Build a toothpick effile

First of all, I wanted to thank everyone for their kind words and support from the last post. A lot has happened since then, and a bunch of context is needed, so I hope you'll bear with me as I explain the details.
***
Back during the peak of the blinking crisis, I remember having a lot of difficulty sleeping. It was common for me to average only four or five hours a night, and the little sleep I did get was marred by terrible nightmares. One in particular recurred many times.
I was only eight, but somehow I was in the driver's seat of our family's old SUV. My arms were long enough to steady the wheel, but my legs didn't quite meet the pedals. It didn't matter though, since the car seemed content to continue on at a constant pace. I looked over and saw my mom in the passenger seat. Her face was a blurry likeness pieced together from the dozen or so picture's I'd seen of her over the years. I tried to bring her into focus, not only because I missed her dearly, but because she was speaking—pleading, even. She waved frantically at me, then brought her leg up and slammed it down on the floor mat several times. I didn't understand what had her so upset until she pointed out the front windshield, and I saw we were hurdling directly toward a giant tree that had fallen in the middle of the road.
Panicking, I stomped for the brake, but my seatbelt protested and pulled me back like an invigorated dog on a short leash. I sat up and tried clicking it off, but it wouldn't budge. My breaths became hollow cries, and I felt my heart beat against the bars of its bony prison. I grabbed the steering wheel and pulled it to the left, then right, attempting to swerve off the road, but it was as if whatever kind of glue was locking up the seatbelt was also fixing the steering wheel in place.
"Mom! what do I do!?" I yelled, tears streaming from my eyes. She was yelling back at me, but it was as if there was a divider between us, and neither of us could hear each other. I turned back just in time to see the giant Oak tree meet the front bumper, and then I jolted awake with a piercing pain in my chest that radiated up through my throat in the form of a giant scream. My little legs kicked under the covers and tears rained down on my pillow until my dad ran in and knelt at my bed.
"Lauren, are you okay? Did you have a bad dream?"
I grabbed my pillow and hugged it so my face was covered, then effused a "Mmm-hmm" in a long wheeze while rocking to either side.
"Oh, honey," he soothed and brushed my hair, then the tears from my face when I would allow it.
Time would pass in silence, and when I began to get the sense that my dad was ready to leave, I'd chirp out, "stay" in that way children do when they're embarrassed about wanting something.
"Always," my dad would reply; then he'd post up on the floor with my large tomato plushie as a pillow.
One night in particular, it was deep in the night, and I had woken to a tapping sound outside my window. I was so afraid that a monster had snuck into my room while I wasn't looking that I made him lay next to me and face outward. I'd peek my eyes open every minute or so to check and make sure my dad was there, staking out the room. Eventually, he rolled in close and said something that I still remember to this day.
"Hey, baby, guess what." he whispered.
"Mmm" I mumbled.
"I think you scared the monster away."
I tried to picture this through the fog of my fatigue. Something seemed off about the statement, like it wasn't logically possible, but before I could piece together the words to express that, my dad cut back in.
"It was scared because it realized you're a superhero. And you know what your greatest superpower is?"
I shook my head, making sure to rub my forehead against his shoulder so he could sense it in the dark room.
"You're greatest power is that you get to tell the monsters what to do. Because the monsters are only as strong as the stories you tell about them. And there's all kinds of stories. Happy ones. Sad ones. Scary ones. Tell me, this monster you think snuck in, would you say he's part of a scary story?"
"I don't know," I said, confused. "Maybe"
"Hmm," he hummed, contemplating. "Well, I want you to remember this. You have the ability to tell any kind of story you want. Maybe there are monsters, but that means there's heroes and angels, too, right?"
I was beginning to doze off to the comforting sound of my dad's deep voice, but I gave another affirmative "Mm-hmm".
"So, if you're ever scared, honey, just dream up a better story. A story that will bring you peace. Do you understand?"
But I was already out.
***
I woke up the next morning to the feeling that someone was in the hotel room with me. The drapes were drawn and the only sound was the AC unit blowing cold air, but when I looked toward the dark corner of the empty coat rack, my mind conjured the face of my dad, smiling at me, chanting that same, awful line—Oh, Lauren… you know who we are.
I was no longer a child, but it took a couple minutes of cold focus before I muscled the courage to ascend from the safety of my covers and flick on the lamp light. The small amber radius extended to where my dad's feet would have been if he was standing there. But there was no one. I let out a sigh and collapsed back onto the mattress, thinking back on all those years growing up. The same man who had helped me conquer my fear of the dark was now the monster hiding in its shadow.
I looked over my shoulder and saw the clock read 10:15. My meeting with Trent was in three hours. I moaned and stretched my arms back until they knocked against the headboard, then I collapsed back onto the mattress, meditating, gathering energy like a compressed spring. All at once, I jumped up and glided over to the drapes, opening them in a single, fluid motion. I grimaced at the sunlight, but the warmth felt good against my face. I stopped by the nightstand and gulped down the final few swigs of a bottle of Mello Yello that I had purchased from a vending machine the previous night, then undressed and hopped in the shower.
The warm water wasn't enough to wash away the previous night's memories. When I closed my eyes to lather my hair, I was back in my living room, standing opposite the demon that had taken on my dad's form. His smile. His laugh. It was like someone in my head was flipping a switch between the man I loved growing up and a terrible monster. But the fear was more powerful. I heard something drop onto the tile floor on the other side of the curtain. The noise made me gasp, and I opened my eyes while shampoo was still streaming down my face. I swiped the shampoo out of my now burning eyes and squinted at the curtain, trying to see through it, but I couldn't make anything out. "I-is anyone," I started, trembling, afraid to finish the sentence. I reached out and pinched the end of the curtain. My heart was in overdrive. I swallowed, then pulled it toward me and peeked out. I scanned the room, but I couldn't see anything out of place.
It wasn't until after I finished showering and wound myself up in one of the hotel's too-small towels that I saw what had made the noise. I bent down and picked up the stub of a razor blade that had fallen onto the tile right next to the puffy, gray shower rug. It wasn't mine, and I was pretty sure hotels didn't keep unguarded razor blades just laying around. When I held it up, it occurred to me that if it had simply fallen a few inches to the left, it would have been buried in the rug, and perhaps I would have stepped on it. I stared at myself in its steely reflection. Cold. Lonely. Small. What if I—was all I was able to think before the blade blinked out of my hand.
I threw on some clothes, packed up the few belongings I had into my purse, then checked out of my room. I didn't feel safe going back home after what happened, but I also didn't want to go anywhere else. I got in my car and drove aimlessly up and down the town's streets, focusing only on the car ahead of me. Anytime I started to travel down an avenue of thought, I'd make a turn, or speed up, or hit the brakes: anything to keep my mind distracted. It was sweltering outside, but I'd turn the heat on for minutes at a time until I felt drenched, then toggle max AC until I was cool, then back to heat. I repeated the basic driving tenet "10 and 2", "10 and 2", "10 and 2" like a mantra—a chant to focus my attention on a single point, and then I pictured that point disappearing. I began to think that maybe I wanted to disappear.
I fully intended to keep going that way until 1:00, but after about thirty minutes, my meandering route had led me to St. Mark's Catholic Church, where a large group of people were gathered around a long line of tables in front of the building. I slowed down. At the front of the venue was a large, white cardboard sign which read, "Plant a Seed, Share the Joy". I wasn't sure what that meant, but my boredom had come to a head, and I rationalized that if there's any place on God's green earth that would be safe, it was this one. I parked along the closest side-street, then walked over to the church.
Rows of white tables were covered with cardboard boxes filled with small plants that were wrapped up in individual paper pots. I watched from a distance as people behind the tables carefully removed the plants, one by one, and offered them to passersby. I continued down the line, a sheep in the herd, and allowed myself to sink into childhood memories. I had somehow made it out the other end near the Narthex when I heard a woman's voice call to me.
"Hey, deary, have you gotten one yet?"
I turned and saw a small, gray-haired lady with rose-colored glasses. "Oh, no," I started, attempting to decline, then paused. The old lady grabbed one of the plants and held it out for me.
"Here," she said. "Come on, I won't bite."
As far as you know, I thought, and stumbled forward with a sigh. "Thanks," I said and took the plant. "What is this all for, anyway?"
"It's a giveaway," the old woman responded. "Staff have been growing these plants—tomatoes and garlic, mainly—so they could offer them to members of the Parish. The idea is to have the members grow the produce, then donate it to St. Mark's Food Pantry to give to those in need."
"Oh, that's actually pretty cool." I replied and inspected my plant which was at present nothing more than a small green stem. "So which kind is this one?"
"That one is—" the old lady stopped and inspected the other plants near where she had grabbed mine—"tomato."
"Tomato," I repeated. "Well, thanks again."
"Of course, dear." the old lady beamed. "We're all responsible for each other."
I nodded, then continued back through the crowd toward my car when, through the large vestibule windows, I saw a Priest speaking to a young couple. It had been a little over a decade since I had attended a service (I stopped going during High School when I started studying other religions), and I didn't recognize this Priest. He was short (just over five feet tall), bald, and African American. He wore the customary black robe and white collar, and there was something in his smile and the way seemed to be affirming the couple that made me yearn to speak with him. I considered for a moment, a bit embarrassed to be stepping back into church after all this time, but the thought of being able to burn ten minutes talking with someone who might have some insight into my situation was too tempting to pass up.
I waited near a portrait of Mary Magdalene, my tomato plant in hand, staring off at the pristine series of stained glass images portraying the death and resurrection of Jesus. About a minute in, the Priest met my eyes; he smiled, his way of telling me he knew I was waiting, then finished up with the couple and made his way over. He had a bit of an accent when he spoke—it was Ugandan, from best I could tell—and a proclivity for laughing at the end of his sentences.
"Hello, Miss, I don't believe I've had the privilege," he said and held out his hand. He leaned in as he spoke, and his smile tugged on the corners of his eyes which were already marked with use.
I shook his hand and returned what I'm sure was a weak smile. "No, I don't think so. My name's Lauren. I used to come here when I was little. It's—been a while."
"Well, I see you picked a good day to visit. If you're into gardening, that is." He remarked with a laugh and gestured toward the plant. "It's nice to meet you, Lauren. My name's Martin—Father Martin, if you prefer."
"Father Martin," I repeated, "I have a friend named Martin. It's a good name."
He laughed and said, "Thank you, I'll pass that one along to my mother. She loves the praise."
I laughed back. He carried himself in such a carefree way that I was put immediately at ease. Almost to the point where I forgot what I wanted to talk to him about. "Um," I started, attempting to word my question in a way that didn't sound like I needed psychiatric help. "I have a couple of religious questions for you, if you have time."
"That's what I'm for. Ask away."
"They're about… miracles. Like the ones in the Bible. I was wondering, do you think that miracles still happen today?"
"Miracles, huh," he started. "You mean like water into wine?"
"Kind of, yeah,"
"Hmm…" he contemplated. "Well, I haven't seen them, myself. You know, I may be a Priest, but I also have a degree in Physics. I think God made the world according to laws, right? But I do think God has the power to intervene. Yes. I just have never seen it… like … you know, the biblical type of miracles. To me, there are miracles happening all around us—miracles we can't see."
"Exactly," I responded, thinking about how no one else could see the blinks, "those kinds of miracles. What are those miracles we can't see?"
One of Father Martin's eyebrows raised and he rubbed his chin. "Well, I think the greatest miracle is the miracle of God's love which was perfected in Christ and offered to each of us. It's his power to heal even the most troubled mind. By coming into alignment with God's will for us, we can see the true purpose of this existence."
No, he's not getting it, I thought. I scrambled to my other entry-point. "What about the story of Job? God made a bet with the Devil that Job would stay faithful to him no matter what the Devil did to him. Do you think that kind of situation is possible?"
Father Martin's expression drooped into a concerned frown. "There's quite the difference between miracles and the story of Job. I suppose I see what you're getting at, though. Job's suffering is in some ways the antithesis to positive miracles. In this life, we are tested, sometimes to the point of losing everything, but even that person who has more reason to hate God than anyone else can once again find peace and eternal happiness through faith. In fact, it's often the person who is lowest in the pit of suffering that needs the Light of Christ more than anyone else."
I thought back on the first night that I prayed. It was in my moment of greatest helplessness that I reached out to God, and I thought I had found my answer in Him. But now, after what happened last night, after all these years of chaos—not merely losing things that were important to me, but my very sanity—I needed more than just blind faith. I couldn't just sit idly by and hope things would get better. I smiled at the Priest and said, "Thank you, Father, this has been very insightful."
"Of course, sister. I'm sorry if I couldn't have been of more help."
"No, I think I understand now. I've been… wrestling with something, and I think God wants me to confront it. I think I've been running away and hiding from it for so long that I'd convinced myself it disappeared."
Father Martin nodded in understanding. "Well, in that case, will you let me leave you with a prayer?"
I was a bit taken off guard by the request, but I accepted. "Sure, Father."
I watched as he made the sign of the cross, then he lifted his hands and closed his eyes. "Dear God, I am so happy to have had the privilege of meeting with Lauren today, especially on a day such as this where we are offering gifts for those who need them. You have heard her desire to confront the things that are troubling her. I ask that you bless her with strength and peace and a clear conscience, that she may overcome these challenges. God, bless us with your spirit, that we may see your hand in our lives. Amen."
"Amen," I said.
As I was leaving, Father Martin called out to me and said, "Oh, just so you know, this Friday at 7 we are having a barbecue at the Parish Center. I would love to see you there, if you're able and wanting."
Turning back, I smiled and said, "Oh, ok, thanks Father. I'll think about it."
The priest nodded, and with a smile, he sent me off.
***
I walked into the Deli at 1:00 on the dot. The customers who had arrived for the lunch rush were already cleaning up their trash and heading out. I dodged past a few of them on my way down the long, narrow path leading to the front counter. While I waited behind a couple of elderly folk who were picking which soup they wanted to pair with their Ultimate Grilled Cheese, I looked around for Trent. He hadn't sent me a picture or any way of contacting him throughout the day, so I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but I figured I'd see some man half-hidden behind a newspaper, scouting me out. Maybe I watch too many movies, I thought.
"Ahem, ma'am. You're up." croaked the teenager behind the register.
"Oh, right, sorry" I replied and stepped up to the counter. "Uhh," I muttered, scanning the menu for something that looked edible. "Could I just get…" I made sure to mouth every syllable as they were words of their own.
"We have a deal—the try two combo. Sandwich and a soup for $9.99." the cashier repeated for what was probably the fiftieth time that day.
"Yes, that sounds good. I'll do the Italian sandwich and potato soup. And a drink, please."
After I paid for the food, I wandered around the tables, hoping to find someone who looked like a Trent. I was picturing a short guy, runner's build, with long brown hair, tucked somewhere neatly away in the corner. So I was not prepared when the Hulk's stunt double growled my name from a table smack dab in the middle of the restaurant. He had a pale, square face that was spotted with freckles and a sinking property that comes with the lethal combination of stress and age. His hair was relatively short. Probably it was brown or auburn, but since it was slicked back, it looked almost black. And he wore what looked like janitor coveralls. There was even a cloth tag pinned to his chest which read, "Trent".
