#integrated ventilation | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

covid-safer-hotties · 8 months ago

Text

Also preserved on our archive

by Eric W. Dolan

A new study published in Scientific Reports sheds light on long-term neurological consequences of COVID-19. Researchers found that individuals who had anosmia (the loss of smell) during COVID-19 showed alterations in brain functionality and even physical structure during recovery. This study is among the first to link COVID-19-related loss of smell to significant brain changes.

COVID-19, caused by the SARS-CoV-2 virus, has been primarily known for its impact on the respiratory system. However, over time, many patients, even those with mild cases, reported cognitive issues such as memory problems, confusion, and difficulties with concentration, which raised concerns about the virus’s effects on the brain. Neurological symptoms like headaches, brain fog, and loss of smell emerged as common issues for COVID-19 survivors.

Anosmia, the loss of smell, became one of the earliest and most recognizable symptoms of COVID-19, often occurring suddenly. While most patients recovered their sense of smell after a few weeks, some experienced longer-lasting olfactory dysfunctions. Previous research also suggested that loss of smell could signal broader neurological involvement in diseases like Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s. Given the commonality of anosmia in COVID-19 and its potential implications for brain health, the researchers sought to explore whether loss of smell during COVID-19 was associated with any measurable brain changes in recovering patients.

“Our laboratory studies the neurobiological mechanisms underlying complex social behavior and decision-making. During the pandemic, it was very challenging to halt our experimental activities due to health restrictions,” said study author Pablo Billeke of the Center for Research in Social Complexity at the University for Development in Chile.

“In this context and given the early reports of neurological symptoms in patients affected by COVID-19, we wanted to contribute from our unique perspective to understanding the potential damage caused by SARS-CoV-2 infection in the central nervous system. This led us to initiate this study, in which we evaluated recovered COVID-19 patients using structural and functional magnetic resonance imaging while they performed decision-making and cognitive control tasks, as well as tracking their evolution with electroencephalography.”

To investigate these possible brain changes, the research team recruited 100 adults in Santiago, Chile, who had recovered from respiratory infections between February 2020 and May 2023. The final sample included 73 participants who had confirmed cases of COVID-19 (the remaining participants had respiratory infections caused by other agents, as confirmed by multiple negative PCR tests). The team used a combination of tests and brain scans across two sessions to assess these participants’ brain function and structure.

The participants ranged in age from 19 to 65, and none had severe cases of COVID-19 that required ventilators or intensive care. The study specifically excluded anyone with neuropsychiatric disorders or severe brain injuries, ensuring that the observed effects could be linked to their infection rather than prior conditions.

In behavioral tests, participants with a history of anosmia displayed more impulsive decision-making compared to those who did not lose their sense of smell. These individuals tended to change their choices more rapidly after receiving negative feedback, particularly in tasks requiring them to learn and adapt to changing probabilities of rewards. While this impulsivity led to higher earnings in decision-making tasks that involved rapidly shifting conditions, it also highlighted an alteration in how their brains processed rewards and risks.

Functionally, patients with a history of anosmia showed decreased brain activity during decision-making tasks in regions associated with evaluating choices, including the lateral prefrontal cortex and temporoparietal regions.

On the structural side, brain scans showed thinning in specific regions of the brain in participants with a history of anosmia. Most notably, these changes were observed in the parietal areas of the brain, which are responsible for processing sensory information and managing spatial awareness. The thinning in these areas could indicate long-term structural changes in the brain caused by the virus in individuals who experienced loss of smell.

Additionally, these participants exhibited decreased white matter integrity, particularly in white matter tracts that connect important brain regions. White matter plays a crucial role in facilitating communication between different parts of the brain, and disruptions in these connections could lead to a range of cognitive impairments.

“In the current context, where we know that a significant percentage of the population has contracted COVID-19 at some point, it is crucial to identify the factors that may make certain individuals more susceptible to developing brain alterations after infection,” Billeke told PsyPost. “Our study found that individuals who lost their sense of smell during the acute infection exhibited detectable changes in brain structure and showed a particular pattern in decision-making tasks involving learning.”

“Specifically, they made more impulsive decisions when the environmental context changed. While this may not necessarily have long-term consequences, it could serve as an early marker to monitor individuals who experienced loss of smell, helping to determine whether they are more susceptible to developing neurodegenerative alterations. This is particularly relevant when other risk factors, such as cardiovascular diseases, diabetes, and genetic predisposition, are present, all of which are linked to the development of neurodegenerative diseases.”

Interestingly, these brain changes were less pronounced in patients with more severe respiratory symptoms, such as those requiring hospitalization, suggesting that anosmia might be a more reliable indicator of neurological involvement than respiratory symptom severity.

“What surprised us the most was how consistent the findings were in patients with anosmia compared to other patients, regardless of the severity of their respiratory symptoms,” Billeke said. “These individuals exhibited detectable alterations at the behavioral level and in brain function and structure, affecting white matter and gray matter.”

While the study provides valuable insights, it has limitations. First, it relied on self-reported symptoms of anosmia and used the KOR test, a validated screening tool for olfactory deficits associated with COVID-19, to confirm the presence of olfactory dysfunction. More objective and comprehensive clinical assessments would provide stronger evidence.

Additionally, the study lacked baseline brain scans from before the participants contracted COVID-19. This makes “it difficult to establish a direct causal relationship between the infection and our findings,” Billeke explained. “However, when considered alongside the current body of evidence from other studies that have used databases or tracked individuals for different reasons, we can determine that the virus does indeed cause alterations at the neural level.”

“Thus, the correlations we found can be viewed in existing literature as potential evidence of a causal link between the virus and the observed effects. However, the exact mechanism by which the virus produces this damage at the brain level is still under investigation.”

Looking ahead, the researchers plan to follow up with these participants over time to see if the observed brain changes persist or if they affect daily life. They also aim to explore potential therapies, such as brain stimulation techniques, to help those experiencing lingering cognitive and neurological effects after COVID-19.

“We aim to identify the oscillatory patterns related to these alterations, which is the focus of our ongoing electroencephalography (EEG) studies,” Billeke said. “The data are currently being analyzed. By identifying these altered oscillatory patterns, we hope to develop brain stimulation therapies that could help alleviate these symptoms, such as transcranial electrical or magnetic stimulation.”

“I would like to extend my gratitude to all the participants who voluntarily came to the study for all their sessions and to all the researchers who worked tirelessly, especially during the most challenging times of the pandemic lockdown,” Billeke added.

The study: “Patients recovering from COVID-19 who presented with anosmia during their acute episode have behavioral, functional, and structural brain alterations,” was authored by Leonie Kausel, Alejandra Figueroa-Vargas, Francisco Zamorano, Ximena Stecher, Mauricio Aspé-Sánchez, Patricio Carvajal-Paredes, Victor Márquez-Rodríguez, María Paz Martínez-Molina, Claudio Román, Patricio Soto-Fernández, Gabriela Valdebenito-Oyarzo, Carla Manterola, Reinaldo Uribe-San-Martín, Claudio Silva, Rodrigo Henríquez-Ch, Francisco Aboitiz, Rafael Polania, Pamela Guevara, Paula Muñoz-Venturelli, Patricia Soto-Icaza, and Pablo Billeke. www.nature.com/articles/s41598-024-69772-y

#mask up #covid #pandemic #covid 19 #wear a mask #public health #coronavirus #sars cov 2 #still coviding #wear a respirator #long covid #covid conscious #covid is not over

133 notes · View notes

sgiandubh · 4 months ago

Text

Not all kilts are created equal, either

At the rate things are drastically mutating, as far as cons and fan events are concerned, it would seem the most democratic way to meet, greet and grab an autograph from S is to swallow even the most remote idea of self-esteem and join the crowds on that Sassenach Winter Tour. Beat the pavement with the huddled masses and wait for Ginger Jesus to wink encouragingly, as your knees give way and you melt into a puddle of fuzzy love for... Ahem... no, let's hope not, my quill got the better of my reason, on this one.

This will go on and on and on, until the Last Living Woman on Earth ever to have been touched by JAMMF's self-evident charm will stop writing idiocies like this one:

You would never be able to compare Glenmorangie and SS, just like you wouldn't do the same about S and Harrison Ford, excuse me. At least if you would like to keep some modicum of integrity, here.

I am sorry, Ford and Glenmorangie did not copy anything. They just used a beloved piece of garment, the kilt, to their advantage. The rugged (but sexy and ultimately interesting and kind) Highlander in a kilt was not invented by Diana Gabaldon, nor definitively embodied by Sam Roland Heughan.

