Hello, this is my first post here. Today I received an email from our homeowners underwriters, Geico. Mainly I am just looking for any advice anyone might have who's been in this situation. I've heard that the insurance industry is on some fuck-shittery lately and are doing everything to not insure people. I am highly skeptical that we can have the work they're demanding scheduled within 2 months, let alone completed. We are in a large urban area where those types of services, especially in spring/summer, are booked out minimum two months.
They listed three points that they are demanding action on or they will drop the policy in two months. They are:

• "Other structure roof shows signs of advanced wear." - This is a detached tool/garden shed. Admittedly, it is an old roof with a bit of moss on it (PNW) and does need replacement, but does not allow water into the structure yet. This work is not in our budget this year, and I had already planned to replace in 2025.
• "Tree(s) overhang/touch a structure(s) on the premises." - There is a 60+ year old magnolia grandiflora tree in our front yard which unavoidably overhangs the main house. It is not possible to prune this tree so that it doesn't overhang the structure, that would likely kill it. However, there are a few small branches that I can cut so that the tree does not make contact, which I intend to do this weekend. This tree has overhung the main house since before we even bought it, but is apparently just now is an issue...?!
• "There is debris on the residence premises." - This I have no idea wtf they are talking about, and is one of the reasons I requested a copy of the inspection report. The magnolia is evergreen and drops leaves year round and, yes, sometimes it goes a while without raking. But there is no other debris outside our home. We do not store old cars, or parts, or anything outside of the shed or basement. Has anyone else had this happen?

I've already replied to the sender and requested a copy of the inspection report. No idea if that's even a thing but figured might as well make them back it up and provide proof. How likely is it that they will work with me regarding timeline and/or funding? This is literally our first house, we've lived here for 7 years and this is the first time any of this has been an issue, which is why I feel that it's related to insurance trying to get out of insuring people. Thanks for any advice offered, and happy to clarify anything if there are questions.
Edit for grammar.