"Lauren?" He repeated.
"Yes, that's me." I said and took a seat across from him. I saw a brown tray on the table in front of him, and on the tray was a large, white soup bowl. It was empty and beginning to crust along the edges. He must have been here for some time already. "I didn't know where you'd be, so I was worried we might miss each other. I'm glad you found me though." I said while looking over Trent more thoroughly. His large hands were stretched out in front of him on the table. He wasn't wearing a ring, so he probably wasn't married. And his face, it was stern. He seemed like a no-bullshit kind of guy. Then I saw his eyes. They were sapphire blue—probably the most stunning I'd ever seen.
"We only spoke on the internet, so I hope you don't mind, but I usually run a preliminary test on anyone I meet who claims to have abilities such as yours." Trent said while reaching into his pocket and removing a device that had the size and shape of an electric razor. "All you have to do is look into it. It takes maybe five seconds. Ten at most."
"Oh, um, sure," I said reluctantly. "Do I just—" I asked while reaching for the device.
Trent clicked a button and released the cylindrical head which opened, revealing a glass circle about the size of an iris. "I'll hold it, just look into the center. A red cross should appear, then it'll take the picture."
"Okay…" I replied and did as he instructed, leaning my head forward to look into the device. Sure enough, a red cross appeared. "Is it…" was all I got out before the light turned blue and I saw a gray fog disperse and billow throughout the inside of the tube, extending for what I perceived to be miles. My jaw went slack and I couldn't breathe for maybe five seconds. Then Trent reshuttered the device and turned it over.
"Damn, 72." He said with a hint of shock. "That's the highest I've scanned to date." He looked back at me, more relaxed now, and muttered to himself. "How have you been able to function for this long? At this level, you should basically be half in, half out."
I rubbed my forehead, feeling a mixture of pain and frustration and fatigue and impatience which all poured out at once. "Listen, Trent," I said as sternly as I could, "I came here because you said you knew what was wrong with me and that you could help me. I get you have to make sure I am who I said I am, but now it's your turn to pay up. How do I know you know anything about my condition? You said my mom might still be alive. What does that even mean? I saw her die right in front of me. I want answers."
I waited for Trent to respond, but he only lifted his head. I turned around and saw a girl holding a tray of food.
"Um, hi, sorry to interrupt. I have an order 36 for Lauren."
"Oh, yes, thank you." I said. The worker placed the tray down on the table in front of me, and when I saw the food, I suddenly realized how hungry I was. Trent must have also realized this, because he folded his arms and said, "go ahead and eat. I'll explain while you do."
I wanted to protest, but my salivating mouth made other plans. "Fine," I said. I grabbed the metal spoon off the tray and started on the soup, bracing against the steaming heat of the potato chunks.
As I ate, Trent moved all of the items on his tray off to the side, then he flipped the tray over so it was raised slightly off the table. He took his cup and placed it face down in the center, then he rolled up a few of his used, blue mayonnaise packets and charted a track across the tray.
"What are you doing?" I croaked out between bites.
Trent ignored me and continued by ripping up a napkin into strips and placing them alongside the mayonnaise packets. Finally, he snapped ten toothpicks in half and stuck them in the tomb of a dozen overlayed napkins. "It's your diorama," he said at last.
"It's my what?"
"From the story you sent me. Your diorama. When I read about it, it gave me a good idea of how to explain the 'blinking'."
I pointed at the cup in the center. "Is that supposed to be a pyramid? Because I'm pretty sure you're in the wrong geometric neighborhood with that one."
"It's an analogy," he said.
"Of an analogy," I quipped back.
"Look," he picked out one of the toothpicks and held it out in front of me. "This could be a person, an animal, a crowbar—whatever you want. The point is, this diorama is a stand in for our universe. This is everything that exists, that we can see. Okay?"
"Okay,"
"Now, me," Trent placed a hand over his heart. "I'm not in the diorama. I don't exist in the universe."
"In the universe where a cup is a pyramid, or the actual universe?" I said, unable to control myself.
Trent grimaced.
"Sorry, keep going. I get it."
"Things pop into," Trent threw the toothpick back onto the tray, "or out of," he picked the toothpick back up, "our universe at will, based on forces," he patted his chest again, "that exist in other realms" he gestured to the room, "that are connected to our universe," he tapped two fingers against the tray. "These things could be objects, like, say, a toothpick, or entities, like the one you encountered yesterday. The blinking experience that you described aligns with the typical experience of a moderate Antenna. That's what I call people like us—Antennas; because we can pick up on signals others can't."
"We—you mean you see the blinking, too?"
"Yes, but not to the same extent as you. If all the blinks are gathered in a giant picture that you can see, I'm traversing the image through binoculars, maybe even a microscope, depending on where we are."
I thought about this. I guess it was possible there were other people like me out there, but since I had never met anyone, I didn't really consider the idea until now. And then for him to say my ability was somehow much stronger than his… "But," I started, "I haven't even seen that many blinks since I was a child. It's just more focused and malicious now."
"Yeah," Trent scratched his head, "that's the thing that got me really interested in you. Somehow you seem to be able to control it without gear, just by praying. And, look, that's all well and good, but I don't want to give you the false impression that I'm some kind of religious leader. I like to look for logical, scientific explanations for things. So that's the frame I'm coming at this from."
I took a sip from my drink. "That's fine," I said, "the truth is that's why I reached out to you in the first place. I wanted an explanation I could understand. An explanation that was directly related to what I'm going through."
"Then we should get along just fine."
I was scooping out the last potato that was stubbornly gliding along the bottom of the bowl when, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the old man from the line shooting up from his bench and standing in army-erect form. I felt a tingling sensation tickle the back of my neck. I didn't want to turn toward him. I knew what I'd see if I did. "Trent," I whispered, trying to tip him off.
"Huh?" he grunted. Then when he saw my expression, he snuck his right hand under the table and said, "Do you see it? Is it here?"
I cocked my head to the left, signaling toward the old man that was now facing us, but Trent didn't seem to notice him: his eyes just kept scanning the entire front of the restaurant. Then I saw the old man take a step in our direction.
"Lauuurennnn, oh Lauuuurennnn, I've been looking for you, Laurenn." The old man said in a low, gravelly voice that gave the impression he was gurgling liquid tar. I turned and saw his face. It was cold and expressionless, and a butter knife was poking out of his left fist. When I met his eyes, he smiled that horrible smile."You're a slippery bitch, you know that?" He spat. "Why can't you just stay put? Don't you get tired of running from your old friend? Or have you forgotten about me?"
"Trent," I mumbled out. "Right there."
"And this guy. You think he can help you? He's only here to help himself. If that's not clear, you really are a lost little lamb."
"Quick, give me your hand," Trent instructed.
I was silent, my eyes still pinned to the old man.
"Tsk-tsk-tsk," the demon possessed senior wagged his finger at me, taking a step, then another step, shortening the distance as much as he could while I was entranced. Then, suddenly, he sprinted forward at a speed that shouldn't have been possible for a man his age.
"Trent!" I screamed.
"Lauren, give me your hand!"
I spun around and grabbed Tren'ts outstretched arm just as the old man lifted the butter knife over his head like a pickaxe. Then I saw Trent pull out what looked like a toy gun from under the table and point it at the demon.
"Got you," Trent remarked. I braced for a gunshot, but there was no noise. After a couple seconds, I looked back and saw the old man sitting in the booth opposite his wife, his hand tremoring as he reached for his large drink.
"What did you?" I asked, but Trent was already pulling me out of my seat. "Come on, we have to go," he said, "the effect is temporary, he'll be—"
Before he could get out the last word, I saw the cup-pyramid on Trent's tray blink out of existence. The sound of a plate shattering rang out from a table up ahead. The lone woman standing there slowly turned around, smiling, with a fork in one hand and a piece of the broken plate in the other. Trent shot her with the toy gun as we ran past and then barreled through the front door.
"Where—are we going?" I asked between gasps.
"My van. It's loaded with kit."
"And then where?"
"Your house" replied Trent who stashed his gun back in his pocket and took out a key fob.
"My house? But that's where he—it appeared."
"Yeah, and that's where you banished it."
Trent waved me into the passenger seat of his RAM 3500 Promaster. I noticed right away the dash which looked more like it belonged in a new limited-edition EV than a cargo van. The ignition kicked on automatically, and I heard the beep of a sonar ping precede an English woman's voice calling out like some auxed-in GPS saying, "scanning for anomalies". Trent shifted the van into gear, and I heard the wheels sputter as we accelerated backward and whipped out of the small parking lot.
"What's your address?" Trent asked. I gave it to him, and then speaking to his dash, he said, "Car, take us to ****."
"Redirecting to ****," replied the British woman. "Currently detecting 31 novel emergences. Updating pings every 300 milliseconds. Chance of contact: 0.23%"
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"The van has sensor equipment which can detect blinks. It's much more accurate than either of us."
"And it sees 31?"
"Yes, that's not as many as it sounds." Trent said and tore past a car that blinked out of existence right as we turned onto the main street.
We drove on for another couple minutes, the Englishwoman updating the number of novel emergences every ten seconds or so. Her constant babbling eventually became a comforting background noise, and I was able to think again.
"In the message you sent me, you said my mom may still be alive." I looked at Trent to see if he would react to me bringing her up, but he remained stolid. "What did you mean by that?"
Trent thumbed his steering wheel. "I shouldn't have sent that." He said at last.
"Shouldn't have… What do you mean? You can't just say that now."
Trent took one hand off the wheel and turned toward me. "Look, we're going back to your house because we need to determine your origin point. All Antennas have them. It's a place of high energy where many realms intersect, kind of like a station, and it's the place where you first acquired your abilities. Based on everything you wrote, I'm guessing that place is where the forest where the accident happened when you were a young child. But I need to confirm it. Once I confirm that that's the place…" Trent hesitated.
"Then… what? You want us to go back there? To the place where my mom died, or at least where I think she died until you told me she might be alive but are now taking it back? That place?"
"It's the only way to—"
"Now detecting novel agent," the Englishwoman interrupted. We both perked up as she gave another update. "Net anomalies: 437. Novel Agents: 1. Chance of contact: 78%."
"Shit," Trent muttered. "Car, course correct."
"Attempting course correct to avoid collision. Attempts made: 10, 50, 75, 79… No alternate route detected. Chance of contact: 96%."
"Time until contact?"
"Time until contact: 13 seconds."
I shuddered. Looking out the front windshield, I saw cars pop out of existence left and right, opening up a clear path to the four way intersection ahead. In a blink, the streetlights all turned green, and then they vanished completely. It was as if the entire world was being stripped down bare, and all that remained was the road, boxed in by the rows of buildings along either side. In the distance I could see a large tanker barreling toward us.
"Trent,"
"I know," he replied and clicked a different button on the console which opened a new toggle for the shifter labeled "TD". He pushed the stick forward, engaging the new mode, then pressed the accelerator all the way to the ground. "You're going to want to hold on."
"What are you doing!?" I yelled, grabbing onto my seatbelt.
"No time to explain. Car, release phase lock."
"Phase lock released."
I watched in horror as the color drained from the road and buildings and sky, transforming it all into a dim tunnel, with only the headlights of the oncoming semi-truck visible up ahead. I had the sudden thought that this was all a dream, just like the ones from my childhood. I looked over and no longer saw Trent, but my mother. And then I realized this wasn't a dream. This was hell. I was being forced to relive the worst moment of my life, over and over again. Just when I thought I had escaped, I was pulled right back into that car, helpless as we approached but never arrived at our impending fate. I closed my eyes right as the lights engulfed the windshield and braced for the usual pain in my chest, for the feeling of breaking.
But it didn't come.
"Shift" was the last word out of Trent's mouth, and then I was infused with the sensation of being at the pinnacle of a roller coaster. I was suspended there for what felt like hours, but somehow I knew that not even a second had passed. Everything inside the van: the dashboard, windows, ceiling, doors, even Trent himself began to radiate enigmatic particles. They were a mass of constant motion, like raindrops falling through the air but never landing. I looked down at my hand, but it was gone. Diffused into an unknowable number of untraceable particles. The world outside, once devoid of color, was now nothing but color. When I tried to focus on a particular spot in the infinite geometric folds of whatever realm we were traversing through, I could sometimes detect a trace of our world.
The old lady from the church. She appeared as if through a window, standing behind a table, holding out a plant. Only this image was so much brighter. And the plant she was holding was pure gold. Then I'd catch a glimpse of the razor blade. It was large, many hundreds of times larger than the van, and surrounded by darkness. These ghostly images appeared like holograms or reflections that caught the light at just the right angle, then dissipated.
I stayed there, looping between the archetypes of my life for a long, long time.
***
I knew we were returning when I felt the first sense of motion. Breath filled my lungs for the first time in what felt like a day. I blinked. And then we were back in town, driving down the same road with the blue sky above. People were jogging on the sidewalk past the little street shops. The streetlights were active. I checked the side mirror and saw the tanker had just passed by.
I looked over at Trent, who met my eyes. We shared a look of knowing, and unknowing. For some reason, that was enough, and we continued on in silence.
***
We agreed to stay the night at my house.
Trent had parked a couple blocks away in front of a couple vacant houses so as not to arouse suspicion from the neighbors. Then he lugged a large duffel bag with his equipment in and set it up in the living room. He scanned the scrapbook which contained the newspaper clippings from the accident several times and confirmed that was likely my 'origin point'. I simply nodded and then went back out onto the back porch. I sat there for hours, basking in the sun. Something had changed in the past day, but I couldn't pick out what it was. Too much had happened. I had too little time to process any of it.
When the sun set, I went inside and Trent told me about his plans for the next couple days. He said he needed to run a few errands in the morning, then meet up with a couple of his associates. After that, we could begin our drive to Southern Illinois. He said it was likely that the entity that was chasing me had first tied itself to me during my childhood accident. For whatever reason, we came into contact, and now it didn't want to leave. Trent would help me get rid of it. He didn't go into many details regarding how that was to happen, but I don't think in my tired state I would have been able to understand much anyway. He had a plan, and that was enough for me. At least for a while.
After our meeting, I made sure Trent had enough pillows and blankets like a proper host, then I retired to my room. I laid down on my twin bed and stared up at the cream-colored ceiling. Then I turned and saw the participation awards for my junior soccer league stashed on my dresser. I pictured myself on the field, running with the ball, out ahead of everyone except the goalie. I took a shot, but it was blocked. Then I ran back to defend. How can such a simple game be so much fun? Was the last thought I had before drifting off to sleep.
I woke up only once during the night. It was still dark out. The room was warm despite the small, flower petal fan churning away, shifting the hot, humid air from one pocket of the room to the next. I waited in apprehension, sensing that something had disturbed me. I saw the tomato plushie peeking out at me from the slightly ajar closet door where I had stashed it so many years ago. I felt like I was missing something. Something important.
And then I heard it.
There was a tapping at my window.

