#explosive detector best

[deniselabmate]

Portable Explosives Detector

Labmate portable explosive detector boasts a 99% detection rate and operates from -15°C to 50°C. It features a 5-inch touchscreen, a power lock option, and the ability to identify nanogram levels of explosives in under 5 seconds with built-in diagnostics and an audio-visual alert system.

[excitementshewrote]

[jtl-fics]

Fluent Freshman - Part 44

PREV

The flight up to New York is a pleasant one.

The time in the airport itself had been less pleasant. Matt, as it turns out, is a firm believer in arriving with just enough time to check a bag, get through security, and get to the gate. He had claimed up, down, left, and right that he had it down to a science.

No matter how many times Smith had wondered about the scientific rigor of this 'science' he still kept it to himself. There was no need for Smith to voice his uncertainty with this plan because Kevin well and truly had it covered.

"You're giving us only an hour to check bags, get through security, and get to our gate?!" Kevin demands.

"Kevin, if you wanted to be there earlier then you could have asked Andrew to give yo a ride." Matt says. "We'll be fine."

"You know what Neil and Andrew get like when they have a long roadtrip ahead of them." Kevin argues.

"All lovey-dovey?" Nicky asks as Aaron makes a gagging sound.

"No, well yes, but no they always stop and buy all of the worst food too." Kevin reminds. "I'm just concerned about us missing our flight! We have barely enough time!" Kevin huffs crossing his arms.

"You're wrong anyways." Aaron says idly as he continues to text with Katelyn.

"How am I wrong?!" Kevin demands.

"We also have to park within that hour that Matt has left us with." Aaron says looking up from his phone.

"Matt!" Kevin squawks.

"It'll be fine." Matt reassures for the 2nd time.

"We all have checked bags!" Kevin exclaims, "What if we miss our flight?!" he wails.

"It'll be fine!" Matt repeats.

"No it won't!" Kevin exclaims.

---

It was fine.

The only real delays they met were at security.

Smith prided himself on being efficient in the security line. He has his watch off, his phone and ID secured in a zipped jacket pocket, his backpack and electronics in separate trays, and his shoes ready to be slipped off.

So he was shamed to have been the cause of the first delay when the TSA agent wouldn't wave Smith through the metal detector since she didn't realize he was there. That had been a whole anxiety attack and a half as the line had formed up behind him all wondering what the hold-up was.

Finally she seemed to startle as she realized that Smith had been standing there waiting and waved him through.

The other delay was that Kevin got patted down after he had forgotten to empty his 'emergency' water bottle.

It was probably for the best that they didn't have to be in the airport for that long. Every announcement that it was very important to not leave your bag unattended made him worry that with every blink somehow someone had slipped a bomb into his backpack.

While it was on his back.

As he was running with the rest of his friends to their gate.

"It just had to be the gate on the other end of the terminal." Aaron huffs.

"It would have been 100% perfect if someone hadn't left their water bottle in their bag despite the, let me check, 3,820 signs that said remove all liquids from your carry-ons!" Matt says as they continues to run.

"I said I forgot!" Kevin yells back from his spot at the front of the pack. Smith was under the distinct impression that Kevin was keeping pace with them since he had seen the Striker move much faster on the court and during warm-ups.

"We could have forgiven that!" Nicky pants, "Why did you have to slam the whole thing to prove that it was 'just water'?" he asks.

"Because I wanted to prove I wasn't a national security threat!" Kevin says. "I'll be going to the Olympics in a couple years and I can't have that on my record." he continues as he rounds a corner.

"What record?!" Smith asks suddenly worried that there was a record.

"Smithy, there's no record Kevin's just an idiot. An idiot who got patted down, tested for explosives, and had his carry-on searched." Nicky huffs.

"You don't know that there's not a record! The record everything nowadays!" Kevin huffs and their gate is in sight.

"Kevin, just shut up!" Aaron exclaims as they reach the line for their flight.

"Wait why aren't any of you getting shitty with Smiths?!" Kevin asks.

"His delay was like a minute and more importantly NOT HIS FAULT!" Nicky defends.

"He should have just walked through!" Kevin argues.

"Oh it's fine if he gets a record but not you?!" Aaron asks.

"So there is a record?!" Smith asks again.

They reach the line and the largely empty area around their gate is more than enough evidence that this was the final boarding. Smith breathed a sigh of relief as he took his place in line behind Nicky.

"The lines pretty slow, I'm going to go get a water." Kevin says and before any of them can say anything he is off towards a busy looking Newsweek store.

"I cannot believe him." Aaron huffs.

"All that water he just drank and is about to drink? He has lost window seat privileges." Matt pants wiping sweat from his brow.

"Agreed." Nicky says.

Smith laughed between panting breaths. His stomach hurt a bit from the stress of running but it was fine.

They get on the plane without Kevin and head to their seats. Most of the overhead storage is taken up at this point but Smith slides his bag under the middle seat in front of him after Matt

In the end, Kevin barely made it onto the plane in time since he got caught up in deciding on water. "You're in my seat." Kevin says as the only man not yet seated.

"I am not about to spend this flight getting up every 2 minutes because you have to pee." Matt says, "Abby didn't used to need to take all those pitstops when we're on the bus." Matt adds.

"I hate the aisle, the cart could hit my legs." Kevin argues.

"Then you can sit in the middle if Smith's willing to move." Matt says.

"You can have the middle Kevin." Smith offers actually preferring the aisle seat since then he doesn't have to ask anyone to move for him.

"I hate the middle seat, there is no room." Kevin crosses his arms.

"Smith is like only 3 inches shorter than you and he's not complaining." Matt continues.

"It's an important 3 inches."

"I bet it is."

"Nicky, are you serious?"

"What?!"

"There is an uninvolved member of the public, right there."

"He's wearing headphones it's fine!"

---

It's fine.

Eventually Kevin takes the middle seat if for no other reason than Matt stubbornly pretends to go to sleep but absolutely does not want the aisle seat either.

Smith gives it up and ends up with his own preferred seat while Kevin pointedly takes both of the arm rests, as is his right. The plane ride progresses smoothly from there. Smith has always liked flying. There is always a sense that the second that he gets onto the plane and the door closes he has absolutely zero control over what happens afterwards.

That is a nice comfort.

He pays attention to the safety briefing, finds his nearest exit, and that he should secure the bag over his own face before securing it on Kevin's.

He puts his headphones on and tries not to think about the anxiety of meeting the 'girls'.

He has heard much about the 'girls'.

Allison Reynolds. Allison was someone who's legacy existed even outside of the team. Smith didn't know much about fashion but a Reynolds bet remained a solid practice within Palmetto. She was, undeniably, absolutely gorgeous and if Kevin was to be believed 'kind of a bitch'. Nicky had swatted his arm but had said that it was not entirely inaccurate but like 'in the best way'.

Dan Wilds. He met Dan. Dan was nice. Also, if Matt was to be believed, the best human to ever walk the planet earth. The reason the sun rose in the east and set in the west. The gravitational pull that held the universe together. If Andrew is to be believed, she's fine.

Renee Walker. Renee was the one who taught Andrew how to use knives. His friend has talked warmly of her, in the way that Andrew talks warmly about anyone which is mentioning them at all. She was the one that Smith was the most anxious about meeting.

Kevin turns his nose up at the ginger ale that Smith gets but he's allowed these now per his actual doctors orders.

1 hour left until arriving at JFK.

He hopes this ginger ale is enough to calm his stomach since he's still not allowed Pepto.

MASTERPOST FOR ALL PARTS OF FLUENT FRESHMAN AU

NEXT

[sanguineterrain]

get a little action in | miguel o'hara

Summary: Spider-Man doesn't like you. And for the record? You're not crazy about him either. But you kind of wish you could see his eyes when he swings you across the city. For curiosity's sake.

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x gn!reader (some Spanish language is female-gendered, but other than that, no gendered descriptions.)

Word count: 2.2k

Content desc: rivals, superhero!reader (kinda - they're trying their best). miguel's a bit of a jerk ngl but he's a SEXY jerk <3 very enemies to lovers coded. swapped insults, injuries, and a whole lot of charged flirting. (lyla thinks they're adorable.)

A/N: i actually think this fic is the closest i've gotten to miguel's canon personality compared to my previous (delusional) characterizations of him lol. hope you guys like this one! as always, i appreciate corrections to the Spanish if needed, but it's no one's responsibility to do so!

Translations: 

¡Chingada madre! - Motherfucker!

¡Pinche pendeja! - Fucking asshole!

¡No mames! Eres una idiota. - I don't believe this! You're an idiot.

¡Cállate, por Dios! - Shut up, oh my God!

¡Ay, coño! ¿Qué demonios haces? - Oh, fuck! What the hell are you doing?

¿Qué? ¿Qué quieres? - What? What do you want?

¿Estás loca? ¿De dónde sacas esas ideas? - Are you crazy? Where do you get these ideas?

No seas estúpida. - Don't be stupid.

Porque tu haces un desmadre. Eres un dolor en el culo. - Because you make a mess. You're a pain in the ass.

Ve. - Go.

follow @sanguine-marvel for all future miguel fic notifications!

“All units be advised: 10-33 on 10th and Palisade. Suspect is known as “Captain Darkness.” Approach with caution.”

You shove the police scanner into your bag and stash it in the alley by your apartment. You’re close to 10th and Palisade, and the cops have lost Nueva York’s newest supervillain, Captain Darkness, three times already. For all the mocking headlines the press write about him, he sure seems to be the one laughing every time.

You pull your mask over your face as you make your way to the abandoned factory on 10th and Palisade. It looks normal from the outside, but the code means there’s been an explosion. 

Probably best to enter through the back. 

It’s dark, because supervillains like to nail the atmosphere, and that means there’s no budget for lighting. The factory smells damp, moldy. You hope you don’t get sick. Vigilantism doesn’t come with health insurance.

You stay close to the wall, ears tuned for any sounds. Usually, a good villain would have clocked your entrance by now. The fact that Captain Darkness (a stupid-ass name for a stupid-ass villain) hasn’t—

BRIIIING! BRIIIING!

Alarms blare throughout the factory. Your ears ring from the volume. 

Okay. Maybe you’ve underestimated him.

You run; stealth doesn’t matter now, only speed. Captain Darkness is, predictably, at the center of the factory. He has all the typical workings of a mad scientist: electric ball thingy, giant lie detector-looking thingy, et cetera. You go up the stairs of his platform to get closer.

Except there’s something you’ve never seen before. It sort of resembles a portal. Fuck.

Captain Darkness spots you immediately. He has giant crab legs fused to the lower half of his body, which you’d think were sick if he wasn’t such a jagoff. 

“Well, hello,” he says, sneering down at you. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Are you one of the Spiderlings?”

“I’m offended by the suggestion,” you say, darting towards the electric ball first. 

It looks easy enough to shut off, except the Captain blocks your path immediately. He knocks you across the platform. You cough at the impact. The concrete bruises your right temple.

“Alright, that’s it.” You grunt, pushing yourself up. “Now I’m gonna kick your ass for real.”

The Captain laughs. “By all means, hit me with your best shot.”

So you do. You manage to knock him backwards, his clunky crab legs sliding on the platform. You take the opening and shut off one machine, which causes a crackle of electricity in the air. The hair on your arms rises.

But being a mad crab scientist apparently means you have a lot of time on your hands, and Captain Darkness whips out what looks like a ray gun. He blasts you and knocks you off the platform. You hit your ribs hard, and your vision blurs for a second.

The portal begins to whir, warming up. Captain Darkness towers over you, grinning maniacally.

“Your efforts are adorable, but I suggest you find another line of work. No one will stop me from opening a portal. Once I venture to other worlds, I’ll be unstoppable. This world will be mine! Finally, everyone who ever—”

“Oh my God,” you groan, clutching your ribs. “Please don’t start monologuing. Do you know how cliche you sound right now? Blah blah blah, your parents didn’t give you enough attention so you’re insecure and power-hungry. Do I look like Dr. Phil to you?”

His eyes flash and one crab leg grabs a nearby tool cart. 

“You’re no longer amusing me,” he says. "Goodbye." 

