#molten slag

[whats-in-a-sentence]

As shown in figure 13.58, this is an enormous chemical reactor in which heating, reduction and purification occur together.

"Chemistry" 2e - Blackman, A., Bottle, S., Schmid, S., Mocerino, M., Wille, U.

[solradguy]

I won't lie. I have had Bridget in my blacklisted tags on here for a while now

[mndvx]

bruv the guns in rebel moon shoot slags, so much for the tolerant left :/

[void-tiger]

Uuugh it fucking hurts to see Ben so broken and getting his ass handed to him…but it makes sense. He’s been through shit, and it’s less that he’s out of practice as much as in order to keep his head down and survive, he’s had to abandon hope.

Ben describes Hope as Light.

The Force feels like Hope.

Ben lost his hope, and as a result, muscle memory honed by a lifetime as a Jedi and defending the 212th in the war simply isn’t enough.

He struggles to save Leia when she nearly falls to her death. And life-suit or no, he’s barely able to block Vader’s attacks.

The Darkside draws from suffering (and Vader made sure to get a snack before facing Kenobi.)

Therefore, it stands to reason that the Light draws from Hope. (And Hope is something Ben’s been understandably lacking for some time.)

[epic-and-kitty]

Shit My DM Says

"I said I wanted to see A war crime, not you guys trying to speed run the Geneva Convention"

[cyborgdragongirl]

2 headshots and 17 core kills fuckkk I love PPC’s

[cozzymandiart]

My latest Lancer RPG commission, the HA Enkidu "Bloody Roar"! Another feral little guy just like my previous comm, but this time with even more fun lighting effects. I might have put a little too much pizzazz into them for what's allegedly a flat color commission, but I can't resist drawing molten slag

[autos-official]

@autos-official: WELCOME TO AUTOS AUTOMATED SOLUTIONS! FUCK YOU LONG RIM! If you are stupid enough to buy a mech this weekend, you are a desperate enough NHP-Fucker to come to AUTOS AUTOMATED SOLUTION! Paracasual deals, mechs that need @uniondeptofmed to put 69 insurances on it, [[BOMBS?]]! if you think you're going to find a free mech at big shot autos you can FEAST UPON OUR FAT JUICY NEURODIVERGENT TESTICLES! it's my belief that you're such a special [[Anta Baka!]] that you'll fall for this [[PISS.]]. Violation Of Utopian Pillars is guaranteed! If you find a better deal than this between @harrison-armory-incorporated and their fascism, @ssc-official and their coomer consoomers, @ips-northstar-official's pirate coves and @horus-unofficial's low-grade shitposting you can shove an AGNI-Class NHP UP YOUR UGLY ASS! you heard me right SHOVE IT UP YOUR UGLY ASS! Bring your [[C******W****K**I*N]] bring your [[nothing is worth the risk]] bring your ass I’LL FUCK IT! THAT’S RIGHT! WE’LL FUCK YOUR ASS LIKE ITS THE AVERAGE "QUESTIONING SEXUALITY" MEME Because here at AUTOS, you're FUCKED SIXTYNINE WAYS FROM SECCOMMS MILITARISTIC ANTHRO-CHAUVINISM! Take a hike to AUTOS on PLUTO! HOME OF AUTOS-NEOS! That’s right! AUTOS-NEOS! How does it work? If you can bring us an Ungrateful that can build a minigun out of apocalypse rails and a castigating manticore and is also capable of doing all that while ripping the fattest blunt that RA can allow you get A MECH MADE OUT OF SCRAP THAT WILL TURN ANY OF THAT FINE TUNED BULLSHIT ON THE BATTLEFIELD INTO OVERGLORIFIED MOLTEN SLAG! dont't wait, don't delay, don't FÜÇƘ ẄÏȚĤ ŬŜ ØŘ ẂĘ'ŁĻ PÄŔĄČÅŜỤĀĽŁƳ ŘỊP ƳÖÜŘ ƁĀĹĽṢ ØFF! Only at AUTOS! The only dealer that tells you to FUCK OFF! HURRY UP ASSHOLE! Special deal ends the moment you write us a check and it better not bounce or you're CRINGE! TAKE A GODDAMN VACATION STRAIGHT TO THE ENDLESS PIT! Also known as BIG SHOT AUTOS! Union's most cringe and overpowered mech dealer that also wants to be SEXUALLY DOMINATED by @albatross-lancer PLEASE NOTICE U- the biggest //bon of a sitch// in the UNION! GUARANTEED LIKE THE LIBERATION OF SANJAK! FUCK YOU!

