#why staff augmentation

[xbsoftware]

Delivering State-of-the-art SaaS Solutions With 12 Factor App Methodology

The 12 factor app methodology is an excellent way to ensure that SaaS systems are built with scalability, portability, and robustness in mind. This app development approach entails a set of guidelines and principles that developers can use to guarantee that their apps are built with a focus on maintainability and repeatability. Also, it focuses on automating deployments and using the best practices.

[truefirms1]

What is staff augmentation? Why is it important?

[lu-is-not-ok]

A super quick question, but do you think Xichun’s passives imply that she’s taken boluses before?

Putting these two questions together since they're on the same topic.

I think that yes. Xichun is absolutely using treatments via Bolus as a form of physical augmentation. It's quite clear that the Jia Family is heavily involved with H Corp (if not outright a part of the Wing staff itself), so it makes sense Xichun would have enough access to them to use them as enhancement rather than direct treatment.

As for what exactly the treatments she's using could be... Well that's something that I'm much less confident on since the best I can do is pray googling will be enough, but I'll try.

Ba Jiao Banana seems to be a reference to musa basjoo, a plant also known as hardy banana or Japanese fiber banana (which, despite their name, originate from China). According to Wikipedia this plant can be used to reduce "heat-toxins" in traditional Chinese medicine, however the source for that no longer works so I can't confirm that for sure.

However, that's not all funnily enough. From what I found while going on this wild goose chase, the term for this plant tends to also be translated as "plantain".

Why is this important? Because while bananas aren't mentioned in DOTRC, plantains are. They're mentioned multiple times when describing the Daguanyuan/Grand View Garden (which H Corp is partially named after), and Jia Tanchun (Jia Huan's sister and Baoyu's half-sister) takes on the pseudonym "Plantain Lover" for the poetry club she and the other main characters founded in the Garden.

Now, how does this relate to Xichun specifically? Well, in DOTRC she is also a member of the poetry club, and at one point gets commissioned to make a painting of the Garden by Grandma Jia herself. ...That's all I can gather from feverishly CTRL+Fing through the novel at the very least.

So, from all of that, here's what I can gather for the Ba Jiao Banana Bolus Passive.

I have no idea if there's any specific connection between the actual effects of the Passive and its name. However, the fact that the plant used might have medicinal use shows that a Bolus can use the essence of traditional herbal treatment. Additionally, it maybe might serve as a subtle reference to DOTRC Xichun's involvement in the poetry club hosted at the Grand View Garden.

As for the other one...

Jin Gang seems to be another name for a vajra, a ritual tool used in Buddhism. From what I can gather it's associated with indestructibility, fitting as the effect of the Passive gives Xichun Defense Level Ups.

While there is already a connection between Xichun and Buddhism through her beliefs (and her ending up as a Buddhist nun after the Family falls), I think there might be another connection here. The vajra includes lotus flowers as part of its form, and it just so happens that Xichun's poetry club pseudonym is 'Lotus Dweller', which she's given due to her living by the Lotus Pavilion.

To summarize what we can gather from the Jin Gang Bolus Passive:

Similarly to her other Passive, this one shows a possible essence a Bolus can use, though this time it's that of religious rituals, fitting due to DOTRC Xichun's religious nature. The effect of the passive directly correlates with the indestructibility that the ritual tool is associated with. Additionally, this might be another subtle reference to DOTRC Xichun's involvement in the Garden poetry club, though this one much more personalized to Xichun herself.

Oh. And just for full completion.

Xichun also has one non-Bolus related Passive named Bursting Strike, Breathing Siphon. It's a straightforward reference to the fact that her Passive giver her Poise upon killing a target with Rupture. The first part references the Rupture kill, the second references the Poise gain.

[monster-disaster]

A) have access to a facility with an unlimited budget and staffed with the most highly trained scientists, geneticists, surgeons, and wizards ( yes wizards as this is a theoretical fantasy) that can change or augment your body in any way you can imagine.( Temporarily or permanently)

Or

B) the same type of facility similarly staffed and equipped, but they can engineer or clone any type of being(s) or creatures(s) you can imagine with the mental instincts to fulfill your deepest desires.

lizardman!Rask x human!Reader Warning: tease but no smut

A/N: My answer is B) and I will bring the smutty second part tomorrow under your other request. :)

_

"I… I did something." Rask’s voice is uncharacteristically quiet in the stillness of your office.

The lizardman stands awkwardly just inside the door, his hulking frame still wrapped in a lab coat. Underneath, his crispy white shirt is buttoned all the way up to his thick neck.

"What did you do?" you ask him, eyes scanning his meek posture; hunched shoulders, head tilted downward, his yellow eyes avoiding yours as they stare at the hard metal floor.

Rask hesitates, his claws fidgeting with the edges of his coat. "I… I tried the cloning machine."

Your brow furrows further. "So?" you ask, trying to make sense of his guilt. "We use it all the time."

"No." He shakes his head sharply, his yellow eyes flicking up for the briefest of moments before dropping again. "I mean, yes, but… I used it on myself."

Your eyes widen in disbelief. "What?" You lean forward in your chair, hoping that you misheard him, but the way Rask shrinks further into himself confirms your fears.

"But why?"

"I was curious," he admits, wincing at his own flimsy excuse.

"Rask," you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose between your fingers.

"I know," he says quickly. "I was stupid. I shouldn’t have-"

"Where is your… clone now?" you interrupt. His tail flicks behind him at the sharp edge of your voice.

"In one of the cells," the male replies. "I didn’t know what to do with him."

"You should have thought of that before you tried something so reckless. We work by strict protocols, Rask. How am I supposed to explain to the board that one of my employees used himself as a test subject?"

"I’m sorry."

You let out a long breath, forcing yourself to stay calm. What’s done is done. You can’t undo his actions, and while his apology won’t fix the situation, there’s no point in berating him further. You’ve worked in this facility long enough to know that curiosity often walks hand in hand with chaos. Scientists push boundaries, sometimes too far. It’s the nature of this place.

You stand, closing your laptop with a click. "Go home, Rask. And I want a detailed report about your… experience on my desk first thing tomorrow."

His head snaps up, yellow eyes wide with worry. "Will you fire me?"

Shaking your head, you reply; "No, Rask. You’re a good worker, and you’ve proven yourself time and again. But this... this can’t happen again. I’ll figure something out."

Relief flickers across his face, though his tail continues to swish nervously behind him. "Thank you, boss."

You walk him out of your office, closing the door behind you. "Come to my office first thing tomorrow morning. And make sure that report is ready."

"Yes, boss," Rask repeats, nodding earnestly.

As you watch him walk away, his shoulders still hunched, you can’t help but shake your head. This job was never going to be easy, not with the kinds of minds you worked with, and now, you had Rask's clone to deal with.

The building is almost empty. Most of the staff have already clocked out, leaving only the guards for the night. The long corridors stretch before you, their silence broken only by the soft scrape of your shoes against the floor. Above you, dimmed fluorescent lights flicker occasionally, following you up to the upper floor, where long rows of cells stretch out before you. From behind the thick metal doors, you can hear the creatures stirring. Some shuffle restlessly, the faint sound of claws scraping against walls or floors reaching your ears. Their growls and snarls are low and guttural, but muffled by the walls of the cells. You catch glimpses of them through the small, reinforced windows set into the doors, sharp eyes watching, shapes shifting in the shadows.

The cell of Rask’s clone lies at the very end of the long, dimly lit row. Through the narrow window, a pair of sharp yellow eyes meet yours, the slit pupils unblinking and focused. He doesn’t move as you stop in front of his door. His posture is unnervingly still, almost statuesque, and for a moment, you’re frozen, unsure of what to do next. What Rask did was reckless, a line no one had seriously thought to cross. And now, you’re face-to-face with the fallout; a creature that is, in every way, Rask and yet undeniably someone else.

How are you supposed to handle this? How can you possibly sweep something like this under the rug?

Damn it, Rask.

You exhale slowly as you reach for the security pad beside the door. Your fingers hover over the screen for a moment before you punch in the code. The soft beeps echo faintly down the hall, followed by a sharp hiss as the door unlocks. Your hand lingers on the handle, your grip tightening as hesitation creeps in. This isn’t a decision you should take lightly. You know better than to step into a confined space with an unknown entity, especially one born of such uncharted science, but as your mind races with all the ways this could go wrong, you push the door open and step inside.

He’s still watching you, his body eerily motionless save for the slow, deliberate rise and fall of his chest. His yellow eyes track your every move as you carefully step further inside while the door seals shut with another hiss.

Every thought you had about safety, protocol, and caution evaporates as you take in the figure before you. He is Rask, but he isn’t. The shade of his scales is identical, a familiar blend of muted greens, catching the dim light in the same way you’ve seen a hundred times before. His broad shoulders, the line of his jaw, even the way his tail hangs behind him. It’s all unmistakably Rask. And yet, there’s something else. Something off. It’s not just the uncanny stillness or the way his eyes seem to pierce through you. It’s something deeper, something that sets your instincts on edge.

And he is naked.

Your gaze flickers downward before you can stop yourself. His lean, muscular form is undeniably Rask’s, only now seen in a way you never have before. Every ridge, every scale, every taut line of his body is familiar, yet it feels foreign. That dissonance gnaws at the edges of your thoughts as you force your eyes upward, meeting his sharp yellow gaze again. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift to cover himself, and shows no sign of embarrassment or awareness of his nudity. Instead, he simply stands there, watching you with an intensity that feels almost predatory.

"Do you understand me?" Your voice comes out steady despite the unease coiling in your stomach.

For a long moment, the clone says nothing. His eyes remain locked on yours, unblinking, unyielding. Then, slowly, he tilts his head. "Yes," he finally replies, carrying the same cadence as Rask’s but with a subtle, unnerving edge.

You nod, a small motion that feels heavier than it should. "Good." You lick your lips, suddenly aware of how dry they’ve become. "Do you know why you are here?"

His gaze slides over you, unhurried and deliberate, lingering in places it shouldn’t. It sends a ripple down your spine.

"Yes," he says again, his tone measured.

You exhale, nodding as though to convince yourself that things are still under control.

Cloning is still new and its outcomes are unpredictable. It’s why the facility operates in secrecy, why every precaution is taken to avoid the public eye. Clones may appear identical to their originals, but there are always differences. Some emerge feral, untamed and violent, while others manifest traits that were either latent or entirely unexpected in their originators.

But Rask’s clone…

At least he seems to understand you. His speech is coherent, his demeanor calm, calmer than you anticipated, given the circumstances. Yet that knowledge brings you no comfort, only questions.

What are you supposed to do with him? What can you do?

"Are you here to mate?"

The sudden question shatters the momentary silence, making your breath hitch and your eyes widen. You snap out of your thoughts, staring at the lizardman who stands barely a few inches taller than you.

"What?" The word escapes your lips in a rush, half disbelief, half reflex.

"I can feel your desire."

Your mouth opens, but words fail you for a moment. "No, I-" Whatever you wanted to say dies on your tongue when your gaze falters, and you see it: his hard cock emerging from its sheath. Heat blooms beneath your skin as you force yourself to look away.

"Do you want my original?" he asks with a slight tilt of his head.

"No," you snap as if it could get back the control into your hands.

The slits of his pupils narrow as he studies you, his unblinking gaze like a predator locking onto its prey. "You are lying," he says with unnerving certainty. "You find him attractive… and you find me attractive too."

Your breath catches in your throat, and by the time you force yourself to exhale, he’s already in front of you. You didn’t even register the space between you closing, but now his presence looms, overwhelming and steady. The scales of his chest glint faintly under the dim light. His scent, metal and earth, curls around your senses, making it impossible to focus.

"I’m not lying," you manage, though your voice is quieter than you intended.

"You feel one thing… and say another."

You step back instinctively, but your back hits the cool wall of the cell.

"You can’t hide from me," he says, his breath warm as it brushes against your skin. "I can feel it."