Part 1
First of all, I wanted to thank everyone for their kind words and support from the last post. A lot has happened since then, and a bunch of context is needed, so I hope you'll bear with me as I explain the details.
***
Back during the peak of the blinking crisis, I remember having a lot of difficulty sleeping. It was common for me to average only four or five hours a night, and the little sleep I did get was marred by terrible nightmares. One in particular recurred many times.
I was only eight, but somehow I was in the driver's seat of our family's old SUV. My arms were long enough to steady the wheel, but my legs didn't quite meet the pedals. It didn't matter though, since the car seemed content to continue on at a constant pace. I looked over and saw my mom in the passenger seat. Her face was a blurry likeness pieced together from the dozen or so picture's I'd seen of her over the years. I tried to bring her into focus, not only because I missed her dearly, but because she was speaking—pleading, even. She waved frantically at me, then brought her leg up and slammed it down on the floor mat several times. I didn't understand what had her so upset until she pointed out the front windshield, and I saw we were hurdling directly toward a giant tree that had fallen in the middle of the road.
Panicking, I stomped for the brake, but my seatbelt protested and pulled me back like an invigorated dog on a short leash. I sat up and tried clicking it off, but it wouldn't budge. My breaths became hollow cries, and I felt my heart beat against the bars of its bony prison. I grabbed the steering wheel and pulled it to the left, then right, attempting to swerve off the road, but it was as if whatever kind of glue was locking up the seatbelt was also fixing the steering wheel in place.
"Mom! what do I do!?" I yelled, tears streaming from my eyes. She was yelling back at me, but it was as if there was a divider between us, and neither of us could hear each other. I turned back just in time to see the giant Oak tree meet the front bumper, and then I jolted awake with a piercing pain in my chest that radiated up through my throat in the form of a giant scream. My little legs kicked under the covers and tears rained down on my pillow until my dad ran in and knelt at my bed.
"Lauren, are you okay? Did you have a bad dream?"
I grabbed my pillow and hugged it so my face was covered, then effused a "Mmm-hmm" in a long wheeze while rocking to either side.
"Oh, honey," he soothed and brushed my hair, then the tears from my face when I would allow it.
Time would pass in silence, and when I began to get the sense that my dad was ready to leave, I'd chirp out, "stay" in that way children do when they're embarrassed about wanting something.
"Always," my dad would reply; then he'd post up on the floor with my large tomato plushie as a pillow.
One night in particular, it was deep in the night, and I had woken to a tapping sound outside my window. I was so afraid that a monster had snuck into my room while I wasn't looking that I made him lay next to me and face outward. I'd peek my eyes open every minute or so to check and make sure my dad was there, staking out the room. Eventually, he rolled in close and said something that I still remember to this day.
"Hey, baby, guess what." he whispered.
"Mmm" I mumbled.
"I think you scared the monster away."
I tried to picture this through the fog of my fatigue. Something seemed off about the statement, like it wasn't logically possible, but before I could piece together the words to express that, my dad cut back in.
"It was scared because it realized you're a superhero. And you know what your greatest superpower is?"
I shook my head, making sure to rub my forehead against his shoulder so he could sense it in the dark room.
"You're greatest power is that you get to tell the monsters what to do. Because the monsters are only as strong as the stories you tell about them. And there's all kinds of stories. Happy ones. Sad ones. Scary ones. Tell me, this monster you think snuck in, would you say he's part of a scary story?"
"I don't know," I said, confused. "Maybe"
"Hmm," he hummed, contemplating. "Well, I want you to remember this. You have the ability to tell any kind of story you want. Maybe there are monsters, but that means there's heroes and angels, too, right?"
I was beginning to doze off to the comforting sound of my dad's deep voice, but I gave another affirmative "Mm-hmm".
"So, if you're ever scared, honey, just dream up a better story. A story that will bring you peace. Do you understand?"
But I was already out.
***
I woke up the next morning to the feeling that someone was in the hotel room with me. The drapes were drawn and the only sound was the AC unit blowing cold air, but when I looked toward the dark corner of the empty coat rack, my mind conjured the face of my dad, smiling at me, chanting that same, awful line—Oh, Lauren… you know who we are.
I was no longer a child, but it took a couple minutes of cold focus before I muscled the courage to ascend from the safety of my covers and flick on the lamp light. The small amber radius extended to where my dad's feet would have been if he was standing there. But there was no one. I let out a sigh and collapsed back onto the mattress, thinking back on all those years growing up. The same man who had helped me conquer my fear of the dark was now the monster hiding in its shadow.
I looked over my shoulder and saw the clock read 10:15. My meeting with Trent was in three hours. I moaned and stretched my arms back until they knocked against the headboard, then I collapsed back onto the mattress, meditating, gathering energy like a compressed spring. All at once, I jumped up and glided over to the drapes, opening them in a single, fluid motion. I grimaced at the sunlight, but the warmth felt good against my face. I stopped by the nightstand and gulped down the final few swigs of a bottle of Mello Yello that I had purchased from a vending machine the previous night, then undressed and hopped in the shower.
The warm water wasn't enough to wash away the previous night's memories. When I closed my eyes to lather my hair, I was back in my living room, standing opposite the demon that had taken on my dad's form. His smile. His laugh. It was like someone in my head was flipping a switch between the man I loved growing up and a terrible monster. But the fear was more powerful. I heard something drop onto the tile floor on the other side of the curtain. The noise made me gasp, and I opened my eyes while shampoo was still streaming down my face. I swiped the shampoo out of my now burning eyes and squinted at the curtain, trying to see through it, but I couldn't make anything out. "I-is anyone," I started, trembling, afraid to finish the sentence. I reached out and pinched the end of the curtain. My heart was in overdrive. I swallowed, then pulled it toward me and peeked out. I scanned the room, but I couldn't see anything out of place.
It wasn't until after I finished showering and wound myself up in one of the hotel's too-small towels that I saw what had made the noise. I bent down and picked up the stub of a razor blade that had fallen onto the tile right next to the puffy, gray shower rug. It wasn't mine, and I was pretty sure hotels didn't keep unguarded razor blades just laying around. When I held it up, it occurred to me that if it had simply fallen a few inches to the left, it would have been buried in the rug, and perhaps I would have stepped on it. I stared at myself in its steely reflection. Cold. Lonely. Small. What if I—was all I was able to think before the blade blinked out of my hand.
I threw on some clothes, packed up the few belongings I had into my purse, then checked out of my room. I didn't feel safe going back home after what happened, but I also didn't want to go anywhere else. I got in my car and drove aimlessly up and down the town's streets, focusing only on the car ahead of me. Anytime I started to travel down an avenue of thought, I'd make a turn, or speed up, or hit the brakes: anything to keep my mind distracted. It was sweltering outside, but I'd turn the heat on for minutes at a time until I felt drenched, then toggle max AC until I was cool, then back to heat. I repeated the basic driving tenet "10 and 2", "10 and 2", "10 and 2" like a mantra—a chant to focus my attention on a single point, and then I pictured that point disappearing. I began to think that maybe I wanted to disappear.
I fully intended to keep going that way until 1:00, but after about thirty minutes, my meandering route had led me to St. Mark's Catholic Church, where a large group of people were gathered around a long line of tables in front of the building. I slowed down. At the front of the venue was a large, white cardboard sign which read, "Plant a Seed, Share the Joy". I wasn't sure what that meant, but my boredom had come to a head, and I rationalized that if there's any place on God's green earth that would be safe, it was this one. I parked along the closest side-street, then walked over to the church.
Rows of white tables were covered with cardboard boxes filled with small plants that were wrapped up in individual paper pots. I watched from a distance as people behind the tables carefully removed the plants, one by one, and offered them to passersby. I continued down the line, a sheep in the herd, and allowed myself to sink into childhood memories. I had somehow made it out the other end near the Narthex when I heard a woman's voice call to me.
"Hey, deary, have you gotten one yet?"
I turned and saw a small, gray-haired lady with rose-colored glasses. "Oh, no," I started, attempting to decline, then paused. The old lady grabbed one of the plants and held it out for me.
"Here," she said. "Come on, I won't bite."
As far as you know, I thought, and stumbled forward with a sigh. "Thanks," I said and took the plant. "What is this all for, anyway?"
"It's a giveaway," the old woman responded. "Staff have been growing these plants—tomatoes and garlic, mainly—so they could offer them to members of the Parish. The idea is to have the members grow the produce, then donate it to St. Mark's Food Pantry to give to those in need."
"Oh, that's actually pretty cool." I replied and inspected my plant which was at present nothing more than a small green stem. "So which kind is this one?"
"That one is—" the old lady stopped and inspected the other plants near where she had grabbed mine—"tomato."
"Tomato," I repeated. "Well, thanks again."
"Of course, dear." the old lady beamed. "We're all responsible for each other."
I nodded, then continued back through the crowd toward my car when, through the large vestibule windows, I saw a Priest speaking to a young couple. It had been a little over a decade since I had attended a service (I stopped going during High School when I started studying other religions), and I didn't recognize this Priest. He was short (just over five feet tall), bald, and African American. He wore the customary black robe and white collar, and there was something in his smile and the way seemed to be affirming the couple that made me yearn to speak with him. I considered for a moment, a bit embarrassed to be stepping back into church after all this time, but the thought of being able to burn ten minutes talking with someone who might have some insight into my situation was too tempting to pass up.
I waited near a portrait of Mary Magdalene, my tomato plant in hand, staring off at the pristine series of stained glass images portraying the death and resurrection of Jesus. About a minute in, the Priest met my eyes; he smiled, his way of telling me he knew I was waiting, then finished up with the couple and made his way over. He had a bit of an accent when he spoke—it was Ugandan, from best I could tell—and a proclivity for laughing at the end of his sentences.
"Hello, Miss, I don't believe I've had the privilege," he said and held out his hand. He leaned in as he spoke, and his smile tugged on the corners of his eyes which were already marked with use.
I shook his hand and returned what I'm sure was a weak smile. "No, I don't think so. My name's Lauren. I used to come here when I was little. It's—been a while."
"Well, I see you picked a good day to visit. If you're into gardening, that is." He remarked with a laugh and gestured toward the plant. "It's nice to meet you, Lauren. My name's Martin—Father Martin, if you prefer."
"Father Martin," I repeated, "I have a friend named Martin. It's a good name."
He laughed and said, "Thank you, I'll pass that one along to my mother. She loves the praise."
I laughed back. He carried himself in such a carefree way that I was put immediately at ease. Almost to the point where I forgot what I wanted to talk to him about. "Um," I started, attempting to word my question in a way that didn't sound like I needed psychiatric help. "I have a couple of religious questions for you, if you have time."
"That's what I'm for. Ask away."
"They're about… miracles. Like the ones in the Bible. I was wondering, do you think that miracles still happen today?"
"Miracles, huh," he started. "You mean like water into wine?"
"Kind of, yeah,"
"Hmm…" he contemplated. "Well, I haven't seen them, myself. You know, I may be a Priest, but I also have a degree in Physics. I think God made the world according to laws, right? But I do think God has the power to intervene. Yes. I just have never seen it… like … you know, the biblical type of miracles. To me, there are miracles happening all around us—miracles we can't see."
"Exactly," I responded, thinking about how no one else could see the blinks, "those kinds of miracles. What are those miracles we can't see?"
One of Father Martin's eyebrows raised and he rubbed his chin. "Well, I think the greatest miracle is the miracle of God's love which was perfected in Christ and offered to each of us. It's his power to heal even the most troubled mind. By coming into alignment with God's will for us, we can see the true purpose of this existence."
No, he's not getting it, I thought. I scrambled to my other entry-point. "What about the story of Job? God made a bet with the Devil that Job would stay faithful to him no matter what the Devil did to him. Do you think that kind of situation is possible?"
Father Martin's expression drooped into a concerned frown. "There's quite the difference between miracles and the story of Job. I suppose I see what you're getting at, though. Job's suffering is in some ways the antithesis to positive miracles. In this life, we are tested, sometimes to the point of losing everything, but even that person who has more reason to hate God than anyone else can once again find peace and eternal happiness through faith. In fact, it's often the person who is lowest in the pit of suffering that needs the Light of Christ more than anyone else."
I thought back on the first night that I prayed. It was in my moment of greatest helplessness that I reached out to God, and I thought I had found my answer in Him. But now, after what happened last night, after all these years of chaos—not merely losing things that were important to me, but my very sanity—I needed more than just blind faith. I couldn't just sit idly by and hope things would get better. I smiled at the Priest and said, "Thank you, Father, this has been very insightful."
"Of course, sister. I'm sorry if I couldn't have been of more help."
"No, I think I understand now. I've been… wrestling with something, and I think God wants me to confront it. I think I've been running away and hiding from it for so long that I'd convinced myself it disappeared."
Father Martin nodded in understanding. "Well, in that case, will you let me leave you with a prayer?"
I was a bit taken off guard by the request, but I accepted. "Sure, Father."
I watched as he made the sign of the cross, then he lifted his hands and closed his eyes. "Dear God, I am so happy to have had the privilege of meeting with Lauren today, especially on a day such as this where we are offering gifts for those who need them. You have heard her desire to confront the things that are troubling her. I ask that you bless her with strength and peace and a clear conscience, that she may overcome these challenges. God, bless us with your spirit, that we may see your hand in our lives. Amen."
"Amen," I said.
As I was leaving, Father Martin called out to me and said, "Oh, just so you know, this Friday at 7 we are having a barbecue at the Parish Center. I would love to see you there, if you're able and wanting."
Turning back, I smiled and said, "Oh, ok, thanks Father. I'll think about it."
The priest nodded, and with a smile, he sent me off.
***
I walked into the Deli at 1:00 on the dot. The customers who had arrived for the lunch rush were already cleaning up their trash and heading out. I dodged past a few of them on my way down the long, narrow path leading to the front counter. While I waited behind a couple of elderly folk who were picking which soup they wanted to pair with their Ultimate Grilled Cheese, I looked around for Trent. He hadn't sent me a picture or any way of contacting him throughout the day, so I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but I figured I'd see some man half-hidden behind a newspaper, scouting me out. Maybe I watch too many movies, I thought.
"Ahem, ma'am. You're up." croaked the teenager behind the register.
"Oh, right, sorry" I replied and stepped up to the counter. "Uhh," I muttered, scanning the menu for something that looked edible. "Could I just get…" I made sure to mouth every syllable as they were words of their own.
"We have a deal—the try two combo. Sandwich and a soup for $9.99." the cashier repeated for what was probably the fiftieth time that day.
"Yes, that sounds good. I'll do the Italian sandwich and potato soup. And a drink, please."
After I paid for the food, I wandered around the tables, hoping to find someone who looked like a Trent. I was picturing a short guy, runner's build, with long brown hair, tucked somewhere neatly away in the corner. So I was not prepared when the Hulk's stunt double growled my name from a table smack dab in the middle of the restaurant. He had a pale, square face that was spotted with freckles and a sinking property that comes with the lethal combination of stress and age. His hair was relatively short. Probably it was brown or auburn, but since it was slicked back, it looked almost black. And he wore what looked like janitor coveralls. There was even a cloth tag pinned to his chest which read, "Trent".
"Lauren?" He repeated.
"Yes, that's me." I said and took a seat across from him. I saw a brown tray on the table in front of him, and on the tray was a large, white soup bowl. It was empty and beginning to crust along the edges. He must have been here for some time already. "I didn't know where you'd be, so I was worried we might miss each other. I'm glad you found me though." I said while looking over Trent more thoroughly. His large hands were stretched out in front of him on the table. He wasn't wearing a ring, so he probably wasn't married. And his face, it was stern. He seemed like a no-bullshit kind of guy. Then I saw his eyes. They were sapphire blue—probably the most stunning I'd ever seen.
"We only spoke on the internet, so I hope you don't mind, but I usually run a preliminary test on anyone I meet who claims to have abilities such as yours." Trent said while reaching into his pocket and removing a device that had the size and shape of an electric razor. "All you have to do is look into it. It takes maybe five seconds. Ten at most."
"Oh, um, sure," I said reluctantly. "Do I just—" I asked while reaching for the device.
Trent clicked a button and released the cylindrical head which opened, revealing a glass circle about the size of an iris. "I'll hold it, just look into the center. A red cross should appear, then it'll take the picture."
"Okay…" I replied and did as he instructed, leaning my head forward to look into the device. Sure enough, a red cross appeared. "Is it…" was all I got out before the light turned blue and I saw a gray fog disperse and billow throughout the inside of the tube, extending for what I perceived to be miles. My jaw went slack and I couldn't breathe for maybe five seconds. Then Trent reshuttered the device and turned it over.
"Damn, 72." He said with a hint of shock. "That's the highest I've scanned to date." He looked back at me, more relaxed now, and muttered to himself. "How have you been able to function for this long? At this level, you should basically be half in, half out."
I rubbed my forehead, feeling a mixture of pain and frustration and fatigue and impatience which all poured out at once. "Listen, Trent," I said as sternly as I could, "I came here because you said you knew what was wrong with me and that you could help me. I get you have to make sure I am who I said I am, but now it's your turn to pay up. How do I know you know anything about my condition? You said my mom might still be alive. What does that even mean? I saw her die right in front of me. I want answers."
I waited for Trent to respond, but he only lifted his head. I turned around and saw a girl holding a tray of food.
"Um, hi, sorry to interrupt. I have an order 36 for Lauren."
"Oh, yes, thank you." I said. The worker placed the tray down on the table in front of me, and when I saw the food, I suddenly realized how hungry I was. Trent must have also realized this, because he folded his arms and said, "go ahead and eat. I'll explain while you do."
I wanted to protest, but my salivating mouth made other plans. "Fine," I said. I grabbed the metal spoon off the tray and started on the soup, bracing against the steaming heat of the potato chunks.
As I ate, Trent moved all of the items on his tray off to the side, then he flipped the tray over so it was raised slightly off the table. He took his cup and placed it face down in the center, then he rolled up a few of his used, blue mayonnaise packets and charted a track across the tray.
"What are you doing?" I croaked out between bites.
Trent ignored me and continued by ripping up a napkin into strips and placing them alongside the mayonnaise packets. Finally, he snapped ten toothpicks in half and stuck them in the tomb of a dozen overlayed napkins. "It's your diorama," he said at last.
"It's my what?"
"From the story you sent me. Your diorama. When I read about it, it gave me a good idea of how to explain the 'blinking'."
I pointed at the cup in the center. "Is that supposed to be a pyramid? Because I'm pretty sure you're in the wrong geometric neighborhood with that one."
"It's an analogy," he said.
"Of an analogy," I quipped back.
"Look," he picked out one of the toothpicks and held it out in front of me. "This could be a person, an animal, a crowbar—whatever you want. The point is, this diorama is a stand in for our universe. This is everything that exists, that we can see. Okay?"
"Okay,"
"Now, me," Trent placed a hand over his heart. "I'm not in the diorama. I don't exist in the universe."
"In the universe where a cup is a pyramid, or the actual universe?" I said, unable to control myself.
Trent grimaced.
"Sorry, keep going. I get it."
"Things pop into," Trent threw the toothpick back onto the tray, "or out of," he picked the toothpick back up, "our universe at will, based on forces," he patted his chest again, "that exist in other realms" he gestured to the room, "that are connected to our universe," he tapped two fingers against the tray. "These things could be objects, like, say, a toothpick, or entities, like the one you encountered yesterday. The blinking experience that you described aligns with the typical experience of a moderate Antenna. That's what I call people like us—Antennas; because we can pick up on signals others can't."
"We—you mean you see the blinking, too?"
"Yes, but not to the same extent as you. If all the blinks are gathered in a giant picture that you can see, I'm traversing the image through binoculars, maybe even a microscope, depending on where we are."
I thought about this. I guess it was possible there were other people like me out there, but since I had never met anyone, I didn't really consider the idea until now. And then for him to say my ability was somehow much stronger than his… "But," I started, "I haven't even seen that many blinks since I was a child. It's just more focused and malicious now."
"Yeah," Trent scratched his head, "that's the thing that got me really interested in you. Somehow you seem to be able to control it without gear, just by praying. And, look, that's all well and good, but I don't want to give you the false impression that I'm some kind of religious leader. I like to look for logical, scientific explanations for things. So that's the frame I'm coming at this from."
I took a sip from my drink. "That's fine," I said, "the truth is that's why I reached out to you in the first place. I wanted an explanation I could understand. An explanation that was directly related to what I'm going through."
"Then we should get along just fine."
I was scooping out the last potato that was stubbornly gliding along the bottom of the bowl when, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the old man from the line shooting up from his bench and standing in army-erect form. I felt a tingling sensation tickle the back of my neck. I didn't want to turn toward him. I knew what I'd see if I did. "Trent," I whispered, trying to tip him off.
"Huh?" he grunted. Then when he saw my expression, he snuck his right hand under the table and said, "Do you see it? Is it here?"
I cocked my head to the left, signaling toward the old man that was now facing us, but Trent didn't seem to notice him: his eyes just kept scanning the entire front of the restaurant. Then I saw the old man take a step in our direction.
"Lauuurennnn, oh Lauuuurennnn, I've been looking for you, Laurenn." The old man said in a low, gravelly voice that gave the impression he was gurgling liquid tar. I turned and saw his face. It was cold and expressionless, and a butter knife was poking out of his left fist. When I met his eyes, he smiled that horrible smile."You're a slippery bitch, you know that?" He spat. "Why can't you just stay put? Don't you get tired of running from your old friend? Or have you forgotten about me?"
"Trent," I mumbled out. "Right there."
"And this guy. You think he can help you? He's only here to help himself. If that's not clear, you really are a lost little lamb."
"Quick, give me your hand," Trent instructed.
I was silent, my eyes still pinned to the old man.
"Tsk-tsk-tsk," the demon possessed senior wagged his finger at me, taking a step, then another step, shortening the distance as much as he could while I was entranced. Then, suddenly, he sprinted forward at a speed that shouldn't have been possible for a man his age.
"Trent!" I screamed.
"Lauren, give me your hand!"
I spun around and grabbed Tren'ts outstretched arm just as the old man lifted the butter knife over his head like a pickaxe. Then I saw Trent pull out what looked like a toy gun from under the table and point it at the demon.
"Got you," Trent remarked. I braced for a gunshot, but there was no noise. After a couple seconds, I looked back and saw the old man sitting in the booth opposite his wife, his hand tremoring as he reached for his large drink.
"What did you?" I asked, but Trent was already pulling me out of my seat. "Come on, we have to go," he said, "the effect is temporary, he'll be—"
Before he could get out the last word, I saw the cup-pyramid on Trent's tray blink out of existence. The sound of a plate shattering rang out from a table up ahead. The lone woman standing there slowly turned around, smiling, with a fork in one hand and a piece of the broken plate in the other. Trent shot her with the toy gun as we ran past and then barreled through the front door.
"Where—are we going?" I asked between gasps.
"My van. It's loaded with kit."
"And then where?"
"Your house" replied Trent who stashed his gun back in his pocket and took out a key fob.
"My house? But that's where he—it appeared."
"Yeah, and that's where you banished it."
Trent waved me into the passenger seat of his RAM 3500 Promaster. I noticed right away the dash which looked more like it belonged in a new limited-edition EV than a cargo van. The ignition kicked on automatically, and I heard the beep of a sonar ping precede an English woman's voice calling out like some auxed-in GPS saying, "scanning for anomalies". Trent shifted the van into gear, and I heard the wheels sputter as we accelerated backward and whipped out of the small parking lot.
"What's your address?" Trent asked. I gave it to him, and then speaking to his dash, he said, "Car, take us to ****."
"Redirecting to ****," replied the British woman. "Currently detecting 31 novel emergences. Updating pings every 300 milliseconds. Chance of contact: 0.23%"
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"The van has sensor equipment which can detect blinks. It's much more accurate than either of us."
"And it sees 31?"
"Yes, that's not as many as it sounds." Trent said and tore past a car that blinked out of existence right as we turned onto the main street.
We drove on for another couple minutes, the Englishwoman updating the number of novel emergences every ten seconds or so. Her constant babbling eventually became a comforting background noise, and I was able to think again.
"In the message you sent me, you said my mom may still be alive." I looked at Trent to see if he would react to me bringing her up, but he remained stolid. "What did you mean by that?"
Trent thumbed his steering wheel. "I shouldn't have sent that." He said at last.
"Shouldn't have… What do you mean? You can't just say that now."
Trent took one hand off the wheel and turned toward me. "Look, we're going back to your house because we need to determine your origin point. All Antennas have them. It's a place of high energy where many realms intersect, kind of like a station, and it's the place where you first acquired your abilities. Based on everything you wrote, I'm guessing that place is where the forest where the accident happened when you were a young child. But I need to confirm it. Once I confirm that that's the place…" Trent hesitated.
"Then… what? You want us to go back there? To the place where my mom died, or at least where I think she died until you told me she might be alive but are now taking it back? That place?"
"It's the only way to—"
"Now detecting novel agent," the Englishwoman interrupted. We both perked up as she gave another update. "Net anomalies: 437. Novel Agents: 1. Chance of contact: 78%."
"Shit," Trent muttered. "Car, course correct."
"Attempting course correct to avoid collision. Attempts made: 10, 50, 75, 79… No alternate route detected. Chance of contact: 96%."
"Time until contact?"
"Time until contact: 13 seconds."
I shuddered. Looking out the front windshield, I saw cars pop out of existence left and right, opening up a clear path to the four way intersection ahead. In a blink, the streetlights all turned green, and then they vanished completely. It was as if the entire world was being stripped down bare, and all that remained was the road, boxed in by the rows of buildings along either side. In the distance I could see a large tanker barreling toward us.
"Trent,"
"I know," he replied and clicked a different button on the console which opened a new toggle for the shifter labeled "TD". He pushed the stick forward, engaging the new mode, then pressed the accelerator all the way to the ground. "You're going to want to hold on."
"What are you doing!?" I yelled, grabbing onto my seatbelt.
"No time to explain. Car, release phase lock."
"Phase lock released."
I watched in horror as the color drained from the road and buildings and sky, transforming it all into a dim tunnel, with only the headlights of the oncoming semi-truck visible up ahead. I had the sudden thought that this was all a dream, just like the ones from my childhood. I looked over and no longer saw Trent, but my mother. And then I realized this wasn't a dream. This was hell. I was being forced to relive the worst moment of my life, over and over again. Just when I thought I had escaped, I was pulled right back into that car, helpless as we approached but never arrived at our impending fate. I closed my eyes right as the lights engulfed the windshield and braced for the usual pain in my chest, for the feeling of breaking.
But it didn't come.
"Shift" was the last word out of Trent's mouth, and then I was infused with the sensation of being at the pinnacle of a roller coaster. I was suspended there for what felt like hours, but somehow I knew that not even a second had passed. Everything inside the van: the dashboard, windows, ceiling, doors, even Trent himself began to radiate enigmatic particles. They were a mass of constant motion, like raindrops falling through the air but never landing. I looked down at my hand, but it was gone. Diffused into an unknowable number of untraceable particles. The world outside, once devoid of color, was now nothing but color. When I tried to focus on a particular spot in the infinite geometric folds of whatever realm we were traversing through, I could sometimes detect a trace of our world.
The old lady from the church. She appeared as if through a window, standing behind a table, holding out a plant. Only this image was so much brighter. And the plant she was holding was pure gold. Then I'd catch a glimpse of the razor blade. It was large, many hundreds of times larger than the van, and surrounded by darkness. These ghostly images appeared like holograms or reflections that caught the light at just the right angle, then dissipated.
I stayed there, looping between the archetypes of my life for a long, long time.
***
I knew we were returning when I felt the first sense of motion. Breath filled my lungs for the first time in what felt like a day. I blinked. And then we were back in town, driving down the same road with the blue sky above. People were jogging on the sidewalk past the little street shops. The streetlights were active. I checked the side mirror and saw the tanker had just passed by.
I looked over at Trent, who met my eyes. We shared a look of knowing, and unknowing. For some reason, that was enough, and we continued on in silence.
***
We agreed to stay the night at my house.
Trent had parked a couple blocks away in front of a couple vacant houses so as not to arouse suspicion from the neighbors. Then he lugged a large duffel bag with his equipment in and set it up in the living room. He scanned the scrapbook which contained the newspaper clippings from the accident several times and confirmed that was likely my 'origin point'. I simply nodded and then went back out onto the back porch. I sat there for hours, basking in the sun. Something had changed in the past day, but I couldn't pick out what it was. Too much had happened. I had too little time to process any of it.
When the sun set, I went inside and Trent told me about his plans for the next couple days. He said he needed to run a few errands in the morning, then meet up with a couple of his associates. After that, we could begin our drive to Southern Illinois. He said it was likely that the entity that was chasing me had first tied itself to me during my childhood accident. For whatever reason, we came into contact, and now it didn't want to leave. Trent would help me get rid of it. He didn't go into many details regarding how that was to happen, but I don't think in my tired state I would have been able to understand much anyway. He had a plan, and that was enough for me. At least for a while.
After our meeting, I made sure Trent had enough pillows and blankets like a proper host, then I retired to my room. I laid down on my twin bed and stared up at the cream-colored ceiling. Then I turned and saw the participation awards for my junior soccer league stashed on my dresser. I pictured myself on the field, running with the ball, out ahead of everyone except the goalie. I took a shot, but it was blocked. Then I ran back to defend. How can such a simple game be so much fun? Was the last thought I had before drifting off to sleep.
I woke up only once during the night. It was still dark out. The room was warm despite the small, flower petal fan churning away, shifting the hot, humid air from one pocket of the room to the next. I waited in apprehension, sensing that something had disturbed me. I saw the tomato plushie peeking out at me from the slightly ajar closet door where I had stashed it so many years ago. I felt like I was missing something. Something important.
And then I heard it.
There was a tapping at my window.

