Hi all, hey all.
I’m back. With my report that I promised.
And lol, was it a shit storm, and honestly? I’m extremely disappointed. It’s not that I didn’t expect it, but I wasn’t expecting it to be this bad.
So a quick rundown;
The used car market is a hit/miss game. That’s part of the fun, and for many, I’ll still recommend a used car. Better to own then to have your car towed away by the repo guys, or need to limit your driving by experience because it’s a lease.
However; the used car market at the moment is overpriced and full of junk.
From my experience checking cars this weekend in the neighborhood/around the surrounding neighborhoods, it’s clear people are passing off shit cars for the price of good ones.
It’s also clear that people were skipping maintaining their cars during the Covid years and are now selling ticking time-bombs.
All in, I checked about 13 cars and out of them, 4 were in pretty good shape but were overpriced. My favorite was a 2006 Honda Accord in great shape, and a wonderful interior inside and out. However, with 350k miles and needing new tires, asking $7000 was ridiculous. This would have been a $1000 car pre-Covid. I was picking some up, alongside some Hyundai Sonatas for $500-$600 pre-Covid to fix for my students. Same cars are demanding $5000+. Absolutely insane.
To keep this already long post from becoming a novel, I’ll give you all a quick rundown on the worse offenders and what to look out for.
(2002 Subaru Forester-Asking $6000)
Low mileage-75,720
Asked the typical questions: Are you the first owner? (No, second owner. Had it for 4 years.)
How much do you driven it? That’s really low!
(You know, it was my daughter’s car, she got a new one, I’m selling it for her. She only drove it to school and home. LIU Post To Woodside. Like 4 times a week for the years she’s owned it.)
Okay cool, so like 30k miles give or take in 4 years. Do you happen to know the mileage you brought the car at? (No, I forgot! Sorry!)
It’s okay, can I have the VIN? I just want to pull up the report and we can work on a price. (Why do you need it? It’s like the social of the car. It’s a great car, no accidents and I need it gone. Why so many questions?)
I need to know the car records and history. Mileage is low, and that’s unusual for this year and make. I’ll be quick and I’ll give you a free copy, no charge.
-at this point, the seller is still hesitant but eventually let me get it. The car mileage was indeed rolled back. When they purchased it, it was at 218k miles. There were also 3 reported accidents. Twice with the original owner and once with them. This was almost a dead giveaway since I could see work was done on the back of the car because the body was slightly misaligned. Wouldn’t you now it, rear end damage reporting in an injury. At this point, seller said I was wasting their time and left angrily saying I was lying.
The lesson to take here is to look at the body of the car. If the car body seems misaligned or the paint seems off, ask about any accidents or body work done.
If the year is older but the mileage seems low, make sure to see if the car had the mileage rolled back.
If the buyer is hesitant about allowing you the have the VIN, this is a huge red flag. This will allow you much more information about the car and its a must if you’re buying.
My next favorite is the $10k cars I see lining Astoria, Woodside, Sunnyside and beyond. I’ve been seeing them floating for years and always avoided them. I tended to avoid the “street dealers.” Wannabe car dealers without a shop, operating out of street parking they occupy endlessly.
I asked to check 3 cars and before I went, I asked to see the titles. I asked if they had clean titles. I was told yes. They were not. All 3 were savaged titles. 2 had mismatched mileage. No point in checking more.
Here, the lesson to learn is if you see different cars with similar signs and prices, it’s a “street dealer” and they’re selling most auction cars, mostly from PA. Avoid, you’ll mostly find lemons and you’ll regret it.
Lastly, let me cover a good car, and one I did end up picking up.
(2010 Honda CR-V -Asking $7500)
Mileage sitting at 220k.
Interior was clean, other than a worn drivers seat. Cloth seating, but easily cleaned with a good steam cleaner.
Extremely well maintained exterior, with a minor bump on the bumper. Looks like they hit a fire hydrant backing up at some point. So common you’ll quickly figure what it looks like haha.
Check engine light on. I appreciate the seller telling me about it immediately. No clue why. Within a few seconds I figured out why: faulty oxygen sensor. Easy fix, and not a big issue.
Tires have life on them and no major rust on the underbody. Amazing for a car up here. Ask about it; car came from Texas. That would explain it.
Only problem here was the price. I know if this guys brings it in to a dealer, he’s getting $2-4k tops, if he’s lucky. Selling privately will get you more money, but I need a fair price.
I explain this to him, point out the cost of the repair at a mechanic, and the value of the car. Offer him $3200 cash; we settle at $3300 and a beer. I’ll take it.
My student walked away with a new car, I’ll fix the sensor myself later this week and everyone leaves happy.
Now, deals like this will happen. But not often. You’ll have to hit the pavement and find them.
However, remember the tips I included here.
Remember not to overpay for a used car.
Do your research and don’t get caught holding a lemon.
Calling your insurance company before any purchase to understand the cost.
Do not get pressured by the seller.
Be respectful as a buyer and walk away if neither side can agree. It happens.
And all the best shopping! Please post any questions here! I’ll try my best to answer them!
I’m a college professor, not a mechanic, but I was lucky enough to spend my weekends in the garbage learning as a teenager. I didn’t have a dad around, and didn’t want to be helpless to my own kids in the future, not knowing how to help them with their cars.

This is an expansion of a recent post and also incorporates some ideas from this theory (by u/ndependent-Design17). Throughout the series the reader is repeatedly reminded that "only death can pay for life" — that magic, especially powerful magic, comes at great cost.

"Only death can pay for life, my lord. A great gift requires a great sacrifice.”

Davos, ASOS
This phrase or variations of this phrase are repeated by Melisandre, Mirri, etc. at various points throughout the series. That which follows is a highly speculative theory on the nature of the cost of magic in the series. Specifically, that souls are central to the exercise of magic and can be used as magic currency.

1. establishing the concept of the soul

Oh, to be sure, there is much we do not understand. The years pass in their hundreds and their thousands, and what does any man see of life but a few summers, a few winters? We look at mountains and call them eternal, and so they seem… but in the course of time, mountains rise and fall, rivers change their courses, stars fall from the sky, and great cities sink beneath the sea. Even gods die, we think. Everything changes.

Bran, AGOT
What happens after we die? Is there some part of us that lives on or do we simply cease to exist. These are fundamental questions that are essentially unanswerable in life but not in ASOIAF. The reader is given a point-of-view account of death in the prologue of ADWD. After unsuccessfully attempting to steal the body of Thistle, a wildling spearwife, Varamyr dies and briefly becomes a disembodied consciousness:

The white world turned and fell away. For a moment it was as if he were inside the weirwood, gazing out through carved red eyes as a dying man twitched feebly on the ground and a madwoman danced blind and bloody underneath the moon, weeping red tears and ripping at her clothes. Then both were gone and he was rising, melting, his spirit borne on some cold wind. He was in the snow and in the clouds, he was a sparrow, a squirrel, an oak. A horned owl flew silently between his trees, hunting a hare; Varamyr was inside the owl, inside the hare, inside the trees. Deep below the frozen ground, earthworms burrowed blindly in the dark, and he was them as well. I am the wood, and everything that’s in it, he thought, exulting.

Prologue, ADWD
Afterward his "spirit," or soul, is eventually transferred into a body of wolf and he begins his second life. This event, and the process of skin-changing more generally, appears to involve projection of a soul from one body into another. The process of transferring souls to either the animal vessels or the weirwoods is central to the magic of the Children of the Forest.

“Someone else was in the raven,” he told Lord Brynden, once he had returned to his own skin. “Some girl. I felt her.”
“A woman, of those who sing the song of earth,” his teacher said. “Long dead, yet a part of her remains, just as a part of you would remain in Summer if your boy’s flesh were to die upon the morrow. A shadow on the soul. She will not harm you.”
"Do all the birds have singers in them?"
“All,” Lord Brynden said.

Bran, ADWD
After death a "shadow on the soul" of the Singers remain in the crows. The soul of Orell is also described as living on in the body of his eagle after his death.
This process appears to take two forms: the soul can be temporarily projected from one body into another (e.g., as happens when Bran skin-changes into Hodor) or can be permanently transferred as is described in the separate examples above.
These transferred souls merge with their recipient, at least to some degree, and may decay over time:

"The wolf is part of you from that day on, and you’re part of him. Both of you will change.”
Other beasts were best left alone, the hunter had declared. Cats were vain and cruel, always ready to turn on you. Elk and deer were prey; wear their skins too long, and even the bravest man became a coward. Bears, boars, badgers, weasels … Haggon did not hold with such. “Some skins you never want to wear, boy. You won’t like what you’d become.” Birds were the worst, to hear him tell it. “Men were not meant to leave the earth. Spend too much time in the clouds and you never want to come back down again.
...
"They say you forget," Haggon had told him, a few weeks before his own death.
"When the man's flesh dies, his spirit lives on inside the beast, but every day his memory fades, and the beast becomes a little less a warg, a little more a wolf, until nothing of the man is left and only the beast remains."

Prologue, ADWD
Bran is provided with similar warnings about the danger of spending too much time in Summer's skin by Jojen.
The Bran that appears to Jon-Ghost in the vision in ACOK is also likely the lingering soul of a non-contemporaneous Bran, contained in the weirwoods and communicating from the future.

The weirwood had his brother’s face. Had his brother always had three eyes?
Not always, came the silent shout. Not before the crow.
He sniffed at the bark, smelled wolf and tree and boy, but behind that there were other scents, the rich brown smell of warm earth and the hard grey smell of stone and something else, something terrible. Death, he knew. He was smelling death. He cringed back, his hair bristling, and bared his fangs.
"Don’t be afraid, I like it in the dark. No one can see you, but you can see them. But first you have to open your eyes. See? Like this." And the tree reached down and touched him.

Jon, ACOK
There is more information about this in the Time Traveling Bran series. Briefly, the version of Bran in this vision does not appear to be contemporaneous because likes the dark, is able to open Jon's third eye, and smells of death. (This is well outside of the scope of this theory however.)

2. shadow magic requires souls

As above the reader is repeatedly reminded throughout the series that "only death can pay for life." What is specifically being sacrificed, though? Is the magic being fueled by the blood of the sacrificed or by something else?
To answer this let us examine one of the most concrete example of magic in the series, the use or exchange of Stannis Baratheon's "life-fire" in order for Melisandre to manifest the shadows used to kill Renly Baratheon and Courtney Penrose.

Shadows only live when given birth by light, and the king's fires burn so low I dare not draw off any more to make another son. It might well kill him."
Melisandre moved closer.
"With another man, though... a man whose flames still burn hot and high... if you truly wish to serve your king's cause, come to my chamber one night. I could give you pleasure such as you have never known, and with your life-fire I could make..."

Davos, ASOS
According to this explanation, the cost of producing these shadow appears to have been part of his "life-fire," or soul. The shadow is also specifically described as having the shape Stannis. Whether this applies to other types of magic — specifically blood magic or fire magic — is less clear but shadow magic very much appears to require the use of souls.
The exchange of seed for soul is also directly referenced in the story of the Night's King.

A woman was his downfall; a woman glimpsed from atop the Wall, with skin as white as the moon and eyes like blue stars. Fearing nothing, he chased her and caught her and loved her, though her skin was cold as ice, and when he gave his seed to her he gave his soul as well. (Credit to u/DigLost5791 for this reference.)

Bran, ASOS
Stannis is described by Davos afterward as follows:

The look of him was a shock. He seemed ten years older than the man that Davos had left at Storm’s End when he set sail for the Blackwater and the battle that would be their undoing. The king’s close-cropped beard was spiderwebbed with grey hairs, and he had dropped two stone or more of weight. He had never been a fleshy man, but now the bones moved beneath his skin like spears, fighting to cut free. Even his crown seemed too large for his head. His eyes were blue pits lost in deep hollows, and the shape of a skull could be seen beneath his face.

Davos, ASOS
Asha later describes Stannis as appearing life a "man with one foot in the grave."

What little flesh he’d carried on his tall, spare frame at Deepwood Motte had melted away during the march. The shape of his skull could be seen under his skin, and his jaw was clenched so hard Asha feared his teeth might shatter.

Asha, ADWD
These descriptions seem appropriate for a character that has lost part of their "life-fire" or soul.
Throughout the series Stannis is forced to make a series of increasingly difficult decisions. The most significant of these decisions regards the fate of his nephew, Eric Storm. Melisandre repeatedly urges him to "give [her] the boy," presumably to be burned, but is rebuffed by Stannis.

“I know the cost! Last night, gazing into that hearth, I saw things in the flames as well. I saw a king, a crown of fire on his brows, burning … burning, Davos. His own crown consumed his flesh and turned him into ash. Do you think I need Melisandre to tell me what that means? Or you?” The king moved, so his shadow fell upon King’s Landing.
"…what is the life of one bastard boy against a kingdom?”
“Everything,” said Davos, softly.

Davos, ASOS
Is the life of this bastard boy worth the lives of millions that would die if the Others break through the Wall? Making a deal with the devil and literally selling his soul in pursuit of some greater good seems very appropriate for his character, thematically.

3. blood and fire magic

As opposed to the creation of the shadows described above, we are also provided an example of blood magic in the leech burning ritual.

“Give me the boy, Your Grace. It is the surer way. The better way. Give me the boy and I shall wake the stone dragon.”
...
Melisandre bowed her head stiffly, and said, “As my king commands.” Reaching up her left sleeve with her right hand, she flung a handful of powder into the brazier. The coals roared. As pale flames writhed atop them, the red woman retrieved the silver dish and brought it to the king. Davos watched her lift the lid. Beneath were three large black leeches, fat with blood. The boy’s blood, Davos knew. A king’s blood. Stannis stretched forth a hand, and his fingers closed around one of the leeches.
“Say the name,” Melisandre commanded.

Davos, ASOS
Following this ritual all of the mentioned individuals do die but do so as the part of separate conspiracies (e.g., Robb Stark is betrayed by the Freys and Boltons, Joffrey Baratheon by Littlefinger and the Tyrells, etc.). It is left intentionally ambiguous by the author but it does not appear that the ritual was responsible.
The creation of the shadows required part of Stannis' soul. Could it be that the leech burning ritual was unsuccessful because blood alone is not sufficient as a sacrifice?
These forms of magic are frequently described, at least in the community, separately as "shadow magic" and "blood magic." These concepts — "fire and blood" and "flame and shadow" — are highly associated with one another in the series:

“Shadow?" Davos felt his flesh prickling. "A shadow is a thing of darkness."
”You are more ignorant than a child, ser knight. There are no shadows in the dark. Shadows are the servants of light, the children of fire. The brightest flame casts the darkest shadows."

Davos, ACOK
I speculate that these are different expressions of the same concept; that all of these fall under the general umbrella of fire magic and share common principles. Fire consumes.
After Alester Florent is sacrificed on Dragonstone Davos describes "the smell of burning flesh" on the wind:

Melisandre had given Alester Florent to her god on Dragonstone, to conjure up the wind that bore them north. Lord Florent had been strong and silent as the queen's men bound him to the post, as dignified as any half-naked man could hope to be, but as the flames licked up his legs he had begun to scream, and his screams had blown them all the way to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, if the red woman could be believed. Davos had misliked that wind. It had seemed to him to smell of burning flesh, and the sound of it was anguished as it played amongst the lines.

Davos, ADWD
Whether these forms of magic are actually interchangeable or not — whether they each require the consumption of souls — is difficult to prove based on the text. It appears likely given the association between these concepts that sacrifice that powered this "anguished wind" was that of a soul and not a body or blood.

4. dancing shadows

The tent was aglow with the light of braziers within. Through the blood-spattered sandsilk, she glimpsed shadows moving.
Mirri Maz Duur was dancing, and not alone.
...
No, Dany wanted to say, no, not that, you mustn’t, but when she opened her mouth, a long wail of pain escaped, and the sweat broke over her skin. What was wrong with them, couldn’t they see?
Inside the tent the shapes were dancing, circling the brazier and the bloody bath, dark against the sandsilk, and some did not look human. She glimpsed the shadow of a great wolf, and another like a man wreathed in flames.
“The Lamb Woman knows the secrets of the birthing bed,” Irri said. “She said so, I heard her.”
“Yes,” Doreah agreed, “I heard her too.”
No, she shouted, or perhaps she only thought it, for no whisper of sound escaped her lips. She was being carried. Her eyes opened to gaze up at a flat dead sky, black and bleak and starless. Please, no. The sound of Mirri Maz Duur’s voice grew louder, until it filled the world. The shapes! She screamed. The dancers!
Ser Jorah carried her inside the tent.

Daenerys, AGOT
The introduction of shadow magic in the series is provided above with Mirri Max Duur. Following this ritual Drogo is described essentially as a lifeless husk:

"He seems to like the warmth, Princess," Ser Jorah said. "His eyes follow the sun, though he does not see it. He can walk after a fashion. He will go where you lead him, but no farther. He will eat if you put food in his mouth, drink if you dribble water on his lips."

Daenerys, AGOT
It has previously been speculated that Mirri "reverse skin-changed" Drogo (e.g., "strength of the mount go into the rider, strength of the beast go into the man."). The description provided is less consistent with a horse soul inhabiting a human body than it is with the complete or near-complete absence of a soul. It appears more likely in retrospect that Mirri sacrificed part of Drogo's soul to summon the shadows, likely as a means to kill Daenerys' unborn child.

“The stallion who mounts the world will burn no cities now. His khalasar shall trample no nations into dust."

Daenerys, AGOT

5. reanimation

If "only death can pay for life" and souls are used as a form of magical currency how does one explain the reanimation or resurrection process?
There is a paucity of information on the reanimation of the dead in the series. The resurrection of Beric Dondarrion, for example, appears to be different in fundamental ways from that of the wights or Cold Hands. (We are potentially given a point-of-view account of this process if you accept that Victarion died in ADWD.)

“Thoros, how many times have you brought me back now?”
The red priest bowed his head. “It is R’hllor who brings you back, my lord. The Lord of Light. I am only his instrument.”
“How many times?” Lord Beric insisted.
“Six,” Thoros said reluctantly.
“And each time is harder. You have grown reckless, my lord. Is death so very sweet?”
Arya, ASOS

There is no immediately identifiable cost for the "kiss of life" and repeated resurrection of Beric. I speculate that Thoros is breathing part of his soul into Beric during this process.

“That first time, his lordship had a hole right through him and blood in his mouth, I knew there was no hope. So when his poor torn chest stopped moving, I gave him the good god's own kiss to send him on his way. I filled my mouth with fire and breathed the flames inside him, down his throat to lungs and heart and soul. The last kiss it is called, and many a time I saw the old priests bestow it on the Lord's servants as they died." (Credit to u/watchersontheweb for providing this quote in the initial thread.)

Arya, ASOS
Thoros is also described as appearing very different after performing this ritual several times in a way that is not entirely dissimilar to the changes in Stannis’ appearance referenced above.

“Here’s the wizard, skinny squirrel. You’ll get your answers now.”
He pointed toward the fire, where Tom Sevenstrings stood talking to a tall thin man with oddments of old armor buckled on over his ratty pink robes. That can’t be Thoros of Myr. Arya remembered the red priest as fat, with a smooth face and a shiny bald head. This man had a droopy face and a full head of shaggy grey hair. Something
...
“Thoros of Myr. You used to shave your head.”
“To betoken a humble heart, but in truth my heart was vain. Besides, I lost my razor in the woods.” The priest slapped his belly. “I am less than I was, but more. A year in the wild will melt the flesh off a man. Would that I could find a tailor to take in my skin. I might look young again, and pretty maids would shower me with kisses.”

Arya, ASOS
Thoros attributes these changes to his renewed devotion to the Red God and spending "a year in the wild" although he is not exactly forthcoming with Arya about the resurrection process. It is also likely that he may not entirely understand what specifically is being exchanged here.
Thoros later describes Beric giving the "kiss of life" to the corpse of Catelyn Stark:

“The Freys slashed her throat from ear to ear. When we found her by the river she was three days dead. Harwin begged me to give her the kiss of life, but it had been too long. I would not do it, so Lord Beric put his lips to hers instead, and the flame of life passed from him to her. And… she rose. May the Lord of Light protect us. She rose.”

