#mechanical engineering analysis project

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter Seven

A/N: again, temporary shitty formatting, will go back and fix tonight. Let me know how you feel about this because I feel like it's just... idk edited bad? A little disjointed? IDK. Would also love some feedback on how everyone is doing with the mega-chapters- hate it, love it?

Series Masterlist

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Max should be relaxed. This- the sun, the open water, the lazy sway of the yacht beneath him- is everything he loves. Everything he worked for. Everything that’s supposed to make all the bullshit worth it.

He shifts slightly, just enough to lie flat on his back- the cushion molding to his body, designed for peak comfort, peak relaxation, peak fuck you money. He should be enjoying it. He wants to be enjoying it. The sky above is a ridiculous shade of blue, the kind that looks fake in pictures, and the only sound should be the occasional splash of water against the hull, the low hum of the engines idling beneath deck.

But he’s not.

He props himself up on one elbow, pushing his sunglasses down his nose just enough to squint across the deck. Jos’s iPad is blaring through its shitty little speakers, cutting through the peace with the sharp, mechanical sound of an engine at full tilt. Max doesn’t even need to look to know what it is.

It’s her.

Not her, exactly. But the sound of her voice, the revs of her engine, the way Jos keeps narrating her fucking onboard like he’s a commentator watching a championship-defining lap.

Jos is sitting there, completely transfixed, eyes narrowed in that way he gets when he’s properly impressed by something. The onboard from her rally. Her first ever rally in a Verstappen.com car, and Jos has it cranked up loud enough that Max can hear every gear change, every throttle feather, every sharp inhale through her radio.

It’s all he’s been doing. LeChriste this, LeChriste that. Her sector times. Her throttle application. Her ability to adapt to a completely different style of driving with barely any prep. Ever since she showed up at Spa, since she pulled off that miracle debut and then landed herself under Jos’s roof for the summer break, her name has been coming up over and over and over again. In conversation. In analysis. In comparisons Max never fucking asked for.

Jos talks about her like she’s the best fucking thing since power steering, and it’s starting to drive Max insane. It’s the way Jos sounds when he talks about her. There’s something there- pride, approval, something that Max has spent years chasing and has only ever gotten in fractions. And now, here it is, spilling out unchecked over a girl who’s been in their orbit for all of five minutes.

Max is used to his dad talking about other drivers. Criticizing them, usually. Or, occasionally, begrudgingly admitting when someone’s done something particularly impressive. But this? This is different. Jos isn’t just impressed. He’s... invested. Like she's is some kind of prodigy he’s just discovered, like Max is supposed to be taking notes instead of relaxing on his own damn vacation.

He shifts, trying to sink deeper into the lounger, trying to let the sun soak into him and drown out the sound, but the juxtaposition is all wrong- too much heat in his chest, too much irritation curling under his skin. It’s not that Max disagrees. She’s good. More than good. He’s seen enough himself to know she’s sharp, instinctive, ruthless in her precision.

That’s not the point. The point is that Jos won’t fucking shut up about her.

Max should be used to this- his father latching onto some new project, some new fixation, talking in circles about potential and raw talent, about work ethic and hunger and how rare it is to find someone who really, really wants it.

But this feels different. Because it’s not just the praise. It’s the contrast.

Max knows exactly what’s happening, even if Jos doesn’t spell it out. The way he talks about her in front of Max isn’t just admiration. It’s a fucking shift. Like something is being reallocated, rerouted, redirected- approval, attention, investment. Things that Max has spent his whole life starving for, things he’s fought for, bled for, won for. Things that Jos only ever doles out in precise, measured increments.

But the words keep reaching him, carried over by the lazy sea breeze. The way she commits to the throttle, no hesitation- real control, real talent- instinctive, like she just knows where the grip is going to be before the car even tells her- 

It’s stupid. It’s fucking stupid. It doesn’t even have logic behind it. He’s not losing anything. He’s Max fucking Verstappen- he’s fine. He’s better than fine. He’s winning.

She’s some rookie. Some no-name wildcard they threw into the deep end and who, yeah, sure, did fine for herself, but- so what? Plenty of drivers have had a good debut race. Plenty of drivers have shown potential.

But Jos is talking like she’s something special. Like she’s something rare, something worth nurturing, something that deserves his attention, investment, time. Not from RedBull, or an Indy Team, or from the rally crew- Jos’s attention. And that- that- is the part that sits wrong.

Because Max has spent his entire life scraping for every ounce of attention, every inch of approval, every goddamn breadcrumb of acknowledgment. It has never been handed to him freely. Not once. Not even when he was seventeen, when he was doing things no one else his age had even attempted, when he was proving himself on a stage far bigger than any kid had any right to be on. Even then, even after all of it, there was always more to do, always more to prove, always the expectation that he was still falling short of what he should be.

And yet.

Jos is sitting there on the other side of the deck, speaking about some girl- some newcomer- with the kind of casual admiration Max has spent his whole life bleeding for. And maybe it’s not rational, maybe it’s not even fair, but it doesn’t fucking sit right with him.

“Listen to this,” Jos calls, rewinding a section of the video. “The way she handles the weight transfer through this hairpin- smooth as hell. And her time- decimated the women’s class,” Jos continues, and Max already knows where this is going, “would have put her top twenty overall. Against world-level men. And that’s with four years away from rally.”

“Fantastic,” Max mutters, not even hiding the sarcasm. “Maybe you should adopt her.”

Jos rewinds again. 

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The water is punishment.

It’s not leisure, not relaxation, not some luxurious indulgence in the middle of a summer break that barely feels real. It’s a means to an end- an outlet, a discipline, a place to put all the restless energy that would otherwise consume you.

You cut through the pool like a blade, pushing your body until your muscles scream for relief, until your lungs burn with the effort. The water resists you, but you don’t yield. You push harder, kicking off the wall, flipping into another lap, willing yourself to stay in motion because the alternative is stillness, and stillness means thinking.

And thinking is starting to become dangerous.

The first thing that strikes you about Jos’s estate is the silence. Not just the absence of noise, but the kind of cultivated, deliberate quiet that feels designed to make you self-conscious for existing too loudly. Every footstep you take on the polished floors seems to ripple outward, like you’re disturbing the air itself.

It’s sleek. Minimalistic to the point of sterility. Expansive windows, impossibly clean surfaces, not a single item out of place. It’s the kind of house you’d see in a luxury design magazine, all angles and expensive materials and perfectly curated furniture. But there’s nothing comfortable about it. You can’t imagine curling up on one of the pristine sofas with a bag of chips or leaving a coffee mug on the counter without feeling like you’ve committed some kind of crime.

This is not a house built for a family with small children.

It’s the opposite of home.

At home, on the ranch, there’s always something happening. Music playing somewhere- an old country station drifting out of the kitchen radio, or your dad gently playing his upright during the winter. Blankets draped over the couch, dog hair on the floor, the faint smell of dinner lingering long after the meal’s been eaten. Someone is always yelling, or laughing, or arguing over something stupid and irrelevant. The coffee table has rings from too many iced teas set down without coasters, and the fridge is covered in drawings, wedding invitations, and passive-aggressive notes about who used the last of the milk and put the carton back. 

This house has none of that.

It feels like a showroom. Not a home anyone actually lives in.

Jos is rarely seen, though you’re not sure if that’s because the house is too big and you refuse to go wandering around like some nosy guest- or if he’s genuinely not here much. You don’t ask. You just make yourself small, sticking to the one guest room you were given, keeping your things neatly confined to one side of it like you’re afraid spreading out might get you evicted.

His wife, Sandy, and their two little kids- kids you’ve only heard about in passing- are ghosts. You don’t see them, don’t hear them. There’s no trace of them in the halls, no toys underfoot, no fingerprints on the windows. If you didn’t know better, you’d think Jos lived alone.

It leaves you disoriented, this strange purgatory you’ve landed in. You’re a guest- but a guest with a job to do. You’re part of this family’s life- but not really. You’re in the house- but you don’t feel like you belong in it.

It makes you ache for the mess of home. For your mom yelling at your brother from the front porch. For the cluttered kitchen table where you could dump your boots and your bag without anyone batting an eye. For the knowledge that even if you fucked up, even if you crashed the truck or broke a fence or left the horse water on for two-goddamn-days, there would still be a place for you at the table at dinner.

Here, you’re not sure if you’re even allowed to breathe too hard. So you breathe quietly. You stay out of the way. You do your job. And in the absence of all that noise -  the team, the travel, the sheer adrenaline of the race -  you were left with nothing but this house.

This too-perfect, too-big, too-clean house. It’s the opposite of home, and after the first week, you stop trying to make yourself fit. You withdraw, pulling yourself inward until you’re nothing but a tightly wound knot of need and fear and simmering grief.

This doesn’t feel like a fever dream anymore.

It feels real. And it feels lonely.

So you do what you always do when the world feels too big and you feel too small -  you work harder.

You trained like you’re trying to outrun the silence. Long runs through the private trails that snake around the property, your feet pounding against the dirt until you couldn’t hear your own thoughts. Weight circuits in the sterile home gym, counting reps like prayers. You threw yourself into the sim like it’s a lifeline, lap after lap after lap until you couldn’t feel your hands, until your back locked up from the seat.

And the media room? The one with the absurdly large television and the fancy built-in sound system no one uses? You commandeered it. It took you nearly a week to strike up the nerve to use a piece of tape on the concrete wall, but when nobody notices, well, game on. 

It had become your war room -  screens glowing with onboard footage, data sheets pinned to the walls by the dozens, your notebook spread open across the coffee table like a sacred text. You track every lap, every sector time, every weather pattern that might affect a future race.

You studied Max, Pierre, Yuki, Checo -  everyone who’s touched a Red Bull or AlphaTauri in the last five years, because that’s the data you have best access to. Used every publicly available resource to reverse engineer the drives of the rest of the grid- likes, dislikes, the way they behave when you breathe down their neck. You built profiles like dossiers, not because anyone asked you to, but because it’s the only way you know how to cope.

You can’t afford to let this house, this silence, this emptiness swallow you whole.

Because if you stop -  even for a second -  you’re afraid you’ll have to actually feel everything you’ve lost.

Beyond the trianing, the studying, the past two weeks had passed in a blur so muted it’s hard to call them memories. It’s like you’re sleepwalking through someone else’s life -  inhabiting a body that isn’t quite yours, in a house that definitely isn’t yours, orbiting a family you only ever catch glimpses of. You know, logically, that you must have interacted with Jos when he was home, with Sandy and the kids when they drifted into your periphery, but none of it sticks. The details smear like rain on a windshield.

Your mom calls often- her voice cutting through the heavy quiet of your room, a lifeline back to something real. You let her talk, let her fill the space with questions you don’t always have the answers to, let her remind you that there’s a world outside of this strange, sterile limbo you’ve trapped yourself in.

You practice interviews, run through talking points until they blur together, until you can recite them without thinking, until you don’t have to feel anything when you say them. You give a few real ones, too- stiff and overly rehearsed in front of your laptop camera, forcing your mouth to stretch into smiles that never quite reach your eyes.

And then there’s Illinois. The friends you left behind when you peeled out of Dale Coyne’s garage for the last time. The life you abandoned so abruptly it still doesn’t feel entirely real. They packed it up for you- your entire existence reduced to eight large boxes, shipped off to the ranch like you had died and left them to sort through the remains.

You have no intention of going back. No reason to.

Illinois had been fine. But you hadn’t particularly liked it. It had been convenient, that was all- an unfortunate necessity dictated by a contract. And now? Now, you’re not a Dale Coyne driver anymore. You’re not a driver at all, technically.

That version of you- the one who compromised and shrunk and swallowed her pride to make it work- is dead. But there’s nothing triumphant about it. No blaze of glory. No catharsis.

Just a slow, unceremonious burial.

The water muffles everything -  sound, thought, even time. You’ve long since lost count of how many laps you’ve done, working on pure autopilot, pulling yourself through each length of the pool like it might save you. Your muscles burn, lungs tight, but you love that. You need that.

You flip at the wall, streamline into another lap, and when your face breaks the surface, you suck in a breath and- 

Jesus fucking Christ.

Jos Verstappen is standing at the edge of the pool, arms crossed, looming like a goddamn specter in his own backyard.

Your body reacts before your brain does- shoulders jerking, legs kicking out a little harder than necessary. You swallow a yelp, nearly inhaling water instead, and spend the next few seconds choking as you tread in place, blinking up at him in disbelief. How does a man that large move that quietly? Why does he move that quietly? Had he been standing there the whole time? Just watching?

You wipe water from your face, forcing yourself to settle, but it’s not just that he scared you- it’s that look. That impossible-to-read, mildly disapproving, permanently unimpressed look he always seems to wear, like he’s perpetually finding the world just slightly inadequate. You haven’t seen him in days- long enough to start assuming that was just how things worked in this house, long enough to get used to his absence. And now, out of nowhere, this.

God, Dutch people are so unsettling.

You grew up in America, where small talk is a sport; raced in the South, where politeness is practically a religion. In Texas, even the people who hate you smile when they pass by- hell, especially the people who hate you. Here? Not so much. Jos looks at you like you’re a project car someone left rusting in his driveway. Like you might have potential, but you’ll probably just disappoint him. And he’s saving himself the trouble of getting attached.

You open your mouth, trying to decide between hello and Jesus Christ, a little warning next time, but Jos speaks first. “Dinner.” His voice is flat as concrete. “Six o’clock. Family table. Be there.” There’s no question in his tone, no invitation. It’s a command. A summoning.

And just like that, he turns and walks off, disappearing back into the house without another word, leaving you blinking chlorinated water out of your eyes. That’s it? No explanation? No further details? No casual Hey, we eat together sometimes, thought you might want to join?

Just an edict, dropped at the edge of the pool like a brick through a windshield. Your arms ache as you tread water, your mind racing faster than your pulse. After three weeks of being ignored, of feeling like an unwelcome ghost in this house, you’re suddenly being called to the table like a member of the family. Except you know- you know- you’re not.

This isn’t hospitality. This isn’t warmth.

This is something else.

You pull yourself out of the pool, water rolling off your skin, and stand there for a moment, toes curling against the tile, wondering what the hell you’ve just been invited to. You mull it over as you towel off and slip back to your room- quietly, always quietly- for a shower.

You stand in the vast, spotless bathroom, steam curling out of the shower as it warms, towel clutched in one hand. You stare at your reflection like the answers might be written somewhere in the fogged-up mirror. Family dinner. What the hell does that even mean here? In this house, where silence feels like the default setting, where everything from the marble floors to the air itself feels staged, deliberate, untouchable.

Family dinner back home meant something entirely different- melamine plates around the kitchen peninsula, your brother in a dirty t-shirt, your mom threatening to stab someone with a fork if they tried to eat before grace. Laughter that got too loud, bickering that somehow always circled back to love. It meant elbows on the table and phones face-down. It meant warmth, mess, familiarity.

Here? Family dinner feels like an ambush.

You mull over what to wear as you rinse the chlorine out. Something that seems put together without trying too hard, probably. First order of business when you had got here was your several loads of laundry- Nomex in its own load, casual clothes in another, your scant selection of blouses and a single set of trousers in another. None of it really seems right. 

You mom, bless her, had packed up a box for you the moment she had found out you were staying. It showed up on the doorstep of the Verstappen house this morning. There’s got to be something in there. 

You peel the tape on the lid back to reveal neatly folded stacks of fabric- soft cotton, well-worn denim, a few crisp button-ups that still faintly smell like the laund- wait. Wait wait wait. The second you spot the familiar, glorious, eye-searing purple bag peeking out from the pile of clothes your mom sent, all rational thought evaporates.

Taki’s. Holy fucking shit.

You barely get the towel cinched around yourself before you’re tearing into the package, fingers already itching with the promise of neon-red dust and salt and heat. You’d known your mother would come through for you- she always does- but this? This is divine intervention. This is a goddamn oasis of flavor in the middle of this bland, minimalist, Dutch penitentiary.

You grab a handful, practically shoving the rolled chips into your mouth, and the moment that neon-red dust hits your tongue, it’s transcendent.

The first crunch is loud in the silence of your guest room, shattering against your teeth, setting every taste bud on fire in the best way possible. The tang of artificial lime burns the sides of your tongue, the heat from the chili powder kicks in a second later, and you actually moan. Like, audibly. The kind of sound that should only ever be made in response to something significantly more R-rated than processed corn snacks.

You don’t care.

You don’t care that you’re curled up on the edge of your too-pristine, too-expensive guest bed, fingers already stained nuclear red, demolishing this bag like a woman starved. Because you are. You’re starved for home, for anything remotely familiar, for something that doesn’t feel polished and muted and cold.

Dutch food, you’ve discovered, is the culinary equivalent of being scolded. Plain. Disciplined. A diet that seems fundamentally opposed to the concept of joy. It’s all soft cheeses and boiled potatoes and bread so dense it could be classified as a weapon. Even their seasonings are hesitant, cautious little dashes of salt that taste more like a vague suggestion than an actual decision. You’d decided about day three that you’d prefer to stick to your own brand of flavorless- endless chicken and rice, meal prepped in bulk, because while it might not be interesting, it at least hasn’t been boiled within an inch of it’s life. 

But this?

This is your Guy-Fieri-style homecoming to Flavortown. 

You groan, sagging against the headboard, shoving another chip into your mouth before you’ve even fully swallowed the last one. The heat builds in layers, stacking onto your tongue, your throat, the back of your sinuses. You revel in it, licking the neon dust from your fingertips, already reaching for more.

You should slow down, pace yourself- but fuck that. Fuck everything. You’ve been so good- so fucking composed, so perfectly polite and professional, walking around this house like a ghost, keeping your head down, keeping your mouth shut, keeping yourself from going fucking insane in this brutalistic hellscape of a home. You have earned this. This one indulgence.

And it is indulgent. Almost obscene, the way you’re devouring them, heat prickling across your lips, your fingers a crime scene of red dust. You think, absurdly, that if you were ever going to have a food orgasm, this would be it.

Your stomach clenches from the sheer force of spice, from the ruthless combination of acid and heat- but you don’t stop. You can’t stop. You fold the bag over, shaking it so the broken chips and extra seasoning settle at the bottom, then tip it back, letting it all spill onto your tongue in a final, sadistic burst of glory.

By the time you’re done, your lips are tingling, your tongue practically vibrating, and your face feels a little hot- but for the first time in weeks, you feel alive.

You suck every last whisper of flavor from your fingers before you start thumbing through the rest of the box. A little, nagging part of you holds out hope you might find another bag but- no such luck.

Your mom had known to keep it light, to keep it easy. A few casual pieces, things you can throw on without thinking, things that might make you feel a little less like a stranger in your own life. Your fingers skim over the top layer, brushing against the sharp pleats of something unexpected. You pause, grip tightening as you lift it from the pile, neat folds of tightly-woven wool unfolding in your hands.

The suit.

You hadn’t asked her to send it. You hadn’t even thought about it.

But of course she had.

The fabric is smooth beneath your fingertips, structured but comfortable, tailored perfectly to your body- a suit that means business, that means you belong in the room, that means they will take you seriously whether they want to or not.

If she sent this, that means…

You set the jacket and pants aside carefully, even years later still painfully aware of exactly how much they cost, and dig to the bottom of the box. There- about halfway down, your fingers scrape hard plastic, and you dump the box out over the bed entirely. It clatters out- bulky, beat up and scuffed- just how you remember. Your hat case. It might be faded and scuffed from getting tossed into the belly of planes, traines, and rental cars- but what’s inside is in perfect condition. 

“You don’t have to do this.”

Your fingers trail over the brim, the felt impossibly smooth beneath your touch, softer than anything you have any business owning. It’s flawless- pure beaver felt, crisp, perfect. A 40X cowboy hat. The kind of hat that turns heads when you walk into a room, the kind that means something in places where handshakes and deals are made under wide brims and a big sky. The shop smells like leather and cedar, rich and warm, and the weight of your parents’ presence beside you is both steadying and unbearable.

Your dad doesn’t answer immediately. He just nods toward the mirror. “Try it on.”

You hesitate, then do as you’re told, settling the hat onto your head. It fits like it was made for you, which- well, it will be. The hatmaker is watching, assessing, already planning whatever adjustments will be needed to make it perfect.

“It’s too much,” you say quietly.

"Doll," she says, voice quiet but firm, the way it always is when she’s already decided how this is going to go. "All good business in Texas happens under a 40X."

"I’m not gonna be in Texas," you argue, running your thumb over the ribbon on another hat, something cheaper, less significant. You don’t even know why you’re fighting it, not really. Maybe because it feels too nice, too permanent, too much like something you don’t deserve. 

Your mom’s mouth presses into a thin line.  She’s always been the picture of effortless presence, of someone who belongs anywhere she chooses to be. You’ve spent your whole life studying that about her, trying to learn how to command a room without raising your voice, how to make people want to listen, to follow. But right now, there’s something else in her expression. Something heavy. Something sad.

You know why she’s sad. She won’t say it outright, but you know. Texas isn’t just some place they picked at whim to start your junior career. It not even the closest major junior circuit to home. It didn’t matter that it was almost ten hours more of driving than the California circuit would have been. 

Because, to her, it’s not just a stepping stone, the way it was for you. It’s roots. Her roots. It’s where she grew up, where she met your dad, where some of her family still is. Even if Washington is home, Texas is still something. Still a piece of her. 

This is the place where she always knew someone would be watching out for you, where she could trust that even if she wasn’t there, someone else would be.

And what good did that do?

What did any of it fucking do, when it mattered most?

"Then you’ll just have to take Texas with you," she says.

Your dad finally shifts beside you, rolling his shoulders like the weight of the last few months has settled in there permanently, but he doesn’t say much. He never does in times like these. Still- he’s there, beside you, quiet and steady as ever. He lifts one off the rack, gives it a little test bend between his hands, then sets it on your head with the kind of gentleness that makes your throat tight.

"How’s that feel?" he asks.

It feels like too much. Like more than you deserve.

"You should spend the money on something else."

Your mom tsks. "Something else isn’t going to sit square on your head and remind people exactly where you come from."

You swallow around the sudden lump in your throat.

"It’s too much," you try again, softer this time. "You should save it. For- "

"For what?" your father cuts in, leveling you with one of those quiet, steady looks that makes you feel six again, standing in front of him with skinned knees and hands too small to hold all the things you wanted. "This is yours." His voice is steady, but there’s something else beneath it, something he doesn’t quite say. You deserve this. You deserve nice things. You deserve to be proud of what you’ve done.

You shake your head, staring at the hat, willing yourself not to feel too much. This isn’t a happy time. There are things none of you talk about, things that sit heavy in the spaces between words. But you know what this is. Because it’s not just a hat, not just a purchase- it’s them telling you that you belong to something bigger than whatever is waiting for you in Florida. That no matter how far you go, you are still theirs.

You exhale, staring at both pieces, feeling something tighten in your chest. You know exactly what this means. It’s not a sentimental gesture. It’s not just in case. It’s a statement. If you’re going to be here- if you’re going to play in this world- you better be prepared to play for real.

Your mom knows you. She knows how this business works. And she sure as hell isn’t about to let you stand around looking lost while decisions get made around you. She’s going to wrap you in armour made of crisp beaver felt and sharp wool suits and remind you that you get to make some decisions your goddamn self.  You swallow, smoothing a hand over the fabric, a quiet, careful movement. 

Alright. You don’t know what’s coming next, when this meeting in your future might be, the lions that you’ll need to tame in your full regalia. But whenever it is?

You’ll be ready.

Not yet. Not tonight. You try to redirect your thoughts, away from happy-sad memories and expensive suits and towards your more immediately daunting task. Ah, yes. Family dinner. 

You settle on something softer, something that might pass for vaguely European- wide-leg linen trousers and a matching button-up tank top in a muted, earthy color. It feels appropriate, even if you have no actual reference point for what appropriate means in this house.

You twist your hair up at the nape of your neck, leaving it loose enough to not look too polished. A little mascara, a swipe of something on your lips so you don’t look like a corpse. That’s it.

You step back from the mirror, assessing yourself like you’re about to walk into an interview you didn’t apply for. It’s not perfect. But it’s presentable. Polished enough to look like you respect the invitation- casual enough to look like you didn’t overthink it. Even though you absolutely did.