"We have more important matters than-" You try to deflect, the words tumbling hastily from your lips, but before you can finish, they falter into a sharp inhale. His head dips, and you feel him at the crook of your neck. The heat of his proximity is dizzying, but it’s the sudden, wet flick of his tongue against your pulse that sends a shiver rippling through your entire body. You gasp, your breath catching as the sensation floods your senses. His tongue glides over the sensitive skin, deliberate and unhurried, as if he’s savoring every beat of your racing heart.

"You’re thrumming," he murmurs against your neck.

"You need to stop," you whisper.

"Do I?" he asks, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. His gaze is intense and unwavering. "Or is that another lie?"

The question hangs in the air, heavy and challenging, as you struggle to steady your breath.

There’s a choice to make, and despite how obvious it seems, the words refuse to form. Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

You shouldn’t.

He is a clone. A being created from the mind and body of someone you trust. Someone you work with. Someone you’d even call a friend. But he’s not Rask. Not entirely. Yet, he looks like him, every detail painstakingly identical. The same sharp yellow eyes, the same strong jawline, the same deep voice that carries a hint of warmth and familiarity. But this clone is different. Where Rask is often a whirlwind of restless energy, his thoughts spilling out in frantic tangents, this version is steady. Calculating. Confident.

"Another lie." Your voice is barely louder than a whisper, yet it cuts through the charged air between you.

You can’t deny it. The ache and curiosity you feel are too overwhelming, too raw to deny.

A slow, confident smile curls on the corner of his lips, one you could never see on Rask's face. And his hand settles on your hips like Rask's never would. You can feel his claw grazing over your skin where your shirt has ridden up.

"You don’t need to fight it," he says. "I'm here to fulfill your desires." His breath brushes against the sensitive skin of your neck. It’s warm, teasing, and far too intimate.

The heat of his body radiates against yours, and before you can react, his thigh presses firmly between your legs. The hard curve of his muscle nudges you through the thick fabric of your jeans just enough to make your breath catch. He moves slowly. He doesn’t rush. Every shift of his body, every subtle press of his touch is deliberate as if he’s testing you, learning you. His sharp pupils narrow, catching every flicker of your reaction, and a self-assured smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"I’m not him, but I can give you what you’ve been denying yourself." The words cut through your hesitation, leaving you exposed in a way you weren’t prepared for. Your hands press against the cool wall behind you as if it could somehow anchor you, but his presence is everywhere, drawing you in despite yourself.

"I can give you what my original can't."

The words are bold, unapologetic, and hit far too close to home.

How does he know? You are sure Rask doesn’t. You’ve never said anything, never let even a hint slip about your silly little crush or the urge to climb him every time he rambles on about something you don't even understand.

"N-not here," you stammer, your voice trembling as the burn in your core spreads, impossible to ignore.

His movements stop, and you catch the faintest twitch of his lips. He is trying not to smile, but his smug satisfaction is undeniable.

"Will you take me out of here?"

It’s a crazy idea.

It’s reckless, absurd, dangerous.

You shouldn’t.

"Yes."

[estchiyu]

The Fairly EggParents AU - How does it work?

An explanation of how this AU works!! Pretty much explained in the images, but the people of tumblr get a little more info \o/ ALSO, if this AU turns into a comic or something some designs and info may change, just a heads up!

The AU takes place in an international school and the eggs we all know and love are in the same class (Class 501). This class is part of the "Gifted and Talented Program" and the students were hand selected by the principal himself.

The staff of this school are all magical creatures in human disguises, but most of them are pixies. In the original show, pixies were the business oriented antagonists of the fairies, but in this AU, they're loyal workers of the fairies/Fairy Federation. Will they eventually be antagonists, who knows? Also, a lot of them are mute and use sign language or augmentative alternative communication devices!

One of Da Rules from the original show! It's difficult for magical creatures besides fairies to become godparents, so many wait for a fairy to quit. But in rare instances, a fairy may willingly give their job to someone else...

Also a callback to the original show! After Jorgenrucho (LOL) banned the birth of fairies, some fairies eventually caught baby fever. Luckily for them, there are some open spots for god parenting jobs...

And shoutout to that one person who asked for TFEP slimariana I hope u like the angst TEE HEES

And of course, the AU has to somewhat follow the QSMP lore, including the departure and arrival of some of the eggs ^^ Why do some leave and some arrive will be answered... some day... maybe.

[infini-tree]

episodic - part 4

< back | next >

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

Summary: Everyone doubles down.

A/N: alternative chapter summary: Melvin Has A Normal Day.

once again thank you art of book for listing all the faculty names and subjects. 

on that note: Melvin's characterization. since this au is primarily based on movie continuity, in the end i decided to defer to its lead. which makes things difficult, as most of his inventions were all pretty lowkey (and the turbo toilet had been further augmented by a third party), and some future plots hinge on his more OP inventions. scene 2 is meant to bridge the character gap between all his incarnations, and also narratively sets some stuff up for this AU. i did say he's a core secondary,

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

With the final bell rung, Benjamin made quick work of packing his suitcase. Considering how fast the kids ran out of the school, the halls should be quiet now. The last thing he needed was noise and talking. And so, he stepped out into a reception room filled with faculty. 

Not just talking– yelling. At him.

He glanced over to Anthrope, who should have shooed them all away. Her now-empty seat was still swivelling. 

“Of course,” he grumbled.

“Whadd'ya mean 'of course'?” Rected griped.

“We’re up to our eyelids in marking these brats’ worksheets!” Ribble waved a stack of papers at his face– all from the impromptu beach day, if he read the date right. “And you expect us to mark an entire grade’s worth of volcano projects?!”

“Clearly it's not just the students that need to apply themselves.” 

The rest of the teachers froze.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He narrowed his eyes, his tone still as clipped from the announcements. “Aren’t you the one always complaining about their marks?”

“Well, yes, but–”

“But nothing, you're the one who insisted on teaching three subjects.” He moved on to other teachers. “Meaner, you’re only doing the running tests– I don’t see why you’re complaining. The most you have to do is make sure they don’t trip over their own shoelaces.”

“The papers–”

“Because its so hard keeping track of when kids stop running.” He turned to Guided. “And you– all the tests are based on stuff your class should have covered by now.”

Guided grumbled something about how the topics were from the start of the semester, no one remembers that.

“Dayken–” Said teacher jolted up from the back. “What are you even doing here? You're a kindergarten teacher.”

“I wanted to feel included--”

“In any case, all I’m hearing–” He pointed an accusatory finger at all of them. “Is that all of you are mad that you need to actually do your job.”

“Excuse you?!” Ribble shot back. No other teachers spoke up.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m trying to do before you barged in here.” He pointed at Rected and Ribble. “You have until the end of the week to make it work.”

He could feel something tighten in his chest flare as he saw the teachers back off. It wasn’t relief, but it was a near thing. At least he wasn’t on the back foot. 

“Dismissed.” The tone broached no argument.

The impromptu staff meeting ended– not with a bang, but a whimper. More accurately, it was a grumble of swears that cannot be recounted in a fanwork made for general audiences. He watched all the teachers skulk out of the room with a leveled glare. 

None of them dared to look back.

If we could have, we would have. Who else would agree?

He stood there until he was absolutely sure he couldn’t hear anyone nearby. After that, it was just a matter of going down the steps. Of making it through the hallway. 

Ignoring how unmoored he felt. He looked to his feet– left, right, left, right. Repeat until he was at the door.

It wasn’t the first time anyone would have thought that about him. Heck, it wasn’t the first time the quiet part was said out loud. It was, however, the first time it was actually doable.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, Ben?”

“Guh–” He whirled around. “Edith!”

She blinked. He stared. The silence lingered a bit too long for his liking, though it was clear she wanted to say something. 

“Do you need anything?” he managed.

“Are you alright?” When no answer came, she continued to trail off. “I mean, I– I saw everyone goin’ up to your office. And then there was the announcement earlier, so–”

“Of course I am.”

Another blink. “O– oh, uh, ok, then…”

“OK, then.” 

Edith persisted. She trailed behind him closely as he came closer to the door. Most days he’d be a little endeared to it, but right now, right now–

“So, where are you going to set up this whole ‘science fair’? You, uh. Forgot to mention it.”

Of course he did. “The cafeteria. It has the space for it.”

He held a hand up to the door. 

“I guess the floors have to be cleaned early…” she mumbled. “Uh, hey– wait!”

He had barely half-opened it.

“If you need anything, just ask, OK?” Then, in a lower voice, she added: “I don’t know why you’re actually doin’ this, but–”

His hand was gone as he whipped back to look at her. “Actually?” he snapped back. 

“I– I know you, and you wouldn’t be doin’ this without a reason.”

“Know me?”

His rage was already so spent– from the boys, the teachers, the other guy, it can only persist for so long. It doesn’t billow out so much as burn him out from the inside. And when pushed that far, something had to give.

“It took you a month to realize I wasn’t being an idiot on purpose,” he said. “The real question is why didn't I do it sooner.” 

Edith’s eyes widened and her shoulders shrank at the remark. Guilt curdled in him, but it was a distant thing. He wanted to leave. He wanted to reach out and take it back. His body chose the worst compromise between the two and made him stand there like an idiot.

“OK then.” She looked away. “Um, I guess I’ll prep the cafeteria for it then.”

“OK then,” was all Benjamin could manage before she left to do just that. Which was fine. That’s what he wanted, right? He needed to get going too.

Left, right, left, right. Car. Drive. He forced himself to focus on the road completely. To hold onto the wheel like a lifeline. And it worked. At least until he hit the first red light– and then the thoughts crept in.

He should have said something different. He should have said it differently. What kind of answer was I should have done it sooner, anyway? 

His knuckles turned bone-white at his grip. 

Still, he felt unmoored– like a sharp turn would make him leap out of his own body, and– If we could have, we would have, George’s voice rattled in his head. They had the motive, and they had shown time and time again they had the means. 

And yet here he still was: sweating in sixty-degree weather.

He wasn’t sure what that meant, but it was yet another thing to mull over and hang over the other guy.

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

For the next two days, the elementary school was a minefield for George and Harold. Which was why they found themselves stumbling around a corner and quickly entering the nearest empty classroom. The small mob ran past the corner none the wiser.

Harold gave a forlorn look to the stack of comics in his arms. “I don’t know how much of the sales can take this.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it.” George placed a hand to the other boy’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

A pause. The other boy gave a cautious look around, now that they had a moment to breathe.

“Well, maybe put that on hold for five minutes, what the heck is up with this classroom?”

The classroom looked normal for the most part– if you ignored the absurd number of desks. There had to be triple the amount– several stacked up on each other like a fortress or maze walls. One precarious tower looked further away than it should be possible in a room this size, but it could easily be tiny desks.

“What the…”

“You two!” a voice cried.

“Ah!” Harold yelled.

“Ah!” George yelled with a little jump.

‘Ah,’ Melvin did not yell. Instead, he said: “I’m surprised you two aren’t out for recess.”

They were still standing by the door so there was no chance of him sneaking past them, and his shock of ginger hair would have stood out if he had decided to stay in. 

“Yeah, well, I’m surprised you, uh… you…” George said, letting the statement hang. “-- That you’re not working on something for that pop science fair.”

Melvin didn't react. He didn’t know whether it was better or worse– especially after Krupp made that dreaded announcement.

“What is it this time?” he continued, gesturing to the desks. “Something that increases the amount of class per classroom?"

"A scale model of the school’s pop science fair-- with additional statistics?” Harold added.

“Something to make people remember why they went into a room!” George added with a laugh, before snapping to a more contemplative look. “No wait, that’d actually be… not half-bad.”

“Hm. I’ll make a note of those,” Melvin said as he continued to stand there and not do that. The conversation lulled into silence a beat longer than comfortable. Before they could speak up, he added: “And for your information, I am working on it. Hold on.”

The both of them gave another cautious once-over to the room. The room– outside of the weird amount of desks– looked normal. It looked free of any invention, save for the muffled rattling noise. George had even peeked behind the teacher’s desk on the off chance it was hidden. 