Brienne, AFFC
Notably, this process produces a reanimated Catelyn (a.k.a. Lady Stoneheart). The soul of Beric, or at least whatever is left of his soul at this point in the series, is consumed in order to resurrect Catelyn.

6. cold shadows (wild speculation)

The terms "white shadows," "pale shadows," and "cold shadows" are repeated used to describe the Others. The Others are also highly associated with ghosts — the spirits of souls of the dead bound to the earth. (The forrest is literally called the Haunted Forrest.)

The Others made no sound.
Will saw movement from the corner of his eye. Pale shapes gliding through the wood. He turned his head, glimpsed a white shadow in the darkness. Then it was gone. Branches stirred gently in the wind, scratching at one another with wooden fingers. Will opened his mouth to call down a warning, and the words seemed to freeze in his throat. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps it had only been a bird, a reflection on the snow, some trick of the moonlight. What had he seen, after all?
“Will, where are you?” Ser Waymar called up. “Can you see anything?” He was turning in a slow circle, suddenly wary, his sword in hand. He must have felt them, as Will felt them. There was nothing to see. “Answer me! Why is it so cold?” It was cold.
Shivering, Will clung more tightly to his perch. His face pressed hard against the trunk of the sentinel. He could feel the sweet, sticky sap on his cheek. A shadow emerged from the dark of the wood. It stood in front of Royce. Tall, it was, and gaunt and hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Its armor seemed to change color as it moved; here it was white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, everywhere dappled with the deep grey-green of the trees. The patterns ran like moonlight on water with every step it took. Will heard the breath go out of Ser Waymar Royce in a long hiss. ...
The Other slid forward on silent feet. In its hand was a longsword like none that Will had ever seen. No human metal had gone into the forging of that blade. It was alive with moonlight, translucent, a shard of crystal so thin that it seemed almost to vanish when seen edge-on. There was a faint blue shimmer to the thing, a ghost-light that played around its edges, and somehow Will knew it was sharper than any razor.

Prologue, AGOT
This is again highly speculative but it seems reasonable to consider that these cold shadows are not "ice demons" but are in fact ghosts, the spirits or souls of men that are bound to the earth through magic by the Children of the Forest. (The textual evidence of the creation of the Others by the Children has been previously discussed at length in the community.) Whereas fire consumes, ice preserves.
This would explain several unusual characteristics of the Others as described by Tormund

“Tormund,” Jon said, as they watched four old women pull a cartful of children toward the gate, “tell me of our foe. I would know all there is to know of the Others.”
The wildling rubbed his mouth. “Not here,” he mumbled, “not this side o’ your Wall.” The old man glanced uneasily toward the trees in their white mantles. “They’re never far, you know. They won’t come out by day, not when that old sun’s shining, but don’t think that means they went away. Shadows never go away. Might be you don’t see them, but they’re always clinging to your heels.”
...
Tormund turned back.
"You know nothing. You killed a dead man, aye, I heard. Mance killed a hundred. A man can fight the dead, but when their masters come, when the white mists rise up… how do you fight a mist, crow? Shadows with teeth … air so cold it hurts to breathe, like a knife inside your chest … you do not know, you cannot know … can your sword cut cold?"

Jon, ADWD
A reasonable interpretation of this is that the Others are present during the day, at least in some capacity, and are only able to assume corporeal form at night.
The Others are also described as "going lightly upon the snow" which is in keeping with their nature as spirits.

“The white walkers go lightly on the snow,” the ranger said. “You’ll find no prints to mark their passage.”

Samwell, ASOS

7. conclusions

This highly speculative theory that attempts to reconcile the several seemingly disparate concepts in the series related to magic, namely the actual nature of magical sacrifice ("only death can pay for life") and shadows or shadow magic. More specifically, I suggest that souls are the primary magical currency and can be consumed to summon shadows, create glamours, etc. I also speculate that similar processes took place during Mirri Maz Duur's shadow-binding ritual in AGOT and during the repeated resurrections of Berric Dondarrion in ASOS. I further suggest that the Others are ghosts, the spirits or souls of the dead bound to the earth.
EDIT: edited several times to address formatting issues

I have seen many people draw speculations about a potential cage match for the past few weeks, but now that we have confirmed dates for the biggest PPV Sunday of the year, thanks to Vince Inkigayo, I thought it would be worth doing a tactical breakdown and preview of the bout.
I think the most significant macro matchup is between Yunah and Hyein. Statistically, the pendulum will swing for who of the two can deliver the most chokeslams across the match. I will give a slight edge here to Yunah as she is starting to touch the hag years and thus has more ajumma strength.
The matchup between Minju and Minji is pretty even, and I believe it will be a dogged brawl to determine the better Minj ("U-Uu-Uu-Uu-you like it's magnetic" vs "Ii-Ii-I-I know what you like boy")
I believe Haerin will be deployed as defence against Wonhee. Wonhee is the master of spitting game, of launching a verbal tirade that obfuscates and befuddles even the most hardened fighter, but you know what is the most effective counter to this? That's right, a furball.
ILLIT however do hold a unique X-factor, or rather the J-factor, in the form of Moka and Iroha. I have no doubt they will be given additional 일본 training by their company sunbaenims, the experienced queen of the ring Cherry Miyawaki as well the fittest former rookie of the year in Lightning McSwan (Kazuha!). I bet they will employ Banzai Drops liberally and will be a threatening physical force in the added verticality that the cage provides.
NewJeans are not without their own advantage though, and that is the massive survivability of the Aussie duo, Hanni and Danielle. They're a hardy bunch, the aussies, and the two of them would already be accustomed to boxing Kangaroos, outrunning Dingos and wrestling with giant arachnids on their way to school.
Of the two, Hanni additionally brings the guerilla fighting tactics of her forefathers to bear, a diminutive danger that ILLIT cannot let fly under their radar.
Which bring us to Danielle, who I believe will ultimately be the one who decides the fate of the match. Why you may or may not ask? Well, everybody knows Dani as the sunshine, the happiest, bubbliest, loveliest kid on the block, bringing the light of life to everyone around her. One would think her entirely innocent and pure of heart. But she has not fooled me. Nobody can possibly be that happy, it is not physically possible. This only points to one thing chingeese.
Danielle is actually the most dangerous one. This is why she can afford to be so carefree. She carries the biggest stick, or the biggest knife as it were, a real knife. I believe on June 2 we will see an entirely different side of Dani. The bright sun will turn red, and just like her fictional namesake who burned down entire cities and armies on the back of dragons for her conquest, we will witness an incineration, some evisceration and ultimately, annihilation. This is what the shaman friend has predicted.
P.S. I got laid off last week and the thought of working class (and also recently unemployed) queen Min Heejin spanking Bang PD (the corporate ruling class) gives me great solace and catharsis.

This is an expansion of a recent post and also incorporates some ideas from this theory (by u/ndependent-Design17). Throughout the series the reader is repeatedly reminded that "only death can pay for life" — that magic, especially powerful magic, comes at great cost.

"Only death can pay for life, my lord. A great gift requires a great sacrifice.”

Davos, ASOS
This phrase or variations of this phrase are repeated by Melisandre, Mirri, etc. at various points throughout the series. That which follows is a highly speculative theory on the nature of the cost of magic in the series. Specifically, that souls are central to the exercise of magic and can be used as magic currency.

1. establishing the concept of the soul

Oh, to be sure, there is much we do not understand. The years pass in their hundreds and their thousands, and what does any man see of life but a few summers, a few winters? We look at mountains and call them eternal, and so they seem… but in the course of time, mountains rise and fall, rivers change their courses, stars fall from the sky, and great cities sink beneath the sea. Even gods die, we think. Everything changes.

Bran, AGOT
What happens after we die? Is there some part of us that lives on or do we simply cease to exist. These are fundamental questions that are essentially unanswerable in life but not in ASOIAF. The reader is given a point-of-view account of death in the prologue of ADWD. After unsuccessfully attempting to steal the body of Thistle, a wildling spearwife, Varamyr dies and briefly becomes a disembodied consciousness:

The white world turned and fell away. For a moment it was as if he were inside the weirwood, gazing out through carved red eyes as a dying man twitched feebly on the ground and a madwoman danced blind and bloody underneath the moon, weeping red tears and ripping at her clothes. Then both were gone and he was rising, melting, his spirit borne on some cold wind. He was in the snow and in the clouds, he was a sparrow, a squirrel, an oak. A horned owl flew silently between his trees, hunting a hare; Varamyr was inside the owl, inside the hare, inside the trees. Deep below the frozen ground, earthworms burrowed blindly in the dark, and he was them as well. I am the wood, and everything that’s in it, he thought, exulting.

Prologue, ADWD
Afterward his "spirit," or soul, is eventually transferred into a body of wolf and he begins his second life. This event, and the process of skin-changing more generally, appears to involve projection of a soul from one body into another. The process of transferring souls to either the animal vessels or the weirwoods is central to the magic of the Children of the Forest.

“Someone else was in the raven,” he told Lord Brynden, once he had returned to his own skin. “Some girl. I felt her.”
“A woman, of those who sing the song of earth,” his teacher said. “Long dead, yet a part of her remains, just as a part of you would remain in Summer if your boy’s flesh were to die upon the morrow. A shadow on the soul. She will not harm you.”
"Do all the birds have singers in them?"
“All,” Lord Brynden said.

Bran, ADWD
After death a "shadow on the soul" of the Singers remain in the crows. The soul of Orell is also described as living on in the body of his eagle after his death.
This process appears to take two forms: the soul can be temporarily projected from one body into another (e.g., as happens when Bran skin-changes into Hodor) or can be permanently transferred as is described in the separate examples above.
These transferred souls merge with their recipient, at least to some degree, and may decay over time:

"The wolf is part of you from that day on, and you’re part of him. Both of you will change.”
Other beasts were best left alone, the hunter had declared. Cats were vain and cruel, always ready to turn on you. Elk and deer were prey; wear their skins too long, and even the bravest man became a coward. Bears, boars, badgers, weasels … Haggon did not hold with such. “Some skins you never want to wear, boy. You won’t like what you’d become.” Birds were the worst, to hear him tell it. “Men were not meant to leave the earth. Spend too much time in the clouds and you never want to come back down again.
...
"They say you forget," Haggon had told him, a few weeks before his own death.
"When the man's flesh dies, his spirit lives on inside the beast, but every day his memory fades, and the beast becomes a little less a warg, a little more a wolf, until nothing of the man is left and only the beast remains."

Prologue, ADWD
Bran is provided with similar warnings about the danger of spending too much time in Summer's skin by Jojen.
The Bran that appears to Jon-Ghost in the vision in ACOK is also likely the lingering soul of a non-contemporaneous Bran, contained in the weirwoods and communicating from the future.

The weirwood had his brother’s face. Had his brother always had three eyes?
Not always, came the silent shout. Not before the crow.
He sniffed at the bark, smelled wolf and tree and boy, but behind that there were other scents, the rich brown smell of warm earth and the hard grey smell of stone and something else, something terrible. Death, he knew. He was smelling death. He cringed back, his hair bristling, and bared his fangs.
"Don’t be afraid, I like it in the dark. No one can see you, but you can see them. But first you have to open your eyes. See? Like this." And the tree reached down and touched him.

Jon, ACOK
There is more information about this in the Time Traveling Bran series. Briefly, the version of Bran in this vision does not appear to be contemporaneous because likes the dark, is able to open Jon's third eye, and smells of death. (This is well outside of the scope of this theory however.)

2. shadow magic requires souls

As above the reader is repeatedly reminded throughout the series that "only death can pay for life." What is specifically being sacrificed, though? Is the magic being fueled by the blood of the sacrificed or by something else?
To answer this let us examine one of the most concrete example of magic in the series, the use or exchange of Stannis Baratheon's "life-fire" in order for Melisandre to manifest the shadows used to kill Renly Baratheon and Courtney Penrose.

Shadows only live when given birth by light, and the king's fires burn so low I dare not draw off any more to make another son. It might well kill him."
Melisandre moved closer.
"With another man, though... a man whose flames still burn hot and high... if you truly wish to serve your king's cause, come to my chamber one night. I could give you pleasure such as you have never known, and with your life-fire I could make..."

Davos, ASOS
According to this explanation, the cost of producing these shadow appears to have been part of his "life-fire," or soul. The shadow is also specifically described as having the shape Stannis. Whether this applies to other types of magic — specifically blood magic or fire magic — is less clear but shadow magic very much appears to require the use of souls.
The exchange of seed for soul is also directly referenced in the story of the Night's King.

A woman was his downfall; a woman glimpsed from atop the Wall, with skin as white as the moon and eyes like blue stars. Fearing nothing, he chased her and caught her and loved her, though her skin was cold as ice, and when he gave his seed to her he gave his soul as well. (Credit to u/DigLost5791 for this reference.)

Bran, ASOS
Stannis is described by Davos afterward as follows:

The look of him was a shock. He seemed ten years older than the man that Davos had left at Storm’s End when he set sail for the Blackwater and the battle that would be their undoing. The king’s close-cropped beard was spiderwebbed with grey hairs, and he had dropped two stone or more of weight. He had never been a fleshy man, but now the bones moved beneath his skin like spears, fighting to cut free. Even his crown seemed too large for his head. His eyes were blue pits lost in deep hollows, and the shape of a skull could be seen beneath his face.

Davos, ASOS
Asha later describes Stannis as appearing life a "man with one foot in the grave."

What little flesh he’d carried on his tall, spare frame at Deepwood Motte had melted away during the march. The shape of his skull could be seen under his skin, and his jaw was clenched so hard Asha feared his teeth might shatter.

Asha, ADWD
These descriptions seem appropriate for a character that has lost part of their "life-fire" or soul.
Throughout the series Stannis is forced to make a series of increasingly difficult decisions. The most significant of these decisions regards the fate of his nephew, Eric Storm. Melisandre repeatedly urges him to "give [her] the boy," presumably to be burned, but is rebuffed by Stannis.

“I know the cost! Last night, gazing into that hearth, I saw things in the flames as well. I saw a king, a crown of fire on his brows, burning … burning, Davos. His own crown consumed his flesh and turned him into ash. Do you think I need Melisandre to tell me what that means? Or you?” The king moved, so his shadow fell upon King’s Landing.
"…what is the life of one bastard boy against a kingdom?”
“Everything,” said Davos, softly.

Davos, ASOS
Is the life of this bastard boy worth the lives of millions that would die if the Others break through the Wall? Making a deal with the devil and literally selling his soul in pursuit of some greater good seems very appropriate for his character, thematically.

3. blood and fire magic

As opposed to the creation of the shadows described above, we are also provided an example of blood magic in the leech burning ritual.

“Give me the boy, Your Grace. It is the surer way. The better way. Give me the boy and I shall wake the stone dragon.”
...
Melisandre bowed her head stiffly, and said, “As my king commands.” Reaching up her left sleeve with her right hand, she flung a handful of powder into the brazier. The coals roared. As pale flames writhed atop them, the red woman retrieved the silver dish and brought it to the king. Davos watched her lift the lid. Beneath were three large black leeches, fat with blood. The boy’s blood, Davos knew. A king’s blood. Stannis stretched forth a hand, and his fingers closed around one of the leeches.
“Say the name,” Melisandre commanded.

Davos, ASOS
Following this ritual all of the mentioned individuals do die but do so as the part of separate conspiracies (e.g., Robb Stark is betrayed by the Freys and Boltons, Joffrey Baratheon by Littlefinger and the Tyrells, etc.). It is left intentionally ambiguous by the author but it does not appear that the ritual was responsible.
The creation of the shadows required part of Stannis' soul. Could it be that the leech burning ritual was unsuccessful because blood alone is not sufficient as a sacrifice?
These forms of magic are frequently described, at least in the community, separately as "shadow magic" and "blood magic." These concepts — "fire and blood" and "flame and shadow" — are highly associated with one another in the series:

“Shadow?" Davos felt his flesh prickling. "A shadow is a thing of darkness."
”You are more ignorant than a child, ser knight. There are no shadows in the dark. Shadows are the servants of light, the children of fire. The brightest flame casts the darkest shadows."

Davos, ACOK
I speculate that these are different expressions of the same concept; that all of these fall under the general umbrella of fire magic and share common principles. Fire consumes.
After Alester Florent is sacrificed on Dragonstone Davos describes "the smell of burning flesh" on the wind:

Melisandre had given Alester Florent to her god on Dragonstone, to conjure up the wind that bore them north. Lord Florent had been strong and silent as the queen's men bound him to the post, as dignified as any half-naked man could hope to be, but as the flames licked up his legs he had begun to scream, and his screams had blown them all the way to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, if the red woman could be believed. Davos had misliked that wind. It had seemed to him to smell of burning flesh, and the sound of it was anguished as it played amongst the lines.

Davos, ADWD
Whether these forms of magic are actually interchangeable or not — whether they each require the consumption of souls — is difficult to prove based on the text. It appears likely given the association between these concepts that sacrifice that powered this "anguished wind" was that of a soul and not a body or blood.

4. dancing shadows

The tent was aglow with the light of braziers within. Through the blood-spattered sandsilk, she glimpsed shadows moving.
Mirri Maz Duur was dancing, and not alone.
...
No, Dany wanted to say, no, not that, you mustn’t, but when she opened her mouth, a long wail of pain escaped, and the sweat broke over her skin. What was wrong with them, couldn’t they see?
Inside the tent the shapes were dancing, circling the brazier and the bloody bath, dark against the sandsilk, and some did not look human. She glimpsed the shadow of a great wolf, and another like a man wreathed in flames.
“The Lamb Woman knows the secrets of the birthing bed,” Irri said. “She said so, I heard her.”
“Yes,” Doreah agreed, “I heard her too.”
No, she shouted, or perhaps she only thought it, for no whisper of sound escaped her lips. She was being carried. Her eyes opened to gaze up at a flat dead sky, black and bleak and starless. Please, no. The sound of Mirri Maz Duur’s voice grew louder, until it filled the world. The shapes! She screamed. The dancers!
Ser Jorah carried her inside the tent.

Daenerys, AGOT
The introduction of shadow magic in the series is provided above with Mirri Max Duur. Following this ritual Drogo is described essentially as a lifeless husk:

"He seems to like the warmth, Princess," Ser Jorah said. "His eyes follow the sun, though he does not see it. He can walk after a fashion. He will go where you lead him, but no farther. He will eat if you put food in his mouth, drink if you dribble water on his lips."

Daenerys, AGOT
It has previously been speculated that Mirri "reverse skin-changed" Drogo (e.g., "strength of the mount go into the rider, strength of the beast go into the man."). The description provided is less consistent with a horse soul inhabiting a human body than it is with the complete or near-complete absence of a soul. It appears more likely in retrospect that Mirri sacrificed part of Drogo's soul to summon the shadows, likely as a means to kill Daenerys' unborn child.

“The stallion who mounts the world will burn no cities now. His khalasar shall trample no nations into dust."

Daenerys, AGOT

5. reanimation

If "only death can pay for life" and souls are used as a form of magical currency how does one explain the reanimation or resurrection process?
There is a paucity of information on the reanimation of the dead in the series. The resurrection of Beric Dondarrion, for example, appears to be different in fundamental ways from that of the wights or Cold Hands. (We are potentially given a point-of-view account of this process if you accept that Victarion died in ADWD.)

“Thoros, how many times have you brought me back now?”
The red priest bowed his head. “It is R’hllor who brings you back, my lord. The Lord of Light. I am only his instrument.”
“How many times?” Lord Beric insisted.
“Six,” Thoros said reluctantly.
“And each time is harder. You have grown reckless, my lord. Is death so very sweet?”
Arya, ASOS

There is no immediately identifiable cost for the "kiss of life" and repeated resurrection of Beric. I speculate that Thoros is breathing part of his soul into Beric during this process.

“That first time, his lordship had a hole right through him and blood in his mouth, I knew there was no hope. So when his poor torn chest stopped moving, I gave him the good god's own kiss to send him on his way. I filled my mouth with fire and breathed the flames inside him, down his throat to lungs and heart and soul. The last kiss it is called, and many a time I saw the old priests bestow it on the Lord's servants as they died." (Credit to u/watchersontheweb for providing this quote in the initial thread.)

Arya, ASOS
Thoros is also described as appearing very different after performing this ritual several times in a way that is not entirely dissimilar to the changes in Stannis’ appearance referenced above.