'Erself explained many times over she could have chosen anything else (aliens immediately came to my sick mind, but perhaps not the best option, after all) when she first started writing that damned book. But an old Dr Who episode, featuring a Highlander named Jamie McCrimmon and then a punctual subplot detail in Eric Linklater's book Prince in the Heather, mentioning Clan Fraser's only survivor after Culloden sealed the deal. I did not invent these, even Wikipedia knows 😉. In doing so, she simply (and wisely profitably, it would seem) chose one of the most popular and intriguing cultural tropes - Scotland. The rest was easy enough, but never forget that on a different inspiration whim, we could be talking all the same about Jaime, the Impetuous Pirate of the Caribbean (Voyager trivia, anyone?) or even Jacques, the French fin-de-siècle gentleman thief. That she chose Scotland is our delight (I doubt Shipper Mom wouldn't have zapped over a pirate series, after all), and S's lifetime lucky strike, that's all.

Scotland has been immensely popular and fantasized about, from The Borders to the Kamchatka Peninsula, ever since Walter Scott published The Lay of the Last Minstrel, in 1805, to rousing success. And even more so, since Queen Victoria and Prince Albert first visited and fell in love with it, in 1842. All things Scottish, from the tartan to the sense of honor, never ceased to fascinate people all around the world. The Outlander universe is just one of Scotland's latest representations in popular culture and, forgive me for being blunt, not even the best known one.

And excuse me once more, men in kilts have been around ever since, too. John Brown, Victoria's morganatic spouse, included. For better, rather than for worse. My own mind doesn't have to travel very far just to immediately remember Sean Connery, but here is an updated list of celebrities who apparently think the kilt is fashionable as hell and tells a very interesting story of virility and fortitude: https://help.scottishkiltshop.com/hc/en-us/articles/18545441581069-How-Hollywood-Celebrities-Embrace-the-Kilt . It's pleasantly enough written and makes for quite an instructive, updated overview of what the kilt really means in popular culture and how it is being constantly used to ventilate above positive messages & values.

To write that Ford used Heughan's persona in that #ad is akin to uninformed blindness. To go even further and talk with confidence about associative marketing is adding insult to injury and proving the person does not have the remotest clue of what she is writing about.

To cut the story short, associative marketing is simply a sales' strategy directed to minority groups and/or fringe communities. A classic example is Tupperware selling its plastic tchotchkes to moms all around the world and by doing so, peddling the dream of gifting them extra time for themselves (finally!). In other words, the focus of the sales strategy is being mindful about a specific set of needs and priorities that must be addressed. You are selling a product alright, but you are selling it to a niche. Glenmorangie is the opposite of that, in fact: it is a worldwide known brand, appreciated and enjoyed, sometimes excessively, by men and women (and frat boys and girls), irrespective of age, cultural context (yes, even in Tehran!) or social status. I honestly fail to see where the associative marketing can be found in Glenmorangie's poster and would rather think of Sassenach Spirits' own strategy in those terms. Especially when you think again about those huddled masses beating the pavement in front of a non-descript liquor store, on Main Street, America (or Industrial Zone, America, to be more exact).

Oh, well, she probably wanted to say Glenmorangie is coat-tailing Norouzi's genius ideas, which would be disingenuous, if not ridiculous, above anything else. But it surely is my deepest, secret and probably naively altruistic wish for this cheap Sassenach Tour gimmick to be shelved aside, before things become truly, heartbreakingly pathetic.

Make no mistake. I am such a loyal idiot that I am still confident. But the clock is ticking, and not to their advantage. So, is that it, is this how things are going to happen, from now on: extortionate fan events and #silly bottle signing sessions?

What would JAMMF, aka Jamie Roy, the Edinburgh spirits' smuggler, think about all of this?

#fandom #shitshow #booze #business #marketing #sales #Sassenach Winter Tour 2025

60 notes · View notes

staycalmandhugaclone · 5 months ago

Text

Fool's Errand Pt 10

Part (10) of Fool's Errand, the next arc of Doc's Misadventures! If you're new, start at the beginning with Touch Starved!

Sorry! I know I owe responses to that fluffy little holiday thing, but I really wanted to get this out, too! (Also... big sorry... you'll see why)

Warnings: mild suspense, vague injury descriptions, decent bit of cursing, minor character death (very minor), (is there a warning for a kid wielding a gun?)

WC: 3,403

Droids don’t need the light. Not like we do. In the darkness, only the automated sound of whirring gears and clacking metal narrate movements governed by near perfect synchrony. The silence that surrounded those movements was deafening. It was easy to forget just how dangerous those machines truly were when watching the incredible ease with which the soldiers of the GAR could tear through them. But up close, when nothing lay between us but darkness and an armor that suddenly felt far too thin, the droids were monstrous; emotionless; streamlined and refined toward a single purpose: destruction.

I tried not to think about the simple fact that the same was often said of the entirety of the clone population; how readily society at large welcomed beliefs of unthinking, unfeeling suits of armor in the stead of the very real people that armor concealed. I tried not to think about how that mentality might linger and fester into resentment and fear once the end of the war offered some hope of integration, nor of the unending hardships that were inevitable with such naïve mentality. As I sat crouched in the nook of the freezing ventilation shaft, I tried not to think about anything at all save the near impossible task of silencing my own heavy breaths, attention trained on the endless rows of automatons marching barely a handful of feet away from me.

Wrecker had made it to the maintenance closet several meters ahead, but I’d still been fighting to force the adhesive of the deceptively small explosive to seal with the chilled metal of the duct, and what few seconds that cost me proved just enough to force me to hide as the echoing orchestra of marching droids approached us. We knew they were coming. Thanks to Echo, we knew exactly when to expect every routine patrol scheduled to monitor these halls, but the sheer frequency of their presence was staggering.

Neither of us moved for several seconds after the last droid finally vanished behind the rear door.

“You alright?” Even whispered, my body tensed slightly at the suddenness of Wrecker’s voice calling through the speaker of my helm, and I had to release a quick breath before responding.

“Yeah.” I murmured, glancing back at the detonator as I carefully began easing my way out of the small shaft. “Had trouble getting this one attached, but looks fine now.” A quiet grumble reverberated around me, and I could clearly imagine the troubled frown tugging at his lips.

My eyes flashed to the timer in the corner of my HUD steadily counting down to the moment Crosshair was supposed to take out the decoy power transformer. We still had several targets to rig if we wanted to level the station in time.

Wrecker led the way forward without another word, quick strides shockingly silent. It would never cease to amaze me how easily the man before me could dance between the kind, boisterous goofball and this: lethal, efficient; movements far too quiet for the terrifying mass of his powerful form. I’d worked with astounding soldiers before, but these men were different. Boost, Comet, and Warthog were frightfully capable, but Wrecker and his brothers…

His hand flashed out, pointing to the spot he wanted the next charge placed. He didn’t pause before moving on to set his own, leaving me to my job without so much as a backward glance. Even now, after so many months of working with them, it still felt odd to be trusted so explicitly, but there wasn’t time for even a moment of self-doubt as I quickly dropped to a knee to begin working. Despite the utter simplicity of these explosives, still, Wrecker could finish two in the time it took me to prime one, but he showed no hint of impatience; merely moved on to the next spot until the room was cleared.

We both paused upon turning to the door. It was quiet. It shouldn’t be. By now, we should have been able to make out the distant chorus of the next patrol.

“Status.” Wrecker called, voice just loud enough to be picked up by the mic. My shoulders ached from how taut the muscles were. He didn’t talk like that, governed by that stark militaristic sharpness… not unless something was wrong.

“In position.” Crosshair responded coolly.

“En route.” Tech answered next.

“Wrecker, update.” Hunter’s order came in far crisper than the others, the Marauder’s comms undistorted despite the metal walls of the facility.

“Clanker’s missed a patrol. Pretty sure they haven’t noticed us, though.” He replied curtly, head pivoting behind us before turning back to the forward door as though half-expecting a troop of droids to come rushing in at any second.

“Crosshair, any change?” The Sargeant called. I could hear the growing tension in his voice and knew he was standing tensely over the intercom, hands grinding into the metal corners.

“No, but this sector isn’t supposed to have another patrol for over four more minutes.” Cross reminded him, voice low.

“Keep an eye on your escape routes,” Hunter instructed, “and report any more abnormalities.”

A series of ‘roger’s answer him in quick succession before Wrecker continued forward, heavy blaster balanced against his shoulder. My pistols felt miniscule in comparison, but I still held them at ready as he cracked open the door. Beyond was a cavernous room dotted with Separatist transports. If things went south, Wrecker and I would blow a series of bombs starting with two at either end of the massive bay, granting us an exit route while several other explosions went off at pre-set intervals to mask our escape. If it came to that, however, there was little hope in retrieving that little girl’s father…

“… don’t like this…” Wrecker muttered after muting his com.

“How many more do we have?” I asked, treading closer to him so my whispered words would reach him.

“Ten. Twelve if we wanna hit the control tower, but…” He let the thought trail off as he peaked around the corner of the doorway to stare at the massive sheets of metal suspended overhead on thick tracks.