“What do you mean hold on? There isn’t anything here.”

Melvin didn’t answer. 

Instead, the walls and some of the surrounding fixtures started shimmering different colors before settling on the color of error bars you see on TV.

Harold jumped away from a nearby desk he was leaning on as he felt it shift and become less sturdy, wobbling like heat hazes. As they lifted up to the ceiling, the whir had become a fraction louder.

“What’s going on?” he turned around. “Melv– ah!”

George let out a yell, seeing Melvin’s shape shimmer until he was a mass of red and greens. He ran to him, and his first instinct was to try and grab where his shoulder was. All his fingers met was air. Then thin strands as his hand sailed past where his shoulders would be and into the now-clump of what was the tattletale.

“Melvin!”

The strands rose up and darted away like all the other ones until they were standing in a regular classroom with its usual amount of desks and a third smaller than it looked before.

“He was too young!” George said.

“It should have been me!” Harold threw himself to the ground, bashed a fist against it, and stopped. He thought for a moment before continuing in the same dramatic cadence: “OK, I take it back, that’s a bit too much, but you get it!”

“Are you two done yet?” 

“I swear I can still hear his voice, even now–” the boy whipped his head around so fast his tie went askew. “Melvin!”

He got out of his overdramatic kowtow. “What the heck?!”

“Like I said, I’m working on the Warp-Weft-O-Tron 2000,” he said like it would explain everything. “Stress-testing it, to be more accurate.”

“The wh–” Before George could finish his sentence, the other boy stood up and pointed at the whirring thing behind Melvin.

In the corner of the classroom, around some tools and papers was something that took the space of two desks. Upon closer inspection, it looked like a sewing machine grafted beside a blocky computer . The needle continued its work and its now-unobscured rattling.

They all followed the threads converged to the machine, now completely colorless. They could just barely see the shiny thread zip through it and up the machine until even that thread dissipated. And once it did, the needle made its final whirring before powering down.

The adrenaline of seeing a kid disintegrate, like the strings a few seconds ago, dissipated to incredulity. 

“What kind of science is that thing for–” Harold pointed an accusatory finger at the machine. “Freak-People-Out-ology?!”

“It's built on the principles of techno-textiles and a bit of virtual simulation.” Melvin clicked his pen a few times before pointing it at them. “How about you two?”

“Huh?”

That was apparently the wrong answer as he put a finger to his temple. “I’m merely curious what you’re working on, seeing as Krupp’s announcement said you two suggested the pop science fair.”

And you believe him? George wanted to say, before answering his own question– of course he’d believe that.

Or at the very least, he wouldn’t cast further doubt. Doubting Krupp would mean doubting The Man. Plus, grades were on the line, and that was top priority to the tattletale than trying to think through whether they would ever suggest that.

It had only occurred now to George that that was the reason why Melvin wasn’t automatically on the defensive.

“We’re, uh– keeping it under wraps,” Harold said, realizing the other boy was taking too long to reply.

“Of course.” Melvin nodded in understanding as he made his way to the Warp-Weft-O-Tron and pulled out a spool the size of a lava lamp sitting on top of the sewing machine half. Its threads were soot grey and frayed. He placed it to the side and put an empty spool in its place, but not without grumbling about the material being insufficient.

“I will admit, the sudden nature of this assessment adds a wrench to everything, but– nothing like the stress of an unforeseen deadline to get everything in gear.”

Harold stared at the machine, and then to the boy still engrossed in fixing… whatever. In gear was an understatement if he made a simulation machine on a time crunch.

“You were really holding out on us all these years,” George said, eyeing the computer.

Rows of code scrolled up its screen. Most of it was gibberish, but there were parts he could understand. A record of previous commands and whether it was typed out or recorded through audio. S., MELVIN x1, DESK x15, and more distressingly, a MATERIAL PROCESS WARNING, whatever that was.

“How’d a sock sorter beat this out when you were picking out stuff for the Invention Convention?”

He poked around a nearby toolbox– which was more of a folder of assorted squares of materials. Many of them looked like normal threads, but a good chunk of them weren’t, from how the light bounced off them. 

“Firstly: it's a sock matcher. Secondly: Krupp only accepts the ‘practical’ ones–” He pulled out a square of the latter and placed it in an adjacent slot. Something between contemplation and annoyance edged into his tone. “The Turbo Toilet was pushing it. But, the pop science fair has no such restrictions!” 

“...It doesn’t?”

A thread the same color as the square spat out of some unseen cavity and began wrapping itself around the spool.

“I asked Ms. Ribble about the specificities for this assignment, and she said, and I quote: ‘sure, do what you need to do’.”

George and Harold both sucked a breath through their teeth. Unlike the tattletale, they knew that wasn’t full permission, so much as the classic grown-up tactic of dismissing a kid by giving them a vague answer to sate them.

“Guess not even tattling can get you all the perks you want,” Harold said carefully.

Melvin stopped typing on the computer part of the machine for a moment. With him faced away, they weren’t sure what expression was on his face, but they could feel a shift. Nothing as drastic as what happened in the principal’s office, but it was there.

“You should go.” It wasn’t a suggestion. “I need to troubleshoot.” 

Harold looked to the clock. Recess was almost over, which meant their opportunities to prepare were dwindling.

“Right,” George said.

And they slipped back into an empty hallway. They looked back, and through the window-sliver on the door, they could see the threads shoot up and around the room. The classroom became a black void, though it slowly made its way along the color spectrum.

“What do you think?” Harold asked.

“That our playground street cred is in the gutter at this rate,” George replied.

He gave him a light punch on the arm. Despite everything they couldn’t help but laugh, the sound echoing through the hall. 

“We could use it in the Captain Plan,” Harold replied. “It might be a little difficult to, ah–”

“Turbo Toilet it?” George finished, thinking back to the Invention Convention. He watched as Melvin tried to recalibrate it. “It’s a pretty big wildcard.”

As if on cue, after a few basic prisms popped into existence in the classroom, a rough approximation of a cat did. That, apparently, was too much as the simulation spooled itself back up like before. 

“But I think we do need a wildcard. It'd drive Krupp up the wall.”

Harold winced. “Well, I mean it can’t make anything worse.”

The both of them walked off to the abandoned art room. Harold shuffled his backpack to the front of him as he counted up the supplies he pilfered. To name a few: flour and water to make glue on the fly. Baking soda and vinegar, because those were Classics. Toilet paper– ‘nuff said.

He stared at a box labelled Office Supplies. In it were huge packs of sticky notes, for irony.

As wrong as Melvin was about whose idea the pop science fair was, he was right, frustratingly, about one thing: nothing like the stress of a deadline to get everything in gear.

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

The Captain Plan was one of their simpler plans, in theory. 

It was simple in the sense that it was meant to only target Krupp. The hard part, for obvious reasons, was that Captain Underpants was integral to said plan.

It amounted to swapping them out at strategic places they set up. Things he can’t stand. Things that he’d be afraid of. Long enough for the experience to stick. Then they’d swap him back to Captain and slowly amp it up. Rinse and repeat.

They’d keep doing this until he took everything back– the whole assignment gauntlet, the whole thing with the science fair–

The whole capital T Thing with Captain. 

And if he refused, well– there wasn’t anything else for it except to rinse and repeat until he did. They’ve got almost half a decades’ worth of grievances to pull back up. 

(“Krupp won’t– can’t expel us for this,” George said the night before, his form backlit by a jumbo flashlight. “I mean, he’ll need us to ‘deal’ with Captain.”

The Treehouse’s windows were boarded up to get ready for the colder weather. They should be prepping it for winter, putting stuff away so it won’t get messed up, since they insisted they didn’t need George’s parents’ help, but here they were– 

“I mean, he could hold us back now.”

“But would he really want to keep us there if we keep doing this?”

Harold shivered. “Point taken.”)

The walkie-talkie in Harold’s pocket made a noise. 

“Yyyello’.”

“How’s it going?”

Right now, the ‘it’ in question was scoping out the cafeteria. The tables were all neatly arranged in rows and ready for whatever project the fourth graders will put on them later. There was no one here save for Edith, who was deep in the kitchen.

“Melvin’s stuff is here.” 

He made his way over to the Warp-Weft-shaped tarp. After double checking for any Tattle-Turtles, he was disappointed to find no obvious screws to loosen at the access hatch.

Harold began pulling at the spool on top, unsure of how exactly to mess it up outside of tying the thread in knots. One end of the thread snaked its way to the needle, while the other end–

The other end came out of a small hole, which in turn was connected to the strange hatch Melvin put in that material square that one time. He pulled out a pair of undies, courtesy of Captain himself, and stuffed it into the slot.

The sewing machine whirred, clearly having difficulty with processing a non-square material. The thread didn’t move to spool itself, but it must have processed it by the way the underpants were disappearing in the slot.

As for the computer: it reminded him more of the school printer. There were menus upon menus of settings. In any case, Harold set out to randomly poking at them all. Some he understood– audio commands on, because that may be useful for their plan since it would be easier than trying to get close to type anything out. Everything else?

“...What the heck is a Young’s Module?” Harold asked, less out of curiosity and more to commentate for George’s benefit. “What do you think? Max or minimum?”

“I mean, Krupp’s pretty old…” his voice crackled through the walkie talkie.

“High it is!” And with that, he quickly swiped it as far to the right as he could before quickly closing everything out to the first screen. “OK, I’ll get back to y–”

“Ben!” Edith’s voice called out from across the cafeteria.

Harold ducked under the tarp before either of them could see him.

“We got a situation. Krupp’s here,” he whispered loudly.

“What? Why?!”

Harold hazarded to peek at the small gap between the tarp and the floor. He had been expecting like-liking goo-goo talk. If he had to be honest, he would have preferred that to whatever angry inspector routine Krupp was doing.

“Checking, I think.” 

He tilted his head at the principal running a finger over a table for dust. The action was clearly more for acting out… whatever this was, than any actual concern for cleanliness. The lunch lady continued to trail behind him, trying– and failing– to start a conversation.

There was a quick inhaling noise through the speakers. “OK, give me a minute. Move when I give the signal.”

Harold didn’t reply, mostly because they were close enough that he could hear them. Even from this distance, he could see how heavy the bags under his eyes were. How his posture was more hunched than usual.

Krupp sighed deeply, and his shoulders sagged even further. “I’ve been through worse. Trust me.” It almost sounded like a plea.

The lunch lady had no time to dwell on a response as the intercom screeched to life.

“Principal Krupp, please report to your office immediately,” George’s voice crackled through the intercom with a mock-smug air.

“Oh, for–” Said principal ran past her brusquely that the pin that was keeping her bangs up over her face had jostled to cover half her eye.

The signal!

“Good talk!” she called after him belatedly, but made no move to go after him. Then with a big sigh, she mumbled, “I’m blowin’ this.”

And with that, she made her way back to the kitchen and finally gave Harold an opening to get out of there. He made a mad dash to the doors, making sure to not slam it as he trailed him. Now that he was in the hallway, the faint sound of crackling and shuffling echoed throughout.

“Hey, how far is he from the office?” George asked, his voice crackling from both walkie talkie and still-active intercom.

“He’s making his way up as we speak.” 

“Cool.”

Krupp was up the first half of the stairs when he turned around. He was breathing heavily, and it was definitely not just because he was speed-walking up the stairs.

“You two have got a lot of nerve disrupting everything–”

“You’re one to talk,” Harold replied, thinking about the pop science fair coming up in a few hours. To all their years in school. To the capital T Thing with Captain.

The principal halfway down a step to approaching him until–

SNAP. The sound reverberated through the school intercoms. For a split second he saw something cross his face. Wide eyes. Furrowed brows.

And then Captain Underpants fell on said face.

He snapped back up, the toupee sitting lopsided on his head. “Sidekick! Where’s–”

Harold held up the walkie talkie. 

“Up here,” George replied.

He gave an unsure look as he tried to find where up was in relation to a walkie talkie.

“In the office,” Harold clarified. He walked past him and up the stairs, motioning him to follow.

