#paper production machinery

[todaysdocument]

Some handy tips from the War Department’s “You’re Going to Employ Women” pamphlet, April 1, 1943. 

Unfortunately, this is not a joke. 

Record Group 407: Records of the Adjutant General's Office

Series: Central Decimal Correspondence Files

File Unit: 291.9 Status of Women 1-1-42 THRU 12-31-45

Transcription: 

(a pamphlet with single staple on left side, off-white paper)

You're Going to Employ Women

WAR DEPARTMENT

WASHINGTON, D. C.

(In pencil along right side)  WGCS  17, 291.9,  (4-1-43)

[page 2]

(left page black and white photo)  woman filing a piece of metal

_______________careful...

(right facing page)  

(title)  When Training Women

ORIENT her more thoroughly than a man on health and safety rules, plant layout and production, company policies, job techniques.

Give her a preliminary training course to get the feel of work.

Relate her job training to past experience, usually domestic--interpret machinery operation in terms of household and kitchen appliances.

Arrange for continuous upgrading and train her for higher grade jobs.

Use community training facilities when necessary--trade schools, vocational classes in colleges and universities.

[page 3]

(Left side same woman)

_____________and conscientious...

(Right side)

(title)  When Working Woman

LIMIT her hours to 8 a day and 48 a week.

Schedule short morning and afternoon rest intervals on arduous jobs.

Have diet-balanced luncheons available--and  extra food on exhausting jobs.

Provide ample clean toilets and rest rooms--good plant ventilation free of dust, fumes and drafts--work seats and benches at proper height--clean orderly surroundings--safety devices on machinery.

Insist on proper work clothing, safe shoes.

Promote adequate local housing and transportation.

And…

[page 4]

(Left side of page)

(title)

Use a Trained Personnel Woman

She can counsel with management on training, job simplification and all general employment policies.

She understands women-worker needs.

She can give sympathetic attention to home problems.

She can be told personal difficulties that would not be confided to a man.

She can arrange for child care.

(right facing page)

-Women are pliant--adaptable.

-Women are dexterous--finger nimble.

-Women are accurate--precision workers.

-Women are good at repetitive tasks.

-Women are fine color and material observants.

Women CAN BE TRAINED TO DO ALMOST ANY JOB YOU'VE GOT.

[evilscientist3]

so do you actually support ai "art" or is that part of the evil bit :| because um. yikes.

Let me preface this by saying: I think the cutting edge of AI as we know it sucks shit. ChatGPT spews worthless, insipid garbage as a rule, and frequently provides enticingly fluent and thoroughly wrong outputs whenever any objective fact comes into play. Image generators produce over-rendered, uncanny slop that often falls to pieces under the lightest scrutiny. There is little that could convince me to use any AI tool currently on the market, and I am notably more hostile to AI than many people I know in real life in this respect.

That being said, these problems are not inherent to AI. In two years, or a decade, perhaps they will be our equals in producing writing and images. I know a philosopher who is of the belief that one day, AI will simply be better than us - smarter, funnier, more likeable in conversation - I am far from convinced of this myself, but let us hope, if such a case arises, they don't get better at ratfucking and warmongering too.

Many of the inherent problems posed by AI are philosophical in nature. Would a sufficiently advanced AI be appreciably different to a conscious entity? Can their outputs be described as art? These are questions whose mere axioms could themselves be argued over in PhD theses ad infinitum. I am not particularly interested in these, for to be so on top of the myriad demands of my work would either drive me mad or kill me outright. Fortunately, their fractally debatable nature means that no watertight argument could be given to them by you, either, so we may declare ourselves in happy, clueless agreement on these topics so long as you are willing to confront their unconfrontability.

Thus, I would prefer to turn to the current material issues encountered in the creation and use of AI. These, too, are not inherent to their use, but I will provide a more careful treatment of them than a simple supposition that they will evaporate in coming years.

I would consider the principal material issues surrounding AI to lie in the replacement of human labourers and wanton generation of garbage content it facilitates, and the ethics of training it on datasets collected without contributors' consent. In the first case, it is prudent to recall the understanding of Luddites held by Marx - he says, in Ch. 15 of Das Kapital: "It took both time and experience before workers learnt to distinguish between machinery and its employment by capital, and therefore to transfer their attacks from the material instruments of production to the form of society which utilises those instruments." The Industrial Revolution's novel forms of production and subsequent societal consequences has mirrored the majority of advances in production since. As then, the commercial application of the new technology must be understood to be a product of capital. To resist the technology itself on these grounds is to melt an iceberg's tip, treating the vestigial symptom of a vast syndrome. The replacement of labourers is with certainty a pressing issue that warrants action, but such action must be considered and strategic, rather than a reflexive reaction to something new. As is clear in hindsight for the technology of two centuries ago, mere impedance of technological progression is not for the better.

The second case is one I find deeply alarming - the degradation of written content's reliability threatens all knowledge, extending to my field. Already, several scientific papers have drawn outrage in being seen to pass peer review despite blatant inclusion of AI outputs. I would be tempted to, as a joke to myself more than others, begin this response with "Certainly. Here is how you could respond to this question:" so as to mirror these charlatans, would it not without a doubt enrage a great many who don't know better than to fall for such a trick. This issue, however, is one I believe to be ephemeral - so pressing is it, that a response must be formulated by those who value understanding. And so are responses being formulated - major online information sources, such as Wikipedia and its sister projects, have written or are writing rules on their use. The journals will, in time, scramble to save their reputations and dignities, and do so thoroughly - academics have professional standings to lose, so keeping them from using LLMs is as simple as threatening those. Perhaps nothing will be done for your average Google search result - though this is far from certain - but it has always been the conventional wisdom that more than one site ought to be consulted in a search for information.

The third is one I am torn on. My first instinct is to condemn the training of AI on material gathered without consent. However, this becomes more and more problematic with scrutiny. Arguments against this focusing on plagiarism or direct theft are pretty much bunk - statistical models don't really work like that. Personal control of one's data, meanwhile, is a commendable right, but is difficult to ensure without merely extending the argument made by the proponents of copyright, which is widely understood to be a disastrous construct that for the most part harms small artists. In this respect, then, it falls into the larger camp of problems primarily caused by the capital wielding the technology.

Let me finish this by posing a hypothetical. Suppose AI does, as my philosopher friend believes, become smarter and more creative than us in a few years or decades; suppose in addition it may be said through whatever means to be entirely unobjectionable, ethically or otherwise. Under these circumstances, would I then go to a robot to commission art of my fursona? The answer from me is a resounding no. My reasoning is simple - it wouldn't feel right. So long as the robot remains capable of effortlessly and passionlessly producing pictures, it would feel like cheating. Rationally explaining this deserves no effort - my reasoning would be motivated by the conclusion, rather than vice versa. It is simply my personal taste not to get art I don't feel is real. It is vitally important, however, that I not mistake this feeling as evidence of any true inferiority - to suppose that effortlessness or pasionlessness invalidate art is to stray back into the field of messy philosophical questions. I am allowed, as are you, to possess personal tastes separate from the quality of things.

Summary: I don't like AI. However, most of the problems with AI which aren't "it's bad" (likely to be fixed over time) or abstract philosophical questions (too debatable to be used to make a judgement) are material issues caused by capitalism, just as communists have been saying about every similarly disruptive new technology for over a century. Other issues can likely be fixed over time, as with quality. From a non-rational standpoint, I dislike the idea of using AI even separated from current issues, but I recognise, and encourage you to recognise, that this is not evidence of an actual inherent inferiority of AI in the abstract. You are allowed to have preferences that aren't hastily rationalised over.

[forager-m]

Songbird [Drabble]

Ship: Dr Ratio/Aventurine (レイチュリ)

Premise: Dr Ratio and Aventurine have been cohabiting after the events of Penacony. The arrangment brings many delightful discoveries; including that Aventurine likes singing to himself while doing chores.

[Aventurine sings to himself. Ratio can't help but to join him.]

🛁🎲

His morning goes like this:

He wakes to the opal sky, as the sun draws its golden chariot across the clouds. From outside, the birds song reaches him faintly, and the whir of civilization slowly stirs; machinery, vehicles, people, all coming to life as he is. His mind awakens first, even as his eyes stay heavy and closed, bursting with plans and reminders of the day ahead: he has to brush his teeth, fix his hair, do his morning workout, get started on breakfast, feed the cat cakes, grade papers, and then...

And then he opens his eyes, turns, and then he wastes the morning staring at the way Aventurine's hair flows and spills over the sheets like a golden waterfall; all soft curls and precious locks. He's nestled in Veritas' arms and stretched luxuriously in the warmth of their home like a spoiled pet. His resting face peers over the blankets, while the rest of him is covered - leaving only suggestions of subtle curves and warm flesh.

The cats awaken and begin scratching at the door. The sun has finished its descent, and it slowly pours in through the windows. Then, finally, Aventurine makes a soft little noise, opening his eyes. Blinking once, twice. He leans into Ratio's touch, then yawns. Veritas watches, appreciatively, as Aventurine rises from the sheets. The blankets pool around his waist and thighs. He looks like Aphrodite emerging from the sea; the birth of beauty itself.

"See something you like?"

The noise strangled out of his throat was a mix of a cough and a scoff.

"Nonsense."

"Mmm... so mean, won't you indulge me a little?"

He sits on his thighs and stretches his arms above his head. Ratio notes the new softness padding his belly. A sign of good health and recovery, one part of him says. The other half says something along the lines of that will feel nice in my hands before he violently cuts it off.

"Any more indulgence and not a single productive thing will be done today, Gambler."

Aventurine laughs. His voice is as clear as water running over a spring.