[theconstitutionisgayculture]

Any time someone condemns the actions of Israel killing children you accuse them of hating Jews. That only makes sense if you think killing children is inherently a part of Judaism.

Hoo boy, you are very dumb, for real.

Okay, I'm going to explain this to you even though you either, already know it and you're just pretending not to because that's the only way you can avoid having to admit how wrong you are, or you're too stupid to grasp basic English conversation. So I know it's pointless and I know you're still not going to get it. But here we go anyway.

Israel is a majority Jewish country. Anti-semitism, or hatred of Jews if that's too big a word for you, is often dressed up in "criticism" of Israel. Since October 7th, a lot of people who claimed to not be anti-semites because they were only "criticizing" Israel have been loudly celebrating an attack where Hamas terrorists raped, murdered, and kidnapped people who were mostly Israeli Jews. They have taken up chants of "Globalize the Intifada" (The Intifada is a Palestinian movement to eliminate Israel and all the Jews in it, so this is a call for the global elimination of all Jews) and "From the river to the sea" (which is a call for the destruction of Israel and all the Jews in it so "Palestinians", which are not a real cultural or ethnic group by the by, can occupy all the land between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea). Since these people are cheering a brutal attack on Jews, and supporting the destruction of the only majority Jewish state in the world along with the murder of every Jew who lives there, and calling for the global extermination of the Jewish race, they are anti-semites. (Remember that means they hate Jews).

Following along so far?

Probably not, but let's continue anyway.

Hamas is a terrorist organization. In 2007 it was elected into power. Shortly after, it won a civil war to stay in power. That makes it the ruling power in what's called the self-governing territory of Gaza. That ruling power sent soldiers into Israel, a legitimate nation recognized as such by most of the world, and attacked its citizens as well as the citizens of other countries. Israel responded by declaring war. Now, if this had happened with any other nation in the world, there would be very little debate about Israel's justification in defending itself and the abhorrent nature of Gaza's attack. But since Israel is a mostly Jewish state, that's not what's going on. Western leftists are gleefully showing their hatred of Jews by demanding Israel not strike back and not defend itself and instead just sit there and let themselves be destroyed.

Now, by any sane standard, Israel would be justified in turning the entirety of Gaza into molten slag. Remember, the 10/7 attacks were carried out by the ruling power that was originally voted into that position of power. When the terrorists returned from their attack, where they raped and/or murdered some 1,200 people, many of them children, the citizens of Gaza celebrated. They cheered as Hamas terrorists led naked hostages who were bleeding from their vaginas from being brutally gang raped through the streets. They cheered as their children surrounded Jewish children who had been kidnapped and taunted them and threw rocks at them. Ever since Israel freed Gaza and allowed them to govern themselves, Gaza has supported terrorists who want to kill every Jew in Israel. But Israel has no interest in destroying Gaza completely. They just want to wipe out Hamas and let the Gazans go back to governing themselves. They even went so far as to let the enemy know where they were going to attack so civilians could evacuate.

And what did Hamas do in response?

They refused to allow anyone to leave.

Because Hamas has a long history of hiding behind Gazan civilians. They build their terrorist bases under schools, hospitals, and mosques specifically so Israel would have to choose between attacking those locations or allowing Hamas to attack them with impunity. They make sure civilians are in the path of every Israeli bomb because they believe that Gaza is a "nation of martyrs" and they know that every dead Gazan civilian is a prop they can show to the largely Jew hating western media as "proof" that Israel is some kind of evil, genocidal country. They want that perception to flourish worldwide so, when they do finally manage to kill every Jew in Israel, they can say it was justified. They were just fighting back against their oppressors. They were decolonizing. (Ignoring the fact that the Arabs were the ones who colonized the Jewish land and then began exterminating all the Jews that still lived there, or who fled to live in other lands, to the point where there are almost no Jews left anywhere in the Middle East except in Israel)

So when people ignore the mountains and mountains of proof that Hamas are the ones responsible for the civilian deaths in Gaza, because their strategy relies on dead children and dead civilians, because they do everything in their power to make sure children are between them and Israeli bombs and bullets, they are doing so knowing that they're giving support to a terrorist group that wants to murder all the Jews in Israel. They are showing their hatred of the Jewish people by promoting lies and joining the cries for "global Intifada". So yes, when people blame Israel for the dead children that Hamas killed by forcing them into the line of fire during a war, they are doing it because they hate Jews.