The tool cart is flung in your direction, and you roll, covering your head and bracing for the worst. But the crash never comes. You look to see several orange webs wrapped around the cart. The cart flies backwards and hits Captain Darkness right in his face.

Miguel O’Hara lands on the railing of the platform, perched gracefully. He doesn’t waste a second in going after the Captain.

“Oh, where did you even come from?” you shout, pushing yourself to stand. “I have it handled!”

“I’m not dignifying that with a response,” Miguel growls as he easily dodges the Captain’s grasp. 

He swings to the other side, aiming for the portal which has now fired up. 

Perfect. Damn it, it should be you that J. Jonah Jameson will scream about on the news tomorrow morning, not Spider-Dorito. 

You force yourself to get up so you can try to apprehend the Captain. But he has other plans; one of the machines sparks, and suddenly, hundreds of flying crab-shaped robots pour out of the mouth of the portal. Miguel shouts orders to Lyla. 

You’re only interested in one thing: taking down Captain frickin’ Darkness. So you go after him, leaving the factory. Unfortunately, the crab-bots take that as an invitation to leave too, zeroed in on your destruction. Your ribs are killing you, and whatever the Captain blasted you with left a nasty gash on your hip. 

Still, you limp and pant through the pain. You’re not letting this guy get away a fourth time. No way. Captain Darkness has been a thorn in Nueva York’s side for several weeks now and you’ve been tracking him for just as long. You need to get him.

“¡Chingada madre!”

You glance over your shoulder and see a flash of blue and red. Miguel is right behind you, fighting through the cluster of crab-bots. The sight makes your blood boil.

“Fuck off!” you wheeze out. “He’s mine, O’Hara!”

“If you hadn’t stumbled in and screwed everything up, we wouldn’t even be in this situation right now!” he snarls. “¡Pinche pendeja!”

Fucking Spider-Man. It’s because of him that Nueva York doesn’t even know who you are. Every time you get remotely close to taking down a criminal, Miguel swoops in and saves the day. Not without giving you grief, of course. You’re too weak, too disorganized, too slow—you’re too wrong, according to him. He’s told you multiple times to stay away, but hey, he should know by now you’re also too stubborn to listen.

You pull your hand away from your rib. It’s tacky with blood. You’re slowing down, too; you aren’t enhanced like a hero is supposed to be, and after going two rounds with Captain Crabcake, it seems you’re about to meet your untimely fate with killer crustacean robots. 

You really should’ve become a lawyer like your mother wanted.

“¡No mames! Eres una idiota.”

You feel Miguel’s breath on your neck before his arm curls around your waist. You cry indignantly but he doesn’t let go, heaving you into his grip and continuing to run.

“Let go of me!” you demand, wiggling in his grip.

“Shut up.”

“I don’t need you to save me,” you snap.

He looks down at you, red masked eyes burning into you.

“No? ‘Cause every time you screw up, I’m the one fixing your mess. How many times have I told you to go home?”

“I had it under control,” you say. 

Miguel doesn’t even look at you. Your injuries are jostled with every step and you have to fight to not whine in pain. But you don’t try to squirm away again. You’re no match for his strength, and, unfortunately, he’s a lot faster than you. If you want to live, Miguel’s your ride. 

“Lyla, find me a route.”

Lyla pops up on Miguel’s other shoulder. She leers at you, raising her eyebrows.

“Am I interrupting something?” she asks. 

“Lyla. Route, now.” 

“Alright, alright,” she says, sounding far too smug. “Might I suggest going airborne?”

Your fingers dig into Miguel’s giant shoulder as he flings a web string at a nearby fire escape. He shifts you to one arm. Your eyes pop out of your head.

“No, wait, I have a terrible fear of—”

He doesn’t wait, the asshole, and you scream as he pulls both of you up. Now you’re bleeding, clinging to the worst person in the world, and at least two hundred feet off the ground. Somehow, killer crab-bots would’ve been better. 

“¡Cállate, por Dios!” he shouts, jerking his head away from you. “Unless you want me to drop you.”

“I’m gonna kill you, O’Hara,” you say, closing your eyes. “I’m gonna—oh, God.” You swallow hard, feeling dizzy. “I think I’m gonna hurl.”

“Do not throw up on me.”

You peek over his shoulder, trying not to watch the buildings blur by. That’s when you spot the army of robots behind you. And they look mad.

“Shit, shit!” you hiss, jolted out of your nausea. 

You reach down Miguel’s broad back, feeling for the nifty little gadgets you know he keeps on him.

“¡Ay, coño! ¿Qué demonios haces?”

He swats at your wandering hands. You smack him back.

“I’m trying to save us, if you don’t mind!”

“Do not touch anything—” he starts.

A bot whizzes by, firing at you both. Miguel wobbles on the next swing, trying to fight off the bot. 

“Lyla, three o’clock!” you yell.

Tiny rockets fire from Miguel’s suit, taking out several bots. There’s too many, though; you need another plan.

“Lyla, run diagnostics on the bots,” you say, grunting as Miguel swings sharply around a corner.

“Lyla, don’t do anything I don’t tell you to,” Miguel says. “She’s not yours to—”

“Water,” Lyla interrupts, understanding where your brain is. “They malfunction in water.”

“Huh. That’s ironic.”

Ahead, the waterfront is quickly coming into view. You pinch Miguel’s shoulder. He hisses, his suit’s eyes narrowing at you. 

“¿Qué? ¿Qué quieres?”

“The Hudson,” you say. 

“I can’t just dive into the river, we’ll both—”

“Use me as bait,” you say. 

“¿Estás loca? ¿De dónde sacas esas ideas?”

“I pull them out of my butt,” you say, rolling your eyes.

“You couldn’t even destroy the portal,” he says scathingly. “I’m not throwing you into the river, tempting as that is.”

“You don’t have a better idea, smartass. And unless you want them tearing up Manhattan, you’ll do it.”

“No seas estúpida,” he says. 

“Can’t help it. It’s one of my superpowers.”

Miguel lands on a rooftop. He drops you none too carefully, and you land hard on your butt. You grunt, the movement squishing your injury. 

“Lyla,” Miguel says.

“Yup,” she says, popping up on your shoulder and scanning your body. “Bruised ribs, and a gash right on top. If you wrap it, they’ll be fine.”

Miguel takes out a bandage and tears the top off. You’ve seen them before; they’re of his own creation, and used widely by his Spider Society. Never on civilians, which is what you are, according to him.

He crouches and shoves your suit up, then wraps the bandage around your stomach. The wrapping begins to expand and you feel the sting of cold gel. He yanks your suit back down without a word.

“I’m sure my ribs are broken,” you say through a wheezy exhale.

“Nope! Just bruised. You really shouldn’t fall from those kinds of heights,” Lyla says cheerily.

“Yeah, you were definitely programmed by him,” you mutter.

You start to get up. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Miguel says. 

“Screw you.”

“You living here screws me enough.”

“I don’t need your help! Why can’t you stay in your own damn lane, O’Hara?”

“Porque tu haces un desmadre. Eres un dolor en el culo.”

“The feeling is mutual,” you say through gritted teeth. “And you can’t stop me from going after him.”

His suit’s eyes narrow. Quick as anything, he flings two webs over your wrists. You squawk, now glued to the pavement.

“This is illegal!” you screech, twisting your wrists. “Let me go!”

“Stay out of my way,” Miguel says. “I won’t save your ass next time.”

You glare up at him, still breathing hard. It only makes you angrier that Miguel hasn’t broken a sweat.

“I hope those bots tear up the Spider Society!” you say. “I hope—I hope your suit malfunctions and the whole city sees your ass.”

Miguel pauses, and turns around. 

“Uh, Miguel?” Lyla asks. “The murder robots? Kinda urgent.”

“Tell Jess to go downtown and cut them off there.”

“But—” 

“Ve.”

He stands over you. You fling your legs up, trying to get a kick in, but he quickly puts a stop to that, resting a heavy foot on both of your ankles. 

Miguel bends down. You burn with curiosity about how he looks under the mask. It’s twisted of you to wonder, considering what an arrogant jerk he is. You could fill several encyclopedias with Miguel O’Hara’s worst traits. 

Still, you wonder. You wonder what color his eyes are. If his hair is short or long. If he smiles at all. His expression when you get under his skin.

You’d learned his real name by accident. Whether he knows your identity or not, you don’t know. You wonder if he has to stop himself from saying your name.

“You’re lucky I don’t web that dirty mouth of yours,” Miguel says, his face inches from yours. “I’ve been considering it.”

You lift your chin.

“You think about my mouth a lot, O’Hara?”

He jerks back, like you’ve startled him. He stands, turning around.

“Don’t let me see you out here again,” he says.

“Wait!” you cry. “What about the webs?!”

Miguel shoots a web towards the street.

“What about them? You don’t need my help, remember?”

Then he’s gone. 

Fucking Spider-Man.

[onlyglaives]

Kicking this blog off with the best Glaive, the only Glaive, the one true Glaive - The Enigma! I'm about to get very wordy.

A very tasty weapon, The Enigma (respect the name!!) is a Void oriented weapon obtained from the Witch Queen quests. (However, this one has been with me so long I've forgotten how exactly it came to be!) It was introduced alongside weapon crafting, and if it isn't one of the most well known weapons, it should be.

Not necessarily the longest Glaive, or the fanciest, but The Enigma is reliable and won't see you locked out of a fight. An Adaptive Glaive, it doesn't succeed in any particular area, but since Glaives aren't considered the strongest weapon that doesn't matter. It hits smoothly, feels nice to chain melee hits, and has an ok shield. That's good enough for me!

I love being able to get out of a close range fight by bashing my way out rather than blowing myself up accidentally (thanks, any explosive weapon I've ever handled).

Being craftable, it has an amazing range of perks to choose from, and all have their uses. Some with more use than others, but I have tried a few different perk combos. My current Loadout includes the Lightweight Emitter, Light Mag, Impulse Amplifier, Thresh and the Psychohack origin. However, I'm likely to change Thresh back to Unrelenting now that I'm not using Bad Juju.

Thankfully, The Enigma is great with pretty much all its perks, and it's simply a matter of deciding how you want to fight that day.

Personally (and I'm gonna get into crafting here) I say these are the shakedowns (of course, keep in mind this is my own opinion, I'm sure you have your favourite perks regardless of what others think):

PvP:

Ballistic Tuning, Swap, Threat Detector/Impulse Amplifier, Unstoppable Force

PvE:

Ballistic Tuning/Lightweight Emitter, Swap/Light Mag, Impulse Amplifier, Unrelenting/Frenzy.

Elaboration:

PvP: generally with a Glaive you want to get in and out, but if you do get into a gunfight there are a few options. Ballistic Tuning, while diverting the shield, increases range. This perk makes it so you can do both the stab stab and the pew pew better. Swap, obviously, because in PvP timing is crucial. One slow draw and that Hunter with the double perk weapon has gunned you down.

Threat Detector just gives good stat boosts when there's someone nearby, but if you want faster shooting, go Impulse. Unstoppable force increases that damage. So you can hit fast and hard, or get stat bonus and damage.

PvE: More combinations are possible here simply because all situations are so varied. I would not suggest taking Glaives into end game situations, but to say that would also make me a hypocrite. Glaives are love, Glaives are life.

Anyway. Ballistic for the reasons in PvP, but Lightweight Emitter does much the same, but with slightly less range. In exchange you get extra handling. Swap, again, it's just good to quickly change weapons, but also Light Mag, to increase reload speed and range.

Impulse Amplifier lets you keep that speed going. The faster you shoot, the quicker you stab, the faster the enemy dies. Unrelenting works because health regen is sorely needed when you go in Glaive blazing, bashing all those ads within an inch of their lives. Also works with Impulse to increase your speed. Frenzy is great in general, because increased stats in a prolonged gunfight are crazy good - who doesn't love even faster reload and more damage?

Finally, as parting words, I'll say this: the Enigma fits many roles due to its versatility - close range, far range, it works on all fronts. That's how Adaptable it is!

