#linear high bay

[buildmyplaceweb]

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[nothingbutleds0]

Ultimate Guide to Buying LEDs Online

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[liteunite]

Buy LED Panel Online – What Are The Things To Consider

Thanks to the developments that have been noted along the improvement of LED technology, it is now possible to have quality access to lighting solutions that are energy efficient. For the residential, commercial, and public building sectors, LED lighting is selected as the preferred lighting solution based on lifetimes, product efficiency, and sustainability. Two special ones, both serving different yet visibly important functions in improving how the environment of living and working is shaped.

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Therefore, whether one wants to buy LED panel online for interior use or LED street light for exterior use, there are enormous economic, energy, and efficacy returns that can prompt an individual to make the shift.

[e2lightinginternationalinc]

Linear LED High Bay Lights

Illuminate Texas spaces with unparalleled efficiency using Linear LED High Bay Lights. These state-of-the-art lighting solutions from E2 Lighting offer superior brightness and energy efficiency. Perfect for warehouses, industrial facilities, and large commercial spaces, our Linear LED High Bay Lights in Texas deliver powerful illumination, ensuring a well-lit environment for optimal productivity. Upgrade your lighting system today for brighter, more cost-effective results.

[thepencilnerd]

Echo

pairing: Jack Abbot x doctor!Reader summary: Under the bright lights of a fundraising gala, what began as polite smiles and veiled jabs unravels into something far more intimate. Between rooftop confessions, quiet grief, and a night neither party can take back, something buried for years finally comes undone. warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content (semi-public sex, f!reader), blood and trauma in a hospital setting, description of medical procedures and deaths genre/notes: slow burn, frenemies to lovers (much banter), robby cameo + being a father figure, heavy angst + heavy fluff, hurt/comfort, emotionally repressed idiots in love, non-linear timeline, one (1) very touch-starved man, abbot down bad for his s.o. and def has a pain kink, balcony sex + confessions, pwp word count: 9k a/n: love letter to grief, rooftop confessions, and all the things left unsaid (+ shameless, self-indulgent smut), basically i saw this dress on pinterest and i—

The hospital’s annual fundraiser was all overpriced wine and board member schmoozing—the kind of thing Jack Abbot usually avoided. He and Robby had spent the better part of the week arguing with Gloria about why they really didn’t need to be the ones attending.

“But who better to represent the emergency department than its finest?” Gloria had smiled with teeth. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer we reallocate your trauma bay supply order for next fiscal quarter?"

Abbot had muttered something under his breath. Robby had called it extortion. Gloria had walked away victorious.

“If she reassigns our trauma supply budget one more time, I swear to God I’m quitting,” Robby had muttered, though they both knew he wouldn’t.

“Right there with you, brother,” Jack had said dryly.

Which was how he ended up in a suit, lingering by the bar with his tie already loosened.

The gala was obscene in its extravagance. A live string quartet played near the grand staircase. Crystal chandeliers caught every glint of champagne. Rich donors floated from one hors d'oeuvre table to the next, laughing politely and stuffing their faces with canapés that probably cost more than a full day of supplies for the ER.

It made Jack sick.

Not the donations—he appreciated those. Hell, the hospital needed them. But the tone of it, the way money moved through the room like perfume: thick, cloying, and designed to mask something rotten underneath. The people here didn’t know what a trauma bay smelled like at 3 a.m. They didn’t care. They were here to write a check, slap their name on a wing, and pretend it made them saints.

Jack took a sip of his club soda and stared at the bottom of his glass.

He wanted to gouge his eyes out. He just wasn’t sure which fork to use.

Scanning the room, his eyes landed on Robby across the space, mid-conversation with a bejeweled donor who looked like she’d never set foot inside a hospital ward. Robby’s eyes caught Jack’s for the briefest second and widened—just enough to scream help me. Jack raised his glass and shot him a wink.

Then he saw you. He'd recognize your stride anywhere. 

What he definitely hadn’t expected was the red satin dress.

Floor-length, plunging back, slit high at the left thigh, the kind of fabric that caught the light like it was trying to start a fire. When you walked into the room, it was almost as though time stopped. You were across the room, charming some rich donor, laughing politely as he fumbled through a question about pediatric trauma outcomes.

Jack didn’t hear the question. He didn’t hear your answer either.

As you turned away from the donor, your bright smile dropped like a mask torn off. Your jaw clenched. You let out a tight breath through your nose, barely more than a sigh. It was the kind of reaction only someone who’d seen you under a hundred different kinds of stress might catch.

Then you looked up and locked eyes with him. You froze.

Goddamn did Jack Abbot look good in a suit.

Salt-and-pepper curls styled just enough to look deliberate, not overdone. The tux hugged his frame perfectly—sharp at the shoulders, tailored at the waist, cutting the kind of silhouette that belonged on a magazine cover instead of an ER floor. He’d even opted for a close shave, his normally stubbled facial hair absent. And his tie—loosened just a touch too much—left a sliver of his throat visible, collar open like he’d tried to behave and gave up halfway through the evening.

You didn’t smile. Neither did he.

But neither of you looked away.

The first time you met Dr. Jack Abbot, you were fresh off your fourth twelve-hour day shift that week. For the first two years of your residency, you’d been under Robby’s wing—solid, day-shift training, plenty of first-time experiences, and a support system that kept you steady. But when it came time to switch rotations, it was Robby who recommended you move to nights.

"More fast-paced," he’d reasoned. "Higher stakes. They could use your skills. You’re ready."

You’d heard about Jack Abbot by then. Everyone had. Ex-military. Brilliant. Demanding. A damn good trauma attending, and an even tougher mentor. You were equal parts intrigued and warned.

The ED hallway was buzzing, but you didn’t miss the way Jack paused as you approached. He glanced at your badge, then at your posture—upright, composed, betraying none of the exhaustion you carried—and finally at the trauma board.

“Hope you’re fast,” was all he said, voice low and dry, like a test he didn’t expect you to pass.

Turns out, you were more than fast. You were precise. Efficient. Clinical.

When a GSW came in thirty minutes later—a young man with a single penetrating wound to the upper abdomen—you and Abbot stepped in together. He hung back just enough to supervise, giving you space to lead the resuscitation while staying close.

You scanned the vitals: hypotensive, tachycardic, altered mentation. “GSW to the upper abdomen, likely mesenteric involvement. Initial BP was 80/40 with HR in the 130s, GCS at 13 but trending downward. Type and crossmatch. Two units O-neg. Prep for a laparotomy?” you asked, assessing quickly as you reached for gloves. Abbot nodded once, already handing you a sterile gown without a word.

He didn’t stop you, but he didn’t let you coast either.

“What’s your plan if the pressure doesn’t stabilize after the second unit?” he asked as you both finished gowning up.

“Call for a third, reassess fluid responsiveness, consider vasopressors if no improvement,” you replied, already focused.

“And if there’s massive hemoperitoneum?”

“Prioritize source control. Suction, pack, find the bleeder.”

Jack gave a small, approving hum. Then you glanced back at him, sharp, poised. He was holding out the handle of a blade to you—steady, without fanfare.

“I’m not handling it,” he said matter-of-factly. “You are.”

You blinked once, then reached for the blade. Gloved fingers curled around the handle as the rest of the room faded into peripheral noise. It was your show now—and he was trusting you to lead it.

The team moved quickly. You made the incision, suctioned blood, clamped the bleeder—a mesenteric vessel torn clean. Laparotomy pads soaked in seconds. Abbot kept an eye on the monitor, watching your hands. You found the source and controlled it, methodical and focused, with Jack’s quiet presence steady behind your shoulder.

Jack nodded once, the faintest glimmer of something like approval in his eyes. After the patient was wheeled off to the OR, gloves off and adrenaline still thrumming beneath your skin, he tossed you a saline flush and a towel. The rest of the team was still moving in organized flurries, cleaning up the bay, resetting trays, pulling down blood-streaked drapes. You peeled off your gloves slowly, breath catching up to you now that the adrenaline was fading.

The smell of antiseptic, blood, and sweat clung to everything. Your scrub top was damp with effort. And still, Jack hadn’t said anything else. Just watched you like he was recalibrating something in his head. Taking the measure of you.

“Not bad,” he said.

You raised a brow. “Not bad?”

He smirked. “Guess we’ll keep you. Though I should probably check the return policy with Robby before the trial period ends.”

Then, lower—just for you: “Though going nipples to navel on that first cut? That’s no man’s land. Bit too risky of a procedure for me to do myself.”

You blinked, thrown off your axis, trying to decide if he was being sarcastic or sincere—or both. “What?”

But Jack was already walking away, gloves off, like he hadn’t just left you standing there like a deer in headlights.

You weren’t expecting to see him either.

Jack Abbot in a tux. Sharp lapels. Cuffs neat. Hair styled but slightly tousled like he hadn’t quite figured out how to look formal without messing it up on purpose. Heat rose to your face, tinting it the color of the rosé being served tonight. 

Turning around, you reached for a flute of champagne to occupy your thoughts. He’d just crossed the room, weaving past a pair of donors discussing their latest golf fundraiser, his eyes never leaving you. The clink of glass and silver faded just enough for you to hear the soft brush of his dress shoes stop beside yours.

“Red,” he said, nodding toward your dress. "Didn’t think it was in your rotation." He caught the soft trace of your perfume just as you inhaled the quiet warmth of his cologne. 

You arched a brow. “Tux? Let me guess—last worn at prom?”

He huffed a laugh. The corner of his mouth tilted. "Wouldn't you like to know."

“Not really,” you smirked.

He leaned a little closer, voice low. "How’d Gloria rope you into this mess?"

You took a sip of champagne, letting the bubbles fizz on your tongue before replying, “She said the hospital needed a pretty face for the press photos.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “And you volunteered willingly, I assume?”

“I did. She said she wanted someone who wasn’t going to mention sock puppets in his opening speech.”

Jack tilted his head. "So you pointed her to literally anyone but me and Robby."

You smiled into your glass. “You and Robby are very pretty. Just not ‘donate-millions-of-dollars’ pretty.”

He cracked a grin. “Fair enough.”

You both leaned back slightly, falling into a rare pocket of easy quiet.

