#remove code line numbers

[sed-official]

i saw this post and decided that i had some time spare, i could give AI another go. (link to post https://www.tumblr.com/dibelonious/778852078032404480/now-that-ai-made-troubleshooting-ridiculously. dont harass the poor old sod obviously.)

i hear a lot of people irl at uni and some online say ai is great for coding, and so every couple months i try it out. sometimes with a very small project in a popular language (python or c, usually. though im forgiveful with c as everyone fucks up c.), sometimes with something simple (i.e. a couple lines tops with a naive approach if written idiomatically) but in a more unusual language with full documentation online. (like sed! yay!)

but every single time i come to the conclusion that even with being handheld chatgpt could not do what it was asked to do. even if someone tells it every issue in its outputs, itll remember for only one prompt. even if someone tells it the solution, itll find a new way to fuck it up.

below the cut is me trying to get chatgpt to make a working sed script that prints "meowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww..." (long post warning)

(if anything reads weirdly, this was originally a reblog to the screenshotted post, then i decided to make it its own post. so that may be why.)

i cant remember the last time i ran into an issue that i couldnt fix in like ... 5 minutes. but knowing what chatgpt is like, any ask i give it will give me issues to troubleshoot. (yes this example is code, not linux proper. but its more of the same doing that.)

the other day i decided to write "meowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww....." in many different languages, after seeing @brainfuck-official do it in BF. (link to post https://www.tumblr.com/brainfuck-official/773510105608192000) as is my blog, i asked it to do this in sed.

great! this script doesnt work! it doesnt even come *close* to working, giving me plenty to try out chatgpt's troubleshooting skills! it also just doesnt make much sense. why the shebang but not making it executable? and why are the flags different (ones -f, ones -nf). also a counter? why though? thats not what im asking for? (you can see tags for a brief explanation on how to add a counter)

after telling it the script doesnt work (and why, something someone troubleshooting likely wont know) it just adds in a P. a command that prints a damn newline. but it lies about it printing a newline.

(if you dont believe it prints a trailing newline and believe the AI instead, just try echo -n foo | sed -n 'P ; P')

anyways it alternated between no print statements and printing with newlines for the next ... 8 prompts, by which time i felt sorry for the poor bugger and told it to use e to print without a newline.

all the while it was trying to be more useful and add a count - making it print my string after n repeats instead of the infinite that i asked for. it was trying to subtract 1 with effectively s/[0-9]+/&-1/ which just appends the string "-1" to a number!

anyways, i tell it to use "the e command". there are three different versions of the e command in sed, and only one of them makes sense here. which did chatgpt use? none! it used the e regex modifier! which executes your pattern hold, then turns the output into the new pattern hold. and does not print anything.

ill just screenshot the last couple interactions minus only the useless exposition it adds to every response so you can see how stupid it is

ignoring sed's requirement for an input this is equivalent to the python

to be fair i never said there shouldnt be infinite meows, and this does have infinite Ws. but come the fuck on. this is clearly not whats being asked for.

[ms-demeanor]

I had a straight up delightful moment at work yesterday when a new member of the management team asked me how we were tracking warranties and I explained that we kind of aren't and he asked why we aren't and that meant he got a 30-minute rundown of how top-to-bottom fucked the procurement process is here.

First I explained the process for sending a quote (i am assigned a ticket in system A1, I create an opportunity in system A2, from the opportunity i can generate a quote in system B - if I start with the quote I can't associate it back to the opportunity or the ticket, if we need to change the quote after it was approved we need to generate a new quote from the opportunity to overwrite the old one - and send the quote from system B.)

Then I explained the process of getting approval (system B sends the quote and receives the approvals but does not communicate that to system A, so until it is manually updated system A sends a daily reminder about the quote to the client and after three days with no response will close the ticket even if the client approved the quote in system B. System B will send an email if a quote is approved but it comes from our generic support email so to make sure that I don't miss approvals I have filtering rules set up and a folder I check twice a day. Because there are 4 people who use this system I also check twice daily in system B to see if anyone else's quotes were approved).

Then I explained how I place the orders (easy! I'm a pro! We have a standardized PO pattern that tracks date, vendor and client, it's handy)

Then I explained how I document the orders (neither system A nor B has a way of storing information about orders in progress, only orders that are complete; as such I have created a PO Documentation spreadsheet that lists the PO number, vendor, line of business, client, items ordered, order total, order date, ETA, tracking numbers, serial numbers, delivery confirmation, ticket number for install, ticket title for install, shippong cost, and close confirmation, which all have to be entered individually and which require a minimum of three visits to the spreadsheet per order: entering initial info, entering tracking and SN info, then once more to get that info to close the opportunity)

Then I explained how we close an order (confirm hardware delivery or activate software, use system A2 to code hardware/software/non-taxable products appropriately, run wizard to add charges from A2 to ticket in A1; because the A2 charges were locked by approval in system B, use system A3 to add shipping or other fees or to remove any parts that were approved but not actually needed or ordered - THIS WEEK I got permission to do this bit on my initial A1 procurement ticket instead of generating an A1 post-procurement ticket for fees and shipping. Once all of that is done it's moved into system A4 and is no longer my problem).

If there is a warranty involved it *should* automatically have the expiration tracked in system C, but system C doesn't have any way to pull order info so there's no way it can track warranty *start* dates without somebody manually entering it or without using API data from the manufacturer, which some manufacturers don't provide (fuck you, Apple).

But me and my trainee are happy to add the start date to the configuration once a tech tells us that the device is enrolled in system C. If the techs will tell us that we can add that info no problem.

Until then, I have unfortunately been forced to start a spreadsheet.

The manager was appalled, it was great. I got to say the words "part of the reason things sometimes fall through the cracks is because we have so many cracks" and his response was "no shit." I'm talking to vendors about a procurement system now :) :) :) :)

[hannie-dul-set]

나비 / NABI — ONE.

SYNOPSIS. in which you’re trying your damned best to willfully ignore your feelings for your friend of over twenty years, but— as always— life seems to have a different plan paved out for you.

PAIRING. choi beomgyu x female! reader. GENRE. childhood friends to not quite friends (derogatory) to not quite friends (endearment) to lovers, romance, humor, hurt/comfort but more on comfort, coming of age, slowburn, college! au, “it’s always been you” trope, pining, tons of denial, beomgyu is the only man ever, featuring a large ensemble of idols from various groups. WARNINGS. swearing, explicit language, alcohol consumption, rumors as a plot device, mentions of sex, a few minor injuries. WORD COUNT. 9k (out of 40k).

NOTE. hehe...it’s here. this first part is a little short and slow, but things are gonna start picking up from here! please let me know what you think so far 😭😭 half my soul was injected into writing the entirety of this i will never be the same again 💔 also, i recommend listening to beomgyu’s covers while reading this and the upcoming chapters HAHA anyhow, please enjoy!

모기 / MOGI — ONE — TWO — THREE

YOU STILL DON’T LIKE CHOI BEOMGYU. Ever since you and he reconciled and publicly became friends again, your life has never known quiet— all thanks to the countless insects constantly buzzing around him, and by consequence around you, every damn day. And it’s not like you can keep avoiding him. Choi Beomgyu has made the executive decision to take advantage of the guilt you’ve been feeling, so for the past month, you’ve been a slave to his whims. 

Responding to 3AM ice cream runs even though you’re swamped with assignments. Going to parties hosted by people you don’t know the fucking names of because he keeps calling you a boring loser. And, the cherry on top, having to deal with Lee Heeseung’s even more annoying presence, just like how you’d predicted he’d behave if he ever finds out you and Beomgyu are friends.

Which he did. Much to your despair and agony.

“Beomgyu, your girlfriend’s here to see you.”

Case in point. You spare him nothing but an eye roll when he lets you in the clubroom of the, ahem, coding club. You’re here because Beomgyu texted you to fetch him a matcha latte and since you’re playing as his slave at the moment (and until your patience runs out), you obliged out of the kindness of your heart, only to get a truckload of teasing in return.

“Oh, hey, what’s up,” Yeonjun throws you a peace sign from their worn out sofa by the door the moment you enter. He’s accompanied by a good number of chip bags on the cushions.

“Hey,” Hanbin greets you as well when you pass by their alleged meeting table. Which, by the way, has stacks of leftover takeout containers and some empty, some half-empty plastic jugs of water. “Beomgyu is on the computer.”

“Thanks,” you tell him. This clubroom is a fucking gremlin hole.

“You know what.” Your path towards Choi Beomgyu is interrupted by Hyunjin, suddenly popping out of the half-wall separating the lounge area from the computers at the back. You jump, because what the fuck? “My heart races everytime you come here. I still get flashbacks from the day you threatened to wreck our safe haven. I think you gave me PTSD.”

Ah, yes. That day. That was eventful. It was the first time you’ve seen Choi Beomgyu cry.

“Serves you right, gossip snorter,” you say. “Out of the way, I have business to deal with.”

Hyunjin indeed gets out of your way, and there he reveals a row of four computers lined up against the wall with their assigned nerds mashing on the keyboards and yelling profanities at matching game screens. You zero in on the one on the far left corner. Surprisingly, Beomgyu is relatively calm compared to the others. You tap on his shoulder. He turns his head around.

“Oh,” he says, pulling his office chair back from out of the desk with a swivel while removing the headphones from his ears and letting them rest around his neck. You notice Jeongin seated beside him, who looks up at you only for a moment only to flinch back to the screen. “You’re here?”

No, shit. You jangle the latte in front of his face, head cocked, and he reaches out for it. But then you quickly jerk back your hand before he can snatch it from you. “Nuh-uh. Pay up.”

“Tch,” Beomgyu clicks his tongue and shoots you a bitter look. “Hyung, can you toss me my jacket?”

Someone from behind does indeed toss him his jacket, and at that very moment as well, Heeseung decides that it’s a great time to indulge in his newly founded hobby. “Hey, how about me? Why didn’t you get me a drink?” He joins the already crowded crevice in the back and swings an arm around your shoulder. “You get a boyfriend and forget all your friends. Have you forgotten that you two got together because of me? I’m hurt, I’m so hurt.”

Your face scrunches up. “Literally, how many times do I have to tell you he’s not my boyfriend.” You elbow Heeseung off, eliciting another whine from him. When your eyes snap back at Beomgyu, you see that he’s preoccupied with going through wallet. You kick his chair. “Say something, dipshit.”

Beomgyu hands you a bill and exchanges it with the matcha latte. You wait for him to speak. He takes a long sip, pulls his face away from the straw with a grimace, hands back the drink to you, then says, “What she said.”

You look at him, drink now back in your hands.

“What the fuck?”

“Keep it,” he says, putting his headphones back on. “Don’t you have class?”

Your jaw clenches. Fucker made you run an errand for nothing. He gives you an asshat smile of goodbye then spins his chair back to his computer. You scoff and smack the back of his head, causing his headphones to slip off. “Bye.”

“Hey!”

“Later,” Heeseung bids you off, and it’s followed by a chorus of goodbyes from the inhabitants of the testosterone infested, stinky gamer cave. Seriously, every time you drop by here, you feel an ounce of your soul shriveling up and rotting away. Yeonjun very politely opens the door for you. You hear one of them yell out before you leave.

“Come over tomorrow. Hanbin hyung’s treating us to pizza!”

And with that, you’re finally free, matcha latte in hand and a desire to breathe in some fresh air because you’re pretty sure the air is polluted in there. But still. It’s been a lot easier to breathe recently than when you two weren’t on good terms.

“Saved you a seat.”

You make it to class two minutes before the schedule. Minjeong proudly taps on the seat next to her, and you take the invitation. “As you should,” you hum, taking out your notes from your bag, and not long after Sungchan arrives and lands on the spot next to you.

It’s the week before finals. Prof Shin starts the class and decides to fuck all of your study schedules by giving a last minute assignment due next week as well. 

“Does this guy want to give us depression before the summer or some shit?” Minjeong complains the moment your professor leaves the lecture hall.“I swear to god, if another prof gives us an assignment due over the break, I’m killing myself.”

“You two have plans over the break?” asks Sungchan, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and the three of you head out for lunch, funneling out into the hallway along with the rest of your blockmates.

“I’m going home,” says Minjeong.

“I have summer classes,” you answer.

Sungchan stops in his tracks. “You serious?” 

“Yup.”

“You bet on it.”

He looks at the both of you like you’re a bunch of withering old ladies and he’s very much unimpressed. “Make some time for the last week. I’m throwing the wildest summer rager and you two can’t miss it.”

You’re pretty sure you replied with something along the lines of an agreement, but you’re not quite sure. The thought completely slips out of your head throughout the next week because, well, finals. And before you know it, your first semester of uni comes to a close, and summer comes crashing in at full swing.

#1: YOU STILL DON’T LIKE HIM FOR WASTING SO MUCH OF YOUR TIME. It’s eight in the morning. Monday. You’re standing in front of Choi Beomgyu’s door.

Knock, knock, knock.

It’s the start of your summer semester so you thought you ought to make something healthy just to kick things off on a good note, but as you were scavenging ingredients for fried rice, you realized you were out of salt so that’s why you’re here. You knock on his door again, three times, and you manage to finish watching five more Instagram reel clips before Beomgyu finally answers the door.

Creak.

“Took you long eno—”

You’re caught off guard by the mop of shaggy hair greeting you, clearly having just woken up. His eyebrows are knitted together while he lets out a yawn. He’s in a tank top. It rides up a little when he stretches his arm to reach for an itch on his back.

“What?” he rasps with a grunt, squinting at you after he’s finally settled himself into reality. “Why the hell are you up so early?”

You clear your throat. “Got any salt?”

Beomgyu blinks at you, processing your words. Then he steps back, points a thumb towards his kitchen, and nudges his head in the same direction. “Go crazy.”

With that, Beomgyu lets you monopolize his kitchen cupboards while he flops onto the sofa. You laugh seeing him practically melt into the cushions. He’s never been a morning person. You’re pretty sure he fell asleep like three hours ago.

“I’m gonna steal some of your chives too,” you inform. Beomgyu makes a muffled noise that you assume is a yes, so you go ahead and take the liberty. When you pop out of his kitchen area, you see him in a not very spine-healthy posture on the same sofa while scrolling through his phone. “I’ll drop off some bokkeumbap later.”

Beomgyu’s eyes flit up from his phone and he wiggles into a more normal position. “Do you have plans today?”

“Class,” you answer on your way back out.

“It’s summer?” he says. “Did your dumb ass get your calendars mixed up?”

You roll your eyes, stopping right before the door with your hand on the knob and turn your head to face him. “I thought I could use the early credits so I won’t have to take too many classes in my fourth year. So I could focus on my internship and all.”

There’s a pause. You can see the three dots slowly appearing in succession above Beomgyu’s bedhead. “Oh,” he says. There’s a drop in his voice. Only for a second. “Well, have fun, nerd.”

You stick your tongue out and leave his apartment with your borrowed goods, returning once more after you’ve finished cooking to give him a portion. Honestly, without the food your moms send over, you’re pretty sure he’d be living exclusively off of takeout.

Anyhow, you head to campus for your first summer lecture, and— for the first time god knows how long— your entire day is spent with a lingering, and almost unusual echo of quiet.

“That’s it for our syllabus. We’ll be starting our full swing of classes next week. See you.”

When you exit the lecture hall, the hallway is near empty. The courtyard too, with only a few students littered about underneath the midday sun. It’s so quiet, it’s weird. Around this time, you’d usually be having lunch with Sungchan and Minjeong, sometimes Beomgyu, sometimes Heeseung, but that brat’s not around right now either because he’s on vacation. 

Not having anything to do, you decide to stop by the campus cafe— Horangnabi. You don’t go here often, committed to the shop near your apartment because, well, it’s more convenient for your morning coffees, but you weren’t able to grab one earlier since you cooked breakfast. Might as well get a latte before you leave campus.

“Hi, welcome!”

You’re greeted by the barista, and like most of campus, it’s pretty empty inside as well. "A spanish latte, please. Iced.” While making your order, a sign on the counter catches your eye.

Part-timers, now hiring. You blink, letting it settle for a moment. Maybe for too long of a moment, because the whir of the milk frother snaps back your attention. 

“Are you interested?” 

The barista slides you your drink over the counter with a smile. You take it and press your lips together in a moment of thought. 

You only have classes on Mondays and Wednesdays, and it’s too inconvenient, not to mention expensive to go home, back and forth from Seoul to Daegu and vice versa, on the days in between. Most of your friends are on vacation or went back to their hometowns over the break so you have no one to hang out with over the summer. And you could use the extra money.

“I don’t have any experience, though,” you tell her.

“That’s fine. You’ll get a few days of training,” she answers.

Tempting. You’re almost convinced. “What if I just want to work for the summer? Can I quit when the next semester starts?”

“A lot of students do that,” she hums. You see her take a square of tissue paper from the display, jotting down a series of numbers before sliding it over to you as well. “Julie. Call me if you wanna take the bait.”

You spare one more second to ponder. Then you take the number from under her fingers and carefully stuff it into your pocket. “Thanks.”

The heat has finally settled the moment you exit the cafe, a little bell jingle trailing you from behind, and you take a mental note to bring an umbrella with you from this day forward. Their coffee is good, you have to admit. If you work there for a good month or two, maybe you’d even end up saving cash by making your own drinks instead of having to buy them.

You decide to take the path through the parking lot to make your exit. There’s more trees around, meaning more shade because it’s really freaking hot. It’s very bare in the lot. You pass by a few cars, of which you assume belong to faculty and staff, until one of them honks at you, and you flinch to a halt.

Another honk. Your brows furrow. Looking around, you try to find the culprit, but you end up moving your head in just the right direction for the sun to beam its light directly into your eyes, blinding you temporarily, and you wince. God damn it. You hear another honk again, and you feel yourself start to get irritated. It’s coming from behind you. You spin your heels, vision still muddy from the direct sun attack, but nevertheless you start walking.

“Seriously, who the hell keeps fucking— oh!”

You bump into someone. You feel them balance you by your shoulders.

“You should’ve seen how dumb you looked.” You hear a snicker. Of fucking course, it’s Choi Beomgyu. Who else would it be? “But hey, you make a pretty good pigeon jerking your head around like that.”

“Fuck you,” you jab his arms off. “What are you even doing here?”

Beomgyu notices your coffee and takes a shameless sip from it before answering, “Get in the car. It’s so freaking hot out, jesus.” 

You don’t really have a choice because he practically shoves you into the passenger’s seat. So gentle. You nearly spill your drink all over when your ass lands on the leather cushion. 

“I was just about to sleep again after you dropped off the food earlier,” he explains while starting the car, and you watch him intently. Whenever your schedules matched, you’d sometimes go to and from uni together. But you can’t seem to get used to the image of your friend acting like a responsible adult. It’s fucking with you a bit. “But then I got a message from Prof Kim, asking if I could come by the office today.”

He pulls out of the parking lot, and the cool air finally settles into your skin. “For what?” Beomgyu lets out a groan. Must’ve been for a not great reason.

“The EMC department is hosting a conference of some sorts this year and he asked if I could be a volunteer facilitator, ask a few others from the department to help and join along too.”

“Oh? You gonna do it?”

“Ugh. I don’t know.” You pass through security out the main gate and start heading back to your apartment. “I wanted to come home over the break but the working days for this thing will apparently last throughout the summer. Prof Kim did say this will be minused from my volunteer hours, but I don’t know.” Beomgyu then gives you a side eye all of a sudden. “Speaking of. You undutiful daughter.”

“What?” you leer.

“Your mom hoped that you’d be home for the summer, too. Why didn’t you ask her first before enrolling for summer classes?”

“Why the hell do you two keep talking about me behind my back?” You’re shriveling up. Seriously, why does your mom contact him before you? This is getting ridiculous. “And I’m doing all this so I can graduate early and find a job early, by the way. I don’t even have a full week of classes so I can still come home the first week of July.”

Apparently, you two argued for long enough to finally reach your building. 

“Tell me when you plan on going home,” he says, leaning against the wall beside your door watching as you key in your passcode to your unit. 

“Obviously,” you roll your eyes, smiling. The door unlocks. You push it open. “You’re my free ride after all.” 

Now, your expected response from that is another retort from him, how you’ve been exploiting his kindness and whatnot and you’d have to snark back as well. But for some reason Beomgyu just stays quiet. He says nothing, an unreadable look on his face as he looks at yours. You raise a brow.

“What is it this time?”

Choi Beomgyu says nothing. He lifts up an arm, points his index finger near your face, and jabs his finger straight into your forehead.

“I’ll send you a review of your bokkeumbap later.” He laughs at your appalled expression.

“You’d be shocked to find out it’s better than my mom’s,” you say back, a hand tending to the spot he just attacked unprompted.

“You wish.”

“Eat shit.”

“Oh, I definitely will.” 

You send him a kick, which he dodges before fleeing into the safety of his apartment. Slippery bastard. Anyhow, you call it a day and settle into your own place. Few hours later, Beomgyu indeed sends you a review of your cooking with a photo of an empty dish attached. Three out of five, he says. Slippery bastard turned ungrateful bastard.

The next day, you’re at Horangnabi again. The night prior, you called Julie’s number and gave her the news that you’re in, and she told you to come an hour before opening so they can get you settled.

You come in with a greeting, and you see Julie look up from behind the counter to wave you in with a smile. “You’re here! Hanbin, come meet our new part-timer.”

At the mention of Hanbin’s name, you immediately double take, and emerging from the door to what you assume is the storage area is indeed the Hanbin you know from the coding club. 

“You!” you immediately shriek, almost feeling a hint of betrayal because this is the first time you’ve seen him in daylight, because their clubroom is always so fucking dark. And in something other than the god damned flannels everyone in their club is always so fond of wearing like it’s an unspoken uniform. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, so it is you!” Hanbin happily exclaims. “I thought it was just someone with the same name.”

Julie was delighted to find out you two already knew each other. You skip all the necessary introductions and jump in head first into getting acquainted with the equipment instead.