Captain stood up, wiping the grit from his cheek. It might be because he took a heck of a tumble, but there wasn’t the typical shock of liveliness he expected when he swapped in. All things considered, he was… well, maybe not calm, but expectant.

George was standing at the receptionist half of the office, one of the curtains tucked under his arm. 

“You ready?” Then, in a stage whisper to Harold: “Anthrope’s gone off because of… ‘printer repairs’.”

Harold stared at the empty corner of the room. There was a smattering of printer ink at the walls, outlining the office printer that was not there anymore. They couldn’t help but snicker conspiratorially.

“Er,” Captain leaned over to look at what had got their attention. “What’s the plan to Free The Children now, sidekicks?” 

“We’re putting Krupp through his own personal gauntlet.”

“I don’t think it’ll take long for him to crack.” Harold gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. “We’ll make sure of it. Everything’ll be back to the way it was faster than–”

“A speeding waistband?” the superhero offered. He was definitely hiding it as he shimmied out of the principal’s clothes and put on his cape, but that same look was back on his face. 

“Exactly.”

“Where do we start?” He approached the ink stains on the wall, as if expecting the answer to pop out of the mess.

“Uh, Captain?” George pulled his attention back to the door of the principal’s office. He opened it with an overdramatic flourish. “Just step into our office for this first bit.”

Harold let out a low whistle at the sight. Every surface of the room was covered in sticky notes, leaving the room in an unsightly pale yellow that made the room look flat. Between the writing and the shadows, it did little to help figure out where everything was as Captain nearly tripped on a chair.

“What do you think of our Prankovation 2– trademark?”

Captain took to floating, mindful not to touch anything. He looked confused– he probably didn’t get things like irony yet. “…How long did this even take you?”

“Prankster’s trade secret.”

“This looks done, though,” he hedged. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to help you here– especially with this–”

He gestured to his wrists, now tied together by jump rope courtesy of Harold. The boy went over to the sticky notes-engulfed water cooler and poured out a thimble’s amount into an open hand.

“For this one, we need to swap you back over to Krupp,” George explained. Seeing the superhero's disappointed look, he quickly continued: “This part's quick-- we're going to bring you back right after for the next bit.” 

“O– OK, then sidekicks. I trust you.” Captain twisted around so his face was in patting distance. This close, he could see the expression for what it was– hesitation.

And Captain was gone, leaving Krupp to fall on the floor, a flutter of pale yellow in his wake.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Bad King Richard got rich by exploiting workers at King’s Faire

Next Tuesday (Oct 31) at 10hPT, the Internet Archive is livestreaming my presentation on my recent book, The Internet Con.

King Richard's Faire is the largest renfaire in New England, and its owner, Dick Shapiro, extracts a reported $400k/day – a sum that is only possible thanks to systematic and likely illegal worker misclassification, which lets him pay performers sub-minimum wages and deny them benefits:

https://www.reddit.com/r/boston/comments/172267v/kings_faire_inc_aim%C3%A9e_bonnie_shapiro_nets_over/

Many of the performers at KRF are absolutely unpaid – these are the "villagers" – who mill about looking picturesque in exchange for free admission. They even have to buy their own turkey legs.

When the faire is rained out, all workers – "volunteers" and paid workers – are sent home without any compensation. Attendees are also sent home with rain-checks, many of which go unused (there's no refunds in the land of King Richard).

Staff work from 8am to 730pm and are paid a day-rate that works out to $6/hour. After heavy weather events, staff are ordered to show up early to do cleanup, but are not paid for their time. Staff don't get health benefits – instead, local community groups like the Elks put on fundraisers to cover the health-care costs of the performers.

Now, King Richard's worker mistreatment is not an outlier in the medieval reenactment industry. Think of how the knights at Medieval Times – who put on nightly, potentially lethal performances to generate profit for their employer – unionized in the face of exploitative labor relations. To add insult to injury, Medieval Times sued the union, arguing that its name – "Medieval Times Performers United" – was a trademark infringement:

https://www.huffpost.com/entry/medieval-times-sues-union-trademark_n_63485fa5e4b0b7f89f54546b

This trademark wheeze is the latest desperate tactic to be deployed by the ruling class in the face of a surging labor movement with broad public support. Starbucks – one of the world's most notorious unionbusters – is doing the same thing to its union, Starbucks Workers United:

https://seattle.eater.com/23923490/starbucks-workers-united-union-lawsuits-copyright-trademark-israel-hamas-palestine-social-media

These moves are wildly out of step with the current of public opinion, which has swung hard for union rights in a manner not seen in generations. The outpourings of public support for striking entertainment industry workers were handwaved away as exceptions driven by the public's love of actors and writers. But that doesn't explain the strong, ongoing support for the UAW in their strike against all of the Big Three automakers:

https://pro.morningconsult.com/instant-intel/uaw-strike-public-opinion-october-2023

Bosses have always tried to smash worker power by dividing workers – by race, gender, or "skill" – but workers are workers and solidarity is the source of worker power. That's why the whole labor movement backed Equity Stripper NoHo, the first strippers' union in a generation:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/14/prop-22-never-again/#norms-code-laws-markets

Creative workers are part of a class of workers who suffer from "vocational awe," the sense that because your job is satisfying and/or worthy, you don't deserve to get paid for it:

https://www.inthelibrarywiththeleadpipe.org/2018/vocational-awe/

(Think of joke about the father who finds his runaway son at the circus shoveling elephant shit: "Son, come home!" "What, and quit show-business?")

Creative workers have long been encouraged to see themselves as "independent businesspeople" – LLCs with MFAs – and this mind-zap is augmented with our bosses' repeated insistence that the unions are for big burly blue-collar workers, not ethereal dreamers and pencil-pushers. Our bosses tell this story because it discourages us from forming unions and demanding fair pay and good working conditions (obviously).

Think of J Edward Keyes, the cartoon villain who serves as editorial director of Bandcamp. When the workers Keyes managed formed the Bandcamp United union, Keyes called them "white-collar tech workers…appropriating the language of the legitimately oppressed," adding "Fuuuuuck Bandcamp United":

https://www.404media.co/bandcamp-editorial-director-fuuuuuck-bandcamp-united/

Keyes's contempt notwithstanding, it's clear why Bandcamp workers need a union – after the company was flipped twice in rapid succession, its new owners, Epic Games and Songtradr, fired all its unionized workers. Keyes responded to coverage of this mass firing by calling the Pitchfork reporters who wrote about it "absloute amateur journalists."

The attempt to divide-and-rule "knowledge workers" from "industrial workers" is a transparent bid to shatter solidarity and make it easier to abuse and exploit all workers. Thankfully, workers are wise to that gambit, and understand that when all kinds of workers struggle together, they win.

Take the UAW strikes: for many years, the UAW was an objectively bad union, ruled over by a dirty-tricking clique who sold out the membership. It's normal to blame workers for bad leaders, but the UAW old guard had rigged union elections, making sure that they would stay in charge. It's not workers that like corrupt unions – it's bosses.

Before the UAW could fight back against their bosses, they had to fight back their bosses' minions in the upper ranks of their own union. That's where the the Harvard Grad Students' Union comes in. After years of worsening exploitation and working conditions, the Harvard Grad Students organized under the UAW, then joined forces with reformers in the union to oust the corrupt leadership.

During the leadership struggle, Harvard Grad Students helped their comrades from the auto-sector master the union's baroque constitution, so when the old guard tried to prevent motions from reaching the floor, the grad students were able to cite chapter and verse back at them. In the end, grad students and auto-workers together won the victory that paved the way for the strikes:

https://theintercept.com/2023/04/07/deconstructed-union-dhl-teamsters-uaw/

A strong, unified labor movement is necessary if America is to save itself from inequality, racism, the climate emergency – the whole polycrisis. The idea that creative workers aren't workers is bullshit – and so is the lie that all workers are uncreative. The "Worker As Futurist" project recruits Amazon drivers and warehouse writers to write science fiction about a future without Amazon:

https://jacobin.com/2023/09/amazon-workers-sci-fi-writing-bezos-imagination-speculative-future

They call this a "belief that rank-and-file workers, whose bodies and minds are exploited by capital, might have access to some knowledge about capitalism that is beyond even the most brilliant theorist or analyst of capitalism."

All workers can and should tell their own story. Doing so isn't just a way to change the narrative – it's also a way to change policy. The new merger guidelines from the FTC and DOJ Antitrust Division explicitly incorporate labor-market effects into antitrust policy. As Brian Callaci and Sandeep Vaheesan write for The Sling, the testimony of workers and unions can help produce the evidentiary basis for blocking the mergers that lead to monopolies:

https://www.thesling.org/workers-are-an-untapped-resource-for-antitrust-enforcers/

The rising labor movement is a force for profound change in every part of our economy and politics. Workers can be our knights in shining armor.

https://www.thesling.org/workers-are-an-untapped-resource-for-antitrust-enforcers/

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/25/huzzah/#bad-king-richard

[username8746489]

A scenario using both the "Naven is the head of Bliss Ocean" theory and my crack prediction that Lorelai is gonna join the organization

(Fic under cut; wordcount: 962)

Molly hated this feeling. After spending two years of her life on making sure her family wouldn't die, she was perpetually stuck in a state of discomfort unless she was doing something useful. And right now, she couldn't do anything but stand still in front of the head of Bliss Ocean and its newest operative.

Or more accurately, her teacher and sister.

She knew Lorelai was bad, but she didn't think she'd go join a terrorist organization once she realized she had to work! 

And Naven... 

"Are you alright, Molly?" The very man asked with a pleasant smile, as if they were having one of their normal interpersonal communication lessons, "I know this must be a lot for you to take in." Lorelai stood at his side, clothed in the witch's outfit from when Naven had first wormed his way into her good graces. 

Molly clutched at the straps of her backpack, nails digging into the tough fabric in an attempt to ground herself. "Why?"

Naven's head tilted to the side, making him seem genuinely confused, "What do you mean?"

"I... I know you're a mundie, but why all this?" Molly mumbled, unable to bring her voice any higher in the imposing atmosphere of the empty room. "I didn't think you hated inscribed..."

"I don't," Naven clarified, "But you do have to understand that epithets are dangerous, Molly."

"I know that!" Molly stamped a foot, summoning all of the confidence Giovanni had instilled in her, "But-"

"After all... epithets were the thing that killed your mom, weren't they?"

A beat passed. The room was silent for an uncomfortably long second.

Molly's fingers dug tighter into the fabric of the bear hoodie her mom had made her, "...What?"

Lorelai snapped her body to face Naven, staff trembling in her hands, "Naven-"

"You've never thought about it, have you?" Naven continued, ignoring her presence entirely, "Of course you wouldn't. You were already greving so much, it never occured to you to consider what caused the fire."

Molly's body felt colder with every second, the sound of her heart beating becoming so loud, it threatened to drown out Naven's words. Lorelai's panicked nature wasn't helping much, only fueling Molly's anxiety. 

"Don't you remember that night?"

Of course she did. How could she forget? The fire climbing up the walls, the smoke hanging in the air, vision obscured from the tears spilling down her face and seemingly evaporating in an instant in her little ten-year-old mind. 

"Your Epiphany happened in a very stressful moment, so I don't blame you for not connecting the dots before now."

She had been choking her little throat out, sore from inhaling smoke and, more importantly, screaming out Lorelai's name as she desperately banged on her sister's dream bubble with her tiny fists to wake her up, epithet flaring to life to break through the solid exterior and plunging inside to pull Lorelai free. 

One of the dream bubbles that she made in her sleep with no issues.

The dream bubbles that would often augment reality around it.

"About how Lorelai's epithet summoned the fire that burnt down your house."

It felt like a knife to Molly's chest. 

"A... Ah..."

Naven's face fell, stepping forward and reaching out a comforting hand, "Molly..."