“If I'm being honest,” he said after a breath, “these things make my skin crawl. Donors patting themselves on the back for saving lives they’ve never seen.”

“Agreed,” you murmured. “It’s like they want the moral gold star without the 2 a.m. trauma call. Or the third straight shift without sleep.”

Jack glanced sideways at you. “Or the resident paycheck that barely covers rent.”

You let out a dry laugh. “And definitely not the part where we spend a decade training, rack up six figures of debt, and still have to fight for safe staffing ratios.”

He nodded once, quiet. “But hey, at least they get their name etched onto a plaque of a hallway they'll get lost in.”

"God," you sighed. "I'd love to switch places with them for a day." 

Jack snorted. “Five minutes in a trauma bay and they’d be crying into their cufflinks.”

You were about to take another sip when you paused. “You realize you’re wearing cufflinks.”

“Which is why I’m drinking soda instead of champagne. Keeps me grounded.”

A quiet breath escaped you, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Your commitment to moral superiority is truly inspiring.”

He gave you a narrowed look, not quite smiling but close. “Someone’s gotta keep the place honest.” 

You smiled to yourself, looking down and shaking your head, before excusing yourself to go charm another cluster of donors. “See you around—Jack.”

You’d only ever said his first name once before.

He noticed.

Jack stood there a second too long, stunned, watching your retreating back like he wasn’t sure what just happened—or why it mattered so much.

The patient was coding. Jack was tied up in Room 3 with a liver lac. You were alone when Trauma 2 rolled in—blunt trauma, hypotensive, bleeding out.

You didn’t wait. “I need two large-bore IVs, rapid sequence intubation kit, and thoracotomy tray—stat,” you barked to the team, already moving. “Start the MTP now.”

You slid the laryngoscope in cleanly, tube placed with practiced precision.

“Vitals are dropping,” a nurse called out.

“I know,” you forced out. “Keep pushing the units.”

The tray snapped open beside you. You didn’t hesitate. Just in case.

Abbot walked in right as you pulled your hands back, already prepped.

His eyes flicked from the open thoracotomy tray to the line placement to your gloved hands, bloody up to the wrists. He froze mid-step.

Then, without missing another beat, he stepped in beside you. “What the hell?” he muttered, voice low and calm. He didn’t raise it. He never did when it really mattered.

His presence was immediate—like someone flipping a switch—and suddenly the entire bay adjusted to him, calibrated around the two of you.

You didn’t look at him. Just adjusted your grip and said, “Vitals holding. Pressure’s up.”

“Balloon’s a little high,” he murmured, his voice almost too soft to hear over the hum of monitors.

You didn’t flinch, but your pulse jumped. “Adjusted,” you said, fingers tightening slightly on the handle as you recalibrated, eyes glued to the screen.

A beat passed. Then another.

The pressure crept upward. Slowly. Steadily.

The patient stabilized.

You exhaled quietly through your nose, trying to ignore the chill of adrenaline threading down your spine. Jack was still watching you—too closely. And you couldn’t tell if he was impressed or pissed or both. He didn’t say anything for a long moment.

When you finally looked up, his eyes locked with yours—steady, unreadable, searching like he was still deciding how angry he was allowed to be.

“You never should’ve done that without approval from an attending,” he said quietly, the words measured but firm, laced with something heavier beneath the surface.

You nodded, jaw clenched. “Understood.”

Jack stepped closer. Lowered his voice.

“But that was pretty badass. You just saved a life. Good job.”

Then he turned and left the trauma bay. The moment lingered—his words echoing in your ears louder than they should have.

Every pair of eyes seemed to shift away once he left, the noise of the trauma bay gradually returning to its usual rhythm. Monitors beeped. Carts wheeled past. Gloves peeled off with a quiet snap and hit the bin. Hands—steady during the crisis—now trembled faintly.

Pride lingered. So did fear. And you weren’t sure which feeling was winning.

Outside by the nurses' bay, Jack was leaning against the wall, one foot braced behind him, chart in hand but not moving. His gaze was distant—somewhere far beyond the clipboard. A crooked smirk ghosted across his lips, then faded as quickly as it had come. He was still thinking about what you'd done. How steady your hands had been. How much you'd grown.

He’d been impressed. He’d also been scared.

That kind of procedure… it wasn’t something he’d ever do lightly. And you? You hadn’t hesitated. Not out of recklessness, but because you’d known it was the right call. The only call.

"Ballsy," he muttered under his breath. "Damn near reckless."

But his chest swelled—quietly, privately—with something that felt a lot like pride.

The third time you ran into each other that night, it wasn’t by accident.

You were leaning against a balcony railing, champagne nearly gone. One glass hadn’t been enough to drown out the unbearable jargon and vapid conversations—but you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t go overboard tonight. Just enough to appear socially well-versed. 

The night had cooled, the breeze brushing goosebumps along your bare arms. Jack found you there, hands in his pockets, jacket unbuttoned, eyes catching on the subtle shiver that moved through your frame.

“You always hide from donors this early?” he asked.

You didn’t need to turn to know it was him. You’d heard those footsteps enough times to recognize the rhythm—the soft, sure cadence of someone who never rushed but never wandered. A grin tugged at the corner of your mouth before you could stop it. Subtle. Reflexive. Familiar.

“Only the boring ones.”

He smirked and stepped beside you, pulling his jacket off with one fluid motion.

Before you could say anything, he draped it over your shoulders—slow, deliberate. His fingers brushed your bare arm on the way down. The heat of him lingered even through the fabric. And then there was the scent of his cologne—clean, sharp, and grounded by something warmer beneath it. The scent made your chest ache with something unnameable—familiar, steady, a little too easy to lean into. It curled in your lungs, lingered in the back of your throat. Your knees dipped slightly, an involuntary response you buried with practiced ease. You’d never admit that, of course. Not even to yourself.

“You’ll freeze,” he said, voice quiet, almost an afterthought.

You didn’t correct him. Just glanced up. He was already looking at you.

“You look good,” he said finally.

Your brow raised.

“In red,” he added, softer this time.

You didn’t say thank you. Just looked at him. Let it sit there for a moment—heavy, a little too charged to touch.

"If you keep being nice to me, people are going to start wondering if the sodas were spiked."

That earned you a low chuckle, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in that infuriatingly subtle way he smiled when he actually meant it.

"Guess I'll have to ruin it with a sober insult later," he said.

You gave him a dry stare. "Looking forward to it."

The air between you tightened, warm and brittle. He shifted just slightly closer, like something unspoken pulled him there.

You shot him a sidelong glance, trying to smother the tension with humor. “Don’t you have some attractive widows to go butter up?”

His lips twitched. “Already secured donations from all of them,” he said, only half joking. Then, quieter, with a faint shrug: “None of them were interesting.”

That gave you pause.

“I prefer women with poor work-life balance and sharp comebacks.” He looked at you again, the curve of his mouth bordering on a real smile now. "You?"

"Hm," you hummed to yourself. "I prefer women with competitive streaks and sharp eyeliner. And men with stress-induced insomnia, commitment issues, and the emotional availability of a damp dishrag."

Jack huffed out a quiet laugh. "Bold of you to describe my entire personality like it's a turn-on."

"If the shoe fits," you murmured, toying with your empty glass.

He looked at you then—really looked. Head tilted just enough to feel like he was trying to read something between the lines.

"It’s always the sharp ones," he said. "Cut deepest, don’t they?"

Your lips twitched. "Funny. I was just thinking the same about emotionally repressed men in positions of authority."

"Touché." 

But neither of you moved further.

Jack’s voice lowered, something quieter threading through. “You know, for what it’s worth… I notice. How hard you work. How much you give.”

That caught you off guard. The words settled in your chest, raw and warm. You swallowed around them.

“Then I hope you notice how often it gets overlooked,” you said, voice softer now. “By everyone else.”

His eyes flicked toward yours, something unreadable in them. Like he wanted to say something else. Like maybe he would.

“Hey!”

Robby’s voice cut through the air like a 10-blade.

You turned, blinking back to the present. Robby's head was poking out of the curtains, waving a hand. “Sorry to interrupt your… mood lighting, but I need to help charm this silver fox donor who won’t stop talking about his golf handicap and yacht collection. Won’t stop asking for the 'hot doctor with attitude.' So naturally, I assumed he meant you.”

You glanced back at Jack, reluctant.

He gave you a nod, but didn’t say anything. Just watched you go.

Before you turned to leave, you slid the jacket from your shoulders and held it out to him. Jack stepped forward to take it, but his fingers brushed yours—warm, lingering, just a second longer than necessary. 

His jaw tightened for half a breath—barely perceptible—before he masked it, reaching to take the jacket with a small nod. His fingers brushed yours again as he pulled it into his arms. The warmth still clung to it—so did your scent. Subtle, familiar, something floral and grounding. It curled in his chest as he inhaled, slow and quiet, like he didn’t mean to. As you walked away, you felt the weight of his gaze follow you—sharp, lingering, impossible to shake. Like he was still holding something back—he wasn’t quite ready to let you go.

Once you were gone, he allowed himself to bring the jacket up to his face and breathe in lightly, letting the remaining trace of you settle in his lungs. It lingered—clean, unmistakable, and quietly devastating.

With each year, the line between rivalry and familiarity blurred just a little more.

It wasn’t just that you were the senior-most resident anymore—it was that you were his senior-most resident. The one who matched him pace for pace in trauma bays, who called out orders with the same clipped authority, who rolled your eyes at his sarcastic one-liners only to throw them right back at him.

Jack gave you a hard time. You gave it right back.

It started as cold professionalism. Then it turned sharp. Competitive. Then somehow... comfortable.

“Think you can manage this without slicing through the aorta this time?” Jack murmured once during a late night thoracotomy.

“Only if you don’t pass out from blood loss first, old man,” you replied smoothly.

“Old man,” he repeated under his breath. “Remind me why I let you lead in my trauma bay?”

“Because I’m the best.”

He didn’t respond. Just passed the next instrument with a soft, resigned smirk.

There was a night Shen caught you both bickering over a chart like a married couple.

"The guy had a fever and a murmur—of course I’m thinking endocarditis," you said, exasperated, scribbling into the margins.