If all weapons were held away from me, and I was told to only use one for the rest of my game experience, I wouldn't pick The Enigma. However, if you let me choose one Primary, Energy and Heavy, The Enigma would be my first choice for the Energy slot. The Enigma is my one true love, and a weapon I'll cherish for as long as the game still runs (and maybe long after).

Thank you for listening, and make sure to polish your Glaives ;)

...but seriously, take them out of your Vault and give one a try.

[mania-sama]

leviathan, the tyrant, and the horse and rider

Where Is Your Rider - The Oh Hellos

➼ information ❧ Bungou Stray Dogs ❧ Pairing: Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya ❧ Additional Characters: Mori Ougai, Kenzaburo Oe (Original Character) ❧ Tags: angst with a happy ending, dazai-typical suicide mentions, threats of violence, threats of suicide, non-graphic gun violence, post-dead apple, explosives, mild hurt/comfort, mentions of cannibalism (unaffiliated with the cannibalism arc), canon-typical violence ❧ Summary: Chuuya shows up at the Armed Detective Agency threatening suicide under the pretense of taking a walk with a suicidal maniac. Mori pulls the strings on his puppet. Yet somehow, no one ends up committing suicide. ❧ Word Count: 6,077 ❧ Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own ❧ Original post date: 25 February 2023

Nakahara Chuuya had been walking for a long time.

He had stayed away from the main roads. The people that he did pass chose not to bother him, but he had seen their stares, worried whisperings, and faltering strides. He had not spoken to them, but he wished he could’ve.

When Chuuya stopped walking, he planted his feet carefully, side by side, both balancing inwards on his soles. He stared at the building complex, his heart beating so erratically in his chest that he was almost sure that it would throw him off balance, that it would cause his teeth to unalign and his fingers to twitch.

Slowly, as if his ability manipulated time and not gravity, he knocked on the door. On any other day, he would’ve walked inside without knocking because that was what any normal person would do. Unfortunately, Chuuya had been specifically told that he couldn’t set off the metal detectors just beyond the Armed Detective Agency’s beautiful wooden doors. So he knocked and waited.

He had blocked out the bustle of the street behind him. The longer he thought about it, the more the idea of screaming and running for help sounded appetizing. Thus, he redirected his mind to focus full-heartedly on tracing the intricate patterns engraved in the wood, ignoring his heart as best as he could while maintaining a steady breathing pattern. It was damn-near impossible.

It’d been a while since he’d been properly scared.

He had been at an interesting curve at the top of the double doors, his eyes straining upwards since he’d kept his head completely level, when it fell away to reveal a young woman dressed in the agency’s clerk uniform on the other side.

Appropriately, she shrieked. “S–sir! What are you doing? Please, don’t! This is not—”

“I want to talk to Dazai Osamu. Bring him to me, or I’ll pull the trigger.” His hand was trembling, but he pushed the handgun harder into his own temple regardless.

Her eyes were wide-open, showcasing the electric blue color that matched with her stunned expression. She nodded, taking a small step backwards into the lobby. “It— It’ll be a moment, sir.”

“I’ll be waiting,” he said, straining to keep his voice level. Normally, he would never wait for Dazai to come to him first. Yet most of the time, it was Dazai who was holding the gun to his own head. Suicide wasn’t really Chuuya’s thing, but he supposed there was a first time for everything.

The door was propped open with a wooden stopper, leaving Chuuya to be ogled at by the two poor souls in the lobby of the agency. Obviously they weren’t very busy, meaning it was possible Dazai wasn’t in the office at all.

Chuuya adjusted his grip on his handgun, his palms sweating underneath his gloves. His hair stuck unnaturally to his face. The boss said Dazai would be in office today, but if Chuuya knew anything about his old partner, it was that he could make himself scarce if he wanted to.

He would have to pray that Mori’s intel was correct. It was rather unfortunate that Chuuya wasn’t really the religious type, save for the god that lingered in his body.

A part of him didn’t want Dazai to comply with his demand, that the clerk had alerted that Nakahara Chuuya, a Port Mafia executive, was a threat and needed to be quickly neutralized. All of this waiting and wishful thinking that Dazai would somehow come up with a plan to get Chuuya out of this situation was killing him faster than the gun at his temple.

But there was only one other thing he knew better about Dazai than anyone else; if Chuuya wanted something, Dazai would do everything in his power to prevent him from getting it.

The demon himself ambled leisurely into the lobby, hands in his trench coat’s pockets and body relaxed. He turned to make eye contact with Chuuya, a cheerful smile on his face. His shoes clicked on the floor. “Chuuya! Have you finally taken a lesson from my book?” His lips tightened a little as he stopped in front of the executive, as though disappointed. “I have to say, shooting yourself is the least creative way to go. Though, I couldn’t expect more from someone like you.”

To the bystanders in the lobby, the detective was rambling nonsense to the suicidal man in front of him without a care in the world. To most people, Dazai looked just as insane as Chuuya did. However, nobody knew Dazai like Chuuya did. His life was resting in the detective’s hands, and it wasn’t for the first time, either.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t scared.

“You will follow me, Dazai, or I’ll shoot,” he said in response. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to be there at all , standing before the person that his heart couldn’t decide what it thought about him. Chuuya was afraid his heart wouldn’t have to make that decision anymore.

Dazai cocked his head. His gaze was intense, guarded and analyzing while keeping up the aura of complacency. Chuuya struggled to keep eye contact with him, but he kept his head level and kept his body as still as he could.

“Where would you take me? It’s too early for a nice dinner,” Dazai said smoothly. He was waiting for a signal, but Chuuya had nothing to give him. He didn’t have time to wait for Dazai to realize this.

He swallowed, carefully avoiding jostling the pill tucked against his molars. “When I start walking, you’ll be beside me. If not, my brains will be out on the street.”

They’ll splatter on the civilians around them. Dazai will watch as Chuuya commits suicide in the most unimaginative way possible. 

He turned around, counting in his head the amount of time it takes to reposition his feet. He paced his breathing evenly. Chuuya didn’t look at the people’s faces, nor at the sidewalk or at the skyline. He unfocused his sight, losing himself in keeping his feet titled in his soles and walking at the correct tempo.

He was aware that Dazai was keeping pace beside him on his right side, coincidentally the same side that Chuuya was holding the gun to his temple. He could sense the attempt before Dazai had time to do it.

This much he could tell his old partner. “If you remove the gun from my head, I’ll swallow the cyanide pill in my mouth.” It felt incredibly heavy against his teeth despite its small mass.

“That’s a little more creative than using the gun, but still not particularly creative and suffering-free. Tell me, Chuuya,” Dazai asked, his voice dropping an octave, “how did you get yourself in this predicament?”

That wasn’t something he could answer directly. The story wasn’t very exciting anyway—he simply hadn’t expected his own boss to use him like this.

Chuuya couldn’t see Dazai very well from where his arm was blocking most of his peripheral vision. It was hard to tell if Dazai needed the information to configure a plan to help Chuuya escape, or if he was only asking to help alleviate some of Chuuya’s trepidation.

The Port Mafia executive almost appreciated the incentive. Almost. His anxiety wasn’t cleared so easily. “If you’re thinking of touching me,” he started, because there were only so many words he was allowed to say. Warning Dazai of the things he couldn’t do in order to keep Chuuya alive made up three quarters of those words. “I will kill myself. No Longer Human won’t work.”

Chuuya held his breath for a count of three, approximately the amount of time it would take from the bombs in his shoes to detonate. On three, he released slowly. He hadn’t revealed too much information.

Beside him, the detective hummed a familiar tune. “Who said anything about touching you? I’m sure if I did so, I would contract the suicide germs that have infected you.” He paused, and then: “Maybe only short people can contract it.”

Silence greeted the unimpressive insult. Even if he could’ve responded appropriately, Chuuya couldn’t find it in him to take it seriously in the slightest. Gruesome images were running through his head, and all of them ended up with his own bloody death in one way or another. If he misstepped in any of his responses, those would be his endings.

He wondered if the boss was wrong. Mori’s assumption was that Dazai cared too deeply about Chuuya to let him die, leading them to their current situation. Chuuya had a hard time believing that Dazai had cared about anyone since Oda’s death. He’d left behind Chuuya in the Port Mafia; who was to say he wouldn’t do it again?

But even so, Dazai trod alongside Chuuya like a loyal dog. “Nothing to say back? Tough luck.”

The executive bit his tongue, cringing as the bottom of his feet pressed a little too hard on the C-4 packets. Dazai would’ve noticed his odd gait by now, but there was nothing the two of them could currently do about the explosives. The detonation device was remote, located with the boss at their final destination.

One wrong move. Chuuya straightened his back, breathed properly, and stepped accordingly. There was no room for error or miscalculation.

Chuuya turned into a side alley, getting away from the main streets where the police have likely already been alerted. A suicidal man and a suicidal maniac walking side-by-side in a congested sidewalk was sure to spell trouble, and any forward-thinking individual would’ve thought to get the proper authorities involved.

Dazai sighed. “You’ve got me stumped this time, Chuuya. At first, I was sure you weren’t being serious, but…” he trailed off. “I can see you mean it.”

What would kill him faster? The gun, the cyanide, or the explosives? He wanted to ask Dazai because surely he, of all people, would know. Instead, he kept his mouth shut and walked.

He’d been doing so for a very long time. His mouth was dry and his stomach hurt from anxiety and hunger.

“We have a long way to go.” His feet were hurting from the precarious position he had to keep them in so he didn’t prematurely detonate the C-4.

“I have no doubt about it,” Dazai said, the frown evident in his voice.

It was selfish of him, but he wanted Dazai to keep speaking, spouting irritating nonsense like he always did before he abandoned the Port Mafia. His voice was soothing, moreso in the dire situation they were now in. Chuuya wanted to look at him and drink in the waves of his hair, the shades of his eyes, and the stature of his body.

He wanted to lie down with his head on Dazai’s lap as he ran his fingers through his hair, just like he did after the chaos of the apple suicides. Chuuya would use Corruption a thousand times if it meant he could experience that euphoric tranquility each time.

If he used Corruption now, what would happen? The bombs at his feet would detonate, but his control of gravity in that state could swallow the blast. He would toss the gun or turn it on Dazai, but it was incredibly unlikely that he’d pull the trigger on himself. Corruption caused him to lose his mind, not become intentionally suicidal.

None of that mattered, anyway. He would chomp down on the cyanide pill in a heartbeat. It was tucked too far back for it to spit out quickly, and his Corruption form would mistake it for a piece of regular food. He could recognize a gun, not a pill.

There wasn’t any peace for him. His arm was hurting from how long he’d kept the handgun held in the air. Corruption wasn’t an option if the plan was for Dazai to come up with a solution to this mess.

‘You’ve got me stumped this time, Chuuya.’ Dazai had to have been lying through his teeth. Chuuya wouldn’t know what to do if he was telling the truth.

The quiet was worse than the nervous energy of the crowded streets. He could hear his and Dazai’s shoes echoing against the buildings’ exterior walls, the thumping of his own heart, and his breathing. Occasionally, Dazai would hum some familiar tune. It was an old song from the second world war—his old partner had mentioned in the past that he’d loved that time period’s music the best.

“People were scared during that time. The War to End All Wars had only just concluded, and a new one had already started?” Dazai said with a light chuckle, breaking his humming and startling the Port Mafia executive. He almost tripped. “The songs of the time were born of depression and dismay. They showcase a certain desperation that is hard to find in modern-day songs.”

Hope— it was all he had to stave off the pit of dread that had already enveloped his stomach. By showcasing his practical mind-reading capabilities, he was giving Chuuya that terrible hope. It did little to settle his nerves, for the more Dazai talked, the more chances that Mori would detonate the bombs increased.

“My favorite is There’ll Be Bluebirds Over the White Cliffs of Dover,” Dazai continued in Chuuya’s silence. “It’s English, but fittingly so. They’d been the only major world power fighting the Axis at the time."

They were desperate. Dazai sang softly, his voice winding its way through Chuuya’s heart like a stitch. If he closed his eyes for just a second, he could pretend the barrel at his temple was Dazai’s chest, and he could feel the rhythmic rumble of his vocal chords as his old partner crooned.

Then Chuuya stumbled over his feet, and his world went white.