“We’ll go through all of the drinks first. I also have the recipes printed out over here in case you need reference.”

Having a familiar face in an unfamiliar workplace is indeed a pleasant surprise, but there’s also a familiar sense of dread to have one of Beomgyu’s coding club buddies in here. Granted, he doesn’t annoy or tease you as much as the others, but those guys have already given themselves a label in your head, and Sung Hanbin is no exception to your collective bad impression.

“And then you twist the handle— just like that.”

You’re in the middle of your first latte, the espresso machine up and running. After which, Hanbin teaches you how to use the milk steamer without any difficulty, and you pour the milk into the same cup as the espresso you made earlier. “Wow,” Hanbin remarks. “You’re pretty good at this.”

“I think it’s all thanks to the caffeine I’ve ingested,” you say. “Skill buff. Or whatever you guys say.”

Hanbin laughs and compliments your latte once more. Needless to say, it doesn’t take long for your discomfort to completely disappear because at this point in time, Beomgyu’s friends would already start asking you about him— where he is, why isn’t he with you, etcetera etcetera. But his name has not left Hanbin’s mouth even once, and it’s already the end of your first day.

“It’s always slow here, except on rare occasions, so you’ll be able to handle it with no problems,” Julie says before sending you off. “Anyway, Hanbin and I will be around during your shifts, so you can run to us in case a particularly grumpy student comes to order.”

Hanbin gives you a thumbs up and a bright grin. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

And that’s how you established your new routine for the rest of the summer. It’s just like Julie said. Things are pretty slow. The only notable thing that happened on your second day at work is Beomgyu sending you a very unflattering, low-angle selfie under the blinding lights of the faculty office glaring behind his head with the text message that he said yes to volunteering for the conference. Sad face emoji included. 

On Thursday, Julie taught you how to make a damn good waffle. On Monday next week, you got your first shitty customer. Finally on Friday, you decided to open your skeleton closet to Hanbin, because not once since your a little over a week of working here has he asked you about the whereabouts of Choi Beomgyu.

“You and Beomgyu are friends right?”

There aren’t any customers except for the regulars from Bio that are almost always found in the corner of the cafe until closing. Hanbin is wiping the already squeaky clean counter because there is nothing to do. “Yes?” he answers, a smile on his face, but with a tone that’s evidently confused. “So are you?”

Christ. Now you’re the one bringing that bastard up. “Right. It’s just a little odd.” There, you bring up what you’ve observed so far since working here, and the fact that you and him have shared actual conversations not involving your old friend, and how it’s pretty surprising to you. “One time, I thought someone was going to confess to me. Turns out he just wanted me to convince Beomgyu to help him rank up in League.”

“Well, I don’t really need any help in that area.” Hanbin laughs, shaking his head. “Sounds like you and him have been friends for a long time.”

Neither of you have told anyone about your history. No reason in particular. Beomgyu just never found the need to tell his friends that you’ve known each other from birth, and neither have you. But Hanbin’s presence, when separated from the rest of his friends, just feels like a blanket of comfort, and you find yourself spilling your guts to him— including the previous three to four month cold war you caused and the reasons.

Hanbin is patient. He listens the entire time with an attentiveness you can only compare to a saint. “I guess being a social butterfly has its unintentional consequences. I’m just happy to hear you two made up.”

“I probably would never regularly step foot in your dungeon hole otherwise.”

He laughs. “The guys in the club also tease you a lot, don’t they? Doesn’t it bother you?”

You press your lips together. “Yeah, but at this point it’s just white noise to me now.”

Hanbin looks at you. “That doesn’t mean you enjoy it either.”

Well. He’s not wrong. 

Your conversation gets cut short with the cafe bell signaling the entrance of customers. You look at the door. It’s a whole stampede of people. It’s Choi Beomgyu and his friends and you can’t even go on a day of talking about them without them showing up.

“Whoa, I’ve never been here before.”

“Dude, you’re in your third year. Where the hell have you been?”

“Doesn’t Hanbin hyung work here—”

“Yeah, let’s ask him to give us free cookies.”

“Hyunjin, buy me a drink.”

“Buy your own drink, nerd.”

“Hi, I’ll have an iced americano, and a— o-oh, my god.”

You’re face to face with Yang Jeongin who nearly pisses himself upon the recognition that it’s you behind the corner. It dominoes to the rest of the group. You don’t know why they’re being so dramatic. You let out a huff and a sigh. “An iced americano and…?” 

Jeongin doesn’t get to answer. Beomgyu unwedges himself from the group and squeezes his way to the counter. “You work here now?” 

You cock a brow. “Uh. Yeah.”

“Since when?” he immediately follows up. You’re a little taken aback.

“Since last Tuesday,” you answer after recounting. Beomgyu makes a face that burrows a pit in your stomach.

“You didn’t tell me.”

Okay. Now you’re very taken aback. There’s a cough from the crowd. And then a very intuitive, not-so-hushed remark from one of the boys. “Holy shit. They’re having a lovers’ quarrel.”

It hits a nerve. Hanbin quickly dissuades anything before you could open your mouth. “So, what are you guys ordering?”

The amount of drinks to make and pastries to bring out gets you busy for a while, but you still keep an eye on Beomgyu, watching as he settles back to normal joking mode with his friends while you try to find an opening to talk to him. You and Hanbin finish making all their orders, so you ask him if you can be excused for a moment. He tells you to go ahead and you make your way to Beomgyu, who’s sitting on one of the ends of the three conjoined tables in the more spacious corner of the store.

He’s talking to Yeonjun. When Yeonjun notices you approaching, he immediately quiets down, so you take this as permission to interrupt. You tap on Beomgyu’s shoulder. “Hey.” He turns around and looks up. “You good?”

Beomgyu opens his mouth, about to say something— “Ahem,” — but then Yeonjun clears his throat, accidentally catching the attention of the rest of the boys, and they’re suddenly popping out their heads like meerkats in your direction. “Should I give you two some space?”

“What’s going on?”

“They’re having a moment.”

“Oh my god.”

“Do you guys sell popcorn?”

You’re used to their teasing. You’re used to their bullshit, really. You’re fine if they pull on your hair strands inside their clubroom, but for fuck’s sake this is a public space. Heeseung isn’t even around, but it seems like all his clubmates caught his disease. Your bio regulars are sneaking a few glances at the commotion. There are other customers too. You’re visibly annoyed and embarrassed— which doesn’t go over Beomgyu’s head, because he notices. And he also looked like he’s getting irritated. 

“Hey, you two should just apologize and make up!”

Beomgyu gets up. You see his jaw clench. Oh no. You quickly grab his arm with a tug before he can do anything— only for Hanbin to show up with a tray, setting it down on their table in a less than gentle manner. They flinch. They shut up. Hanbin sets down a few plates with a chilling smile.

“We don’t have popcorn, but here are your fries,” he says. Wow. “Do you guys want to add anything else?”

There’s a single squeak from the group. “No, we’re good.”

Hanbin hums in acknowledgement and retrieves the tray from the table— not without sending you a thumbs up, to which you mouth a thank you in return. He smiles and nods before going back to the counter, and there you feel Beomgyu removing your hold on his arm from a while ago, and you quickly flit your attention back to him, fearing that you might’ve upset him. Again. Like last time.

“Wait—”

“Are you trying to slack off?” he jeers. You look at him, a little surprised. Beomgyu nudges his head to the counter and you see a few customers filtering in. He did remove your hand from his arm, but he’s still holding it. “I’m not upset because you didn’t tell me you started working here. Well. I was. A bit. But not anymore.”

You feel his thumb run through your knuckles, going over the bumps of each joint, followed by a gentle squeeze.

“It must’ve been heaven for you to get some peace and quiet for once. But then I had to bring these losers around,” he wrinkles his nose. You feel a load get off of your chest. Beomgyu lets go of your hand. “If you told me beforehand, I would’ve steered them away from here.”

“Well it’s fine as long as they don’t cause a scene.” You say the last part a little bit louder than conversational-volume. From the corner of your eye, you see Hyunjin cough on his fry. “Anyway, I gotta get back to work.”

“No shit. Go do what you’re paid for, slacker.”

He lands a smack on your back and you’re pushed off to do your job. Gosh. Hanbin welcomes you back to the station and the both of you are kept busy for the time being, up until late afternoon strikes, and Beomgyu says he can’t drive you home today since they’re still needed back at the faculty office.

“Your girlfriend can get home just fine! Prof Kim’s looking for us, hurry—”

And just like that, he gets lugged out of the cafe. Jeongin laments about returning to “printing hell,” whatever he means by that, and the walls of Horangnabi are once again returned to their original state— peace and quiet.

The bell jingles. You hear nothing but the metronomic melody from the speakers. “Your friends are so draining,” you tell Hanbin.

He just laughs. “They’re quite energetic.”

You should’ve appreciated the serenity and calmness of your first couple of days working here because for the next few weeks, the coding club has decided that the campus cafe is going to be their regular hangout spot from now on. Or until their summer volunteer work finally ends.

“You know, you’re so pretty.”

It’s the end of June now. You’re wiping off some spilled milk from the counter when Julie suddenly decides to dote on you. She’s on the other side of the counter, face between her palms, and your wiping stops, face flushed.

“I—I’m sorry?”

“You’re like the prettiest flower in a garden and I’d fend off all the other bees and butterflies just to have you for myself,” she doubles down. You release a laugh, mildly forced because holy shit, this is a new kind of attention. “No wonder you have all these guys buzzing around you all the time.”

Julie thumb-points at the corner the coding club guys usually occupy. You hear Hyunjin losing his shit over something—

“I think he’s the one they keep buzzing around, seonbae.”

—something Choi Beomgyu very likely said considering the grin he has on his face, and how Yeonjun is also collapsing on his shoulders. You watch as his grin disappears into a cup, taking a sip from the lime soda he ordered. Then he notices you staring. He settles down the drink and gets up. 

“Oh no, he’s coming over.”

“What?” he says after reaching the counter, taking the spot next to Julie. “Are you talking shit about me again?”

“Hey, not everything is about you, insect,” answers Julie. Those two have gotten pretty close too. “I was talking about how pretty our new barista is. She’s a breath of fresh air. A rose among the truckload of weeds sullying the pretty interiors of our dear cafe.”

Beomgyu snorts at the comparison. You give him the stink eye.

“I get what she means,” Hanbin slides into conversation. He hums and passes you the milkshake Jeongin ordered. It’s still missing the whipped cream on top. You fetch a container from the fridge and walk back to your station, only to be met by a sudden debate on what kind of flower you are now.

“No, no. She’s not a rose,” you hear Yeonjun interject. “Appearance wise, she’s like a daffodil. Personality wise, she’s a venus flytrap.” A few of them chortle and laugh. You roll your eyes and start shaking the container.

“You’re wrong, she’s a hydrangea!”

“Aren’t they poisonous?”

“Exactly.”

A few more give their pitches. Honestly, you’re pretty impressed by the amount of knowledge these gamer gremlin boys have. You finish Jeongin’s milkshake and give it back to Hanbin for delivery. Beomgyu is quiet throughout the whole debacle, until Hyunjin eggs him on to give his pitch. They need to hear the expert’s verdict, he says. Beomgyu just brushes them off until he notices you looking at him expectantly. He pauses. He’s actually thinking about it. You’re pleasantly surprised at his sudden thoughtfulness— that is, of course, until he actually opens his freaking mouth.

“You’re a milkweed.”

It’s like a ball gets punted into your head. It bounces off and lands on the ground. You hear a wheeze from the boys. You give Beomgyu the middle finger.

“A weed! Not even a flower!”

“Hey, they are flowers! Go look it up!”

Beomgyu can’t redeem himself anymore. You’re already looking at him with bitter disgust and Julie proceeds to call him a piece of shit.

“It really is a flower!” 

He still defends, pleading his case to you even after the topic has shifted. Julie has left to clean up some tables. Beomgyu remains in his spot on the other side of the counter until you decide to believe him and his alleged substantial botanical knowledge. 

“Sure, whatever,” you deride. Beomgyu is still pouty. “Anyway, your conference thingy is this weekend, right? We’re going home right after?”

“Yeah,” he says, still sounding a little bitter and you bite down a laugh. His eyes flutter down, noticing something on your chin, and offhandedly wipes off what you assume is some stray whipped cream from earlier with his thumb. “Do you wanna leave in the morning or afternoon?”

“Oooooh.”

Lee Heeseung suddenly rears his head near the counter to return their empty plates. He’s back from vacation and now he’s here to reclaim his rightful spot as your number one annoyance. “Get a room,” he says with a shit eating grin that you want to wipe the floor with.

“Why’d you even come back early?” you leer at him. “Weren’t you supposed to be island hopping until the end of July?”

He sticks his tongue out. Beomgyu just laughs. “I can’t miss Sungchan’s party. You’re going, right?”

Right. The alleged wildest, most epic summer rager Jung Sungchan mentioned before parting ways with you and Minjeong over vacation. He texted you about it again last night. You couldn’t leave him on read because he called you immediately after.

“Unfortunately,” you lament. “Sungchan’s gonna throw a tantrum if I don’t show up.”

“You know Sungchan?” Beomgyu suddenly asks. 

You give him a pointed look. “Duh, obviously. We’re in the same major.”

It’s like a lightbulb materializes on the top of his head. “Ah,” he says. “I forgot you had other friends.”

You quickly retaliate by attacking him with the nearest thing you can get your hands on: a dish towel. He lets out a very fake, very dramatic yelp of pain and tells on you to Julie noona for abusing your customers and that you should be fired. 

“You’re no customer, you termite.”

“Ack! Noona! She’s hitting me again!”

“Is this how the youngins flirt nowadays?”

Both of you freeze in frame— him trying to yank your weapon from your hands and you with an arm up ready to throw a punch— and turn your heads towards Heeseung, who has a very smug smile playing on his face. You shoot Beomgyu a glare before roughly tugging the dish towel from his grasp. “Shut your mouth, Hee. How’s it going with your compsci girlie, anyway. You’ve stopped bragging since last month.”

Heeseung’s smile stiffens. He breathes out a ‘haha,’ before starting to turn away. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Serves him right. After a while you routinely bid them good riddance since they have to leave for volunteer work again. The weekend comes rolling, they finish the conference, and, with summer vacation coming to a close, you also bid your part-time job here at Horangnabi farewell as well after two-months of service. 

“It’s not like she’s never coming back here,” Beomgyu huffs. You two decided to stop by before leaving off to your hometown, Monday after their conference. Julie refuses to stop squeezing you. Beomgyu tugs on your shirt sleeve, but you don’t budge. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Coming from the guy who’s spending the entire week with her,” Julie spits back. “You better bring her back here in one piece, you bug.”

Choi Beomgyu succeeds in retrieving you this time. The container carrying two cups of coffee swings in your hand as an arm hooks around your neck, tipping you back, and the top of your skull hits Beomgyu’s chin.

“Hanbin, we’re heading out.”

“Drive safe!”

You’re only spending a little over a week in Daegu. You two still need to come back to Seoul in time for Jung Sungchan’s, cough, epic summer rager. He hasn’t missed a day in reminding you about it. You’re out for a joint-family dinner with Choi Beomgyu and his family and your phone buzzes only to see Sungchan’s text saying [three days. i better see you there 🫵🫵🫵]. 

“Your classes don’t even start until September.”

It’s the third week of August. Your mom decides to walk you to Beomgy’s car. “I still need to enroll and register for my classes,” you tell her. “I’ll call you when I arrive.” You pause. “And if you want to know what I’m up to, just ask me directly for god’s sake. Quit asking that guy.”

That guy wrinkles his nose at you. “Auntie, don’t listen to her. She’s just being jealous.”

“Wait until I tell your mom about how you nearly set fire to your kitchen.”

“Say a single word and I’m never letting you in my car anymore.”

Jung Sungchan’s party is at their vacation home in Eunpyeong District because his parents aren’t in the country. There’s a pool (gross). He promised you and Minjeong exclusive room access to escape to in case of emergencies (nice). It’s late afternoon. Beomgyu is already there because, well, he’s Choi Beomgyu and everyone’s obsessed with him. You’re still at Minjeong’s apartment, getting ready and borrowing some of her accessories.

“You sure you don’t want me to drive you guys here?” he asks over the phone. You can barely hear him with the noise in the background. “Taxi fare’s expensive.” 

“Yeah, it’s fine.” Minjeong makes a face from the foot of the bed while she irons her hair. “I’ve saved up a lot of pocket money thanks to you being my personal chauffeur anyway. And Minjeong doesn’t like you. She thinks you’re a douchebag.”

“I don’t even know her!”

“Bye.” You hang up. Minjeong still has a look on her face. “What?”

“I think he’s stringing you along,” she says bitingly.

You let out a huff. “How can he string me along when I don’t even like him?” Minjeong simply says that Choi Beomgyu gives her bad vibes, whatever the fuck she means because the only vibe Beomgyu exudes is the vibe of extreme annoyance. You hop off Minjeong’s bed and change into the outfit you brought, opting to put on this very big, droopy sunhat you once bought at a flea market as extra protection. It’s stupid hot out. You steal some of Minjeong’s sunscreen as well before finally heading out.

“Did Sungchan invite everyone at uni or something?”

A foot into his gate, it’s already so crowded. Like really fucking crowded. There’s music blasting somewhere. You can’t find Sungchan anywhere in the yard so you and Minjeong squeeze your way into the house, and there you find him with Heeseung. Minjeong yells for his attention, and he spins around with a big smile. “Hey, you made it!” Sungchan hurls himself at you with a bone crushing hug. “It feels like it’s been ten years since I last saw you.”

“Quit being so dramat— ack! Tap out, tap out! I give!”

He finally releases you, and you grunt. “Here you go.” He tosses the keys to the room he promised. 

“Have fun partying.” Minjeong snatches it into her hands immediately. You scan the area for a bit. You see Hyunjin and Jeongin in the corner of the living room.

“Boo, you’re so lame,” jeers Sungchan, to which Minjeong just ignores and tugs your arm.

“How about you?” she asks.

You shift your gaze back to her. “I’ll go look for Choi Beomgyu’s round head first then hermit up there with you.” Minjeong makes a gagging noise before going off for the staircase. You’re ready to take out your phone to shoot Beomgyu a text, but you feel a sudden weight on the top of your head, so you look up, brows knitted.

“Your boyfie’s out in the back, sunshine,” Sungchan says while attempting to snatch your hat. 

“Not my fucking boyfriend.” You swat his hand away and readjust the hat on your head. “But thanks. Later.”

The thing about your longtime friend is that no matter how crowded the place, no matter how flooded an area is with people and people and people— he’s generally very easy to find. Just look for a crowd, look for bodies circling around each other and whoever is at the epicenter, at the eye of the storm, is more often than not Choi Beomgyu.

Your trick is proven to be effective this time around as well. When you leave the living room through the glass doors to the backyard, you spot him instantaneously sitting on the ledge of the other side of the pool, feet dipping into the water as he laughs along with the large group surrounding him. It’s bright out— the sun’s rays bouncing off from the water’s surface to glitter the underside of his face. Even the sun has his attention. It’s so comically ridiculous that you almost roll your eyes into a scoff. That is until you see him see you, and within a moment’s notice, he’s up on his feet and is departing from the crowd to walk up to you.

“You’re here.”

The first thing he does is swipe the sunhat from your head, adding it to his obnoxiously colored outfit: a bright pink buttoned top with neon orange flowers, the color matching the necklace he’s uncharacteristically wearing. He’s also got a pair of square framed sunglasses perched on his nose. “Is this your highlighter cosplay?” you ask, snickering. 

He shoots you a glare. “Fuck off. What took you so long, anyway? Thought you got lost or something.”

“I wish I did,” you grunt. There’s a holler and a splash from somewhere. You feel a few droplets hitting the skin of your feet. Beomgyu tugs you by the arm a little farther away from the pool. “This is way too noisy for my liking. And I thought I’ve been desensitized by you and your friends.” 

“Yeah, but—”

“Beomgyu!”

A third voice suddenly barges in from behind you. Beomgyu’s eyes leave your face for a second when you feel someone brush past your shoulders. “Hey!” Beomgyu greets back, giving who you assume is one of his friends a high five before the guy runs off again, then his gaze flits back to you. “Anyway—”

“Hey, kid, haven’t seen you in a while!”

A more familiar face shows up and greets Beomgyu with a slap on the back, once more fishing away his attention. You’ve seen him at Horangnabi before, you think. “Hyung, I’ll get to you in a sec!” he says. When Beomgyu looks at you again, his smile quickly drops into a pursed huff. “Ugh.”

You laugh. “You were saying?”

Beomgyu smacks his tongue in distaste, tugging you even further into a corner in the backyard, right next to a bush-lined fence under the shade. “I was trying to say— it’s good to get out of your comfort zone once in a while, you know. Your mother would cry tears of joy to hear that her hermit of a daughter is at a party.”

“Why do you always bring up my mother when you want to make a point?”

“Extra leverage,” he grins. “There’s drinks in the cooler. Want me to get you one?”

“Nah,” you say. “I’m gonna hole up in Sungchan’s room in about—” you check the time on your phone. “Ten minutes. Minjeong’s already in our sanctuary.”

You receive a pinch on the nose from Beomgyu for that. You try to elbow him off, and just as he’s about to say something again, you two hear his name being yelled out from somewhere in the area. “Choi Beomgyu! Pool volleyball, stat!” Beomgyu pauses, arms dropping to his sides and his shoulders slump in defeat. A single breath of wind, he’s gonna fall over.

“God fucking damn it.”

It’s very funny seeing him like this. “Off you go,” you push his limp body out of the shade, the sun hitting you both once more. Beomgyu makes a grunt of protest. “Go, butterfly, go. Your people are waiting for you.”

Beomgyu gives you a look of awful judgment, but starts unbuttoning his shirt anyway in preparation to take a dive. “You’re not gonna swim?” he asks.