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Andrew remained sick for a time, and we watched over him while he recovered in my bed; I’d taken to sleeping on the floor—Dave visited often and Gemma came whenever she could sneak away from the watchful eye of her father, the Bosses, and their servants. The young man’s wounds were terrible, easily beyond my expertise (although I had some field experience, I was sure at times that Andrew would die) and he spoke often in his sleep, and he said Gemma’s name all the time. I fed him heartened soups when I could and gave him water, but his eyes remained unfocused like he was staring off into the great beyond somewhere. Gemma grew more worried with every passing day, and she tried to rouse him from his stupor, but nothing she did could breach his strange daze and Dave, whenever he came, helped me lift the boy, check that he wasn’t developing unnecessary sores, and he would aid in replacing Andrew’s bandages.
During his recovery, I stayed home often—more often than ever—and I would remain awake well into the night and smoke tobacco, lighting one cigarette off the last and theorizing his recovery. There was a night where I stood by the door with the entryway left partly open and blew smoke from its crack into the open air, and then I heard the boy speak and he said, “That smells.” I turned to see him sitting directly upright, eyes lucid but watery. Then he shifted into the blanket and immediately fell to sleep again. It was then that I knew the boy would live; still he slept hard, and still when Gemma came, he did not respond to her prodding, but his health seemed inevitable.
It rained twice while the boy was in bed and each time, the people in town grabbed up pails or stained washtubs and caught the brief downpours and some stood out in the falling rain and watched the zigzag lights shoot across the plump gray sky while I remained afraid that Leviathan might show or that any false shadow on the horizon might be that awful dragon, but each time my worries were proven unfounded.
When Andrew awoke in full force, he asked me for his severed hand, and I returned it to him in a wide mouth jar and he examined it and thanked me for keeping it; the dead thing was rotted, and bones began to emerge from the flesh around the fingertips and knuckles.
Gemma came and her presence had become a custom and upon him seeing her, he recoiled and told her to leave him be, but she couldn’t and instead went to him on the bed where she’d sit on the edge and reach out with her own scarred hands and he’d tell her, “Leave me alone.”
She wept, but the boy kept a stern expression, and she nearly stopped coming once he’d made himself clear that he no longer loved her.
It had been a week since Gemma’s last visit and nearly three since me and Dave first brought the boy to my home and I finally asked the boy in the bed, “Was it necessary to hurt the girl like that?” It was night out and through a crack in my room’s door, I could see the faint push of the moon’s milk splash light.
“I’m here because of her,” he told me.
“You’re here because of her father.”
“He hates me.”
“Do you hate her?”
“I couldn’t hate her ever.”
“Are you trying to protect her or yourself?” I asked.
“It could be both, but I don’t wanna’ talk about it. I think I’d like to go west though. It’d do me good to get out on my own, away from here.” Andrew pulled himself into a sit in the center of the mattress, moving slowly for his injuries, and draped the blanket around his shoulders then pulled the covering in close near his throat. “I don’t think I like it here—there’s nothing stopping me leaving either.”
“You’d certainly die on your own.”
“Then I’ll wait for those weirdo, pointed hats and I’ll ask them to take me with them.”
“Maybe.” I thought of how I’d told Suzanne I’d visit in a month’s time since their last arrival in Golgotha and the time had nearly come. “Perhaps we ought to find you a chaperone.”
More days passed us by, and Andrew felt better to remove himself from bed and properly bathe and I showed him the dosage he should take then let him look after his own medication. His spirits remained low while his cheeks ran with more color and although he hobbled about, he seldom went from my home and kept to himself—on more than one occasion, I tried to get him to go to market with me and he refused each time. Andrew’s brooding nature was an illness I couldn’t help and maybe that’s why whenever Dave came with the mutt—he’d taken to calling the animal Trouble due to the dog’s nature of going where it was forbade—Andrew’s face illuminated at the dog and the dog would go and rest its head between the boy’s knees whenever he sat and look up and the boy rubbed the dog’s ears and whispered to it secrets that he didn’t care about sharing.
Gemma came again and this time she was not the fawning doll of affection, but angry and rightly so; she’d pushed into my home after a light knock and Dave and Andrew and Trouble, and I each turned to see who might enter the already cramped room. The girl shut the door gently behind her then stepped quickly across the room, removing her head wrap. “You’re leaving?” she asked while pointing a finger at Andrew’s chest; the poke to his breastbone made a sound and her stance was aggressive, and she towered over him where he sat on the edge of the bed with Trouble at his feet; the dog merely lifted her head and examined the people. “I could kill you.”
“They already tried that!” Andrew spit with his words. “Besides, who told you that?” His eyes shot to me where I’d taken up leaning at the corner near the door.
I shook my head while Dave shifted nervously from his right foot to his left foot.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. Her hands shook while she made them into frustrated claws. “How could you?”
“Go home.” The young man spoke dully as his eyes went dim.
“I’m going with you,” she said.
“The hell you are,” I spoke up.
Gemma pivoted then cut her eyes at me. “Why not?”
“Did you fuckin’ forget what happened last time? You ain’t going anywhere.”
“Do you really think my father would actually let everyone go without water until they die?”
“You know him, don’t you?” I said.
She sighed then sat on the bed alongside the boy.
Andrew shifted from her then said, “I don’t want you to come with me. Stay here,” then he added, “Stay away from me.”
Gemma left, not even caring to return the disguise to her head in her hurry; once she was gone and there was no indication of her return, Dave spoke, “You did the right thing.” He clenched his jaw.
Me and Dave went to Felina’s at night if only to have a place to go where we could speak without the boy’s ears; he’d had enough trouble as of late and did not need to be caught amid a coup. We’d left Trouble with him and although he’d given us a concerned look, the boy merely shrugged and went to playing tug-o-war with the mutt on the end of an old rag. The brothel had become a meeting place for me and him where we would go and whisper—it had been a long time since I’d had anyone to do that with on a regular basis.
Dave had informed me that his friend—the one that worked in the basements alongside the Boss’s stores—wanted to meet in person to plan our next moves. It should also be good, on the chance that anything happened to Dave, I would know the face of the man.
Felina’s first floor was empty besides us, and the barwoman bathed in candlelight, and not a peep came from upstairs; we’d taken up in what had become our usual table and each object and person were caught in dancing ribbons of orange light.
“I’ll be gone for weeks,” I warned Dave, “I won’t be able to help you till I return.” It was true; the travel to Alexandria would take a long time, and longer still if Suzanne forced me to hesitate.
He nodded as Felina brought us our water and then leaned in close, took a sip, then nodded again, seemingly stuck in thinking. “You don’t mean to slip out on me, do you?”
I shook my head. “I’ve got a person to see. Whatever transpires here and the aftermath, I want to see them one last time if it means I’m to throw my life away on this uprising you’ve got.” I took my own cup and drank it in one go then set it away.
There was a long pause where he rubbed his thumbs along the rim of his cup and stared into the pool there; he opened his mouth as though to say something then shut it again.
“I keep my deals.” A chill pushed through me.
“I know. Who would’ve thought I’d trust you?” He smacked his lips.
“I’ll come back.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
He finished his own water. “Let me go with you.”
“Hm?”
“You’re taking the boy out west, out to where the wizards are, huh?”
“Sure.”
“Well, I’d like to go and see if they’d care to send any aid.”
I fought a smile. “They don’t fight. They’re soft folks.”
“Still.”
“Still what? I just told you. You’re not going to raise them to start a war. They’re traders, pagans—liars too. Proactive violence is something they don’t condone.”
“They couldn’t give us some—I don’t know. Don’t they have like spells or something they can teach us?”
I caught a surprised laugh in my cupped hand. “You think—It doesn’t work like that.”
Dave began to fidget in his seat. “You don’t haf’ta make me feel stupid.”
Without even realizing it, I reached out with a hand and put it on his shoulder for comfort, “Sorry,” I quickly withdrew the hand, “It’s not like that.”
“Well, what is like then?”
Just then, the door to Felina’s pushed in to reveal a haggard gentleman, pale, angular cheekbones, and deep eyes; it could only be Dave’s friend from the basements. The man came to our table and sat across from us, keeping his hands together and massaging his knuckles in front of his chest then leaning forward preparing a whisper; Felina, from her post behind the counter, shot a glance to us gathered, but otherwise continued in her own concerns, reading some book she kept with her.
“I’ve got something you should see,” said the man.
Dave grinned, but I did not care for the cut of the man’s gib, and I sat a bit straighter in my seat—Dave greeted the man warmly, “Mills, this is Harlan.”
The man shot a glance to me then a small nod, “Yeah, I know him.” Mills directed his attention back to Dave, “I’ve got something you should see. Outside. Right this moment.”
An ethereal dreamlike pause fell across the table, and I felt lightheaded and even Dave’s demeanor changed. There was a brief smile that fell across Mills’s face, but it was gone just as quickly as he shifted in his seat.
Finally, I spoke, “You could lie better.”
“I’m not lying,” protested Mills.
“How many are there?” I unsheathed the knife from my belt and traced my eyes across the dark and windowless room.
Mills opened his face, incredulous, and then shut it and slumped on his seat. “What are you talking about?”
“How many are waiting outside for us? Are they here to kill us or do they intend to capture? Say it plain and don’t try to deny it.”
“You fella’s are paranoid, huh?” said Mills.
Dave stood and put a hand on my shoulder, but I shirked it away, and the man chewed on the inside of his mouth then said, “Mills, please tell me you didn’t turn us in.”
“I wouldn’t,” said Mills. He scoffed. “There’s no way I would. How could you even think that?”
“Did they tell you you’d be safe? Did they tell you that everything was fine? I’ll tell you something—nothing that happens in this town’s fine. If you can’t see that.” Dave drifted off. “Well, Harlan,” he directed his attention to me, “What now?”
“We could skin him,” I brandished my knife and Mills recoiled. “I’m kidding. If those troopers are outside waiting on us, then we’ve got bad trouble on our hands. If we don’t do something quick, they’re liable to kick that door in and spray us dead.”
“You could go quietly,” offered Mills. “That Harold likes you pretty good,” he nodded at me, “I don’t think they’d hurt you bad.”
“So,” I said, “He admits at last. What’s the number? How many wall men did those jackals send?”
“Just the Sheriff. He wanted to talk. When I spoke to him, he seemed more pleasant than most.”
Dave moved to the counter where Felina was and he began saying something to her, hushed.
“What’s the Sheriff want?”
“He said he wanted to talk to you.”
“I don’t’ have a thing to say to the man.”
“I believe it. I believe he wants to talk with you and nothing more.” Mills seemed tired.
I kept my knife at the ready.
Dave returned to the table and stood beside Mills where he sat, “She said there’s a back way out,” said Dave.
We moved and Mills remained, but Dave rounded the table far more quickly than I believed him capable, pulled Mills to his feet by the scruff on the back of the man’s neck and without too much protest, Mills was our captive.
“I’ll scream,” said Mills.
“If you do, this blade’s going straight up your ass,” I said.
The three of us, in a strange marching line with Mills in front followed by Dave then me, rounded Felina’s counter and we followed the woman into the backroom where she lived; in the far corner was a bed with a sink—standard amenities—a few old books, and an exposed closet off the wall where clothes hung. She ushered us toward the rear of the room, furthest from where we’d come, and pushed a doorway into the warm black night that smelled of chicken feces.
Dave directed a whisper to the woman, “They might hurt you for helping us. Come with us.”
“Fuck ‘em,” she said, then pulled the door shut with her still on the other side.
We were there in the dirt street on the backside of the brothel, and it was quiet and empty—most of the exposed windows down the lane were black save the hydro towers. We took off, Dave keeping one of Mills’s arms pushed high on his back so that the man couldn’t move too far off the directed course.
“Where do we go?” said Dave, “Aw hell, I don’t even know where to go!”
“This way,” I said.
“Where are you leading us?” he asked.
“I’ve got to get my things.”
“You’re going home? They’ll be waiting there, won’t they?”
Just then, gunfire erupted from the direction of Felina’s; it was a short spurt, followed by perhaps shouting, then another volley of gunfire and then it was quiet.
Dave shifted on his feet, still holding Mills, like he intended to rush back; I put a hand on him and shook my head.
“Where do we go?” Small terror melted with his voice.
“We’ve gotta get out of town.”
“They’ll shoot us from the walls.”
Mills mumbled, “Well you can just leave me here.”
Ignoring this, I said, “All of my things are home,” then I thought to add, “What about Andrew? If they’ve already ransacked my place, they’ve surely killed him.”
“Trouble too,” said Dave, “Oh god.”
Then the bells over the hall of Bosses rang and my stomach twisted; lights in homes began illuminating in response to the ruckus and denizens stepped from their places, looking up and down the way. We stood there in the street and for the first time in a long time, I was frozen. Dave pushed on down an alley, Mills protested in saying that his arm was broken (it wasn’t) and I followed, totally bedazzled.
In the rush, Dave let go of our prisoner and directed me to keep the man and then he asked, “Have you got matches—a lighter? Something!”
I fumbled in my jacket pocket and produced a lighter; Dave snatched the thing from me, and we moved on further down the alley, further from the bells—along the way Mills cursed us and Dave flinched and balked at every person we moved by in the shadows, for they might be a wall man. People began screaming and more gunfire rang out—this time ahead of us; we spilled out of the alley into an opening which connected several narrow streets where two soldiers were standing over a body in the dark; Dave stopped ahead, and we shrank back into the alley then pressed ourselves against the exterior wall of an abode where the overhanging catwalks kept us in shadow.
One of the wall men kicked the unmoving body then fired another round into it; the corpse spasmed momentarily. If I had a softer heart, I would’ve vocalized the reason for the killing, but I knew because I’d seen it happen before; when killing started, those with the will to do so always stepped to the occasion. They’d heard the same gunfire we’d heard and decided not to be left out. The wall man fired another round into the body and for a flash, his face was illuminated, and I could see he was young—even if the millisecond of glow had twisted his expression in a wild blaze.
“Lemme go!” hushed Mills, popping me squarely in the groin with his free hand.
As he launched away from us in the shadows, I huffed forward, swiping my blade wildly, eyes blurred; with reckless thought, I would’ve gone after him, but Dave reached out to stop me and Mills charged toward the wall men in the square opening; I think he shouted something at them—maybe it was about where we were hiding and about how we’d been terrible captors.
The traitor danced with the echo of gunfire and the soldiers had a new body for target practice. The wall men paid us no mind in our poor hiding place—wilder gunpowder screams filled the night air and blood began to drift on the wind.
I’d not even noticed Dave holding my hand in the dark as we took to crouching behind rubbish pushed to the sides of the alley. “We’ll split up,” said Dave, letting go of my hand.
“Wait,” I slid my back up the wall to stand, putting my knife away, “That sounds like a terrible idea.”
“I know,” he said, both of us remaining in shadow, close enough that our shoulders were touching, “I’m heading towards the hall.”
There was a long pause; more shrieks echoed around us in that narrow passage and then I nodded.
“To the basements. To the gunpowder. I’ll try and catch you near the gate. If not.” He shook his head. “Goodbye tinman.”
Dave launched himself incredibly quickly from the shadows then moved the way we’d come from, keeping low and weaving. I soon followed, and I believe I saw him circling around one of the hydro towers in the ensuing chaos. A young boy was shoved into the moonlight where the brace of a rifle met his head; a woman was declothed then beheaded; an infant was sent through the air from the end of a mighty swing where it met the exterior wall of a storage shed. I saw them all and in the fury of the wall men, I lost sight of Dave and I kept to the darkness and held in my screams to remain unseen.
Doubling back some around the area by Felina’s where the buildings opened some, I saw Boss Maron barking orders, a club used to point before he put it to use against bewildered citizens. The night was cool and lonely, as I’d been accustomed, I moved quickly and without worry—survival reigned supreme in the labored breaths I inhaled through Golgotha’s blood-soaked streets where people pushed by or hid in the darkest recesses; a few times I happened by an open window and saw people scrunched in a corner on their haunches with their eyes closed and sometimes they prayed. Upon nearing the stairs that led to my home—the steps mere minutes away—a man scrambled around on his hands and knees. Thinking I could propel over him, he caught my foot and I stumbled and twisted around, ready to stick him with my knife; the man threw himself at my waist, clinging around my hips with locked arms, begging up at me with blood in his face. Moonlight caught the shine of his own mishappen brain exposed along the right side of his shattered skull. “Help! I’m on fire!” screamed the man, foam clung to his mouth, “Water! I’m burning!” I bit my lip and shoved the man off and he continued scrambling madly in the dark till he found a tub of stagnant water—knee high—precariously pushed against the wall of a nearby alley and plunged his head into the murkiness and he did not move again.
With focus, I rushed on, passing by executions in the streets, screams of mouths ground in the soil beneath boots, and all the while the moon hung between the shadows of the tall buildings, swathed in a gown of mist in a sky of absent stars so the night stretched like the void it was.
Coming to the stairs that led to the catwalks where my home was, a pale hand, stained dull red, shot from the darkness beneath the steps and held onto my ankle—a yell escaped me and I stumbled back, kicking at the hand with my free foot. The hand recoiled, cursed, then Gemma removed herself from the space beneath the stairs; scarcely, I could make out the face of Andrew still there in the darkness and the low growl of Trouble and the chaos fell away for a moment, and I asked the girl, “Are you hurt?” examining the blood on her clothes, on her hands. “What are you doing here?”
“I killed him,” she said while Andrew came from the recesses, the mutt at his side; the boy had my old shotgun slung over his shoulder, “I killed him,” the girl repeated, “So I could go. He’s dead.” Her eyes were far, and her fists hung at her sides.
“You’re all alive?” My quivering words barely registered to myself over the wails and clacks of war toys and a wall man began to pass us by, chasing after a boy with a long-flamed torch pushed over his head by his scrawny arm while he caterwauled a primitive shout into the night—the wall men stopped at us.
The soldier’s eyes reflected amidst the overhead catwalk shadows, and his facial hair was thin enough to be a stain and he raised a pistol to my face, and seeing the black hole of the barrel I merely closed my eyes, wincing, waiting for it. “Get inside. Please,” said the man before I cracked my eyes to see the openness he’d filled was empty, the clank of his gear rattled in his absence before disappearing after him.
“Might’ve killed you,” said Andrew.
I shook the thought from my head. “We should go.”
Gemma rubbed the dried blood down the front of herself, “He dropped so fast.”
“Shh.” I grabbed the girl’s hand and the boy followed at a restrained pace, the dog sniffing after, tail pulled between its legs, and I happened to notice its ears perking at whatever sound when I’d glance to be sure they came. We gave the hydro towers a wide berth, keeping to the western side of town till we met the buildings nearest the wall where there was relative quiet from the devastation; onlookers still pushed their moonlight glazed faces from apertures and watched us go and some called after us, but we ignored them. “Keep up!” I urged the youngins, “Don’t dally! Don’t fall behind!”
“It’s hard keeping this fucking thing and watching the dog!” said Andrew.
I reached over, slid the gun from his body, and put it across my chest in both hands. “Did you happen to grab any of the ammo?”
His refusal to answer made me slip the strap over my shoulder and we carried on till we met an alley that slithered to the opening of the southern square where the gate was. We hung in the darkness by a dead metal wagon of crates covered by a stained blanket and then I was at a loss. Smoke met us and I was sure there was a fire the way we’d come. Perhaps it was for the smoke or fire or the blood, but upon nosing out from the corner that led into the square, the snipers on the wall too began firing their weapons and I was certain they’d seen me and were shooting at me for a moment, but upon freezing in my position, I realized the people on the wall’s ramparts fired at something beyond; a volley of them resounded and I felt the others pull in close to me so we were all clumped and touching and the dog had gone from flinching to shivering for each round was so quick after the last. Surely, if Dave intended to meet me there at the square, he’d be there—my eyes scanned the black scenery.
“Mutants!” a woman on the wall shouted to her comrades, “More ‘en I’ve ever seen! Get your asses up here!”
The kids babbled something, and I hushed them and told them to stay in the darkness while I moved forward where large gashes of bluish moon threatened to betray my location and I moved to the unguarded electrical switch—surely they’d close it back soon enough—opened its door and flipped the switch and the grinding of the gate coming to life was never so loud before as its clockwork innards did their job. I could only imagine the bafflement of the wall men. I motioned for the kids to follow, and Gemma lifted the dog up in her arms, still making better pace than Andrew. The sound of boots rattling on the wall overhead came and someone fired down at me, but I pushed back towards the wall and the dirt ground between me and Gemma erupted spits of dirt. The girl shrieked, coming to a halt so the boy slammed into her, and they both stumbled in a mess, and caught one another without falling. Trouble yelped.
I pushed from my spot, gathered them in my arms and we moved like a strange centipede to the opened gate where we slid through to immediately be met by a meridian of glowing yellow eyes perhaps fifty yards out. The mutants, things once human but twisted by some greater demon, fought over one another in their lurch with jagged motions, pale in the moonlight without hair and thin skin that clung to bald heads and mouths blackened from filth and teeth nubbed from the circular grinding of their jaws; the creatures came with their homunculus growls, their hunched backs, their lizard quickness. They came for the direction of the open gate and all I heard were screams and the scuffle of our shared balance as we took across the blue horizon of open space and I ushered across that expanse with the black ruins on the horizon and the smoke rose over the starless sky and although I was certain we’d be shot dead in the back, providence saved us—no, it was Dave.
The earth trembled beneath our feet, and I heard the confetti of rubble on rubble and the earth itself screamed and I knew Dave had done what he’d set out to.
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First/Previous/Next
Andrew remained sick for a time, and we watched over him while he recovered in my bed; I’d taken to sleeping on the floor—Dave visited often and Gemma came whenever she could sneak away from the watchful eye of her father, the Bosses, and their servants. The young man’s wounds were terrible, easily beyond my expertise (although I had some field experience, I was sure at times that Andrew would die) and he spoke often in his sleep, and he said Gemma’s name all the time. I fed him heartened soups when I could and gave him water, but his eyes remained unfocused like he was staring off into the great beyond somewhere. Gemma grew more worried with every passing day, and she tried to rouse him from his stupor, but nothing she did could breach his strange daze and Dave, whenever he came, helped me lift the boy, check that he wasn’t developing unnecessary sores, and he would aid in replacing Andrew’s bandages.
During his recovery, I stayed home often—more often than ever—and I would remain awake well into the night and smoke tobacco, lighting one cigarette off the last and theorizing his recovery. There was a night where I stood by the door with the entryway left partly open and blew smoke from its crack into the open air, and then I heard the boy speak and he said, “That smells.” I turned to see him sitting directly upright, eyes lucid but watery. Then he shifted into the blanket and immediately fell to sleep again. It was then that I knew the boy would live; still he slept hard, and still when Gemma came, he did not respond to her prodding, but his health seemed inevitable.
It rained twice while the boy was in bed and each time, the people in town grabbed up pails or stained washtubs and caught the brief downpours and some stood out in the falling rain and watched the zigzag lights shoot across the plump gray sky while I remained afraid that Leviathan might show or that any false shadow on the horizon might be that awful dragon, but each time my worries were proven unfounded.
When Andrew awoke in full force, he asked me for his severed hand, and I returned it to him in a wide mouth jar and he examined it and thanked me for keeping it; the dead thing was rotted, and bones began to emerge from the flesh around the fingertips and knuckles.
Gemma came and her presence had become a custom and upon him seeing her, he recoiled and told her to leave him be, but she couldn’t and instead went to him on the bed where she’d sit on the edge and reach out with her own scarred hands and he’d tell her, “Leave me alone.”
She wept, but the boy kept a stern expression, and she nearly stopped coming once he’d made himself clear that he no longer loved her.
It had been a week since Gemma’s last visit and nearly three since me and Dave first brought the boy to my home and I finally asked the boy in the bed, “Was it necessary to hurt the girl like that?” It was night out and through a crack in my room’s door, I could see the faint push of the moon’s milk splash light.
“I’m here because of her,” he told me.
“You’re here because of her father.”
“He hates me.”
“Do you hate her?”
“I couldn’t hate her ever.”
“Are you trying to protect her or yourself?” I asked.
“It could be both, but I don’t wanna’ talk about it. I think I’d like to go west though. It’d do me good to get out on my own, away from here.” Andrew pulled himself into a sit in the center of the mattress, moving slowly for his injuries, and draped the blanket around his shoulders then pulled the covering in close near his throat. “I don’t think I like it here—there’s nothing stopping me leaving either.”
“You’d certainly die on your own.”
“Then I’ll wait for those weirdo, pointed hats and I’ll ask them to take me with them.”
“Maybe.” I thought of how I’d told Suzanne I’d visit in a month’s time since their last arrival in Golgotha and the time had nearly come. “Perhaps we ought to find you a chaperone.”
More days passed us by, and Andrew felt better to remove himself from bed and properly bathe and I showed him the dosage he should take then let him look after his own medication. His spirits remained low while his cheeks ran with more color and although he hobbled about, he seldom went from my home and kept to himself—on more than one occasion, I tried to get him to go to market with me and he refused each time. Andrew’s brooding nature was an illness I couldn’t help and maybe that’s why whenever Dave came with the mutt—he’d taken to calling the animal Trouble due to the dog’s nature of going where it was forbade—Andrew’s face illuminated at the dog and the dog would go and rest its head between the boy’s knees whenever he sat and look up and the boy rubbed the dog’s ears and whispered to it secrets that he didn’t care about sharing.
Gemma came again and this time she was not the fawning doll of affection, but angry and rightly so; she’d pushed into my home after a light knock and Dave and Andrew and Trouble, and I each turned to see who might enter the already cramped room. The girl shut the door gently behind her then stepped quickly across the room, removing her head wrap. “You’re leaving?” she asked while pointing a finger at Andrew’s chest; the poke to his breastbone made a sound and her stance was aggressive, and she towered over him where he sat on the edge of the bed with Trouble at his feet; the dog merely lifted her head and examined the people. “I could kill you.”
“They already tried that!” Andrew spit with his words. “Besides, who told you that?” His eyes shot to me where I’d taken up leaning at the corner near the door.
I shook my head while Dave shifted nervously from his right foot to his left foot.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. Her hands shook while she made them into frustrated claws. “How could you?”
“Go home.” The young man spoke dully as his eyes went dim.
“I’m going with you,” she said.
“The hell you are,” I spoke up.
Gemma pivoted then cut her eyes at me. “Why not?”
“Did you fuckin’ forget what happened last time? You ain’t going anywhere.”
