Five nights at freddys chica porn

In 2014, we met in a different city while attending the same week-long conference. After the conference ended, he asked for my number and I gave it to him, but we didn't stay in touch. Two years later, I moved to his university and we reconnected, although I had lost or deleted his number. However, he was about to move to another country for research purposes in a few weeks. Despite this, we stayed in touch on the phone, maintaining a platonic and friendly relationship. Later that year, I also moved to the same country for research purposes. A year later, we started dating in the new country. Before we began dating, we would talk on the phone, have work lunches together, and sometimes he would stay over at my place without any sexual activities or attempts to kiss. At that time, I didn't have a boyfriend, but I was talking to other people on dating apps because I was single. We never discussed our relationship status, so I couldn't assume where things were going between us. We remained in the talking stage for more than six months, during which I heard rumors that he was seeing someone (XY), but he never opened up about having or not having a girlfriend. Since we never talked about relationships, I didn't feel it was my place to ask. About a month into our relationship, my boyfriend found text messages from a guy (AA). These messages were a bit flirty, we once met for lunch before I started dating my bf and I knew AA liked me but I had just started satin my bf and I wasn't sure were we were going. I also felt it was too early in our relationship to be checking each other's phones, as I consider that behavior to be invasive and inappropriate. This upset him greatly, and he asked me to choose between him and AA. I honestly told him that when we started dating, I had been single for some time and was talking to other people. Since our relationship wasn't clearly defined from the beginning, I couldn't put my life on hold for something I wasn't sure about. Additionally, considering the rumors about him dating XY, I was confused about the whole situation. He never indicated whether he was talking to other people or not, only saying that he never dated XY. I decided to let it go. Two months later, he accused me of having relations with my ex from sixth grade, whom I dated when we were very young and nothing sexual ever happened between us. I wondered how he even knew about my childhood boyfriends. It turns out that I made the mistake of being open about my past at the beginning of our relationship, sharing childhood stories, traumas, and mentioning names along the way. I did this because I wanted him to understand why I went through depression, why I still go for therapy, and why I sometimes experience anxieties. Unfortunately, this openness led him to accuse me of still being "in touch" with my sixth-grade ex. I don't even think that guy considers me his ex because we were so young. My boyfriend's behavior made me suspect that he was doing something behind my back, which might explain why he was snooping around. In response, I went through his phone and found chats between him and another girl, whom colleagues had mentioned before that he was dating. When I asked him about it, he claimed that they were just colleagues. The chats didn't suggest that they were dating or anything. I left it at that but mentioned the rumor I had heard. During the COVID lockdown (he was away while I was in our home country), he once told me he had a dream that I was cheating on him. I felt frustrated and angry that I had to convince him that I wasn't cheating. It didn't end there. My boyfriend also took my Facebook password and found chats between me and AA (remember him?). However, these chats were about me asking AA for information on how to get my medical records from a local hospital, as my insurance had been waiting for months. Both my boyfriend and I were expats and unfamiliar with the local laws, so I knew AA could provide some guidance. But my boyfriend seemed to be snooping on my chats every day because he accused me of cheating on the same day I contacted AA. He got even angrier when I deleted the chats, accusing me of hiding evidence. Once again, he crossed boundaries. When I asked him why he wanted access to my Facebook, he claimed that I must be hiding something because of my questions. To prove that I wasn't doing anything wrong, I even deleted WhatsApp for a month. Is this normal?? Between 2018 and 2022, we would spend around five to six months away from our home country, returning for about 1.5 months during holidays. Since we're from different provinces, we would travel to our respective home provinces during those holiday periods, including New Year's. Throughout our five-year relationship, he has never posted anything about me on social media, not even a finger, not even on my birthday. The only people I have met who know him are our colleagues in the research lab where we both work. Whenever I call him and he is at his brother's house, he goes outside or to the balcony to answer the phone, even if it's late at night. It's strange because we would be having a telephone conversation at 10 PM, and he would be outside. I don't know if I'm being paranoid or if he's intentionally keeping me a secret. I've considered the possibility that I haven't met any of his friends because we were always in-between countries, but even when we're in our home country, he doesn't mention inviting me to do things with his friends. His life outside our relationship remains a mystery to me. Am I being paranoid to have these thoughts? Should I ask him about it, and if so, how can I approach the topic without sounding desperate? There's also something I don't know how to bring up. In 2018, when we had just started dating, he received a call while we were at my place. Judging by his facial expression, he seemed unhappy and went outside to answer the phone. When he came back, his eyes were red, and he told me he needed time to think, so he went back to his place. I could smell whiskey on his breath. He later explained that his sister had called him because his ex-girlfriend went to his family's house claiming to be pregnant with his child. He told me the last time he had seen her was the previous year when they randomly bumped into each other on the street. He assured me that the baby was not his, and I remained silent. However, when I checked his phone after he left, I saw that he had made calls to, guess who?? XY!! It didn't sit right with me that he would confide in someone he wasn't dating about something like this. Nonetheless, he never mentioned the baby scandal again, and I still don't know what happened or how his family handled the situation. I'm unsure if it's even worth asking about what ultimately happened with the person who accused him of fathering her child. Do I bring this up? At this point am so confused by so many things!!
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**TL;DR;**

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The High Limit Sprint Car Series is bringing 410 Sprint Car racing back to Eagle Raceway for the first time since 2017.
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The wait is over Tuesday night at Eagle Raceway. For the first time since 2017, winged 410 Sprint Cars captivate the unique Nebraska 1/3-mile oval dubbed America’s Home Track in round five of the inaugural High Limit Sprint Car Series season.
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The $50,000-to-win events April 11 at Lakeside Speedway in Kansas City, Kansas, and Sept. 26 at Lernerville Speedway in Sarver, Pennsylvania, may be the most lucrative. And events at Wayne County Speedway in Orrville, Ohio, on May 16 and Kokomo Speedway on Aug. 1 may be the most hyped. But it is Eagle that’s “the most anticipated event of the year,” according to High Limit cofounder and series points leader Kyle Larson.
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“(It’s) the one I’ve been looking forward to ever since we started talking about this series over a year ago,” Larson said. “I’m excited to get there.”
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Larson and fellow High Limit co-founder, brother-in-law Brad Sweet, partook in the last 410 Sprint Car race at Eagle in June 2017 with the World of Outlaws. And not only did they participate, but Larson won in such thrilling fashion — a last-lap pass of Daryn Pittman — that the race prompted he and Sweet to make Eagle a priority on High Limit’s inaugural schedule.
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“I think the excitement’s there. The anticipation is there,” Sweet said. “From my standpoint, I want to make sure I get in there and work with (Eagle owner) Roger (Haden), make sure we can get the track dialed in for these guys. I think it’s crucial. We’re really excited to get out there and create a really good racetrack for these guys, and hopefully let them put on a show.”
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Larson’s Eagle win in 2017 has quite the backstory. He wasn’t supposed to race in the WoO event until he asked Ricky Stenhouse Jr. — co-owner of Stenhouse Jr.-Wood Racing with Matt Wood at the time — if he could race a second car for the team that night alone.
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“(Ricky) made some calls, we booked the plane, flew in, mounted the seat up, raced, and won,” Larson said. “And then, like, a big storm was coming in and we had to get out of there ASAP or something to get home in time. I think we beat (the pilot’s) duty hours by like two minutes to get home. … I remember my heart was maxed out, pegged. I couldn’t breathe when I got to victory lane, worse than it probably was (last week) at Tri-City. It was just a race I’ll never forget.”
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Larson led two of the night’s 30 laps capped off when he executed a Hail Mary move around the top of the final corner to defeat Pittman by 0.183 of a second.
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“I probably watched that video five times a day for three months,” Larson said. “It was probably one of the most exciting winged Sprint Car wins to date, at that point, that I have ever had. It was such a cool day, the whole story of that.”
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As Sweet put it, Eagle is an “aggressive” racetrack that makes “you get up on the wheel in qualifying.”
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“It had some character that night (in 2017) from what I remember,” said Sweet, whose only time at Eagle was also the WoO event that Larson won. “It had a little bit of holes and a big cushion.”
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Larson also remembers the atmosphere the night he took the checkers at Eagle, how a great deal of fan support made the win all the more worth remembering.
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“That is probably the main reason (there’s a High Limit race at Eagle),” Larson said of the fan support in the WoO’s 2017 event. “But it’s also a great racetrack. It’s pretty small track, bullring, really exciting racing typically that you see there. Each end is different. Yeah, I think it’s going to be a great time.
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“I’m excited to go back in (Paul Silva’s) No. 57 and just have a good time. The racing’s been great as you’ve mentioned; every High Limit race. Track prep’s been amazing. I know they’re going to nail it again and it’s going to be a great show. The crowd’s going to be packed. I know a lot of presale tickets have been going.”
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Because Eagle is predominately a 305 Sprint Car facility, Sweet said that “having 410 sprint cars is going to be something different” for the racetrack when it comes to prepping the racing surface itself. Other than that, Sweet will wear the race director’s once again on Tuesday, doing what he can to usher the growing series into the summer.
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“I think those fans in that part of the country love 410 racing and they haven’t been able to see it a lot,” Sweet said. “Excited to get there. Hopefully the fans really come out and support it so we can keep going back and even build bigger events in that area. Like I said, we’re going to try and make sure we can get the lines as good as we can for the fans and also do the racetrack as good we can so the racers can put on a good show. That’s my goal anyway.”
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Source: floracing

When I was brand new to NovelAi I had no idea how 2048 tokens really looked as text. So for anyone looking at the tiers, trying to decide how many tokens they want for Clio with the new update, I've tokenized Part of The Great Gatsby by Scott Fitzgerald (public domain since 2021).
That way new users can more easily visualize what the AI's maximum context is for each tier. According to the UI Clio uses the NerdStash Tokenizer, as different tokenizers will convert text to tokens their own way.
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In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.
“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”
He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.
And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament”—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.
My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.
I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.
The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.
It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.
“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly.
I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood.
And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.
It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.
I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.
Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.
Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.
Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.
And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.
He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body.
His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.
“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.
We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.
“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.
Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.
“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”
We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.
The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.
The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.
The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.
“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”
She
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laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)
At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.
I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.
I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.
“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.
“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”
“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”
“I’d like to.”
“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”
“Never.”
“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”
Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.
“What you doing, Nick?”
“I’m a bond man.”
“Who with?”
I told him.
“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively.
This annoyed me.
“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”
“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”
At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.
“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.”
“Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.”
“No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.”
Her host looked at her incredulously.
“You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.”
I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.
“You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.”
“I don’t know a single—”
“You must know Gatsby.”
“Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?”
Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.
Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.
“Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.”
“We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.
“All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?”
Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger.
“Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.”
We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue.
“You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—”
“I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.”
“Hulking,” insisted Daisy.
Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.
“You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?”
I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way.
“Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?”
“Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone.
“Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.”
“Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—”
“Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.”
“We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.
“You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.
“This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and—” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?”
There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned towards me.
“I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?”
“That’s why I came over tonight.”
“Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose—”
“Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker.
“Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.”
For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.
The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.
“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?” She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?”
This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.
Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.
“This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbour—” I began.
“Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.”
“Is something happening?” I inquired innocently.
“You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.”
“I don’t.”
“Why—” she said hesitantly. “Tom’s got some woman in New York.”
“Got some woman?” I repeated blankly.
Miss Baker nodded.
“She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?”
Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at the table.
“It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety.
She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing away—” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?”
“Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.”
The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at everyone, and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy scepticism, was able utterly to put this fifth guest’s shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police.
The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while, trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.
Daisy took her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl.
“We don’t know each other very well, Nick,” she said suddenly. “Even if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.”
“I wasn’t back from the war.”
“That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well, I’ve had a very bad time, Nick, and I’m pretty cynical about everything.”
Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she
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didn’t say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter.
“I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything.”
“Oh, yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?”
“Very much.”
“It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.’
“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on in a convinced way. “Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I know. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.” Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom’s, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. “Sophisticated—God, I’m sophisticated!”
The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face, as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged.
Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the Saturday Evening Post—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamplight, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms.
When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.
“To be continued,” she said, tossing the magazine on the table, “in our very next issue.”
Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she stood up.
“Ten o’clock,” she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. “Time for this good girl to go to bed.”
“Jordan’s going to play in the tournament tomorrow,” explained Daisy, “over at Westchester.”
“Oh—you’re Jordan Baker.”
I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago.
“Good night,” she said softly. “Wake me at eight, won’t you.”
“If you’ll get up.”
“I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon.”
“Of course you will,” confirmed Daisy. “In fact I think I’ll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I’ll sort of—oh—fling you together. You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing—”
“Good night,” called Miss Baker from the stairs. “I haven’t heard a word.”
“She’s a nice girl,” said Tom after a moment. “They oughtn’t to let her run around the country this way.”
“Who oughtn’t to?” inquired Daisy coldly.
“Her family.”
“Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick’s going to look after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots of weekends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her.”
Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.
“Is she from New York?” I asked quickly.
“From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white—”
“Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?” demanded Tom suddenly.
“Did I?” She looked at me. “I can’t seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I’m sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know—”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Nick,” he advised me.
I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called: “Wait!”
“I forgot to ask you something, and it’s important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West.”
“That’s right,” corroborated Tom kindly. “We heard that you were engaged.”
“It’s a libel. I’m too poor.”
“But we heard it,” insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. “We heard it from three people, so it must be true.”
Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn’t even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come East. You can’t stop going with an old friend on account of rumours, and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumoured into marriage.
Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms—but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he “had some woman in New York” was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.
Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red petrol-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud, bright night, with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight, and, turning my head to watch it, I saw that I was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbour’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens.
I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I didn’t call to him, for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was from him, I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.
II
About halfway between West Egg and New York the motor road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of ash-grey men, who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight.
But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to
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I am struggling with accepting that my ex girlfriend hooked up with multiple people while we were broken up for five months. I know it is something that I have to deal with personally, because I know she hasn’t done anything wrong. We broke up for her to “find herself” and figure out her life, which i was all for. But now we are talking and trying to get back together and I am struggling so much with the thought of her hooking up with people. I mean nightmares at night about it even. She never ceased contact during the five months, constantly showering me with i miss you’s and support, which also might be what is making this so hard . It’s not like she’s even hooked up with as many people as I have either. So I don’t understand why I’m feeling so strongly about this. Is this just male ego? I really need to find a way to forgive her so I can start a new chapter with her.

Hi, everyone!
I (22F) have been talking to this guy (34M) for about a little over three weeks now. In this period, we've met in person about seven times. He has met my family, my friends, I have met his friends (all of them referred to me as his girlfriend) and he's taken me to watch him teach at university (so a few of his students have seen me with him too). We talk every day - we text a lot, and we call every other night. When neither of us are busy, we're talking to one another.
In the second date, he mentioned it takes him about five dates to decide he wants to commit. Which was when I was supposed to meet his friends - and, again, all of them referred to me as his girlfriend. I was by his side the entire time.
For the date after that, I wanted to do something special. I really really thought he was going to ask me to be his girlfriend. I made him a four course meal. We slept together - which, in retrospect, seems really dumb of me (considering he's now the second guy I've slept with). He never asked me to be his girlfriend. And it's later confirmed he's still talking to some girls - not going on dates, according to him, and I believe that because all his free time is spent with me basically; but talking.
I said I don't want anything casual. That we're acting like we're in a relationship, so we might as well be in one. That this uncertainty leaves me feeling vulnerable and anxious; that I don't like the idea of him talking to other girls. I asked him why he's still doing that - he said he hasn't thought about it. But he does think he needs more time, that he takes relationships very seriously and doesn't want to risk getting into a relationship with someone he doesn't know.
But, at the same time, he says he adores me, that he misses me, that he's always thinking about me. And I believe that. I believe he has strong feelings for me. When I expressed my feelings of discomfort and said I couldn't see where we go after this, he seemed really shaken.
He's now away for a week on a work trip. He's messaged me every single time he had free time - and I know he's busy. He's always sending me selfies and pictures. Well - because I can't leave well enough alone, I check and see that he's on a dating app while he's there. I message him letting him know I know, and that it's hurtful and confusing, and maybe it's best to take this week as an opportunity to think about stuff and talk when he's back. He seemed upset. Said he misses me, thinks about me, likes me - but doesn't understand how I seem to like him quite that much already. That he'll respect my decision but it upsets him.
I don't know where to go from here. I genuinely like him. I believe he likes me - or he's a damn good actor. We spend so much time together and talking. I don't feel like a plate - we do every little official thing a couple would normally do. But I need it to be actually official.
Should I apologize for my behavior and go back to talking to him this week? Should I STFU about this and accept whatever timing he decides is right for this? Should I cut my losses now, sulk for a bit and move on?
I have options - men that I never got to go out with that want to go out with me, that pursue me, that show interest; so I wonder why I should wait for someone who isn't ready to choose me. Am I being naive? Am I expecting too much too soon?
I'll take any advice I can get. Thank you.

Spirits are the least conventional lifeforms in Gnosis and the people of its worlds really don't understand what they are or how they function. As they are so highly unconventional, I'm looking for a little feedback on the core concept. I'll keep it as quick as I can, but this is a big complicated topic and spirits are weird so I may need to explain a lot.
From the Outside:
Let's pick a common spirit for an example, in fact the most common spirit species, fey. From the outside, they look like a tiny winged humanoid of some description. We'll go right to the one of the two contenders for least common of four subspecies because they'll require the least explanation, fairies. They basically look like miniature glowing humans with large butterfly wings, coming in every imaginable color for their skin although some are more common for each part than others and that means they're glowing those colors. Fey have some size-changing going on but in their smaller default form fairy women typically range from about 45-50cm and fairy men about 35-40cm in both height and wingspan, and in their larger form they go up to 1.5x scale. Spirits don't need to sleep, can if they want to and there are reasons they might even if usually only for a couple minutes to fix some recent major injury.
Most species of spirits are 75% female and fey are in that group, so let's look a bit closer at a fairy gal. The first thing you'll notice about her is that she is very colorful her surface has zero texture, but you may not notice from a distance because her surface is using artistic tricks to imitate texture without actually having it. Her various features are simplified, yet either exaggerated or understated. Her usually quite a bit of head hair is usually also a pretty loud color but it's also actually just part of her head which is one rigid piece and if this gal has long hair you'll notice it only bends at the top of the neck one time to keep the rest "hanging" where it "should be", and trying to change her hairstyle is painful and fruitless. Her jaw stretches and twists to imitate an actual joint being there but there also clearly isn't one if you look closely. Spirit hands and moreso heads, especially their eyes, are larger while their legs are slightly shorter relative to their height and their feet are tiny, meanwhile secondary and tertiary sexual characteristics are exaggerated overall but with a larger standard deviation from the average in each area between individuals to the point where they still reach 0 if less often. They're not a very convincing imitation, to put it lightly, they should be well on the "less human" side of the uncanny valley.
Spirits are regenerating shapeshifters, in the case of fey it's mostly size-changing, but all spirit sophonts also have the ability to imitate clothing, weapons and equipment even if the imitated gear is not nearly as good as the real thing. It and the body part it's on are not separate and the false gear cannot be taken off or set down except by shapeshifting it out of existence, nor can they imitate chemicals or complex machinery like the magitech in nearly all proper melee weapons, which of course means imitating any sort of ranged weapon or explosive is off the table. It also means they aren't rendering their body underneath the gear, if she's wearing a shapeshifted knee skirt and you were to look up it you'd see an opaque void the same color as the skirt which her knees are sliding freely along the surface of, there's nothing between it and where the shapeshift gear ends, everything from hem to waist currently IS the skirt. (Of course if she's wearing actual clothes this does not apply.) Same if she shapeshifts a sword into her hand, the sword and hand are a single piece so it only looks like she's holding it, like a cheap action figure. It also needn't be a sword, most hand tools can be imitated effectively, from hammers and saws to ladles and spatulas, just note that it's part of her and smacking it on things or getting it too hot will hurt even though shapeshift gear is not very sensitive.
Fey also can control the brightness of their glow or generate spotlights, generate and manipulate magnetic fields, of course fly and pretty quickly, they swim fine too which is extremely odd for fairies given their apparent butterfly wings, and all but pixies have easy if slow contact healing albeit the fairy's healing is stronger and pixies have their own benefits (stealth, sensors and a 3-day forecast). Healing is a fairy's main ability, when in water it's strengthened (as is a nymph or ghillie) and in emergencies fairies can massively drain their energy reserves even to the point of depleting them in order to staunch more severe wounds than they would be able to normally, although that's something they can't do more than once or at most twice without a refill and it's still got its limits, "already dead" is beyond those limits, "decapitated" also counts, if somebody's heart got bisected that's somebody they're not fixing, but this burst of frenzied automatic medical treatment is just the thing for some poor sap who's just taken multiple bullets to the chest and head. They're pretty good at self-repair and generally have less downtime than some fey when the poor things get severely injured very easily. (Not because they're little, being a spirit makes that difference often less than it appears, but because they're spirits.)
But what if you touch her? Well, then you'll discover her textureless surface isn't actually a surface at all. You'll start feeling resistance just before you make contact, like trying to touch like poles of two magnets. This is pretty mild, but intensifies as you go on and once your finger passes through her stomach miss fairy will scream and hit you but more importantly you'll contact something solid not far beyond it, many somethings solid spaced apart, teeny-tiny balls and stands. That's odd, so let's put on a mask with goggles and stick our face in this fairy who hopefully agreed to that but it seems unlikely on account of how much this is going to hurt. (Maybe for science. And food. ...And a hug or five or six.)
On the Inside:
What you'll find in the little lady is exactly what it felt like, many less than one millimeter thick strands connecting hundreds of millimeters-wide orb-shaped nodes and thousands more nodes no bigger around than the wires leading to them. Most of the spirit's body is empty space, covered by a gradient forcefield and projected light. These internal structures are brightly colored, in the case of fey blaze orange and notably each part of their facade is most commonly an orange/brown of various hues, brightnesses and saturations (including super dark brown or super pale orange for their pupils and sclera), but if broken open are transparent or translucent white/grey inside. For ages there was no even vaguely comparable material to the unusual lipid-derived organic stuff these nodes are made out of, but the Drachentäller invented a very similar one half a century ago called "plastic" (though only they make it right now so it's still pretty pricey). The nodes have openings on them of different types which differentiate their function, but these aren't well understood, except the biggest ones outside the core that are just storage tanks for slurries of liquid nutrients. The wires feel like normal rubber-insulated wires but super thin, but under a microscope they look to be another bioplastic and if split open will reveal themselves to actually contain both piping for transporting material between nodes and actual copper wire that carries a current too low-gauge to be powering anything so it's speculated to effectively be her nervous system.
This explains her shapeshifting, seeing as her body's not real she just needs to re-arrange her wires and nodes, alter the shape of her outer fields and the image she's projecting. To grow from 50cm to 75, she just increased the distance between her nodes by 50%, her "surface area" by 125% and her "volume" by 237.5%, her mass and weight are completely unchanged. This also explains how such giant variations can exist within one species or even subspecies, they aren't really nearly as big of a change as they externally look to be. Fairies can project light and generate powerful magnetic fields, those are also being done by her nodes, with the very projectors that create her outer fields and holographic "self" which she doesn't know isn't real unless you tell her (she probably won't believe it). It also explains why they feel pain when you attempt to penetrate their fields, for starters they think there's actual physical flesh you're pushing into except for how it visibly doesn't react like it once you've started (and that confusion's only going to make them freak out more), and it makes sense if this imitation is a defense mechanism for a pain response to exist to reduce the odds of you or them discovering what's inside or either of you being able to make sense of what little you do see.
Of course, passing through their fields doesn't always hurt, only if they're expecting it to, the field projectors will even roll inwards to create an opening if one is expected in that spot. IE she bites things by rolling her face fields inwards to "open" her "mouth", then uses them to apply pressure, but as she has no actual teeth this is blunt and often she'll need to yank at it with her entire head, neck and even engage her torso to, for example, tear a chunk off a steak and swallow it. If you were to observe this hunk of steak you'd watch it get passed by repair nodes down into the woodchipper-like opening of one of her digestive nodes in her core, where it will be broken down into proteins and lipids and sent to storage through her piping. We know that because people have in fact stuck periscopes inside spirits to see what goes on inside them. As she uses energy, you may notice a tiny bit of fine dust descending from around her, this is ash and it's all that's left of the nutrients she efficiently consumes in exorbitant amounts to power everything she does. As she repairs damage, her repair nodes can produce the plastic of her tubing her core production nodes print complex components, even required metals coming out of what she eats.
The Core:
The core is the center of a spirit's being, a series of seven dreamcatcher-looking rings large nodes and thicker wire in rings stacked front to back with cross-crossing wires notably devoid of metal instead having silica fibers and flashing lights on each node for signalling between them, making sure every one in each ring is directly connected to each other for redundancy. Here you'll find, in her notably female case, from front to back, half her reproductive system, forward core nutrient storage, forward core cognitive ring (memory and motor control nodes are scattered throughout the body), central digestive and manufacturing ring, aft core cognitive ring, aft core nutrient storage and her other ring of reproductive nodes, and notably there is lots of tubing running between rings 1, 2, 4, 6 and 7. If she was male instead both reproductive rings would be at the back as the purpose of them is different.
In a fey, any humanoid spirit really, this is in the chest where you'd expect the heart to be. Some spirits have two cores, the second will be lower down, in a humanoid it'll be in the pelvis and/or abdomen, as low as it can be at its size and still fit without blocking the leg tendrils. These nodes require more exotic materials less common in food or that are more difficult to work with and even with recycling as much as possible are usually significantly harder to repair and replace. Losing digestive and manufacturing nodes is a big hit to regeneration rate, enough that they usually start by replacing those if at all possible. The way spirits die is by receiving too much core damage, or losing too much mass overall, to the point where they don't have the manufacturing nodes to fix themselves despite all being multiple redundant, or they lack both material in storage and the functionality to go get them. If starved, they will eventually enter an inert state and be left laying as a bundle on the ground until somebody revives them or they decay which takes a very long time even though their plastic is biodegradeable as it is coated in a preservative (in this case orange) chemical that takes years to corrode and is frequently replenished during normal activity. Even then, if you go grab the bundle and drop them into a bunch of loose resources like a bowl of ground beef and fruit preserves that'll solve the lack of resources and if they didn't lose all the required nodes they'll start fixing themselves up.
