last minute things. It was rare for you to be the last one in the office but you didn't want to leave without making sure you absolutely did all you needed to do. You didn't need Fowler on your ass.

When you were finally finished you let out a sigh of relief and started gathering your things. As you were pulling on your jacket you couldn't help but jump and let out a little gasp when you noticed Nines in the corner, staring.

"Jesus, you almost gave me a heart attack," you chucked nervously as you placed your hand over your rapidly beating heart.

Now you kind of felt bad for forgetting that he was there. It was just that he was so quiet. Like a statue or something. It was just then when a sudden realization made your guilt even worse.

"So do you just, stay here at night? In the dark? Alone?" you asked him as you gathered the rest of your things.

He gave a little nod in response, confirming your suspicions and you sighed softly.

"Well I can't just let you be alone like that so you can come home with me. If you want. You don't have to," you said, stumbling over your words as you continued.

When he didn't answer you frowned slight and gave another soft sigh. Well at least you tried.

"Well, have a good night then," you said before making your way over to the door.

Once you exited the building you stopped when you didn't hear the door close behind you immediately. When you turned around you were surprised to see that Nines was following you.

Software Instability ^

You smiled up at him and continued your way over to your car. You didn't say anything about it, you were just happy that he actually decided to take you up on your offer. That was progress in your book.

As you expected, the car ride home was a quiet one. None of you spoke and you both kept your eyes forward, save for the few glances you spared his way. You couldn't help but feel a little awkward. He looked so much like your best friend Connor, but he couldn't have been more different. You just wished he'd throw you a bone once in a while, let you talk to him without making you feel like you were an unwanted presence. But then again he did decide to come home with you. Again, a little progress was progress nonetheless.

Upon entering your home you let out an exhausted sigh, happy to finally unwind after a long day of work. As you took off your jacket and boots you noticed that Nines just stood infront of the door.

"You can make yourself at home," you said knowing full well that he'd probably wouldn't move from that spot the entire night.

You still wanted to make him feel welcome anyways. Him not being a deviant didn't change the fact he was still a person in your eyes. Even if he gives you many reasons to rethink that.

After that you went on with your night as normal. When you made yourself dinner you had to stop yourself from offering some to Nines. That would've been been very embarassing. But at least you didn't have to worry about him barging in on you while you were in the shower. It took a bit of time to get used to his staring when you watched tv until you got tired, and just as you suspected, he never moved an inch.

At around eleven o'clock you decided you should probably hit the hay. Turning off the tv, you got up and stretched a bit with a yawn before looking over to Nines.

"Welp, I'm off to bed now. Let me know if you need anything," you smiled sleepily at him before turning to head to your room.

Software Instability ^

However you stopped in your tracks when you suddenly heard his smooth voice speak up, causing you to turn back to him in mild surprise.

"I do have one request before you go," he said, his LED now illuminating a pale yellow.

"Yeah? What's up?" you asked maybe a little too eagerly.

But you couldn't help yourself. It wasn't every day Nines asked you for anything. Or talked to you at all really.

You watched him intently, patiently waiting for him to ask whatever it was he wanted to ask. When he didn't speak for a good long minute you were about to open your mouth to ask if he was okay when he moved to stand infront of you before speaking up.

"If your offer of helping me chose a name I would.... appreciate the assistance," he said, shifting his gaze away from you for a moment as he spoke.

"U-Uh yeah sure, of course!" you stuttered.

In all honesty you were surprised that he remembered that offer. Well, maybe you weren't surprised he remembered and more surprised he actually did change his mind.

When he didn't say anything else you spoke up for him, "Did you have anything in mind?"

"No. I would prefer it if you would select a suitable name for me," he said, finally asking of you what he wanted.

Well one thing he wanted from you, besides you yourself. But he wasn't even aware that was what he truly wanted. Not yet at least.

Again, you found yourself blinking at him in slight shock and for some reason you felt your cheeks flaring up.

"I uh, yeah I can do that. How about...." you trailed off, staring up at him intently as you thought about a decent name for him.

It was silent as you both stared at each other. Both your minds racing with very different thoughts. Nines LED blinking as he waited to register a new name. His first real name. Given by you.

Software Instability ^

After what felt like forever, your mind finally settled on a name you thought fit perfectly.

"How about Conan?" you asked with a hopeful smile.

The android looked off into the distance for a moment before nodding.

"Yes I think that will suffice. Thank you," he said as he looked back down to you.

"Great!" your smile turned into a grin and you felt pride bubble up inside you.

You did wonder why his LED was still yellow, however. How long did it take to process that information? You decided not to think too much about it.

"Anyways I should really be going to bed now. Goodnight, Conan," you offered him one last smile before turning to the hall towards your room.

However halfway down the hall you were suddenly turned and pinned to the wall, a hand on each side of your head effectively caging you in. You looked up at Conan with confusion and fear in your eyes. His eyebrows were knit together and his LED was burning an bright red.

"C-Conan?" you timidly spoke, not being able to hide the fear in your voice.

Was he about to kill you? What did you do wrong? Did he really not like the ne name?- Suddenly, you were pulled from your thoughts.

"What are you doing to me," his voice was low, almost a whisper and held something you've never heard from him.

Emotion.

But what emotion it was exactly, you couldn't tell.

"W-What? I-I didn't do anything!" you squeaked out, confusion evident in your voice.

He blinked a couple of times and his harsh features softened. You could of sworn you saw hurt flash in his eyes for just a moment.

Software Instability ^

"You don't even know, do you?" his voice was somehow softer than before.

"W-What?-" but before you could ask him what he meant he interrupted you.

"Whenever I'm around you my therium pump seems to work faster than it should, and all my biocomponants clench. It feels like I'm being suffocated. But whenever you're gone it's somehow worse. Like I'm missing a vital system. I've run a million tests but everything comes out fine. So why? Why is this happening?" He hung his head as he spoke, confusion and, what worried you more, fear could be heard in his voice.

Software Instability ^

Suddenly any fear you felt from him vanished and you were starting to realize what was happening. It made heat slowly start to rise in your cheeks and didn't at all help your ever high heartrate.

"What are you doing to me?" he asked again almost desperately, finally meeting your eyes once more.

You opened your mouth to speak but nothing came out. You didn't have a clue what to say. There was no doubt he was deviating, and there was no doubt it was because of you. After what felt like an eternity of silence you finally cleared your throat before speaking.

"I'm not doing anything, but I think I know what's happening to you," your words were soft and slow as you spoke, as if trying to calm an angry animal.

You took a brief pause for a moment until Conan's expectant stare made you to continue.

"I think.... No, I know, what you're feeling is.... It's called love," your voice remained calm, soft, and confident even.

Software Instability ^

"That's not possible," he said harshly, his eyebrows furrowing.

Fear started to slowly creep back up into you hut you pushed it down. It was obvious that this was difficult for him and he needed you. You weren't going to let him down.

"Yes. It is. Conan, you're feeling. You're becoming human," a small reassuring smile spread across your lips.

You avoided using the word 'deviant', knowing that he would see what was happening as a bad thing if it was labeled as such. But it wasn't a bad thing at all and you were trying your damndest not to fuck it up. So before he could come to the conclusion of it being a negative on his own you continued.

"And that's not a bad thing. It's a very very good thing. A wonderful thing," as you spoke you slowly raised a hand to gently rest on his chest.

However before your hand could touch him, his hand caught your wrist. His grip was tight, but not to the point that it hurt. It was a warning. So you ceased your movements immediately.

Software Instability ^

You watched as he shut his eyes tightly, his face scrunching up causing you to stay silent and still. Oh how you wished you knew what was going on in his head. The only indication you had was his raging red LED.

What you couldn't see was the multiple notices of software instability going off again and again. And as he shut his eyes he was met with a large red wall of his mission. He knew what this meant. He knew what would happen if he broke through. He couldn't do this. He can't be a deviant. But then your words replayed in his head. "And that's not a bad thing. It's a very very good thing. A wonderful thing." That gave him enough strength to finally bash that wall down.

After what must have been a solid five minutes, although it felt more like hours, he slowly guided your hand up to cup his cheek. This made your eyes go wide but you didn't dare pull away, not that you even wanted to anyways. You assumed that the action was his wordless way of telling you he did it. He fully deviated.

When he finally opened his eyes he was met with a warm, reassuring smile and the feeling of your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. His LED seemed to finally calm down to a yellow hue, making your smile grow just a bit wider in relief. Without another word you suddenly went on your tippytoes and wrapped your other arm around his neck, pulling him down slightly into a hug. Your other hand, which he slowly let go of, moved to the back of his head.

He didn't know exactly what you were doing at first and just stood there awkwardly. But as soon as he realized you were hugging him he slowly wrapped his arms around your waist. After a few more minutes of him getting used to your embrace you felt him relax into you and even nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, his LED finally settling back to a calm baby blue.

You two just stood there in each others arms for god knows how long. But you didn't mind one bit. If you didn't know better you would have even thought he fell asleep. As if on cue, a yawn escaped from your body and you wondered just how late it had gotten. As soon as Conan heard you yawn he pulled back from you, but his arms stayed firmly around your waist.

"It's 12:32 am, you should go get some rest," he said softly, looking into your eyes with an amount of love you've never seen before.

"Uh y-yeah okay," you stuttered out, the heat in your face rising higher than ever before that night.

However before you even had the chance to take a step towards you room Conan took it upon himself to lift you up bridal style and carry you to your room. A small squeak left your lips at the sudden action and your arms immediately wrapped around his neck. Looking up at him you noticed his lips curling up into a small smirk and your face burned even hotter.

"I-I could've walked you know," you said, your smile betraying your tone.

"I know," was all he said as he stopped to gently place you down onto your bed.

He watched as you got under your covers and got comfortable until your beautiful (e/c) eyes lifted up to meet his. God how was it even possible you looked even more gorgeous than before. Or maybe it was that he could now appreciate your beauty in full.

"Stay?" your small voice pulled him from him thoughts and he noticed you patting the empty space beside you.

"Of course," he responded, his smirk from before growing as he moved to lay down next you.

As soon as he was laying down you covered him with the blanket as well and curled up next to him. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him while his free hand started to gently pet tour hair.

"Goodnight Conan," you said sleepily as your eyes fluttered shut.

"Goodnight (Y/n)," he whispered back before leaning down and pressing his lips gently to your temple.

————————————————

A/N: HOLY. SHIT. I got CARRIED carried away lmaooo. Over 3500 words jfc. Each fic i write gets longer and longer. Anyways hope y'all liked it as much as I did writing it!

[corvusravenette]

FanFiction: Qi Ye

Title: I Thought of You and Yet You Came  Based on Original Work: Qi Ye || Lord Seventh Author: Priest Genre: BL Warning: Gore and Violence Rate: Teen / Young adults Pairing: M/M (Wu Xi + Beiyuan) Chapter: 2 of 5 +-+-+-+-+-+-    

          Swinging off his warhorse, Wu Xi pulled Beiyuan into his arms, shielding him against the rain that had slowed down to a drizzle as his hands moved quickly, determinedly, ripping the cloth covering Beiyuan’s wound in halves. He could sense footsteps grazing over and he snapped his eyes up only to recognize the uniform were men of Heaven’s Pane. The one closest to him quickly saluted, Wu Xi noticing his left arm missing before the man turned around, gripping a sword in his right in a protective stance over them. In a battle-ready formation, what was remaining of the men surrounded him, their backs to him, providing as much protection as their sorry bodies could handle against possible sneak attacks. 