"And I’m saying we still need to rule out pulmonary embolism first," Jack shot back, arms crossed, watching you like a hawk.

"I’m writing the note," you reminded him.

"Are you going to type it up for me too?"

"If you want it to be legible."

Jack scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

That’s when Shen passed by, shook his head, and muttered under his breath, "Just kiss already."

Neither of you responded. Jack’s pen stilled in his hand. You didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at you.

But later that night, as you leaned against the med station reviewing labs, he passed behind you, fingers grazing your lower back as he brushed by.

Casual. Too casual. And yet, your breath caught anyway.

You didn’t talk about it.

You never talked about it.

But it was there, all the same.

Back inside, the ballroom lights felt too bright. You smiled at a passing donor, glass still in hand, but your mind was still outside—on the breeze, on his jacket, on the way Jack had looked at you like he wasn’t ready to let you go.

You found yourself drifting toward the edge of the room, eyes scanning unconsciously. Jack had disappeared into the crowd.

Or so you thought.

“Looking for me?”

You turned to see him at your side again, now holding two drinks—one club soda, one bubbling glass. 

You raised an eyebrow. “Trying to get me trashed on overpriced spirits, Dr. Abbot?”

“I would, if this were alcohol.” He offered the glass to you. “It’s ginger ale.”

You eyed it suspiciously, then took it anyway. “Classy.”

He tilted his head, lips twitching. “You called me Jack earlier.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” The bubbles soothed your stomach, uneasy from all the talking and dizzy heights of empty small talk. 

The quiet pressed in, heavy and hesitant, neither of you quite ready to fill it—but neither willing to walk away. 

“Well, Dr. L/N,” he said, tone dipping into something light but curious, “how do you plan on spending the rest of your evening?”

You gave him a half-smile. “Getting some sleep. Or trying to.” You looked back out across the ballroom, then added, “I talked to Robby earlier—offered to be on-call for day shift tomorrow. Filling in for Langdon.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “Aren't you supposed to be off?”

“Yup. So are you,” you said, glancing at him.

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t deny it. You both knew the pattern by now—same days off, same shifts. Neither of you had ever pointed it out.

“What else would I do on a Friday?” There was something brittle in the joke, something quieter under it. “Work keeps me occupied.” 

Jack watched you for a second longer, then said, softer this time, “You shouldn’t have to keep yourself occupied. It's okay to take a breather.”

You let out a dry breath of a laugh, the edge of a smile curling—biting, but small. “That’s rich coming from the only other person who works as many shifts as I do.”

Jack didn’t answer. He just stepped a little closer.

“You could’ve said no to being on-call,” he said. “Could’ve said you had plans.”

“I do,” you retorted. “Sleep for three hours. Chug coffee. Go back.”

Jack tipped his head, like he was trying to read more into your tone than you meant to give away. “Y/N—”

The name stopped you cold. You took a half-step back before you could think better of it, reflexive and immediate, voice clipped and low. “Don’t.”

That caught him off guard.

“I—sorry,” he said, brows furrowing slightly. “I just—”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, too quickly. 

Jack looked at you then, something close to understanding flickering in his eyes. As though he remembered, too. How could he forget? 

The first time he'd said your name.

Blood on your scrubs. Tears in your throat. A patient you couldn't save.

He didn’t say anything else. Just nodded once, slowly, and let you go.

Then, just as his mouth parted to say something else—

“Dr. Abbot!” Gloria’s voice rang out from the other end of the ballroom, hand ushering him to come over. “The donor from Penn wants a word before he leaves!”

Jack clenched his jaw. His eyes lingered on yours.

“Rain check,” he said, voice low.

You didn’t answer, just gave a small nod as he walked away. And for a long moment after, you stayed where you were, ginger ale sweating in your hand.

You didn’t know it at the time, but this was the moment you’d remember whenever someone asked when medicine stopped being just medicine.

The trauma call came in: car accident, two parents and a child, maybe 8 or 9. The parents were in rough shape but still awake, still responsive—moaning through cracked ribs and splintered glass. The kid, though—blunt force, GCS 3 on arrival. Completely unresponsive. You felt it in your gut before the vitals even came in. 

Jack was across the bay when the doors opened. He looked up once—nodded at you. “You’re lead. I'll stabilize the parents." 

You didn’t hesitate. Airway, trauma labs, two large-bore IVs. Portable chest. Fast scan. You called it all before the stretcher stopped moving.

The child’s body was limp. Small. Already pale. The pressure in your chest felt like a dam ready to burst. 

You intubated with steady hands, but your voice faltered—just slightly—when you called for epinephrine. Jack appeared beside you somewhere around the second round of compressions, gloves on, silent. Watching. Present.

“Vitals still unstable,” someone called from behind you. “BP 62 over palp. Pulse weak. We’re pushing TXA now.” At least he'd stabilized the parents, you thought. If he could save them, you could save their little girl. 

Four bags of blood and 18 minutes of chest compressions. The monitor stayed flat.

Still, you kept going. Pushing meds. Calling for another round. Someone offered to take over for compressions, murmured that you needed a break. You shook your head. “I’m fine.”

Then again, more firmly. “I’ve got it.”

No one tried to argue. You were lead. You had it.

Even as your arms began to ache. Even as the blood kept pooling, the compressions rhythmically jarring through your bones. You wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t. The team was moving around you, quiet, reverent.

Then Jack stepped in closer.

“Monitor hasn't picked up a rhythm in 12 minutes,” he said gently. “We can't keep up with the blood loss. There's too much internal damage. You know this.”

You shook your head, barely perceptible, and kept going. Compressing, counting, calling for another round of epi.

Jack’s voice stayed level. “Anyone else would’ve been pronounced dead at the scene.”

You ignored him. Just a few more compressions and transfusions and she'd come back. 

Then—

“Y/N.”

That made you freeze.

Your name. His voice.

Your hands were still trembling against the child’s chest.

You looked at the monitor. Heard the continuous tone. Flatline.

No pulse.

“Call it,” Jack pleaded softly.

Your voice was quiet. Hoarse. Cold.

“Time of death, 03:17.”

You stepped back, stripped your gloves off slowly. Fingers stained with blood you couldn’t stop from spilling. Jack said nothing. He didn’t leave.

You swallowed hard, trying to force the tears down. To breathe through the break in your chest.

Jack didn’t touch you this time. He just stood there.

Let you fall apart, silently.

Then you ripped off your gloves and threw them hard into the bin, the sound louder than it had any right to be. You turned and stormed out of the trauma bay without looking back, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

That was the first time he said your name.

And it pulled you back. You never forgot it.

Sometimes you wished you had.

Back inside, the music had changed.

You’d barely rejoined the crowd when the lights dimmed and the emcee called out for the first dance of the evening.

Across the ballroom, Jack saw you before you saw him. You were standing near the edge of the crowd, nursing the last of your drink, the weight of something invisible pressing into your posture.

But you weren’t alone. A tall man—one of the younger donors—had his hand on your arm, leaning in to say something. He offered you his hand.

Jack’s jaw tensed.

He didn’t move—at first. Just watched as you smiled politely, took the man's hand, let him lead you to the dance floor.

It was brief. Chaste. Just a dance. But Jack hated the way the guy's hand lingered at your waist. Hated how close he stood, how you nodded along to something he said, even if your smile didn’t reach your eyes.

A minute later, you gently swapped out with Robby, excusing yourself from your first partner. Robby took your hand with a flourish and spun you once like a game show host. You smiled for the first time in hours. 

"You okay?" he asked gently, settling into a slower sway with you.

You shrugged. "Long week."

Robby gave you a dad-look. "Anything in particular on your mind, or just the usual existential dread?"

A quiet laugh escaped, softer than you meant for it to. "Just the usual, I guess."

For a while, the two of you swayed in silence. Robby’s gaze stayed soft. "You’ve been a little quiet lately. Even more than usual. You sleeping okay? Eating?"

Instead of answering right away, your eyes drifted to his shoulder. "I’m fine."

"You always say that. Doesn’t mean I believe it."

A small, grateful smile curved your lips. Robby always knew how to make space—never too much, never too little. He left the door open without pushing you through it.

"You know I’ve got your back, right kid? You ever need to talk, about anything, even the stuff you think you’re not supposed to say out loud—come find me."

"Thanks, Robby. I mean it."

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze. "I know you do."

A voice cut in—low and smooth.

"Mind if I cut in?"

You turned.

Jack stood there, one hand extended. He didn’t look at Robby. He didn’t need to.

Robby chuckled under his breath and stepped aside. "She’s all yours."

Jack’s eyes met yours, steady and unreadable.

“Dance with me?” he asked, softer than you'd expected.

For a second, you didn’t answer. Your breath caught, mind still echoing with the last time you’d heard him say your name.

But then you nodded—slow, tentative—and slid your hand into his.

He guided you gently into step, the rhythm of the music slower than your pulse. His hand settled against your waist, warm and sure, like it had always belonged there. The other laced with yours, a silent tether.

You moved together with a surprising ease, like muscle memory forged in proximity, not practice. It wasn’t just a dance—it was a conversation. A quiet exchange, careful and cautious. Every shift of weight, every brush of fingers was a sentence neither of you dared speak aloud.

You didn’t look up right away. Couldn't. The proximity was dizzying. It wasn’t the champagne. It was him.

Jack’s voice came, low and even. “You always this good at pretending everything’s fine?”

You finally glanced up, something caught between a smile and a flinch playing on your face. “Only when I’m trying to impress a colleague.”

His mouth twitched, barely. “That why you always pull it together when I’m around?”

You didn’t answer.

Gliding across the floor, you felt like you were floating. And still, the weight of his hand at your waist grounded you.

You weren’t sure which was more dangerous: the silence, or the closeness.

“I used to think if I kept moving, I wouldn’t have to feel any of it,” you said, voice barely above the swell of the music. “But some things catch up to you anyway.”

Jack’s grip shifted slightly, not tighter, just… more present. “Running works—until it doesn’t.”

A beat passed.

“I don’t run,” you said quietly.

He met your eyes. “No. You bury it. Same result, different damage.”

You exhaled through your nose, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Funny. Thought we were dancing, not diagnosing.”