So I have a very old pair of nothing ear 1's I love them and they take some serious abuse. But it looks like they have finally given up.
First things first the fixes. Losing volume on a bud? Is it dirty, try using blu-tak (the putty like adhesive used to hang posters, we call it presstik ). Best way to clean they. Bonus tip, works for your phone too.
Bud not charging? Check that the pins in the case are clean and freely moving, then check that the pads on the buds are clean. Clean with alcohol (preferably isopropyl alcohol, in a pinch non-antipersparant deodorant can work, so long as it doesn't leave a residue). In extreme cases I've used isopropyl alcohol and a glass fibre electronics cleaning pen.
Hard reset, and leave on charge for 24 hours. This fixes most of the software pairing problems.
Buds case split? This has happened to both of mine after dropping them. I used super glue. Squirt a little onto some paper, use a toothpick to collect some glue and carefully apply on the seam. Don't glue your buds to your fingers. A bulldog clip helps apply pressure while the glue sets. Don't use one that has too much force/pressure.
My latest issue - unresolved. I had moisture build up in my left bud. It suddenly died and I tried the usually charge over night = fail. Hard reset = fail. Super clean = fail. Could no longer pair to my phone. 10 days later... Checked the voltages. Around 4Vdc on the case charging pins. 0V DC on the right bud pads, 4V DC on the left pads. Makes me think I've got a short from the moisture.
If I remove the faulty bud from the case, I can pair the case and working bud no problem!
Next step, I'll play around with the dead bud, see if a magnet changes the voltage out put as I suspect it's how they sense that bud and case are in place and closed. Will soak in IPA to see if I can clean it, and dry it on my 3d printer bed.
DISCLAIMER: Don't do stupid stuff just because I told you I did it and it worked for me.