          Wu Xi nodded in gratefulness and went to work immediately. His lips pressed into a thin line, refusing to say anything else, he kept astute focus on the one person that he was not willing to let go. The Netherworld Judge would have to wait a lifetime before meeting Beiyuan again. His hands continued to strip the chemise off Beiyuan and inhaled a sharp breath as the garish wound on Beiyuan’s chest were displayed full frontal in his line of sight.                               Fingers steady, his identity as the Great Shaman kicking into gear, he deftly poured vials and vials of unknown medicines from his lapels into Beiyuan’s mouth and over his most prevalent injury. The skin above his ribs were shredded to the bone, his blood not coagulating fast enough in the rain and Wu Xi carefully positioned the flayed skin as best and as quickly as he possibly could over the wound before pouring a deep purple liquid over it. The purple liquid [1] stained the skin so vividly, it looked as though Beiyuan’s body had taken a vicious beating.             Carefully, Wu Xi took a smaller pouch from one of the many compartments in his robe and took out a hook needle and some thread. He began the tedious process of suturing the open wound, from shoulder to abdomen efficiently, at the back of his mind grateful that he had years of medicine in his belt. Ripping the seams of his cloak into large strips of cloth, Wu Xi quickly wrapped the deepest of Beiyuan’s wound tightly, the blood already coagulating after coming into contact with the purple liquid he had poured on it earlier, stemming off the blood flow.           He became increasingly aware of the presence of more people coming towards them, but he was not willing to spare them further thought, his chaotic mind had stilled akin to the clear pond of reincarnation – not a ripple to be seen on the surface. He had pushed his fears so far down his own mind that he became almost statue like, methodically processing the leaden body in his arms without a word.                                “Great Shaman, we must make headway soon,” the familiar voice of Nuahar spoke barely above a whisper.           The warrior had stopped and knelt across Wu Xi, his eyes quickly taking into account how grievously injured the Prince was. Swallowing his apprehension and doubt for the Prince’s survival, and as though fearful of the Great Shaman’s wrath if he had spoken this out loud, he pushed on, knowing that they needed to get out of the rain.           “The war is over, the Emperor sends summons for us to head into the capital. A residence is being prepared as we speak”.                               “Good,” Wu Xi replied, his tone monotonous as he covered Beiyuan in what’s left of his partially wet and torn cloak. He needed to get Beiyuan quickly out of the rain and he needed to disinfect the wounds again. This news was welcomed relief. However, Wu Xi could not be complacent. A life and death fever would set in without a doubt. Steeling his determination, Wu Xi moved, “Let’s go,”.                               Wu Xi hoisted himself up first onto his stallion and a short while later, Nuahar lifted the comatose prince carefully into his arms, taking care not to jostle or tear the latter’s fragile wound although the Great Shaman had sutured the worst of it closed. Wu Xi sat the man across in front of him, resting the latter’s head on his shoulder, an arm securely holding him around the waist. Swallowing the growing lump in his throat and blinking away rapidly as he turned around to face the remaining surviving Heaven’s Pane assassins, he deftly tossed a few vials of medications towards the men and instructed Nuahar and the rest of his elite Nanjiang warriors who had sought after him up here, to take care of Master Zhou Zishu’s men.                               Battle-weary and heavily injured, Master Zhou’s men breathed in relief as the Southern warriors helped them up onto their horses, their wounds freshly covered in medicine. Bowing their heads in a silent prayer for all those who perished in this idyllic mountain grounds, led by Nuahar, Wu Xi followed closely downhill, paying close attention to Beiyuan’s shallow breathing. He didn’t dare ride his stallion hard, no matter how much he wanted to, the fear of injuring Beiyuan too deeply ingrained in his soul. Pulling the cloak closer and holding his most precious beloved close to his heart, Wu Xi pressed a reverent kiss onto his eyebrow, his eyes reddening as he continued to blink away the unshed tears that threaten to fall. The small troop then made its way into the war-torn land towards the capital city. ***                               “Great Shaman,” Zhou Zishu was standing in the doorway of Beiyuan’s room, “The Emperor demands to know the Prince’s status. You can’t hide him forever,”.                                            Wu Xi’s features hardened as he snapped his head around towards the man standing rigidly in the doorway, his braids whipping along with the movement. His black eyes stared down the man who hadn’t changed out of his blood-soaked clothes either, the human skin mask he usually wore to hide his face had been taken off. In its stead, a sharp chiseled face was revealed – handsome in an almost cruel way, his eyes dead, a hint of brokenness almost visible around its red edges as though he had stemmed off a flow of tears just moments before.            Wu Xi had no patience for this Emperor who coveted his beloved, but he knew in this land Helian Yi held the absolute power as the Son of Heaven. He was not willing to forget that this Prince had chosen to die for the Emperor over leaving with him.Were all his ill-fated reincarnations not enough?! He was still going to die for this dog of an Emperor, again?! A sudden image of a man with a head full of white hair flashed through Wu Xi’s memories, burning bright in his mind’s eye, like a memory from multiple lifetimes - the nightmarish remnants of the Dream Stupor courtesy of the comatose man behind him crept in from the depths of his pain. Just as quickly, he blinked, and the image was replaced with the man now standing in front of him. Reining in his already brittle hold on his emotions, Wu Xi spoke possessively through gritted teeth, unconsciously moving to hide Beiyuan’s body from Zhou Zishu’s sight lest the latter made an attempt to grab him.                               “He is already on death’s doorstep! The Emperor still refuses to let him go?” the suppressed anger and incredulity in Wu Xi’s voice was apparent as he glared viciously, “Master Zhou, I don’t care who you are but I am taking Beiyuan away! Away from this goddamned land! Dead or alive, I will take him back to Nanjiang with me. I am not blind to the fact that Helian Yi has feelings for him! If I can see that then I’m sure you’re stark aware of it too! I will slaughter anyone who desires to even think of taking Beiyuan away from me. Do you hear me?”                             Wu Xi spent no time beating about the bush, rising from his seat next to Beiyuan’s comatose form to face the Emperor’s right-hand man head-on, not fearing the callous way he had just threatened the captain of the Emperor’s personal bodyguards. If he must, he would kill this man too, be damned the consequences. Zhou Zishu was not the least bit surprise when he heard this forceful declaration. He observed the Great Shaman’s features for a short moment – knowing that this Southern warrior was true to his words and would carry out what he threatened to do, knowing that although he was older than this man, the latter had stronger qi and could easily suppress him in hand to hand combat.           He was also a strong leader, his people having blind faith in him. He was privy to the strength of the Nanjiang warriors too. If they were to pursue an all-out war once again with these Southern warriors, this empire would crumble and perish into oblivion. He was sure of it. He knew though that despite it all, even if he gave in all his strength, he would be powerless against him if the Great Shaman decided to take it upon himself and chop the head of the Emperor off.           He saw the fire in the younger man’s eyes. Those were eyes not to be trifled with. He let the harsh words sink into him momentarily. His past actions, his blind devotion to the Emperor’s quest for power had cost him so much... Xiao Liang. That name gave him pause. His breath hitched in his throat. He looked down, unable to hold the Great Shaman’s piercingly overbearing gaze, as he swallowed hard – memories of his shidi’s mischievous smile and that monumental guilt over his death gnawed at him viciously. Blinking away the tears that threatened to fall, Zhou Zishu turned his face away, his back now facing the Great Shaman.            “Easy, Da Wu, lest your qi deviates from your anger. Rest assured the Prince will be martyred in this war if you so wished it. I will prepare a body double, but the Emperor still needs to be informed. Else, he might storm this residence himself and I won’t be able to stop him,” Zhou Zishu responded after a while, turning around again to face Wu Xi, a determined smile on his face as he steeled his resolve to do this good deed in memory of his dead shidi,            “Beiyuan would never tell you in this lifetime. He did not stay here to die for the Emperor. He is a man of Great Qing and was prepared to die for the country. He had plans to leave the country, to Nanjiang, to find you if he survived this war. Yes, His Majesty has him in his heart, but the Prince already has you in his. He sent you away to keep you safe. I hope he recovers well and that you both live a long prosperous life away from all of this. Da Wu, I swear it on my life that he will no longer be in the Emperor’s sight,”.            With a slight bow, Zhou Zishu left the way he came – quietly blending into the dark night. Wu Xi stared after him, long after he had gone. The words the former carefully said remained ringing in his ears… Yes, His Majesty has him in his heart, but the Prince already has you in his… He turned around, the heavy weight in his heart refusing to even lift a smidgen as he sat back down by Beiyuan’s side.            His beloved’s breathing was dangerously shallow as he held the ice-cold hand in a tight grasp. Lifting the icy fingers to his lips, Wu Xi reverently kissed each tip in utmost sincerity, unable to hold the tears at bay any longer as he held the open palm to his cheek. Stroking Beiyuan’s hair, Wu Xi vowed to never let another man harm his beloved, his determination giving him the drive he needed to stamp down the fear of losing this man and to save him at all cost.            Nuahar and Ashinlae who were standing outside the door, kept an eye on the Great Shaman, making sure that they were there whenever he needed a new change of bandages or medicines brewed. The warriors looked at each other somberly, a quiet veneration taking over them. Never had they seen this young man, who was as frigid as the ice-cold North, be openly honest with his emotions to this extent.           Their hearts despaired for him as they watched the boy they had taken care of their entire adult lives grow up in a hostile environment, forced to adapt to the fake courteousness of the Great Qing people, watched him build tentative friendships, witnessed his very first oath of love and to have that love be almost taken away from him in front of his very eyes.           Deep within, the warriors had developed a deeper sense of respect for the Great Shaman’s determination and his devotion to this beloved one. Only a great man could spur an army to rescue his most beloved. They nodded almost understandingly and made a silent promise that they would follow this Great Shaman until death invites them home.           Wu Xi didn’t know how long he had stayed by Beiyuan’s side that night, refusing to change out of his clothes, keeping vigil by the bedside, changing the bandages repeatedly and applying new concoctions multiple times. He was determined to hold Beiyuan’s flickering light alive, no matter how dim, channeling his qi in soft tendrils inwards to mend Beiyuan’s fractured meridians. His foundation was already weak to begin with, a bitter result of years of idleness reared its ugly head and had slowed his recovery down.           Wu Xi swore to himself, if… if his beloved lived on through this night… he would force-feed him all the foundation building pills he could find. That grim almost humorless thought sank deep in his heart, taking root as he scolded the dying man in front of him in his head. This is what you get for not taking care of yourself! Now look what you’ve gotten yourself into! If you weren’t such a lazy bout, you wouldn’t have been this… badly injured… Wu Xi’s hands stilled as the voice reprimanding Beiyuan in his head immediately quietened.            “Bei..yuan?” he whispered, gingerly holding two fingers to the pulse on his neck. “Nuahar! Ashinlae! Quickly get in here!”  *** Writer Notes: [1] Potassium Ferrate - wound seal for coagulating blood

Click here: CHAPTER 1 || CHAPTER 3

[thatonedoctorwhoau]

Chapter 10! Remember when I said I was probably going to slow my updates because I was running low on prewritten material? Yeah, me neither. Once again, special thanks to @dtvibez for all her contributions on this story, so go send her all your love and support

Summary: 24 hours ago, George Ashworth lived a completely normal life, with completely normal people, and a completely normal job. 24 hours later, he was running for his life beside a man he had met mere hours prior from an otherworldly monster. Suffice to say, this was the start of something new and wonderful. And hair-pulling annoying

On Wednesday the 23, October 2015, at precisely 9:05 am, George Ashworth came to a stop, as the Marcorx slowly got off of the bench and began walking towards him. Watching the two come closer, George observed how with every passing step, their bodies began to shake. Slowly, the humanoid shapes began to stretch, extending themselves upwards. Their arms became skinnier, the flesh drooping, before correcting itself into paper thin wings. Their fingers grew narrow and thin, and their downturned hats rolled into the back of their heads. Worst of all were their faces: their thin mouths curved upwards violently at the slits of their mouths. Their heads contracted and extended at the same, their teeth erupting violently into the light. George felt unwell, and slowed down his pace, in an attempt to rationalize what he was seeing. 

The wind had begun picking up, causing large swaths of leaves to fill the air. Storm clouds had begun to roll in. George pressed a hand to his earpiece. “Wilbur, I’m ready.” He was met with static. “Wilbur, are you there?” The static tone only increased. “Tommy, Tubbo, is anybody there?” He turned his head around to look back at his friends. The three had frozen in place, unmoving. “What’s going on?!” He screamed; his friends remained static

The beasts began approaching him at a faster rate. George increased his pace, before fully turning around and running towards his friends. “For the love of god move!” As he approached them, he stopped and reached over to shake Tommy. 