“In that water?” you grimace. “Want me to catch a disease or some shit? You’re on your own, pal.”

“Drama queen,” he huffs, fully removing his shirt now and you’re like whoa there— eyes away, eyes away. A screeching voice calls from his attention. He looks behind to yell back, “Shut the fuck up, I’ll there in a minute!”

“Hand me your phone,” you tell him, holding out your hand. Beomgyu turns around, looking at you with his atrociously bright shirt hanging on his forearm. You clear your throat. “And clothes. Ask Sungchan for directions to his room to find me later.”

“You sure?” he asks, digging into his short pockets.

“Yeah. Go have your fun, loser.”

Beomgyu hums and takes your offer, handing you his phone, tossing his shirt to your face, putting your sun hat back on top of your head and making sure to ruin your hair in the process. He’s so fucking annoying. “I’ll be back after I kick their asses.”

The shirt drops from your face and falls, only to hang on your arm. “Hey. I don’t really care,” you say. Beomgyu doesn’t find that response satisfactory. He makes a face before running off, slow at first before breaking into a sprint once he’s near enough the pool, before jumping straight into the water with a loud splash!

His head emerges from the water, largely grinning with his hair sticking to his skull. It doesn’t take long for him to be swallowed by a group of people. You take this as your cue to leave.

“I know you hate it when people assume you’re dating. But seeing all that, I really can’t blame them.”

“Holy shit— Minjeong,” you jump, meeting face-to-face with your friend the moment you spin your heels. She’s got her arms crossed, looking at you like she’s massively unimpressed. “When did you get here?”

“I thought you died or something,” she shrugs. There’s a splash from the pool, you two getting hit as collateral damages and Minjeong makes a gagging noise. “I can’t believe I left home early for this mess.”

You make a noise of agreement. It’s around four right now, the number of people isn’t getting any smaller, and the music is yet to get louder. Choi Beomgyu’s shirt and phone are still on your person. Said phone buzzing incessantly in your hold. “I’ve been out here for a good ten minutes,” you say. “I think that’s enough.”

“Good call. Let’s go upstairs.”

On the way to the room, you bump into Heeseung, who ropes you in to taking two jello shots before setting you free. You also greet a few people that you know for uni here and there, but you can barely hear them over, well, everything. It’s so chaotic, you’re beginning to wonder how the hell Jung Sungchan is going to clean up the aftermath of this. Or maybe that’s why he was so desperate to have you and Minjeong over. So that you’d help him clean up. 

Minjeong seems to agree with your theory. You two key in the door to the room he gave you while cussing him out. “That bastard. Of course, he’d have ulterior motives.” The door opens. Minjeong lets herself in and immediately throws herself face-first onto the bed. “I’m gonna nap.”

“You dressed up all cutely just to sleep at a party,” you say, scanning around the room for a place to put away Beomgyu’s things. 

“Hey, my ten minutes of screentime needs to be worth it,” she replies, voice muffled by the mattress. “Night, night.”

With how pretty the interiors look, you’re pretty sure this isn’t a room Sungchan frequents. A guest bed, maybe. There’s a large window on the opposite wall revealing a vivid backyard view, sheer white curtains filtering the sun. It’s very bohemian. Tasseled rugs, rattan decor hung all around. You notice the round, wicker seat next to the bed with a patterned cushion. You toss Beomgyu’s belongings there and walk up to the window.

Peeling back the curtain, you look down to see a flood of people scattered all about the yard, muffled music and noises leaking into the cracks of the room. Choi Beomgyu is still splashing around the pool. You watch as he throws a beach ball overhead, eyes following it fly across the water, until it ultimately bounces off the pool ledge and hits someone from behind. He looks pretty happy with the stunt. You let out a huff, a tug on the corners of your mouth, and let yourself sink into the soft rug in between the bed and the windowsill, laying down.

You hear Minjeong squirming from above. Damn, she’s actually sleeping. You’d get up there and join her too, but the floor is already comfortable, and you’re already yawning, so you feel yourself starting to doze off, lulled by the distant sounds of people from the outside.

When you open your eyes again, it’s orange.

You open your phone. Almost six in the evening. The sunset leaks into the room through the sheer curtain, painting shadows on the floor as you blink and regain your consciousness.

Then you hear three sharp knocks from the other side of the door.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Coming.” It takes a while for you to reconnect the wires in your brain. You let out a yawn as you make your groggy steps towards the door, seeing Minjeong wedged into the upper corner of the bed in a way that’s definitely going to wrinkle her outfit. There’s a few more knocks on the door. You twist the knob open and lo and behold—

It’s Choi Beomgyu.

“Oh, thank god, I found the right room this time.”

Half-clothed. With a very evident, painful red mark on his left cheekbone.

“Holy shit. What the hell happened to you?”

You’re wide awake now. Beomgyu answers with a sheepish grin. “Well. You see. A little accident occurred.” 

He flinches back and looks away guiltily with tightly pressed lips the moment you nudge your face closer. It’s swollen. You take a step back with a sigh. “Explain,” you say, grabbing him into the room. You tip the door close with your foot and bring him to the foot of the bed, careful not to wake Minjeong up in the process.

“Some of the guys got a little too tipsy,” he starts as you sit him down onto the mattress. You kneel onto the bed stool, sinking into the loose blanket draped on the cushion just next to his outstretched legs while he continues yapping. “There was a surfboard involved. Don’t ask. But with alcohol-induced lack of coordination, and then there’s me who was by the pool ledge at the wrong place at the wrong time— I think you can get an idea of what happened.

He leans back, sinking his hands into the cushion. You dip forward. “That’s nothing to brag about.” Yeah, he’s gonna need some ice. 

“I think I bumped my head a little too.”

You feel a breath escape. He’s smiling. How many beer cans has he downed already? “Beomgyu. Seriously. What the fuck?” His face is irritating you, so you grab it and yank it down to get a good look of his big, round head. “Where?”

“Ack! Gently! Do it gently!” he complains, and you feel his right hand coil around your left wrist. “It’s father in the back, I think—”

“Quit grabbing—”

“Ow!”

You do manage to find the bump, but you accidentally press on it a little too hard, causing Choi Beomgyu to yank your wrist in surprise, jerking you forward out of balance. Now, that’s fine and all, but at the same moment, you hear two unfamiliar voices speaking in hushes approaching the door. Your eyes widen.

“Are you sure this room is empty?”

“Yeah, it’s empty, just—”

Swing! 

You try to get up. But your knees slip on the blanket on the stool and you stumble forward upon hearing the door slam open.

It’s a domino effect. Your palms are pressing against the soft mattress. Choi Beomgyu’s bruised face is looking straight at you in alarm. From underneath. You’re on top of him. On the bed. You snap your head towards the door and it’s wide, wide open with two people, half inside, and a few more heads poking in and zeroing in on you as the realization that you forgot to fucking lock it dawns upon you and soaks into your bones.

This. This isn’t a favorable position.

God damn it all.

“Sorry!”

And the door is slammed shut once more. That doesn’t matter. The damage has been done. You feel your face starting to burn and your strength attempting to escape from your body.

“Uh.”

The voice from below you reels your attention back in. You blink. Shit. You’re practically pinning Choi Beomgyu against the bed right now and his face is just a few inches away from yours. The heat is rising to your head. You want to move, but your arms won’t budge— seemingly temporarily locked into place by the shock of the sight underneath you.

His eyes are wide open, reflecting the orange tinted light from the ceiling, flushing his skin with a light shade of auburn, the tint deeper on his cheeks and nose. You see his throat bob, muscles contracting. 

The thing is, you’ve known him for a good twenty years or so, give or take. But you’ve never seen his face this close before, and you have to admit—

“C—can you move?”

Choi Beomgyu is kind of pretty.

Even with an ugly bruise forming underneath his eye.

“Hey. I don’t think this is gonna help kill any of the rumors.”

You look up to see Minjeong further up on the bed, very, very awake. You forgot she’s here. You toss yourself to the side with a squeak, practically hurling yourself off from the bed. “It—it was an accident!” you start. Minjeong simply shakes her head with sigh.

“I know. I saw everything. I was already awake the moment you sat this fucker’s ass on the bed.”

Hot. Your face is very hot. But Minjeong is also very right because god— you’re not sure how far things are gonna escalate. How many people saw that? Five? Maybe Six? Gosh, you don’t fucking know. The only thing you’re sure about is the fact that Lee Heeseung is gonna have a field day once he hears about this. You are royally screwed.

나비 / NABI. © hannie-dul-set, 2024.

[queenie435]

THE WORLD'S FIRST ELECTRIC ROLLER COASTER

Granville T. Woods (April 23, 1856 – January 30, 1910) introduced the “Figure Eight,” the world's first electric roller coaster, in 1892 at Coney Island Amusement Park in New York. Woods patented the invention in 1893, and in 1901, he sold it to General Electric.

Woods was an American inventor who held more than 50 patents in the United States. He was the first African American mechanical and electrical engineer after the Civil War. Self-taught, he concentrated most of his work on trains and streetcars.

In 1884, Woods received his first patent, for a steam boiler furnace, and in 1885, Woods patented an apparatus that was a combination of a telephone and a telegraph. The device, which he called "telegraphony", would allow a telegraph station to send voice and telegraph messages through Morse code over a single wire. He sold the rights to this device to the American Bell Telephone Company.

In 1887, he patented the Synchronous Multiplex Railway Telegraph, which allowed communications between train stations from moving trains by creating a magnetic field around a coiled wire under the train. Woods caught smallpox prior to patenting the technology, and Lucius Phelps patented it in 1884. In 1887, Woods used notes, sketches, and a working model of the invention to secure the patent. The invention was so successful that Woods began the Woods Electric Company in Cincinnati, Ohio, to market and sell his patents. However, the company quickly became devoted to invention creation until it was dissolved in 1893.

Woods often had difficulties in enjoying his success as other inventors made claims to his devices. Thomas Edison later filed a claim to the ownership of this patent, stating that he had first created a similar telegraph and that he was entitled to the patent for the device. Woods was twice successful in defending himself, proving that there were no other devices upon which he could have depended or relied upon to make his device. After Thomas Edison's second defeat, he decided to offer Granville Woods a position with the Edison Company, but Woods declined.

In 1888, Woods manufactured a system of overhead electric conducting lines for railroads modeled after the system pioneered by Charles van Depoele, a famed inventor who had by then installed his electric railway system in thirteen United States cities.

Following the Great Blizzard of 1888, New York City Mayor Hugh J. Grant declared that all wires, many of which powered the above-ground rail system, had to be removed and buried, emphasizing the need for an underground system. Woods's patent built upon previous third rail systems, which were used for light rails, and increased the power for use on underground trains. His system relied on wire brushes to make connections with metallic terminal heads without exposing wires by installing electrical contactor rails. Once the train car had passed over, the wires were no longer live, reducing the risk of injury. It was successfully tested in February 1892 in Coney Island on the Figure Eight Roller Coaster.

In 1896, Woods created a system for controlling electrical lights in theaters, known as the "safety dimmer", which was economical, safe, and efficient, saving 40% of electricity use.

Woods is also sometimes credited with the invention of the air brake for trains in 1904; however, George Westinghouse patented the air brake almost 40 years prior, making Woods's contribution an improvement to the invention.

Woods died of a cerebral hemorrhage at Harlem Hospital in New York City on January 30, 1910, having sold a number of his devices to such companies as Westinghouse, General Electric, and American Engineering. Until 1975, his resting place was an unmarked grave, but historian M.A. Harris helped raise funds, persuading several of the corporations that used Woods's inventions to donate money to purchase a headstone. It was erected at St. Michael's Cemetery in Elmhurst, Queens.

LEGACY

▪Baltimore City Community College established the Granville T. Woods scholarship in memory of the inventor.

▪In 2004, the New York City Transit Authority organized an exhibition on Woods that utilized bus and train depots and an issue of four million MetroCards commemorating the inventor's achievements in pioneering the third rail.

▪In 2006, Woods was inducted into the National Inventors Hall of Fame.

▪In April 2008, the corner of Stillwell and Mermaid Avenues in Coney Island was named Granville T. Woods Way.

[demonmarker]

Beautiful with you

Regina x Reader (Masc. Lesbian)

Chapter 1

Regina George. The Queen B of North Shore High, known for her dominance and the fact that anything she does is always for her self-gain, and you have absolutely nothing to do with her. Never had, never will, so you thought.

Like any other day you sat by yourself in the cafeteria at lunch, drawing in your sketchbook like you always did with your Doc Martin feet kicked up on the table, earbuds in with Bad Omens playing in your ear as you work on your latest idea for a new tattoo on the back of your neck when at the corner of your eye you see movement and… pink? You glance in the direction of the movement and see none other than THE Regina George clicking her fingers at you to get your attention. You had a small hallway crush on Regina. But who doesn't? You even have a realism drawing of her in your sketchbook, but you didn’t bother drooling over her or even bother trying to talk to her. You tried doing the whole friends thing when you were a kid and you were always left crying and humiliated, so it was a loner life for you and your sketchbook was the only friend you needed. Curiosity getting the best of you, you pulled out one of your ear buds showing she got your attention, “Regina” your voice low and husky since you never really talked much at school. “Oh my god finally,” your eyes narrow, not impressed by her opening line. “Come sit with us”, waving a beaconing hand. You lift one of your eyebrows up in suspicion, “Me? The tattooed lesbian loner freak? Sitting at the Plastics table? With the most popular and beautiful girls in the whole school? Yeah, I can see a red flag when I see it so… I’m going to pass.” Regina stuck her chest out proudly with a matching smile, “You think I’m beautiful?” You rolled your eyes and put your earbud back in your ear signalling that that was the end of their conversation. At the corner of your eye you see Regina get out of her seat and walk off, guessing you did the trick, no way was she really wanting to hang with you, like every other time it would probably have ended in a cruel prank that everyone but you found hilarious. Without warning your sketchbook was ripped out of your hands by the familiar blond using your book to swat your feet off the table, sitting where they once were. “Hey! What the fuck?!” Regina just held up her hand to silence you, and it. Fucking. Worked. The abruptness took you off guard. Queen B started flipping through your drawings, your cheeks going red knowing that the drawing you did of her is in there. “Hey, that’s private!” you tried snatching your art diary back but she was quicker, moving it out of your reach. “I don’t know why, these are surprisingly good. I was expecting stick figures at best, look you even coloured inside the lines.” Ignoring the insult your leg starts anxiously bobbing up and down rapidly from the anticipation of her discovering the drawing of herself, in that moment you’d rather defuse a bomb. Flicking another page Regina stopped in her tracks, her eyes widening and her mouth agape. The feeling of being so helpless to stop the inevitable made your anger rise, flashbacks of people laughing and humiliating you start running through your head. It wasn’t fair! This keeps happening again and again. Your anger gets the better of you and you abruptly get up from the table and storm off.

Getting to your locker, you attempt to enter the code into the lock but of course in you fit of rage you missed a number and that was the straw that broke the camel’s back as you smash your fist into the metal door “Fuck!”, removing your bloody fist from the now red dent in the locker door, you pinch the bridge of your nose as you feel a migraine coming on. “My god, you are such a drama queen!” the familiar voice of the cause of your anger exclaimed from behind. Your head snaps to see the blond beauty again, her eyes go to the bloody fist print you dented into your locker “Got it all out?” her eyebrows raised, seeing the blood, her eyes darted to your bloody knuckles hanging by your side. She gave an exaggerated sigh and grabbed you by the sleeve of your dark red leather jacket, “Come with me”, not like you had an option.

Pulling you out to the car park and to her red jeep she opened the passenger door and then the glove box grabbing a small first aid kit out, she held her hand out for your injured one and all you could do was watch in stunned silence as this woman–who everyone saw as the Queen Bitch herself–delicately cleaned and bandaged your injury. She glanced up at your confused expression “Stop looking at me like that you dork.” Being called out made your cheeks go red, instantly reacting you let out a “Sorry” like you got caught with your hand in the cookie jar. “Wait, why am I apologizing? You started this, give me back my sketchbook!” tying the bandage’s knot she raised her hands defensively. “Hey, I didn’t tell you to chuck a hissy fit and punch your locker now did I dummy? Say please and I’ll give you the sketchbook,” she grinned. Your eyebrows scrunched “No!” you snapped back. Lifting an eyebrow with a mischievous grin, she took a step closer to you while pulling your face down to hers, your faces barely inches apart, “Say. Please.” Your cheeks went beat red, being so close to the beautiful goddess you could smell her perfume and feel her breath on your face, all making you want to give into her, the want to obey your submissive side was almost overwhelming, “P-please”. Her grin grew, her hand still holding your collar pulled you the rest of the way to her lips. Those lips. Those soft, plump, intoxicating lips. You completely lose yourself, never wanting the kiss to end. She wraps her arm around your neck, her hand gently caressing the back of your head under your tied up black hair where your undercut is shaved almost to the skin. When you let a moan escape your throat you feel her something flat being pushed against your chest which you instinctively grab blindly. Pulling back, Regina ended the kiss by pulling on your lower lip with her teeth which you automatically moaned to. She put her forehead against yours reaching up she wipes her lipstick from your lips, softly whispering to your lips “Good girl”.

When you come down from cloud nine you see her already walking back to the main school building, Fuck, what just happened? You look down to the object in your hands and find your sketchbook with one page dog eared. You turn to the marked page which was the drawing of Regina, a message written in the open space of the page “You're kinda hot, come to my place after school today. Meet me by my car.” You couldn’t stop your heart from racing, Regina George just kissed you! And she wants to meet up with you again! The rational side of your brain kicked in and made you question if this was all some sort of trick, telling you to keep your walls up, scenarios like this don’t happen to loners like you. It’s not like you could hang out after school anyway.

Trying to get through all the scattering people at the end of school was always a nightmare but you manage to make your way to Regina’s jeep, the blond standing against the bright red car in waiting. Seeing you approach she straightens up “Hey Loser, you ready to go?” you roll your eyes at the nickname. “I’m sorry I can’t today.” She crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. “Oh? And why not?” “I-“ you start but you hesitate, you look off into the distance as you argue with yourself whether to tell her the truth and let her in, no one knows what really goes on in your life and you liked that way it kept everyone safe. Or should you just brush it off and leave it at that? You release a sigh, “Would you be up to letting me show you?” Regina narrowed her eyes wondering if she should trust you or not “You’re not going to take me to some creepy warehouse and murder me are you? The pretty blond always dies first and you got the whole broody, loner killer vibe going on” she gestured to your whole person. You roll your eyes “Do you want to or not?” Chucking her hands up in defeat “Argh fine”, she walked to the passenger side of her car as you got in the drivers. Once comfortable you get a confused look on your face as you look at the dash, Regina looking at you with her own look of confusion, “Remind me again which one is the brake and which one is the accelerator”

The look of disbelief she gave you was priceless, “You can’t be serious” You cackle from her reaction, “I’m joking” you continue to laugh as she slaps your arm, already feeling at ease around her. “Don’t worry I’ve got my full license, your baby is safe with me.” “She fucking better be” she mumbled.

Ch.02 Ch.03

[riofann]

1. tempestuous

Authors Note: I am trying something new. I like this story line please give me your feedback. Only reposts and likes please don't steal my work. XOXO Rose

Tempestuous: characterized by strong and turbulent or conflicting emotion.

Sunday March 3, 2019 

This wasn't just some little miss understanding, this was sabotage at its core. It's why you found yourself in a random warehouse strapped to the chair bruised and bloody.

Rio was convinced you had been under cutting him for months, that the money you were washing for him was short for the past 4 months. He claimed you had been purposefully giving him fake money mixed with real money, which ended up with him having Mick point a gun to the back of your head as soon as you walked in your home. 

Any attempts to have him show proof that you were not were thwarted by Nick egging Rio on, unbeknownst to you.

You had mentally prepared for death mentally prayed that your mother and father, sisters would heal from this pain along with the rest of your family. You hear footsteps approaching your heart begins to race. You had memorized his gait along with Mick's, this was it. Your death day was here.

There's nothing said but you feel your legs being untied along with your hands, he made sure to leave the head covering on. 

“Get up!” Mick says grabbing your arm

You're too scared to move but a strong grip on your arm forcefully drags you forward.

You’re uneasy as you walk because you didn't know where you were going,  you couldn't see anything. Mick helps you step in the van. The drive is quiet, you sit with your hands on your lap, body shaking at any given moment you could be dead. All the thoughts rush through your mind, your bar, your family, your house, your future, it's giving you a migraine. When the van stops, your mouth dries up you could be on a bridge over water or a remote land with a shallow grave.  

When you step out Mick removes the head cover and your eyes take time to adjust. 

You stood at the park near your home. There's nothing said, you look behind you as Mick gets in the van and drives away. You take in the scene, you can't think of how happy you are to hear children laugh in the distance or the sound of people talking. 

It's all still a shock to you. You look around and find a bench. Slowly you walk towards it. You sit at the most remote corner, no shower for a week, you’re positive you looked like you were unhoused. 

Moments pass before you let the tears flow. The deep wound of betrayal that you felt wouldn't be healed by a simple apology hell you hadn't even received one.

After a while as the sun begins to set you stand up slowly. The walk to your house would normally be 20 minutes but since you are weak it will take longer,  and staying out at night wasn't your plan. 

With unsure steps you begin to walk home. You’re happy to not see any familiar faces at the park. You couldn’t handle any one asking you what happened or you would have implicated Rio. 

When you get home you type in the key code to  enter and find your home in disarray. You deduced that Rio was looking for the money he claimed you were shorting him on. 

You search for your phone and find it in the rubble dead. Your house doesn't feel safe, it feels surreal, like at any moment Rio could be sitting on the corner chair waiting for you with a gun in hand and Mick lurking right around the corner, ready to shoot.

After a little more searching you find the charger and plug it in.

When it turns on you see the many calls missed your workers, your mom, your dad, your sister, your cousin, unknown numbers 

You make the first call “Hello! Y/N?!” You hear your mom scream through the phone

“Hey mom” you greet

“Where the hell have you been?! We've been calling you for the past week and you just ignore us?! We were worried about you!” 