"Ooh, so scary! Don't threaten me with a good time, I know all sorts of indulgences that could keep us preoccupied, doctor~"

"You-!"

Aventurine pecks his cheek loudly, before wiggling out of the sheets and making a run for the kitchen, his giggles echoing behind him.

Ratio holds his head in his hands for a while, trying to will away any strange urges; violent or otherwise.

After a while, a waft of eggs and coffee fills the air. Ratio quickly goes through his morning routine, and by the time he's done, Aventurine is still preparing the food. As usual, he's prepared Ratio's portion first - a much bigger plate packed with scrambled eggs, toast, and a salad consisting of lettuce, tomatoes, and the leftover dressing that they've kept in the fridge. A cup of coffee's already there - sweetened with just a bit of stevia, just the way Ratio prefers it.

Aventurine is a surprisingly competent cook. Sure, he needs to pull up a recipe from his phone, but needing a bit of guidance doesn't detract from one's excellence. Having the freedom to cook what he wants also seems to improve his appetite, something Ratio is pleased to see.

He takes just a brief moment of appreciation; to appreciate the breakfast spread, of course, and certainly not the way that apron is tied perfectly around that slim waist, before he takes out the fruit and seeds from the fridge. Cat cakes, while sharing the name of domestic cats, do not have the same diet as them. Ratio calls out for them, and soon enough, three little cat cakes meow and sprint towards him with all the power in their tiny little paws.

"Make a wish into the well..."

"That's all you have to do..."

"And if you hear it echoing, your wish will soon come true..."

Ratio feels his breath come short.

This, too, is something he's used to Aventurine doing. But he's not really used to it yet.

Aventurine loves music. Sometimes Ratio watches him as he sways to some soft tune known only to himself, dancing barefoot in their living room. He likes singing to his plants, because even after everything, Aventurine still had so much love to give, and taking care of his 'babies' made him so very happy. He likes to strum his guitar and come up with songs about anything or nothing at all. Once, Ratio caught him singing sweet silly nonsense to their cats, which he recorded and uses as leverage against the gambler whenever he could.

This was a boy made for laughter, song, and dance. Ratio wants to rage at the world for all that's been done to him.

"I'm wishing,"

"For the one I love."

"To find me -"

"Today!"

His voice is so lovely. There has never been a sweeter thing.

"I'm hoping,"

"And I'm dreaming of -"

"The nice things..."

"He'll say!"

Aventurine hums under his breath. Pretty little 'la la la la la's fluttering like bird wings. Quietly, Veritas walks to him, until his hands find his waist and Aventurine's body is plush against his own. He rests his chin on Aventurine's head, and can't help but to echo his song bird's melody.

"Im wishing, "

"... Im wishing..."

"For the one I love -"

"To find me -"

"To find me,"

"Today..."

"Today."

Sorry this is so self indulgent.

The song is I'm Wishing" from Snow White

I think both Ratio and Aventurine are amazing singers. Just imagine the soft duets they could do.

Also yes they deserve to be soft so. They are soft. And married. (They just dont realise it yet.)

[eerieeccentricities]

Your Love is a Vice Grip

Il Dottore X fem!Reader

(A/N: This is a fic I've been playing around with for about 6+ months. Definitely needs a lot of edits and work done to it, but I just want it posted somewhere I suppose. Haha!)

(tw: Blood, Injury, bad workplace environment, foul language, confrontation, slight physical aggression, 18+ ONLY!!!)

DO NOT REPOST!!!!

Summary: Just another cog in the machine. That was all she expected to be. That was all she wanted to be. Anything more than that and her life would be on the line, more so than it currently was anyway. Being a part of an organization such as the Fatui always carried risks, but the pay was good, and the only thing she had to worry about was the eccentric Doctor’s occasional outbursts. Keep her head low and don’t get in the way of the 2nd Harbinger, easy enough, right? She thought so….until she found herself on the bleeding end of one of those outbursts. Suddenly, she can't seem to shake him, and she begins to wonder if it is what lies on the inside of these reinforced walls she should fear instead.

Medical Terminology: Prefix - Hema - Blood

‘Shit…’

She was bleeding. Quite profusely, at that. She watched only momentarily as the carmine liquid dripped down her gloved hand, which was now shredded beyond use, and onto the pristine white tiles below, reflecting on what had just transpired. 

It was her damn reflexes essentially, a grab at something that was thrown in her general direction, a moment of instinct before thought. It was laughable, considering thought was supposed to conquer all in a place such as this. To be a researcher, a scientist, who could still not overcome something The Doctor would surely see as ‘primitive’ was an unspoken folly amongst those here.

She squinted, now noticing it wasn’t just her blood that was dripping to the floor. Whatever it was she was attempting to catch was filled with something of an azure blue color, and that something was mixing with her blood and seeping into the open wounds. While it didn’t burn, it did leave a numbing coolness wherever it trailed, and any chemical reaction on human skin was always a cause for concern.

Regardless of her instinctual stumble, she needed to follow procedure and take the correct precautions now. Thick soles crunching the forgotten glass below, she hurried to the wash stations, arm held out to avoid getting the unknown substance on her person any more than it already was.

Ideally, a quick scrub in the sink would work, she’d rather avoid the emergency showers if at all possible. Although it did technically have a curtain, the thing was flimsy at best, and she would rather avoid stripping in front of her colleagues with only a plastic drape no thicker than a sheet of paper between them. 

Especially now of all times, when The Doctor, the Prime himself as indicated by his signature mask, decided to grace them with his ever-fleeting presence. While this was the primary laboratory it was still a rarity to see him, and not one of his segments, overseeing the ongoing operations here. 

 Each lab was dedicated to a specific area of research, the main branch, this branch, focusing on Cybernetics and Biological Enhancements. Also known as the birthplace of many, if not all, of the segments currently wandering all corners of Teyvat. Seeing Ruin Guard parts and other machinery scattered amongst that of biological specimens was the norm, ideas and experiments of them all working in tandem was the goal. 

It was a productive and, dare she say, quiet atmosphere to work in. Especially for those who worked on the machinery portion of the lab, like herself. 

Well, it was usually anyway. The presence of the Harbinger could only mean one of two things, there was a meeting that called for the Harbinger’s presence, or there was an experiment that garnered his attention and required their subject specialties.

She deeply hoped it was the former, as the latter would mean a much longer stay, overseeing and criticizing anything he deemed incorrect or foolish had a chance of ending in outbursts consisting of thrown objects and verbal lashings.

 Like today, the fading memory of his livid voice to a colleague close to her own station easily told her that something didn’t go as planned. That something failed. Failure wasn’t something he took lightly, and this failure ended in her being an indirect victim of his, dare she say, tantrum. 

 Rumors came to mind of those he deemed stupid being turned into test subjects themselves, thoughts of him ‘finding some use out of their miserable existence’ didn’t easily leave the brain. In fact, it clung to it, a reminder to not fuck up lest one could find themselves strapped to the surgical table at a moment's notice.

 A part of her wondered if she might see this rumor come to fruition with her own eyes soon, to walk in tomorrow morning with the vaguely familiar body of her coworker stripped of name and so kindly gifted a subject number. 

Even if that were so, it still wouldn’t matter, not in the long run anyway. They would soon be replaced and work would continue as normal, as it always did. Just another broken cog replaced.

Approaching the wash station, the tattered glove was quickly stripped and tossed into the closest biohazard waste bin, the other staying on as it wasn’t damaged and could still provide ample protection from the painful scrubbing she would have to endure on the other. 

Her eyebrows twitched for just a moment before relaxing once again, the stinging pain was starting to set in now, but she couldn’t bring any more attention to herself than she knew she already had. Even the slightest hint of weakness could be one's downfall in a place like this. Between the competitive nature that festered in the labs and The Doctor himself, any sign of weakness was not unlike that of prey being fed to a pack of starving wolves.

Preoccupied with getting the faucet on and preparing the correct cleanser, she failed to notice the ‘tink’ing of metal on the tile quickly approaching, following the mixed blood trail she inevitably left in her rush.

It wasn’t until a vaguely familiar gloved hand grabbed her wrist, pulling it back with such force she feared for a moment her shoulder may have been pulled from its socket, that she even noticed a presence even close to her. Looking back to the cause soon made her blood run cold, the mask of The Doctor leaning in, lips twisted in a snarl. 

“What was that?” His hand tightened into a bruising grip around her wrist, the odd mixture of red and blue staining his own bicolored gloves as he relentlessly squeezed. The gruffness of his angered voice with the gritting of his pointed teeth ever threatening, a reminder as to why she was one of the few who preferred to stay under the radar. While raising in the lab ranks came with its perks, mainly a huge pay increase, it also came with downsides. The wrath of The Doctor being the biggest.

“I…” She started, mentally kicking herself when her hesitation was noticed, as evidenced by his low growl. “ I apologize, sir.” She made sure to say it clearly, making it a point not to falter this time. “I was following lab procedure.”

“Do you take me for a fool? Or are you that dense? You know that’s not wh-!”

A reverberating slam of metal on concrete echoed through the large lab, the light from the hallway invading the natural darkness of the area. The intrusion silenced even The Doctor from his tirade, though the clenching of his teeth indicated the interruption made his mood drop even lower. 

In the middle of the large double doorway stood The Knave, her monochrome coloring stood out like a ghost, her red ‘X’d eyes landing on The Doctor before her face twisted into a sneer.

“What is it?” The Doctor called over his shoulder, annoyance dripping like venom from his voice alone. “Can’t you see that I’m busy?”

“The meeting has been called to order,” She stated, brows furrowed. “Yet you are still here dilly-dallying like a child refusing to leave the playground. ”

“Her Majesty-” He started before being abruptly cut off by the 4th-ranked Harbinger.