To his horror, his hand passed right through him and with a flicker, he disappeared. George cried out in terror, before attempting to touch the others. Like Tommy, they disappeared beneath his finger tips. Realization dawned upon him: he was on his own.

+++

“George, George, don’t move until we say so.” Wilbur said, leaning into his earpiece. Meters in front of him, the human had frozen at the sight of the Marcorx transformation. While he was at a considerable distance, Wilbur could still see how horrific it was. “George,” he spoke again, attempting to gain the man's attention. 

George frantically turned around, his eyes scanning and screamed out “What's going on?!”

“You need to run now.” George continued to stare in terror, before turning back to face the monsters.

“Why isn’t he running?” Tubbo exclaimed. “George, run!” 

George turned on his heels and began approaching them rapidly. The group prepared their respective objects: Wilbur pulled a small silver box with buttons and a screen out of his jacket pocket, while Tubbo and Tommy each pulled a blue knife out of their pockets. Wilbur pulled out his key, signaling the Tardis to open its doors in time to let George in.

The door remained shut. Wilbur pressed it again, hoping it had been an accident, but the door refused to open. As horror dawned on him, George arrived, but deviated from the plan; stopping and attempting to touch Tommy, before his fingers passed right through him.

“What the shit!” Tommy exclaimed, watching as George attempted to touch Tubbo and Tommy with the same results. “Wilbur, what's happening?!” “I don’t know, this wasn’t supposed to happen. The Marcorx can manipulate reality, but not this much, not enough to keep the Tardis shut.” George began running towards the Tardis, slamming into it before  pulling on its handle. 

“Please,” he screamed. “Please let me in.” The Marcorx passed Wilbur, and George barely moved out of the way before they crashed into the Tardis. He sprinted down the path, with the Marcorx screeching behind him.

“Wil,” Tubbo said, staring. “What are we going to do?” “Improvise.”

++++++++++++++++++++++

George ran as fast as he possibly could, hearing the nightmarish noises trailing behind him. The yellow park was all but abandoned, and overhead, storm clouds had gathered up again. George considered whether or not the rain that began pouring was a tactic used by the Marcorx, as it had been present at every encounter he’d had with them. As he felt the tips of the Marcorx’s claws brush his skin, he ducked down and began running into the more densely forested area of the park, forcing the Marcorx to double back. 

Upon entering the more wooded area, George immediately began searching for a hiding spot. The terrain was a lot more uneven, and the ground slanted downhill extremely quickly. George attempted to keep his footing as he raced along the terrain, but his foot soon got caught in a small ditch, causing him to fall into a larger pile of leaves. Gasping from the pain building in his ankle, George hobbled out of the pile as quietly as possible, before positioning his body within a dead tree in an attempt to hide himself. George's heart was racing, and he placed a hand over his mouth in an attempt to quiet his heavy breathing. Out in the woods, he could hear the Marcorx flapping their wings, making shrill noises as their means of communication. Through a hole in the tree, George could see the beasts making their way past the pile of leaves he’d fallen into. The Marcorx angled their faces upwards, as if sniffing the air. 

<Oh George> The voice in his head whispered again, louder than before.

 <You can’t hide from us forever> The Marcorx lunged at a nearby tree, ripping into it, before stopping. <We know you’re here somewhere> 

‘They’re going to destroy everything  until they find mine.’ George thought. The Marcorx confirmed his suspicions, approaching another dead tree and ripping it apart. <There's only one place you could be>

The Marcorx approached his tree slowly, making those noises once again. Realization dawned on George: He wasn’t making it out of these woods alive. There was nothing he could do now. Closing his eyes, he braced himself for the end

<One>

‘At least Tommy and Tubbo are safe.’

<Two>

The beasts readied themselves to attack.

“THREE!” 

A loud screeching noise filled the air. 

+++

Wilbur’s mind began working in overdrive, attempting to formulate a plan to save the human as he and the children began following their friend. “Wilbur,” Tommy yelled, running alongside him. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

“I’m working on it!” He replied, pulling his sonic screwdriver out of his pocket and placing it between his teeth.” He began pressing the buttons on the silver box, repeatedly slapping the device in an attempt to get it to work. Ahead of them, George ducked down, before sprinting off of the path and into the woods. 

“Wilbur, what do we do?” Tubbo yelled, stopping as the Marcorx dove into the treeline. 

“Like I said,” He muttered through his teeth, “Working on it!” “Well work on it faster!” Wilbur grabbed the sonic screwdriver from his mouth and began scanning it against the silver device. It made a ringing noise, before Wilbur placed it back into his pocket. He pressed several buttons, attempting to get the device to work, before slapping it several times, stopping only when a soft ping was emitted. 

“Now we’re in business!” He exclaimed. The three of them ran into the woods, attempting to find a trace of their friends' location. Silence filled the air, as they strained their ears, attempting to hear any sounds indicating which way George had gone. 

Up ahead, the sound of something heavy falling to the ground broke silence filling the air. Pressing a finger to his lips, Wilbur grabbed the two boys and indicated towards a clearing slightly to the left of them. The three quietly made their way forward. 

Another heavy object  was heard smashing to the floor. Wilbur and the boys scrambled, ducking behind a fallen log and poking their heads up. The Marcorx were closing in on a tree stump, where Wilbur could only assume George was hiding. 

<One> The Marcorx screeched. Wilbur began to stand up. 

<Two> He pulled out his sonic screwdriver and pressed it against the device. 

“THREE!” He yelled, and pressed the button on the sonic screwdriver. A sharp ringing noise, not unlike the one he’d used the previous night to ward the Marcorx off, was emitted, sending the beasts screaming to the floor as they shifted in and out of their monster form. “Tommy, Tubbo, go!” The boys jumped forward and sprinted down the hill, pulling their knives out of their pockets. As they reached the first monster, they stabbed the beast repeatedly, black blood splattering across their bodies. The half human half Marcorx attempted to get up, but it's constant shifting made it difficult to move, allowing the boys to land several key blows. After several moments, the Marcorx let out a groan, before growing still, its body returning to its original form. 

The sound of crunching leaves alerted the boys to movement, and they jumped up, prepared for a fight. They were met with the sight of George emerging from the tree, hands covering his ears. “George!” They yelled, running over to him and wrapping their arms around him. From behind them, the ringing noise quieted down, and Wilbur made his way down the hill, approaching the final Marcorx, who laid still, glitching ever so slightly.

“I’ll make you a deal.” Wilbur exclaimed, reaching the beast. “I’ll let you go right now. I’ll let you live a long and violent life, scouring the universe for your next meal, on the condition that you never lay a finger on my friend again. Now,” He leaned his head over the Marcorx face, “Do we have a deal?”

With a screech, the Marcorx lunged forward, its jaw open. George and the boys flinched, but Wilbur just turned the dial on the box to raise the volume of the ringing. He stepped towards the boys. “Tommy, can I have your knife?” Tommy handed the knife to him, and Wilbur turned back to the beast. George raised his hands to cover the boys’ eyes as he plunged the knife into the Marcorxs face. After several swings, the alien was dead. 

Wilbur turned back to the boys and turned the box off. The group stared in silence for a few seconds. “Well,” he began, “Time for lunch. I’m starved.”

[keywestlou]

HAPPY MOTHERS DAY!

My mother has been dead many years. I seem to miss her more each day. Sounds strange, I know. However she pops into my head one or more times a day.

Seems we both got closer as we got older. I would stop to see her on my way home most evenings. We would sit at the kitchen table. She had a bottle of Beefeater, glass and ice cubes ready.

She was not a drinker at all. However she did not mind me having one with as we talked.

We chatted about everything. From my work, to the kids, what was new, etc.

Our relationship became deeper as the years progressed.

Her death killed me!

Do not think our relationship was that good in my formative years. My mother was a disciplinarian. Born in the old country. Many the large pasta bowl or large wooden spoon she broke over my head.

She viewed me as a bad boy and I never understood. I was the best of kids.

In my adult years, I discovered in conversations with other Italian boys that their mothers did the same thing. An ethnic trait I guess.

I do not recall my sister ever being punished. Girls could do no wrong.

I am 85. Soon to be 86. An interesting time. Age makes you an historian of sorts. Some experiences were had in the past many years ago. They repeat themselves. The result not always the same, however.

George Will is the Washington Post columnist. A true conservatist. A black hearted Republican.

I always thought he was too conservatist. As my years have added up however, I find many of my thoughts coincide with his. I was a liberal. Age has made me conservative in any respects. Today I consider myself a right leaning liberal. Will never changed. Conservative and remained so.

Will just turned 80. He shared his thoughts about reaching 80 in a Washington Post opinion piece published May 7.

I want to share some of his thoughts, feelings, etc. re reaching 80.  Note I am 85. It is surprising how many of our today thoughts run along the same lines.

The opinion piece is titled: What My 80 Years Have Taught Me.” I am selecting some of his thoughts and sharing them with you as well of those of some ancient philosophers. I do not identify the philosophers. This portion of the blog would never end if I did.

Comments contained in the article.

Will begins with an Alan Bennett quote. Already I am deviating from my plan not to mention others. Hopefully Bennett will be the last: “At eighty things do not occur; they recur.”

Will writes the benefit of being 80 is “You’re well beyond the danger of dying young.” Also, “you have more  brain cells to devote to other things worth noticing and trying.”

How about there is “no cure for birth and death, save to enjoy the interval.”

As to the evening martini before dinner, he recommends suspending them and instead drinking Manhattans.

An interesting and very true observation: You “are not intimidated by busy body physicians.”

Another, “age imprints more wrinkles in the mind than it does on the face.”

Some aging facts.

In 1941, life expectancy was 64.8 years Today, 77.85 years. Only 6.8 percent of the population lived beyond 65 years, whereas today 16 percent.

Sixty three percent of households did not have telephones. More of the population older than 25 years had no high school diploma. Today, 90 percent do. Homosexual sex was a crime in all 48 states.

“By percentage, the nation’s most rapidly growing age cohort consists of those 85 and older.”

“To be 80 years old in this republic is to have lived through exactly one third of its life.”

An epic event occurred on this day in 1960. One that would change the lives of women forever. The FDA approved the birth control pill.

The pill made women equal to men regarding sex. Provided them with a freedom they never knew before.

I suspected up to 1960, females feared getting pregnant were they to have sex outside marriage. Perhaps the worst that could happen to a woman.

Now the ladies were equal to men. They could enjoy sex as freely as men. The danger of pregnancy would not be a problem if the woman was on the pill.

I find this amusing in a respectful sense. Having been educated in Catholic schools through college, I thought the ladies were reluctant to have sex for religious reasons.

Was I wrong!

The pill also seems to have become the beginning of a woman’s ascendancy in every day life. They went on to smoke, wear pants, become high level executives and professionals. All the while having children. Women proved they could run the house and work at the same time. Men lack the capacity to multi-task.

I went out last night. Whoopee! Had a good time.

I was scheduled to meet my lesbian wives Donna and Terri at 7 at the Red Shoe Island Bistro on Petronia between Duval and Whitehead. A relatively new restaurant.

I parked in the Rams Head lot. Previously the Blue Macaw. One of my pre-pandemic haunts.

A handful of cars in the lot. Surprising. Went into the bar and restaurant. No more than 10 customers. Staff all new. I knew none of them.

Since I was early for Donna and Terri, I had a drink at the Rams Head Bar. Following which I walked down to the Red Shoe Island Bistro. A mere 1 1/2 blocks away.

I started wobbling. Could not understand why. Then it dawned on me. I had forgotten my cane in the car!

I decided to get to the restaurant and worry about the return trip later.

We had dinner at a table set on the sidewalk. Lovely table cloth, napkins and silver wear. A limited menu. Reasonable. Food excellent. The specialty yellow tail. The menu captioned with “Ain’t No Tail As Tasty As Yellow Tail.”

Donna, Terri and I have not seen each other in more than a year. It was like seeing family that you had not seen in quite a while.

Rob manages the restaurant. Ron was our waiter.