It's all too much you begin to cry she didn't know,  no one knew about what you were doing but Rio and his crew

You gather yourself “I'm sorry mommy”  you cut her off

She pauses, “What's wrong?” 

You take in a deep breath “I'm sorry I disappeared mom I won't do it again” 

“Do I need to come over?” she lived a few states away in Ohio

You panic “NO!...” you take a deep breath again “No! I just I needed time to myself I got stressed I won't do that again I promise” you master up a calm tone

She sighs “okay, but what happened? Did you get hurt?” 

“You know the bar and life I just got overwhelmed” you lie 

“Honey I'm your mother you call me when things get tough you don't just disappear!” we called the police!" She lectures. “I couldn't sleep! Y/N it felt like something wrong happened!” your stomach drops she wasn’t wrong 

“I'm sorry mom I really am I won't do it again” 

“Well I'm coming to see you next week”  

“Mom you don't...”

She cuts you off “Nope I'm coming, something is wrong I know my child!” 

You sniffed “okay” you looked at your shaking hands 

“Okay well let me call you back I gotta get in touch with the police and everyone else let them know you’re alright” 

“Okay mom”

“When I call you better pick up and don't go missing again”

“I promise I won't!” 

“I love you” 

“I love you too” 

You hung up and go through similar conversation with your sister and the manager of the bar 

When it all ends you drag yourself to the shower and take one of the longest showers you’ve ever taken, you couldn't help but sob the entire time. You scrubbed so hard a week with no shower in a dingy warehouse you felt so dirty. 

All trust had been destroyed so much for this “partnership”

You hope to be able to sleep but you can't. Your body is riddled with anxiety, with every sound you hear your  heartbeat spiked. You couldn’t even bring yourself to drink water or eat anything that's in the fridge. You just want to disappear, move to a small town in the middle of nowhere and figure things out. 

You received a text in the middle of the night 

Rio: Business as usual 

You had stared at it for hours 

Business as usual as if all that happened meant nothing. 

How could you get out of this? What could you do to free yourself from this and him? Maybe offer up the bar? But this is something you worked hard on, this bar was one of the top bars in Detroit you weren’t willing to give it up to him. You had to think about what life would look like outside of the bar and what did you want out of life? 

Slowly over the course of the week you clean up the house, you eat something here and there and you drink water when you remember. You’re not sure how you managed to clean up the house in the state it was left in, must have been adrenaline.  Even after your mother insisted something was wrong when she came to visit you, that Friday you  faked the funk. How could you tell her that you were deeply entrenched with a man who has a whole cartel like of criminals on his side? All the questions that would come from that. You would have to explain how Rio essentially twisted your arm to agree and how you stupidly didn't go to the police.

When you finally show up at the bar the following Monday  everyone teases about your disappearance and you play along but you have things to do, books to manipulate money to wash. You lock yourself in the office while you gather the money. You count over 10 times making sure it's right each time. You don’t trust the machine as it counts you run it through verify by hand run it through again verify it then set it aside. You added extra just for good measure because you didn’t trust yourself either. 

Wednesday March 13, 2019 

As you wait for him to show up at your usual pick up spot, you feel sick to your stomach, no more sitting down and waiting for him. All sense of security between you two had crumbled. A car pulls up and you grip the bag tightly. 

It's a strange face

Your phone pings 

Rio: Got busy, you’ll be dealing with Jamal moving forward

The man walks up to you with a smile on his face. “You must be Y/N” You nod, he hands you a yellow envelope you hand him the bag with shaky hands “Good doing business with you” he comments before turning to leave 

“Can you make sure it's all there?” you blurt out 

He laughs at your ridiculous comment “can’t do that out here in public lady, I’ll let Rio know” 

You nod again and watch as he drives away. 

This is your routine now, Rio never confirmed instead he would just add the extra back into your cut. You adjust to this new norm of life. 

You don’t see or hear from him for months, maybe it was for the best after all, you were angry with him you had every right to be. Well things don’t last forever and nothing is written in stone. 

Tuesday June 4, 2019 

Your stomach drops when you walk into your house that night, you feel the day you were kidnapped replaying itself. There was Rio on the corner chair with Mick lurking around the corner. 

“Not here to hurt you mama” he comments lifting his hands up to show that he wasn't there with malicious intent

You hadn’t left the door, in fact you were slowly inching away

“I wouldn’t do that”

“What do you want?” You ask in a shaky voice

“We need to talk” “You can text it” 

“I can’t” 

You sigh and close the door 

“I need your help” he reveals as you enter the living room. You don’t respond

“All that money I gave you, I need it, I’ll pay you back” 

You place your purse down “Why don’t you go get it I’m sure you know where it is”

He smirks because that was true  “don’t be like that mama” he tries to win you over 

“Don’t be like..” you pause “FUCK YOU RIO!” You scream “YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST SHOW UP AND ASK FOR MY MONEY, THE MONEY I WORKED HARD FOR?! WITHOUT AN APOLOGY WITHOUT ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF WHAT YOU DID TO ME!?” 

He rolls his shoulders back “It's just business” “BUSINESS?!” You stomp towards him Mick goes to interfere but Rio stops him. You glare at Mick “WHAT? YOU DON’T THINK YOUR BOSS CAN HANDLE HIMSELF, HE'S THAT MUCH OF A BITCH?!” When you turn to face Rio a blank stare replaces his expression no longer amused by your anger, guess that insult wasn’t taken lightly “I’VE BEEN YOUR PARTNER FOR 2 FUCKING YEARS! 2 YEARS! AND NEVER DID I EVER SHORT YOU. I ALWAYS MADE SURE THAT THE AMOUNT I GAVE YOU WAS RIGHT! AND YOU WHAT? YOUR FUCKING COUSIN” he shifts uncomfortable that you know the details behind the scenes “YEA I FOUND OUT, THE MOTHERFUCKER YOU CLAIM TO BE UNTRUST WORTHY YOU ALL OF A SUDDEN TRUST HIM?!” 

He says nothing “YEA JUST BUSINESS THIS IS WHO YOU ARE AS A PARTNER HUH? YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT LOYALTY AND PRINCIPAL, FUCK EVERYONE ELSE SO LONG AS YOU GOT YOUR MONEY RIGHT?” You pause looking at him waiting to see any sort of remorse, regret, something, anything! However he says nothing, his face is stoic like you were complaining about nothing important. As the tears stream down your face, you accept that this was pointless, he was never going to admit fault and you were never going to be able to step away from this life unless you were dead or in prison.  You take a deep breath, defeated you say  “You know where the money is go get it” you step away and motion towards the direction. He gives Mick a nod. He says nothing else, and you watch as they both leave. As soon as the door closes a loud scream leaves your body as soon as they walk out. How were you going to get out of this? Maybe fake your death or  leave the country to start over in a small village in the middle of nowhere!

Nothing changes after that day, still dealing with Jamal and still trying to find a way out of things. You receive an invitation from Nick to some sort of  masquerade ball in the city to “raise” funds for local charities. Mayor "duties". You assume not attending wasn’t an option.

Saturday July 13, 2019

The day of the ball arrives, you booked a town car for the night. No point in driving yourself and as far as you were concerned if anyone wanted to hurt you they could because you had no safety net after all. 

You step into the space you have to admit Nick went all out planning this event because it looked like a scene from a movie. You find your table and take a seat. You know no one who sits at your table you take a look around and spot Rio. It was easy,  anyone could spot his tattoo from a distance. A few speeches, the auction, then dinner is served proceeding with the party next. You look down at your watch, you had spent enough time at the event and you were hungry. 

If there was anything you learned from Rio and Nick never trust them so the most you did was nibble on your dinner plate and take small sips of your drink. 

“This seat taken?” you hear from behind you making look

You smile “No”

“Great!” he pulls out the chair 

“Hi I’m Alejandro”  he extends his hand to greet you 

You shake his hand  “Y/N Nice to meet you” 

He bows his head “Mucho gusto cariño (nice to meet you dear)”

“So do you work with Rio?” He takes a sip of his drink 

Not again it felt like you were being set up “Why do you want to know?” you finally take him in a man the same age as Rio and Nick rocking a gold canine tooth with many necklaces and rings on his finger. Gold to be exact. He had a thick accent, you assume somewhere from Central America or Spanish speaking country. 

He waves his hand around his head “Rumors go flying around” You nod still unsure of the purpose of this conversation “And Majority of the women here are plus one to their boyfriends or husband wasn’t hard to find you, that dress you came in all alone, heads were turning” he shamelessly looks you over biting his lip

“What do you want?” this conversation needed to end quickly 

He smiles, it makes you uneasy “Oh I don't want anything....” he pauses “It's a shame that they put you through that” you shift uncomfortably “But now you know who they are, the Serraño family. This is how they operate, they are vicious, they don’t care how many lives they destroy, they don’t operate with any principals...” 

You cut him off “I have come to that conclusion” 

He stops and chuckles lightly “Anyway I’m a much better option, I honor my principals and partnerships. I will have people reach out to you next week. Maybe I can take you out to lunch and we can talk.  You don’t have to stick with them” 

You nod but look past him to see Rio staring at both of you. Even the women trying to engage with him were failing due to how his gaze was dead set on you and Alejandro.

Alejandro looked back following your gaze as an additional ‘fuck you’ to Rio he raises his glass as a toast before turning back to face you “Ooop! I’ve been caught” with that he quickly stands up “Talk to you later cariño” 

You decide that this is your cue to leave and make your way out of the building. 

Authors Note: Please leave your feedback, again please don't steal. Only repost, like, or give credit.

Oh I can also start a tag list just let me know.

XOXO Rose

[dreamsteddie]

I'm sick, I'm languishing, I'm wearing a blanket in 70 degree heat, and I've been watching The Price is Right on loop since 10 AM.

Anyway, related to my previous posts (here and here), Eddie goes on tour for a couple of months and while he's away, Robin and Steve take a cross-country road trip on a whim to try and be on the Price is Right together.

She's glad Eddie was a good partner and took Steve to be on his favorite show, but she's a little offended they didn't bring her with them. She is mostly appeased by Eddie's continuous and vehement denial that Steve was talking about her and not him when Bob asked him about having a special girl back home. No mater how many times she brings it up, he always gets all red in the face and gives some long winded speech about love and being queer in public and coded speech. It's always hilarious.

Anyway, they get bored one day, and Steve has no qualms about using his and Eddie's joint account, even if it's mostly Eddie's money these days, while Steve does charity and volunteer work. So, when Robin asks Steve if he wants to go to California with her and try to get on again, he kind of just shrugs and goes to grab his shoes.

They drive for two days to get there, singing along to their music, eating too much junk food and not drinking enough water. Robin even forces Steve to listen to one of her book cassettes for "enrichment."

When they get to LA they grab a room at a semi-decent hotel (they could afford something luxury but they are so deep in Roadtrip Mode they don't even think about it). Robin lets Steve try on a million outfits that all look the same and makes up critiques and compliments for each of them because she knows her best friend and knows he won't leave until he feels like he's made the 'right' outfit choice. Steve, who still never fully let the outfit thing from last time go, will add this onto his once-yearly rant to Eddie. The man in question will find this equal parts endearing and aggravating.

They wait in line for two hours with the rest of the hopefuls, partake in interviews with PAs out on the street, and get ushered in. With their dynamic and good looks, they were never not going to get in.

It's the mid-90s, but everything is mostly the same as when Steve and Eddie went together in 89'. Some of the curtains are different and some of the small decals have been removed or changed and Steve delights in pointing off each and every minute change to Robin who finds it fascinating. She likes to pose outlandish hypotheticals for why they had to change it. Apparently, the last set of curtains got eaten by a pack of alpacas that broke in after hours. Who knew?

They watch and cheer and give standing ovations and it seems like the show is going to end without either of them being called up. Neither of them are too put out by it, chances are always low that they call your name, but then they go to call up the last contestant and the name is Robin Buckley. It takes a second for them to register what they heard, and the camera pans just in time to see them holding hands and jumping around like children. Robin steps on several pairs of shoes on her way to contestant's row

Bob catches it and ribs her a little about the number of toes she just broke and how she might need to win to pay off some medical bills. She laughs, extremely awkwardly, and they get to bidding. It's a pair of bicycles which she actually loves since her Women's History course last year had a lesson on how the widespread accessibility of the bicycle in Europe and the United States was seen as a "dangerous" gateway into women's liberation and a potential cause for lesbianism due to the shape and placement of the seat.

Steve knows she's been looking for a good bike, and has been given many a second-hand lesson about Women's History from his best friend, cheers extra loud in the audience. They both know she's got this.

Robin guesses the exact right number on the first try and wins that extra hundred. She kind of hates reaching into Bob's pocket to get it, but a hundred dollars is a hundred dollars. She plays Danger Price and wins all four prizes (a secretary, a stereo system, a barbeque, and a fancy-looking clock). She is so extremely smug about the whole thing.

When it's time to spin the wheel, she get's a dollar across two spins and gets the 1,000 dollars, which Steve absolutely loses his head about. The camera pans to him on his feet, clapping and screaming her name. Unfortunately, another contestant does the same and loses in the spin off. Steve is in no way put off by Robin not being in the showcase because he's too busy going on about statistics and average winnings like this is an actual sport.

At the end of the day they pack away all their stuff into the back of Robin's old station wagon, check out of their hotel, and spend a couple of nights in San Francisco before heading back home. It's a miracle no one breaks into their car.

Eddie comes back home about a month later, and Steve just...never mentions it. For how much he loves The Price is Right, he never says a word about their little trip until a week after his return when the episode airs. At first, Eddie doesn't even notice because the camera pans over everyone so quickly. It's not until Steve runs to grab their now cordless phone, an unheard of act for Steve who takes this time of day very seriously, that he even clues in on anything being different.

It's only when he hears Steve talking into the receiver to Robin about "our episode being on" that he cottons on completely to what exactly is happening. The camera snatches a close up of the two of them whispering to each other and clapping when they come back from commercial break.

He nudges Steve with his toe the entire episode just to bother him for not telling him about an entire multi-day trip, but he knows trying to tear his boyfriend away from both The Price is Right and Robin is a lost cause and resigns himself to waiting until the episode ends before they talk about it.

It turns out Steve did call Eddie the night they got back from filming to tell Eddie all about it. Unfortunately, it was one of those nights where Eddie is both in a different time zone and deeply asleep after a performance and he answers the phone half awake and doesn't remember it in the morning, having hummed and agreed in the right places on instinct and only remembers the call as a hazy dream the next morning.

[gunsandspaceships]

MCU Timeline: Avengers: Age of Ultron

19th century - Black Panther kills Ulysses Klaue's great-grandfather during his attempt to annex Wakanda.

1990s - Wanda and Pietro Maximoff are born (12 minutes apart).

Between 1992 and 2008 - Tony meets Ulysses Klaue at an arms convention, before Klaue got his tattoos and branding.

~2000 - the Maximoff twins become orphans. They remain trapped with the unexploded shell for 2 days.

May 4/5, 2012 - STRIKE hands the Scepter over to Dr. List.

Early 2014 - Maximoffs volunteer for Hydra's experiments and become mutants.

Spring 2014 - Spring 2015:

The Avengers become Tony's private paramilitary organization under Cap's command.

The team moves in the Avengers Tower.

September/October 2014 - Clint is on vacation.

Tony creates the Iron Legion.

Tony and Bruce create Veronica and Hulkbuster.

The Avengers raid Hydra bases in search of the Scepter.

The main events take place in early or mid-April 2015.

Day 1 (Thursday), April 2nd or 9th:

Afternoon in Sokovia - The Avengers attack the local Hydra base.

3 pm in NY (several hours later) - they return to Avengers Tower. Clint is being treated by Dr. Cho.

Evening - Tony convinces Bruce to use the Scepter to try to create a global peacekeeping AI, Ulton.

Day 1-3 (Thursday-Saturday), April 2-4 or 9-11 - Tony and Bruce work on Project Ultron.

Day 3 (Saturday), April 4th or 11th:

Evening - the birth of Ultron.

The farewell party.

Night - Ultron's attack on Avengers Tower.

Day 4 (Sunday), April 5th or 12th:

Early morning in Sokovia - Ultron takes the Scepter, goes online, and, after connecting to Strucker's castle in Sokovia, begins creating a new body and many Ultron Juniors.

The Avengers discuss the situation.

Days 4-8, April 5-9 or 12-16:

Ultron builds his body.

Maximoff twins join him.

Ultron and the twins are emptying laboratories and weapon facilities.

Ultron tries to get his hands on the nuclear codes, but J.A.R.V.I.S. holds the line.

The Avengers try to find him and find out his plans.

Rhodey returns to his duties in the Air Force.

Thor tries to reach Heimdall, to no avail.

Ultron kills Strucker.

Day 8 (Thursday), April 9th or 16th:

3:30 - 5:40 pm - the Avengers learn of Strucker's death and finally track down Ultron, which leads them to Ulysses Klaue.

Note: It's always Thursday on computers in this movie. It's highly doubtful that this is true for all of them, and is most likely just a result of the laziness of whoever was in charge of the screens. I'll accept this as true for the first appearance only, since it also makes sense for the number of days that have passed.

Rhodey heads to the Middle East. Tony updates War Machine's encryption against Ultron's cyber attacks.

~Day 9 (Friday), April 10th or 17th:

Afternoon in South Africa - The Battle at the Salvage Yard.

Evening in Africa/Morning in the US - The Duel of Johannesburg.

Night in Africa/Day in the US - the team is on their way to Barton's farm.

Afternoon - team arrives at Barton's farm. Thor departs to London. Fury sits in ambush in Clint's barn.

Evening - Bartons and Co are having dinner. Fury gives the Avengers a pep talk.

~Day 10 (Saturday), April 11th or 18th:

8 pm in Korea/6 am in the US - Ultron takes control of Helen Cho and her Cradle in Seoul.

6 am in the US - the Farmers Avengers split up: Tony heads to the Nexus facility in Oslo; Rogers, Barton, and Romanoff head to Seoul; Fury drops Banner off at the Tower, picks up Hill and Rhodes, and then goes to dust off the original Helicarrier.

Night in Korea/Morning in the US - Ultron and Doctor Cho work on Ultron's new vibranium-organic body.

Afternoon in Oslo/Morning in the US - Tony retrieves what's left of JARVIS from the net.

Afternoon in London/Morning in the US - at the University of London, Thor picks up Erik Selvig and takes him to the Water of Sight.

Afternoon in the US - Tony restores JARVIS.

Morning in Seoul/Evening in the US - Ultron begins uploading himself into the new body. The twins learn of his plan, remove his control from Dr. Cho, and escape.

The Battle of Seoul.

The twins join the Avengers. Ultron takes Natasha to his castle in Sokovia. Clint brings the Cradle to Tony and Bruce.

Night in NY - Natasha wakes up in the castle. Ultron creates a new body out of vibranium. Tony and Bruce work on Vision. Clint connects with Nat.

Note: on this computer screen it's Thursday (again) and 3:28 PM, which obviously doesn't match the time in the movie. It's night there, so we have to ignore this unreliable evidence for both the day of the week and the time.

The birth of Vision.

The Avengers prepare to battle Ultron. Tony chooses FRIDAY as his new main AI.

~Day 11 (Sunday), April 12th or 19th:

6 am (local) - the Avengers arrive in Sokovia and evacuate the city.

7 am - the Battle of Sokovia.

Tony and Thor save Earth from the artificial meteorite. Pietro dies saving Clint. Vision kills Ultron. Hulk takes the Quinjet and leaves the planet.

Evening in the US - Clint comes home.

April - September 2015:

Barton retires.

Tony builds a new Avengers Compound in upstate New York.

~June 2015 - Nathaniel Pietro Barton is born.

Note: babies usually start giggling around 4 months of age. At the time of the main events, he was about 2 months away from being born, then add about 4 months to that Compound scene.

September 2015:

The new team has been assembled, now including Wanda, Rhodey, Sam and Vision.

Fury, Hill, Cho and Selvig work at the Avengers Compound.

After making sure that the team is assembled, the Compound is built and everything is ok, Tony tries to retire. Again.

Thor goes to investigate the situation with the Infinity Stones.

Note: I take it the makeup artists thought this scene took place right after the Battle of Sokovia? That's why Thor still has scratches on his face. But as practice shows, children are not born and do not grow up so quickly (see the previous note), so we will have to accept the fact that Thor has already managed to fight with someone again.

Forever - Clint Barton lives.

MCU Timeline: The Infinity Saga

[milgram-en]

Trial 1 - John Doe Voice Drama (Side-by-Side English Translation)

Preface: I’ll say this upfront: The John Doe VD translation on YouTube has a lot of mistranslations. Some things are just pulled out of thin air, especially with Kotoko’s dialogue. I hope this translation can help clear things up and, since the original text from the scriptbook is also provided, you are free to double check the translations itself and develop your thoughts from there. As Yamanaka has said in his Twitter 部外者からの表面的な理解は、攻撃とたいして変わらないからね (A shallow understanding from someone on the outside can feel just as violent as a direct attack). Translators have an ethical duty to respect the original writers and the speech community (the language and its culture) in their translations. Otherwise, it can contribute to a lot of harm. Especially when it comes to portrayals of persons that come from and are shaped by our present-day world, mistranslations of the themes found in this series can result in a lot of violence down the line. Google Docs version of this translation. If using/reuploading/reposting this translation, do not remove the translator's notes, do not color code the translations, and do not change the translations. Any additional Translator's Notes will be found in the replies. Check the original post before reblogging as TLs are occasionally revisited and edited.

ミルグラム監獄内尋問室 MILGRAM PRISON INTERROGATION ROOM 薄暗い尋問室。 A dimly lit interrogation room.