And if you think calling out that hatred means anyone thinks killing children is a part of Judaism, then you're either stupid, or you hate Jews too.

[eosincuffs]

Now that I have a writing blog as well as a lurking blog I can finally showcase my appreciation to my favourite authors who inspired me to start writing.

This is a gift for @ceilidho because I am ready to commit arson for you <3.

Ikea!Soap/Creepy Coworker!Soap IS @ceilidho ‘s IDEA! FULL CREDIT TO HER IT IS SO FANTASTIC I WILL EAT MY SCREEN. There is so much juicy content on her blog iswtg I will combust. Adults go check it out you will not regret it!

- This is alternate AU where the Christmas party doesn’t happen, instead its New Years being celebrated. (We don’t celebrate Christmas here but New Years is a really big thing)

Not proof read.

1.1k words

TW Non-Consensual Contact | TW 18+ | TW Near Panic Attack

So anyways hehe on the theme of gift giving.

Shivers slowly trot down your spine, you feel a leaden punty of panic manifest itself in your diaphragm as you sweat cold like condensed metal. There’s eyes on you, there are always eyes on you. An unforgettable gelid pair of blue ponds surrounding a pinprick pupil that track you everywhere you go.

One would think you’d be used to Johnny’s attention by now, both kind and unkind. But recently he’s been acting especially unsettling. These past few days he doesn’t talk, he doesn’t help you throw out the trash, he just stares… and grins, his breathing heavy.

It started a few weeks ago, when you decided to work overtime to later take a little break and greet the New Years away from work, in the comfort of you own apartment. No one except management should have known of your plans, but of course nothing is confidential for their sweet golden boy. Soap sniffed out your shift change so fast you’d wondered if he had a past with drug abuse, as it was his arms that suffocated you on your second evening shift.

Stacking boxes your soul flinched out of your body when two limbs wrapped around your torso like snares on a hare’s neck. Even through the multiple layers of cloth you could feel the heat of his forearms on your abdomen, molten rock flowing through his veins keeping his muscles taught. His chest pinned yours against the steel frame of the fifteen meter shelving unit but the grip of his arms remained, forcing you into an awkward arching position as he curved himself over your back.

“Hey bonnie!”

The Scotts cheery voice all but lashed through the echoey establishment, like the crack of a whip. It’s dark, cold and wet outside, snow turning into slag tainting everything from cars to shoes, much like Johnny’s doing to you; ironic considering his callsign. But there’s practically no customers in conditions like these, meaning your coworkers wouldn’t need to come to the back to look for something, meaning your trapped in here, alone, with a man at least twice your size.

You don’t say anything back, still reeling from having your quiet, meditative moment interrupted by what feels like a hydraulic press. But there’s a soft yet hard object pressing to your front? You look down to see what it is but your own chest is smack dab against the shelving unit blocking your view. Your hips are arched away from it allowing him to adjust something? Is he measuring your torso? What’s happening ?

There’s too many things going on, heavy breathing in your ear, the heat against your back and the frigid metal against your front. One of his hands is moving something along your abdomen, another feels up your womb area and then your crotch? You yelp at that and are about to scream but he shoves you against the steel harder, and knocks the breath out of your chest, but his hand doesn’t go any further.

“Shh, shh, sorry pretty, just makin’ some introductions dinnae worry yer wee head about it”.

A clack resonates through the space, and less than half a meter away you can see a black marker cap rolling away on the floor. What the actual fuck is happening. He feels you up some more, then his hand moves back and forth horizontally as if to mark something and just like that he lets you go.

The situation lasted 3 minutes tops and yet now you know what sharks feel like when they’re pulled out the water, microchipped and thrown back in. You turn around and Soap’s got his back to you he’s kneeling down to pick up the marker cap, there’s something in his hand but its wrapped in white cloth. He closes the marker and rotates a little just to face you.