“We can do both,” he said, dry but not unkind. “I go to therapy. You slow dance at charity galas.”

Your gaze flicked to his lips, then away. “Guess my way is cheaper since I'm not paying for any of the wine or dine.”

Jack’s hand at your waist didn’t budge. If anything, it steadied you more.

“Y/N,” he said after a moment, voice gentler now. Like he was handing something over. Like he wanted you to take it.

Your shoulders tensed. Jaw muscles flexed. 

He noticed.

You looked up, met his gaze, and said, quieter than before but with unmistakable weight, “Jack, you’re walking on thin ice.”

He didn’t flinch. But something flickered in his expression—something equal parts affection and surrender.

You only used each other’s names when it mattered.

The only difference was: he loved it. You hated it.

The hospital had quieted for the night, but the kind of quiet that screamed underneath.

You assisted on his last case—another loss, but this one had cut deeper than usual. Maybe it was the way Jack had gone cold, all clinical control and efficiency… until the voice crack. Just a flicker. A tremor. He’d kept going, ordering transfusions, calling vitals, his tone even until it wasn’t. You saw it—behind the focused eyes, there was fear.

You were the one standing next to him when he finally called it.

You found him up there—on the roof—where the city lights couldn’t quite wash out the weight in his shoulders. Jack was staring out past the edge, hands in his coat pockets, the wind catching just enough to make his scrubs flutter at the hem.

You didn’t speak right away. Just stood a few paces behind him, letting your presence fill the space before your voice did.

“I figured I’d find you up here.”

Jack didn’t turn. “Shouldn’t you be home?”

“I had to wrap up some charting.”

A beat.

“They were a veteran,” he said. “Had a daughter who just got into college.”

You took a step closer. “That wasn’t your fault.”

He let out a quiet, humorless sound. “I know. Doesn’t help.”

You hesitated, then moved beside him, standing shoulder to shoulder.

“I must have had a reason at one time to keep coming back," he murmured, “but I can't think of it right now."

You didn’t have an answer.

But you said his name.

“Jack.”

It was the first time you’d said it out loud. Not Dr. Abbot. Not anything guarded. Just him.

He turned then, slowly.

“Don’t shut down on me,” you said. “Not tonight.”

The wind carried your words away, but he heard them. You saw it in the way his jaw tightened. The way his shoulders dropped just slightly.

“I don’t know how to stay,” he said, voice rough. 

“You don’t have to stay alone.”

He glanced at you then—just briefly, like eye contact might split him open.

You searched his face, thinking back to the moment in the trauma bay where he called it. Where his voice cracked but didn’t waver. Where his gloved hands were steady even though his eyes gave him away. You’d never seen him look like that before—so composed, so clinical, and still, so unmistakably human.

The memory stuck to your ribs.

“I know it’s not fair,” you said, voice low. “That we carry the worst of them home. That we never get to know if we were enough.”

Jack didn’t speak. But he didn’t move either. That was something. So you added, a little too soft, “But you are. You are enough.”

A long silence.

Then, to break it—because it felt like too much—you rolled your shoulder and said, “Robby’s gonna kick your ass if you jump off during his shift.”

Jack huffed, the sound barely audible but real.

“Come on,” you added, nodding toward the stairwell. “Let’s get off this roof before someone reports us for loitering.”

You didn't move.

Not yet.

Just stood there in silence, waiting—not because you needed him to follow, but because you weren’t going anywhere without him.

And Jack came. Eventually. Quiet and heavy and slow, the shuffle of his shoes steadying against the roof's concrete.

He didn’t say anything. Just stepped beside you, close enough to share warmth but not break space.

Then you walked. Together. Not quite brushing shoulders, but close enough to feel it. Close enough to stay.

The night had grown heavier.

Somehow, you and Jack had found your way back to the balcony—again. It was quieter out here, the city humming beneath you, wind tugging softly at your hair. Your skin still held the memory of his hand at your waist. The music inside was muffled now, like the two of you had stepped out of the narrative entirely.

Jack leaned against the railing, but his gaze never left you. Something about the way he was looking—like he’d been holding back something for far too long.

You crossed your arms, more to anchor yourself than anything. “You’re staring.”

“You said my name,” he replied, voice low.

Your throat tightened. “You started it.”

He pushed off the railing, slow and deliberate. “You know what I mean.”

You didn’t back away. But your voice came sharper this time, more breath than warning. “Don’t. Don’t start something neither of us can come back from.”

That gave him pause. He looked like he wanted to say something—maybe everything—but bit it back. Jaw tight. Shoulders tense.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” Jack said. “But I can't keep pretending this is nothing.”

With a quiet breath, he confessed. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your heart tripped.

“I try,” he continued, voice cracking. “God, I’ve tried. But you show up in every shift. Every damn quiet moment. I hear your voice when I walk through those doors. I look for you at every trauma call. And when you’re not there, it’s worse.”

You didn’t speak.

“I’ve been through hell,” he went on, stepping closer, “seen things I still don’t have names for—but none of it scares me the way you do. Because this?” He gestured between you. “This is real. And if I say it out loud, I don’t get to pretend anymore.”

Your breath hitched. “Jack…”

He looked at you, eyes tired and wide open. “Say something. Please.”

Your voice came out thinner than you meant. “You're my attending, we’re not supposed to—”

“I don’t care.”

The silence cracked wide open between you.

You let out a breath—shaky, exasperated.

"Fuck," you said, voice breaking. "What do you want me to say? That I can't stop thinking about you either? That I see your eyes every time I close mine—your smile, rare as it is, stuck in my head like a damn echo? That I come home and swear I can still smell your cologne because it’s the only thing that brings me any sense of comfort?"

Your hands were trembling now. You didn’t stop—couldn't.

"Pretending this means nothing is easier than risking what happens if it actually matters. Because if it does—Jack—"

Jack caught you before you could even get the words out. His mouth was on yours, rough and unyielding, and you didn’t stop him. Didn’t want to. You kissed him like you meant it, because fucking hell, did you mean it. 

When your back hit the wall beside the balcony doors with a quiet thud, he pressed closer, hands framing your jaw like you were something to be memorized.

There was nothing polite in the way you touched each other now. Just years of tension, unspoken things, and the desperate need to feel something real.

You didn’t let go.

Neither did he.

His lips trailed lower, brushing the hinge of your jaw before nipping gently at your neck. The sound you made—half breath, half shock—only seemed to spur him on.

“Then don’t pretend,” Jack whispered against your skin, voice rough and reverent. “Let yourself have this. Let us have this.”

Your hands cradled the sides of his face, fingers brushing across his cheekbones. All these years spent by his side and you hadn’t taken the time to admire his freckles.

You leaned in again, pressing your lips to his—slower now, deeper. One of his hands slid down your back, splaying across the small of it as if anchoring you in place. The other tangled into your hair, careful but needing.

You gasped when his hips met yours again, your breath catching between kisses. He pulled back just enough to look at you, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide.

"I need you," you finally said.

And that was all he needed.

He rushed to close the curtains on the inside and lock the balcony doors before returning to you. 

Your world narrowed to the way his mouth reclaimed yours, the press of his body, the heat building like a fuse lit too close to the end. Somewhere in the distance, the city kept moving. But here, in the quiet shelter of the balcony, there was only this.

Jack dropped to his knees, the motion fluid. You sucked in a breath as his hands slid up the backs of your thighs, coaxing one leg upward until your heel hooked over his shoulder. Your foot pressed gently against the curve of his back.

He tugged at the hem of your dress. You were already holding the hem of your dress, bunching it at your hips with practiced ease. The lace of your underwear was delicate, barely in the way—he hooked a finger around the side, sliding it with a slow, deliberate motion that made your breath hitch.

You were already soaked, and the way his eyes flicked up confirmed he knew it. He looked up at you once, eyes dark and unwavering, before leaning in.

His mouth was slow at first—exploring, learning you. The way your breath stuttered when his tongue found a sensitive spot, the way your fingers clenched in his hair. “You taste just as incredible as I imagined,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. When he inserted a finger and curled towards himself, you nearly buckled.

You didn’t mean to cry out, but it slipped past your lips, helpless and raw. Your hand flew up to cover your mouth, which made him smirk. He caught your elbow with his free hand, gently but insistently, pulling your hand away and intertwining your fingers into his hair. You gave his curls a tug and were met with a moan. It was impossible to hide the smug grin that painted your face.

“I want to hear you,” he murmured, voice thick with heat. His voice dipped lower, rougher.

You felt the press of the marble wall cool behind you as your back arched. One hand flew to the wall, the other gripping his shoulder as he kept going—steadfast, focused, like you were the only thing that existed. Like this was something he'd been starving for.

And maybe you had been too. Because every sound, every gasp that left you was honest.

You hiked your knee higher, anchoring your heel along the dip of his back. The dress had long since stopped mattering.

Jack’s grip tightened, one hand digging into the curve of your ass as he anchored you against the wall. His other hand slipped between your thighs, fingers sliding inside you with precision, curling until your legs nearly gave out.

"Jack, I'm—" You moaned into your clenched teeth, the sound too loud, too needy—but he wanted it, taking it in like oxygen.

Your head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, eyes fluttering closed as your breath came in shallow, stuttering waves. He didn’t let up. The rhythm was relentless, mouth and hand working in tandem, dragging you closer to the edge with every sweep, every flick, drinking you like water from a desert oasis. He stopped only when you tapped his cheek twice, silently begging for mercy. 

Your skin glistened, painted with heat. Before he pulled away, Jack leaned in again, his tongue tracing the trails of your release up your inner thigh with slow, savoring strokes. Each pass of his mouth made you twitch, gasp, overstimulated but unwilling to stop. He kissed the soft skin in their wake.

When he finally looked up, his face was just as wrecked, jaw set and glistening with you. And the look in his eyes when he glanced up—hungry, worshipful—was enough to ruin you.

His lips were parted just slightly, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven bursts. “God, you’re perfect.” His eyes lifted to meet yours with something close to divine awe.

It came out quiet—like a confession he'd finally allowed himself to say out loud.

You leaned down and kissed him, tasting yourself on his tongue. He let out a low, contented sound against your mouth, one hand tightening around your thigh, the other still steadying your hip. You could feel the tension in him—tender, aching—as if the moment might slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold it close.