“So, we finish those ten and re-evaluate.” I offered quietly. He didn’t respond for a long moment, the fearsome visage of that feral skull still studying the distant bay walls.

“Yeah…” He mumbled absently, but a few more tense seconds passed before he drew a quick breath and moved through the door, strides measured and quick, stance low.

Our HUD timers had been perfectly synced. I’d known that there would be no delay between that small clock striking zero and the distant rumble of an explosion preceding at least a momentary flicker of the lights. Still, my body snapped taut as the world around us trembled, even if only for a moment. And then the darkness descended in earnest.

Our visors were designed for this: to grant us clear images even in the darkest nightmares of distant worlds. Regardless, I felt myself tense, adrenaline flooding my chest as I studied every shadow of the now monochrome display before me. Already, the Separatist forces were responding, dozens of squads activating and filing across the vast expanse of the hanger in precise, unhurried movements. Several took positions at entry points about the bay, though most marched out of sight, undoubtedly en route to the now destroyed power station.

“Yuh got some fun headin’ your way, Cross.” Wrecker warned, large hand reaching into his bag for another charge, attention trained once more on the command post.

“They won’t find anything.” He responded haughtily, words only just betraying a slight breathiness as he sprinted back across the rocky outcropping surrounding the north end of the hanger.

“Imma see how many a’ these I can stick before the others get here.” There was a subtle glee in his voice, thrilled at the promise of even that simple challenge.

“I’ll keep watch.” I drawled slightly, the eyeroll audible amidst my quiet chuckle. That tension was still there; creeping across my skin and keeping the muscles stretching up my spine taut, but this was their world – our world: impossible missions with unending dangers in which we still managed to find some taste of joy.

“…Kriff.” Every wisp of that joy instantly went cold.

“Cross?” Hunter called quickly, voice full of the same sharp concern that turned my blood to ice. Wrecker had just begun setting the fourth detonator and visibly froze, waiting anxiously for a response.

“…trap… -utoff from… -ing around…” His rushed reply broke between bursts of static.

“Dammit, they’re trying to block your comms! Where are you?!” Hunter shouted. The distorted reply was too muffled for me to make out, but the pained shout that followed was nauseatingly clear. “I can’t reach you with the Marauder. En route on foot.” His words left in a growl, voice now muffled with that telltale distortion as he abandoned the protection of the ship, the sound of the ramp lowering in the background just loud enough for the mic to pick up.

I didn’t need to see Wrecker’s face to know he was struck with the same dread as me, and, with a sharp nod of his domed helm, motioned toward the rear wall of the hanger. I was already running when the first explosion erupted through the air, but the sudden scream that tore through the speakers was all I could hear.

“Crosshair!” His name shouted from me in a burst of panic, but his desperate cry didn’t stop. The natural rasp of his voice broke in choked gasps between sounds of an agony that left my skin crawling. Blasterfire shrieked behind me in rapid flurries. I didn’t bother looking back, certain that Wrecker was eagerly providing a distraction to cover my retreat, but the droids weren’t fooled.

A curse caught on my lips as I dropped into a sharp slide, just managing to dart behind a supply crate as a troop of B1s trained their sites on me, and the volley of shots that seared the metal casing left my heart racing even faster. My arm was moving before conscious thought registered what I was doing, hand snatching at one of the few remaining charges. I didn’t know if this would work, fully aware that some explosives were perfectly stable until intentionally set off with a detonator. Regardless, I launched the small device toward them, HUD automatically following my gaze to lock onto it as I raised my own weapons, standing to face down the dozen droids targeting me.

The scent of burnt plastoid filled my senses before noting the faint line of red seared into my shoulder pauldron as I pulled the trigger.

Ringing. By now, I recognized the disorientated daze of shellshock and clung to the sense of annoyance rather than any fear or pain lingering beyond that confusion. Move. There wasn’t time for this… Before the thoughts even solidified in my mind, I could feel my body struggling back to my feet, balance wavering precariously for several seconds even as I staggered forward.

“…!” A voice rang loudly around me, but it took a moment of actual concentration to truly hear him. “-oc! Wha’ happened?!” Wrecker. He was shouting. I glanced over my shoulder to see him quickly backtracking toward me and gave my head a hard shake in some vain effort to clear the lingering fog.

“…m… I’m fine!” I called out, lips sluggish. “Used a charge to… clear the path.” He looked toward me only briefly before returning his attention to the encroaching units. Still, I could see the air of hesitation in his movements, the reluctance to risk creating any additional distance between us, so I took that decision away from him, jaw set as I forced myself through the still smoldering crater blown into the thick wall.

Crosshair was still screaming, growled cries catching on choppy breaths muffled behind ground teeth.

“Hunter, do you have eyes on him?” I shouted, sprinting toward the cover of trees surrounding the station as I silently cursed the steep incline leading toward the ship.

“Not yet, there’s… - dammit -... They sent a kriffing… platoon after him.” I could hear the strain pulling at his every word, and that dread returned en force, fear spiking at the thought of how easily he could find himself incapacitated as well just from exacerbating his preexisting injuries.

“Echo and I can provide backup.” Tech offered. Even his voice held that deep worry.

“No – continue with the mission. We’ll be halfway to the Marauder by the time you’d even reach us.” He ordered. “Doc-”

“I’m already en route,” I interrupted quickly, “just send me your location.” He didn’t respond for a long moment, and I had to fight to keep from shouting my impatience.

That earlier fear was gone. I barely bothered glancing between branches in search of enemy troops, the threat of what danger my brief isolation from the others might pose forgotten in the echo of Crosshair’s pain. My entire focus was on reaching them as quickly as I could, cursing every fallen log and sleek boulder that hindered my progress.

“I’ve got him.” He was panting, pain clear in the breathy words, and my heart twisted at the endless possible reasons for that pain. The keening gasps still sounding from Crosshair’s mic were the only thing silencing some sharp rebuke demanding he stop. There was no right answer here; no way forward without the risk of a sacrifice I couldn’t begin to fathom.

“Might still be s… s’me droids… but think I got ‘m all.” His uncertainty was just as concerning as the slight slur dampening his smoky voice. That meant his focus was dwindling; that inhuman ability to feel the dance of electricity connecting the world around him was overcome by his own pain or exhaustion or something far worse.

“Dammit, Hunter! Just send me your location before you kriffing keel over!” I ordered harshly, no longer making an effort to mask that impatience.

“Tracker… tracker’s on… H… headed back.” Curses flowing unapologetically between ground teeth, I snatched the datapad from my waist, fingers stabbing at the screen far harsher than necessary as I locked in on his signal. The Marauder was just over a klick away, and Hunter’s signal was another half klick beyond that, speed frightfully slow as he made his way back.

“Talk to me, Hunter, or I’ll start using the karking pain scale questions.” I threatened, and was relieved to hear a huff of laughter. It was weak, but it was there.

“Damaged… damaged his helmet… Visor broke…” In an instant, that relief abandoned me. “Gave him… gave him what I had, but… it’s… it’s barely taking the e-edge off.” He panted.

“Burns?” I asked, straining to hide the depth of my fear at the very thought of what damage that might cause, but Hunter quickly dismissed that fear with something far worse.

“No… think it’s… There was a – a gas…” My stride nearly faltered. A gas… Chemical burns were far more difficult to treat…

“Listen to me: when you get him back to the ship, don’t try to rinse it out with water.” I instructed quickly.

“I kn- I know.” There was an unmistakable wheeze in the gasp robbing his retort of whatever annoyance he’d meant it to hold.

“What about you, Hunter? Were you exposed?” I made no effort to hide the harshness in my own voice, words quickly growing breathy as I sprinted from the base.

“N… no, my… my kit’s f-fine.” His response offered no taste of relief, the clear strain sown through each word quickly growing worse.

“Echo and I have secured a low-atmo speeder. We can reach you-”

“Ey, I think I see ‘im.” Wrecker interrupted.

“Ca- can you i-intercept?” Hunter’s vain attempt to maintain that indominable façade only further emphasized how just much he was clearly struggling.

“Uh… only if I start blowing stuff up early.” There was no glee in what should have been an overly eager plea, attention clearly torn between the task before him and worry for his brothers.

“Delay as – as long as you can.” Hunter ordered firmly. “Tech, Ech… Echo… con-continue a-approach.”

“Hunter, if you’re having trouble breathing again, you need to stop moving!” I ordered in a shout.

“Neg… neg’tive… Mar’der’s… in sight.” My lips curled into a snarl.

“I can’t carry you both, dammit!” There was a brief pause, and then,

“Roger.”

I was going to strangle him.