With one hand grasping at the dark wall of a building to keep his weight up, and the other desperately pressing the weapon to his head, Chuuya heaved with a bright spark of horror. “I tripped! I tripped, I swear! It was an accident!”

One. No, God, please no. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare look anywhere besides the dirty floor of the alley. For how long they’d been walking, they couldn’t be far now. He’d been so close. Two. Mori had to have heard his plea through the tiny microphone on his collar. He had to have.

He squeezed his eyes shut as if it would save him for his burning demise. Three.

A count of three, a count of thirty, and there hadn’t been a detonation. It took him a half a minute to fully comprehend he was still alive, that he was still bracing himself against the wall and his heart was still beating in his chest. It tried desperately to escape its cage made of bone.

Chuuya blinked and looked up, finding Dazai studying him with an indescribable expression. His hands were still tucked into his pockets, but his muscles were taut like guitar strings. Lips drawn tight together, the detective took a dangerous step towards Chuuya.

“Stop moving!” Chuuya shouted. It was impossible to keep the shake out of his voice, given how it was no longer concealed in his body, either. Dazai halted with his hands up in surrender.

The executive pushed himself off of the wall, breathing heavily and keeping his head level with his direct line of sight. All of a sudden, he became acutely aware of the dryness of his mouth and the lack of food in his system. His tremors increased tenfold.

But Nakahara Chuuya walked, just like he had been, with bombs in his shoes, cyanide in his molars, and a handgun on his temple. Dazai walked beside him.

The detective wasted no time, recovering faster than Chuuya ever could’ve. “Where was I? Oh, yes; Tomorrow, when the world is free… ”

The Port Mafia executive stared straight ahead and let Dazai’s voice ease his trembles. He abandoned the useless fantasies, even if living in the present was harder. If he stayed in the daydream, he could make another mistake. It wasn’t worth it to risk the chance of never waking up again.

His finger twitched on the trigger. He’d almost pulled it when he fell.

Dazai had moved onto a new song by the time Chuuya stopped in front of a small warehouse. He hadn’t bothered to mention the name, but at least it was in the native tongue. His voice slowly lowered until it was nothing but an old sound on the wind. Chuuya inhaled shakily.

“Open the door and walk straight forward. I will follow behind,” he said. “Try anything out of line and I will kill myself.”

“You know, you don’t have to keep reminding me. The mantra gets boring after a while,” Dazai replied. Irritation laced his words, but he unlatched and pushed up the door without any unnecessary force. The screeching metal pierced through the executive’s ears, a sound familiar for a reason he couldn't put his finger on.

The cyanide pill made itself known, then, and he clamped his jaw firmly shut.

Walking through the dimly lit warehouse, Chuuya could hardly see Mori standing near the back. The boss had set up a meager stand consisting of a dark wood desk with a candelabra to illuminate the area. Once his eyes had fully adjusted, he noticed the men dressed in black surrounding the interior perimeter.

Chuuya would need a miracle to make it out alive. He glared at the back of Dazai’s head. If anyone could accomplish such a feat, it would be that bastard.

“Welcome, Dazai. It’s nice to see Double Black together again,” Mori said, lifting one hand in the air. Chuuya halted immediately, and so did Dazai.

“Mori,” Dazai greeted in return. His stance shifted to be more relaxed as if this was a game he’d been born to play. “I recognize this warehouse. It's one of the many places you forced Chuuya and I to train together. I hated every moment of it.”

Now that Dazai was saying it, Chuuya could barely glimpse the vague dark splotches on the wall behind Mori, and if he strained enough, he could spot them underneath his feet. Old blood. Despite it all, a grin threatened to spread across his lips. He didn’t have much time to reminisce on his first year in the Port Mafia, but he knew most of his memories were contained in this room.

Double Black may have formed during their first job together, but this was where they were honed into a perfect blade.

“Of course. You never stopped complaining about it,” the boss said. “But look where it has taken you now. I do say that I made you two a fine pair.”

It was rather unlucky that their blade had been fitted to Mori’s palms.

Dazai tilted his head back to Chuuya. His eyes flashed brilliantly, and Chuuya spent too long in this warehouse to not know what that meant.

Just how exactly Dazai wanted him to use Corruption was the issue. That’s what the executive had always hated most about working with the detective—if they weren’t in the thick of battle, he never knew what to expect next.

“I left the Port Mafia a long time ago and broke apart Double Black. Your craftsmanship could use a little work.” Dazai took his hands out of his pockets and absently picked at his nails. “I’m getting real tired of your voice, Mori. The sooner you tell me why you went out of your way to test your alliance with the Armed Detective Agency, the faster I can try this new method of suicide I’ve been looking at.”

Suicidal maniac. No matter how hard Chuuya had tried, he’d never been able to convince Dazai off of that shit. The agency hadn’t seemed to help, either. What a shame.

Mori laughed. It was a sick, cruel sound. Somehow, with the gun pressed to his head, Chuuya felt like he was fifteen again. “I want you to come back as an executive of the Port Mafia.”

Chuuya was fifteen. Mori told him the only way he could access the files on the experiments run on him when he was younger was to become an executive of this wretched organization.

Dazai was twenty-two. Mori told him that he wanted the youngest executive in Port Mafia history to return to his station, or else—

“At the threat of Chuuya’s life. Is that it?” His old partner scoffed. “It takes two to form Double Black.”

The executive narrowed his eyes. If Mori wanted the old Double Black back, then he would never detonate the bombs. Was he lied to so bluntly, and it just slipped right past him? Did he comply with Mori's demands like a brainless dog, thinking that his life was on the line when in reality, it was never really in danger?

Chuuya and Dazai were dealing with the Port Mafia boss. While it may be easier to fool Chuuya, the same couldn’t be applied to the prodigy of the mafia. There had to be something deeper at play. The power simmering beneath his skin was quickly shut down, violently shushing the ancient god stirring in his mind. Even though his anxiety and fear were quickly fading, he kept the gun to his head.

He couldn’t risk it. Not while Dazai was still making moves on this dark chessboard.

“I don’t recall a requirement for both the parties to be alive. It’s time you met a dear friend of mine. Kenzaburo,” Mori called, motioning with his other hand—the one with the accursed detonator—for the individual to come forward. “Please, join us.”

A man stepped out from the crowd, his stature rather unassuming and face particularly uninspired. What separated him from the rest, outside of his choice of a deep mahogany suit in comparison to the black ones surrounding him, were his eyes.

To put it simply, he didn’t have any. Bandages were wrapped around his head, but when it went over the sockets, the pure white was disrupted by a color the same shade of his outfit. Covering his eyes didn’t do anything if everyone could still tell he was missing them.

A strained hissing sound came from everywhere in the room, bouncing off of the warehouse walls until it came to a head by the man’s side. The vulture preened with its ugly, featherless head stuffed into its brown wings. It made another hissing noise, which sounded more akin to a cat than a bird.

Dazai startled backwards, landing himself close to Chuuya’s gunless side. His old partner’s face was an oil painting of consternation. The executive felt his heart drop in his chest.

He didn’t need to have a future-seeing ability to tell this wasn’t going to end well. Fear sweltered back into his body like a fire that couldn’t be doused. 

“It seems you’ve heard of him. Or at least, you’ve heard of his ability,” Mori said, stepping around his desk in perfect confidence.

Dazai panted heavily and clearly struggled to regain his own self-assured composure. Shit. “He was— he should be locked up! What have you done?”

The missing eyes and preening vulture were bad enough, but to have Dazai sputtering and stumbling over his words like a school boy with a crush was all he needed to know to feel terror. Along with that familiar spark of anger.

“It seems Chuuya here is uninformed. Dazai, would you inform him of his near future?” Mori was enjoying this far too much.

“Kenzaburo’s ability, Lavish Are the Dead, in… simple terms, allows him to control the dead and their ability if they have one.” Dazai wasn’t looking at Chuuya, but instead kept his gaze trained on the vulture. “When someone dies and his vulture consumes their flesh, he has to eat the regurgitated version of that flesh to gain control.”

“But you’re missing one part,” the man rasped. His voice was that of sharp nails on a chalkboard. If he listened to it for long enough, he was sure a migraine would kill him before Mori had the chance. Kanzaburo’s stringy black hair bobbed with the slight movement of his jaw. “The control goes to whoever consumes the regurgitated dead first.”

More grinned. “Dazai, you will be the one to necromance Chuuya.”

Oh God, he was going to throw up. From the looks of it, Dazai was no better off. He looked two seconds away from either hurling or killing the boss right where he was standing.

“You shouldn’t have released him from prison. He’s going to betray you, Mori,” Dazai’s voice quavered from a mixture of fury and fear, “You’ve doomed us all.”

“No, Dazai. I’ve saved the future of the Port Mafia.”

It was a losing battle. Chuuya couldn’t use his ability or Mori would detonate the bombs. Corruption would swallow the cyanide pill. His handgun was the most painless way to go out. He could see now why Mori ever handed him the gun in the first place. It wasn’t a matter of intimidation to get Dazai to come quickly and quietly–he’d given mercy to Chuuya.

There had never been any intention of letting him survive the day. Dazai slumped suddenly, all of his rigid tension dissipating from his body to display absolute defeat. He must’ve come to the same conclusion as Chuuya had.

Perhaps there wasn’t a way to save Chuuya, but he had no doubt his old partner would find a way to escape the Port Mafia without using Kenzaburo’s ability. It was the only solace he could carry with him to have peace in death. Although, it was hard for him to believe his soul would ever truly rest.

“I see,” the detective mumbled, his wrapped arms now hanging loosely out of his trench coat’s pockets. “If this is how it is, may I have a final word with Chuuya?”

Mori nodded, his lilted smile never fading. “Go ahead.”

Dazai turned to Chuuya, his lips downturned and eyes lacking the spark of ingenious it had before. They were replaced by a grief Chuuya had seen the day before Dazai had disappeared from Port Mafia and became completely untraceable. Except, it wasn’t really the same if one paid attention to the right details.

This warehouse had once been their whetstone. Chuuya began to understand Dazai a little better while standing over their cemented blood.

“I regret leaving you behind in the Port Mafia. I wish…” he choked behind his bandaged hand. “I wish I could’ve made different decisions. Things could’ve turned out differently for you. For us.”

The detective stepped closer, now invading Chuuya’s personal space. It was hard to keep his arm in the air due to the way it trembled from hunger, exhaustion, and worry. The hand that was at his mouth reached out and touched the executive’s cheek ever-so-gently, as though he was holding the stem of a flower covered with thorns.

“Take this as my apology, Chuuya.”

Dazai’s eyes fluttered shut and his hand wound its way through ginger hair. Chuuya froze as Dazai took his lips into his own.

It was nothing like how he’d imagined it would be. Mainly because almost as soon as it started, Dazai deepened the kiss and transferred a small object into Chuuya’s mouth, then almost immediately used his tongue to pilfer the cyanide pill from where it was tucked in his molars. It wasn’t romantic in any sense of the word.

Dazai was a real asshole for kissing Chuuya—for the first time, no less—like this. The familiar flame of anger, a fire so easily ignited by its predecessor called fear,   burst in his stomach and licked his lungs, and the god beneath his skin hummed in delight.

The hand that wasn’t in his ginger hair was gripping Chuuya’s collar, and with a crack broke the little microphone resting out of sight. Gently, as though he hadn’t violently oral-switched two pills without any help, Dazai pulled back and gave Chuuya a sinful grin.

“Go easy on the warehouse,” Dazai whispered. His eyes were alive in the way the only ever were when blood was going to be shed.

“I’m going to kill you, bring you back to life, and kill you again, bastard,” Chuuya whisper-yelled back, but Dazai was already moving. He twisted his fingers through Chuuya’s glove, pulling off the cloth and throwing the handgun at the same time. With his other hand, gone from the executive’s hair, yanked off the other glove.

“I’d like to see you try, hatrack.”

Chuuya let go of his tight control. The god awakened, and the last thing he witnessed was an explosion with Mori staring wide-eyed through the blaze.

Corruption.

Smoke clouded his vision and his ears rang something awful. He collapsed forward, blinking away the sting of tears from the smog. Instead of landing on the hard floor of the warehouse, his face collided with a body. This was all-too familiar.