We discussed everything. We agreed the political situation in reality was a black/white war. The blacks moving towards a majority in the land and the white Republicans fearful of what might happen.

We talked about new restaurants. One Donna and Terri enjoy is Mary Lins. The old Finnegan’s Wake and Dirty  Pig.

Work discussed. Not enough help available. Workers have left because of pandemic and/or high cost of living in Key West.

Restaurants and bars still hurting. Entertainers are being required to work for tips. The tips are minimal and performing is like working for nothing.

We talked about the cost of the new and old high end restaurants. Astronomical!

Hotel rooms came into play. I mentioned the Miami Herald piece that said Key West rooms were as high as $1,100. The piece also indicated Key West was now the most expensive place in the world for a hotel room.

Before we left the subject, I learned that during Spring Break and Easter week, even the cheaper hotels on the Boulevard had some rooms at $1,000.

Ridiculous! Key West is going to kill the goose that lays the golden egg.

One hotel on the Boulevard actually rented out rooms during those times as high as $1,280 a night.

The walk back to my car was difficult. The cane!

On the way home, I drove through Bahama Village and down Duval. Not many people.

Enjoy your Sunday! Enjoy your Mom if you are lucky to still have her. If not, I know you will think of her.

    HAPPY MOTHERS DAY! was originally published on Key West Lou

[autumnhobbit]

Story Starters Meme

I got tagged by @tantalum-cobalt, so it’s time to dust off the lines you’ve already seen bc I haven’t written in forever. 

Rules: List the first lines of your last 15 stories. See if there are any patterns. Then tag 10 of your favourite authors!

So here goes. And yes, these are the actual Google Docs names of my fic drafts.

de-ageing bc audrey gets what she wants fic:

“Alfred,” Bruce says, and Alfred can hear the odd sort of deadpan panic that only Master Bruce is capable of conveying. “Help.”

How exactly it came to pass that he said these words while standing in front of Alfred in the Cave, having just stepped out of the Batmobile veritably dripping in children---precisely six of them, as a matter of fact, with all of them going in various directions---was beyond Alfred’s mental capacity or willingness at this point.

So when Bruce opens his mouth and begins to say something---whether it be a scientific or practical explanation of how he came to be in this situation, Alfred simply raises a finger. “Don’t.” He says simply.

Bruce closes his mouth with a snap.

vaguely catholic jason death angst:

When he wakes up in his coffin, Jason isn't sure what to make of it.

Of course, at first there's very little thinking, and very much screaming and crying and clawing and thrashing and begging and pleading. He hasn't really prayed in years, drifted away from it when Bruce took him in and away from the cramped, trash-filled apartment he'd spent his childhood in. But that doesn't stop him from reciting every prayer he knows, slurring the words together in mindless terror as he digs.

looooong scarletdevil nonsense:

Saturday evenings were fast becoming Matt's favorite day of the week. Well, maybe not favorite--more like least miserable. The only day he avoided going out at night was Sunday, which, as Foggy had said during a particularly bad argument, was pretty dumb. "Sorry I beat up a bunch of criminals and/or cops today, Lord, but at least I'm breaking for the sabbath!"

another “jason meets damian” thing:

Damian ducks beneath a stroke his mother swings towards his neck, parries two more thrusts in rapid succession, and with a flick of his wrist sends her weapon skittering to the tile. The tip of his own blade rests at her throat.

Her grey eyes meet his, and he feels proud at the impression he can see dancing in her orbs. "I concede," Mother says, and he pulls the blade away from her, allowing it to tip towards the floor. His mother stands gracefully. "You are making good progress, Damian. I am very pleased with how well you've done with your new swordmaster."

"Tt. It is nothing, Mother," he says proudly. It seems like forever since she has personally sparred with him like this, and he revels in the opportunity to please her. "He says I am the best he's ever trained."

sucky draft of yj installment:

"Damian. Wake up."

Damian had learned very early in his life that if anything disturbed his slumber in the League of Assassins fortress, he should be ready to stab upwards without a moment's hesitation. But he recognizes his mother's voice, so he doesn't raise the wickedly sharp blade his fingers are curling around beneath his pillow.

jason outlaws feels + domestic unrest:

The Outlaws contact them at a quarter till midnight. Bruce takes the communication when it comes in at the Batcave--he's there to re-equip and head back out, and hears the alert from the locker room. "Batman, here. What's the situation?" He tries to squelch the instinctive fear that rears its ugly head--he doesn't know where Jason is, what he's doing, if he's safe, and the Outlaws would not contact him unless it were something important.

tbh i have no idea where i was going with this but gen timdami feels sooooo:

Tim was honestly just doing his best not to freak the hell out. It was hard--very hard. He and Damian had never gotten on like he'd hoped they would, back when he'd first found out that Bruce had a son. Time had made their hatred cool off a bit. They hadn't been brothers, or even friends. Tim had hated him, suspected the worst of him at all times, and he had no compulsions to deny that fact.

Until he'd been perfectly conscious less than fifty feet from Damian when the little brat's Mother had him skewered through the torso by his own clone. Less than fifty feet away and half-heartedly struggling while Damian choked on his own blood. Less than fifty feet away while he bled out all over the street in front of Wayne Enterprises. Less than fifty feet away when he stopped breathing and died, all alone. By the time he'd gotten free and rounded the obstacles between them, Damian was a tiny corpse in Bruce's arms, Dick was in shock.

And Tim? Well, as far as he was concerned, Tim was a monster.

very old cold fluff/angst/hurt/comfort thingy ft. the robins:

See, the thing is, the suits are pretty friggin badass. They're made to withstand heat, bullets, knives, fingernails, teeth, and basically whatever Gotham's underbelly has to throw at them. (They're even pretty spiffy, too.)

One thing they're not made to withstand, however, is cold. Which is fine, until Gotham hits a cold snap of 7 below zero. Which was also fine, to start out with, because even criminals usually had some semblance of a brain, and avoided going outside when the snot froze in your nose (ha, that rhymed), after two seconds. The downside was that Freeze seized the opportunity to break out of Arkham and roam the streets without his suit. And he'd apparently gotten a slew of henchmen, off of villain craigslist or whatever the hell the criminals in Gotham used to find help. Hence, Jason was wandering through the city at some ridiculous hour, shooting henchmen while everyone else huddled inside their nice, warm houses.

Well, almost everyone.

MORE attempt at plot/hurt!Jason and Bruce:

Bruce hit the water hard and plunged beneath the surface rapidly. He stifled a yelp of pain when he hit the bottom only milliseconds after submerging, his legs folding up to take the impact and something in his hip pinching suddenly and sharply. He forced himself to maneuver his feet beneath him and push against the bottom towards the surface. He broke the water with a gasp, shaking his head vigorously to try and dislodge some of the water filling the cowl. His hip was throbbing and he was panting, but he whipped his head from side to side, anyway, searching the tank frantically. All he could see was lapping green through his night-vision lenses. "Hood," he gasped out, his voice clogged with water and fear.

No response. The water continued to ripple against the walls. Bruce kicked his legs, ignoring the screaming pain that radiated up his spine as he did so. "Hood?" He grunted again, his voice lowered to some extent for fear of being overheard by their captors. But panic was quickly overriding that concern. "Jay?!" He called again, raising his voice just a bit, becoming taut with frustration and fear. "Jason, if you can hear me, answer." Still nothing. Bruce gulped. "Jay, please."

Silence except for the lapping, dripping water. Bruce's heart was hammering against his ribs, and he was having a hard time catching his breath. He glanced around again.

attempt at plot + hurt!Jason and Bruce bc what else:

Jason woke to his head pounding and intense, burning pain in his abdomen. He felt hot and dizzy and sick. He couldn't stifle a groan as he shifted.

"Hood?" A familiar growl--close and tense but surprisingly gentle--said, and Jason tensed. He had no idea where he was, but that voice...he knew it far too well. He tried to open his eyes, and after a few moments he managed to blink them open to slits. Sure enough, he could dimly see Bruce looming over him, his jaw tense with worry beneath the cowl.

"What?" Jason croaked, starting at how hoarse he sounded, how hard it felt to draw breath.

"Lie still," Bruce ordered, and Jason froze. It still ticked him off when Bruce ordered him around as if he were still Robin, but the concealed fear in Bruce's voice combined with the pain--and having no memory of how he wound up here--made him listen. His gaze flitted from Bruce to the metal surrounding them, enclosing them from all sides. His pulse sped up without his consent.

Unnamed Jason&Bruce angst:

"You know," Jason croaks hoarsely, his throat tight with pain and his chest burning from the effort of speaking, "in our line of work, no one expects to live forever." He pauses to gulp for air that burns as it goes down, and he clenches his eyes shut at the pain the effort causes him--and at how his headache is being exacerbated by Bruce banging against the bars of the cage they're locked in, roaring threats at their captors. He doesn't seem to be hearing anything Jason's saying--he just keeps slamming his hands against the metal frame surrounding them. Jason's not even sure if he's speaking English. His posture is wound tight, and anyone even half-sane who saw him this way would turn and run the other direction as quickly as possible. Jason's never been sane, though.

“Untitled” sequel:

The rest of the League thought of him as some superhuman, repressed ball of efficiency and brutality. He never failed, never wavered, never doubted or deviated from his mission. Bruce knew that was what they saw. He'd gotten used to it.

But every once in a while, he remembered just how much of a lie that was.

the "Jay is protective of the other Robins even when he acts like he's not" fic:

Tim wasn't entirely sure what day it was, anymore. It seemed like it had been forever since he'd seen the sun--or anything, for that matter--but the brain had a funny way of dealing with stressful situations, one of them being the general weird-ness of the sensation of time passing. He offhandedly wondered if it was morning as he worked at the bonds around his wrists for the thousandth time. Still no give. At first, his wrists had stung awfully, and later they became unbearably itchy, no doubt from dried blood. Now, his wrists were numb and his hands felt large and awkward. He supposed that tended to happen when they'd been supporting all his weight for several hours at least.

the JayKara thing:

"Sooooo."

Tim was preoccupied with peering over the edge of the rooftop, using his binoculars to scan the deal going on below. He'd been working for weeks to trace the shipment of drugs to these two gangs, and find enough evidence to lock them up, but tonight his work was finally going to pay off. It didn't bother him too much that Jason was rambling behind him; he did that a lot, and Tim had gotten good at tuning most of it out. He adjusted his binoculars again and focused on one of the head mercs, who was deep in heated conversation with another head. Aaaaaany minute now...

"--you and Spoiler are...like....a thing. Occasionally. I guess."

Tim slowly turned his head. "Hmmm?" He said, a bit dumbly.

The "hurt!Jason vs. the GCPD which was supposed to be funny and sad but just wound up mostly sad" fic:

By the time Commissioner Gordon arrives on the scene, it's swarming with the fifth precinct, EMTs, news cameras, and onlookers who are barely held back by the thin, yellow crime scene tape. He hops out of the car, barely sparing the thought to lock it behind him and hope that whatever poor kid was driving has the keys. He immediately spots Bullock standing in a knot of people, only about twenty feet from the door, which is currently leaking smoke and flames and sparks out into the air with continuous gusts. There's some sort of commotion going on inside---he can faintly hear gunshots and shouts even from this distance. He draws his pistol from its holster, just in case, and jogs over to join them. There's a definite yell as he reaches them, and another gunshot. No one seems to be dodging or taking cover. He has no idea what the hell's going on. 

As usual I tag anyone who feels like it or any authors who haven’t been tagged yet who’d like to share some of their first lines. 

[indiaemperor]

How India’s Failed And Psychotic Ultrasocialist Experiment, That Has Left 40% Of Its Children Suffering Malnutrition, With The World’s Highest Child Mortality Rate, Could Lead To A Globally Apocalyptic Nuclear War, And Destruction Of The Entire Ozone Layer

“India’s per capita arable land is comparable to that of Italy and Germany. Thus the nation as large as it is in terms of population, is not over populated in terms of its agricultural recourses while compared to its highly developed European counterparts.”