“-will not tolerate another absence, Doctor.” Then she was gone as quickly as she arrived, the clinking of her dangerously pointed heels down the hallway the only indication that the Harbinger was even there to begin with.  

“Tsk.” He threw her wrist down as if even touching her was a taint to his person. Shifting his heels, he turned to the door before glancing back over his shoulder. “I’ll deal with you later. Both of you.” He finished before he, too, disappeared down the hallway.

[tokidokitokyo]

富山県

Japanese Prefectures: Chūbu - Toyama

都道府県 (とどうふけん) - Prefectures of Japan

Learning the kanji and a little bit about each of Japan’s 47 prefectures!

Kanji・漢字

富　と(む)、とみ、フ、フウ　wealth, enrich, abundant

山　やま、サン、セン　mountain

県　ケン　prefecture

中部　ちゅうぶ　Chūbu, Central Japan, the central region of Japan

Prefectural Capital (県庁所在地) : Toyama (富山市)

Toyama Prefecture is a part of the central region of Japan, also known as Hokuriku (北陸). Takaoka city is the birthplace of Fujiko F. Fujio, the creator of Doraemon, with many Doraemon-themed delights for visitors. Toyama lies along the Sea of Japan and includes part of the spectacular Northern Japan Alps. Gourmet seafood, idyllic scenery, cultural attractions, and a slower pace are all easily accessible by shinkansen from Tokyo, Kyoto, and Osaka. Toyama is an important rice-producing area, as well as sourcing hydroelectric power and minerals from the nearby mountains that serve as a basis for chemical, textile, machinery, pulp and paper, and steel industries. The capital city of Toyama and Takaoka have long been the chief center for the production of patent medicine and drugs.

Recommended Tourist Spot・おすすめ観光スポット Gokayama Ainokura Village - 相倉合掌造り集落

Gokayama Ainokura Village (source)

The Gokayama region is an area within the city of Nanto in Toyama Prefecture. It is on the UNESCO World Heritage List due to its traditional gassho-zukuri houses (similar to Shirakawa-go in Gifu). The region is secluded within the mountains in the upper reaches of the Shogawa River, thus preserving this unique traditional architectural style. Gokayama's lifestyle and culture remained very traditional for many years after the modernization of the majority of the country, and many of the houses here are over 300 years old.

Ainokura is the largest of these villages, with nearly 20 gassho-zukuri farmhouses. Many are still private residences, although some have been converted into restaurants, museums, and minshuku, where you can stay overnight at a farm house. With less development and more difficulty to reach this secluded village, there is less tourist traffic than some of the other villages. There are visiting hours attached to the village to avoid disturbing the residents (8:30-17:00), thus helping to preserve the quiet life in this village.

Folk dances, music utilizing unique, traditional instruments, and special washi paper techniques characterize this area. You can listen to the sasara, an instrument made of over a hundred wooden clappers strung together, which is symbolic of the region and a popular souvenir. There are also washi paper workshops where you can try your hand at making washi paper.

Regional Cuisine - 郷土料理 Kombujime - 昆布締め

Kombujime (source)

Kombujime (also kobujime) is a local Toyama dish made by sandwiching light-tasting foods such as whitefish (most commonly marlin) and wild vegetables between sheets of kelp (or kombu). Other popular fillings include other whitefish, shrimp, tofu, and beef. The prefecture boasts the highest kelp consumption, and thus kombu is also widely available at supermarkets.

The technique used to make kombujime (which means "kombu curing") enhances the taste of the sashimi through aging the fish between two sheets of kombu. This technique softens the fish texture and the glutamates from the kelp transfer over to the fish, accentuating its flavor.

Toyama Dialect・Toyama-ben・富山弁

Toyama-ben is also called Etchu-ben (越中弁), and consists of West (Gosei, 呉西), East (Gotō, 呉東), and Gokayama (五箇山) dialects. The dialect is a combination of sounds and features close to Kansai and Tohoku dialects, but still quite different from the other dialects in the Hokuriku area.

うい　ui

Standard Japanese: いっぱい 、満足、胸やお腹が苦しい (ippai, mune ya onaka ga kurushii) English: I'm stuffed; my chest or stomach feels tight

食べ過ぎて、はらういわ。 tabesugite, hara ui wa

食べ過ぎて、はらいっぱい。 tabesugite, hara ippai

I ate too much, I'm stuffed.

2. きどくな　kidokuna

Standard Japanese: ありがとう (arigatou) English: thank you

あら、きどくな。 ara, kidokuna

あら、ありがとう。 ara, arigatou

Oh my, thank you.

3. じゃまない　(jyamanai)

Standard Japanese: 大丈夫、問題ない (daijyoubu, mondai nai) English: I'm OK, no problem

A: 体調、いかがですか？ B: じゃまない、じゃまない！ A: taichou, ikaga desu ka? B: jamanai, jamanai!

A: 体調、いかがですか？ B: 大丈夫、大丈夫！ A: taichou, ikaga desu ka? B: daijyoubu, daijyoubu

A: How are you feeling? B: I'm doing well!

4. こわい　(kowai)

Standard Japanese: かたい (katai) English: firm, tough

このご飯、こわいわ。 kono gohan, kowai wa.

このご飯、かたいなあ。 kono gohan, katai naa.

This rice is really hard.

5. つかえん　(tsukaen) (also, なん nan、つけん tsuken)

Standard Japanese: かまわない、問題ない (kamawanai, mondai nai) English: it's fine, it's no problem

A: もう少し、待っていただけますか？ B: つかえんちゃ！ A: mou sukoshi, matte itadakemasu ka? B: tsukaen cha!

A: もう少し、待っていただけますか？ B: 問題ない！ A: mou sukoshi, matte itadakemasu ka? B: mondai nai!

A: Can you please wait a little longer? B: No problem!

More Toyama dialect here (JP with EN).

[argumate]

Expert policy-makers in Western capitals feel that they have to make a response to major historic challenges like climate or the rise of China, or South Africa’s energy crisis. It is their job to look to the future and to devise at least purportedly rational strategies of power. But those who make policy on such matters as sustainable development do not hold the purse-strings and have limited capacity to shift budget-constraints. Those that do set budgets, either do not care about broader global issues, prefer other tools for affecting those goals - such as military power - or are revenue constrained and unwilling to levy more revenue from their constituents for the far-flung goals favored by the policy-making elite.

There is thus never “enough money” for the softer and more complex dimensions of development and global policy. But, despite these all too obvious limitations, the policy-machine grinds on. Faut de mieux those tasked with geoeconomic policy and sustainable development cooperate to come up with programs like JET-P. The policies tick all the boxes as far as sophistication of design and conception. Powerful interests - notably high-finance - ensure that they are arranged, at least notionally, so as to offer derisking and to promote the vision of public-private partnership. The promise of “mobilizing” private money helps to paper over the lack of solid public funding.

But despite all the self-interested engagement by private finance, the fiscal constraint remains paramount. The forces interested in global development are not as powerfully engaged as they are around the military-industrial complex, oil and gas or the Wall Street nexus. The result are ambitious and professionally designed policies that whip up waves of enthusiasm in the ranks of analysts, think tanks, NGOs, pundits, but which have no prospect of materially affecting reality either with regard to the announced policy objective or the profit opportunities of Western capital.

From experience since 2021 the conclusion we must surely draw is that the one interest that such policies undeniably serve is the perpetuation of the policy circuit. Practical effectiveness is not necessarily the main driver of policy-generation. Indeed, failure may be productive in generating new policy. This not only perpetuates the machinery of policy-making. More importantly it contributes to the generation of a “state effect” - the US has a policy for x,y,z. It sustains the common sense that the world is governed and that “governance” is in some sense a coherent process.

brutal

[tomoleary]

Douglass Crockwell (1904-1968) “Paper Workers” (1934) Source

Exhibition Label

The paper plant where these men are laboring was the mainstay of Glens Falls, New York, where Douglass Crockwell had his studio. Crockwell, like many artists on the Public Works of Art Project who anticipated the public exhibition of his painting, proudly depicted the chief industry of his town. The workers are smoothing and stamping an enormous roll of newsprint, the plant’s principal product.

Crockwell noted that in this scene dominated by mighty iron machinery he took "some liberties with the human form" because "the whole composition of the picture requires hard structural forms." By showing the workers as blocky figures that appear to be roughly carved out of wood, the artist visually likened the men to the source of the wood pulp from which they made newsprint. The workers appear powerfully identified with their work. The question "what do you do for a living?" became a poignant one during this time when so many had no answer. Crockwell, a busy illustrator for much of his life, recalled that when "the depression arrived . . . there wasn’t much work."

[ficsbyuzi]

All the ways lead to you - part 3

Read Part 2

Characters - Aemond Targaryen and Inara Maegyr (OFC) in a modern AU.

Warnings - Slow burn. Mentions of alcohol and smoking. 

Summary - Inara tries to figure out how she feels about everything that happened on her first day at work.

Note - Flashback and internal monologues are in Italics.

Word count - 1593

"He is a man of few words. You'll get used to his personality once you start working with him," Margaery's voice cut through the hustle and bustle of the coffee house.

"He seems hard to impress," Inara shrugged, adding sweetener to her coffee.

"Well, he is a celebrity, a superstar here in Westeros. He meets and works with so many people every day. In his situation, anyone would act stoically while dealing with their staff."

Of course. He looks every bit of a superstar.

"His family descends from the ancient Targaryen royal line and still kind of owns this city."

Oh. Wow. Targaryens of Old Valyria.

Margaery chuckled, noticing Inara's eyebrows shoot up in astonishment and awe.