“Do you really think my father would actually let everyone go without water until they die?”
“You know him, don’t you?” I said.
She sighed then sat on the bed alongside the boy.
Andrew shifted from her then said, “I don’t want you to come with me. Stay here,” then he added, “Stay away from me.”
Gemma left, not even caring to return the disguise to her head in her hurry; once she was gone and there was no indication of her return, Dave spoke, “You did the right thing.” He clenched his jaw.
Me and Dave went to Felina’s at night if only to have a place to go where we could speak without the boy’s ears; he’d had enough trouble as of late and did not need to be caught amid a coup. We’d left Trouble with him and although he’d given us a concerned look, the boy merely shrugged and went to playing tug-o-war with the mutt on the end of an old rag. The brothel had become a meeting place for me and him where we would go and whisper—it had been a long time since I’d had anyone to do that with on a regular basis.
Dave had informed me that his friend—the one that worked in the basements alongside the Boss’s stores—wanted to meet in person to plan our next moves. It should also be good, on the chance that anything happened to Dave, I would know the face of the man.
Felina’s first floor was empty besides us, and the barwoman bathed in candlelight, and not a peep came from upstairs; we’d taken up in what had become our usual table and each object and person were caught in dancing ribbons of orange light.
“I’ll be gone for weeks,” I warned Dave, “I won’t be able to help you till I return.” It was true; the travel to Alexandria would take a long time, and longer still if Suzanne forced me to hesitate.
He nodded as Felina brought us our water and then leaned in close, took a sip, then nodded again, seemingly stuck in thinking. “You don’t mean to slip out on me, do you?”
I shook my head. “I’ve got a person to see. Whatever transpires here and the aftermath, I want to see them one last time if it means I’m to throw my life away on this uprising you’ve got.” I took my own cup and drank it in one go then set it away.
There was a long pause where he rubbed his thumbs along the rim of his cup and stared into the pool there; he opened his mouth as though to say something then shut it again.
“I keep my deals.” A chill pushed through me.
“I know. Who would’ve thought I’d trust you?” He smacked his lips.
“I’ll come back.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
He finished his own water. “Let me go with you.”
“Hm?”
“You’re taking the boy out west, out to where the wizards are, huh?”
“Sure.”
“Well, I’d like to go and see if they’d care to send any aid.”
I fought a smile. “They don’t fight. They’re soft folks.”
“Still.”
“Still what? I just told you. You’re not going to raise them to start a war. They’re traders, pagans—liars too. Proactive violence is something they don’t condone.”
“They couldn’t give us some—I don’t know. Don’t they have like spells or something they can teach us?”
I caught a surprised laugh in my cupped hand. “You think—It doesn’t work like that.”
Dave began to fidget in his seat. “You don’t haf’ta make me feel stupid.”
Without even realizing it, I reached out with a hand and put it on his shoulder for comfort, “Sorry,” I quickly withdrew the hand, “It’s not like that.”
“Well, what is like then?”
Just then, the door to Felina’s pushed in to reveal a haggard gentleman, pale, angular cheekbones, and deep eyes; it could only be Dave’s friend from the basements. The man came to our table and sat across from us, keeping his hands together and massaging his knuckles in front of his chest then leaning forward preparing a whisper; Felina, from her post behind the counter, shot a glance to us gathered, but otherwise continued in her own concerns, reading some book she kept with her.
“I’ve got something you should see,” said the man.
Dave grinned, but I did not care for the cut of the man’s gib, and I sat a bit straighter in my seat—Dave greeted the man warmly, “Mills, this is Harlan.”
The man shot a glance to me then a small nod, “Yeah, I know him.” Mills directed his attention back to Dave, “I’ve got something you should see. Outside. Right this moment.”
An ethereal dreamlike pause fell across the table, and I felt lightheaded and even Dave’s demeanor changed. There was a brief smile that fell across Mills’s face, but it was gone just as quickly as he shifted in his seat.
Finally, I spoke, “You could lie better.”
“I’m not lying,” protested Mills.
“How many are there?” I unsheathed the knife from my belt and traced my eyes across the dark and windowless room.
Mills opened his face, incredulous, and then shut it and slumped on his seat. “What are you talking about?”
“How many are waiting outside for us? Are they here to kill us or do they intend to capture? Say it plain and don’t try to deny it.”
“You fella’s are paranoid, huh?” said Mills.
Dave stood and put a hand on my shoulder, but I shirked it away, and the man chewed on the inside of his mouth then said, “Mills, please tell me you didn’t turn us in.”
“I wouldn’t,” said Mills. He scoffed. “There’s no way I would. How could you even think that?”
“Did they tell you you’d be safe? Did they tell you that everything was fine? I’ll tell you something—nothing that happens in this town’s fine. If you can’t see that.” Dave drifted off. “Well, Harlan,” he directed his attention to me, “What now?”
“We could skin him,” I brandished my knife and Mills recoiled. “I’m kidding. If those troopers are outside waiting on us, then we’ve got bad trouble on our hands. If we don’t do something quick, they’re liable to kick that door in and spray us dead.”
“You could go quietly,” offered Mills. “That Harold likes you pretty good,” he nodded at me, “I don’t think they’d hurt you bad.”
“So,” I said, “He admits at last. What’s the number? How many wall men did those jackals send?”
“Just the Sheriff. He wanted to talk. When I spoke to him, he seemed more pleasant than most.”
Dave moved to the counter where Felina was and he began saying something to her, hushed.
“What’s the Sheriff want?”
“He said he wanted to talk to you.”
“I don’t’ have a thing to say to the man.”
“I believe it. I believe he wants to talk with you and nothing more.” Mills seemed tired.
I kept my knife at the ready.
Dave returned to the table and stood beside Mills where he sat, “She said there’s a back way out,” said Dave.
We moved and Mills remained, but Dave rounded the table far more quickly than I believed him capable, pulled Mills to his feet by the scruff on the back of the man’s neck and without too much protest, Mills was our captive.
“I’ll scream,” said Mills.
“If you do, this blade’s going straight up your ass,” I said.
The three of us, in a strange marching line with Mills in front followed by Dave then me, rounded Felina’s counter and we followed the woman into the backroom where she lived; in the far corner was a bed with a sink—standard amenities—a few old books, and an exposed closet off the wall where clothes hung. She ushered us toward the rear of the room, furthest from where we’d come, and pushed a doorway into the warm black night that smelled of chicken feces.
Dave directed a whisper to the woman, “They might hurt you for helping us. Come with us.”
“Fuck ‘em,” she said, then pulled the door shut with her still on the other side.
We were there in the dirt street on the backside of the brothel, and it was quiet and empty—most of the exposed windows down the lane were black save the hydro towers. We took off, Dave keeping one of Mills’s arms pushed high on his back so that the man couldn’t move too far off the directed course.
“Where do we go?” said Dave, “Aw hell, I don’t even know where to go!”
“This way,” I said.
“Where are you leading us?” he asked.
“I’ve got to get my things.”
“You’re going home? They’ll be waiting there, won’t they?”
Just then, gunfire erupted from the direction of Felina’s; it was a short spurt, followed by perhaps shouting, then another volley of gunfire and then it was quiet.
Dave shifted on his feet, still holding Mills, like he intended to rush back; I put a hand on him and shook my head.
“Where do we go?” Small terror melted with his voice.
“We’ve gotta get out of town.”
“They’ll shoot us from the walls.”
Mills mumbled, “Well you can just leave me here.”
Ignoring this, I said, “All of my things are home,” then I thought to add, “What about Andrew? If they’ve already ransacked my place, they’ve surely killed him.”
“Trouble too,” said Dave, “Oh god.”
Then the bells over the hall of Bosses rang and my stomach twisted; lights in homes began illuminating in response to the ruckus and denizens stepped from their places, looking up and down the way. We stood there in the street and for the first time in a long time, I was frozen. Dave pushed on down an alley, Mills protested in saying that his arm was broken (it wasn’t) and I followed, totally bedazzled.
In the rush, Dave let go of our prisoner and directed me to keep the man and then he asked, “Have you got matches—a lighter? Something!”
I fumbled in my jacket pocket and produced a lighter; Dave snatched the thing from me, and we moved on further down the alley, further from the bells—along the way Mills cursed us and Dave flinched and balked at every person we moved by in the shadows, for they might be a wall man. People began screaming and more gunfire rang out—this time ahead of us; we spilled out of the alley into an opening which connected several narrow streets where two soldiers were standing over a body in the dark; Dave stopped ahead, and we shrank back into the alley then pressed ourselves against the exterior wall of an abode where the overhanging catwalks kept us in shadow.
One of the wall men kicked the unmoving body then fired another round into it; the corpse spasmed momentarily. If I had a softer heart, I would’ve vocalized the reason for the killing, but I knew because I’d seen it happen before; when killing started, those with the will to do so always stepped to the occasion. They’d heard the same gunfire we’d heard and decided not to be left out. The wall man fired another round into the body and for a flash, his face was illuminated, and I could see he was young—even if the millisecond of glow had twisted his expression in a wild blaze.
“Lemme go!” hushed Mills, popping me squarely in the groin with his free hand.
As he launched away from us in the shadows, I huffed forward, swiping my blade wildly, eyes blurred; with reckless thought, I would’ve gone after him, but Dave reached out to stop me and Mills charged toward the wall men in the square opening; I think he shouted something at them—maybe it was about where we were hiding and about how we’d been terrible captors.
The traitor danced with the echo of gunfire and the soldiers had a new body for target practice. The wall men paid us no mind in our poor hiding place—wilder gunpowder screams filled the night air and blood began to drift on the wind.
I’d not even noticed Dave holding my hand in the dark as we took to crouching behind rubbish pushed to the sides of the alley. “We’ll split up,” said Dave, letting go of my hand.
“Wait,” I slid my back up the wall to stand, putting my knife away, “That sounds like a terrible idea.”
“I know,” he said, both of us remaining in shadow, close enough that our shoulders were touching, “I’m heading towards the hall.”
There was a long pause; more shrieks echoed around us in that narrow passage and then I nodded.
“To the basements. To the gunpowder. I’ll try and catch you near the gate. If not.” He shook his head. “Goodbye tinman.”
Dave launched himself incredibly quickly from the shadows then moved the way we’d come from, keeping low and weaving. I soon followed, and I believe I saw him circling around one of the hydro towers in the ensuing chaos. A young boy was shoved into the moonlight where the brace of a rifle met his head; a woman was declothed then beheaded; an infant was sent through the air from the end of a mighty swing where it met the exterior wall of a storage shed. I saw them all and in the fury of the wall men, I lost sight of Dave and I kept to the darkness and held in my screams to remain unseen.
Doubling back some around the area by Felina’s where the buildings opened some, I saw Boss Maron barking orders, a club used to point before he put it to use against bewildered citizens. The night was cool and lonely, as I’d been accustomed, I moved quickly and without worry—survival reigned supreme in the labored breaths I inhaled through Golgotha’s blood-soaked streets where people pushed by or hid in the darkest recesses; a few times I happened by an open window and saw people scrunched in a corner on their haunches with their eyes closed and sometimes they prayed. Upon nearing the stairs that led to my home—the steps mere minutes away—a man scrambled around on his hands and knees. Thinking I could propel over him, he caught my foot and I stumbled and twisted around, ready to stick him with my knife; the man threw himself at my waist, clinging around my hips with locked arms, begging up at me with blood in his face. Moonlight caught the shine of his own mishappen brain exposed along the right side of his shattered skull. “Help! I’m on fire!” screamed the man, foam clung to his mouth, “Water! I’m burning!” I bit my lip and shoved the man off and he continued scrambling madly in the dark till he found a tub of stagnant water—knee high—precariously pushed against the wall of a nearby alley and plunged his head into the murkiness and he did not move again.
With focus, I rushed on, passing by executions in the streets, screams of mouths ground in the soil beneath boots, and all the while the moon hung between the shadows of the tall buildings, swathed in a gown of mist in a sky of absent stars so the night stretched like the void it was.
Coming to the stairs that led to the catwalks where my home was, a pale hand, stained dull red, shot from the darkness beneath the steps and held onto my ankle—a yell escaped me and I stumbled back, kicking at the hand with my free foot. The hand recoiled, cursed, then Gemma removed herself from the space beneath the stairs; scarcely, I could make out the face of Andrew still there in the darkness and the low growl of Trouble and the chaos fell away for a moment, and I asked the girl, “Are you hurt?” examining the blood on her clothes, on her hands. “What are you doing here?”
“I killed him,” she said while Andrew came from the recesses, the mutt at his side; the boy had my old shotgun slung over his shoulder, “I killed him,” the girl repeated, “So I could go. He’s dead.” Her eyes were far, and her fists hung at her sides.
“You’re all alive?” My quivering words barely registered to myself over the wails and clacks of war toys and a wall man began to pass us by, chasing after a boy with a long-flamed torch pushed over his head by his scrawny arm while he caterwauled a primitive shout into the night—the wall men stopped at us.
The soldier’s eyes reflected amidst the overhead catwalk shadows, and his facial hair was thin enough to be a stain and he raised a pistol to my face, and seeing the black hole of the barrel I merely closed my eyes, wincing, waiting for it. “Get inside. Please,” said the man before I cracked my eyes to see the openness he’d filled was empty, the clank of his gear rattled in his absence before disappearing after him.
“Might’ve killed you,” said Andrew.
I shook the thought from my head. “We should go.”
Gemma rubbed the dried blood down the front of herself, “He dropped so fast.”
“Shh.” I grabbed the girl’s hand and the boy followed at a restrained pace, the dog sniffing after, tail pulled between its legs, and I happened to notice its ears perking at whatever sound when I’d glance to be sure they came. We gave the hydro towers a wide berth, keeping to the western side of town till we met the buildings nearest the wall where there was relative quiet from the devastation; onlookers still pushed their moonlight glazed faces from apertures and watched us go and some called after us, but we ignored them. “Keep up!” I urged the youngins, “Don’t dally! Don’t fall behind!”
“It’s hard keeping this fucking thing and watching the dog!” said Andrew.
I reached over, slid the gun from his body, and put it across my chest in both hands. “Did you happen to grab any of the ammo?”
His refusal to answer made me slip the strap over my shoulder and we carried on till we met an alley that slithered to the opening of the southern square where the gate was. We hung in the darkness by a dead metal wagon of crates covered by a stained blanket and then I was at a loss. Smoke met us and I was sure there was a fire the way we’d come. Perhaps it was for the smoke or fire or the blood, but upon nosing out from the corner that led into the square, the snipers on the wall too began firing their weapons and I was certain they’d seen me and were shooting at me for a moment, but upon freezing in my position, I realized the people on the wall’s ramparts fired at something beyond; a volley of them resounded and I felt the others pull in close to me so we were all clumped and touching and the dog had gone from flinching to shivering for each round was so quick after the last. Surely, if Dave intended to meet me there at the square, he’d be there—my eyes scanned the black scenery.
“Mutants!” a woman on the wall shouted to her comrades, “More ‘en I’ve ever seen! Get your asses up here!”
The kids babbled something, and I hushed them and told them to stay in the darkness while I moved forward where large gashes of bluish moon threatened to betray my location and I moved to the unguarded electrical switch—surely they’d close it back soon enough—opened its door and flipped the switch and the grinding of the gate coming to life was never so loud before as its clockwork innards did their job. I could only imagine the bafflement of the wall men. I motioned for the kids to follow, and Gemma lifted the dog up in her arms, still making better pace than Andrew. The sound of boots rattling on the wall overhead came and someone fired down at me, but I pushed back towards the wall and the dirt ground between me and Gemma erupted spits of dirt. The girl shrieked, coming to a halt so the boy slammed into her, and they both stumbled in a mess, and caught one another without falling. Trouble yelped.
I pushed from my spot, gathered them in my arms and we moved like a strange centipede to the opened gate where we slid through to immediately be met by a meridian of glowing yellow eyes perhaps fifty yards out. The mutants, things once human but twisted by some greater demon, fought over one another in their lurch with jagged motions, pale in the moonlight without hair and thin skin that clung to bald heads and mouths blackened from filth and teeth nubbed from the circular grinding of their jaws; the creatures came with their homunculus growls, their hunched backs, their lizard quickness. They came for the direction of the open gate and all I heard were screams and the scuffle of our shared balance as we took across the blue horizon of open space and I ushered across that expanse with the black ruins on the horizon and the smoke rose over the starless sky and although I was certain we’d be shot dead in the back, providence saved us—no, it was Dave.
The earth trembled beneath our feet, and I heard the confetti of rubble on rubble and the earth itself screamed and I knew Dave had done what he’d set out to.
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Howzat! I'm growing cricket bats on Diddly Squat's stickiest wicket
By Jeremy Clarkson (The Sunday Times, April 14)
Cricket. It goes on for weeks, and when it's over you play the same team again in a different city. And then again. And you stop every day for tea. And you wear a jumper, and most of the 12 spectators in the stands are dead. It's sport in the same way that gardening is sport. Or hoovering.
I found out this morning that for centuries there wasn't even a standard size for a cricket bat. You could turn up with a dustbin lid on a stick and simply park it in front of the stumps. Or you could do what an Australian player called Matthew Hayden did and use Thor's hammer.
I wish I'd known this when I was at school, because cricket was compulsory. So, twice a week, in the height of the hay fever season, I was forced to play. Which meant standing in front of the stumps while a big boy called Phil threw what was basically a rock at me. And I didn't have Thor's hammer or a dustbin lid to hide behind. Just a little plastic box to protect my man vegetables.
After being profoundly uncoordinated—and frightened—for a few minutes, my team would be out for about no runs and we'd have to do fielding. And because I was even more useless at catching, I was forced to stand in the long grass as far away from the action as possible. Which made my hay fever even worse.
Occasionally someone would hit a ball in my direction and I'd be asked to catch it. Which was impossible, partly because it was still hot from re-entering the Earth's atmosphere, but mostly because my eyes were streaming and I was on the cusp of a sneeze so gigantic it would rock seismographs in Hawaii.
As a result this superheated rock would smash into the end of a finger, causing me to howl in agony and sink to my knees, which meant I couldn't throw the ball back to the bowler. Which would cause the bigger boys to throw me in the plunge pool the next morning.And hit me with their sharp-cornered Globe-Trotter suitcases.
So today it's not as though I have a casual dislike of cricket. I actively hate it. I see people playing it sometimes when I'm in Surrey and my lip curls in an involuntary, animalistic display of rage. You know how your dog behaves when it sees a stranger walking past your house? Well, that's me driving through Chiddingfold. But now I've worked out how I can get my own back on these people. I'm going to take all of their money.
For the past 18 months I've been engaged in an interesting project at Diddly Squat, trying to monetise bits of the land that don't normally generate any cash at all. I've harvested blackberries and nettles and sent trees off to the local power station and, for the most part, it has all been a complete disaster. But I've remained hopeful that if I continue to experiment I will end up with a diamond mine. And so it turned out to be.
Here's what happened. I received word from the government's farming police that two of my trees that overhang a footpath for hard-working families in the rambling community might fall over and hit someone on the head. So, at considerable expense, I hired a machine to chop them down. And now I've received word from the farming police to say that the machine in question has made a mess of the footpath and that I need to clear it up in case someone falls over. Welcome to farming everyone.
And it really is a big hearty welcome, because the man who came with the second machine looked at the felled trees and said, "They're nice bat willows, those."
Obviously this meant nothing to me, so I checked it out with Cheerful Charlie, who explained that bat willows have nothing to do with squeaky upside-down "bat" bats, but rather leather-on-willow cricket bats. He knew all about this, telling me at length how he and his school friends used to count the grains in their bats and feel proud if there were eight or nine. I had no clue what he was on about. But he did say that my felled trees might produce ten clefts (no idea either). Which might be worth £750 because they could be turned into cricket bats, which might then retail for up to £900. Each.
So stand by, cricketists. I'm going to hurt you, but not like you hurt me. I'm going to hurt you in your wallets. I'm going to become the cricket bat king of Chipping Norton and I'm going to bash your credit cards until they look like Steve Martin's in Planes, Trains and Automobiles.
I've even done a business plan. Demand is huge in India and Pakistan, where cricket has always been popular. But now there's a game called T20 that can be played in as little as 17 days. In today's fast-paced life it has really caught on and some say that more than a billion people are playing it at any given moment. Some use bats made from Kashmir willow, but most prefer the English variety because it's lighter.
And there's more. Normal cricket has always been too slow and boring for the Americans, and so they decided to play rounders instead. But superfast, blink-and-you'll-miss-it T20 has caught on over there. It's not as big yet as Nascar or tractor pulls in Wisconsin, but there are now 6,000 teams and 200,000 players. And with TV coverage now coming on stream, that's set to explode. And over there they all want bats made from English willow.
Which is why, last weekend, I was to be found in a field we have at Diddly Squat called Cow Ground. It's littered with springs and, as a result, it's paradise for anyone who wants to lose a wellie in the ooze. It is, to use the language of AA Milne, a sad and boggy place. And that's exactly what bat willows love.
I therefore did a deal with a local supplier for 20 trees, which, even though they're already six or seven metres tall, cost only 20 quid each. The guy who sold them to me will then maintain them, using sandpaper on emerging branches every year to ensure there are no knots—a bad thing, apparently, if you're making cricket bats—and then, when I sell them back to him in 20 years' time, I get a cheque for what, in today's money, is £15,000.
Well, I won't get a cheque obviously, because there won't be cheques then.And there won't be a Jeremy Clarkson either. But there will be a Jeremy Clarkson's son, and he loves cricket. So that's a nice thing I think.
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Underdogs have all the power now. It's barking.
By Jeremy Clarkson (The Sunday Times, April 14)
If I were to tell you that a little old lady had been run over by a powerful BMW, you'd know in your head exactly what had happened. The old dear had been struggling to cross the road with her tartan shopping trolley full of jam and Werther's Originals when she'd been hit by a swaggering and possibly drunk Premier League footballer doing 150mph.
But hang on. What if I were to tell you that the old lady was that God-bothering Vennells woman who ran the Post Office, and that the powerful BMW was being driven by David Attenborough? That changes everything, doesn't it? Because now, in your head, you're on Sir Attenborough's side. Silly old bat. Had it coming. Same story. Different viewpoint entirely.
In this country we have always had a love affair with the underdog. If Plymouth Argyle were to meet Arsenal in an FA Cup football match, everyone in the country—apart from Piers Morgan and Colin Firth —would be cheering for the Devonists. It's the same story at Wimbledon, where the crowd invariably supports whoever happens to be losing. And be honest: there's a small part of you that wants Italy to win a Six Nations grand slam.
I think it's different in America. They like winners over there. But here we like the plucky Brit who came in second. That's why we adored Nigel Mansell and Tim Henman and Andy Murray. Until they started filling their trophy cabinets. Then we weren't so sure. And in sport this is fine. It's endearing, even. But we've now started to apply the same logic to absolutely everything else.
If you are rich and powerful, you are wrong. And if you are a lollipop lady, you are right. Politicians are all wrong. International businessmen too. But hard-working families in the community are all right. This is how we now sort out neighbourly hedge disputes. The one with the crap car on the drive wins. The one with the Audi loses.
I'm not going to trouble anyone this morning with the whole transgender issue and how we must all now fall into line with whatever they want. That's a job for Lee Anderson and GB News. Instead, I'll move on to India, where the road network has always worked on the very simple premise that "might is right". The pedestrian gives way to the bicycle, which gives way in turn to the tuk-tuk. Then you have the car, the bus, the lorry and, at the top of the food chain, the elephant. This makes sense, obviously. But over here in Britain we've now got it into our "small is beautiful" heads that the lorry, the bus, the car and the van must all give way to the bicycle. It is our elephant in the room, and we must all defer to its needs.
We are even applying this logic to wars. When Russia invaded Ukraine, the total number of people in Britain who went, "I wonder why," was about nought. Ukraine was Plymouth Argyle, and Russia was Arsenal, so we cheered for Ukraine. And now, of course, we are seeing the same thing happening in Gaza. Israel has a lot of fighter jets, so it is Max Verstappen. And Gaza doesn't have any maize, so it is Lando Norris.
I hear the same sort of thing is happening in the workplace. You have the boss. Well educated, well travelled and well read. He started the company and, through hard work and long hours, he made it successful. So in every meeting he knows what he wants to do and when and where. But current thinking dictates that first of all he must waste half an hour listening to some drooling teenage halfwit with blue hair and a bone in its nose, and then actively praise him/them for its insight.
There's more too. I was speaking to the boss of a multinational company last week and he said that he gets a complaint from a junior member of staff pretty much every week. Usually these complaints are complete nonsense, but in a world where the little person is always right, the reputational damage caused by such an accusation getting out would be so great that it's easier to write a cheque, type up a nice reference and send the complainant on their way.
Apparently, there's a group of people who make a very nice living doing this. Get a job. After a month say: "My boss looked at me funny." Trouser ten grand and move on.
In the olden days a woman couldn't realistically complain about her boss's wandering hands because she'd be ignored or demoted or told to stop wearing trousers. Obviously, that was stupid and wrong. But now the pendulum has swung so far the other way that she is always believed, and that's stupid and wrong as well.
Many bosses in the UK are now advised to never be alone with a junior member of staff. If the post boy or a secretary gets in a lift, get out. Because if there were to be an accusation and an inquiry, the boss is Arsenal, so he's wrong. And I'm sorry but if you were running a Chinese company and needed to set up an office in Europe somewhere, you'd take one look at this state of affairs and settle on Rome.
All of this brings me on to half a dozen angry young ladies who decided to stage a protest at my farm last week. God knows what they were complaining about. Their beavers, I think. Or was it badgers? Whatever, they used their extensive knowledge of the countryside and how it works to arrive at my...brewery. Where they stood in the rain for a little while, shouting and waving placards, before realising that the manufacture of lager doesn't affect the beaver one way or the other, really. Or the badger.
Should this story ever become tabloid fodder, I know exactly how it will play out. This tiny group of young ladies will receive a huge tidal wave of public support because they are the underdog, and I will have my trousers taken down because I'm Farmer Palmer.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
And here's the Sun column. Clarkson's columns are regularly collected as books. You can buy them from his boss or your local bookshop.