Damage control and repair:
As mentioned, spirits regenerate. As also mentioned, this is an internal repair system with distinct parts performing distinct tasks, which when they are unconscious gets all of their energy and resources allowing it to work significantly faster, whether they're unconscious because they were nearly destroyed or because they decided to go lie down for a minute because they just saw their wires and nodes for the first time. You may think this could be defeated by severing a part, since they wouldn't be able to reach out and grab it, but what'll actually happen is microwaves will be emitted by the repair nodes on each end of the breach and it'll fly right back into place to get fused back together, and if a node is is destroyed that node'll be replaced a part at a time which will take longer than patching a wire and it won't be working until it's fully reconnected, but the bioplastic that makes up most of it is pretty easy to print and paint if they've got proteins and fats on hand. If she takes too much damage, though, to the point where she's at risk of being destroyed she will involuntarily bail on this entire situation, dropping her outer fields and image, curling her wires into a tight ball, coating herself in a much denser forcefield, rocketing into the distance in a direction with nobody (detected) in it and as clear of a shot as possible. This launch is very forceful, reaching hypersonic speeds in a matter of seconds before the thrust stops and she cruises ballistically to a different post code and at quickly slows to a gentle landing. (Assailants: Brace for the backblast, or it may knock you on your ass.) She is semi-conscious during this process and once she's landed will fully lose consciousness in order to dedicate all her energy to self-repair until she's either back to 100% or as close as she's getting without getting up and finding something to eat. Significant damage to her core, whether it's that "enough core cables are cut to defeat their redundancy" or "a core node is destroyed", will usually result in her blasting off right away, as will her ending up in a situation where destruction otherwise seems unavoidable. Take a moment to absorb the implications of this while you imagine how much worse her being swallowed by a giant frog or something is going to work out for it than her even if she has to clean that mess up. Spirits actually dying due to violence is a rarity because of their remarkable ability to bail in the nick of time, although it does happen. They get hit with a 7-ton naval shell they're absolutely donezo, but dropping them in a volcano won't work because they'll blast off into the sky.
Reproduction and Development:
In her core, this fairy has two rings dedicated to reproduction, one at the very front and one at the very back. These are rings of dedicated manufacturing, wire-printing and assembly nodes, which create and keep in stock a set of redundant nodes, enough to make 1/2 of a new spirit minus their core. If we look in the chest of Sir Mothwing next to her he has none of the assembly or wire-printing nodes but he's got a bunch of dedicated manufacturing nodes in two rings at the back of his core and between them is kept the fruits of their labour: One entire spare core, in addition to half the nodes needed for the rest of a spirit stored stored between the reproductive rings and the back of the spirit which these nodes also manufactured. All they need to do is keep their cores together so a single opening through both their fields can allow them to interact. The actual internal process is unconscious, any activity that'll align their cores and press their bodies together will do the job. They mimic humans generally, but they don't always know how humans do it so this might just be hugging.
The spirit man will pass his spare parts into the spirit woman's chest, one at a time as she needs them, that's his entire job in the actual reproductive process. Granted, those are hard to replace parts, especially all those core cognitive and manufacturing nodes, so he can't do this nearly as often as she can and that puts the bottleneck on the side of the less common sex, giving them a slow reproductive rate. (Then again, they're massive resource hogs for their size, have indefinite lifespans and are hard to kill. Maybe slow reproduction's a good thing long-term.) As for her part she'll be externally paralyzed and unresponsive while her unconscious works as fast as it can making wire and connecting these parts together. In the mean time, he'll be semi-conscious, cuddled as close as humanly possible, only able to move if it's strictly necessary (if a coyote's wondering if they're edible he can go deal with that real quick and come back). The rest of the time while this process is going on, both of them will be tripping balls. No, that's not doing it justice, they're having a life-changing psychedelic experience. Why is unknown, only they're seeing the same things, communicating somehow and by the end they usually claim to "feel" the newborn's presence before they're born, if their estimates are right seemingly a couple hours after the core's done being assembled. Some think it's how the newborn's consciousness is formed, some think it's how all the child's various traits superficial and meaningful alike are determined, some think it's a deep spiritual experience meant to make them reflect on and prepare for the life-changing thing they're doing bringing another tinier person into the world, some think it's just meant to keep their conscious mind entertained while their unconscious does all the actual work. It's also notably intensely euphoric. Regardless, after about one day in 5d technicolor dreamland, the new infant spirit will be assembled and will exit the mother however makes sense to her. They may just pop right out of her chest as a little rolled-up ball, unfurl and form their facade mid-air before any of them wake up, only provided nobody's there to witness it (as far as any of them know).
The even littler one will as usual typically resemble hehis parents in many ways except often with several completely random minor variations like a ginger and a blue-haired parent may have a violet-haired child and have no idea why even if most of the time most of their traits seem to be inherited from their parents. Mutations that large shouldn't be occurring that often with biology as we know it, but this is not biology as we know it. Their sex is determined by how their mother assembles their core, whether they left room and connections at the front and back (female) or all at the back (male), and their facade matches their core in what may be a "natural" metaphor. As the father donates the core nodes the child will always be their father's subspecies, in fact this is how subspecies are classified because it's that reliable. ...And the exception is there are two species of hermaphroditic spirits who all have one male and one female core and each parent provides one of each and this means that if they are of different species you get actual hybrids, for example an ant myrmidon queen and a bee myrmidon queen make a wasp myrmidon queen with one ant core and one bee core. (Myrmidon queens look like little half-meter anthropomorphic insect queens, they make even tinier autonomous frameworks called "workers", "soldiers" and so on who are full-fledged sophonts. They have a limited cast of minions, a bee queen has six workers, four soldiers and two drones whose minds, memories and personalities are backed up every night in the queen's caboose in case they get smashed and they have to print a new copy. They usually don't understand the original is actually permanently dead and has not come back.)
A newborn fairy is already about half the mass of their parents despite looking externally like the infant they are and being the right size relative to them. The extra weight goes into thicker wire and fitting just as many forcefield and repair nodes into the way tinier body. At birth both sexes are always of identical actual mass, even if there's an apparent size difference, and will not appear to age externally despite accumulating actual mass as they go until suddenly overnight they appear to age years all at once complete with a change in their otherwise permanent hairstyle that seems to be subconsciously or even unconsciously decided and only usually has any continuity with the last style. This will first happen at 2, then at 5, then at 10. Their reproductive tract will grow in during their equivalent of puberty, until then there's just empty space, and even once it's there (age 14-16) it'll need just as much time to generate the parts as will be needed between kids later. If the kid's a girl that's only about six weeks, but for boys it's about two years, notably roughly coinciding with one of their overnight metamorphoses episodes when they turn 17, the previous having been at age 10, and they will suddenly go from looking like a kid in their pre or early teens to somebody vaguely in their late teens or early twenties, as they usually appear to be about the middle of the age group they're in, but it is while they are asleep on their exact birthday that these visible changes occur, all at once, exactly at midnight if they're already out. There is no upper limit on their age, after the "adult metamorphoses" at 17 they stop gaining actual mass (except they can always make more storage nodes if they need to) and their final visible change is at 82 at which point they look about a hundred years old indefinitely.
Combat Performance and the Framework:
Spirits aren't very strong, tend to be sent flying to the next county over from the next county over with one swing of a sword and their nutrient stores aren't much for how fast they can burn through them. That itty bitty fairy eats as much as a human toddler who appears to be several times her size and is many times her mass. Most of that normal operating cost is her facade, its fields and holograms are not cheap and she's not nearly as dimly glowly as other spirits even if turns it down as far as it'll go she will illuminate dim surroundings rather than only truly dark ones so that's more energy spent. All of that's coming from food eaten, and although their metabolism is more efficient and only leaves a fine ash she's still eating several times her actual mass on a daily basis. She also only has at most a couple days of nutrients stored, far less than if she spends that time, say, on a battlefield repairing damage to herself and others and shooting electro-lasers out of her wizard's staff in which case she'll be eating nearly as much as a physical folk-sized caster and more than any of the non magic-using soldiers. Thankfully, all spirits are omnivorous and not super picky about what they eat. Fat's got the most calories for them to use, sugar's the quickest to burn, carbs are sugars with extra steps and they need protein for their bioplastics that's most of what they'll need. They need other organic materials and minerals sometimes too, sometimes they'll eat rocks and even they can't have no explanation to give, but anything even vaguely edible to the least discerning and most voracious of goats will work just fine for them and they don't seem to be subject to poison or disease. (Corrosion is a different matter.)
They're really resistant to projectiles, they're mostly empty space after all a bullet could potentially go right through them and hit nothing, their forcefield does well against explosions, heat and corrosion, nor is cold really very effective, but a sword with good edge alignment faces comparatively little resistance from the forcefields and will cut them right in half straight through the core. Also, blunt impacts work fairly well, as although the force transferred through the fields is distributed between multiple projector nodes an impact can still jolt them hard enough to snap the wires they're connected to, it's not like they're spread across the entire facing side of the spirit's body like a blast wave and the forcefield is good at deflective most of the force of a blast wave away. This amounts in total to a significant melee weakness, especially since regeneration takes time and melee combat tends to be more short-lived than ranged combat. Although they are very hard to actually kill and all have interesting abilities, they tend to lose fights with physical sophonts pretty hard and may have issues with creatures that a physical sophont would demolish, since physical sophonts are stronger than they are, are capable of faster reaction times and can dish out a hit after taking one in a way a spirit won't because they'll probably be in the stratosphere. Of course, all of these people are probably wearing armor and that complicates this entire subject considerably, as does the fact that direct one on one duels are not exactly common.
Frameworks are their built-in attempt to make up for this, vaguely resembling a "wicker man" in the shape of one specific form of theirs complete with any and all shapeshifted gear as actual solid pieces. It's actually made bioplastics and glass as usual with them and it's articulated, it's got nutrient storage tanks, more forcefield and motor-function nodes, more holographic nodes too so their appearance gets more detailed (her hair even becomes a seperate piece from her head and flexible along its length) and they generally look more life-like with slightly less exaggerated proportions. Once in a framework, they can't shapeshift until they get back out, but while they're in it they're more protected, faster, stronger and have room for considerably greater reserves. They're both too metabolically expensive to manufacture and take up too much space to keep one of every possible gear variation, and while frameworks can be re-configured this is also metabolically expensive despite recycling as much as possible and being way cheaper than a whole new framework, so usually frameworks use shapeshift gear only if absolutely necessary even though framework gear is much more effective than normal shapeshifted gear between stronger fields and backing them up with various plastic and glass. Instead, spirits who have call for them tend to cap out at one framework for each of their major forms and not waste resources or space making more. Little miss fairy probably has a 50cm and 75cm framework, for example, and if she's not in danger often they'll last her until she outgrows them, and even then she can recycle them to mitigate the cost of the new ones. They last despite being made of bioplastic because thankfully, the framework is coated in a preservative coating just like her insides are that takes anywhere from months to decades to decay and is constantly being replenished when she's in the framework, it'll also take about as long for the bioplastic to degrade, and it can still be saved for a little while because her own repair system can also repair her framework. Of course, when you compare plastic and glass to actual armor and weapons it comes up short, but once forcefields are added to the mix... They still do in the balance, but only because the real armor and weapons can have internal magitech or be a different kind of weapon that couldn't be replicated, the framework weapons and armor tend to directly deal more damage and provide more protection by weight although that's "more protection" compared to lighter armor and "lighter weight" to denser armor.
What the IU Meat-People Think:
As you may have guessed, a common early "hypothesis" was that spirits were ethereal beings and their internals and frameworks were believed to be some sort of congealed ectoplasm and their connection to the corporeal realm. That belief died pretty hard when they were clearly reproducing, except to the kind of religious nutcase to whom reality is always irrelevant. Actual scholars who study things that exist are currently arguing as to whether to settle on "mechanical lifeform", "semi-physical lifeform", "holographic lifeform", or something like that except they all seem to think only their suggested term is acceptable and everybody else is WRONG BECAUSE (17 paragraph diatribe here). Still, they're at least seen by the scientific community as being an extremely bizarre lifeform. You might think they'd have a little issue accepting them as a lifeform because of all the plastic and metal wiring, but there's one important background detail I should mention: Spirits first came from the Otherlands.
In the Otherlands of west Sohei, meat grows on the ground, plants get up and walk around, animals come from spores, giant clonal colonies of sedentary animals grow throughout forests seeping caustic sludge, meteors sometimes fall from the sky followed by crystals that forge themselves mecha made of the ossified remains of what died in the blast, you get in too deep and all electronic sensors are jammed, electroreception is hit with a signal so overwhelming the sense goes completely dead to keep the creature from ripping its sensory organs out, concrete buildings grow on their own by millimeters per day, random paved roads with painted lines exist and change shape so slowly you don't notice until you're hopelessly lost, usually after running into a vertical loop or something unreasonable like that which those among us overly prone to antropomorphising might attribute to spite, sometimes broken glass falls from the sky, you get giant lightning storms where the strikes are so powerful they produce enough ionizing radiation to create a secondary electromagnetic pulse, the wind sounds like an unintelligible modulating electronic tone, people swear the clouds are watching them.... My point; Spirits are only debatably the strangest thing coming out of that place, and they're definitely not the most artificial-seeming thing that seems to be occurring there without outside intervention. At this point the answer to "Could spirits be natural creatures?" is "Uh... Oh I don't know, why the hell not?" or sometimes "Insufficient data; Please define the term 'natural' within the context of The Otherlands.".
But what do YOU meat-people think of them? (And what term would you choose to describe them?)