“Rest. You’ve done well, Chuuya,” Dazai said softly, his digits carding through Chuuya’s hair. His scalp tingled with his touch.

His scalp . “Where’s my hat?” He mumbled against Dazai’s chest.

The detective sighed. “You’re more worried about that tacky thing than whether or not Mori lived through your rampage.”

“It’s not tacky. You’re the tacky one,” he said, weakly pushing himself off of Dazai’s chest. At first, all he could think was that he was already missing the feeling of his hands in his hair. Then he looked up, saw the bloody gash that extended from the top of his forehead and over his nose—narrowly missing his right eye—and the gloves and hat neatly set on the ground next to them.

Chuuya narrowed his eyes and attempted to kick Dazai’s knee in. The detective sidestepped, blood dripping into his innocent smile.

“How long did you know?” Chuuya yelled while swiping up his missing articles of clothing. “Stupid bastard, embarrassing and kissing me like that in front of the boss!”

“I had an idea of what was going to transpire a few days ago when Mori broke that ability user out of a high-security gifted prison unit,” Dazai rubbed at his new wound with his bandaged arm, staining its pristine color. “I knew about the cyanide and explosives when the clerk told me you were requesting for me under the threat of suicide. Each weapon checks out for the other, and your gait confirmed that for me when we walked together. I am curious though; how did Mori manage to force your hand?”

“Everytime you ask me a stupid question like that, a dog dies. I know you already figured it out, ” the executive said, annoyed. With his hat and gloves safely returned to his person, Chuuya felt his control tighten over both the old god and his own thoughts. 

Dazai shrugged, moving towards the entrance they came from. Now that the smoke was clearing, Chuuya could see the dead mafia members riddling the scene. Neither Mori nor the necromancer were amongst the observable casualties. “It would’ve sounded better coming from your lips,” he responded dejectedly. “Let me see— you were unknowingly drugged yesterday during a Port Mafia executive meeting. When you woke up this morning, the bombs and pill were tucked into their respective places. Mori was by your side with the detonator, and you were given the ultimatum to bring me to the warehouse or face certain death.”

Turned out that ‘or face certain death’ had really been ‘and face certain death.’ Chuuya knew, as soon as Dazai kissed him, that Dazai had known all of the details from the motion and weight detector attached to the microphone on his collar to the meeting point in the warehouse.

“I wish whoever gave you that wound had finished the damn job,” Chuuya muttered. He kicked out again while Dazai was reopening the metal door, but it was to no avail. “Would’ve done me a great favor.”

“Who knew vultures were such good fighters?” Dazai chuckled, but it contained none of the mirth that was supposed to accompany it. “Mori and Kenzaburo got away. Our trouble has only just begun.”

The path of a Port Mafia member consisted of only blood and human entrails. Chuuya was not unaccustomed to gruesome death in a variety of inhumane ways. But there was something particular about Kenzaburo’s ability that made him want to empty out his stomach’s contents until there was nothing left but acid. 

Cannibalism and necromancy. What a pain in the ass.

“How did you do it?”

Dazai looked at him curiously, playing the fool’s card. The glare Chuuya returned to him could’ve cut diamond if it were a blade. The detective put his hands in the air in mock surrender. “I was careful, but the reality of the matter was that Mori didn’t put all of his efforts into finding and silencing me.”

“He was afraid of what you would do. One bastard scared of another,” Chuuya supplied. If there hadn’t been a god in his veins, Chuuya probably would’ve been scared of Dazai, too. Perhaps not during the first team-up, but definitely afterwards, when the Sheep and GSS were manipulated into casting out Chuuya by that little bastard. 

“Yes, and no. It was in his best interest to let me go at the time.” The demon prodigy’s voice was clipped. It was a change in tone that nobody but Chuuya could hear. “Your ability will make it easier for you, but you won’t know a single moment of rest until you get your ass out of Yokohama or they decide it isn’t worth chasing you anymore. The Armed Detective Agency won’t be a haven for you, either.”

“I never implied—”

“You wouldn’t pass the entrance exam.” Dazai said, eyes glinting in the sunlight cast over the buildings of the city. Chuuya almost retaliated that yes, he could pass any exam he so wished, shitty mackerel, if it weren’t for what he tacked on: “Not yet, anyway.”

Smoke followed them well out of the warehouse. They were headed the exact same way they came from. The Armed Detective Agency.

Chuuya had no interest in saving people like they did in their organization. At one point in time, Dazai had been the exact same way. Then something changed for him. He disappeared off the face of the Earth for two years, showed up as a new member of the Armed Detective Agency, and began helping innocent people.

“I have no place in the Port Mafia anymore, but that doesn’t mean I wanted to go running with my tail tucked in my legs to your sorry lot,” Chuuya bit back. But there was a request in his words. His pride would never allow him to say it directly, but he needed Dazai’s help if he wanted to leave the Port Mafia as easily as possible.

From the expression on Dazai’s face, it already looked like he had a plan. Chuuya had no doubt the next year or two of his life was going to consist of one migraine to the next.

“How about this: we stop to eat at the café on the bottom floor of the agency’s building, you pay for the meal and my currently existing tab, and I’ll help you retrieve your belongings from the Port Mafia before they burn it all. Deal?”

Chuuya could already feel the first migraine of his new life on the run begin to form. “You make me sick, old snake. ”

But Chuuya was starving. Not only had he not eaten all day, his Corruption form had consumed any last morsel his body had been saving from the other night’s dinner. Chuuya also happened to have eaten at that café before, and he knew just how good their food and coffee were. He didn’t argue against the deal Dazai had proposed.

And if he broke one of Dazai’s toes when he stomped on it after seeing the tab he’d built up in said café, well, it was nobody’s business. Neither was the kiss that still lingered in his mind after he’d found sanctuary in an abandoned warehouse just outside of the city’s limits, nor the personal belongings he’d stored around numerous other safehouses in Yokohama.

Whether or not he dreamt of old war songs sung by an old friend—someone that Chuuya wished was more—wasn’t anyone’s business, either.

[bluejaysandblackbats]

Catch and Release

Fandom: DC Comics, Batfam

Summary: AU where Jason doesn't die in the explosion and he and Tim end up attending the same high school months later.

Chapters: 1/?

Characters: Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Tim Drake, Dick Grayson, Barbara Gordon, Sebastian Ives, Jack Drake, Janet Drake

Relationships: TBA

Additional Tags: Jason Todd Lives, Jason Todd-centric, POV Jason Todd, POV First Person, Tim Drake Has Issues, Tim Drake is Not Robin, Jason Todd is Not Robin (Anymore), Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Alfred Pennyworth is the Best, Alfred Pennyworth Knows, Stalker Tim Drake, Jason Todd Has Chronic Pain, Jason Todd Has PTSD, Angst with a Happy Ending, Unlikely Friends, Injury Recovery, Emotional Baggage, Rage, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Communicating

Chapter One: Counting Backward

"Good," Bruce replied.

Despite Alfred begging me to use the stairlift, I came down the stairs on foot. It was a dumb idea, but I was tired of feeling broken. My leg still hadn't healed. Mostly everything else had. I wondered if Bruce would urge me to stay home longer and focus on my recovery. I know he meant well, but I was tired of wasting away in the manor. I felt like I was a living memorial of the Jason he lost in the explosion. I haunted the place every moment I was there. Even my laugh was a painful reminder of what was.

A wave of pain shot up my spine and into my lungs, and I missed a step. I wasn't as quick on my feet as I used to be, but Alfred managed to catch me before I could falter. That bothered me. I didn't want anyone helping me, but my body was so broken it couldn't be avoided. I wanted to return to how I was, but honestly, I wasn't even halfway there. I mumbled a word of gratitude to Alfred, and he escorted me down the few remaining steps against my will.

My crutches leaned against the baluster. I remember when it felt like a victory. It meant I could walk. After a few months on them, it felt more like a loss. I couldn't rush recovery, so I was stuck. I bitterly pushed forward and went to the kitchen to make myself breakfast. Bruce sat at the counter, sipping his coffee. Despite his silence, I knew what his presence meant. "I'm going to school today," I announced. Bruce nodded. "I don't want you checking in on me today."

"Jason, I'm not trying to baby you... I'm just worried that your return to public school is premature," Bruce replied. He set his coffee aside and looked at me, studying me with his eyes. "Healing takes time."

"I can only heal at home for so long," I muttered as I opened the fridge. Bruce didn't help me, as a rule. I didn't want him to. I poured myself a glass of milk, and Alfred started making breakfast. I knew it was the only way Alfred would let me go, so I ate. I was stubborn but not half as stubborn as Alfred. "Thanks for breakfast, Alfred."

He nodded and set my backpack and lunch on an empty chair. Bruce seemed displeased with all of it. Ever since I came home from the hospital, he'd examined my every move, documenting my every nightmare, every misstep. It felt like he was judging me, but I knew better. Bruce was frightened for me. "At least let me take you to school... It'll help me breathe easier if I can see you off," Bruce requested. I nodded.

I didn't feel like arguing with him about small things like drop off and pick up. I stood up and put on my backpack before grabbing my crutches. Bruce looked up, and before he could ask me, I nodded. "I was in an accident. I don't wanna talk about it... The fewer details I use, the better," I whispered.

I followed him to the garage and sat in the front seat. The drive was unbearably long and silent. Neither of us had anything to say that the other wanted to hear. I watched as kids poured into the gates, and I hesitated. "Second thoughts?" Bruce asked.

"No," I stubbornly answered as I got out of the car. I took a breath and braced for an imaginary threat. I hopped up the steps and went through the double doors. I walked towards the metal detector, and the security guard shook his head. I thought it was irresponsible for him to let me through, but that wasn't my business anymore. I went to the front office and knocked on the attendance door. The office attendant smiled and told me she'd help me in a moment. I sat down and waited for her to ask for me.

"You can come up now," she welcomed me. I told her my name, and she gave me my class schedule. "If you'd like-." I smiled and shook my head.

"I was enrolled here last year... I'll manage, but thank you," I interrupted as politely as possible.

My first class was halfway across the building, so I went there right after I left the office. The door was locked, so I stood there, waiting for the teacher to show up. That's when I noticed him. A wild-eyed kid with no backpack. He only had a notepad and pen. If I didn't know better, I would've mistaken him for an undercover cop. I caught him staring at me and immediately took offense, but I wasn't dumb enough to pick a fight on my first day. Besides, he looked out the window as soon as he noticed I was staring back. I could tell he was sheltered by the way he looked at people. Most people who grew up in the rougher parts of Gotham would've known better. Had he met me last year, he might've gotten a friendlier reaction from me. I might've even overlooked him, but something about him didn't feel right.

The bell rang, and the teacher came to unlock the classroom. "Nice to see you again, Jason," she greeted. I tried to grasp for a name, but I couldn't remember her. I couldn't remember a lot of things after the accident.

"It's nice to see you too," I smiled. It was better to fake it and glance at my class schedule later than to explain why I suddenly couldn't remember the name of a teacher who obviously noticed my absence. I was bitter, but I wouldn't be rude to innocent people.

She logged into the computer and pulled up the seating chart. I sat by the door where I was placed and watched as the creepy kid strolled in. He sat by the window, and I looked for his name on the roster. Tim Drake. I wrote it down in my notebook and caught him staring at me again. A few other kids came in. One of which knocked my crutches over without picking them up. I picked them up and sighed. I'd have to deal with that for another month, at least.

Then there'd be more physical therapy and exams... And more of Bruce's pained glances when I missed a step or took a sharp breath. I knew he felt guilty for not being there. I did my fair share of blaming him in the earlier days of my recovery. I wasn't proud of what I said but never apologized, especially after he took Robin from me. It was the only way I could cope. Bitterness protected me from the harsh realities of the accident. I felt like I was experiencing the five stages of grief backward like I was mourning the death I should've had.

The second bell rang, and the rest of the class rushed in, some narrowly avoiding the third and final late bell. Eventually, wandering eyes started to recognize my face beneath the scarring. That wasn't the thing that bothered me, though. It was the whispering that followed the stares. I could make out some of it, but my hearing wasn't as good as before.