“Here’s the wizard, skinny squirrel. You’ll get your answers now.”
He pointed toward the fire, where Tom Sevenstrings stood talking to a tall thin man with oddments of old armor buckled on over his ratty pink robes. That can’t be Thoros of Myr. Arya remembered the red priest as fat, with a smooth face and a shiny bald head. This man had a droopy face and a full head of shaggy grey hair. Something
...
“Thoros of Myr. You used to shave your head.”
“To betoken a humble heart, but in truth my heart was vain. Besides, I lost my razor in the woods.” The priest slapped his belly. “I am less than I was, but more. A year in the wild will melt the flesh off a man. Would that I could find a tailor to take in my skin. I might look young again, and pretty maids would shower me with kisses.”

Arya, ASOS
Thoros attributes these changes to his renewed devotion to the Red God and spending "a year in the wild" although he is not exactly forthcoming with Arya about the resurrection process. It is also likely that he may not entirely understand what specifically is being exchanged here.
Thoros later describes Beric giving the "kiss of life" to the corpse of Catelyn Stark:

“The Freys slashed her throat from ear to ear. When we found her by the river she was three days dead. Harwin begged me to give her the kiss of life, but it had been too long. I would not do it, so Lord Beric put his lips to hers instead, and the flame of life passed from him to her. And… she rose. May the Lord of Light protect us. She rose.”

Brienne, AFFC
Notably, this process produces a reanimated Catelyn (a.k.a. Lady Stoneheart). The soul of Beric, or at least whatever is left of his soul at this point in the series, is consumed in order to resurrect Catelyn.

6. cold shadows (wild speculation)

The terms "white shadows," "pale shadows," and "cold shadows" are repeated used to describe the Others. The Others are also highly associated with ghosts — the spirits of souls of the dead bound to the earth. (The forrest is literally called the Haunted Forrest.)

The Others made no sound.
Will saw movement from the corner of his eye. Pale shapes gliding through the wood. He turned his head, glimpsed a white shadow in the darkness. Then it was gone. Branches stirred gently in the wind, scratching at one another with wooden fingers. Will opened his mouth to call down a warning, and the words seemed to freeze in his throat. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps it had only been a bird, a reflection on the snow, some trick of the moonlight. What had he seen, after all?
“Will, where are you?” Ser Waymar called up. “Can you see anything?” He was turning in a slow circle, suddenly wary, his sword in hand. He must have felt them, as Will felt them. There was nothing to see. “Answer me! Why is it so cold?” It was cold.
Shivering, Will clung more tightly to his perch. His face pressed hard against the trunk of the sentinel. He could feel the sweet, sticky sap on his cheek. A shadow emerged from the dark of the wood. It stood in front of Royce. Tall, it was, and gaunt and hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Its armor seemed to change color as it moved; here it was white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, everywhere dappled with the deep grey-green of the trees. The patterns ran like moonlight on water with every step it took. Will heard the breath go out of Ser Waymar Royce in a long hiss. ...
The Other slid forward on silent feet. In its hand was a longsword like none that Will had ever seen. No human metal had gone into the forging of that blade. It was alive with moonlight, translucent, a shard of crystal so thin that it seemed almost to vanish when seen edge-on. There was a faint blue shimmer to the thing, a ghost-light that played around its edges, and somehow Will knew it was sharper than any razor.

Prologue, AGOT
This is again highly speculative but it seems reasonable to consider that these cold shadows are not "ice demons" but are in fact ghosts, the spirits or souls of men that are bound to the earth through magic by the Children of the Forest. (The textual evidence of the creation of the Others by the Children is linked in a separate post here.) Whereas fire consumes, ice preserves.
This would explain several unusual characteristics of the Others as described by Tormund

“Tormund,” Jon said, as they watched four old women pull a cartful of children toward the gate, “tell me of our foe. I would know all there is to know of the Others.”
The wildling rubbed his mouth. “Not here,” he mumbled, “not this side o’ your Wall.” The old man glanced uneasily toward the trees in their white mantles. “They’re never far, you know. They won’t come out by day, not when that old sun’s shining, but don’t think that means they went away. Shadows never go away. Might be you don’t see them, but they’re always clinging to your heels.”
...
Tormund turned back.
"You know nothing. You killed a dead man, aye, I heard. Mance killed a hundred. A man can fight the dead, but when their masters come, when the white mists rise up… how do you fight a mist, crow? Shadows with teeth … air so cold it hurts to breathe, like a knife inside your chest … you do not know, you cannot know … can your sword cut cold?"

Jon, ADWD
A reasonable interpretation of this is that the Others are present during the day, at least in some capacity, and are only able to assume corporeal form at night.
The Others are also described as "going lightly upon the snow" which is in keeping with their nature as spirits.

“The white walkers go lightly on the snow,” the ranger said. “You’ll find no prints to mark their passage.”

Samwell, ASOS

7. conclusions

This highly speculative theory that attempts to reconcile the several seemingly disparate concepts in the series related to magic, namely the actual nature of magical sacrifice ("only death can pay for life") and shadows or shadow magic. More specifically, I suggest that souls are the primary magical currency and can be consumed to summon shadows, create glamours, etc. I also speculate that similar processes took place during Mirri Maz Duur's shadow-binding ritual in AGOT and during the repeated resurrections of Berric Dondarrion in ASOS. I further suggest that the Others are ghosts, the spirits or souls of the dead bound to the earth.
EDIT: edited several times to address formatting issues

Humans are Weird – Storm Watching

Original Post: http://www.authorbettyadams.com/bettys-blog/humans-are-weird-storm-watching
“Why did we even bother building a base on the land anyway?” Rollsaround asked as he absorbed the dim light filtering through the wide windows of the base.
The windows gave an impressive view of what the humans in their generosity called a “coastline”. Instead of gently undulating coral beds easing down into the water the glittering volcanic rock dropped abruptly from the graminoid covered highlands and dove down dozens of meters to where it usually met the heaving surface of the water below. Today however the water had seemingly decided to express its objections to the separation and was attempting to scale the cliffs in massive waves. The base vibrated from the force of a gust of wind and Rollsaround hunkered deeper into his mineral bath.
“Do you require another introduction of thermal-loaded water?” Tenth Cousin asked from where she perched on a Shatar couch, reading something that was supposed to be very masculine poetry from her homeworld.
“I do not,” Rollsaround reassured her. “I was just reacting negatively to the storm.”
She tilted her head to examine the weather conditions with a thoughtful set to her antenna.
“I think it is a pleasant change,” she said. “The harsh, unfiltered lights of the suns here means that we have no real night. The clouds at lest allow the illusions of dusk, and the wind overhead is not entirely unlike breezes in Father’s canopy if you can focus your attention on some pleasant task.”
“Well if we can’t go outside during clear weather without protection due to the radiation,” Rollsaround grumbled, “and we can’t go outside in stormy weather due to the, well, the storm, I say we should have just built a floating base that we could submerge during storm weather.”
“There is perhaps logic in that,” Tenth cousin agreed, and very deliberately tilted her head back to the poetry.
Rollsaround drooped his leading appendages over the edge of the bowl and absorbed the storm light in a slightly sulky mood. The airlock cycled open and Third Sister stepped in with the brisk stride that Rollsaround had noticed that high ranking sisters only used when they were looking for someone who had committed some infraction. Tenth Cousin brought the poem up closer to her face and started moving her mandibles as if she was completely focused on sounding out the words. Third Sister tilted her head the examine the cousin and then abruptly swiveled her body to focus on Rollsaround.
“First Ecologist,” she began, “do you know First Mechanic’s current location? The exterior vents in my lab require percussive maintenance.”
“He is off shift by now,” Rollsaround said. “You should check the washrooms and his quarters.”
However even as he offered this sound advice Rollsaround felt a ripple of unease. Human Friend Conner almost never went to his quarters after his shift. He was highly social, even by human standards and usually came to the main room to chat first thing.
“I have already checked both of those locations,” Third Sister stated. “He is not there and he is not answering his comm.”
Rollsaround mulled over that. Clearly Third Sister needed to find the human. An improperly vented laboratory in such a base as theirs was a serious health risk.
“Have you checked the storage areas?” he asked.
“I did a ping for his comm,” she replied, “but it is not reading as in the base at all so I could not locate the room he was in. I was surprised as I didn’t think we had any shielding strong enough to block the comm signal in the base-”
She cut off as Rollsaround suddenly surged up out of his mineral bath and crawled out of it.
“What is the matter First Ecologist?” Third Sister asked in confusion.
“He has gone out for a walk,” Rollsaround said, forgetting in his rush to add emotional undertones to his words.
“Out?” Third Sister demanded, her antenna going lax with confusion.
“Out to watch the storm from withing the wind currents,” Rollsaround explained.
“How do you gather that?” Third Sister demanded.
“He has described storm watching on his homeworld to me,” Rollsaround explained as he opened the hatch to the sub floor currents. “He also mentioned what he thought the perfect storm watching spot would be on these cliffs. That spot is behind enough rocks to block the signal. Now if you will excuse me I am going to go fetch him.”
“He has broken regulations!” Third Sister clicked, her frill flashing red with alarm.
“That on a secondary vine,” Tenth Cousin interjected as she came up to them. “The same regulations apply to you First Ecologist! The wind-”
“I am rated as fully wind resistant under these conditions,” Rollsaround said with a dismissive wave, “one of the perks of not being built like a windmill.”
“Your thermal mass-” Tenth Cousin tried again.
“I am fully warmed at the moment and I will turn back if my core temperature drops too low,” he interjected again. “Now if there are no further objections?”
Without waiting for their objections he dropped down into the sub-floor current and tapped the control panel to direct the current to the main outlet. He bundled his appendages and let himself be swept into the cold, but fresh exterior water. He bumped up against the smooth rise of the outlet and edged up out of the water. The wind was powerful. He could feel it tug at him if he raised a gripping appendage high, but at least over the main path there were eddies along the ground that were so comparatively we that he couldn’t even feel them. He began shuffling at top speed along the path. A the crest of the first high spot the winds did hit him, shoving his body sideways. However, as he had expected it required barely a fraction of his strength to grip the path firmly with his set appendages as he moved the free appendages forward. It barely even slowed him down, the roar of it was rather disconcerting when it wasn’t muted by the base walls however. He did wonder how the human had made it this far. After a long steady shuffle he rounded the corner that was blocking the signal and spotted a tall figure down at the cliff’s edge that wasn’t normally there.
Rollsaround activated the comm he was holding pressed against the ground. There was a significant delay before the human responded.
“Human Friend Conner,” Rollsaround said, trying to put firmness in his tones. “Come now and carry me back to the base. I am at the crest of the hill looking down at you.”
There was an odd sound from the comm that suggested the human was trying to say something back, but human speaking organs were not optimized for shielding the microphone of a comm while speaking so the human simply gave two short radio bursts and the tall figure on the cliff’s edge began swaying back and forth as it moved towards the path. Rollsaround anchored himself more fully against the blasts and watched in grim interest as the gusts blew the tall human form to one side and then the other as the human struggled up the path.
When Human Friend Conner finally did reach him the human didn’t bother speaking. He just reached down with a grin and tried to lift the Undulate off of the path. For one long moment Rollsaround hung on to the ground in a show of strength. He wasn’t sure if it would impress the human but a little dominance display did seem called for. He let go when the look of perplexity fully formed on the humans face but before he could give a more powerful tug and they headed back to the base.
Being carried over a meter above the ground in this wind was another experience altogether. The swaying of the human in the wind felt far wilder than it had looked, and Rollsaround found himself clutching tightly to the human’s coat as the wind tried to rip him away. They finally made the base airlock and stepped through to the blessedly still air. Rollsaround dropped to the floor and shook the cold water off of himself.
“I think Third Sister would like a word with you,” he said.
Granted she would probably want a word with him too, but Human Friend Conner didn’t need to know that.

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Humans are Weird – Storm Watching

Original Post: http://www.authorbettyadams.com/bettys-blog/humans-are-weird-storm-watching
“Why did we even bother building a base on the land anyway?” Rollsaround asked as he absorbed the dim light filtering through the wide windows of the base.
The windows gave an impressive view of what the humans in their generosity called a “coastline”. Instead of gently undulating coral beds easing down into the water the glittering volcanic rock dropped abruptly from the graminoid covered highlands and dove down dozens of meters to where it usually met the heaving surface of the water below. Today however the water had seemingly decided to express its objections to the separation and was attempting to scale the cliffs in massive waves. The base vibrated from the force of a gust of wind and Rollsaround hunkered deeper into his mineral bath.
“Do you require another introduction of thermal-loaded water?” Tenth Cousin asked from where she perched on a Shatar couch, reading something that was supposed to be very masculine poetry from her homeworld.
“I do not,” Rollsaround reassured her. “I was just reacting negatively to the storm.”
She tilted her head to examine the weather conditions with a thoughtful set to her antenna.
“I think it is a pleasant change,” she said. “The harsh, unfiltered lights of the suns here means that we have no real night. The clouds at lest allow the illusions of dusk, and the wind overhead is not entirely unlike breezes in Father’s canopy if you can focus your attention on some pleasant task.”
“Well if we can’t go outside during clear weather without protection due to the radiation,” Rollsaround grumbled, “and we can’t go outside in stormy weather due to the, well, the storm, I say we should have just built a floating base that we could submerge during storm weather.”
“There is perhaps logic in that,” Tenth cousin agreed, and very deliberately tilted her head back to the poetry.
Rollsaround drooped his leading appendages over the edge of the bowl and absorbed the storm light in a slightly sulky mood. The airlock cycled open and Third Sister stepped in with the brisk stride that Rollsaround had noticed that high ranking sisters only used when they were looking for someone who had committed some infraction. Tenth Cousin brought the poem up closer to her face and started moving her mandibles as if she was completely focused on sounding out the words. Third Sister tilted her head the examine the cousin and then abruptly swiveled her body to focus on Rollsaround.
“First Ecologist,” she began, “do you know First Mechanic’s current location? The exterior vents in my lab require percussive maintenance.”
“He is off shift by now,” Rollsaround said. “You should check the washrooms and his quarters.”
However even as he offered this sound advice Rollsaround felt a ripple of unease. Human Friend Conner almost never went to his quarters after his shift. He was highly social, even by human standards and usually came to the main room to chat first thing.
“I have already checked both of those locations,” Third Sister stated. “He is not there and he is not answering his comm.”
Rollsaround mulled over that. Clearly Third Sister needed to find the human. An improperly vented laboratory in such a base as theirs was a serious health risk.
“Have you checked the storage areas?” he asked.
“I did a ping for his comm,” she replied, “but it is not reading as in the base at all so I could not locate the room he was in. I was surprised as I didn’t think we had any shielding strong enough to block the comm signal in the base-”
She cut off as Rollsaround suddenly surged up out of his mineral bath and crawled out of it.
“What is the matter First Ecologist?” Third Sister asked in confusion.
“He has gone out for a walk,” Rollsaround said, forgetting in his rush to add emotional undertones to his words.
“Out?” Third Sister demanded, her antenna going lax with confusion.
“Out to watch the storm from withing the wind currents,” Rollsaround explained.
“How do you gather that?” Third Sister demanded.
“He has described storm watching on his homeworld to me,” Rollsaround explained as he opened the hatch to the sub floor currents. “He also mentioned what he thought the perfect storm watching spot would be on these cliffs. That spot is behind enough rocks to block the signal. Now if you will excuse me I am going to go fetch him.”
“He has broken regulations!” Third Sister clicked, her frill flashing red with alarm.
“That on a secondary vine,” Tenth Cousin interjected as she came up to them. “The same regulations apply to you First Ecologist! The wind-”
“I am rated as fully wind resistant under these conditions,” Rollsaround said with a dismissive wave, “one of the perks of not being built like a windmill.”
“Your thermal mass-” Tenth Cousin tried again.
“I am fully warmed at the moment and I will turn back if my core temperature drops too low,” he interjected again. “Now if there are no further objections?”
Without waiting for their objections he dropped down into the sub-floor current and tapped the control panel to direct the current to the main outlet. He bundled his appendages and let himself be swept into the cold, but fresh exterior water. He bumped up against the smooth rise of the outlet and edged up out of the water. The wind was powerful. He could feel it tug at him if he raised a gripping appendage high, but at least over the main path there were eddies along the ground that were so comparatively we that he couldn’t even feel them. He began shuffling at top speed along the path. A the crest of the first high spot the winds did hit him, shoving his body sideways. However, as he had expected it required barely a fraction of his strength to grip the path firmly with his set appendages as he moved the free appendages forward. It barely even slowed him down, the roar of it was rather disconcerting when it wasn’t muted by the base walls however. He did wonder how the human had made it this far. After a long steady shuffle he rounded the corner that was blocking the signal and spotted a tall figure down at the cliff’s edge that wasn’t normally there.
Rollsaround activated the comm he was holding pressed against the ground. There was a significant delay before the human responded.
“Human Friend Conner,” Rollsaround said, trying to put firmness in his tones. “Come now and carry me back to the base. I am at the crest of the hill looking down at you.”
There was an odd sound from the comm that suggested the human was trying to say something back, but human speaking organs were not optimized for shielding the microphone of a comm while speaking so the human simply gave two short radio bursts and the tall figure on the cliff’s edge began swaying back and forth as it moved towards the path. Rollsaround anchored himself more fully against the blasts and watched in grim interest as the gusts blew the tall human form to one side and then the other as the human struggled up the path.
When Human Friend Conner finally did reach him the human didn’t bother speaking. He just reached down with a grin and tried to lift the Undulate off of the path. For one long moment Rollsaround hung on to the ground in a show of strength. He wasn’t sure if it would impress the human but a little dominance display did seem called for. He let go when the look of perplexity fully formed on the humans face but before he could give a more powerful tug and they headed back to the base.
Being carried over a meter above the ground in this wind was another experience altogether. The swaying of the human in the wind felt far wilder than it had looked, and Rollsaround found himself clutching tightly to the human’s coat as the wind tried to rip him away. They finally made the base airlock and stepped through to the blessedly still air. Rollsaround dropped to the floor and shook the cold water off of himself.
“I think Third Sister would like a word with you,” he said.
Granted she would probably want a word with him too, but Human Friend Conner didn’t need to know that.
https://i.redd.it/gdoknun0390d1.gif

Science Fiction Books By Betty Adams

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Check out my books at any of these sites and leave a review! "Flying Sparks" - a novel set in the "Dying Embers" universe is now avaliable on all sites!
Please go leave a review on Amazon! It really helps and keeps me writing becase tea and taxes don't pay themselves sadly!

Some technical information:

• Projector Epson EH-TW9200w with genuine Epson lamp
• Screen size around 135"
• Room size: Width 4m (13 ft), Length 8m (26 ft), Height 3.5m (11.5 ft)
• Seating distance to screen around 2.5 - 3 m (8-10 ft)
• Projector will be mounted about 7 meters (23 ft) from screen almost middle of screen
• Movies is main use of the screen
• Room is living room, but some light treatment (windows have both shades plus black darkening curtains) Wall behind screen has black curtains and side walls 2 meters (3ft) around the screen. Ceiling is medium dark wooden color. Very minor light leakage from windows, no lights on while using projector.
• Walls are white (but around screen black curtains), floor and ceiling medium dark wooden color.

Main interest is best picture for the movies in dark conditions. Previous screen is Beamax 108" fixed frame with 8.5 cm velvet edges. It is used screen so gain in unknown but probably between 0.9 - 1.1.
Question is that can I have 0.8 gain screen or is image going to be to dim? Ie should I aim for 1.4 because larger size of the screen? How much there is difference between 0.8, 1.0 and 1.4 gain white screen with this projector?
Any hints how to select correct screen?