We are building a timberframe home in the snowy mountains of upstate NY ourselves, and have our own large hemlock lot, sawmill and family team to work with. As we try to keep costs low building our off-grid timberframe DIY, we are comparing the cost of enclosing it with SIPs or a 2x6 stick-built enclosure.
We are looking for recommendations from people who have done it before on a few questions:

1. For a stick-built, what layers did you include in your exterior walls? We are planning mostly wood board walls and some sheetrock inside in certain places, and board and batten siding. What insulation, house wraps, vapor barriers, etc, did you use? It would be super helpful if you could describe the layers of an exterior wall cross section, and also provide specific products/brands that worked well and we can price out.
2. For SIPs, what manufacturers do you recommend in cold climates (zone 6)? We have priced out Murus, Foard and other regional manufacturers. Are there national manufacturers we should be looking at where the shipping cost isn't insane?
3. When it comes to thermal bridging via roof overhangs, how has the stick-built enclosure community handled this? We want to have 4' roof overhangs on our 36' south side shed roof edge, and the north side, to shed snow far away from the house, and also cut summer sun exposure for cooling. It seems like using SIPs as the structural part of the overhang kind of builds in a solution for thermal bridging via the rafters, but some extra construction and attachment of overhangs would be needed for the stick-built approach to break thermal bridging from the timberframe rafters. We would want our overhangs to be able to hold a significant snow load -- 3-5" feet is possible in a big storm here. We are planning a metal roof.

We are grateful for your experience, approach recommendations and product suggestions! Thank you!