"I thought he died."

"I heard he got shot in the face."

"No, Professor Pyg turned him into one of those Frankenstein things, and he spent the summer in Arkham."

I swallowed it because I had to, but I could hardly conceal my growing rage. "Jason," our teacher whispered. I looked up at her. "Are you alright?"

I smiled and nodded even though every lethal and violent scenario imaginable flashed through my mind. I only had a few more hours of self-inflicted mental and emotional torture, and then I could drive home in agonizing silence. It would've gone great had he not pushed me.

[hero-of-courage]

Here are some short writings from Linked Galaxy!

Aren't you a little short for a stormtrooper?

Warriors snickered unashamedly as Four pulled a stormtrooper helmet over his head. The two of them and Legend had snuck aboard an imperial cruiser and were in need of disguises. The captain decided to tease the boy as he adjusted the plastoid armor on his shoulder.

"You've definitely gotta be the shortest stormtrooper I've ever seen." The man chuckled.

Four yanked the helmet off and leveled him with a glare.

He muttered bitterly, "Hand me that cadet helmet."

Legend slid in next to Warriors in full armor. "Honestly, he should really be posing as a captured Ewok or Jawa instead."

Four roughly pulled the cadet helmet over his head and growled in a filtered voice, "Shut up or I'll stun you."

Legend knocked on the top of Four's helmet with a daring smirk. "Try it. We'll see how this op goes when you're dragging my limp body around."

The captain cut in with a mock serious tone, "Don't do it, Four. It won't go over well."

Four scowled underneath the helmet. "Why did I have to be assigned this mission with you two?"

Where's your padawan?

Time peeked over the crate carefully. Standing at attention, in front of their escape was an outrageous amount of troopers. He sighed then turned to address the two boys next to him.

"Now, this is a tight situation. We are out numbered by a lot and our chances of getting out of this hanger with guns blazing is out of the question." He shared a glance with his former apprentice. "I think it best to employ stealth-"

Time glanced around. "Twilight, where's your padawan?"

The sound of an explosion and screaming bucket-heads rang out behind him. "That's him isn't it?"

Twilight rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Yeah..."

Time pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "I'm going to have a word with both of you later. Let's get moving before Wild gets himself killed."

Point and Shoot

Legend fired his blaster at an approaching trooper and swiped his gun. After examining it briefly, he tossed it to his companion.

Hyrule fumbled to catch the weapon as Legend spoke, "There. Use that."

Hyrule turned the blaster over in his hands, looking for the grip. "I have never used a blaster before."

Legend stared at the younger boy blankly for a moment before continuing his march down the hallway. "What am I going to do with you, kid? It's simple. Point and shoot."

She's a good speeder!

"Rusl can drop us off at the spaceport and then bring Epona back home so we don't have to worry about leaving her," Twilight summarized his plan for leaving Ordon.

Time raised a brow. "You named your speeder?"

"She's a good speeder!" Twilight defended himself with his arms crossed over his chest.

The exasperated master shook his head. "I'm not going to argue about this."

Please tell me we won't...

"Please tell me we won't have me launched full speed in an escape pod into an imperial space station?" Wind huffed after speaking what seemed to be utter nonsense in a down right serious tone.

"I'm sorry?" Sky leaned forward to glance at the boy in concern and confusion. "We uh won't do that?

Wild grinned like a mad man. "Yes. Yes we will."

Four is a droid?

"Who needs a droid when you have Four to fix things? Am I right?" Wind elbowed Warriors next to him.

Legend chuckled. "Do you think he can make it past the detectors in a cantina?"

"Probably not," Wild jumped in. "Not with all that scrap metal he carries around with him."

Four's eye twitched and he gripped the wrench in his hand. "I am so close to strangling all of you."

Warriors didn't bother to hide his amusement. "He's got the attitude for it too."

"Say goodbye to your heaters. Don't come to me to fix it when you're all freezing in your rooms tonight."

I'm a fighter pilot!

Sky stumbled into the captain's seat of a freighter and scanned over the controls frantically.

"How does this thing work?" He yelled towards the back of the ship.

Legend stopped his decent down the ladder in shock. "I thought you were the best pilot!"

"I'm a fighter pilot!" Sky shot back in frustration. "I've never seen a ship like this before!"

Legend blinked at him in disbelief. "This is a simple freighter! How have you not seen one?"

"My people never traded with outsiders!" Sky explained as he guessed at the switches and successfully started the engines. "The biggest ship we have besides our loftwing fighters is the Skycarrier itself!"

"Blast it all!" Legend swore as he mentally declared this conversation a lost cause. He let himself drop into the lower turret position. "Just figure it out! I'm manning the guns!"

How'd you get so skilled with a lightsaber?

"How'd you get so skilled with a lightsaber?" Twilight asked as he and Sky boarded their home ship.

Sky pondered a moment. "I was trained by the ghosts of ancient Jedi."

Time, who happened to hear them as they entered, spilled his caff in surprise.

"Is that right?" Twilight grinned.

Sky nodded. "I think facing off against two supposed long dead Sith Lords was a big part of it."

The captain, who had walked past them at that moment, turned to face the eldest in the corner.

"Did he just say what I thought he said?" Warriors spoke in a panicked tone.

Time didn't reply as he cleaned up his spilled drink.

[comfortmechsforverystablepeople]

You are the prettiest

@yourlocalmechanism-dr-carmilla

Jonny

A bit confused honestly. Sure, he said that your planet produce very ugly people, but he thought it was evident that wasn't your case! You are such a cutie, do you really think you are not pretty? You are way better than the average. You don't believe him? He will ask the audience during the next show if you don't stop him. Would probably shoot anyone saying something mean because he is asking the truth.

Nastya

Beauty is a survival instinct use in reproduction to find the best mate possible, nothing to worry about. But if you are that much concerned... she can give you her personnal and subjective opinion: you are as pretty as a shiny bolt keeping two panels together. There. Now stop being worry, it makes her anxious when you worry.

Ashes

Do you want to be their trophy partner next time they play god/crime boss/president? Because you will fit the role perfectly. Firstly, because you are very pretty to their eyes so everyone around will know that. Secondly, because someone pretty is not just a nice face. Mean people are ugly no matter what. Is this an excuse to spoil you with nice clothes, spa days, and jewels to make you feel better in your skin? Maybe.

Ivy

Beauty is a societal construction which evolves through time and civilizations. Get ready for a full presentation on the different types of beauty between planets, species, and cultures! But if she had to give you her opinion, she would say that beauty criterias don't make much sense since it's objective. You are pretty because you are yourself, not because you match a long list of random criterias which would change anyway.

Brian

What are you talking about? Do you think Brian is not pretty? Or the other mechs are not pretty? He thinks they are very much pretty, just like you are! They are not common, that doesn't make them ugly. And even if you think you are not unique (which is untrue), that still doesn't make you ugly. But that makes you pretty! He would end the conversation with a little smooch on your nose.

Toy Soldier

Mh? You don't find yourself pretty and more average than anything else? That's absurde! Toy Soldier will love your face and whole body becasue you are one of its favourite persons! And... can't you pretend to be pretty until you are? That's how it does everything! It's even easier for you because you are pretty in anything! Maybe it would stylize your hair for you, it loves stylizing hair!

Tim

Belive the sexiest and prettiest - shut up Jonny - mech: you are gorgeous. As beautiful as a moon explosion. As pretty as the stars in the cosmos. As gorgeous as an octokitten sneaking in a cupboard to steak snacks... You get the idea.

Raphaella

Nope. You are wrong. You see this big metal box? Well it's not. It's a detector of cuties. And it says you are the biggest cutie around! Here, have a gold star sticker, because you deserve it. If you don't think you are cute, well she does. And she is a very serious scientist so whatever she says is fact and truth!

Marius

Oh trust him! After psychoanalyzed so many olympians, he found this the truth: you can't be ugly. You are just not your type. Everyone has preferences and types, which means a lot of people think you are their type! He sure does! Platonically, but still, you are very cute. So, don't put yourself down. He loves having work to do, but your well-being is more important.

Aurora

Aurora will start a new hobby. It's photography and scrapbooking! She would take pictures of everyone in secret to show them during movie nights as a surprise. Starngely, all of yours are perfect and not goofy like some of others. No reason at all. And if you ask, it's because you are perfect and impossible to have a bad picture of you.

Scuzz

Scuzz isn't much of a talker, but they are a great observer. They will sense your insecurities. They would disagree, but also understand the feeling. They themselves don't feel that pretty, usually granting Carmilla the title of the pretty one of their duo. But they disagree with it. They will leave little accesorries , clothes, jewels, and makeup in your room. This is what help them to feel a bit better.

Carmilla

That wouldn't do! At all! Feeling not really pretty can lead for so much more... And Carmilla has the habit to jump to the worst possibility. Here, she will think you experience body dysmorphia. Another old friend. She will do anything to make you more comfortable, mostly with compliments and acknoledgement.

In general

Get ready to be treated like the most precious being on board, because for them you are! They would team up to pamper, spoil, and make sure you know how pretty you are!

[rabbitcruiser]

K-9 Veterans Day

Joseph White, a retired military working dog trainer, came up with the idea for K-9 Veterans Day. By his efforts, his home state of Florida recognized the day in 2009. Other states have since recognized it as well, although it has not been recognized on the national level. The day is dedicated not only to K-9 veterans of the military, but also to customs dogs, search and rescue dogs, police dogs, border patrol dogs, and secret service dogs. March 13 is the date of the holiday because the K-9 Corps was created on March 13, 1942. The Quartermaster Corps of the Army began training dogs on that date, making it the moment when dogs officially became part of the U.S. Armed Forces.

Three months before Pearl Harbor, U.S. Army Sgt. Robert H. Pearce started a small K-9 command program at Fort MacArthur in San Pedro, Los Angeles. He brought Hollywood dog trainer Carl Spitz on board. (Spitz was known for owning and training a Cairn Terrier named Terry, who was best known for playing the role of Toto in The Wizard of Oz.) In January of 1942, they began asking people in Los Angeles to bring their dogs to Pershing Square to be used in the war effort. Over 1,000 dogs were brought, including Rudy Vallee’s Doberman Pinscher, King, and Mary Pickford’s German Shepherd, Silver. The program was known as Dogs for Defense. These dogs would go on to be used by the K-9 Corps.

Originally, thirty breeds of dogs were accepted by the K-9 Corps, but this was narrowed down to seven: German Shepherds, Siberian Huskies, collies, Belgian Sheepdogs, Doberman Pinschers, Eskimo dogs, and Malamutes. New dogs were first given obedience training. They were then given additional training to be a scout or patrol, messenger, sentry, or mine detector. Within eight to twelve weeks they completed their training. The original idea was to have 200 dogs in the K-9 Corps, but by the end of World War II, the number had ballooned to more than 10,400. Most of the dogs were family pets.

Although dogs were first formally trained for military service during World War II, they have been used in war since antiquity. More recently, some were used informally during the Civil War. During World War I, the German, British, and Belgian armies used them to pull carriages and wagons loaded with guns and supplies, to pull telephone lines, to carry messages, and to comfort those who had been injured. About 7,000 dogs were used in World War I, but not only a few of these were from the United States.

As of the late 2010s, over 2,500 dogs actively serve in the military, and about 700 are deployed overseas. Military dogs sniff out bombs and weapons, search and patrol, perform guard duty, and serve as companions to those who suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder and traumatic brain injury. Military dogs are usually German Shepherds, Belgian Malinois, or Labrador Retrievers. Dogs in the military now can receive medals and awards, and they often have retirement and memorial services held for them. In law enforcement, dogs began being used more in the 1970s. These dogs patrol, perform search and rescue missions, and detect drugs, explosives, cadavers, and arson accelerants. Dogs in both military and law enforcement roles, as well as dogs in other similar official roles, are all honored today.

How to Observe

Here are some ideas on how to celebrate the day:

If you have, work with, or train a military dog, law enforcement dog, or dog in a similar role, make the day extra special for them.

Contact your representatives and encourage them to support a K-9 Veterans Day on the state or national level.