Hi everybody this is my first real attempt at fanfiction, spoilers for Waybound obviously. I stayed up unhealthily late Monday night to finish the book like a lot of people did. And the next day did one of the most boring jobs, dipping shingles and hanging them to dry for eight hours. The good news is I had plenty of time to think and made this story. Hopefully, if the response is good there will be more. Enjoy!
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The Silverlord Fereleigh stepped into the iteration and stretched her power, the Abidan had abandoned this universe, it was on the edge of its sector and they would have an easier time stabilizing all the other iterations in this sector if they abandoned it. Plus it had a high likelihood of becoming irreparably corrupted in the next century. This meant that it was the perfect harvest for the Vroshir. And only one person stood in her way.
He appeared as a young man with green horns and a grey cloak. In his hands, he held a massive hammer and a shield that looked as though it was made from a turtle's shell. Both resonated with different kinds of Authority. It was his armor that worried her the most though, it was pitch black and seemed to drink in the light of the nearby star. So this was one of those new reapers that she had been hearing about, he felt more like a titan to Fereleighs senses, with a deep connection to the power of the shield. The man looked at her with relief, “Finally,” he said, and his voice echoed across the void between planets, “ I would have gone mad if I had to write up one more trade agreement or negotiate one more peace treaty. I swear Eithan chooses those assignments just to annoy me.”
Fereleigh had admired The Mad King for centuries, to her he had been the symbol that all Vroshir should strive to be, and she had modeled her power after his. But instead of one great fiend bound inside her, she had thousands of lesser ones, she carefully cultivated them from corrupted worlds. It meant she had to constantly contend with thousands of voices inside her pushing her to destroy and cause chaos.
This meant that when she saw the armor of the man who had helped kill Daruman all of her fiends pushed her to smite the person who wore it from existence. The Mad King would not waste time on words, so neither would she. A swirling sun of screaming voices appeared above her and shot a beam of condensed hatred hot enough to make the close by sun seem like a flickering ember and it was enhanced by her silver crown, the authority of a Silverlord. This attack was as much spiritual and mental as it was physical. And the person who received it would have to fight off the combined pain and hatred of thousands of tortured fiends.
The man caught it on his shield, Fereleigh had expected that. She had defeated titans before and they were annoyingly hard to kill but as long as you kept them cornered, they usually didn't have strong offensive power. Still, she had expected it to do more than ruffle his hair. In the next instant, he was in front of her and swinging his hammer down. The blow carried far more offensive power than she expected, at least the equal to his defensive. And she felt the other deep connection to the way this man possessed, a connection to the power of the hammer. But not the hammer of The Builder or The Maker, this was the hammer of The Breaker, the Unmaker. It carried the power of a wolf. She could see why this man had been chosen as a reaper.
Still, she felt her defenses could take it. It might burn through some of her fiends but it would be worth it to eliminate one of Ozriels pets. For he had left himself open. In striking with his hammer he couldn't defend with his shield. She struck out with another of her beams of hatred and was already feeling satisfied with her victory when the man's shield flashed and its power was activated and a golden avatar appeared around his body, the avatar took the image of a man with a shell and tail. Whatever creature had died to make that shield had been thousands of years older than Fereleigh with a will that was so strong it would break a world just by existing in it. It synergized with the man's will and black armor so that even though it struck his armor exactly where she intended it to, this time it didn't even ruffle his hair.
And finally, Fereleigh realized her mistake. The mistake that would cost her her life. And it had been staring her right in the face. This man wasnt a wolf or a titan. He was a Reaper, and his hammer carried The Blessing of Ozriel. It slammed straight through her shields, many of which had been scavenged from titans, and destroyed thousands of her fiends in an instant as they swarmed around her to guard her. And then it crashed into her chest and she felt her Origin crack.
When Fereleigh finally stopped moving she found herself in the core of one of the moons that orbited the main planet of the iteration. She immediately looked towards where she felt the man had been then she realized that from some odd coincidence three of five moons had been in alignment and she blasted straight through two before stopping. It should have been more she new, but the attack had been focused on breaking her origin, not her body. And it had worked, she now only had acces to a fraction of her former power, and the only reason she had survived was her long experiance as a Silverlord and the many seals she had wrapped around her soul, all of which were gone now.
“Thats disappointing, I thought you would have died from the first strike, obviously I need to train more.” the green horned man was floating above her with his hammer drawn back for another strike, which Fereleigh new would kill her. She fled. She tore open a portal into the way and vanished form the iteration. Only to be spit back out hundreds of miles away. She felt what he had done. He had sealed the entire iteration from anyone trying to leave. She could probably undo the seals given enough time but the man had already caught up to her. So she slipped through the way again. Not trying to leave, only trying to move to a different location in the iteration, which the seals allowed. And so started a game of cat and mouse where Fereleigh tried to run and hide long enough to figure out how to dismantle the seals keeping her from escaping. If there was one advantage she had, it was that she was slightly better at spatial transportation than him, which allowed her to stay ahead
As she did she contemplated the mans hammer. Incorporating Reaper artifacts into other weapons was notoriously hard to do, even the Abidan struggled with it and they had the willing cooperation of the Reaper himself. The destructive authority embedded in them broke down almost all other materials they came into contact with, sure The Mad King and the previous Makiel had made weapons with Reaper authority, but that was The Mad King and Makiel, unsurpassed craftsmen, well, almost unsurpassed. That the man had incorporated such a thing into his power was astonishing, though he was obviously still struggling to bring out its full potential. The hammer itself felt like it had been with the man since he was very young. So it was a wise choice to use to command authority. And as Fereleigh looked closer she realized that embedded in the head of the hammer was a black arrowhead, and it contained the finality of Death.
While she contemplated this a battle continued to rage between the two ascended. As Fereleigh slipped between the world again she threw a grenade at the main planet of the iteration. Either the greenhorned man would quit battle to stop it from releasing its sun sized detonation. Or he let it land to continue chasing her, which would destablize the entire universe with the amount it killed. Only right when it was about to enter the planets atmosphere a script circle appeared around the planet. Trapping the grenade in time. Fereleigh cursed, of course he had layered defenses over the planet before she got there. Than the grenade disappeared and appeared right in front of her where its seals vanished and it detonated in her face. She screamed in frustration as fire washed over her. Luckily she had teleported out before she got more than a sunburn.
The fight continued like this for what felt like hours. But in reality was only a few minutes. She unleashed a luck spirit that loved chaos and would twist fate around whoever she wanted, to either make there fate lean toward positive or negative outcomes. She swung with a butchers knife that was made of a piece of the night sky of a far off world. She hurled a worn out fishing net that could entrap a skilled member of the fox division. He either broke with his hammer, guarded with his shield, or straight up avoided when he needed. He must have an incredible Presence in order to meet each attack with precisly the force required.
Finally he cornered her in spinning green scripts, and Fereleigh new her end had come. In one last act of desperation she burned all her remaining fiends, only a little more than a hundred at this point, to unleash one last hate beam that flew towards him. She expected him to summon that golden avatar of absolute strength, but instead he simply held out his black armored hand and let the attack hit him. Given his authority over protection plus his armor the physical part of the attack wouldnt do him much damage, though she saw a little smoke rising from the armor. Likewise his spirit was strong and unyielding, and was able to withstand the attack. But the mental component must have been agony, hearing those endless screams like nails driven into your head. But his hard expression didnt change and he floated forward until he was infront of her. In his eyes she saw the judgement of an executioner, and somehow she new he was aware of her great sin. The last word Fereleigh the Silverlord heard before her the hammer descended was, “You deserve this.”
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“Wow, that was impressive and very cool. I mean you usually are. But especially today” Ziels Dross made a contented noise as Ziel himself gathered up what corrupted remains were left of the Silverlord and contained them in a scripted ball. When he returned to The Grave he would put it into an incinerator-like machine Eithan and Lindon had made that could be used to imitate Eithan's power and erase anything put inside from existence. It couldn't be moved easily and could only be used on relatively small things. But it was still very useful. Dross, seeing Ziels hard face chimed in again “ Oh come on you enjoyed it. I know you did.” He had. It had been nice facing a real opponent. Granted not one that had a shot of defeating him but still one that could surprise him, like that fishnet, that would have really slowed him down if he had gotten caught in it. He knew there were thousands of people out there that could beat him, but he mostly worked inside worlds and didn't face any real opponents.
So he had enjoyed it, right up until Dross had told him how the woman came to her power. She had purposely corrupted worlds in order to grow fiends. Sacrificing millions to gain a few hundred fiends that would serve her well. In the end, it hadn't been any trick that had allowed Ziel to push back her final attack. His wrath had simply been greater. Ziel knew he would need to have a long talk with Emriss after this. Maybe take some time to relax with his friend, teach Lirin a little scripting. This was the primary way the new Reapers resisted corruption. Because for all Daruman had been good and just once, he had always preferred to work alone. And when he became the vessel for a True Fiend, he had no one he trusted to help him. No one stood for him when it really mattered.
Still fighting a silverlord had drained him. And her attacks were potent. He wouldn't have liked facing them without his dreadgod shield. He looked down at his gauntlet and found the metal twisted and some of the paint flecked off. His mind and body were sore. So he finished repairing the moons he had destroyed and slipped into the way, the seals he had placed around the iteration dissolving before him. Little Blue would come and clean up the corruption that had drawn the Vroshir in the first place. Ziel needed to sleep
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Ok, so this is my first story I'm writing following the group's adventures through the way. I hope to make one for each member of the group but I started with Ziel because he is my guy. I have no idea how far down the line this is timewise. But I think a little bit for Ziel to beat a silverlord. Even with some of Ozriels power, armor made by him, and a dreadgod weapon. Though i personally think one day Ziels hammer will be even more significant than his shield.
I made some additions to Ziels power. I think the synergy of Shield and Hammer Icons work well with him. And it gives him both defensive and offensive power. Plus he is a reaper, he should be able to hit hard. The Hammer has also been a symbol that has been with him almost as long as his desire to protect. So I think he would have about equal authority over it. Obviously its a different type of hammer icon than Lindons. The addition of the shard of penance to his hammer I think works(in story it was added by Lindon and Eithan working together. Since he killed a dreadgod with a splinter of Ozriels power I thought that would help him gain some control over it(like when Yerin killed Sesh with penance, though that was a much bigger splinter) and also he is Ozriels apprentice even before he ascended and I think would medidate in front of the real Paths of Heaven in the labyrinth(including Ozriels door) as much as he can. Making him better attuned to death. I know everyone in the group has different abilities but i feel like they should all be at least a tiny bit connected to the power of the reaper. Any questions?

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There are some deeds, some crimes and horrors even our Mother, the Universe itself, loathes beyond all. And when this is the case, neither time, nor space, nor reality itself can deny her vengeance.
Because time is a flat circle... and we all dance on its twisting disk. - kwong879, Pukan philosopher, Post Second Precursor War Reconstruction Era
For three days and three nights did the Lady Lord of Hell, the Detainee herself, in all of her fearsome matronly glory, tempt the First Biological Disciple, Daxin Freeborn, Enraged Phillip.
And for three days and three nights did he deny her.
And thus did he pass into memory and legend. - The Book of Telkan
And before I took the lives of the damned, He did appear before us and commanded my hand still.
His glowing blue form a radiant mercy. For us.
For them. - Glory, Failure, Temptation, & Redemption, Magnus Oathsworn
There is no doubt of the fact of malevolence. The very universe itself reaches out to crush what she has birthed in an eternal struggle of hatred. There are, however, some sins which even in the face of annihilation cannot be countenanced. Some acts which even this malevolent universe will not tolerate. Protect the infants at all cost, for they are survival, and to sacrifice survival for the sake of survival shall bring only suffering and doom. - Wisdom of the Traveler, Tribulations, Chapter 5 Verse 1.
In the Age of Paranoia, Humanity's leadership ordered terrible things done. Not because they knew they were necessary, but because they might become necessary. Never realizing that the existence of those terrible things would drive them to find a reason to use them. — Prof. Kuruka N'anga, University of the Sacred Bough, Terra Nuevo
While many things enrage the Lady of Hell, in fact most things seem to, certain crimes and sins earn her personal wrath. The many men who took everything from her. The idiotic creatures who thought themselves masters of everything. And those who commit cruelties upon the innocent. For she sees all of mankind's many many sins and knows very few are clean of them. Wise beings fear when cold gray eyes turn upon them.
We were desperate, and in our desperation we reached for things that will haunt me for all eternity. We could have stopped at anytime, we should have stopped before it was too late. We ignored the warnings, in our hubris we were assured that what we were doing was necessary. We were right, but it was still wrong and there is not enough time in the universe to pay for what we did. We ignored all the warnings and applauded ourselves on our success...only moments later the shouts of joy and celebration became screams of terror as the gray-eyed one illustrated why the warnings of these dark sciences should be heeded. --Words found in a blood-soaked journal at dark site research station, this was the only document recovered. Site glassed and all traces of the research were redacted.
It was misty, with a little bit of rain. The anomaly was hidden behind artificially generated cloud cover so that it looked more like an overcast sun than the strange globe of psuedo-reality it was. The starwalk station was empty, no bones, no shades, no scars from the furious fighting that had taken place after the Glassing had driven the SUDS personnel insane.
Holos flickered, some advertising restaurants or stores, others with directions, some with safety warnings, and still others with just public service holograms. The mist made the holograms flicker and fade in and out as the focused laser systems were scattered by the tiny water droplets suspended in the air.