We just moved to a new house and shortly thereafter planned a new sauna build. We built one in 2019, a wood burner in the back yard on a lot of private, forested land. Moving to a city and decided that we needed to go electric so as to not waft woodsmoke around to the neighbors.
Started with a gravel shed pad. 4” of compacted crushed rock with the electric stub up. The smaller square pad is over a 3’ deep pit in well-draining soil filled with rock. This is where the outdoor shower will go.
6x8 Shed built by a dude on Craigslist that just builds these Amish style sheds. That’s all he does, builds sheds in a day. He was happy to build to spec for me, so I got him to build 8’ sidewalls with double top plates so the ceiling would come in around 8’. Housewrap, rough openings to my specifications, overhanging front, etc. No changing room because we’re in a warm climate, and the screened porch is right there. I stick built my own last time and decided it was worth it to hire it out this time.
Insulation is rockwool with foil vapor barrier and furring strips I cut out of 2x4s at 1/2”. Paneling is Nordic spruce that I found after waiting around for the right thing. Good balance of value/decent quality. I got tempered glass panes for window and door and framed them in with some butyl tape, spacers, etc. Door is a heavy beast…1/2” ply set into dados in a cedar frame with the t&g cladding on each side and a window. I used cedar boards for trim and braces and hung it with spring loaded hinges in a cedar door frame.
Benches are 2x4 select tight knot western red cedar. We wanted a more economical paneling but sprung for the cedar benches to introduce a bit of aroma and to create a bit of contrasting color. Ceiling is ~8’, top bench is 2.5 fists to the ceiling, middle bench is sittin’ distance from that, and low bench is meant as a step up. If you look closely to the left of the door, there’s also a small step in the corner. I think the low bench is 18”, so it’s a big step, and we felt like a little built in stool at 12” would be helpful.
For the floor, I opted for a combination of a all-purpose sealant and an elastomeric roof treatment made by afm safecoat. I talked to their tech, who recommended the combo for this application. I’ll probably build some duckboards. No drain…we pour water on the rocks and save the washing for the outdoor shower.
Ventilation is mechanical downdraft with the infinity S4 housed in the box you see under the benches. There’s flexible duct to a vent on the side of the box and the out the back wall. The intake vent is in the wall over the stove, halfway up the wall or so. The plug for the S4 goes out through a wall penetration and into an all-weather in-use receptacle box.
Stove is the euro cilindro 9kw. Electrician had to fool with it a bit but got it figured out. Test run this evening it was cruising past 80c in there when I turned it off. Electrical was the second biggest expense ($2350) after the shed construction ($3k). He trenched a 40’ run, ran conduit for the 12-2 for outdoor receptacles and the 8/3 wire for the stove. That shit’s expensive. He put a sub panel on the side of the building, stove hooked up with a liquid tight AC whip.
Next up is safety rails, robe hooks, duckboards, painting the exterior, building the outdoor shower, putting up some string lights in the yard, maybe some under bench lighting, building a paver patio out in front of it, and landscaping around the building.

"Hey, Beacon?"
"Yeah?"
"I ain't feeling too hot."
"I hear ya, I know you ain't."
---
A rap came at the Admiral's door, and there stood a young NCO.
"Sir, the final evac ship from Tertius just popped in."
"Alright, but why the face-to-face?" The elder Admiral swiveled in her chair to face the Warrant Officer.
"The transport captain claims he's got intel on some scout or somethin', sir."
The Admiral's expression went stone cold. "Get 'em here, pronto."
"Aye, Sir."
The Admiral inserted the holochip handed over by the ship’s captain into her desk computer.
"Chief, just by having that chip, you're in on some seriously classified Alliance Command stuff."
"Oh, uh, sorry, Sir. I'll skedaddle, and just so you know, I ain't no Chief."
"Well, you are now. As my right-hand, you gotta have the clearance."
"Sir?"
"You're gonna help me figure out what the heck we're about to witness. We'll chat about OCS later."
The admiral gestured for the now surprised Chief Warrant Officer to take a seat.
"Promotion and transfer paperwork's all squared away. Now, let's hope we can suss out why Beacon-36 went haywire and dig up who this Scout character is." The Admiral locked eyes with the Chief and added, "First off, here's the scoop: our evac plans had a major flaw. There was no safe way to shuttle folks from outside the main city to the transports. When the Praxitans first invaded, they had troops swarming the place. They were wrecking rescue and med ships, and taking out any humans they stumbled upon. Scout sorta fixed that mess for us, in a way. The Praxitans got more obsessed with hunting down Scout than destroying our rides. How Scout snagged Beacon-36, how they knew all our protocols—that's been a puzzle since day one. Beacon-36 was only supposed to ping out refugee locations and send out evacuation calls. The suit wouldn't let us boss it around remotely. We wanted to hunt it down ourselves, but it kept slipping through our fingers. But we couldn't turn down the assist. Those folks needed saving, and Scout, with that Beacon suit, got 'em out."
"Um, Sir? Why's a suit glitch such a big deal?"
"Hit play, let's hope it sheds some light."
"This here's the final report from Beacon-36. Mine. I'm hopin' Command gets this message. Included all the data we could gather on them Praxit folks, figured it'd be handy."
Then, the hologram projector flicked on, and the suit's camera data started playing.
The Admiral halted the playback. "So, they're gone." She shook her head. "Damn shame."
"Ma'am," the Chief started, "Whoever they were, they're on the shorter side. I'd say around 150 to 153 cm tall."
"Please, call me Ma'am. What's makin' you say that?"
"Look at that building, Ma'am, it's made of ferroconcrete. Even busted up like that, I recognize it's ours. Our colony buildings are typically 2.5 meters high, and you can see a piece of wall still standin' that tall. Scout's perspective suggests they were either two meters tall and kneelin', or they're standin' and, well, short. I'm rulin' out kneelin' 'cause of the movements Scout's makin'."
"Good catch, Chief. Anything else to add?"
"Well, Ma'am, I got a buncha questions already. I ain't know the Beacon suits had onboard AI."
The Admiral pondered for a moment. "Might as well spill the beans. Chief, what do you already know 'bout the Beacon series?"
"Well, Ma'am, it's a new combat suit. Recently rolled out for special ops on dicey planets. Heard it's lightyears ahead in tech. Now, with the AI revelation, I get why they're so darn effective."
The Admiral shook her head. "You're close, but the Alliance wants folks to think that. Here's the real deal: these suits are actually nanomachines. Pricey but easier to slap onto a soldier. They can self-repair and offer medical aid. But, here's the juicy bit, it ain't no AI like you'd think. Every suit..." The Admiral paused to sigh. "Every suit; every Marine signs up for scientific study upon death. Part of enlistment paperwork. Normally, it means they're up for an autopsy, so we can learn from their demise. That's how we get intel on our enemies, their gear, their tech."
"Ma'am?" the Chief chimed in, "I thought that was standard procedure, not voluntary. What's this got to do with the suits?"
"We strive to uphold our people's independence, right? That's a rhetorical question, so no need to answer. Now, onto your last query. The Alliance took that clause as a green light for scientific experimentation. Us, the Alliance R&D, figured out how to copy and tweak a dead person's consciousness, stickin' it into a computer."
"So, you're sayin' the suit AI is..."
"A human mind. Yeah. Supposed to strip away all personal memories, leavin' just a base personality and the soldier's life experiences."
"Ma'am, respectfully."
The Admiral cut him off, "I get it, I had the same damn concerns. But those jerks went ahead with it anyway. Now we got squads of these suits on every planet we've settled, even ones we're eyein' for settlin'. 41 suits on each planet. 17 colonies, and 12 maybes. 1300 souls turned into smart armor, if you count our backups. It's sickening. Let's keep goin', shall we?"
"Yeah. Yes, Ma'am."
"Beacon, give me the lowdown." Scout asked.
"We got twenty-five baddies, seventy civilians. Looks like the baddies are gearing up for executions, real soon." Beacon-36 replied.
"How soon we talkin'?"
"Can't say for sure, might be now, might be tomorrow. Still ain't cracked their playbook enough."
"What are our chances?"
"Not lookin' too hot, Cinnamon. 'Bout 64.5% shot at takin' down a dozen baddies, savin' 'bout forty civvies. Plus or minus five."
"What're the overall odds? Are we talkin' gold medal territory here?"
"Sorry, odds ain't that rosy. 'Bout twenty-two to three. 12%."
Cinnamon scanned the area. "If we can get up there, on top of that building. We can use the printin' overhang as cover. But we gotta distract 'em from offin' the prisoners. Any ideas on that, Beacon?"
"Gotta climb, jump jets are too loud. Though, we could maybe bait 'em with the jets. But guns'll definitelygrab their attention, and my sims show civilian casualties. So, blades only."
"Nah, no jets, can't risk takin' too many at once."
"So, toss a rock?"
Cinnamon sighed. "Patch me through to City Evac, please."
"Channel open. 'City Evac, this is Scout,'" Beacon fibbed. "Found another group. Seventy civvies in a bind, twenty-five baddies on site. Get a shuttle ready, expectin' some pushback. Sent coordinates."
"This is City Evac, got it. Shuttle preppin', ETA fifteen."
Beacon added, "Anythin' closer? Civvies might not hold out that long."
"Nah, we're swamped. Praxit ships above, and refugees galore. We'll hustle, gonna save 'em."
Cinnamon cursed as Beacon acknowledged. "These folks might not make it that long."
There was a pause before City Evac came back, "If anyone can pull it off... Good luck, Scout. Out."
"It's agony, damn it, agony. Why's it hurtin' like this? The suit ain't..."
"It'll ease up soon, I swear. Just gotta give it a minute."
"Did we screw somethin' up?"
"Nah, we nailed it, better than anyone's gonna believe."
"Cinnamon." The Admiral pausedthe playback, musing aloud. "Cinnamon. Could they be a dame? Maybe. Could be. Voice is all messed up, translator's useless. Is it a pet name? Beacon series ain't supposed to be that informal, or capable of lyin'. Beacon-36 seems... attached. Worried. Kinda protective." She trailed off.
"Ma'am, you got any records on who's in each suit?" the Chief queried.
"Yup. Good thinkin', hadn't thought to look yet," she murmured.
The Admiral got up, letting the Chief take over at her desk to dig through the archives.
"Capt. Jonathan Wray. 12th Division, 53rd Regiment, aka “Wray’s Wreckers”. Bit the dust on Septimus 22nd June, 2244 along with his whole squad. First smackdown by the Praxit. Leaves behind a missus, Eevi Lammi. Three rugrats. Suit got passed to Gunnery Sergeant Andre Thompson. Also from the 53rd Regiment, slotted for recon on Secundus, but ended up on Tertius, MIA as of five days back," the Chief reported. "You ain't reactin'. You already knew."
"Yeah, figured it'd hit home if you saw it yourself."
The Chief turned back to the screen, continuing the search.
"Eevi Lammi, and fam, currently holed up on Tertius."
"Curious twist, huh?" the Admiral remarked. "We got safeguards against this kinda mix-up, but sometimes wires get crossed. Beacon-36 to Secondus, Beacon-38 to Tertius. Stuff slips through."
"Mistakes happen."
"Yep, like trying to put a square peg in a round hole," the Admiral chuckled ruefully as she hit play again.
"One more thing, Ma'am. How many civvies did Scout... Cinnamon, manage to save in total?"
The Admiral's smile softened, almost proud. "Over two hundred civvies got out, brought 'em to the city for evac. Bagged over ninety Praxitan scalps, confirmed."
"All in five days?"
"Cinnamon wasn't one of ours, but damn well should've been. Wanted to shake their hand, give 'em a medal, then slap 'em with theft charges for swiping military gear. Guess we won't be doin' any of that."
First pair of Praxit went down easy. Cinnamon tossed a rock to the far end, and when those two Praxit goons went checkin', bam! Two knives to the back, right in their lungs. Cinnamon left 'em gaspin' for air, on their way out.
Next two, Cinnamon used those dyin' Praxit as bait. When the rest came pokin' around after five minutes, bam! Throats slit, chokin' on their own blood.
"Twenty-one," Cinnamon reported. "Any better odds?"
"Only if we hit 'em now, before they start the execution. Ten minutes for the shuttles," Beacon replied.
"Thoughts?"
"If it were me, I'd snipe from here, take out as many as possible. Flashbang to scramble 'em first, won't do much to the civvies, but them Praxit hate loud noises. Then move in close and hope I trained you right."
"Got it, wish me luck."
"You mean us," came the AI's exasperated response.
"AI trainin' Cinnamon? In four days?" the Chief spluttered.
"In one. First Scout reports came in four days back," the Admiral replied simply.
Cinnamon set the suit gun to sniper mode and rummaged through the grenade stash on the hip. Two flashbangs. This was the last shot at this trick until they found more; the suit couldn't whip up anything more complex.
Beacon chimed in, "Just two left, right? Been keepin' track."
"Why didn't you say somethin'?"
"I did, but you were too busy glued to those vids."
"'You'll rot your brain,' I know." Couldn't see the eye roll behind the mask, but could sure hear it.
"Figure we got 'bout three minutes to move."
"Well," Cinnamon said, "let's not waste any time."
The grenade landed among the Praxit line, far enough from the civvies to be safe but close enough to pack a punch. Flash blinded ten, left 'em all deaf. Five shots rang out, each findin' its mark in a Praxit dome.
"Thirteen," Cinnamon tallied.
"We gotta close in, now!" Beacon urged.
Cinnamon sprinted at full tilt, suit morphin' the rifle into a small gatling-style slug thrower. An acrid scent filled the air as the nanomachines pulled material to craft slugs. Fired off rounds as Cinnamon charged, takin' down three more Praxitans.
"Ten."
"You gotta count, too? That's my gig, y'know," Beacon snapped.
"Eight."
"They're regroupin'. Two flankin', five comin' straight at us, one headin' for the prisoners."
"Damn, we're cuttin' it close."
"Watch your language, and yeah, we'll make it. Nail the one with the microtether, spin 'round while he's strugglin'. Let the wire do the heavy liftin'. Then, pick your targets, I'll back you up with support functions."
"Copy," was all Cinnamon said.
The microdart zipped out, tagging the Praxitan captor in the shoulder. Cinnamon swooped in, powered by the suit, circlin' round the Praxitan while poppin' shots at the others. Let the filament coil 'round its arm and neck. Once it was taut, Cinnamon blasted off with the jump jets, severin' both head and arm clean off.
"Move!" came the muffled voice from Cinnamon's helmet, standin' guard between the captives and the Praxit, still lettin' rounds fly.
"Five," Beacon chimed in this time.
"I know, they took cover," Cinnamon snapped, duckin' behind a wall.
Rest of the brawl was short. Cinnamon caught a few hits, but the suit's nanomachines patched 'em up quick, body and suit alike.
"S'like the Evac ships are comin'," Cinnamon nodded toward the city.
"There's also transports comin' from the east. Not ours."
"Gonna need to stall for time, hold off City Evac."
"Who's this person?" the Chief piped up.
"I got a theory, but no solid proof," the Admiral replied.
"Ma'am?"
"What're the names of Captain Wray's kids, please."
After a quick search, the Chief answered, "Clark, Abigail, and Caroline, Ma'am."
"Which one's the oldest?"
"Caroline, fifteen. Born in 2234, same year the Cap'n got his commission. Think it's her, Ma'am?"
"What's the family's status?"
"They didn't make it onto any of the evac ships, Ma'am."
"Damn. Seems like the AI was tryna help his last kid, don't it?"
The Chief paused. "Ma'am, gotta admit, given what you said 'bout the AI, it's the only logical explanation with the info we got now. Gonna guess Scout, I mean Cinnamon, uh... Caroline's short trainin' period was 'cause her dad got her started early, like most dads from up North."
"Agree with that. Damn. Need more info to be sure."
"That's one hefty troop carrier, Dad." She sounded shaky, Beacon could tell 'cause she'd switched to family mode, all the tough talk vanished.
"Kiddo, that ain't no troop carrier. That's armor."
"A tank?" Cinnamon asked.
"Three of 'em. This was a setup. They were huntin' us, that's why they didn't off the captives." The implications hung heavy. Cinnamon and Beacon had put a real hurtin' on the Praxitan invaders over them four days.
"We ain't gonna make it, huh?"
"Caroline, we'll make it. Focus on the targets, focus on the mission. We'll get these folks out, then we'll haul ass outta here, safe and sound."
"Okay, Da... Beacon. Let's dive back into the fire, shall we?"
"Dad. Caroline. It's her, ain't it?" the Chief whispered.
"Looks like the savior of Tertius was a fifteen-year-old kid and a self-aware AI, once her pop. Whole situation's a mess."
"We gotta notify Command, right?"
"Not yet. Gotta finish this report first. Need to know what went down. Also gotta figure out when the suit started thinkin' for itself enough to find her."
She was bleeding, suit struggling to keep up with repairs.
First tank got stopped when she leaped up, tossed two fusion grenades down the barrel. Plasma guns on the walker smacked into her mid-air, but she made it.
Second tank only halted 'cause she moved quicker than its aim, dove under, planted charges. Had no clue she hit the reactor 'til it blew. Suit shielded her from the blast, but shrapnel ripped her chest.
"Evac shuttle's gone," Beacon's voice buzzed in her ears, almost deafening.
"Just one tank left," Cinnamon stated.
"Caroline, your vitals are bad. We gotta go, get you safe."
"Dad, we gotta finish. Can't risk the tank spilling our secrets."
"Baby, I know I dragged you in, but you're not... Suit's losin' juice, focusin' on keepin' you alive. If we go now, we ain't got enough power to fight. We gotta run."
"We can't, Dad. Can you override the med system? Put power back in weapons?"
"Don't wanna. Can't lose you."
"We gotta, Dad. Only way to ensure everyone's safe."
Long pause, then the suit AI whispered, "Fine."
Without the suit reconfigurin' for battle, she couldn't stand. Limped out to face the tank, no jump, no speed boost, no damping. Suit churned out one slug a sec, nanomachines pushed to the brink. Stood there, tank in her sights, determination her only weapon.
"Wanna try somethin'," Beacon said. "Keep dodgin' for thirty secs. Gonna drain the suit, but 23% chance we'll make it."
"Do it," Cinnamon said, just as plasma tore through her already wounded side.
"Can't be real!" the Chief blurted out, "Our top troops couldn't handle one tank, let alone two! And not one soldier would bounce back after takin' a hit like that!"
"She's got a drive our soldiers lack. Maybe it's the end of her world. Maybe it's duty, justice. Maybe she's tighter with that suit than we knew. Maybe it's her pop's voice in her ear. Maybe it's just who she is."
"Your left arm's busted, ribs cracked, lungs punctured. Can you stand?" Beacon's voice wavered, skippin' over the hole.
"I...I think so," she muttered.
"Alright, darlin', on three, get up and point your right arm at the tank. I won't let 'em take you too."
On three, she rose slow as the cannons fired. Her right arm morphed into the tank's cannon. With her last ounce of strength, she pulled the trigger. A blinding light shot from her arm, tearin' through the tank before she crumpled.
"That's not possible. Right?" the Chief exclaimed.
"I thought the same."
"AI built a Praxitan cannon with what's left of the suit's power? That ain't in the manual, Ma’am."
"Nah, it ain't. Command's gonna wanna hear 'bout this."
Hours ticked by.
"Where they at?"
"Evac shuttles on the way. Just gotta wait for the suit to patch you up and find some cover." Beacon fibbed.
Minutes dragged on, her breathin' gettin' rough.
"I...did...did I do...enough? Did we get 'em out?"
"Yeah...yeah, we did good, Cinnamon Toast. Real proud of you. Saved a bunch."
More time slid by, her breathin' gettin' faint.
"Dad, I'm beat," she whispered.
"I hear you, Caroline. Rest up. I'll stick around, waitin' on our ride," Beacon said, as the suit's power faded and the nanomachines crumbled.
"End transmission, sendin' out. Sorry...wish I could've..." Captain Jonathan Wray's final words.
"Time of death?" the Admiral inquired.
"1423, March 13th, Earth time," the Chief replied.
"Let's roll, off to Alliance Command. Got what we need."
"There's more tapes, Ma'am."
"We'll get to 'em. Let Tertius know where to find 'em."
"Aye, Ma'am."
"Chief Markov?"
"Yeah, Admiral Chandra?"
"Welcome to Alliance Intelligence. Don't screw up too bad. Big gig." She smiled sadly, then split.
Back on Earth, they got this thing for monuments. Lotsa alien folks find it weird, but hey, everything 'bout Terrans is offbeat.
Every time a colony goes down, a war breaks out, a big disaster hits—anytime there's a lot of folks lost, they slap up a new monument.
Over at Alliance HQ, there's this monument for when the Praxit came knockin' on Tertius' door. Went up after the Praxit war ended in '63, when the Terrans started fixin' up the old Praxitan world.
Seen it once. A marble tower, 3 meters high, names of the fallen carved in; standard Terran stuff. But this one's got a twist, somethin' no other memorial's got.
There's a statue, eye-level.
A young Terran gal in power armor, decked out in silver, standin' tall and starin' up at the sky. Above her left shoulder, there's a four-pointed star, also in silver, with a faint glow at its center. And there's words carved in.
2ndLt. Caroline "Cinnamon" Wray
Date of death, March 13, 2249
Maj. Jonathan "Beacon" Wray
Date of death, June 22, 2244 / March 13, 2249
"Our Children Guard Us Among the Stars"
To hear the story on YouTube from HERE 🔥 🚨
​

I am planning to replace the wrought iron porch columns with 6x6 wood beams. With this, I’m putting g the riser at the bottom so delay/avoid rot. It’s a 5/8” anchor that’s needed and the minimum depth says 2.75”. A calculation I read was to add the width of the anchored item (5.5”) plus the nut/washer combo (~0.5”) to the min required depth. This gives me roughly an 8.75” anchor that id have to drill an ~8.25” deep hole. This sounds wild to me, but does it sound accurate? I’m not sure the depth of the concrete pad but I’m willing to be it’s not 9”. What if the pad is just a regular 4” pad? Can someone shed some light on the accuracy of the depth and what’s needed? It’s an overhang of the house and is structural, but an 8” hole sounds like a lot, and then to find an anchor that long would be a task too.