Despite it being the cradle of civilization, by some estimates over 10,000 years old, the question that riddles the mind is, why is India still so poor in the 21st century? After an immense effort for independence, what really went wrong for democratic Republic of India, nearly a century on?


These questions indeed, do still painfully linger. Particularly in light of a Millennium Development Goals report by the United Nations, which indicates that one third of the world’s poorest people live in India. This makes India, the sovereign state, that is home to the largest population of poor people in the history of the planet.


India’s Socioeconomic and Caste Census (SECC) dismally reveals, that in rural areas only 10% of the population have a salaried job, and that just 3.5% of students graduate. The tragic failure is even more sickening, when one discovers that over 600 million citizens of India, have no access to a toilet.
 According to the World Bank 99.62% of the nation’s 1.3 billion population live on less than $5 dollars a day. This has become the sad fate of the world’s oldest continuous advanced civilization, and largest democracy, that was formed at a time of great technological and industrial advancement in 1947.

So why did India, fail in adopting successful macro-economic principles throughout the entire 20th century, and the early part of the 21st century, despite having such an illustrious legacy and access on modern industrial means?


To understand the underlying fundamental economic issues, it is worth considering the example, and comparison to another Asian country. South Korea, gained its independence from the Japanese Empire, around the same time India had done so from the British Empire in 1947.


South Korea’s neighbor, North Korea exemplifies the causes of this style of abject and extended poverty, illiteracy and hunger still rife in many Asian states today. The source of cultural and economic failure, rose from the application of communist and what can now be considered extremist socialist economic principles.


These protectionist, anti-competitive economic policies had further implications, as they have caused decades of harm, to the collective creative phycology of the populace. This aggression against evolved, liberal and innovative human culture, was levied via a centralist controlled propaganda and media, which had been under close government control and censorship. Thus, nearly a century on from India's independence today, their exists an incapacity by all political parties to practically apply liberal economic, and social models to stimulate structural growth, in-order to end poverty for good. The entire nation had been censored and shut down for too long.


The comparison of India, and South Korea is rather telling. It highlights the positive development and economic results that could have been achieved, through economic liberalization, even under the duress and threat of nuclear armed conflict.

Both India and South Korea have been burdened, with high military expenditure in their recent histories. South Korea, has had to manage decades of constant animosity with its communist neighbor North Korea. India, since 1947, has been at a constant state of conflict with Pakistan, in regards to the sovereignty of the state of Jammu and Kashmir. Both conflicts have posed a threat of nuclear war to the world.

With a population density of 505/sqkm, South Korea is more densely populated than India, which is 385/sqkm. In percentage terms, that equates to South Korea being 31% more populated than India per square kilometer.

India, possesses the world's second largest area of cultivated land for farming and producing food. This is ahead of China, with only the USA having more arable farm land than India. Cultivated land in India, stands at 1,535,063 sqkm, where as South Korea has 18,254 sqkm. These figures compared to ratio to population, give India 788 people per sqkm of cultivated land, South Korea thus faces more stress on its resources having to feed 2,810 people / sqkm of cultivated land.


Despite India, having 350% more cultivated land resources per capita than South Korea, India's economic productivity and growth has been massively stunned. India is one of the worst afflicted nations in regards to child malnutrition. 


In 1961, India had a GDP per capita of $121.70, which was approximately 15% more than South Korea’s $105.13. However by 2013, while India’s GDP per capita had grown to $1,498.87, South Korea’s GDP per capita, had catapulted, and reached a staggering $25,976.95 in comparison.


Despite being stressed by far more per capita population, and having far less agricultural resources, how could South Korea not only overtake India's per capita GDP, but exceed it by a colossal 1,600%? 

One thing that India did, and still does differently from South Korea is its foreign trade.


Oddly India, the world’s second most populous nation, with a population of over a billion people, had the United Arab Emirates (UAE) as its largest trade partner in 2013. The UAE, had a population of 9 million people at the time.

In contrast India's bordering neighbor, China’s biggest trading partner at the time was the United States of America. Once again more harmoniously relative to its population and geolocation, the Russian Federation’s largest trading partner was the European Union.


In 1960, total trade stood at 11% of GDP for India, and 15% for South Korea. India's trade grew to around 14% of GDP in the 1990s. By contrast, South Korea’s trade figure had grown far more, to 55% of its GDP by then.
 In 2013, South Korea’s foreign trade reached 103% of GDP.

This rapid growth in trade, occurred in South Korea based on the back of liberal economic policies, during a period of dictatorship under General Park Chung-hee, who rose to power following the May 16 coup d’etat of 1961.
 After the collapse of India's main cold war ally, the communist Soviet Union in 1991, India was forced to adopt market economic policies, under IMF dictates, in order to borrow emergency finance and stay solvent. Following the application of these forced IMF economic policies, India’s trade eventually rose from 14% to 53% of GDP by 2013.

Prior to 1991, Indian government policy was to close the economy. Under its extreme socialist, and protectionist principals. These were designed to restrict autonomy of business under a preposterously long strip of centralized red tape.

The Indian Rupee could not be converted freely. Foreign imports were restricted by extremely high tariffs, and abstruse import licensing laws. Central government planning, strictly controlled what business and sectors should receive investment. Businesses had to acquire licenses, and approval through a draconian bureaucratic process, to simply invest or pursue development goals.
 This cumbersome feat, could mean satisfying up to 80 governmental departments, and agencies prior to approval of one single license, and with the government still deciding on what could be produced, its price point, supply quantity and permitted source of capital. Corruption, under such impossible circumstances was massively rife, with politicians, bureaucrats, and business people engaging in cronyism, election rigging and monetary theft; in this the largest democratic market ever collated in human history in terms of the sheer number of consumers. Thus this was corruption applied on a scale impacting more people, as never witnessed before in all known history. 


However in 1991, India's attempted protectionist economy, that was ultimately an ideologically Soviet dependent satellite state collapsed miserably, as its fatally miss-planned economy imploded. As the Soviet Union headed for disintegration, India was faced with bankruptcy. India had been dependent on the Soviet Union, for its exports at the time, and most crucially, it had been dependent on subsidized Soviet oil imports to meet the energy demands of its large population.


In 1991, not only was the Soviet Union heading for a complete crash, but also Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait. This sent oil prices sky-rocketing. India, being dependent on net oil imports was doomed, and its cumbersome command style economy could not react rapidly enough. It was a major balance of payment crisis for India. The nation, direly was left with only two weeks of foreign reserves, prior to it going insolvent. India was forced to urgently seek assistance from the IMF.


The opportunity to request assistance from the IMF, had existed since March 1988, when the Managing Director of the IMF, Michael Camdessus, had offered aid to then prime minister Rajiv Gandhi, leader of the Indian National Congress (INC) party.


However, Gandhi, who at the time was suffering from a corruption scandal, that revealed he had stolen $9.3 million, in the Boffer arms trade deal with Sweden, chose not to take IMF assistance, as a general election was on the horizon. 
 Rajiv Gandhi, was grandson of Jawaharlal Nehru, India’s first prime minister, who was an ardent and hardened socialist believer. His daughter Indira Gandhi, in 1966 became the 3rd prime minister of India, following the death of India’s second prime minister Lal Shastri, under mysterious circumstances, during a visit to the Soviet Union. Lal Shastri had wished to loosen Nehru’s central planning of the economy, which deviated from the Soviet Union’s desires. 
 Nehru’s grandfather, Gangadhar Nehru, was Head Magistrate and Chief of Police for Delhi, in the court of Mughal Emperor, Bahadur Shah II, up until 1857. His son Motilal Nehru, served his second term as president of the Indian National Congress in 1928, at the time Nehru wrote and indoctrinated his daughter Indira, then just 10 years old, with his extremist socialist beliefs critical of private ownership and alternate governance models, as documented in the following letter.


“Everything in [the early] days belonged to the whole tribe and not to each member separately. Even the patriarch had nothing special to himself. As a member of the tribe, he could only have a share like any other member. But he was the organizer and he was supposed to look after the goods and property of the tribe. As his power increased, he began to think that these goods and property were really his own and not the tribe’s. Or rather he thought that he himself, being the leader of the tribe, represented the tribe. So we see how the idea of owning things for oneself began.


“But as soon as the patriarch started grabbing at the things belonging to the tribe and calling them his own, we begin to get rich people and poor people.
 When the patriarch’s office became hereditary, that is son succeeded father, there was little difference between him and a king. He developed into a king and the king got the strange notion that everything in the country belonged to him. He thought he was the country. … Kings forgot that they were really chosen by the people in order to organize and distribute the food and other things of the country among the people. They forgot that they were chosen because they were supposed to be the cleverest and the most experienced persons in the tribe or country. They imagined that they were masters and all the other people in the country were their servants. As a matter of fact, they were servants of the country.


Later on … kings became so conceited that they thought that people had nothing to do with choosing them. It was God himself, they said, that had made them kings. They called this the “divine right of kings.” For long years, they misbehaved like this and lived in great pomp and luxury while their people starved.”


Later, his daughter, Indira Gandhi, as prime minister of India, would pass the 26th Constitutional Amendment of 1971, abolishing recognition of over 500 Indian monarchies, their royal titles and their payments from the government. A 1985 declassified CIA report alleged, that 40% of MPs in Indira Gandhi’s INC party were being paid money by the Soviet Union.


Following the collapse of the Soviet Union, Harvard University journalism fellow and PhD Dr. Yevgenia Albats, was appointed by Boris Yeltsin, to investigate the secret activities of the KGB. Dr. Albats disclosed in her book, that KGB chief Victor Chebrikov in December 1985 had sought in writing from the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU), “authorization to make payments in US dollars to the family members of Mr. Rajiv Gandhi, namely Sonia Gandhi, Rahul Gandhi and Ms Paola Maino, mother of Sonia Gandhi.’ CPSU payments were authorized by a resolution, CPSU/CC/No 11228/3 dated 20/12/1985; and endorsed by the USSR Council of Ministers in Directive No. 2633/Rs dated 20/12/1985. These payments had been coming since 1971, as payments received by Sonia Gandhi's family, and ‘have been audited in CPSU/CC resolution No. 11187/22 OP dated 10/12/1984.”
 In 1992 the media confronted the Russian government with the Albats disclosure. The Russian government confirmed the veracity of the disclosure and defended it as necessary for ‘Soviet ideological interest’. The Hindu newspaper of July 4, 1992 carried this report, following a news report in November 1991 by Swiss magazine, Schweitzer Illustrate, that had published an article revealing that prime minister Rajiv Gandhi had 2.5 billion Swiss francs, equivalent to roughly to $2 billion US dollars, in numbered Swiss bank accounts.


Plagued by the Swedish Boffers scandal, Gandhi lost the 1989 election. The incoming prime minister V.P. Singh, of the JD, then agreed to execute the IMF bailout. However, V.P. Singh's government lasted less than a year, and it was then left to the next prime minister Chander Shaker, of the SJP, to agree terms with the IMF.


In order to receive the bailout, India had to compromise its sovereignty, and under duress, was forced by the IMF to make market economic reforms, or else not get paid by the IMF, and consequently would have gone bankrupt.
 The prime minister, was required to comply with the IMF's orders, (in contravention to Section 29A of the Constitution of India), in order to receive the monetary support. Thus a program of economic liberalization, based on foreign intervention was forced onto India.


Under IMF rules, trade tariffs had to be lowered, government monopolies were finally broken, and the private sector and market competition started to find their fledgling beginnings in India.


This short period of fruitful IMF dictatorship over a sector of India’s economic legislation, led to its greatest period of growth and success since its independence in 1947. However, as the economic liberalization of India was induced by the IMF, against the will of the nations corrupt political elites, the pace of economic reforms and privatization post, has remained excruciatingly slow, and dismal to the detriment and loss of opportunity of its own majority of citizens.


India to the gross detriment of its population, still gravely suffers from a debacle of ultrasocialist bureaucracy, and the sizable vestiges of a central command style economy.


Indian politicians for the majorly vast part, regardless of political party affiliation till date, lack a modern understanding of market economics, and effective liberal business policies.