“Hope you’ve liked meeting your namesake, lass. I know she was honoured for sure!” He leaves then, laughing lightly to himself, flushed and giddy. Your namesake? Did he mean the-

It’s finally time for your much needed break from work, and certain blue eyed men with separation anxiety. At the end of your shift you carefully quick walk to your car before a hand on your shoulder stops you. Speak of the devil.

“Wey bonnie, why are ye in such a hurry to leave huh?”

You’re surprised he actually talked to you after weeks of silence, but you’re also exhausted.

“Soap, what do you need I-,”

He stops you mid sentence by thrusting a sizeable wrapped box into your hands, a charming, large blue bow sitting at the top, as if preening.

“I know yer takin’ days off, but I bought a lil somethin’ for ya. Hope you enjoy it, I really do.”

Well thats actually sweet of him. Granted you don’t know what’s actually in the box. But its still nice that he cared enough to give it to you!

He sends you off with a tight hug and a smirk; gleaming snarl in the night.

Back at your apartment you’re so hungry that you forget about his sincerity for a while. Before the reflection of the bow in your mirror catches your eye, you don’t have a lot of blue in your apartment and this one’s the same shade as his eyes.

A little excited you unwrap the box and lift up the lid only to freeze appalled when your greeted by a dick. It’s a dick, a cock in a box, Soap has gifted you a dildo. Yeah he’s mentioned you being irritated in the past, how a “good shag’ll put ye right in yer place,” but what the fuck.

Come to think of it, it’s strangely realistic: with veins and even moles. The heads a light pink and the base…looks like his skin colour.

Weeks ago, Soap was about a hair’s length away from having an aneurism when he looked at the fleshlight in his hands. A black line marking its plastic flesh, from his feeling up he reckoned that’s about where your womb should be. Quite clearly you wouldn’t be able to take all of him but he reckoned that’s nothing a little practice couldn’t fix. And hey, since he had a version of you to greet New Year’s with, why doesn’t he gift you a version of him that you can cherish too <3.

[hadeantaiga]

I totally recommend looking all of these things up if you like creepy stuff both natural and man-made!

[moorishflower]

Fawney Rig Estate Sale

Fawney Rig Estate Sale, the flyer says, and Hob doesn't know who placed it, or why they chose the Inn as its final housing, but when Dream sees it, the grainy jpeg of some massive gothic monstrosity of a manse bracketed by the words FURNITURE - BOOKS - COLLECTIBLES, his expression becomes distant, and his hand spasms on the bartop. He's gotten fairly good at reading Dream's moods over the past few months, and this one, he thinks, is a doozy. This one is almost like fear.

There's two things that Dream fears, at least that he's seen fit to tell Hob: one, in the darkling hours of the morning, the both of them twined together, Hob pulling the duvet over Dream's thin shoulders and gathering him close, Dream whispering, do not go far from me, Hob Gadling, and that's its own sort of fear, one that Hob understands. He feels it, too.

The other, more insidious, he's seen only rarely. When light catches on a curve of glass just so; when someone speaks in a very specific register and tone; when the night is too quiet, and too slow, and Dream's fingers begin to scratch lines into the tabletops for want of something to occupy him. Dream has told him, in fits and starts, of a hundred years trapped within a glass sphere. He's never mentioned names, but now, in the way that he looks at this flyer, which Hob wants to rip from the wall and shred into a hundred pieces, he doesn't need to.

"How much of it was left?" he asks that night, and Dream tucks his head against Hob's chest, and says nothing. Hob touches his hair, his shoulders, the dear, thin line of his back, thumbing down the rungs of his spine in slow and gentle strokes. "Right. I've got a sledgehammer somewhere. Matty has a forge he made himself, I'm sure he's got something that can cut metal. Everything else we can have shipped out and we'll dump it into the sea."

I do not know if I can accompany you, Dream tells him, and Hob says, That's fine, love. Whatever you need to do. But there's not a chance in Hell that he's letting this opportunity slip by. It's become as much about his own peace of mind as Dream's -- he wants to see the thing that trapped his lover for a more than a century. Wants to see the glass and the iron, the struts and bolts, rendered down into molten slag. All these years and he's thought his great nemesis was his own selfishness, his own attempt to grasp the uncatchable, and yet Dream has said I would have come to you, if I were able, and Hob now realizes the truth: a few tons of scrap iron and lightning-struck sand were the only things that stood between him and Dream, for a hundred and thirty-three years. And he had never known.