“Red Keep Production house and studios are half owned by them, so this show is his home production. Have you seen any of his work before?"

So he is The Boss.

“I should have done some homework before coming here." Smiling sheepishly, Inara made a mental note to watch some of Aemond's acting projects over the weekend.

They finished their coffee and she took her leave to attend her second orientation meeting with the on-set medical team. However, she had a hard time focusing on the presentations, her thoughts constantly drifting back to him. 

To the enigmatic Aemond Targaryen. 

Back home, she tried to immerse herself in her chores and her books, but thoughts of him clung to her like a shadow she couldn't shake off.

Although she was left feeling a bit intimidated by his presence, she couldn't help but replay her brief encounter with him in her mind.

His voice still thrummed through each fiber of her being, drowning her in a tantalizing warmth.

He was not around her anymore, yet she could still feel his gaze lingering on her, like an invisible caress.

There was something about him - both unnerving and exhilarating. Intimidating yet inviting. 

An inexplicable pull was drawing her to him. 

Maybe he has the same effect on everyone around him.

Maybe I am merely in awe of a celebrity. 

Yeah that's all it is. 

But since when have I started fangirling over movie or TV stars?

She rolled her eyes at her chattering mind and tried to clear her head by writing in her journal.

I had a good day today. The world of glamor and showbiz is a realm far beyond anything I've ever known. But I need to learn more about how to maintain a professional decorum. It is unlikely that I will ever have the chance to know someone like Aemond Targaryen on a deeper level.

Smiling, she stared at his name on the paper for a moment. Of all the words she had ever written, those were two she never thought she would find in her personal journal. Ignoring the flock of butterflies taking flight in her chest, she continued - 

I'm just an employee. A small cog in the grand machinery of his professional life. Why would he pay any attention to me?

She frowned at her own musings, closing her journal with a sigh. Glancing at her phone one last time, she noticed the emails from both teams in her inbox. Emails that were a reminder of her role as a professional. She was there to work and forge a path to a career she aspired for.

The sky thundered outside, the sound interrupting the chain of her thoughts and bringing her back to her reality once again. 

My first rain in King's Landing. 

As the clouds began to pour, sleep gently flickered her eyes closed. Her mind, hanging between wakefulness and the subliminal, recalled a cherished memory from the past - her father telling her favorite bedtime story about a valiant Valyrian prince and his dragon, the largest in the world.

-

Two months ago.

"You need a drink," Criston Cole, Aemond’s best friend and his personal assistant, remarked pointing a finger at him as he entered his office. He dropped a file onto his cluttered desk, taking the chair across the table.

"It's ten in the morning," Aemond replied, sifting through the pile of documents scattered around, his frustration palpable.

"Your face says it's ten at night."

Aemond sighed deeply, rolling his eyes. Criston chuckled, pulling out a cigarette and offering it to him, who accepted reluctantly. Criston placed one between his teeth too, lighting the cigarettes for both. Taking a long drag, both men leaned back in their chairs.

"This project is vital. It has to work. We have it to get renewed for two more seasons," Aemond said, exhaling a thick plume of smoke through his nose.

"Everything will be alright."

"As long as my uncle sits on the board, nothing will be alright," Aemond muttered, his gaze drifting back to the mess on his desk.

"Why do you worry so much? Your mother and I are doing the best we can."

"That's not enough!” Aemond's voice rose as he slapped the table, causing a few papers to flutter. "Where's Aegon? Why isn't he in the office? I have rehearsals; I shouldn't be doing his work." He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and stood up abruptly. "Call him right now!"

"Aemond, calm down," Criston said, his concern evident in his voice. 

"And this..this pile of papers - why is it on my desk?" Aemond swiped the files off his desk in a fit of rage. "Where are my scripts? Where is the report on the CGI budget?"

One of the folders slid to the edge of the table, its contents spilling out. A document with a photograph of a young woman caught Aemond's eye. Instinctively, he picked it up.

"Do I have to do the hiring too now?” His tone softened a notch as he examined the document - a resume, “Be an HR consultant too?" 

The name on the document read - Inara Maegyr. Bachelor of Medicine. Diploma in Makeup and Prosthetic arts.

"I brought that file. It's a list of shortlisted medicos," Criston explained, stretching out a hand to take it from Aemond, who was still engrossed in the document. "And it wasn't for you to check, anyway."

"Hire her." Aemond handed over the resume he was holding and tossed the rest of the folder aside.

"What? Hire who?" Criston asked, his face contorted in confusion as he took the document from Aemond, who was already lighting another cigarette. "There are interviews and proper processes to follow before the project goes on the floor. I can't just hire anyone..” He paused to check the name on the resume.

 “Inara Maegyr, what's with her?"

Aemond only exhaled curls of smoke in response.

"She seems... interesting," Criston said, raising an eyebrow at the document.

“Hire her, she looks..” Aemond fumbled, but quickly corrected the course, “I mean, she seems suitable for the job.” He flicked his cigarette into the ashtray, watching the embers fade.

“We don't want to lose a talented candidate, do we?” 

“Who's acting like an HR consultant now?” Criston teased him. 

-

Aemond was reclining on a couch in his opulent bedroom, an unbuttoned shirt draping over his frame, a cigarette poised between his fingers. Wisps of smoke swirled around him, as he gazed up the ceiling, lost in his thoughts. 

Thoughts of her.

Her innocent smile. 

A smile that felt like a refreshing mist in the putridness of his life. A simple, unassuming gesture from her, yet it pierced through the shadows that often clouded his days. 

The way her stunning, fire-colored eyes lit up when she approached him with her sweet demeanor, stayed with him. 

Taking a deep drag from his cigarette, he ran a hand through his hair, as he recalled their brief interaction. A smile played on his lips, resurfacing the dimple on his cheek. 

Ever since he had read her resume, he had been curious about the woman behind those impressive credentials. He had been eagerly anticipating meeting her in person.

But upon finding her so close, his words scrambled out of nervousness, and he couldn't even make eye contact with her - an unusual experience for him. Typically, people went speechless in front of him, not the other way around. He couldn't afford to shatter his composed exterior. He couldn't allow her to expose a vulnerability that he rarely acknowledged. 

But now, he was certain that he had driven away the unstained, unadulterated warmth she emanated. Unintentionally, he had intimidated her. 

He wasn't accustomed to being caught off guard by such intense emotions for someone he had just met.

It had been years since anyone had stirred any feelings within him. 

Despite being surrounded by a bevy of attractive business women, actresses, and models at work, he had never felt this way about anyone else, the way he felt about - 

“Inara,” surprised by the unfamiliar sensation of her name on his lips, he realised he had never voiced her name before.

Curiously, he picked up his phone to google the meaning of her name.

A ray of light.

An image of a ray of light piercing through the window of a darkened room closed for too long, surfaced in his mind. 

Sky roared outside, pulling him back into his dimly lit room. The sound of heavy raindrops splattering and clattering against the sophisticated French windows lulled him to sleep.

As he closed his eyes, a soothing petrichor filled his retiring senses, wrapping him in a blanket of tranquility.

The sweet, mellow scent brought back the memory of the moment when their eyes first met.

-x-

Taglist - @zenka69

Part 4

[blueiscoool]

Lost and Found: Bottle Hunter Digs Extraordinary Farmland Treasures

Tom Askjem is a time traveler. Every May to November, he disappears into the bowels of the earth, descends to depths of 13’-plus, and returns to the surface with treasure—bottles and glassware from farming’s past.

After 1,800 pits and hundreds of thousands of relics, Askjem is equal parts archeologist, thrill seeker, and mole. Muscle on dirt, the North Dakota farm boy has turned an addiction into a career, multiple books, and a captivating YouTube channel with millions of views. However, Askjem seeks more than glass.

“I’m digging for adventure, history, and love,” he says. The past is in these holes and there are countless numbers of them across farmland.”

Time to hunt with a master.

The Infection

On the flats of extreme eastern North Dakota’s Traill County, Askjem, 32, prepares for a dig trip. “No mountains and no hills in the Red River Valley,” he describes. “You can see your dog run away for days. The land is mostly featureless, other than a few big cottonwoods and shelter belts where farms used to be.”

A mop of blonde hair sits atop a 6’-tall, lanky frame as Askjem saddles his pony—a Honda Civic. At the current mileage rate, the Civic will be junkyard fodder before it has a scratch: 60,000 backroad miles added to the odometer in the past six months.

Askjem piles layers of gear into the trunk, including three of each tool for insurance: shovels, pronged garden forks, trampoline pads, probe rods, buckets, plastic scoopers, trowels, tents, sleeping bags, blankets, pillows, air mattresses, clothes, and waterproof, Redwing leather work boots.

“It never gets old,” he says, wearing a wide grin. “I caught the infection when I was a kid.”

Digging Bodies

Pushed from the Grand Forks area by the historic Red River flood of 1997, Askjem moved to a farm outside Buxton at six years young. The main property was an 1878 homestead—a progression from sod house to log cabin to the present standing 1898 farmhouse decked in Victorian-era woodwork and hardware.

Surrounded by history, including the skeletons of old wagons and rusting machinery, Askjem explored a 5-acre patch of woods on the property, and chanced on a garbage dump: pop bottles and trash.

Askjem dug.

“I went deep and found stuff going back to 1898. When you’re a kid living in the country, there’s no going down the street and there’s no hanging with friends to play video games—you make your own adventure. I started hitting up all the farmers I could find for leads.”

Behind the wheel of a rattling go-cart, Askjem sought Buxton old-timers and collected tips on abandoned houses. “They all helped me,” he says. “Nobody cared where I hunted because I was just a little kid exploring for all the right reasons.”