Looking to build a tooth pick and want to see what everyone likes the one frame I have built is FPVcycles tp3. What's you're favorite toothpick frame?

Scott Masterson had first met Scarlett at a rooftop party in downtown Dallas. Their age and the time of year were both in late springtime, them in their mid twenties and the date in early May. He had on a sharp yet breezy blazer and she astonished in a thigh length sleeveless blue dress.
“Oh hey Scott I don’t believe you two have met…” his then happily married friend had remarked with a slow swinging open hand toward her.
“Scott Masterson…reluctant friend to this knucklehead” he said with a tight lipped grin, trying not to be so obvious with his instant rapture.
“Scarlett…a pleasure…”
Her hand was so delicate to Scott’s touch. They locked eyes. It was like looking back through centuries of connection, endless days of laying in the sun next to the Seine River, or rising to Hollywood fame in the 1940’s and only having each other who would understand the glory and the pain of it all, or generations of quiet, simple country love that would bear such beautiful, happy children that would go on to raise beautiful, happy children, all with their dark blue eyes. Yes, the memories of every love story since the beginning of time was swirling right there in Scarlett’s irises. Scott had to catch himself before he stared embarrassingly too long.
“Sorry Scottie here doesn’t get out often” his friend quipped, which Scott appreciated actually, it helped him snap back to professionalism.
“Well I don’t either…at least I prefer not to.” Scarlett’s words flowed through the air like a flock of rose petals.
“Hey, kindred spirits.” Scott was really sensing a rising energy out of her, they had barely broken eye contact.
“Well, I’ll let you two have at it, I got a wife around here somewhere. Hey…Scott and Scarlett…not bad, not bad.” His friend exited stage right with a sly chuckle.
“Nice guy…so…what are you drinking, Scarlett?” Scott looked around for the emptiest corner of the rooftop bar, hoping to find a nice place for them to be able to hear each other. This night had just become something.
“That depends, Scott…what do you like?”
Oh man.
Well, as you can expect, the evening blossomed into a beautiful, long winded conversation that etched a long list of similarities between the two. They both lived in the city, had never married, and had dreamed of stable, simpler lives far away from tall buildings and busy streets. The next morning Scott awoke in her arms, which warmed much deeper than just his skin. He could feel her soothing his very identity, his future, everything. Her arms were tailor made to fit his very soul, and he had never felt more safe and at home.
“Mmm…you can stay right here…” she whispered, eyes still closed.
“I will…I will”
They both fell back asleep, into a dream that wouldn’t end upon waking.
Two years passed and suddenly they lived that simple backwoods life, way out where acres of land far out-populated the few and far between people. They took a lovely home, which happily looked over a long backyard, right up to a lively yet mostly undisturbed river. Their only neighbor within a mile was an older ranch worker named Charles, who rarely made himself perceivable. Days were spent way on into town where they both had offices. They didn’t mind the commute. Nights were spent mostly like this night, cuddled outside near a lovely little fire, with a slowly shrinking amount of wine sitting between them. Enjoying their Kingdom. Tonight, however, would prove to be a special night, for many reasons, all unexpected.
“Honey, I’ve been thinking…” Scott began, sitting up and opening his hands to the warmth of the fire.
“Oh?” Scarlett also sat up, eyes widening.
“So look, Scarlett, the last two years have been the best of my life. An absolute dream…”
She held her breath, her focus darting between his eyes and mouth.
“Yeah?”
“We have everything we ever want out here. But…what if there’s more?”
“More?” She had envisioned this very conversation hundreds of times.
“Our dreams have come true, but what if we…made some new dreams?” Scott turned and embedded his eyes into hers. He burst into a big smile.
“Scott…I thought…”
“Nevermind what I said” he cut her off, which he always made a point to never do, but this was a good exception.
“I’m ready, Scarlett…let’s have a family.”
“Ohhhh Scott, oh Scott”
They hugged tight enough to where it hurt.
“Well, in that case, we may need to open another bottle.” She said playfully, bouncing her eyebrows twice.
“Excellent. I’ll be right up. I’ll put this fire out and then start yours up.”
“Oh stop!” She bounded away girlishly, up the snowy back steps and into the house.
Scott let out a big sigh that he could see in the cold air and sat back in his chair, taking in his decision. He really was ready. He had secretly been keeping a long list of names that he liked and that he thought would work in front of Masterson. Especially little girl names. He stared into the campfire flames, getting lost imagining the three of them sitting right here, a little girl resting securely in Scarlett’s arms, as Scott had found himself, and stayed within these past two years.
Suddenly his trance was broken when, from the road in front of their house, came the sound of a vehicle approaching at high speed. Scott snapped his head back toward the house to get a better listen. He could see, around the house and through the trees, a large truck barreling down the country road, its headlights racing and bouncing with intensity. In an instant, it had passed up the road and out of sight.
“Huh?”
Soon, after a moment of silence, another sound echoed into the night. This sound rattled Scott to the bone and tore all that was right in his world into pieces. A sharp, bellowing squeal. His eyes shot over to his neighbors house, which was about a tenth of a mile to his right but still had a couple dim lights on that he could see. The shriek seemed to come from there.
Then, more squeals. It was hellish. More than animal but not quite human. Scott stood up. He heard crashing and tearing and further destruction coming from Charles’ house.
“Scarlett!! Scarlett!” He yelled toward his house, where he looked and could see her silhouette behind the curtains at the kitchen window. She didn’t seem to hear him.
He turned back toward his neighbors. The chaos had gone quiet. Not a half a moment after, though, he heard something big barreling through the trees as fast as that truck had been sprinting. Running, running furiously between the two houses. Searching, hunting. Scott was taken aback so hard that his heel had caught the edge of the fire pit, throwing him down only inches away from severe burns. He had knocked his head in the whiplash, making him groan and take a moment to regain his bearings.
“SCARLETT!!!!”
He screamed out toward his home as he sat up, rubbing a quickly rising bump on the back of his head. He heard a loud breaching on the side of his house. The patio door. No. No. Then, all hell broke loose. Scarlett started wailing and crying and he could hear crashes of plates and glasses and deep guttural roars coming from the kitchen inside. Shadows danced in a frenzy from the curtained windows. Sounds of instinctual survival seemed to be thrown from Scarlett inside. Sounds of defeat. Sounds of agony. Sounds of insanity. Scott sprang to his feet, his equilibrium being more damaged than he realized after his fall. He had to catch his hand on a chair to stabilize himself. Scarlett’s symphony of pain had gone quiet. Soon after something burst back out the patio door again and off in the same direction as that truck before.
Scott struggled back up to the house, slowly climbing the wintered, crunching stairs that led to the patio. He no longer yelled for Scarlett. In fact, the only thing that came to his senses was the sound of his own heavy breathing. Everything else had been turned off, save for a heavy and sudden dread that he had prayed he would never feel. He came to the side of his house where indeed the patio door had been busted and forced open. It laid inside the kitchen, its hinges snapped like toothpicks. Scott, with eyes wide and twitching, slowly entered his home and looked into the kitchen.
He didn’t scream. He didn’t even change his breathing. He didn’t blink. He just got a good long look at what laid before him.
Everything was broken. The fridge was on its side, the door hanging open and food and drink scattered all over the floor. The table was upended, its legs to the ceiling. A chair was resting on the counter, possibly having been thrown in defense. And Scarlett. Oh Scarlett. She…was…everywhere. She was all over the floor. She was sprayed against the walls. She was stuck to the window. She was in the sink.
Scott gently walked through the carnal mess and sabotage of his world. Long ago he had known exactly what he would do if something anywhere near this bad were to happen to him. He politely stumbled through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the bedroom. He opened his closet door and lowered a fire safe from the top rack. He unlocked it with a passcode. 511, after that warm May date when he had first met Scarlett. In the safe was a Sig Sauer P320 handgun. Scott took it out, along with a box of bullets, loaded one into the gun, put the safe back on its rack, and walked out of the closet, sitting on his bed. Their bed. Where they should’ve been laying right at this very moment, working toward a happy future. Where he would’ve kissed her forehead and put a hand on her growing midsection. Where they would have awoken on Christmas morning to the sound of children who were way too excited to remain asleep. Where they would’ve grown old. Where they would’ve smiled at each other through wrinkles, satisfied with all the love they shared and passed on to the next generations. Where they would’ve held each other in deep peace as they finally fell asleep to this world.
“I will…I will”
In one quick motion Scott pulled back the hammer and stuck the barrel of that pistol right up against his Governor and blew himself away, far away, right back into Scarlett’s loving arms.
Jeremy “Smallmouth” Bassett quickly yet stealthily made his way back to his Uncle’s house. He hugged the sides of the dark country road, keeping his eyes and ears wide open as to notice any sounds pertaining to the event that he had just witnessed there in the field next to the huge blaze. His only thought was Uncle Chuck. His house was right on the warpath of that horrible thing and Smallmouth had to go to him and make sure he was safe. He dared not go back to his truck, which would bring a lot of unwanted attention. No, Smallmouth walked and walked and finally saw the lights of his Uncle’s house. He carefully approached the front door from the shadowed driveway. Suddenly it occurred to Smallmouth that something was very wrong here. The door was busted in, having been plowed through by something very large and very strong.
“No…no…no”
Smallmouth slowly entered the house. The kitchen and living room were a disaster, chairs and tables and bottles strewn about and shattered. Bloody hoof-prints covered the floors, each of them the size of dinner plates. Smallmouth heard no noise. He felt himself well with tears, his nose a faucet that he began to sniff up as he worked his way through to his Uncle’s room, the door there also being broken in. A small whine growing in his throat, Smallmouth peaked into his uncles bedroom.
It was all in tatters. The bed had been attacked and shredded, the mattress being ripped up and thrown about as if it were made of cotton candy. More bloody hoof-prints were painted all over the brown carpet. Smallmouth trembled and put a hand up to his wet face. He didn’t see a way that his Uncle was anywhere near alive, knowing what he knew about the monster that had been in this house.
Smallmouth slowly walked to the living room, to the only little table that had been untouched in the attack. It was almost as if the bottle of whiskey teleported into his hand from the overturned cabinet, unopened. He fixed that real quick.
Soon he was several pulls deep of the only thing in the world that he knew would make him feel better, even if only for a few hours. He found his pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket and lit one up, although he was indoors. What did it matter? He sat in a chair that he had turned right side up and set the bottle on the table and looked out the back window into the pitch black. He cried for his Uncle and he cried for the world. He cried for himself. He cried for broken promises and his own weakness. He drank and drank until his vision shook from right to left everywhere he looked. At first he didn’t even notice the figures on the back porch. Then his vibrating focus did pick up on them, but by then it was too late. It was so dark out there but in their outlines he could see they wore long robes and hoods.
“HA!! COME AND GET ME! HAHA!! YOU COME AND YOU GET ME!!” Smallmouth boasted with a delusional amount of courage.
A creak escaped from the kitchen and he drunkenly slung his head over toward it. Three more figures stood there. Or was it just one? Smallmouth was none the wiser. All at once the hooded intruders from both inside and outside began to chant a strange, twisted rhyme in strikingly low and dissonant harmony:
“A sliver…of liver…goes down…with a shiver… …and gives…your gullet…to gall… …but drink…the Cider…that drowns…the Spider… …and you…will be free…of it all… …so tighten the grip…that loosens your lips… …O raise…the bottle…of brown… …and wake tomorrow…to find…in sorrow… …ANOTHER…SPIDER…TO…DROWN”
Smallmouth groaned at them in dissatisfaction and turned his bottle up again and began to chug the whiskey. As he did they repeated the chant except this time it was louder and closer. By the time Smallmouth had finished his bottle he was quickly losing consciousness. This wasn’t just whiskey. As he closed his eyes he felt hands grabbing him from all sides.
Smallmouth pulled open his sticky eyelids. His head felt like someone had bowled a strike into it. Wind froze his face. The smell of sickly, wet iron stung his nostrils. His vantage was higher than usual. Way higher. He was looking out into another field, but from easily ten feet up. He saw an old church, formerly painted white but now a flaky pale-beige. He heard the friction of a quick pull of rope below him, matched with a slight, tight pain at his feet. He looked down. A red-robed figure was fastening him against a wooden structure of some kind. His feet sat on a small flat platform perpendicular to a post that went from the ground up past smallmouths head. He couldn’t move his arms, so he quickly shot his eyes side to side. They were also tied to another horizontal post. A cross. He was being tied to a crude wooden cross. His shirt had been removed, exposing a hairy, overweight belly. Smallmouth tried to speak, but all that came out was a slow, unintelligible grumble. He was still drunk. No, this was more than that. He was under the influence of something strong and absolutely inhibitive. He wallowed again, and took in a deep breath. The smell of iron once again hit his nose. He looked down at himself. He was covered in a thick, red liquid. That wasn’t just the smell of iron. He had been splashed full body with blood.
“Now now, young servant…” the figure at his feet had finished his task and took a couple of steps out to admire his own handiwork.
“Ahh…perfect. The picture of martyrdom. Yes, you will always be remembered, Brother Bassett. You are to be the first Saint of The New Bible.” He opened his arms in his declaration.
Smallmouth looked up into the cold night sky. The moon shown down, giving everything a midnight spotlight. It was a gorgeous waxing gibbous, big and bright but not quite full. Yes, he was in a great big snowy field that housed an old worn down church. From the windows of the church he saw candles glowing, showing dark heads and shoulders looking out to him, also covered in loose hoods, hiding faces. He was hanging on a cross about one hundred feet from the old church. In front of the cross was a partially covered pit, a couple of two by fours supporting double armfuls of branches and dead leaves.
The figure at the base of the cross put his arms back to his side. He was still looking right at the drugged Smallmouth’s dumbstruck face. Even with a veiled mouth you could hear the twisted smile in his voice.
“Tonight you will help us finally defeat this legion, Smallmouth. You see, it may have the evil spirits within it, but at its core, it is still an owned animal. An animal that knows its Master very well. An animal that will remember the smell of its Master. You, my friend, are covered in its Master right now. And you are hanging on a cross, the symbol of this brute’s most hated enemy. But take heart, young Brother. Before you is our pit of spears. Yes you will attract the beast, but our Divine plan will intercept it and the beast will fall and be pierced. And then, oh dear brother, you will forever be immortalized. You will be purified in fire by the hands of your church brethren. Out of your screams and into the smoke the iniquities of all will be released. We will go on to preach your good example and your sainthood forever and ever.”
Smallmouth began to drool and hum pathetically. He could hear and understand the words of the robed man but he couldn’t fight back. His body was useless, limp inside its rope confines. All he could do now is think, and watch, and wait, and dread his fate.
The figure turned away from him, walking over near the pit and gathering up a bundle of brambles and throwing them over the last open area, covering it completely. He then crunched through the snow over to the front door of the old church, groaning open the door. He stood at the dark doorway for a few seconds in silence, and then began to make a noise. An over exaggerated pig squealing noise, high pitched and infuriating. Soon after other voices from inside the church began to do the same, their wailing echoing out of the building and all across the field, loudly signaling, calling out. It may as well have been a dinner bell. Not a half minute after they began the distress signal it was loudly answered by a distant squall. A furious squall.
This was it. Either way it happened Smallmouth was about to die. Experience terror, and then die, and not even have the ability to put up any kind of defense. It wasn’t fair. He just slowly lifted up his head and watched out far into the moonlit, white field. He then raised his heavy head further and took a good gander at the moon and stars for the last time.
“God,” he thought to himself, still having full inner monologue yet no outer motor function, “I am so sorry. I am so sorry for being what I am. I am so sorry for ending up in this place. It’s only my own fault. If it wasn’t for me being so stupid and messy and drunk and terrible then this wouldnt be happening to me.”
He began to shed tears that washed lines into the blood on his face.
“Please forgive me God. Please, please, please forgive me for all of my sins. This is it. I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die. PLEASE FORGIVE ME!!!!” He yelled inside his own mind, hoping and trying to send his silent words as far up into heaven as they could go.
He lowered his eyes back to the ground. He looked over at the church again. The windows were empty, the candles were extinguished. Those hooded cowards were hiding from their own handmade sacrificial service. All was quiet for a long pause until a much louder, closer bleating began at the edge of the forest not even three hundred feet away from Smallmouth’s glazed over eyes. It was time, and it was too late for a miracle.
Out of the woods, slowly and heavily, stomped the massive hog. As it marched closer and closer Smallmouth could see its white, boiled over eyes and black-burnt skin. Its jaws were flying open and snapping its sharp, pocket knife-sized teeth together in an intimidating “clack”. It was now less than a hundred feet away, the dark old church to its right shoulder. It stopped, its pale glowing eyes fixed right on Smallmouth on the crude cross. It truly was a monster. It stood as tall as a man and as long as a canoe. Around its murderous mouth were stains of red, the remnants of all that it had taken from the world on this unholy night. In its clanging jaws were bits of flesh. It snorted and scowled.
Then, in a fury, it wailed that horrible squeal and started off into a dead sprint. It galloped and galloped toward Smallmouth at a high, blistering speed. It kept yawping and howling as it cut the distance from the cross down to fifty feet, forty feet, thirty, twenty. All at once it passed over the covered pit and plunged in. In his doomed, dead eyed stupor Smallmouth could hear what sounded like paint being dumped from a rooftop onto concrete. Trails of black liquid squirted and splashed up from the pit, which had been uncovered in the fall of the beast. Unbelieving, Smallmouth saw dozens of steel spear tips standing up from the dug-in ground. Right in the middle of them the beast was stuck. The sheer weight of the animal had caused the spears to pierce through its tough skin, sticking out of its back, soaked in black blood. One spear had stabbed right under the hogs chin, passing up through its jaws and out its black snout. It made agonized sounds. It roared and roared and shook the spears inside it, beginning furiously, then growing weaker and weaker within seconds. Finally, it let out one last weak little squeal, before it went still and quiet.
Smallmouth was frozen both physically by drugs and constraints and mentally by shock. His mouth hung open toward the pit of spears, his vision blurry. He took in a deep, troubled breath and let out a moan of disbelief and relief. The old church doors sprang open, and the sound of jubilation within flowed out into the night. The red robed figures flocked out of the building toward the pit, arms raised in celebration. They surrounded the hole, getting a good look at their success and their enemies defeat. Some held additional spears and began further stabbing the dead animal, causing more black blood to be shed up at them. They all yelled loudly and triumphantly. Some danced around the pit. Some skipped over to Smallmouth on the cross and danced around him, slapping his legs and spinning in circles.
Smallmouth looked on at the raucous celebration, both in utter disbelief of their trap actually working and also in turmoil. How long now until they fully execute their plan.
A taller robed man, whose voice matched the same one who spoke to Smallmouth as he tied his feet, spoke up, sounding almost happily intoxicated.
“Ahh yes my Brothers!! It is done!! We have won!!!”
They all whooped and cheered.
“Brother Norman, go into the church and bring me the small tank of fuel. Let us send our dear Saint Bassett to the Holy lands, where he will be adored for all eternity!”
They all clapped and hollered. One figure began childishly skipping away from the pit and over toward the front door of the church.
Then, it happened.
From the pit all of a sudden a great blaze erupted instantly. It stood as tall as the cross, and it burned a furious red and blue. It raged and raged, blinding Smallmouth and making him clumsily turn his face away from the heat.
All of the figures panicked, screaming and scattering away toward the church. They didn’t get far. Up from the fiery pit, dozens of long, long, black arms, adorned with six hooking claws emerged and stretched out of the flames and latched on to the legs of those trying to escape. Smallmouth heard crying and wailing from the men as the black, razor clawed-hands of the legion grabbed them and began pulling them back, into the blazes. One by one the red robed people were dragged into the flames, their clothes catching instantly. Smallmouth could see violently shaking bodies in the evil furnace. Oh, the screams. Above the tortured howling, the sound of laughing broke out. Deep, menacing laughter, hundreds of voices, echoed up into the air from the burning hole. Then, in one extinguishing squeeze, the ground swallowed the entirety of the fiery pit, leaving it completely covered in dirt, still and quiet. Soon after, and just like the pit of spears, the old church building caught in an instant and raging fire, quickly toppling the walls and dropping the steeple into its ruins. The smoke towered high in the night sky, which had just began to hint at a pale morning blue. Smallmouth hung on his cross in utter horror and surprise.
As the late evening hours glowed into early morning the smoke eventually tapered off, as Smallmouth’s drugs finally began to wear off as well. The fires of the church did garner long distance attention, though. Just as Smallmouth was able to regain control of his muscles and voice he heard emergency sirens call out into the cold morning air. Not long after, two fire trucks, an ambulance and a sheriffs truck tore into the field and toward Smallmouth on the cross. Not long after Smallmouth could feel the tied ropes being cut loose by firemen, their uniforms easily the best red clothes he had seen all night.
“What on God’s green Earth happened here son?” A bearded man with a dark hat and brown shirt and pants asked Smallmouth once he had been lowered down from the cross and sat on the ground with a shock blanket around his shoulders. The Sheriff, no doubt.
“God’s green Earth. It really is God’s, isn’t it?” Smallmouth whispered, staring out across the cold field. Then, at the very place he was staring, an old, familiar truck came barreling out of the gravel road in the woods and through the field in the steadily growing morning light. It was Uncle Chuck’s truck. It hurried over toward the other emergency vehicles, parked, the driver’s side door burst open, and Uncle Chuck came bounding out over to Smallmouth, his eyes wide and his mouth a wonderfully shocked “O”.
“JEREMY! JEREMY!!!” He basically fell on Smallmouth in a tight, warm hug. Smallmouth was caught off guard by Chuck using his real name.
His Uncle held him for several seconds and then let up, but kept his hands on Smallmouth’s shoulders.
“I thought you were dead.” Both of them said at almost the exact same time.
“I came back and your house was a mess and there was blood everywhere. I thought you were dead.” Smallmouth weakly spat out.
“Well, I woke up and you were gone, son, so I walked to the ranch to get my truck. I was worried bout ya son. I came back home and the whole place had been turned upside down. Blood on the carpet. I just thought the worst. Then I tried my neighbors house. Buddy, they’re dead. Looks like some wacko murder-suicide if I ever saw one. Scott probably tried to come kill us too and wrecked the place when he found it empty. I don’t know. But what I DO know is that you are right here! You are okay Jeremy!! Ahhh Praise Jesus!!”
“It’s not that, Uncle. That isn’t what happened out here. It’s..it was a..a, uh…”
Smallmouth’s fried brain couldn’t even comprehend what he had witnessed over the past few hours. It was all a violent blur.
“Dont worry bout it son, you can tell me everything on the way to the hospital. We gotta go get you checked out and cleaned up. C’mon.” He helped Smallmouth up and they walked over to the ambulance, his Uncle’s arm thrown around his shoulder.
Smallmouth would be sent home later that afternoon. It would take him and his Uncle a long time to sort through the chaos of that deadly night and rebuild their lives. But life kept on. Smallmouth would remain living with his Uncle, and would begin a job working with him down at the ranch. Together they started to attend a local church. Smallmouth never touched a drink or a drug or even a cigarette ever again, and remained steadfast in his newly revitalized faith.