It hurts. It hurts in a way that beggars the soul, and out of the centuries of his past he drags up a brigand's easy violence as he dumps petrol into the car. As he drives to Fawney Rig.

It's every bit as tasteless and huge as the picture implied it to be, and the man who opens the door to Hob is older, bent-backed, something soft and yielding about the shape of his shoulders. He takes in the sight of Hob on his doorstep, dirt-grimed burlap sack over one shoulder, the sledgehammer leaning like a loyal dog against the wall.

"Can I help you?"

"Hope so." He drops the bag. It makes a satisfying clanking noise. "Are you Paul McGuire? Put up a load of flyers for an estate sale?"

"I...yes. That's me. The sale isn't for another two weeks. I'm afraid you're rather early." There's something conciliatory about the way he talks. Some sharp and cavernous thing in him senses it, the way that owls can sense the shape of mice in tall grass. He longs for the feel of a good dagger in his hand. It's been a long time since he killed anyone, but he wants, and he recognizes that this is not good, he wants this gutless old man to put up a fight.

This man has never been bloodied nor bled another creature in his life. He'd make a fine target for a bandit, but for Hob's purposes, he's unsatisfying. He kicks the bag, instead.

"I'm not the mercenary I used to be," he says. "Better for you. There's about. Hm. A bit more than a kilo of gold bullion in that bag. It's old, but any jeweler will tell you it's pure. It's yours if you leave. Now."

"I don't. I don't understand."

"No," Hob says, unkindly. "You don't. Which is why I'm giving you this chance to leave. He said you were the one who let him out. Eventually. After a hundred and thirty-three years."

The man's face goes pale as clotted cream. He looks at the sledgehammer with new fear. He remembers this feeling, the intimacy of a knife held to the throat of one who deserves it. It's not one he anticipated dredging up, not once highway robbery went out of style, but it comes back to him as easy as riding a bicycle. Perhaps he should be worried about that.

He'll worry later. Paul McGuire is nodding slowly, looking ill, looking lost. "Is he here?" he asks, and Hob snorts.

"If he was," he says, "I wouldn't tell you."

And that, as they say, is that. Hob is left standing in the entry hall of Fawney Rig, the fading splendor of it, all its gothic twists and its vaguely occult symbolism wended through with high-quality electric lights and a security system to make the Queen weep. Paul hasn't left him a key. By the end of the night, he doesn't intend to need one anymore.

It makes as much sense to start from the ground up as anything else, and finding the stairs to the basement is easy. The hammer is a comfortable heft over his shoulder, and it's as he starts down into that long and sightless tunnel that he feels the shape take just behind him.

"Hello, love," he says, and Dream reaches out. Hob takes his hand, as easy as breathing. "You doing all right?"

"It looks different. From this direction."

"I imagine it would. You aren't alone this time, though." He squeezes the hand in his. It's like trying to squeeze a stone, cold and implacable. "And we're leaving here together."

"Hm." But the hand relaxes, in minute increments. He can feel Dream behind him, can feel the outline of his shoulders, can see the vague eyeshine cast upon the wall, but he doesn't look back. Hob's read that story before. He'll look back when the job is finished. When they leave Hell together.

"Let's finish what you started," he says, as they reach the bottom of the stairs. The ruin of the glass sphere sits in awful majesty in the center of a narrow moat; even from here, he can see the lines of yellow paint, the runes that bound Dream into an airless, feelingless void. The iron struts are lined with spikes; Hob wishes, abruptly, hotly, that he had only given Paul McGuire to the count of ten to leave. He hasn't any horse to ride him down, but he wouldn't have needed one anyways. An old man, and he with rage giving him winged feet.

"Right," he says, and let's go of Dream's hand, only long enough to heft the hammer properly. "Let's get started, darling. I'd like to be home in time to make you dinner."

He doesn't look back (he'll look back, he thinks, when he has reduced this poxy sphere to dust, when he has ground the iron into filings, when there is nothing left of this cursed mausoleum but concrete dust and burnt pages), but he feels the shape of Dream behind him. Can hear his smile.

It sounds like breaking glass. There's no music sweeter, Hob thinks, and lets the hammer fly.

[ginormouscobe]

*eating molten slag and debris from the floor of the industrial processing plant*🥺🥺🥺 ouuugch why does my tummy hurt

[sharkgirldick]

If I don't lick a trans guy's armpit soon I'm going to erupt into molten slag.