Your fingers slipped into your dress, pulling free a small foil square tucked just inside the cup of your bra. Jack blinked down at it, then back up at you, clearly caught off guard.

He raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

You shrugged, breathless. "Was holding it for a friend."

Jack smirked, eyes dragging down your body. "Sure you were."

You made quick work of his belt, unbuckling it and pushing his pants down just enough.

“He talks too much,” you muttered, smirking.

You looked down.

And stopped.

He was perfect. Cut, trimmed, thick, just the right length. The kind of sight that made your breath hitch. Your hand slid along his length with a few firm pumps—just enough to make him hiss between his teeth.

You couldn't resist. Lowered to your knees, gave him a few languid licks, savoring the taste. He whimpered, his hand gently gripping your hair—but not pulling, not yet.

After a few more pumps, Jack pulled you up by the chin with a bruising kiss, swallowing your gasp.

“I’m not coming anywhere but inside you,” he growled against your lips.

You smiled, teasing. “Maybe next time, then.” Your fingers trailed down the front of his dress shirt, feeling the heat of his body even through the fabric—muscles taut and firm beneath your touch.

Then you turned, facing the wall—cheeks hot, breath short. One hand braced flat against the cool marble, the other gathering the bunched fabric of your dress. You looked over your shoulder, eyes dark with want.

Jack swore under his breath. He moved behind you in a blur, hands rough on your hips as he lined himself up. The heat of him pressed against you, teasing, maddening.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice lower than gravel.

You pushed back, just enough for him to sink in, slow and deliberate. He filled you up inch by inch, warm and hot and perfect, making you gasp as your forehead pressed to the wall.

His hands wrapped around your hips as he bottomed out, his mouth dragging along your neck, teeth grazing your skin until he whispered a sharp, broken "fuck"—more to himself than to you. Like he was trying not to explode.

You tried to move, just a little forward, a little back—restless with need—but his hands tightened.

“Don’t,” he breathed. “Just—just give me a second. You feel fucking incredible.”

“Jack,” you whimpered.

If he clenched his teeth any harder, he might've popped his jaw. "Fuck, I love when you call me by my name."

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Please.”

That undid him.

He gripped your hips tighter, fingertips digging into your supple flesh—just shy of bruising. The pain was delicious, grounding you to every thrust, every second of connection, hips rocking forward, slowly at first—deep, deliberate, like he wanted to feel every inch of you from the inside out. Each thrust sent a spark up your spine, your moans echoing softly. His mouth returned to your neck, biting just enough to leave a mark, his breath hot against your skin.

"You feel too good," he muttered, almost like it hurt. "Too good."

You tried to respond, but the words got lost somewhere in your throat as his pace picked up—harder, deeper, everything building.

Your hands flattened against the wall, bracing yourself as your body rocked with his rhythm. It was dizzying—overwhelming—in all the best ways. Every drag of his hips made your knees tremble, every grunt and growl in your ear pushed you closer to unraveling.

Without warning, he turned you around to face him. His eyes were blown wide, pupils dilated, chest heaving. He lifted your left leg with his right hand, supporting your thigh against his side as he surged forward again.

The angle had you seeing stars—vision spinning as he hit that spot inside you with maddening precision. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as your head dropped forward against his.

Your hands clasped behind his neck, holding tight, desperate to keep him there. You raked your fingers through his curls, tugging hard enough to make him moan—and dragged your nails lightly down the back of his neck, leaving a faint trail of heat in their wake. His mouth found yours again—tongue hot, hungry—kissing you like he needed it to breathe. His left hand anchored you by the hip, grinding you against him as his rhythm deepened, pulling another cry from your throat.

There was nothing left but heat, hands, breath. And the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he'd ever wanted—needed.

"I'm yours," he whispered, forehead resting against yours, voice ragged. It wasn’t a declaration—it was a truth. Raw and full and real.

Your lips brushed his, trembling. “And I’m yours.”

The moment cracked open between you. You kissed him—desperate, hungry, chasing the high you were both barely holding onto.

You felt yourself teetering, the peak just within reach. Jack looked like he was holding back, focusing on keeping every muscle drawn tight with restraint—putting your pleasure before his. But you needed him there with you, completely.

You leaned into his ear, breath hot. “I need you to cum for me, Jack.” His fingers dug deeper into your hip. "I need you to fill me up."  Your knee wrapped tighter around his torso, drawing him impossibly closer as you held him to you, clinging like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. You bit the curve of his neck, sharp and claiming.

That was all it took.

He let out a guttural sound, hips stuttering as he came undone, pulling you with him into a release that felt like freefall—earth-shattering and unrelenting.

Your release crashed through you moments after his, drawn out and all-consuming. Every nerve lit up, your body shaking with the intensity of it. It wasn’t like anything else—no drug, no high. Just him. You. This.

For a long beat, neither of you moved. Your breath came in broken gasps, foreheads pressed together, bodies trembling in the aftermath. Sweaty. Beautiful. And quiet.

Jack’s hand smoothed up your spine, grounding you. His lips brushed your temple, and the world finally began to settle back into place.

He gently brushed strands of damp hair from your face, fingers tender where they swept against your skin. The breeze caught a few pieces, but they clung to the sheen on your cheeks. When you finally let your leg down, your knees buckled slightly. Jack caught you without hesitation—arms strong, sure, keeping you steady as your weight shifted. You clung to him without thinking, hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. When you finally loosened your grip, he didn’t let go right away—his arms still braced around you like muscle memory, like instinct.

Pulling back, you realized what a disheveled mess the two of you were. 

You reached up and smoothed down the front of his shirt, fixing the lapels of his suit, tugging the hem of his jacket into place. Thankfully whatever hair gel he used was bulletproof, only a curl or two out of place. He brushed his fingers along your hairline, gently tucking back strands that had come loose, then adjusted the strap of your dress where it had slipped off your shoulder.

There was a beat of silence—comfortable, but heavy.

Clearing your throat, you tried to gather your thoughts. “I, uh…”

Jack’s eyes remained a little dazed, as if he was still anchoring himself to the moment.

A breath escaped you—half-laugh, half-exhale. “Tea. I was gonna ask if you wanted to come back to mine for tea.”

He blinked once, then his lips quirked.

“Tea?”

“Yeah,” you said, half-smiling. “Or, like… whatever. Just to wind down. You don’t have to.”

Jack shook his head once, slow. “Only if you’re not just holding it for a friend.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. “You’re welcome anytime, Jack. You know that, right?”

His gaze softened. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do.”

You nodded once, awkward and earnest. “Cool. Good. Great.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “You always this smooth after balcony sex?”

You shot him a glare filled with playful menace. "Depends. You always this cocky after someone invites you over for tea?”

He smiled—one of those rare ones, small and sideways. “Only when it’s not just for the tea.”

You groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” he said again, softer this time. “But I’m yours, remember?”

You tilted your head, smirking. “Return policy on that is… nonexistent, right?”

His smile widened just a touch. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

“Careful, Jack. That almost sounded romantic.”

He chuckled, then sobered just enough to meet your eyes. “Maybe it was.”

The breeze danced around you both again, brushing cool air against warm skin. Still, the embers between you remained.

“Come on,” you said, tugging gently at his hand. “Let’s go before someone realizes we’ve been out here defiling the sacred balcony.”

He followed without hesitation. Fingers laced with yours.

This time, neither of you looked back. 

<3

[mariacallous]

A new species of bacteria that functions like electrical wiring has recently been discovered on a brackish beach in Oregon. The species was named Candidatus Electrothrix yaqonensis in honor of the Yaquina tribe of Native Americans that once lived in and around Yaquina Bay, where the bacteria were found.

This species is a type of cable bacteria: rod-shaped microbes that are connected at both ends to one another to create a chain and which share an outer membrane, forming filaments several centimeters long. Cable bacteria are found in marine and freshwater sediments and, unusually among bacteria, are electrically conductive. This is due to their special metabolism, in which electrons generated by oxidizing sulfides in their deeper layers are sent to their surface layer, where they are received by oxygen and nitric acid.

The 25 species of cable bacteria known so far have been organized into two genera, Candidatus Electrothrix, which live in saltwater, and Candidatus Electronema, which live in fresh and brackish water. The new species discovered in this study has the genes and metabolic pathways of both the genera but is believed to be a bridge to an earlier branch of the Candidatus Electrothrix lineage, and so was classified as part of that genus.

The recently discovered species may provide new insights into how cable bacteria evolved and how they can function in diverse environments, Cheng Li, a postdoctoral researcher at Oregon State University and coauthor of the research, explained in a statement.

High Electrical Conductivity

Candidatus Electrothrix yaqonensis is distinct from existing cable bacteria in its appearance. Cable bacteria have outer shells that feature ridges, which spread out like mountains. The ridges of the new species are much thicker than those of previously known species, reaching an average thickness of about 228 nanometers, up to three times thicker than what has been seen before. The new species’ ridges are arranged in a spiral-like pattern on the surface of the filament, and their overall shape is more angular than that of other species.

But the most striking difference is that the new species’ filament is surrounded by a thick, transparent sheath. According to the authors of the paper outlining the discovery, this is a structure not previously seen. This sheath does not conduct electricity and is thought to protect the filament from the environment and foreign enemies.

A filament of Candidatus Electrothrix yaqonensis, the newly discovered species of cable bacteria. Photograph: Photograph: Oregon State University

Inside the new bacteria’s ridge is a fiber containing a nickel-centered metal complex, which functions as a “biological wire” that efficiently transports electrons along the filament. It is as if the structure itself was designed with an engineering intent.

The physical performance of the bacteria as a conductor is impressive. When the researchers placed microscopically isolated filaments on a gold electrode and applied a voltage, a graph showing the change in current and voltage produced a linear, symmetrical I-V curve—implying high electrical conductivity. The new species’ electrical resistance was approximately 370 kilo-ohms, which is equal to or better than that of known cable bacteria.