Hello guys, I've been trying to typify myself but I always identify with different functions and maybe my compression is not the best in the subject.
I'm a girl and I'm 21 years old, English is not my main language so sorry for any mistakes.
Section 1
How do you work? Why do people go to work? Are there any parameters that determine whether you can do work or not? What are they?
I work because I have no choice, that's how the world I was born is and that's how I'm going to live, I admire those who try to change the course of things like a superhero but I'm a mere citizen.
Because people have dreams and goals and they can't achieve what they want without money unless they're lucky enough to be born into an elite family, if so they won the lucky roulette wheel of life.
I don't work well in heavy environments, I survived only 1 day in a factory because a woman keep screaming at me, everyone tried to convince me to try harder but I was feeling to overwhelmed.
How do you determine the quality of work? How do you determine the quality of a purchase? Do you pay any attention to it
Result.
I'm a bit picky with the quality of my stuff, especially the fabric of my clothes. It's because of comfort but also for aesthetics.
There is a professional next to you. How do you know they are a professional? How do you evaluate their skill?
They get the job done on time and well done. I don't think there's only one way to do things, we are all taught in a certain way but then we also adapt, we end up creating our own way of doing things that work for us.
If you struggle to do something, how do you fix that? Do you know if your performance is better or worse than others?
It depends, I usually learn by trying until it works but I can't always use this technique so I seek tutorials or ask for help.
Definitely, I'm very paranoid about my job, I hate feeling incompetent. If I have the conditions and knowledge to take the initiative to do something at work, I'll do it, but if I'm insecure then I'd rather stay quiet I don't want to mess things up.
How do you measure the success of a job? What standard do you use? Do you pay attention to it? When should you deviate from this standard?
I like easy jobs, constant stress is not for me. Easy, the money, the free time I will have, the responsibilities (few I expect) and the effort.
Section 2
What is a whole? Can you identify its parts? Are the parts equivalent to the whole?
I'm so confused, am I supposed to give a definition or come out with some abstract sentence?
What does "logical" mean? What is your understanding? Do you think that it correlates with the common view? How do you know you are being logical?
Logic to me is something that makes sense, when your actions and words are coherent and when you take into account all the factors to make a correct decision. Contrary to what the Alphas may believe, Logic is not coldness, in fact, to be completely logical you have to take the emotions of others and your own into account, otherwise you are just emotionally unavailable. For example, killing half the population just because someone killed your cat is not logical, you're actually being driven just by emotions.
What is hierarchy? Give examples of hierarchies. Do you need to follow it? Why or why not? Explain how hierarchy is used in a system you are familiar with.
In short, it's when you're on the first floor and need to climb the stairs to get to the second, you may be able to pay someone to build an elevator to get up there faster, or you can't afford it and you have to overcome all the conditions, shortness of breath, pain in your legs, the stairs that are old and falling apart...
Hierarchy is something natural and will always exist, no matter how much you hate it, the world is not a fair place and there will always be someone eating fried chicken in a lamborghini at the expense of a child who makes clothes for shein.
If you're ambitious you have to do it, but if you're like me who just want to have money to live a "basic life", then you don't need to climb so many stairs, just the necessary ones.
What is classification? How does classification work? Why is it needed and where is it applied? Give examples.**
Is when you take a product, tangible or not (e.g. a bread or skills) and give it a certain punctuation/category according to certain requirements.
Obviously, imagine that you built a building made of toothpicks (product) that would collapse 1 minute after being exposed to the wind because no one had the brilliant idea to take into account the meteorological conditions (requirement)
Are your ideas consistent? How do you know they are consistent? How do you spot inconsistency in others' ideas?
I'm usually an introspective person, so even when my ideas are incoherent I think about them at some point and "correct" the incoherence, unless I'm really emotional I think that during those moments no one is coherent.
Yes, but I usually prefer to keep quiet if it's none of my business.
Section 3
Can you press people? What methods do you use? How does it happen?
Usually no, first of all I don't like to force anyone to do anything because I don't like to be forced either, second that I'm not good at forcing people especially strangers and it's the main reason to have been bullied and still have problems with people walking over me.
What I do is that I tell the advantages of doing something the way I want or admit that it would be convenient for me.
What can happen is when I do something for a person over and over again and they never reciprocate, and there is when I can be a manipulative and childish (passive-agressive)
How do you deal with opposition? What methods do you use to defend your interests?
It depends on the situation, I react badly if it's the example I gave earlier. If someone starts trying to control me indirectly, I can react two ways, or I play dumb for the sake of peace or the manipulation goes directly against my interests and in that case I walk away (with strangers) or protest (people close to me).
When do you think it's ok to occupy someone's space? Do you recognize it?
When they occupy yours is the only situation I can think of right now.
Do others think you are a strong-willed person? Do you think you have a strong will?
I don't know what others think.
It depends if it's about something I'm sure I want, for example a lot of people say I'm crazy for wanting to leave the country but I made that choice for myself and that's what I'm going to do, if I don't change my mind until then (which usually doesn't happen). Otherwise I think I can be seen as lazy, I need a very strong motivation that comes from myself.
How do you satisfy your physical senses? What examples can you give? What physical experiences are you drawn to?
I really like hot baths and pleasant smells. I'm a bit paranoid about my own smell, I'm always putting on deodorant for example.
On the other hand I'm not very good with my internal health, I have to force myself to remember to drink water and food is optional, I don't usually eat breakfast and especially at work I only eat salty snacks or soup most time. I tend to eat more when I want to be greedy or have food available, if I have to do it then I don't eat or I make something simple. I have a friend who judges me for it (I think she has strong Si).
I like some extreme activities, for example I've done canoeing which I loved and every summer I go to the scariest carousels at the fair, I feel free.
How do you find harmony with your environment? How do you build a harmonious environment? What happens if this harmony is disturbed?
I like quiet environments where everyone is genuinely fine and not pretending, so if any of my friends are feeling bad I try to help them. I also like to go to beautiful places with friends or alone like organize a picnic, go to a waterfall...
What does comfort mean to you? How do you create it?
Being in a place alone where I don't need to be anxious all the time, where I can let my guard down, eat sushi while listening to the sound of the rain in warm pajamas and under my blanket creating some fake scenario on my head.
How do you express yourself in your hobbies? How do you engage yourself with those things?
When I was a kid I tried to start playing piano but I dind't last long because It requires a long time to get results and I didn't want to practice at home. I prefer simpler hobbies without commitments, for example playing video games, painting, reading books, and trying new hobbies.
I'd really like to start trying to go to craft classes, but short classes to then be able to try another one until maybe I find one that suits me.
Tell us how you'd design any room, house or an office. Do you do it yourself, or trust someone else to do it? Why?
If I had the money I would call someone to take care of the big part, I would tell them exactly what I want, then I would just take care of the details.
Is it acceptable to express emotions in public? Give examples of inappropriate expression of emotions
That's not a question of being acceptable or not, emotions can't always be controlled, you never know what someone is going through behind the scenes.
But I admit that I prefer people who don't show emotions in an dramatic way, for example in my work there are a lot of people who start screaming and who are clearly exaggerating and I have to control myself not to laugh.
I'm mostly touched by people who are more reserved with their emotions because I identify with them.
How do you express your emotions? Can you tell how your expressions affect others in a positive or negative way?
I never had emotional support so I like to deal with my emotions alone.
I don't know if I consider myself a very emotional person , I have my moments where I start crying for many different reasons because I kept a lot of things inside me, I also have days where I'm in a very bad mood without knowing why and I start being mean to close people.
I'm a very private person, I don't like exaggerated demonstrations, a lot of "i love you" and compliments make me bored and seem fake.
Are you able to change your demeanor in order to interact with your environment in a more or less suitable way? How do you determine what is suitable?
These questions make me think that I don't know myself that well.
I think so, I know how to dress up and not talk about inappropriate things even if I make some mistakes, like smiling in the middle of a funeral because my colleague told a joke or showing involuntary annoyance when someone try to do a lot of small talk with me.
In what situations do you feel others' feelings? Can you give examples of when you wanted to improve the mood of others?
I am fickle in many aspects of my life, empathy is one of them, sometimes I have a lot and sometimes I don't have any. It really depends on my relationship with people and how much I like their personality. I'm very suspicious of other people's motives.
My father doesn't usually cry a lot and he's not manipulative at all. I suspect he's a Lse or sli, so when he cries I know it's real and it affects me, in other hand my mother is manipulative and when she starts crying I always think it's fake or that she deserves it (maybe she is a iei).
Section 6
How can you tell how much emotional space there is between yourself and others? How can you affect this space?
Complicated, I wouldn't say I'm completely blind to how others feel about me, but I'm definitely very pessimistic and because of that I like to be reassured about what my loved ones think about me.
I'm very suspicious of others and sometimes I start overthinking that everyone hates me or wants to hurt me. As soon as a friend has a more negative reaction, sometimes because of their own problems that have nothing to do with me, I get hurt or I start trying to guess what they are thinking about me and as you can imagine it's almost always negative. Although now I'm starting to try to be less negative because you never know what others are thinking or feeling.
How do you determine how much you like or dislike someone else? How does this affect your relationships?
By personality, values, way of seeing the world, I like people I identify whit and I can trust. People with character that I consider dubious I try to not interact.
I have a very small group because I have a set pattern, at the same time they are different obviously but what unites us is that we are all very open-minded and we don't like to meddle in other people's lives.
How do you move from a distant relationship to a close one? What are the distinguishing characteristics of a close relationship?
We start talking, I like what they are about and it's that simple. Sometimes it takes me 3 months to consider someone a friend, other times I only see the person 3 times and I already know I can trust them.
It has happened once that I stayed in a "friendship" because I wanted company at school, but I stopped seeing him as a friend and started seeing him as an acquaintance.
How do you know that you are a moral person? Where do you draw your morality from? Do you believe others should share your beliefs on what's moral? Why?
I am a moral person in my own criteria. There are people who follow the morality of religion, others follow the morality of a group... Some of them I consider wrong and stupid, but I just don't make friends with these people and it's as simple as that.
The only thing that everyone should do is to respect others because it made life easier for everyone and it's such a simple thing if everyone does it.
Someone you care about is acting distant to you. How do you know when this attitude is a reflection of your relationship?
I don't know, it depends on the situation.
But I try not to take it personally (don't mean that I don't take it, on the contrary but I try to suppress it). What I do is that I ask what happened or i leave them alone. I don't like is chasing after others so I've ended friendships without knowing why, the person just stops talking to me and I take that as a sign.
Section 7
How can you tell someone has the potential to be a successful person? What qualities make a successful person and why?
I would say that one of the things is to have the ability to always be ahead of others, to have that special touch that some people have.
Where would you start when looking for a new hobby? How do you find new opportunities and how do you choose which would be best?
I already have ideas of hobbys that I want to try, so I would look in my internal library and choose the one that I felt like doing. I like manual and simple activities (I'm not an artist) I've done canoeing and I don't hate extreme activities, but I don't think it's considered a hobby and I don't know if I would do it that often either.
How do you interpret the following statement: "Ideas don't need to be feasible in order to be worthwhile." Do you agree or disagree, and why?
Ideas have to start somewhere, at first they may not make sense, but then when more ideas come up and they are molded, they can become a possibility. Or maybe people just want to come up with crazy ideas and that's okay too.
Describe your thought process when relating the following ideas: swimming, chicken, sciences. Do you think that others would draw the same or different connections?
I didn't make any connection, unlike the guy I took this questionnaire from. I just read the sentences and nothing else.
How would you summarize the qualities that are essential to who you are? What kind of potential in you has yet to be actualized and why?
The part that I fear the most, having to describe myself even more with qualities (gives me the impression that I'm bragging). This is going to feel more like a list than a text, sorry for the disappointment. I'm faithful, I like to make people's lives easier (if they haven't done me wrong), I strive to do what I promised, I hate being in debt.
I definitely have to improve my charisma and try to get along with new people more until I get used to it and don't get so bored.
Section 8
How do people change? Can you describe how various events change people? Can others see those changes?
Everything changes people, the personality you have today was the result of all the moments of your life and also of your brain (parts more or less developed and this also affects).
We're always changing every day, it's just that we're so used to the changes that sometimes we don't even notice it.
Sometimes I go through a similar situation that has happened before and I see how much I have changed in the way I deal with the problem.
How do you feel and experience time? Can time be wasted? How?
I think time is the most powerfyl weapon, you learn to deal with things with time, time brings peace but also chaos, time makes life evolve both positively and negatively, time kills you but also brings life. Time is truly the most important thing there is, when a certain moment passes you can no longer go back and fix things.
It all depends on the point of view, today you can consider it something important but later you see that it was a waste of time, the important thing to keep in mind is to think about the future because what has already happened cannot be changed.

• Don't typify me according to clichés, thank you.

Is there anything that cannot be described with words? What is it? If so, how can we understand what it is if language does not work?
Language is limiting, you can indulge feelings in others through sentences but you are never sure how others will interpret it.
I would say feelings and experience is one of the things, you have to go through them and let others go through too.
How do you anticipate events unfolding? How can you observe such unfoldments in your environment?
I don't really know, I think from what has already happened, from the people involved, from myself.
I sometimes tend to try to predict things and I like to be prepared for all eventualities because it makes me feel safer, but I also know that predictions are not 100% certain. I've missed opportunities because of this.
In what situations is timing important? How do you know the time is right to act? How do you feel about waiting for the right moment ?
It depends on when I've decided it's time to act.
I'll use the example of my driver's license, I started getting my license 1 year before the end of school but then I decided to finish school first to focus on my license after (also out of laziness I admit). My parents bothered me a lot because I needed to get the license but I only did it when I saw that I needed it to work and I couldn't leave it for later anymore (can expire). It was a bad choice, but I needed a reason to have motivation.
I finally finished this, I couldn't take it anymore. Thank you for reading this far ;)

This is my first time dipping my toes in the FPV water out of necessity. I read up on Betaflight documentation and watched some YouTube videos about different components to build a drone. However, I'm still unsure about all the terminologies for each component and whether all my components will fit together. I'm planning to buy these after two days of research - - 5.8G 5.8GHz 3W Video Transmitter VTX 48CH 25mW/ 1000mW/2000mW/3000mW adjustable For Long Rang FPV Racing Drone - MARK4 7inch 295mm Wheelbase Carbon Fiber Frame 5mm Arm 2807 1300KV Brushless Motor 7inch propeller For FPV 7" Long Range Drone - JHEMCU GHF405AIO-HD 40A AIO Flight Controller F405 F4 Build-in OSD Blheli-S ESC 2-6S Lipo For RC FPV Toothpick Racing Drone - JP4IN1 + AION ELRS Module+ T-Pro Mini ELRS receiver
Do you think they'll all work together? Do you have any suggestions or recommendations for other components/ replacement of the above components?
I haven't buy any of the tools or goggles or anything yet. Still researching on what I'll need. The main purpose is to carry at least 1kg load and have long range VTX. The long term quality doesn't matter much since it'll be a fighting drone. It might not be able to come back home after the job is done.

Ive been bulking for a few months now. I started at 165 lbs and im now at 180lbs yet I still look skinny af? I do weightlifting and cardio but for some reason I look almost exactly the same as when I started despitr gainint about 15 lbs. My calfs are pretty big but my upper body like my arms, shoulders, and waist still make me look like a toothpick. How is it that im pretty heavy but I still look skinny af? This was my goal but now I am thinking 190. Im not trying to be buff just wanna have an athletic build.

Planning on building a 2/3s toothpick. How big is the resistance difference between the two? Would it be worth the couple grams of weight saving? Should I opt for higher kv or a bigger motor?1204 8/5000kv or something like 1202.5 11000 kv for 2s? Thanks in advance

Currently buying what I need for a lightweight toothpick build. Any suggestions for a lightweight VTX that’s actually in stock? Thanks!