尋問室でミコトが椅子に座っている、足をぶらつかせ、暇そうな態度。 ふと、深い溜め息をつき、 Mikoto is sitting on a chair in the interrogation room, legs dangling, looking bored. Suddenly, he lets out a deep sigh. ミコト　「はあ～〜」 MIKOTO: Ha… 思わず、天を仰ぐ。 Unbeknownstly, he looked up towards the heavens. ミコト　「……こんなとこで何やってんだろ、僕」 MIKOTO: …What am I doing in a place like this? I… エス　「本当にな」 ES: Truth be told, I wonder that as well. ミコト　「うわっ！」 MIKOTO: Ah-! エス　「ま、それを明らかにするのもミルグラムの仕事だ」 ES: Well, it’s MILGRAM’s job to make that clear. いつの間にか尋問室の扉は開いており、エスがじっとミコトを見ている。 驚いて椅子ごと倒れ込みそうになったミコト、あわてて、 Before you knew it, the door to the interrogation room was open and ES stared at MIKOTO. MIKOTO gasps—startled—and almost falls out of the chair. ミコト　「ちょっと！びっくりさせないでよ、看守くん。ドアを開ける時はノックするってそこそこ常識じゃない？」 MIKOTO: Hold on-! Don’t scare me like that, Warden-kun! Isn’t it common sense to knock before opening a door?  エス　「うるさい、指図するな」 ES: Shut up, don’t tell me what to do. ミコト　「横暴なんだけど！」 MIKOTO: Isn’t that tyrannical of you though?! ミコトの言葉に取り合わず、エスは向かいの椅子に座る。偉そうに足を組む。 ES disregards MIKOTO’s words indifferently, taking none to heart, and sits in the chair opposite to him. They cross their legs arrogantly.  エス　「尋問を始めるぞ、囚人番号9番、ミコト」 ES: Let’s begin the interrogation, Prisoner Number 9, MIKOTO. ミコト　「いやいや、尋問って言われても……別に何も隠してることなんてないってば」 MIKOTO: Hey, hey- no- Despite calling it an “interrogation”... I’m really not hiding anything. [T/N: Calling something an “interrogation” implies questioning someone in order to get information that may or may not be hidden. Interrogations can sometimes use threats or violence. (Cambridge Dictionary)] エス　「名前、年齢」 ES: Name. Age. カヤノミコト KAYANO, MIKOTO ミコト　「えーっと、榧野尊23歳……じゃなくてさ、僕はずーっと君に話があったんだよ看守くん」 MIKOTO: Uh, well… Mikoto Kayano, 23 years-old… Ah, well I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while, Warden-kun. [T/N: ES uses the katakana spelling of ミコト (mikoto) which frames and highlights MIKOTO’s difference from Es, him the Prisoner and Es the Warden. Katakana is typically used for words with an outsiderness (ex. foreign loanwords), for emphasis, and/or to make something seem “louder” in some aspect. However, MIKOTO uses kanji spelling of his name 榧野尊 (kayano mikoto) which is the proper and legal way, attributing to him a groundedness in humanity compared to the alienation that spelling something in katakana can make. This is why, instead of translating 榧野尊 as “MIKOTO KAYANO”, it was translated into “Mikoto Kayano” instead.] エス　「なんだ？手短に済ませろ」 ES: What? Make it short. ミコト　「ねぇ、いつ終わるのこれ？」 MIKOTO: Hey, when is this going to end? エス　「はぁ？」 ES: Hah? ミコトの質問が想定外だったエス、怪訝な顔。それを見てヒートアップするミコト。 ES looks puzzled. They were not expecting MIKOTO’s question. Seeing this, MIKOTO gets fired up. ミコト　「いや！そりゃそうでしょ！急にこんな所に連れてこられてさ！ヒトゴロシだのなんだの訳わからないこと言われて……なにかのドッキリとか？リアリティショーとか？モニタリングされてる的な！！そう思って我慢してたんだけど！？！ だからこそ、他の皆とも仲良くやってんだけどさ！テレビだとしたら映りとか気を使うじゃん！？！でも、でもさ！あまりにも長すぎる！なんなのこれ！」 MIKOTO: No-! Of course! Look- I was suddenly brought to this place and-! Telling me things I don’t understand like being a "murderer"… Is this some sort of prank? A reality TV show? Where I’m being monitored?!! I thought that that was what I was trying to endure!?! That’s why I was getting along with everyone else! If it was TV, you have to be careful with how you look! But, but! It’s been going on for way too long!?! What is this! [T/N: ヒトゴロシ (hitogoroshi) “murderer” is spelled with katakana. In order to translate over the vibes that gives highlight and distance to the word, "murderer" is placed within quotation marks.] エス　「はぁ……お前まだそんなこと思っていたのか？ミルグラムが、何かの冗談だと」 ES: Ha… You still think that? That MILGRAM is some kind of funny little joke? ミコト　「思ってるよ……思ってるに決まってるだろ！」 MIKOTO: I really do… Of course I’d do!

鼻息荒いミコト、少しずつ息を落ち着けると、しゅんとした表情を見せる。 MIKOTO is breathing heavily, calming his breathing down little-by-little, a despondent look on his face. ミコト　「……だって、僕は本当に身に覚えがないんだ。罪を犯したとか、ヒトゴロシとか言われても、知らないよ……僕はただのしがない会社員だし……」 MIKOTO: …Because I, myself, really don’t remember anything. Even if you say I committed a crime or "murdered" someone, I really don’t know anything… I’m just your standard, everyday lowly office worker… エス　「ふうん………」 ES: Hm… ミコト　「……なんだよ、人が真剣に話してるってのに、ニヤニヤして」 MIKOTO: What’s up with you? A person’s talking seriously and you’re here grinning. エス　「……考えてみれば初めてだと思ってな。『まったく身に覚えがない』としらばっくれる囚人は……」 ES: …Come to think of it, this is the first time a prisoner’s tried to feign ignorance saying, “I really don’t have any recollection of anything whatsoever.” ミコト　「しらばっくれてないって！マジで！マジで知らない！ほら、僕の目見て！ほら！」 MIKOTO: I’m not feigning it! Seriously! I really don’t know! Look, look into my eyes! Look! ミコト、エスの肩を持ち正対させ、まじまじと瞳を見つめる。 MIKOTO holds ES by the shoulders and turns them to face him directly, looking intently into their eyes.

エス　「さわるな、馴れ馴れしい」 ES: Don’t touch me. You’re being too casual. [T/N: Alternatively translated as: “Don’t touch me. You’re being too buddy-buddy [when you’re a Prisoner and I’m the Warden].” which preserves the implications/nuances.]

ミコト　「いいから、ちゃんとこっちを見てよ！」 MIKOTO: C’mon, just look at me seriously! エス 　「……ふーん」 ES: Hmm. ミコト　「どう？マジでしょ」 MIKOTO: So? I’m being truthful, right? エス　「知るか。『嘘をついているような目に見えない』とでも言われることを期待したか。僕はそんな曖昧なもので判断はしない」 ES: Who knows. Do you expect me to say, “You don’t look like you’re lying” or something? I don’t make judgements based on vague things like that.

進まない話に、苛立つミコト。エスの肩にかけた手を離す。 MIKOTO is losing his patience, annoyed at the lack of progress in the conversation. He takes his hands off of ES’ shoulders. ミコト　「だー、もう……ん？いや、待ってくれ。そもそも僕が何をしたか看守くんも知らないんだろ？」 MIKOTO: Ah c’mon..! No- Wait a second. Warden-kun has no idea what I did in the first place, right? エス　「あぁ、まったく知らない」 ES: Ah, I have absolutely no clue. ミコト　「なんだよ、それ！それで僕をヒトゴロシだと決めつけるなんて横暴じゃない？」 MIKOTO: What’s with that! Because of that, isn’t it oppressive of you to brand me a “murderer”? [T/N: 横暴 (ougou) can mean violence, oppression, tyranny. When MIKOTO says “Isn’t it oppressive of you” there’s a sense of him calling ES’ action of branding him a label as serious as “murderer” even though ES has no idea what he did or if he really did commit a crime (since ES is going off of what Jackalope/MILGRAM told them) violent— something that hurts, damages, or even kills.] エス　「横ではない。ミルグラムがそう言っている。僕にはそれで十分だ」 ES: There’s no correlation in that. MILGRAM said that you’re a murderer. That’s enough for me. ミコト　「なんで盲目的にそれを信じられるんだよ。話にならないよ………」 MIKOTO: Why are you just blindly entrusting your belief to that? There’s no sense to it… エス　「……」 ES: … ミコト　「とにかく僕は本当に知らない。人も殺してない。悪いこともしてない。コツコツ普通に人生やってきただけ。それなのにこんな変なことに巻き込まれるなんてさ！」 MIKOTO: Anyway, I honestly have no idea. I haven’t killed anyone. I haven’t done anything bad. I’ve just been diligently living an ordinary life and yet- I get caught up in some weird, suspicious thing- what’s with that! [T/N: By "weird, suspicious thing" he means MILGRAM.] イライラが募るミコト、思わず椅子から立ち上がる。 同時に振り上げた拳を、ゆっくり下ろす。 MIKOTO is getting more and more irritated, unconsciously standing up from his chair. At the same time, he slowly lowers his raised fist. ミコト　「……そんなの冗談だって、思いたいよ……思いたいだろ、こんなの……」 MIKOTO: …I want to believe that that’s just a joke…I want to think that this… エス　「ふむ」 ES: Hm. ミコト　「僕にだって生活があるんだよ、苦労して憧れの会社入ったばかりなんだよ……クビになったら責任取ってもらうからな……」 MIKOTO: I have a life, y’know? I toiled so hard just to get into the company of my dreams… If I get fired, you better take responsibility… [T/N: Being fired in Japan is an arduous task. Generally, if you get fired, you need to make sure that you: (1) get the certificate of dismissal/reason for firing; (2) go through the process of switching your pension and insurance; (3) make sure you get your unemployment insurance/severance pay/compensation; and optionally (4) contest the firing. There’s a lot of paperwork involved and the way companies are structured makes it a pain + take a long time to get anything done. Not to mention the emotional labor it takes to deal with bureaucracy since it’s not unheard of that employers can gaslight or be hostile.]

エス　「……なるほどね。面白い」 ES: …I see. How interesting. ミコト　「面白いことがあるもんか」 MIKOTO: What’s so interesting? 心底面白げにニヤつくエス。 わざとらしくパンと手を叩く。 ES grins, genuinely amused. They clap their hands in an exaggerated manner. エス　「よし、一旦その前提で話に付き合ってやる。……思考実験だ。ミコト、お前は何もしていない」 ES: Alright, for now, why don’t we go ahead and talk under that assumption of yours? …A thought experiment. MIKOTO, you haven’t done anything.  ミコト　「そう！そのとおりだよ、看守くん！」 MIKOTO: Yes! That’s right, Warden-kun! エス　「一旦な。一旦お前は囚人番号9番ミコトではないとしよう。そうだな、ただのミコトくんだ」 ES: For now. For now, let’s pretend you’re not Prisoner Number 9 MIKOTO. That’s right, you’re just MIKOTO-kun. ミコト　「いいね、ミコトくんでいこう！僕も親愛をこめてスーくんって���ぶよ」 MIKOTO: That’s right, let’s go with MIKOTO-kun! I’ll also put in the effort and call you “Su-kun” [T/N: The “effort” MIKOTO’s putting in is more so “affection” (親愛, shin ai). Alternatively translated as: “I’ll also put in some dear effort and call you “Su-kun"] エス　「それはいらん。調子に乗るな」 ES: That’s unnecessary. Don’t get carried away. ミコト　「ええ……」 MIKOTO: Eeh…? ミコトに近づき、見上げるようににらみつけるエス。 ES approaches MIKOTO, glaring up at him. [T/N: There’s wordplay here with ミコトに近づき (mikoto ni chikadzuki). Chikadzuki can mean “approach” but it also means “making acquaintance with someone”. In the context of the interrogation, ES is both approaching MIKOTO and making acquaintance, getting to know him.] エス　「付き合ってやるかわりに一旦僕の言っていることを事実だと飲みこめ、ミルグラムはショーなどではなく現実だ」 ES: In exchange for going along with it, for now you’ll have to swallow what I’m saying as fact and that MILGRAM isn’t some show. It’s reality. ミコト　「ううん……えっと、ここがヒトゴロシを集めている施設ってこととか？それを歌と映像で云々とか？」 MIKOTO: Uh… so, this is some sort of institution or facility that assembles "murderers"? Through song and mental footage and stuff? エス　「そうだ。お前の言うことだけを言じるならば、お前以外の9人は全員ヒトゴロシだ」 ES: That’s right. If we’re only going by what you say, the other nine people are all murderers. ミコト　「そんな場所にいるのヤバすぎるでしょ。みんな全然そんな人たちに見えないし……ほら、そもそも小学生いるんだよ？」 MIKOTO: Isn't it way too dangerous to be in a place like that? None of them seem like a person who could do something like that at all… Look, why’s there even an elementary schooler here?

ミコトの言葉に眉をひそめるエス。 ES furrowed their eyebrows at MIKOTO’s words. エス　「……それはアマネにあまり言わないほうがいいぞ。めんどくさいことになる」 ES: …You shouldn’t say that to AMANE. It’ll just become a hassle. ミコト　「ん？なんで？」 MIKOTO: Huh? Why? エス　「まぁ、お前の言うことはわからないでもない。僕も尋問していて学んだ。人の印象はどうしても外見に引っ張られる」 ES: Well, I can understand where you’re coming from. I also learned this while interrogating people- The impression of a person is inevitably influenced by their external appearance.  ミコト　「でしょ～？ゆんちゃんとか、むっちゃんとかただのJKじゃん。ハルくんなんて虫も殺せなさそうな顔してるし、フータなんて傘パクんのがやっとでしょ。ほら、マッピーはただの良い人だし。ま、カズさんとかシドウさんとか……ま、あとコトちゃんとかは雰囲気的にワンチャンあるかもだけど」 MIKOTO: Isn’t it~? Yun-chan and Mu-chan are just high school girls. Haru-kun has a face that looks like he can’t even kill a bug, and Fuuta doesn’t seem like he can even steal an umbrella. And see- Mappi just seems like a good person. Uh, as for Kazu-san and Shidou-san… Well, there’s a chance that Koto-chan might have done something like that 'cause of her vibes.  [T/N: Umbrellas get stolen so often in Japan that it’s not strange to think that a normal person would steal one at some point, implying that MIKOTO thinks that Fuuta wouldn’t even do something bad that’s seemingly normalized/follow common behaviors.] エス　「……人物評参考にするよ、ミコトくん。ただ、そいつらはミルグラムが選んだ人間だ。間違いなく人の死に関わっている」 ES: …I’ll take your character evaluations into consideration, MIKOTO-kun. Nevertheless, they are the humans MILGRAM selected. Without a doubt, they are connected to someone’s death. [T/N: The “they” そいつら (soitsura) in “they are the humans MILGRAM selected” has derogatory connotations with it. Also, people who use the term 間違いなく (machigai naku) are generally thought of as people who are prideful or perfectionists.] ミコト　「うーん……まあ、まあいいや。一旦信じる」 MIKOTO: Uhuh… Well, alright then. I’ll believe that for now.

苦い顔で受け止めるミコト。 エスがびしっと指をさす。 MIKOTO relents, a bitter look on his face. ES points their finger sharply. エス　「では。そんなところに無実のミコトくんが選ばれた理由はなんだと思う？」 ES: Well then. Why do you believe that the Innocent MIKOTO-kun was chosen for such a place? ミコト　「んー……人違い」 MIKOTO: Mm… mistaken identity. エス　「ほう？」 ES: Oh? ミコト　「そっち側の判断基準の細かいとこに目をつぶるとすると……同姓同名だとか、外見が似てるとか、そういう取り間違え」 MIKOTO: If we ignore the finer details of MILGRAM's criteria for judgement… it could be that it’s a blunder from something like having the same name, similar external appearance or something. エス　「ミルグラムの誤作動ということか？」 ES: You’re saying that it’s a MILGRAM malfunction? [T/N: Alternatively translated into: “You’re saying that it’s a failure on MILGRAM’s part?” 誤作動 (gosadou) can mean malfunction; failure; operating incorrectly.] ミコト　「そうそう、他に考えようがないもん」 MIKOTO: Yeah, yeah, that’s right. I can’t think of anything else that it could possibly be. エス　「そうか？僕はもうひとつ思い浮かんでいるぞ」 ES: Really? Frankly, I can think of one thing coming to mind. ミコトの顔を覗き込むエス。 ES looks at MIKOTO’s face.  エス　「お前は人を殺したことを忘れている」 ES: You’ve forgotten that you’ve killed a person. エスの言葉に目を丸くするミコト。 MIKOTO’s eyes widened at ES’ words. ミコト　「は？忘れている？人を殺したことを？そんなことありえる？」 MIKOTO: Huh? Forgotten? That you killed a person? Is that even possible? エス　「お前が嘘をついていない。ミルグラムは正しい。両方の条件をのめば、この答えが導き出されるのは、自然だろう」 ES: You’re not lying; MILGRAM is correct; if you’re to accept both clauses, it’s only natural to arrive at this answer. [T/N: The 正しい (tadashii) in “MILGRAM is correct” can mean “correct”, “right”, “righteous”/“just”, “proper” etc.] ミコト　「忘れている……僕が？人を殺したことを……？」 MIKOTO: Forgotten… Me? Killing a person…? エス　「人間はストレスを避けるために記憶に蓋をすることもあるという。解離性健忘のように」 ES: They say that humans sometimes put a lid on memories in order to avoid stress. For example, dissociative amnesia. ミコト　「……ス、ストレス？いやいや、まさか知らないうちに人を殺してるなんて、そんなことあるわけ……」 MIKOTO: …S-stress? No, no way- There’s no way I could’ve killed someone while not even knowing it- That can’t be possible… エス　「……お前の発言を僕が信じてやるには、この線で考える以外ないね。僕はお前のこと以上に、ミルグラムを信じているからな。そこを疑うことはありえない」 ES: …I have no choice but to consider something along these lines if I’m going to believe your statements. I trust MILGRAM more than I believe in you. There’s no doubt about that. ミコト　「……いや……いやいや」 MIKOTO: …No….No, no- エス　「看守として、断言しよう。お前は、ヒトゴロシだ」 ES: As Warden, let’s go ahead and assert this: You. are. a. murderer. ミコト　「ちょっと待って。ないないタンマタンマ……頭おかしくなるって……やめてよ。嫌なことばかり……言うの……」 MIKOTO: Wait a minute- No, no, no- Time out time out- …You’re driving me crazy…please stop it. You keep saying such… awful things…

イラつきで頭をがしがしとかくミコト。 その様子を見て、エスがふうと息をつく。 MIKOTO scratches his head in frustration. Seeing this, ES takes a deep breath. ミコト　「知らないうちに……殺人犯になってんの……はは、ないない……」 MIKOTO: Without knowing it…becoming a murderer…haha- there’s no way, no way… エス　「ふん、時間をやる。記憶の糸を手繰るがいいさ」 ES: Hmph. Let’s give it some time. Tugging in the threads of your memory would do you some good. ミコト　「...…うぅ……うう」 MIKOTO: …Ah…ah… 声にならない声でうめくミコトに、背を向けカツカツと離れていくエス。 As MIKOTO groans in a voiceless voice, ES turns their back and walks away. [T/N: 声にならない声 (koe ni naranai koe) “voiceless voice” has a nuance that you’re being assaulted with the emotions welling up in your heart that you can’t express into words.] エス　「人を殺した記憶がない殺人者……だとすれば……どう考えるべきか……」 ES: A murderer who has no memory of killing people… If that’s the case… how should I think about this… 独り言を呟きながら、部屋の中を歩き回るエス。 ES walks around the room, muttering to themself.

エ ス　「なぁ、ミコー」 ES: Hey, MIKO- ミコト　「ああああああああああ！！！」 MIKOTO: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!! エス　「！？」 ES: !? ミコトが椅子でエスを殴りつける。軽いエスは吹き飛び、壁に叩きつけられる。 MIKOTO strikes ES hard with a chair. ES, being light, gets flown across and slams into the wall. ミコト　「あーーーっ！！！」 MIKOTO: Aaaaah!!! ミコトは続けざまに力まかせに椅子を投げつけ、大きな物音が立つ。 MIKOTO continues on, throwing the chair with all his might, making a large noise. エス　「ぐあっ！なっ……何が、ミ、コト……！？！」 ES: Guh-! Wh… What are you- MI- KOTO…!?! ミコト　「ふっ……ふぅう……ふう……！！」 MIKOTO: Hah…hah…hah…!!! 状況のつかめないエス。 目の血走ったミコト、息が荒く別人のよう。 ES can’t make sense of the situation. MIKOTO’s eyes are bloodshot, breathing heavily- wildly, like he’s a different person. エス　「げほっ……ぼ、僕に攻撃を……⁉　ま、まさか、ありえない……」 ES: Ack… You can attack me..!? T-there’s no way… ミコト　「ああああああっ！　クソ！　クソが！　いらつかせんな！！」 MIKOTO: Aaaaaah! Fuck! Fucker-! You’re so fucking annoying!! [T/N: MIKOTO’s accent has changed. Before, he was speaking in a typical, standard Japanese accent you’d hear from people in Tokyo (not Tokyo accent, just standard Japanese accent).] エス　「囚人から、看守への攻撃はできないはず！！」 ES: Prisoners shouldn’t be able to attack the Warden!! ミコト　「うるっせえんだよ、てめぇ！！」 MIKOTO: Shut the fuck up, you piece of shit!! エスを思いきり踏みつけるミコト。 MIKOTO stomps down on ES with all his might. エス　「うあっ！ぐっ………！」 ES: Augh-! Guh…! ミコト　「ゴチャゴチャ言ってっと、叩き殺してやるぞカスが！！」 MIKOTO: Yapping on and on and on- I’ll fucking beat you to death, piece of shit!! エス　「ぐっ……！ぐうっ……！！」 ES: Ngh-…! Guh…!!