A Genetic Mosaic

Genomic analysis revealed that the new species has genetic features of both the Candidatus Electrothrix and Candidatus Electronema genera. This phenomenon, where genetically distinct material is intermingled within a single individual, is known as “mosaicism.” For example, this can be seen in the novel bacteria’s cytochrome, a type of protein involved in electron transport. Typically in the genus Candidatus Electrothrix, bacteria have a single heme (a complex composed of a divalent iron atom and a porphyrin). But the new species, like some other types of cable bacteria, is equipped with a cytochrome with two hemes.

This new species is also unique in the way it adapts to saline environments. Candidatus Electrothrix species, which live in saltwater, typically use an electron-transfer enzyme called “sodium-transporting NADH-quinone oxidoreductase (NQR)” to regulate osmotic pressure. But this enzyme is absent in Candidatus Electrothrix yaqonensis, which instead has several proteins— “sodium and proton exchange transporters (NHE)”—that exchange sodium ions and protons across the cell membrane. This is thought to be the result of adaptation to the unique environment of brackish water, where salinity fluctuates.

Further studies will reveal the mechanism of the unique sheath formation of Candidatus Electrothrix yaqonensis as well as the self-assembling process of its conductive fibers. According to the research team, this new species, because it combines high-electrical conductivity and environmental adaptability, has the potential to be used as a new material in the field of bioelectronics. Potentially it could help with the creation of biodegradable electronic devices and biosensors in the future. Its characteristics may also be useful for remediation of heavy metals and organic pollutants in sedimentary environments.

[chacusha]

Visions of Mana review

Non-spoilery thoughts:

I really like this game! I was a bit worried about combat from the demo, but I really like the combat in this game, actually. The different weapons all have their own combos and situationally helpful moves (dishing out a lot of damage, attacking in a wide area, launching enemies, staggering them, etc.), so there is quite a bit of satisfaction in learning different fighting styles for each weapon. It almost feels like a fighting game rather than an action/adventure game, which I like.

I feel like this game successfully captures a lot of recurring elements of the Mana series (multiple weapon systems, finding elemental spirits, familiar monsters and bosses, world in decline, simple environmental puzzle-solving) while also being a fresh story and world with its own rules, which is pretty ideal for me. I also think this game does a better job of merging Legend of Mana worldbuilding elements with non-Legend of Mana elements than any other Mana game, and I find that pretty impressive because the aesthetics kind of clash, in my opinion. But they did a good job of merging them here.

The characters are really fun and I like the party dialogues that happen as you go around the world. I think the game could probably use some sidequests or subplots (rather than fairly simple fetch/hunt quests) to flesh out the world a bit and give the story a bit of nonlinearity (it is *quite* linear, although this is pretty normal for the Mana series (LOM aside)...), but I am not complaining. Even though they were fairly simple, I enjoyed the quests here, and they got pretty elaborate in the end.

The progression and gradual unlock of skills that make your characters stronger is also really satisfying. I'm also a big fan of the way that they incorporated a game mechanic (random corestone drops) into the story, and I felt the corestone ability trading added a bit of depth to the gameplay.

Overall, I rate this game like 9/10. It could be better, but there is a lot here to love and the gameplay is pretty polished (game crashes a lot, though -- be sure to save frequently!).

Spoilery thoughts:

My partner keeps joking that Careena is somehow this world's only Texan. (How come her parents have no accent?!)

Magical girl transformation sequences was SUCH a good idea. I approve. (Is there a way to toggle these back on...?)

The tragedy/tragic backstories in this game are exquisite.

At the same time, I really like the humor and cuteness in this game. It's important to have both in a Mana game, I feel.

I wasn't expecting anti-capitalist propaganda in this game, haha.

I like that there's a bit of a nudge in this game about which elemental vessels to assign to which character. Like, Careena's Wind class has pretty nice passives compared to the others and same with Morley's Moon class -- kind of nudges you to start them off with those classes.

It's interesting having Niccolo in this game be such a nice guy. In most games, he's pretty sketchy and self-interested (although he is a pretty great guy in Trials of Mana too). I like that he's Morley's adoptive dad and Palamena's confidante too.

Val is the himbo we all need.

Hinna 😭 They were so ready to be happy together too. I guess Hinna dying this early means she has a reasonable chance of coming back by the end.

SOMEONE high-up in the development team definitely has a foot fetish. But I like seeing Palamena's stylish footwear so I don't mind.

I'm a big fan of Pikuls for land transport and Vuscav for sea transport. Love that we got Vuscav's theme back for this game.

Oh snap I'm in The Lion King right now. XD In general, I was a bit meh about the areas featured in the demo (Rime Falls, Fallow Steppe, and Rhata Harbor), but I've been pretty impressed by the other areas. I liked the Charred Passage, Ledgas Bay, Pritta Ridge, Illystana, Dura Gorge (love the music of this one), Deade Cliffs, and quite a lot of the dungeons.

Von Boyage / Professor Bomb is here! Great cameo.

I like how this game strikes a balance between SOM/TOM-style "there is one of each elemental spirit" and LOM/World of Mana-style "there are many spirits for each element" by having one main elemental spirit but a bunch of mini/lesser elemental spirits with a slightly different design (and they're very cute!).

I like how Khoda looks exactly halfway between Sumo/FFA protagonist and Randi. Well done.

Lol, I thought Aesh was going to be evil. I do like how he occasionally goes into "mad scientist" mode, though. The parts of the game where he has bonding time with the party were some of the best. (His initial introduction was sooo good. When you introduce your friend to your other friends and he's the worrrrst, lol. I like how Morley went from jealous of Aesh to Worried Mother Hen lol.)

Overall, I like the boss battles in this game. I like some of them have a gimmick or puzzle-solving aspect to them, and I like that none of them dragged on too long, which is the main thing I hate about modern action RPGs. The Earth Benevodon battle in particular was a favorite -- epic! Some of the other benevodons sadly went down a bit too quickly (I kind of felt sorry for them having to fight my overleveled party XD).

Okay I guess Hinna isn't coming back. I do like the theme here of it being important to accept the death of loved ones. Ephemeral beauty i.e. things are valuable because they don't last forever. (Ever since my partner pointed out this is an extremely common theme in Japanese art, I am unable to unsee it...)

Some of these late game areas are also really beautiful. *o* I really love the floating island, the Entwine Pass boss battle with all the flowers in the background, and the lighting in the corrupted Mana Sanctuary areas.

Being able to see the previous alm contingents (including Lyza's group!) made me emotional. ;_;

Oh snap, I can't believe Passar was the big bad.

I haven't finished all the postgame content, and I'm not sure if I'll have time. I do eventually want to farm all the abilities and play around with different party setups, and I also want to try playing on Expert difficulty and also with Japanese voices, but we'll see.

Overall, I liked the story! You didn't get Hinna back, but you did manage to fix the world, so there is still that bittersweetness that is important for a Mana game.

[idontknowreallywhy]

Got myself in a cycle of stress editing / rewriting particular piece which will not go the way I want. So I abandoned it for now and challenged myself to just write a one-off scene that has lived in my head for a long time with no going back and editing or adjusting but just a linear splurge of words and silliness.

It’s entirely ridiculous but here it is anyway (with an affectionate nudge to @crunchyluigi @obeyweegee214 @galaxytransman)

It’s a Secret No-One Knows

6pm on Tracy island and all was quiet as Scott made his way up the stairs into the lounge.

Virgil, Gordon and Alan were still in the air on the way back from a tricky mine rescue in Northern Europe. He was grateful that success had been confirmed on comms as he’d been on the point of ignoring John’s pointed comments about flight hours and heading north.

He’d have been there with them of course if, when the call came in, he and One hadn’t already been plucking panicking, inexperienced climbers off of one of his favourite crags in the Blue Mountains. His nimble ship was always the most suited to such environments and frankly he could have done it in his sleep.

Oh, but it was such a waste of his time and fuel! Enough awful disasters happened around the world every day without people putting themselves into danger because they were more focussed on researching what shots they wanted for their vlog than on the rating of the climb they were undertaking. The names the Aussies had assigned to each route didn’t exactly help - the latest gaggle of idiots had got half way up “Does my Bum Look Big On This?” wearing entirely inappropriate shorts for the weather and got themselves tangled in each others’ safety lines while trying to take selfies from a distinctly unorthodox angle. It had taken every last ounce of self-restraint he had not to accidentally drop their phones into the ravine.

And the next one to use the word ���gnarly’ was going to experience an Incident with the passenger loading bay door.

Over the ocean.

At Mach 19.

When had young people got so ridiculous?

And when had he stopped being one? He sighed and dragged his hands down his face. Damn, he really was getting old and grumpy.

And probably hangry, now he thought about it. Well that was fixable even if the inexorable march towards irrelevant middle age was not. He made a beeline for the fridge and found himself uninspired by the array of pre-prepared high calorie low effort snacks they usually favoured post mission. He craved something… nutritious…

Ignoring the imagined old-man mockery of the younger brothers who resided in his brain, he pulled out every fresh ingredient they had in stock: Eggs, bacon, sausages, three types of cheese, peppers, spring onions, basil… ah Ha! He knew exactly what this was going to be. A quick rummage in the larder turned up a bag of potatoes and he hefted it over his shoulder, flicking the switch on grandma’s ancient radio as he went past.

Ooh, ‘Happy 90s Hour’ was starting. One of his guilty pleasures as a teenager in the early 50s…

The repetitive peeling and dicing task combined with the irrepressibly cheery pop bangers slowly eased the knot of grouchiness in his chest. By the time he scooped the mountain of potato cubes into the dustbin-lid sized frying pan he was singing along with both halves of the Barbie Girl duet. A pleasing sizzling ensued and he grinned to himself. This was going to be epic. A little prodding with the spatula to cook them evenly then he turned the heat down and did a little slide sideways to fetch the meat and a shuffle and a hop back to add them to the pan.

As John popped up on the kitchen comm, his big brother was too busy volta-ing through the kitchen with a cheese grater to notice. Because you can’t just walk across a room when Ricky Martin is playing. John’s quizzical single eyebrow was rapidly joined by its twin as he spotted the pan on the stove… he cut the connection and leapt into the elevator, sending a message to Virgil to put his proverbial foot down.

Frittata Night was not to be trifled with.

And so it was that all four younger brothers took the elevator up from the hangar together and arrived in a state of some excitement for the culinary experience that awaited them.