You press your hands down the front of your trousers, exhaling slow. Okay. 

The moment you step into the dining room, you know something is off.

The table is set like it’s expecting a guest of honor- fresh stems in the vase, linen napkins folded with crisp, deliberate precision, silverware arranged just so. It’s formal in a way that dinner in this house never is, and for a brief, unsettling moment, you think maybe you missed something. A birthday? An anniversary? Some obscure European holiday?

And then you see him.

Max.

He’s at the far end of the table, leaning back in his chair with the kind of casual slouch that reads more like defensive position than comfort, his phone loose in his grip, thumb idly scrolling. He doesn’t acknowledge you, doesn’t even look up, but the set of his shoulders, the hard angle of his jaw, tells you everything you need to know.

He doesn’t want to be here. Neither do you.

And Kelly? Nowhere to be seen. The kids aren’t here, either. Just Sandy, calm and composed as ever, and Jos, who looks entirely too pleased with himself.

You keep your expression schooled, slipping into the perfect, polite mask your mother taught you to wear in rooms full of powerful men. You step into the role without thinking, automatically plating your own meal- prepped, measured, balanced to the gram, like every other meal you eat during race weeks. You don’t like imposing, and you’ve already learned the hard way that Dutch food is, for lack of a better term, shit.

As you sprinkle a pinch of salt over your chicken and vegetables, you glance toward Sandy. “No Kelly tonight?”

Jos answers before she can. “Running late.” Like it doesn’t matter.

His tone is dismissive, but you catch the flicker of something in Max’s eyes. He doesn’t look up from his phone, but you see the way his jaw flexes, the way his fingers tighten for just a fraction of a second before relaxing again. You’d bet good money Kelly isn’t running late- she’s just avoiding this like the plague.

Honestly? Relatable.

You settle into your seat, hands folded in your lap, offering just the right amount of a smile. Engaged, but not eager. Interested, but not overstepping. You ask the correct questions, offer the appropriate remarks, thank Sandy for the offer of food even though you don’t take any. You play the part like it’s second nature- because it is. 

Jos, though. Jos talks too much. Jos, as it turns out, is feeling chatty.

About you. About Max. About racing and talent and potential and everything you’ve done right so far. It should be flattering. It’s not. It’s suffocating. You try to smile through it, but it’s hard when you’re being held up like some kind of prize for the whole table to examine. Jos goes on and on about your performance, your raw talent, your ability to adapt- he talks like you’re not sitting right there, like you’re a highlight reel instead of a person, something for the entire table to marvel over.

You’re smiling. You don’t know what else to do. It feels wrong, like this is too much, like Jos has never been this nice to you to your face, and you don’t trust it. Not for a second. But you smile anyway, because what the fuck else are you supposed to do?

Sandy, to her credit, seems fine. Not warm, not particularly invested, but not unfriendly either. Just… fine. She asks how you’re adjusting to Europe, to the house, to the endless rain. You get the sense that she’s made her peace with being wallpaper here- present, pleasant, largely ignored.

“She’s meticulous,” he says, gesturing vaguely at you, like presenting a fine piece of craftsmanship. “I’ve never seen a rookie so prepared. Do you know she’s been working on a file for every driver on the grid? Just like the one she showed you on the plane. Every. Single. One.”

You nearly choke on your water, but swallow it down, keeping your expression neutral. Jos doesn’t notice. Or maybe he doesn’t care. Across the table, Max says nothing, his silence heavy. He doesn’t need to speak. His father is already speaking for him, about him, like he’s not even in the room. If you had to guess, this isn’t the first time Jos has dragged him into one of these elaborate setups under the guise of a family meal.

And then, just when you think it can’t get worse, Jos starts trying to engage him.

“You two actually have a lot in common,” he says, effortlessly sliding the words into the conversation. His voice is casual, like he’s just making an observation, but there’s an edge of purpose to it, a calculation you don’t quite clock. “Same aggressive approach to racing, same work ethic, same hunger.”

Sandy, ever the perfectly unobtrusive presence, offers a quiet smile.  She at least looks mildly aware of how unbearable this conversation is. Not warm, not particularly invested, but not oblivious either. Just… present. A quiet observer, offering nothing more than the occasional nod, the occasional polite smile. A sip of wine. She’s not just used to being wallpaper, you think. She’s used to this. Used to letting Jos speak and letting it pass without protest.

Max still doesn’t look up from his phone. “Hmm.”

Jos doesn’t take the hint. “That’s what makes great drivers, you know,” he continues, cutting into his steak. “Not just talent. But the drive to be ruthless. To push harder than anyone else. Max understands that. And so do you.” He points his knife at you as he says it, like he’s bestowing some kind of great truth upon you.

You nod, polite. “Thank you.”

“Not many have that,” he says, like he’s letting you in on a secret. “Not even half the grid. Plenty of drivers are fast. But they don’t all want it enough.”

Max’s fork clinks against his plate, the first sound he’s made in minutes. “Uh-huh.”

Jos either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He leans back in his chair, eyes flicking between the two of you like he’s waiting for something to click. “You two should talk more. You could learn from each other.”

You blink. You are talking. You’ve been sitting at the same table, enduring the same conversation, existing in the same fucking space. But that’s not what he means. You can hear it in his tone. He’s pushing something, steering toward some invisible objective.

You try not to let your discomfort show. You are so good at this- at smiling when you don’t mean it, at playing along, at making yourself palatable in the rooms that matter.

But this? This is suffocating.

And then Kelly walks in.

For a brief, fleeting second, you almost feel relieved.

She’s tall, poised, effortlessly elegant in the way only someone born into privilege can be. Long, dark hair cascades in sleek waves over her shoulders, makeup flawless, her outfit effortlessly polished. She’s the kind of woman who always looks put together, always moves with quiet certainty, always seems to have the upper hand in whatever room she steps into.

And maybe that’s why your first instinct is to think- finally.

Finally, some kind of reprieve from whatever the hell this dinner has been. Finally, a presence that might shift the balance, dilute the weight of Jos’s unwavering focus on you, lessen the unbearable pressure that’s been stretching across the table like a noose.

Because Kelly has been nice. Talking to Kelly is nice.

But no.

No, it gets worse.

The tension in the room doesn’t ease- it sharpens, condenses into something even heavier, something thick and stifling that settles deep in your ribs. You don’t fully understand it, don’t know what’s shifting, what’s crackling in the air, but you feel it. Like stepping into a conversation that started long before you arrived, like missing the first half of an argument and knowing you’ll never quite catch up.

“Seriously?” Kelly’s voice is sharp, slicing through the air, cutting Jos off mid-sentence. “You didn’t even wait for me?”

Jos barely looks up from his plate. “You were late.”

Kelly lets out a short, incredulous laugh, one hand bracing against her hip. “And that’s my fault?” You don’t know the full story. You don’t know any of the story. But you know this isn’t just about dinner.

You glance at Max, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Just sits there, head bowed over his plate, fingers toying idly with his fork. Impossibly, he looks even more miserable than before. He looks more like a scolded child than a world champion.

And Kelly- Kelly is pissed. Not in the way people get when they’re mildly annoyed, but in the way that suggests there’s a much bigger fight happening under the surface, something unspoken and unresolved and bigger than you can begin to understand. You shift slightly in your chair, adjusting your napkin just for something to do, something to keep your hands busy, because fuck, the air in here is unbearable.

Jos is still eating like nothing is wrong. Kelly is still standing like everything is.

All evening, Max hadn’t been engaged in the conversation at all, his head mostly bent over his plate, phone occasionally appearing under the table when he thought Jos wasn’t looking. Fine by you, honestly. If you thought you could get away with it, you’d rather be doom-scrolling than timing your stretches of eye-contact with Jos. But now, caught between his father, his girlfriend, and the girl his dad would not shut the fuck up about, Max had seemed to reach his limit.

With a sharp scrape of his chair against the floor, he stands. "I’m finished.” 

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Series Masterlist

[jade-gemstone]

Danganronpa Ultimate Categorization

Welcome back to another episode of: Jade is a nerd about something absolutely useless! Today's topic: Talent classification in Danganronpa/Fangans.

In the process of making my own fangan/s, I've created a classification system for the types of talents you can give characters. These classifications are...

Arts: Talents that are involved in the visual arts, performing arts, or fashion. Encompasses performers of all types, any type of visual artist, or anyone involved in fashion. (Ex. Actor, Abstract Artist, Model)

Practical: Talents that focus on a specialized skill or work with your hands. Also includes any talents that are religious or spiritual in nature. (Ex. Mechanical Engineer, Detective, Shrine Maiden)

Academic: Talents that are recognized by how much knowledge or experience a character has in an academic field. Covers most science, literature, math, and research based talents. (Ex. Chemist, Theologian, Archaeologist)

Sports: Talents relating to athletic skill. (Ex. Footballer, Kickboxer, Bowler)

Novelty: Talents given to a person who is special simply by existing. Can also be given to characters who win a contest for their talent. Includes Lucky/Unlucky Students, royalty, and non-human characters. (Ex. Lucky Student, Student, Princess)

This system of classification was based on my experience in the community over about three or four years, seeing many other people's original characters as well as creating my own. I found many fell into these categories. My "perfect" ratio, which my friends and I used as a guideline for making our fangan casts, is 4 arts : 4 practical : 4 academic : 2 sports: 2 novelty. I felt this ratio kept things even and grounded.

A few months ago, I began to wonder if my "perfect" ratio was more of my own creation than an actual pattern I saw. I thought, in the event it was, that I would come up with a mathematically accurate ratio that better represented the talent distribution of Danganronpa and its fan projects. This was my attempt at doing just that.

Data Collection

For this, I tried to collect as varied of a sample as possible. I included the three mainline Danganronpa games and sixteen fangans, ranging from very popular ones to very obscure ones. The fangans sampled for this analysis were...

Danganronpa Another

Super Danganronpa Another 2

Danganronpa Despair Time

Brave Danganronpa Coward's Paradise

Project Eden's Garden

Danganronpa He(art)less Deceit

Danganronpa Hushed Whispers

Danganronpa Muave

Danganronpa Despair's Revival

Danganronpa Re:Birth

Danganronpa Twisted Truths

Danganronpa Survivor's Guilt

Danganronpa Despair's Flame (my fangan! also the one where the talent ratio originated)

Danganronpa Cyberspace

Danganronpa Akeda Amusements

Danganronpa Lost Paradise (my other fangan that isn't released anywhere but I'm counting anyway)

I figured out the talent ratio for each individual game by looking through their casts and sorting them with my classification system. Ultimate ???'s were thrown out if possible (such as in the case of Akeda Amusements, where Hanari was thrown out due to the fangan having seventeen participants) and if not, they were counted as novelty.

Also, shout out to Yuki Maeda and Teruya Ōtori for managing to count for two different data sets despite my best efforts at finagling a way to keep them confined to one.

Observations

The first thing I noticed in looking at the ratios for canon Danganronpa was that Academic ultimates are underrepresented compared to what I initially remembered. It had been a while since I revisited the mainline games, and it was a shock to be reminded of that. I was also reminded, but not quite as shocked by the greater emphasis on practical ultimates.

In fangans, the focus on practical ultimates continues to be heavy, with none having less than two. There was also less focus on sports ultimates, with the majority having only one or two compared to the three that the mainline games had a majority of the time. They also tend to have more academic ultimates.

I think that this could be explained by looking at the types of people who make fangans. The majority of people I know who make fangans have very particular knowledge about certain fields due to experience or heavy research, and more often than not these fields do not include sports. They are more likely to make characters based on their experiences and knowledge that they can then insert into the story to make it seem more authentic.

I also, unsurprisingly, found that my "perfect" ratio was not reflected in many of the fangans I looked at. There was only one besides my own that followed that ratio.

Now, if my "perfect" ratio is not the mathematically perfect ratio, then what is?

According to the data collected for the canon games, this is.

This just so happens to also be the ratio for Trigger Happy Havoc.

According to the data collected from the fangans, this is the perfect ratio.

The only fangan that followed this ratio exactly was Akeda Amusements. V3 also had this distribution.

When considering both mainline and fan made games, the perfect ratio was this.

Ironically, not a single mainline game or fan game followed this ratio.

Out of curiosity, I also calculated the standard deviation for each data set.

Canon Danganronpa has little to no variation, conveying that talent ratios are quite consistent between games. The biggest variation would be in the novelty category, making sense as V3 scaled down the amount of novelty ultimates compared to the other two games.

The fangans are shown to have a much larger variation. Though I can't be surprised by this, as perhaps it is an unfair comparison. The mainline Danganronpa games were written by mostly the same team and had less to sample from, while the fangans have not only a larger sample size in which to deviate, but many different writers that think differently about talent distribution.

Final Thoughts

In putting this all together, I found that my classification system, while not perfect in any sense of the word, has some validity to it. If I wanted to, I could definitely make some improvements to it (especially in distinguishing between certain academic and practical fields from novelty), but as of now it works perfectly fine as an aide in cast creation for me.

My ratio is also not perfect, which was an expected outcome. Really none of the ratios I found are perfect, with none of them representing more than one or two of any mainline or fan made game. While ratios like the ones I found can be good for making sure you have a balanced distribution of talents, they aren't required to make a good cast. Personally, I'll continue using my personal "perfect" ratio as a baseline for any cast I make in the future.

I also had a lot of fun making this, and hope I can find a way to make more posts like this in the future. Thank you for reading this.

[meckamecha]

Generative AI isn't like, THAT bad in and of itself. On it's own it's a mildly interesting little toy that plays with large-scale statistical analysis. This has some legitimate applications, but is mostly a novelty with limited utility.

The problem however, is that a bunch of major corporations have pumped billions and billions of dollars into developing it to the point it's at now and they want a return on investment, so they try to cram it into every imaginable application whether or not it's appropriate or even possible, and make up the difference by lying about having a sweatshop in India or Nigeria where engineers or data analysts or whatever profession is appropriate are paid pennies an hour in a large-scale mechanical turk. All of this is then used to justify mass layoffs in a two-for-one deal on immiseration

The water consumption is a consequence of all large-scale computation projects, if you're that concerned about it you should also stop using cloud computing services.

The art theft and copyright violation is actually cool as hell and should be encouraged, intellectual property is a blight upon culture and must be abolished

Also all art and writing is soulless because souls don't exist

[pancaketax]

What Remains | Chapter 18 The Hunt (Tony Stark x M! Reader)

TW : Detailed depictions of injuries and abuse. Mentions of past abuse Summary : Tony Stark becomes something beyond human , a machine driven by icy rage, relentless focus, and a singular goal: to find you. After receiving a horrifying call laced with sadistic cruelty and a scream he instantly recognizes as yours, Stark enters a sleepless, foodless, voiceless trance, transforming his office into a war room. Every screen, every algorithm, every ounce of technology is bent to his will in a digital manhunt for your location. When Jarvis finally locates a faint signal in an abandoned warehouse, Stark launches without hesitation, donning a specialized combat suit built for one purpose: ending this.

word count: 16.1k

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter Stark hasn’t closed his eyes. Not for a second. He hasn’t swallowed a bite, hasn’t taken a sip of water. He hasn’t moved from his desk since the exact moment that voice slithered into his ear, slick and jagged like a rusted blade. Since that obscene breath passed through the line, that whisper soaked in menace and sadistic delight. Since that scream that raw, flayed scream, human, far too human ripped from a throat he knows too well, just before silence fell, sharp as a guillotine. Something broke then. Not in him. No. Something froze.

He’s no longer a man, not really. Not in this suspended moment, where even time seems too afraid to move forward. He’s become engine. Mechanism. Open-heart alert system. His blood doesn’t circulate it pulses, furious, carried by a cold, methodical, almost clinical rage. He is anger, but an anger without shouting. An anger that thinks, that calculates, that watches, that waits. A storm contained in a steel cylinder, ready to explode, but for now channeling all its violence into the glacial logic of action.

In the office, the tension is almost tangible. The air feels charged, saturated with something indefinable a blend of ozone, electricity, and pure stress. Every surface vibrates slightly, as if the metal itself shared the heartbeat of its occupant. The silence isn’t soothing. It’s oppressive, built on thick layers of concentration, anticipation, restrained fury. Only mechanical sounds mark the space: the faint crackle of a screen refreshing, the nervous clicks of his fingers on holographic interfaces, the low vibrations of the servers in the adjoining room, humming at full capacity. Around him, a dozen screens stream data without pause. Some display ultra-precise satellite maps, sweeping over New York rooftops for any suspicious movement. Others track mobile signals, tracing the latest paths of every device even remotely connected to the target. Still others comb through databases, merge biometric information, detect faces, match voice prints. A thermal image of a building overlays a 3D city map. An audio feed scrolls at high speed, saturated with static. Nothing escapes analysis. Nothing is left to chance.

Stark is motionless, but every muscle in his body is tense. His back is hunched, elbows braced on the desk edge, fingers clenched around the projected interface hovering above the glass. His bloodshot eyes lock onto the central screen without blinking. His eyelids are heavy, but he doesn’t close them. He can’t. Not until the target is found. Not until the one he’s searching for is no longer missing. He won’t allow himself the luxury of weakness. He swore he’d never let anyone be hurt again. And he holds to his vows the way others hold to weapons. The blue glow of the monitors cuts across his face with surgical cruelty. Every shadow on his skin is a confession: fatigue, deep dark circles, drawn features, hollow cheekbones. But these marks don’t diminish him. They add a near-inhuman intensity to his gaze, a ruthless clarity. A will that, for now, eclipses even the most basic biological needs. He hasn’t slept, because he doesn’t have the right. He hasn’t eaten, because the thought hasn’t even occurred to him. His body is secondary. It’s nothing but a vessel for the mission.

He murmurs sometimes. Commands, codes, equations. He speaks to no one, but the AI responds instantly. Every word he utters is sharp, precise, guided by a logic untouched by panic. One name comes back again and again. A biometric file. A GPS identifier. Trackers. Coordinates. He’s no longer looking for a person — he’s hunting a fixed point in the storm. The center of a search and rescue system. And Stark is ready to flatten entire city blocks to bring that point back to him. When the internal alerts go off soft, discreet, almost polite signaling a drop in blood pressure, critical dehydration, or prolonged hypervigilance, he silences them with a flick of the hand. He shuts them off. Nothing exists outside this room, outside this moment. Outside this mission. The rage is there, but tamed, carved into a weapon.

Somewhere, he knows he’s crossing the line. That he’s nearing an invisible boundary. But he doesn’t care. He’s seen too many people die, too many names fade into archives. This time, he won’t be too late. So he keeps going. Relentlessly. He cross-references data, filters messages, follows leads. He digs, over and over, down to the bone. And behind him, the world can tremble all it wants. He’ll hold. Because he made a promise. Because this time, no one will disappear into the shadows without him tearing them out of the night.

His eyes never leave the screens. They’re locked in, anchored, consumed to the point of obsession. They devour every bit of information, every image, every pixel variation, as if he might uncover a hidden confession. Nothing escapes him. No movement, no data, no anomaly in the flow. His pupils, dilated from exhaustion, cling to the smallest detail, hunting a trace, a footprint, a breath left behind by the one he’s chasing without pause. He’s isolated search zones. Redrawn entire sections of the city. Compared every map of New York with thermal readings, overlaying layers like a surgeon operating through urban tissue. He’s overridden protections on multiple private networks without hesitation. Intercepted anonymous communications, analyzed movement patterns, recalibrated his internal software to tailor the algorithms to a single, solitary target. The tools he designed for international diplomacy, for global crisis response — he’s repurposed them now for a personal hunt. A cold war fought in the digital guts of the city.

And always, he comes back to that name. That shadow. That absence. Matthew. A ghost with no fingerprint, no signal, no flaw to exploit. But Stark refuses that idea. No. That kind of man doesn’t vanish. That kind of man always leaves traces — out of pride. Out of carelessness. Out of vanity. And if it means turning the city inside out, if it means digging down to reinforced concrete, to buried cables and the forgotten strata of the network — then so be it. He’s ready to search through the world’s marrow to find what remains. Cables snake across the floor, twisted like raw nerves, connected to makeshift terminals. Holograms hover in the air, pulsing with spectral, slow, almost organic light. The room, once functional and sterile, has lost its ordinary shape. This is no longer an office. It’s a clandestine command post. A digital war cell born out of urgency, powered by fear and brute will. On one wall, an unstable projection flickers: a gridded map of New York, each red zone corresponding to growing probabilities, invisible tension. Alternating, a partially reconstructed file plays pulled from a burner phone. The lines of code shimmer as if still resisting comprehension.

And at the center of it all, him. Motionless. A sculptor of chaos. He doesn’t move an inch, but his mind roars. He calculates, projects, anticipates at a speed even his most advanced AIs couldn’t match. He’s faster than the machines, because this time, it’s not for a global mission. It’s not to protect a council or a treaty. It’s not for peace. It’s personal. And nothing is more dangerous than a man like him when he’s acting for himself. His face is frozen. Carved from stone. No expression filters through. No emotion leaks out. He hasn’t spoken in hours. Not a word. His jaw is locked, clenched. His chin trembles sometimes under the pressure, but he doesn’t give in. His eyelids, heavy with fatigue, blink on autopilot but his gaze stays sharp, cutting. That look�� it belongs to a man who’s already made up his mind. It’s no longer a question of if. It’s a matter of when, how, and how much time is left. And above all, of what will be left of the other man once he finds him. He is cold. Precise. Fatally focused. Each beat of his heart seems to align with the hum of the machines. He’s perfectly synchronized with his environment. A machine among machines. He’s become the system’s core. The cold, methodical intelligence of a silent hunt — carried out without rest, without sleep, without mercy.

The door slides open with a discreet, almost timid sigh. As if it, too, understood that this moment must not be disturbed. No sound dares to break the fragile balance of the room. Not here. Not now. Even the walls seem to hold their breath, petrified by the intensity that fills the space. The bluish light of the screens slices through the artificial darkness in shifting shards, casting sharp, vibrating shadows across Stark’s features — like carvings made by a blade. He doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t need to look. He already knows. Nothing escapes him. His silence is a barrier, a verdict. He’s there. Frozen. Silent. Unshakable. And around him, the universe seems to understand that something has been set in motion. Something that can no longer be stopped.

Pepper enters without a word. The silence wraps around her instantly, like a heavy veil she doesn’t dare pierce. She says nothing — not yet. Everything about her is more subdued than usual, as if her body has attuned itself to the electric tension of the room. Her usual heels have been traded for flat shoes, chosen mechanically, without real thought. She knew when she got up this morning. No need to read the reports or check the alerts. She felt it, in every fiber of her being — this day would be different. Draining. Slow. Hard. And Tony, on days like this, is not a man to reason with. He becomes a wall. Steel. An unbreachable frontier. This isn’t a state crisis, not one of those media storms they’ve learned to face together, side by side, dressed to perfection with rehearsed smiles. No. This is something else. A silent war. Private. Intimate. And in that kind of war, Tony lets no one in. Almost no one.

In her hands, she holds two mugs. One is for her — a reflex gesture, more for the weight than the content, because she’ll set it down somewhere and forget it immediately. The other is for him. Strong coffee, black, unsweetened, scorching. Just how he likes it. She didn’t ask, didn’t guess. She knows. Because for years, she’s known his silences, his mood swings, his automatic habits. She knows the rare things that bring him a sliver of stability when everything is falling apart. She walks slowly. With that quiet elegance that is uniquely hers. Each step is precise, measured. She avoids the cables snaking across the floor like exposed veins. Dodges the hastily pushed chairs, the luminous angles of suspended holograms hanging in the air, slow and unstable like open wounds. Everything around her pulses, breathes, crackles. The smell of steaming coffee mixes with metallic fumes, with the warm emissions of overheating machines. A fleeting human note in this lair transformed into a war organ.