何度も何度も踏みつける。 Another stomp, then another. Again, and again, and again. ミコト　「だらだらだらだらぁ！ガキのくせに偉そうに！ざまあねえぜクソがっ！」 MIKOTO: Going on and on and on-! Acting all high and mighty like you aren’t just a kid! Serves you fuckin’ right-! エス　「…っ……ろよ……」 ES: …re..member… ミコト　「はあ！？　聞こえねぇんだよ！てめえただのガキじゃねぇか、ザコが！！」 MIKOTO: Ha!? I can’t hear you! You’re nothing more than an unimportant brat, a fuckin’ nobody!! エス　「……覚えてろよ、ヒトゴロシが」 ES: …Remember…your murder… 傷つけられ、口や鼻から血を流すも目の光が消えないエス。ミコトをにらみつける。 Despite being injured and bleeding from the mouth, the light in ES’ eyes doesn’t disappear. They glare at MIKOTO. ミコト　「はぁー？　は、はは、ははははは。もっと痛いのが好みか」 MIKOTO: Ha-? Heh- Hahahahahahaha! You prefer it when it hurts more, huh? ミコト、転がっている椅子を持ち上げる。ゆっくりと頭上に。 MIKOTO picks up a chair laying around. Slowly raising it above his head. エス　「くっ……」 ES: Guh… ミコト　「いいぜ、顔面潰してやるよ……」 MIKOTO: That’s fine. I’ll crush your face in as much as you want… エス　「やって……みろよ……」 ES: …Go ahead… and try… ミコト　「望み通りやってやるよ！おああああああああああ！」 MIKOTO: As you wish! RAAAAAAAAARGHH! [T/N: The -やってやるよ (-yatte yaru yo) in 望み通りやってやるよ (nozomi doori yatte yaru yo) adds a cheeky nuance of “doing the action for the sake of fulfilling ES’ wish (“go ahead and try”)”.]

ミコトが椅子を振り下ろそうとした瞬間に、横から蹴りを入れられる。 The moment MIKOTO’s about to bring the chair down, a kick meets his side. コトコ　「ふん！」 KOTOKO: Hmph!

ミコト　「がっ！？」 MIKOTO: Gah-!? 椅子ごと大きな物音を立てて倒れるミコト。頭を抱えながらよろよろと起き上がる。 MIKOTO falls along with the chair, a loud noise emanating. He staggers up to his feet, clutching his head. ミコト　「……つ。あぁあー！なんだてめぇ！」 MIKOTO: …ugh. Aaargh-! What’s with you?! エス 　「！？お前……！」 ES: !? You…! コトコ　「命拾いしたわね、看守さん」 KOTOKO: Looks like you narrowly escaped death, Warden-san. [T/N: KOTOKO talks in a feminine way, as demarcated by her usage of わ (wa). Her mature feminine way of speaking is found all throughout all the VDs she’s featured in.] エス　「コトコ……何故……」 ES: Kotoko… Why… コトコ　「話はあと」 KOTOKO: I’ll tell you later. エス　「…⁈」 ES: …?! ミコト　「……どいつもこいつも……」 MIKOTO: …Each and every one of them… ミコトが飛びかかる。構えるコトコ。 MIKOTO launches himself at her. KOTOKO readies into stance. ミコト　「俺をいらつかせんなあああ！」 MIKOTO: YOU ALL PISS ME OOOOOOOFFF! [T/N: 俺 (ore) pronoun is spelled with kanji in John Doe. Whereas in Neoplasm, ore is spelled in katakana as オレ] コトコ　「……！」 KOTOKO: …! ミコトの大ぶりの拳を、最低限の動きでよけるコトコ。 KOTOKO dodges MIKOTO’s wide swing with minimal movement. ミコト　「くっ！おらあ！ちょこまかすんなあ！」 MIKOTO: Gah-! Fuck! Stop fuckin’ around with me! [T/N: It sounds like MIKOTO’s speaking in a Yonezawa dialect/accent. ちょこまか (chokko maka) is a phrase you’d typically hear from the Yonezawa dialect. Yonezawa is a city in the Yamagata prefecture, in the Tohoku region. In Neoplasm, MIKOTO speaks in Kanto region accent/dialect and Edo dialect/roughspeak. Meanwhile, in his Trial 3 voicelines, MIKOTO speaks with a Kansai region dialect in some lines. Insofar, as of Trial 3, it's possible that he's spoken in 4 dialects/accents.] コトコ　「はっ！ふっ！……典型的な素人の動きだけど」 KOTOKO: Hah-! Ngh-! …Seems as if it’s motions that a typical, ordinary person would make. ミコト　「だらあ！！！」 MIKOTO: SHUT IT!!! コトコ　「っ……！」 KOTOKO: Ngh…!

ミコトの蹴りを受けたコトコが圧力で後ろに下がる。 想像以上の威力に怪訝な顔。 KOTOKO staggers back from the force of MIKOTO’s kick. She seems perplexed by the power of the blow, which was greater than she could’ve expected. コトコ　「……この打撃の重さ。彼の筋肉量からは想像もつかない」 KOTOKO: I couldn’t have imagined that a strike with that amount of force could’ve come from someone with a muscle mass like his. [T/N: It's implied that MIKOTO lacks muscle mass which is why KOTOKO thought a strike with that amount of force was inconceivable/unthinkable. Also, the way KOTOKO is talking sounds like she’s verbally taking notes on MIKOTO’s behaviour/aptitude/and other information.] ミコト　「しつけぇ、しつけぇ……あああ」 MIKOTO: So fucking persistent, fucking annoying…  Aaargh!! コトコ　「長期戦はそこそこ面倒か」 KOTOKO: Drawn-out battles are rather troublesome. ミコト　「うああああああああ！」 MIKOTO: RAAAAAAAARGH! コトコ　「すう……」 KOTOKO: Sigh… 飛びかかってくるミコトに、コトコのハイキック一関。 MIKOTO leaps at her, but KOTOKO delivers a high kick. コトコ　「ふんっ！」 KOTOKO: Hmph-! ミコト　「がっ…」 MIKOTO: Gah-... エス　「……は、ハイキック一撃……」 ES: …Ha- Knocking him out in just one high kick… 糸が切れたようにドサッと倒れるミコト。 パンパンと手を払うコトコ。 MIKOTO falls with a thud, his body collapsing like a string cut in half. KOTOKO claps her hands. コトコ　「ふう……感謝して。気絶で済ませといたわよ。大丈夫？看守さん」 KOTOKO: Hah… Be grateful. It only required him losing consciousness in order to resolve the situation. Are you alright, Warden-san? エス　「……げほっ……コトコ……お前」 ES: …Cough…KOTOKO…You- コトコ　「なに」 KOTOKO: What? エス　「……尋問で招集が掛かる前に勝手に忍び込むとは……」 ES: …Did you sneak in as you pleased before the interrogation was even summoned…? コトコ　「は？まさか咎める気じゃないでしょうね。私が控えてなかったら死んでたのよ」 KOTOKO: Ha? You’re not trying to reproach me, are you? If I hadn’t been waiting—taking notes—, you would be dead. エス　「……何故、尋問室にいた」 ES: …Why were you in the interrogation room? コトコ　「カヤノミコトの奇妙な行動に注目していたから。隣の部屋だから目につくのよ」 KOTOKO: Because I’d been observing Mikoto Kayano’s odd behaviors. It’s all too noticeable since I’m in the room next door. エス　「……何故、僕を助けた」 ES: …Why did you help me? コトコ　「あなたの存在は私にとっても利があるから」 KOTOKO: Because your existence is beneficial to me as well. [T/N: KOTOKO is using あなた (anata) “you” which can imply a closeness or fondness. Alternative translation of this line: “Because your existence is advantageous to me as well.” 利 (ri) can mean “advantageous”, “beneficial”, “interest"] エス　「説明になって、ない……」 ES: That explains nothing… コトコ　「……そうね、そこら辺は私の番で答える。順番抜かしをするつもりはないから」 KOTOKO: …Is that so? I’ll answer that when it’s my turn. I don’t intend to cut in line. エス　「……」 ES: … コトコ　「郷に従うよ、今のところはね」 KOTOKO: In Rome, do as the Romans do. For now, that is. [T/N: 郷に従う (gou ni shitagau) means “in a place/social group, you should behave in accordance with the customs and traditions of that place/group, even if the values differ from your own”. It’s a clipping of the proverb 郷に入っては郷に従え (gou ni itte wa gou ni shitagae).]

問答がさっぱりとしているコトコ。エスはあきらめてよろよろ立ちあがる。 Questioning KOTOKO for answers was proving to be hopeless so ES gives up and staggers unto their feet. エス　「いっ………くそ、ミコト………好き勝手痛めつけてくれやがって……」 ES: Alri-... Dammit, MIKOTO…’s able to beat me up whenever it pleases him when he has the nerve to… コトコ　「……看守さん、こっち見て」 KOTOKO: …Warden-san, look over here. エス　「なんだ、コト……つ！」 ES: What is it, KOTO-?! エスが返事をすると、コトコの拳が目の前に。 As ES is responding, KOTOKO’s fist appears right in front of their face. コトコ　「ふーん、拳が途中で止まる。囚人からの攻撃は受け付けないってのは本当ね。じゃあなんでカヤノミコトはあなたを殴れるの？」 KOTOKO: Hm… Punches get stopped halfway through. It’s true that the Warden isn’t affected by attacks from prisoners so, how is it that Mikoto Kayano can hit you? [T/N: KOTOKO is translated here using the normal spelling for "Mikoto Kayano" rather than in all caps in order to translate over her objective way of speaking including her impartial observations. Writing the character names in all caps can submerge a character into a theatric-quality through its unconventional appearance as well as create a mental barrier that makes the character seem even more spectacle-like, more distant from reader/viewer. It's a way to translate over the vibes that the katakana spelling of the prisoners give.] エス　「……心臓に悪い……やめろ……だいたい僕が知りたいくらいだ、そんなの……」 ES: …This is bad for my heart… Stop… Anyway, I’d really like to know the answer to that… 突如部屋にある時計から鐘の音が鳴り、尋問室の部屋の構造が変化していく。 Suddenly, the bells within the clock in the room begin to ring and the layout of the interrogation room changes. エス　「くっ……時間だ。出ていけコトコ」 ES: Dammit- It’s time. Get out, KOTOKO. コトコ　「心象を歌と映像にするのね、私は見ちゃいけないわけ？」 KOTOKO: You’re turning mental images into songs and videos, and yet I’m not allowed to see it? [T/N: KOTOKO pronounces 私 as "atashi" which is a feminine way of identifying and referring to oneself.] エス　「認められない、出ていけ」 ES: I can’t allow it. Get out. コトコ　「……ふーん。それにしても面白いことになったわね」 KOTOKO: …I see. Even so, things have become quite interesting, don’t you think? エス　「コトコ？」 ES: KOTOKO? コトコ　「あなたもわかっているでしょう。先程の行動からカヤノミコトは解離性同一性障害、いわゆる二重人格の可能性がある。まあ、まだ虚言・芝居の可能性も捨てられないけど」 KOTOKO: You know that too, hm? Based on Mikoto Kayano’s behaviors just a moment ago, it’s possible that he may have dissociative identity disorder, or—as you might call it—“split personality disorder”. Well, you can’t rule out the possibility that he may be fabricating it or acting, though. [T/N: KOTOKO is using あなた (anata) “you” which can imply a closeness or fondness. Also, she uses formal vocabulary, which could be due to her being an observant and articulate character, and the language used in law school. 解離性同一性障害 (kairiseidou itsusei shougai) is the clinical term for “dissociative identity disorder”. Most people aren’t aware of the clinical term as medical vocabulary is notoriously difficult in Japanese. However, more people are aware of the term 多重人格 (tajuu jinkaku) “multiple personalities” or 二重人格 (nijuu jinkaku) which literally means “two-tiered personalities” or “split personality”; both terms are derogatory but understandable by the common, average person.] エス　「……」 ES: … コトコ　「ねぇ、どう思う？私は本物を見たことはないけれど、仮に彼が本物の多重人格者ならば別人格が兆した罪は、主人格が負うべきなのかしら」 KOTOKO: Hey, what do you think? I’ve never seen the real thing before, but if he is a real multiple personality disorder patient, should the main personality bear responsibility for the crimes that another personality cultivated? [T/N: Depending on the listener, Kotoko could be saying “should the main self-state bear responsibility for the crimes that another self-state cultivated?”  人格 (jinkaku) can mean “personality”, “self-state”, “personhood”, “individuality”, “character” etc. It all depends on context and how it’s interpreted by the listener. 主人格 (shu jinkaku) “main self-state” can also mean “false front self-state".]

エス　「コトコ！」 ES: KOTOKO! コトコ　「……」 KOTOKO: … エス　「それを考えるのは僕の仕事だ、囚人の、お前の仕事ではない。それが真実か、それが罪かどうかも含めて、僕とミルグラムだけに判断する権利がある」 ES: That’s my job to think about- Not the prisoners, not yours. Only myself and MILGRAM have the right to judge whether to include it as a crime and whether it’s true or not. コトコ　「……ふふふ、はいはい」 KOTOKO: …Heh, haha. Of course, of course. [T/N: Down to the way she laughs, KOTOKO gives the vibes of a mature woman and femininity. ふふふ (fufufu) way of laughing is usually attributed to mature women.] 不気味な笑いを浮かべながら、尋問室をあとにするコトコ。 KOTOKO starts to leave the interrogation room, an ominous smile on her face. コトコ　「いいわ、任せる。じゃあ私はこれで」 KOTOKO: Okay then, I’ll leave it to you. Alright, that’s it for me then エス　「おい」 ES: Oi. コトコ　「なに？」 KOTOKO: What is it? エス　「……助けてくれて、ありがとう」 ES: …Thank you for helping me. [T/N: This may be the first time in this voice drama, or in all the Trial 1 voice dramas, in which ES actually speaks in a bit more formal and humble way rather than their rather casual, informal way (somewhat haughty) of speaking despite using formal vocabulary. 助けてくれて、ありがとう (tasukete kurete arigatou) literally means “Thanks for giving me the favor of helping me.”] コトコ　「どういたしまして」 KOTOKO: You’re welcome. コトコの背中を見送り、寝ているミコトに向き直るエス。 ES sees KOTOKO off and turns to face the sleeping MIKOTO. エス　「……ふう。わけのわからないことばかりだ……だが、仕事はしなければならないな」 ES: Hah… There’s so much I don’t understand about this… But, I have to do my job anyway. 思い切りミコトを踏みつけるエス。 飛び起きるミコト。 ES stomps MIKOTO with all their might. MIKOTO jumps to his feet. エス 　「……ふん！」 ES: …Hgh! ミコト　「いってぇ！」 MIKOTO: Ow! 状況のつかめていないミコトを、怪訝な顔で見つめるエス。 ES watches MIKOTO—who isn’t grasping nor understanding the current state of affairs—with a wary expression. エス　「...」 ES: … ミコト　「何、何すんの看守くん！？なんで僕いつのまに、あっ…なんだこれ、頭いてえ……」 MIKOTO: What- What are you doing, Warden-kun? Without even noticing, why did I end u- Argh-... wha- what’s this? My head hurts... [T/N: MIKOTO is referring to himself with the kanji version of 僕 (boku) again.] エス　「……だろうな」 ES: …So it seems. ミコト　「うー…….て、てか！看守くんも傷だらけじゃん！？どうした？何があったの？」 MIKOTO: Eugh… Wait! Warden-kun’s also covered in bruises!? How’d that happen? What happened? エス 　「……何も覚えてないんだな」 ES: …you don’t remember anything, huh. ミコト　「え、何、なんのこと………」 MIKOTO: Eh? What- What are you talking about… エス　「さんざん散らかしておいて、なんとも腹の立つ……だが、いいだろう。その態度、挑戦状と受け取ったよ」 ES: [Saying and acting like that] after making such a mess, it makes my blood boil… But, fine. I’ll take that attitude as a challenge. 口元から流れる血を拭い、ニヤリと笑う。 ES wipes the blood from their mouth and grins. エス　「お前からなのか、もしくはお前以外の誰かからなのかは、知らんがな」 ES: I have no idea whether that attitude is coming from you… or someone apart from you. [T/N: There is really good wordplay here. 以外 (igai) means “apart from” and has a nuance of outsiderness; exclusion/exception as in being outside of a boundary.  お前以外の誰か (omae igai no dareka) quite literally means “apart from you’s someone”. Since the の (no) is a possessive particle that means “of”, AのB would mean “A’s B”. In English, this clause would be more like “[a someone] [that comes from] [something that is outside of you]”. When ES says “someone apart from you”, they’re implying “an outsider that comes from within you; a someone that isn't you but comes from you"] ミコト　「だ、だから、なんのこと！？」 MIKOTO: S- Seriously, what are you talking about!? エス　「囚人番号9番、ミコト。さあ。お前の罪を歌え」 ES: Prisoner number 9, MIKOTO. Come. Sing your sins.

[honkbird]

The big art post !! the behind-the-scenes of the tribalhunter PNGtuber stuff ! At least on the art side-- I can talk about the coding mechanics but that's not quite my place to. The high-level overview of that is there's some cool stuff going on with memory wrappers and godot to get stuff shake'n and jamm'n The rest of it is below the cut just so you don't have to scroll tons if you don't care, but take some time and read !! 3 days of work y'know !!

The first sketches were started at 10 pm tuesday the 15th. I tweaked it with some edits until about 1 am

For people working on pngs or long term projects -- make notes !! genuinely !! you can see "ok what was i thinking when i did this" and it made like infinitely easier. You might notice that stage 2 png was not long for this world -- we ended up cutting that one and shifting 3-5 down a stage, and just making a larger final stage. The night ended with: these!

Larger final, we moved where some hands ended up, cleaned some notes, and so on

Wednesday I got to work

on some second pass ones, e.g., cleaner lineart. Mind you, not final! To have proper safespace with the png we had to make actual layered sections to avoid ripped seams on squashing and stretching and rotating and etc.

These also had the first of the talk sprites! I don't do entirely new sprites for the talking ones just because of the pure quantity of images. So, just an arm tilt and head angling. This means we have mute and a talk variants of a few sprites (e.g., the stage 1 is 3 sprites. Body, scarf flappies, and head. We have talk versions of the body and the head). Also, he used to have nips! there was going to be a slightly darker purple but we scrapped it for . well . obvious reasons. We went with classy scarf modesty.

This is how you know you're doing well!

Thursday I started on the finals!

This was the first one sent -- showing off the layers. Tip, I used to layer based on like "back arm" "head" "fore body" etc. It's weirder to get used to when you use numbered layers, but holy shit it made importing easier. You automatically know the layer order to put them in to avoid clipping. Getting these done I got to work on testing 'em too!

this gave us our first working model! Oh, he used to have black robes too! this was to match the custom ingame sprites he got, but the color wasn't quite popping enough. The scarf saturation would later be turned up too, and more color adjusting. But this was workable! A lovely demo. All that was left was design tweaks and the talk sprites!

Friday was dedicated to

figuring out the colors and the talk sprites. For giggles, here's a bunch of variants produced!

We changed the robes, the scarf tone, and his lower gradient. neat Brave fact, his design has a gradient! It's horrible for gif compression! With all that done, then came doing well . all of the sprites!

Note, the talk sprites had some copied mute ones for visual reference. Gotta be consistent! It was at this point the pngtuber was "done", so to speak. Talk sprites worked and everything uh . jiggled right. But I still had a whole weekend! There wasn't as much photo evidence. What WAS changed between then and the final was: 1) the gradient was shifted to be a smooth curve instead of dappling 2) the talk sprite for stage 5's beak was fixed to remove a tangent line 3) the belly for stage 5 was rounded out to be more consistent with the game (less "doughy" to quote) 4) we added another sprite for the arm on stage 5 to layer better. Those changes weren't done until about Saturday, and then the code was tweaked all the way up until adding damage and transition effects on sunday and monday!

P.S., the model still clipped in the end a little! The code did some growth based on the fullness factor and . uh. wow!

Anway woo !! that was some wip photos and stories, I wish there was more of an intense struggle to tell but it was pretty quickly done. My shoulderblade hurts a bit to tell the truth and I think I overdid it on the pace but hooray!

[respectthepetty]

Give me merch, BoC!

Before I freak out about colors in episode three of 4 Minutes, just know that if this was a time-traveling show on GMMTV, the cats in the claw machine would've been merch yesterday!

BoC, why don't you want our money?!

But even without making them merch, these cats made my day!

And it's all because Great gave Tyme the white one.

Tyme is color-coded black and Great is color-coded white.

So each cat represents them in this time-shifting story, and Great gave himself to Tyme by giving him the white cat.

And strangely enough, these color-coded boys won several cats which is a successful date, but also something something about several versions of themselves existing within the story . . .

But what really makes me happy is each cat has a heart in the other color on its side, so when held together, those heart patches form a dual-colored heart!

And although I think Tyme approached Great because he wanted information on Great's family, the boys got hit with a tiny blinding light of love right before they were supposed to kiss.

And Tyme did expose himself to Great instead of fighting him even though he could have easily overpowered Great, which is something we saw when Tyme fought Title.

Because this story is really about the gray area everyone is existing in.

When Win showed up the first time, Tonkla was guarded with a boundary firmly planted between them and Win was light.

But this episode, Tonkla removed his barrier, and let Win in, but Win, in his dark colors, definitely crossed a line he shouldn't have.

Win is a good guy.

And so is Korn.

But circumstances and choices change people.

And even the best people are capable of doing bad.

So it's interesting that Tyme has been positioned in black from the beginning even though he is a doctor.

And Great is positioned as white even though we have seen him run away from doing what's right several times.

Yet when Tyme went to ask Great out and Great confessed to seeing the future, Tyme was in gray as he shifts between the two colors.

Great's interactions with Tyme advance the clock a minute closer to 11:04 from 11:00, but the number four is special, as many people have pointed out because it represents death.