“I’ve still got an elementary school journal with an assignment describing my weekend,” he adds. “I wrote, ‘Me and Mom dug up old bodies.’ The teacher marked my paper out of concern,” Askjem describes, with an easy, deep chuckle. “I meant to spell bottles, not bodies. But it shows I was truly hooked.”

Indeed. Wonderfully hooked.

Soft Landing

Why are bottles buried under farmland and old house sites?

Prior to plastic and synthetics, glassware held everything: medicine, hygiene products, alcohol, soda, and beyond. Glass was it.

Additionally, prior to waste disposal services, homeowners discarded trash on-site—in back yard outhouses, trash depressions, burn pits, and wells or cisterns. In short time, the various ground receptacle spots were filled and forgotten.

“Let’s say, for example, a family moved in around 1880,” Askjem explains. “That site likely has two or three outhouse locations prior to World War l. The outhouse spots filled up at a rate according to family size. I dug one farmhouse site that had six outhouses in a 10-year span. Folks went into the outhouses and threw away bottles: medicine, opiates, beer, whiskey. It was convenient and private, and had a soft landing, and got covered quickly. Even now, the bottles often are still preserved.”

“Generally, these houses also had a burn pit and/or dump pit. In the early days, they burned all trash in the stove for heat. Also, homestead bucket wells were filled up with trash and bottles once they were replaced by pump wells. Cisterns also were eventually filled up, but most of those are associated with houses in town.”

And the sites remain, he emphasizes, hiding intact relics beyond the reach of farm machinery or tillage equipment.

X Marks the Spot

Location. Location. Location. Other than a tip or invitation, how does Askjem find dig sites?

X marks the spot, at least in the county courthouse or public library. He spends winters poring over early property transaction documents. “I look at lot sales. If several lots sold for $100 each in 1880, but one sold for $1,000 in 1885, the price climb tells the story and likely represents a building location.”

“I also read old newspaper archives, looking for hotel or business advertisements,” Askjem continues. “Then I can look up the proprietor’s name and keep tightening the scope, narrowing down the exact building location.”

“Every single house is different, but generally, in the countryside, outhouses were 30 paces out the back door. In the city, where most lots were 140’ long, outhouses could be as close as 5-10 paces.”

Confident of a site’s potential, Askjem first asks for permission to dig from the landowner. “Property owners are always so kind to me and I don’t hide anything I find. They’re curious about what is in the ground, just like anybody else.”

Second, he grids out the site. “I put down markers 2 paces apart, maybe 20 paces long. I push probe rods into ground and feel for compaction differences. Depending on the location, I’ll call in and have utility lines marked out for power and gas.”

Decked in Levi’s and a tank-top, it’s time to tunnel.

Claustrophobic Comfort

Shovel in hand, Askjem descends into a layer cake of dirt: black topsoil to brown-colored clay to telltale ash to a use layer containing treasure.

“Generally, I go deep to find old items in quantity. The earliest bottles were used to the last drop by farmers and thrown out empty. Therefore, when they froze in brutal Dakota winters, the glass didn’t break from liquid expansion.”

As Askjem extracts glass vessels from the dirt and grime, his encyclopedic knowledge registers with each find. He recognizes the type, manufacturer, and age. Ink bottles, hygiene bottles, medicine bottles, beer bottles, soda bottles—and far more spill from the holes.

“I find patented medicine bottles across the country, but my favorite are soda bottles because they are unique to their locale and have character. The old soda bottles are usually marked with the bottler and town name because they were returnable.”

The outhouse pits are typically 6’-deep at home sites, with an average size of 6’-by-4’-by-3’. “I’ve dug ghost towns, dug saloons, train depots, and pool halls that were 12’ long, 4’ wide, and 8’ deep. I remember a hotel pit that was 20’-by-20’ and 8’ deep. There was a military fort with pits behind the barracks that was 12�� long, 4’ wide, and 13.5’ deep: That was a week’s worth of digging.”

Askjem’s subterranean realm provides no comfort to the claustrophobic. At 8’-9’, he braces the holes with woodwork. “I’m in a solid clay base that doesn’t cave, but I have a healthy respect for the ground’s limitation. Sometimes, it looks like I’m digging a rabbit hole.”

Preserved in nature’s freezer, the artifacts unearthed by Askjem often are in phenomenal condition.

“Pieces of newspaper can still be read; bottle labels are legible; white lime used in decomposition is visible; and undigested seeds are everywhere. Even 120-year-old human waste sometimes is perfectly preserved and still smells like hell. I wear a hydrogen sulfide respirator in those cases.”

“It’s all there; almost like it was dropped yesterday.”

Ghosts in the Ground

In 2022, Askjem began chronicling his digs via a YouTube channel, Below the Plains, and soon captured millions of views. At two posts per week, he gins footage at a steady rate to feed the algorithm, a tough task considering the ground in his geography is frozen from mid-November to mid-May.

Additionally, Askjem has written two in-depth books (Nebraska Soda Bottles 1865-1930 and A History of North Dakota Bottling Operations 1879-1930) and has more on the way. “I put the bottle prices in the books because they can sell for a whole lot and I always tell the landowners. Listing prices draw criticism, but that’s important to me because it helps preserve the item, and preservation of history is what drives me.”

Covered in dust or mud at the end of each day in digging season, Askjem is highly respectful of what he finds—almost reverent after 1,800 digs. “I appreciate everything I uncover because it represents a part of someone’s daily life and existence. There’s nothing wrong with coveting bottles, but I’m really in those holes for the moment of discovery.”

Even when not digging, Askjem is on the move, surfing on the coasts or river diving for lost cargo. In the decades to come, will he continue burrowing into the past? “Twenty years from now, I hope I’m still digging and there’s nothing I’d rather be doing right now.”

“There’s not an infinite amount of lost bottle sites, but there’s certainly an incredibly high number,” he continues. “There were 300,000 homestead farms in North Dakota with a minimum of one well, one outhouse, and one trash dump. And that doesn’t include towns where most of the population lived. There are millions of these sites in North Dakota and far more in other states.”

Respect to a freewheeling hunter like no other. Bottles draw the eye, but ghosts draw the heart: “The moment never gets old when you uncover a bottle and find that history,” Askjem adds. “Never.”

By CHRIS BENNETT.

[fuck-customers]

I work a library at a college campus, and the number of fellow students who come in last second to print off or scan in major products is insane. We've gotten to the point where we have posters up saying,

"Don't wait till the last second!"

Because if we don't, the poster printer and the machine that we use for paper to PDF scanning breaks or runs out of materials that takes half a month to ship in. This always happens during midterms and finals, regardless, so I end up being called in on my nights off to deal with students threatening to break machinery or to fight other student workers who are getting paid whatever minimum wage the college can give that's low enough that won't get them into legal trouble.

These are people I end up seeing later in other classes, and they just act like it never happened. Please, y'all. Your library workers are trying their best.

Posted by admin Rodney.

[screamingcrows]

Celeste's character stories:

Character Details

Someone who lives to fit in will eventually have broken off too many pieces to recognise themselves. But what then is the better option; to make yourself loved where you are or trust fate to lead you where you belong? Broken down and with vengeance burning, Celeste decided that neither would be her answer, throwing away her life in Fontaine in favour of forging another path.

Playfully referred to as 'The Doctor's shadow', she now roams the halls of Zapolyarny Palace with assured steps. Outside of the laboratories, little is known about the details of her work except guards noting that the lower levels are busier now than ever.

Although it took a while to acclimate to Snezhnaya, Celeste herself seems quite satisfied with the current state of things, spending her days rotating between the labs, the Second's library, and her quarters. She now pursues results with ferocity and a dwindling concern for the means matching her superior's.

Only a fool would squander the opportunities she seized with the position.

Character Story 1

While Celeste holds no military rank within the Fatui, officially noted down as nothing more than an 'assistant', there are few who would refuse her requests, for she cannot give orders, and even fewer who would attempt to push her around.

A simple formality, the title does a poor job at describing her daily endeavours and would, in an academic setting, be more akin to Fontaine's 'Senior Researcher'. A rank she never had any hope of achieving.

While her work does indeed further The Second's own goals, it is often somewhat removed from his primary interests. An agreement was struck within the first week; she would be free to pursue her own goals so long as they did not hinder his ambitions and she could still fulfill the tasks he gave. She would be a researcher in all but name.

Celeste's main tasks are recorded as testing and monitoring biological changes following usage of delusions, abyssal energies, and the integration of alchemical and technical components into a living organism.

She will often lament that if these were her only tasks, there would be much more time for her own research. While the laboratory is always running, it rarely does so smoothly, and thus the position of assistant will also encompass breaking off fights instigated by volatile segments, completing maintenance on machinery, restocking supplies, and coordinating production of various weapons.

But should he ever attempt to make her fill out his monthly expense reports to the Regrator or fetch refreshments, depending on his tone, it isn't unlikely the papers would be torn to shreds or the coffee spiked. Without doubt, her most gruelling task is occasionally participating in meetings with other Harbingers as The Doctor's proxy.

Character Story 2

Though it was a modest upbringing, Celeste was never lacking in support from home. Two loving parents spent what time they had available with her, often bringing her to work when she needed a break from school.

It was easier to go with her mother, a singer, and sit through her rehearsals while drawing, reading, or exploring the endless rooms filled with costumes. But it was at Fontaine's Research Institute with her father that she felt truly entertained.

Rows of books lined his office and robotic components were scattered all along the ground, most discarded as faulty prototypes. While their functions were beyond her understanding, the principles behind how they moved and interacted had the child gleefully trying to imitate her father's designs.