Sweat had long since soaked through my blacks. My muscles burned, blood like acid pounding through my veins, and I tried not to think about how loud my own breathing was, mic pointedly muted as I listened to quick bursts of communication bounce between the others illustrating the progress of a mission I struggled to find even a whisper of concern for. My own attention remained locked on the tracker beacon, noting how near to the ship Hunter and Crosshair finally were; how wretchedly slow their progress had become; how much distance yet lay between us as that accursed hill robbed my speed.

He didn’t check in when he finally stopped, their beacons stalling at the very foot of the ramp.

“Hunter, are you inside?” I asked. He didn’t respond. “Hunter, what’s your status?” I pressed, words growing harsher. Silence. “Hunter?! Cross, do either of you read me?!”

“The Marauder’s ramp appears to have lowered but hasn’t been closed since they arrived.” Tech’s voice was carefully even, but I could hear the faint rush of an anxiety that I had no doubt resonated between all of us.

“I’m almost there.” I assured them, and, mere seconds later, let out a sharp huff of relief upon finally seeing the very tip of the dorsal fin.

The first time I’d seen the complicated overlay of the HUD used by GAR equipment, it hadn’t been during my training to join the 104th. It was in the aftermath of a battle I’d only seen in the darkness of night, sneaking through ruined transports and far too much gore to ever be warranted under the guise of seeking peace. It was maybe the fourth such scene Emmy and I had visited. We didn’t even have a ship then; just us and a pair of overstuffed medbags with no thought toward secession or consequence or even what to do with those we tried to save.

We’d only found one soldier still clinging to life, and it had taken only moments to realize that nothing we did would save him from joining his brothers. He hadn’t blamed us. I think I wanted him to… but he merely got quiet when he understood… peaceful. He’d been a flirt, and I think we both fell in love with him a bit. He’d insisted we try his helmet on – had said something inappropriate about seeing his gear on a couple cute nurses. Neither of us corrected him, and I’d been shocked at the flurry of information that had bombarded me the instant it flickered to life before my eyes. He’d laughed. I’d never forget that laugh. It was free; weightless; haunting in a way that both crushed me and justified every risk we were taking in trying to offer what meager help we could. And then he'd died.

That nauseating hurricane of endless data and alerts was still just as overwhelming now as it was then, but I’d learned to filter it out, to prioritize only what was needed in that moment. When the sudden flash of a warning lit the screen, I didn’t hesitate; didn’t waste time for even a moment’s thought before my body dropped into a slide, just barely dodging the pair of blue bolts that screamed passed me as my hands instantly snatched the pistols from my hips, but then that wealth of data began to coalesce, and I quickly released my weapons, empty hands raising in surrender.

“Wait-wait-wait! It’s me!!” I shouted, wrenching the still flashing helm from my head, and my heart churned at the sight of the terrified girl cowering just inside the Marauder’s main cabin, at the horror and fear and overwhelming relief that left her near sobbing the instant recognition finally stole through her. Then I saw the two forms lying far too still at her feet. And that same terror ripped the air from my lungs in a sob of my own.

Next Chapter

Click here or message me if you'd like to be added to a taglist!

Click here for my Masterlist.

Taglist: @arctrooper69 @eclec-tech @jennrosefx @echos-girlfriend @starqueensthings @manofworm @merkitty49 @idoubleswearimawriter @abigfanofstarwars @chopper-base @daftdarling222 @pb-jellybeans @bacta-the-future @rosechi @legalpadawan @drummergirl1701 @6oceansofmoons @dangraccoon @ji5hine @dathomiri-mudpuppy @mooncommlink @inneedoffanfics @totally-not-your-babe @delialeigh @callsign-denmark @blondie-bluue @ray-rook @iabrokengirl @arcsimper5 @rndmpeep @amorfista @flawsandgoodintent @passionofthesith @followthepurrgil @heidnspeak @roam-rs @foodmoneyandcats @savebytheodoresnonjosestuff @9902sgirl @captainrex89 @waytoooldforthis78 @msmeredithrose @mythical-illustrator @sleepycreativewriter @anythingandeveythingstarwars @littlefeatherr @thegreatpipster @melonmochii @totallyunidentified @mickeyp03 @hipwell @echos_pile_of_bones @leotawrites @Asgre_Thar @fruityfucker @babyscilence @skellymom @youreababboon @echo9821

64 notes · View notes

energysavers2013 · 2 months ago

Text

0 notes

cheemscakecat · 6 months ago

Text

How each Tf2 merc would act if they were alone at Fazbear’s Frights.

Inspired by watching FNAF vs Tf2 Ep 2 [go watch it]

Engineer:

>Ignores the phone call. Fixes the faulty ventilation and security system in like 15 minutes [if it even takes that long]

>Notices Springtrap moving on the cameras as he’s double checking that he fixed them.

>Builds an Engineer nest out of whatever was in his toolbox +the box in the security office.

>Ignores the hallucinations after the first one.

>Springtrap gets gunned down by a sentry in the doorway to the office. Alternatively, if Springtrap tries going into the office through the vent, he’ll be A. Gunned down via shotgun, or B. Tore up by a newfangled building that Engineer built inside the vent. [It depends on how much scrap Engie had to work with]

>Engineer proceeds to leave Fazbear’s fright now that the danger has passed.

Sniper:

>Ignores the phone call. Uses the security panel out of curiosity and notices Springtrap move.

>Decides to make a blockage in the vent using the box of old parts in the office. That’ll slow the “buggering old mold rabbit” down and make a commotion if he goes that way.

>Aims the rifle at the doorway, with the Kukri ready in case Springtrap tries to get in through the vent.

>Tries to slash one of the hallucinations, realizes it’s a hallucination, and proceeds to ignore them in favor of watching for Springtrap.

>Springtrap is shot in the knees and then chest as he tries to come through the doorway. If that isn’t enough to “kill” him, Sniper will proceed to slash him up with the Kukri. The fight goes about the same if Springtrap comes through the vent, but Sniper will probably lead with the Kukri to gain some distance before aiming with the rifle.

>Sniper makes sure to saturate Springtrap in pee before leaving Fazbear’s Fright and drinking in the clean night air.

Soldier:

>Listens to the phone call until he decides the caller is a hippie and hangs up. [Approximately 2 seconds]

>Messes around with the security cameras until he sees Springtrap move.

>Decides to leave the office because he doesn’t respect hippie instructions, or the faulty security panel.

>Soldier proceeds to lob grenades and crockets at each of the hallucinations. The structural integrity of the building is questionable, and there’s smoke and rubble everywhere.

>Springtrap tries to sneak up on Soldier in the smoke and kill him, but is thwarted by the fact that Soldier is built different. He doesn’t do nearly as much damage as hoped.

>Soldier either wrecks Springtrap with a grenade/crocket, or decides to get naked and beat him up. Springtrap ends up “dead” either way.

>Soldier leaves the building, which only crumbles after he leaves because funny.

Heavy:

>Listens to the phone call while also tapping on the security panel to see how it works.

>Notices Springtrap moving on the camera.

>Decides to get Sasha and leave the office to investigate.

>Jumps at one of the hallucinations before realizing it’s not real and proceeding on his way.

>Springtrap sits down at his spot and pretends not to be alive, hoping Heavy will be dumb enough to get close so he has a shot to bite him.

>Heavy shoots Springtrap with Sasha to see if he’s a hallucination/real “zombie cartoon”/a disguised Spy. Springtrap reacts to the pain and gets properly gunned down.

>Heavy decides to take the Freddy prop head as a souvenir and leaves Fazbear’s Fright.

>The prop head turns out to be haunted, but that was expected. After passing hands on the team for a while, Pyro ends up keeping the mask and having tea parties with it.

Scout:

>Tries to talk with the guy on the phone before realizing it’s a recording and giving up.

>Messes around with the security system, but gets bored of the camera before Springtrap moves.

>Decides to root through the box of props in the office just to see if there’s anything cool/interesting in it.

>Gets spooked by a hallucination while he’s playing with old props.

>Checks the camera again. Springtrap has moved.

>Panic

>Remembers he has a gun and a metal baseball bat.

>Remembers he has bonk.

>Scout drinks the bonk and bolts for the exit. The door is locked, so he starts trying to break it down with his body/the bat.

>Springtrap arrives, acting extra spooky because he assumes Scout is nothing more than a scaredy-cat man-child. And as someone who literally targeted defenseless children, scaredy-cat man-children are the next best thing. [William is pathetic fr]

>Scout responds by pulling out his gun and unloading every bullet into Springtrap’s chest and face. He then starts beating the everloving tar out of the ”weird freakin sewer rabbit” with the bat until it stops moving.

>Scout decides to run through the building so he can find the freaking keys. Once he finds them he leaves as soon as humanly possible.

Pyro:

>Listens to the phone, realizes it’s not Ms Pauling, and stops listening.

>Dumps out the box in the office, takes all the cute masks and desk toys, and wanders out into the attraction.