Before he got any closer, Molly collapsed to her knees, hands in her hair as she screamed. A whole two-years worth of anguish and grief exploded out from the girl, wailing and screams echoing around the room and ringing in everyone's ears. There was no physical element to it, not even a stray use of her epithet. But even still, there seemed to be a barrier around Molly, preventing anyone from approaching her as she curled up into a ball.

Naven knelt down to the ground, "You understand why Bliss Ocean does what it does now, right? Molly, you're one of the brightest people I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. That's why I'm trying so hard to help you see my perspective. I want you to join me-"

"You promised!" Lorelai interrupted, voice cracking, tears in her own eyes as she grabbed Naven and pulled him back up to his feet. "You promised you would let me tell her!"

"You knew?"

The witch flinched, suddenly remembering her audience. Molly stared at her, button eyes unmoving like a doll's. No emotion could be read in her pupils, but it still managed to cut the other girl down to size. Lorelai's grip tightened on her staff as her outfit seemed to fizzle under Molly's gaze, threatening to fade away at any moment, the edge of the fabric bubbling like it was being boiled.

"You... You k-" Molly choked on her words, unable to even utter the sentence she wanted to scream at her sister. It had always been like this, stuck being so quiet that everyone else walked all over her. 

Naven walked over to the twelve-year-old, still so very young for all the trauma the world had dumped onto her without regard. He put his hands on her shoulders, and Molly hated how she instinctively relaxed under the hands of the teacher she had once trusted so much.

"These past two years of suffering was because of one epithet. I just want to make sure such a tragedy never happens to anyone else. You understand, don't you Molly? You wouldn't wish your pain on anyone else, would you?"

Naven smiled at her from where he was hovering over her shoulder. Then his eyes opened for the very first time in the months she had known him, pupils staring down Molly with all the might of a predator standing over their prey. 

And in that moment, that was all Molly could see him as. 

"So won't you join Bliss Ocean?"

[utilitycaster]

Bells Hells Level 11!

As always: are there errors or major omissions? Let me know! Your preferred feat or spell isn't listed? That's because it's not my preferred feat or spell, and you should make your own post for your own preferences! Additionally, because level-ups are no longer done at the end of sessions but are rather their own separate videos, I now include speculation for the next level(s) since there's often very little time to speculate on the current level.

Chetney: Level 10 in Blood Hunter means Dark Augmentation and a 3rd blood curse. Dark Augmentation increases his speed by 5 feet/round and grants him a +3 (his Int modifier) to all physical saves. As for blood curses...they're fighting mages, so Muddled Mind is looking pretty nice, but Eyeless is also useful and Binding is very versatile. Looking forward: if he continues to level in Blood Hunter, his hemocraft die goes up to a d8, his strikes in his wolf form go up to a d8 and get +2 instead of +1 and he can use his wolf form twice between rests and he regenerates a small amount when he's below half-health. 11 Blood Hunter: It's a big level up, folks.

Laudna: She leveled up in sorcerer and took her ASI to max out charisma, which I support as someone who always respects a main stat boost. She gets a new spell and I would advise leaning into utility and taking Dimension Door, personally. Looking forward: I think I've made my feelings on the concept/multiclass clear in the past, but practically speaking, if you're progressing in sorcerer, it's probably wiser mechanically to keep doing so. Level 9 grants 5th level spells.

FCG: Begone Thot Destroy Undead improvement, and 6th level spells! I mentioned before that I'm really looking forward to Heroes' Feast. He also gets some big utility spells, notably Heal, True Seeing, and Word of Recall. Looking forward: 12 is an ASI and oh buddy please up your WIS score. A feat that does +1 to WIS is a valid choice, just...bring it to +4, please? For me? Observant would be fun if not super necessary since Orym's got that covered; skill expert could also be fun. But as stated with Laudna, straight ASI in your main stat is always a solid choice.

Fearne: Fearne took a second level in rogue, which grants her cunning action (dash, hide, or disengage as a bonus action) which is quite useful if she ends up in combat, especially since, despite a good HP roll this level, she's a touch squishier following her time with Novos. I actually support this, both because Ashley has a strong vision for Fearne and also because I think keeping the party dependent on the Staff of Dark Odyssey is good for the story - let's wait a bit longer until we get Transport via Plants! Let's take the scenic route! Looking forward: L10 druid is a good level - the Cauterizing Flames feature, which is a bit niche but extremely cool, is one I'm looking forward to. I'm not opposed to her moving forward with rogue, per se; I think if she does, Thief is the obvious (and correct) choice. However, Cauterizing Flames is really very good and I would like to see it.

Imogen: I mentioned Chain Lightning and True Seeing as some fun options for her. She also gets access to Disintegrate, which would be very fun to cast on, say, Otohan. Or Ludinus. Or her mom. Fuck them Vanguard. Looking forward: sorry got distracted by the idea of disintegrating the Vanguard members...12 is an ASI and honestly I'd just take the +1 to INT and WIS. Imogen's got so many feats, and I really think having better mental stats would be a great sign of growth, she's done the character work to deserve it, and it never hurts to roll a little better on a wisdom save (I say as a known dumper of WIS).

Orym: He can attack 3 times per round. This is why fighters are great. If you do not think fighters are great you can catch three attacks in six seconds from these hands. Looking forward: yes! it's yet another ASI/Feat. And once again, I think a stats boost is best. Tank better with a +3 to con, and then he can either get smarter, or get more charismatic if he's considering paladin (note: I like the idea of Orym remaining a pure fighter more, but I do not control the Liam, and he's a reliably thoughtful player mechanically so I'm interested in what he does. As always this is me saying opinions and not being prescriptive). He gets another ASI at 14 (fighters! best pure battle class!) while everyone else is getting class features so that's when I'd take a feat.

Ashton: Relentless rage - keep raging while unconscious! Very punk rock. Looking forward: Level 12 is an ASI and yes not to sound like a broken record, but max out that strength. It's up to you and Chetney, and who knows how much longer he'll be around.

[samgirl98]

Mending a Family 17/?

Prev | Next

Jason woke up with the feeling of wrongness deep in his chest (core).

Rage, rage, rage.

Jason knew he had to calm down, but he couldn’t. He knew; he just knew someone uninvited was in his haunt. Jason sneered; they could harm his family. He called a bit of ectoplasm in his hands and got the knife from under his pillow.

Whoever had decided to invade his haunt was going to regret it.

Jason opened his door in time to see Jazz and Danny leave their rooms, their eyes glowing. (If he had looked in a mirror, Jason would’ve noticed his eyes were glowing, too.)

Jazz held a green and white staff while Danny held a ball of glowing ice. That wouldn’t do.

“Danny, stay here with your sister.”

“Jason, I’m not staying here while we’re under attack,” Jazz said.

“No, not you, with Ellie,” Jason knew he needed all the help he could get; there were too many invaders in his haunt. “Danny, if anyone either than me or Jazz come in, leave with Ellie.”

Danny scowled, angry.

“What, no! I can help.”

“Danny, I won’t be able to fight as well if you’re in danger. I need you to be safe, or I’ll be distracted. Just, please, listen to what I say.”

Danny pouted and crossed his arms. He stared into Jason’s eyes.

“Fine, but I don’t like it.”

“Thanks, chum.”

Jason and Jazz went out and looked into the woods that surrounded their house. They didn’t see anyone, but they knew the intruders were there. Jazz and Jason stared at each other before nodding and going in their direction. Splitting up wasn’t ideal, but the other could still get the children out if one fell.

Jason brought up an ectoplasm ball to his hand again. He looked around but saw no one.

It was years of experience that had him dodging. Soon he was being attacked.

Jason fought back and noticed that he knew the fighting style. It was the League of Assassins. Fuck.

Why were they here? He had left the League a while ago. Were they here because he had left the League? In the end, it didn’t matter. He had to get them away from his family, even if it meant killing them.

Jason fought hard, incapacitating three, but five more showed up. Even with his ghostly powers, he had trouble fighting this many opponents who knew what they were doing. They dodged ectoblasts and took his intangibility in strides. He hoped Jazz was doing okay. Just as he was about to attack again, a woman’s voice rang out, “Enough!”

Jason groaned. Talia Al Ghul stepped out of the shadows wearing a black body suit. She had a sword strapped on her back, a gun on her side, and knives strapped on her thighs.

“Talia,” Jason acknowledged, resigned. He would have to move. Fuck, Talia would never stop hunting him. Why was she even here? She hadn’t contacted him when he was in Gotham (he would never admit how much that hurt.), and now that he wants to leave his past behind, she shows up.

“Now, habibi, is that any way to greet your mother?”

Jason gritted his teeth because she was right. She gave birth to a new him (via Lazarus pit), cared for him during his catatonic stage, and taught him how to walk, talk, and fight. In every sense of the word, Talia was a mother to Jason. A fucked up, assassin mother, but a mother nonetheless. A mother who abandoned him in Gotham after his failure.

Jason was taken out of his musings when he heard Jazz being dragged, loudly by her part, through the woods.

“I approve of her, habibi; she’s a strong fighter.”

“Who are you people? Let me go, now!”

Jazz had trouble breaking free from the assassins holding her, even with her augmented strength. (Jason noticed it was the bigger, muscley ones holding her down…and there were four of them.)

“Let her go, Talia.”

Talia nodded toward the assassins, and they quickly let Jazz loose. Jazz came to Jason’s side, staff ready to attack.

“Do you know these people, Jason?”

“Jazz, meet Talia, my assassin mom. Talia, meet my sister, Jazz.”

“Hmm,” Talia hummed, “are you going to invite me to your place, habibi?”

No, Jason wanted to say, but if Talia was here, she knew about Danny and Ellie. She already confirmed she knew about Jazz. Besides, Jason needed to know what Talia wanted and why she was suddenly back in Jason’s life.

“They stay,” Jason pointed vaguely toward the assassins. He didn’t want them anywhere near the kids.

Talia gave a hand gesture, and the assassins melted into the shadows. Jason could still feel them in his haunt.

The walk back to the house was silent. Jason was hyperaware of the intruders in his haunt and of Talia walking by him. He couldn’t help but imagine the worse. Why was Talia here? She didn’t seem surprised by his powers. Was it because she was good at hiding her emotions, or was it because she knew? Did she know about Danny’s power? Ellie?

Sometimes he understood Bruce’s need to know everything and make plans around them. Then when things come back to bite in the ass, at least there are ways to combat it.

Jason sat down in one of the chairs when they reached the house. He looked at Talia and gestured toward the other chair. No way in hell he was letting her in the house.

“I’m going to check on the children so you two can talk. Excuse me.”

Jazz entered the house.

Talia raised an eyebrow toward Jason. Jason crossed his arms. He knew Talia wanted to go in the house, too. He refused. She sighed and sat on the chair opposite him.

“What are you doing here, Talia? Hell, why did you even look for me? I left the League a while ago, and you didn’t care to contact me when I was in Gotham.”

“Your father is worried about you.”

“Oh, so now you’re Bruce’s messenger? When did he even contact you?”

“My Beloved didn’t contact me. It was Damian.”

Jason was surprised. He hadn’t had much contact with the newest Robin. He had only seen Damian in passing in the League, and the Bat and his birds kept the kid as far away as they could from Jason. He didn’t blame them after what he had done to Tim in his green-tinged raging mind.  

“Why would Damian care if I’m gone?”

“Your departure has…unsettled your father and family.”

Jason snorted.

“What, they’re waiting to hear news how the black sheep of the Bat Family has gone on another killing spree?”

Talia’s expression could almost be described as soft.

“Your father misses you.”

“He misses a boy that died. He misses having me under his thumb, not me. Not this Jason Todd.”

Silence reigned for a few moments.

“Come back with me. I can protect you and your son. I can keep Jasmine and Danielle safe.”

Jason sneered, “You mean so you can have new weapons to use? What will you do, brainwash my son like you brainwashed me? Are you going to keep Ellie and Jazz under your control? Give us over to Ra’s?”

“All your actions were your own, habibi.”

Jason turned away from Talia and stared into the woods. Somehow, he was able to see the assassins this time around. (He didn’t know his eyes were glowing. He didn’t know Talia was watching his eyes with interest.)