Of course, a room filled with machinery was no suitable place to leave a child unattended, and so she was passed around between researchers whenever her father had meetings or was otherwise occupied. Quickly, Celeste found the wonders of robotics outcompeted by nature, glueing herself to the side of a visiting researcher from Sumeru's Amurta darshan.

A place in Sumeru's Akademiya was secured by the young teen, passing the entrance exams after months of intense preparation. On the day of her departure, she refused to step onto the boat that would take her to the rainforest. After hours of crying and pleading, her father picked her up with all the grace of an aging man and carried her home, making her favourite treat while her mother informed the Akademiya of the delay.

The day of her departure never came as Celeste found her cowardice punished when her mother passed from an infectious disease shortly after.

Years went by in a haze, gripped by paranoia that her actions would once more lead to harm she'd yet to consider. Eventually, her father convinced the young woman to enroll for further education in Fontaine.

Two gruelling years were spent studying law before dropping out. She found herself punished again when the Research Institute was blown to pieces, taking several researchers with it.

Character Story 3

A name is more than just a companion through life, something bestowed by parents before they could possibly know if their intentions would match the child. A name can be a hope for the future, a blessing, or a wish for what life should hold.

So relieved to finally have a child to call their own, Celeste's parents looked to the island floating in the sky and decided to tether their little girl to it.

If names brought a role, then isn't it natural to suppose someone named after where the divine resides would be destined for greatness?

The little girl did all she could to live up to those expectations, held by no one but herself. A hero was kind, loved by all, courageous, strong, and would never remain idle in the face of danger.

Always trying to befriend everyone, no matter what it took, she was easily goaded into just about anything. Forgiveness came easy with her teary eyes, always favoured by the adults for how much she cared for everyone.

It was exhausting. Worse still with no real friends to show for all her efforts, changing to fit the situation at every turn left her watered down and uninteresting unless in the middle of some stupid dare.

During sunny days, the children would often play by Fontaine's great 'sea'. All of them knew better than to brave the waters alone. Until someone suggested Celeste dive in from a stone to prove her courage.

It'd be fine. They could all swim right? Just dive and swim back to shore.

She went headfirst down onto a rock. Another little girl hurried and ran into the water upon seeing faint traces of red. Betrayed by the still surface, she was pulled out by a current and began to thrash around.

Panicked screaming erupted, children running to get an adult. Celeste had easily made it back, clutching her bleeding nose and blissfully unaware of the chaos for just a moment.

She froze. This was her fault. She should swim out and help, right? This was her responsibility. She should be able to do it. Her destiny was greatness, after all.

It was too late when adults arrived, Celeste's feet still firmly planted on the shore as she watched on in horror.

Character Story 4

It is all too easy to close your eyes and stumble blindly through the trenches of life, easier still to sit back and let it all unfold as a marionette on strings.

How many days had passed without feeling the fresh breeze against her skin was uncertain, every clock in the small apartment had been turned to face the wall, refusing to acknowledge the significance of their movement as she mourned for the third time.

The Institute was gone and there was no one to pick up the scraps of her left behind this time, and so they were allowed to fester and rot as she shattered every piece of delicate porcelain inherited years prior. The boxes filled with wires and plating still sat untouched, and the room closed off.

When there was nothing left to break, she turned instead to herself. What is left to do when fate itself has made you an enemy? As blood poured from her wounds, so too did the memories of a happy childhood, and she howled with pain as they too turned to pus.

Every instance of kindness became tainted. If only she'd followed through last time misfortune struck, she would've been spared this.

Dissatisfaction led not to change but acceptance instead. Acceptance that the strings that tied her to the world were more than a mortal could ever hope to challenge. Acceptance led to willful complacency, waiting for a prophesy that even without any remaining ties to Fontaine, she wouldn't bother to flee.

The sinners would be put to justice, such was the law, and by the carnage Celeste now saw everywhere around her, what else was there to do than wait for rightful punishment?

Character Story 5

Salvation arrived in the form of a kind smile and loving eyes, hands that grasped her shoulders and pulled until her body fell into his embrace.

Jules was everything she coveted; warm, adored, and effortlessly successful in all he attempted. For him, Celeste was dragged out of misery, the Institute honouring her father's memory and taking pity, offering her a position as assistant. That Jules happened to be in need of such only made it all the sweeter.

For a year, life consisted of work, candlelit dinners, operas, and confessions of undying love.

It was the perfect picture of young love, of salvation, happy in the way every happy home is. They did everything together, and gradually, Celeste found herself once more become involved with research, but no longer on the sidelines or hidden away by her father, shielded the consequences of messing with things she had no clearance for.

Jules valued the input and sharp mind that had begun to reawaken now that challenges were presented.

Keeping busy removes the opportunity to sit down and properly think, to examine the larger picture. While Celeste tinkered with prototypes of tiny mechanical beetles for surveillance, so happy with the present that the past was easily ignored and the future forgotten.

But what is an assistant if not a tool? And anything produced by a tool must belong to the wielder. A debt of gratitude can be repaid in a multitude of ways, and perhaps they should never be attempted paid at all.

Upon finding no hint of acknowledgement of her efforts, Celeste confronted her gentle lover with uncharacteristically brazen fury. It made it easy to brush her off as not only unreasonable but hysterical as well.

With anger and hatred weighing upon her heart, Celeste made the decision to never let herself be used so carelessly. No longer would she mindlessly go along with the wishes of others and the people who had exploited that weakness should be burned away.

Her hands shook as she packed a single bag, too blinded to stop and think and unwilling to glance back as she left her home behind. Careless plans of revenge were already forming in the fires of heartbreak, but there was only one way to secure the necessary resources for such ideas.

Delusion

"You've said yourself that I need to be able to defend myself. This is the logical next step, a simple weapon will only do so much when-"

"You are going to ruin your body."

"Do you have so little faith in my results?"

A deadly silence followed her question. Myriads of unspoken words hanging in the air around them both. The Doctor huffed before snatching up the glass orb and turning to leave without a glance at his frustrated assistant.

Two weeks later, Celeste entered her quarters late at night, having worked far longer than planned, annoyed with how absent her superior had been lately.

Upon her nightstand was an unfamiliar object, an intricately carved metal casing that held a crimson stone, embers of energy swirling within it. Beside it lay a hastily scribbled note, writing near illegible to the untrained eye; 'Do not make me regret this'

[vale-isei]

DU Snippet #9

A knock on the door. Practical looks up from the blueprint he was marking, spine creaking in protest. How long had he been sitting here? Even looking at the clock on his wall, he couldn’t tell. He hadn’t been paying attention when he started.

With a simple movement, Practical presses the button under his desk. The metal door makes a happy little “beep!” and slowly swings upon. A figure now looms in the doorway.

Or, what looks like a figure. He couldn’t tell who it was due to the large box occupying their arms.

“I have your new shipment of supplies,” a strong voice says.

Practical recognizes the figure in an instant. Even in a crowd of civilians, he could recognize him and pinpoint his location. That voice was unmistakable.

“Set that in the corner,” he orders. “Thank you, [FACILITY WORKER] BioSundance.”

The facility worker dutifully walks over with little struggle. He sets the box down as carefully as he can, wiping the sweat from his brow afterwards. His uniform is in its usual disarray and his dirty blond hair is slightly disheveled, matted against his brow underneath his gentleman’s cap. He’s been working hard lately, Practical can tell. The broad stretch of muscles straining against his dress shirt tells him that much.

They hadn’t seen each other in a while. Ever since Bio got the promotion to a level three facility worker, he’s been working directly under Unpredictable. No doubt Unpredictable was keeping him busy with all the projects he’s been undertaking. When Practical got the news that Bio was being transferred, he had to admit that he felt at loss. The facility worker’s presence was a comfort to The Engineer, the only other who made him feel at ease. He wouldn’t ever utter the thought aloud, though. Bio didn’t need to know about his messy inner workings.

“You’re welcome.” Grey eyes the colour of dying starlight flickers over to Practical. A smile etches itself onto Bio’s face. “[OPERATIVE] Unpredictable told me you were holed up in here for a long while. Thought I could surprise you with a shipment and a visit.”

“I’m busy,” Practical replies automatically. He pauses. “But… But thank you. I appreciate the gesture, Bio.”

Bio hums. He looks around the office, much to Practical’s sudden anxiousness. It was a bit cluttered. Papers occupied odd surfaces like the bookshelves and machinery parts could be found in various areas. Despite this, The Engineer worked quite well in this environment. He had everything organized in a way that pleased him, even though it looked… questionable.

He watches the facility worker wander to a stack of papers lying on a spare table. His fingers brush the old papers, picking one of them up to peruse the contents.

“What are you working on?” he asks.

Practical snaps to attention. His eyes darted down to the blueprint on his desk and the white marker in his hand. “A project. New plasma guns for lower ranks to use.” He clears his throat and allows himself to sit straight up, stretching his arms to relieve the pent-up tension. Bones satisfyingly pop and muscles relax. “Better mass production rates and better plasma storage for longer use. Less jamming as well. That has.. been a problem for some time.”

“Couldn’t you just store extra plasma in mags?” Bio questions, setting the paper down. He puts his full attention on Practical. The Engineer doesn’t dare to meet his gaze for some unthinkable reason. “The new vests hold more mags. Plus, wouldn’t more plasma mean a higher risk of exploding?”

“[OPERATIVE] Emotionless figured out a way to compress the plasma for better storage. Less weight, faster troop movements, and better firepower. And while yes, there is a higher risk, I’ve been working on making the gun frame more protective. A stronger type of steel, maybe.”

Bio whistles. “Heading to the [WORKSHOP] soon then? I can walk you there.”

“No, I’ve yet to finalize everything I need.” Practical caps his marker and reclines in his chair. “I’ll be taking a small break. What have you been up to?”