>Wanders through the attraction and plays with the props, hallucinations spring up to try and scare him. But he just waves and acts happy to see them.

>Springtrap, watching from afar, decides to trick this overgrown child like he tricked so many real kids all those years ago. After all, if this strange masked man-child is so keen on the hallucinations, it must mean he’ll look like a friendly rabbit again.

>Pyro stops frolicking as Springtrap comes up and tries to act nice. At first, Springtrap assumes he must just be surprised, but the seconds drag on and he is still just standing there, motionless.

>Pyro pulls out his axe and starts charging at “the bad man”. Springtrap tries to run away, but finds himself in a dead end.

>Springtrap is cut up with the axe and then set on fire.

>Pyro leaves the flaming building with arms full of old masks and toys.

Demoman:

>Answers phone, then hangs up and looks through the security panel.

>Doesn’t notice Springtrap moving and closes the camera.

>Starts drinking whatever alcohol he has with him.

>Gets spooked by a hallucination. Decides to look back at the cameras for other supernatural happenings.

>Notices Springtrap. Gets annoyed.

>Leaves bombs in the doorway and the vent, stands far enough away to avoid the explosions.

>Springtrap walks into bombs and explodes into chunks. Demoman realizes the air is getting too thick soon after and leaves the building.

Spy:

>Answers phone but gets annoyed listening to the phone guy’s voice and hangs up.

>Looks through the security panel and runs the ventilation because the building reeks of mildew and mold.

>Ventilation system breaks immediately afterwards. Gets annoyed and decides not to even try lighting a cigarette.

>Looks through the security cams and notices Springtrap moving.

>Decides that getting “Black mold mascot” material on his gloves, much less suit, is off the table. There will be no backstabbing this thing.

>Turns invisible with the revolver in hand. Creeps out into the attraction.

>Hallucinations appear but don’t get a reaction because he’s trained himself to be quiet. Hallucinations decide he’s no fun and give up.

>Sneaks up to Springtrap, identifies the smell of rotting meat and realizes there’s a zombie in the costume.

>Springtrap is shot in the exposed hole in his back and then in the head. Spy unloads all of the bullets in the revolver just to make sure this thing stays down.

>Spy leaves Fazbear’s Fright, making sure to get far away before attempting to light a cigarette. He decides to go into the nearest gas station to wash up, because the feeling of having Fazbear corpse air stuck to you is worse than a badly cleaned men’s room.

Medic:

>Answers phone, gets bored and then hangs up.

>Plays with the security system and notices Springtrap moving on the camera.

>Interest piqued, he leaves the office to go investigate.

>Springtrap gets knocked out with a tranquilizer dart and wakes up in the security office.

>The security panel has been strapped to Springtrap’s chest and allows him to talk via text. Medic asks how he became a zombie glued to the costume out of genuine curiosity.

>Springtrap decides Medic must be equally evil as him and proudly reveals that he’s a child murderer.

>William wakes up in Hell. Medic sold his soul to the devil to make sure he stayed in the ground.

>Medic leaves Fazbear’s fright and walks to the nearest bar so he can get out of the frightful bad mood he’s in.

#tf2 #tf2 spy #tf2 scout #tf2 demoman #tf2 pyro #tf2 soldier #tf2 engineer #tf2 sniper #tf2 medic #tf2 heavy #Fnaf #Springtrap #Long post #Headcanons #go watch FNAF vs Tf2 #Medic packed him up with his bare hands btw #That man built like an oak tree.

62 notes · View notes

smol-n-smol · 8 months ago

Text

Odd One Out: Chapter 1

A/N: Finally banged out the first chapter for this story based on this idea I came up with a little while ago. I hope y'all enjoy! I'll make a proper blurb at some point

Also I'm gonna be so fr, I've never done a tag list for a story before, so I'm just pulling this based on people from comments/tags who sounded like they wanted an update? If you want to be added or removed, just let me know :)

Tag List: @axolotlsdreams @seasonschange32 @tthevoic3s @kgonbeiden @coffehbeans

------------

With its multilevel Roman-inspired buildings and wide cobblestone paths, the Kingston Academy campus is practically a work of art in and of itself. The early morning air carries the scent of prestige and erudition along a crisp autumn breeze.

Eriel stands before the glimmering gates of the academy, building up the nerve to walk through. He’s intimidated by the size of it all, though probably not for the same reason as most new students. It’s less that he’s afraid of getting lost in such a large place, and more that he’s scared of accidentally crushing something beneath his feet.

As the first giant to attend Kingston, it’s obvious that the school was never designed with his kind in mind. Most of the three story buildings don’t even reach the height of his shoulders. Even the monumental clocktower in the center of the courtyard just barely passes his 46 ft frame.

If Eriel really wanted to, he could probably jump right over the entrance gate in front of him. Not that he would ever do such a thing of course!! The thought alone of accidentally damaging something (or worse, someone!) is enough to send a wave of goosebumps down his spine.

Thankfully or unfortunately — Eriel is still trying to decide whether his enrollment here is a good or bad thing — the gilded gates part, at last inviting him onto the campus. There aren’t many students out yet, which makes sense. It’s barely past 7 AM on a Monday. Given the choice, Eriel wouldn’t be up this early either. Even so, the giant’s eyes stay focused on the ground as he navigates to the gymnasium on the other side of campus.

Usually students receive their orientation packets inside the administration building, but given his impressive size, there are only a handful of buildings that Eriel can fit into at all. The gym doubles as an auditorium and a venue for special events. The high ceilings were probably originally meant for improved ventilation and added elegance, but now the only benefit Eriel cares about is that he can at least sit inside without feeling overly claustrophobic.

He enters the building through a modified loading dock door. While he still has to crouch to fit through, it’s much better than having to crawl on his hands and knees like the first time he visited the building for interviews and psychological evaluations. Now that was a humiliating experience. He had been poked and prodded, and asked the most demeaning questions. Eriel shoves those memories back into a mental box. He needs to stay focused on the present moment.

Once he reaches the main area of the gymnasium, Eriel is finally able to sit down properly. The sunlight from the windows warms his skin. While he may not feel hot and cold the way that humans do, it's a comforting sensation nevertheless. If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend that he’s back in the forest with his family.

He misses them, despite it only being the first day. If the integration program goes well over the next year, maybe his little sister will be able to join as well. She’d probably learn much more easily in a school than from the limited knowledge that Eriel is able to share with her every so often. It was difficult enough to teach himself most of what he knows — his knowledge a hodgepodge of information from the occasional abandoned books that sometimes wound up in the forest.

He doubts that Lora will keep up with his studies while he’s away, but a big brother is allowed to hope, right?

Just the thought of the young girl falling asleep while poring over a human textbook is enough to make Eriel chuckle aloud.

“I’m glad to see you in bright spirits today,” a voice says, bringing Eriel back to the present moment.

Mr. Leeway, the head administrator and school guidance counselor, now stands on a walkway that wraps around the walls of the room. Eriel meets his gaze nervously, though less eye-to-eye and more eye-to-full-body. Thankfully with a giant’s enhanced vision, Eriel has no trouble with making out the details of the man before him.

“Good morning, sir,” Eriel greets in response, his back straightening as he now sits in a human’s presence. “Thank you again for allowing me to attend school here.”

The counselor waves a hand, brushing aside Eriel’s politeness. “No need to be so formal now,” Mr. Leeway responds kindly. “You’ve more than earned your spot here after all.”

Immediately, the giant’s shoulders drop. In retrospect, those were the words he’s been hoping to hear. The ones he needed most for today.

He’s grateful that Mr. Leeway is so accepting of him. Hopefully the rest of the staff are as well. Eriel has yet to meet any of the professors at the academy. While it’s unrealistic to expect everyone to be this friendly, hopefully no one is too afraid or mean.

As Mr. Leeway patiently talks him through the school handbook, the dorm system, and the giant accommodations scattered across the campus, Eriel can’t help but feel like maybe things will be okay.

“Any other questions?” the counselor asks, pausing long enough for Eriel to shake his head before continuing. “Perfect. Well in that case, I’ll let you get a head start towards your first class. Best of luck, kid.”

Eriel sits still until the human leaves before at last rising stiffly to exit the building.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The campus is much livelier now than it was less than an hour ago. Students walk in small groups to different destinations — some dressed in uniform and heading to classes, while other folks are still in pajamas, clearly in search of their first meal.

Eriel is one of the less fortunate folks, his first class starting at 9 AM. He’s always been a bit of an early riser, as most giants tend to be, but part of him wishes that he opted for a schedule with a later start time. He’d appreciate a bit more time before having to face his new peers.

Mr. Leeway assured him that all the students received a special training and information session on interacting with giants. In theory, everyone should be prepared for this transition. And yet, as Eriel rises to a standing position, stretching slightly to relieve his back of some of its stiffness, it’s as if the whole world holds its breath.