What am I doing? Dominick Mason asked himself for the hundredth time that night. It was late on a rainy Sunday evening and Dom, a tall, lanky man-boy of twenty-five with a prominent Adam’s apple and too big eyes, stared out the rain-slicked window of the 905. The big bus swayed and jostled as it lumbered down Central Avenue, the movements strangely comforting, conducive to reflection…and self-doubt.
As if on cue, his phone buzzed, and a pit opened up in his stomach. He fumbled it out with long fingers and read the text. Are u almost here
His thumb hovered over the screen, but he did not reply. Part of him wanted to block the number, slink back home with his tail between his legs, and forget the whole thing. He could boot up his PS4 and play Red Dead Redemption or GTA V like always. Safe. Familiar. The thought, however, stirred a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.
It was dread.
Every night, he did the same thing. He came home from work to his tiny prison cell apartment. He had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He played video games until it was time to go to bed. The worst part of the whole night was when he turned off the TV and saw his murky reflection in the screen. Plaid. Scrawny. Disgusting. He hated being locked in that apartment, with its old smells and white walls, but he hated going out even more. At least in his hole, he was safe, like a mouse. No one hurt or lied to him there. No one gave him funny looks. No one rejected him. He was completely safe in his solitude, a wounded animal hiding in its den and licking its wounds.
He was wounded and he knew it.
And he hated himself for it. Hated that he wasn’t stronger or better. Hated that even though he tried so hard, everything he did fell apart…if it even came together in the first place, which it rarely did.
The phone buzzed again.
Just a question mark this time.
His heart began to race and a steely fist slowly closed around his lungs. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took a deep breath. He pictured himself alone in his little apartment. He loved the image, but he hated it too. Most nights, he didn’t mind being alone. He had to not mind it, because he didn’t have a choice. Some nights…some nights he didn’t want to be alone. Some nights he wanted warmth, he wanted tenderness…some nights, he wanted to be human.
Every so often, Dom would get the urge to find those things. They came less frequently than they did before, but unfortunately, they still came. He would create an account on Plenty of Fish and OKCupid, maybe some of the other sites as well. He would agonize over his stupid intro and his stupid list of hobbies. He would spend hours - literally hours - writing and rewriting them, trying at first to be serious, then light and funny, then cool, then aloof, then vulnerable. He would take the best possible pictures from the best possible angles, then upload them, never lingering over them because he hated the way he looked. He didn’t think he was ugly - mid was more like it - but apparently, he was ugly. Too ugly for love, too ugly even to talk to.
The ugly barnacle. So ugly that everyone died. The end.
All of Dom’s pictures were all selfies, of course. Guys he listened to on YouTube said he needed action shots, shots with friends, shots that showed women he had a life, was valued by those around him, and knew how to have fun. Too bad for him, he had no friends and no one valued him, not even his own mother. On the surface, maybe, but she had hurt him so many times over the years in so many ways that even the most devout son would stop and think.
It had to be selfies.
When his profile was in order - or as much in order as he could get it - he would start to browse. Dom knew his place and never messaged women who were too beautiful. He used to, but they never responded. He eventually began to skip their profiles with a pang of loss and a quiet what if? Now, he barely noticed them. Blonde. Petite. Blue eyes. Maybe she was a cheerleader at one time, maybe she was the type of girl who looked down her nose at guys like him. Maybe she was a sweetheart. In any case, he would never find out, so who cares?
He went for women he could realistically obtain…the type of women he’d dated and hooked up with in the past. Some were attractive in their own way, others were hard to look at, he wasn’t picky; he couldn’t afford to be picky. One woman he saw was a good three hundred pounds. She was nice and he liked her enough, but he lapsed into depression while they were dating and he never messaged her back…not that she made a huge effort to message him. Another was a pre-K teacher in her mid-thirties. Overweight with a big nose, glasses, and a plain face when she wasn’t wearing make-up. He liked her a lot and wanted to be with her, but after a month of weekend hookups, she said she didn’t love him. She told him she wanted a family - three kids, to be exact - but “changed her mind.” No, she didn’t. She just didn’t want those things with him.
Now she was in her late thirties, single, and having regrets.
She still wouldn’t settle for him, though.
Another woman he’d seen recently (six months ago) was fifty, but not unattractive. They texted for weeks, hot and heavy. She outright told him that she wanted to have sex with him. Said all sorts of nasty and sexual things. Their first (and only date) was her coming to his apartment. Instead of tender kisses, loving caresses, and intense emotions, they shared an awkward two hours on his couch. When he tried to hold her hand and put his arm around her, she stiffened. Not much, just a little. She said she “wasn’t ready.” He sat there and watched the flowers he’d gotten her wilt as she talked about her ex for an hour and a half, his arms pointedly crossed. He even leaned as far away from her as humanly possible, trying to communicate with his body language what he didn’t have the guts to communicate with his words: I’m uncomfortable, please leave. He planned to take her to a nice restaurant after they made love. Instead, he ordered something after she finally got the hint and left, eating alone like always.
After her, he deleted his profile (again) and resolved to never bother with dating again. Obviously there was something wrong with him. He saw guys who were uglier and more awkward than him with girlfriends, some actually stunning, but there was something about him in particular, something that repelled women…and men too.
Everyone.
It repelled everyone.
Maybe it was his self-loathing. After all, no one likes a sad sack. But that’s the thing: He was like this because of those experiences. It was a what came first, the chicken or the egg situation. Looking back, he had almost normal confidence at one point. Then all of this happened. The hundreds of messages he sent on the dating apps staying on read, unanswered, like he never sent them at all, like he was garbage unworthy of even a hello. The awkward dates. The occasional “success” that eventually fell apart…sometimes because of him, and sometimes because of them. The one girl who ran away from him when he tried to walk her to her car after a date. They didn’t click, he knew that, but he didn’t say or do anything creepy. Why did she do that? The girls who lead him on, talking about sex and sometimes even love but always had a reason they couldn’t meet.
There were other examples - many others - but it was all the same. Who cared?
Dom wanted to crawl back into his hole and stay there, to stop poking his head out and getting hurt. He wanted it so bad…but he was only human. Deep down, buried beneath layer after layer of scar tissue, there was still hope. Hope for love, for companionship, for acceptance, for intimacy and human touch. It was only an ember now, but even an ember is enough to spark a fire.
Some nights, he wanted to be safe. Other nights, he wanted to take a risk.
And this night was one of the latter.
Be there soon, he texted. He swallowed hard and wetted his lips. His heart was pounding faster and his bowels were loose. He really hoped this worked out. He didn’t think he could handle another rejection. If she turned him down, he’d probably go home and kill himself. Why go on like this?
He’d had that thought before…but he never followed through.
Maybe one day he’d actually shut the fuck up and do it already.
Maybe.
Ok :)
Her name was Heather and she was fat. She was not unattractive in the face and she wore her weight well, not that that mattered - he would take what he could get. They started talking on OKCupid last week and very soon, the conversation became sexual. He didn’t start it, though, she did. She was ahem very excited, she said. He liked to think that she was lonely, desperate, and wanted intimacy - any intimacy - just like him.
That really turned him on.
They agreed to meet, and now here he was, on the bus to her apartment on the other side of the city, hoping against hope that she didn’t hurt him too.
He put the phone away and stared straight ahead. The bus was nearly deserted, save for an old bag lady up front and a few Mexican guys in the back. Lights lined the bus’s roof, providing a cold, impersonal light. Dom took a deep breath and forced his dark emotions away. It was all on him to make this work. He would accept her fat, ugly, poor, and crippled, but he had to work to earn her love. He could do it.
When the bus finally reached his stop, he yanked the cord and got off. There was a plexiglass shelter lit by a single, lonely bulb. Trash littered the ground. Beyond the shelter, a park lay in darkness. Behind him, on the other side of the road, a housing project not unlike his own towered into the sky, lit up like a ship at sail. Dom swallowed his nerves and crossed the street. He found the door that she had directed him to use, and climbed the stairs. He expected trash, graffiti, and winos passed out on every landing. Instead, the stairwell was clean and deserted. His nerves welled as he climbed but he forced them down again. On the ninth floor, he went down the hall, battered on all sides by the stale smells of cooking and the murmur of TVs and voices coming from every apartment.
Dom paused at Apartment 237.
Heather’s.
You got this, he told himself.
And really, he did. Their plan - well, Heather’s, really - was simple and straightforward. She told him that she would leave the door unlocked. He was to come in, go to the bedroom, and she would be waiting for him. She said it was a fantasy of hers.
On some level, he knew all along that the whole setup sounded fishy. Was he being set up to get robbed? Would he walk in and get jumped by a bunch of Crips? He hesitated, but his need for love - and, yes, release - pushed him on.
He opened the door.
Inside, the apartment was small and messy, a living room to the right and a tiny kitchen to the left. The only light on was the one above the stove.
Everything else was in shadows.
Dom’s heart skipped a beat.
This didn’t feel right.
That thought was overpowered by the smell, a sickly sweet odor that suddenly seemed to be everywhere. His stomach twisted and he turned his head slightly to one side, as if to spare his nose. It smelled like something spoiled.
A voice spoke from the darkness, startling him. “I’m in here.”
It was light, airy, and cute.
For the last time, Dom hesitated. Some primal sense told him to turn around and leave…
…but he wanted to be loved.
Dom entered and shut the door behind him.
The smell was stronger. The atmosphere darker.
Ahead, he could barely make out an open doorway in the shadows.
He crossed to it.
The smell was overpowering here and Dom felt like he was going to puke. Any desire he had felt was gone, replaced only by revulsion and claustrophobia. It was cold, he realized, so cold that his teeth chattered.
Okay, fuck this.
He started to turn around, intent on leaving, but a small, white hand reached from the darkness. Icy fingertips brushed his cheek and his heart blasted into his throat.
Then she was there, her body pressing against his and her lips fused with his. The smell, the freezer chill, both stronger than ever.
They were both coming from her.
Her tongue hungrily lashed his own, and she pushed him against the wall. Her hands slipped under his shirt and pressed flat against his chest. They were so cold that he almost cried out.
Dom wanted to push her away, to run, but he didn’t. Instead, he froze up and allowed her to push him onto the bed. Was he too gutless to tell her no, the way he’d been too gutless to tell the woman who went on and on about her ex to shut up and leave? Did he secretly want to go through with this? He didn’t know, and he didn’t have time to figure it out. She was on top of him now, straddling him, his legs caged between her ample thighs. She grabbed his hands and pressed them to her bare breasts.
They were as cold as the rest of her.
She leaned down and kissed him again. He hadn’t noticed it before, but her tongue was…dry. Her mouth itself tasted strange. Off.
Heather broke from his lips and peppered kisses on his cheek and forehead, assaulting him with an intimacy that Dom no longer wanted.
Through it all, she was as silent as a tomb. She wasn’t panting or rasping with excitement. In fact, he didn’t think she was even breathing.
She brushed her lips along the exposed curve of his throat, and tingles of revulsion shot down his spine. She found his pulse and kissed it. Trembles of excitement raced through her body and she started to lap his neck like a dog.
Without warning, a fiery pinprick of pain exploded over him and Heather began to shake and pant. Dom cried out and tried to fight her off, but she was too heavy, too much.
With a tiny, mouse-like squeak - a sound of pitiable fear and resignation - Dom blacked out.

What am I doing? Dominick Mason asked himself for the hundredth time that night. It was late on a rainy Sunday evening and Dom, a tall, lanky man-boy of twenty-five with a prominent Adam’s apple and too big eyes, stared out the rain-slicked window of the 905. The big bus swayed and jostled as it lumbered down Central Avenue, the movements strangely comforting, conducive to reflection…and self-doubt.
As if on cue, his phone buzzed, and a pit opened up in his stomach. He fumbled it out with long fingers and read the text. Are u almost here
His thumb hovered over the screen, but he did not reply. Part of him wanted to block the number, slink back home with his tail between his legs, and forget the whole thing. He could boot up his PS4 and play Red Dead Redemption or GTA V like always. Safe. Familiar. The thought, however, stirred a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.
It was dread.
Every night, he did the same thing. He came home from work to his tiny prison cell apartment. He had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He played video games until it was time to go to bed. The worst part of the whole night was when he turned off the TV and saw his murky reflection in the screen. Plaid. Scrawny. Disgusting. He hated being locked in that apartment, with its old smells and white walls, but he hated going out even more. At least in his hole, he was safe, like a mouse. No one hurt or lied to him there. No one gave him funny looks. No one rejected him. He was completely safe in his solitude, a wounded animal hiding in its den and licking its wounds.
He was wounded and he knew it.
And he hated himself for it. Hated that he wasn’t stronger or better. Hated that even though he tried so hard, everything he did fell apart…if it even came together in the first place, which it rarely did.
The phone buzzed again.
Just a question mark this time.
His heart began to race and a steely fist slowly closed around his lungs. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took a deep breath. He pictured himself alone in his little apartment. He loved the image, but he hated it too. Most nights, he didn’t mind being alone. He had to not mind it, because he didn’t have a choice. Some nights…some nights he didn’t want to be alone. Some nights he wanted warmth, he wanted tenderness…some nights, he wanted to be human.
Every so often, Dom would get the urge to find those things. They came less frequently than they did before, but unfortunately, they still came. He would create an account on Plenty of Fish and OKCupid, maybe some of the other sites as well. He would agonize over his stupid intro and his stupid list of hobbies. He would spend hours - literally hours - writing and rewriting them, trying at first to be serious, then light and funny, then cool, then aloof, then vulnerable. He would take the best possible pictures from the best possible angles, then upload them, never lingering over them because he hated the way he looked. He didn’t think he was ugly - mid was more like it - but apparently, he was ugly. Too ugly for love, too ugly even to talk to.
The ugly barnacle. So ugly that everyone died. The end.
All of Dom’s pictures were all selfies, of course. Guys he listened to on YouTube said he needed action shots, shots with friends, shots that showed women he had a life, was valued by those around him, and knew how to have fun. Too bad for him, he had no friends and no one valued him, not even his own mother. On the surface, maybe, but she had hurt him so many times over the years in so many ways that even the most devout son would stop and think.
It had to be selfies.
When his profile was in order - or as much in order as he could get it - he would start to browse. Dom knew his place and never messaged women who were too beautiful. He used to, but they never responded. He eventually began to skip their profiles with a pang of loss and a quiet what if? Now, he barely noticed them. Blonde. Petite. Blue eyes. Maybe she was a cheerleader at one time, maybe she was the type of girl who looked down her nose at guys like him. Maybe she was a sweetheart. In any case, he would never find out, so who cares?
He went for women he could realistically obtain…the type of women he’d dated and hooked up with in the past. Some were attractive in their own way, others were hard to look at, he wasn’t picky; he couldn’t afford to be picky. One woman he saw was a good three hundred pounds. She was nice and he liked her enough, but he lapsed into depression while they were dating and he never messaged her back…not that she made a huge effort to message him. Another was a pre-K teacher in her mid-thirties. Overweight with a big nose, glasses, and a plain face when she wasn’t wearing make-up. He liked her a lot and wanted to be with her, but after a month of weekend hookups, she said she didn’t love him. She told him she wanted a family - three kids, to be exact - but “changed her mind.” No, she didn’t. She just didn’t want those things with him.
Now she was in her late thirties, single, and having regrets.
She still wouldn’t settle for him, though.
Another woman he’d seen recently (six months ago) was fifty, but not unattractive. They texted for weeks, hot and heavy. She outright told him that she wanted to have sex with him. Said all sorts of nasty and sexual things. Their first (and only date) was her coming to his apartment. Instead of tender kisses, loving caresses, and intense emotions, they shared an awkward two hours on his couch. When he tried to hold her hand and put his arm around her, she stiffened. Not much, just a little. She said she “wasn’t ready.” He sat there and watched the flowers he’d gotten her wilt as she talked about her ex for an hour and a half, his arms pointedly crossed. He even leaned as far away from her as humanly possible, trying to communicate with his body language what he didn’t have the guts to communicate with his words: I’m uncomfortable, please leave. He planned to take her to a nice restaurant after they made love. Instead, he ordered something after she finally got the hint and left, eating alone like always.
After her, he deleted his profile (again) and resolved to never bother with dating again. Obviously there was something wrong with him. He saw guys who were uglier and more awkward than him with girlfriends, some actually stunning, but there was something about him in particular, something that repelled women…and men too.
Everyone.
It repelled everyone.
Maybe it was his self-loathing. After all, no one likes a sad sack. But that’s the thing: He was like this because of those experiences. It was a what came first, the chicken or the egg situation. Looking back, he had almost normal confidence at one point. Then all of this happened. The hundreds of messages he sent on the dating apps staying on read, unanswered, like he never sent them at all, like he was garbage unworthy of even a hello. The awkward dates. The occasional “success” that eventually fell apart…sometimes because of him, and sometimes because of them. The one girl who ran away from him when he tried to walk her to her car after a date. They didn’t click, he knew that, but he didn’t say or do anything creepy. Why did she do that? The girls who lead him on, talking about sex and sometimes even love but always had a reason they couldn’t meet.
There were other examples - many others - but it was all the same. Who cared?
Dom wanted to crawl back into his hole and stay there, to stop poking his head out and getting hurt. He wanted it so bad…but he was only human. Deep down, buried beneath layer after layer of scar tissue, there was still hope. Hope for love, for companionship, for acceptance, for intimacy and human touch. It was only an ember now, but even an ember is enough to spark a fire.
Some nights, he wanted to be safe. Other nights, he wanted to take a risk.
And this night was one of the latter.
Be there soon, he texted. He swallowed hard and wetted his lips. His heart was pounding faster and his bowels were loose. He really hoped this worked out. He didn’t think he could handle another rejection. If she turned him down, he’d probably go home and kill himself. Why go on like this?
He’d had that thought before…but he never followed through.
Maybe one day he’d actually shut the fuck up and do it already.
Maybe.
Ok :)
Her name was Heather and she was fat. She was not unattractive in the face and she wore her weight well, not that that mattered - he would take what he could get. They started talking on OKCupid last week and very soon, the conversation became sexual. He didn’t start it, though, she did. She was ahem very excited, she said. He liked to think that she was lonely, desperate, and wanted intimacy - any intimacy - just like him.
That really turned him on.
They agreed to meet, and now here he was, on the bus to her apartment on the other side of the city, hoping against hope that she didn’t hurt him too.
He put the phone away and stared straight ahead. The bus was nearly deserted, save for an old bag lady up front and a few Mexican guys in the back. Lights lined the bus’s roof, providing a cold, impersonal light. Dom took a deep breath and forced his dark emotions away. It was all on him to make this work. He would accept her fat, ugly, poor, and crippled, but he had to work to earn her love. He could do it.
When the bus finally reached his stop, he yanked the cord and got off. There was a plexiglass shelter lit by a single, lonely bulb. Trash littered the ground. Beyond the shelter, a park lay in darkness. Behind him, on the other side of the road, a housing project not unlike his own towered into the sky, lit up like a ship at sail. Dom swallowed his nerves and crossed the street. He found the door that she had directed him to use, and climbed the stairs. He expected trash, graffiti, and winos passed out on every landing. Instead, the stairwell was clean and deserted. His nerves welled as he climbed but he forced them down again. On the ninth floor, he went down the hall, battered on all sides by the stale smells of cooking and the murmur of TVs and voices coming from every apartment.
Dom paused at Apartment 237.
Heather’s.
You got this, he told himself.
And really, he did. Their plan - well, Heather’s, really - was simple and straightforward. She told him that she would leave the door unlocked. He was to come in, go to the bedroom, and she would be waiting for him. She said it was a fantasy of hers.
On some level, he knew all along that the whole setup sounded fishy. Was he being set up to get robbed? Would he walk in and get jumped by a bunch of Crips? He hesitated, but his need for love - and, yes, release - pushed him on.
He opened the door.
Inside, the apartment was small and messy, a living room to the right and a tiny kitchen to the left. The only light on was the one above the stove.
Everything else was in shadows.
Dom’s heart skipped a beat.
This didn’t feel right.
That thought was overpowered by the smell, a sickly sweet odor that suddenly seemed to be everywhere. His stomach twisted and he turned his head slightly to one side, as if to spare his nose. It smelled like something spoiled.
A voice spoke from the darkness, startling him. “I’m in here.”
It was light, airy, and cute.
For the last time, Dom hesitated. Some primal sense told him to turn around and leave…
…but he wanted to be loved.
Dom entered and shut the door behind him.
The smell was stronger. The atmosphere darker.
Ahead, he could barely make out an open doorway in the shadows.
He crossed to it.
The smell was overpowering here and Dom felt like he was going to puke. Any desire he had felt was gone, replaced only by revulsion and claustrophobia. It was cold, he realized, so cold that his teeth chattered.
Okay, fuck this.
He started to turn around, intent on leaving, but a small, white hand reached from the darkness. Icy fingertips brushed his cheek and his heart blasted into his throat.
Then she was there, her body pressing against his and her lips fused with his. The smell, the freezer chill, both stronger than ever.
They were both coming from her.
Her tongue hungrily lashed his own, and she pushed him against the wall. Her hands slipped under his shirt and pressed flat against his chest. They were so cold that he almost cried out.
Dom wanted to push her away, to run, but he didn’t. Instead, he froze up and allowed her to push him onto the bed. Was he too gutless to tell her no, the way he’d been too gutless to tell the woman who went on and on about her ex to shut up and leave? Did he secretly want to go through with this? He didn’t know, and he didn’t have time to figure it out. She was on top of him now, straddling him, his legs caged between her ample thighs. She grabbed his hands and pressed them to her bare breasts.
They were as cold as the rest of her.
She leaned down and kissed him again. He hadn’t noticed it before, but her tongue was…dry. Her mouth itself tasted strange. Off.
Heather broke from his lips and peppered kisses on his cheek and forehead, assaulting him with an intimacy that Dom no longer wanted.
Through it all, she was as silent as a tomb. She wasn’t panting or rasping with excitement. In fact, he didn’t think she was even breathing.
She brushed her lips along the exposed curve of his throat, and tingles of revulsion shot down his spine. She found his pulse and kissed it. Trembles of excitement raced through her body and she started to lap his neck like a dog.
Without warning, a fiery pinprick of pain exploded over him and Heather began to shake and pant. Dom cried out and tried to fight her off, but she was too heavy, too much.
With a tiny, mouse-like squeak - a sound of pitiable fear and resignation - Dom blacked out.