“Playing errand boy and fetching things for different [OPERATIVES] while [OPERATIVE] Unpredictable blows things up on the shooting range.” A wicked smile crosses Bio’s face, eyes sparkling with amusement. “He’s driving a tank. I don’t know if I should be scared or laughing.”

A chuckle escapes The Engineer, his own smile creeping onto his face. Not that Bio could see it, he thought consciously.

“He’s got a bit of a trigger finger,” Practical chuckles. “It’s a good thing you skipped out on watching him. There’s a 90% chance an explosive will be shot at you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Don’t even want to consider it.”

The facility worker walks over and sits in the plastic chair across Practical. He sighs and folds his sleeves back to his elbows, reclining back as well. The two of them sit there in comfortable silence for a while, both of them staring at the concrete ceiling shielding them from the waning daylight outside. There isn’t a need to converse between them both.

Around ten minutes later, Bio’s eyes fall back down from the heavens and land on Practical yet again. This time, The Engineer meets his gaze. Subconsciously, he tilts his head to the side, as if to question the weird look now occupying Bio’s face.

“... I have a question.”

“I could tell.”

Bio shifts uncomfortably. His fingers fiddle with his shirt hem. Practical identifies this as one of his nervous habits---he has spent so much time with the facility worker and knows a thing or two by now.

“How’d you become a [DAY OPERATIVE]?”

Practical blinks. He sits up straighter in his seat, hands folded in his lap now.

“I was recruited by [OPERATIVE] Emotionless.” He skates around the finer details. “Why do you ask?”

“Ah, well…” Bio scratches the back of his neck, hesitating. Unsure. His eyes drift to the left of Practical, focusing intently at the darkening sky beyond the glass. “I was asked by [OPERATIVE] Emotionless why I was just a [FACILITY WORKER]. He uh.. He apparently read my file apparently, did some sort of background check.”

Oh, Practical thinks.

He means his ex-military backstory. A decorated major with a bright future, quitting the army once he was given the chance and entering the common labour force. Practical remembers that story from months ago, spoken in the dim light of the storage room he and Bio hid in while Scary stalked the halls, pissed. He can remember Bio speaking softly with his eyes downcast and plastered to his work boots. The facility worker never explained why, but he didn’t pry. Bio respected him greatly, and he felt that he owed him that. The story washes over him, fresh.

Bio continues. His voice is soft once more. “I went to his [OFFICE] to deliver some stuff, and while I was there, he asked. I just asked why.” His shoulders move in a heavy shrug. “He said I should try to be an [OPERATIVE]. Said I had lots of skills that shouldn’t be left to waste.”

There’s no thoughts for a moment. Just a thick fog encasing Practical’s brain as he stares at the facility worker before him. Words cannot form in his mouth or be spoken. He forgets himself for just a moment.

“Are you?”

Bio chuckles and tiredly smirks. “Do I look like I want to?”

Practical blinks again. “No, not really. But---” He makes some gestures. “I feel that you would make a great [OPERATIVE] as well. You work hard and are such a good fighter. You received medals for a reason, Bio.”

His companion holds up a hand, stopping Practical from spiraling into a rant. Practical shuts his mouth immediately, sensing unease from the other.

“I appreciate the compliments, but I’m not,” Bio says. He looks back at The Engineer. “I quit the [MILITARY] for a reason. I’m not going back. I’m fine with the job I have now.”

Practical opens his mouth to ask why. The question is on the tip of his tongue. Surely Bio wouldn’t mind, surely the reason isn’t bad---

But the look on Bio’s face.

It’s reminiscent of grief. A haunted look clouds the usually peppy facility worker and taints the smile on his face, straining it. There’s tension in his hands as they rest on the chair’s armrests, a stiffness in his shoulders that’s worth noting. Practical has never witnessed such a look on him. It’s damning enough to erase the question from his mind.

He won’t ask. He won’t cause Bio any unnecessary pain.

“I understand,” he replies instead. Practical’s voice is soft in a way he’s never spoken before. It tones down on its own.

Bio seems to like his response. He visibly relaxes, the pain melting away from his body language. Practical feels a wave of relief flow throughout his body.

“Let’s go on a short walk, you and I,” he offers. He's standing up before Bio can decline or accept him. “I hope that won’t interfere with your duties.”

Bio shakes his head, gratitude in his starlit eyes now. He, too, rises from his chair, waiting for Practical to round the desk before joining The Engineer at his side. He’s just a few inches shorter than Practical, but their shoulders bump together for just a fraction of a moment. Practical’s skin prickles where contact is made. Bio chuckles.

“I’ll follow you anywhere. Lead the way, Practical.”

[masorad]

(1) Insist on doing everything through “channels.” Never permit short-cuts to be taken in order to expedite decisions. (2) Make “speeches.” Talk as frequently as possible and at great length. (3) When possible, refer all matters to committees, for “further study and consideration.” Attempt to make the committees as large as possible—never less than five. (4) Bring up irrelevant issues as frequently as possible. (5) Haggle over precise wordings of communications, minutes, resolutions. (6) Refer back to matters decided upon at the last meeting and attempt to re-open the question of the advisability of that decision. (7) Demand written orders. (8) “Misunderstand” orders. Ask endless questions or engage in long correspondence about such orders. Quibble over them when you can. (9) Do everything possible to delay the delivery of orders. Even though parts of an order may be ready beforehand, don’t deliver it until it is completely ready. (10) In making work assignments, always sign out the unimportant jobs first. (11) Insist on perfect work in relatively unimportant products; send back for refinishing those which have the least flaw. Approve other defective parts whose flaws are not visible to the naked eye. (12) When training new workers, give incomplete or misleading instructions. (13) To lower morale and with it, production, be pleasant to inefficient workers; give them undeserved promotions. Discriminate against efficient workers; complain unjustly about their work. (14) Hold conferences when there is more critical work to be done. (15) Multiply paper work in plausible ways. (16) Start duplicate files. (17) Multiply the procedures and clearances involved in issuing instructions, pay checks, and so on. See that three people have to approve everything where one would do. (18) Apply all regulations to the last letter. (19) Do your work poorly and blame it on bad tools, machinery, or equipment. Complain that these things are preventing you from doing your job right. (20) Never pass on your skill and experience to a new or less skillful worker. (21) Snarl up administration in every possible way. Fill out forms illegibly so that they will have to be done over; make mistakes or omit requested information in forms. (22) Give lengthy and incomprehensible explanations when questioned. (23) Act stupid. (24) Be as irritable and quarrelsome as possible without getting yourself into trouble. (25) Misunderstand all sorts of regulations concerning such matters as rationing, transportation, traffic regulations.

[todaysdocument]

FDR’s fireside chat outlining the New Deal (p. 1, 4, 5), May 7, 1933. 

Collection FDR-PPF: Papers as President, President's Personal File

Series: Speeches of President Franklin D. Roosevelt

File Unit: First Carbon Files

Transcription: 

RADIO ADDRESS OF THE PRESIDENT

May 7, 1933

On a Sunday night a week after my Inauguration I used the radio to tell you about the banking crisis and the measures were were taking to meet it. I think that in that way I made clear to the country various facts that might otherwise have been misunderstood and in general provided a means of understanding which did much to restore confidence.

Tonight, eight weeks later, I come for the second time to give you my report -- in the same spirit and by the same means to tell you about what we have been doing and what we are planning to do.

Two months ago we were facing serious problems. The country was dying by inches. It was dying because trade and commerce had declined to dangerously low levels; prices for basic commodities were such as to destroy the value of the assets of national institutions such as banks, savings banks, insurance companies, and others. These institutions, because of their great needs, were foreclosing mortgages, calling loans, refusing credit. Thus there was actually in process of destruction the property of millions of people who had borrowed money on that property in terms of dollars which had had an entirely different value from the level of March, 1933. That situation

[page 2]

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to one-quarter of a million of the unemployed, especially the young men who have dependents, to go into the forestry and flood prevention work. This is a big task because it means feeding, clothing and caring for nearly twice as many men as we have in the regular army itself. In creating this civilian conservation corps we are killing two birds with one stone. We are clearly enhancing the value of our natural resources and second, we are relieving an appreciable amount of actual distress. This great group of men have entered upon their work on a purely voluntary basis, no military training is involved and we are conserving not only our natural resources but our human resources. One of the great values to this work is the fact that it is direct and requires the intervention of very little machinery.

Second, I have requested the Congress and have secured action upon a proposal to put the great properties owned by our Government at Muscle Shoals to work after long years of wasteful inaction, and with this a broad plan for the improvement of a vast area in the Tennessee Valley. It will add to the comfort and happiness of hundreds of thousands of people and the incident benefits will reach the entire nation.

Next, the Congress is about to pass legislation that will greatly ease the mortgage distress among the farmers and the home owners of the nation, by providing

[page 3]

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for the easing of the burden of debt now bearing so heavily upon millions of our people.

Our next step in seeking immediate relief is a grant of half a billion dollars to help the states, counties and municipalities in their duty to care for those who need direct and immediate relief.

The Congress also passed legislation authorizing the sale of beer in such states as desired. This has already resulted in considerable reemployment and, incidentally, has provided much needed tax revenue.

We are planning to ask the Congress for legislation to enable the Government to undertake public works, thus stimulating directly and indirectly the employment of many others in well-considered projects.

Further legislation has been taken up which goes much more fundamentally into our economic problems. The Farm Relief Bill seeks by the use of several methods, alone or together, to bring about an increased return to farmers for their major farm products, seeking at the same time to prevent in the days to come disastrous over-production which so often in the past has kept farm commodity prices far below a reasonable return. This measure provides wide powers for emergencies. The extent of its use will depend entirely upon what the future has in store.