Everyone stops whatever they’re doing once Eriel reaches his full height. The slight crack of his joints resounds throughout the quiet air, unintentionally drawing even more attention to the giant.

The poor students closest to him quickly back away, and one especially frightened soul even faints. Eriel winces at that. The reception makes sense, and honestly, it could be a lot worse.

Slowly, the giant takes a step, just a small one in the direction of his class. Immediately, a group of nearby students begins to run away, despite the ample space Eriel makes sure to leave between himself and any humans. The giant sighs but continues on his way. What else can he do?

It takes only a couple of minutes for Eriel to cross the campus to his destination. The English building stands before him, just barely reaching his chest. There’s no chance that Eriel is going to be able to squeeze into the building itself, much less one of the classrooms inside. For pretty much all of his classes, he’ll have to sit outside and listen in through the windows.

Eriel follows the instructions in his handbook packet to find the window for his first class. A large awning has been set up along that side of the building — big enough for Eriel to be able to sit beneath for protection from the weather. He’s used to sitting outside for prolonged periods of time, but he appreciates the cover anyways. It will certainly help to keep his notes neat at least.

With the few minutes he has before class begins, Eriel puts down his backpack and digs out his notebook and pencil. The set was a gift from his mom — the pages were re-usable and the pencil was designed to provide more or less endless writing. Once he settles down in his dorm, he’ll be able to type everything up on the computer that the school provided him with, but this combination is much more efficient for carrying between classes.

Intro to English Literature, Eriel writes on the first page, taking his time in making the headline look pretty. It gives him an excuse to keep his head down and avoid the watchful gaze of the other students around him.

It’s only when the bell rings that he at last looks up, positioning his face so he can clearly see the blackboard through the window.

“Good morning, class,” the professor says as she enters the room. Her brown hair is done up in a bun and a pair of quirky glasses accentuate her wide grin. Her smile falters as her eyes meet Eriel’s, but props to her for managing to keep up the expression at all. The same can’t be said for the other ten or so students sitting in the classroom, who look back at him with expressions ranging from fear to disgust to cold interest.

“I’m Professor Dockerty,” the teacher continues, her introduction regaining the attention of most of the students. One boy is a bit slower to turn away, his blue gaze unabashedly staring right at Eriel. And then, the boy — Ashton, based on his response as Professor Dockerty takes attendance — smiles at him.

Okay, it’s more of a smirk, but even that’s better than the other looks.

“Did I miss anyone?” the professor asks.

Eriel gulps but shyly raises a hand, limbs tense and heart pounding as he draws additional attention to himself. A few of the students flinch as his fingers come into view of the window, and upon seeing that reaction, Eriel immediately puts his hand back down. Hot shame rises in his chest and his cheeks burn as he realizes the fear that a simple one of his actions could cause.

“I don’t think I heard my name, ma’am,” the giant all but whispers, desperately wishing for this moment to be over already.

Professor Dockerty laughs nervously, glancing down at her papers again. “Oh my, I must have missed it. Eriel, correct? Our giant student? Great! Well, if that's everyone then let’s start by going over the syllabus.”

Eriel doesn’t get a chance to say anything throughout her ramble, but the professor is already handing out paper packets to the students.. There are just enough for everyone in the room. Eriel doesn’t even bother asking if there are any extras for him.

70 notes · View notes

wig-supplies-and-more · 2 years ago

Text

Hair Integration Systems: A Solution for Natural-Looking Hair Restoration

Hair Integration System – Wig Topper Hair loss can be a challenging experience for individuals, impacting their self-confidence and overall well-being. Hair loss is a common occurrence for both men and women due to various factors such as genetics, illnesses, medications, and more. Losing excessive hair can significantly impact our confidence. Fortunately, advancements in hair restoration…

View On WordPress

For wig making foundation and nets, visit AmidBeauty.com

#Hair Integration #hair integration mesh #hair integration system #hair integration topper #hair ventilation #how to #topper #wig making #wig topper

1 note · View note

alyssa-ai · 25 days ago

Text

It's always a huge pleasure to share these challenges with my friends, but here, it's often an opportunity to imagine things,

AI Challenge No.5 - A Time and a Place

New Era: A Morning on XO-521-A

May 11, 2132.

A stream of golden light, filtering through the biodome of the capsule, caressed Alyssa's sleeping face. She stretched languidly, a smile playing on her lips even before she opened her eyes. At her feet, curled into a ball of black, silky fur, Cachou, her faithful cat, let out a small, plaintive meow, signaling that it was high time for the first cuddle of the day.

"Hello, my purring explorer," Alyssa murmured, scratching Cachou behind the ears. The cat responded with a vibrant purr that filled the silent cabin.

Outside, the spectacle was breathtaking. XO-521-A was awakening in a symphony of colors and sounds. The sky, an azure tinged with lavender, stretched endlessly above a lush jungle of emerald and turquoise hues. Plants of extravagant shapes, some bioluminescent even in broad daylight, swayed gently in a light breeze. The air entering through the capsule's advanced ventilation system was exquisitely pure, laden with the sweet and spicy scents of alien flora. It was a beautiful day.

Alyssa rose and approached the large panoramic bay window. Her capsule, one of hundreds sent as part of the "New Era" project, rested on the edge of a majestic forest, near a small pond with crystal-clear waters. The capsule's ovoid and sleek design blended with surprising harmony into the landscape. The mission's purpose was clear: to study this new Earth, understand its complex ecosystems, and integrate with the utmost respect, without repeating the mistakes of the past that had made Earth uninhabitable.

She slipped on a light suit and stepped out onto the small composite wood platform that extended her capsule. Cachou followed her, his bushy tail sweeping the air with curiosity. The cat, despite his terrestrial heritage, seemed to have adapted with disconcerting ease to this new environment. He spent hours observing the small, multicolored flying creatures and stalking (without ever catching them, fortunately) the agile lizards with iridescent scales.

"Ready for a new day of exploration, Cachou?" Alyssa asked, her eyes shining with anticipation. She took a deep breath. Every day on XO-521-A was a promise, a blank page to be written in the great book of this new humanity. Earth was now but a distant memory, a painful lesson. Here, hope was reborn, vibrant and pure as the morning air. The "New Era" project was just beginning, and Alyssa, with Cachou by her side, was ready to be one of its pioneers, with respect and harmony with this generous and unknown nature as her only compass.

She sat on the edge of the platform, her feet almost touching the cool water of the pond. Cachou came to rub against her leg. The sun of XO-521-A rose gently in the sky, illuminating a world full of promise.

It was, indeed, a very beautiful day.

*****************************************

AI Challenge n°5 Organized by @sarahwellshunter

With :

@gigiprinceton2 @ai-satin-chic @danni-gurrl @mohairmaster @anderii @dryndelicate @sarahwellshunter @astogurlnikkipinkai @andysfantasie @alyssa-ai @celestmilena2 @mistressmaurahypno @danni-gurrl @synth-ai, @fluffyfaza

@miphisticated

HD version : https://www.deviantart.com/stash/026isgs8kcbr

#virtual influencer #ai influencer #ai character #virtual model #ai generated #ai woman #ai girl #ai hottie #stable diffusion #beautiful #short story #space adventure #ai challenges #Alyssa-AI

36 notes · View notes

intubatedangel · 2 months ago

Text

Pageant Fever : Chapter 5

As promised :)

Story Index

Pageant Fever: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

* * *

Tilly ignored the water splashing across the front of her scrubs as she reached in deeper to get both hands under Zara's shoulders, using her forearms to support the beauty's head as her whole body convulsed wildly in the ice bath. Alarms began to chorus from the monitors in a cacophony of tones and chimes.

"Get her back on the bed!" Carl's voice cut through the commotion of alarms, as other nurses rushed to help. Tilly continued to support Zara's head as the sling whirred and lifted her out of the churning water. Her limbs twitched and shook, muscles driven by random and chaotic electrical signals cascading through her nervous system. The other nurses helped to protect the lines and contain the worst of the thrashing to keep her in the sling. Meanwhile Carl had dragged the crash cart right up next to the bed and was drawing some drugs into a syringe. He grabbed the IV even as Zara was being carefully swung over the bed, fingers slipping along its length to find the inline port. "Pushing diazepam, 10mg."

The sling lowered Zara's naked body onto the trauma bed. As soon as it went slack, the bands were unhooked and left to fall loose over the sides of the bed, ignored. With Zara's body twitching madly, trying to remove the sling from beneath her would be impractical.

Tilly remained at the head of the bed, following her training. Her hands cradled Zara's head gently. She didn't hold tightly, or try to fight Zara's convulsive movements. Her hands merely offered a cushion for Zara's head to bounce off, keeping it contained and protecting the ventilator hose. The integrated bite block of the tube holder also proved its worth, as even from this angle Tilly could see how tightly Zara's jaw was clenched.