During the long term government control of media, that disseminated radical socialist propaganda, to both India’s masses and its elites, political leaders too have been underexposed to liberal market and cultural models.
 In essence, these leaders too believed their own failed protectionist hype. They had been indoctrinated to defend an evidently failed socialist model that became tied to the very core belief of their nationalistic identities.


Rajiv Gandhi, was assassinated in May 1991, by a member of LTTE that were fighting for a Tamil state in Sri Lanka, who had believed in adopting more liberal economic principals. Rajiv Gandhi since 1989, had sent the Indian army to support the socialist Sri Lankan government status quo, fighting against the LTTE.


Following Gandhi’s assassination, prime minister Chandra Shekhar’s short-lived SJP government, that had agreed initial terms with the IMF fell. In June 1991, it was followed by prime minister Nershima Rao of the INC, who along with his finance minister Manmohan Singh, implemented a few further set of IMF fiscal dictates to get money, including devaluing the Indian rupee currency, raising fertilizer prices, lowering export subsidies, and raising petro product prices. 
 However, beyond this, these ultrasocialist politicians that hand been financed by the communist Soviet Union, balked at the further suggestions by the IMF. Which had included the crucial reforms for the privatization of state-owned companies, and the freeing of labour markets.

India from 1991 to 1993, borrowed $3.6 billion from the IMF, to stay afloat and solvent.

Due to a threat of nuclear conflict in the impoverished region, India’s economic failure, and that of its neighbor Pakistan, now concerns the security of the entire world. As the people's default to mass religious sentiment in Hindu majority India, and Muslim majority Pakistan could at worst lead to a globally apocalyptic nuclear war. Stemming for the long lasting dispute over the sovereignty of Jammu and Kashmir (J&K), and the abundant fresh water resources in J&K that irrigate the rivers of India and Pakistan.


According to a report by Boston based, Nobel peace-prize winning body the International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War (IPPNW), a nuclear war for J&K, between India and Pakistan would contaminate global food supplies, and kill over two billion people.


Scientists further believe that a nuclear conflict between India and Pakistan, could destroy half of the Earth's protective ozone layer. This would mean the end of civilization, and the natural habitat as we know it, and the probable extinction of most animal species on Earth.


The desperate lack of any political party genuinely focused on market economics in India, can be pinned to actual written legislative discrimination, unveiling the fallacy of India’s claimed democratic status. Section 29A of the Representation of the People Act, 1951. That is contradictory to the the freedoms of belief and expression enshrined in the Constitution of India.
 Section 29A is a dictatorial law that has for over half a century, forcibly, and in malicious contradiction to democratic constitutional freedoms of speech and expression, required all political parties to hold allegiance, to only socialist economic policies.


This is a must in India, in order to be lawfully registered with the Election Commission. In other words, a political party with capitalist liberal market policies, cannot simply be registered by Indian law. All political parties in India have to be socialist by rote of law.


Thus, by such draconian central laws that plunged so many into dire poverty, one can actually question, if India should be considered a democracy at all. As by Section 29A, the entire nation was reduced to what was in all practical implementation a single party socialist state, albeit with multiple brand variations. Neighboring, China which has a similar population to India, is a one party communist state. However, even it has adopted greater liberal economic reforms than India. China’s GDP exceeded 9.5 trillion in 2013, whereas India’s GDP was less than $2 trillion in comparison.


So tragically, nearly thirty years after the collapse of the Soviet Union, failed soviet style planning of domestic trade, agriculture and foreign investment restrictions continues to linger in India. This soviet ideological legacy and political paralysis to modernize, is the foremost cause of India’s mass poverty and child hunger.


The negative impacts of such can be witnessed most evidently by the 2012 report that found 40% of children under 5, in India, suffer from malnutrition. With child malnutrition levels twice as high as sub-Saharan Africa. India’s then prime minister, Manmohan Singh of the INC, admitted to the failure, calling it a “national shame.” 
 Manmohan Singh, a protectionist economist, had previously been responsible for leading the design of India’s extreme socialist economy since 1972, when he was appointed as Chief Economic Advisor.

Manmohan Singh had been educated by British economist Joan Robinson, at University of Cambridge To put this extreme socialist indoctrination into perspective, as more akin to religious practice, than a rational governing policy. Joan Robinson, had most erroneously, praised the North Korean premier Kim Jong-un, as a "messiah”, despite his most grossly failed planned economic policies, that have stolen the livelihoods and bright prospects of generations of North Koreans.

Tragically, these misplaced economic preachings from Cambridge, have enslave India's citizens to poverty, hunger and suffering on a scale as never witnessed before. Had India kept to its monarchies, in lieu of ultra socialism, it would have been far better off place today and the world would have been far safer, with less threat of nuclear war.

Manmohan Singh, had been finance minister, during the the IMF bailout process in 1991, who decided not not abide with further suggestions by the IMF of privatizing state-owned industries and labour reforms, which done then would certainly have greatly reduced child malnutrition in India today.
 This most heinous, and unnecessary suffering of children in India is a monumental tragedy in world history. As India, has the world’s second highest total of cultivated farm land available for producing food for its starving children.

India’s per capita arable land is comparable to that of Italy and Germany. Thus the national as large as it is in terms of population is not over populated in terms of its agricultural recourses while compared to its highly developed European counterparts.


Under the ultrasocialist dictatorship of Indira Gandhi, the 42nd Amendment of 1976 was passed, this was after India’s dictator was being paid money by the Soviet Union according to Harvard scholars. Gandhi under the 42nd Amendment, then forcefully and undemocratically, added the words "Socialist Secular” to the name of the Republic of India.

Indira Gandhi was assassinated on October 31, 1984 by her own bodyguards of the Sikh religious fate. This occurred after she had ordered, the Indian army to attack main Sikh’ religious center the Golden Temple, and killed the leaders of the Khalistan Liberation Front (KLF) who were fighting for a theocratic but also more commercially liberal Sikh state, opposed to the secular socialist dictates of the Soviet Union, that was paying hypocritical Indira Gandhi billions of dollars to maintain. This also coincided with Operation Cyclone in the war for nearby Afghanistan when the CIA supported the Mujahideen rebels to fight against Soviet Union’s invasion of the country.


Thus, India that was once over 600 diverse royal principalities and kingdoms, has become trapped in a vicious cycle of mad and twisted sadomasochistic economic and cultural policies. Forced by a corrupt, idiotic, anti-competitive, and inept leadership profiting billions for themselves , based on governing a majority that was kept as vastly illiterate and controlled serfs.

Perhaps it was from good intention, or more ill from jealously, but the result has been the complete failure and ruining of the world’s oldest civilization, the Congress India will be remembered worse than any of the Emperors, that had governed it before, and thus reduced this illustrious and magical realm into sickeningly, the largest barbarian feudal serfdom ever constructed in all known human history.

[theonyxpath]

Now available in PDF and print from DriveThruRPG: Helnau’s Guide to Wasteland Beasties for Dystopia Rising: Evolution!

No one knows how long it’s been since the world was blasted with nuclear radiation and became infested with the undead. The survivors of the Fall were the first strain of deviation of the human condition and were able to make it through the rapidly spreading epidemic. Animals mutated to become monstrous creatures that spread across now-empty forests and plains. That’s exactly where Helnau and her crew come in. 

Traveling across the wasteland and dealing with all manner of beasties isn’t an easy job, but someone’s got to do it. Using their wits, their strength, and a whole lot of luck, they manage to tame, kill, and drive off creatures that threaten areas of newly built civilization. 

Some highlights of Helnau’s Guide to Wasteland Beasties include: 

Details on some of the terrain and mutated animals you will find in the post-apocalyptic wasteland. 

Rules for presenting six distinct creatures in your series, and also for customizing your own. 

Stories about Helnau and her beast-hunting crew as they travel across deserts, through forests, and deal with some of the worst the wastelands have to offer. 

Also available in print via DriveThruRPG: Distant Worlds for Trinity Continuum: Æon.

New Mysteries, New Worlds, New Aliens, and Alien Heroes!

Distant Worlds expands the setting of Trinity Continuum: Æon with new worlds, new alien mysteries, and rules for playing actual aliens, the secretive telepathic Qin.

Distant Worlds requires both Trinity Continuum: Æon and the Trinity Continuum Corebook to play. Inside, you will find:

Further information about the eight extrasolar worlds described in Trinity Continuum: Æon, including new dangers and new opportunities for adventure.

Detailed write-ups of 10 new planets, including one that is home to a recently contacted intelligent alien species.

New technologies for interstellar travel and colonization, as well as a wealth of new devices created by aliens, and new Edges and Paths specifically for interstellar explorers and settlers.

The secrets of humanity’s alien allies, the mysterious Qin. This section includes descriptions of four Qin interstellar colonies as well as rules for creating and playing Qin characters and for designing and using custom-made Qin biosuits.

Sales

The Grand Exalted Sale continues until the end of the month on Indie Press Revolution, with up to 25% off the price of physical books!

IPR also has a number of other great bundle deals up until May 24th, or while supplies last!

Kickstarter Update

Coming April 28th to Kickstarter: Technocracy: Reloaded for Mage: The Ascension 20th Anniversary Edition!

Did you miss one of our previous Kickstarters? The following Kickstarted products are still open for preorders via BackerKit:

Scarred Lands: Creature Collection 5e

They Came from Beneath the Sea!: They Came from Beneath the Sea! rulebook

Trinity Continuum: Trinity Continuum: Aberrant

Realms of Pugmire: Pirates of Pugmire

Exalted: Lunars: Fangs at the Gate

Chronicles of Darkness: Chronicles of Darkness: Dark Eras 2

Chronicles of Darkness: The Contagion Chronicle

Chronicles of Darkness: Deviant: The Renegades

Chronicles of Darkness: Hunter: The Vigil 2nd Edition

Chronicles of Darkness: Mummy: The Curse 2nd Edition

Community Spotlight

The following community-created content for Scarred Lands has been added to the Slarecian Vault in the last week:

Your product could be here! Have you considered creating your own to sell?

The following community-created content for Realms of Pugmire has been added to Canis Minor in the last week:

Your product could be here! Have you considered creating your own to sell?

The following community-created content for Storypath has been added to the Storypath Nexus in the last week:

Vengeful Daughters: The Furies

Your product could be here! Have you considered creating your own to sell?

[technato]

When Power Lines Break, a New Control System Keeps the Sparks From Flying

San Diego is rolling out synchrophasor tech for real‑time grid control

Photo: Mike Eliason/Santa Barbara County Fire Department/AP

Slow Burn: A 2017 wildfire near power lines in Montecito, Calif., burned for almost six months before firefighters subdued it.

Amidst what could be California’s worst wildfire season on record, San Diego Gas & Electric is counting on technology to reduce dangerous sparking from its power lines. This month, the utility completed the initial rollout of a home-grown automated control technology that taps ultrafast synchrophasor sensors to detect and turn off broken power lines before they hit the ground.

Projects such as this mark a turning point for grid control. Synchrophasor sensors send out time-stamped measurements of power and its phase—the angular position of the alternating current and voltage waves—up to 60 times per second. That is at least 120 times as fast as most utilities’ industrial control systems. And the GPS-synchronized time stamps allow data assembled from multiple sensors to create a precise wide-area view of power grids.

The grid’s human operators have progressively attained a wider view since the synchrophasor device’s invention 30 years ago. But only recently have they begun to exploit the speed of these phasor measurement units (PMUs) for real-time grid control.

San Diego’s line-break-protection system works by spotting quick voltage changes. PMUs arrayed along a circuit report continuously via a high-speed wireless radio communications network to a controller in a substation. If the controller spots a sudden voltage spread between adjacent sensors, it orders the closest relays to isolate and de-energize the iffy segment. Generally, it’s all over in less than half a second.

San Diego Gas & Electric and its parent company, Sempra Energy, started looking at synchrophasor sensors in 2010 and quickly identified dozens of potential uses. A broken-line-detection and control system became the utility’s flagship project after engineer William O’Brien calculated that it could spot broken lines two to three times as fast as gravity could pull them down, allowing the controller to stop the flow of electricity before a line touched the ground, and thus greatly reduce the risk of fire. (O’Brien developed and patented the concept with Eric Udren, an executive adviser at Quanta Technology, a consultancy based in Raleigh, N.C.)