What am I doing? Dominick Mason asked himself for the hundredth time that night. It was late on a rainy Sunday evening and Dom, a tall, lanky man-boy of twenty-five with a prominent Adam’s apple and too big eyes, stared out the rain-slicked window of the 905. The big bus swayed and jostled as it lumbered down Central Avenue, the movements strangely comforting, conducive to reflection…and self-doubt.
As if on cue, his phone buzzed, and a pit opened up in his stomach. He fumbled it out with long fingers and read the text. Are u almost here
His thumb hovered over the screen, but he did not reply. Part of him wanted to block the number, slink back home with his tail between his legs, and forget the whole thing. He could boot up his PS4 and play Red Dead Redemption or GTA V like always. Safe. Familiar. The thought, however, stirred a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.
It was dread.
Every night, he did the same thing. He came home from work to his tiny prison cell apartment. He had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He played video games until it was time to go to bed. The worst part of the whole night was when he turned off the TV and saw his murky reflection in the screen. Plaid. Scrawny. Disgusting. He hated being locked in that apartment, with its old smells and white walls, but he hated going out even more. At least in his hole, he was safe, like a mouse. No one hurt or lied to him there. No one gave him funny looks. No one rejected him. He was completely safe in his solitude, a wounded animal hiding in its den and licking its wounds.
He was wounded and he knew it.
And he hated himself for it. Hated that he wasn’t stronger or better. Hated that even though he tried so hard, everything he did fell apart…if it even came together in the first place, which it rarely did.
The phone buzzed again.
Just a question mark this time.
His heart began to race and a steely fist slowly closed around his lungs. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took a deep breath. He pictured himself alone in his little apartment. He loved the image, but he hated it too. Most nights, he didn’t mind being alone. He had to not mind it, because he didn’t have a choice. Some nights…some nights he didn’t want to be alone. Some nights he wanted warmth, he wanted tenderness…some nights, he wanted to be human.
Every so often, Dom would get the urge to find those things. They came less frequently than they did before, but unfortunately, they still came. He would create an account on Plenty of Fish and OKCupid, maybe some of the other sites as well. He would agonize over his stupid intro and his stupid list of hobbies. He would spend hours - literally hours - writing and rewriting them, trying at first to be serious, then light and funny, then cool, then aloof, then vulnerable. He would take the best possible pictures from the best possible angles, then upload them, never lingering over them because he hated the way he looked. He didn’t think he was ugly - mid was more like it - but apparently, he was ugly. Too ugly for love, too ugly even to talk to.
The ugly barnacle. So ugly that everyone died. The end.
All of Dom’s pictures were all selfies, of course. Guys he listened to on YouTube said he needed action shots, shots with friends, shots that showed women he had a life, was valued by those around him, and knew how to have fun. Too bad for him, he had no friends and no one valued him, not even his own mother. On the surface, maybe, but she had hurt him so many times over the years in so many ways that even the most devout son would stop and think.
It had to be selfies.
When his profile was in order - or as much in order as he could get it - he would start to browse. Dom knew his place and never messaged women who were too beautiful. He used to, but they never responded. He eventually began to skip their profiles with a pang of loss and a quiet what if? Now, he barely noticed them. Blonde. Petite. Blue eyes. Maybe she was a cheerleader at one time, maybe she was the type of girl who looked down her nose at guys like him. Maybe she was a sweetheart. In any case, he would never find out, so who cares?
He went for women he could realistically obtain…the type of women he’d dated and hooked up with in the past. Some were attractive in their own way, others were hard to look at, he wasn’t picky; he couldn’t afford to be picky. One woman he saw was a good three hundred pounds. She was nice and he liked her enough, but he lapsed into depression while they were dating and he never messaged her back…not that she made a huge effort to message him. Another was a pre-K teacher in her mid-thirties. Overweight with a big nose, glasses, and a plain face when she wasn’t wearing make-up. He liked her a lot and wanted to be with her, but after a month of weekend hookups, she said she didn’t love him. She told him she wanted a family - three kids, to be exact - but “changed her mind.” No, she didn’t. She just didn’t want those things with him.
Now she was in her late thirties, single, and having regrets.
She still wouldn’t settle for him, though.
Another woman he’d seen recently (six months ago) was fifty, but not unattractive. They texted for weeks, hot and heavy. She outright told him that she wanted to have sex with him. Said all sorts of nasty and sexual things. Their first (and only date) was her coming to his apartment. Instead of tender kisses, loving caresses, and intense emotions, they shared an awkward two hours on his couch. When he tried to hold her hand and put his arm around her, she stiffened. Not much, just a little. She said she “wasn’t ready.” He sat there and watched the flowers he’d gotten her wilt as she talked about her ex for an hour and a half, his arms pointedly crossed. He even leaned as far away from her as humanly possible, trying to communicate with his body language what he didn’t have the guts to communicate with his words: I’m uncomfortable, please leave. He planned to take her to a nice restaurant after they made love. Instead, he ordered something after she finally got the hint and left, eating alone like always.
After her, he deleted his profile (again) and resolved to never bother with dating again. Obviously there was something wrong with him. He saw guys who were uglier and more awkward than him with girlfriends, some actually stunning, but there was something about him in particular, something that repelled women…and men too.
Everyone.
It repelled everyone.
Maybe it was his self-loathing. After all, no one likes a sad sack. But that’s the thing: He was like this because of those experiences. It was a what came first, the chicken or the egg situation. Looking back, he had almost normal confidence at one point. Then all of this happened. The hundreds of messages he sent on the dating apps staying on read, unanswered, like he never sent them at all, like he was garbage unworthy of even a hello. The awkward dates. The occasional “success” that eventually fell apart…sometimes because of him, and sometimes because of them. The one girl who ran away from him when he tried to walk her to her car after a date. They didn’t click, he knew that, but he didn’t say or do anything creepy. Why did she do that? The girls who lead him on, talking about sex and sometimes even love but always had a reason they couldn’t meet.
There were other examples - many others - but it was all the same. Who cared?
Dom wanted to crawl back into his hole and stay there, to stop poking his head out and getting hurt. He wanted it so bad…but he was only human. Deep down, buried beneath layer after layer of scar tissue, there was still hope. Hope for love, for companionship, for acceptance, for intimacy and human touch. It was only an ember now, but even an ember is enough to spark a fire.
Some nights, he wanted to be safe. Other nights, he wanted to take a risk.
And this night was one of the latter.
Be there soon, he texted. He swallowed hard and wetted his lips. His heart was pounding faster and his bowels were loose. He really hoped this worked out. He didn’t think he could handle another rejection. If she turned him down, he’d probably go home and kill himself. Why go on like this?
He’d had that thought before…but he never followed through.
Maybe one day he’d actually shut the fuck up and do it already.
Maybe.
Ok :)
Her name was Heather and she was fat. She was not unattractive in the face and she wore her weight well, not that that mattered - he would take what he could get. They started talking on OKCupid last week and very soon, the conversation became sexual. He didn’t start it, though, she did. She was ahem very excited, she said. He liked to think that she was lonely, desperate, and wanted intimacy - any intimacy - just like him.
That really turned him on.
They agreed to meet, and now here he was, on the bus to her apartment on the other side of the city, hoping against hope that she didn’t hurt him too.
He put the phone away and stared straight ahead. The bus was nearly deserted, save for an old bag lady up front and a few Mexican guys in the back. Lights lined the bus’s roof, providing a cold, impersonal light. Dom took a deep breath and forced his dark emotions away. It was all on him to make this work. He would accept her fat, ugly, poor, and crippled, but he had to work to earn her love. He could do it.
When the bus finally reached his stop, he yanked the cord and got off. There was a plexiglass shelter lit by a single, lonely bulb. Trash littered the ground. Beyond the shelter, a park lay in darkness. Behind him, on the other side of the road, a housing project not unlike his own towered into the sky, lit up like a ship at sail. Dom swallowed his nerves and crossed the street. He found the door that she had directed him to use, and climbed the stairs. He expected trash, graffiti, and winos passed out on every landing. Instead, the stairwell was clean and deserted. His nerves welled as he climbed but he forced them down again. On the ninth floor, he went down the hall, battered on all sides by the stale smells of cooking and the murmur of TVs and voices coming from every apartment.
Dom paused at Apartment 237.
Heather’s.
You got this, he told himself.
And really, he did. Their plan - well, Heather’s, really - was simple and straightforward. She told him that she would leave the door unlocked. He was to come in, go to the bedroom, and she would be waiting for him. She said it was a fantasy of hers.
On some level, he knew all along that the whole setup sounded fishy. Was he being set up to get robbed? Would he walk in and get jumped by a bunch of Crips? He hesitated, but his need for love - and, yes, release - pushed him on.
He opened the door.
Inside, the apartment was small and messy, a living room to the right and a tiny kitchen to the left. The only light on was the one above the stove.
Everything else was in shadows.
Dom’s heart skipped a beat.
This didn’t feel right.
That thought was overpowered by the smell, a sickly sweet odor that suddenly seemed to be everywhere. His stomach twisted and he turned his head slightly to one side, as if to spare his nose. It smelled like something spoiled.
A voice spoke from the darkness, startling him. “I’m in here.”
It was light, airy, and cute.
For the last time, Dom hesitated. Some primal sense told him to turn around and leave…
…but he wanted to be loved.
Dom entered and shut the door behind him.
The smell was stronger. The atmosphere darker.
Ahead, he could barely make out an open doorway in the shadows.
He crossed to it.
The smell was overpowering here and Dom felt like he was going to puke. Any desire he had felt was gone, replaced only by revulsion and claustrophobia. It was cold, he realized, so cold that his teeth chattered.
Okay, fuck this.
He started to turn around, intent on leaving, but a small, white hand reached from the darkness. Icy fingertips brushed his cheek and his heart blasted into his throat.
Then she was there, her body pressing against his and her lips fused with his. The smell, the freezer chill, both stronger than ever.
They were both coming from her.
Her tongue hungrily lashed his own, and she pushed him against the wall. Her hands slipped under his shirt and pressed flat against his chest. They were so cold that he almost cried out.
Dom wanted to push her away, to run, but he didn’t. Instead, he froze up and allowed her to push him onto the bed. Was he too gutless to tell her no, the way he’d been too gutless to tell the woman who went on and on about her ex to shut up and leave? Did he secretly want to go through with this? He didn’t know, and he didn’t have time to figure it out. She was on top of him now, straddling him, his legs caged between her ample thighs. She grabbed his hands and pressed them to her bare breasts.
They were as cold as the rest of her.
She leaned down and kissed him again. He hadn’t noticed it before, but her tongue was…dry. Her mouth itself tasted strange. Off.
Heather broke from his lips and peppered kisses on his cheek and forehead, assaulting him with an intimacy that Dom no longer wanted.
Through it all, she was as silent as a tomb. She wasn’t panting or rasping with excitement. In fact, he didn’t think she was even breathing.
She brushed her lips along the exposed curve of his throat, and tingles of revulsion shot down his spine. She found his pulse and kissed it. Trembles of excitement raced through her body and she started to lap his neck like a dog.
Without warning, a fiery pinprick of pain exploded over him and Heather began to shake and pant. Dom cried out and tried to fight her off, but she was too heavy, too much.
With a tiny, mouse-like squeak - a sound of pitiable fear and resignation - Dom blacked out.

People say it's childish to be afraid of the dark. They say it's a symptom of an overactive imagination. And yet the same people- all people- know that you don’t go out at night, not without light or charm. And everyone knows, instinctively, in the marrow of their bones, that you don’t go out on a moonless night.
I had been out on a moonless night for days. Most people can’t tell, but once you're trained, you can- Darkness loves darkness. She likes to stretch her time out as long as she's possibly able. Everyone wants to spend time with kindred spirits. It’s nature, human or otherwise.
There’s nothing I can do about it, so I do my best to enjoy it. After all, you have to pick your battles, and my gun makes it pretty easy to figure out which ones I can win. She's a lovely gun. Big, which is fine with me, because I need all the power she can muster. Nine custom rounds rotate through, each enchanted by my own self. Not as effective as a professional enchantment, but I get by, and it’s a hell of a lot cheaper.
The only light came from the muzzle flare of my pistol. They smothered my campfire long ago, leaving me with only the vaguest sense of where they were, occasionally silhouetted against the trees when I fired. They were big, looming over me, high into the crooked trees and the moonless sky behind them. Who could say how long tonight would last?
I try not to cast on Nights, because it just acts like more of a beacon than I already am, but sometimes it just can’t be helped. My chest burned as I threw up a Buffer against a sudden wave of creatures, but they tore it down before it hardly had time to help. I bit down and cast a Warding, felt my arm burn harshly in the wild energy of the new moon and felt the following cold cut its way through my flesh and deep into my bones. Popping the spent rounds out with my right hand, my left knitted itself into the Ward shape automatically, trained by years of habit. Now I’ve really done it, I thought, because I could practically sense them perk up from miles off, even without casting a Seeing. It worked, though, and I was given brief respite for my efforts. I’d sure as hell pay for it in about 10 minutes, but for now I needed to stop bleeding and deal with the sensation of a drill pressed to the back of my skull.
“Skippers,” I growled. I hated Skippers.
The problem with Skippers is they’re small, harder to notice than anything else, and instead of trying to take off your head they try to get into your head. From there they can do whatever they want while you watch- make you walk off a cliff, bite off your own tongue, flay yourself alive. Like I said, whatever they want, and they're usually pretty mean. I’d seen them really go to work on all sorts of people, mostly people I knew and trained with. Hazards of the job- sorcerous training let you see a whole new world, but it opened you up to the threats that lived there, more so than regular folk. I was in worse shape than most sorcerers, which was part of what put me out at Night in the first place. Luckily, I’m better than most sorcerers, but it still meant I had to be careful.
To get rid of a Skipper, all you have to do is burn them off with a little Light. I'd needed the break- 3 of them dripped out of me right away, and a fourth started to run down my back as it tried to escape.
“Bastard.” I struck it with the handle of the gun as it slithered away. No sense wasting ammo on idiots like that.
The Ward wavered, the Night grew around me, and I hadn't even had time to heal anything. Damn.



Sam watched from behind the counter as the man walked through the door. Under the door, rather, as he had to duck to keep from hitting his head. He was pale, very pale, unlike the merchantfolk that usually came through the inn. His face was covered by a bushy beard, his hair was long, and his eyes were rimmed with red, but he could certainly be no older than 40. It was strange- for someone to come in so early in the morning, and look so tired- he must have been traveling all night, but he had no horse to be stabled.
The stranger was an armory- small blades and strange, bulbous jars jutted out from pockets and packs all over the man, daggers strapped to his legs, and even metal nubs in the knuckles of his gloves. What caught Sam's attention, though, was the man's huge gun, strapped tightly to his waist. He had never seen a gun that big, and the ammunition the man was carrying in the sacks around his waist must have weighed heavily on him, though he showed no signs of it.
“What does it cost for a room?” His voice did not match the tired, worn image in front of him. It was firm, and had the sound of recent laughter in it.
“Let me get my mom.” Sam began, starting for the back room. He never handled rooms.
“That's alright. You'll do fine. How much?” The man pulled out a purse, smaller than the other bags on his belt, and it was clearly much lighter than anything else he carried. “I’d like to find a bed and use it.” His voice did not betray him, nor did his hands, but the redness of his eyes did. They were a startling blue, and they seemed to contain nothing except exhaustion.
“I need your name,” Sam remembered as he directed the giant stranger to his room. The man's eyes, just for an instant, darted to one side before returning to Sam.
“Joan,” he said.
“O-kay.” Sam jotted the name down. “Two nights, food at 7 and 7, anything else you pay for.” He began to walk the man down the hall. “Strange accent. Are you from Melano, or Baden?” He didn’t really know what those accents sounded like, but he knew they were far from Newmark.
“No.” Joan walked into the room indicated with no further comments.
Sam stopped at the door while the man called Joan dropped his bags to the floor. “What kinda gun is that?”
“Mine,” he said simply, as he unbundled it’s holster from his belt. “I make the ammunition myself most of the time.”
“It's impressive. My paw was a soldier, and he showed me his old gun once, only it was a lot smaller than yours, and all rusted out besides, but-" Sam stopped as the man removed his cloak. There was a bright gash, still oozing dark blood, working its way up the man's side behind the thick leather plates. “Holy cripes! You oughta see a doctor, sor!”
Joan gave no indication that he could even feel the wound, nor did he instantly react when the boy cried out. “This? It looks a lot worse than it is. Rest, and solitude,” and here he looked at Sam, “will do me more good than any doctor from this town.” He moved to close the door, and against Sam's protest seemed to shut him out with no effort at all.
He ran down the hall to inform his mother of their newest guest.
I didn’t want the kid to see what I had to do next. It really wasn’t that bad- on the outside. Because we put so much ourselves in the spiritual world, the physical world didn’t matter so much. But it’s all tradeoffs. It had cut a pretty chunk out of me spirit-wise, and that hurt worse than any gash could. Really, I was better off than most sorcerers would’ve been with a cut like this- I had less to lose. Doesn’t make it hurt any less, though.
I Worked a minor Healing, but anything more would’ve taken more out of me than I could hope to regain, so the rest had to be resigned to sleep. Stupid. I should never have let anything get that close anyway, but it seemed like the Skippers were going crazy last Night.
I was too tired even to dream. A small blessing.

Waking up was not pleasant- I was stiff and sore, and still hurting something fierce. And cold, of course. Always cold. The physical wound had scabbed over, and I figured I would get away with just a minor scar. My innards were still shredded, but marginally less so than before, so I could breathe without grimacing. I expected I’d be laid out for a few days yet. Lucky, since Night had just passed, so things would be calm for almost the entire month now.
Exhausted as I had been, I had no Wards up, nothing even blocking the door. Nice going. Practically begging for a stray to wander in and eat you. As I flipped the coin I’d lifted off the kid, I examined the room for anything that might have snuck in, but it was clear. This time.
It was around this point that I realized how hungry I was. It had been (what felt like) days without a hot meal, and apparently this podunk little inn could provide, so I wandered out to the main room to see if I could scare up some food.
When the kid saw me, his eyes widened. That’s never a good sign. Recognition meant questions, and the answers to those questions usually meant getting pushed to the next town before I had time to heal. I had been hoping to score a decent meal and a bath, at least.