There was a beep and the gate opened, allowing Surscee to step from the starwalk to the platform. She was wearing revealing leathers, a bustier, a short skirt with copper strips for reinforcement, tight weave fishnet stockings, and polished black leather boots with silver buckles. Around her shoulders was a gauzy sheer cape that shed the moisture even as it gleamed and sparkled.
She stopped to examine a few of the public service announcements. Some making her smile, others making her shake her head.
"You are a window to the world of my ancestors, nine thousand years gone," she said softly, touching the base of the holo. She moved to another and watched it. "We are not so different, you and I," she said, her voice full of wonder. She watched a PSA to remind everyone not to bring plants from Earth in case of seed contamination. "Your lives were full of danger that eventually became mundane," she said softly.
"That's humanity in a nut shell," the voice from behind her was low, rough, a woman's whiskey and cigarettes voice.
"Although ever changing, thus, we are," Surscee said, straightening up. She turned around and looked over the short matron in her dark charcoal gray skirt and blouse. "Greetings, fearsome one."
"Greetings to you, sorceress," the Lady Lord of Hell said. She looked Surscee up and down slowly. "Huh."
Surscee raised an eyebrow.
"Nice to see the Great Value Red Sonja look isn't just an act," the Lady Lord of Hell said, turning and walking into the mist. "Magic, science, mysticism, technology, all the same to the ignorant." Her voice faded as she walked away.
Surscee watched the short woman walk away, then turned and went back to following the path.
She was startled to discover that the vending machines were not VI driven, but just mechanical with a few holograms.
One of the vending machines that normally dispensed energy drinks and fizzybrews was ripped open, like someone had hacked on it with a blade. Surscee noted that most of the Liquid Hate was gone.
She got a lemon-lime fizzypop and followed the softly glowing holographic line of the ground until she finally came to a small park.
She stopped at the playground, leaning against a cement post, and stared at it.
The swings moved slightly back and forth at the almost unfelt breeze that stirred the mist. Droplets of water ran down the slide. The swinging rings just rocked slightly in the air current. The seesaw and the spring horses, the jungle gym and the wooden playhouse all sat quietly, damp from the mist.
Surscee closed her eyes, cocking her head slightly, listening for any echoes of happiness gone by.
"I would bring them here to play, once I had soothed their trauma to where they could interact with one another, to the point they could do more than run and scream and claw at themselves," the voice of the gray eyed matron sounded behind Surscee.
The sorceress turned, seeing the darkly clothed matron standing under a tree, barely visible in the fog, lighting a cigarette.
"I recreated it in Hell, just for them. To let them be children again, to remember," her voice said. She took a drag off her cigarette and Surscee saw the stern planes of the smaller woman's face illuminated for a moment. When she exhaled smoke, Surscee could still see her gun-metal gray eyes.
"I set fallen angels to watch over the park with sword of burning sin and tridents of icy treachery," she said, then turned and walked into the mist.
Surscee frowned as the matron vanished into the mist.
She waited a moment, but the other woman was gone.
Surscee moved on, making no sign of effort as she brought up her defenses. Her fingernails twinkled slightly as the microscopic piezoelectric systems came online. The targeting reticles and the HUD elements appeared in her vision. She brought up the passive acoustic mapping and changed the hardness of the heels of her boots so that her boots clicked with each step.
The fog muffled the acoustic map slightly, the water droplets absorbing and redirecting sound, making the map fuzzy here and there.
She passed by a vending machine and smelled cigarette smoke. The onboard systems broke it down for her, putting it up in the tiny window beyond her left hand peripheral vision. No manufacturer signature, no trace elements from other worlds. Her onboards told her that it was Old Earth brand, the tobacco lacking any genetic engineering and the cigarette containing nothing but an asbestos filter, paper, and tobacco. No flavors, no genetic smoothing, no flavor enhancements. No record in the database she always carried loaded.
She frowned slightly.
"You are unmoved by human suffering, making you suitable for this task," a tired sounding man said from just past a set of benches. He was leaning against a fountain. He had shaggy cut dark hair, a simple pair of pants and shirt without decoration, and dark circles under his eyes.
Two steps and the figure vanished.
The echolocation acoustic mapping told her that there was a solid bipedal humaniod form there for a split second but it vanished just when she got in range of it.
Surscee followed the arc of the path, curiosity filling her.
She knew if the being that had manifested as a five meter tall demon with bat wings and a whip of burning warsteel links woven with barbed wire, or the short matron with the nasty steel knife, wanted to kill her, the being simply would.
Surscee was curious what the purpose of this was.
"Enemies never rest. That's why they're called the Enemy, you blithering morons. I swear, dealing with the two of you is like dealing with particularly naive and ignorant children who are shocked, shocked I tell you, that they can't ziptie a plastic bag around their head and dance in the middle of the Interstate during rush hour," the matron's voice was cruel and full of disdain. "Of course millions are dying, that's what happens when you act like atomic weapons are no more dangerous than sparklers."
Surscee didn't bother to look around, her onboard bioware systems letting her know that the point of origin for the voice kept moving and shifting.
A trivial trick with nanites and one she had used often to confuse and harry foes.
"Your weakness disgusts me," the woman's voice hissed from between two food vending machines. "If you spent less time crying and more time fixing the system you'd be done by now, you pathetic puling weakling."
Surscee smiled slightly.
The voice reminded Surscee of her mother mocking her lessers.
There was a small basket with berries and small fruits sitting on a bench and Surscee's smile got wider. She moved over and sat down, picking up the basket and setting it on her lap.
If the being wanted her dead, she would be dead, simple as that.
The berries were blackberries, strawberries, and raspberries. Clean, sweet and tart.
After a moment the matron came walking out of the fog, opening a breast pocket to remove a pack of cigarettes and a flint-steel lighter. The woman sat down, crossing her legs at the knee and smoothing her skirt. She then lit the cigarette, the flare of the lighter lighting her face with the warmth of the flame without making the face seem any warmer.
Surscee slowly chewed a blackberry as the cigarette was lit, puffed on, and the lighter clinked shut. The pack and the lighter went back into the top pocket, the matron's fingers nimbly buttoning up the pocket.
They sat there for a long moment.
"All of that power, all your knowledge and mastery of exotic and esoteric disciplines, and here you sit eating freshly picked berries and fruit," the matron said.
"I am a simple woman who enjoys simple pleasures," Surscee said, smiling.
"I could use someone like you on my team," the matron said, exhaling smoke. "Power, the will to dominate, the means to achieve the goals I set out for you."
"An enticing offer," Surscee said carefully. She picked up strawberry and bit off the tip, chewing slowly.
"With your brother as one of my Hell Knights, you would make an excellent Hell Storm," the matron said.
This time when she exhaled the smoke was tinged with a slight tang hot freshly spilled blood and a taint of brimstone.
"Acting as the agent of the Lady Lord of Hell herself," Surscee said. She picked up a black cherry and looked over it. "Empowered, strengthened, by the Lady Lord of Hell, to punish the wicked for their sins."
The matron nodded slowly.
"With you as the judge, myself as the jury, and my brother as the executioner," Surscee said, still smiling.
"At times," the matron said. She exhaled smoke and glared at the mist that surrounded them. "Do you know what sin mankind has fallen into?"
Surscee shook her head. "Pride, perhaps? My mother often spoke of sloth and gluttony, perhaps that?"
The matron shook her head. "No. Far far worse."
"I would hear your words, fearsome one," Surscee said, making sure her voice was respectful.
"An anecdote," the matron said. She sighed. "Later, in my life, as more and more people became enamored with being ethical, more for status than to be truly ethical, philosophers and those who called themselves ethecists began posing questions, providing answers, each of the seeking to be recognized as the pinnacle of ethics and morals that would guide humanity into a Golden Age."
"That smack of wickedness," Surscee said. "Of pride and arrogance."
The matron nodded. "One question, posed by academics to students, always enraged me. Asked by academics who had never traveled beyond their ivory towers or guarded enclaves, asked to pampered students who had spent their lives dwelling in luxuries beyond imagination to the people of my youth."
The matron reached down into the mist that covered her feet, lifting up a bottle of beer and popping the cap with a talon that immediately returned to a manicured nail.
"The question, put forth, involves a situation. I will explain it thusly: You are at a village in a war torn nation. A warlord arrives with his men, intending on killing the village. The reasons do not matter. However, the warlord makes you an offer, handing you a gun with a single bullet. Shoot one person, of your choice, and he will spare you and the survivors. Kill him, and his men will kill you, and allow the village to survive. Kill none, and he will order his men to kill all the villagers, man, woman, and child, but leave you to live," the matron said.
Surscee frowned. "A terrible choice."
The matron snorted. "The academics and ethical philosophers then asked their students: What is the most moral choice?" the matron looked at Surscee. "Care to make a guess?"
Surscee thought for a long moment. "Shoot one of his men. He did not say you had to kill a villager."
The matron laughed. "A choice fitting for a Great Value Red Sonja," she laughed. She shook her head. "But, you would be wrong. You see, you make the unethical choice to take a human life."
"Then what?" Surscee asked.
"To stand aside. That you do not make a choice. The philosophical correct answer was to stand aside, that the warlord and his men make their own decisions and it is not your responsibility nor your moral failing whatever they choose to do," the matron looked out at the mist, taking a swig of her beer. "Do nothing, let the trolley kill five, because for you to decide who lives and dies is unethical."
Surscee snorted. "Choosing to make no choice is a choice in and of itself. You should always seek to do the least harm and the greatest good."
The matron nodded.
"The cowardice disgusts me," the matron said. She took another swig of her beer and then a drag from her cigarette. She exhaled smoke tinged with blood and brimstone. "I need those who will not back down, who are willing to get in the mud and the blood and the beer to get the job done."
The matron held up a red apple. "Take the apple, accept my offer. Be my Hell Storm to your brother's Hell Knight."
"Your offer humbles me," Surscee said. "It does not matter if my brother took your offer, I am Oathsworn to Lady Nakteti the Traveler. My duty is clear, it lies with my sworn liege."
"But what of your duty to your people?" the matron asked. "What of your duty to humanity?"
"I represent humanity wherever I go. Shall my actions, my decisions, lead the people's of the galaxy to believe that humanity are oath breakers? That our word, our bond, our oath, carries no meaning other than to further our own aims and goals? That we will abandon them, no matter what oaths we swear?"
The matron was silent.
"I am tempted by your offer, but I must, respectfully, refuse," Surscee said.
"Very well," the matron said. She blew on her fingertips and the apple dissolved. She stood up, taking a moment to smooth her skirt and tug the cuffs of her sleeves.
"You would have made an excellent Hell Storm," the matron said, exhaling smoke.
When it cleared, she was gone.
Surscee closed her eyes and heaved a great breath.
"I have passed the test, I hope," she said softly.
Only the dripping of water in the mist answered her.
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Ok, I'll try and make this as short as possible. I walk in on the first day of class and sit next to this girl, that I though was attractive. I didn't really make any advances on her because I'm a rather shy introverted guy however, I did make friendly chit chat asking about her major, what she does for fun, yada yada yada. I really didn't expect much out of this as I've done the same thing with many other girls in classes and typically it goes nowhere for me because I never gather the balls enough to actually ask if they want to do anything outside of class.
To my surprise I got a follow request from her on Instagram after class, without any prompting from me which I've never had happen before. A few days pass and I direct messaged her for some clarification on some of the homework assignments, nothing flirty was said on my end. Again to my surprise after answering my questions she then gives me her number so I can "text her sometime". I took her up on her offer and we start talking rather frequently, almost everyday. After about 4 days of this she suggests that we should hang out and I tell her I'm free that weekend. We arranged a time to meet up and she came over to my place for a few drinks. It was a bit awkward at times however overall I'd say it went rather well, we chatted for a while and seemed to have similar interests and senses of humor. Nothing crazy happened but as she was leaving she came in for a hug, which I'm assuming you wouldn't do to some guy who creeped you out.
Next week comes and we still are chatting off and on however the conversation is a bit more stale & less frequent, which I figured was fine because we're both rather busy with school and work. I've killed chances with girls before by being to clingy and trying to text/talk everyday so I tried to avoid doing that this go around. Anyway I let about two days pass without texting her and then I shot her a message and got a conversation going, and asked if she wanted to make plans on her next day off. She agrees to make plans after she got off of work.
The day we're supposed to hang out I respond to something she said, and I never end up hearing anything back after my response. No big deal I don't expect her to respond to every little thing that I say. However four or five hours pass, and I text her asking if we're still good to hang out that night to which I never receive a response. It's now been four days and I still haven't received a reply, which I'm taking to mean that she lost interest in me, or at the very least didn't want to hang out and decided not to give me the courtesy of actually telling me this outright.
So now onto the actual problem at hand, I have to see this girl in class tomorrow, and up to this point I've sat next to her every class period. Do I sit next to her in class risking it potentially being an awkward experience? There happens to be another girl in the class that I find attractive and I'm thinking maybe I should just go sit next to her instead and try to get something going there. Am I simply assuming that she purposefully ghosted me when she might have just missed my texts? I don't know, I have zero experience with dating, and I feel like I shouldn't waste anymore time on someone who seems to have made it clear that I'm not that important to her. If you want to give me any other advice not directly related to my question I'd be open to that as well, I'm just an unexperienced 22 year old trying to learn. Sorry for the extremely rambley post.