I need to submit plans to build a 12x32 shed in my back yard. This is the narrative and images I plan on submitting. I understand building code is different for everyone, but in general are there any other specifics or views I should add? Located in San Marcos, Ca in case there are any others in here with experience.
https://imgur.com/a/7ZbWYhc
Foundation: 6” wide, 4” thick, 1/2” rebar reinforced concrete curb poured on existing 4” concrete foundation. 10” long, 5/8” galvanized all-thread drilled 3” into existing pad, 4’ to 6’ apart
Shed walls: Interior walls secured to curb via 5/8 galvanized all-thread. Walls are 8’ high from top of curb to top of double plate, studs are 16” OC. Double plates are staggered at a minimum of 36”. Exterior walls are covered in tyvek waterproof membrane and 1/2” siding
Doors/Windows: Doors are 7’ tall, and 6’ or 5’ wide. Door header consists of a 1/2" plywood core sandwiched between two 2x10’s. Windows are 3.5 feet off the ground and measure 36”x36” and 18”x36”. Window headers are 4x4’s.
Roof: Standard gable roof with a 4/12 pitch, rafters. 2x4 ridge board with 2x4 rafters spread 16” OC, rafter length is ~7’2” with a 10” overhang and 2x6 fascia board. Roof will be asphalt shingles over 5/8 plywood sheathing. Gables will be vented on both sides of the shed for adequate air flow

I don't even know if this is worth posting or if anyone will read, I'm not sure, but either way I think I just need to get some shit out of my head. sadly I'm no stranger to this subreddit, I've been here for years and that can only mean what it glaringly means.
to cut an incredibly long story short i have been continuously detained under section 3 of the mental health act in various hospitals since September of 2020- about 3.5 years straight. i could get into the intricacies of that but id be sat here typing for days. to put it briefly it's been hell, as you'd expect really, I was 16 at the time of being hospitalised, I turn twenty in a month or so. it is utterly harrowing. i feel like my entire adolescence has been a failure and a waste, and even before being hospitalised I have been suffering with my mental health for as long as I can recall.
in the last year I've been on a specialised eating disorder unit, my eating disorder being one of the many very present issues in my life. i got transferred here after being on 4 other units, all of different "types". i arguably have made progress in comparison to the way I was when I was when I was first on this ward; I was forcefully tube fed for 6 months and had also been on a 1:1 observation level for 2 years continuously after a very near miss with my life in 2021. I am not on the tube anymore, and I am on checks every ten minutes, I'd started getting frequent leave home for a good chunk of the week and I was genuinely trying to get better. I can't deny the fact that I did have happier times over the summer, so from an outside perspective I can understand why people are confused as to why things declined so rapidly. unfortunately what people don't see is the constant overhanging shadow over anything good in my life, even though I was having good times the suffering never went or let up. it feels like a constant compromise which may be something that if I had the fight in me to push through it, it'd go away, but I am tired. the more I pushed for a life I wanted to live the more my illnesses dug their heels in, truly a sense of things are really never going to change. the autumn/winter months always are a struggle and sadly 2023 was the first year marking some horrific trauma anniversaries, I got PTSD explored as a diagnosis and told that I do infect clearly have it. I was holding out for the end of the trauma anniversary season, January 17th to be specific. I was really hoping things would even out a little in some ways then. especially because we have been planning my discharge from hospital, which is a big thing regardless but as someone who has spent so much time in them continuously, it was very very important that things went right.
they weren't going right and I didn't know what to do. I so desperately wanted things to start getting a bit easier in some ways again but unfortunately the anniversaries just gave me that painful reminder that no matter how much I scream and fight against the demons in my head - they are never going to leave. just hover constantly, staining everything bright in my life with a melancholy blue/grey. I really did hope that the feeling of never belonging or having a reason to truly stay would go, but genuinely my mindset has not shifted since I was at least 9. and I wish I could say that I haven't tried to fight it but I really have, I have fought with every last speck of energy I have left in me and it just still doesn't seem to have done anything in the grand scheme of things. I promised myself time and time again that I would never end up suicidal in the same way I have been previously, for my sake and for everyone around me.
the more time that's passed since January, the more that hope has dwindled down further and further. i have cried out for help, saying that I am uncertain I can go on any longer and that my suicidal thoughts are getting more intense and serious again. I don't feel like they really took me seriously, the professionals just kept insisting we persevere forward and things would get easier. they didn't. they got worse and worse internally.
every week my mental state was crumbling more and more and I was literally and metaphorically screaming out for help. I was telling them I feel as if I'm fighting a losing battle, I do not know what will help me but I know I need help etc. again, just the whole "let's keep up the good momentum" thing, which I can understand works in some scenarios, but it did not in this one.
come the week of valentine's day and I genuinely hit full crisis. I came up with a serious and intricate plan to take my life on leave, my hope had vanished into the oblivion. I genuinely could not go on, the talk of suicide was not a gesture or a threat to try and warrant attention, I legitimately meant it. I was trying to tell them all so it wouldn't come as a shock. I informed the ward staff multiple times that I wouldn't live another week, I trashed my bedroom, threw my belongings into piles so they would be easier to throw into plastic bags to send home when I died, I'd written out a will which they'd found, and a note which they found but let me keep. I was fully serious about what I was saying, and they always tell me that I should tell someone if I have thoughts of ending my life, but this time their response to me reaching out in crisis was no different to if I had not said anything at all. it truly felt as if I'd been given the final green flag to go and finish myself off.
and that's what I did. I left the ward on Thursday night with my mother, they had told her some details but not all of what I had been saying. i usually play music and chat on the drive home, I have a fabulous relationship with my mother, so the fact I sat there in utter silence staring at my feet the whole time was very much unusual. before I'd left the ward I was screaming and sobbing, I told the staff that I appreciated all the work they'd done for me and how hard they had tried to help me, but this is it now. they would not be seeing me again.
just as i had planned to, I waited for everyone to go to bed. I tried to put on as much of a facade as possible with my family, again I have a genuinely wonderful family and I could not face the guilt of worrying them anymore than I had to. I hugged my mum goodnight and told my sisters I loved them, nothing out of the ordinary for our household but I needed them to know that I loved them. my mum sometimes checks on me in the night when I'm on home leave, something I hate that she has to do for her sake, but it puts her mind at rest that I am okay during the night when she's asleep. we usually agree on the amount of times, most often being once or twice. I told her once was okay tonight even though I knew it wasn't. I wanted her to feel like she was still doing everything she could, because she was.
once everyone was asleep, just before midnight, I went downstairs with my bag which had some medications I'd stolen from my mum's bedroom earlier that evening, some lose strips of medication I had in my room, and three cans of cider. I put on my boots so my feet wouldn't get cold and slipped out of the backdoor, so nobody would hear. i walked in the dead of night through my town until I found a spot I thought suitable. i didn't go far, less than a mile from my house, and right by a main road. but it was some bushes and trees so I thought they'd conceal the fact I was essentially in plain sight if/when the police started looking for me. I sat down in the leaves and took the medications I had with me, washed it down with a can or two of cider, and then made a quick phonecall to the ward. i knew someone would answer from the night shift, and I just told them "thank you for everything" and then hung up and turned my phone onto airplane mode. i lay down further into the bushes, and put my head down on my bag. I closed my eyes and hoped the combination of being anorexic, the medications I had taken, and the alcohol would take effect gradually.
before anyone comments to say, i know medication overdoses are not a quick and easy death. i unfortunately know it all, I've done the research for years for previous overdoses and attempts. overdose the 'poison I pick' because it is the one that affects others the least, which is a stupid thing to think when planning a suicide I know. but I cannot bring myself to depart this world in a way that would be even more traumatic than it had to be for who ever finds me, my family etc. it feels like the least I can do in the circumstances I'm in.
sadly I didn't feel particularly unwell from the cocktail I'd ingested in the night, sure I felt bad but not as quickly unwell as I know I could've been. I had woken up a few times in the night, a very broken sleep unsurprisingly given the circumstances. a few times I turned my phone off airplane mode, just wondering if anyone was actually looking for me. missed calls, texts from family, police and the ward flooded in. I listened to some voicemails but didn't return or respond to any calls or messages. the guilt was suffocating.
day broke and I was beginning to realise I needed something more to finish the job off, I was hesitant to leave my hiding spot because I did know I had been filed as a missing person, but uncertain if the police were actually looking for me as I'd been unintentionally within 500 yards of the station all night and not seen or heard one car or officer.
id gotten to the point of not giving a damn, convinced the world was happily moving around someone who is literally sat in a bush trying to take their life. i left my hiding spot and walked into the town centre right nearby and bought two packs of paracetamol and an energy drink. i forced a smile and a "have a nice day" to the unassuming cashier who had no idea she was essentially enabling a suicide. she didn't deserve that. I walked back to my spot and took some pills on the way, some when I was back. id kind of given up with being discreet, I felt invisible even though I was in plain sight, I did think to myself "is nobody looking at me and thinking 'what the hell's going on here?'" but I'd gotten to the point of just not giving a fuck.
give it another hour or so and again I decided it wasn't enough still, I walked back into town to a different shop and bought another two packs of paracetamol. i tried to get back to my hiding spot but my body was starting to show signs that the toxins had started hitting my system. i sat on the side of a road and took the rest. I just sat there staring into space, lots of people walked past me and saw me, maybe two people acknowledging me. one guy actually sat with me, I think he thought I was homeless because he was asking to get me some food. he was clearly a kind soul, he told me I looked awfully sad and that whatever im going through, that it will pass. he left because he had to go to work but he said if I was still there when he finished he'd get me something to eat.
im not sure how long I sat there but for reference I went missing at about 12am the night before. i saw a police car drive past and my stomach flipped, but they kept driving. eventually either the same one or a different car circled back and two female officers ran over to me and were radioing over that they'd found the missing person. they searched my bag and asked me if I'd taken anything and I nodded, but that was the most I was physically and mentally able to communicate, my body was starting to feel very very heavy. they found the empty pill packets in my bag and worked out even just some of the dose I'd taken and said I had to go to hospital immediately, I cried and begged them not to but realistically I was in no place to walk away from them, they took me to the back of the car and and ambulance would've been thirty minutes so they took me directly to hospital. they were talking a lot to me but again I was not really well enough to be talking much at all.
we arrived in A&E and I went almost immediately through to triage, the vomiting had started and my orientation levels were dwindling. I could still hear all of my surroundings, people rushing around me and trying to get blood and IV access. people were saying things along the lines of how severe the situation was but I did not think it was that bad. I did not care, and my body was too weak at this point for me to fight any of the interventions they were trying to put in place. i got placed in a majors bay and my mum and eldest sister arrived. I don't think I'll ever forget the look on their faces coming around that corner. I started sobbing instantly and telling them I'm sorry. they just said they were so glad I'd been found. I don't think anything could've prepared us for the events that would proceed.
my memory gets pretty hazy at this point, i was starting to suffer a lot of abdominal pain but thought I was just being dramatic. in reality I'd never felt pain like it in my life, I have a relatively high pain tolerance (coming from someone who has self harmed for years) but I was starting to writhe and scream in agony. i begged for pain relief and I vaguely remember having something syringed into my mouth but had no clue what it was. i thought it was anti sickness. it was morphine, which when they told me I didn't believe - to my knowledge the pain hadn't stopped or let up at all, I had fallen asleep after the first dose apparently but it wore off and evidently because my pain was excruciating. I remember my sister, who is a healthcare assistant in the hospital I was in, looking at my heart monitoring and telling me to breathe because my respirations were quite low because of the pain I was in. the majority of that afternoon is a blur, I can piece together bits here and there like a doctor coming in and telling me my paracetamol levels were extremely toxic and I desperately needed the antidote. they struggled a lot with IV access and I remember a lot of people being around me with needles and an ultrasound machine, a very kind looking nurse holding my head and stroking my hair. she cleaned up my stuffed animal my family had brought after I'd been sick on him.
when I next woke up I was on a ward and my mum was next to my bed. I was connected to drips but I was able to talk a fair bit with my mum for the first time since being found. i felt very poorly and was vomiting a LOT but was a lot more orientated than I had been and my pain had calmed down considerably. this was unfortunately the calm before the storm. the next day I was moved to another ward and saw my mum, my sister and my dad. things started to get pretty bad in the evening, throughout the day I was becoming more and more jaundiced, which was alarming for everyone to watch- including myself. the doctors were coming to see me very frequently and taking a lot of bloods and talking a lot with me and my family. they were telling me that my bloods were not looking good. I wasn't completely aware of the severity of what that meant, even when they got the ICU team to come and speak to me and say that there's potential for me to be moved there overnight depending on how things go. i had a catheter placed, they told me my kidneys were struggling along with my liver. what they were actually saying was I was in acute liver failure and kidney failure. they were liasing with the liver specialists for the region I was in. I thought at the time this was just protocol because my bloods were on the worse side, I was wrong.
I got moved to ICU, i don't remember the move even though I didn't properly go unconscious at any point. I remember getting there and getting a central line and arterial line placed. i was incredibly drowsy, I just kept sleeping so I wasn't very aware of the gravity of the situation. my family weren't allowed in when I first got there, but when they came in they looked deeply concerned, but clearly trying to hide it to not make matters worse. i wasn't aware that they'd been in the relatives room, my mother had been on the phone to the liver team giving them a more thorough history of my mental health. my eldest sister asked me if I'd heard what they'd said to me at one point and I said "that I don't need a transplant?" and she said, "no, you need one but you don't meet the criteria. they said it would be a 'waste' (probably not their actual words) because of your history" that didn't really process. it still hasn't. they were telling me some of the numbers for my bloods, which I do understand because this isn't the first overdose I've taken, and they were alarming.
I looked a nurse in the eye and asked her if I was going to die, she responded with "I don't know"
irrespective of how suicidal someone is, that is an utterly jarring sentence to hear.
everything was much of a blur, I was just sleeping and sleeping, occasionally waking up. at one point my middle sister turned up which REALLY surprised me, not because I don't think she cares, but I know she really really hates hospitals, she struggles to come and see me in the mental health units and those are a lot less clinical. this was intensive care, just about as clinical as you could get. i didn't know she'd come home from a day out she'd been looking forward to for ages to come and see me, because it might've been the last time she ever did.
my family were told to prepare for the worst and hope for the best, my liver was in a dire state and not much could be done. they were told i would likely go onto a ventilator and eventually die, the mortality rate was just too high given my circumstances. the chances of me surviving were slim, genuinely very minute in comparison to the fatality chances. i wasn't aware of how serious things were, but I could see on my family's faces something was deeply deeply troubling them. the guilt was and still is suffocating.
they gave me a fresh frozen plasma infusion as a last ditch effort to get my liver to respond. it did, but even then they told my family that it may not mean anything, it was simply too soon to tell. i slept and slept, I was hooked up lots of wires and lines, I was jaundiced and incredibly puffy and swollen due to the fluid retention from my kidneys failing. I was not remotely well. I still haven't processed how bad it was, like seriously.
my liver function gradually started improving a little, still very out of range and damaged but it was 'trending' in the right direction. my kidneys were stil bad, getting worse and they were talking about haemodialysis to filter out the excess fluid if it came to it. it was very much a case of watching and waiting, thankfully I didn't end up needing the dialysis/filtration as that would've been another line placed. i spent a total of 9 days actually in intensive care, I remained in ICU after I'd been told that clinically I was okay to step down to a ward, just because there was no massive rush to get me out and there was also no other beds that had come up for me to go to.
I got physically well enough to start going to the hospital café with my family every day or so, which was a nice taste of normality amongst the hell that was going on, but we were all still shellshocked and still are. we did a lot of talking, a lot of sudden crying. my family said sentences that felt like kicks to the stomach, I know that's not what they wanted, but i really was not aware of how serious things were at the time. my eldest sister said something along the lines of how this was almost paralleled trauma-wise to when she got sexually assaulted. that really stuck with me; that was one of the worst things she had ever been through and to this day still suffers with the flashbacks and trauma from it.
my mum told me that she told the transplant team that she'd give a piece of her liver if it'd save me. she got told it would be a waste. my mother is possibly the most selfless person I know. she really would give anything to save her kids, I cannot imagine the pain she felt hearing those words.
my grandmother and her pastor friend came to see me, I'm not religious personally (agnostic) but the fact they told me they had been praying for me pulled on my heart strings, one prayer was done in the relatives room when I was first in ICU, the second being around my bed when I was a little more orientated.
my dad had gotten a Travelodge locally (parents are divorced lol) so he could come and see me every day. he's autistic so I know a disruption like this to his routine would probably be very bothersome, but I suppose given the circumstances that was the least of his worries.
i got medically cleared to come back to the mental health unit I'm staying at currently this week, unfortunately the better I got physically the more apparent my mental state became.
it's still the same.
despite the agony i have seen in my most loved ones, and the hell I've been through, I cannot help but wish I had passed on. I do not want to DIE, that's not really the case with suicidal people really. I want a life that is not full of the constant overshadowing of gloom on any good I feel, I do not want to just be "stable". I want peace, so so desperately, but I have mentally exhausted every possible way I could find that in life, and none of them seem feasible. I wish they were. I know I have a family who love me and whom I love, I have passions and talents. I know it's a waste. I know all of this so much but yet the pain I feel in my mind overpowers it all. I truly feel like I am drowning in my own head.
the mental health system seems to have failed me or vice versa one too many times. i feel like ive lost all hope. i am utterly defeated. i came so close to actually dying, deeply traumatized my family, friends and myself. and yet my mindset is still stagnant and has been since i can remember. it's this constant pulling feeling in my stomach that I cannot rid myself of no matter what I try, the unshakeable feeling of not having a future no matter how desperately you want one. i am at a loss.
other things have happened this week in regards to my mental health treatment that I won't even get into because they have broken me even more than I already was, but to put it in short I feel perpetually misunderstood and misheard, dismissed and overlooked. i feel like I am slipping through the cracks time and time again of a system that promised to help me. im at a loss. i am just existing, in a state of constant fight or flight. i just want to be better but my soul is so tired.
if you read all of that, or even some, thank you and I'm sorry. I don't particularly expect anyone to fully read through the small novel I've just spent an hour and a half typing out, but I just needed to put it somewhere.