“I don’t want my family in that environment. Danny deserves to be a child, not a weapon.”

Talia inclined her head, “If that’s what you wish, Jason. I only wanted to give you the option.”

Talia rose from her seat, “You won’t tell Bruce, will you?”

Talia smiled, “No, habibi. Your father won’t learn of your location from me. You must know, though, that Bruce will learn sooner or later of your whereabouts. He won’t stop looking.”

“I think once he finds out I’m not killing people, he’ll stop looking for his greatest failure,” Jason traced his scar.

Talia looked up sharply, following Jason’s finger.

“Did Bruce do that?”

Jason’s silence spoke volumes.

“Bruce rarely acts foolishly, but he makes grave mistakes when it happens. Like letting that clown live.”

Jason’s Adam’s apple bobbed at the mention of his murderer.

“Please, don’t tell him.”

“Your secret is safe with me. Do expect me to keep in touch, though.”

Jason nodded, knowing there was no point in discouraging Talia Al Ghul. She gave him a peck on his cheeks and walked into the woods.

____

Talia raised her hand to halt her assassins. She was being followed.

“Show yourself.”

A little boy with black hair and glowing green eyes suddenly appeared before her. He was sneering.

“Hello, Daniel.”

“It’s Danny. You better not hurt my daddy, or I’ll make you regret it.”

Daniel’s eyes glowed stronger with the emotions behind them.

“I wouldn’t hurt my son.”

“Parents hurt their children all the time,” Daniel balled his little fists.

Hmm, interesting reaction.

Talia approached the little boy and put her hand on his shoulder. His little fists started glowing Lazarus green.

“Jason has a strong and precious son. I’m glad that my son has found you, little one. He needs more love than his father, or I can ever give him. Thank you.”

Little fists unclenched in surprise.

“I won’t call you ‘grandmother’ if that’s what you’re fishing for.”

Talia smiled, “I don’t expect you to.”

Then she disappeared into the night.

____

Damian picked up his phone.

“Mother,” he greeted.

“Damian. Jason is fine. He doesn’t want to be found by your father and his little brood. I won’t tell you where he is; he’s been betrayed by his parents more than enough.”

Before he could answer, she hung up.

“Ugh,” he yelled, throwing his phone against the wall and breaking it.

“Baby bat, what’s wrong?”

Richard walked into Damian’s room. He was visiting the family with little Mar’i.

Damian hesitated momentarily before confessing, “I asked mother to look for Todd. She found him but refused to tell me where he is.”

Richard exhaled sharply.

“Did she tell you anything?”

“Just that he’s fine and doesn’t want to be found,” Damian answered bitterly. He never thought his mother would do this to him.

“She said enough parents have betrayed Todd. I didn’t even know she viewed herself as Todd’s parent.”

Why had she never mentioned it? Damian hadn’t seen Todd many times in the League, and he had been behind Talia the two or three times he had. Grandfather would sometimes complain about his mother’s pet project, but Damian would have never imagined that his mother saw Todd as a son.

His brother had been kept from him by both of his parents. He wondered how different things would’ve been if he had met Jason in the League.

Richard sat by Damian, “What’s wrong, Dami?”

“Do you think father will ever stop feeling bad if Todd never returns?”

“He’ll come back. If not, we’ll find him and tell him how much we miss him.”

“But if he doesn’t want to come back, what then?”

Richard didn’t have an answer.

@idontgetpaidenoughforthisshit @skulld3mort-1fan @theauthorandtheartist @emergentpanda-blog @jaggedheart11 @fisticuffsatapplebees @booberrylizard @fantasticbluebirdfan @thegatorsgooseoose @cyrwrites @kjoboo91 @crystallicedart @amaramizuki666 @spekulatiusmuffin @meira-3919 @kilasmess @bubblemixer @lexdamo @wonderland-daisy @mj-arts-n-stuff @amyheart19 @dolfay @the-church-grimm @undead-essence @aph-mable @lizisipancardo @purrloin77 @writer-extraodinaire @charlietheepic7 @sinfulloccultist @nootherusernameworked @coruscateselene @chaoticchange @itsberrydreemurstuff @gmkelz11 @feral-bunny31 @paroovian @thatonegaybitch68 @d4ydr34min9 @overtherose @fandomwandererer @vipower001 @thordottir45 @blackrabbitt3t @rosecinnamonbun @bianca-hooks123 @epilepticnerd @dat1angel @consouling @flamingenchiladadragon @all-mights-asscheeks

[xbsoftware]

Five Tips on Efficient SaaS Apps Provisioning

It’s necessary to ensure that all employees have access to the right SaaS apps, the software is configured correctly and running, and nobody can reach data lying beyond their scope of work. At the same time, businesses must consider the security implications of provisioning and the need to protect sensitive data. The task may seem unbearable. However, by following best practices and being mindful of the risks, businesses can ensure their applications are correctly provisioned with minimal effort and cost.

[inaconstantstateofchange]

Raphael/Haarlep | there is wise valour (and there is recklessness)

A/N: 18+ | a pre-canon exploration of the possible origin of Raphael's Ascended Fiend form, and the begrudging rapport between him and Haarlep.

Words: 3.4k

Read it on AO3

Raphael stalks through the halls of his House – nothing so grandiose as to deserve the epithet, yet, but he is prepared to impress his will upon the universe until it is – cringing imps scattering into the shadows as they avoid his fearsome tread. A telltale haze shimmers at the edge of his vision, overwriting the dull stonework with rippling red. The door to his personal suite looms out before him, and he scrabbles at the handle, forcing it open just enough to allow him entry, then spinning to force it closed again with a barely-tempered thud. The resolute click of the arcane locking mechanism grants him some small measure of relief.

His servants, few as they are, know not to disturb him here, so he will have his peace.

This simple and inanely optimistic certainty is broken almost immediately, with the voice of potentially the last being he desires to encounter in this moment: Haarlep, his lord father’s wretched consolation gift.

Oh, he certainly did not deign to express it as such, but the timing made the implication exactly as clear as the Archduke of Cania required. Too slow to profit as he had desired – as he had planned, painstakingly – from the fall of Netheril, and the fatuity of the fool Karsus, the Crown and its fearsome power already swept up and shelved away in the vaults of Mephistar, to be ignored or studied – then ignored again – at his father’s leisure.

“Oh dear, our little lord’s in quite a state today, is he not?” The silken tones of the incubus’s voice might be enticing to another, but they grate against Raphael’s ears like the music of a fingerless bard.

Raphael grits his teeth, refraining from digging his horns into the wood of the door before him by willpower alone. Haarlep, his father had named the wretch, an insipid mirror to reflect his every action back to Mephistar. He could not afford to be known to his father in this state.

A fit of temper was one thing. Hypocritical though he be, Mephistopheles could not deny his blood ran true in such matters. An uncontrollable beast-form, however, one twisted and warped by the broken magics of Netheril? Such knowledge would bring either disdain or interest — and a scrutiny he would not be liable to profit from in either event.

“What are you doing here?” He grinds out, refusing to turn around. Poor form, to leave his back to an enemy, but better the suspicion of weakness than the truth of it, until he can master himself as he ought.

A light, chiming laugh floats through the air like gossamer webs, undulating as the incubus steps closer to him. They run fashionably tapered claws in maddeningly delicate tapping motions down his back, between the base of his wings. He’s certain it is meant to entice, but all it does is make his skin itch and crawl, hungering for slaughter – for satiation – in a ravenous manner he has not felt before.

The desire itself is certainly not new to him, but the drive to follow through, and damn the consequences? That is more of a struggle. He’d thought the beast-form would take a mighty shape, one that would augment his own power and prestige, that he could gloat about to rivals and hold over the heads of his siblings.

Instead, he is left to feel grateful for his position of no note, that he has no true household staff to warn away from loose tongues. Only a few wretched imps, too foolish to put one brick atop another were the plans directly before them, and the incubus, its true thoughts held scrupulously behind dancing eyes. Said incubus’s vexatious tapping continues, clawtips light enough to refrain from marring even a thread of his richly embroidered tunic, but refusing to respond to the intimation of his shifting motions and leave well enough alone.

“Why, I aim only to remind my lord that I am here at his disposal, of course.” The incubus’s tone is conversational, as though they are speaking over a formal luncheon, rather than after they had barged into his own private chambers without so much as a by-your-leave. Raphael’s fingers curl against the door, leaving slight gouges this time.

The incubus is not finished, however, continuing on languidly, “We have had so little opportunity to connect, you and I, since I was first remanded into your… care.” The subtle emphasis put on the last word indicates the incubus’s cognizance that the reality was anything but, and invites him to commiserate with their shared circumstance. Raphael declines. Their situations are nothing alike, and he’ll not be condescended to by this… this… wretch.

At his limit with the damned touching now, Raphael spins away, knocking the incubus’s overreaching arm to the side. “Enough, damn you!” His voice begins as a snarl but he manages to quell it to a hiss. “Your presence is neither desired nor requested, and thus you should be anywhere at all in the estate but my private chambers.” He gestures to the door in a clear dismissal. “You may count yourself fortunate that I have more pressing matters to deal with at the moment than your insolence.”

He knows as soon as the last word leaves his lips that he’s made an error. The incubus’s eyes light up behind the graceful drape of their hair, filled with a dancing glow as its plump lips curl with keen delight. “More pressing than making use of an esteemed gift? The little lord is keeping secrets.” Its tongue flicks out, long and forked, wetting its lower lip with a glistening sheen as it draws, achingly slowly, back in.

Raphael tears his eyes away from the gallingly-enticing gleam, displeased to find that, yet again, his threats are as puffs of air to this detestable creature. He attempts to draw himself up, mantling his wings with oblique menace, and flattens his voice to a firm register. “I have no obligation to keep counsel with you, cur.”

The incubus taps one long, slender finger mockingly against its chin. “Mmmm,” it lets out a long, unnecessarily drawn out hum. “‘Obligation’? Certainly not. I would not dream of prevailing upon the goodwill of your august personage to demand as such.”

It pauses, a glimmer of sweet-edged malice drifting across its face. “However… It might behoove the little lord to indulge an ally, rather than order an adversary.”

The hellfire haze, nearly dissipated while he was not paying attention, blazes back into being around him. The beast howls within, clawing at his bones, desperate to cleave flesh and willing to settle for his own if more suitable sacrifice was not provided. Raphael grinds his teeth against the cry of pain, keeping his voice unaffected even as it feels like speaking through blades of infernal iron.

“You presume much, gift-of-my-father. Perhaps too much. Why should I seek to find an ally in one so markedly bound to higher loyalties?”

The incubus laughs, light and mocking. “Loyalties? What a precious concept. A lord must have strength enough to protect his vassals, in exchange for their loyalty.” Their friendly mien drops entirely, pinning him with a flat, piercing gaze as that damned finger taps, slow and languid, against their chin. “Thus far, I have seen no indication of any such strength from you, little lord.”

At this final expression of disrespect, the delicate webs of Raphael’s remaining self-control fracture and wisp away. A hideous sound of ripping flesh and crackling bone echoes around the room, dissipating against the sound-muffling enchantments etched into the stone. Between one interminable blink and the next, his vision doubles, then trebles, the shifting haze edging out to line the fringes of his new sightlines. He looks to the incubus standing before him in triplicate – a reflection now in truth – with fury the forenote of the increasingly bestial bent to his mind. He loosens his disjointed jaw in anticipation, and awaits the wretch’s usual twist of mockery.

Haarlep stares – up, and up – at the mangled, marvelous creature before them. So this is what their little master has been hiding since his return from the broken remnants of Netheril, bare days after their own arrival. He’d slammed back into the House like a meteor strike, a furious tempest raging throughout its halls ever since. Haarlep’s sole attempt to ingratiate themself had been met with glowering fury followed by curt dismissal, and a silent, fraught détente ever since.