And Great keeps getting closer and closer.

So him throwing down his phone causing the number four ball to roll into the pocket was perhaps telling that it's not all Tyme moving the clock, but just like Win and Korn and their colors, Great's choices are moving the clock and impacting his life.

Doctors save lives, but we have been shown through the woman who tried to die by suicide and the patient this episode in Bed #4, that doctors also need to know when to listen and end a patient's suffering.

(Spare Me Your Mercy, I'm so ready for you and your color-coded boys in love to give us a story about these specific ethics! I'm going to watch you so hard!)

Tyme continues to say he isn't a doctor but a surgeon. Tyme doesn't listen to his patients, which is why Den is upset at him. And Tyme isn't listening to Great because if he was he'd hear exactly what is being said - "these symptoms happened when [the] heart stopped"

Tyme needs Great to remind him, that regardless of the past, it's important to listen and care, and Great needs Tyme to listen to his sad rich boy stories. They need each other to save each other. Triage, is that you homie in a trench coat and mustache glasses?!

But more importantly, they need each other to save each other's hearts! Great needs Tyme to literally save his life by saving his heart, but Tyme was hardening his heart. He had stated several times that he is in his career for the money, but Great reminded Tyme that money was irrelevant if the love was missing with his story of a 1,000 baht toy. They have both good and bad in them, but they need the other color-coded person to be complete. They need the other person to live.

Since I still believe Tyme is the one having cardiac arrest in the first episode, if one of them actually gives up his heart to save the other, I'm gonna be unwell about it.

Random Thoughts:

The friend calling Tyme a "pale guy, very handsome, and kinda brooding" hit me personally because I call characters who are black color-coded Black Brooders and Tyme is the Black Brooder in this story.

Great seeing the message on the tea cup change from "Don't forget to get your wound checked at the hospital" to "Can you forgive me, Great?" has me thinking this won't just be about Tyme trying to get dirt on Great's family and Great being upset about. That question feels heavier. That question feels like both their lives are changed by Tyme.

The female patient who experiences the same symptoms as Great was wearing white and black when she was being interviewed, but when Great envisioned a woman on the bed, red lights were flashing, like they were meeting while coding.

The way the red reflects on Great's shirt in the car makes it look like a heart on his sleeve when he looks at Tyme.

MY BOY MIO!

[feelmyskinonyourskin]

April 15th

Character: Frank Castle (a little Frank x Matt Murdock if you squint)

My Masterlist

Summary: Based on my calculations, this spring will be the canonical 10 year anniversary of the death of Frank's family. So I wrote an angsty thing about it. This is also a lil Fratt coded.

*I never give permission for my fics, manips, or any other original creation I post on Tumblr to be copied, posted elsewhere, translated, or fed into any AI program. The only platforms I currently post on are Tumblr and AO3. Thanks!*

WC: 2,692

Ten Years

Ten Years

Those two words rung in his ears on repeat over and over again. 

Very few people were in the park this early, still cozy in bed as the city began to wake. But sleep was never something he found easily, especially this time of year. A few early morning joggers passed by, barely noticing the tired looking man as he sat on the bench, staring ahead. It was off-leash time in the park as well and he gave the sweet black lab that sat beside him a few pats before it ran off to rejoin it’s owner.

He stared at the green tarp in front of him, blank expression on his face as the sun rose and painted the park in golden light. The air was crisp and the dew clung to the growing grass on the hill in the distance. It was free of the crimson stains that haunted his sleep, long since washed away with the passage of time. 

Ten Years

Ten Years

The click-clack of heels against the pavement, louder with each step as they approached him, almost tore his gaze away from the covered structure in front of him and the hill in the distance.

Almost.

The source of the percussive walking sat down beside him. She tucked a loose wisp of her blonde hair behind her ear before reaching out, offering him a to-go cup from the bakery down the street. He took it without a word and without turning his gaze to her.

“Brought you coffee.” she said softly

How did she know where to find him? There were a number of places he could be - the cemetery was obvious, or in an alleyway bloodying some poor lowlife, or drinking his sorrows away in whatever apartment he was squatting in for the time being. Was she looking for him long? Or just got lucky and picked the right spot? Was she just stopping by on her way to work or planning on staying beside his pitiful ass all day?

“Thanks, Karen.” he finally replied, quietly

They sat in silence together for a while, staring as the city and the park came more to life. Eventually, she reached out and took his free hand in hers with a squeeze. 

“You have my number, Frank. I know you’ll act like you don’t need anything, but please call or text me if you do. You know I don’t mind.”

He replied with a nod.

“I gotta get to work.” 

He nodded again.

She let her hand fall away from his and stood. With care, she leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead and the tapping of her heels faded away.

Ten Years

Ten Years

Just as the school groups seemed to be arriving in the park for their springtime field trips and the tourists filed in with their cameras pointed towards the blooming trees, two more people arrived.

Two Central Park employees, dressed head to toe in forest green uniforms, began removing the tarp he had spent all morning staring at and opening the carousel for business for the day.

They had repainted it in the years since he had lost his family. Probably after he stained it with Billy’s face. The colorful animals shone with fresh lacquer against the spring sunshine. A line had already begun to form with families eager to ride. The employees finished their rounds then the music started up. The same music the nauseatingly played over and over in his mind.

“You know it’s creepy for an old dude to just sit and stare at a kiddy ride all day.” the voice from beside him said, sitting down on the park bench

“Pft. Don’t wanna hear it from you about being ‘creepy,’ Lieberman,” Frank replied, still watching as the carousel began to spin around and around for the first riders of the day.

“Honestly, wouldn’t have remembered what day it was if Sarah hadn’t reminded me.”

“How is Sarah? And the kids?”

“Good. Zach is officially committed to NYU in the Fall and Leo is already packing for an internship she has in Italy this summer.”

“That’s great David. Really.”

“How are you, Frank?”

Frank replied with only a shrug before taking a sip of the last of the coffee from Karen.

The two men sat side by side for a while, watching the carousel get busier and busier. David slapped two hands on his knees and rose to his feet.

“Welp. I gotta get going. You know where to find us Frank.”

Ten Years

Ten Years

As the day wore on, families came and went. People laid blankets on the hill, enjoyed picnics on the cool April day. He saw so many kids that reminded him of Lisa and Frankie, running around joyfully without a care in the world. So many mothers that passed by he swore he saw a glimmer of Maria for a moment.

He didn’t notice how the sun now beat down, heating the skin under his thick jacket. He didn’t notice hunger growing inside his stomach or the discomfort of how he’d been sitting in the same position for a little too long.

“Keep staring like that Frank and the park is gonna paint you bronze. Make you a permanent statue here.”

“Hey Curt.”

“You’d make a helluva ugly statue, Frank.”

“Yes I would.”

The man sat beside him in the same spot where David and Karen had before, placing a brown paper bag between them. He let out a sigh as he watched his friend continue to be lost in the memories.

“You eat anything yet today?”

Frank shook his head.

“Ain’t hungry.”

“C’mon Frank, you gotta eat something” He said, shaking the bag in the air “I brought sandwiches. From that shitty deli you like.”

“You come to just lecture me –”

“No, I came to be a friend,” Curtis cut him off “And get your sorry ass out of your own damn head.”

“Preciate it Curt, I really do, but I ain’t looking for anything today. Just let me be.”

“Fine. But only if you eat.”

Frank gave a half nod as Curtis opened the bag and handed Frank a sandwich. The men sat in silence and ate for a while, continuing to watch the families come and go.

When the last bite of his sandwich was gone, Curtis stood and gave his friend a clap on the back.

“I’ll see you at group on Thursday?” he asked

“Yeah.”

“Promise you’ll be there and not sulking in some alleyway somewhere bashing some guy’s head in?”

“Ain’t makin’ no guarantees.”

Ten Years

Ten Years

As the sun began to get low, many of the families cleared out, anxious to get home to dinner and an evening of relaxing. The post 9-5 runners now passed by in droves as the air began to cool back down.

Once again the clack clack clack of heeled shoes echoed somewhere in the background of Frank’s thoughts.

“Well Castle, you look like shit.”

“Good to see you too, Madani.”

The woman, with her curly hair blowing gently in the breeze and polished briefcase tucked under her arm, sat on the bench beside him with a sigh.

“Curtis said you were in rough shape, so I stopped by.”

“You talk to Curtis?”

“You’re not the only one who needs someone to talk through all the shit we’ve seen.”

“That’s good – yeah real good” Frank said with a nod, wringing his hands “Say, you ever come back here?”

“To where I got shot in the head? No.” she replied with a snort

After a moment of pause, she cleared her throat. Her eyes remained cast toward the pavement as her feet shuffled against it anxiously. 

“Why do you come back?” she asked with a certain quietness to her voice

“To remember. Them. Him. Why I do what I do. Cause some sick twisted part of me thinks if I just stare at that damn carousel long enough or look at the stupid field hard enough, I’ll just see em’ coming over the hill, smiling at me like they were on that day. That if aliens can invade this damn city or make half of us disappear for five years then maybe somethin’ll happen and it’ll all have just been a bad dream and…”

Frank could feel tears welling in his eyes for the first time that day.

“... and maybe I could have ‘em back.”

Dinah pretended not to notice the way Frank wiped at his eyes as he continued to stare ahead at the carousel. She had avoided gazing at it at all since she’d arrived and had no intention of starting now.

“You know Frank, you ever need a distraction from…” she gestured vaguely “... all this. CIA could still use a guy like you.” 

“Told you Madani, I ain’t coming to work for you. ‘Preciate the offer though.”

“Offer will still be there, if you ever change your mind.”  

She sat for another moment, before gathering her bag and tightening the belt on her crisp trench coat.

“Take care, Frank.”

“You too, Dinah.”

Ten Years

Ten Years

The sun was now long gone as the carousel took it’s last spin of the night. The late hour meant very few children were even still there to ride; most of the families and tourists and runners had gone home.

The two evening shift employees came out from their hut minutes later, sweeping the area of debris and re-covering the carousel in the green tarp. They finished up their duties and also headed out, leaving Frank alone in the yellowy glow of the park lamps.

But still, he sat, not sure what he was waiting for anymore or how much longer he planned to stay. Any other person would have felt alone in the quiet of the night, but his head was still buzzing as loudly as when he arrived this morning. He nearly gasped at the air filling his lungs, so overwhelmed in his grief, he’d forgotten to breathe for a moment.

Only when the clang of metal scraping concrete rang out from just below his feet did he startle out of his trance.

Nervously, he reached down to inspect what had landed just beneath where he sat, flashbacks to enemies coming for him with a pipebomb or grenade running through his brain.

The maroon baton shone under the lamplight as Frank held it up, an exasperated sigh leaving his lips.

“Jesus, Red. The hell you tryin’ to do?!”

“Warn you that I’m here so you don’t accidentally shoot me,” a voice replied from the darkness behind him

“Still considerin’ it…” 

The Devil of Hell's Kitchen made his way around the bench, hands held up in surrender.

“Ya know most people just say ‘hello’ or walk real loud if they don’t wanna startle someone.”

Matt shrugged, with a glimmer of mischief to the smirk poking out from under his mask. Frank rolled his eyes.

“Karen mentioned…” the man in crimson changed the subject

“Course she did…”

“I just wanted to come by. Make sure –”

Frank cut him off.

“Make sure I wasn’t spillin’ some criminal’s blood too close to your turf? Came by to try and convert me to your shitty code —”

Matt now took his turn to cut Frank off.

“No. I came by to make sure you were okay.”

“Ain’t exactly peg you as the sentimental type, Red.”

“Well, I mean, I am Catholic…”

Frank let out a scoff and shook his head, leaning back. Matt took the vague gesture as an invitation and sat beside him, removing his horned helmet.

“You know every year —on the day my dad died, I usually go to church.”

He felt the way Frank shifted rigidly beside him; unsure if it was the topic of death, or his personal past, or religion that made the large Marine beside him uncomfortable.

“It’s the one where he took me when I was a kid and where I grew up after he was gone,” he continued “But I do this too. Just sit and think and miss him.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And for the longest time, I did it alone. I turned away everyone who came to help me; the other kids, the nuns, eventually Karen and Foggy.”

Frank shook his head at Matt’s story, always annoyed at his ramblings on a normal night but extra irritated on this particular evening. 

“There a point to this?” Frank asked.

“Getting there. I spent so many years isolating myself, dividing myself from the people that cared. I thought I could do it all alone.” 

Frank parted his lips, tempted to make another snarky comment, but he decided against it, letting Matt get out whatever he needed to in those hopes it’d make him go away faster.

“I lied to myself for a long time that the people who got close to me were better off without me and the danger I bring. That I was God’s perfect soldier, meant to suffer alone for my great purpose.” Matt continued

“So what changed?”

“Time. And people who were more stubborn than me and refused to give up on me. They helped me realize I needed them. And that I was only pushing them away to avoid getting hurt myself.”

“So that it, huh? You refusin’ to give up on me?” Frank scoffed

“Something like that.”

Frank shook his head.

“So what do you do now?”

“Hm?”

“The day your dad died, Red. What do you do?”

Matt smiled at Frank’s question and stretched his head upwards, glassy eyes shifting side to side as if trying to see his father in the sky above.

“I still go to the church. But Karen and Foggy come with me. Sometimes my mom walks over from the abbey and brings food.”

Frank’s eyebrows shot up at the statement, more surprised to find out that Matt’s mother was a nun and wondering the story of how that all worked. But he stayed silent and let Matt continue.

“And you know what? I don’t feel angry anymore; at him or the man that killed him or God. And little by little, every year since it gets a little–” He paused, trying to find the right word. “Lighter.”

“Look Red, I appreciate the sermon but I ain’t you.”

“No, but you’re one good day away from being me.”

Frank fully rolled his eyes this time and muttered a “Christ” under his breath, agitated that Matt could use his words from years ago when they first met and flip them around on him.

“You wanna know what else I do?”

“What?”

“After I let myself be with the people who care, I go home to my apartment. Alone. A few years ago Karen found videos of some of his old fights on the internet. My dad was a boxer. I listen to them and I drink.”

“That sounds more my speed, Red.”

“What do you say Frank, wanna go watch some old boxing matches and drink?”

Frank pondered the offer for a moment.

“No. I got some other places I gotta be.”

“Right.” 

Matt removed the helmet from his lap and brought it down on his head, wiggling it a few times to get it in place and stood.

“Take care, Frank.” Matt said with a nod 

“You too, Red.”

Frank watched as Matt disappeared into the shadows of the park. With a sigh, he finally stood, taking one last look at the carousel before heading down the path out of the park. He walked for blocks, still mulling over Matt’s words as he made his way down the empty sidewalks. 

By the time he reached Hell’s Kitchen, he finally felt cold, zipping up his jacket to protect from the chilly night. 

When he finally reached his destination, he hesitated for a moment. Taking in the large red doors in front of him, he wasn’t sure why he had come or what he was hoping to find. But if it helped Red, maybe it could help him.

Frank reached forward and pushed open the door, stepping into the chapel at Clinton Church.

Ten Years

Ten Years

[fatehbaz]

Indigenous genocide and removal from land and enslavement are prerequisites for power becoming operationalized in premodernity, a way in which subjects get (what Wynter names) “selected” or “dysselected” from geography and coded into colonial possession through dispossession. The color line of the colonized was not merely a consequence of these structures of colonial power or a marginal effect of those structures; it was/is a means to operationalize extraction (therefore race should be considered as foundational rather than as periphery to the production of those structures and of global space). Richard Eden, in the popular 1555 publication Decades of the New World, compares the people of the “New World” to a blank piece of “white paper” on which you can “paynte and wryte” whatever you wish. “The Preface to the Reader” describes the people of these lands as inanimate objects, blank slates [...]. [Basically, "Man" is white, while non-white people are reduced to an aspect of the landscape, a resource.] Wynter suggests that we [...] consider 1452 as the beginning of the New World, as African slaves are put to work on the first plantations on the Portuguese island of Madeira, initiating the “sugar-slave” complex - a massive replantation of ecologies and forced relocation of people [...]. Wynter argues that the invention of the figure of Man in 1492 as the Portuguese [and Spanish] travel to the Americas instigates at the same time “a refiguring of humanness” in the idea of race. This refiguring of slaves trafficked to gold mines is borne into the language of the inhuman [...].

---

The natal moment of the 1800 Industrial Revolution, [...] [apparently] locates Anthropocene origination in [...] the "new" metabolisms of technology and matter enabled by the combination of fossil fuels, new engines, and the world as market. [...] The racialization of epistemologies of life and nonlife is important to note here [...]. While [this industrialization] [...] undoubtedly transformed the atmosphere with [...] coal [in the nineteenth century], the creation of another kind of weather had already established its salient forms in the mine and on the plantation. Paying attention to the prehistory of capital and its bodily labor, both within coal cultures and on plantations that literally put “sugar in the bowl” (as Nina Simone sings) [...]. The new modes of material accumulation and production in the Industrial Revolution are relational to and dependent on their preproductive forms in slavery [...].

---

Catherine Hall’s project Legacies of British Slave-Ownership makes visible the complicity in terms of structures of slavery and industrialization that organized in advance the categories of dispossession that are already in play and historically constitute the terms of racialized encounter of the Anthropocene. In 1833, Parliament finally abolished slavery in the British Caribbean, and the taxpayer payout of £20 million in “compensation” [paid by the government to slave owners for their lost "property"] built the material, geophysical (railways, mines, factories), and imperial infrastructures of Britain and its colonial enterprises and empire. As the project empirically demonstrates, these legacies of colonial slavery continue to shape contemporary Britain. A significant proportion of funds were invested in the railway system connecting London and Birmingham (home of cotton production and [...] manufacturing for plantations), Cambridge and Oxford, and Wales and the Midlands (for coal). Insurance companies flourished and investments were made in the Great Western Cotton Company, for example, and in cotton brokers, as well as in big colonial land companies in Canada (Canada Land Company) and Australia (Van Diemen’s Land Company) and a number of colonial brokers. Investments were made in the development of metal and mineralogical technologies [...].

The slave-sugar-coal nexus both substantially enriched Britain and made it possible for it to transition into a colonial industrialized power [...]. The slave trade [...] fashioned the economic conditions (and institutions, such as the insurance and finance industries) for industrialization. Slavery and industrialization were tied by the various afterlives of slavery in the form of indentured and carceral labor that continued to enrich new emergent industrial powers from both the Caribbean plantations and the antebellum South. Enslaved “free” African Americans predominately mined coal in the corporate use of black power or the new “industrial slavery,” [...].

---

The labor of the coffee - the carceral penance of the rock pile, “breaking rocks out here and keeping on the chain gang” (Nina Simone, Work Song, 1966), laying iron on the railroads - is the carceral future mobilized at plantation’s end (or the “nonevent” of emancipation). [...] [T]he racial circumscription of slavery predates and prepares the material ground for Europe and the Americas in terms of both nation and empire building - and continues to sustain it.

---

All text above by: Kathryn Yusoff. "White Utopia/Black Inferno: Life on a Geologic Spike". e-flux Journal Issue #97. February 2019. At: e-flux dot com slash journal/97/252226/white-utopia-black-inferno-life-on-a-geologic-spike/ [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Text within brackets added by me for clarity and context. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism.]

[wrongfulruffian]

I'm posting this so much later than I meant to, cause my new addiction to crocheting has stolen all my free time and brain cells, been sitting on this for almost two months 😂

I did my first author copy! Its actually super cool because their work "The Long Hangover" by @coffiocake was actually the first full bind I ever did, so its like I've come full circle!

I've re-read this work at least five times at this point, I love it so much! Thanks @coffiocake for your amazing work, and I hope I did it justice 💕

Since this was my first bind and my most recent bind I thought it would be cool way to showcase how much I have improved since I started bookbinding.

I have definitely gotten better at cover design. I learned how to upload new fonts into Canva for starters, which has made a huge difference. I really think the font makes the cover, and in the new design on the right, the font is literally called "Watchtower" 😆. In the original design, I was mainly just going for general gothic vibes. I still really like the original design, but I think the new one matches the work much better.

Aparently I've gotten worse at ironing on vinyl lol. Still haven't figured out the right temp, pressure, and time for this specific vinyl.

I think the most noticeable improvement has been in my construction of the text block. Since I started, I've picked up a lot of little techniques, to reduce swell, fold the pages evenly, and keep the signatures in line when sewing it together. I have also gotten nicer paper that is slightly thicker, the proper grain, and a softer color, while the first one was on regular printer paper.

My typesetting skills have greatly improved. I had soooooo many mistakes in the original 😂 the headers were on the wrong side of the page and I somehow didn't notice till I was folding the pages, my drop caps look a bit weird, and the chapter headers are too large and far down the page. The biggest thing is that the margins are off, another thing I didn't notice till I was folding. That part was actually an issue with how I was printing, and not with the actual typeset.

Now, I prefer to have my page numbers at the bottom instead of in the top header. I keep the top header centered, and I learned how to remove it on chapter header pages. I'm much better at inserting the drop caps and designing chapter headers. I think he new version looks much cleaner.

Something I only recently started doing, was including a copyright page; I find it adds a lot to how legitimate the book looks. It has all the work information, as well as the classic fanfic unaffiliation statement 😂

Something cool that I saw someone else do recently was include a QR code to the work on this page. I'll have to re-work my template, but I loved that Idea and am going to try and incorporate it on future binds.

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“Vertical Evac”

Sev x Reader

The Senate landing pad still stank of charred durasteel when the four commandos in Katarn armor strode out of the dawn mist. Boots hit duracrete in perfect cadence, and every aide around you startled, skittering out of their way like spooked tookas.

The one in the center stopped in front of you.

“Senator,” the vocoder rasped, calm as a metronome, “Delta Squad assumes your protection detail.”

You’d asked for one discreet guard after the Separatist torpedoes punched holes in your shuttle last night. Instead you’d been delivered a miniature shock battalion.