Support K-9 Courage, a group that provides healthcare assistance to retired police and military dogs, and gives support to service dogs who assist veterans with post-traumatic stress and traumatic brain injury. You could help raise funds or have your own dog participate in “Dogs Salute Dogs.”

Learn about notable dogs who have served in the military, such as Sgt. Stubby, Chips, Lex, and Cairo.

Visit a memorial dedicated to dogs, such as the War Dog Memorial at the March Field Air Museum in Riverside, California; the War Dog Memorial in Hartsdale Pet Cemetery in Hartsdale, New York; the National War Dog Cemetery and War Dog Memorial at Naval Base Guam; The Pennsylvania War Dog Memorial; or the Military Working Dog Teams National Monument in San Antonio, Texas.

Visit Sgt. Stubby, who is stuffed and on display, and covered with a blanket that holds his medals, in an exhibit titled “The Price of Freedom: Americans at War” at the National Museum of American History.

Watch a movie or documentary about military or police dogs such as Max, Sgt. Stubby: An American Hero, War Dog: A Soldier’s Best Friend, Megan Leavey, or War Dogs: America’s Forgotten Heroes.

Source

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

Neural network deciphers gravitational waves from merging neutron stars in a second

Binary neutron star mergers occur millions of light-years away from Earth. Interpreting the gravitational waves they produce presents a major challenge for traditional data-analysis methods. These signals correspond to minutes of data from current detectors and potentially hours to days of data from future observatories. Analyzing such massive data sets is computationally expensive and time-consuming.

An international team of scientists has developed a machine learning algorithm, called DINGO-BNS (Deep INference for Gravitational-wave Observations from Binary Neutron Stars) that saves valuable time in interpreting gravitational waves emitted by binary neutron star mergers.

They trained a neural network to fully characterize systems of merging neutron stars in about a second, compared to about an hour for the fastest traditional methods. Their results were published in Nature under the title "Real-time inference for binary neutron star mergers using machine learning."

Why is real-time computation important?

Neutron star mergers emit visible light (in the subsequent kilonova explosion) and other electromagnetic radiation in addition to gravitational waves.

"Rapid and accurate analysis of the gravitational-wave data is crucial to localize the source and point telescopes in the right direction as quickly as possible to observe all the accompanying signals," says the first author of the publication, Maximilian Dax, who is a Ph.D. student in the Empirical Inference Department at the Max Planck Institute for Intelligent Systems (MPI-IS), at ETH Zurich and at the ELLIS Institute Tübingen.

The real-time method could set a new standard for data analysis of neutron star mergers, giving the broader astronomy community more time to point their telescopes toward the merging neutron stars as soon as the large detectors of the LIGO-Virgo-KAGRA (LVK) collaboration identify them.

"Current rapid analysis algorithms used by the LVK make approximations that sacrifice accuracy. Our new study addresses these shortcomings," says Jonathan Gair, a group leader in the Astrophysical and Cosmological Relativity Department at the Max Planck Institute for Gravitational Physics in the Potsdam Science Park.

Indeed, the machine learning framework fully characterizes the neutron star merger (e.g., its masses, spins, and location) in just one second without making such approximations. This allows, among other things, to quickly determine the sky position 30% more precisely. Because it works so quickly and accurately, the neural network can provide critical information for joint observations of gravitational-wave detectors and other telescopes.

It can help to search for the light and other electromagnetic signals produced by the merger and to make the best possible use of the expensive telescope observing time.

Catching a neutron star merger in the act

"Gravitational wave analysis is particularly challenging for binary neutron stars, so for DINGO-BNS, we had to develop various technical innovations. This includes, for example, a method for event-adaptive data compression," says Stephen Green, UKRI Future Leaders Fellow at the University of Nottingham.

Bernhard Schölkopf, Director of the Empirical Inference Department at MPI-IS and at the ELLIS Institute Tübingen adds, "Our study showcases the effectiveness of combining modern machine learning methods with physical domain knowledge."

DINGO-BNS could one day help to observe electromagnetic signals before and at the time of the collision of the two neutron stars.

"Such early multi-messenger observations could provide new insights into the merger process and the subsequent kilonova, which are still mysterious," says Alessandra Buonanno, Director of the Astrophysical and Cosmological Relativity Department at the Max Planck Institute for Gravitational Physics.

IMAGE: Artist impression of a binary neutron star merger, emitting gravitational waves and electromagnetic radiation. Detection and analysis of these signals can provide profound insights into the underlying processes. Credit: MPI-IS / A. Posada

[nether-twins]

Oh yes… something was coming. The doctor has spent the better part of 45 minutes planning it all. But now, his ultimate revenge for all the suffering Vendra had put him through with her incessant pranks was about to come to fruition!! Luckily for him, Vendra had once lead him straight to that junkyard the Progs now called a home—and the traps were all set.

Throughout random parts of the junkyard, many motion detectors had been carefully placed; so that when one was triggered by someone so much as walking by, an explosion of scrap and trash would burst out at them from the nearby junkpiles.

It must had taken some kind of miracle for his snickers and giggles to not have been detected! Especially as he placed the neon green card right at the end of the dozens of trap's path; with a note on it that just read: "I HOPE YOU ENJOYED YOUR TRICK!! YOU EARNED IT!!!!! - N. P.S. YOU SUCK!!!", complete with a little badly drawn figure of himself holding up both middle fingers.

Ah, another day, another lovely trip to the junkyard. Normal people would find this activity... odd, but not the Prog twins. For them it was normal. And the reason why? Because they always went straight to the junkyard whenever they needed something for their little business, and they often ended up finding some spare parts for various weapons and/or gadgets that were still in pretty good condition despite being all dirty, smelly and sometimes sticky. Sure, it was smelly and disgusting, but at least they didn't have to pay for anything. They could use their bolts for other things they may need in their lives.

However, for this day, Vendra decided to go in and start the search on her own while her brother answered a call from their parole officer. It was something that had to be done by order of the law at least once a day, so nothing unusual there. Also, the man would often end up calling her brother since he knew how difficult it could be to get in contact with the smaller Nether sometimes. Vendra had a habit of getting, um, literally stuck in her work and ignoring everything that was going on around her. So, yeah, everything was normal there, too. However, what would happen after the smaller Nether being disappeared into the junkyard would be... something.

Hell, Neftin had barely managed to get a word in before he heard something he never thought he would hear coming from his sister again; a distressed scream. That and... something he wasn't sure what exactly it was. Explosions maybe? Either way, the giant ran right into the junkyard in a panic after he heard Vendra, completely ignoring the now very confused and concerned voice coming from the nav-unit he still held in his hand.

Neftin wasn't sure what he would see when he entered the junkyard but nothing, and then he meant absolutely NOTHING, could have prepared him for the mess he saw once he caught sight of his sister. Vendra- his beloved sister who always tried her best to stay clean and not get too dirty - was covered from head to toe in trash. TRASH! Not just that, but she was also holding some weird card in her hands and shaking from what he could tell was pure rage.

"Oh, that's- um... you okay there, sis...?" Although he was obviously concerned, Neftin knew better than to approach his sister. It would not be safe for him to do that while she was THIS ANGRY! Sure, he cared about her, but he was no about to put his life in danger. But he also didn't want to leave his sister so, although a part of him wanted to run away for the hills, he stood frozen in place and watched carefully as his sister began to rip the card into pieces.

Vendra was so far beyond angry from this. The nerve! The absolutely nerve of that robot to do this! Thinking he could best her- HER?! VENDRA PROG?!!? The former space witch of Polaris. Why only one person was allowed to play tricks here and that was her, and no one else but HER! Nefarious would pay dearly for this. She would get her revenge, one way or another! THIS WASN'T THE END!

"NEFARIOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUS!!!"

It probably was his mind playing tricks on him, but Neftin swore he could hear thunder going off somewhere in the distance after his sister yelled at the top of her lungs.

"Uh oh..."

[excitementshewrote]

[maridiayachtclub]

I want you to know that i came up with blasto while I was inline with my gf for the tsa. I kept going on about how the TSA hated him because he would keep juggling grenades over the metal detectors so they could never get him. His explosives were too unpredictable, he humself too nimble on his unicycle of combustable whimsy. This was around so many other people. I just would not shut the fuck up about blasto the grenade juggling unicycle clown. In the airport.

anyways as far as im concerned youre his best friend now

thank you! both for the expanded Blasto lore, and for entrusting me with his friendship. i can't wait to tell everybody about my new best friend, Blasto the Grenade-Juggling Unicycle Clown, and his frolicsome disregard for security measures, especially when i am someplace kind of dull and in need of a lively anecdote... like some kind of queue through a security screening or something

[autisticsupervillain]

FTF: Boss Battle

The show where we put a team of characters up against one much stronger or haxier character.

This Week's Fighters....

Gordon Freeman vs The RED Team!

Conditions:

RED Team restricted to stock. Gordon has Full Arsenal.

Scenario:

G-Man wants Gordon to steal some Australium from The Administrator. RED Team tries to stop him.

BOSS: Gordon Freeman

Many shooter heroes have gone up against impossible odds. Conquered incomprehensible threats from beyond the stars and bested physical gods. And yet, the greatest of all these heroes isn't an uber space marine or a super masculine macho man. No, Gordon Freeman is simply an ordinary scientist with a crowbar.

Gordon Freeman was once a diligent theoretical physicist working at the top secret lab known as Black Mesa. However, one of Gordon's experiments accidentally punched a hole into another universe, causing an alien invasion. Gordon is forced to fight for his life and fend off the invaders, making him the savior off Earth. Unfortunately, this puts him on the G-Man's radar, forcing him to serve the mysterious being and his employers for the rest of his days... until Half-Life 3 comes out... assuming it will.

Luckily, G-Man mostly seems to want Gordon to kick alien ass and Freeman's got plenty of tools for the job. For starters, he never goes into battle with his trusty HEV suit. The Hazardous EnVironment Suit comes with a whole bunch of nifty features, boosting his otherwise normal human stats to superhuman levels. With it, he's durable enough to tank military air strikes with 134 megajoules of force behind them and survive hits from lasers that do this to solid steel walls.

Source:

Moreover, most of Gordon's stronger weapons can kill Alien Grunts, who are strong enough to completely obliterate steel gates. By using Gordon as a measuring stick to estimate the size and thickness of the wall, it can be determined that it would over half a ton of tnt to generate this kind of explosion, roughly 0.723 tons of tnt to be precise.

Source:

The suit also has a built in radiation detector and an ai voice that informs him of any grievous injuries. Upon sustaining an injury, he's pumped full of painkillers potent enough to let him shrug off bullet wounds. Similarly, the suit's antitoxins are strong enough to reverse the effects of headcrab poison, which leaves him on the brink of death with just a touch, in seconds. Hell, he can even tank hits from antimatter weapons, endure extreme heat and cold, endure dangerous acids, and shrug off high voltage electricity. Even morso, the suit can be upgraded, allowing him to leap several Kilometers when using the long jump module.

He also carries a large array of guns. While Gordon has the typical shotgun, AK, and RPG ensemble you would expect from a shooter protagonist, he also has some unique guns. He carries two crossbows, one shoots tranquilizer darts while the other shoots bars of molten metal. He carries the Gluon Gun, which shoots unstable Gluon particles so powerful that they make people explode, the Tau canon, which shoots Tau particles, or molecular particles that make up matter on the Quantum Level, and the hive hand, which shoots alien bugs at people like a wasp machine gun. His Pulse Rifle shoots energy projectiles and, when charged up, shoots a ball of antimatter that bounces around everywhere and erases everyone it touches on contact. His most iconic gun, however, is the gravity gun, which manipulates gravity to allow him to throw anyone and anything that gets in his grasp around like a ragdoll, even erasing people with its antimatter energy should he grab them with it thanks to a handy upgrade the Combine gave it. And that's not even the only gun in Gordon's arsenal that can flat delete you, as the Gluon Gun can destabilize the Gluon Particles of its target and rip them apart on the subatomic level.

With these powerful weapons, Gordon has fought off impossible odds with ease. He stopped an alien invasion within the span of a week at most and turned the tide of a hopelessly one sided war against a galactic empire in the span of two days. He curb stomped his way through the US Military, is fast enough to react to and dodge rockets, and has even impressed the reality warping G-Man with his remarkable abilities.