As the door opened however Virgil threw out his arms to prevent them piling out. The chatter stopped immediately as they peered round the wall of brother to spy their eldest dancing to and fro at the stove and belting out the words to some ancient pop song:

So hold on to the ones who care

In the end they’ll be the only ones there

When you get old and start losing your hair

Can you tell me who will still caaaaare?

As the chorus dropped so did the jaws of Alan and Gordon for who knew their biggest brother could move his hips like that? And why was he waving the spatula that way? Alan looked wide eyed to John and pointed with a shaking hand as if to ensure his space brother was seeing the same thing he was. John, didn’t acknowledge him, instead staring straight ahead, tapping a finger on the doorframe in time with the beat. Gordon turned to Virgil unable to verbalise beyond “bu.. bu… bu…” only to find his tank of a brother smiling broadly and… his jaw dislocated further… also swaying his hips in time.

Then he was gone.

… And so was John!

Both of them jigging across the floor to join their brother in an honest to goodness dance routine while the three of them sang nonsense words. Alan lost control of his knees and collapsed cross-legged to the floor. Gordon desperately tried to grab his phone to record the moment but fumbled and dropped it down the back of the couch. And then it was over.

And there was frittata.

And if the Tinies were unusually quiet during the meal, the elder three didn’t notice as each treasured the memories of their little dance trio ‘performing’ for their biggest fan. While eating her signature dish.

Fin.

*****

You want the dance routine? Course not… but here is is anyway (Scott starts singing at about 0:40, chorus and excellent hip action kick in at about 0:52)

Edit to add: Weirdly specific note because the precise image is apparently super important to me (clearly been sucked in by the child watching Strictly) and because I forgot there are two types of Volta… this is the move I mean - the samba one (skip to 1:44 of the video and it’s just a few seconds).

[3416]

Love the blog! I learn so much about hockey and the leafs! In depth question, why do the leafs do so good in the regular season, but do not do well in the playoffs? They aren’t bad players, they are great.

thank you for the compliment!! glad you feel like you're getting something out of it.

not to have a cop out here, but if i say it's mostly circumstantial and bad luck? lol. people have had extremely high expectations bc the leafs made the playoffs the year auston and mitch debuted so they often lump all the data since then into one like... did people really expect rookies and guys in the league only a couple years to fully carry a team to the cup. other stars of this era were on teams that didn't even make the playoffs immediately. the leafs have had their moments of choking, but again.. i don't think that's unique to them, the expectations are just higher bc they've been in the playoffs consistently in this era. also. many of their matchups in more recent times go on all the way to the final and are CLEARLY strong contenders like tampa bay and now florida. and then you look at the last couple where our stars are really coming into their own, and it's like... in 21-22, they lost in 7 to tampa who made it to the stanley cup finals. in 22-23, they made it to the second round after defeating tampa for the first time and then ran into florida who were on a roll and made it all the way to the finals. last season, mitch was rushed back from a high ankle sprain, auston was sick and missed multiple games, willy was out with a migraine issue multiple games. like... there are reasons this happens, lol. going on a deep run requires your stars to produce obviously, which is the big critique with the leafs, but it also requires good luck. health, reffing, matchups against teams that are hot, goalies getting hot, it all impacts how deep you can or are likely to go. there's no such thing really as linear progression in the playoffs, so any year, anyone could really pop off... why not this year :)

[the-helixverse]

Medusa-Class Battleship

Creator: Thai'Qul Length: 798 Meters Width: 378 Meters (Widest Point); 70 meters (Narrowest Point) Propulsion: Nuclear Pulse Drive; Five Fusion Drive Thrusters Crew Complement: 5,000-7,000 (Normal complement); 10,000 (Max. Capacity) Radiator Type: Solid-State/Droplet Armaments:

x8 40mm Point Defense Cannons (PDCs) (Aft)

x4 Cargo/Torpedo Bays (Aft)

x2000 5-kiloton driver warheads (Aft)

x4 Ultra-Relativistic Electron Beam (UREB) Cannons (Bow)

Interior

Because the Thai'Qul are an aquatic species, their ships are unique in being almost entirely filled with water. This pulls triple duty in protecting the occupants from intense G-forces, radiation and heat; providing resources for the fusion reactor and torpedoes, and in the event of a hull breach, lost water can be more easily retrieved than air. The consequence of this is that it increases the ship's overall mass, requiring more energy for any kind of acceleration or deceleration. This is also another reason for their ruthless pragmatism: the lack of air pockets outside the cargo sections prevents them from easily taking prisoners or taking larger ships aboard.

Creators

An average Thai'Qul male. Roughly 85% of the species is male, carrying out tasks for the rarely-seen matriarchs, who outsize them significantly. On ships such as the Medusa-class, prepubescent matriarchs- referred to colloquially as "Countesses"- serve the role of captains and admirals.

Strategic Overview

If there's any way to describe the Thai'Qul military doctrine, it would be ruthless pragmatism. Rather than engaging in widespread power projection, heavier ships are mostly concentrated within their own systems, while smaller vessels are the most commonly encountered. These represent the first line of defense, focused on patrolling defense perimeters.

Should a perimeter be broken and an enemy force infiltrate a Thai'Qul system, either by evading or destroying lighter vessels, this is when battleships such as the Medusa-class are deployed. This typically follows barrages of Thai'Qul frigates and corvettes, which will try to guide invaders into designated kill zones, where the Medusa-class will engage them at close range, such as near large asteroids, space stations or ring systems.

While these battleships lack high speed or fine maneuvering, they make up for it with powerful defenses and overwhelming firepower, particularly their UREBs. Once the invader's shields and other defenses have been exhausted, should they refuse to surrender, attacks from these beams will irradiate and effectively sterilize the target.

This is done because, rather than simply blowing up bellicose ships, the Thai'Qul will always try to salvage as much technology and information from them as possible, either to assess motivations or reverse-engineer whatever they discover. Of course, should a ship surrender instead, the Thai'Qul will gladly accept, taking the time to analyze captured ships just as thoroughly.

This doctrine has proven to be quite effective in multiple engagements and ensured invasions of their systems are rare.

Ship Diagram

The Bow Shield is a large dome entirely covered in ablative heat-resistant armor.

The nose of the craft houses the four UREB cannons, which cover a large hemispherical field. While the beams lose effectiveness over time or when fired at an angle, time dilation effects prevent them from completely dissipating over longer ranges. Maximum energy from the bremsstrahlung resulting from impact has been measured at over 5,000 Sieverts.

The UREBs are only possible via the battleship's length, where the linear accelerator (Linac) runs along the central axis of the ship.

The Medusa-Class doesn't have a designated bridge or command module, but instead 36 large windowless spheres, where most of the crew resides. Commands, controls and sensor readings are instead performed using holographic display interfaces that crew members can pull up at any moment. This ensures damage to one area of the ship will not compromise control, and that key staff can be moved into the interior.

The ship uses a combination of solid-state and droplet cooling with liquid lithium, firing the molten coolant into space, where it condenses into larger drops before being recaptured in a dish section for recirculation. Additional radiators vent excess heat to prevent the lithium from completely vaporizing. In times of duress, this coolant can be used as everything from makeshift flares to additional thrusters.

The aft section consists of a large octagonal cylinder, which houses bay sections designed to be drained of water so cargo, torpedoes and other craft can be sent into space. This is also where the ship's fusion reactor is housed.

The PDCs, nicknamed "Barnacles," allow the ship to fire at targets behind or beside the ship.

Contrary to popular belief, the piston supports are only painted blue and not transparent, though they are full of water to help cushion the impact following a pulse.

The pistons and their shock absorbers are attached to a set of electric motors, which extract a small, but not insubstantial amount of power from every pulse.

The Drive Cone is fitted with flexible rings and is even colored bright white to take advantage of as much radiation pressure as possible. Usage of this drive is why the battleship can't be used in a planetary orbit, as the risk of creating radiation belts poses a threat to orbital infrastructure.

[buildmyplaceweb]

What are linear high bay LED lights used for?

Lighting plays a crucial role in our day-to-day lives, especially in large indoor spaces like warehouses, factories, and gymnasiums. Among the various lighting options available, linear high bay LED lights are one of the most effective and popular choices for illuminating expansive areas with high ceilings. So, what exactly are these lights, and what are they commonly used for? In this article,…

[nothingbutleds0]

Wall packs and LED T8 tubes offer numerous benefits in terms of energy efficiency, longevity, and cost savings. Wall packs, which are outdoor lighting fixtures typically mounted on walls, provide enhanced security and visibility for commercial and residential spaces. They are energy-efficient, reducing electricity consumption while ensuring well-lit exteriors, enhancing safety, and deterring potential intruders.

LED T8 tubes are a smart replacement for traditional fluorescent tubes, providing substantial energy savings. They are longer-lasting and require less frequent replacement, reducing maintenance costs. LED T8 tubes also emit high-quality, flicker-free light, improving visibility and reducing eye strain. Moreover, they are environmentally friendly, containing no hazardous materials like mercury, and are fully recyclable. When both wall packs and LED T8 tubes are used together, businesses and homeowners can achieve significant energy and cost savings while creating a well-lit, secure environment

[liteunite]

Why LED Highbay Lights Are The Future Of Industrial Lighting

LED lighting is currently widely popular in Singapore because of its efficiency and long life span lightening homes offices and commercial buildings and others. If you want to switch to modern and effective LED linear light Singapore, this article will provide you with the necessary information.

What are LED High Bay Lights?

High bay LED lights are meant to bring out bright white light from ceilings higher than 25 feet. Some of the uses are with houses, houses of production, gyms, and so forth.

Energy Savings: Compared with typical old discharge high bay lightings, LED high bay cut the energy use in half to two-thirds.

Long Lifespan: High bays have extended life spans of more than 50, 000 hours without the necessity of a change in the bulb’s brightness. These prevent frequent replacements in the case of manufacturing products such as cars, where a bulb might be changed several times before it is replaced permanently by a longer lasting manufactured model.

Improved Visibility: This light is bright, consistent and free from glare making identification of tasks, workers and equipment within the area easy.

What are LED Linear Lights?