She spared a glance at the monitor, but the chaos of the seizure produced enough artefacting that the ECG reading was a garbled mess matching the strident alarms. The diazepam began to take effect, the seizure slowing, becoming less intense. Then in a split second it stopped completely, Zara falling totally limp on the bed.

But the monitor continued its alarming. Tilly shifted her fingers to the carotid pulse point. After a few seconds she looked up at Carl and shook her head. He sighed. "Pulseless V-tach. Someone get on her chest and ready the defib."

* * *

As Anna walked back to the relatives room, she tried to quell the unease boiling inside her. This was going to be a difficult conversation. Not just because Jaya's daughter was in such a precarious condition, but also because Anna was about to accuse her of causing Zara's potentially lethal predicament. She stopped outside the door and took a deep breath, steeling herself, then opened the door.

Jaya was still sat on the couch staring at the floor, statuesque, her arms still wrapped protectively around the handbag. She didn't even look up as Anna entered the room.

"Mrs. Chamarthi." Anna said as she stepped over to the couch opposite Jaya, a squat coffee table separating the two. "Mrs. Chamarthi." Anna repeated, slightly sterner, finally forcing the older woman to look up at her. "Zara is in a very critical condition. We need to know if she has taken anything. Anything at all. I'm not talking about party drugs." Anna drew in another breath, studying Jaya intently. "Has she ever used anything she might have bought online? Something for weight loss?"

When Jaya's arms tensed around the handbag, Anna froze, feeling her stomach drop. She was right. She took a moment to settle herself, cutting off a flare of anger before it could build. It was clear that Jaya had seen the realisation on Anna's face when her eye's flicked back to the floor and stayed there.

"Mrs Chamarthi." Anna's voice softened. "If you know anything. You need to tell us. I'm sure you didn't mean for any of this to happen. The criminals who sell these drugs never mention the side effects. But you need to understand." She paused, picturing her own daughter, imagining the effects her next word would have on herself. "Zara is very ill. It is likely that even with the right treatments, she won't survive. The only chance she has is if we know what she took, and every second matters right now."

For the longest moment, Jaya remained stoney faced and silent, then she cracked. Her face crumpled and she let out a sob. "I'm so sorry. I didn't..." Her words chocked off, but her arms released the tight grip on the hand bag and her hand reached inside, pulling out a cardboard box, the same kind you'd have for any over the counter medicine. She dropped it on the table as she buried her face in her hands.

Anna pushed herself to her feet, picking up the box on the way and made for the door. As she headed towards Resus 3 she examined the box closer. It was obviously not a real product. The cardboard was flimsy, the artwork upon it clearly printed on an old domestic printer, complete with streaky lines and a strange colour shift where one of the colour cartridges had run out. It also lacked any of the information you'd find on a real pharmaceutical product. No ingredients list, no dosage, no side effects. She opened it up carefully, almost surprised to see that the pills were at least in a blister pack instead of completely loose. They were small and yellow, with no identifying markings, but they matched the description of dangerous black market 2,4-DNP pills that had been on the database. Her heart sank as she reached Resus 3 and looked through the doors to see Zara's body shaking rhythmically as her chest was brutally compressed.

* * *

Jamie took up the first round of compressions, his huge hands making Zara look small on the trauma bed. There was so much power in his frame that it looked to Tilly as if he was barely making any effort. Tilly herself had detached the ventilator and fixed the yellow ambu bag to Zara's ET tube, pumping the bag steadily every few seconds. Trish was managing the drugs, drawing the first round to be ready for Carl's order, while Kirstie had taken up the chart to record the details. Marie had set the defib to charge, before she grabbed a towel and did her best to dry off Zara's chest, careful to avoid dislodging any electrodes. She dropped the towel behind her without ceremony, quickly checking that the still attached Combo Pads had stayed firmly secured. She gave a Carl a nod as she retreated, his finger hovering over the shock button on the defibrillator.

A few moments later the machine let out the double bleep of a readied charge. "Everyone clear." Carl said, waiting a moment as Tilly plucked off the ambu bag and Jamie held up his hands, leaning back slightly on the step that stuck out from the trauma beds bottom rail. "Shocking." He said, finger twitching against the button. The machine delivered the shock, Zara's body giving a sharp spasm on the bed. Everyone's gaze turned to the monitor, watching the momentary chaos of the shock return to the sawtooth of V-tach. "No response, resume compressions and bagging, give her one of adrenaline and a round of atropine. We'll shock again in 1 minute."

The jumped back into action, Trish reaching for the IV with the already prepared drugs in hand. Jamie was already back in position, tilting his weight into Zara's chest before Tilly had even picked the up the bag again. She almost had to snatch the end of the tube as Jamie's compressions forced Zara's entire body to rock in rhythm on the bed. The bed itself rattled as the force translated into the frame. Tilly was aware of all the motion around her, perfectly alert to everything, including the slight squeak of the door as it opened, as Anna returned. Tilly looked over her shoulder, still squeezing the bag. The expression on Anna's face was a grim one, and in her hand was a small box.

Carl let out a sigh. "Trish." He said, nodding at the defib as she finished inserting the ALS drugs. He stepped out of the group around the bed, heading around to Anna. Anna flashed Tilly a sad smile before turning to her husband.

* * *

"It was these." She said, handing over the box. "The pills match the description." She sighed as Carl opened the box and tipped the blister of pills into his hand. "Just one. Just one pill did this to her." Anna voice was filled with her melancholy and second-hand regret. Carl looked them over, then put them back in the box. He took a couple of steps away, to place the box by the computer, making sure it was out of the way and wouldn't accidently get cleaned away. "Is there anything more we can do?"

Carl looked over at Zara and gave a half shrug. "A hemoperfusion machine is on its way down. We'll give it a try, but once things have progressed this far..." He blew out a breath. "It's already in her cells. There won't be much in her blood stream to filter out." Anna's head dropped and she leaned into him slightly. He gave her a short embrace. "We'll still give her every chance we can."

"I know you will." Anna whispered, before easing back from him, letting him get back to work. She crossed her arms, holding herself tightly as she leaned back against the desk watching the team do their best.

"Marie, can you get hemoperfusion access in one of her legs, just like lines for dialysis?" Carl asked over the sounds of the attempts to save Zara. She nodded and paused for just a moment as she counted off cupboards, then headed directly to the correct one. Anna was mildly impressed by that. A lot of agency nurses could struggle with the location of various items, especially those that were rarely used. Anna herself couldn't remember the last time she'd needed to be in that cupboard while a patient was in the room. Marie was coming back with the wrapped-up tray when the telltale bleeps of the defib rang out.

Trish ordered the team to pause once again, and Anna watched on as Zara's entire body twitched savagely as the shock jolted through her. A shiver ran down Anna's spine, one of her hands drifting down to the scars on her abdomen. This was the same room where the battle for her own life had almost been lost. She still had real no memory of that day. By the time she was in this room her heart had already stopped. But even before that, there was little more than flashes, and the almost certainly imagined formless void where she had fought against the encroaching darkness. She steeled herself. She was coming back to work here. She had to face it head on.

The mood in the room dropped a notch, as the ringing alarm of the monitor persisted, but the trace on the screen changed, the high peaked saw teeth giving way to the more randomly shivering chaos of ventricular fibrillation. Zara's heart was now shuddering within her chest, desperately trying to beat, but unable to do so.

* * *

"Ok, she's in VF. Tilly, can you take over compressions?" Carl asked as he held out a hand for the ambu bag.

"Yeah." She replied, moving around as Jamie stepped back. She climbed up, weaving her fingers together as she did, bringing them to rest on Zara's sternum. She could feel the heat of the young woman's skin. Even though she had lost circulation, the fire inside her was still burning, consuming the energy of her cells, turning it into the heat that was destroying her. She took a split second to adjust the position of her hands, unnoticeable to any of the others, lining them up perfectly the deliver the best chest compressions she could. This was only the second time she had done them on a real living person. Or real dying person, she considered, her hands plunging down two inches, forcing down Zara's ribs and crushing her heart against her spine to artificially pump blood through her body.

"Good." Carl encouraged her. "Kneel on the bed if you need more leverage." He advised. Tilly simply nodded, recognising the benefits of the suggestion, but not wanting to break the rhythm she had already found. It was such a repetitive motion, she was able to keep track of what was going around her. Marie had gotten the large double lumen catheter unpacked and had pulled Zara's leg to one side, taking a stance looking towards Zara's gently waving feet. She used one arm to restrain the leg and find the spot, as she deftly lined up the catheter itself for insertion.

Behind Tilly the door squeaked again, a technician entering with the hemoperfusion machine. It was similar to a dialysis machine, in form as well as function. The key difference was the precise form of filtration. Unlike the standard dialysis machine, the one for hemoperfusion used a cartridge containing either activated charcoal, or in this case, a special resin that would bind toxins without affecting the primary blood cells.