Sam could hardly believe his eyes. “Criminy, sor, but I didn’t expect you to be up at all! It's barely been a day!” The cut had been bleeding heavily, and very deep, he was sure of it, but now the man was clean and walking as if he had never been injured.
The stranger called Joan sat heavily at a table, ignoring the implied question. “Any chance of a man getting some food around here?” He inquired. “Or, perhaps,” and he glanced at the barrels of ale behind the counter, “some drink?”
San quickly filled him a tankard and plate from supper earlier, then sat himself at the table, as the crowd in the room dwindled down to a late few. The man interested him. He did not seem to interest the man, however, as Joan simply ate and drank in silence, apparently unbothered by his wound. He was still pale, almost deathly so, but Sam had heard tell of people from far north being much lighter than the tanned workers of nearby towns.
“Are you a soldier?” Sam didn’t know much about the war to the south, but occasionally troops passed through, and he had heard his ma talk in the back room about an extra levy because the Northern Kingdoms were allied. “I never saw someone carry so many weapons that weren't a soldier. What are those jars you carry? Is that them new bombs they been talking about? With gunpowder, only you throw the jar so it’s like a cannonshot?” Sam did not know much about weapons, either, but he saw so few soldiers come through that he had to learn what he could, if he was going to join the war when he was of age.
“Sure, kid.” Joan tapped his empty tankard on the table and placed down the coin he had been flipping. Sam ran to fill it up again before sitting back down.
“So did you come from the southern border, where all the fights are? What's happening? Are we winning? We have all kinds of the Northern Kingdoms working together, right? We must be winning!”
“The southern border? No, no, I didn’t come from the southern border,” he snorted. “That whole war is just nonsense anyway. The Northern Kingdoms, in some alliance or another, have had it out for Onis since time began. Maybe even before. The war is just an excuse to keep the money rolling in. Seems like there’s less and less of it than ever.” He mumbled this last part into his cup.
“That’s- that’s not true!” Sam's pa had fought, same as Sam would. “The war is important! Onis could really invade anytime! Besides, you said you were a soldier. If you aren’t fighting in the war, how can you be a soldier?” Joan did not answer, but he reached for his sleeve for a moment as if to roll it up, then seemed to catch himself at the last second. Was he a deserter? “Are you a deserter?” Sam blurted out, realizing a second late that he was pushing his luck. Joan just tapped his mug again.
Sam's ma hurried over. “So sorry for this one, sor, he has a bad habit of being curious.” She cuffed him on the ear and it smarted.
“It's no problem, mam.” The stranger smiled warmly, but in his eyes there was nothing. It was a chilling sensation. “He fills my cup just fine.” His ma dragged him off before Sam could object, and Joan got up before Sam could return.


Broder laughed as he took Flander for another hand. Three hands up, he was, and showed no signs of slowing. He stopped, though, as a big man in a heavy cloak came to the table.
“Deal me in?” His voice, deep and rich, did not match the weathered exterior. The man was no farm hand, that much was clear. More a mercenary sort. Broder glanced around the table, but no one seemed to object outright, so he shrugged. One more fool for the best poker man in the west side of Newmark. “Promise I know the rules.”
“Can you make ante, pal?” Jaten sized him up from across the table, suspicious from the long, ratty hair sitting on his shoulders and the general sense of dirtiness emanating from the man. He didn't notice what Broder had seen- nice leather, warm coat, and firm shoes. The man had some money, at least.
“He's good for it, Jaten. What's your name, stranger?” Broder gestured at the empty space next to him as he began to deal the hands. The stranger threw his ante, and Broder couldn’t hear much left in the purse. The poor ones were easy to sucker in.
“Joan.”
“You from Onis or something, name like that?” Cogen sneered.
“Na, man, listen to his voice, he's from up in Lansing or summat.” Garrett spat. “You're pickin a fight so you don’t have to deal with your shite hand.”
“That's not true, mate! Maybe you ought to keep an eye on your own mess in front of ya!” Cogen threw in extra to compensate. They all knew each other, knew the tics and tells and habits, but this stranger would be interesting.
That was what Broder thought, but as they went round for a few hands, the stranger losing more than he won, it became clear he was just another sucker thinking he could smash the small town guys. He had seemed confident at first- smug, even- but Broder had moved in with a predatory efficiency and would not let up. He offered to buy a round for everyone, apparently hoping for mercy, or to dull them, but the man seemed to be getting a bit red in the nose much faster than the well-seasoned drinkers of the little town of Aren, where there was little else to do but work or drink, or play cards. Broder began to really work on Joan for everything he had left, preparing to take the man for anything he could offer. The game was boring, and Broder needed beer money, so he went to end the man entirely.
What Broder did not expect was for the man to turn his whole plan backwards by dropping a flush when he should’ve had nothing. That cleared the table pretty fast, and Broder noticed the man's nose was really not that red at all.
The hand was nonsense. He couldn't have won, couldn’t have had those cards. “Alright, pal, roll up your sleeves, eh? Just a friendly game, here, after all. No reason to stay all formal-like.” Broder saw the other men nod their approval.
“Are you sure? Isn’t it possible, just a little, that I might be better at the game than you?” Joan smirked, taunting the men.
“Roll those up in here or we'll roll em up for ya out back,” Cogen growled. He was the biggest, aside from the stranger himself, and had a knack for bar brawling.
“Alright. No need to get snippy that I beat you so bad.” Cogen almost stood, but Joan began to roll up his sleeves. Right, then left.
His left arm was covered up to the elbow in fresh burn scars- a bright, angry red. If Broder squinted, he could almost see fine lines tracing letters across the harshly burned skin, but he didn’t have to. He knew what he was looking at.
“You're a bloody wizard, ye stupid bastard!” Garrett exploded. “Ye- ye bastard! You used magic on our all heads, ye did!”
Joan's eyes darkened briefly, but he did not react.
“Garrett's got the right idea- who's to say you weren’t using magic trickery to win the game, eh? Seems like something your lot would do,” Jaten added smartly. “It seems only fair you give us back the money you stole.”
“In the interest of accuracy, I am a sorcerer. Wizards do not leave their little towers and their little books. Besides, if I had used any magic, why would I stop now?” The stranger pointed out. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just leave, or to make you forget you ever saw me?”
“Well- there are 4 of us! Maybe you couldn’t do us in all at once, eh?” Jaten shot back. There was a chorus of affirmation from the group. “Be honorable, man, just give us the money back.”
Joan rolled his sleeves down. “If I had wanted to,” he began quietly, gravel in his voice, “I could make you all give me your land, your wives, and your unborn sons and you wouldn’t even remember your names when I was done. I did not cheat,” he suddenly smiled. “You boys just suck at poker.”
“Now listen here, son,” Broder began. “You may be some wizard from up north-"
“East,” Joan interjected.
“You may be some fancy wizard from up north,” Broder continued, “but don’t think that means you can insult us small-town folk. We might not have your ‘education’ or what have you, but we know from poker.”
Joan sighed. “I am leaving town in two days. Leave me alone for those two days, and I will forget your names, faces, and the name of this backwater town you live in. I did not cheat you.” He looked each of them coldly in the eyes, and Broder saw that all the mirth and cheer that had been there earlier had been drained, replaced with nothingness. Not even hatred, or anger, but simply blank space. The stranger stood up with a groan, signaled for another round of drinks, and trudged to the back of the inn. None of the men followed.


I was lucky none of these farm hicks knew anything about casting, or else they’d have known I was bluffing. It didn’t seem like any of them could actually read my burns, because if they could’ve, they would’ve known I could only cast a couple Bindings, and that’s if I wasn’t hurting like hell.
What was most insulting, more than calling me a wizard, was that they thought I cheated to beat them at cards. I don’t need to cheat at cards. I had slipped a bit of coin out of their pockets as I brushed by, but that was hardly cheating. Just good, honest thievery. And to call me a wizard? I ought to burn down their houses anyway, just for that. I was cold just thinking about it.
Still, I had to accelerate my schedule and leave tonight. I hated to do it, but I needed to be three towns over by the time they decided to kick the shit out of me. Bastards.
Amidst my wrathful musings I became aware of a presence at the door.
It was that kid. What had he seen? I ran the scene over again and realized he had been watching the end from the table he had been cleaning. Sloppy. He'd tell everybody. I couldn’t kill a kid the way I would've those guys in front, and I didn’t want to besides. Kids have always had a hold on me, and it pissed me off. It wasn't like I could remember why. Besides, I didn’t exactly mind the town knowing; it just meant I’d have a tougher time sneaking out, and I was tired enough that it bugged me.
“Sor?” He nudged the door open, but not all the way, I noticed. “I saw your tattoo. What do they mean? My ma said not to ask, but those men seemed pretty upset out there. I asked them and they said you was a wizard, but I didn’t think they were real. Are you a wizard? Are those tattoos your clan or something?” He spoke fast, like he thought I would cut him off, or cut off his head. “What are you doing?”
I spoke carefully to mask my distaste for his questions. “I am not a wizard. Wizards hide in their towers and ask questions nobody is curious about.” I hoped the dismissal would be clear.
It was not.
“If you aren’t a wizard, what are you?”
“What I am right now, kid, is packing, and what I’m going to be in a minute is gone. Scram.” I looked around and realized that aside from the bags I could clip to my belt, I had nothing else with me. Damn.
“Well, whatever you are, sor, I know those marks mean you're bound to help people-" that wasn’t true “-and those men out there maybe won’t tell you, but I will! See, sor, we're in mighty need of a wizard these days, on account of a monster been stealing the livestock and trashing the lumber yards and-" he slowed his speech a bit, but before I could get a word in he continued- “and I think it took the Granlenses daughter, only cause they won’t tell anyone where she went but I haven’t seen her in town at all and she used to come help me with my chores some days and it’s been a long while, maybe a month or so. Anyway, nobody’ll believe me when I tell em, and I haven’t seen it exactly, but I’m sure there’s a monster!”
“Kid, you know not every stroke of bad luck is a monster, right?” People don’t believe in monsters or magic until it’s convenient for them, which means they know nothing about it, which means most of the time they’re just making up stories to get me killed or run off, or else they’re just plain dumb and attribute every case of rainy weather to a made up beast.
“I know that! I just know there’s a monster around here! Look, sor, I’ll help you find it even, and-"
“I charge for my services and I don’t take kids on field trips when I work. Are you going to pay me?” Most of the time, threat of payment was enough to deter all but the most determined, or most superstitious, folk.
“I bet if you kill it the whole town will pitch in! Please, sor, I just wanna help out, and it seems like you could fix us all up only nobody wants to ask.” He wasn’t lying, I could tell, but kids are always seeing things that aren’t there. On the other hand, sometimes kids are better at seeing what’s right in front of them.
And when it turned out to be nothing, it meant I had an excuse to stay an extra night without getting an attempted beating, probably.
“Alright, kid. Where was this monster last?” Hired by a kid who probably couldn’t even get on a horse on his own. If anyone caught wind of this, I’d never hear the end of it.

With the release of the blogpost detailing the new ships in CT 13.5, it's time to update the spreadsheet I posted here last month.
This month is somewhat light on the WoWS side, as half the ships were previously announced and simply got a model of their own (Johnston and L'Aventurier). Of the new ones, HMS Theseus is a real ship, whose history the blogpost goes over and is thus A1 grade, while Almirante Oquendo is not steel.
As far as I can tell, Almirante Oquendo is a fairly accurate depiction of Spain's Project 138A, unlike Andalucía. It's armed with four triple 203 mm/50 Mk.D and six twin Ansaldo 90 mm/50 Mdl.1938 turrets, as well as two triple torpedo tubes towards the aft. All of these match the A configuration of the project. The listed plating matches the one on the turrets of the Canarias class. It's a B3 grade ship.
The AA suite is, as tends to be the case, where there are compromises, presumably for gameplay purposes. It would have consisted of sixteen 20 mm guns rather than twenty, and sixteen 40 mm guns rather than thirty-two in twin mounts. That last one may be down to how the mounts were counted, and I've not found any good sources on whether these would have been german Flaks or the ubiquitous Oerlikons and Bofors. Given the directors, I suspect WoWS has gone for the german option.
I was hoping that Mir would make a blogpost about their CT 13.5 today, but instead it was an update on clan battles. I'll just make a comment here once the new ships blogpost is out.

So I've mostly been a Zayne and Rafayel kind of person. Zayne is stoic and aloof but once you melt his exterior he is actually considerate, intelligent, and very reliable. He reminds me very much of those academic types in uni that struggle with social connections but feels deeply.
Rafayel seems rude, spoiled, and a bit of a jerk but then his backstory revealed him to be very loyal, charismatic, and kind of an antihero that you root for. His personality is also the most charismatic and relatable of the three. He cracks me up so much and I always look forward to his appearance.
Now I've always thought Xavier was beige, the unwanted child of the three, the dry paint on the wall. His fist appearance in the story didn't leave any impression on me, and his voice lines sound so generic. Not to mention his entire personality revolves around sleep. Dude bored the heck out of me and I couldn't understand how some people like him.
But seeing the new story, myth event, and reading more of the myths about Philos and tender moments I kinda get now why some people are into Xavier.
For one he's sort of this sleeping 🐻, or gentle giant. He is extremely capable in combat and intimidating to evildoers, but is also very easy going and kind with you. His voice lines also doesn't refer to any sort of drama, like Rafayel, or innter turmoil like Zayne. It's simply just his being positive and trying to make you happy and appreciating every moment with you.
And then after seeing this new event story where he calls you Lemonette, it actually makes sense to me. Xavier is sweet and kind and outwardly a bit shy. But he is sugar to your lemon. He's like the guy you come to to feel positive and calm when you're in a sour spot, and he's always gonna be there to save and protect you like Lumierre.
If Zayne is the ice that needs to be melted, and Rafayel is the fire that needs to be calmed, then Xavier is the warm light that just keeps on shining, both in the day and at night.
And then it suddenly clicks to me as to why he's attractive to some people. Zayne is cold. Rafayel is hot. Xavier is warm. Sometimes you just don't want to put in the effort to break through someone's defenses, or rein in someone's overactive proclivities. Sometimes you just want someone to walk in the park and share a moment with.
Tbh my appreciation of Xavier has gone up for sure. Now I still like Zayne and Rafayel ofc, but certain things about their personality has started to become a problem for me. Like Zayne can be too stoic and cold, always requiring you to put in the extra effort. Rafayel can hold a grudge and strays a bit too far towards the dark side. But when I think about it, Xavier's only flaw is that...he can be boring.
But is being boring a bad thing? Stability begets boredom for sure, but is stability a bad thing? Like the warm light that shines both day and night, is that something that should be considered bad? Xavier is both the sun, the light in the day, and the moon, the light at night. He's always gonna be there looking out for you.
This new myth event has got me thinking a lot about why I found Zayne and Rafayel attractive. And I think I know why. Zayne wants you to get to know him, so it's like a game of chase and detective for you trying to figure out who he really is. Rafayel pushes you to unknown territories and intoxicates you with his charisma and charm. Both are fun and great, but do you want to be doing that all the time? I believe my initial attraction towards them had more to do with the fact that my first impression of Xavier was less than positive. You can't really blame me because we first found the dude sleeping on the job 😂 in the first chapter. However, now that I've gained this newfound appreciation for Xavier, I suddenly can't imagine myself being Zayne's or Rafayel's. When it comes down to it, Xavier fulfills all the qualities of a great and long lasting life partner.
I want you to imagine a scenario where you're married to Zayne and constantly has to figure out what he's thinking and feeling, or to Rafayel and constantly have to guess what he's up to. That kind of hot and cold dynamic might be great for a fun time, but it's terrible for a partnership. With Xavier, however, warmth is all you'll feel, and isn't that what you should want for a marriage? 😉💖
That or maybe my head is fked up because of the hype of Xavier's new myth pairs. Dude rocks in combat haha 😂🤣
Maybe once Zayne's myth pairs come out I would feel differently... Who knows.
Anyway ty for reading my spiel 😍. I just wanna share how I feel about this new event.

Why is Dr. Mark Spitzer still on our BoD? Hmmm.
https://www.patentlyapple.com/2024/05/googles-smartglasses-patent-acquired-from-canadian-company-north-was-published-last-week.html
Integrated Laser Package with Light Intensity Package
Google's acquired patent describes systems and methods for providing laser projectors having laser-based optical engines as well as light intensity and/or laser output power measuring (e.g. monitoring) capabilities. According to the various embodiments described herein, an optical engine of a laser projector includes at least one laser source (e.g., a laser diode or a plurality of laser diodes) that may be enclosed in a (e.g. partially or completely hermetically sealed) enclosure. The enclosure may include an optical window (sometimes referred to herein as an “exit window”) that may be integrated with one of its side walls or top surface or that forms one of its side walls or top surface.
Laser light beams output by the laser source(s) may pass through the exit window to exit the enclosure during active operation of the laser projector. The optical engine may support a relatively small substrate area for power monitoring, reducing the overall size of the optical engine. The laser projector or the optical engine can therefore be flexibly employed in a variety of display designs, including wearable heads-up displays or other head-mounted displays.
In some embodiments, after passing through the exit window, the light beams are passed through respective collimating lenses to a dichroic filtebeam combiner, at which light beams of different wavelengths are combined. The combined light beams may then be directed to one or more scanning elements that project the light beams across a display surface of an object, such as the holographic lens of a pair of smart glasses or another type of wearable heads-up display.
While various embodiments described are provided in the context of a wearable heads-up display, it should be understood that the laser projector and optical engine of the present patent application can instead be included in other systems, such as projection engines, lidar systems, sensing systems, ranging systems, external cavity laser diodes (e.g., as an integrated intensity stabilization servo), and/or the like.
It is generally desirable to monitor the laser output power of the laser sources of the optical engine of the laser projector, which allows for improved control over the quality of the projected image or video and enables a controller or processor of the device that includes the laser projector to dynamically limit the maximum output power of the optical engine based on real-time or near-real-time measurements of the laser output power.
For example, laser output power monitoring tends to be particularly important for the design of laser projectors used in wearable heads-up displays due to the generally limited availability of power and space (e.g., volume) in such wearable devices. Conventional methods for designing a laser projector with laser output power monitoring capabilities require a relatively large footprint on the laser projector substrate, which may be a printed circuit board (PCB) to be dedicated to the placement of a photodetector such as a photodiode, to the placement of optical components such as a pickoff mirror, and to maintaining a clear optical path to the photodetector.
In some instances, this footprint may be as large as that of the optical engine itself. Accordingly, it would be advantageous to reduce the substrate area taken up by the photodetector(s) and/or optical component(s) (sometimes referred to collectively herein as “laser output power monitoring component(s)”) that implement laser output power monitoring for an optical engine of a laser projector.
The systems, devices, and techniques described in the patent application may provide a reduction in the substrate area required for laser power output monitoring components, e.g. by utilizing an exit window of an enclosure of an optical engine having e.g. a diffraction grating that may be disposed in or on a primary output surface of the exit window and that may redirect (e.g., via diffraction) a portion of the incident light from the laser light beam(s) output by the laser source(s) toward one or more photodetectors, which may be photodiodes, and which may be disposed across from one or more surfaces of the exit window.
According to various embodiments, the exit window includes a diffraction grating that can be disposed or formed on or in the exit window, and that redirects the incident light from the laser sources toward the one or more photodetectors. In some embodiments, one or more photodetectors may be disposed on a top surface of the substrate so as to receive light that is redirected by the diffraction grating and that is output through a one or both side walls of the exit window. A “side wall” or “side surface” of the exit window may be defined as a surface of the exit window that extends between the primary input surface of the exit window and the primary output surface of the exit window that defines a plane that intersects (e.g., that is perpendicular to) the surface of the substrate upon which the optical engine is disposed.
In some embodiments, one or more photodetectors may be disposed below the exit window and completely or partially embedded in the substrate, such that the one or more photodetectors receive light that is redirected by the diffraction grating and that is output through a bottom surface of the exit window. In some embodiments, the exit window is disposed on a first side of the substrate and one or more photodetectors, which may be photodiodes, may be disposed below the exit window on a second side of the substrate that is opposite the first side, such that the one or more photodetectors receive light that is redirected by the diffraction grating and that is output through a bottom surface of the exit window, which passes through one or more apertures that extend through the entire thickness of the substrate to reach the one or more photodetectors. In some embodiments, one or more photodetectors may be disposed above the exit window on the surface of a second substrate that opposes the surface of the first substrate on which the window is disposed, such that the one or more photodetectors receive light that is redirected by the diffraction grating and that passes through a top surface of the window.
Google's patent FIG. 1 below is an illustrative diagram showing a side view of a wearable heads-up display (WHUD) #100 that employs a laser projector #110, which may be a scanning laser projector. For example, the WHUD 100 may be a pair of smartglasses or a virtual reality (VR) headset. The laser projector comprises an optical engine #111 that includes a red laser diode (labeled “R” in FIG. 1), a green laser diode (labeled “G” in FIG. 1), and a blue laser diode (labeled “B” in FIG. 1), and a scan mirror #112 that is controllably rotatable about two axes of freedom
Generally, it is desirable to monitor laser output power in the laser projector in order to better control the image or video projected onto the Holographic Optical Element (HOE) #130 (i.e., display surface) and to limit the maximum output power of the WHUD. Monitoring laser output power in a laser projector such as the laser projector is typically performed using a discrete pickoff component to redirect a portion of the laser light #120 to an on-chip photodetector. However, such laser output power monitoring approaches require a relatively large footprint on the laser projector substrate. In order to reduce the footprint of laser output power monitoring components, an exit window of an enclosure that includes some or all of the components of the optical engine may be configured to redirect a portion of the laser light through the top, bottom, or side walls of the exit window toward one or more photodetectors placed across from and in the optical path of the top, bottom, or side walls of the exit window.
2Google-smartglasses-fig.1
Google's patent FIG. 2 below is an isometric view of a wearable heads-up display with a laser projector that includes an optical engine.
3Google-smartglasses-figs-2&4
Google's patent FIG. 4 above is a block diagram of a top-down view of a laser projector having an optical engine that includes an exit window having a holographic diffraction grating.
For more details, review patent application US20240154379 published on May 9, 2024.
Inventors
Dan Adema: Opto Mechanical Engineer (formerly from 'North,' Kitchener, Ontario) Timothy Bodiya: AR Hardware Research (formerly from 'North')