[ips-northstar-official]

So... It's the person from the hypothetical thing about the Balor. Here's the whole thing, as it is.

See, I'd just got done with a job along with my Lance: Things were great, I wound up seeing what happens when a Balor literally pulls itself back together from a front-row seat (spoiler alert: It was fucking awesome), and I wound up getting enough cash to do some... Acquisitions.

So! I decided to stop by a black-market scrapyard I knew about: Odd spot ran by an unshackled NHP everyone calls "Mamaw": She heard the term on an out-of-the-way planet, liked it, and decided to use it as an alias. Lotta people dump mechs that are too junked-out, expensive, or time-consuming to repair there: Wear-and-tear from a death-world, too much damage from a job gone horribly wrong, used for something horrible by a rich ass-hat... You name it, Mamaw's got it lying around there for resale and trade.

It's like a Flea Market for mech parts!

... And also maybe ship parts butlet'snottalkabouthat-

ANYWAYS. Stopped by to say "Hi!", ask around about any good deals, and she'd told me that she had pretty much just gotten in a Blackbeard from some salvage crews. I was interested, so she guided me to it.

When I tell you this mech was fucked, I mean it was Capital-F FUCKED. Missing a leg and both arms, any armor was molten slag, wiring was shredded, the works. According to Mamaw, somebody had let their Sekhmet-Class off the hook, ejected, and just ran away. Left 'em behind to fight while they fled for the hills.

The mech got damaged enough that the Sekhmet-Class couldn't move an inch more, and after the battle the Salvage teams moved in to do their job. So, imagine their surprise when the wreck they go to grab starts swearing the air blue at them. Just... Absolutely laying into them. Insults that I could not repeat in polite company, according to Mamaw. They tossed the whole mech off to her, she got the Sekhmet outta there with some conversation and offers of therapy, and everybody turned out pretty alright. She's apparently a very good underground fighter now.

Where was I? Ah, right! The Balor eating the Blackbeard.

So! I'm sitting there haggling the price with Mamaw, and she's making sure to get a good list of what I want off of the BB. Mid-conversation, she trails off while looking over my shoulder after we've finally got the price figured up and paid. I turn around, and my Balor's just... Eating the Blackbeard.

Greywash fully in effect, swarming the wreckage: It was like watching a swarm of locusts pull apart a 3-D puzzle. They'd find the weld-seams and bolts, pull 'em apart like a damn surgeon, pulled the whole chunks into the swarm, and then go back for seconds and thirds.

Weirdest part was, the Balor seemed almost... Gentle, as it worked. Held the parts it was pulling in almost reverently, and when the Blackbeard was down to just the framework and wiring, it picked it up and... hugged it. Held it, like a close friend instead of a meal.

And as it ate, it just got... Bigger. Went from standing with plenty of room in the warehouse we were sifting through to scraping the ceiling. And then...

VRRP. No more Blackbeard.

I turned back around to Mamaw, and she seemed pensive about the whole thing for a moment or two before she started smiling.

"A good eating young-'un, there. You take good care of them, you hear me?"

Well. I couldn't help but agree.

So, yeah: That's how my Balor hypothetically ate a Blackbeard. Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta go see somebody with a hypothetical Goblin to work on some hypothetical VPN-work. TTFN!

Ok so I’ve got corporate distracted for a bit so I can post this because letting this be my sole spoils of war here would be unfair to everyone on the Omninet

Also I’m gonna kick this down the road back to @horus-unofficial to please explain to me what’s going on with that Balor

That kinda sounds like it’s alive

Anyways back to standard corpro-posting love you guys

—the intern

[grainelevator]

Steam 2-8-2 SY #1676 in Baotou, China, 2008 by Ben Kletzer

The spectacular slag dump at Baotou steelworks as seen with SY #1676. At one time, Baotou had dozens of steam locomotives in daily service, but by this point in 2008 only seven SY 2-8-2's remained. Already most of these steam locomotives were idle every day, while a massive fleet of new diesels served the steelworks. The once bustling steam shop was already barren of equipment and awaiting demolition. But all of this could be forgotten while watching a SY struggle with 1200 tons of molten steel on the slag tip. Within a six months, the steel mill would be fully dieselized and SY 1676 would be nothing more than razor blades.