Killer Grips: Anne Maria, Brick, Jasmine, Justin, Millie, Trent
Screaming Gaffers: Chase, MK, Ripper, Scott, Sky
Episode 5: 3:10 to Wildtown
"People have always been drawn to the beauty of the sea," Chris began as the shot opened up on the distant hilly shore of some unnamed body of water, the sun risen but not quite high in the sky. The shot faded into a close-up of a beach laden with dried up shells and starfish, a pine forest visible in the distance; another fade took the scene to a seagull resting peacefully on top of a buoy. The peaceful background music that had been playing shifted into a deeper, more threateningly ominous tune reminiscent of certain shark-based monster movies as a dorsal fin cut through the water in front of the buoy, startling the gull into flight.
The music came to a head, and Chris McLean broke the surface with a chuckle, the fake fin strapped to his head. "But that's not where we were last time! Sky's surfing adventure turned trailer park when a twister ruined her fun. And Brick was stripped bare. Nice pecs, dude!"
"Thanks to Chase's gnarly moves, the Gaffers won the first challenge. Meanwhile, Trent almost drove everyone nutso with his obsessive "nine of everything", while Anne Maria won her team over with her paper mache. Though the 'Taj Ma-Kate' was cool, the next challenge went to the Grips’ ‘Casa Sky’."
"Tied at one apiece, the Gaffers were crowned the watusi winners when Trent "accidentally" twisted an ankle. And Ripper got down, scoring them a Hawaiian-style luau.”
"With only eleven left, which team will get the upper hand? Find out next, on Total! Drama! Action!"
(Theme Song)
The episode opened up on a shot of the sun before the camera panned down and to the right, landing on Jasmine and Millie sitting curled up on a bench under a purple-and-white parasol, mouths hanging open as they panted and looked generally uncomfortable. Another pan showed Anne Maria sitting on the steps of the girls' trailer beneath the canopy, with MK slumped next to her; like Jasmine and Millie, they were panting heavily.
The camera panned over again just as Scott leaned out the window of the guys' trailer. "Hey sun," he grumbled, "who told you to be so hot today?!" He groaned again and flopped forward.
Confessional: Scott
"I'm no stranger to hot and sunny days," Scott explained in the make-up confessional, dripping with sweat. "But that doesn't mean I have to like it, especially since my farm has no air conditioning!"
Confessional Ends
Justin was relaxing on a chair as Ripper laid on the ground next to him. "A fan would be useful right now," Justin said.
"Get… get it yourself," Ripper panted. “Too… too tired for insults.”
The shot zoomed out, showing Brick squatting in what looked to be a kiddie pool and Chase sitting on a wooden bench with his hoodie taken off.
A few sniffs preluded a cut over to Sky, who was sitting by a tree. "I hate having summer colds. Especially when it's a hundred and five degrees hot," she moaned, sniffing a few more times before sneezing.
The scene zoomed out to show Trent sitting next to her by a rock. “Water?” he offered a bottle to Sky. “It's not going to cure your sickness completely, but it will make you sneeze less.”
"It's probably just allergies, but I'll take the water," Sky grabbed the bottle and squirted some water into her mouth.
Confessional: Trent
"If there's one good thing that comes out of this heat wave,” Trent said, “it's that me and Sky can be together without anybody else around.”
Confessional: Sky
"I like that I was able to talk to Trent," Sky told the confessional camera. "The only downsides are that I'm a bit unwell and there's no air conditioning. My gymnastics center is the place to go if you're looking for extreme coolness. The breezy air gives us the courage to perform well."
Confessionals End
A single chanted word began a Western tune as Chris stepped in front of the camera. Only his face was visible; he was squinting, had a toothpick sticking out of his mouth, and seemed to be wearing a cowboy hat. He cocked the hammer of a revolver and fired a shot into the air, startling Brick, causing Scott to bolt upright, and earning a cry from MK as she held her hands over her ears.
"Chris!" MK shouted in annoyance.
"My ears!" Scott added.
"Take it easy," Chris told them, a revolver in each hand. "Guns are loaded with blanks." He blew the smoke off one directly into Scott's face, then spun them on his fingers and holstered them. "Least I'm pretty sure one of 'em is." He laughed, then broke into a cowboy drawl as he walked into the center of the common area. "Since there's no beatin' the heat, we're goin' west this week! There's a town meetin' at high noon! Be there, or I'll drive ya deadbeats outta town!"
Confessional: Jasmine
Jasmine was fanning herself with her hat. “Normally, I'd be as chipper as a squirrel about the challenge today, but not when it's this hot!” she panted. “Australia's an Arctic compared to this.”
Confessional Ends
The scene cut to a close-up of a silver pocket watch in Chris' hand, the minute hand rapidly ticking up to high noon. The host lowered the watch and the camera panned down from the glaring sun to the western set as a tumbleweed blew through the road; it spontaneously incinerated the moment it came to a stop.
"Listen up, pardners!" Chris said, getting the teams’ attention as he closed his watch and stowed it in a pocket. "In any good Western, there are heroes, outlaws, horses, and pretty dames." As he walked, the camera zoomed out to show the castmates had assembled in front of a building and a ladder leading up to some sort of tower. "The hero defeats the outlaw, then rides off into the sunset on the horse."
He stopped in front of Millie, who immediately spoke up. "What about the dame?" she asked.
"None of your beeswax!" Chris answered in a harsh tone that shocked Millie, before laughing and rubbing the girl's head. "Just messin' with ya! They usually hang out in the saloon during the bar brawl."
"If the dames are weak," Ripper said. "Half the time, they're helping the guys with the showdown."
"How not sexist of you," MK shot an annoyed glance at Ripper, who returned the feeling back.
Confessional: MK
“Bar brawls are my favorite part of any cowboy movie,” MK told the audience. “It's funny how the fights start because sometimes, it's because of something stupid.”
Confessional Ends
"All eyes on me!" Chris waved his guns in the air and shot them twice before continuing. "Time for your first challenge! No cowboy worth spittin' at would go one day without saddle practice," he said while spinning and holstering his guns. "Time to saddle up!"
The scene cut to an old and fly-ridden brown horse drinking from a metal bucket. It let out a long, loud fart, and just when it seemed to have stopped it let out another quick toot.
"That's the best steed we could afford?!" Chris asked irately, looking over to Chef who was working an adding machine in a nearby building.
"You want a five-star hotel, and champagne, and caviar for breakfast, hmm?" Chef said through the open window. "I gotta cut somewhere!"
Chris grinned. "It's perfect! Don't change a thing!"
Confessional: Millie
"I love horses!" Millie gushed in the confessional. "I've always wanted to ride one, but my parents always restricted me from doing so since I could get traumatized by their neighs, but I'm a teenager now so that has to change."
Confessional: Chase
"I once sat on a horse that one time me and my family went to the petting zoo," Chase told the camera. "I did get punished for it because there was a sign that prohibited people from getting on the horse. My reading skills weren't the best at six years old."
Confessional: Trent
“Who says a western has to end with a guy and his horse. This is the movies. The guy always gets the girl,” Trent smiled. “Meaning me.”
Confessionals End
"This is supposed to be a challenge?" Anne Maria scoffed as she walked up to the side of the horse.
"Not so fast," Chris interrupted, the shot cutting back to show the entire group. "You cowboys and cowbabes are gonna have to mount the steed from up there," he said as the camera zoomed out slightly to show the railing around the water tower a nearby ladder led up to. "Not there," the host corrected, "waaaaaay up there!" The shot zoomed out once again, showing another ladder reaching up to a diving board suspended high above the set.
"Since the Gaffers won last week they go first," Chris announced as Chase and MK shared a nervous look. "Don't worry," Chris told them, "our unpaid interns have assured us it's safe." He gave a small nod to his right, and the footage flashed back to Chef Hatchet standing on top of the diving board, stomping on the hands of a light-skinned person hanging to the edge of the board, the majority of their body off-screen.
"No! NO! AAAAAAHHH!" the intern hollered as he was forced to drop, landing with a distinct crashing sound.
"Looks safe to me," Chef said with an impish smile and a light chuckle.
The footage flashed back to the present, the camera focusing on the Gaffers, Chris, and the horse that was now standing on a red bull's eye, though still drinking contentedly.
"Hey," Ripper said, "why don't the Grips have to go first if they lost last time?"
"Because I said so!" Chris answered. "And I'm your host," he turned to the camera as a short game show-esque jingle played, "Chris McLean."
Sky sneezed again. “I didn't think much of it before, but now I know I'm seriously coming down with something.”
“We'll help you up the ladder if you want,” Chase said.
“Uh guys,” Trent walked over. “Sky really is sick. You should let her skip this one.”
His suggestion earned him an annoyed glare from Sky. “I'm capable of deciding for myself.”
Confessional: Trent
“Right, forgot,” Trent facepalmed. “She doesn't like to give up.”
Confessional Ends
"I'll be fine. I'm going up," Sky approached the ladder.
"Don't die!" Scott shouted.
“Not helping!” Sky shouted back.
The camera flashed to the swaying ladder before showing Sky pulling herself up to the top. She looked over the edge in order to plan her jump.
“Break a leg, Sky!” Trent cried out off-screen.
Confessional: Sky
“I'm about to plummet a hundred feet, so hearing that from Trent gave me a bit of encouragement,” Sky admitted happily.
Confessional Ends
"The horse isn't going to move, so might as well," Sky said before she jumped. A grin formed on her face as the camera watched her fall from below.
Confessional: MK
MK was busy watching some confessionals on her phone. “After watching the latest confessionals, I figured out that Trent is planning to throw the challenge for his team thanks to Justin.” She put the phone away. “I'll leave this alone if it means that my team won't be up for elimination.”
Confessional Ends
The viewpoint shifted to looking down on Sky as she fell towards the oblivious horse in the center of the bull's eye. Chase, Ripper, and Scott were shown watching in horror. A thud sounded as the scene cut to a close-up of the horse, which widened its eyes and whinnied at the impact.
The camera pulled out, revealing that Sky had successfully landed on the aged steed. "Are you good?" Chase asked as the shot focused on the athlete's face; she looked to have been dazed, and she fell off of the horse and onto the floor.
“Sky!” Trent rushed over to help Sky up, and they smiled at each other.
“Just be careful with my left-” Sky said before Trent grabbed her arm up. “Arm!!” the short girl yelped in pain.
Confessional: Trent
Trent stared at the camera for a few seconds before face palming himself. “Stupid!”
Confessional Ends
Trent helped Sky up by her shoulders as Chris laughed from just off-screen. "That was awesome, Sky!" The view pulled back to show the entire cast, the Grips' logo appearing above the team on the left. "Gaffers: 1; Grips, you're up!"
Sky walked past Trent as she clutched her arm, leading Trent to slump. “It's not like things can get any worse,” he moaned.
The footage flashed ahead to show Trent jumping off the diving board with his eyes closed. A strong gust of wind blew him off-course towards the fence around the landing area.
Jasmine and Justin winced as a crash was heard, and the camera cut to Trent having landed on a wooden fence post groin first and twitching. “Or maybe they can!”
"Glad it wasn't me!" Chris said as Trent walked back clutching his crotch. "Gaffers: 1; Grips: Zip! Scott, you're up!"
The footage immediately skipped ahead to Scott in mid-fall screaming. He then landed on the horse, and despite initially wobbling in shock, he shook it off. "Jackpot!" he cried.
"Way to stick the landing, Scott," Chris told him as he walked up. "Gaffers: 2; Grips: Zilch!" the host announced.
The scene moved to Millie and Anne Maria on the diving board together.
"Are you gonna jump or what?" Anne Maria asked a nervous-looking Millie. "We don't have all day!"
"I will," Millie told her as she looked over the edge of the board. "I just want to get ready for it."
"I'm givin’ you three seconds or I'm pushing you off," Anne Maria warned.
"Wait, you're going to do what?" Millie said, looking back just before Anne Maria shoved her forward. The author screamed as the camera followed her fall, cutting away to show her teammates wincing before showing that she'd landed.
"Wow, I can't believe I-" Millie began to cheer before looking up. "Gotta get off!" she said, her eyes going wide before she launched herself away from the horse and landed on her feet.
Anne Maria then landed on the horse. "Nothing to it," she said and proceeded to get off the horse.
“Why did you shove me off the diving board?!” Millie furiously scolded her teammate.
“I didn't want you chickening out on this,” Anne Maria answered.
Confessional: Millie
“Contrary to the belief, I wasn't going to quit,” Millie confessed. “I just wanted to make sure that I wouldn't land on anything other than the horse.”
Confessional: Anne Maria
“You may be calling me a hypocrite since I didn't jump off the cliff last season, but this time it's different since my tan won't get ruined at all,” Anne Maria claimed.
Confessionals End
The footage showed Chase whooping as he fell. Zooming out, he was revealed to be holding what may have been a pair of old-fashioned women's underwear above his head like a parachute. As he neared the horse, the wind picked up and blew him back up and away; his newfound screams were heard even as the camera focused on Chris and the Grips watching.
"Not the electrical wires!" Chase shrieked just before a buzzing sound and some flickering lights came from off-camera.
"Uh, McLean, are you gonna send someone to help him?" Ripper asked.
Chris began to laugh, but the footage was paused and the camera pulled out from one of the monitors in the control room; Chris was sitting at a desk in the foreground with a piece of paper in his hands and a serious look on his face. "We here at Total Drama Action," he read in an extremely stilted manner, "care about the health, and welfare, of our...," he raised the paper in front of his face, "competitors. Furthermore," he peeked back out at the camera, "no animals were hurt in the making of this show."
Back with the challenge, Justin had specs on while holding up a contract. "Uh, says right here, page thirty-seven of my Gluteus Maximus Modeling contract, I am forbidden from any form of jumping that might strain my, uh... assets," he patted his butt for his teammates to see. "Heh. Sorry!"
The horse was drinking from the now slightly-bent bucket when the scene skipped ahead again. "On a scale of 1 to 10, how much do you think our butts are going to hurt from the landing?" Brick asked as he looked down at the target area with Jasmine.
"Considering that the others come out okay, I'd say 6 decreasing to 2," Jasmine said. "We'll be fine."
"That's all I need to hear," Brick said. "Geronimo!" He jumped off the board.
“The koala says cluck to the platypus for luck!” Jasmine chanted before she jumped off as well, and the camera showed the two rapidly descending from below.
Brick landed in front of the horse while Jasmine landed on the back with a satisfied grin before looking down at her teammate. "Are you okay, mate?" Jasmine asked in concern, getting only a pained groan from Brick.
"Alright!" Chris announced as the camera pulled out to show the teams and their logos again. "The Grips now lead the Gaffers three to two! It's up to you two to break the tie!" he told MK and Ripper as he stepped closer to them. "Who wants to take one for the Gaffers?"
"Ladies first," Ripper said, dragging MK forward.
MK pursed her lips. "No no no. I insist!" She grabbed Ripper by the arm and forced him closer to the ladder. They both soon found themselves at the ladder, and glared at each other before grabbing it at the same time.
"What is with that jacket?" Ripper asked as he and MK climbed opposite sides of the ladder. "I mean, do you ever take it off even when it's hot?"
"I should be asking the same about your shirt," MK shot back before climbing on up. “It's not summer themed as well.”
Ripper continued on to the top of the ladder. "At least my shirt isn't baggy and lame like your jacket," he said.
MK snorted as they walked towards the edge of the platform. "Ripping off my jacket just to show off my body is lame." The techno grinned as Ripper walked towards her, and she tripped him off the platform. Before he fell, though, Ripper grabbed MK by the wrist and took her with him.
They were shown falling and screaming from below, but when the camera cut to the horse their screams ended abruptly before they reappeared on-screen.
"Where did they go?" Sky asked in confusion.
"Not there," Chris said as the shot zoomed out to show him and the Grips. "Waaaay up there!" The shot slightly zoomed out again, revealing that Ripper and MK had gotten caught by their shorts and pants respectively on a weather vane on top of the barn.
Ripper's shorts then began to tear. "Nacho nuggets." MK's eyes went wide as Ripper finally fell with a scream; the camera panned down just as he landed on the horse backwards.
His stunned look rapidly faded into a grin. "Booyah," Ripper said with a cocky grin. "My big weight came in handy!" He then dismounted the horse, turning his back towards the camera and showing his pixelated bare butt to the world.
Chris laughed. "Well, I guess you showed us," he said. "And by us, I mean the entire viewing audience!" Ripper growled and cracked his knuckles at the host, making him dial down his taunting. "Okay, okay. You don't gotta get my dungarees all dusty. Anywho, looks like you managed to tie things up at three a piece!" He began to walk towards the right, and the castmates slowly began to follow him. "To the next challenge, for the tiebreaker, cowpokes!"
The camera panned up as they left, stopping at MK who still hung from the weather vane. "Uhh, you're all forgetting someone!" she said loudly. "One of you will come back, right?"
(Commercial Break)

Welcome to The Oblivion Cycle universe, a vast setting spanning all of time and space and so much more. While many stories may shed perspective on this grand cosmic vista, there are also tales of adventure and sacrifice, romance and terror, grimdark corruption and scientific progress. To become immersed in the setting is to let the chaos of creativity flow through you, to let go of what is probable to discover what’s possible. I have created TOC for one reason, to inspire and entertain any who will listen. So please feel free to join me on this great adventure as I push the boundaries of what is possible and expand the limits of our creativity together. For more information on the setting and its lore there is a subreddit for TOC at TheOblivionCycle and a Discord server dedicated to it here [https://discord.gg/uGsYHfdjYf\] called ‘The Oblivion Cycle Community Server’. I hope you find the following story entertaining and once more, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy.