Apologies in advance for the shitpost. I don't live like this but we feel like throwing caution to the wind on a trip to love and regret and am genuinely looking for some direction. Planning to go with my girlfriend (30's) for a week in Ibiza next July. We've never been there. We've done Mykonos and Vegas parties, but those were paid by others and all we had to do was show up. This one is just us two and we're looking to have the full Ibiza experience in high-end style. Budget is five to low six figures for 4-6 days. Really it's about getting quality services for the money spent. My "thing" for trip planning has always been transport so we have the helicopter and boat figured out so we're good there. Any tips on ground transport? I've read that taxi is the best way to get around. If that's the case then that's fine. Would staying at a residence be better than hotel when the goal is to club all night? Basically what I want to know is if there are any special experiences available for people dropping 10-20k euros a night. If not that's cool and we'll be hopping right in the middle of the floor regardless. This isn't something I've had to coordinate before and I'm not sure where to start.
Also an additional question is, what's the best way to find people to party with? Pandemic's got me all introverted. Is it weird if we ask to join a group or invite them to join ours?

We explore the official first contact, from both perspectives.
I hope you enjoy.
------------------------
Memory Transcription Subject: Noah Williams, FTL Tester and Scientific Researcher
Date[standardized human time]: July 12, 2136
Oh my god, this is actually happening.
We chatted with the aliens, who had somehow managed to translate our binary. Translation probably would have gone faster if we sent them some math and numeral charts, but I guess we got more than a bit ahead of ourselves. We reached a point where we received instructions to wait on the third planet from the star to meet them. We agreed to the meeting.
While Sarah grew more excited, I calmed myself down. We were making first contact with a completely alien species. We needed to maintain some professionality and keep ourselves from ruining everything. As I reminded Sarah of this fact, she calmed down as well.
We decided to send a message back to Earth regarding our discovery. It may take a couple of days to reach there with the current state of our communications tech, but it was a good precaution in case our stay ended up being longer than that.
Anyway, we had landed on the surface of the third planet, near the night side as to have the sun and any protective gear not interfere with our vision of each other, and waited.
Eventually, the "venlil" ship landed just a few dozen feet away from us. It seemed to be very powerfully built and robust. Though this might be an effect of a much more solid design being needed to escape the higher gravity, it also seemed built for warfare, despite not having any visible weapons. If I didn't already know that they accepted our peace offer, I would have been just a little bit worried.
Sarah and I got our space suits ready, and we entered the airlock. Through the window of the airlock I could already see a welcoming party.
They all wore bright orange suits, contrasting quite vividly with our own bluish grey suits. They stood on long and powerful legs, adapted for high gravity, with their weight being balanced by a long tail. They seemed to have very stocky bodies, though that might be a side effect of the suits, and their arms, while short, seemed powerful. They had very peculiar headgear, with it being a large dome half made of glass. Maybe it's a physiological requirement? Anyway, what little I could see of their heads reminded me of sheep.
"You ready for this?" Sarah said on the radio as the airlock finally drained itself. I nodded.
Steeling up my nerves, I opened the door and went outside.
------------------------
[Memory transcription partially translated to modern terms]
Memory transcription subject: Governess Tarva of the Venlil Republic
Date[standardized human time]: July 12, 2136
The "humans" finally stepped out of their relatively small ship, and my ears shot up and my tail wagged with excitement. My teeth threatened to whistle as the air I breathed hissed through my gaps and blowhole.
I took a good long look at them as they approached.
They were lanky and tall, perhaps adapted for a gravity slightly lower than ours, and stood completely upright without any tail for balance. They must have some very muscular legs. I could safely assume the same thing with their arms, as they were almost as their legs, and were equipped with powerful hands. Their hands had five very dexterous digits, indicating rather fine motor skills. At least, when compared to venlil claws. Their heads were almost completely covered in a tight helm and neckpiece, showing only their face. They must rely very heavily on facial and body expression, and thus won't be used to looking at ears for cues.
As they grew closer, I saw more fine details, specifically in their face. Their irises and pupils were small, leaving a lot of exposed sclera, and they darted around in their sockets without needing the head to move. They also had strips of fur above their eyes, further cementing the idea that they were facial expressors. Their mouths had naturally fully closing lips, and they had a set of downward facing nostrils on a protruding nose.
I then noticed differences in the body shape between the two humans. One was boxy and more broad at the shoulders, while the other was broader at the hips and seemed to have breasts. Breasts were a familiar trait, as we venlil use them to feed our pups. From there, I could also assume that they also gave live birth. To see convergent evolution was a pleasant surprise.
Though, no area of the female's body seemed swollen with child, so she didn't seem pregnant. Maybe they were also doubling as fat stores and display features.
As the humans approached, they stopped right in front of us.
They opened their lips and turned the corners upwards, exposing their teeth to us. I took notice of the small canines and barely visible molars. This must be some gesture of good will, though I was unsure how.
I tried to imitate the gesture as best as I could, my ear nervously flicking as I did so. I send a tail flick of greeting towards them, though I doubt they understood it.
The male sent his open hand towards me, and I stared at it for a moment before reaching towards it. He grabbed my hand and shook firmly. This must be their greeting.
We awkwardly stared at each other for a moment after the handshake, unsure of what to do. I opened my mouth to speak, but then remembered that we weren't connected to whatever channel their suits may have. I turned my gaze to Kam.
"Is there a radio loop to connect to?"
"Yes, just give me a moment." After a couple seconds of tapping on the pad, he turned to me. "Should we join?"
"We should ask the humans for permission first. It is only polite." I said.
I looked back to the humans, and tapped the side of my helm with my claw while flicking my ear, trying to communicate my desire to connect with their radio loop. Their faces contorted into a slightly lopsided expression, with one brow strip raised, while tapping on where I assumed their ears and radio pieces were. I sent an affirmative flick of the ear, before remembering that they were facial expressors. I decided to imitate one of their tooth displays of goodwill, hoping that would siffice in getting the message across. The two humans looked at each other for a moment, and then they turned back to be and bobbed their heads up and down. That must've been their signal of affirmation.
I send an affirming ear flick to Kam, and a couple seconds later, a ping was heard, indicating to me that I was connected. I saw the humans' eyes widen and dart around, before settling on me almost expectantly.
I gestured to myself as I looked them in the eye.
"Tarva."
First
Previous

In this modern world of ours, where digital dalliances are as common as Bertie's misguided engagements, we find ourselves making frequent use of the VPN - a handy device that ensures our online antics remain a private affair. It's much like Jeeves being the only one privy to Bertie's late-night endeavours - all very hush-hush and confidential.
However, my friends, we often overlook the snide villain that lurks in the corners of our pocket - the smartphone. Yes, it may seem all helpful and benign, assisting in browsing, communicating, and generally making a nuisance of itself, but beneath that glossy exterior, it bears an accomplice - the carrier.
The moment you turn to your mobile data for browsing, you've unknowingly invited the carrier into your private soiree. It now doubles as your ISP, peeping into your traffic and DNS requests like a nosy neighbour, ready to sell your little secrets.
So, my fellow internet enthusiasts, if we are to truly cloak our digital footprints, it becomes imperative to put the kibosh on both the home ISP and the treacherous mobile carrier. Fear not, for this very piece will serve as your personal Jeeves, providing timely guidance on the choicest mobile VPNs - ones that will keep both these prying parties at bay. Ah, the peace of a truly private online venture, now that's something to aspire to!
The Fine Art of Selecting a Mobile VPN: A Gentleman's Guide
In the bustling sphere of mobile usage, akin to Bertie Wooster's hectic social life, certain pursuits demand precedence. The act of torrenting on one's iPhone, for instance, rarely assumes a position of great urgency, much like Bertie's sporadic inclination towards gainful employment. Hence, we calibrate our judgement to suit the matter at hand. Allow me to present the yardstick we employed for choosing the crème de la crème of VPNs for mobile:
Firstly, much like our affable Jeeves, the VPN should be a paragon of discretion, retaining naught that could identify its users or betray their utilisation of the service.
Secondly, its encryption standards should be as sturdy and current as Jeeves's understanding of the Works of Nietzsche.
Next in line, it should ensure a quick and steadfast connection, mirroring Jeeves's unwavering reliability.
Just as Jeeves is ever-watchful for potential social faux pas, the VPN should provide DNS leak protection, keeping your online affairs snug as a bug.
Moreover, the VPN should boast of an amply sized server network, much akin to Bertie's impressive Rolodex of aunts.
And lastly, a gentleman always appreciates good entertainment; thus, the VPN must offer commendable support for streaming services, ensuring that one may enjoy one's Netflix and Amazon Prime Video without hindrance. Akin to the inimitable Jeeves, it must have a knack for keeping things running smoothly.
NordVPN
One couldn't help but be wholeheartedly taken with NordVPN, our top pick, much like Aunt Agatha's penchant for eligible debutantes. Finding its roots in Panama, an idyllic spot where compulsory data retention laws are as scarce as Bertie's inclination towards matrimony, NordVPN spreads its network across a staggering 5600 servers, proficient in the arts of OpenVPN, WireGuard (NordLynx), and IKEv2 protocols.
When it comes to upholding privacy and security, NordVPN is the very epitome of decorum in the bustling world of commercial VPNs. Just as Jeeves is privy to all manner of Bertie's misadventures, yet remains a model of discretion, NordVPN operates under a strict policy of keeping mum about your online frolics. It employs encryption techniques worthy of a Blandings' mystery and proves as impervious to IP, DNS, or WebRTC leaks as Jeeves is to lapses in judgement.
Of particular importance for those of us gallivanting about with mobile devices is NordVPN's inclusion of a kill switch in all its applications. This trusty feature, like a dutiful valet, bars all traffic from leaving your device should the VPN connection drop, a common pitfall for those of us engrossed in the goings-on of our handheld contraptions.
In our speed trials, NordVPN emerged as sprightly as a young Galahad, ideally suited for high-definition revelries (4K/8K). A reliable companion for streaming, it possesses impressive credentials in the realm of entertainment support.
Finally, NordVPN is as versatile as a Drones Club member during a shove-ha'penny tournament. It caters to Windows, macOS, Linux, Android, iOS, and Amazon FireTV, while also extending a helping hand to NAS devices and routers.
ExpressVPN
Ensconced in the British Virgin Islands, which I must hasten to add, contrary to public misconception, does not fall under the scepter of the UK, ExpressVPN is an absolute corker. Those plagued by misgivings of the Five Eyes Nations can breathe easy, much like Bertie Wooster when Aunt Agatha departs for an extended European sojourn.
Proving itself as versatile as a Drones Club member at a cocktail mixing competition, ExpressVPN parades an impressive repertoire of secure VPN protocols – OpenVPN, Lightway, and IKEv2 – across its extensive empire of 3000+ servers. In an agreeable display of transparency, its custom VPN protocol, Lightway, is as open source as one of Bertie's ill-advised confessions and hence, open to scrutiny.
When it comes to upholding the standards of security, ExpressVPN displays a discipline rivaling that of a disciplined butler. It employs the AES-256 encryption, 4096-bit RSA keys, and SHA256 authentication, all the while keeping perfect forward secrecy (PFS) under its wing. Taking a leaf out of Jeeves' book, it leaves no trace of its tasks; all servers function from volatile memory (RAM) and are booted from read-only disks, ensuring that no trace of data can take up residence in the system’s hard drives. Adding a feather to its cap, it features a kill switch in all of its applications, so you won’t be left in the lurch, feeling as forlorn as Bertie without his morning tea. Rest assured, we detected no IP, DNS, or WebRTC leaks.
But don’t mistake all this diligence for the sluggishness of an overfed dachshund. ExpressVPN maintains the zest of a young Wooster, emerging as one of the nippiest VPNs we've put to the test. Its proficiency in streaming support could have the stiffest upper lip twitching in approval and, against all odds, it manages to cozy up with Hulu and HBO, usually rather reluctant to fraternize with VPNs.
Delivering native applications for Windows, macOS, Linux, iOS, Android, and a selection of routers, ExpressVPN is as accommodating as the ever-reliable Jeeves, always at hand with a resolution to your every digital predicament.
SurfsharkVPN
While not as seasoned as some of the more experienced gents in the VPN club, Surfshark has quickly shown itself to be a plucky go-getter, securing a spot in our highly coveted list of top-notch mobile VPNs. Much like one of Bingo Little's romantic forays, it may be fresh-faced, but it's certainly not to be underestimated.
Located in the Netherlands, which is refreshingly free of compulsory data retention laws but still part of the Nine Eyes, Surfshark reminds one of a gentleman's club adhering to a strict code of silence. Its stringent no-logging and privacy policies ensure it's as discreet as Jeeves at a dinner party – it simply wouldn't have anything to divulge, even if the law enforcement played the part of an inquisitive Aunt Dahlia.
Under the bonnet, Surfshark wields an impressive arsenal, featuring support for OpenVPN, WireGuard, and IPsec. It employs 256-bit AES encryption in a frisky pas de deux with a SHA512 authentication hash and a 2048-bit DHE-RSA key exchange that's as dedicated to perfect forward secrecy (PFS) as Jeeves is to impeccable service. Suffice to say, the chaps at Surfshark have ensured their service is as leak-free as a newly corked bottle of Uncle George's favourite vintage.
Surfshark’s apps, like a dutiful valet, come equipped with a kill switch, a feature as essential to the mobile user as a cocktail shaker at a Drones Club gathering.
Whether it's for your streaming needs, a little endeavour from behind the Great Firewall, or the simultaneous connections of an army of devices, Surfshark reveals itself to be a virtual Swiss Army knife. Providing native apps for Windows, macOS, Linux, iOS, Android, and Amazon FireTV, Surfshark seems ready to serve, a digital Jeeves at your beck and call.