Well-considered and conservative measures will likewise be proposed which will attempt to give to the

[azdoine]

Bright Christmas

Childlike wonder does not persist at standard temperature and pressure. Growing up is the process by which it evaporates, as you convince yourself that it never existed in the first place.

The first snow of winter isn’t beautiful; it’s a nuisance that blocks the driveway.

Your toys never meant anything; they were only answers to craving.

It doesn’t matter whether you’re naughty or nice; only what the world’s coffers hold for you.

Santa Claus isn’t real; there are only lies to children and games grown-ups play.

But there still exists a joy which will never thaw, grace impossibly preserved.

What has Saint Nick brought you for Christmas this year?

Pick two.

Protoclay

A lifetime supply of foundation. Each morning, you receive a random new LEGO set, still fresh in its packaging and wrapped with a little bow. Sets can be delivered which never made it to release, or were created by fans, or are no longer in production, or which never existed at all. But you’ll never receive the same set twice.

All of your LEGO pieces respond directly to the power of your imagination. Even when following an instruction guide, your creations will grow stronger as they’re assembled, so long as you care about what you’re making - bricks snapping together at the joints with unreal precision, toy models that don’t fall apart unless they’re deliberately dismantled, clever assemblies that work as intended.

Used as a channel for your own creativity, the pieces only grow stronger, permitting the construction of impossible objects. A boxy plastic triangle that cuts food and can be cleaned like a metal knife. A LEGO armchair that feels soft and gives way like stuffed leather. Futuristic industrial machinery made out of Technic parts. A magic staff that shoots mighty fireballs from its translucent red core. There are no fundamental limits to the quality and potency of what you can assemble; only what you can convincingly translate from idea to reality.

Memento

A letter to eternity, bound within a diary. Simply pressing a point into the surface of its endless pages will see it well with ink or glue or crinkle with embossing, and a stylus hangs from the end of its long bookmark. Nothing committed to this scrapbook can ever be removed, but the strange sheen of its paper grants clarity enough to avoid unforced errors.

By your status as the master of the diary, it grants you knowledge of its contents as if each word was memorized. But its greater power is the preservation of more than memory: all historical information scribed within traces a shadow of the time in which it was still true, pale moments which can be dredged forth and cast as shadows upon the changing now. Victories recorded may be synthesized and re-enacted, wizened performance sustained with the intensity of youth. Entire spaces may eventually be locked in an eternalist present or superposed with their ancient history - the only limit to this power of manifestation is your total will to defy entropy.

Even should every other part of yourself be destroyed, you may choose to linger as a timeless memory within the pages of your diary, suspended and composited in the apex of your life.

Velveteen

A boon companion - or the boon companion, rather. They may be the treasured friend you loved the most, now awakened and quickening, or something new entirely, the toy you never had. In any case, a stuffed animal, a figurine, a doll, a childhood companion brought to life in your arms. In all respects, their personality is compatible with your own, their loyalty assured without the flaws of obedience, their love for you untainted by misunderstandings.

It would be a mistake, too, to regard them as a mere animated object now that they’ve surpassed the circle of representation and become Real. Their forms and powers flow straightforwardly from their nature, simple but overwhelmingly effective in their domains; a teddy bear who commands a healing sleep and an aura of protection against evil, a doll with supernatural beauty and mastery of all things even remotely related to housekeeping.

Though your companion may be a person and take human shape to walk with you in the daylight, they still belong to a different order of life, reproducing through the exchange of love rather than biological DNA. If you and your companion ever both come to love another companion-toy as much as you love one another, then it may become Real too, no lesser than its predecessors.

Hexahedron

The root of all brainteasers. Its form shifts wildly and without warning, taking new permutations  on the order of minutes or days - or even sooner, if you should ever solve one of its iterations with time to spare. Twisty puzzles, wire puzzles, puzzle boxes, burr puzzles, puzzle locks, puzzle rings, jigsaws… almost anything tactile enough to hold might pass through your hands, shapes rising and falling in a spiral without limit.

Each time you successfully solve the Hexahedron, it will open your mind to paradoxes and arcana, revealing some quantity of information in a random domain related to the puzzle that preceded it. Lore mastered in this fashion can include procedural skill as well as declarative knowledge, and nothing you learn this way will ever harm you or be forgotten.

The harder a puzzle is and the less time you have in which to solve it, the greater the quantity and quality of useful information you can glean from it; at the highest levels of gnosis, the Hexahedron may even grant you knowledge of functional spells and rituals. There are no fundamental barriers to stop you from sharing this preternatural knowledge with the world at large, but others will struggle to understand what esoterica you effortlessly comprehend.

Abstract

The fundamental implement. This edutainment kit consists of the materials to introduce you to a profession or hobby in a fun and easy way - an Easy-Bake cooking set, a set of Nerf guns for play-fighting, fake fossils to excavate from National Geographic. But it’s not limited by concession to practicality or lies to children.

As you continue to learn, your resources will only grow, and your tools will only increase in fidelity. Equipment that once was only an imitation will become capable of handling the real thing, diversifying until you have everything you need; handbooks of toy problems will teach you more adroitly than college textbooks ever could, guiding you along a road where each step is, if not easy, then at least as clear as the first one.

Where your skill in your chosen hobby or profession surpasses normal human limits, you may use your tools to wield it with increasing applicability and at increasing scales - a painter who uses art of surpassing beauty to argue, churning pieces out at a breakneck clip, an electrician who wires entire cities, shaping strange coils to channel the flow of traffic within it. There are no fundamental limits to what you can accomplish beyond your ability to learn.

Ouroboros

The circle of completion. A basic train table, marble run, or other looping toy set with room to grow. Just as a closed circle implies an interior, so too does your toy circumscribe a place - an otherworld within to which you can open portals to and fro at will. You are the ultimate master of the Ouroboros, and none can gainsay your right to control its circulation and borders.

The interior of the Ouroboros is a macrocosmic reflection of its exterior, a series of closed spaces moving and interlinked in greater cycles. There’s already room enough inside to live there in a pinch, but as you continue to add to its exterior, its interior will grow - each train car or marble either adding a new chamber, or being consumed to increment the scale and magnificence of a chamber that already exists.

Beyond a certain threshold of grandiosity, spaces within the Ouroboros can develop increasingly supernatural qualities: a library train car that gathers cursed tomes, a bathing world that swells with healing waters. There is no fundamental barrier to exploiting these spaces for power in the outside universe, but all advantages are ultimately derived from the use of resources within, albeit renewable ones.

Mantle

The distinction between man and beast. A few tokens of clothing for the winter and the seasons to come - perhaps socks or a scarf, jeans or jacket. Just wearing it already confers benefits based on its nature as clothing, above and beyond what mere clothes make possible - bolstering your willpower with justified confidence, flattering your body so acutely as to push its physical limits, protecting you from the world like a suit of armor.

With an exertion of will, you can choose to don your gifted clothing more completely, as far removed from an ordinary person wearing clothes as a person wearing clothes is removed from the naked. A masque donned as you move through the world becomes a sword to overturn it, permitting the flowering of aesthetics into power: a biker with a chariot of fire, a streetwear super-hacker, a goth commanding the darkness.

Should you mix your outfits and regularly wear another article of clothing together with this set for a year and a day, you may allow some of this stylistic magic to rub off on it. There’s no limit to the number of enchanted articles you can collect, and if you find something new that feels truer to wear, its potency in your hands will be increased to match.

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

Whatever your presents, know that they are a blessing true, treasures that shall never be lost or destroyed, only well-loved and shared as you please.

But there is another gift that must be given before winter’s end, and a burden that must be accepted.

Is it yours to carry?

If you know, in your heart of hearts, that duty comes before joy.

Open the mystery box?

[fatuismooches]

icb anon left out the most important part about the lovers' notebook: it's delivered by luna's puppy, umbra 🥺🥺🥺

but fr that's been one of my favorite concepts since ff15 came out. i remember noctis being so shy he just filled the page with stickers (lol) so i can def see the more shy/quiet harbingers attaching pictures they took instead (capitano having a hidden talent for scrapbooking? ok king)

also LOVE LETTERS!!!! *swoons* when yelan said snezhnayan ppl use scented paper to make their letters more romantic? yeah, that's such a pantalone thing to do 🥴 his handwriting is so elegant and maybe he even has a custom wax seal for his love bc he's extra like that

OH MY GOSH UMBRA IS SO CUTE 😭😭💖 I don't know how to describe it but characters having an animal companion is always so. Freaking. Cute. 🥰 😭 AND OMG UR SO RIGHT??? Capitano fills the pages with his photos and the captions being so straight to the point. "Landscape of Natlan." "A fox followed me to the camp." "I think you would like this dish." Sandrone too, she's not the best with words either so she tends to send pictures of any interesting machinery she encounters on her missions. But she doesn't put captions. She likes to hear your ideas on what you think the machine is used for.

YOUR BIG BRAIN IS SO 💖 SCENTED LOVE LETTERS HAS PANTALONE'S NAME WRITTEN ALL OVER IT (i had to google when yelan said that since it's been so many months since her story quest 💀) But omg. Pantalone definitely has different kinds of scented ink specifically made for him as well just so he can use them while writing letters to you. And the best part you can actually smell them (cuz yk he's rich as hell getting actual high-quality products 😭) and you just fall in love all over again ;)

I cannot stress enough Pantalone has one of the most beautiful handwriting like.. you'll never get over it. Plus he definitely has a custom wax seal... he's not using a Fatui seal for letters to you. He's so extra he probably has a bunch of them at his disposal for whatever mood he's in (flowers, plants, symbols, even tiny words, whatever they are, it's fancy af)