PART 3

Max woke in the night to a plinking sound. He had fallen asleep crying over Scat, treat bag and collar on the table in full view. His eyes were blurry and sore, his nose was runny and sore and the nature channel was his distraction. Ruth was letting off a lovely glow and it warmed him to think of Scat so lovingly curled around her, day in and day out. He let out an almost-sob. He didn’t want to give her back. Didn’t want to wake up.
Eventually Max pried one eye open and surveyed the room. TV still on, duvet still over him, the floor wasn’t wet and the ceiling wasn’t leaking, so where was the…
Plink.
Ruth.
Max sighed and rolled over, the duvet making a break for the floor before being dejectedly scooped up again and deposited back across his lap. The small cloud of Scat’s fur wafted off the floorboards and turned Max’s heart. He contemplated going back to the escape of sleep, but finally sat and rubbed his eyes, held his aching head in his hands for a moment and, dropping his hands and lolling his head back, Ruth came into focus. The central glass disc that she had made like a rosette for herself had grown, bloated out. It looked a bit like a tortoise shell, glittery and iridescent and very Ruth, except now, it had…
“Diamonds!” Max yelped, miraculously fully awake.
There, underneath the bulbous disc was a tiny pile of painfully perfect diamonds, so exuberant in colour they seemed almost alive. He could see clean through the pile itself each one was so clear, with a miniature rainbow refracted inside. They were scattered across the table and he realised they were dropping from all over the glass tubes, the largest ones plinking from the central disc.
“Holy cow! What the hell, Ruth! This is amazing! I mean, how did you do that?”
Ruth plinked another diamond from the disc, meanwhile the bobbing gyroscopic mass that had accumulated in the disc decided to bob itself towards Max and answer him with a spiral of flashes and disco lights.
“You really are a crazy, crazy little thing, you know that?” he asked, picking up a diamond and examining it against Ruth’s emitted light show. He threw his t-shirt across the table top and spread the diamonds out on it. There must have been fifteen of them, simply perfect and all different shapes to each other, irregular and yet symmetrical.
Max collapsed into the dining chair next to the table.
Why did they happen today? Why now of all days? It had been nearly a week since he was entrusted with Ruth and she seemed pretty stable up till yesterday. She had grown that diamond factory bulge that reminded him of a tortoise, yes, but now it almost looked like an expensive, old-fashioned sweet dispenser that you get in the bowling alley or in the shopping centres in posh areas. The kind they stuck between the raised beds of fake forest-looking plants in the food court, the kind that were there to tempt the kids after their unfulfilling and unappreciated fast-food dine-outs but used all your pocket money for one jaw-breaker.
Max tried to backtrack. What had he done differently? If he could figure it out, maybe he could persuade Ruth to make more diamonds… his friend would never have to know, he could get Scat a little headstone, and if he could figure out how it worked he could reverse it so there wouldn’t even be any evidence. No, his friend would surely know. Max could save a few diamonds and give them to him and say she just started… have to work out the details later. First things first.
“So, Ruth. Why are you giving me these little nuggets of joy, huh? What did I do to warrant this spectacle?” He talked to Ruth, but she didn’t respond. No movement, just the usual swirling around. Max watched the glass disc closely through his puffy eyes but couldn’t see where the diamonds fell from, nor anything that would suggest a factory line of compressed carbon was in progress. She seemed to be slowing down.
Max pressed his brows together, then slowly lifted the fern up onto the table again. This was the only thing different. The bamboo was outside and Scat was…
A wave of horror flooded over Max. He launched himself out of his chair and sprinted to the window and, ripping back the voile, he saw the bamboo had grown six feet over night. He knew it grew fast from watching that documentary about tropical rainforests but this was a stretch too far. Much too far. That damned thing hadn’t grown in years…
“Ruth,” he said turning to her, “what did you do?”

For the next few hours, Max observed Ruth from across the room. The discovery channel was on in the background, as always. Ruth didn’t seem to do much without it these days but for a hunk of glittery glass and brass Max supposed not much was interesting unless it moved or had nothing whatsoever to do with man-made things. Suited him just fine. Who needs politics anyway?
Apparently, Ruth had taken it upon herself to make the fern shrivel up and increase her diamond production, much to Max’s exuberant happiness and overwhelming horror. He shoved the sofa to the far end of the room and started putting all his household plants in the spaces between the table and himself. The kitchen herbs went first.
He had taken one of the diamonds down to the swanky precious stone and metal specialist at the posh end of town (his name was Horace, apparently,) and had it valued. He took extreme pleasure in watching the man’s face freeze in wonder at the rock placed before him. I’ve never seen such a stone, Horace said. Never seen such a clear, colourful, perfect stone in my life, Horace said. It’s phenomenal, Horace said. Where did you get it, Horace asked. I inherited it, Max lied. It’s worth a fortune, Horace said. Thank you, I’ll have it back now, Max said. He made sure to stop by the garden centre on his way home.

The front room was a sea of plants. Max waded through them, deciding that a walkway to the door would be a vital escape route that shouldn’t be compromised, in case Ruth decided she had been on her vegetarian stint for long enough. Max had toyed with the idea of getting a fish tank or some other living creature to put next to her as a safeguard but he promptly remembered Scat and nearly broke down on the shop floor in front of the display tanks. Besides, the plants were working! There was already a multitude of stacks of plastic pots and trays next to the front door ready for recycling, and all the withered remains of whatever the pots had housed was scattered along the borders amongst the dog daisies and tulips. Ruth was putting out a considerable amount of stonage these days. Max bought an old bank safe online. It was currently sat in the hallway because that’s as far in as the two couriers could lift the thing, and there was no way on god’s green earth that Max was going to let them into the front room and risk them getting curious. The safe was only waist-high and wasn’t too ugly, so the hallway it was.
Max carefully spun the dial clockwise, anti-clockwise, clockwise again, on and on, muttering under his breath as he read from the bit of paper he guiltily kept in his pocket alongside his friend’s contact details. He used his whole bodyweight to wrench open the door and deposit the load of diamonds in a mason jar, nestled it in next to its siblings that were already full and stacked up there. He had set up a system of small tubs under the hotspots for diamonds drops and his favourite whiskey glass under the place where the large diamonds fell. He emptied them regularly, always aware that someone might knock on the door, he might need to pee or Scat might need to go outside (no, poor thing, he was there already). His kitchen was full of boxes of new mason jars and his lounge was full of plants, like some weird meth lab. A thrill of fear swept down Max’s back and up through his throat looking at all those jars, heavy with precious stones. He knew the smallest one alone would make him a disgustingly wealthy man. Horace had confirmed it.
Two days later, and there was no more space in the safe. Nowhere else to put those little rocks. Max decided to give Ruth a break, let her rest while he decided what to do next. He couldn’t have a house full of safes, his friend would already think it was weird that the one in the hallway appeared out of nowhere. Max put a coffee table over it, covered it with a tablecloth and some old bank statements, throwing on a phone charger for authenticity.
He had taken to talking to Ruth while the documentaries were on, she seemed to like that. He had been taking daily trips to the garden centre and leaving with a fully loaded car, right up until they looked at him suspiciously (he was a renowned leave-it-to-the-bugs kind of gardener; after years of failed attempts at keeping his plants alive and fruitless efforts of the garden centre employees to dispense advice he could keep to), so he started frequenting other nurseries as well.
Today, he was going to figure out how Ruth did it. He had to know. In his mind it was the equivalent of finding out how the Egyptians built the pyramids (because it obviously wasn’t aliens,) and the fact that even his friend didn’t know what this thing could do was something altogether more impressive! He may well have created it, but it was Max who had realised Ruth’s full potential, it was Max who had figured out the process, it was Max who had discovered the balance of life and death. Nobody could take that from him. But to really put the boot in, he wanted to know how.
“Come on, Ruthy, tell me how you do it. Let me see you do it, just once.” Max waited for a response. There was none. Then…
Plink.
He had seen! He knew now! Ha!
“Yes! That’s it! That’s the ticket! I knew it, old gal, this is going to be such an epic day! I can’t wait to see their faces, suck on THAT!”
Max jumped, air-punched and whirled around the front room, ecstatic in his discovery. Never again would they look down on him! Never again would they look at him like he was an idiot because he couldn’t get the printer to print on both sides of the paper, they wouldn’t reject him, the girls would think he was funny, he was going to be filthy rich, he could save the world! He, Max, was all powerful.
Oh yes. That’s what I’m talking about.

Things have been busy here so I thought I would catch up on our two latest race adventures.
It's time for another race, so I hook up to the trailer and bring it to work. The Miata has been in the enclosed trailer since I ran it through the Christmas parade, but now it is time to wake it from it's winter slumber and start preparing it for Barber, our 10th 24 Hours of Lemons race.
The car should not need much as we ran nearly flawless at the last race at Road America. We had one spin and the wing mounts broke but that was about it.
I get it to the shop and we hurry up and start in. I already have one bay tied up with the next car we are building (more on that later, it is epic) and can't afford to tie up a second during business hours. Youngest jumps in and rebuilds the entire wing assembly. Manny comes by and drives the car to his place and keeps it there until a few more parts come in. It's a block or two away from the shop, we can nearly see it from the front sidewalk. No plates, no insurance, no problem.
Next we change out the brake pads, front rotors, front brake hoses and rear pads. We also change the timing belt after a debate on exactly how many race hours the old one has. Change the oil and the car is ready to load.
Racerguy comes down and we leave out Thursday night. I am driving a little fast as the website shows the gates close at 9 and our gps says we are expected to get there at 9.01. A quick fuel stop and a brisket sandwich at Buccees off I65 in Alabama and we are rolling on through the night.
Finally we get to Barber Motorsports park in Leeds Alabama. Just before 9pm we get in line and get signed in. The team ahead of us is just realizing they lost a wheel off their enclosed sometime on their tow in. The way I was driving before we stopped for fuel I could have lost the car out the back like in the movie Cars and not noticed. Luckily everything seems to be in one piece, we give everything a check over and drop the trailer and head off to the hotel which is thankfully just across the street from the entrance to the track.
The next morning we are up early. No Gill this race as he has had foot surgery and is out of commission, which means we are sorely missing his cooking skills. So we take advantage of the breakfast at the hotel and head over to the track. After we unload the car we have a discussion which ends with us moving across the paddock to the far side as the side we have had for the last few years is shorter and we can't park the trailer in that area as the new trailer is about ten foot longer than the old open trailer.
After the first of two drivers meetings of the weekend (many tracks do the practice day and hold their own drivers meeting to explain their own rules, then the next day Lemons runs the race and has their drivers meeting) we load a driver in the car and send him out to practice. Rinse and repeat until we have sent all the drivers out for a few laps.
By then it is time for inspections. First off all the tech inspection. They have a big crew this race but our favorite inspector Dale Strimple is there. He's knowledgeable, affable and very popular among all the racers. Every day is also his birthday, a story best told later. He and the other tech people soon pass our car then it's time for BS tech.
We have gone all out this race for our theme. This has been a long time thought of mine, it just took a while to get it enacted. So for context I am a cancer survivor and we are always doing crazy themes to try and draw attention to the importance of early detection in cancer improving your chances. In the past we have done free colonscopy tests with huge antique cameras and motor oil for props which thankfully no one took us up on. Later we have done dinosaurs with the inflatable dino costumes to bring home the point that that "dinosaurs never got checked and now they are extinct" which is also on the side of the car. It was popular, I mean who doesn't like to see a inflatable dinosaur walking around?
Today we have again upped our game. We are taking a scene from one of the funniest movies I have ever seen, Johnny Dangerously. There's a part where Micheal Keaton's character is counseling his younger brother not to have sex until he is married, which is funny in itself because Micheals character is always surrounded by a crowd of ladies who apparently are all competing for his affections. Anyhow he shows his brother this video of all these poor guys who are suffering from poor choices that have caused them to have severely enlarged testicles. Like basketball sized. Watch it sometime, it's hilarious. So we made up special pants to hold some dodgeballs and shirts that said: "mens health is no joke, get checked before you croak!" We got a lot of attention for that and even made the wrap video. Walking in those pants with the dodgeballs was not easy!
The next day it's race day. It could not be a nicer day in Alabama. Temps are great, sun is shining. We get through the drivers meeting and line up the cars. Racerguy is going first, we are trying to balance our drivers so that everyone gets one start or one finish for the weekend. It's fun to finish the race or the day and fun to start as well.
The flag drops and we are off. It was a complete fiasco at the start! Someone oiled down half the track on the pace laps and the track was not ready when they dropped the green. It was an immediate yellow but cars where stacking up and passing then realizing the yellow was out. Race control messed up that one pretty badly. It took another ten minutes to clean the track. Finally it really is time for a start and we go green for real. Racerguy is driving smooth as always and moving up. He brings the car from 87th out of 131 cars there to a respectable 39th when the first incident happens. A car spins and hits our rf wheel. Racerguy didn't think much of it but they flagged him in anyway. While in the penalty box we realize the rf is going flat. I did not see it then but by the time we get the car up to our spot in the paddock the wheel is destroyed. We slap another wheel on and send him back out. We lost nearly all the spots we gained, dropping to 78th on the board. Sucks but it happens.
The rest of his stint goes great and he brings the car back to pit road and we put in Youngest. He is running great and the car is showing no signs of any issues from the earlier contact. He starts making up ground and we get all the way up to 54th. Then I get a radio call. "The car is on fire and stopped running!"
What?!!! I radio back asking if he needs to get out of the car. "I'm trying to decide that" Ok, maybe not such a big fire then? We have to wait for more information and in a few minutes the rollback shows up with him in the car. We have had a wiring fire from the passenger side floorboard where the stock PCM harness is. I immediately think the car is done but after Youngest gets some fresh air he jumps in and cuts all the burnt wires out and patches it all up. Start to finish we are off the track an hour and a half and drop to 90th.
I suit up and take the car out to see if it will run or not. It struggles and will only get up to 45, so I bring it right back in. Youngest thinks he knows exactly what is wrong and jumps in again and patches one more wire. I go out and the car is spot on. I start clicking off laps and trying some things the guys said to do to improve on my lap times. There's a few parts where I just need to be more aggressive and roll through and trust the car more. I pick up about four seconds off my best time and am pretty pleased by that. The car runs flawless for the rest of my stint and I bring it back to pit road for the crew to fuel and driver change. We put Manny in the car and send him out. He's running some fast laps and really pushing the car. All the sudden we realize we do not see the car going by. One of the other teams say our car is in the wall on the front stretch. Manny comes over the radio "I FUBAR'ed it" Great, The front stretch at Barber is one of the places I have noted will bite you pretty hard. I have seen a few Lemons cars get really messed up there including a 63 Valiant last year. I am expecting the worst when the roll back comes by with the car for the second time this day.
It's pretty bad. The nose is knocked sideways, the steering is all out of sorts, a closer look reveals the lf tie rod is broken. The right rear is all messed up, the wheel is pushed so far forward it is into the quarter panel and won't even turn. We put the car up on jack stands and look it over. Not good. But there's glimmers of hope. The radiator is not broke. The engine is still fine. The core of the car seems square. And we have almost an entire Miata in parts in totes in our trailer. Maybe we can fix this. I start dragging out parts and we start changing them. The tie rod on the front is soon changed and we now have both wheels pointing the same direction. Youngest takes the nose off and straightens the brackets that hold it and the splitter in place and adds a whole lot of zip ties.
On the rear it just keeps going and going deeper. We change the knuckle, the lower control arm and the upper. We spend a long time saving the bolt that goes through the lower control arm and knuckle, we do not have another. This one is bent and has questionable threads too. In true lemons never say die fashion we beat it out of the bent parts, straighten it and when we cannot find the correct die to chase the threads we use one that is close and pray it works. It does, but then we get it all back together and realize even with all the parts replaced we still have two inches of rear toe. Just a wee more than the 1/16th we started with.
Turns out the rear subframe is bent, so we all go out and start walking the pits looking to borrow a port a power. This small hydraulic jack comes with rams and other attachments and has a pump attached to a hose so you can jack and bend parts that are bent like ours. We actually end up borrowing two after searching almost every team that is still around. It's getting dark, rain is moving in after midnight and the clock is ticking on the car being done. Is it fixable or is the damage terminal? There are three guys under the car jacking and measuring and I am handing them parts and tools and making a run for food.
In a dramatic fashion, they pull it out. I run for food and they finally announce the car is perfect. I think they worked until nearly midnight, but everything they measured was on the money. It was an amazing effort and a huge comeback. We all fall into an exhausted sleep wondering if the car will drive good tomorrow or did we miss something important.
The next morning dawns and as expected its raining. And colder. I cannot emphasize enough just how wet and cold it was. All day long it rained and I think the temps dropped. Made for a miserable day, pretty sure even a duck would have been unhappy.
I go out first, I had called this stint early on. Sometimes you have to pull the car owner card. It's a two hour stint then a quiet hour then the race resumes.
We gas up the car and I line up. The car seems to drive straight, but it is raining and the track is slippery so who really knows? The car stumbles a bit on accel and I wonder if we outsmarted ourselves with our home made ram air system that sucks air from right below where the left headlight was. It keeps on doing that for a few laps then finally gets better.
Driving in the rain is not without it's challenges. You have to drive very carefully and not push the car too hard. The fun part is the Miata goes straight when you floor it so anytime I get a chance I gas it up and go hard to the next corner where I slow down and ease through it. Soon enough another issue arises. The windshield starts fogging up. It gets real bad on yellow flags where we all slow down then gets better if I have a good run at speed, but there are times a smart person would have pulled off as you cannot see much at all. But most of us aren't real smart. I can't reach the windshield or I would try to wipe it. The temptation is there to loosen the belts and get enough room to reach but even I am not that crazy. I keep the belts tight but do take off one glove and give it a few swipes under a long yellow then hasten to put the gloves back on. There's probably not much chance of a fire in these conditions but no sense chancing it. I've seen pictures of burns from race car incidents and they aren't pretty.
On one corner I make a mistake, I get off line to let a really aggressive car go by. It's the Party Girl car and they are hyper aggressive. If you would think they would wait to pass until you get through a critical part you'd be wrong, they typically will jam their car in wherever they can and go on. Other fast cars are a bit more respectful and do a better job on the give and take. Not wanting to make an issue, I get over and promptly realize there is zero grip outside on this corner and slide through the grass. I go to penalty and explain what happened. The judge asks if I learned anything, I said "Yes, next time to be a jerk" I might not have used that exact wording but I meant it. The same car also was what indirectly caused the wreck the day before, their aggressive driving was what caused Manny to get the red mist when they did the same thing passing him. He over drove the car after that and lost it. Mental note to drive them the same way going forward, we both can be hyper aggressive and see where that leads. We have a few more cars to build in the driveway if need be.
After my two hours are up, I bring the car in and explain about the terrible fogging and vision issue. Manny goes out after the quiet hour and slides off the track for black flag number two. It's just very nasty out there and cars are going off all the time. We fix up a ice scraper with a rag tied to it to give the driver a method of clearing the fog. It's primative but way better than nothing. The drivers report they used it quite a bit the rest of the day. It's just gloomy and the race is going on, but cars are hydroplaning if they get into the water which is starting to pool on parts of the track. The rest of us are watching from inside Manny's car with the heat on, it's gotten that cold and wet.
We are so far behind now we aren't bothering to suit up and go to pit lane. Rather we bring the car up to the pumps, get the driver out and fuel and put the next driver in. It's still raining and not having to get anymore wet than necessary is a plus. Racerguy gets flagged in after he's run about half his stint and he has no idea why. Apparently the cameras show what they thought was contact in the corner, he says he got real close and braked hard to avoid it. The car shows no new signs of contact. The judge tells us one more flag and he's parking us for the rest of the day. Over contact that someone thought they saw on camera that apparently never happened. (I went to look this up on our go pro footage but the chip glitched and we had no footage)
Racerguy goes out and finishes. He reports the same as Manny, the track is getting increasingly treacherous. Very few cars are getting around good, if you have a front wheel drive with skinny tires, today was your day. I saw a escort wagon running laps as fast as us and later the Dodge Caravan passed us.
Youngest goes out and after about 15 minutes I notice the lap counter is not updating. I look outside the trailer and he is in the car, sitting there. We go out and he announces he cannot drive the car anymore, it's sideways all the time. I ask if he wants to load the car and he said yes. I don't object. We race for the fun of it, and at that point none of us were having fun. We loaded in the rain and left before the race was over. Many other teams had already done the same. Some were gone before the day ever started. We have raced in the rain before but this was the worst conditions I have ever seen on the track. Barber is a top notch facility, it was just such a lingering rain and the temps being below 40 made it miserable. The vision and grip levels seemingly got worse as the day went on and the water built up and the temps dropped. We saw a lot of big problems and overcame many. Probably if we were not so exhausted from fixing the car and were in the hunt for anything we might have stayed until the end. As it were, we dropped from 65th to 67th or so. Time to rebuild and get dried out and ready for the next race.