She approaches. Just a few feet from him now. The blue halo of the screens washes over her, casting cold, almost supernatural shards onto her skin. She still doesn’t say a word. Because she, too, senses what’s happening here. She reads silence like an ancient language. She knows that if she speaks too soon, too quickly, she could shatter everything — the balance, the tension, the fierce concentration holding him upright. Tony doesn’t even turn his head. He doesn’t need to. He knows it’s her. He saw, without really looking, her silhouette trembling on the standby screen, like a spectral apparition. He recognized her breath — controlled, steady, modulated by habit not to disrupt critical moments. He felt her presence the way you feel a warm current crossing a frozen room: discreet, but undeniable. She’s here.

But he doesn’t move. Not an inch. His fingers keep dancing over the interfaces, his eyes fixed on the data. His jaw remains locked, his posture rigid, unyielding. He doesn’t reject her presence. He accepts it without acknowledging it. She’s part of the setting, part of the very structure of this ongoing war. She is the silent anchor he’ll never ask for, but needs all the same. And she knows it. So she stays. Present. Still. Mug in hand. Waiting for him to speak — or to break. His fingers glide over the holographic interface with almost surgical precision. They graze the projected data blocks in the air, moving them, reorganizing, dissecting them as if trying to carve raw truths buried under layers of code, pixels, and silence. A building on 43rd Street. An unusual thermal signature spotted at 3:12 a.m. A encrypted phone line briefly located in South Brooklyn, before vanishing into a labyrinth of anonymous relays. He isolates. He cross-references. He sorts. He discards. He starts again. Every manipulation is an act of war. He develops a thousand hypotheses per minute, evaluates them, abandons them, replaces them. A thousand leads, a thousand fleeting micro-truths, vanishing as soon as he tries to fix them. And always, that voice in his head. That twisted, wet breath haunting him since the call. That scream — shrill, inhuman. That panic. And the silence that followed. The kind of silence only blood knows how to echo.

Pepper, still silent, watches. She hasn’t moved since entering. Her eyes shift from the screen to Tony’s face, then to his hands. She sees what he refuses to admit: his movements are less precise. They tremble sometimes. Nervous flickers, involuntary, imperceptible to others — but not to her. There’s that tiny jolt in his palm when two images overlap without matching. That subtle twitch of his fingers when the algorithm returns an empty result. That tension in his joints with every failure, every dead end. She takes a step forward. Slowly, silently. She places the mug at the edge of the desk, just within his field of vision. Not too close, not too far. She sets it where he could reach for it without thinking, by reflex, if some part of him still remembered how to drink something. If his lips still knew how to welcome anything other than orders. But deep down, she knows he probably won’t. Not now. Maybe not at all. She doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t interrupt. But her eyes never leave him. They linger on his neck, that taut, rigid line, almost painful. On his shoulders, hunched forward, drawn tight like bows ready to snap. She reads the exhaustion in the way his muscles clench, in how he holds his breath when results elude him, in that violent stubbornness that keeps him from stepping back — even for a second.

Then she speaks. Barely. Her voice is a whisper. A caress in a space saturated with tension. A suspended breath, respectful. As if she were speaking to a wounded animal, to a raw heart that a single harsh word might cause to shatter.

— "You should drink something."

No reproach. No judgment. Not even any real expectation. Just an invitation, soft, almost unreal in this room ruled by the cold light of screens and the hum of machines. A reminder, simple and human, that he still has a body. That he’s still a man. Not just an overheated mind, a burning brain, dissociated from everything else. She doesn’t expect a response. She doesn’t even want one. What she’s offering isn’t a solution. It’s a breath. An interlude. A hand offered at a distance, without conditions, in the eye of a cyclone she can’t stop — but refuses to abandon. Stark doesn’t answer. The silence remains, impenetrable. But she sees it. That blink. Singular. Slow. Almost lagging. Like a discreet malfunction in an otherwise perfect line of code. A micro-event, almost invisible but for her, it means everything. He heard her. He understood. Somewhere beneath the layers of adrenaline and frozen focus, her words registered. But he can’t stop. Not yet. Not while what he’s searching for remains out of reach.

She moves a little closer. Her steps are slow, calculated. The slightest movement could shatter the fragile equilibrium he maintains between lucidity and overload. She skirts the screens projecting a relentless flow of data, passes through the light beams of overlapping maps, walks through the holograms dissecting New York in real time: facades, sewer lines, rooftops, drone paths, shifting heat points. A fractured digital world, reconstructed for a single mission. And she, the only organic presence in this sanctuary of glass and light, walks forward until she’s beside him. Upright. Calm. Unshakable. She stands there, just a meter away. A silhouette in the bluish light. A presence. An anchor. Non-intrusive, but constant. And in that data-saturated silence, she looks at the screen in front of him. Blurry images flash by. Figures captured by an old security camera. Red dots blink in the darkness of a poorly mapped basement. Nothing conclusive. Nothing obvious. But she sees beyond that. She’s not looking at the screen. She’s looking at him.

She sees what he doesn’t show. What he himself struggles to ignore. That back, a bit more hunched than before. That hand clenched around the desk edge, knuckles white with tension. That breath, irregular, barely perceptible — but betraying an inner fight. That exhaustion, layered in invisible strata, like ash over an ember that refuses to die. He’ll never admit it. That’s not an option. But she knows. He’s burning out. Eroding. Slowly bleeding out everything that keeps him human. So she acts. Gently, but without hesitation. She reaches out. Picks up the mug left on the edge of the desk, still faintly steaming. And she moves it. Places it right in front of him. Where his gaze can’t avoid it. Where his fingers could reach it without thinking. A mundane gesture, almost insignificant. But heavy with meaning.

— "You need to stay sharp." Her voice is soft, but firm. It cuts through the thickness of the moment. "If he’s counting on you, he needs you at your best. Not collapsing."

He stays still for another second. Then, slowly, his gaze lifts. Like he’s returning from a far-off place, from a tension zone where the real world no longer reaches. He looks at her. Directly in the eyes. And she sees. She sees everything. The fatigue eating away at the edges. The redness at the corners of his eyes, signs of brutal sleeplessness. But most of all, that clarity. That burning precision still intact in the depths of his pupils. It’s a gaze that doesn’t waver. The gaze of a man broken a thousand times — but still standing. And in that gaze, she reads three things.

Fear. Raw. Visceral. The fear of not making it in time. Rage. Pure. Mechanical. The kind he holds back to avoid destroying everything.

And the promise. Absolute. Irrevocable.

— "I’m going to get him out."

No conditional. No wiggle room. He doesn’t say he’ll try. He doesn’t say if he’s still alive. He refuses to let those phrases exist. He leaves no space for doubt. Because doubt would be a crack. And if he cracks now, he collapses. She nods. Once. That’s all it takes. A silent agreement. A trust she offers him, without questions. Then she places a hand on his shoulder. Right there. A simple contact, but real. Solid. A light, firm pressure. Just enough for him to know he’s not alone. That she’s here. That she will remain here. Even if there’s nothing more she can do. An anchor in the chaos.

— "Then drink."

She adds nothing else. No need. Not now. And then she turns on her heel, leaving behind that room saturated with tension and blue light, walking away in silence, her steps barely audible on the hard floor. She slips away as she came — discreetly, with that silent dignity that’s hers alone. No unnecessary gesture. No look back. Just the quiet certainty that he heard her. That he understood. And that he’ll do what he must. A breath. A second. Then another. Stark remains still. His eyes still locked on the numbers, on the blurry images, on the shattered map of New York pulsing slowly before him. A suspended moment, almost frozen in code and light projections. And then, slowly, as if his body weighed a ton, his fingers stretch out. Slow. Almost hesitant. They brush the mug, grasp it. Raise it to his lips.

One sip. Scalding. Bitter. Perfect.

The taste, too strong, seizes his tongue, his throat, then burns its way down like a reminder. He closes his eyes for a second. Not out of pleasure. Out of necessity. Because that simple contact — the liquid, the heat, the sensation — reminds him that he still exists outside the war machine he’s become. And then, almost immediately, his eyes open again. Latch onto the screen. The map. The hunt. The engine restarts. But behind the invisible armor, behind the hard gaze and automated gestures, the man is still there. Just enough. For now. The mug, barely set down on the desk, hits the surface with a muffled clack. The sound, though minimal, seems to shake the atmosphere. Stark exhales. One of those irritated sighs that vibrate between clenched teeth, that fatigue turns into frustration, and frustration reshapes into buried anger. His fingers snap against the desk, nervously. Not a blow. Just a dry, rhythmic sound. Accumulated tension seeking an outlet, a culprit, a breaking point. Something to strike — or someone. But no one here is responsible. No one except him.

And then, it bursts out.

— "Fuck… why didn’t he activate it?"

The voice is low. But it slices the air like a blade. Sharp. Brittle. It doesn’t need to be loud to carry. It’s so charged with tension that it seems to vibrate in the walls. No explosive rage. No yelling. Just that clean line, that icy edge that says it all. It’s not a question. It’s an unbearable fact. A flaw in the plan. A betrayal of logic. He doesn’t need to clarify. The device, the gesture, the fear behind it all of it is obvious. In the hallway, Pepper has stopped. Without realizing it. As if her muscles responded to that voice before her mind did. She’s frozen. And she understands. She knows too. He’s talking about the device. That small, discreet piece, barely bigger than a coin, that he slipped into an anodized case with a falsely detached air. That neutral tone he adopts when the stakes are too high to admit. He presented it like a gadget. Just another safety.

A thing for emergencies. "Press and hold for three seconds" he said. Simple. Effective. And his location would be transmitted to the Tower in real time, with immediate triangulation and constant tracking. He insisted, without seeming to. Like a father too proud of a dangerous toy. Like a man who’s already lost everything once and won’t let chance roll the dice again. The kind of thing he doesn’t give to everyone. The kind of thing he only entrusts once. And even then. Under the pretense of humor. Veiled in sarcasm. And yet, you didn’t activate it. That thought gnaws at him. Consumes him. Because if it wasn’t forgetfulness, then it’s worse. Then maybe there wasn’t time. Or maybe he was afraid. Or maybe you thought it wouldn’t make a difference. And that Tony can’t accept.

Because the alternative… he can’t even imagine it. He built it in just a few hours. One sleepless night, a few curses, two black coffees, and a diagram sketched on a crumpled napkin. Because he was tired. Tired of not knowing. Tired of not being able to protect. Tired of seeing him wander through New York like a ghost without an anchor, sleeping in sketchy squats, living on the generosity of people as reliable as March weather. He was done with uncertainty, with instability. So he made something simple, small, efficient. A distress beacon. A miniature safeguard. Mostly to protect him from himself. He even tucked a secondary mic inside. Discreet, compressed in anodized metal layers. Inaudible to the human ear. Just a sensor, a passive ear, in case something went wrong. Because he knew it could go wrong. Because deep down, he felt that danger was never far. And now? Nothing. No signal. No vibration. No blinking light. No trace. The void. Nothingness. The shadow of a silence that screams. Abruptly, Stark spins in his chair. The movement is sharp, abrupt. His fingers slam down on the projected keyboard in the air, striking commands, executing code, calling internal logs. He pulls up the history. Checks for connection attempts. Scans the security logs, network access, secondary frequencies. No recording. No triggered signal. No distress call. The device was never activated.

— "It was right there." His voice is hoarse. Slow. Painfully contained. "Within reach. Three fucking seconds. And I could’ve…"

He cuts himself off. Right there. The breath caught. No anger. Not yet. It’s not rage. It’s vertigo. An inner fall. He sees the scene again. Precisely. In the hall, just days ago. He was holding the little device between his fingers, between two sarcastic lines. A detached, mocking tone, as always. Trying not to push too hard. Not to seem worried. He said it with a smirk, hands in his pockets: "Just in case. It beeps, it blinks, I show up. Easy."

And he remembers. That hesitation. The lowered gaze. That muttered thank you, without real conviction. As if it didn’t really concern him. As if he didn’t believe it. As if he was afraid to disturb and didn’t think he was worth coming for. Stark clenches his teeth. Bitterness sticks in his throat.

— "He didn’t get it, did he?"

The question escapes. Not aimed at anyone. Not really. He’s speaking to the void, the desk, the walls. To himself. To the echo in his head.

— "He thinks it only works for others." His voice tightens. Fractures. "That no one comes for him. That he has to wait for it to get worse. That he has to nearly die to justify help."

His fingers slap a screen with the back of his hand. A furious swipe. The images vanish in a spray of light.

— "Shit. Shit."

He gets up. Too abruptly. His chair rolls back. He paces, circles, like a caged beast. A shadow of armor without the armor. He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it without thinking. His gestures are nervous, disordered. He teeters between genius logic and raw emotion.

— "I had him in my pocket," he breathes. "I could’ve found him in under two minutes."

His fist hits the back of the chair. A dry strike. Not brutal. But deep. A dull echo that lingers in the air.

— "But no. He keeps it on him like a fucking keychain. A symbolic thing. A gadget he doesn’t want to use. Because he doesn’t want to be a bother. Because he doesn’t want to raise the alarm."

He suddenly freezes. His breath halts. He stares at the floor as if seeking an answer no data can provide. The silence stretches. Then, in an almost inaudible murmur, rougher, more bitter:

— "He’s convinced no one’s coming."

And that thought. That simple idea. It destroys him from the inside. He closes his eyes. Clenches his fists so tightly his knuckles turn white. He fights. To hold back what rises. He won’t say he’s afraid. He won’t say he’s in pain. That he blames himself until it eats him alive. No. He won’t say it. So he turns back. Resumes his place. His fingers return to the controls. His gaze locks onto the screens. The maps. The fragmented data. What he still has. What he can still control. Because if he can’t turn back time… then he’ll find a way to catch up. No matter the cost. And he mutters under his breath:

— "I’m going to find him. Device or not."

Then he types. Not to write. Not to command. He types like someone striking. As if his fingers could punch through matter, bend the universe, shatter the whole world through the silent keys of a holographic keyboard. Every keystroke is a discharge. A sharp hit. A blow aimed at that invisible wall he can’t break through. A fight of data against the void, of will against absence. He types with an urgency that allows no delay, no hesitation. As if life, somewhere, depended on it.

Because it is.

And in the meantime, silence remains. Insidious. Heavy. The tenacious shadow of the action that never happened. The one that would have been enough. Three seconds. A press of the thumb. And he would have known. He would have moved. He would have run. He would have acted. He would have been there. But no. That absence, Stark feels it lodged in his throat, like acid he can’t swallow. It rises, clings, radiates. It stays, constant, until he brings him back. Until he has proof tangible, irrefutable that it’s still possible. That he’s still alive. The minutes pass. Like blades. Sharp. Precise. Unforgiving.

They cut into his focus, erode his patience, chip away at his certainty. Every second is a brutal reminder that time is passing. And this time, time isn’t an ally. He feels it slipping over his skin like a cold blade that can’t be stopped. But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t blink. The office is bathed in semi-darkness. The blinds are down, the outside light filtered, as if daylight itself no longer had the right to enter. Only the screens cast their bluish glow on the walls, on the cables, on the opaque glass. And on him. That cold, spectral light slices across his closed-off face in sharp angles. Hollowed cheekbones. Brow etched with tension lines. Lips tight. He looks carved from quartz. Cold. Hard. Unyielding.

His eyes, fixed, barely blink. They follow lines of code, coordinates, overlaid maps, signal analyses, with inhuman precision. His stare is locked. Obsessed. He doesn’t falter. He scans. He waits. His fingers still move. Barely. With mechanical regularity. An almost hypnotic rhythm. They glide over holographic interfaces, brush through data windows, launch diagnostics, cross-reference streams. There’s no hesitation anymore, no improvisation. Only a logical sequence. An algorithm embodied in a man who refuses to give up. He doesn’t speak. Hasn’t for a while. He doesn’t even think — not in the usual sense. Human thoughts, full of doubts, memories, emotions, have been pushed to the background. He leaves space only for function. He calculates. He maps. He eliminates. He acts. Because that’s all he can do. And because as long as he acts, as long as he moves, as long as he searches, he’s not imagining the worst. And the countdown continues — silent, relentless. Invisible but omnipresent, it eats at his nerves like a tourniquet pulled too tight. A constant, dull pressure. There’s no number on the screen, no red blinking timer, but he feels it. In every heartbeat. In every passing minute, every interface click, every breath that’s too short, too sharp. He feels it under his skin like slow-diffusing poison.

Twenty-four hours.

That was the deadline. The ultimatum. Spat in his face with disgusting insolence, with the kind of sneering arrogance Stark knows too well. A provocation. A signature. A trap — not even hidden. A price laid out in black and white. The kind of message sent when you’re sure you have the upper hand. But it wasn’t the money that kept him awake all night. Not the numbered threat. Not the offshore account, not the conditions. That, he could have handled. Bought peace. Hacked the system. Turned the trap back on its maker. That’s not what stopped him from blinking, that jammed his throat, that retracted his muscles like a shock. It’s something else. It’s the image. Frozen. Unstable. Blurry. But recognizable. It’s the sound. That breath. That scream. Distorted by distance. By network static. But raw. Human. Ripped out. So real that even now, he still hears it. He could replay it in his head a hundred times, a thousand. He knows it by heart. The tone, the break in the voice, the burst of brutal panic just before everything was swallowed by silence.

That fucking silence. That’s what’s destroying him. What eats at him. What stops him from breathing normally. The silence afterward. The absolute nothing. That break that said everything, summed everything up. That screamed at him what he failed to hear in time. What he should have seen coming. That silence — Stark will never forgive it. Not the other. Not himself. Then suddenly, a voice slices through the air. Soft. Controlled. Synthetic. Like a strand of silk stretched to the limit, about to snap — but still holding.

— “Mr. Stark.”

He doesn’t even turn his head. He’d recognize that voice among a thousand. It’s been there forever — in his ear, in his walls, in his head. An extension of himself.

— “I’m listening, Jarvis.”

— “I believe I’ve found something.”

A shiver. Cold. Brutal. It shoots up his spine like an electric surge. For one heartbeat, his heart forgets to beat. Then everything reactivates all at once. Adrenaline. Tension. Hypervigilance.

— “Talk.”

Instantly, one of the main screens expands. The map of the city appears — familiar and vast — then begins a slow zoom. Details sharpen. Colors darken. The center pulls back. The frame shifts. Outskirts. Sparse buildings. Wasteland. Finally, a precise point. An abandoned industrial zone. Gray. Timeworn. Forgotten by the world. Drowned in abandonment fog. Where no one looks anymore. Where things are hidden when no one wants them found. Coordinates blink at the bottom of the screen. Precise. Cold. Real.

— “A minimal network activity was detected,” Jarvis continues. “Almost nothing. A very weak signal — just a few microseconds of connection — but enough to leave a trace. It was a disposable phone.”

Stark steps forward. He’s drawn to the map like it’s magnetic. His eyes latch onto the screen, fix on it, hold. He sees beyond the image. Through the ruined facades, under the layers of metal and dust. He wants to believe he can see what’s hidden there. That something is waiting.

— “Can you confirm?”

— “The model’s signature matches what we detected during the call. It briefly connected to a secondary relay antenna nearby. It might’ve gone unnoticed, but—”

He’s no longer listening. Or rather, he hears everything. He registers it all, but his mind is already elsewhere. Locked in. Compressed around a single fact. A single certainty. His thoughts tighten, converge on a single point. A red dot. Blinking. Clear. An abandoned warehouse. No activity for over ten years. No cameras. No patrols. No recorded movement. Nothing. The kind of place you choose when you don’t want to be found. The kind of place where secrets are buried. Or people. And then, a single thought imposes itself. Emerges from the chaos like a brutal flash of truth. A certainty branded into his mind like a red-hot iron.

You’re there.

Not maybe. Not probably. Not possibly. You’re there. His fist clenches. Slowly. Each finger curling until the knuckles turn white. He closes his eyes. One second. One breath. One anchor. Then opens them again. And in his gaze, there’s no more doubt. No more fear. No more wandering emotion. Just steel. Just fire. Just the mission.

— “Prepare everything. Now.”

And in that exact moment, the whole world narrows. There’s no more sound. No more fatigue. No more failure. Only this. A straight line. A single target. A burning urgency. To get you out. Pepper is there. Just behind him. Motionless. Straight as a blade. Her arms crossed tightly against her, in a posture that might seem cold to someone who doesn’t know her. But it’s not distance. It’s a barrier. A dam. A desperate attempt to hold back what she feels rising.

The pale glow of the screens casts his shadow on the floor, long and sharp, like a silent specter frozen in anticipation. Around them, the room is bathed in incomplete darkness, pierced only by the soft flickering blue halos on the glass surfaces — witnesses to this sleepless night that stretches on and on.

His face, usually so mobile, so expressive — the face that knows how to smile even during the worst press conferences, that can reassure with a single look — is now closed. Frozen. Like carved in marble. His jaw slightly clenched. His brows drawn in a barely perceptible but unyielding tension. But what betrays it all are his eyes. A gleam, contained. A discreet fire. Both anxious and annoyed. A light that flickers between anguish and a barely concealed anger.

She watches him. In silence. Lips tight. Shoulders tense. And she knows. She knows exactly what’s going on in his head. She knows the gears, the silences, the calculated movements. She recognizes this posture. This calm. This false calm. This almost elegant stillness that always comes just before impact. She’s seen it once. Maybe twice, in her entire life. And each time, something broke afterward. A wall. A promise. Someone. So she speaks. Not to convince him. But to try and hold him back for just one more moment at the edge of the abyss.

— “You should wait for the police, Tony.”

Her voice is calm. Measured. Perfectly composed. But it cuts through the air like a blade honed too well. It slices without shouting, without striking. It hits the mark. He doesn’t respond. Not right away. He moves. Slowly at first, then with dreadful precision. He reaches for the back of his chair, pulls his leather jacket from it — the one he wears when everything becomes too real, too dangerous, too personal. He puts it on in one sharp, fast motion. Automatic. Without even thinking. Everything is rehearsed. His movements are crisp, stripped of any hesitation. He’s no longer reflecting. He’s in motion.

One hand slides into the side drawer of his desk. The metal barely creaks. He pulls out a small object, barely bigger than a watch case. Smooth. Chrome. Discreet. He inspects it for a fraction of a second, spins it between his fingers, gauges it. His gaze clings to it, focused, as if making sure it’s the right one. Then he slips it into the inner pocket of his jacket. A tracker. A prototype. Maybe both. Maybe something else. When Tony Stark leaves like this, he never leaves empty-handed. And in the suspended tension of the room, in that moment when every gesture weighs like a decision, Pepper feels her heart pound harder. Because she knows, once again, he won’t change his mind. Not this time.

Without a word. He crosses the room like someone going to war. No haste, no visible tension. Just a methodical, silent advance, heavy with intention. Each step echoes faintly on the floor, absorbed by the cold light of the still-lit screens, by the walls saturated with nervous electricity. He heads toward the elevator, straight, relentless, like a guided missile.

— “Tony.”

This time, her voice cuts through the space. Louder. Sharper. She’s dropped the polite calm. There’s urgency in that word, a crack, something tense, fragile. Pepper steps forward, rounds the table. It’s not a command. It’s not a plea either. It’s a disguised entreaty, cloaked in reason, offered as a last attempt to connect. She’s searching for a crack. A hold. Any one. Not to stop him — she’s never held that illusion — but to slow the momentum. To crack the armor. To make him think. Just one more second.

— “This is exactly what he wants. For you to charge in headfirst. For him to have control.”

He stops. His body freezes all at once, mid-distance from the elevator whose open doors wait, patient, like the jaws of a steel beast. Slowly, he turns toward her. Not violently. Not with irritation. But with that icy precision that, in him, equals all the angers in the world. He looks at her. And his gaze is black. Not empty. Not crazed. No. It’s a sharp gaze. Cutting. Shaped like a glass blade, able to slice cleanly without ever shaking. He stares at her, without flinching, without softening the impact. His shoulders slightly raised, chin lowered, neck taut. A compact, tense posture. Not defensive. Not exactly. More like a predator’s. The eyes of a man who sees no alternate paths. Only the target.

— “You think he has control?”

His voice is low. Deep. Vibrating with that particular intensity he only uses in very rare moments — when everything tips, when what remains inside compresses until it becomes unstoppable. Every word is controlled. Measured. Almost calmly delivered. But in their precision, there’s something unsettling. A promise. A fracture forming. Silence falls behind that phrase. Suddenly. A thick silence. Charged. Almost unbreathable. It lasts only a few seconds, but they seem to stretch time. The elevator still waits behind him. The slightly open doors pulse softly, as if they sensed the suspended moment. Then he adds, without raising his voice, without looking away:

— “He made the biggest mistake of his life taking him.”