“I requested subtle,” you said dryly, sweeping your gaze over identical T‑visors. “Instead I’ve been issued four portable war crimes.”

A bark of laughter crackled through the comms. The clone on the left—armor scorched black at the shoulders—tapped two fingers to his helmet. “Portable war crime, that’s a new one, Senator. I’m Scorch. Demo expert. You break it, I blow it.”

“Stand down, Scorch,” the leader murmured. “I’m Boss. These are Fixer and Sev.”

The tallest—Sev—inclined his helmet a millimeter. “We’ll try not to stain the carpets.”

You almost smiled.

⸻

Your suite looked less like a workspace and more like a forward operating base. Scorch crawled through the ceiling vents, humming while he tucked micro‑det charges behind every ornate sconce. Fixer was wrist‑deep in the security terminal, ripping out obsolete boards and muttering about “code that predates the Jedi Order.” Boss paced, mapping angles of fire that only a clone commando would notice.

Sev took the window.

He didn’t move, didn’t even sway—just stood with the DC‑17m sniper attachment snug against his shoulder, visor tracking the boulevard five stories below.

You returned from the kitchenette with a tray of caf. “I assume troopers run on caffeine the way senators run on spite.”

Fixer declined with a grunt. Scorch popped down from a vent to snag two cups—one for himself, one he tried to hand to Sev by clinking the rim against the sniper’s elbow. Sev accepted without breaking sight‑line.

“Thanks,” he muttered. The voice behind the filter was low, gravel under ice.

You leaned against the sill beside him. “How long can you stare at traffic before you see stars?”

“Long as it takes.”

“Healthy.”

He gave a quiet huff that might have been a laugh. “Health is secondary. Mission first.”

Your lips twitched. “Let’s keep them aligned, Trooper.”

He finally turned his head. The visor reflected your own weary expression. “Call me Sev.”

“So,” you ventured, “Sev. What’s that actually short for? Your brothers keep calling you ‘Oh‑Seven.’ ”

A low rasp filtered through his vocoder. “Serial: RC‑1207. Clones don’t waste syllables—turns into ‘Zero‑Seven,’ then ‘Sev.’ Vau tried to rename me once—Strill‑bait—but Sev stuck.”

“Efficient,” you mused. “I was hoping for something poetic.”

“Closest thing to poetry we got,” he answered, “was Sergeant Walon Vau reading after‑action reports aloud and marking every missed shot in red. I preferred numbers.”

You huffed a laugh. “Numbers never filibuster.”

“Exactly.” He tipped the caf under his helmet, then added with a shrug you felt more than saw: “Still, seven isn’t a bad omen. Seven Geonosian snipers on my first real op. They’re the stripes.”

Your gaze dipped to the dried‑maroon slashes across his plate. Those kills were in the official record—no campfire exaggeration, just Sev doing Sev. “Better trophy than a Senate commendation,” you said.

“Commendations don’t stop blaster bolts,” he agreed. “Armor paint might. Enemies aim for the bright bit.”

“Note to self—add high‑visibility stripes to every lobbyist I want removed.”

He chuckled, deep and short. “You handle it with speeches, I handle it with DC charges. Same outcome; mine’s louder.”

The ceiling vent banged open and Scorch—all riot‑yellow hazard marks—dropped in upside‑down. “Louder? Did someone say louder? Because I have a three‑det primer that’ll make democracy sing.”

Sev kept his rifle steady, unamused. “You done wiring the vents?”

“Finished! Whole place is a merry little grave waiting to happen.” Scorch swung like a loth‑monkey. “What’s the banter—numerology and murder? Count me in. My favorite number’s forty‑seven—arms, legs, whatever’s left.”

Fixer snapped from the terminal, voice flat. “Scorch, your ‘festive’ cabling is shorting the main feed. Touch another conductor and I’ll teach you binary via blunt‑force trauma.”

“Harsh love, Fix.” Scorch saluted invertedly…and clipped a coil. Screens died, lights cut; the building’s distant alarm groaned awake.

Pen‑light clicked—Sev’s, white beam spearing the dark. “Stay with me, Senator.” He toggled comms. “Boss, primary’s down in the principal’s suite—unknown cause, probably Scorch.”

Boss answered, calm and clipped. “Assume breach until proven Scorch Error. Fixer: backups. Scorch: vent lockdown. Sev, keep the package intact.”

“Copy.” Sev shifted, square in front of you. Above, Scorch’s grin hovered in the torch.

“Bright side,” Scorch quipped, “if hostiles come now, they won’t see the scorch marks!”

“Touch that wire again,” Fixer warned in the dark, “and the next blackout’s permanent—for you.”

The auxiliary kicked in; light flooded back. Scorch fled up the duct, chastened but humming. Boss appeared in the doorway, orange visor band bright.

“Clear. Scorch is off det‑detail,” he declared.

Sev’s low chuckle rumbled. “Discipline, Delta‑style.”

You toasted him with the caf. “To functional anarchy. First amendment: electrified committee chairs.”

He gave a tiny nod. “Second amendment: motion passes with high‑explosive majority.”

A distant “I CAN SUPPLY THOSE” echoed from the shaft.

Side‑by‑side at the window, you both let the city’s neon river roll past, sharing bruised humor and the mutual certainty that, whatever happened next, you’d handle it—whether by votes or by very precise blaster fire.

⸻

Sleep never really came. You were half‑draped across a stack of datapads when every pane of transparisteel in the lounge shattered inward at once—a prismatic roar of sound and stinging air.

A glare‑white projectile streaked through the breach, thunked against the far wall, and bloomed into a spiderweb of crackling ion static. Lights died. Grav‑conduits hiccupped. Gravity itself seemed to wobble.

“Contact, east aspect—breach charges and ion!” Boss’s voice snapped from the darkness, all business. He’d been on silent watch in the corridor.

Sev materialised out of the gloom between you and the ruined window, rifle already hot. “Droid jump‑squad—minimum six. Senator, with me.”

You barely had time to register the whirring hiss of BX‑series commando droids vaulting the balcony rail before Sev’s gauntlet closed around your forearm.

Boss kicked the apartment’s panic door open with enough force to shear its hinges, emergency chemlights flickering along his orange‑striped armour.

“Fixer, Scorch—status?” he barked into squad‑comms while shoving a palm‑sized beacon into your hand. An amber arrow blinked on its surface: PROX‑CODE DELTA.

“Dining area’s a toaster, Boss. I’m boxed—two droids.”

“Vent shafts compromised—make that three,” Scorch added, laughing like it was Life Day.

“Hold and delay,” Boss ordered. “We’re exfil Alpha with the principal.”

Sev herded you down the service hall, DC‑17m coughing scarlet bolts that popped droid skulls as they rounded corners. A ricochet sizzled past your ear; you felt the heat, smelled scorched upholstery.

“Keep your head ducked,” he growled. “That helmet budget of yours is still pending.”

You shot back, breathless, “Filed under agricultural subsidies—nobody reads those.”

“Smart.” He clipped a spare vibroblade from his thigh and pressed it into your palm. “If it comes to close‑quarters—stab the gap at the jaw hinge.”

“Charming bedside manner, Sev.”

“Better than a funeral eulogy.”

The maintenance lift doors yawned open—just in time to reveal the empty shaft beyond. Gravity stabilisers flickered; wind howled up the vertical tunnel.

Boss lobbed a glow‑stick; it spiralled downward, showing two hundred metres of nothing before emergency nets. “Main lift’s offline. We rappel.”

A cable launcher thunked against the upper frame. Sev snapped the line to your belt, then to his own. “Clip in and step off on my count. Boss goes first.”

Blaster‑fire rattled down the corridor—Fixer’s voice on comms: “Third droid down, corridor secure.”

“Copy, Fix,” Boss replied. Then to you, calm and steady: “Three… two… one.” He vanished over the edge.

Sev guided you after him. The world flipped; you were suddenly running down a wall of permacrete, black void on either side, cable humming overhead. You focused on Boss’s glowing armour below, and on Sev’s hand firm between your shoulder blades.

Halfway down, a BX droid leaned out a blown‑open access door and fired upward. The cable near your hip sparked.

Sev twisted mid‑descent, rifle spitting crimson. The droid’s chest plate caved; it pinwheeled into darkness.

“Cable integrity?” Boss called.

“Nominal,” Sev grunted. To you: “Still with me?”

“Not filing that helmet request after all,” you gasped.

“Good. Would’ve been a waste of paperwork.”

Boots hit deck plating beside Boss. An auxiliary hangar gaped before you—service speeders, loading cranes, and, at the far end, a battered LAAT/i gunship painted civilian grey.

Boss punched the hatch codes. “Borrowing that. Scorch, Fixer—vector to my beacon.”

Scorch: “Roger—bringing the fireworks!”

Fixer: “And the repair bill.”

Sev swept the bay, visor pinging heat‑sigs. “Two more droids on the gantry.”

“I’ll drive,” you said, surprising yourself.

Sev angled his helmet. “Can you?”

“Committee on Combat Logistics. I made sure senators kept their pilot’s certs current.”

Boss tossed you the cockpit datakey. “Then fly it like you filibuster—fast and ruthless.”

⸻

The gunship thundered out of the sub‑level exit just as Scorch vaulted aboard, demo‑satchel first, Fixer broken‑armed behind him. Sev slammed the side hatch; Boss took the troop bay guns.

City lights blurred past. Sirens dopplered below. Somewhere behind, your shattered apartment flickered with fresh explosions—Scorch’s parting gift.

Sev crouched beside the cockpit, shoulder braced against the bulkhead. “Secondary safe‑house is eighteen klicks. We’ll clear traffic for you.”

You tightened your grip on the yoke. “Appreciate it. Next housing allowance better cover blast windows.”

“That, or we install the windows we like—three metres thick, transparisteel.” His tone was almost light. “Adds character.”

You glanced back, met his visor. “And here I thought I was the expensive one in this arrangement.”

“Worth every credit, Senator,” he said—and for the first time you heard a smile in RC‑1207’s gravelled voice.

Outside, the dawn line crept over Coruscant’s horizon—crimson, like Sev’s war‑paint—while Delta Squad regrouped in the hold, bruised but intact. The war would send more droids, more nights like this, but for now you flew toward the rising light, the commando’s words lingering like an unspoken promise.

⸻

The scarlet bloom of predawn still clung to Sev’s visor as Delta Squad escorted you across the durasteel bridgeway toward the Sienar Senatorial Cutter waiting in docking cradle G‑43.

You’d only decided an hour ago—papers signed, aide‑team recalled—that it was time to go home: to the domed foundries of your world, to the committees that actually listened. Coruscant could keep its marble tombs.

Fixer had already swept the cutter’s nav‑core; Scorch grumbled that the fuel cells were “too clean, suspiciously sober.” Boss, always by the datapad, had plotted the twenty‑six‑hour jump. Sev walked at your left flank, rifle slung but senses wired tight.

“I still think the Senate Medical Board could clear you in two days,” he said through the vocoder, voice low.

“And I think if I stay two days more, the war will veto me permanently.” You managed a wry smile. “Besides, your safe‑house couch is murderous on the lumbar.”

“Could requisition a better couch.”

“You’d blow it up for target practice.”

“Fair.”

A claxon whooped overhead, routine pre‑launch. Hangar crews gave thumbs‑up as they sealed the cutter’s boarding ramp, crimson Republic insignia catching the light.

Scorch jogged back from the refuel pylon, yellow armor bright against the grey deck. “All green—ship’s thirstier than a cadet, but she’s topped.”

Boss nodded. “Mount up. We launch in eleven.”

You rested a hand on the cool hull, exhaled. Going home. For the first time in weeks, the knot behind your ribs loosened.

A muffled whump—more vibration than sound—rippled underfoot. You frowned; Sev’s helmet snapped toward the cutter. An instant later a second, deeper concussion rolled across the ring. Cries echoed; deck crew scattered.

Sev’s shout hit like blaster fire: “DOWN!”

He tackled you behind a cargo skid just as the Senatorial Cutter blossomed into white‑hot shrapnel. The blast‑wave hammered the gangway, ripping durasteel like foil. Chunks of hull screamed overhead, flaming arcs against the pale sky.

Boss’s orders barked through squad‑comms—“Perimeter! Trawl for secondaries!”—even as Fixer dragged a stunned tech from the collapsing ramp. Scorch ran straight into the haze, thermal scanner up, searching for unexploded ordnance.

Your ears rang. Liquid fire licked the wreck thirty meters away; atmosphere pull whipped the flames sideways until emergency force‑screens slammed down.

Sev’s weight still covered you, armour shielding against stray shards. Heat washed over the two of you; the copper tang of scorched electronics filled your lungs.

He leaned close, voice pitched for your ears only. “Senator, you all right?”

Heart hammering, you forced a nod. “Yes.” The word came thin. “Our ship—”

“Gone,” he said, absolute. “Someone timed a shaped charge for pre‑board.”

You felt the knot snap tight again—rage this time, not fear. “That hangar was Level Three clearance. Only Republic personnel.”

“Or someone wearing their code cylinder.” Sev’s visor reflected the inferno. “Saboteur’s still out there.”

Fire‑suppression foam oozed from ceiling vents; med‑droids hissed down the smoke‑curtains. Boss herded survivors past you, every gesture clipped, professional.

“Saboteur planted thermal baradium in the starboard fuel neck,” Fixer reported, one gauntlet cradling his bandaged arm. “Timed off the pressure equaliser—no remote signal.”

Scorch skidded up, visor flecked with soot. “Found partial detonator casing. Separatist‑pattern, but tractable.”

Boss looked to you. “Senator, the ring isn’t secure. I recommend immediate extraction to Defender‑class corvette Vigilant—Command has a cabin we can hard‑seal.”

You opened your mouth—I still have to reach my planet—but Sev cut across gently, “Your world can wait eight more hours. You can’t if there’s a second bomber.”

You met his visor, saw your own shaken reflection. A breath in, out. “Corvette it is.”

The Vigilant detached from the ring on emergency vector, hyperdrives spooling. Through the small viewport the docking cradle burned, a smear of smoke against the stratosphere.

You sat on a cot, jacket singed, palms trembling. Sev posted at the door, Boss conferring with the bridge. Fixer typed one‑handed at a forensic padd; Scorch fussed, pulling charred slivers from his pauldrons.

“You know the irony,” Scorch called across the room, irrepressible even now. “Hangars scare me more than battlefields. Too many things that go ‘boom’ when they’re supposed to behave.”

Fixer grunted. “Statistically still safer than letting you cook ration bars.”

You managed a weak laugh, rubbing temples. “Gentlemen, please—one trauma at a time.”

Sev stepped forward, offered a flask of electrolyte water. “Sip slowly.”

You obeyed, then asked, “Anyone else hurt?”

“Minor burns only,” Boss answered, approaching. “But the Separatists just escalated. Cutter’s manifest leaked thirty minutes ago—only a very short list knew you’d leave today.”

“Which means,” Sev finished, “there’s a mole in Republic logistics.”

Silence pressed in, broken by the corvette’s hyperdrive howl—the stars outside stretched to lines.

You set the flask aside, straightened. “So we find them.”

Boss inclined his helmet. “That’s the plan.”

Sev’s voice dropped, meant only for you. “And until we do, no transports. No public schedules. We move when we control every variable.”

A beat. Then you asked, quietly fierce, “Does that include better couches?”

The sniper’s helmet tipped, the faintest nod. “And blast windows thick enough for a rancor.”

Despite everything—the smoke, the dead crew, the gut‑deep dread—you felt a spark of something steadier than fear. Delta had you. And you weren’t done fighting.

Outside, hyperspace opened like a blue fracture, swallowing the Vigilant—but not the promise Sev had made, soft as a sniper’s breath: They’d failed to kill you twice. Third time would never come.

⸻

The Vigilant slipped into hyperspace hours ago, but sleep never boarded with the rest of you.

When the muted corridor lights dimmed for ship‑night, you found yourself drifting—restless—until the muffled clank of a familiar gait guided your steps.

Most racks were dark, humming behind containment fields, yet one bench lamp burned low. Sev sat there, helmet off, the harsh light carving shadows along the scar that split his right temple. He was field‑stripping the DC‑17m with the same care a jeweler gives crystal.

You halted at the threshold. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

Crimson eyes flicked up—tired, alert, softening when they found you. “Blaster lubricant’s cheaper than sedatives.”

You ventured closer, palms tucked in your sleeves to hide the tremor still living there. “I wanted to thank you. You put yourself between me and—” You gestured at empty air that smelled faintly of ionized smoke. “Everything.”

He reassembled the last actuator, set the rifle aside. “That’s the job.”

“I know when duty ends and choice begins.” You lowered onto the next bench. “Saving me was duty. Staying here polishing gun parts at three a.m.—that’s choice.”

For a moment the only sound was the distant thrum of hyperdrive coils. Sev’s gaze dropped to your hands. “You’re still shaking.”

“Adrenaline’s a stubborn tenant.”

He reached into a med‑pouch, produced a flat stim patch. “Cortical calmative. Won’t knock you out—just tells the nerves the shooting’s done.”

You accepted it, hesitated. “Could put it on my own neck, but I imagine you’re more precise.”

His expression did something rare—softened into a hint of a smile. He peeled the backing, brushed your hair aside with surprising gentleness, and pressed the patch below your ear. Heat bloomed, then a slow coolness spread through muscle and marrow alike.

“Better?” he asked, thumb lingering against your pulse as if counting the beats to be sure.

“Getting there.” You studied the scar on his temple—white against tan skin, the kind Kamino med‑droids never fully erased. “Geonosis?”

He nodded once. “Turret ricochet. Left a mark. Reminds me to keep my head down.”

“You kept mine down today.”

A silence stretched, warm instead of awkward, until he said, low: “When the cutter blew, time slowed. Thought—if that’s the last thing I do, it’s enough.”

Your breath hitched. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” His hand dropped to the bench between you, open‑palmed—an invitation without expectation.

You laid your fingers across his. Armor‑calloused knuckles felt like forged durasteel, but the grip he returned was careful, almost reverent.

“I’m glad,” you whispered, “that ‘enough’ didn’t end there.”

His lips curved—a small, earnest thing. “Me too, cyar’ika.” The Mandalorian endearment slipped out before he caught it; color touched his cheeks. “Sorry”.

“Don’t be.” You squeezed his hand. “I speak fluent subtext.”

From the passageway came Scorch’s distant voice complaining about ration bars; somewhere Fixer muttered diagnostics. But inside the armory a hush settled—two steady heartbeats, the scent of cleaning solvent, the promise of unexploded tomorrows.

Sev reclaimed his rifle, but his other hand never left yours. “Stay a while. The patch works better with company.”

You leaned your shoulder to his, felt the tremor finally subside, and decided the armory was, for tonight, the safest place in the galaxy.

[embarrassedanon]

FOR INTERNAL USE ONLY

TO: Whispering Winds Resort & Spa Human Resources

FROM: Ezra Kuhlwein, Flowrider Operator

SUBJECT: Documentation of "Embarrassing Naked Moment" on Flowrider [Footage Attached]

Martin Ripley, staying with his wife and three boys in Suite 2317, got swept off his board and had his trunks slip past the curve of his ass buttocks. Honestly it didn't seem that embarrassing to me, I was a lifeguard before taking this job, I can't count the number of guys who've seen me naked in the locker room. But this isn't about me. I know our guests are probably quicker to embarrass than the average guy. More image conscious and all that. I really want to keep this job so my training went into effect.

As you can see from the attached footage I promptly employed the SHAME protocol. I blew my whistle as soon as I had inkling of what was happening. I signaled to all staff on the pool deck that we were dealing with a "Code Blush." Luckily all the other guys working at the pool were quick to respond. They closed the waterslides, the snack shack, and the towel depot and joined me promptly.

With my coworkers in tow, we moved on to the huddle. I had done my best to cover Mr. Ripley from the leering eyes of the guests waiting in line for the Flowrider. But I could only do so much as one person. The huddle was tough for us because we had to lift him up from the ground. I'm sure some people behind us did get another eyeful of his exposed bottom before we could solidly huddle around him. Another potential oversight on our part, as we lifted him from under his armpits, he was never able to full pull up his shorts even after he was concealed by the huddle.

Assuaging Mr. Ripley was what I was most nervous about. I knew it was my responsibility since I had seen everything. I started by saying "Sir, it's okay, you're covered now. Do not worry." He was absolutely ripshit. "This wouldn't have happened if your stupid wave machine was better calibrated." "Yes, of course Sir. I'll speak with our engineer this afternoon." "Damn right you will, $2,000 a night for what passes for a suite at this resort and I'm not even afforded my dignity. I've haven't been so publicly humiliated since I joined my fraternity at Wharton. Some of those brats in line go to prep school with my sons, how will my boys ever show their faces at school again." "Sir, it really was not that bad. Most the guests in line turned away as soon as your...bottom was exposed. I'm not sure very many people even knew what was going on." "Maybe until you blew your little whistle and had everyone over here drawing attention to me. Seriously, as if I wasn't embarrassed enough." "Sir, I understand how embarrassing that must of have been. But please trust you're just as formidable as before. I insist it wasn't nearly as bad as you might think." That last line seemed to convince him enough for us to get moving.

We walked shoulder to shoulder in a tight huddle toward the men's locker room. I noticed Josh and Evan from the snack shack, who were at the back of the huddle, suppressing giggles and sharing knowing glances as they had a prime view of Mr. Ripley's exposed behind. Thankfully Mr. Ripely didn't seem to notice their lack of professionalism.

Once back in the men's locker room, Mr. Ripley's anger seemed to be more seething than vitriolic. He was very dismissive to all the guys who made up the huddle. Not even so much as a thank you. But we got him covered quickly and removed him from the situation which feels like a success. Going forward we may want to turn down the wave speed. This happens far more often than one would think. Slow down the waves or enforce a drawstring check, those are my two suggestions. I can be reached at my cell or on the pool deck Monday Wednesday and Friday if HR requests any more information from me.