"Over there, get it ready please." Carl told the technician, who look somewhat incredulous at the scene before him. Hemoperfusion was occasionally brought down to the trauma rooms on an emergency basis, but not during active resuscitation measures. Tilly could almost see him thinking You're closing the stable door after the horse has bolted. But, he clearly wasn't paid enough to contradict one of the most notable doctors working at the hospital. He rolled the machine to the bottom of the bed, assisting Marie with getting it setup. They quickly primed the lines, flushing them of air and ensuring the connection to the filtering column was secure. The input and output lines from the machine were attached to the respective ports on the catheter and moments later Zara's blood was being pumped through the circuit, where the biochemical resin in the column leached out toxins.

"Right, that's almost 2 minutes since the last shock." Carl announced, foregoing the interim minute so that the hemoperfuser could be sorted. Trish set the defib to charge, while Tilly maintained her compressions. She was beginning to feel the strain in her back, and when the defib was ready and Carl ordered the team to clear Zara's body, she was grateful to lean back and stretch it out. The shock jolted Zara's body, her arm flicking out to the edge of the bed, her fingers falling just over the side, nails clinking against the lowered rail almost imperceptibly.

"No change." Trish told the team, even though they were all looking at the monitor.

"Let's keep it going." Carl said, "Give her another round of drugs. If we get a pulse back she might have a chance." His tone gave away his lack of confidence in even that first step. But Tilly caught the way his eyes glanced over at Anna. He'd seen what some would call a miracle before.

* * *

Anna looked into Carl's eyes during that short glance. He wasn't in too deep. There were times he would throw his entire sense of self into his work, fighting against the grimmest odds to the point of sacrificing a part of himself. She knew she was included in that data set, and was eternally thankful. But that wasn't what she saw when their eyes met. He was looking to her for direction. Submitting to her emotional involvement in this case. As a mother. Anna gave the tiniest smile, recognising his belief in her, but she shook her head ever so slightly as she dropped her gaze. She'd seen the database results about the chemical, she knew how bad this was. Her heart ached for the girl on the bed, and that girl's mother, who Anna desperately hoped had only the best intentions. But this wasn't a time to go all-in. Play it out, give it the best shot you had, but no one would argue with the outcome in this situation.

Anna watched as Tilly clambered onto the gurney, kneeling beside Zara to gain the better leverage as her hands landed on the young woman's chest, glistening as sweat continued to well out of every pore. Zara's chest collapsed inwards and sprung back with each compression, an artificial beating her of heart that showed on the monitor beneath the chaotic electrical activity. The room had gone quiet, settling into that grim routine when there was little else to do but persist with their current interventions. The bed clinked, wires and tubes rattling against the frame, while the hemoperfusion machine hummed. The ice bath, almost forgotten, gurgled as it's water circulated needlessly. The monitor's alarms continued to ring, but faded into the background for the team. They'd be aware of any change in the tones, but otherwise it was simply ignored.

A glance at the clock told Anna that it had been around five minutes since Zara's heart had lost it's rhythm. There was still time. Still a sliver of hope. But both were trickling away.

#cpr #anna swift #defib #medical drama #resus writing #intubation #dark cardiophilia

33 notes · View notes

arcane-ish · 2 months ago

Text

more young zaundads ramblings

I like the idea of them being robbers, honestly. It's very dashing in a stagecoach robber kind of way but I'm personally less interested in the robin hood style (we steal and all of our crime activity is for the good of all). I'm more interested in what we see in canon - druglord silco does bring money and employment into the Lanes but it comes at the cost of violence and loss of community. I do think a mining story of union power, of strikes and rising up against the owners would be fascinating to read.

@out-there-tmblr I think above all the flashback did a number on the timeline. Because it establishes that they had the Last Drop even before Vi was born, so they had it for several years.

Like I think before season 2, you could maybe headcanon for example that Silco and Vander were criminals and smugglers (or miners who do their one big stike on the bridge and get attacked for it), and after their falling out Vander decided to become a bar owner instead and that was his way of doing "I want to be peaceful now, I want to change my life". (it's not fully possible, because I think the fact that Silco moves in there already hints that Silco might know the place and have an attachment (plus Amanda's statements), but it could have been somebody else's bar that they just did their crime business at and after The Bridge Vander decides to buy it)

Or they could have been debt ridden, always pushed down, no opportunity miners who scrape together money and just barely eke out buying a pre-existing bar shortly before their falling out.

My guess is that the writers did it because they wanted:

Silco and particularly Vander to have a longer pre-existing relationships with the girls and the mother of the girls

for Vi to have a relatively happy childhood

But this by happenstance gives Silco and Vander those couple of years between Felicia's pregnancy announcement and Felicia's death where they presumably are at least somewhat settled in.

And the stress of building up a community I imagine to be slightly different from the stress of let's say plotting an active revolution (ie recruiting and nagivating different groups, handling spies, losing people to arrests, buying and hiding weapons) or the stress of running a criminal enterprise. Again those thing could still have been running in parallel (ie they get the bar, they build up the Lanes, but they are still doing political business or crime business) and just Vi wasn't really aware of it.

It's still intensely interesting to me, if Cassandra was running around doing things that at least feel charitable to her, why are Silco and Vander in agreement that the Pilties are not somebody you can bargain with/go to help for?

Because despite their falling out... it's kind of interesting how despite being apart, Vander and Silco still agree on the basic idea that Piltover should not mingle with Zaun. They just disagree on whether "Piltover agents of government should not come into Zaun" should be achieved, through force or through making deals. They both advocate for some sort of autonomy and that stands in contrast to what Vi, Caitlyn and Jayce propose, namely that the problem is Piltover's neglect, that the cities should come closer together, that Piltover should help out Zaun more.

Even though Vander fell out with Silco over the methods, he still seems to agree with the overall goal that he doesn't want too much Piltie involvement in Zaun and wants the cities to be apart. They both are more inclined towards autonomy/segretation rather than integrating/joining the cities.

Like that kind of distrust would make sense to me if the ventilation things had happened before Silco and Vander's time and they are young bucks who just take them for granted and don't know their history. (I think that works really well for your story that it's just topside doing mysterious topside things without asking them and paying them better and disappearing again, if Cassandra ever did a PR event with the miners she did it somewhere where Vander and Silco could never take part) But it still seems odd to me that even if asking Topside for help is never considered, not even trying to sucker some bleeding heart rich people (considering better off people doing charity like running orphanages or convents or poor houses (even if it was for selfish reasons with a veneer of charity) was a factor in the beginning of the industrial revolution era that seems to have inspired the setting)

It could make sense if Topside people just seem so insanely far away to them that they never consider it (even though post time skip "Silco the industrialist" presumably mingles with them or is capable of mingling with them). Or if they had concrete negative experience where working together was tried and blew up in their faces.

BTW, if the Lanes were not supposed to be a thing before Vander and Silco, it is interesting to think about where did miners live before? Like I can imagine there are these deep poisonous mines that people need protective gear to work in, but Piltover is pushing for them to be mined. But either you are so good with handling poison you live in the Sumps or you still have to live in Promenade level and above. That would imply that maybe the cost of living there is insanely high and it's very overcrowded. It might also imply that Piltover might actually have to pay well or use a lot of force to get people to go down there.

And Silco and Vander in a way offered both an affordable housing option [I, I probably have a real world meta on affordable housing in me] and alternative job paths. (ie something I could easily picture would be if Piltover can exert a lot more control on promenade level and maybe there all shops need permits and Silco and Vander are like: naw, with us people don't and that's why they hate enforcers coming down there so much, because enforcers are always trying to come down, get people for missing permits or trying to "clean out the illegal slum". (yes I just watched a video on the Kowloon Walled City)

One of the most low key fascinating lines to me has also been the one from Silco about topside leaving them behind. Like I think there is a really interesting potential story in there that maybe when Silco and Vander were young mining was really important to topside and if it's important to the economy then strikes actually start to matter. And maybe Vander and Silco could actually leverage that into real power.

But then Piltover disovers hextech and suddenly hextech crystals become the hot new commodity. Very similar to the economy shifting from coal to oil, causing coal miners to lose their jobs while the powerful start wars in far away countries to get to the oil (just like Piltover beginning to mine in Ixtal). And Silco maybe having to go through the culture shock of the methods that worked in his youth no longer work. (all the more interesting that he is willing to give up their unique economic resource, Shimmer, for the sake of freedom)

From a shippy point of view, I think there is potential there in that Vander and Silco had something concrete they shared and built up and watched grow and tried to defend. That is was their baby as Felicia is raising hers.

#arcane #arcane analysis #silco #vander #zaundads #vanco

26 notes · View notes