This month, the system had been installed in what the utility expects will be its final form on six circuits emanating from three substations in the fire‑prone territory east of San Diego. The utility has 18 more substation build-outs planned and expects to ultimately deploy the system across its entire grid.

This system for detecting and disarming broken lines marks the first deployment of PMU-based automation on a distribution system. But a few utilities elsewhere have already integrated synchrophasor-based controls into their high-voltage transmission grids. One of the first installations, initially completed in Iceland in 2014 and substantially upgraded last year, tunes the island nation’s 50-hertz AC frequency.

Iceland has a relatively small grid whose supply and demand can easily be thrown out of balance when power plants, transmission lines, or big factories unexpectedly go off line. For years, the resulting AC frequency fluctuations regularly caused the grid’s eastern and western zones to split into electrical islands, which often led to power outages.

A wide-area PMU network and added controls, provided by GE’s grid solutions business, enabled Iceland’s grid operator, Landsnet, to rapidly locate power imbalances and automatically fix them by tweaking demand from aluminum smelters and other big consumers. The June 2017 updates have cut the magnitude of Iceland’s AC frequency deviations roughly in half, according to GE senior power systems engineer Sean Norris. “Events that we previously would have expected to cause splits in the system have occurred, and the system has remained intact,” says Norris.

Emerging frequency challenges for Great Britain’s much-larger grid have prompted a three-year research effort directed by London-based National Grid. England and Scotland’s many fossil-fueled power plants and the inertia in their heavy rotating generators currently hold the United Kingdom’s AC frequency steady. But that frequency-stabilizing inertia is disappearing as coal and gas plants shutter.

Simulations conducted earlier this year at the University of Strathclyde, in Glasgow, showed that synchrophasor-driven controls, running on an expanded version of GE’s technology, could keep the U.K. grid stable with fewer inertia-rich generators. By early next year, the research team hopes to begin testing its control platforms at National Grid substations.

Ultimately such real-time controls will take over grid operation, according to Patrick Lee, president of control developer PXiSE Energy Solutions (another Sempra Energy subsidiary). As renewable generation grows, industrial control systems aided by human operators watching PMU readings will no longer suffice. According to Lee, “As the system gets more renewable integration and becomes more dynamic, you have less time to respond. If you don’t have this high-speed synchrophasor-based technology, you really will have no chance.”

This article appears in the October 2018 print issue as “Utilities Roll Out Real-Time Grid Controls.”

When Power Lines Break, a New Control System Keeps the Sparks From Flying syndicated from https://jiohowweb.blogspot.com

[flauntpage]

Tommy Hunter Is Getting Worse

When a baseball player who has a lengthy and reliable career track record goes through a period where his production wildly deviates from that track record, such variance is often attributed to luck.

Typically for fans surprised by unexpected short-term outcomes, that rationalization will sound something like this:

“This guy sucks. There’s no way he can keep it up.”

Or.

“I want to bathe myself in kerosene and play with matches when I watch this man perform sports-related activities. I thought he was better than this.”

Dramatic, yes. But if that second line sounds familiar, perhaps you’ve watched a Phillies game with me this season while Tommy Hunter has been on the mound.

Baseball, in particular, is a game driven by the collection of data and numbers. Indicators like batting average, for instance, have long been used to evaluate a hitter’s collective performance. Recently, the game’s decision-makers are straying from traditional metrics and increasingly focusing their attention on newer data to make assessments that may not align with what the traditional numbers suggest.

For example, let’s say a hitter is posting a .300 batting average a month into the season. Great, right? Maybe not. If that same hitter has an average exit velocity well south of the league average of 87.3 mph, and that hitter also has an abnormal batting average on balls in play, then that .300 batting average is probably thanks to luck.

So how does this relate to Hunter?

Prior to the season, the 10-year veteran came to Philadelphia on a two-year, $18 million deal to help solidify the back end of the bullpen. Dating back to 2013 when Hunter became a reliever on a full-time basis, he’s been one of the game’s more reliable arms. During that period, which was mostly spent in the American League, Hunter posted posted a 3.27 ERA, 3.41 FIP, and 1.13 WHIP, while holding opposing hitters to a .241 batting average. That’s damn good, and it’s understandable why the Phillies wanted to add an experienced and productive guy like him to the mix.

This season, however, has been a far different story for Hunter. Despite essentially maintaining consistent velocity from his previous, more productive seasons, the results simply haven’t been there. The 32-year-old has a 4.80 ERA, 1.50 WHIP, and has allowed a .302 batting average to opposing hitters, while surrendering at least one earned run in 12 of his 35 appearances this season. There’s no sense in mincing words: He’s been fucking brutal.

But why?

The .372 BABIP he’s allowed thus far is greatly higher than his career average of .286, which does suggest bad luck is at least in part to blame for his poor results, but luck isn’t the lone contributing factor to such variance. Another reason could be that his pitches just haven’t been that good and have caught more of the plate. 

At one point last month, both Gabe Kapler and Matt Klentak went so far as to actually suggest that Hunter was having a better season than a year ago (he’s not). Kapler cited Hunter’s pristine FIP (fielding independent pitching), which is a pitching performance metric designed to remove variables from the equation that are out of the pitcher’s control. Here is Kapler last month on Hunter, in a story from Scott Lauber of the Philadelphia Daily News:

Nobody’s going to look at Tommy Hunter and say, ‘Wow, he’s having such a great year.’ He’s actually having a better year than he had last year. Look at his underlying numbers — his strikeout numbers, his walk numbers, his FIP, his xFIP. The ERA might not be better, but those other numbers are better.

What Kapler was suggesting at the time was, essentially, that Hunter had been unlucky, whereas he previously had not been. Hunter’s career 4.36 FIP is pretty much in line with his career 4.15 ERA. On June 17, Hunter had a 1.30 WHIP and 6.7 K/BB ratio, while allowing opponents to hit .274 with a .349 BABIP. His 4.05 ERA was significantly disproportionate to his 2.38 FIP. In 20 IP, he allowed three walks and one home run, while striking out 20 hitters. Theoretically, Hunter was having great success with the outcomes he could control. The blown holds, backbreaking hits, and poor performances were just bad luck, but if Kapler still wants to throw FIP at us to explain away Hunter’s season, he’s going to need to come up with a different metric to defend his guy.

Since June 18, Hunter, somehow has managed to be worse. Since then, his ERA has ballooned to 6.30 and his FIP is 5.43. His deteriorating 2.3 K/BB is indicative of a pitcher striking out hitters with less frequency and walking them with more. All this while allowing hitters have posted a .357 average and 1.021 OPS.

It makes sense why the Phillies brushed off Hunter’s struggles last month. The conventional wisdom is that when traditional metrics are so completely disproportionate from the peripherals that over time that things will even out. In the case of Hunter, that hasn’t happened. Instead, the peripherals are rapidly getting worse. Generally, that doesn’t bode well for a reliever that already has the 12th-worst WHIP and 13th-worst ERA in the National League, and it’s a big reason why the team will almost certainly have to add another bullpen arm to the mix prior to the trade deadline.

The post Tommy Hunter Is Getting Worse appeared first on Crossing Broad.

Tommy Hunter Is Getting Worse published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

[readbookywooks]

In which Phileas Fogg shows himself equal to the occasion

An hour after, the Henrietta passed the lighthouse which marks the entrance of the Hudson, turned the point of Sandy Hook, and put to sea. During the day she skirted Long Island, passed Fire Island, and directed her course rapidly eastward.

At noon the next day, a man mounted the bridge to ascertain the vessel's position. It might be thought that this was Captain Speedy. Not the least in the world. It was Phileas Fogg, Esquire. As for Captain Speedy, he was shut up in his cabin under lock and key, and was uttering loud cries, which signified an anger at once pardonable and excessive.

What had happened was very simple. Phileas Fogg wished to go to Liverpool, but the captain would not carry him there. Then Phileas Fogg had taken passage for Bordeaux, and, during the thirty hours he had been on board, had so shrewdly managed with his banknotes that the sailors and stokers, who were only an occasional crew, and were not on the best terms with the captain, went over to him in a body. This was why Phileas Fogg was in command instead of Captain Speedy; why the captain was a prisoner in his cabin; and why, in short, the Henrietta was directing her course towards Liverpool. It was very clear, to see Mr. Fogg manage the craft, that he had been a sailor.

How the adventure ended will be seen anon. Aouda was anxious, though she said nothing. As for Passepartout, he thought Mr. Fogg's manoeuvre simply glorious. The captain had said "between eleven and twelve knots," and the Henrietta confirmed his prediction.

If, then--for there were "ifs" still--the sea did not become too boisterous, if the wind did not veer round to the east, if no accident happened to the boat or its machinery, the Henrietta might cross the three thousand miles from New York to Liverpool in the nine days, between the 12th and the 21st of December. It is true that, once arrived, the affair on board the Henrietta, added to that of the Bank of England, might create more difficulties for Mr. Fogg than he imagined or could desire.

During the first days, they went along smoothly enough. The sea was not very unpropitious, the wind seemed stationary in the north-east, the sails were hoisted, and the Henrietta ploughed across the waves like a real trans-Atlantic steamer.

Passepartout was delighted. His master's last exploit, the consequences of which he ignored, enchanted him. Never had the crew seen so jolly and dexterous a fellow. He formed warm friendships with the sailors, and amazed them with his acrobatic feats. He thought they managed the vessel like gentlemen, and that the stokers fired up like heroes. His loquacious good-humour infected everyone. He had forgotten the past, its vexations and delays. He only thought of the end, so nearly accomplished; and sometimes he boiled over with impatience, as if heated by the furnaces of the Henrietta. Often, also, the worthy fellow revolved around Fix, looking at him with a keen, distrustful eye; but he did not speak to him, for their old intimacy no longer existed.

Fix, it must be confessed, understood nothing of what was going on. The conquest of the Henrietta, the bribery of the crew, Fogg managing the boat like a skilled seaman, amazed and confused him. He did not know what to think. For, after all, a man who began by stealing fifty-five thousand pounds might end by stealing a vessel; and Fix was not unnaturally inclined to conclude that the Henrietta under Fogg's command, was not going to Liverpool at all, but to some part of the world where the robber, turned into a pirate, would quietly put himself in safety. The conjecture was at least a plausible one, and the detective began to seriously regret that he had embarked on the affair.

As for Captain Speedy, he continued to howl and growl in his cabin; and Passepartout, whose duty it was to carry him his meals, courageous as he was, took the greatest precautions. Mr. Fogg did not seem even to know that there was a captain on board.

On the 13th they passed the edge of the Banks of Newfoundland, a dangerous locality; during the winter, especially, there are frequent fogs and heavy gales of wind. Ever since the evening before the barometer, suddenly falling, had indicated an approaching change in the atmosphere; and during the night the temperature varied, the cold became sharper, and the wind veered to the south-east.

This was a misfortune. Mr. Fogg, in order not to deviate from his course, furled his sails and increased the force of the steam; but the vessel's speed slackened, owing to the state of the sea, the long waves of which broke against the stern. She pitched violently, and this retarded her progress. The breeze little by little swelled into a tempest, and it was to be feared that the Henrietta might not be able to maintain herself upright on the waves.

Passepartout's visage darkened with the skies, and for two days the poor fellow experienced constant fright. But Phileas Fogg was a bold mariner, and knew how to maintain headway against the sea; and he kept on his course, without even decreasing his steam. The Henrietta, when she could not rise upon the waves, crossed them, swamping her deck, but passing safely. Sometinies the screw rose out of the water, beating its protruding end, when a mountain of water raised the stern above the waves; but the craft always kept straight ahead.

The wind, however, did not grow as boisterous as might have been feared; it was not one of those tempests which burst, and rush on with a speed of ninety miles an hour. It continued fresh, but, unhappily, it remained obstinately in the south-east, rendering the sails useless.