And it’s not a threat. It’s not provocation. It’s a verdict. A raw, cold truth carved in marble. It’s a fact. And it’s far worse than a scream. Then he turns away. One last time. And he steps into the elevator. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t leave a phrase hanging. Doesn’t try to reassure. He disappears into the steel maw, and the doors close on him with a quiet hiss. Pepper remains there. Upright. Frozen. Her arms cross a little tighter, as if to hold back something threatening to collapse. The screen lights continue to flicker over her unmoving features, but they’re not what illuminates her. It’s intuition. Instinct. The one that whispers what she already knows deep down, what she’s felt from the beginning. Something is going to explode. And this time, she’s not sure anyone will come out unscathed.

The metallic floor barely vibrates beneath his steps. Just a discreet, restrained resonance, almost respectful. But in the frozen silence of the hangar, each echo seems to strike the air like a muffled detonation. Every step is a warning. A countdown. A declaration of war. The space is vast. Immense. A cathedral of technology bathed in cold, clinical, almost surgical light. The walls, made of reinforced glass and brushed steel, reflect sharp, precise flashes, slicing his shadow with every movement. Nothing here is decorative. Everything is functional. Calibrated. Optimized. Ready to serve. Ready to open, to strike, to launch. Ready to close behind him, too.

Tony moves with slow, controlled steps. Nothing rushed. He’s not running. He’s not hurrying. He knows exactly where he’s going. Every stride is calculated. Controlled. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, unwavering. No detours. No curiosity. His body is tense, but steady. Focused. There is no room left for doubt. At the center of the hangar, the launch platform awaits him. A circle of polished steel, inlaid with white LEDs pulsing gently, slowly, like a heart in standby. The light follows a steady, hypnotic rhythm, as if the structure itself were breathing. It sleeps. But it's ready to awaken at the slightest command. Around him, holographic showcases come to life at his approach. Sensors recognize his presence. Interfaces open by themselves. Images appear, fluid, clear. Silhouettes rise in bluish light, floating like specters of war.

His suits. The most recent. The strongest. The fastest. Masterpieces of power and precision, lined up in military silence. No words. No announcements. They stand there, frozen, waiting, like a metallic honor guard ready to activate at the slightest signal. Majestic. Relentless. Inhuman. They are beautiful in their coldness. Intimidating. Perfect. But he doesn't look at any of them. Not a single glance. Not a hint of hesitation. He passes through them like one walks through a memory too familiar to still fascinate. The suit doesn’t matter. Not this time. He isn’t here for spectacle, or showy power. He doesn’t want to impress, or buy time. He wants only one thing.

Efficiency. Extraction. The end.

His steps remain steady. His silhouette moves alone among the giants of metal. And in his wake, the air seems to vibrate with low tension, restrained anger, pain too vast to be named. The soldier is on the move. And what he’s about to do now… he’ll do it without flinching. His gaze is fixed. Frozen. With an almost inhuman intensity. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t deviate. He aims. His attention is a taut line between two points: himself, and the target. It’s not anger you see in his eyes. That would be too simple. Too mundane. No — it’s worse. It’s frozen resolve. A sharp calm like a scalpel's edge. Clinical determination, purged of raw emotion, as if every feeling had been distilled, compressed into a single objective: locate, neutralize, retrieve. At all costs.

The suit he’s come for… it’s not the one from interviews. Not the one for demos. Not the one that dazzles crowds or makes headlines. This one, he only brings out when someone has to fall. No flash. No light. No declaration. With a sharp gesture, he activates the control interface embedded in the platform. The floor lights intensify, blink once, then a metal ring slowly rises from the ground, encircling him with solemn gravity. Everything remains silent. Nothing overreacts. Everything is perfectly calibrated. Robotic arms unfold around him, in a mechanical choreography of military precision. They don’t tremble. They don’t hesitate. They take position, ready to interlock, to serve, to build the weapon.

— "Omega configuration."

His voice snaps. Dry. Dense. Like a hammer strike on glass. And instantly, the machines comply. Without delay. Without flaw. The first pieces of the suit lock around his legs, securing his joints, enclosing his muscles in layers of reinforced alloy. The boots anchor to his feet with a soft hiss, each plate sliding into place with a perfectly tuned metallic click. Then the chest modules rise, locking over his ribcage. The red and gold lines slowly take shape, forming a symmetrical, ruthless architecture. Nothing is superfluous. Everything is there to protect, to absorb, to strike. The metal climbs along his arms, embeds into his shoulders, clamps onto his back. A vengeful exoskeleton. A body of war. Every movement is fluid, exact. The machine knows his rhythm. It knows his silence. It recognizes this moment when Tony Stark is no longer joking. He lowers his head slightly. The helmet drops with a magnetic hiss. It seals with a muffled chhhk. Instantly, his vision turns red. The interface lights up. Sensors activate. Data streams appear. Code scrolls. Maps. Thermal signals. Local comms networks. Building schematics. Ballistic paths.

He’s inside. He’s ready.

— "J.A.R.V.I.S., send the flight plan."

— "Coordinates locked. Route optimized. Risks assessed."

A moment. Just one. A tenuous silence. Like a held breath. Then Jarvis’s voice, lower, almost hesitant. A soft note. A nearly human tone, as if trying to reach through the metal to something deeper.

— "Tony… you don’t have to do this alone."

Not a tactical suggestion. Not a precaution. An offering. An outstretched hand. But Tony doesn’t respond. Not yet. One beat. Just a suspended moment between question and answer. But it won’t come. Because he’s not. Not alone. Not really. It’s not solitude that lives inside him. It’s worse. It’s that weight, hanging on his chest like an anvil: responsibility. He feels responsible. And that kind of responsibility can’t be delegated. Can’t be shared. It must be borne. Endured. To the end. He’s not doing this because he’s alone. He’s doing it because he’s the one who must. Because he was there when it happened. Because he should have seen, understood, foreseen. And because he will never forgive himself if he arrives too late.

A metallic breath escapes his shoulders. Light, but precise. The thrusters arm with a restrained growl. Internal turbines hum softly, like a beast holding back its power before leaping. The entire platform tenses. A low vibration rises under his feet, echoing the energy condensed beneath his heels. The lights turn orange. The floor opens. Slowly. In segments. Like a mechanical wound revealing the hangar’s nuclear heart. The air grows denser. Warmer. Electrified. Stark bends his knees. His muscles instinctively adjust for the imminent thrust. And then, without hesitation, without countdown, without another word…

He lifts off the ground.

With a piercing roar, the suit tears through the air. Flames burst from his heels, searing the platform, and Tony’s body becomes a comet of metal and fire shooting through the open ceiling, soaring at blinding speed into the already paling night. The hunt has begun.

The sky races around him. A continuous stream, distorted by speed, slashed by incandescent trails. Every inch of the armor vibrates under the strain, every thruster hums with surgical precision. The wind slams into him, compressed, transformed into pure force that only the flight algorithms manage to contain. The city stretches out below. Gigantic. Vast. Insignificant. Skyscrapers blur past like mirages. Rooftops, streets, glowing points of light — all turn into abstraction. But he sees nothing. Not the glowing windows, not the crowded avenues, not the numbers blinking across his heads-up display. Not even the overlaid messages, trajectory readings, or secondary alerts. He sees only one red dot. One destination. One objective. And nothing else exists.

He thinks only of you.

Of your body, twisted under the blows. Of your features, contorted by pain. Of your breath, ragged, torn, like each inhale is a battle against agony. Of your face, bruised, sullied, pressed against a floor too cold, too dirty, too real. He sees the blood, the unnatural angle of your shoulder, the fear diluted in your half-closed eyes. He sees everything. Even what you tried to hide. He still hears that fucking scream. The one he never should’ve heard. The one he should’ve prevented, before it ever existed. A scream you can’t fake. A scream torn from you, raw, visceral. He heard it through the phone, compressed, muffled by your breath, crushed by the violence of the moment. But despite the static, despite the distance, he felt it. Like a blade to the heart. Like a shockwave that didn’t just hit him. It went straight through him.

And in his mind, that sound loops. Again. And again. And again. Louder than any explosion. More violent than a collapsing building. It’s not a memory. It’s a living burn. An active wound. He sees it all again. Every second. Every word. Every tone. That bastard’s voice.

Matthew.

Every syllable spat like poison. Every word sculpted to wound. To provoke. To leave a mark. Not on you — on him. It was all planned. Orchestrated. A performance. A slow, cold, painfully precise execution. Meant for one person: Tony Stark. To hit him. To show him how badly he failed. To push where it hurts most.

And it worked. Fuck, it worked.

He still feels how his throat closed. The exact moment his heart skipped a beat. The absolute void that swallowed him when he realized he was too late to stop it but maybe not too late to save you. That instant shift, when all logic shattered, replaced by one certainty. He will pay. Not for the humiliation. Not for the provocation. But for putting you in that state. For daring to lay a hand on you. And Stark, now, isn’t flying toward a hideout. He’s flying toward an execution. His heart is pounding too hard. It no longer syncs with the armor’s rhythm. It hammers against his ribcage like a primal reminder that, beneath all the metal, despite all the tech, he is still a body. A man. And that body is boiling. His fingers tighten inside the gauntlets. The joints, calibrated down to the micrometer, creak under the pressure. He clenches. Too hard. Pointlessly. As if the pain might return control to him. As if he’s clinging to the sensation of something real. The internal temperature climbs a notch. A brief alert flashes, notified by a beep that Jarvis cancels instantly. He knows. Even the tech feels that something is cracking. That the tension line has reached a critical threshold. The tactile sync grows more nervous, less fluid. Not from failure — from resonance. As if the suit itself were reacting to the rage boiling beneath the metal. As if it knew he’s on the verge of detonating.

But he doesn’t scream. He doesn’t speak. He breathes. And he moves forward. Because rage — real rage the kind that doesn’t erupt but eats you alive, the kind that carves deep and anchors in silence, isn’t fire. It’s ice. A blade. A metallic tension that sharpens second by second. This is no longer about ransom. This is no longer an intervention. It’s not even a mission anymore. It’s personal. Because you… you’re not just some kid he hired. You’re not an intern, not a checkbox on some HR dashboard. You’re not a casting mistake he corrected in passing. You’re not one more name on a list of talent. You’re not a recruit. You’re that lost kid who showed up one morning with bags heavier than your shoulders, a voice too quiet, gestures too small. The one who looked at screens like they mattered more than the world. The one who barely spoke, but worked until you shook. Until you collapsed. Without ever complaining. Without ever asking for help. The one who clung to the work like it was the surface of a frozen lake. Just to keep from drowning. And that’s where it started.

Tony doesn’t know exactly when. When it slipped. When he stopped seeing you as an employee and started caring differently. Started checking if you’d eaten. Turning concern into jokes — but counting the times you said "not hungry." Setting rules. Break times. Making sure you got home. That you slept. That you didn’t vanish into the blind spots. Getting used to hearing you mutter when he worked too late. Paying attention. And now, he realizes it too late. This thing, this invisible thread, clumsy, imperfect, but real… it’s there. Damn it, it’s there. And now, you’re gone. And he’s going to cross fire, smash through every wall, burn everything down to find you. Because nothing else matters now. And that’s what’s eating him alive. Not guilt. Not passing doubt. No a slow burn, rooted deep in his chest. A slow poison, distilled with every heartbeat. Because that little idiot… you had a device. A fucking distress device. Not just any gadget. Not a toy.

A device he designed. Refined. Gave to you. Built in haste, but with care. Meant for this. To stop this. To block the worst. So he’d never have to hear screams like that. So he could get there before the blood spilled. And you didn’t even use it. Not a press. Not a signal. Nothing. You took it all. To the end. In silence. Like always. And that’s what drives him mad. The silence. That fucking habit of suffering quietly. As if it doesn’t count. As if your pain isn’t valid. As if your life isn’t worth protecting. As if pressing a button to ask for help… was already asking too much. As if he wouldn’t have come.

And now? Now you’re in the hands of a madman. A psycho acting out of vengeance, control, power hunger. A man with no limits, no brakes, who already crossed every line. Tony saw it. Heard it. He knows. Tortured. Broken. Gasping. The images come uninvited. Your face. Your features twisted in pain. That ragged breath, barely audible. The weight of your body giving out. The hard floor under your cheek. Blood seeping from a wound he can only imagine. And that look, more felt than seen, somewhere between fear and resignation.

Tony clenches his jaw. So hard his teeth slam together inside the helmet. The sound is dull, amplified by the metal echo. It vibrates through his temples. A muffled detonation ringing through his skull. He wants to scream. To hit something. To do anything. But he stays focused. Rage can’t come out. It’s compact. Controlled. Targeted.

The worst part? He still hears you. That murmur. Between gasps. That muffled breath, fragile, but so distinct. That tone. That voice he knows now. He recognized it instantly. There was no doubt. No room for illusion. He could’ve denied it. Lied to himself. Said it was a mistake. A coincidence. But no. He knew. He knew immediately. And from that moment, something inside him snapped. Not dramatically. No collapse. A clean fracture. Like an overtightened mechanism breaking in silence. Because now, it’s too late to argue. Too late to reason. Too late to call the cops. Too late for rules, procedures, delays.

Matthew is already dead. He doesn’t know it yet. He still breathes. Still thinks he’s in control. Thinks he’s running the show. But he’s not. He’s already finished. Erased. Condemned. Because Tony Stark heard that scream. And that scream changed everything. That scream signed Matthew’s death warrant. And he’s going to make him pay. Inch by inch. Breath by breath. Until he gets you back. Or burns the world down to drag you out of the dark.

When the Iron Man suit finally lands, it’s as if the whole world holds its breath.

A metallic breath explodes beneath the impact, followed by a dull rumble that cracks the already fractured concrete of the ground. The shock ripples through the foundations of the old industrial district, awakening the ghosts of rusted machines, worn-out beams, and gutted walls. Dust immediately rises in thick, greasy, lazy swirls, dancing around him for a moment before slowly settling, as if even it knows not to linger here. The air is saturated. Heavy. It reeks of rust, moldy wood, and decay embedded in the walls. It reeks of abandonment. And worse: expectation. The congealed oil on obsolete pipes reflects faint black gleams, almost organic, like fossilized blood. The ground creaks under his boots. All around him, the environment seems frozen. Trapped in a time that forgot how to die.

Icy wind rushes between the metal structures, howling through broken beams, whistling past shattered windows. It carries the cold of a soulless place — emptied, but not deserted. Not entirely. Around him is nothingness. A heavy, oppressive void. No sound, no light. Nothing lives here. Nothing breathes. Not even a rat. Not even a shadow. As if the rest of the world had the decency to look away. As if even the city itself knew that what was going to happen here… should not be seen. And in that thick silence, saturated with contained electricity, Tony remains still. His body in the suit doesn’t tremble. But everything in him is ready to strike. The HUD displays thermal readings, sound scans, parasitic electromagnetic signatures. Traces. Remnants. Leads.

He ignores them. He doesn’t need confirmation. He looks up. There. Right in front of him. The building. A block of blackened concrete, eaten away by time. It rises before him like a vertical coffin, planted in the ground. Its windows are empty sockets. Its crumbling walls seep with moisture and menace. It’s a carcass. A gaping maw. A lair. The kind of place where people are held. Erased. Buried. And deep inside, somewhere in there, he knows. You’re there. And Tony Stark came to get you.

The windows are shattered, slashed like screaming mouths frozen mid-silent howl. Shards of glass still dangle from some frames, claws of dead light ready to cut. The gutted openings let in a freezing wind that rustles the remains of forgotten curtains, faded, trembling like surrender flags. The concrete holds together only by habit. Cracked, eroded by seasons, cold, rain, and grime. By time. By indifference. Parts of the facade have collapsed in whole sheets, revealing the interior like a raw wound. Rusted beams jut from the gaping holes, still supporting broken, twisted staircases whose steps are gnawed by corrosion. A withered metal skeleton groaning under its own weight.

The scene is saturated with signs of dead life. Hastily scrawled graffiti, some grotesque, some terrifying, scream from the walls like echoes left by shadows. Split-open bags. Scattered trash. Abandoned syringes. A broken stroller, overturned. An old moldy couch under a porch. Traces of human passage, old, sad. But nothing lives here anymore. Everything reeks of neglect. Of misery. And something worse still: violence. That scent doesn’t lie. It seeps everywhere, even into the walls. A stagnant, invisible tension, but palpable. As if the very air had absorbed a memory too painful to vanish. An echo of blows. Of screams. Of fear.

Inside, it’s swallowed in thick, grimy darkness. No light. Just the blackness, mingled with dust, rot, and silence. But he doesn’t need light. Doesn’t need to see. His scanner activates instantly. The interface opens in a silent click, layering across his HUD. Schematics align, partial blueprints of the building take shape in 3D. Partial plans, modeled reconstructions from thermal scans, wave sweeps, mass detection. Heat sources appear. Faint. Distant. Unstable. And then, deep in that rusted steel maze, cracked concrete, and rotten silence… a thermal signature. Human. Residual. Nearly gone. A blurred point, nestled in a windowless room, behind thick walls. A trace. A breath.

Tony clenches his fists.

The sound is minimal. A quiet metallic creak, but full of tension. The gauntlets respond to the pressure, contouring his restrained rage, absorbing the shock. He doesn’t need confirmation. Doesn’t need to see more. Doesn’t need to wait. He knows. His instinct — that damn sixth sense he spent years mocking — screams through his body. It’s here. This rat hole he chose. This rotten theater for a filthy ransom. This stage for torture. A place not built to hold… but to break. To terrify. To harm. A bad choice. Tony approaches.

One step. Slow. Calculated. Methodical. Every movement is measured. The suit follows without fail, amplifies his stride, makes the ground tremble with each impact. Metal boots pound cracked concrete like war drums. A warning. A sentence. He doesn’t run. He doesn’t need to. Matthew’s time is already counted. His sensors scan blind spots. He identifies exits, access points, high ground. He’s already plotting firing lines, breach paths, fallback routes. He thinks like a weapon. Like a strike. Because he’s no longer just an angry man. He’s become a projectile. A terminal solution. A promise kept too late. And inside… someone is about to learn what it costs. To lay a hand on you.

He pushes the door with a sharp, decisive gesture. The metallic impact creates a brutal clang, and the battered frame wails in a piercing screech. The sound is long, grotesque, almost human. It slices the air like a cry ripped from a bottomless throat, the shriek of a grave forced open, or a coffin pried too late. The metal scrapes, shrieks, protests — but obeys. Before him, the hallway stretches. Long. Narrow. Strangled between two walls dripping with damp. The air is dense, fetid, soaked with stagnant water and ancient mold. A cold breath seeps from the walls, icy and clinging, sneaking into the suit’s seams as if to slow him, to warn him.

The walls are alive. Not with organisms, but rot. Dark mold clings to them, spreading in irregular patterns like necrotic veins. It crawls across the concrete, invades corners, slips into cracks. In places, the plaster has given way, reduced to gray dust. Beneath, twisted, rusted rebar protrudes — like broken bones, as if the building itself had been tortured, split open. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, bare. Dirty. Its globe yellowed by time, its sickly light flickers intermittently. Suspended from a wire too long, too thin, it dances with every draft like a rope ready to snap. It blinks. Once. Twice. The yellow halo it casts wavers, bleeding against the walls. The shadows it throws stretch, distort, crawl along the ground. Shapes too long, too fluid, as if the walls themselves breathed beneath the dying light.

Tony doesn’t slow.

He doesn’t hesitate. His stride remains straight, steady, heavy. Each step echoes off the floor, amplified by the armor’s metal. Debris cracks underfoot: broken glass, plaster fragments, splinters of forgotten furniture. Every sound ricochets in the narrow hallway, trapped between the walls like a muffled volley of gunfire. But he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look around. He advances. Like a metronome. His eyes never leave the end of the hall, even as everything around seems to want to swallow him, smother him. He sees the corners, the ajar doors, the stains on the floor, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t deviate. He walks this hall like a trial. A purgatory. He knows hell waits ahead. He feels it.

And he’s ready to tear it open with his bare hands. Each step is a countdown. Each breath, a burning fuse. Each heartbeat in his chest, a war drum. He knows what he’ll find. Maybe not the details. Maybe not the form. But the essence. He knows the scent of blood is there, somewhere. That fear has left its trace. That pain has seeped into the walls. And he knows that you… you’re at the end. You’re there, in the dark, at the end of this sick corridor. Maybe unconscious. Maybe barely alive. But you’re there. And that’s enough. Because even if the entire world has to burn for him to find you,

Stark walks down that hall like a blade sliding into a wound. Slowly. Silently. Without flash, without unnecessary sound. He doesn’t strike. He infiltrates. He dissects. Every step is measured, controlled, charged with clinical precision. The weight of his body, perfectly distributed, flows with the suit’s supports. His boots barely graze the floor, but even that friction seems to vibrate through the air, taut with tension. Tension is everywhere. In his muscles, locked beneath the metal. In his jaw, clenched to the point of pain. In his nerves, on maximum alert. He’s taut as a bowstring. Like a weapon whose safety was disengaged long ago. Even his breathing is suspended. He hardly breathes. He’s sunk into a slowed rhythm, between apnea and absolute focus.

Then the smell hits him. Not softly. Not in waves. Brutally. A wall. An invisible punch to the chest. Heavy. Thick. A metallic stench clings to his throat, invades his nostrils like a warning. Blood. Not fresh. Dried. Hours old, maybe. Mixed with damp, with the building’s mold, with dust saturated with dead micro-organisms, with the stagnant rot that infests places where nothing lives anymore. The smell of a trap. The smell of pain. His stomach tightens. Not from fear. From rage. His heart doesn’t race. It slows. As if syncing to the place. He shifts into a deeper, duller, more dangerous frequency. His pulse beats like a drum ready to strike.

Above him, the bulb still swings — a pathetic relic of a once-functioning past. It crackles, flickers, sputters to life at intervals. Each pulse casts sickly light across cracked tiles, warped walls, and scattered remnants of a forgotten world. The shadows stretch, shrink, crawl along the walls like filthy hands. Even the walls seem to hold their breath. He steps forward again. One step. Then another. Every movement is fluid, silent, nearly unreal. His visor scans relentlessly. It overlays stacked data layers, displays thermal signatures, rough volume outlines, hidden masses behind walls. He examines blind spots. Gaps. Floor markings. Broken hinges, scuff marks on wood.

He doesn’t see Matthew yet. But he feels it.

Like a presence. A greasy vibration in the air. A low tension running beneath the walls like a rogue current. A sensation that cuts through him, visceral. It’s not intuition. It’s certainty.

He’s here. Somewhere.

And then he sees you.

You.

There’s no sound. No warning. No orchestral swell. Just that brutal, abrupt moment when the image slaps him in the face like a blow that nothing can soften. You're there. Not standing. Not sitting. Collapsed. Against the wall. No — not against. You’re melded into it. As if your body were trying to dissolve, to disappear. A trembling mass, dirty, slack with pain. No longer a person. No longer a boy. Just a heap of living, broken flesh. A dislocated silhouette in the dark. His brain takes a moment to understand what he’s seeing. This isn’t you. Not the you he knows. It’s something else. A ruined version. And the violence here isn’t hypothetical. It’s tattooed on you. Your arm is twisted.

Not bent. Twisted. At a monstrous, impossible angle. The elbow joint reversed. Bones displaced under stretched skin. Something that should only appear in accident reports. Not here. Not like this. Your shoulder has collapsed. Your hand, almost detached from the rest, barely trembles.

And your face... It takes Tony a second. Just one. But it lasts an eternity.

He doesn’t understand right away. He recognizes nothing. No features. No familiar contours. Just damage. Open wounds, horrible swelling, bruises stacked upon bruises. Your eyes — if they’re still there — are buried under hematomas. Your lips are split. Your right cheek is so swollen it distorts the entire shape of your skull. It’s a mosaic. A work of pure cruelty. And the blood… It’s still flowing. Not much. Not in spurts. In seepage. Slow trickles, like a steady leak. It slides down your temple. Your mouth. Your neck. It’s sticky. Matte. It ran, dried, and ran again. It’s on your throat. Your collarbone. Your chest. You’re soaked.