LED linear light Singapore is intended for use as an alternative to traditional fluorescent tube lights. Available in several feet lengths to give even illumination in offices, schools, hospitals and any other commercial building. The benefits of LED linear tube lights include:

No Mercury: LED tubes do not contain mercury which make it easier for disposal than CFL and fluorescent tubes.

Better Light Distribution: LED chips in tubes are directional and provide uniform illumination of the space.

Where to Buy in Singapore

As a commercial and industrial LED lighting provider, LiteUnite is a high-reliable company. Being an LED lighting supplier In Singapore they stock a range of them including LED high bay lights from leading manufacturers, LED Linear Tube lights, and more that fits your particular usage. Its knowledgeable team will be able to inform you on every aspect necessary to ensure you get the best quality illumination while being energy efficient to save as much as possible.

Take a look at their options for LED high bays, panels, tubes and luminaires to allow you to upgrade your facility lighting tomorrow.

[alln64games]

Nightmare Creatures

NA release: November 1998

PAL release: N/A

NA release: N/A

Developer: Kalisto

Publisher: Activision

N64 Magazine Score: 57%

Nightmare Creatures is a port of an earlier PlayStation title that really is a bit too authentic of a port. When this was released on the N64, it already felt very dated and really needed improvements. It’s a horror slash-’em-up set in 1834 in London. You play as one of two characters, neither of which have any backstory, personality or dialogue in the game (if you want to know, it’s in the manual).

The story itself is told by little snippets of text at the start of each level that scrolls through part of the screen. On some levels, including the starting level, there are enemies at the start and they’ll attack you as this text scrolls past. The gist of it is that there’s an evil man called Crowley that runs away from you the entire game and a load of monsters in your way.

The controls of Nightmare Creatures are really poorly implemented tank controls, where you turn left and right to turn, forwards to go forwards and backward to go backwards. The camera makes matters worse as it’s usually behind your character, but tries to be at an angle for fights, and then some areas have their own camera angles – the first boss has a high up camera that really messes with your brain when trying to move.

To make matters worse, the game has platforming sections where missing a jump means instant death, as your character can’t swim, so water means instant death – apart from a few sections where the water is shallow and you have to walk through it (the shallow water looks no different from instant death water). This control scheme may have felt more natural on a D-pad (the original came out before the PS1 got analogue sticks), but it feels very wrong on an analogue stick.

The levels themselves are also mostly bland, and it’s easy to get lost due to everywhere looking the same, as well as the black “fog” to hide loading. They’re also mainly long corridors with a few optional areas and some hidden switches (many of which blend into the walls). Missing switches can also be very deadly, due to the “adrenaline bar”.

The manual explains that a virus is turning people into monsters, and the hero you play as is infective. Adrenaline keeps it at bay, and you keep this topped up by killing monsters. If you take too long before killing monsters, your health will start to drain. If you didn’t read the manual, then you’ll just start losing health with no warning (the mechanic isn’t explained in the game). This means that if you kill all the enemies but need to hint for a switch you missed, you’ll likely die multiple times. Supposedly this was a last minute addition to “fix” an issue where a player could potentially run past all the enemies.

I really can’t blame anyone for running past the enemies, either. The combat is tedious. The game lets you mix things up with lots of combos, items and spells to use, but combos rarely work and once you hit an enemy, their recoil means you can just mash the attack button until they die. That said, I did end up using cheats to see more of the game and I couldn’t defeat the final boss as you can only harm him with combos, and seemingly the basic B-B-B one doesn’t count.

The story in the manual paints a setting that could make for a really good game, but none of it is translated into the game.

The final nails in Nightmare Creatures’ coffin are the linearity of the gameplay, and the frequent instant death situations that result from the deficiencies of the camera, the control system, and the general design of the puzzles – thing you’re stepping in a puddle? Nope it’s a water-filled bottomless pit, and your character swims about as well as a puppy in a weighted sack.

- Martin Kitts, N64 Magazine #25

Remake or remaster?

I think a new game in a similar setting could be a nice idea. The Order 1886 did something similar (but with a more steampunk vibe).

Official Ways to get the game

There is no official way to get Nightmare Creatures

[xtruss]

Sandro Botticelli — The Devout Jews at Pentecost, ca 1505. Photograph: Wolfgang Fuhrmannek/Hessisches Landesmuseum Darmstadt

‘Perfect Linearity’: Why Botticelli’s Drawing Abilities Remain One-of-a-Kind

An Expansive Exhibition in San Francisco Brings Together the Artist’s Influential Work, Including Five Newly Attributed Pieces

— Veronica Esposito | Wednesday 29 November 2023

Throughout the Renaissance, drawings became an integral part of the massive paintings and frescoes that have long been associated with that period. Among other things, they were a way for artists to get a feel for how to arrange the space of a composition, and they also helped artists hone the incredibly lifelike poses that have become synonymous with masterworks from the likes of Leonardo da Vinci, Tiziano Vecellio (better known as Titian) and Tintoretto. Drawings were even used in legally binding contracts to provide a reference point for the work that was being agreed to.

When it came to drawings, Sandro Botticelli was in a class of his own, with one expert even touting him as “the greatest artist of linear design that Europe has ever had”. Botticelli’s line became the basis for the dance-like aesthetic that permeates his output and that can be seen in masterworks like Birth of Venus and La Primavera. According to Italian Renaissance expert Furio Rinaldi, “Botticelli’s use of drawing goes to the core meaning of the word ‘choreography’ … With his drawings, Botticelli is writing the composition, drawing the dance.”

For San Francisco’s Legion of Honor museum, Rinaldi has curated an exciting new exhibition centering around Botticelli’s drawings. Featuring 27 of the artist’s drawings – including five newly attributed – and more than 60 works overall from dozens of lenders, it offers Bay Area audiences a rare opportunity to see one of the largest shows of the Italian master’s work ever attempted.

“It was an incredible effort that took more than three years to organize,” said Rinaldi during an interview in his office at the Legion of Honor. “In my mind there is something really incredible about Botticelli being in San Francisco, so far away from where he worked. For many it will probably be the only opportunity to see so many works by this great artist.”

Botticelli Drawings Black Tie Dinner San Francisco, CA — November 17 — Atmosphere at Botticelli Drawings Black Tie Dinner on November 17th 2023 at Legion of Honor in San Francisco, CA (Photo - Drew Altizer) Photograph: Drew Altizer/Drew Altizer Photography

As with many painters of the era, Botticelli relied on drawings throughout his creative process to help hone and shape forms that would eventually come together as a painting. What Botticelli Drawings attempts to show is how integral these sketches were to the unique qualities that made Botticelli stand out from his contemporaries, and that have made his artworks resonate for more than 500 years and be referenced in everything from The Simpsons to the cover of Lady Gaga’s 2013 album Artpop. “We’re really leaning into his mind and into his graphic articulations of his ideas,” said Rinaldi. “They’re so essential to the aesthetic that makes Botticelli so appealing, because the linearity of these sketches are really a reflection of his painting technique.”

The works on display at the Legion of Honor are quite masterful. Here audiences will see renderings of the human form that appear so lifelike that they could very well walk up off of the page. As this exhibition demonstrates, these forms often seem as though in motion – whether jumping back in fear amid a fight, running to announce the incarnation of Jesus Christ or hefting high a decapitated head, the subjects of Botticelli’s drawing seem to be dancing, moving with a fluidity and lithe presence that makes these figures quite different from others. “I tried to really go beyond to the core of this attraction and magnetism,” said Rinaldi. “A lot of contemporary artists and dancers are inspired by Botticelli. And I felt that the common thread was the line, the perfect linearity of Botticelli’s composition.”

With Botticelli’s drawings centered in this exhibition, each of the show’s galleries also includes one finished painting to offer a point of synthesis for audiences. Works shown here include such major pieces as The Virgin and Child With the Young Saint John the Baptist and The Adoration of the Magi, including paintings that rarely if ever have traveled to the US. These paintings help audiences to get a sense of how Botticelli’s drawings were a part of the creative process that ultimately ended in a work on canvas. “Every room has a seminal painting,” said Rinaldi, “a significant work to help the audience anchor and recompose the ideas and the figures that they see scattered in the drawings.”

Madonna and Child With the Young Saint John the Baptist. Photograph: RMN-Grand Palais/Art Resource/Tony Querrec

Staging a show of Botticelli’s drawings was a significant challenge that took over three years to complete. This was partly due to the fact that, although Botticelli is recognized as an innovator and master of the drawing, only a scant two dozen of his have survived until modern times. “There are very, very few drawings that have survived that can be attributed to Botticelli,” said Rinaldi. “If you think of Leonardo da Vinci, we have almost thousands of his drawings. For other artists, there may be hundreds. For Botticelli we have by my count no more than 30 sheets.” Because Botticelli died in poverty, his drawing workshop was not preserved and sustained as were those of many of his contemporaries, instead being sold off after his death. “If you think of Leonardo da Vinci or Michelangelo, there’s a slightly different situation where they all have their pupils continuing their workshop and preserving and using the drawings as a sort of visual patrimony of the artist’s ideas.”

One thing that stands out about Botticelli Drawings is the very sleek, minimalist presentation of the works. The Legion of Honor’s galleries have been pared back in a way that gives the show a very polished, contemporary feeling, almost as though it’s borrowing from the very clean, bright aesthetic of the Apple Store. “I wanted to put the audience in the best possible position to appreciate this work, so you will see a very sparse hang,” said Rinaldi. “Everything is just very clean and very modern. Even if the exhibition is firmly grounded in art historical research, I am trying to remove Botticelli from the art historical mythologies.” The result of Rinaldi’s aesthetic makes for an interesting, and certainly original, feeling.

Ultimately, Botticelli Drawings succeeds in presenting the artist in a different way, one that resonates and allows us to look at his work as though for the first time. It is a major show – a welcome chance to see pieces that rarely travel anywhere, let alone to the United States, and to have a deep look into the intimacy of the creative process of an artist who comes from a very different world than the one in which we live. “Renaissance Florence is so far away in time and place that people don’t even know what it means anymore,” said Rinaldi. “I think it’s time to turn the leaf and look at these artists with today’s eyes.”

— Botticelli Drawings is showing at the Legion of Honor Museum in San Francisco until 11 February 2024