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Having said that, he has a few weaknesses. For one thing, his suit's durability relies on its battery, so he'll frequently have to recharge it if he gets hit too often. He also doesn't wear a helmet, which leaves his squishy human head exposed for his superhuman enemies to crush.

Despite that though, Gordon Freeman is universally beloved as the savior of mankind and is dreaded even by godlike, reality warping aliens. That says a lot about a man who used to just be a pimply scientist. The right man in the wrong place can achieve just about anything.

Team: RED Team

It began in 1850. Wealthy English industrialist Zepheniah Mann, owner of Mann Co, was convinced by his greedy, idiotic sons to purchase land in the US to expand the company. Zepheniah agreed, only to discover that the lands he purchased were useless dust bowls and lifeless gravel pits. Not only that, but he'd contracted many horrific diseases during his trip to the states that quickly ate up his health. Dying bitter at his incompetent sons, Zepheniah would write his last will on his rotting skin, splitting the worthless lands between Redmond and Blutarch to ensure that they would fight over it for the rest of their lives.

Desperate to get the other's half of the fortune, the Brothers Mann would turn their halves of the company into Reliable Excavation Demolition (RED) and Builders League United (BLU) respectively, using them as fronts to wage eternal war on each other. In their pointless bid to get this worthless land full of fuck all to themselves, the brothers would hire nine of the greatest mercenaries in the world to fight for them. The exact same mercenaries. For both of them. Don't think about it.

They would cycle through numerous teams over the years, until the 1960s where we'd meet the most iconic ensemble of the RED Team. The Team that would come to be known as Team Fortress!

The Scout is fast talking brawler from Boston he thinks he's hot shit and thinks he's God's gift to women. Because he is. Canonically. God told him so. He's easily the fastest person on his team, more than quick enough to outrun trains and flat out dodge rockets. And while he's certainly not book smart by any definition, he's a good enough scrapper to kill a Heavy in one on one melee combat. If he can't bust you up with his bat, then the wide spread of his shotgun would likely shred you to pieces, while his pistol finishes you off. He's swift enough to somehow double jump, durable enough to drink radioactive soda, and strong enough to blow you out of the park with his taunt kill. Hell, he's durable enough to survive three of Soldier's rockets blowing up in his face simultaneously, despite being heavily injured, tanking a combined energy equivalent to 0.007 tons of TNT!

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The Soldier, otherwise known as Jane Doe, is batshit crazy patriotism personified. He wanted so badly to fight in World War 2 that he went on a one man crusade against Germany for years before learning that the war ended in 1949. He's mad enough to wrestle bears while covered in honey and crazy enough to try to fly by shooting rockets directly at his feet. Which makes it sll the more absurd when it actually works. A madman with a rocket launcher is one thing, give him pseudo flight and you've invited death himself onto the battlefield, raining rockets down from the skies and bludgeoning your teeth out with a shovel when he lands. Or blow you both up with the grenades on his chest. Or just shoot you with a shotgun. Whatever works.

The Pyro is a mysterious pyromaniac of indefinitive origin, indeterminate gender, and very definite lack of sanity, viewing all the chaos and death he brings through the fantastical lens of Pyroland. In reality though, she's burning down everything in sight with reckless abandon, either with their flamethrower or with their bare hands. Ryu would be filling a lawsuit if he wasn't currently ashes. And lest you think that's all the Pyro has, many a foolish Soldier has forgotten about the power of airblast and paid dearly for it. With a burst of compressed air from her flamethrower, Pyro can juggle enemies in the air and send projectiles and rockets back at the enemy.

Tavish Finnegan DeGroot, aka The Demoman is one of best and most dangerous Demomen to ever roam the Earth. If he weren't, he wouldn't be able to discuss it with you, now would he? Despite his constant drunkeness and lack of depth perception, the Demoman can easily blow the enemy to pieces with both the careful placement of clever sticky bomb traps or the ruthless spamming of bouncing explosive pipes. He can even take a note from the book of his dear friend Soldier and blast himself into the air with his bombs.

The Heavy Weapons Guy is easy to mistake for a lumbering brute, but beneath the muscle and thick Russian accent is a brutal and intelligent mercenary. Mikhail is a gulag survivor who works to provide for his family and possesses a degree in Russian literature. With enough beef to out muscle the rest of his team and a massive minigun loving naned Sasha, the Heavy rarely needs to think too hard to mow down everything in sight. And if he does, he knows exactly how to best rip a man in half or blow the head off with a shotgun.

Deil Conagher aka The Engineer is a humble Texas gadgeteer with eleven PHDs. While his trusty shotgun gives him an option in a fight, Engie is much better off building supports for his team, such as massive minigun sentries with built in rocket launchers to protect the base, ammunition and health dispensers to restock his team, and teleporters to keep his team on the frontlines and tele-frag any poor sap who stands on the other end of it.

What Mr. Ludwig lacks in his regards for the Hippocratic Oath, the Medic makes up for in his mad scientific expertise. Don't let his lost medical license fool you, the Medic is a veritable genius. His most iconic invention, the Medigun, can heal the brutalized bodies of teammates, put people's bodies back together, and can, when fully charged, render whoever he's healing temporarily invincible. He was once able to resurrect the dead by just... putting their blood back inside them and even managed to steal his teammates souls and surgically attach them to himself in order to scam Satan himself. His bonesaw can hack to pieces and his syringe gun gives him a method of self defense from afar.

Nick Mundy is a rugged, relaxed outdoorsman from the outback with a tense relationship with his parents and also the greatest marksman on Earth. While his machete and SMG give him options for dealing with close quarters combatants, the Sniper is most at home sitting back and blowing the heads off whoever he's been paid to kill this week. He's a professional. Nothing personal.

The Spy is the mysterious master of disguise of the team, with a penchant for acquainting his knives to the spines of his unsuspecting foes. His watch allows him to turn invisible for a limited time to best ambush his foes, while his disguise kit allows him to impersonate anyone on Earth, from your teammates to even famous celebrities.

Despite the team's frequent zany antics and at times debatable intelligence, they are the greatest mercenaries on Earth for a reason. Together, they've beaten everything from killer bread monsters to evil wizards and even a robot army. They are, for better or for worse, the greatest team of gunmen on the planet. Often, for far worse.

Throwdown Theme:

Throwdown Breakdown:

So... Gordon doesn't wear a helmet. If knly the RED Team could take advantage of that somehow. Like say they had a, I dunno... Sniper of some description. Don't know anyone like that, guess Gordon stomps.

But in all seriousness, it's a question of if the RED Team can keep Gordon distracted for long enough for Mundy to get his shot. And, in short, no. Not at all. Naturally, Gordon is much stronger. Much. Much Stronger.

What I mean is that Gordon is a wooping 103x stronger! (0.723 tons of TNT vs 0.007). Meaning it's entire possible that Gordon simply mows throw the whole team before Sniper can even get a single shot off. That is a massive problem, as even Gordon's regular guns should be strong enough to reduce the mercs to giblets with a graze with that gap.

Hell, Sentry Buster explosions completely obliterate the mercs and those themselves are much weaker than Freeman at 0.09 tons of TNT.

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Medic is a necessity for this fight to even be debatable. The Medigun's ability to pull mercs back together after they've been annihilated is safety net they desperately need. After Heavy and Pyro get shredded and put back together (they are the ones meant to be engaging head on after all), the team will likely split up to keep Freeman from decimating them all. I tragically don't see Heavy really surviving the early fight due to his low maneuverability and Medic possibly might not either. Once Gordon sees him resurrect someone, he'd likely make Medic a priority, leaving the team without their method of taking hits. Thankfully, Gordon isn't likely to wipe immediately. A bunch of people comparable to, if not superior to Gordon in speed all running in different directions means Gordon is guaranteed to miss a few of them at first.

However, this forced split up would turn the game into an intense game of cat and mouse, giving a certain stealth expert the time to shine. While any Merc could theoretically ambush Gordon and shoot him in his obviously unarmoured head if they play their cards right, Spy is in the best position to do so. Gordon has no way of seeing through invisibility and given Spy's specialty, he's liable to go invisible as soon as the fight starts. This gives him the perfect opportunity to just... shoot Gordon in the head while invisible. Problem solved.

Even is Spy does die in the early bloodbath, there are some scenarios where the team can still win this. Pyro is fast enough to airblast back some projectiles early on and kill Gordon that way, but he's unlikely to survive thr bloodbath due to a lack of mobility options. Similar to Sniper or Engineer. But, Scout, Demoman, and Soldier likely would due to their own movement options. One well placed sticky trap is that would be needed to get Freeman's head.

There's this misconception that the TF2 Mercs are all incompetent idiots who do their jobs by accident moreso than on purpose. And while some of them are fairly stupid and they're all very unhinged, it's pretty consistent that they can organize very well when the chips are down. They know how to fight. How to strategize mid-fight, and even how to plan. And against a threat as overwhelming as Freeman, that would definitely shine.

This Throwdown's Winner is...

The Red Team!

The Boss has been defeated!

[thediamondmodcart]

Something blew up again, something always blows up.

Dan sighs, wiping the ash from his face. This was the fourth explosion this week, and this was a project that the Federation wanted. He had to make it perfect.

Some sort of improved model of its captor. It was the prototype though, but it still weirded him out. Why make a better version of the most perfect robot? They did kidnap him, but Dan can admit that he knows a good robot when he sees it. And Nether, was this one impressive.

The exposed wiring flicks out a few sparks, he had just enough time to reach for the fire extinguisher before the smoke detectors could signal and he'd be dead as the scrap metal laying before it. He always hoped that the sprinklers wouldn't be his cause of death.

He hears the door shut behind it, his coworker must've left to the break room. That, or to the bathroom to clean off the soot from the failed attempt to get the hunk of junk working. Neither of them wanted this project but here they were, doing whatever it took to get paid. Were any of them getting paid?

"Come on, you metal jerk..." Dan mutters, brushing the ash off him and letting his blaze rods absorb the particles. At least it'll keep his own fire going.

The speakers chime, an announcement plays with an automated voice. Was it lunch break already?

Maybe it was best to join his coworker then. He could use a break.

It gives the prototype the side eye before heading out to the break room. Dan rolls his shoulders, man, he shouldn't hunch over so much. Maxo would've berate him about that but... oh man, Maximus...

Nether, does he miss her. And the kid too. He should make it up to them... maybe when it's finally free from this hellscape away from home.

Dan reaches the HR department, it always liked the break room there. More humans, funny for a sector called Human Resources. He wasn't human itself, but he was humanoid enough.

He gives a wave to another of his coworkers, it doesn't see him very often but he knew that this guy was a father too. What was his name? Jeremy?

He was about to get a hold of the doorknob, when it heard screaming. What? Where? Here? Oh gold, what if something bad happened while he was here? What if he never saw his husband and kid again?

It had to check.

Sneakily, Dan turned the corner, following the source of the noise. Its face fell.

Trump was there. He was kicking and screaming being held by several blank models his project was improved on. He looked so scared.

"Tr—" He tried crying out, but they were faster. Hands covered his mouth and eyes, pulling him down to the depths of what could be described as eternal darkness. His kid vanished from sight but it could tell that he was coming with Dan too.

When he was able to see, it dropped into the waters below. He was in an ocean, large and endless as it was. He screamed, feeling its skin burn as the liquid engulfed him in excruiciating pain.

A body passes by, floating to the top. Time stopped as a propeller hat followed it, spinning as it flew away to the surface of the waters. Dan felt his stomach drop.

Another one bumps into him, their face was covered by their hair, medium in length but dark enough for Dan to recognize the hoodie and ring on their finger. He felt his own ring slip off its fingers.

It tries reaching out, screaming into nothing as the water pulled him deeper and deeper into darkness. More bodies came to the top, some of his old friends from Shady Oaks, his new ones here on Quesadilla Island, himself. Even an long old time friend passed by, labcoat and all.

Dan couldn't open his eyes any longer, the fire was dying out and there was no escape. It felt the hands return, pulling him back to unknown.

...

Something blew up again, something always blows up.