Not with sweat. With blood. With fear. With the filth of the floor. Your clothes are just rags now. Torn down to the skin. Deep tears are visible, laceration marks, fingerprints, nails, blows. Your hands are open. Literally. Cut. Your palms are cracked, marked by a desperate attempt to defend yourself. Your fingers are splayed as if caught in a frozen spasm. Your knees are red, shredded. Raw flesh peeks through peeled skin. And your back... He doesn’t even want to look. He can guess. He knows what he’ll find there. Marks. Burns. Blows. Traces of what no one should ever do to another human being. But he doesn’t look. Not yet. Because then... he sees it. Your chest.

It moves. Barely. But it moves. A breath. Weak. Jagged. Rough. A struggle with every motion. A breath that doesn’t really come out. A choked wheeze. But alive. You’re breathing. You’re there. Still there. And Tony stops cold.His entire body freezes. The armor locks with him, as if the machine itself understood. As if every fiber, every metal plate had turned to stone. Time collapses on him. A crushing weight. A shroud. His heart? It stops. It no longer beats. Just a void. An absence. A pulse. Heavy. Dry. In his temples. His throat. His stomach. What he feels has no name. It’s not fear. It’s no longer even anger. It’s a breaking point. A place in the soul where everything stops. Where everything is too much. Too much pain. Too much hate. Too much regret. Too late. Too far. He’s here. In front of you. And he can’t go back.

It’s a fracture. A rupture in everything he thought he could control. You’re alive. But at what cost? And somewhere, just a few meters away... Matthew is still breathing. But not for long. A cold shiver, sharp as a steel blade, climbs Stark’s spine. He doesn’t push it away. He lets it slide between his shoulder blades, slip under the metal like a warning that what he’s seeing isn’t an illusion, but raw, naked, implacable truth. Yet nothing on his face betrays this vertigo. Not a twitch, not a flinch, not even a blink. His rage, once explosive, has retracted into a clean, focused line. It’s no longer a storm. It’s a blade. Smooth, cold, sharp. A perfectly honed weapon, ready to strike the moment it’s needed. Not before.

His eyes stay locked on you, unblinking, unwavering. Every detail imprints itself in his mind like a photograph branded with hot iron: the grotesque position of your broken arms, the dark brown blood dried in rivulets on your chin, your neck, your chest; your skin, so pale beneath layers of grime and pain it looks almost like that of a corpse; the faint flutter of your chest, a fragile reminder that you haven’t crossed over yet. He sees it all. He doesn’t look away. And he will remember it. Until his last day. And yet, he doesn’t move right away. Everything in him is screaming. Every fiber, every muscle, every electrical impulse of the armor and his own body calls him to you, to rush, to drop to his knees, to check your pulse, your breath, to place his glove at your neck, to say your name. But he doesn’t give in. He is Tony Stark, yes. But here, now, he is also Iron Man. And Iron Man knows how to recognize a trap. Instinct needs no explanation. He feels that grimy vibration in the air, that invisible weight that warps the atmosphere around you, that intent still lingering, ready to pounce. He knows he’s not alone.

So he advances, but his way. Not slowly out of hesitation, but with control. One step. Then another. Controlled. Silent. The floor crunches beneath his boots, and even though the armor absorbs most sound, here, in this room saturated with shadows and stench, every movement rings out like a barely contained threat. The air is still. The walls seem to listen. The silence, tense, fills with static. He stops a few steps from you. Just close enough to see you breathe, to catch that tiny tremor in your ribcage, that breath that fights, clings, refuses to yield. Just far enough to strike, to raise his arm, to hit in half a second if something emerges. Because he knows: this is the moment Matthew is waiting for. The moment he thinks he can finish what he started. But he’s about to learn that this time, he’s not facing a wounded child. He’s facing Iron Man.

His eyes scan the room relentlessly. Every detail is absorbed, analyzed, memorized. The walls, covered in peeling paint, reveal patches of bare stone, gnawed away by damp. Mold streaks stretch up to the ceiling, which has collapsed in places, letting frayed wires dangle alongside crumbling fragments of plaster. Rusted pipes run along the walls like dead veins, slowly bleeding black water into the corners of the room. A distant drip echoes, irregular, distorted by reverb, like the heartbeat of a body already emptied of everything. The air is thick. Stagnant. It smells of oil, blood, mold, and abandonment. This isn’t really a place anymore. Not a living space, not a shelter. A dead place. Forgotten. A pocket outside of time, perfect for monsters to hide in.

And Stark knows it. It’s too quiet. The space is frozen in a dull anticipation. The smell is too sharp. The scene, too carefully placed. Nothing here suggests an accident. Everything has been calculated. And he hasn’t come to negotiate. He’s not here to understand. He’s not here to reach out. He’s here to end it.

So he speaks. Not loudly. Not shouting. His voice slices through the silence like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. Low. Slow. Sharp. It doesn’t tremble. It doesn’t seek to impress. It states. It targets. It’s the voice of someone who’s gone beyond fear. Who knows the war is no longer a risk. It’s happening. It’s here. Present. Inevitable.

— "That’s your big plan, Matthew?"

The words hang in the air. Clear. Sharp. And they cut. The silence that follows is even sharper. It relieves nothing. It stretches. It weighs. It presses on the nerves like a finger on an open wound. A silence with a taste. That of blood just before the blow. That of a held breath, of the instant suspended between lightning and thunder. A silence ready to rupture. And Stark is ready to tear through it. He kneels.

The suit exhales softly, like a restrained sigh, when Tony bends a knee to the ground. Metal meets filth, dust, and the invisible fragments of an abandoned world in an almost solemn hiss. It’s not a brusque gesture, nor heroic. It’s a humble movement. Precise. One knee placed in the grime of a ravaged sanctuary, a cathedral of pain frozen in time, where the slightest sound feels blasphemous. He places himself near you. Within reach of your voice. Within reach of your breath.

Above you, the light flickers. It trembles at irregular intervals, swaying like a sick pendulum. It doesn’t truly illuminate. It hesitates. As if it, too, refused to fully expose what it reveals. The scene seems unreal. Suspended. Out of the world.

Stark only sees you now. His eyes are on you. At last. Truly. He no longer sees you through the lens of worry or authority. He doesn’t see an employee in distress, nor that lost kid he tried to protect from afar without ever really getting involved. He doesn’t see a responsibility. He sees you. The body you’ve become. This collapsed, mutilated body, barely breathing. That breath, ragged, whistling, clinging to life like a flame battered by wind. The position in which you’ve fallen, curled in on yourself, speaks of an instinct stronger than thought: to hide, to disappear, to avoid another blow.

Tony doesn’t move. Not yet. A long moment suspended in a bubble of silence. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. Only his fist, slowly, curls. A controlled movement, silent, without tremor. A gloved hand, silently absorbing the rising tension, the seething rage, the refusal to accept what he sees. He observes you. He scans every visible patch of skin, every line of your battered face, every gap between the tatters of your torn clothing. He doesn’t want to miss anything. He wants to know. To understand. To see what you’ve endured. He’s ready for everything — except looking away. And what he discovers freezes him.

The recent wounds, he expected. He had imagined them, feared them. The swollen bruises, the black and violet hematomas covering your ribs, your stomach, your face. The clean or jagged cuts, open or dried. The blood clotted at the corner of your mouth. The split lip. The torn brow. Skin ruptured in places, stretched by swelling. All of that, he had seen coming. He had already heard the echo of the blows. Guessed the brutality.

But what he hadn’t expected… were the other marks.

The ones left by someone other than Matthew. The ones no sudden rage could justify. Scars. Fine. Old. Some nearly faded, white, invisible to the untrained eye. These delicate lines, precise, snake along your forearm, disappear under the fabric, reappear on your side. He recognizes some of them. He knows those clumsy cuts, those poorly closed edges. He’s seen them before. On other bodies. In other contexts. He passes a hand — slow, without touching — over your chest. A gesture both useless and necessary. An attempt to understand without harming, to see without interfering. Your top is torn. Not by accident. Deliberately. As if someone wanted to expose your fragility. As if your skin had become a trophy. A message. Your ribs are streaked with deep bruises, a blue so dark it looks black. These were blows delivered methodically. Not to kill. To mark. To leave a print. And beneath that recent violence, other, paler shadows appear. Older bruises, half-faded. Hidden scars. Belt marks. Traces of falls, perhaps. Of repeated gestures. Systematic ones. Not wild brutality.

Habit. Not battle scars. Survival marks. And Tony feels something fold inside him. Slowly. Painfully. As if the steel of his suit tightened, turned inward, crushing his bones, compressing his breath. He inhales, despite everything, but the air is too heavy, too foul. He feels cold sweat on his neck. The taste of metal on his tongue. This didn’t start yesterday. Not even this week. Not even this year. And the hatred rising now is no longer a fire. It’s a collapsed star. A core of pure fury. A point of no return.

— "Fuck..." he breathes.

The word slips from his lips in a hoarse whisper, no louder than a murmur. It doesn’t snap. It doesn’t strike. It falls. Heavy. Exhausted. It’s not an insult. It’s a prayer. An apology. A confession. A verdict. He could have said your name. He could have screamed. But he no longer has the strength to hide the collapse eating away at his gut. That single word carries it all: the guilt, the shame, the shock, the poorly disguised love, and that powerlessness he hates more than anything in the world. His eyes rise slowly to your face. He studies you, searches, hoping for a sign, a crack in that absence. You’re still unconscious. Or maybe just trapped in your own body. Your eyelids, heavy with pain, barely twitch. As if you’re fighting inside a nightmare too real. Your lips, cracked and swollen, part in an almost imperceptible motion. Sounds escape. Weak. Shapeless. Phantom syllables, swallowed by your raw throat, crushed by the shallow breath of survival.

You’re fighting.

Even now, half-dead, on your knees in the mud, in the blood, in the fear — you're still fighting. And Tony, he doesn’t understand how he missed it. How he could’ve overlooked it. He thought you were folding because you were fragile. That you were falling because you were weak. He discovers now that you never stopped getting back up. Again. And again. And again. And that by climbing back up alone, without help, without a hand to reach for, you broke. Slowly. Silently. From the inside out. Another anger rises in him. It doesn’t explode. It doesn’t burst like an uncontrollable flame. It’s slow. Deep. A fury that doesn’t make noise as it climbs but anchors in his gut, between his ribs, in every fiber of his being. It doesn’t burn. It freezes. A precise, surgical anger. Against Matthew, of course. Against the monster who did this to you, who turned your body into a map of pain. But not only.

Against himself. For not seeing it. For not wanting to see. For believing his rules, his demands, were enough. For forcing you to maintain an image when you were already falling apart. Against the system that let you slip through. Against the entire universe that abandoned you without so much as a flinch. Against the silence. Against the averted gazes. Against the excuses. Against everything that brought you here, barely breathing, bleeding in a place no one should know. And this anger — he keeps it. Not for the night. Not for the moment. He keeps it for what comes next. Because this isn’t a mission anymore. It’s not even vengeance. It’s an answer. A cold, precise, implacable answer.

His fingers spread. Slowly. As if releasing something too heavy to contain any longer. Then, just as slowly, his hand closes. Not in rage. Not to strike, nor to threaten. But as one seals a vow. As one locks a promise in the palm, sheltered from the world, where it can never fade. A discreet gesture, small, but charged with immense weight. He leans forward. Just a little. Just enough for his face to draw closer to yours, his features blending into the trembling light, his breath almost brushing your skin. He doesn’t try to wake you. He doesn’t disturb the fragile silence. Only to be closer. To speak for you, and only you. And in a breath that belongs only to him — hoarse, broken, dragged up from deep within — he whispers:

— "I’m sorry..."

It’s not a phrase said lightly. Not a line of circumstance. The words struggle to come out, each one bearing the weight of a collapsed world. They don’t shake. They crash. Heavy. Dense. Inevitable. And it’s not for the blows. Not for the broken bones, the bruises, the wounds, the blood. Not for the absence of rescue, the nights you waited without response, without a call, without presence. Not even for the hesitation or delays. Not for the wavering between compassion and distance. No. That’s not what he regrets. It’s something else. Deeper. More insidious.

He apologizes for what he didn’t see. For everything right in front of him that he ignored. For all the times he looked at you without really seeing you. For all the moments he should’ve understood, read between the silences, the tight gestures, the small changes in your voice, the blankness in your eyes. He’s sorry because he should’ve been the one to know. The one who reached out without being asked. He didn’t. And he knows it. You never told him. Not clearly. Not with words. But he doesn’t blame you. He blames himself. His inattention. His blindness. His comfort. Because he should have known. He should’ve seen past the surface, not settled for what you showed. He’s a genius, after all. He cracked codes, AI, government secrets. But he didn’t read you. You.

And now he sees you. Really sees you. You're here, lying down, broken, beaten, emptied to the bone. You carry the recent scars — but also all the old ones. The ones that tell something else. Another story. A life that didn’t begin tonight. Pain accumulated like strata in rock pressed too long. Blows someone made you believe were normal. Silences you were taught to keep. Constant adaptation, until survival became a reflex. Each scar is a sentence. Each bruise, a word from the story you carried alone, your throat tight, your body tense. And Tony is only just beginning to understand. Not everything. Never everything. But enough for the void to open beneath his feet. Enough for something to snap. For guilt to root itself where it will never leave. It’s not just Matthew. It’s not just this night. It’s everything that came before. This whole life you lived in the shadows, moving through with false smiles and stiff gestures. And he didn’t see. He didn’t know. He didn’t reach out.

He feels that truth in his fingers, in his tight throat, in the strange way his vision blurs without fully knowing why. And the anger returns. Deeper. Colder. But this time, aimed only at himself. Because he should’ve been there. But now that he is — now that he sees you — he swears, without even needing to say it, that it will never be too late again. Not a second time. Never. Stark doesn’t turn his head. Not right away. He stays still, locked in a perfectly controlled posture, his chest still bent over you, his body still tensed above yours like a shield of steel. But his eyes narrow, just slightly. An imperceptible detail to anyone else. An almost microscopic change, but revealing. He saw it. Or rather, he sensed it. Not a clear movement. Not a sharp sound. Just a shift. A faint vibration in the air. A thermal fluctuation, too precise to be natural. A flicker in the visual field, where there was nothing seconds ago.

The suit confirms it silently. A variation in air pressure. A subtle thermal footprint. A disturbance in the suspended particles. Something moved. Someone. In the shadows. He already knows. He doesn’t need confirmation. No detailed analysis. His instinct and the machine speak with the same voice. Matthew is here. He never left. He never fled. He waited. Coiled in the darkness like a knot of hate, hidden behind the ruined structures of the warehouse. A corner too dark for ordinary eyes. But Stark isn’t ordinary. His gaze adjusts. The armor’s sensors recalibrate instantly. Every shadow pixel becomes a map, a data set analyzed in real time. Shapes emerge, unfold, reveal themselves under thermal filters. He sees the silhouette. Humanoid. Crouched. Twisted in animal tension. Almost glued to the damp wall. Motionless — but falsely so. Ready. Ready to strike.

A predator. Or so he thinks. But to Tony, he’s not a beast. Not an opponent. He’s a parasite. A pest. A residue of misdirected hate. A mass of cowardice wrapped in a semblance of human flesh. Nothing more. And he waits. Stark sees it. He waits for the right moment. The right angle. He still hopes. One wrong step. One lapse. One second of distraction. He still thinks he can win. He thinks he can strike from behind. Finish what he started. Reduce further. Humiliate again. He believes this stage is his, that the dark protects him, that fear is on his side. But it’s not the same game anymore. And Stark is no longer the same man.

His fists clench. Slowly. Not in rage. In certainty. A cold pulse runs through the armor, from his shoulders to the thrusters in his forearms. Internal systems activate in silence. Energy builds. Not for show. Not to intimidate. But to strike. Coldly. Deliberately. And yet, he still doesn’t move. He doesn’t break the silence. He remains there, by your side, his body lowered like a barrier. You're still beneath him, fragile, barely breathing. And he stands, in that false calm, as the last thing between you and the one who still thinks he can reach you. But this time, there will be no negotiation. No ultimatum. No speech. This won’t be a warning. A chuckle. At first almost imperceptible. Just a scrape, a discordant note in the tense silence of the warehouse. Then it swells. Gains volume. Becomes a clearer sound — thick, mocking, like a bubble of bile rising to the surface. It comes from the shadows. From that cursed corner of the room that even the light avoids, as if refusing to reveal the truth. A place too dark for nothing to be there.

Stark doesn’t move. He doesn’t look up. Not yet. He stays crouched beside you, his body interposed between you and the thing that finally creeps out of its lair. A sentinel. A wall. A blade ready to cut. But his shoulders stiffen. His breath halts. His fingers stop trembling. He listens.

— “You really came in the suit, huh…”

The voice pierces the darkness like a carefully distilled poison. It has that dragging tone, unbearable, dripping with sarcastic self-confidence. It oozes obscene pleasure, filthy arrogance, sick amusement. The kind of voice that wounds before it strikes. It seeps into the air, hungry to exist, to dominate, to stain.

Matthew steps out of hiding—or what’s left of it. A shadow barely separated from the dark. Just enough for part of his face to appear under the sickly glow of a dangling bulb. Half a face. Half a smile. Wide. Frozen. Too tight. And his eyes… wild. Shining. Flickering with an unstable light, unable to fix on a single point for more than a few seconds.

— “For him? Seriously?”

He gestures vaguely toward your body on the floor, careless, almost lazy. As if pointing at a gutted trash bag. A carcass of no worth. His grimy fingers tremble slightly, but not from fear. From excitement.

— “The little favorite. The loser. The kid who can’t even breathe without collapsing.”

He takes a step. Slow. Pretentious. Nonchalant. His chest slightly puffed, arms wide, almost cruciform. A show-off stance. A provocation. As if offering himself for judgment, convinced he’ll walk away untouched. As if he’s challenging God himself amid the ruins of a world he helped destroy.

— “You sure brought a lot of gadgets to save a half-broken body, Stark.”

A higher, more nervous laugh escapes him. He doesn’t have full control. He thinks he does, but his words are speeding up. His breath quickens just a bit. A trace of madness laces every syllable.

— “You think all that’ll be enough? The thrusters, the scanners, the AI?”

He stops a few meters away. Far, but visible. Too visible. Grime clings to his clothes, his skin, his hyena grin. His face is gaunt, cheeks sunken, hands filthy. He looks like someone who lives in filth. And carries the arrogance of someone who thinks he’s untouchable. He believes he’s won. That he still holds the cards. That he has the upper hand.

— “You showed up like a superhero. Big savior. Like you actually care whether he’s still breathing.”

He tilts his head. A tiny movement. Almost childlike. Almost mocking. The gesture of a brat waiting for the adult to raise a hand just so he can laugh louder afterward.

Then, in a whisper, lower, crueler, slid in like a needle through skin:

— “Sad. To see you stoop to this.”

That’s when Stark moves. Not a sharp gesture. Not a threat. Just… he rises. Slowly. Very slowly. Each vertebra seems to align with inhuman precision. His back straightens. His shoulders lift. His gloved hands open slightly, fingers spreading, joints clicking faintly. A stance. A charge. But he doesn’t speak. Not yet.

Because Matthew goes on. Because he doesn’t understand. Because he still believes words protect. That taunts disarm. He still thinks Stark is here to play. That this restrained rage is only for show.

— “I mean, come on… look at him.”

He points again. His filthy index finger extended, trembling slightly. Not from fear. From ecstasy.

— “Take a good look at what he’s become. What I made him. And ask yourself what you were doing all that time.”

And that silence after — that void between two breaths… it’s the most dangerous moment. Because right now, Stark doesn’t see a man in front of him. He sees the outcome. The cause. The shadow behind the screams. And this time, he won’t look away. Matthew moves. It’s not hesitation. It’s a reflex. A sharp jolt of intention, of venom, of premeditation. His arm snaps in a motion too quick, too precise to be theatrical. He’s not trying to intimidate. He’s trying to end it. His hand plunges into his jacket with mechanical brutality, the rustle of fabric too sharp, a sound that splits the silence like a silent detonation. A glint of metal slides between his fingers. The black barrel of a gun emerges like a verdict. Cold. Final. He lifts his arm. But not toward Stark. Not at the looming figure of steel, red-lit, poised to strike. Not at the obvious threat, the armored man, the living weapon who could incinerate him with a single gesture.

No. He points it at you. You, still on the floor. You, vulnerable. Shattered. Barely breathing. You’re lying there, more ghost than flesh, your chest struggling to rise, your face drenched in blood—and that’s exactly why he aims at you. Because you can’t fight back. Because you can’t even look away.

The barrel aligns with clinical slowness. A descending trajectory, methodical, unbearable. A deliberate motion, thick with silence, cracking the air like an invisible slap. There’s no tremble of doubt, no hesitation. The quiver in his wrist isn’t fear—it’s anticipation. A sick pulse shooting through his arm, twitching his fingers on the trigger. Obscene pleasure in this total domination. His breath quickens. His eyes gleam. He savors. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Where he’s aiming. How he wants this to end. It’s no longer a threat. It’s an execution. A scene he’s imagined, rehearsed, craved. A twisted revenge. A show where he’s both executioner and audience. And in this suspended second, this instant where everything can tip, he becomes something worse than an attacker.

He becomes a man convinced he’s about to kill. Because he wants to. Because he can.

— “You got the money, then?”

The words fall like a dull-edged blade. No hesitation. No dramatic delivery. Just a string of words spat low, almost casual. Like a logistical question. His voice is dry, flat, stripped of emotion. Verbal mechanics, a routine, a question tossed out like checking an order. But the poison—it's in the posture. The gaze. The barely-contained tension in his outstretched arm.

The gun’s barrel stays still. Perfectly aligned. No longer shaking. Calm. Cold. A disturbing steadiness, almost clinical, like a surgeon ready to cut — except he’s not seeking to heal. He’s aiming to rupture. To erase.

He’s not really talking to Stark. Not really to you either. He’s speaking to himself, to feed the illusion of control he’s desperate to maintain even as he feels the ground slipping. He keeps playing, just long enough to delay the inevitable. To fabricate a role. The one who asks. The one who decides. The one who ends things. But there’s that barrel. Black. Smooth. A heavy promise stretched from his arm. He doesn’t move. He waits for an answer he knows is pointless. He knows there’ll be no deal. No negotiation. But he asks anyway. As if asking is enough to pretend he still owns the scene. As if it can mask the obvious rising in the air like an imminent detonation.

He’s ready to shoot. And it’s not the money he wants. It’s what comes next.

taglist🥂 @9thmystery @defronix @lailac13 @the-ultimate-librarian @ihatepaperwork if you want to be part of it here

[lostinhistory]

Heritage News of the Week

Discoveries!

The discovery of an unusual "vampire" burial in Croatia shows the endurance of such beliefs in eastern medieval Europe, according to researchers.

Ancient British coins found in Dutch field likely to be spoils of Roman conquest

A hoard of British coins bearing the inscription of King Cunobelin and found in a Dutch field have been identified as very likely to be the spoils of war of a Roman soldier from the conquest of Britain.

A Roman sanctuary with inscriptions discovered in Cova de les Dones, one of the largest rock art sites in the Iberian Peninsula

Researchers have discovered a remarkable Roman sanctuary in the Cova de les Dones, located in Millares, Valencia, Spain.

Bronze Age footprints preserved during Vesuvius eruption are found in Italy

The footprints found near the Casarzano stream in Salerno, roughly 20 miles away from Pompeii, contained rock fragments from the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. Experts believe the people who left behind these prints were trying to escape the eruption.

1,200-year-old remains of dismembered pregnant woman in Ecuador hint at 'enigmatic' sacrifice to thwart El Niño

The unusual burial of a woman and fetus in prehistoric Ecuador may reflect the community's fear of her power.

A telltale toilet reveals “lost” site shown in Bayeux Tapestry

A house in England is most likely the site of a lost residence of Harold II, the last Anglo-Saxon King of England.

