8 genius strategies that landed my first job

📷Q: I’m having a tough time finding a job in tech. What are proven strategies I can use to land a job?
Tech is a fascinating field, a blend of artistry and functionality, psychology and aesthetics. But breaking into it can feel like trying to solve a Rubik's cube blindfolded. As someone who has successfully made the transition into the tech industry, I know firsthand the challenges and struggles that designers and product managers face.
Today, I'm sharing 8 proven strategies from my personal story, a self-taught designer who landed a Design Lead role at Gotrade (YC S19).
Let's dive into the 8 key strategies (📷 with interesting historical references from famous figures).Step 1. Understand The Company
Before you can woo a company, you need to know them inside and out, like a biography writer researching their subject.

📷 True story: Remember when Steve Jobs returned to Apple in 1997 and steered the sinking ship back into clear waters? He had an intimate understanding of Apple's mission and culture. You need the same level of understanding about the company you want to join.

Actionable steps:

• Research the company's mission, recent news, market trends, and the backgrounds of its leaders and interviewers.
• Use tools like Glassdoor, LinkedIn, and the company's own website to gather information.
• Try to understand the company's pain points and how your role could address them.

Step 2. Leverage Warm Intros
In the world of networking, warm introductions are the holy grail. They're like a secret handshake that gets you past the velvet rope and into the VIP section.

📷 True story: In the early days of Airbnb, the founders used warm intros to connect with potential investors and mentors, leading them to their first funding round. It can work the same way for you in landing a design role.

Actionable steps:

• Scan your networks for any connections to the company.
• Engage with their content and ask for advice or mentorship.
• Use platforms like LinkedIn or ADPList to find potential connections.

Step 3. Craft for "Tell Me About Yourself"
This is your moment to shine, to craft a narrative about your past, present, and future that will captivate your interviewers.

📷 True story: When Elon Musk explains his journey, he doesn't just list off his accomplishments. He talks about his passion for technology, his visions for the future, and the key decisions that led him to where he is now. This is the same kind of storytelling you need to master.

Actionable steps:

• Develop a concise but compelling story about your journey into design.
• Highlight key decisions and insights that have shaped your career.
• Practice this story until you can tell it naturally and confidently.

Step 4. Targeted Companies
Just like how different species of birds have unique calls, every company has its unique needs and preferences. Meta and Google, for example, lean towards data-led design, while Apple is all about visuals.

📷 True story: In 2009, when Square was just a small start-up, they weren't looking for a jack-of-all-trades. They needed a designer who could build a simple, user-friendly payment app. Knowing what a company is specifically looking for can help you tailor your approach and stand out from the crowd.

Actionable steps:

• Understand the needs of the companies you're interested in.
• Learn about their past hires and what they valued in them.
• Tailor your portfolio to match the company's style and needs.

Step 5. Targeted Network
Before you send off that job application, try to connect with a few employees at the company.

📷 True story: When Sheryl Sandberg was considering joining Facebook as COO, she met with numerous employees to understand the culture and challenges of the company. This not only gave her insights into Facebook but also helped her establish connections within the company.

Actionable steps:

• Reach out to 1-2 employees at the company.
• Send a personalized note asking if they'd be willing to share their insights about the company.
• Use the information you gain to improve your application and interview preparations.

Step 6. Challenge Them (Humbly)
When you're asked, "Do you have any questions for me?" during an interview, it's your chance to show your preparation and curiosity. You want to challenge their thinking, not just ask about vacation days or company culture.

📷 True story: When Reed Hastings was considering investing in Netflix, he didn't just ask about their business model. He asked challenging questions that made the Netflix team think deeply about their strategy and future. You want to do the same in your job interviews.

Actionable steps:

• Prepare thoughtful questions about the company's projects, strategies, and challenges.
• Show that you've done your homework by asking specific, informed questions.
• Be respectful and humble when asking these questions.

Step 7. Contribute Into Future
Interviews are not just about what you've done in the past, but what you can do in the future. People want to hire folks they're confident can bring in results (fast).

📷 True story: When Sundar Pichai was interviewed at Google, he didn't just talk about his past experience. He also shared his vision for Google's future and how he could contribute to it. This approach can work for you too.

Actionable steps:

• Think about what skills and ideas you can bring to the company.
• Show them how you can contribute to their future success.
• Be specific about what you'd improve and how you'd do it.

Step 8. Tell Story With Results
Forget about going on and on about your design process. What matters is the impact you've made with your work. It's like showing the delicious cake you baked, not explaining every step of the baking process.

📷 True story: When Jony Ive presented the design of the iPhone, he didn't just talk about the design process. He demonstrated the end result and its impact on the user experience. This is the kind of storytelling you need to employ in your interviews.