Hello everyone, thank you for clicking on my post. It's gonna be pretty long, so I appreciate your time and help;

I'm a relatively young independent contractor and graduate engineer. I'm trying to steer my life in a direction that will have me designing and building one-off, small but beautiful homes/cottages for clients.
The funding and feasibility of this type of project is beyond the scope of this discussion. Please assume that it's going to happen, even if you feel it's a ridiculous idea. You may very well be right, but my concern at this time is in choosing which Architectural design program would be best.
I have put together a Pinterest board to illustrate the type of architecture I'd be aiming for. It's stuff like this: https://pin.it/2Cau3MUoE
I'm aiming for modern cottages. They will be fairly simple from a structural perspective -- I won't be doing any crazy cantilevers or suspended buildings, for example, but will contain some more exotic decorative design elements.
These include things like pillars or piers holding half of the building aloft, unique roof designs with large overhangs, large curtain walls, "architectural" or "exotic" exterior wall and roof claddings, and other design elements like rooflines which blend seamlessly with walls. Additionally, the framing of the structure will involve multiple materials, with some walls being ICF, while others are timber-framed, and with a floor assembly maybe involving some steel beams, depending on structural requirements.
The buildings would be small, maxing out at around 1500 Sq ft.
Now, the reason for my post is because although I have an educational background in computer-aided design, and am quite familiar with CAD programs like Solidworks, Solidedge, AutoCAD, and even Revit, I don't know if Revit is really the best program for me, and this type of design.
I've taken about 40-50 hours of guided tutorials on Revit through Udemy. I can now easily handle all the basics, and create finished projects for simple buildings. What I've started to notice, however, both first-hand, and from forum discussions, is that Revit really isn't geared towards residential, timber-framed, highly-architectural construction.
I tried my hand at designing a simple wood-framed garden shed, and, compared to building a "normal" building in Revit with the pre-existing wall families, designing this shed on a stud-by-stud basis was like pulling teeth. Wood-framing add-ons exist, but are phenomenally expensive, and heaven forbid you go to change the length of a wall after...
The reason I need to design these buildings on a stud-by-stud level is because I will be the one building them. I have been working as a general contractor and fine craftsman for several years now, and my intention is to build these places myself, with my hands, and my tools. Doing this stud-by-stud level design is my opportunity to plan things out, make sure my joinery works, figure out dimensions and conflicts, etc.
Of course, the tasks that are beyond what a single person can do, will be sub-contracted out. The foundation pour, the sceptic install, electrical, plumbing, etc., is all going to be hired out to the respective professionals. Everything else, though, like the framing, roofing, sheathing, etc., will be me. The projects will take several years each. Once again, the feasibility or financial reality of these projects is beyond the scope of this discussion.
I know that Revit is the "powerful but cumbersome" program. I know that everything IS possible in it, but sometimes at so high of a time-cost, that it simply isn't worth it.. This has lead me to reconsider if Revit is the best program for me, or if there are programs better suited to the style of buildings I want to make.
As far as I can tell, there are five options that may serve me: 1) Revit 2) ArchiCAD 3) Chief Architect 4) Google Sketchup 5) Solidworks

What I'm needing from the program is the following:

1. The ability to design the entire structural framing of the building on an element-by-element basis. That means every stud, every floor joist, every roof rafter, and, most importantly, for these elements to have "mates" or other kinds of relationships, such that if I decided to raise the ceiling in a room, for example, the studs move with it. It would be extremely painful to need to go in and manually change the height of every stud, should I make a change to the layout.
2. The ability to design the joinery and construction details of building elements. That means the birdmouth cuts in the rafters, the miters on the ends of the rafters, and so on.
3. The ability to design the entire building envelope on an element-by-element basis. That means modelling every 4x8 sheet of plywood sheathing on the exterior walls, ever 4x8 panel of drywall on the interior ones, all the floor sheathing, insulation panels, etc. Being able to model detail elements like joist hangers, electrical outlet boxes, etc., would also be fantastic.
4. The ability to model different types of wall and floor assemblies, such as using a few steel beams in a floor assembly if needed, or vertical steel beams for architectural reasons, or a random concrete wall in the middle of the structure, or even slanted wall assemblies.
5. The ability to do some basic landscape modelling. I don't need full terrain mapping or terrain elevations, but at least being able to draw out a stand-in green slab for the ground, and model a basic patio or a driveway would be great.
6. The ability to do some very basic modelling of MEP systems through the use of basic geometric shapes. I do NOT need a full MEP side to the program, but being able to model a basic cylinder passing through my floor assembly as a stand-in for an HVAC duct or something would be very useful.
7. The ability to generate lots of diagrams and drawings. Elevation views, cross-section views, and, most importantly, construction diagrams of the wall, roof, and floor assemblies, with dimensions and annotations.

Based on these needs, and what I've seen of each program, my thinking is as follows:

Revit: It can handle them all, but it's extremely cumbersome. I have to place studs and joists by using column and beam families in the structural side of the program, but first I need to manually create all of the different columns and beams I'll need, and then these structural elements don't play well with the architectural side of the program, and, and, and, it's all very cumbersome.
ArchiCAD: This program seems like it could be a good choice, but I'm basing that entirely on this video. It seems very similar to Revit, but a bit more intuitive to use, and like it handles element-by-element construction better than Revit.
Chief Architect: By FAR the best program to use for timber-framed construction, but only if you're keeping to relatively tame suburban design. I made a post on the Chief Architect forums that generated great discussion, and the consensus seems to be that although Cheif excels as the framing and diagram part, it can't handle the unique architectural features AT ALL. Even something like a simple slanted wall will completely break it.
Google Sketchup: Correct me if I'm wrong, but Sketchup is not a parametric design program, it is a "push and pull" program, more akin to Blender. Quite frankly, I don't know how I would efficiently design a building in this program, if I have to take many steps just to assign a fixed length to a specific beam, for example. Admittedly, though, this is the program I know the least about. My understanding is also that the program does not have a means to create elevation views, or shop drawings, or any kinds of diagrams, without first needing to find or purchase add-on programs to gain this functionality.
Solidworks: This is the program I have the most experience in, with a few hundred hours, and a university course in it. However, it's designed more for mechanical engineering and small parts, and so its workflow of needing to design elements individually as separate files, then save and assemble them manually in an assembly by assigning mates, is extremely time-consuming, and performance-heavy. It also cares a LOT about minutia, spitting out errors and screaming at you if you forget to assign a coordinate origin for a given part, for example.
And so that's where I'm at. Five different programs, and no sense of which one would be best for me.
Any help, insight, or suggestions is greatly appreciated. Thank you for taking the time to read this.