• E1:P1 + Episode 3 Start + Next +

_______________________________________
Continued From E3:P1
Balinski walked to the exit with Daryon, the two of them walking in relative silence for the first leg of the journey. As they reached the street level and stepped out onto it he felt an arm on his shoulder. “I think we should be careful how we approach this. I have heard about this place, I knew an older officer who got dispatched here to settle a fight and ended up crippled for life.” her story didn't exactly fill him with dread, he was already crippled for life.
She didn't seem to notice the irony of her statement and instead started to walk off with that strange alien gait of hers. Her many legs seemed to move in waves, pushing her first this way then the other, in this slightly wending manner she advanced along the sidewalk next to him.
They crossed the majority of the space like this before she nudged him. “You are way too sstill, loosssen up. Relax up a little, your possture screamsss cop. You need to sslouch a little, maybe even add ssome ssswagger to your step.”
She seemed to do just as she suggested, adding a slight sway to her upper body as she walked. He just took a breath and tried his best to relax. But it was difficult to do when he knew with a surety that he was walking into a dangerous situation.
With her casual clothing and the light sparkling from her polished blue eyes he had to admit that she made for a striking figure. Her back was colorfully patterned as was typical of the females of her species. The thick plates of her carapace had a thick yellow streak running down the middle with what almost looked like lightning bolts that flared off at each new segment of her back plates. All of this was accentuated with a dull orange highlight that seemed to make the yellow glow all the more spectacular. It made her easily distracting to walk behind and so he hurried to catch up to her side.
She looked his way slightly and he noted the way her antenna rose. She seemed to hiss slightly louder than normal and he got the impression she was stifling a laugh. He grimaced and tried once more to act natural.
They crossed the street and the atmosphere changed as soon as they rounded the next corner. The bright opulence of the garish casinos on the main street were now hidden from view by the much more mundane looking buildings that lined the smaller road. He glanced at a few and realised that many of them seemed to be either abandoned or condemned.
“What is this place? Why does it feel so.. ominous?” He hunched a little.
Daryon just gestured to one of the nearby buildings. “All of thesse were owned by the casinoss a few decadesss ago. But when the current financial downturn happened at the sstart of the rebellion most of them had to closse their doorsss. Ssmall businesss and the entire damn community ripped up by the rootss due to the actionss of that damnable conflict.” She paused, stopping for a moment as she looked full at him.
Several of her hands went to cover her mouth as she apologised to him quickly. “Oh, ssorry. I didn't mean to ssound so disresspectful. I think that combat veteranss are great and all, you did a wonderful thing defending the Union from..” he had to cut her off with an aggressive wave of his hand as he stopped in his tracks and looked at her directly.
He stepped closer to her causing her to back up a pace, she seemed to gasp slightly at the anger that flared in his eye. Her spiracle lungs sucking in a large intake of breath from the many small breathing holes along her lower sides.
She was nearly backed into the nearby wall as he spoke, “Protecting from what! From the damn overbearing bureaucracy of our own corrupt congress? Or are you referring to those genocidal maniacs that c-call themselves the true patriots. They all make me sick in my mind, Daryon.”
He stopped and took a deep calming breath. He looked down at his hands which had balled into fists at his sides, they were shaking and he realised with a jolt just how close he was standing to the large vinarfelien. His chest was inches from hers and her body language suggested less fear and more confusion.
He unclenched his hands as he turned away and put them on his head. He tried to take a few deep breaths to calm himself. Without turning he began, “I-I.. I’m sorry, Daryon. You didn’t deserve that. I just.. I can’t talk about the war, the things I saw. The things we did?” Balinski found himself shivering slightly.
‘No, not now.’ He thought to himself desperately as he felt the beginnings of panic seeping into his mind.
As he was afraid he might lose his grip on reality he felt something brush against the back of his head slightly. Before he could really think about it he felt a strong hand on his shoulder as Daryon moved to stand by his side. Her long body trailed behind him out of sight still, but the raised forward third of her body was nearly the same height as he.
She seemed to scrutinise him for a moment before she too apologised. “I ssee that I have upsset you. I apologise as it was not my intention to do sso. I can see that the war took itsss toll out of both your body and mind. I can undersstand having painful memoriesss that you wissh would just go away. But the harder you try and let them go the more they seem to grow like a cancer in your memoriess.” She paused, it had sounded as if she were going to say more but stopped short.
He wanted to ask her to elaborate but found that he didn't have the will. She removed her hand as he stood still, he sucked in a breath. “Maybe.” That was all he said. It was all he had to.
Without a word he turned and started towards their destination. She caught up with him and they continued walking, he felt a little awkward. He rarely lost his temper, at least on friends and people he respected. He glanced at the tall centipoid alien, he did indeed consider the woman as his friend. One of his few friends that he could reliably count on.
He rubbed his shoulder as a strange tingle seemed to seep through the joint, he cleared his throat to get her attention and then spoke softly. “Daryon? I wanted to apologise. I shouldn't have shouted at you, it wasn't fair to you. Would you accept my apology?”
She seemed a little curious, her insectoid head cocking ever so slightly as she gazed up at his face. Her antennae twitched, a symphony of emotions played out over that rigid, chitinous face of hers before she responded to him. When she did her voice seemed a little lower than usual, “Yess, Balinsski. And I too apologise for talking about.. what I talked about. I was told by Ssiyel that mentioning certain articless from your passt might bring you pain. I am sssorry for not listening to her advice, I accept your apology. Would you accept mine?” He looked at her curiously as she finished speaking.
He looked into that strange alien face and saw no animosity at all. Her faceplates cracked apart slightly as she waited for his response. “Yea. I do.” Was all he muttered.
She smiled, her antennae popping up slightly. With her rigid faceplates and lack of movable facial features she expressed her emotions differently. Not so differently that he couldn't tell in general how she was feeling. All social creatures discovered by the Union so far had physical social cues. Even the crystalline jeseo with their hard bodies made of living superconductor often used their manipulator tendrils to accentuate or punctuate their electronic speech.
He reached out and gave her shoulder a slap after the thought, “Alright. Now that we are back on the same page what say you we knock some heads.” She raised a hand in what looked like a contemplative gesture. He grinned, “A figure of speech is all it was.”
Daryon seemed to settle, her burning comment assuaged. They reached a hole in the wall alley and she put out an arm and looked around. Leaning close she hissed, “Alright. Walk around thiss corner and we are at the bar. Act natural.”
Balinski glanced down at himself and asked, “And how am I supposed to act? Like a private military contractor?”
The comment was disingenuous, he knew, but he wasn’t sure how to voice his concerns to her without sounding as inexperienced as he was. He wasn't a private eye detective like in the stories, he was a void warden. As close as one could get to a hired gun while still being legally able to work with law enforcement.
She looked around again and then hissed in mild frustration. “I don’t know? Act like my boyfriend then, let me do the talking. I have done thiss before, clearly you haven't.”
The annoyed tone in which she spoke made what she had said go over the top of his head for a few seconds before he realised exactly what she had just said. “Be your what? What do you mean?” He looked at the alien woman, his remaining eyebrow raised in mild confusion. He tried to think what that meant he was supposed to do, what was being her boyfriend even supposed to look like. He had never dated an alien before, especially not one so different physically from himself.
He saw her throw up a few arms and mutter. “Men.” She turned and gestured to the alley, “Jusst walk with me and forget what I ssaid. Let me do the talking and if anyone asksss you why you are here jusst tell them that you are with me. Alright?” She placed all four lower hands on the sides of her torso, the closest thing she had to hips.
Balinski frowned slightly, he didn’t like not being in charge of the situation. But in light of her experience was forced to be on the back foot. It wasn’t all bad at least he thought to himself as they started around the corner. Daryon seemed to know what she was doing, of course delta force operatives were recruited from other field operations and he had to take a moment to wonder what department she had been recruited from.
There was no further time to dwell on the idea as they walked down the strangely clean and well maintained alley. The dark and water stained brickwork of the surrounding buildings met the cracked concrete of the alley at crisp right angles, the dark city-plate above was as dark as the night sky overhead. The profusion of trash and general debris one might have expected from such a gloomy place was conspicuously absent. They soon reached a recessed area where a couple of very burly looking Yeown females in skin-tight padded fighting gear stood with their backs leaning on the wall. They were flanking a nondescript black door, the kind with the heavy blast visor that could be slid back to look through it.
The one on the left had a dark red scar across her face that ran from her left eye diagonally to the corner of her short muzzle-like jaw. Her fur was a pale, almost silvery white and her eyes glinted like polished blue gemstones in the dim light of the alley.
She took a heavy step forwards, her powerful predator muscles swimming beneath her thin fur like waves under her skin. She spoke in a thin growl, not overtly hostile but dripping with barely veiled aggression. “Stop right there. You two don't look familiar to me, and I hate talking to strangers. State your purpose here!” Balinski was at once taken aback and a little relieved. He was expecting the bar to be some run down bait shot, this looked more like the entrance to a private club.
Daryon motioned to the yeown and spoke boisterously, her entire demeanour changed as her normally sharp manner became loose and almost bawdy. Her voice was different too, a salacious tone hissing along with her slippery words that made his shoulders prickle uncomfortably. “Ah, hello there ladies. I was referred to this reputable establishment by a Mr. Encore. I am sure you have heard the name?”
The woman that had spoken took a step back and glanced to her companion nervously. The other yeown now flicked away the small toothpick she had been chewing on and growled, “And what makes you think that some cocked up streetwalker such as yourself is savvy enough to know a hard ass like that?”
Balinski looked at the second yeown, they seemed a little more subdued. Their cream colored fur was streaked with russet stripes and their eyes seemed somehow older. He glanced at Daryon and she spoke up once more. This time adding a little bit of sass to her tone now.
She swayed from side to side slightly, her ten arms punctuating her movements as she gestured animatedly, “Who are you calling streetwalker you two ton burrowraiding carrot-muncher. I may not have such a reputable job as yours, standing next to a door.” She punctuated it with a small dismissive flick as if the very thought made her sick. “But I do my job well and I love it. Don’t I, dear?” The furry alien’s canine-like features narrowed in anger at the insult, her bright green eyes flashing dangerously.
She reached over and tapped his shoulder, he suddenly realised that everyone’s attention was on him and he felt a trickle of sweat roll down the back of his neck from the sudden pressure. He cleared his throat and tried to act as casual as he could. He wasn’t really sure what was happening but he had a suspicion. “Oh, yeah. She is the best, at.. ya know..”
Silence. Both the yeown were now staring at him suspiciously. He tensed slightly, getting ready to throw hands if he needed too. Before it came to blows, Daryon spoke up once more. This time her voice took on a more conspiratorial tone and she covered her face with a hand in his direction, as if she were trying to speak without him hearing. He pretended not to hear even though his cybernetic implants easily picked up on the woman’s speech.
“He is one of the big man’s new projects. Still in the original packaging if you get my meaning.” She muttered.
The first yeown smiled wide, her sharp teeth glinting in the light as she seemed to appraise him with a practiced eye. He shifted a little, suddenly a touch uncomfortable due to the scrutiny. She licked her lips slightly and cackled, “Yes, I see. He’s a mere stripling, not even taken first overnight watch at the den of another.”
Balinski frowned at that. He wasn't all the way up to speed on vague yeown euphemisms, but that had sounded distinctly like she had just called him a virgin. The second woman chuckled at the other’s comment and then raised a hand for quiet. “Alright brightscales. I am doing you a favor, when you are done with him feel free to send big boy here our way. I am sure we could show him a thing or two even you haven’t thought of.”
As the scarred yeown laughed again the other banged on the door four times in rapid succession. A moment later the armored slit slid open and a pair of glowing eyes looked out. A wholly inhuman voice seemed to speak from the recess, “What is it. You have guests?”
The yeown growled, “Yes, why else would I be banging on the door like that?”
The synthetic voice answered without a seconds delay, “It is possible that you wanted to talk, I don't have anybody to talk to in here.”
The second yeown palmed her eyes in muted frustration as she muttered, “In the name of Frine, I swear..” She spoke up louder now, “Just open the fuzzing door you maladroit fart breather.
The glowing eyes seemed to grumble as they disappeared and the visor shut. The yeown that had spoken turned and let out a loud huffing sigh. “I really hate that guy. What an absolute asswipe, right Terri?” She nudged her companion whose name seemed to be Terri.
Terri shrugged her shoulders and then cocked her head and seemed to frown. “He isn’t all that bad, you don't always have to be so mean to him.”
The older yeown growled in annoyance and seemed about to rebuke Terri but was stopped as the door opened and an inhumanly tall figure gestured to them to enter. Balinski’s eyes widened as he saw them.
Daryon stepped forwards and nodded to them politely, Balinski followed directly after as the two yeown started to argue with each other. The figure was tall, likely more than a meter taller than nis own two-hundred-and-one centimeters and covered in a strange suit. It had the obvious bulk of exoskeletal supports as well as a large powered backpack that looked to be some sort of atmospheric condensing unit. He realised what it was at the same time he recognised the species, it was an umraghj wearing an environmental compensation unit.
The ECU suit hissed and whirred slightly as the tall, thin figure gestured towards the hallway they were already in. “Just go-on down that way and you can't miss it. Thanks for coming.” they said sadly.
Balinski was ready to go but Daryon stopped him as she turned and stepped closer to the sad looking umraghj. He was pressed back, he couldn't help but feel like she was getting back at him for his earlier actions as he had nowhere to go. The door had been closed and he wasn’t going to step into the door tender’s personal space, so his only option was to stand as far from Daryon as he politely could.
The vinarfelien woman gestured for the umraghj to lean down, which they did. “What’ss your name?” She asked them.
They responded slowly, their synthetic voice making it a little hard to hear the inflection in their tone. “My name? It is Dunmec ma’am. Begging your pardon, but why do you care? I’m just the door watcher.”
She raised a few hands and gestured towards the door. “Nothing wrong with that Dunmec, I have watched more than a few doors in my time. One of her antennae flicked, she continued. “I wass curiousss about what'ss going on between you and Terri?”
Balinski watched as the suited figure’s body language immediately changed. They went from slightly hunched and drawn into themselves to standing straight and looking for all intents and purposes as if they had just eaten something incredibly sour. Their face was only just visible through the visor they wore, and the slightly bovine features he could see looked to be fully taken aback by the vinarfelien woman’s comment.
Dunmec looked around quickly, a deep sucking breath coming from their speakers as they failed to conceal their shock. “H-how did you, what do you mean?” Balinski smiled as he realised what she was doing.
Daryon gestured again and spoke even lower, once more causing the figure to have to stoop towards her. This time they slumped not in dejected misery, but in a near conspiratorial slouch that was strangely at odds with the way they spoke. She stated clearly, “Well, it iss incredibly obvious that sshe feelsss ssome sort of way for you. The way sshe sspoke out in your defensse against her sssuperior..”
Dunmec nodded. “Her older sister, Missy. She hates me, calls me weak and clawless. She is the worst kind of bully, the kind that makes the ones you love dependent upon their cruelty.” he didn't seem to be looking at either of them anymore. The poor lovestruck fool was caught in his own world.
Daryon shook her head. “And yet when Terri heard her insssult you sshe stepped in to defy her ssissster. That has to count for ssomething, otherwisse what would be the point of ssaying what sshe sssaid.”
The alien man looked a bit more interested now. He leaned forwards a little more as he asked in his quiet partially synthetic voice, “What did she say.. about me? What do I do?”
Daryon seemed to glance at Balinski now, her head movement so fast and subtle that he thought he may have missed it. But no, she had indeed been telling him something.
Balinski stepped a little closer as he took the cue, his chest practically pressing into Daryon’s side as he offered his own advice. “You should go and talk to her, man. Show her your inner strength, stand up to her sister. I can guarantee you that if you do that she will come to you, protect you even I am willing to bet.” Daryon gave him a small head nod, she realised that he had seen through her plan and seemed pleased that he had picked up on it so fast.
Playing matchmaker seemed like a general distraction to their mission, but it would be helpful to have the ear of the man guarding the only known exit to the building should they get into a spot of trouble. And fate seemed to have put the perfect idiot into their path. Balinski smiled, for what it was worth, he hoped it went well for the guy. Balinski hadn’t seen any other umraghj in Cheenha before, much less another receptive female. They were the least populous species in the Union after the jeseo after all.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and saw that the tall alien had placed a hand on both of their shoulders. His demeanour had changed and he puffed out his scrawny looking chest as he thanked them in a much more confident voice, “I will do it. What’s the worst that could happen, and she did seem very nice to me the other day when we met in the breakroom for lunch..” they pondered and then took a step back. “Thank you for that, now move along, don’t let my problems keep you from enjoying yourselves.”
Dunmec waved them through to which they gratefully complied. As they moved out of sight of the tall, suited alien Daryon nudged his arm. “Good work, I wasn’t ssure you were going to pick up on that.”
He just gave her a little half smile. “Yeah, playing matchmaker was a little bit of a surprise, but after you started talking I figured it out as you pointed out.” She smirked in her own way, faceplates cracking slightly as they made their way around a corner.
The music he had heard upon first entering the building grew in volume and power till he could almost feel it in his bones. Daryon seemed similarly affected, the woman slowing and seeming to cringe inwards. He stopped and looked at her, “Are you alright, Daryon?”
She shook her upper body slightly and covered her eyes with her two upper hands. “Yea, just.. g-give me a ssecond.” He could hear her take a deep breath, the spiracles along the sides of her body sucking in a rush of air. She covered her eyes and looked at him directly. “I have bad memoriess of places like thiss. Promisse you won't leave me alone in here?”
He nodded instantly, he could immediately recognise the look of somebody in deep emotional distress. He did the only thing he could think of, he reached out and took one of her hands in his. Holding it tightly he felt her squeeze his hand in return. It was a damn good thing his fingers were made of alloy as she might have broken them otherwise.
Balinski gave her a small smile. “Never, we are partners right? We need to look out for each other.” He didn't miss the way her mouth opened slightly or the way her body seemed to draw slightly towards him. Maybe it was the trauma speaking, but she needed his help and he would support her like Caesar normally supported him to the best of his own ability.
The thing about it was, he wasn’t entirely sure he could. He had a suspicion about her recent behaviour towards him, ever since what she had told him at the memorial. He shook the thoughts from his mind as he stepped forwards and around the corner.
At the end of a short hall was a set of double doors, the small windows on them flashing brightly with multicolored lights as some manner of club music leaked through the gaps between them and the wall. So the Slimehut wasn’t just some dingy bar, it was an entire underground club. He glanced at Daryon, her hand still tightly wrapped around his own. He wasn’t sure he could have pried her inhuman strong grip loose with a pry bar at that point. What must have happened to her to make her so apprehensive, she didn’t seem afraid. He had never seen her look afraid, but he did indeed understand the bone weakening uncertainty that having one’s reality crushed brings.
So he stood tall and straight as he gave her a final nod. “We got this Daryon, don't you worry. Nobody is going to hurt you when I am with you, that is a promise you can take to the bank and have minted in osmiridium.”
She swallowed but seemed in a better state, her hydraulic grip on his hand loosening, though she didn’t let go of it. They walked forwards and he pushed open the doors into a land of strange excess and neon flashing lights.
He had to stop and stare for a moment, the sight that greeted his eyes was like something out of a holodrama. All around the large brightly lit room were tables arranged around a central stage upon which several large tanks of water sat. It was in these that several slaaveth swam and spiralled around each other in some manner of exotic and fluid dancing. Their gills allowed them to breathe under the oxygenated liquid and their bodies were covered in lines of glittering fluorescent paint and nothing else.
He cleared his throat, while the slaaveth were technically completely naked, their internalised genitalia combined with the clever application of paint at once hid and accentuated their lithe forms. He had to physically move his head to tear his gaze away from the captivating aliens, as he did so he took a second to look around the room. Taking in the other clientele and looking for anything that screamed danger.
Well, he found it. There were so many obvious criminal types in the room he was surprised that the doors were not being knocked down by siege rams and the place flooded with tear gas. Daryon tugged on his hand, getting his attention. She used one of her nine free hands to gesture across the room to what looked like a ragged pile of blankets. Using his cybernetics he was able to get a clearer look through the slightly hazy atmosphere of the room.
Sitting at a nearly concealed round table near the back of the establishment sat a ragged looking skorp drone. He was a bit surprised to see one of the strange insectoids on their own as they were generally known to be quite social. They had evolved from eusocial insects after all, where one could be found, many others often followed.
As he followed her he felt somebody grip his shoulder and turned to see a slim nerivith woman in a bright blue sparkling dress. She gave him an appraising look and licked her lips lavisciously, clearly attempting to undress him with her eyes as she flashed pearly white molars. As the dominant sex of their species, nerivith women tended to be much more forward, but not quite this much so in his experience. He balked slightly as the women pressed both hands against his barrel chest and let out a slight sigh.
“Oh, you are a big one. Look at you. Hey there big boy, what are you doing tonight.” he cocked his head slightly. What in the name of Lady Luck had he been dragged into?
He shook his head and did as Daryon had instructed him earlier and gestured towards her. “Oh, I apologise. I’m actually here with her.” As the woman’s beatific features looked over to Daryon they seemed to twist. Contorting into something much less desirable, her magenta eyes now filled with a look of profound disgust.
The skimpy dress-clad woman shook her horned head and swore, “What the hel, all the good ones are already taken. Have fun then bugfucker.” She spat as she stormed off leaving them alone in the noisy and confusing atmosphere.
Balinski just shook his head in disbelief. Did her routine usually get her better results? He had seen more subtlety from an InfernoTrooper in a room full of hay bales. Daryon just hissed in amusement, “What a complete floozy.”
He nodded, not really sure what else he could say other than that she was right. A little unsettled by the close encounter, he stuck a little closer to Daryon as they finally made their way around the exotic centerpiece and to the rear of the room. As they reached it the ratty old skorp looked up at them and seemed to narrow its vision even with their inexpressive orange compound eyes.
The skorp had a strange body shape compared to most other known sapients. Their bodies were covered in thick chiton plates and arranged in a vaguely centauroid shape with their torso rising from a wide tailless abdomen with six segmented legs. Their four arms were set to their sides and their head sat perched atop a short flexible neck that supported their mandibled head. Their cutting mandibles were small and relatively delicate in comparison to the size of their heads, their reflective compound eyes were very large and seemed to look everywhere at once.
The aged looking alien raised a five fingered hand, the digits sharp and wide. They were clearly evolved to dig through soil, burrowers like the vinarfel. Maybe that was why the two species seemed to get along together so well. He watched as the alien spoke, their mandibles and mouthparts moving subtly as a slightly scratchy voiced wheezed from their throat.
“Now look who came crawling back. This one takes it that you are not back into the field?” The aged alien sounded slightly feminine, but it was almost impossible to tell as the males and female drones looked so impossibly alike. The familiarity in which they spoke to Daryon made him immediately on edge, it wasn't the casual banter of a stranger. But instead it was the knowing smirk of one who knows too much of your past.
Continued In E3:P3
==End of Transmission==

I try to play Dex based and so far I've only found 1 dagger. It's nice that you can backstab some small enemies for 1hit kills, but everything else seems incredible hard. All enemies even small ones will attack through your attack, so no stagger damage.
That means all those high combo attacks can't be executed and therefore are worthless. At the end I feel like someone with a toothpick poking enemies once or at most twice before needing to dodge or retreat.
Does anyone have a video with someone playing small dex weapon build?

Hello guys. I've been wanting a 1s micro* to fly outside for a while. Wich one can you recommend me? I wouldn't mind building it myself since maybe it is cheaper that way. I was thinking of the 1s firefly by flywoo (sry for misleading the conversation, wanted to say micro)(toothpick)