Tackling the Mobile VPN: A Gentleman's Guide to Virtual Privacy
Ensuring privacy with a VPN on your mobile contraption, dear reader, isn't unlike taming the beast on a desktop machine. The procedure is as similar as two identical twins at the Drones Club, both insisting they are, in fact, the other. Here's how to go about it:
Firstly, do cast your vote and sign up with one of the aforementioned VPN providers. Like attending a country-house weekend, your presence must be confirmed. We heartily endorse NordVPN, much like one recommends a restorative Brandy Alexander after a particularly strenuous day of golf.
Next, direct your attention to downloading your chosen provider's mobile application. Much like summoning Jeeves with a ring of the bell, the process should be quick and without much ado.
Having accomplished the first two tasks, it's time to refer to the instructions provided by your VPN master. It should be a walk in the park, akin to Bertie's ambles round the park in Aunt Dahlia's stead. You'll likely need to pick a server and give the "Connect" button a nudge. Should any difficulties arise, rest assured your VPN provider shall rush to your aid, like a trusty valet saving a hapless Bertie from yet another tight spot.
And there you have it. Your VPN application, like Jeeves, is now ready and waiting in the background, equipped to ensure your virtual escapades remain as private as a gentleman's diary.
The Rigorous Trials of the VPN: A Gentleman's Guide to Testing
Beneath your gaze is the regimen employed to scrutinize these elusive VPNs. In the spirit of fairness and objectivity, one must be as consistent as a country house butler, and as keen as Bertie when confronted with a three-tiered spread of scones. Thus, our method is laid bare for all to inspect.
Speed: A key component to any VPN, much like an impeccable sense of style, is speed. A sluggish VPN is as much an inconvenience as an overly chatty aunt, and it may hinder your streaming or web perusal. The VPNs that receive our stamp of approval have galloped through our speed tests with the zeal of a racehorse at the Ascot.
Servers worldwide: Access to a wide variety of geographical territories is crucial. Much like Bertie's world-wide forays to escape Aunt Agatha's clutches, a global server range can help bypass bothersome geo-restrictions. Also, finding a server close to home to optimise speed is much easier with a global spread.
Multiple protocols: We recommend a provider offering a cocktail of secure VPN protocols, as different situations might call for different ones. Imagine having to pick just one cocktail at the Drones Club - an unthinkable proposition! Protocols like IKEv2, OpenVPN, and WireGuard are often found in our top picks.
Ease-of-use: A truly commendable VPN provider should be as approachable as a cordial chat with old Jeeves himself. We ensure that our selected providers offer mobile applications as easy to handle as a brolly in the English drizzle.
Streaming services: In today's world, accessing streaming platforms via a VPN is akin to tackling one of Aunt Dahlia's 'little tasks.' We put our VPNs through their paces, testing them on a veritable feast of popular platforms such as Netflix, Amazon Prime Video, BBC iPlayer, HBO Max, Disney+, Hulu, and so forth.
Torrenting: Many of the VPN patrons are, as Bertie might put it, jolly keen on sharing files. However, not all VPN providers are as generous with their networks. Our methodology checks for torrenting allowances and dedicated P2P servers to see how well they manage this exchange of digital pleasantries.
Security and privacy: The crux of any VPN is akin to the unyielding trust in one's butler. We delve into each provider's privacy policy, logging standards, encryption protocols and their imperviousness to any leaks, be they IP address or DNS in nature. Just as we trust Jeeves with our darkest secrets, we ensure these VPNs hold your privacy in the highest regard.

(THROWAWAY ACCOUNT)
A bit of backstory: I (22M) have been dating my girlfriend (22F) for almost 6 months now. We have a very happy and healthy relationship and our sex life is great. We have really expanded each others tastes in the bedroom.
Anyway, a few weeks ago my girlfriend and I decided to take some pictures together on my girlfriends phone. It was a beautiful day so we went to a nearby pond with a pretty view because wanted some pics for our socials. After the pics were taken and we got back to her place, she gave me her phone while she showered so that I could download the pics to her computer to edit later on. As I was in her photo library, I had found a hidden photo album. Out of curiosity I decided to take a peek to see what she had in there. Upon opening the album, I had found roughly 30 porn videos between my girlfriend and her ex. Some videos were 10 second clips of her giving him head while others were up to 5 minute long videos of him fucking her. At first, I was disgusted and kind of disappointed that my girlfriend had these videos still saved on her phone. I decided to watch a few of the videos and for whatever reason they really aroused me. I stupidly decided to send a few of the videos to myself and delete the evidence that I had done that. I didn’t tell her what I had found. Fast forward a few nights later, I was pretty horny and me and my girlfriend were not together. I decided to open some of the videos and see how they felt to masturbate to since they had aroused me pretty good. I ended up finishing to one of these videos and had unfortunately really liked it. Over the past few weeks I have masturbated to these videos a few times and I enjoyed it every time. I don’t know why I enjoyed them so much but I really did. Last night, I did it again and the post nut clarity hit this time. In the moment, I decided to delete all of the videos because I knew what I was doing was wrong.
A few things to note: 1. My girlfriend and her ex have been broken up for well over a year and I didn’t even meet her until they had already been done for a while. 2. I thought that maybe the reason I enjoyed these videos so much was because I was leaning into some sort of cuck fetish. However, I have thought about my girl getting fucked by another guy and it does not arouse me one bit. Even in a threesome setting, I do not like the thought of my girlfriend with another guy. I don’t believe I’m a cuck. 3. This has not affected our sex life we still have amazing sex. 4. I have yet to tell my girlfriend about any of this and I have no idea how to confront her about it, but I think I should. I violated her trust in a way and it was absolutely wrong of me to do that.
Overall, I don’t know why these videos get me so aroused but I need to quit now and come clean before I get in too deep.

The forest is black. Pitch black.
I pound over the dirt trail, my feet turning the pedals like twin pistons. The bicycle bounces and jolts, shuddering as it rolls across the wooden bridge. There’s something in the air tonight. A chill.
But it isn’t the chill of autumn. No, this is the chill of unease. It crawls up my spine carrying the deep-rooted knowledge that something about these woods, something about this trail isn’t right. It’s the unmistakable dread of being watched.
Pursued.
I stand up and ride harder. My lungs burn with every push of the pedals but I can’t shake the feeling that I need to get out of these woods fast. The hospital is twenty minutes away. I just need to make it there.
I’m close.
So close.
WOMP
Bass rumbles behind me. It’s followed by a rush of wind, enough to throw me forward while ravishing the forest like a tempest. Trees groan. Their frames break and kneel, surrendering to the gale. Branches and leaves come loose. They ricochet through the air like shrapnel, cutting into my cheek and and I throw up an arm to keep myself from losing an eye.
This is insanity.
It’s lunacy.
I don’t know what’s happening, but I know I have to make it through this. I have to get out of these woods, get back to the hospital to see my sister before the heart monitor flatlines.
She’s not doing well. Are your mother and father home?
No, ma’am.
Can you get here to be with her? She doesn’t have long.
Yes ma’am. No matter what.
The distant bass nears, growing thunderous. It’s as though the whole world is shaking, like the Earth might split in two and swallow me whole. I grit my teeth. I let loose a defiant roar, sweat pouring down my temples as my legs tremble, willing my bike forward.
Faster, dammit!
Faster!
There’s a flash. Then another.
Lightning?
No.
I’m answered by an explosion of light, so violent and bright that I can’t see a damn thing. I holler. Scream. My body jerks forward as my front wheel collides with what feels like a fallen branch. Next thing I know, I’m flying over my handlebars.
What’s the phrase?
Ass-over-tea-kettle.
Yeah, that’s it.
I brace myself for a broken arm, maybe worse, but the pain never comes. Nothing comes. It’s as though I’m floating in limbo, like gravity’s unable to finish what it started. I can’t feel a thing– not the dirt beneath me, not my face pressed against the bark of a tree. For a little while, I think I’m dead. That I’m in purgatory.
But then my eyes adjust. The world comes into focus, beginning as a blurry smudge, but soon becoming a picture-perfect recreation of my worst nightmare.
I’m not in the forest anymore.
I’m above it.
I’m looking down at the mess of trees and I’m terrified at how small they are, how much smaller they’re getting with every passing second.
I’m floating into the sky, being carried by a narrow beam of light.
​
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​
That was a long time ago. Thirty years, give or take.
A lot’s changed since then, but one thing’s remained the same: the nightmares. I have them every night. I dream about that blinding light, that same low bass and that same gut-churning horror of being eaten by the sky.
I used to think they were a coping mechanism. I figured that since the dreams came shortly after my older sister passed, that maybe they were just how my eleven-year-old brain was dealing with the grief. My therapist seemed to agree.
“You’re quite right that there may be a link there,” she’d tell me, lowering her glasses and offering a medical-grade smile. “It’s very likely that these dreams are a form of abstract healing, a means to allow your mind to come to terms with its trauma.”
For a long time, I thought she was right. Or better put, I hoped she was. Now though? Well, I think maybe we were both wrong.
Shit.
Where are my manners?
I’m over here rambling about my childhood, and you’re wondering who the hell I am.
My name is Isaiah Mitchell. I’m a boogeyman, but not the cool kind. I don’t hide in closets or haunt old houses. I’m the type that your parents rant about while watching the evening news, the sort that tinfoil hats point to whenever things go wrong.
I’m what you might call a Man in Black.
The work I do is classified. It’s the sort of work that happens behind the scenes, with shadowy people in shadowy circles. So when I tell you that last night something catastrophic happened, I’m not talking about the stock market dipping a couple percentage points. I'm not talking about increased traffic on your morning commute.
I’m talking about trouble.
Lots of it.
It’s the kind of trouble that’s making me do something I don’t generally do, which is break rules. By the end of this, I might break all of them. But this is important, and in moments like these I find myself thinking about my late sister, Hope, and how she would have wanted me to do the right thing. It’s how she raised me, after all.
So here goes nothing.
This begins with a story, but it ends with a decision. The story is mine, and the decision is yours. When I’m finished, you get to choose whether you spend the time you have left a little wiser, or laugh this off as the ramblings of a lunatic.
Whatever you choose, I’ll have made my peace.
The story is a personal one. It’s about me, but it’s also about you– it’s about everything in the universe, right down to the last atom, and how all of us are facing a horror the likes of which we can’t begin to imagine.
It’s the story of the worst night of my life, and what might one day be the worst night of yours.
It goes like this.
​
_______________________
​
The beam of light sucks me up and spits me into absolute darkness. The sensory whiplash is enough to give me a headache, something like a migraine that pulses near my temples and feels like a bulldozer inside my skull.
It’s uncomfortable.
But not half as uncomfortable as the situation I’m in.
“Hello?” I mumble to the dark. I stumble to my feet, feeling around my environment blindly. It’s cold. Hard. It feels like I might be in a room full of metal, but I can’t imagine where that would be. A warehouse?
Footsteps echo in the distance. They’re closing in.
“Who’s there?” I sputter, and I think maybe I’ve been drugged. People don’t just up and float into the sky in the middle of the night. It isn’t a thing.
That means I’m hallucinating.
That means whoever kidnapped me knows a thing or two about stealing kids.
That means they’re a professional.
What’s the phrase?
Serial killer.
Yeah, that’s it.
WOOOOMP
I clap my hands to my ears. It’s that same bass from the forest, except now it’s reverberating all around me. Another bass joins it. This one is different… coming from a new direction, with a lower tone. It’s almost like they’re communicating– like morse code.
“Please,” I beg. “Just let me go. I swear I won’t tell anybody!”
Static crackles. It’s followed by a sharp squeal of microphone feedback, then the buzz of modulating frequency. “Communication calibrated,” a digital voice says. “Subject identified: homosapien. Geographic location: New Mexico. Language model: English.”
There’s a pause, it’s long and silent enough that I can hear my pulse rushing through my veins. I’m positive I’m going to die. These things don’t happen to people who live to tell the tale.
“Can you understand us, homosapien?” the voice asks.
Yes, I say.
Can you turn on the lights? I ask.
The only thing worse than being murdered is being murdered in the dark.
Yes, they say.
I’m blinded for the third time in as many minutes. I blink, my eyes adjusting to the green glow as it fills the chamber. Wherever I am, it’s strange. Alien. Tall vats of liquid are scattered around a large, circular room, each hosting tubes that extend outward to a central console. Everything is metallic. I can’t make out any labels– any sort of identification at all.
“Is this level of light sufficient?” another voice asks, this one right behind me.
I wheel around, and my breath catches in my chest. In front of me is something that doesn’t exist– can’t exist. It’s roughly ten feet tall, and it’s got sharp teeth, sharp claws, scaled skin, and a tail. It’s a monster. A living, breathing monster.
Fuck.
I scramble backward. My back collides with one of the vats, and blue liquid sloshes against the glass. “Thehellareyou?” I shout all at once.
“We are the Chosen,” says the first voice, approaching my other side. “We are lifeforms from many galaxies away, and we have come to save humanity.”
They stare at me through giant eyes, and each of those eyes are filled with dozens of pulsing pupils. Almost like ink blots.
“I’ve been abducted…” I sputter, hardly able to breathe. “By aliens. Aliens… are real… and I’ve been abducted…”
“Correct,” says one of the aliens. I realize this one has gray scales, while the other has teal. At least I can tell them apart.