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Nova's Children Patreon Subreddit Discord Paperback Bissem Lore
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Memory Transcription Subject: Tassi, Bissem Scientist
Date [standardized human time]: March 17, 2160
The hotel was difficult to miss, seemingly tailored to extraterrestrial clientele; this venue must’ve been where diplomatic guests from across the galaxy were brought in. Certain floors even had unique environmental controls, from what Dustin explained—perhaps some of those could be useful for accommodating Bissem subspecies, who had varying climate preferences. The floor we were brought to was part of the “Standard” lodgings, suitable for most species, including humans. My beak parted with a bit of enthusiasm, as the Terran waved at an indoor pool. I could see primate guests and Thafki being the primary occupants, with the massive natives somehow finding buoyancy. It was strange to see how violently they kicked the water, while moving a single arm at a time in rotational fashion. Certainly not the most graceful-looking technique.
The Yotul’s vitriol left my feathers ruffled, though I was attempting to shake it off. How could I squander the first opportunity to absorb everything about Earth’s culture? One resentful species shouldn’t ruin the entirety of the trip. I would’ve loved to stop just for a brief moment, and enjoy a swim with Haliska, but the Thafki seemed engrossed in a joint call with Nulia. From the sound of it, my first inclination would’ve been to assume they were checking in with Ivrana…but how would instantaneous communication across light-years be possible? I decided to keep my thoughts to myself, until a proper opportunity to question our hosts arose.
The spaceships take time to “tunnel” through space, as best as I understand it. The only way I can imagine FTL comms working is quantum entanglement: some variant of it. That’s a bold assumption though. Even the Selmer, in their frigid polar environment, have trouble keeping it cold enough for quantum computers to function at all.
General Naltor certainly had a brooding look on his face, throughout the entirety of our trek to our quarters. Dustin, meanwhile, was busy going through a speech about having room service laid out in advance; the thought of testing Earth’s culinary delights excited me. After all of that walking, I was downright famished. I decided to trust our hosts, if he said that we could eat their food. The frozen fish they’d thawed out back on the ship hadn’t harmed us, even if the flavor was a bit reductive. The invention of modern fishing techniques was the cornerstone moment of Bissem history—I wondered when, and how, humans began trawling their oceans.
“Dustin, are you sure that Haliska will be alright, with fish being served to us? I don’t want to impact her trauma,” I remarked.
The human flashed his teeth. “Ah, that’s kind of you to consider. I’ll keep an eye on her, but she should be fine; she didn’t have a problem with my choice of food during our training. I think the problem partially was the knowledge that your food was a real, dead animal, not something lab-grown. Knowing that human meat is mainly vat-created has allowed us to…excuse it away.”
Naltor seemed to gag on his own tongue. “Lab-grown? I swear, you and your team threw those words around earlier, but I let you fiends distract me with cure this, predator that. Shit, I was ready to agree to anything to save Ivrana. ‘Vat-created?’ What the fuck do you mean by that?”
“We take stem cell samples from animal embryos, and trigger them to grow into muscles and fat in a lab. Nothing dies, nothing has to be raised: you can create as much as you want, from a small collection of viable cultures. It’s allowed us to supply food to a rapidly growing population, and give our oceans a rest.”
“Don’t tell me this is your plan for Ivrana! It sounds like these cells…metastasize. You’re feeding us fucking cancer! There’s no chance this unnatural shit is safe, or something I would’ve knowingly put in my beak.”
“It’s nothing like cancer: it’s inducing a natural, biological process. Cells for lifeforms are meant to replicate. Actually, the shit that causes cancer is probably the growth hormones you use in your farms. Our practices are sustainable, they save land we need for agriculture…and we can even control how much saturated fat winds up in the final product, making it healthier.”
I tilted my head in thought. “I can see several advantages, Naltor. We’re deeply overfishing our oceans, and this technology could help us. Plus, I doubt they’d eat it themselves if it was dangerous. If this makes Haliska less uncomfortable, then I’m all for it. We need to be mindful of our image, especially with certain statements making the rounds here.”
“We have done nothing to have an image problem, except exist!” the Selmer general challenged. “Though I don’t know what those Tseia fuckwits have done. I don’t think they’ve had any positive contributions to Ivrana, in our entire history.”
“You’re correct about existing, Naltor, but perhaps you should reconsider your hostility toward the Tseia. They probably don’t feel too positively about Selmer or Vritala, since you both tried to invade them. There used to be four subspecies of Bissems, hm? That was before the other nations pillaged Nelmin. Wouldn’t the Tseia have shared their fate, if you weren’t driven back?” Dustin countered.
“That was a long time ago. My country didn’t even exist back then, and the Vritala had a damn fiefdom in those days. I thought you weren’t here to judge our history: that you wanted us not to judge yours. That you’d made your own mistakes.”
“I’m not judging your mistakes. I’m encouraging you to understand a different perspective from your own. There’s no reason you can’t learn from the past’s lessons; failure to do so makes it inevitable that they’ll happen again.”
“That’s all well-and-dandy, but if you want to talk about the past: the Tseia are reclusive and sketchy as Kail. Lassmin is considered to be on good terms with those war-happy nomads just because they’ll humor conversations with us. I’ve always thought they were a threat to our peace; that they’d be the last to ever want Bissem Unity. Now, they’re proving me right by fucking up first contact!”
Concern caused me to clutch my flippers to my chest. “There’s no need to get so defensive, Naltor. We don’t even know what the Tseia have done.”
“It’s alright,” Dustin assured me. “We should wait to have all the facts. I just…I think I already know what I have to suggest. If it’s as bad as the Yotul say, we need to approach the Tseia, or all chances of getting into the Sapient Coalition will be gone. Arranging a parlay on Alsh, we can’t afford such biases. We have to go there.”
“That’s suicide.”
“So is letting Ivrana die,” I countered. “With the up-ice climb we already have, we can’t afford more opposition. I won’t let first contact be ruined.”
“I appreciate your passion. Haliska and Nulia are conferencing live with our monitoring station, back in Ivrana’s system.” Dustin’s words offered confirmation of FTL comms. Makes it much easier for them to communicate across the Coalition, I imagine; and it’ll help us stay in touch with Earth. “Let’s take this into a private venue; this is one of your rooms here. We’ll see what my teammates have to say, and we’ll make a plan to get all of the nations on our side.”
The Gojid sociologist was jotting down several notes for herself, while the Thafki seemed to be listening intently to the latest intel from Ivrana. I couldn’t help but wonder how the people back home were taking the news of first contact; it was clear, given how standoffish the Tseia were behaving, that not all Bissems were welcoming our visitors with open flippers. It was my hope that the Merlei Huddedom and the Confederation of Vrital were a bit more receptive to the aliens. The Lassian diplomats must be working overtime, banking on years of forged relations to make the other nations amenable. Did we have an in-road with the Tseia? How were the other countries handling the fact that the visitors only contacted us?
Haliska looks worried, and I don’t think it’s about the fish. That can’t be a positive sign.
Dustin clapped his hands, finding plates set out under metal trays. “Ah, food is here! The one with a green sticker is for you, Hallie. Dig in, please.”
Naltor didn’t look exhilarated about sampling the offerings, after learning how they were sourced, so I decided to set an open-minded example. My flippers grabbed a human culinary tool, and I dove into a tender fish cutlet; it was delectable, juicy and falling apart in my beak. Finally giving in to the pleas of his stomach, the Selmer general took some miserable bites from his own serving. The Sapient Coalition hosts picked at their meals, more focused on conferring among themselves. As we ate in relative silence, I absorbed the standard layout of a Terran lodging; the couch and television beckoned to me, granting access to an entire catalog of media. They hadn’t spared any expense. The suite was spacious enough to be an entire apartment, back home!
With my plate cleaned in record time, I found my willpower restored. “Thank you for the meal. It was lovely. We appreciate the generous accommodations—”
“Don’t mention it. We want you to see the best Earth has to offer. Need some reason for why you’d want to join us, with all our baggage,” Dustin chuckled.
“It seems we have our own problems too. If you don’t mind my forwardness, it’s my job to ensure that first contact goes smoothly. I need to know what’s going on back home with the Tseia Nomads, and the other nations.”
“Let’s start with the positives. The Merlei Huddledom and the Confederation of Vrital both are eager to speak with us, and have taken assurances of our goodwill well. I think we should send a representative from our team to both, alongside an analyst from the outpost who speaks their language and some Lassian diplomats. Emphasizing that we intend not to favoritize any faction, or to play kingmaker, is key.”
“I like the idea of opening channels with all nations. I’m sure you know, but be warned that the Huddledom are hypersocial—and their frigid environment would be hazardous to you.”
“We’re well aware,” Nulia answered. “There’s a reason the analysts we trained in each pole’s Huddle Tongue were Jaur. They’ll be able to handle the temperatures, whereas I was planning to volunteer as the landing party’s representative. I don’t mind wearing an environmental suit. Haliska can handle the Confederation of Vrital, who have the closest ties to your country. Hopefully, Lassmin can help coordinate our reception.”
General Naltor set down his fork. “I can make arrangements for your safe passage, but I can’t go with you to Selmer territory. The Huddledom…sees me as a traitor. I was the first officer of my country to defect to a nation created by Vritala. I wouldn’t be welcome there, though Tassi shouldn’t have the same issues.”
“We’ve done background research on you both,” Haliska commented. “The disclosure is appreciated, nevertheless.”
“Given that you read minds, I shouldn’t be surprised by your disregard for privacy.”
“I think they just wanted to know who they were dealing with,” I sighed. “They’d want something resembling a background check, for the first Bissems to cross their borders.”
Nulia drummed her claws on the table. “It’s also that understanding you on a personal level helps us, to avoid offending you. We’re setting the groundwork for relations between our species. If anything goes wrong between us, it could spell diplomatic catastrophe.”
“We’re committed to making sure this entire process goes as smoothly as possible. There’s enough complications as it is,” Dustin sighed. “Nulia, tell them what the Tseia said in their…public address.”
“I guess I get the joy of being the messenger.”
“I had to tell them about the Arxur, and Earth being almost knocked off. You’re getting a softball, compared to that.”
“You do have a point. The Tseia hadn’t been communicating through diplomatic channels, right up until the point they released a statement on their government’s account. In essence, they stated that Bissems shouldn’t trust the aliens, and that they’ll…defend their territory from threats from the stars. It’s in line with their standard distaste for outsiders, yet it’s brazen to outright threaten to shoot us on sight. Lassian diplomats haven’t been able to reach them since then, either, so we can’t even talk it through.”
How could the Tseia be so blind to the bigger picture, treating a non-Bissem intelligence like any other outsider to be shot down? There are too many opportunities for our entire planet. Like Dustin said in his speech, their medicine and mechanical prowess can save lives.
Naltor smashed his fork against the table, earning looks from all of us. “Now, do you see my point? You can’t just fly off for a civil conversation, Dustin. Tell me, how much research have you done on the Tseia? Did you observe more about them than we all know?”
“What Naltor is saying is that, even in the internet age, the Tseia haven’t linked up with the rest of us. They seem to have their own isolated network. The Nomads talk to our diplomats, but nobody lands on their soil. They put metal overhangs atop their cities, just to hide them from satellites. There’s not much we can tell you about their culture, apart from the fact they migrate from city to city, and have one home for each season,” I commented.
“Given how easily they acquired all of the data about us, I was hopeful our alien friends might be able to shed some light. Nobody can say why the Tseia do anything, but they’re fucking strange. During the old space race, never having tipped off any interest in the stars, they launched the first rocket to Ivrana’s orbit, before computers were invented. Then, they went to war with the world over Nelmin, when they’d always kept to themselves; suddenly, it was meant to be theirs. Tell me, does the Sapient Coalition have any inkling on the Tseia’s ways?”
Dustin grimaced. “Well…no. Those things are mysteries to us as much as you. We attempted to tap into their networks, but were unable to crack their encryption, even with quantum supercomputers. It’s impressive.”
The Selmer’s expression was priceless. “You’re telling me those nomads were unhackable, when you got through our military-grade encryption like it was nothing.”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying. We only learned their language through your databases.”
“Their computer technology exceeds what we would expect from Bissems, given its recent discovery,” Nulia commented. “It’s possible that your date, on the advent of computers, is wrong altogether. That would answer your rocket mystery.”
“And possibly why they’re reclusive. But not why they conceal their technology level from all of you.” Haliska lashed her tail, pushing a forkful of greens around her plate. “Again, we can only speculate. There must be some kind of reason, cultural or otherwise, for the isolationism.”
“And to find out, we need to talk to the Tseia. The way they’re threatening us…fearmongering about our arrival…I think they’re scared, just like Naltor and his military were.”
My mind was reeling from the aliens’ hypotheses, which suggested that the Tseia had made sophisticated advances and kept those for themselves. How could Bissem technology hold a candle to alien marvels, whose capabilities should’ve blown ours out of the water? It was a testament to how we’d underestimated the Nomads, beyond just the obvious case of the surprise rocket launch. My immediate thought was whether they’d tapped into the Sapient Coalition’s outpost network, and learned about the Federation; that was the most logical reason to be frightened. If the war’s horrors were released in an uncontrolled fashion, the effect on the Bissem public could be devastating. I hoped this was a case of isolationist paranoia, but if it wasn’t, I agreed with the human that we needed to get a handle on it.
I can picture the mass panic, learning about entire worlds being destroyed, carnivore hatred, and people being eaten. If I’m right, that’s the worst way the Tseia could’ve found out the galaxy’s history.
“I wasn’t scared. I was alarmed about your arrival,” Naltor grumbled.
Dustin’s eyes rotated up toward his brain. “Whatever you say. You know, I was tempted to wave at the snipers, but I don’t think they’d have liked that.”
“You knew about the snipers?”
“We have heat vision cameras. Just saying.”
“And your plan is to touch down on Alsh, where you can’t see the snipers? Where nobody is granted entrance…after they openly pledged to blow your brains out?”
“Yes and no. I was thinking more washing up on their shores, under a Lassian flag. You’re the only ones they talk to, and that means they might hold fire on a diplomatic vessel. I would’ve liked to have a longer holiday here on Earth, but I believe we need to turn back for Ivrana tomorrow. Every day this drags on, the Yotul’s case gets stronger.”
“Won’t it make you look bad, not honoring their request for you to stay away?” I murmured. “You told us you would’ve left, if that was our wish. I also believe they’re serious about their threat to kill you.”
“Hm. I will leave, should they ask politely in person. Perhaps we’re wrong not to respect their ‘Keep Out’ message, but they simply…must recant the public statements, for the sake of our mission. Ivrana is in dire straits. I’ll sleep fine at night, and to save an entire planet, I can stomach the risks.”
“I’ve come to like you, Dustin, and though he won’t admit it, Naltor does too. Neither of us want anything to happen to you. I would feel terrible if first contact ended in a tragedy, not to mention what it could mean between our two peoples. I want to fix this mess as much as you do, but perhaps it should be Lassian diplomats taking the plunge.”
“I agree with Dr. Tassi,” Nulia said, her spines half-raised in alarm. “There’s no reason for you to put yourself in such…grave peril.”
The human slammed a fist on the table. “The reason is that we need to communicate that we’re not a threat. Sending the Lassians alone could make us at fault for the next Global War, whereas if I go, it’s just one of their ships. I believe in Bissems. If I put myself at their mercy, they’ll see that they have the power. That there’s nothing to fear. It has to be me, and I won’t be dissuaded.”
“Then let us go with you,” Haliska countered, nervously preening her fur. “This could be my fault, for the meltdown at the feast. We’re a team; you don’t have to sacrifice yourself alone.”
“If they’re going to kill aliens on sight, there’s no reason for our whole first contact party to die. That level of carnage would give the United Nations pause, despite their commitment to help. I won’t risk our entire connection to the Bissems. There’s been too much blood, sweat, and tears into this program. A decade of our lives.”
My stomach churned, knowing I couldn’t let Dustin venture off alone. “Then I’m tagging along. This is my life’s work, and I have to do my part to protect you. I’ll make sure the Lassian government doesn’t seek retribution…in the event of our demise. I’m representing FAI, not them.”
”There’s not a chance in hell—”
“You’re like one of Kail’s cultists, trying to be a martyr,” Naltor interjected. “If you want a Lassian boat, you’re taking both Tassi and I with you. We’re…in this together now. For all Bissems. And don’t worry: I won’t go spewing my thoughts about the Tseia to their faces. We go the three of us, or we don’t go at all. Got it?”
“You could leave a little room for debate.” The human hesitated, a weary look in his eyes, but was unable to withstand the general’s authoritative assertions. “If you insist, but I don’t like it. Putting people in harm’s way isn’t something I’m used to.”
“That’s why you’re bringing a military man along. Too much naivety, between you and Tassi. This ocean crisis sounds like serious shit, and I won’t let a single country doom our planet. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect Ivrana.”
“Thank you. I…guess I’ll have our people get in touch with Lassmin. We know how we’re handling each of the factions.”
Dustin stood from the table, clearly having lost his appetite during our discussion. The flavorful fish cutlet that I had devoured suddenly felt heavy as a rock in my stomach, as it occurred to me what I had insisted on; I’d been watching the human lay himself out on train tracks, and I couldn’t bear it. Just when Bissems discovered aliens, my life could be ending in a few days. There was some solace that I had lived to the point where we discovered extraterrestrial intelligence—and had been the first Bissem to see another planet—but there was still so much I wanted to learn. Sailing toward the continent known for torching unwanted visitors on sight was suicide, even if it was the only way to attempt to save diplomatic relations.
I rubbed the spot where my implant had been placed, feeling stress boiling within me. My first priority was to get a memory transcription before we departed for Tseia territory…in case this was my final week in the land of the living. I wanted people to know that I was willing to sacrifice myself for this cause, and to know how truly excited I was about these newcomers. When Dustin and Nulia got scanned before the ship launch tomorrow, I would quietly have my thoughts taken down. It would take a miracle of good faith from the nomads to depart alive, if the fact that they were “friendly” with Lassmin counted for anything. We had no other choice to find out why the third subspecies had hidden so much from the rest of Bissemkind.
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Thump.
The door to the clinic shook yet again, as it had been wont to do for some time. The cabinet rattled slightly, the locks and thick glass keeping its contents from spilling out onto the floor. How long the attempts to enter had been going on for was a mystery; only some wisp of lucidity even noticed it happening at all.
Thump.
It seemed the frame was reinforced, which made sense for a room designed to treat the injured. Barring structural requirements, were one to awaken here, it wouldn’t be unexpected for at least a single instance of confusion to necessitate stronger walls and locks.
Thump.
Would that mean it utilized an unknown alloy? Perhaps it was constructed with some sort of alien technique that rendered her explosives inert or useless?
Thump.
Did it really matter?
Thump.
No, not really. It was only a matter of time until whatever was keeping them out would give way, and then her life would join the list of things taken from her.
Thump.
The last vestige of interest waned, Sunundra’s focus dissipating entirely. There was nothing worth thinking about anymore. There was no reason left. Only cold. Only the warmth that bled from her body, feeding one who would never again reciprocate it. Only the broken form which lay beneath her curled existence…
Numb. Cold. Alone.
Broken.
Tears had ceased, her cries gone unheard by both the Mother and reality. The shaking stopped, for even that was too strenuous an activity for the one waiting for the Void to claim her as well. Her sorrow had vanished.
Or, more accurately, there was nothing but sorrow, and thus it became all she knew, as opposed to an aberration.
She was numbed in mind and body. She was cold in both flesh and soul. She was alone.
Her bond was broken.
And so was she.
Sterile white walls contrasted crimson-smeared floors. Silver metal lay stained with vermilion. Her grey and yellow fur had long since been matted with deep reds and mottled orange. Everything carried evidence of their struggle—their futile attempts to persist. Everything touted her failure as a mark of inadequacy, surrounding her with bloodied hues of laughter and mockery. The shadows that waited under overhanging countertops crawled outward into the open, absorbing the light as it crept closer and closer.
They taunted her, the tendrils reminding her how little effort they spared in slipping past her attempts to shield her other, stealing him from her pitiful grasp. Now, they meandered along the edges of her periphery, flicking and swaying as they made their languid hunt towards the unmoving and unresponsive, toying with their prey and enjoying her despondency. Soon enough, they would claim her, no matter how long it would take. Either they would cut and crush her from the inside, or the enemy would dispose of her with a spray of weapons fire. She could save time and suffering by ending it herself, of course…
…But she didn’t want to leave him. She didn’t want him to be cold. She didn’t want him to be alone. She would fall to the Void with him in her arms, hoping that he felt her devotion while he waited, and that he was warmed by her embrace, knowing not to stray too far. Otherwise, they might be separated in the endless eternity.
Perhaps the Hunt Mother had smiled upon him, bestowing access to her Great Hunt as a guest. He would likely balk at the idea of exercising vengeance against his foes for eternity, though he might find solace in being welcomed amongst the pack of the valiant.
‘A gift to the abandoned,’ he would be titled. ‘A kin of different form,’ they would call him. And Sunundra would be denied his presence, standing outside the silver brickwork of the Lunar Fortress and the joys within. The Mirrors would reflect nothing, for that was what she became. The Scale would never judge her offerings as enough. The Smoke would obscure her view, and the Torch would never light the way. The Stars would never share their knowledge of where she went wrong.
She would be as she always was, rejected and discarded, while Bill would be pitied by the beloved for suffering her presence, and the misfortune of being gifted to a defective. Generations upon generations would offer him respite and companionship in return. He was kind, if strange; they would understand. He would be cherished by them. He would be loved, receiving affection endlessly as he adjusted and smiled with his new pack. He would be happy.
She would be too, as long as he was.
Would he pause and gaze into the distant fields, wondering when she was to join him? Or would he forget her, immersed in more than she could ever provide? More than she was going to give…
‘They could have a den with just the two of them,’ she had thought, only now knowing what she would deprive him of. ‘She might host his kits, gaining their approval and easing his mind,’ was the plan, though it had become apparent how misguided that would be. ‘He could learn skills for fulfilling employment,’ amongst those who would scowl and detest him for the defective’s scent lingering on his skin. ‘They would live away from the cities,’ where she would trap him unknowingly, robbing him of the meaning which came from an actual den-pack.
Blinded by the light of gaining what she thought unobtainable, she was willing to limit him from having those very same comforts. Her preparations to enjoy the company of another would be at the cost of his everything. She was greedy, content with claiming him for herself, while never considering what he would be denied in her avarice. She had failed to treasure the gift, thinking she would be enough. Were it another defect who spent their life devoid of care, then perhaps she might be, but for one unafflicted? One who knew the affectionate touch of another, and who received smiles instead of scorn? No. All she would do is shackle him. She was foolish to think otherwise.
And so, he was taken—a penance for making light of the Mother’s generosity.
Thus, the pale-furred female lay atop the unmoving form of the one who showed her the difference between tolerant fondness and love, her ear pressed against his chest while her muzzle tilted up to nuzzle into his neck, inhaling the last of his deadened scent.
She listened to the heart that would never beat, her own slowing to match. She felt the cold that would never warm, her temperature falling as well. She heard echoes of the breaths that would never again fuel his caring words, her lungs losing strength without him. She blearily gazed at the pale flesh that would never redden in that adorable way, and the lips which would never meet her own in that odd kiss, their differences making the connection all the more special. Her pads rubbed over the skin that would never shiver under her touch, and the dull claws that would never stroke her fur.
Numb. Cold. Broken.
Tired. She was tired of trying. She was tired of failing. She was…just tired. Tired and alone. Though, hopefully, not for much longer.
The clinic faded behind her closing eyes. The end would come soon, and when it did, she would learn if he had been welcomed or discarded. If he awaited her, then she would have eternity to apologize for her worthlessness. If not…
Well, she would drift, but he would be happy. He would have everything he deserved, and everything she had ever wanted. That was enough.
She let the darkness take her.
= = = = =
“That’s it?”
Heroon blinked, registering the criticism as his own a moment after saying it. Flares of indignation burned in his throat, irrational anger and doubt being restrained by careful breaths and tensed muscles. The defect lifted her gaze from the table, a shadow of a sardonic smirk pulling at her muzzle. It only made him more irritated, but the exact reason for why escaped him at the moment.
“You gave up?” he continued, though against his better judgment.
“Yet I live,” she replied weakly. A heavy guilt remained in her voice, but at least she was no longer nearly silent. It didn’t do much to stop his scowl from deepening.
“If your objective was to convince me that your bond is true, then I believe that alone is what caused you to have failed. Few remain after having a primordial part of themselves torn from their soul, and fewer still do not seek to avenge it. Those who do not are unable to do more than writhe in agony until the Void lays its claim.”
And history agreed with him. Although he had never bonded himself, it was a rare occurrence that most all strived to achieve, and those in positions such as his were required to know it well. There was a reason why separating bonds was considered a deplorable war crime; it is likely to cause civil unrest in the best of cases—a revolt at worst.
The knowledge that one’s other half was being kept from them led to very similar occurrences as those described by the pale-furred female. In instances where they were unable to rectify such, those who were successfully restrained had been reported to have suffered greatly until expiring—typically from wounds that were self-inflicted or gained while trying to reunite with their bond. If the bond itself was forcibly broken, then it was a foregone conclusion that the remaining bonded would not willingly cease until any who were even tangentially related to the event were but corpses. Only then would they join their bond in what lies beyond.
‘Broken’ did not simply mean despondent; it often referred to the shackles of civility and reason which clattered to the ground, releasing a feral thirst for vengeance and blood. It alluded to what would become of those who had brought such release to begin with.
“There was nothing left to fight for,” the defective whispered airily.
It was strange to be so dejected by the statement, but he silently chastised himself all the same, feeling his commiseration turn into a foundation of ire. He had been starting to truly accept that a defect might have bonded. Ah. That’s what the feeling was: disappointment. He was disappointed in someone whose plight had gained his sympathy. Surprising as it was for a defect to be the target of such pity, he couldn’t quite retain the neutral cadence he had used until now, slipping into a detached, if bitter drawl.
“So be it. Continue.”
“I have not uttered falsehood, High Quesitar.”
“Of course. You may continue.” He couldn’t quite hide the dismissal in his voice, nor bring himself to much care for his monitoring equipment. The rest of this interrogation was going to be but a formality—records held as proof they did as tasked.
The female tightened her paws into fists. “You must believe me…”
Heroon exhaled. “As I have stated, no bonded would be still when their bond has been removed by another. Say what you will, but that has been proven as fact time and time again.”
Her form trembled, fresh ichor spilling onto the tabletop from clenched claws piercing her pads. Her fur bristled as her lowered gaze focused on the crimson streaks.
“I know not of others, high one, but I am viciously aware of what it is to lose one’s self,” she hissed, pain and anger adding an edge to her clipped response. “I have not lost a ‘part’ of myself, but the whole. I am what remains when one is broken so entirely…”
She looked back at the dividing one-way wall, vexation pulling her lips into a small snarl as dampness shimmered in her eyes.
“…I learned what it was to have my heart stop, yet still have a pulse. To suffocate, yet still breathe. To be blinded, yet still see. To fall so cold, yet bleed warmth into the one who could never be warmed again.” The visage of simmering rage subsided, returning to a look of shaded suffering. “I learned what it was to have my form shut down, system by system, while watching him fade in my embrace, unable to do a single thing to stop it… There is no falsehood in saying that, High Quesitar. I learned what it was to die.”
“And yet you live,” he sighed, echoing her own words back at her. The bonds were potent, but far from enough to cause such overblown descriptions. They swayed emotions and opinions, but never with such force. They caused phantom sensations at times, but would never do as she claimed. Barring her sudden penchant for the dramatic, he was slowly finding himself in agreement with his assistant; the contained one seemed to have gone mad some time ago.
The defect nodded listlessly, that singular flicker of hope in her eyes giving life to an otherwise decayed expression. “Technically, yes.”
The wry humour in her voice had him raising a brow in morbid curiosity. “Technically?”
She smiled at them—a weak and fragile smile, but a smile all the same.
= = = = =
It was dark. It was always dark, in a way, yet she knew this darkness would persist. She could travel for as long as she liked, until even her ashes could move no more, and she would never find an end to the crushing black expanse. It would always be black.
So, she drifted, letting the tides of nothing carry her where they wish. There was no reason to fight it anymore. There was no reason to question it. There was no reason to be anymore.
She had failed to protect the only one she had.
The nothing continued, though she couldn’t tell how long she allowed the current to drag her along. Not that she deserved to know, nor would she be able to in the first place. All she gleaned from the infinity awaiting her was that it was overseen by a malevolent force, because the endless darkness eventually did give way to something else; she just wished it didn’t.
Sunundra regarded the enclosure with a neutral expression, flexing her paw as she ignored the room from her youth. Her claws passed through the door, proving she was an ephemeral visitor of times since passed. Walking through it proved fruitless, leaving her to take in a place she would rather forget. It was a cruel joke, surely, to be locked away by herself where affection was but a twisted dream.
Yet Sunundra wasn’t alone.
Small, unmoving, and curling her tail around herself in a pale imitation of an embrace, a grey and yellow-furred kit held her knees to her chest, staring at something that didn’t exist in the confines of her sparse room. A bed lay perfectly made, the thin layer of dust coating its surface from when it was made so many moons ago. Old clothing populated long unopened drawers in a modular dresser, never having seen new additions for at least a year, and rarely being interacted with in the first place. The floor was in much the same condition as the furnishings, save for two spots that were slightly less unkempt—the spot where her younger self was, and another near the door. She remembered often pressing an ear to the barrier, pretending that the voices filled with affection would, one sun, be directed at her as well.
They never were.
That eventually changed—or she believed at the time. Her blood-mother had apologized, teaching the neglected kit how to pray and what to ask for. It was the first time in a sea of isolation that the pale-furred offspring had smiled, the sensation straining underused muscles. The occasions where they petitioned the Goddess together were frequent at first, but slowly tapered off until she would spend their agreed upon moons sleeplessly waiting for the only kindness she knew to return.
After it became apparent that only a sparse few of those moons would allow her to have willing company, she started praying on her own—first on the planned suns, then beyond such. It soon became every moon that she absently gazed at nothing in particular while she spoke to the Mother. Maybe it was in an attempt to become ‘good’ at prayer so that her blood-mother would approve, but it became a heartfelt effort to have someone…anyone listen. Knowing that she was heard kept her sane. It taught her patience. It taught her how to be alone.
…Well, she thought so…
There wasn’t as much negligence in cleaning as there had once been—a product of her den-father praising the neatness, then criticizing the dust. Though bitter and dismissive, they had been the most positive words the kit had heard in a long, long time, so she took it as a kind-hearted direction on how to improve. He never commented on it again, but she eagerly assumed that was good, and maintained it as best she could, though long stints of not seeing those of the den she lived in had finally worn down that misguided enthusiasm. Naught but a tray of food regularly left in front of her door assured her that she was not forgotten. It meant they still cared, even if she was unsure why they wouldn’t speak with her anymore, nor why her presence outside the room made everyone so upset. Still, she tried to be tidy. She tried to be quiet. She tried to be good.
Just as they liked it. Just as she should be.
The door opened without a single knock, illuminating the darkened room. The kit’s eyes snapped towards the intruder with a mixture of surprise and hope. Sunundra stared at the brightened face gazing through her as the details of the moon came to mind. As much as she wanted to, she knew nothing would come of trying to warn her past self. All she could do was watch.
Her blood-mother stepped in excitedly, the broad smile needing no confirmation for the observer to remember every minute detail. Her blood-father and a den-father shared the same expression, though tinted with what she would come to know as manipulative amusement.
Sunundra’s throat dried as she watched the older Lilhun hug the kit, the small one frozen in shock and worry as good news poured into impressionable ears. Her arm reached out to stop the hated young from beaming with joy and disbelief when the two males joined to confirm that they were going on a trip to the church—that her condition would be cured, and how she would be included in the den’s lives again. Her legs gave way as she rewatched the last time she had truly believed that suffering was temporary.
The kit revelled in the touch of another, stunned by how warm and soft it was after so long without. The tiny one shed reluctant tears when she was told she was loved, forgetting what those words had sounded like. The gullible young took in the scents of various foods and places outside, not quite sure what was wrong as she indulged in the subtleties of where everyone had been while she was locked away, only that she could smell fine, and that the unseen problem would be fixed soon. The kit didn’t notice the scornful glares of the males, the rapturous relief of the one who birthed her, nor the manic tone that coloured those promises.
But Sunundra did, and she was powerless to stop her younger self from ever being deceived.
- - - - -
Idle chatter filled the nearby street, the dense population near the city centre filling walkways with their conversations until they came close. Their disdainful stares and venomous remarks went unacknowledged by a somewhat older kit, her paws on her lap as she dutifully watched from just beyond the steps of the church. Faithfuls gave her a wide berth as they passed, even though she had already moved several times in an attempt not to inconvenience others as much. The few that slowed to contemplate if they should shoo her away were met with a smile. It hadn’t yet become as practised as it would eventually be, but it was a genuine display of her intention to be friendly. They ignored it as usual, scoffing before departing to complain to the priests about the filth polluting the air on sacred grounds, leaving her smile a little more strained each time.
Sunundra stood behind the hopeful kit, watching hatred accumulate for one who only wanted to be visible when her den returned for her, regardless of the years it had been since she was abandoned. Chemical burns blackened the fringes of grey fur, most hidden behind the outdated clothing she was afforded or found hidden in the back of storage. An old notepad rested alongside her, doubtlessly filled with speculation and copied notation from the few books she owned, detailing potential chemical reactions or records of previous findings. The forefront of the pages were dedicated to powerful cleaning compounds that would eventually become the basis for most of her demolition charges.
Sunundra allowed a wry smirk at how simple the transition had been, and how stubbornly optimistic the kit was determined to remain. She remembered how beaten those books were, and how hard she studied to understand them. She could recall the resentful way they were given to her—a solution to her insistent requests to access the library—but she was so grateful that she burst into tears anyway, blind to the revulsion as she showered the dispassionate priest with gratitude.
The moon graced the horizon after a fruitless wait and only a single rock being thrown, the kit having long since grown to accept that she would have to try again the next sun. Her den hadn’t come, but there was less shouting to endure this time, and no one had forced the priests to come get her, so it was worth the attempt. It didn’t stop the cracks in her facade, nor the swelling in her arm from where she was hit. Tears built in her eyes, but she slapped her cheeks and doubled down on her outward joy, appearing happy and welcoming, no matter how much it hurt.
Just as she was taught. Just as they wanted. Just as she should be.
The kit stood, stretching out to her diminutive height before collecting her things and staring at the restaurant across the street, her stomach painfully empty. A recent advertisement for the United Military in the window caught her attention. Sunundra recalled the words printed on it without looking, the promises of loyal packs and good intentions having been all she hoped for, and the lofty ambitions they claimed to offer were indeed provided.
But not to her.
The kit headed back to the church before she was disciplined for taking too long, ready for the routine of cleaning and studying. She would accidentally stumble across her first proper explosive that moon, then spend the remainder of it cleaning up the mess. A lock would be destroyed, having malfunctioned long ago and far too expensive to call a specialist for. The priests would begrudgingly thank her for what amounted to being reckless with dangerous chemicals, and careless with how she applied them. The aggressive lecture would be drowned out by the miniscule praise still ringing in her ears.
The young defect would become enamoured with the craft, learning that there was more than violence to be achieved if she continued to explore her hobby. She would stop waiting by the steps for her den, convinced that she simply wasn’t yet accomplished enough to be worth their attention. She needed to be better, make her den proud, and then they would welcome her back with open arms.
And she had just the way to do it.
The kit contacted a recruiter once she had a small variety of prototype charges, planning to show how useful she could be in search and rescue operations, or assist in clearing debris inside collapsed buildings. She was accepted.
The reception of the other soldiers may have been cold, but she was regularly assigned to certain groups, so some came to cease their hostility and resign themselves to scarce words or wilful indifference. For a time, she was happy. Others spoke to her, regardless of how poisonous their tone was. She knew they appreciated what she could offer when they were deployed, even if they never actually voiced it. They learned of her schedule, and those who could tolerate her condition the most would weather her presence, allowing her inattentive company for her meals.
It was more than she thought she deserved, and back then, she believed it the most she would ever get. It motivated her to try harder, create more specialized charges, and perfect the ones she already had. She gained a title besides ‘defect’ due to her efforts, and despite how ironic she found it to be, she was overjoyed to be called ‘Demolitions.’ Her ceaseless striving to be useful had been acknowledged.
She never considered that her exploits would be noticed by higher stations, nor that accepting the honeyed promises would only lead to more hurt. She didn’t think that her new moniker would become all she was allowed to be, and that her name would never be uttered by another. She left the church after thanking the priests for everything, receiving thinly veiled relief that she was too excited to hear.
The pale-furred kit stopped being a person at some point. She became a solution to specific problems, and nothing else.
But she was happy.
Sunundra watched the delusional kit from afar for every fragmented event, wondering why she had never tried to swallow her own explosives long before she was given the chance to be shown how miserable she really was.
- - - - -
The pale-furred female stood stiff before the Third Claw of the United Military, a practical male who gazed at all beneath his station with the same hostility he afforded her. It made her feel normal, if only for a few moments. Being the smallest of the gathered unit was a fact that took some time to get used to, but it allowed her to place charges in spaces that others of her specialty couldn’t. It made her uniquely effective on occasions, and was part of why she was in the presence of one so highly respected.
Her legs burned from the full extension, her joints protesting how strenuous the limiting posture was—a requirement for showing proper subservience, but tiring all the same. Her tail was pinned to her spine, pressing her black and red training uniform to her back, the recently singed fur exposing a small cut on the appendage. The most recent deployment had earned the attention of her superiors, and so the group was summoned to be inspected and tested. Her own examination went as silently as any other time someone was forced to check her health, but the ‘test’ had been an exercise in saving a ‘civilian’ from a simulated hostile stronghold.
By herself.
Of course, being that she had experience with getting others into wherever they needed to be during emergencies, her concern was doing so safely. After a quick examination of the structure's exterior and likely floor plan, she made it to the captive in four well-placed explosives, with one smoke charge to cover her movements. No one had the chance to reveal if the weapons they equipped were loaded with training rounds or not, and she had never drawn her own to check. It was a bloodless success.
The Third Claw started at the end of the line, summarizing the task and method of each soldier, as well as criticisms that the committee had regarding their performance. His voice was cold and threatening, though it became surprisingly warm when he was pleased by someone’s result. He praised bravery, ingenuity, quick thinking, persistence, and in the case of an accident injuring the ‘civilian,’ he recommended a rank increase for a candidate who simultaneously treated their target’s wounds while fending off the enemy.
Sunundra leaned against the wall behind all those nervous soldiers, retrospectively seeing the dejection in those that failed to meet expectations, and the smug sense of malicious respite as the male drew near the defective. She saw the vicious grins as they leaned in to hear the specifics of how horribly the unwanted female had performed, then the blank expressions when the Third Claw simply said that she was in the wrong branch, ordering her promotion effective immediately. That stunned silence became bitter hatred when they discovered that she was being transferred to his chain of command, and it worsened when they couldn’t find out where. They asked, but she didn’t have an answer to provide.
The pale-furred female’s elation at receiving recognition for her efforts quickly sank when subjected to her unit’s true feelings. Yet she held hope that it would be enough for her den to accept her.
Then she was informed that she couldn’t ever tell anyone of where she was being assigned, and would need to pass several routine checks to get leave in order to see them. She did, but they had moved away, leaving only the empty husk of a deprecated building behind.
The last thing she held onto hope for wavered, caught by the layers upon layers of self-delusion and years of repeating the same prayers she was taught so long ago. She smiled, redirecting her efforts to making friends amongst the others, ignoring the buried hurt and knowing that she would only ever be ‘Demo.’ She persisted through the rejection and constant hostility, reasoning every chip out of her resolve as but one more thing she would need to become better at.
Sunundra closed her eyes as the memory played, a pale-furred female jolting off her chair when a male spoke to her while she was mixing compounds aboard the ship. She clenched her fists as that male offered the defect his paw and helped her up, the pitiful demolitions expert falling smitten with what she thought to be a blindingly genuine smile.
She fell quiet when that bright, excited female entered the cafeteria with hope shining in her eyes. She felt her stomach roll as the final crack in that fragile soul was made, the name she was to never give becoming a slur specifically for her. She was unable to stop the female from abandoning her post for an opportunity that would scar her more than suffering ever would.
She had never been happy, but that’s what made enduring through the years possible. It was why she was certain that she could never endure it again.
She knew what it was to actually smile now, instead of merely donning a mask and platitudes to cover the agony. She knew what it was to feel another’s touch beyond mandatory examinations. She knew what it was to hear her name said warmly, and to be subject to honest affections. She knew what it was to be welcomed, and not just delude herself into accepting the slightest tolerance as kindness.
She knew what it was to love.
She knew what it was to break.
Yet, even as the Union shuttle lifted off of the unmanned flight pad and shot off into the sky, Sunundra hadn’t even called out to the delusional female heading to meet that fate, nor had the urge to. She was surprised to feel a wistful smile on her face, knowing how treacherous the coming suns would be for the defect who entrusted her body to aliens in hopes of being fixed.
Because, no matter how fictional it might be, that female would learn what it was to love as well. And for however short a time…
…She would truly be happy.
Just as she should have always been.
- - - - -
Thump.
The hazy scenes faded, leaving her in the endless darkness once more. She closed her eyes and brought her knees to her chest, wrapping her tail around herself as she had done so many times before. At least she had known it to be a pitiful emulation of the real thing since she was young; comparing this to how Bill held her would have just made it painful.
She drifted in whatever vacantness this was in wait for the enemy or the Void itself to lay claim to her demise. She wasn’t sure if it would be different, nor if it mattered in the first place. He wasn’t here. He would never be here. She was cold. She was numb. She was alone.
No, she was always alone. She was just too pathetic to accept it.
There were no more hallucinations to distract her, no more recollections of painful memories, and no more reason to endure. What point was there in gaining vengeance, when there was nothing left to revel in obtaining it? Why would she draw the enemy’s blood when it would only prolong her suffering? Bill would rather her pass painlessly. He would rather her not become a mangled corpse clinging to self-indulgent rage.
He didn’t wish for her to slay in his name; he wished her safe, begging for it with what little he had left to give. He wished her to be loved and accepted.
Thump.
A listless sigh slipped from her muzzle. After everything she had suffered through, she couldn’t even grant a single wish of the one who granted her own. Forget being a welcomed member of some idyllic den; she was unfit to be loved at all. She couldn’t save him, she had abandoned her ire at the ones who tortured her kin, and now she simply waited for the end of it all. She was a failure, with no way to rectify it. She should die a failure’s death. It was right.
But…it wasn’t. It was supposed to be right, and most everything agreed with her, but something silently protested in her core. Something insisted that there was more, clinging to its reason so that it might never escape. No matter how much she inquired or thought about it, the answer never came, only a feral urgency to listen being provided. She was tired of trying and never succeeding, yet the something demanded her to persist. Sunundra opened her eyes bitterly, unable to find so much as peace in the expanse that promised nothing but.
Light. Not much, and nothing more than a speck in the distance, but in the infinite black of the endless abyss, that speck of light was a beacon in the dark. Curious, she chose to inspect it, if only to stop what was disturbing the silence of her impending demise.
Thump.
It took a few moments to make sense of things, but she managed to coax her aimless drifting into a more directed form, confirming that this was all of what remained of her shattered soul instead of the promised Void. The realization answered as many questions as it raised, though those were all dismissed once she came close to whatever the illumination was.
It was still tiny, the single mote dimly casting an orange hue over the grey and yellow of her fur. She touched it with a claw.
Warm. Whole. Complete. It flooded her empty form with remnants of fullness.
It was a wish—a fragment of time captured for eternity, spitefully denying the end that awaited her. A single desire not of her own, pleaded for by one who could no longer achieve it, and who had begged with such intensity that it remained when nothing else could.
Bill’s wish. Just the one, but it was his. His influence remained, trapped in the miniscule shard of what survived when her soul had broken, protecting its core from the eroding blackness. She moved without thought, betraying what she thought to be a surrender to the end, burying her clawtips into her breast as she clutched it to her chest with everything she had. When she had no reason to be, that wish would be her reason, if only to give to the one who only gave. If only to repay that which was priceless.
Sunundra held it close. So, so close. His fear, his sorrow, his desperation… His resignation and helplessness… She took in all of it, not letting even the faintest bit escape. She burned each and every feeling into herself, determined to keep whatever she could of her bond. She kept the longing for one who would never return, letting the dregs of his misery rest within her own. She welcomed his worry for another who had become so important, and embraced his concern for those he had never met. She encapsulated everything, no matter how strong or faint, until it became apparent that only one thing remained.
The wish.
She loosened her grip on the mote, worried that she might extinguish it before learning what he kept closer than anything else. Closer than his late mate, closer than her, and closer than his own life. With a breath, she exposed all that she was, from caustic resentment to whimpering dejection, and from crippling loneliness to her highest joy, allowing what remained to nest wherever it belonged.
It chose so much that she had a difficult time tracking it all, but the largest segment was…love. It was love, marred and disfigured by guilt and inadequacy. It was hampered by fear and worry. It gained thorns of spite and regret, but it was love, and it was his.
And though she had been prepared for it to never happen again, she felt her heartbeat, dragging along the phantom sensation of another pulse that was but one more from stopping. She felt pain from countless wounds, dulled by a dying nervous system, and breaths that were constricted by paralyzed lungs. She felt it. She felt him.
And so, she wept, truly opening her eyes to reveal the same white and crimson-smeared room she had been ready to perish in. She held her departed bond closer and closer, until the world became nothing but her and the only thing she had left of him.
Thump.
The door to the clinic cracked, thick metal deforming and showing signs of stress fractures. The cabinet rattled from the impact. Sunundra propped herself up on one elbow, caressing Bill’s face and memorizing the feeling while she still could. As much as it hurt, she needed to leave, and she couldn’t take him with her. He wouldn’t want her to. Not if it would put her in harm's way.
The pale-furred female crawled off the table in the middle of the clinic, suppressing the pain in her torn stomach before turning her attention to the various storage lining the walls. Everything that was unlocked was quickly tossed open and its contents inspected. A surprising amount seemed to be variants of chemicals she was already familiar with, though modified for medical use rather than demolitions. That was fine, she could adjust them. They were added to her bag, her paws pushing aside Recon’s drone to accommodate the new additions. Painkillers, bandages, adhesives, and anything else she could even remotely guess the purpose of were packed away.
Thump.
She grimaced, both from the burning of her open wound, and from the growing fissures in the door. She was out of time. A charge was fetched from her supplies, then cracked open to allow a few tweaks. The amplified explosive was promptly set against the floor, the cracked screen of the navigational terminal confirming the placement, a soft beep announcing its arming. Her eyes drifted back to the only one that had truly accepted her. Not her blood-mother, nor her den, unit, ship-packs… No one but him.
Her paw brushed over his features for the last time, lingering on his neck as she gave her bond a final kiss, the lightest touch conveying everything she ever felt for him.
“I love you, and…I’m sorry.”
Thu—
The door gave way. The bomb detonated. The room was swallowed by inferno. By the time the smoke cleared, there was only a destroyed clinic and a gaping hole in the floor. Excluding the smallest space behind the examination table, nothing survived unscathed.
Not even the mangled remains of the human.
Sunundra landed violently, letting her legs buckle and transfer her momentum into a roll as the debris tumbled down after her. Her paw shakily pulled her to her feet, an unsteady, agonizing step being slowly followed by another. Soft sobs and flickering light filled the fifth level’s maintenance tunnels.
She was broken, but she had purpose. She would fulfill the final desire of her bond at any cost. She was determined.
Just as she should be.
Next

I am going to repaint a large shed this spring that has a large exposed overhang. The underside of the overhang roof is painted white and it’s peeling a bit. I was planning on power washing this to help remove the peeling paint but when I have done this before some of the cobwebs really wedge themselves into the rough cut rafters and it nearly impossible to remove fully
I have tried mixtures with dish soap and vinegar but it doesn’t work great. Any advice before I end up just spraying over the top of them?