That, of course, simply would not do. Perceived failure at such a level would, sooner or later, make its way back to the lord of Mephistar. And, generous though the terms of his commandment had been, none were that generous.

Haarlep had bedecked themself in their finest things, gauzy drider-silks embellished with blood-pearls and ornate, embroidered sigils, and hied away to the little lord’s personal chambers for one final attempt. Either they’d finally come to some conclusive understanding, or… Well. The consequences for a failed contract with the lord of the Eighth Layer would not be pleasant. Haarlep took pain to bed as a lover as willingly as pleasure, but even their malleable form and aberrant senses had their limits.

And, at first, it had seemed like their cause was just as lost as it had initially appeared. The stubborn little brat, refusing to treat with them as their positions demanded, to engage with the realities they were – the both of them – constrained within. They’d pushed, pressed up close to his body the way they knew he loathed, needling at him with claws and words alike, pricking about for any crack in his obdurate mask.

And then — not a crack, but a shattering entire. Emerging from the stagnant shell of the lordling was birthed a monstrosity, pure and twisted.

An agglomerate skull, eyes glowing baleful and amber from cavernous sockets. Jagged limbs unsuited for movement and coated imperfectly with dappled scale, internal fire licking out from the crevices against undefended flesh, searing and cauterizing in continuous agony. Wings, groomed and genteel mere moments before — now marred with rot and ruin, mantled in tattered shreds held in place by blackened scar tissue.

What a mess. Haarlep could understand why the little master had been so reclusive if this was the shape now lurking within him. His new form’s structure might be passingly compared to that of a cornugon, but only to a witless imbecile. The bone-plate, tarnished and burnt, bore some similarity to the lustrous ossified mail of an osyluth, but lacked entirely their ordered and brutal beauty. In truth… beneath the surface, there was truly nothing of the Hells about this form at all, but rather — something far more Abyssal in origin.

Haarlep smiles, slow and sweet, their long tongue flicking out from their mouth and dragging back the scent of the beast as it returns, a delectable sweet hint of Chaos just discernible below the rest. Their smile grows wider still as they savor it, subtle fangs bared by the action.

“Little master has been quite the naughty boy, hasn’t he? Dabbling with magics too powerful for him, perhaps? Snooping around in pilfered Netherese parlors, grasping at scraps?” They tut chidingly, shaking their head at him.

The beast huffs out a gusting breath, fetid air coursing from its maw, its blackened claws all too obvious as they raise to strike.

Haarlep coos. “How cruel of the little lord to keep this lovely surprise all to himself. Why, we could have been playing together long since.”

Silence, for a moment. Then a reverberating growl shudders from its chest, emerging as a guttural hiss from its frayed vocal cords. With a crack of over-stressed bone, the beast crouches, then springs forward, toppling them both and slamming its forelimbs down on either side of Haarlep’s head. Its bone-jaws open and chitter against one another in accompaniment to its hissing. Hot, silvery liquid drips from the base of its throat, settling in searing pearls on Haarlep’s face before streaking wincingly away.

Haarlep clucks their tongue, reaching out a hand to caress along the roughened bone of the closest skull. “You can certainly take me like this, if you’ve a mind,” they say leadingly, rolling their body languidly upward to brush against the delightful texturing of the beast-form above them. Oh, it has been too long since they’ve dealt with any of Chaos’s get. An admittedly amateur transformation, perhaps, but nothing they cannot endear themself to their little lord by offering some much-needed assistance.

The beast responds with a huff, moving toward their touch for one brief moment, then away again, the creaking of misaligned joint and bone filling the chamber with a grisly cacophony. It seems the little lord isn’t particularly accustomed to his new form’s mind yet, either. That will make some things harder — and others easier.

Haarlep rolls their body up against the beast’s once more, to regain its attention and realign its purpose. Its triune head with trebled skulls, raised to scan the room around them, swings back down to pin him with those flat, glowing eyes, set so far back in their sockets. The vision on this beast-form must be disorienting indeed.

A snarling rumble rises up from the cavernous chamber of the beast’s chest — perhaps a disdain of the presumption, or an unfamiliarity with the sensation in this form. In either case, the little lord is welcome to communicate his desires to Haarlep should he choose. Otherwise, they shall do as a good attendant ought, and attend him.

They undulate again, aiming with particular focus for the most likely location of a hidden pleasure structure, sparing a moment to hope that their rash little lordling had not botched whatever ritual he’d stumbled upon with such talent as to lose that. Haarlep could certainly make an exemplary showing without any such element present – and had upon multiple occasions in the past – but it would certainly help the situation along. After a long moment, they feel an answering pressure coming from the boiling hot area between malformed limbs, and devote particular attention to encouraging it to emerge further.

The beast, plainly feeling the results of their efforts, snarls again, its claws scraping against the stone floor and leaving deep, gouging furrows. Its central skull flashes down and fastens around Haarlep’s throat, just barely stopping before it would cause true harm. They freeze for a moment, elegant neck extended, and luxuriate in the dull prick of those rending fangs — then moan, low and throaty, relaxing into them until the prick becomes true penetration.

The beast huffs, in what resembles nothing so much as sheer bewilderment. Haarlep throws their head back in laughter, relishing the bite of the bone-tooth collar, and the gentle rivulets of blood that begin to seep steadily from the punctures. “No stomach for the devouring, have we? A pity. By all means, then, allow me.”

They slither sinuously free of the beast’s hold, loosened in its surprise, earning more tender tears from the delightful drag of fang on flesh. The beast seems fully lost in its puzzlement now, crouching back on its haunches, its budding member just beginning to poke forth from the sheath at the twisted apex of its hips. Haarlep feels their mouth water, venom pooling slick and sweet, as it emerges in jerking, ungraceful spasms. Their eyes curl up in a true smile.

“Look at you,” they croon. The cockhead is blunt and brutal, with raised ridges at irregular intervals across its surface. The shape of it tapers just under the first bullying bulk of the head, then flares outward again, with diagonal, tiered ridges forming concentric circles underneath it. It looks delectable.

They slide closer on their knees, bowing their head and letting the smooth flood of their hair fall to the side to keep the nape of their neck – and its sluggishly bleeding marks – exposed. The beast observes the motion, skulls twisting to keep them centered in its vision and mantling its tattered wings, but makes no move to dissuade them by force — a clear invitation if Haarlep has ever seen one.

They lean closer, tongue flickering out to wrap around the flat tip and taste. The beast lets out a screeching cry, contorted hips juddering forward and one hand slamming down to tear at the floor. Misshapen then, but no less sensitive for it, it seems. Haarlep retracts their tongue slowly, savoring the taste of ash and burnt sugar. All things taste saccharine to them from contact with their venom, but the overwhelming edge of conflagration on the beast adds an alluring dimension they hunger for more of. And they’ve certainly never been one to deny themself an indulgence.

Prepared this time for the response of the beast – so clearly never touched before in this form – Haarlep wraps their long fingers around it, inanely delighted by the way they nestle into the hollows created by the banding ridges. The size would be difficult to fully encircle for the average mortal, but fits the grasp of Haarlep’s long fingers near-perfectly. The beast gives another rattling cry, starting forward as the stimulation encourages forth one final pulse of the cock from its sheath, a raised nodule at the base of the cock itself tugging free from the lip of the sheath.

Haarlep hums, eyeing the little structure with consideration, then moving their thumb down to caress it with the barest edge of claw. The beast growls, and the blaze of heat about it increases as it curls forward, its skulled head coming to rest in the air just above Haarlep’s upper back. They begin to feel enshrouded in the waves of heat rolling off of the beast, caged between it and caught in the dizzying miasma of Chaos.

They send their tongue out once more, this time holding the beast still by their hand around its cock. Their tongue flickers dexterously in between their fingers and the roughened flesh of the cock itself. The beast pants above them, gusts of air teasing down along their spine. With more of that ash and cinder scent filling their senses, Haarlep widens their mouth and takes the beast’s cock within them, the blunt head rubbing pleasantly up against the back of their throat. Their venom catches and pools in the crevices on the cock’s surface, easing its glide as it enters them. They shift away their fingers bit by bit as they usher the cock into their mouth, adjusting their mouth to its size before removing the last implicit constraint on the movement of the beast.

The head catches against the opening to their throat just as the beast recognizes its freedom, chasing the sensation they’ve granted it with jerking thrusts of its hips. Haarlep angles the flexible muscle of their throat to better receive it, feeling the ridges pressing back against their flesh as the beast bullies its way further into them, utterly uncaring of their own welfare. It is for the best that they’ve been the one to give the little lord’s beast its sorely needed outlet. Any other and the lordling would have more likely awoken to a shattered corpse, with the whole House aware of just how fastidious he is.

Overcome by the sensitivity of its fledgling flesh – and, if Haarlep might be so modest, the experience of their own peerless form – the beast only lasts a few more minutes before its thrusts grow even more frenzied. A sizzling heat permeates Haarlep’s throat as the cock flexes and shudders within it, seeming to grow larger for a few moments as the taste of ash and honey intensifies.

The next moment, the beast is tearing back from them, just barely avoiding slicing itself on their fangs as it stumbles backward, flesh cracking and splitting in a grating inversion of its earlier transformation. Its own form sizzles and steams, a haze in the air around it for a moment before, transmutation complete, their little lord stands before them once more. He looks lost, for a moment, before his scan of the room – now in quite some disarray – comes to a halt with his eyes on Haarlep, still kneeling gracefully with their hair cascading about them. His face twists, too many emotions to quantify spasming across it all at once, before settling on a faint, haughty sneer.

Haarlep licks their lips – and the visible remnants of their activities – slowly, sensuously. “Why, little lord, I do believe you and I have much to discuss.”

[lancer-pigeon]

Little Bird, if thou wouldst be so kind as to indulge mine curiosity, I have a query for thee:

For why didst thou become independent? What maketh thee prefer it to working under a larger group? A handler?

sorry it took me a long time to get to this one. the answer is cause corporate work sucks, and I don't trust most people to have my best interests at heart.

>>/ ENCRYPTING

>>/ init.d.securelink@lhurst-con

>>/ linkadd:/211.5.335.1069A7AB9Gh

>>/ Standard encryption successful. The following message is intended only for Rosceline Hurst.

TL;DR: fear and selfishness keep me from placing my loyalty in another corporate interest.

I used to fight for a corp -- SSC Constellar Security. I joined at 17, and was attached to the 115th Mechanized Cavalry "Powderkegs." it was a rapid-response anti-megafauna unit -- we'd be orbitally inserted to fight giant wildlife ("kaiju," colloquially) on Constellar property worlds. I spent a year shooting bugs (six kills to date, best of the unit!) before civil unrest on the nearby colony of New Korath meant resources needed to be diverted. in place of a dedicated urban combat unit, the Powderkegs ended up as the frontline of the anti-resistance movement -- we were strikebreakers. I followed orders and destroyed civilian infrastructure: offices, houses, factories, food storage facilities. CONSEC clocked a conservative ~250 non-combatant casualties, and the colony was abandoned shortly after. in the wake of the crisis, I made Staff Sergeant at 19 and served until my honorable discharge circa 5011.

for a while after that, I bounced between handlers and spent some time in a hole, drinking myself half to death. if I wasn't augmented as part of the pilot program, I'd have accidentally taken enough stims to OD several times over. when I finally scraped some cash together and got back in the cockpit, I made myself a promise: If I'm to be a weapon, I want to choose who I'm pointed at. part of me is scared to swear allegiance to somebody who would cause further destruction -- the other part of me thinks maybe I'm just scared to fight a losing battle for my own ideals. both parts of me are fearful little bastards, and both are very, very tired of bad food and cramped quarters.

it's less terrifying if I'm fighting and dying for my own profit, I think, because selfishness comes naturally.

[promotoai]

Why Choose AI Content Creation for Your Content Strategy?

In the ever-evolving digital world, content is king. AI Content Creation is rapidly transforming how we produce and manage that content. But creating consistent, engaging, and high-quality content takes time, creativity, and resources—something many individuals and businesses struggle to balance. Thankfully, the rise of artificial intelligence has revolutionized the creative world, offering innovative solutions to long-standing content challenges. Let’s explore why using AI for content creation is becoming essential for anyone aiming to stay competitive and relevant.