The 16th of December was the seventy-fifth day since Phileas Fogg's departure from London, and the Henrietta had not yet been seriously delayed. Half of the voyage was almost accomplished, and the worst localities had been passed. In summer, success would have been well-nigh certain. In winter, they were at the mercy of the bad season. Passepartout said nothing; but he cherished hope in secret, and comforted himself with the reflection that, if the wind failed them, they might still count on the steam.

On this day the engineer came on deck, went up to Mr. Fogg, and began to speak earnestly with him. Without knowing why it was a presentiment, perhaps Passepartout became vaguely uneasy. He would have given one of his ears to hear with the other what the engineer was saying. He finally managed to catch a few words, and was sure he heard his master say, "You are certain of what you tell me?"

"Certain, sir," replied the engineer. "You must remember that, since we started, we have kept up hot fires in all our furnaces, and, though we had coal enough to go on short steam from New York to Bordeaux, we haven't enough to go with all steam from New York to Liverpool." "I will consider," replied Mr. Fogg.

Passepartout understood it all; he was seized with mortal anxiety. The coal was giving out! "Ah, if my master can get over that," muttered he, "he'll be a famous man!" He could not help imparting to Fix what he had overheard.

"Then you believe that we really are going to Liverpool?"

"Of course."

"Ass!" replied the detective, shrugging his shoulders and turning on his heel.

Passepartout was on the point of vigorously resenting the epithet, the reason of which he could not for the life of him comprehend; but he reflected that the unfortunate Fix was probably very much disappointed and humiliated in his self-esteem, after having so awkwardly followed a false scent around the world, and refrained.

And now what course would Phileas Fogg adopt? It was difficult to imagine. Nevertheless he seemed to have decided upon one, for that evening he sent for the engineer, and said to him, "Feed all the fires until the coal is exhausted."

A few moments after, the funnel of the Henrietta vomited forth torrents of smoke. The vessel continued to proceed with all steam on; but on the 18th, the engineer, as he had predicted, announced that the coal would give out in the course of the day.

"Do not let the fires go down," replied Mr. Fogg. "Keep them up to the last. Let the valves be filled."

Towards noon Phileas Fogg, having ascertained their position, called Passepartout, and ordered him to go for Captain Speedy. It was as if the honest fellow had been commanded to unchain a tiger. He went to the poop, saying to himself, "He will be like a madman!"

In a few moments, with cries and oaths, a bomb appeared on the poop-deck. The bomb was Captain Speedy. It was clear that he was on the point of bursting. "Where are we?" were the first words his anger permitted him to utter. Had the poor man be an apoplectic, he could never have recovered from his paroxysm of wrath.

"Where are we?" he repeated, with purple face.

"Seven hundred and seven miles from Liverpool," replied Mr. Fogg, with imperturbable calmness.

"Pirate!" cried Captain Speedy.

"I have sent for you, sir--"

"Pickaroon!"

"--sir," continued Mr. Fogg, "to ask you to sell me your vessel."

"No! By all the devils, no!"

"But I shall be obliged to burn her."

"Burn the Henrietta!"

"Yes; at least the upper part of her. The coal has given out."

"Burn my vessel!" cried Captain Speedy, who could scarcely pronounce the words. "A vessel worth fifty thousand dollars!"

"Here are sixty thousand," replied Phileas Fogg, handing the captain a roll of bank-bills. This had a prodigious effect on Andrew Speedy. An American can scarcely remain unmoved at the sight of sixty thousand dollars. The captain forgot in an instant his anger, his imprisonment, and all his grudges against his passenger. The Henrietta was twenty years old; it was a great bargain. The bomb would not go off after all. Mr. Fogg had taken away the match.

"And I shall still have the iron hull," said the captain in a softer tone.

"The iron hull and the engine. Is it agreed?"

"Agreed."

And Andrew Speedy, seizing the banknotes, counted them and consigned them to his pocket.

During this colloquy, Passepartout was as white as a sheet, and Fix seemed on the point of having an apoplectic fit. Nearly twenty thousand pounds had been expended, and Fogg left the hull and engine to the captain, that is, near the whole value of the craft! It was true, however, that fifty-five thousand pounds had been stolen from the Bank.

When Andrew Speedy had pocketed the money, Mr. Fogg said to him, "Don't let this astonish you, sir. You must know that I shall lose twenty thousand pounds, unless I arrive in London by a quarter before nine on the evening of the 21st of December. I missed the steamer at New York, and as you refused to take me to Liverpool--"

"And I did well!" cried Andrew Speedy; "for I have gained at least forty thousand dollars by it!" He added, more sedately, "Do you know one thing, Captain--"

"Fogg."

"Captain Fogg, you've got something of the Yankee about you."

And, having paid his passenger what he considered a high compliment, he was going away, when Mr. Fogg said, "The vessel now belongs to me?"

"Certainly, from the keel to the truck of the masts--all the wood, that is."

"Very well. Have the interior seats, bunks, and frames pulled down, and burn them."

It was necessary to have dry wood to keep the steam up to the adequate pressure, and on that day the poop, cabins, bunks, and the spare deck were sacrificed. On the next day, the 19th of December, the masts, rafts, and spars were burned; the crew worked lustily, keeping up the fires. Passepartout hewed, cut, and sawed away with all his might. There was a perfect rage for demolition.

The railings, fittings, the greater part of the deck, and top sides disappeared on the 20th, and the Henrietta was now only a flat hulk. But on this day they sighted the Irish coast and Fastnet Light. By ten in the evening they were passing Queenstown. Phileas Fogg had only twenty-four hours more in which to get to London; that length of time was necessary to reach Liverpool, with all steam on. And the steam was about to give out altogether!

"Sir," said Captain Speedy, who was now deeply interested in Mr. Fogg's project, "I really commiserate you. Everything is against you. We are only opposite Queenstown."

"Ah," said Mr. Fogg, "is that place where we see the lights Queenstown?"

"Yes."

"Can we enter the harbour?"

"Not under three hours. Only at high tide."

"Stay," replied Mr. Fogg calmly, without betraying in his features that by a supreme inspiration he was about to attempt once more to conquer ill-fortune.

Queenstown is the Irish port at which the trans-Atlantic steamers stop to put off the mails. These mails are carried to Dublin by express trains always held in readiness to start; from Dublin they are sent on to Liverpool by the most rapid boats, and thus gain twelve hours on the Atlantic steamers.

Phileas Fogg counted on gaining twelve hours in the same way. Instead of arriving at Liverpool the next evening by the Henrietta, he would be there by noon, and would therefore have time to reach London before a quarter before nine in the evening.

The Henrietta entered Queenstown Harbour at one o'clock in the morning, it then being high tide; and Phileas Fogg, after being grasped heartily by the hand by Captain Speedy, left that gentleman on the levelled hulk of his craft, which was still worth half what he had sold it for.

The party went on shore at once. Fix was greatly tempted to arrest Mr. Fogg on the spot; but he did not. Why? What struggle was going on within him? Had he changed his mind about "his man"? Did he understand that he had made a grave mistake? He did not, however, abandon Mr. Fogg. They all got upon the train, which was just ready to start, at half-past one; at dawn of day they were in Dublin; and they lost no time in embarking on a steamer which, disdaining to rise upon the waves, invariably cut through them.

Phileas Fogg at last disembarked on the Liverpool quay, at twenty minutes before twelve, 21st December. He was only six hours distant from London.

But at this moment Fix came up, put his hand upon Mr. Fogg's shoulder, and, showing his warrant, said, "You are really Phileas Fogg?"

"I am."

"I arrest you in the Queen's name!"

[technato]

When Power Lines Break, a New Control System Keeps the Sparks From Flying

San Diego is rolling out synchrophasor tech for real‑time grid control

Photo: Mike Eliason/Santa Barbara County Fire Department/AP

Slow Burn: A 2017 wildfire near power lines in Montecito, Calif., burned for almost six months before firefighters subdued it.

Amidst what could be California’s worst wildfire season on record, San Diego Gas & Electric is counting on technology to reduce dangerous sparking from its power lines. This month, the utility completed the initial rollout of a home-grown automated control technology that taps ultrafast synchrophasor sensors to detect and turn off broken power lines before they hit the ground.

Projects such as this mark a turning point for grid control. Synchrophasor sensors send out time-stamped measurements of power and its phase—the angular position of the alternating current and voltage waves—up to 60 times per second. That is at least 120 times as fast as most utilities’ industrial control systems. And the GPS-synchronized time stamps allow data assembled from multiple sensors to create a precise wide-area view of power grids.

The grid’s human operators have progressively attained a wider view since the synchrophasor device’s invention 30 years ago. But only recently have they begun to exploit the speed of these phasor measurement units (PMUs) for real-time grid control.

San Diego’s line-break-protection system works by spotting quick voltage changes. PMUs arrayed along a circuit report continuously via a high-speed wireless radio communications network to a controller in a substation. If the controller spots a sudden voltage spread between adjacent sensors, it orders the closest relays to isolate and de-energize the iffy segment. Generally, it’s all over in less than half a second.

San Diego Gas & Electric and its parent company, Sempra Energy, started looking at synchrophasor sensors in 2010 and quickly identified dozens of potential uses. A broken-line-detection and control system became the utility’s flagship project after engineer William O’Brien calculated that it could spot broken lines two to three times as fast as gravity could pull them down, allowing the controller to stop the flow of electricity before a line touched the ground, and thus greatly reduce the risk of fire. (O’Brien developed and patented the concept with Eric Udren, an executive adviser at Quanta Technology, a consultancy based in Raleigh, N.C.)

This month, the system had been installed in what the utility expects will be its final form on six circuits emanating from three substations in the fire‑prone territory east of San Diego. The utility has 18 more substation build-outs planned and expects to ultimately deploy the system across its entire grid.

This system for detecting and disarming broken lines marks the first deployment of PMU-based automation on a distribution system. But a few utilities elsewhere have already integrated synchrophasor-based controls into their high-voltage transmission grids. One of the first installations, initially completed in Iceland in 2014 and substantially upgraded last year, tunes the island nation’s 50-hertz AC frequency.

Iceland has a relatively small grid whose supply and demand can easily be thrown out of balance when power plants, transmission lines, or big factories unexpectedly go off line. For years, the resulting AC frequency fluctuations regularly caused the grid’s eastern and western zones to split into electrical islands, which often led to power outages.

A wide-area PMU network and added controls, provided by GE’s grid solutions business, enabled Iceland’s grid operator, Landsnet, to rapidly locate power imbalances and automatically fix them by tweaking demand from aluminum smelters and other big consumers. The June 2017 updates have cut the magnitude of Iceland’s AC frequency deviations roughly in half, according to GE senior power systems engineer Sean Norris. “Events that we previously would have expected to cause splits in the system have occurred, and the system has remained intact,” says Norris.

Emerging frequency challenges for Great Britain’s much-larger grid have prompted a three-year research effort directed by London-based National Grid. England and Scotland’s many fossil-fueled power plants and the inertia in their heavy rotating generators currently hold the United Kingdom’s AC frequency steady. But that frequency-stabilizing inertia is disappearing as coal and gas plants shutter.

Simulations conducted earlier this year at the University of Strathclyde, in Glasgow, showed that synchrophasor-driven controls, running on an expanded version of GE’s technology, could keep the U.K. grid stable with fewer inertia-rich generators. By early next year, the research team hopes to begin testing its control platforms at National Grid substations.

Ultimately such real-time controls will take over grid operation, according to Patrick Lee, president of control developer PXiSE Energy Solutions (another Sempra Energy subsidiary). As renewable generation grows, industrial control systems aided by human operators watching PMU readings will no longer suffice. According to Lee, “As the system gets more renewable integration and becomes more dynamic, you have less time to respond. If you don’t have this high-speed synchrophasor-based technology, you really will have no chance.”

This article appears in the October 2018 print issue as “Utilities Roll Out Real-Time Grid Controls.”

When Power Lines Break, a New Control System Keeps the Sparks From Flying syndicated from https://jiohowweb.blogspot.com