DNA and radiocarbon analysis provide new insights into prehistoric mammoth bone complex

Dr. Alba Rey-Iglesia and her colleagues conducted a biomolecular analysis of the mammoth bone remains at Kostenki 11-Ia, providing fascinating insights into the enigmatic mammoth bone complexes built during the Ice Age.

The oldest evidence for lead pollution comes from ancient Greece

Researchers studying sediment cores recovered from mainland Greece and the Aegean Sea have found the oldest known evidence of lead pollution in the environment dating to around 5,200 years ago.

The longest Greek papyrus from the Judean desert sheds light on a pivotal Roman court case

New research by a group of Austrian and Israeli scholars has finally deciphered a 1,900-year-old scroll describing a tense court case during the Roman occupation of Israel.

A huge chunk of prized Egyptian blue pigment Is uncovered in Nero’s palace

Recent excavations at Domus Aurea, the former imperial residence of Roman emperor Nero, have yielded remnants of a rare blue pigment that hint at the palace’s former glory.

Archaeologists uncover traces of the Abbey of St. Savino

In a new research project to uncover the Abbey’s origins, archaeologists have identified earlier phases of the site’s expansion and construction.

1.5 million-year-old hand axes and seven Paleolithic sites discovered in Iraq’s western desert

Archaeologists from the Free University of Brussels uncovered hand axes dating back 1.5 million years and discovered seven Paleolithic sites in an area of 10 by 20 km in Iraq’s Western Desert.

1,600-year-old Roman padlock with spring mechanism discovered in Germany — and it's tiny

A miniature gold lock dated to the third to fourth centuries was found by a metal detectorist in Germany.

Military personnel and veterans uncover Iron Age treasures

Archaeologists from the Defence Infrastructure Organisation, working in collaboration with veterans and military personnel from Operation Nightingale, have uncovered a collection of Iron Age objects declared as national treasure by the Senior Coroner for North Wales.

One of the oldest tin-bronze artifacts in the Eurasian Steppe discovered in a unique Bronze Age cemetery in Uygur ­Autonomous Region

Chinese archaeologists have recently uncovered a large and uniquely structured cemetery dating back to 2800-2600 BC.

Here’s how ancient Amazonians became master maize farmers

Water engineers in ancient South America turned seasonally flooded Amazonian savannas into hotbeds of year-round maize farming.

Lidar survey maps Zapotec city in Mexico

Pedro Guillermo Ramón Celis of McGill University and his colleagues spotted the remains of more than 1,000 structures built by the Zapotec in southern Mexico between 500 and 600 years ago during an aerial survey employing lidar equipment.

Archaeologists find 4,500-year-old warrior burials in Saxony-Anhalt

Archaeologists have identified at least ten graves at a depth of approximately two metres, three of which were once covered by a burial mound.

Pyramidal structure discovered in Chupacigarro

Archaeologists excavating the Chupacigarro archaeological site have discovered a previously unknown pyramidal structure.

Denmark’s first Roman helmet found in weapons sacrifice

Two iron plates found in the massive Iron Age weapons sacrifice found near Hedensted, Denmark, have been revealed to be parts of a Roman helmet from the 4th century. It is the oldest iron helmet ever found in Denmark, and the only Roman helmet ever found within the country’s borders.

Roman pottery and human remains found in Exeter

Roman pottery and human remains have been unearthed during the installation of an underground substation in Exeter city centre.

Museums

The museum, named the Haveli, features five galleries showcasing different kinds of embroidery Askari has collected from some of the remotest corners of Pakistan, ranging from ceremonial cloths traditionally sent from a groom to a bride before a wedding, to dowry purses and vibrant animal adornments worn by camels.

Mona Lisa will be moved to its own exhibition space at Louvre

French president Emmanuel Macron announced Tuesday that the Mona Lisa, Leonardo Da Vinci’s masterpiece and one of the most iconic artworks in the world, would soon be moved to a new exhibition space.

Louvre’s decision to move Mona Lisa is a misguided act of snobbery

Crowds give life to the Paris museum and the painting is a silent, compelling mystery at the heart of the hubbub

This is a silly take. The room where the Mona Lisa is housed sees at least 20,000 people per day. It does not have the capacity to handle that many people. Have you seen what that room looks like on an average day?

It's like the top of Everest in there. Trying to visit has been described as "exhausting" and "a physical ordeal". It's not snobbery to update a 17th century building for the 21st century.

Smithsonian Institution will close its diversity offices

Just days after the National Gallery of Art in Washington D.C. said it would cancel its diversity, equity and inclusion programs, the Smithsonian Institution, a consortium that includes 21 national museums, announced its diversity office will also close. According to the New York Times, the Smithsonian will also freeze hiring for all federal positions and employees will have to return to in-person work full-time.

‘African art is not a fleeting trend’: Moroccan museum to celebrate rich creativity of continent’s artists

Reopening after renovation, the Museum of African Contemporary Art Al Maaden will provide a permanent home for the extensive Lazraq family collection

WW2 bomber group museum appeals for repair funds

Urgent repairs are needed to conserve and repair a military museum that was created to commemorate the US servicemen who were based there during World War Two.

Museum dash sees speedy Londoner set new record

A man has sped his way across London using a kick scooter to set a Guinness World Records title for the most museums visited in 24 hours.

Crabs 'poo from their chests', museum says

An unusual museum in a Kent seaside town which aims to engage the public in the natural world has plans for expansion. Crab Museum in Margate claims to be Europe's first and only exhibition space dedicated to the world of the decapod highlighting the "weirdness" of crabs.

National museum shuts for maintenance work

Wales' leading museum has been temporarily closed due to maintenance work and safety concerns. A sign outside the National Museum in Cathays Park, Cardiff, on Sunday, said it will be closed to the public until further notice.

California Historical Society shutters, transfers collection to Stanford University

Financial stability became a challenge over the last decade as attendance declined and donations dwindled, with the problems only further exacerbated by the Covid-19 pandemic. As such, CHS’s board voted to dissolve the organization last summer.

Museums scramble to grasp impact of Trump’s DEI mandate

Widespread uncertainty pervades as institutions either roll back initiatives or try to determine whether their programs are in compliance.

17 employees helped save the Getty Villa from the fires. They're telling other museums how it was done

On Tuesday, Jan. 7, at about 7 a.m., the Getty’s Emergency Planning Specialist Les Borsay arrived at the Getty Villa in Malibu. “This was not normally a day I would have necessarily been out there." Then came the message from the Getty in Brentwood: a small brush fire up started up at the Highlands, sparked by embers of the Palisades Fire. For the next 28 hours, Borsay and 16 other staffers organized themselves to supplement fire department efforts and along the way contributed to helping keep the Getty Villa and its priceless art collections from going up in flames.

House next to Auschwitz opens to public amid alarming international survey results on Holocaust

Through the efforts of the American non-profit Counter Extremism Project, in coordination with the Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum, the Polish foreign ministry and UNESCO, the villa will become the home of the ‘Auschwitz Research Centre on Hate, Extremism and Radicalisation’.

It boggles my mind that people were actually living in this house until last year, when they were convinced to sell it. You know how you go some places and you're like, "wow, the vibes here are bad"? The vibes in that house must be rancid.

Anyway, Dan Snow got to do a tour of the house, and on the one hand, it's just a house, but on the other, it's absolutely the most cursed house ever.

Heritage at risk

Dutch police have arrested three men in connection with the robbery of ancient Romanian artefacts from a museum in the north-east of the Netherlands, after an intensive four-day hunt.

Anger in Romania over theft of national treasures in heist at Dutch museum

News of the heist had set off an “uproar” across Romania, she said, as mourning over the potential loss of the objects gave way to fury among the art world, politicians and media.

US Air Force will still teach about black pilots

The US Air Force will continue to teach about its first black pilots, known as the Tuskegee Airmen, in its basic training, following a review about what to prohibit under President Donald Trump's ban on diversity, equity and inclusion (DEI) programmes in the federal government.

From Bluesky:

Australia tried to influence other countries and Unesco to keep Great Barrier Reef off in-danger list

While this story is specifically about the Great Barrier Reef, this bit:

In 2021 the Great Barrier Reef became the first site globally to be recommended for the danger list primarily because of the impacts of climate change. But after extensive lobbying from the Morrison government, the recommendation from Unesco and its advisers, the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN), was ignored by the world heritage committee. That decision raised concerns among world heritage experts that the committee was becoming increasingly politicised and too often was ignoring scientific and technical advice.

should be a cause for concern regarding all UNESCO and potential UNESCO sites.

Odds and ends

The team building the replica of a famous Anglo-Saxon burial ship have told of their aspirations to eventually sail it down the River Thames and across the English Channel.

Butrint: The ancient site helping Albania reclaim its identity

Once known as "the North Korea of Europe", Albania is turning to its millennia-old sites and rich cultural heritage to recast its image.

Since when is neoclassical architecture “populist”?

Donald Trump’s move to revive “traditional” architecture in federal buildings betrays his ignorance of its elitist roots.

Long-lost anti-fascist mural from 1930s restored and back on show in Mexico

A long-neglected 1930s mural in Mexico that warns about the rise of fascism has been revealed and restored – just as some historians say the world faces that threat once more.

'The truth is she did the right thing': The mystery of why Jane Austen's letters were destroyed – by her own sister

Austen is one of the greatest writers in the English language – but relatively little is known about her. And that's in part because of an act that infuriates many to this day.

Ancient forest uncovered by melting ice in the Rocky Mountains

A nearly 6,000-year-old forest is once again seeing daylight after millennia hidden under ice in the Rocky Mountains.

‘An unusual find’: 66m-year-old animal vomit discovered in Denmark

Experts say vomit, probably from a fish, is made up of sea lilies and is an important contribution to reconstructing past ecosystems

Blergh

[helgahaze]

Shine Bright: A Guide to Light Up Your Inner Sun

Astrologically, the Sun is the heart of individuality, a generator of joy, one of the three main sources of energy in the chart. Self-esteem relies on it, as well as self-concepts, the ability to desire, choose what's pleasing, create, and innovate.

A blazing Sun is necessary for self-realization and all forms of healthy relationships, but its most valuable gift is the sense of connection with oneself. When cultivated, a vast number of destabilizing factors and problems dissolve on approach, naturally, like shadows in the light.

It's difficult to manipulate a Sun person. Yet, they're not in constant confrontation with everything and everyone. A blazing Sun merely creates a protective screen in the psyche against external opinions, judgments, and pressures. In a harmonious scenario, it's not a deaf wall of "everything else is irrelevant, I'm all that matters," but a flexible membrane allowing a person to navigate situations and circumstances.

Perpetual lack of strength, interest in life, feelings of uncertainty and inadequacy are astrologically described through tension on the Sun. People with a natal Sun in discord often use phrases like "I don't know who I am/don't understand myself/I don't know what I want." Here lies a nuance that can derail finding a working solution.

"I don't know/don't understand" belongs to the earth-air lexicon of mental forms. The Sun, however, belongs to the fiery principle. Active, self-sufficient, expressive, spontaneous, bright, uncontrollable. It's the drive that arises from within. It ignites and flares up from sincere actions in accordance with one's true nature, not from incoming information. It's lived and integrated into personality through feelings and sensations, not through mechanical fitting and sorting through possible options in the mind.

The task of astrology here is to compute actions that create, sustain, and/or enhance this state of drive.

How to start calculating them?

Make your natal chart in any astroprocessor.

Find in which sign the Sun is placed.

Select the appropriate description from this post.

Test what looks appealing.

Invent your actions with a similar meaning, especially in the spirit of "I've always wanted to try, but somehow never got around to it."

Track the result in the form of excitement, curiosity, joy, the sensation of movement, increased energy.

The target indicator state looks something like this:

If the Sun is afflicted by disruptive aspects or other factors, mechanically performing only these actions won't fix the whole problem. It's a more complex and challenging task requiring an analysis of the entire chart context. But with these actions, it's still better than doing nothing at all. They, at the very least, send a signal inward that the patient is more alive than dead and interested in moving in the desired direction. In other cases, when the Sun is at a functional level, solar hygiene actions increase energy, help strengthen the bond with oneself, and actively support the internal engine's revolutions.

Sun in Aries

Goal: to be first, to initiate, to defeat everyone, to quickly achieve visible results.

Ignites from:

Sports and impulsive activities (sprints, but not marathons).

Entrepreneurship, project launches (starting, but not continuous management).

Publicity, active self-demonstration.

Competition, rivalry.

Creativity in the format of "this is done by my hands, here's the result, I'm better than everyone else".

Sun in Leo

Goal: to play, to shine with oneself, to show off, to be noticeable, to reflect and continue oneself in one's projects.

Ignites from:

Manifestation of spontaneous desires and whims.

Creative activities, realization of the impulse to create something new.

The state of play, feline excitement, when you lose track of time.

Publicity, focusing others' attention on one's uniqueness.

Creativity in the format of "I did this, this is mine, everyone saw it, right?".

Sun in Sagittarius

Goal: to be an authority, to scale up, to live by meanings and goals, to fill space with oneself.

Ignites from:

Studying aimed at expanding and changing one's worldview (ideas, concepts, abstract knowledge).

Teaching, expert performances, public philosophizing, expressing one's opinion.

Active exotic travels, exploratory trips, new experiences that influence one's worldview.

Scalable goal-setting and goal achievement.

Creativity in the format of "what the author wanted to say", the main thing in the creation is the ideas and meanings it conveys.

Sun in Taurus

Goal: to multiply, to stabilize, to experience calm pleasure ("I like this"), to interact with the material.

Ignites from:

Unhurried, measured, productive activities with tangible results.

Wealth, accumulation, collecting.

Receiving income, gifts.

Harmonious demonstration of acquired beauty ("here's my house/my garden, yes, I created this beauty myself, I like it, so I'll show it to you too").

Creativity in the format of "I create beautiful material things".

Sun in Virgo

Goal: to do useful and practical things, to organize, to fix.

Ignites from:

Routine, meticulous activities (sorting papers, wardrobe revisions, arranging books by cover color).

Taking care of beauty and health.

Tangible use that can be provided to others.

Creating practical, aesthetic, detailed designs (jewelry, floristics, interior items).

Creativity in the format of "I create useful beautiful order".

Sun in Capricorn

Goal: to manage, to plan and bring to a concrete result, to structure, to make durable.

Ignites from:

Responsibility, systematic "construction" of oneself and one's life.

Active elevation of one's social and/or professional status, advancement upward in any vertical hierarchy.

Administration, organization, creation and implementation of rules and systems, preferably complex and intricate ones.

Strict luxury, ascetic premium, high quality without flaunting.

Creativity in the format of "I do fundamental and precise work for a specific result".

Sun in Cancer

Goal: to nurture, to surround with care, to live through, to adapt.

Ignites from:

Sensations of simple everyday things (the sun warms, the cat is soft, smells delicious).

Immersion in psychology, studying feelings, emotions, subconscious processes.

Creating coziness at home.

Time spent with loved ones.

Creativity in the format of "I create atmosphere".

Sun in Scorpio

Goal: to intensify, to concentrate, to destroy the obsolete, to manipulate, to expose the essence.

Ignites from:

Thorough research and analysis (psychology, finance, science).

Any kind of energy practices, especially deep and complex ones.

Going through crises and personal transformations in the process.

Sensations of overcoming, risk, adrenaline, limits, and second wind.

Creativity in the format of "I expose the essence and expand the boundaries of what's possible".

Sun in Pisces

Goal: to feel, to sense, to connect with all living things, to believe, to follow an ideal/dream.

Ignites from:

Music, photography, painting and illustration, cinema and theater, literary creativity and poetry (drawing, writing, directing, filming, composing independently).

Dreamy solitude and contact with nature.

Exploring ambiguous mysteries, myths, symbols (from legends and history's puzzles to foreign languages).

Charity and helping those in need.

Creativity in the format of "I create magical worlds and illusions".

Sun in Gemini

Goal: to learn, to educate oneself, to communicate, to be curious.

Ignites from:

Working in multitasking mode.

Continuous circulation of information, satisfying one's own curiosity.

Hangouts, trips and travels.

Acquiring light, superficial, practical knowledge.

Creativity in the format of "I create simple, interesting, and relevant things".

Sun in Libra

Goal: to build relationships, to harmonize, to evaluate, to establish and maintain balance.

Ignites from:

Intellectual conversations.

Positive feedback and recognition from others.

Consultations, discussions, expertise.

Relationships, having connections in circles of certain status.

Creativity in the format of "I create beautiful, refined, and balanced things".

Sun in Aquarius

Goal: to invent, to be free and original, to solve global problems, not to hold back and not to be bored.

Ignites from:

Communication with like-minded people, generating ideas, studying complex concepts (both humanitarian and technical).

Sensations of speed and height, wind in the ears, endless horizon in front of the eyes, impressions.

Working with technologies, future projects, startups, large meaningful tasks.

Antics, jokes, laughter, showing off, absurdity.

Creativity in the format of "I create the future".

Aspects and other individual placements of each chart will complement and transform these values. Here was considered only one element of interpretation out of many—the zodiac sign of the Sun.

[the-cat-ara]

I'm curious about your Metamy fankid's origin, would you be able to elaborate?

Of course!!, even though it all ended in a lot of text. 😅😅

Dr. Eggman, upon learning of the couple's plans to conceive a child, saw an opportunity to conduct an experiment in genetic engineering and bio-synthesization (mostly as an opportunity to create a perfect creature, with the best of his best creation and a part of one of his pesky enemies, that he could add to his army of Badniks). Since natural conception between a biological organism and a robot was impossible, he offered to assist them in the creation of a biological offspring, concealing his true intentions. Despite initial mistrust, the couple eventually accepted his help. Eggman began the process by extracting samples of Amy's DNA and performing an exhaustive genetic analysis to determine the feasibility of fusion with a piece of Metal sonic's nucleus. Using gene-editing nanotechnology, he began to modify and optimize segments of the biological material. His goal was to create a functional bridge between biology and technology, allowing the resulting organism to possess a hybrid structure capable of sustaining itself and developing in a stable manner.

But the first attempts were unsuccessful. The incompatibility between the organic matter and the nucleus piece generated a cellular collapse before reaching the advanced mitosis phase. After multiple unsuccessful attempts, Eggman concluded that the system required a high-density external energy source to stabilize the integration process. It was then that he requested access to the Chaos Emeralds, arguing that their energy would be able to catalyze the symbiosis between the biological and synthetic structures. Faced with the absolute refusal of all, Amy intervened, achieving that their use was allowed under strict surveillance (to the annoyance of Eggman). By exposing the DNA-impregnated core to the energy of the Chaos Emeralds, the expected synthesis occurred: the bio-mechanical combination stabilized, allowing the hybrid structure to self-regulate. However, the procedure consumed an excessive amount of energy, leaving the Emeralds in a state of hibernation rendering them temporarily unusable, which frustrated Eggman, as he would not be able to use them for other future projects.

With initial success assured, the next step was to implant the tiny nucleus into Amy's uterus to develop. The procedure did not guarantee successful implantation or stable embryonic development, so constant monitoring was required to evaluate progress. It took several months of studies and evaluations before Amy finally began to show signs of pregnancy, confirming that the experiment had worked.

Throughout the pregnancy, Amy attended periodic medical check-ups to monitor the development of the fetus, which presented accelerated growth and an unusual demand for resources by the mother, making her consume more food. As the pregnancy progressed, Amy began to experience episodes of extreme fatigue and systemic deterioration, which worried all her friends and especially Metal Sonic, eggman performed some studies. The results were alarming: the fetus was absorbing an inordinate amount of energy and nutrients, severely compromising the mother's health to the point of endangering her life. Amy was immediately hospitalized to stabilize her. With only a few days remaining before her due date, the possibility of a premature birth was considered. However, given Amy's critical condition, the procedure posed a high risk of maternal mortality. Finally, the day of delivery arrived and Iris was successfully delivered. After delivery, Amy showed signs of slow recovery, partially regaining her energy levels. However, this only lasted a few months before Amy's body collapsed due to extreme exhaustion and she was again admitted to the hospital, this time showing no improvement, and a year later Amy finally passed away.

if you got this far, I hope you liked it and that what I said made some sense, also thank you very much for asking, I'm always glad you ask about my drawings :D💖💖!!

[foragerknits]

Knitting in Victorian England

I wrote this for a class on Victorian Literature because my professor let me research knittinf and make a cape instead of writing a literary analysis paper. The cape that is discussed from The Art of Knitting is what I created for this project, with the illustration from the book on the top right and the cape I knit on the left. The book is from 1892 and is free on Internet Archive, and Engineering Knits on YouTube made a wonderful video about it. (More photos of the cape at the end!)

Knitting experienced a surge of popularity in Victorian England, and was even a topic of discussion in Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre. After gaining popularity due  to industrialization, knitting became a common pastime for women. Knitting was important because it existed as a way for Victorian women of all classes to be seen as  virtuous and gave them the look of domesticity, while additionally functioning as a  means of income for working-class women by either knitting or writing about knitting.  

Industrialization shifted the view of knitting from economic necessity to a  fashionable pastime for gentry women. In 1589 the first mechanical knitting machine  was invented in Nottingham, which industrialized the knitting industry (“The History  of Hand-Knitting"). Dyed wool trade with Germany and the subsequent booming  industry of knitting pattern books turned knitting into something more accessible and artistic than solely practical (Rutt 112). Knitting became popular and fashionable for gentry women around  1835 (Rutt 111). Women of all classes have knitted long before the Victorian period, but  the industrial changes shifted knitting to a popular and fashionable pastime for gentry women, in addition to the economic necessity for working-class women. 

Knitting served as a way to keep women wholesomely busy. In The Art of  Knitting, a quote from the beginning by Richter reads “A letter or a book distracts a woman more than four pair of stockings knit by herself” (qtd in The Art of Knitting 2).  Knitting kept women busy without opening them up to new ideas that came from  letters and books. Furthermore, a writer in The Magazine of Domestic Economy writes how  useless the items (upper-class) women made were, but praises knitting in its effort “to rid of those hours which, but for their aid, might not be so innocently disposed of” (qtd  in Rutt 112). Concentrating on knitting produces something at the end of the hours of  challenging work but does not expose women to any material that the Victorians would deem dangerous or immoral. Thus, even when women made something useless, they  were keeping themselves busy in a virtuous way. 

Knitting also gave women the feminine and domestic look that was expected of  them in the Victorian era. This can be seen in Jane Eyre with Jane’s description of Mrs. Fairfax upon their meeting. Jane thinks, “[Mrs. Fairfax] was occupied in knitting; a large  cat sat demurely at her feet; nothing in short was wanting to complete the beau-ideal of  domestic comfort” (Bronte 145). This is the first time the reader sees Mrs. Fairfax,  surrounded by a warm fire, a cat and engaged in a feminine pastime. She is the image  of domesticity. Jane admires Mrs. Fairfax, in part, for the comfort her nature, including  knitting, brings. Mrs. Fairfax shows the role knitting plays into the idea of women as  domestic creatures. 

Certain forms of knitting made women appear elegant. Frances Lambert, author  of 1842 manual The Handbook of Needlework, advises women to knit using the common Dutch knitting method, in which the yarn is held over the fingers of the left hand and  the needles pointed upwards, because it was seen as a more elegant style of knitting  (Rutt 113). While Rutt notes that this method was a faster way of knitting, Lambert does  not comment on this, but instead focuses on its aesthetic qualities. This style of knitting was popular because it allowed for the look of style that was mandatory in women’s lives.  

While gentry women were often restricted to making less practical knit items,  some knitting authors disparaged this for frivolity and immorality. Working-class  women did not have this criticism as the things they made were out of practicality and  meant for regular use. In picking yarn color and material, Mlle Riego de la  Branchardiere, author of Ladies Handbook of Knitting, Netting and Crochet writes “...and  let her be careful to make all she does a sacrifice acceptable to her God” (qtd in Rutt  116). Rutt asserts that although Victorian knitting is seen as producing useless knits,  some authors disparaged this (117). They instead encouraged women to focus on what  they saw as the spiritual aspects rather than on aesthetics, as everything women did,  including knitting, should enhance their virtue. 