What Makes AI a Valuable Tool for Content Creators?

At its core, AI is designed to augment human capabilities. Instead of replacing writers, marketers, or designers, it acts as a powerful assistant. By analyzing vast amounts of data, AI can identify trending topics, suggest headlines, and even draft initial versions of articles or social media posts. This significantly reduces the time and effort involved in the early stages of content production. With AI handling repetitive or research-heavy tasks, creators can focus more on refining ideas and adding their unique voices.

Smarter Personalization

Today’s audiences demand content that aligns closely with their personal interests, needs, and online behavior. AI can analyze user data—such as browsing habits, location, and engagement history—to help you craft personalized messages that resonate more deeply. Whether it’s a customized email subject line or a dynamic landing page, AI ensures the right message reaches the right person at the right time. 

How Does AI Improve Efficiency in Content Production?

One of the biggest challenges in content creation is the pressure to produce regularly without compromising quality. AI tools accelerate the process by generating drafts, summarizing information, and optimizing language for readability and SEO. This allows content teams to meet tight deadlines and scale their output without needing to hire additional staff. The automation of routine tasks like grammar checking or keyword placement also frees creators from tedious work, improving overall productivity.

Speed and Efficiency

One of the most immediate benefits of using artificial intelligence in content production is the significant boost in productivity. Traditional content workflows—research, ideation, drafting, and editing—can be time-consuming. AI tools can generate outlines, suggest headlines, write paragraphs, and even correct grammar in seconds. This allows creators to produce more content in less time, without sacrificing quality.

Imagine being able to create multiple blog posts, product descriptions, or social media updates in a fraction of the time it used to take. For businesses, this means faster campaign rollouts and the ability to respond quickly to trending topics or customer needs.

Does AI Limit Creativity or Enhance It?

There’s a misconception that relying on machines might stifle creativity. In truth, AI technologies frequently serve as a spark that ignites and enhances creative thinking. By handling mundane or technical aspects, they give creators more mental space to experiment and innovate. Some AI platforms suggest alternative angles or generate prompts that inspire new ideas. This collaborative process between human insight and machine intelligence can produce richer, more original content than either could achieve alone.

Boosting Creativity

Rather than substituting for human imagination, AI often amplifies and supports the creative process. By handling repetitive or technical tasks, AI frees up creators to focus on strategy, storytelling, and innovation. It can suggest fresh angles, explore alternative headlines, and even simulate different audience responses. This collaborative dynamic between humans and machines leads to richer, more inventive content. In this way, AI content creation becomes a partnership—where AI offers the structure and insights, while humans bring nuance, emotion, and originality.

How Does AI Maintain Brand Consistency Across Channels?

Consistency in tone, style, and messaging is critical for building trust and recognition. Managing this across multiple platforms can be complex, especially for larger teams or brands with a broad presence. AI can be trained on brand guidelines and past content to ensure new material aligns perfectly with the desired voice. This guarantees a unified brand identity whether the message appears in blogs, newsletters, social media, or advertisements.

Consistency Across Channels

Maintaining a consistent voice, tone, and style across multiple content channels—blogs, emails, websites, and social media—can be challenging. AI tools can be trained to adhere to your brand guidelines, ensuring that all output reflects your unique identity. This is particularly useful for companies managing large content volumes or collaborating with multiple creators.

Consistency builds trust and brand recognition. When your audience receives clear, cohesive messaging no matter where they interact with you, your brand becomes more memorable and credible. You can also watch: Meet AdsGPT’s Addie| Smarter Ad Copy Creation In Seconds

Final Thoughts: Why Embrace AI in Your Content Workflow?

Artificial intelligence is not just a passing trend—it’s transforming how content is created and consumed. From speeding up production and enhancing personalization to providing actionable insights and boosting creativity, AI content creators meet the growing demands of digital audiences. While human creativity remains irreplaceable, AI is proving to be an indispensable partner that elevates quality and efficiency.

[adamwatchesmovies]

Blink Twice (2024)

As a directorial debut, Blink Twice was a bold choice for Zoë Kravitz. The sense of unease you feel at the beginning doesn’t quite prepare you for how sinister the movie gets. While it doesn’t necessarily reveal anything new, it sears itself into your memory. The quality of the screenplay by Kravitz and E.T. Feigenbaum makes it clear the objective was to take real-life fears and repackage them in a “safe” box. At this, it certainly succeeds.

Cocktail waitress Frida (Naomi Ackie) and her best friend, Jess (Alia Shawkat), sneak into a party held by billionaire tech mogul Slater King (Channing Tatum). They catch King’s attention and are invited to his private island with other guests: photographer Vic (Christian Slater) and his date, Sarah (Adria Arjona), private chef Cody (Simon Rex), DJ Tom (Haley Joel Osment) and rising employee Lucas (Levon Hawke) along with Camilla (Liz Caribel), lawyer Heather (Trew Mullen) and King’s personal assistant, Stacy (Geena Davis). The days that follow are filled with sunshine, lavish accommodations, high-end meals, alcohol and hallucinogenic drugs. But how many days exactly? And why does Jess suddenly feel like there’s something very wrong about this paradise?

Blink Twice hints at something sinister on King’s island without much delay. All of the female guests are gifted these beautiful white dresses that feel a little cult-ish and a maid ominously calls Frida “Red Rabbit”. There’s a shed filled with identical gift bags that has to mean something – you have no idea what – and all of the staff are tasked with killing the island's snakes on sight – for the guests’s safety, maybe? As the days blend into each other, you start wondering if the vacationers are being fattened up for a pagan sacrifice. If they are, you’re not sure who's in on the conspiracy. King must know something – the movie starts off with him publicly admitting to some vague wrongdoings/bad behavior - but you have no firm ideas. All you have is an ominous feeling, which puts you on the same level as Frida and Jess. A part of you is desperate to know what the deal is – it’s the only way the heroines (and by association, you) will figure out who they can trust and how they can cobble together an escape.

The film works both before you find out what’s happening and after. It’s disturbing and intense, though there are a few elements that don’t quite add up or aren’t explained enough for you to fully understand. The island staff, for example. You’re not sure how to feel about them at the end of the day or where they fit within the big picture. There’s also a moment where we learn something about Slater King’s backstory and I’m not sure if we’re suddenly supposed to sympathize with him or not. It probably should’ve been omitted to keep things clear-cut. I hesitate to call Blink Twice a fantasy/an escape – it's much too horrific to be the kind of movie you’d just watch on a whim for fun – or a metaphor - it's more of an augmentation of real life - but it is, in a sense that the characters are put in this nightmarish situation that's related to, but also detached from reality and are allowed the opportunity to escape from it while you watch from a safe distance.

It turns out, Slater King and his buddies have lured these women to torment and rape them every night. It’s not that simple, however. The drugs the women consume erase all memories of the assaults so their captors can do whatever they want to them and get away with it. The next morning, the men pretend like they’re all best friends and the cycle repeats itself. We never find out how long everyone's been on the island. After some snake venom cures Frida from her amnesia, the movie turns into another kind of thriller. She has to feign ignorance to avoid arousing suspicion while her traumatic memories come flooding back. There’s something particularly unsettling about the brief flashbacks and the knowledge that this happens over and over.

At one point, Slater comments that Lucas must have a special place in Hell reserved for him for what he’s done. This, and the cross around his neck hint that he's Christian but he admits that he doesn't believe in forgiving, only in forgetting. That is ironic on several levels then, since one of the pillars of Christianity is forgiveness/absolution and the scene where we get the clearest look at the necklace is from Frida's memory of an assault. There’s something there to think about, particularly when we consider the ending and the reasoning for it.

I “enjoyed” Blink Twice because it succeeds at what it seeks to do and because of the skills on display. It’s nerve-wracking and contains the kind of images you wish you could shake away but just can’t. You’re intrigued by its mysteries and once its questions start getting answered, your attention doesn’t drop one bit. It’s not a fun movie and there are a few details that still have me scratching my head but as a directorial debut, it says a lot about Kravitz as a writer and filmmaker. I’m eager to see what she has in store for us next, whether it’s another horror story or some other genre. (March 21, 2025)

[thebrickinbrick]

What Is To Be Done In the Abyss If One Does Not Converse? Part 1

Sixteen years count in the subterranean education of insurrection, and June, 1848, knew a great deal more about it than June, 1832. So the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie was only an outline, and an embryo compared to the two colossal barricades which we have just sketched; but it was formidable for that epoch.

The insurgents under the eye of Enjolras, for Marius no longer looked after anything, had made good use of the night. The barricade had been not only repaired, but augmented. They had raised it two feet. Bars of iron planted in the pavement resembled lances in rest. All sorts of rubbish brought and added from all directions complicated the external confusion. The redoubt had been cleverly made over, into a wall on the inside and a thicket on the outside.

The staircase of paving-stones which permitted one to mount it like the wall of a citadel had been reconstructed.

The barricade had been put in order, the tap-room disencumbered, the kitchen appropriated for the ambulance, the dressing of the wounded completed, the powder scattered on the ground and on the tables had been gathered up, bullets run, cartridges manufactured, lint scraped, the fallen weapons re-distributed, the interior of the redoubt cleaned, the rubbish swept up, corpses removed.

They laid the dead in a heap in the Mondétour lane, of which they were still the masters. The pavement was red for a long time at that spot. Among the dead there were four National Guardsmen of the suburbs. Enjolras had their uniforms laid aside.

Enjolras had advised two hours of sleep. Advice from Enjolras was a command. Still, only three or four took advantage of it.

Feuilly employed these two hours in engraving this inscription on the wall which faced the tavern:—

LONG LIVE THE PEOPLES!

These four words, hollowed out in the rough stone with a nail, could be still read on the wall in 1848.

The three women had profited by the respite of the night to vanish definitely; which allowed the insurgents to breathe more freely.

They had found means of taking refuge in some neighboring house.

The greater part of the wounded were able, and wished, to fight still. On a litter of mattresses and trusses of straw in the kitchen, which had been converted into an ambulance, there were five men gravely wounded, two of whom were municipal guardsmen. The municipal guardsmen were attended to first.

In the tap-room there remained only Mabeuf under his black cloth and Javert bound to his post.

“This is the hall of the dead,” said Enjolras.

In the interior of this hall, barely lighted by a candle at one end, the mortuary table being behind the post like a horizontal bar, a sort of vast, vague cross resulted from Javert erect and Mabeuf lying prone.

The pole of the omnibus, although snapped off by the fusillade, was still sufficiently upright to admit of their fastening the flag to it.

Enjolras, who possessed that quality of a leader, of always doing what he said, attached to this staff the bullet-ridden and bloody coat of the old man’s.

No repast had been possible. There was neither bread nor meat. The fifty men in the barricade had speedily exhausted the scanty provisions of the wine-shop during the sixteen hours which they had passed there. At a given moment, every barricade inevitably becomes the raft of la Méduse. They were obliged to resign themselves to hunger. They had then reached the first hours of that Spartan day of the 6th of June when, in the barricade Saint-Merry, Jeanne, surrounded by the insurgents who demanded bread, replied to all combatants crying: “Something to eat!” with: “Why? It is three o’clock; at four we shall be dead.”

As they could no longer eat, Enjolras forbade them to drink. He interdicted wine, and portioned out the brandy.

They had found in the cellar fifteen full bottles hermetically sealed. Enjolras and Combeferre examined them. Combeferre when he came up again said:—“It’s the old stock of Father Hucheloup, who began business as a grocer.”—“It must be real wine,” observed Bossuet. “It’s lucky that Grantaire is asleep. If he were on foot, there would be a good deal of difficulty in saving those bottles.”

—Enjolras, in spite of all murmurs, placed his veto on the fifteen bottles, and, in order that no one might touch them, he had them placed under the table on which Father Mabeuf was lying.