Link to original nosleep post:
https://www.reddit.com/nosleep/comments/1bsb26v/i_found_a_set_of_blank_cassette_tapes_at_the_junk/
What began as an innocent adventure, had ended in the loss of our innocence.
But the journey wasn't over yet. Somewhere... out there in the fog, were five more bodies and a killer. A killer that, according to the tapes that I'd found in the junk store, was responsible for eight deaths, and now a ninth...
...My friend Mike.
"If you're listening to this, you've found the first three bodies. To find the fourth, fifth, and sixth, look for the island in the marsh, and proceed to the dock on its easternmost side. Not far from it, you'll see a pile of stones. Remove the stones, and beneath them, you'll find the next three bodies. Once you find them, switch to tape six."
CLICK.
I took the headphones from around my ears, placed them back around my neck, and began to relay the instructions to Jess.
But before I could even finish what I was saying, the fog had cleared, and my friend had already spotted the very location of the next burial site.
"The island!" Jess called out, pointing to a forested mass of land that stood out in the distance from the marsh's otherwise flat horizon.
—
After traversing another hundred yards or so of muddy terrain, something that, by now, Jess and I had both become quite accustomed to, we finally reached the dock.
We had spent most of the walk in silence, still unable to comprehend what we'd seen back at the wrecked boat, and still unsure who exactly to blame for Mike's death.
But after climbing up onto the dock and following it to the very mound of stones described on the tape, Jess finally spoke.
"The faster we move these rocks, the faster we find the clue, and the faster we wake up from this nightmare."
I didn't know what to say, so I just started grabbing stones and tossing them to the wayside as fast as I could, as my friend joined in and did the same.
We'd cleared out all but two of the rocks, when suddenly, Jess stopped what she was doing, and simply stared at one of them.
"What's wrong?" I asked, before she proceeded to turn the stone around and reveal the letter "N" carved into it.
"It's one of the clues." Jess said, as I found the letter "E" carved into the other.
Remembering the first two clues we'd found, I spelled out each of the four letters that we'd discovered.
""J" "A" "N" E"" I said, throwing the rock away.
"But who could that be?" Jess asked, doing the same with hers and revealing the spot on the ground where the next three bodies were buried.
"I don't know, but we'd better keep going." I said, as I began to dig in the dirt, already huffing and puffing from exhaustion.
But Jess put her hand on my shoulder and urged me to stop.
"Wait. What's the point?" She began, "You already know that they're down there. Why dig them up? Haven't you seen enough dead bodies for one day? And we already have the clues. Just play the next tape."
She had a point, and I was much too tired to argue, so I switched tape "5" for tape "6", called Jess over to share my headphones, and pressed play.
CLICK.
"If you're listening to this, it means you've found the fourth, fifth, and sixth bodies. That of a family. A mother. A father. And their child. Guilty of perpetuating the myth of familial love, and instilling in their offspring, the very values that keep that myth alive. Should the child have gone on to live to old age, it too, would either have become like the widow, or left one behind. To find the seventh and eighth bodies, switch to tape seven."
CLICK.
I did as the narrator suggested, and switched tape "6" for tape "7."
CLICK.
"If you're listening to this, you've found six out of the eight bodies, and are ready to search for the last two. To find them, simply follow the path into the woods, until you reach the old cottage with no windows, and knock on the front door. The man who lives inside will welcome you in, and take you to the last two graves."
CLICK.
—
We'd been following the path through the woods for some time, when we finally arrived at the old cottage, its exterior windowless, exactly as the tape had described.
Jess and I walked up to its front door and stood there for a moment, both shaking in fear.
These tapes found their way to you, not us. They chose you. You were the one who was meant to get us into this mess, and you are the one who's meant to get us out of it. Reminding myself of what Jess had told me after we'd met the old fisherman, I worked up the courage to go on, knowing that something terrible was very likely waiting for us inside the cottage...
...And knocked on the door.
After less than a minute of waiting...
...Someone opened it.
Contrary to my expectations, he was a rather short man with a bald head and a boyish face.
"Welcome. Come in, come in." He said, gesturing for us to enter, his high-pitched voice counterpoint to the ominous one that I'd heard on the tapes.
It can't be him. I thought to myself. Plus the tapes referred to the man who lived in the house in third person, not first.
—
A few minutes later, Jess and I were sitting inside the home, warming our ironically cold bodies by a fireplace that our host had started for us.
"Are you the killer?" I asked, wasting no time.
"A killer of what?" The man squeaked, answering my question with one of his own.
"People!" Jess added, "The ones buried out there in the marsh."
"There's people buried out there?" He replied, "That's news to me."
"Then why'd you ask... of what?" Jess asked.
"Well, a man has to kill all sorts of creatures to survive out here. Birds, squirrels, even mice. Speaking of which, you must be hungry."
He stood up, walked over to a door in the back of the room, and began to open it.
"Wait!" Jess called out, "What's in there?"
"Dinner." He replied.
"Let us come with you then." I insisted.
"Very well."
—
Upon stepping inside, the man reached for an old string light switch.
I gripped Jess' hand, fearing the worst, but when the dim bulb turned on, hardly emanating any light into the dark room, I could see that he wasn't lying...
...Hanging there on hooks, were all sorts of creatures. Birds, squirrels, and even mice, just as he described.
Jess and I both took a step back, clearly disgusted by the dinner options, when the man laughed.
"Oh, come on. Meat is meat, and you said you were starving. Now, I'll cook them up, just take a seat over there in the corner." He said, pointing to the shadowy corner of the room.
Despite her better judgment, Jess looked into the darkness, and did as he suggested.
That's when I heard her fall to the ground, and start screaming.
"Jess!" I called out, as the man laughed.
He simply smiled at me and pointed to the darkness. "Go on, take a look."
I backed away from him, took a step into the shadows, and looked down, to find a pair of side by side graves, each dug deep into the dirt, and one currently occupied by Jess.
"You said you weren't the killer!" I cried out to him.
"I lied," He replied.
"But the voice on the tapes?"
"Oh him? He was just a guy I hired to record them. Told him the tapes were for a game."
"Our friend died because of those tapes!"
"Did I kill him? Or did curiosity?"
"He said he saw you, and you left him there to die."
"Indeed I did, but only because he wasn't supposed to be there. None of you were supposed to be there. Or find the tapes in the first place."
But wait, Jess said I was chosen to find them. But if not me, then who?
"Jane!" I called out, remembering the clues. "Who's Jane?"
"She was the one who was supposed to find the tapes. I would tell you to listen to the last cassette, to hear the full story, but I'm afraid you won't have a chance to do that. Anyways, as I was saying, the tapes were meant for Jane, as was the grave your friend is standing in. But..." The man continued with a smile, "...You two will do."
That's when suddenly...
...He lunged at me, in an attempt to tackle me into the other grave.
What transpired next happened too fast to comprehend, but the next thing I knew...
...The man was lying there at the bottom of the other grave, his eyes wide in disbelief...
...As the broken, rusty tooth from the bear trap that I'd taken with me to remember Mike's death, protruded from the killer's neck.
And as he lay there dying, his body writhing, blood pouring out of it, I reached down into the second grave and helped pull Jess up to safety.
She gave me a great big hug, and we both stood there shaking for a minute, before I removed my headphones, held them up for us both to share, switched tape "7" for tape "8," and pressed play.
CLICK.
"If you're listening to this, you've found the last two bodies in the marsh. That of myself, and my dear Jane. A pair of lovers guilty of the most tragic love of all... unrequited love. Myself, with nothing but love to give, and Jane, having given all her love away to another. And if you must know how I lured her out here, you have to understand our bond over the macabre. Our fascination with disappearances, cold cases, and unsolved mysteries. Surely if Jane made it this far, she found the tapes that I'd left for her in the store, and couldn't resist the call to find the bodies in the marsh. And after making her way all the way out to me, here we'll lie, unrequited lovers meant to die apart... united in death for all eternity."
CLICK.
"What the-" Jess said.
"Um." I replied, gripping Jess even tighter, my wounded arm, wrapped in my plaid shirt, draped around her shoulder.
Now that the journey had ended, and after all we had gone through, the thought of finally kissing Jess right then and there crossed my mind, but before I could...
...She called out. "Hey, Tyler."
"Yeah?" I replied.
"Is that what I think it is?"
"What?"
I turned around to find, of all things, another wooden box, resembling the ones we'd found at the first couple burial sites, just lying there on the floor.
And after crouching down to pick it up, I opened it to find, not another clue, but instead...
...Eight more tapes, wrapped in a flimsy old rubber band, just like the ones that I'd found in the junk store.
"Let's not listen to those." Jess said.
"Definitely not." I replied.
—
A few days later, as news of Clinton's reelection flooded news headlines, my town did their best to keep what happened under wraps, and held a private funeral for Mike.
As a reward for us finding the serial killer, and his eight bodies, the police withdrew any charges associated with the meddling that Jess and I had done, out there in the marsh, and kept the first set of tapes for themselves.
Unbeknownst to anyone else, Jess and I kept the second set, and ironically, buried it behind our house, in the town where the marshland is so expansive that it was named for it. A town that we got married in, had kids in, and still live in to this day, making humble livings, and keeping as far away from the marsh as we can.
To this day, whenever we pass the spot on 139, where the bend of the road meets the sharp turn sign, we think of Mike, and keep our eyes on the road, careful not to look out into the marsh, towards the scarecrow, or the boat, or the island.
Oh, and that basketball season that Jess had a good feeling about on the night that we set out on our adventure... is still the worst season on record for the boys in green. I still tease her about it daily.

Hello!
large batch of cleanouts from me some freinds/teammates. I will do my best to get back to each and every one of you but this oils the largest listing I have done in quite some time. First come first serve if i don't hear a response within 24 hrs. I will move on to the next person in queue if there is one. Just trying to be clear and avoid any messes.
Prices DO Not include shipping and are all OBO unless noted otherwise. Not really interested in trades at this point well maybe an Apc9-k (I have a odd interest in a m1919 ) but feel free to ask and or offer, but really cash is king. I can quote USPS, UPS, and FEDEX. Payments handled via PayPal and local pickup is a option in east central WI.
Most of the smaller items are Flexible and or I am willing to deal on if buying other stuff.
I do also have a KWA KZ.61 / VZ61 that i need to get pics and list up as well as a real steel parts kit if anyone is interested (was a backburner project to see if it could be converted to use some real steel parts like upper receiver stock etc. just too busy and lost interest in the project
KWA Kz.61 / VZ 61
https://imgur.com/a/TLpPxhe
https://youtu.be/KboKBt1lplg
KWA kz. 61 aka vz 61, or Scorpion.
used condition completely cleaned and relubricated. incudes the black nylon brain exploder mounts. Missing one charging handle. Bucking was just replaced with a modify one may need a little break in. One short mag leak free cycles and shoots fine.
Asking $160 OBO
Also have a real steel parts kit
https://imgur.com/a/uwoFUAM
complete vz parts kit , was originally picked up to work on messign with using the stamped steel upper grip etc other parts with the airsoft one. TLDR is sat on the shelf too long and lost interest. Any questions let me know. barrel is 32 acp us made (if you thinking about diameters.
asking $170 OBO or $320 for Both RS parts kit and airsoft Kz.61
Ares Helios (Striker) bolt action sniper
https://imgur.com/a/FlEYwzT
selling for a freind, Used LNIB never fielded. Comes with two mags, one square bottom and one angled bottom. fully cleaned and re-lubricated. The cocking indicator has been removed for a smoother easier pull. Cocking indicator included in little baggie, but really i don't think i would recommend using one unless you get one of the aftermarket pin setups. the threading and friction added by the stock one is a little shoddy. Airseal is great +- 1 fps on .28s 1.82j.
Asking $150 OBO
Barrett Fieldcraft Precision Bolt Action Gas Sniper (VSR)
https://imgur.com/a/s7hn0qs
https://youtu.be/9W5MQY0Uarw
Also selling this one for a friend. Barrett Fieldcraft Precision Bolt Action Gas Sniper believe this is the greengas version. Includes, gun, one vsr mag, rail mount, and a green gas nozzle extended to help fill the bolt with gas. personally I do not like "green gas" or gas filled bolt systems. I would strongly recommend moving over to a spring bolt but the rest of the gun/body i would say is built really well. 90 degree zero trigger. well made machined outer barrel and receiver that mate really well stops perfectly when threading the outer barrel into the receiver. some unknown brand steel inner barrel. Stock is also very well made, and as woodworker rather impressed me, most airsoft wood stocks are poor at best but the fit finish and checkering is on point. Tested it to hold gas with no leaks but my GG is pretty much out tested at 1J with .28's not as familiar with modding these gas systems. But a great base for building a VSR if you want a a wood stock or the silver asthetic.
Asking $110 OBO
WE Galaxy 1911 premium long barrel (full metal)
https://imgur.com/a/pt4cnui
reference:
Brand new WE Galaxy 1911 premium long barrel. Premium is the full metal upper and lower decent bit of weight to it. Takes the 1911 thin pattern of mags. Any questons feel free to ask
Asking $100 OBO
APS Mantis X (g34 clone/wannabe) w/RMR adapter
https://imgur.com/a/Pz0HkM9
https://youtu.be/36FQRjbV7Yc
Another selling for a freind. LNIB Mantis X basically a g34 with RMR mount/adapter and a non functioning RMR (tried replacing battery no dice so it currently just there to look cool). Includes alt backstrap co2 mag seals, original rear sight allen keys, and APS CO2 mag that leaks from the top valve (basically from my undestanding the APS co2 mags are kinda poor). Tested with a WE GG glock mag cycles just fine and actually shoots pretty good too. (what i used in the video clip.) Next to no wear never fielded. stippling on it was also surprisingly quite clean and good does not look stamped.
Asking $90 OBO if you want I have a new china made RMR clone that works that I can include for $35 more.
SR25 Stuff
https://imgur.com/a/TOYhkab
A&K receiver new never used $55
https://imgur.com/a/yRwhqqP
Retro arms V2.5 QSC gearbox shell (8mm) also new never used $120 obo (if you ask nicely ill toss in a set of retro arms 8mm steel bushings)
https://imgur.com/a/h6CGa0U
5x Avengers 120 rnd SR25 mag these have some interesting potential they have more "track" inside the mag with multiple different locations the spring end stop can go, the thing is you would need to fab or 3d print covers for the other locations and of course have a longer mag spring but could potentially hold double or better $12 ea or $ 50 for the lot
https://imgur.com/a/k4aeCKS
1x G&G 100 rnd metal Sr25 midcap $18
IF you want the lot or bundle parts let me know could knock a few bucks off
Ares gearbox
https://imgur.com/a/x8Fyf8K
Brand new unused Ares gearbox with ETU and quick change spring pulled from a new unused gun ambi selector control gears. Short lead for the battery may need to extend depending on your use case.
Asking $80-OBO
UTG Red Dot
https://imgur.com/a/AurGnY9
works, UTG red/green dot it ahs a crisp clear dot no "starring" that you may see on some cheaper china optics. has a Lexan lens protector on the front some scratches on it, but its just held on with some heat shrink so easy to remove if you do not like it or want it on there.
asking $25 obo
Magpul Pmag (KWA 30/60)
https://imgur.com/a/99evR17
Fully trademarked Magpul PMAG this is one of the ones OEM'd by KWA can be switched between 30 or 60 round capacity. Has full feed mag follower and cutoff for KWA ERG guns, mag will chamber and work with others jsut obviously the cutoff feature only works in KWA guns.
Asking $35 OBO
KWA K120c mags
https://imgur.com/a/4aaMWBl
support 30/120 rounds selectable via switch on the bottom, have full feed mag follower and support mag cutoff on select KWA guns/ERG lineup. very light usage mostly set in the cabinet.
Asking $80 for the lot, $45 for a 3 pack, or $17 per single
Silverback SRS Project/Scrap Stock
https://imgur.com/a/HhPArrP
Was originally a tan stock used as a dye test for dying the nylon fiber a camo pattern and masking techniques. Then later was modified and material removed to test fitment of a CO2 reg into the stock. you still should be able to lock-on the stock plate or the spacers but you will be missing several of the latching or locking teeth on the sides.
Asking $10 OBO
7in Carbon fiber handguard
https://imgur.com/a/3ZAVx4Z
https://imgur.com/a/ZABSpDZ
not much to say actual carbon fiber (not a wrap or a skin real carbon fiber tube) with mlock slots believe it is real steel barrel nut spec vs the airsoft metric
Asking $50 obo
Steel Arcturus Ak Trigger
https://imgur.com/a/RPFI4ds
new steel ak trigger for v3 gearboxes with spring. Asking $8 OBO
LCT OD G3 Grip
https://imgur.com/a/ronpy55
Asking $8 obo
ICS MARS mag release
https://imgur.com/a/ZJ31xZV
for ICS Mars, bought for a normal m4 would not fit without moification brand new.
asking $8 obo
Hi Capa Mag bodies
https://imgur.com/a/wtpaeKQ
just the bodies themselves if you have a damaged or beat up one AW/WE in origin I believe, no valves or other parts included.
Asking $8 for the lot or $3 ea
3 Stock Motors
https://imgur.com/a/qU4GmIN
not much to say shot type silver motor, CAs stock HT motor, LCT stock HT motor all i think are ferrite cans but alright for parts if building your own or need to just replace a stock motor
Asking $15 for the lot OBO
HK 51 Extended outer barrel (believe it was designed for the CA series)
https://imgur.com/a/vOodtA0
14MM CCW its a extended outer barrel nuff said
Asking 12 OBO
Freebies:
anything in THIS image https://imgur.com/F8lFh1J reaps bucking gone.
also this nagant stock its plastic for a Co2 nagant 44 https://imgur.com/a/o4Xl5CQ free just cover shipping or bundle with anything else
whew there we go, and i do have permission to keep this separate from my services thread.