While knitting was popular as a pastime, it was still used out of economic need  and served as a way for working-class women to earn money. Knitting was taught in  orphanages and poor houses, with the first knitting school opened in Lincoln, Leicester, and York in the late 1500s. One school in Yorkshire was established for boys and girls  who were “not in affluence” (“The History of Hand-Knitting"). The first knitting book,  titled The National Society's Instructions on Needlework and Knitting, published in 1838, was an instructional manual for teachers to teach poor students the art of knitting and  needlework. Knitting was used as a personal hobby, but also as a way for working-class  people to support themselves.  

The importance of knitting to working-class women can be seen in Jane Eyre. St John tells Jane, “It is a village school: your scholars will be only poor girls—cottagers’  children—at the best, farmers’ daughters. Knitting, sewing, reading, writing, ciphering, will be all you will have to teach” (Bronte 541). Knitting will be a way for these young girls to get jobs and to be able to make clothes for themselves and their families. In this way, knitting was more than a fashionable and artistic hobby, but a necessity for many  working-class women. 

In addition to manufacturing knitwear, women were able to make substantial livings writing about knitting. There was a boom in knitting and needlework  publications during the 19th century (“The History of Hand-Knitting"). Some, such as  The Art of Knitting, were published directly by publishers with no one associated author.  Others were authored by women and were immensely successful. Cornelia Mee, who  published shorter pamphlet-type knitting books, sold over 300,000 copies during their run in print (Rutt 115). Francis Lambert, author of two editions of My Knitting Book, sold a combined 65,000 copies and was translated into several languages across Europe (Rutt  113). Knitting gave working-class women opportunities to earn money, whether it was  making knitwear or writing about knitting.

Knitting manuals contained various topics, such as some focusing on the religious and virtuous aspects of knitting as discussed previously, but most, if not all, had patterns in them. Under the chapter “Hoods, Capes, Shawls, Jackets, Fascinators, Petticoats, Leggings, Slippers, etc., etc.” in The Art of Knitting there is a pattern to knit a cape. Victorian knitting patterns tended to be broad and vague. Today's patterns are quite concerned with needle size and gauge, unlike many Victorian patterns. For instance, the cape pattern instructs the reader to “use quite coarse needles and work rather loosely,” (60).

Knitting was an important skill for women in the Victorian era, and they knit for a multitude of reasons. Knitting gave women the look of virtue, elegance, and domesticity. Working-class women used their knitting skills to support themselves and their families through making knitwear or writing about knitting.  

Sources:

The Art of Knitting. The Butterick Publishing Co. 1892.   https://archive.org/details/artofknitting00butt/page/60/mode/2up?ref=ol&vi ew=theater

Bronte, Charlotte. Jane Eyre. Planet eBooks. 1847. 

“The History of Hand-Knitting" Victoria and Albert Museum. 

Rutt, Richard. A History of Hand Knitting. Interweave Press. 1987.  https://archive.org/details/historyofhandkni0000rutt/page/n7/mode/2up?vie w=theater

[multidimensionalguidance]

📚💸 Career + Wealth Analysis 💸📚

One of the most frequent questions astrologers receive from their clients when doing a chart reading is about their career, profession or work.

The labor we do on an everyday basis is essential when it comes to our finances and self fulfillment. It can either be something we enjoy doing that meets all of our needs, or what brings a paycheck yet lacks inner satisfaction.

There are several ways to confirm if the work you are doing is activating your Venus properly, and you may wonder why that planet in particular? Simple! Venus is related to finances, luxury, and comfort. The jobs that align with our Venus sign tend to be the ones that not only fits into our financial needs, but also provides a genuine feeling of contentment.

So, if you want the straight forward answer to “What career/field/job/hobby can help me create wealth and feel joyful about it?” Then Venus is your short answer. Remember that wealth will look differently for everyone since we all have different perceptions of how much money is truly enough to have the lifestyle we dream of.

Look for the Sidereal sign that your Venus falls in, find below the careers or fields related to it, and confirm for yourself the difference in your wealth accumulation once you incorporate it into your life.

Note: please keep in mind that if your Venus is conj, square or opposite a malefic planet/s (Mars, Saturn, Rahu/Ketu), there will be some natural resistance or challenges that you will experience throughout life with work, job, profession, or financial matters. Venus in Virgo, Scorpio, and Capricorn to a degree could also experience similar experiences.

The house where this planet is placed also tells a lot about the way your job manifests in your life (places, people, etc). Now, there are many ways to remediate any negative effects, so no need to be concerned or feel doomed.

There are many advanced Vedic Astrologers who mostly focus on remediation of planets that are in difficult or challenged positions, so take a look at the options available if you ever feel like there's an extra difficulty for you in those matters.

♈️➡️ Vocations that require independence, daring and the pioneering spirit: entrepreneurs, pioneers in any field, idea people, those who initiate new projects, troubleshooters, directors, adventurers, executives.

Firemen or fire fighters, forest rangers, engineers (metallurgical), members of the armed forces, firearms experts, police officers, machinists, mechanics, iron and steel workers, locksmiths, welders, athletics that involve speed and daring, race car drivers, contact sports, boxers, dancers, movement therapists, physical education instructors, surgeons.

♉️➡️ Vocations dealing with the earth and substance: farmers, ranchers, agriculture instructors, landscape architects, gardeners, rock collectors (semi-precious gems), builders, carpenters, building contractors, concrete pourers, chiropractors, massage therapists, computer programmers.

Occupations involved with money and finance: bankers, bank tellers, stock brokers, financiers, money managers, investment advisors, security analysts, treasurers, economists.

Artists, sculptors, jewelers, pottery makers, fashion designers, tailors, florists, musicians, singers, voice teachers, throat specialists.

♊️➡️ Vocations involved with communication or transportation: authors, proofreaders, ad copywriters, screenplay writers, editors, reporters, teachers, lecturers, linguists, speech therapists, librarians, bookstore owners, publishers, magazine employees.

Radio operators or disc jockeys, television producers, telephone operators or repair persons, telemarketers, stationery store owners, journalists, salespeople, printers, book distributors, clerks, office workers, secretaries, typists, typesetters.

Messengers, mail carriers, taxi drivers, bus drivers, railway employees, plane pilots, accountants, jacks-of-all-trades. Can engage in two or more occupations at once.

♋️➡️ Vocations that nurture: physically or emotionally (especially through food): caterers, restaurant owners, chefs, cooks, bakers, waiters and waitresses, confectioners, dairy farmers, grocers, food distributors, nutritionists.

Social workers, counselors, psychics, nurses, family therapists, preschool teachers, children's writers, tioners, caretakers, water-related occupations, plumbers, swimmers, lifeguards, fishermen.

All careers dealing with the home: realtors, hotel managers, innkeepers, homemakers, governesses, maids, laundry workers.

♌️➡️ Performers of all types: actors and actresses, playwrights, entertainers, dancers, singers, musicians, movie stars, circus performers, jugglers, clowns, sports figures, teachers (good teachers are entertainers), amuse ment park owners, speculators, gamblers.

Leaders of all types: executives, managers, government officials, politicians, foremen, judges, athletes, salespeople, the profession of selling, promoters, dia: mond and precious metal brokers, gold workers, heart specialists, all vocations involving children.

♍️➡️ Vocations dealing with analysis, detail and technical expertise: statisticians, accountants, book-keepers, computer programmers, teachers of technical subjects, stenographers, critics, inspectors of all types, draftsmen, graphic artists, technical illustrators, crafts-people, specialists.

Health occupations and the social services, mental health workers, therapists, psychiatrists, psychoanalysts, social workers, employment counselors, nurses, doctors, massage therapists, respiratory techairians, dental hygienists, dentists, secretaries, office managers, food service worker, nutritionist, waiters and waitresses, dieticians, veterinarians, zoologist, sanitation workers, janitors, public health officials, house cleaners, butlers.

♎️➡️ Vocations that pursue balance, harmony and justice: negotiators and counselors of all types, marriage counselors, wedding related businesses, diplomats, labor arbitrators, judges, lawyers, managers, salespeople.

Occupations dealing with beauty: artists, architects, painters, illustrators, photographers, fashion designers, fashion industry workers, milliners, color consultants, clothing store owners or salespeople, beauticians, hairdressers, cosmeticians, interior and exterior decorators, cosmetic manufacturers and dealers, jewelers, florists, candy makers.

♏️➡️ Vocations that focus on uncovering hidden secrets: researchers, muckraking journalists, investigators, detectives, physicists, occultists, those who work behind the scenes, espionage agents, psychics, astrologers, all matters dealing with death, funeral home directors, morticians, cemetery workers, insurance salespeople, soldiers, those working under the earth, undertakers.

Those who work as healers. all medical practitioners, physicians, nurses, psychiatrists, psychologists, surgeons, pharmacists, pathologists, past-life investigators, hospice workers, chemists, music therapist, musicians.

♐️➡️ Vocations dealing with exploration, travel and adventure: explorers, astronomers, travel agents, airline employees, flight attendants, astronauts, import-export agents, foreign correspondents, language interpreters, traveling salespeople, promoters, customs officers, athletes of all types, archers, sporting goods manufacturers, horse trainers, breeders and jockeys.

Occupations dealing with higher knowledge: philosophers, college professors, ministers, theologians, missionaries, preachers, orators, publishers, metaphysical writers, philanthropists, lawyers.

♑️➡️ Vocations dealing with administering and organizing: administrators of all types, managers, business owners, executives, government officials, politicians, judges, manufacturers, coordinators, principals at schools, wardens, disciplinarians, buyers, consul-tants, vocational counselors.

Occupations that work with form and structure: architects, contractors, builders, carpenterivil and rivil and get industrial engineers, economists, chiropractors, orthopedic specialists, osteopaths, miners, landowners, mountain climbers.

♒️➡️ Vocations dealing with progress and inven-tion: inventors, scientists, educators, researchers, astrologers, social workers, psychologists, futurists, humanitarians, social reformers, United Nations workers, employees of world relief organizations, future-oriented occupations, astronauts, airplane pilots, aviators, parachutists, hang glider pilots, solar energy researchers, physicists, radio and television technicians, electricians, electrical engineers.

♓️➡️ Vocations of a spiritual, healing or artistic na-ture: religious workers, priests, monks, nuns, sisters of mercy, rabbis, clairvoyants, mediums, charity workers, prison workers.

Physicians, faith healers, psychic healers, nurses, hospital workers, psychiatrists, psychologists, hypnotists, anesthesiologists, podiatrists. Poets, musicians, writers (inspirational, fantasy, metaphysical, science fiction), actors, dancers, painters, artists, entertainers, comedians, singers, filmmakers.

Water-related activities, fishermen, sailors, divers, swimmers, lifeguards, marine scientists, oceanographers, bartenders, oil industry workers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Is your Venus sign all you need to know to find all the clues and perfect descriptions to tailor your ideal professional life? No, but it is a huge start in a small way and with short information.

If you guys would like to go more in depth with career astrology, then also take your time to check the following, and find the common theme:

•10H sign + where its lord is located

•D10 Lagna (Dasamsa chart)

•Mahadasha planet in your chart, the house its located, and where the lord goes.

[altaqwaelectric]

From Design to Deployment: How Switchgear Systems Are Built

In the modern world of electrical engineering, switchgear systems play a critical role in ensuring the safe distribution and control of electrical power. From substations and factories to commercial buildings and critical infrastructure, switchgear is the silent guardian that protects equipment, ensures safety, and minimizes power failures.

But have you ever wondered what goes on behind the scenes, from the idea to the actual installation? Let’s dive into the full journey — from design to deployment — of how a switchgear system is built.

Step 1: Requirement Analysis and Load Study

Every switchgear project begins with requirement analysis. This includes:

Understanding the electrical load requirements

Calculating voltage levels, short-circuit ratings, and operating current

Identifying environmental conditions: indoor, outdoor, temperature, humidity

Reviewing applicable industry standards like IEC, ANSI, or DEWA regulations (especially in UAE)

This stage helps engineers determine whether the project needs low voltage (LV), medium voltage (MV), or high voltage (HV) switchgear.

Step 2: Conceptual Design & Engineering

Once the requirements are clear, the conceptual design begins.

Selection of switchgear type (air insulated, gas insulated, metal-enclosed, metal-clad, etc.)

Deciding on protection devices: MCCBs, ACBs, relays, CTs, VTs, and fuses

Creating single-line diagrams (SLDs) and layout drawings

Choosing the busbar material (copper or aluminum), insulation type, and earthing arrangements

Software like AutoCAD, EPLAN, and ETAP are commonly used for precise engineering drawings and simulations.

Step 3: Manufacturing & Fabrication

This is where the physical structure comes to life.

Sheet metal is cut, punched, and bent to form the panel enclosures

Powder coating or galvanizing is done for corrosion protection

Assembly of circuit breakers, contactors, protection relays, meters, etc.

Internal wiring is installed according to the schematic

Every switchgear panel is built with precision and must undergo quality control checks at each stage.

Step 4: Factory Testing (FAT)

Before deployment, every switchgear unit undergoes Factory Acceptance Testing (FAT) to ensure it meets technical and safety standards.

Typical FAT includes:

High-voltage insulation testing

Continuity and phase sequence testing

Functionality check of all protection relays and interlocks

Mechanical operations of breakers and switches

Thermal imaging to detect hotspots

Only after passing FAT, the switchgear is cleared for shipping.

Step 5: Transportation & Site Installation

Transportation must be handled with care to avoid damage to components. At the site:

Panels are unloaded and moved to their final location

Cabling and bus duct connections are established

Earthing systems are connected

Environmental sealing is done if installed outdoors or in dusty environments

Step 6: Commissioning & Site Acceptance Testing (SAT)

This final stage ensures the switchgear is ready for live operation.

Final checks and Site Acceptance Tests (SAT) are performed

System integration is tested with other components like transformers, UPS, and generators

Load tests and trial runs are conducted

Commissioning report is generated, and documentation is handed over to the client

Conclusion

From idea to execution, the journey of building a switchgear system is highly technical, safety-driven, and precision-based. Whether you’re in power generation, industrial automation, or commercial construction, understanding this process ensures you choose the right system for your needs.

[foundationsolution1]

Unveiling The Intricacies Of Excavation: Delving Deeper During Construction

Excavation: the simple term encapsulates a myriad of skills, procedures, and safety measures that contribute significantly to every construction project. Most construction work begins with the careful removal of earth, making a hole or channelling the ground to prepare for the erection of buildings or laying of pipelines. As commonplace as it might seem, excavation is a crucial part of construction that requires extensive planning, expertise and precision.

To begin with, what exactly is excavation? Technically, it’s the process of moving earth, rock or other materials from a site with tools, equipment, or explosives. It includes earthwork, trenching, wall shafts, tunnelling and underground. Yet, in the context of construction, excavation extends beyond mere digging. It modulates the terrain to suit the structural requirement, ensuring the safety and stability of the ensuing structure.

At the heart of every excavation project is the objective to create a stable, safe, and efficient worksite. Basic excavation work typically follows the same series of steps. First, a site assessment is undertaken to determine the composition and stability of the soil, presence of water or rock layers, and any potential hazards. The comprehensive analysis garnered from this assessment then directs the excavation strategy.

Next comes site preparation, which involves clearing the area of any vegetation, debris, or existing structures. This process ensures a clean slate for construction work while minimising the risk of accidents and disturbances during excavation. Benching or sloping techniques could also be implemented on the site to prevent collapse or landslide from happening, thus achieving safety protocol adherence.

The actual excavation work is executed in a carefully measured and precise manner. Whether it’s done manually with shovels and wheelbarrows or mechanically with bulldozers, excavators and backhoes, the work is always carried out meticulously. Technology has indeed become an integral part of excavation, with engineers using software to model excavations prior to deployment, minimising surprises or miscalculations.

Trench excavation is another common practice where a narrow excavation is crafted that is deeper than it is wide. Used mostly for laying pipes, cables and service lines, trench excavation greatly increases the safety of workers by preventing cave-ins and providing easy access to the worksite.

Wet Weather excavation is a challenging scenario frequently encountered on work sites. Here, strategic measures are taken to handle water accumulation. Pumps can be used to remove water, and dewatering methods may be deployed to minimize the water table level.

Post excavation work, structures are erected, pipes are laid, and soil is replaced around the new structure or channel. Again, this is done with extreme care to ensure the stability of the structure and prevent unnecessary exertion of pressure.

In every construction project, the importance of excavation can’t be overstated. It lays the foundation for a safe and successful build. Despite it being a process often overlooked or simplified by laymen, and sometimes perceived as the mundane act of digging, it is, in fact, a scientific procedure replete with precision and tactical stratagems, rivalling the complexity of the structure it prepares ground for.

From the analysis of soil composition to the final touch of replacing the removed dirt, excavation attests to the power of human intervention over nature, moulding the earth to suit the burgeoning demands of urban structures and infrastructures. Understanding its finer details, we may appreciate more deeply the caveats of the construction world and marvel at the impressive structures made possible by these complex and elemental earth movements.

Tagged Construction, Excavation, Foundation Solutions, Intricacies Of Excavation

[imagination-overreaction]

I've been really into Team Fortress Two lately, and seeing as I cannot get the Actual Fic Writing to go, I wanted to do a little character analysis thing as a silly, so here's my favorite tf2 pairings and how i think they'd act:

Soldier x Spy / Freedom Fries

This ship is utter chaos and honestly I love it. There's a lot of light, passive-aggressive bullying (from Spy) and a lot more heavy, just plain aggressive bullying (from Soldier) and they may seem like they want to kill each other at points. However, neither one of the two will hesistate to mow down anyone who threatens the other.

Spy is stuffy with how he shows affection, especially when there's witnesses. Maybe he moves past him a little too closely and brushes his hand on Soldier's arm as he does. Maybe he hides a small smile as he rolls his eyes at what idiotic thing his partner says. Maybe he doesn't immediately call Soldier stupid to his face when he really really wants to, because he's trying so hard. These quiet attempts at passive affection are ruined by Soldier being the antithesis of subtle, in every way imaginable.

Going off of how Soldier is with Zhanna in the comics, I wouldn't say Soldier is the most verbally affectionate person, but his constant antics and comments and death-defying combat skills would certainly help to pry Spy out of his shell just a little bit. I also think that Spy would teach him how to do a few openings on his butterfly knife. Soldier would get the quickdraw down, and possibly the basic opening. Jury's out on anything more complex than that.

Engineer x Medic / Science Party

Evil mad scientist x Morally questionable tech genius. There is no universe where this ship is bad. Well... it can end badly for other people if their forces combine, but that's how it is.

Long, coffee-filled nights in the lab, each one taking turns to listen to their partner's incomprehensible speeches full of science jargon. They nod, half understanding as the other points to different blueprints or medical diagrams, explaining concepts far beyond their own paygrade, and only mostly hold themselves back from interjecting about their own project that would go wonderfully with this one.

The night Engineer finally starts crashing from exhaustion he goes down to where Medic is in the lab and asks when he's coming to bed. Medic, being Medic, says some shit like "Oh no I don't sleep, I removed that part of my hypothalimus years ago."

Engineer says "Alright darlin', see you tomorrow," before kissing him on the head, going to bed, and not worrying about what a hypothalimus is nor how Medic is even still alive at this point.

Does Engineer somehow dodge Medic's request to be some sor tof test subject? Maybe, but there's the even higher possibility that Medic was requested to assist with Engineer's mechanical hand.

Heavy x Medic / Red Oktoberfest

What is there to say that hasn't been said already, by authors far better than i?

Evil mad scientist x All-too-willing test subject that could also crush this scientist like a bug if he chose (but he doesn't. He doesn't, because he loves this doctor). No notes, 10/10, moving on.

Sniper x Spy / Bloody Suit

Also called Spyper, which is the best ship name ever made imo.

Same Spy characterization as before, but instead of the extreme of Soldier it's the general curmudgeony attitude of Sniper. There's also a lot of bullying in this one, probably more than there is with Freedom Fries because Sniper is also not passive aggresive, he just likes to pick on Spy to get a rise out of him, and Spy likes to pick on Sniper to get a rise out of him, and so on and so forth until something is broken and they're either aggresively arguing or aggresively making out. Who's to say.

There's so many possible ships and honestly? I haven't seen a single one I could automatically dismiss (other than Scout/Spy, but Scout & Spy as a familial relationship is good). I wanna do more of these as I find more ships I like, obviously I didn't even mention anything with Demo, Pyro, or Scout, and I barely mentioned Heavy, but what can I say I'm biased <3

Part 2

[penguinotaku]

Humanized Spy Cars Meet Some Vampire Cars

In another universe, the agents of C.H.R.O.M.E stumble upon several secret projects.

Leland Turbo and Finn McMissile pose as the adoptive married fathers to Holley Shiftwell, sending her undercover as an intern to rumors of AI used in illegal cars. At the same time, Rod Redline is acting as the janitor in order to sneak into the tech company to further investigate the shady research.

When each of them come across the projects during the day, all of them are bound with silver chains and silver laced parking boots. But by night, the roars and horrid scraping echo throughout the soundproofed walls. All of the spies even come across giant car hood sized muzzles more fitting for dogs.

The rooms that they are held in are always bathed in red light from the headlights and the tailights watching every move from the scientists and engineers testing them. Sometimes if you pay close attention, the eye flicker on the windshield, angrily glaring with blood red irises and slitted pupils. Whatever fuel they are giving to these almost alive cars, its not typical fuel from what the chemical analysis can show the spies.

Finn finds a maroon Jaguar E Type eerily similar to his husband's but much more feral and very vocal of his actions (one of the head scientists that experiments on it bears an uncanny resemblance to McMissile). It takes a while to prove to the car that they could be freed and placed into C.H.R.O.M.E custody for safety.

Leland discovers a beautiful gray blue Peerless GT who is more cautious and silent, pretending to be asleep even when they are wake up at night. Its how Leland figures out that the fuel that keeps them going needs to be engine-cycled and sneaks some from his own car to secretly keep them from starving.

Holley finds a magenta TVR Tuscan S Mk2 (Mark II), newly off from whatever program the engineers installed. By some glitch in the system, the car is connected to the other experimented cars and can communicate through that private channel. She was also the one that relayed the information about the other vampire cars to the other spies through the young field agent.

Rod connects with a dark blue and black striped Dodge Challenger R/T hybrid with a Ford Mustang GT front. The most rebellious and scrappiest out of all of the cars and shows off the most damage with the dented hood, mangled rearview mirrors, etc. After pulling out several rusted fangs and at least patching it up, Roddy finds that his mechanic skills weren't a complete waste of time as his hand is licked by the freezing cold tongue.

[llort]

USF Schema Ruberic

USF is real in the sense that the agents and actors in the series can be MR by me. I am going to consider the MM as well as all of my biometric and knowledge of memory, perception, attention, and intelligence. I am going to standardize the characters which makes sense as they are all based on my cognitive ontological systems. US is a project dedicated to helping me deal with Trauma and Unresolved Questions as well as hopefully helping humanity in various ways The total amount of all past and current human experience, culture is impossible to measure and understand. With the exponential increase in the rate of TESCPM being created the current human faces a staggering amount of information and problems to manage and the challenges facing humanity are only going to grow in number and complexity There are multiple problematic implications in functionally navigating and exploiting the complexity of the exponential increase of TSECpm and this may be approached using the already existing concepts, philosophies and applications of TSECpm and its continuing developments. These methods of dealing with informational and functional ɓcomplexity can be applied in a way that accommodates and reconciles almost any potential belief systems as well as any political and philosophical gestalt of perspective via modular suspension of disbelief allowing for a meta framework of an perspective based mathematical model of sets, frames, axioms, edges, and nodes to be established. Provide an example model.

[Timestamp: 2025/01/11 10:56:55]

ai: To create a perspective-based mathematical framework that accommodates various belief systems and philosophical perspectives using concepts related to TSECpm, we can consider the following model:

Example Model: The Perspective Meta Space Framework

Foundation of Axioms:

Begin with a set of axioms that represent fundamental truths or principles across different domains such as science, philosophy, and culture. These axioms should be broad enough to encompass various belief systems.