Gray looks at his arm, and a digital screen comes to life. He taps at it with a crooked finger. “Readings indicate heightened levels of cortisol and increased adrenal flow. Source: Fight or flight response. Biologically rational, but devoid of purpose.” He looks at me, cocks his over-large head to the side. “You have neither the option to fight us or flee us, so it would be best to comply. Do you understand?”
My jaw hangs open. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. Are these aliens really standing there reading me my Miranda Rights? “Are you going to probe me?” I ask. “Like the movies?”
Teal blinks at me, his pupils dilating. “Negative.” He points to a vat. “We will break down your genetic tissue into usable material, harvesting your most compatible DNA strands while discarding the rest. It is for the greater good.”
I follow his finger to the tank, and now that I’m right up against it, I can see clearly what’s floating inside. My stomach twists into a knot. Inside of it is a human body. Everything from the man’s waist down has been dissolved, and what’s left of his intestines are dangling freely.
“Jesus Christ!”
“There is no cause for concern,” Teal says. He lumbers across the chamber to the metallic console that all the tubes are feeding into. “Your disappearance will be accounted for. A clone will be deployed to resume your life, preventing suspicion and avoiding social disruption.”
“Let me get this straight,” I say, trying to ignore how faint I’m starting to feel. “You’re going to kill me… to save humanity?”
“Correct.”
The room spins. My chest gets tight and my vision becomes a scrambled mess. My ears are ringing like church bells. I stumble, losing my sense of equilibrium and I think I taste vomit in my throat.
“No,” I mutter. “This isn’t happening… Can’t be happening…”
I steady myself against a vat, looking up to see a dead woman’s face staring back at me. Pieces of her skull have been eaten away. I can see the wrinkles of her brain underneath.
“Heart rate out of range,” Gray says, but I hardly hear him. He grabs my wrist, presses a device against the center of my hand.
I struggle. Fight. I try to use my teeth, but he’s strong, much stronger than me. A coldness pulses against my palm, almost like an ice cube, and soon that frigid sensation is traveling across my fingertips. Up my arm.
“What did you…” I mutter, but the sensation is rolling through the rest of my body. It’s soothing. My eyes find my palm and I see a strange shape seared into the skin, a scatter of dots surrounding a black square. Suddenly I can’t remember the thought I was trying to finish. Was any of this really worth panicking over?
It was just a few corpses in vats, after all.
“You have been administered a sedative,” Gray explains.
My heart rate slows. My ears stop ringing. The ghost of a smile sneaks across my face.
Gray’s staring at his display. “Cortisol levels reduced. Adrenal response suppressed. Biometric readings indicate subject has achieved a suitable level of suggestibility to proceed.”
“Affirmative,” says Teal, working the console.
I feel like I’m drifting through the lake on a warm summer day. My heart is full. I’m in absolute bliss, and all I can think is that Hope should get to experience this before she dies…
“Pulse is quickening,” Gray says with a frown.
Hope.
My sister.
My dying sister, alone in the hospital wondering why her little brother abandoned her.
“Sedation effect dropping,” Gray says. “98%. 94%. Emotional instability reaching unacceptable levels.”
“Hope,” I sputter, feeling like I’m coming out of a daze. “I have to get to the hospital– please! My sister is sick! She needs me!”
Gray presses the device against my other hand, and another pulse of relaxation courses through me. “Invalid concern,” he tells me. “Clone will be a perfect recreation of you, body and mind. It will retain all memories allowing it to continue your life uninterrupted. Conclusion: your expiring sibling will receive suitable emotional support prior to her decomposition.”
Fucking aliens. It takes everything I have to fight against the sedative, to make my case. “How?” I groan. “How is my DNA supposed to save humanity? What the hell is it saving us from anyway?”
Teal turns from the console to face us. His giant eyes are narrowed in a thoroughly displeased manner. “Invalid request. Information too critical to risk dissemination.”
“Rebuttal,” says Gray. “Clone’s memory can be modified. Current biometric readings indicate high levels of emotional discontent, placing likelihood of a compromised harvest at 34%. Solution: permit subject to understand purpose of sacrifice. Result: sense of closure and enhanced probability of project success.”
Teal turns back to the console. “Rebuttal accepted. Proceed.”
Gray looks at me. He places his scaly fingers against my head, and I squirm a little. “Brace yourself for disorientation,” he tells me. “You will experience physical unease and hyperstimulation. After, you will understand the horror that awaits your species in the dark.”
​
______________________________
​
For a long time, that’s as far as the nightmare gets. Gray prattles on that I’m about to see the truth, some twisted fate that justifies melting humans into sludge, but before he can deliver the goods, I wake up.
Every. Time.
Blue balls doesn’t begin to describe it.
Last night, it happens again. The nightmare, I mean. Same aliens, same tanks of human soup, but this time I wake up in a cold sweat. My phone is ringing on the bedside table. There’s a name on the screen that I hate to see.
“Whatisit?” I grumble.
“Jesus Christ, Mitchell. I’ve been calling for ten minutes!”
My boss. Lisa.
She goes off. The words are coming out like machine-gun fire, and from the background chatter I figure she’s speaking to more than just me. It sounds like there’s a crowd around her, like she’s briefing suits as she jogs down a hallway.
“Got all that?” she asks.
Something about a shitstorm. Something about an F35. The air force just shot down a UAP, which is how we say UFO these days to avoid getting laughed out of the room. Apparently it happened in New Mexico. My backyard.
This calls for a liter of coffee. Maybe two.
I stumble into the kitchen and put a pot on. I have some time while she holds the phone to her chest and barks orders at the drones around her. One cream. One sugar. My spoon clinks against the side of the mug as her voice blares through the speaker.
“Mitchell?” she says. “Still there?”
She says she’s got coordinates. I take a sip of scalding java. I’m dazed enough I barely feel it burn my tongue. My fingers punch the coordinates into my laptop, bringing up the location the supposed UAP was shot down.
I spit my coffee over my screen.
“The fuck?” I mutter, leaning forward and doing a double take at the map.
“What is it?” she’s asking.
“Nothing,” I’m saying.
But it’s a lie. The truth is, the coordinates are a dead match for the forest where I had my waltz with psychosis thirty years ago. They’re the coordinates from my dream. Right down to the rickety old bridge.
I ask her if she’s sure the numbers are correct.
“Am I sure?” she snaps. “Look, if you’re asking me if this is another Chinese spy balloon then the answer is go fuck yourself. I’ve been pulling my hair out for the past twenty minutes. This is the real deal, so suit up and get ready to go. I’ve got a bird on the way.”
The clock on my microwave reads 2:34 a.m. and my stomach is telling me to sort my life out. “Do I have time for breakfast?” I ask.
Click.
The line goes dead.
Twenty minutes later, a helicopter is landing on my lawn. I board it in a daze, and we take off in the direction of the crash like we’re trying to outrun a cruise missile. I’m watching the lights of the countryside drift by, and it occurs to me that from all the way up here, in the dead of night, they almost look like stars.
I wonder how long it’d take to snuff them out.
How long it’d take to burn a whole galaxy to ashes?
To crush a universe in the palm of your hand?
Things to consider.
The closer we get to the crash site, the worse my thoughts become. They’re bordering on obsessive. I’m tangoing with darkness. Radio chatter is coming through the com line, something about aliens and extraterrestrials, but all I’m thinking about is controlling my bladder.
I’m drowning in hypotheticals.
I’m wondering what happens if I lose my mind between here and the crash site, what the protocols are, where they’ll take me. Do I get the night off? The week?
“Everything okay, sir?”
It’s the co-pilot. She’s turning in her seat and looking at me like I’m having a medical emergency.
“You look a bit pale,” she tells me.
My muscles work overtime as I twist my mouth into a smile. “Never better,” I lie. “How far out are we?”
“Twenty miles,” she says with a reassuring grin. She turns back in her seat and I take the opportunity to let out an exhausted sigh.
I close my eyes. Take a dozen deep breaths.
Happy thoughts.
I try to ignore how dry my mouth is, how badly my hands are shaking. I try to ignore the fact that every time I look down at my palms, I see that same scatter of dots, that same faded square that no doctor has been able to explain. “I’ve never seen scars like that,” they tell me. “How’d you get them?”
I don’t know, I tell them.
I don’t know.
But I do.
I’ve known this entire time, probably, but I’ve just been too terrified to accept it. I’m not what I think I am– this world isn’t what I think it is either. It’s all of this that’s making me want to curl into a ball. It’s making me want to weep on the floor, to scream at the top of my lungs and pull my hair out with everything I have.
It’s making me want to throw open the helicopter door, take a breath of fresh air and then plunge head-first into the dirt like a human turnip. And if I thought it was that easy, I might just do it.
But somehow, I know it isn’t.
I know it won’t save me– won’t save us, from what’s coming.
See, last night I had the same dream I’ve had for the last thirty years. The same abduction. The same aliens. But last night, I got to see the director’s cut. The Extended Edition. Last night, when Gray told me he was going to show me just how fucked we all are, he actually came through.
Imagine that.
What I saw was everything.
I saw how all of this ends. How all of it began. What I saw is what’s waiting for us in the black infinity of space. And the more that I think about it, the more I think it might be driving me mad.
“Just up ahead,” says the pilot. “Ten minutes to touch down.”
Eight minutes.
Five.
“Jesus,” he says, at the three minute mark. “Are you two seeing this?”
And up ahead is a plume of smoke, rising into the night sky. There’s the faint flicker of fading fires, the haphazard glow of industrial lighting, and there, at the center of it all, is the unmistakable shape of something that shouldn’t exist.
“That… doesn’t look like it’s from this planet…” the co-pilot mutters over the com line.
“No,” the pilot replies, and his voice is shaking. “It doesn't.”
They’re right. They both are. What it looks like is something extra-terrestrial, something alien. It looks like something ripped straight from my worst nightmares.
And really, that’s just where I wish it had stayed.

Me and my ex PA broke up 4 months ago after being together for 3 years. We’ve had 3+ D-Days (after D-Day 1 he white knuckled for a year, after D-Day 2 he faked recovery by seeing a normal therapist but refused to do the rest so was still white knuckling, D-Day 3+ he started to see a therapist I had gave him, and only started seeing her when it reached the end of the month of the deadline I gave him to start recovery). All through these D-Days he would still occasionally have slip ups or be caught engaging in behaviours such as objectifying women in public
My boundary is that unless I see full recovery, I will not commit to him and will not pursue a relationship with him. After the third D-Day, he began showing genuine behaviours in wanting recovery - despite needing an initial push: he told me about a relapse within 24 hours, he searched for accountability apps on his own accord and was using fortify. He (eventually) admitted to relapses during our break up but stated that some were to old images of me (this I do not believe because he got a new phone a year ago and I checked his secure folder not long before we broke up and nothing was in there but he says that maybe I didn’t see it) but others were sources of porn (I believe he just went back to porn tbh). We were on and off with regard to sexual intimacy. But I noticed - especially within the last month and a half, that he deleted the accountability app (he said it slowed down his phone but he didn’t go to find another app etc), he stopped talking about therapy, and just in general I saw literally no signs of recovery efforts, he sent me a screenshot of his fortify the other day and I can tell that he’s stopped using it because his score was lower.
When confronted about the lack of recovery efforts, he said that recovery looks different for him and he’s doing recovery by socialising with friends (one of which is a porn useaddict who’s active in his addiction and also is a drug addict and other substances, the other friend is just in denial about porn addiction as a whole), going to the gym and just “focusing on him and what he wants”. He was doing therapy biweekly (last time I was aware) however someone else pointed out to me that biweekly therapy appointments are only 26 hours in the remaining half of the year which is next to nothing). He’s going through a phase where he feels like he wants to live his life (e.g. go out with friends to places like nightclubs or do drugs on a night out without me going “is that a good idea” or asking him to think about the consequences) but he feels like he can’t have me and that at the same time. He moved a lot as a child so really puts a value on friendships (he feels like he doesn’t have any).
He always talks about the lack of trust being in an issue in our relationship and how if we can’t have trust we can’t have anything, to which I respond that trust is earnt back after a betrayal and I’ve not seen any indication that he wants to be trustworthy, so therefore I’m not going to trust him and trust takes a long period of time and a lot of teamwork and action to be resurrected. He also said that he feels like I always nag him (especially in recovery) but obviously if I’m having to repeatedly voice something that isn’t being met time and time again it’s going to come across as nagging.
I told him I feel like he has a lot of growing up and maturity to do, and I think that he’s showing signs of being naive with his addiction and also the people who he chooses to surround himself by. We aren’t in communication but we have said that we don’t think it’ll be the last time we’ll ever talk. Recently I’m questioning if I was manipulated and if I dodged a massive bullet, and also feeling shitty with myself for being blind and not sticking to my boundaries more. I just feel like I need a third party to give it to me straight
Also, I’ve met someone who shares similar views with porn as me, but has admitted to using it but has shown understanding and empathy about the addiction element and voiced that it’s not needed in a relationship, and he’s a nice guy. We met up and he did not ogle anyone, which was a shock to me but when I told my friends about this they were like “star it’s the bare minimum”. But anyway, it’s been platonic but my ex PA has shown jealousy about this and on multiple occasions stated that this guy is going to replace him but also that the guy is lying about his anti porn views to get into my pants etc.
I’d love some straight to the point comments and just interpretations of this whole thing. I accepted his addiction and just wanted the recovery for me to continue the relationship sigh