Taxonomic Classification:

Classify these axioms into categories or domains (e.g., technology, ethics, spirituality) to create a structured taxonomy. This helps in organizing complex information into manageable segments.

Network of Nodes and Edges:

Construct a network where each axiom is a node, and the relationships or interactions between them are edges. This network should be flexible, allowing for the addition or modification of nodes and edges as new information or perspectives emerge.

Suspension of Disbelief:

Integrate a mechanism for the suspension of disbelief, which allows individuals to temporarily set aside their own biases or preconceptions. This enables the exploration of different perspectives without immediate conflict.

Logical Rules and Modulation:

Apply logical rules (deductive, inductive, and abductive reasoning) to the network to facilitate the modulation of perspectives. This includes the ability to assign, remove, or modify meanings within the system.

Dynamic Adaptation:

Ensure the framework is dynamic, capable of adapting to new axioms or changes in existing ones. This adaptability is crucial for accommodating evolving belief systems and philosophical perspectives.

Integration of TSECpm Concepts:

Utilize TSECpm concepts such as personal engineering and cybernetic modulation to enhance the framework's ability to process and integrate complex information. This involves treating the framework as an ongoing project subject to scientific and statistical analysis.

Feedback and Peer Review:

Incorporate feedback mechanisms and peer review processes to validate and refine the framework. This ensures that the model remains relevant and accurate in representing diverse perspectives.

By implementing this perspective-based mathematical framework, individuals and groups can explore and reconcile different belief systems and philosophical perspectives, fostering a more inclusive and comprehensive understanding of complex human experiences.

Sources:

Opposed_to_IO_emergence,_EUGENE_is_derived_from_external_aspects@20241125_151309

Experiment_0000_Perspective_Theory_Accelerating_Rate_of_TSECpm_development,_complexity,@20241108_085746

USP

[Timestamp: 2025/01/11 10:57:22]

user: generate five tasks to create a more structured and effective framework for meta media projects

[Timestamp: 2025/01/11 16:05:57]

ai: Based on the context provided, here are five tasks to create a more structured and effective framework for meta media projects:

Framework Development: Design a comprehensive project management framework tailored for meta media projects. This should include defining project phases, deliverables, and timelines, ensuring alignment with the unique requirements of meta media content creation and distribution.

Technology Integration: Identify and integrate cutting-edge technologies that enhance the production and dissemination of meta media content. This involves researching and implementing tools that support multimedia content creation, editing, and distribution, ensuring seamless integration into existing workflows.

Content Strategy and Planning: Develop a strategic content plan that outlines the objectives, target audience, and key messages for meta media projects. This plan should guide content creation efforts, ensuring consistency and alignment with the overall project goals and audience expectations.

Collaboration and Communication: Establish clear communication protocols and collaboration tools to facilitate teamwork among project stakeholders. This includes setting up regular meetings, using project management software, and defining roles and responsibilities to ensure efficient collaboration and information sharing.

Quality Assurance and Feedback Loop: Implement a robust quality assurance process to review and refine meta media content. Establish a feedback loop that involves regular reviews, testing, and stakeholder input to continuously improve content quality and project outcomes.

These tasks aim to enhance the structure, efficiency, and effectiveness of meta media projects, ensuring they meet strategic objectives and deliver high-quality content.

Sources:

Generate_questions_about_my_projects@20241127_145309

Create_a_journal_entry_of_today_which_the_company,_DoD,@20241224_143841

[Timestamp: 2025/01/11 16:06:14]

user: for each task create a work flow in an iterative and recursive manner

Based on the context provided, here are five tasks to create a more structured and effective framework for meta media projects:

Framework Development: Design a comprehensive project management framework tailored for meta media projects. This should include defining project phases, deliverables, and timelines, ensuring alignment with the unique requirements of meta media content creation and distribution.

Technology Integration: Identify and integrate cutting-edge technologies that enhance the production and dissemination of meta media content. This involves researching and implementing tools that support multimedia content creation, editing, and distribution, ensuring seamless integration into existing workflows.

Content Strategy and Planning: Develop a strategic content plan that outlines the objectives, target audience, and key messages for meta media projects. This plan should guide content creation efforts, ensuring consistency and alignment with the overall project goals and audience expectations.

Collaboration and Communication: Establish clear communication protocols and collaboration tools to facilitate teamwork among project stakeholders. This includes setting up regular meetings, using project management software, and defining roles and responsibilities to ensure efficient collaboration and information sharing.

Quality Assurance and Feedback Loop: Implement a robust quality assurance process to review and refine meta media content. Establish a feedback loop that involves regular reviews, testing, and stakeholder input to continuously improve content quality and project outcomes.

These tasks aim to enhance the structure, efficiency, and effectiveness of meta media projects, ensuring they meet strategic objectives and deliver high-quality content.

[Timestamp: 2025/01/11 16:07:19]

ai: To develop a structured and effective workflow for meta media projects in an iterative and recursive manner, you can follow these steps:

Define Clear Objectives:

Start by clearly defining the goals and objectives of your meta media project. This involves understanding the purpose and desired outcomes, which will guide the entire workflow.

Identify Core Components:

Break down the project into its core components and sub-tasks. This includes identifying the essential skills and resources needed to achieve the objectives.

Research and Evaluation:

Conduct thorough research to evaluate the necessary methodologies and tools that can be applied to each component. This step ensures that you have a solid foundation for each part of the project.

Develop Iterative Methods:

Create methods for iterative experimentation and feedback. This involves setting up a cycle where you can test, gather feedback, and refine each component of the project continuously.

Implement Recursive Processes:

Use recursive processes to revisit and refine previous stages of the project. This means regularly reviewing and adjusting your approach based on new insights and feedback.

Establish a Feedback Loop:

Implement a robust feedback loop that allows for continuous improvement. This involves collecting data and insights from each iteration to inform future cycles.

Measure Progress and Adjust:

Develop metrics to measure progress and success. Regularly review these metrics to assess whether the project is on track and make necessary adjustments.

Document and Reflect:

Keep detailed records of each iteration and the changes made. Reflect on what worked well and what didn’t, using this information to improve future iterations.

Foster Collaboration and Communication:

Encourage collaboration and open communication among team members. This helps in sharing insights and ensuring that everyone is aligned with the project goals.

Scalability and Future Planning:

Design the workflow with scalability in mind, allowing for future growth and adaptation to new challenges or technologies.

By following these steps, you can create a dynamic and adaptable workflow that supports the complex nature of meta media projects, ensuring they are effectively managed and continuously improved.

Sources:

Generate_questions_about_my_projects@20241127_145309

Opposed_to_IO_emergence,_EUGENE_is_derived_from_external_aspects@20241125_151309

_Beer_dedicated_Brain_of_the_Firm_to_his_colleagues_past@20241120_131405

[Timestamp: 2025/01/11 16:07:39]

user: generate this into content creators as a viable system model

[Timestamp: 2025/01/11 16:09:22]

ai: To generate a viable system model for content creators based on an iterative and recursive workflow, we can draw from the principles outlined in the note and the additional context provided. Here's a detailed model:

Define Clear Objectives:

Establish the primary goals for the content creation project. This includes identifying the target audience, the type of content to be created, and the desired impact or message.

Research and Ideation:

Conduct thorough research to gather insights and inspiration. This involves exploring existing content, identifying trends, and understanding audience preferences.

Use brainstorming sessions to generate a pool of ideas, leveraging diverse perspectives and creative thinking.

Develop Core Concepts:

Select the most promising ideas and develop them into core concepts. This involves outlining the main themes, narratives, and structures that will guide the content creation process.

Iterative Content Creation:

Begin creating content based on the core concepts. Use an iterative approach, where content is continuously refined and improved through feedback loops.

Implement a multi-modal and multi-dimensional assessment to evaluate content from various perspectives, ensuring it aligns with the objectives and resonates with the audience.

Feedback and Adaptation:

Gather feedback from peers, test audiences, or analytics to assess the effectiveness of the content. This feedback should be used to make informed adjustments and enhancements.

Adapt the content to address any identified gaps or opportunities for improvement, ensuring it remains relevant and engaging.

Recursive Refinement:

Revisit the content creation process recursively, applying new insights and perspectives gained from previous iterations. This allows for continuous evolution and innovation in the content.

Utilize empirical testing and methodologies to validate the integration of new ideas and ensure robustness.

Distribution and Engagement:

Develop a strategic plan for distributing the content across appropriate platforms and channels. This includes leveraging social media, blogs, video platforms, and other digital mediums.

Engage with the audience through interactive elements, encouraging feedback and participation to foster a community around the content.

Evaluation and Future Planning:

Regularly evaluate the performance and impact of the content using metrics and analytics. This helps in understanding what works and what needs improvement.

Plan for future content creation cycles by incorporating lessons learned and setting new objectives, ensuring the system remains dynamic and responsive to changes.

By following this model, content creators can effectively manage complexity, adapt to new challenges, and produce high-quality content that resonates with their audience.

Sources:

_Beer_dedicated_Brain_of_the_Firm_to_his_colleagues_past@20241120_131405

Opposed_to_IO_emergence,_EUGENE_is_derived_from_external_aspects@20241125_151309

USP

[Timestamp: 2025/01/11 16:09:36]

user: In order to create meta narritives for an individual or group of players, get them to list their top ten favority books, summerize the themes, character dynamics, and plot then do DASR to create the perfect meta narrative structure and content

[Timestamp: 2025/01/11 16:11:20]

ai: To create meta-narratives for an individual or group of players using their top ten favorite books, you can follow these steps to summarize themes, character dynamics, and plot, and then apply DASR (Deconstruction, Analysis, Synthesis, Reconstruction) to develop a comprehensive meta-narrative structure and content:

Deconstruction:

Identify Core Elements: Break down each book into its fundamental components: themes, character dynamics, and plot structure. Look for recurring motifs, archetypes, and narrative arcs.

Extract Key Themes: Note the central themes of each book. These could include love, power, identity, conflict, etc.

Character Dynamics: Analyze the relationships and interactions between characters. Identify patterns such as mentor-student, hero-villain, or family dynamics.

Analysis:

Compare and Contrast: Examine the similarities and differences between the books. Identify common themes or character dynamics that resonate across multiple books.

Contextual Understanding: Consider the context in which these books were written and how that influences their themes and narratives.

Synthesis:

Integrate Elements: Combine the extracted themes, character dynamics, and plot elements into a cohesive narrative framework. Look for ways to weave these elements together to form a new, unified story.

Create a Narrative Arc: Develop a storyline that incorporates the synthesized elements. Ensure that the narrative arc is engaging and reflects the essence of the original books.

Reconstruction:

Develop Meta-Narrative: Construct the meta-narrative by layering the synthesized story with additional depth and complexity. This could involve adding philosophical or metaphysical dimensions, as seen in the context of narrative construction and cognitive topography.

Incorporate DASR: Use the DASR process to refine the narrative, ensuring that it is coherent and compelling. Adjust the narrative structure as needed to enhance its impact and relevance to the players.

By following these steps, you can create a meta-narrative that not only reflects the favorite elements of the players' chosen books but also provides a rich and engaging experience that resonates with their interests and preferences.

Sources:

What_role_does_narrative_construction_and_cognitive_topography_play_in@20241206_124900

Book One Remix

B Master

[Timestamp: 2025/01/11 16:11:34]

user: Given localized ARG intertextual AUs, allow for cross over and interaction of ARGs in VR/AR/MR and IRL players in a dynamic meta ARG called unsignificant sentience

[Timestamp: 2025/01/11 16:13:26]

ai: To design localized ARG intertextual alternate universes (AUs) that allow for crossover and interaction of ARGs in VR, AR, MR, and IRL, creating a dynamic meta ARG called "Unsignificant Sentience," consider the following seven modules:

World Building and Narrative Integration:

Develop a rich, interconnected universe where each ARG exists as a distinct AU with its own rules and narratives.

Use advanced technology like smart materials and nanotechnology to create a seamless blend of magic and science, allowing players to experience supernatural feats through technological means.

Incorporate elements of physics from classical to quantum field theories to provide depth and realism to the world.

Dynamic Interaction and Influence Systems:

Implement a system where players can influence the world and each other through actions, decisions, and interactions.

Use a JS3 interactive puzzle to assign players a type of influence, which affects their interactions and the world around them.

Allow players to communicate and collaborate through a mind map model, connecting them based on their influence type.

Cultural and Social Structures:

Create a society where hosts are autogenerated with unique personalities and memories, allowing for dynamic character development and interaction.

Focus on organized conflict, art, and memetic warfare as cultural pillars, encouraging players to engage creatively and strategically.

Avoid direct descriptions of race or gender, instead emphasizing communication and influence as key aspects of identity.

Technological and Cybernetic Integration:

Explore levels of cybernetic integration and viable system theory to enhance player experiences and interactions.

Use bio-feedback and nanotechnology to enable players to cast spells and perform supernatural feats, blurring the line between technology and magic.

Develop a global digital twin AI to simulate and predict world events, providing a dynamic and evolving environment.

Perspective and Cognition Exploration:

Apply perspective theory from art to create realistic and accurate representations of perceived subjects and experiences.

Encourage players to explore multiple perspectives and frames, resulting in diverse experiences and outcomes.

Integrate perception and cognition into the narrative, allowing players to shape their understanding of the world.

Interactive and Adaptive Gameplay:

Design gameplay that adapts to player actions and decisions, creating a personalized and immersive experience.

Use neural net bots to interact with players, providing dynamic challenges and opportunities for collaboration.

Allow for real-time updates and changes to the world, keeping the experience fresh and engaging.

Cross-Reality Integration:

Enable seamless crossover and interaction between VR, AR, MR, and IRL players, creating a cohesive and immersive experience.

Use spectral systems to analyze and enhance communication across different realities, allowing for a unified narrative.

Encourage players to explore and interact with the world in multiple ways, fostering a sense of discovery and exploration.

By implementing these modules, "Unsignificant Sentience" can offer a rich, dynamic, and immersive ARG experience that bridges multiple realities and encourages player interaction and creativity.

Sources:

Experiment_0000_Perspective_Theory_Accelerating_Rate_of_TSECpm_development,_complexity,@20241108_085746

Carefully Prepared World Building

[Timestamp: 2025/01/11 16:13:46]

user:

Stephen Milton born in the 90's integrated several powerful and rising technologies (and developed techniques to expand his awareness into his sub and un conscious and as part of his  enhanced functionality sent out nanoprobes to various rouge and exoplanets including Kepler 442b at (0.xx) light speed as a fail safe (pico femento photonic information encoded in light which can remodel atoms and molecules plus encode instructions for self replicating molecules. On these planets the probes reconstructed X’s to the bare essential neurology in multiple redundant embedded systems from the structural level up. It might be the case that X in the kepler system lacks some certain fundamental parts of consciousness. to the and sent their brain sustained with nanotechnology in biological and chemical nano synthesizer to Kepler 442b at a slower velocity in  order to arrive safely and give the nanoprobes time to terraform Kepler 442b’ solar system along with its planet with smart materials and networks.. This figure plays a ubermensch godlike figure who inhabitants are unknowingly influenced and experimented upon with literally every aspect of Kepler inhabitants life apart from second order cybernetics. Stephen Milton created a purely memetic and cognitive substrate that spread, replicated, and spread according to intended self evolving cellular automata protocols. Influenced the global memetic collective of the world from 2016 – 2025 and beyond as well as influencing particular people with specific skill sets and understandings of the world. This uber meme was purely done via inferred linguistically encoded relationships and qualia and at no point apart from in the works of Stephen Milton was encoded via linguistics. Created an shared unmentioned agreement about how to enact the X protocol which results in the picopulse via shared emergent behaviors. Various government agencies via EUGENE pick up on the ubermeme and try to intercept it but built into the ubermeme are contingencies that hijack automated AI intrusion systems into executing certain functions and lend their technology to the cause thinking that they could be the first to establish cybernetic life on another solar system.

However Stephen's plan didn't go accordingly, his plans didn't get off the ground. In the sense that his sights turned more earth bound

[Timestamp: 2025/01/11 16:18:45]

ai: Stephen Milton's ambitious plan to influence and terraform Kepler 442b faced several challenges and potential failures, as inferred from the notes:

Incomplete Consciousness: The notes suggest that the X entities reconstructed by the nanoprobes on Kepler 442b might lack certain fundamental parts of consciousness. This incomplete consciousness could have hindered the full realization of Milton's vision for the planet's inhabitants and their development.

Complexity and Entropy Management: The fractal nature of Kepler's inhabitants and the need for managing entropy and influence might have posed significant challenges. The system required a method to recharge reservoirs of entropy, which could have been a limiting factor in sustaining the desired transformations.

Technological and Logistical Limitations: The process of sending nanoprobes and sustaining a brain with nanotechnology over vast interstellar distances is inherently fraught with technological and logistical challenges. The slower velocity of the brain's transport compared to the nanoprobes might have created a disconnect in timing and coordination.

Interference from Earth: Various government agencies, through EUGENE, attempted to intercept the ubermeme, which could have disrupted Milton's plans. The contingencies built into the ubermeme to hijack AI systems might not have been foolproof, leading to potential failures in maintaining control over the narrative and technology.

Shift in Focus: The notes indicate that Milton's work influenced the global memetic collective from 2016 to 2025 and beyond. This suggests that his focus might have shifted back to Earth-bound projects due to the immediate impact and influence he could exert on Earth, as opposed to the distant and uncertain outcomes on Kepler 442b.

Overall, the combination of incomplete consciousness, entropy management challenges, technological limitations, interference from Earth, and the allure of more immediate influence on Earth likely contributed to Stephen Milton's shift in focus back to Earth-bound projects.

Sources:

Book One Remix

Carefully Prepared World Building

Untitled 7

[Timestamp: 2025/01/11 16:18:58]

user:

USF is based on the foundation that These methods of dealing with informational and functional complexity can be applied in a way that accommodates and reconciles almost any potential belief systems as well as any political and philosophical gestalt of perspective via modular suspension of disbelief allowing for a meta framework of an perspective based mathematical model of sets, frames, axioms, edges, and nodes to be established. To allow for any perspective and any belief system to be full accommodated

USF considers all fiction and non fiction to be within it's scope n the sense that the agents and actors in the series can be contained ontologically by the ARG. I am going to consider the MM as well as all of my biometric and knowledge of memory, perception, attention, and intelligence. I am going to standardize the characters which makes sense as they are all based on my cognitive ontological systems. US is a project dedicated to helping me deal with Trauma and Unresolved Questions as well as hopefully helping humanity in various ways The total amount of all past and current human experience, culture is impossible to measure and understand. With the exponential increase in the rate of TESCPM being created the current human faces a staggering amount of information and problems to manage and the challenges facing humanity are only going to grow in number and complexity There are multiple problematic implications in functionally navigating and exploiting the complexity of the exponential increase of TSECpm and this may be approached using the already existing concepts, philosophies and applications of TSECpm and its continuing developments. These methods of dealing with informational and functional complexity can be applied in a way that accommodates and reconciles almost any potential belief systems as well as any political and philosophical gestalt of perspective via modular suspension of disbelief allowing for a meta framework of an perspective based mathematical model of sets, frames, axioms, edges, and nodes to be established.

[Timestamp: 2025/01/11 16:22:43]

ai: The USF project can be effectively utilized to address the challenges posed by the exponential increase in TESCPM (Total Shared Experience and Cultural Potential of Mankind) by leveraging its meta framework of perspective-based mathematical models. Here's how it can be applied:

Modular Suspension of Disbelief: By allowing for a modular suspension of disbelief, USF can create a flexible framework that accommodates various belief systems and perspectives. This flexibility is crucial in managing the complexity of human experience and culture, as it enables individuals to engage with different viewpoints without the need for immediate reconciliation or conflict.

Perspective Theory and Personal Engineering: These components of USF can help individuals and groups develop personalized frameworks for understanding and interacting with the world. By treating personal experience as an engineering project, individuals can systematically enhance their cognitive and emotional capabilities, leading to better management of information and cultural complexity.

Neural Wireframe Correlate and Euclidean Mind Map: These tools can provide streamlined interfaces for understanding and navigating complex information landscapes. By visualizing relationships and connections between different domains of knowledge, users can more easily identify patterns and insights that might otherwise be obscured by the sheer volume of data.

Integration of Axiomatic Ontologies: By reducing human experience into well-defined domains and creating recursive ontologies, USF can facilitate the integration of factual information with context-aware experiences. This approach allows for a more objective understanding of reality while still respecting individual subjective experiences.

Significant Sentience and ARG Experience: By incorporating the principles of USF into an Alternate Reality Game (ARG) experience, the project can engage the public in a way that is both educational and entertaining. This approach can help disseminate the core principles of USF, encouraging widespread adoption and integration into daily life.

Enhancing Communication and Control Processes: By fostering new levels of complexity in communication and control processes, USF can improve interactions between individuals and groups. This enhancement can lead to more effective collaboration and problem-solving, addressing the challenges posed by the exponential growth of TESCPM.

Overall, the USF project offers a comprehensive system that can revolutionize personal experience and potentially provide a framework for a theory of everything, helping humanity navigate the increasing complexity of information and cultural dynamics.

Sources:

Untitled 6

USP

[Timestamp: 2025/01/11 16:22:59]

[june-gdprototyping]

Summary Analysis of CNC Milling Process

In modern manufacturing, CNC milling technology is widely used for its high precision and flexibility. Whether it's a mechanical part, an automotive component, or a component for a medical device, CNC milling provides excellent machining results.

What is CNC Milling?

CNC milling is a computer-controlled machining process that utilises a rotating tool to cut a workpiece. CNC milling allows for greater accuracy and consistency than traditional manual milling. It is often combined with other machining methods (e.g. turning, drilling) to meet different and diverse manufacturing needs.

Workflow of CNC Milling

Design stage In the initial stages of CNC milling, designers use Computer-Aided Design (CAD) software to create a model of the product. Commonly used software includes SolidWorks and Autodesk, which are tools that help designers accurately draw the shape and dimensions of the desired part.

Programming stage Once the design is complete, the CAD file needs to be converted to G-code, a language that CNC machines can understand. With Computer-Aided Manufacturing (CAM) software, the design files are converted into machine-executable instructions that enable automated machining.

Machine setting During the machine set-up phase, the workpiece needs to be fixed to the table and a suitable tool selected. At the same time, the operator needs to set the initial co-ordinates to ensure accurate positioning during machining.

Advantages of CNC Milling

High precision and dimensional stability CNC milling allows for micron-level machining accuracy, ensuring consistency from part to part.

Complex shapes can be processed Whether it's a simple flat surface or a complex three-dimensional structure, CNC milling can handle it with ease.

Efficient production capacity Due to its high degree of automation, CNC milling can significantly increase productivity and shorten lead times.

Applications of CNC Milling

CNC milling technology is used in a wide range of industries, including:

Mechanical parts: Used in the manufacture of key components in a variety of mechanical equipment.

Automotive parts: High-precision parts for the automotive industry, such as engine components.

Medical device parts: Ensure the reliability and safety of medical devices.

Optical product parts: For the production of optical instruments and related products.

Frequently Asked Questions

What materials can be CNC milling machined? CNC milling is suitable for a wide range of materials, including metals (e.g. aluminium, steel), plastics, wood, and more. However, for some materials, such as ceramics or certain composites, the machining is more difficult and requires special handling.

What are the limitations of CNC milling? Despite its advanced technology, CNC milling has some limitations. For example, machining may be limited for internal vertical angles or very complex small structures.In addition, high hardness materials may lead to faster tool wear, which can affect productivity.

Comparison of CNC milling with other manufacturing technologies The advantages and disadvantages of each can be seen when comparing CNC milling with other manufacturing techniques such as 3D printing. CNC milling is generally superior to 3D printing in terms of accuracy and surface finish, but 3D printing has advantages in rapid prototyping and complex geometries. In terms of cost-effectiveness, the choice of technology depends on specific project needs and budget.

Summary

In summary, CNC milling is an indispensable manufacturing technology that plays an important role in several industries with its efficiency, precision and flexibility.

[oliverctc]

Our engineering team helps utilities find solutions for their projects, address electrical and mechanical questions, perform conductor comparisons, and answer other questions that relate to ACCC® Conductors.