Actionable steps:

• Showcase the results of your design work in your portfolio and during your interviews.
• Highlight the impact your designs have had.
• Limit the explanation of your process to about 10% of your presentation.

Final key takeaways

1. Research: Thoroughly understand the company, role, and key personnel before the interview.
2. Networking: Leverage your connections for introductions and insights into the company.
3. Prepare Your Story: Craft a compelling response to "Tell Me About Yourself", focusing on key decisions and insights.
4. Tailor Your Approach: Understand the unique needs and goals of the company and tailor your portfolio and application to match.
5. Connect with Employees: Prior to applying, engage with 1-2 employees from the company to gain insights.
6. Show Critical Thinking: Use the opportunity to ask the interviewer questions to challenge their thinking and demonstrate your preparation.
7. Internships: Shine in an internship by exceeding expectations and making yourself indispensable.
8. Apply for the Right Jobs: Exercise empathy, make your CV/resume a story, and tailor your approach to the company you really want to work for.
9. Nail the Interview: Articulate your creative process, describe design challenges you've experienced, and explain the rationale behind your creative decisions.​

So this morning I (20F) weighed in at 169.4 lbs, officially hitting my goal weight of 170 lbs! 🎉
When I started weighing myself and counting calories I was at 251 lbs. That’s 81.6 lbs in 284 days, or just about 2 pounds a week on average.
At 5’10”, that puts me just slightly in to a healthy BMI.
My goal was to make the weight loss process as un-disruptive as possible. I didn’t change my diet at all, and I didn’t start doing much exercise. While these weren’t the healthiest choices, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to keep it up long term if I tried to change them all at once. I had started daily(ish) walks a few months before trying to lose weight, and I have for the most part managed to keep that up all year.
Now I’m at at a bit of a crossroads. While a lot of the weight loss motivation was health-related, I won’t lie and say there wasn’t some vanity to it as well. I’m still not happy with my body in terms of fat amount.
I’m considering taking a break and going on maintenance for a bit, just because that sounds nice and I want to see that I can keep what I’ve lost off before going lower. I’d still track, I’ll probably do that forever because otherwise I think I’ll over-eat or under-eat.
I’m also thinking about starting some muscle training so I don’t look quite as blob shaped. I don’t have any experience with that kind of stuff so it’s a bit intimidating, but I would like to try at some point. Maybe now’s the time?
I also am thinking about readjusting my goal weight to 150-160 lbs, just to put myself more firmly in the middle-ish of a healthy weight range and help with the aforementioned blob thing. I’d probably take it a bit slower since I’m at a lower weight and I don’t feel the pressure to lose it quite as much.
I might try to combine training with either maintenance or a slight deficit. Just to build on / preserve what little muscle I have.
Overall, I’m pretty happy. I’ve made a lot of progress over the last year or so, and not just in the weight loss camp. I was in a lengthy period of apathy and self loathing, and while those feelings are not entirely gone, I managed to channel them into a strong desire for change and self-improvement. There’s still work to be done on myself, but I’ve proven I can do it if I let myself try.
Thanks for taking the time to read this, good luck to you all on your own journeys ❤️

Hey there ReddX gang, it looks like I finally got a bit of time to write, so let’s not delay any longer and get into another story about Chris.
Who is Chris? Chris is a very fat and sweaty man surrounded by an impenetrable aura of poopycum stinkystank. He is a grotesque goblin content to dwell in his own personal dark triad of meth, anime, and lot lizards. Chris and I both used to work for a trucking company – a major one – and him and I would take turns driving our big rig down the road. Things were usually okay when Chris was driving, but when Chris’s shift would come to an end, or worse yet, when we would pull over for the night, Chris would find himself free to do Chris things. You know the things. Then, despite my best efforts to make him bathe and behave, it was all in vain, and we would descend just a little bit further into madness. Thankfully, I no longer have to ride with Chris.
Last installment we were introduced to Christina. Do you not know who Christina is? Well, maybe you should go and look up that last post, or better yet, go and listen to the narration of it as done by our good pal ReddX. Christina really was the feminine counterpart to the poopycum man. Well, after some sly maneuvering, I managed to escape the clutches of this wily bovine.
Now, I woke up the following morning to find both truck doors still locked and I thanked myself that my comfortable sanctuary had not been breached in the night by the poopycum people. I looked at my clock and realized that we were getting a bit late in the morning and that we needed to get on the road. Begrudgingly, I got out of bed, put on my shoes, and went out into the travel plaza to locate the gruesome twosome. I didn’t have to go far. I found Chris and his sister outside of the convenience store, wolfing down microwaved carbs, grease, and high fructose corn syrup like they a couple pigs in a trough. I came up, Chris dismissively remarking hey, and Christina replying with a sultry “good morning honker donkers” which I ignored. I turned to Chris, pretending his sister didn’t exist, and said, “we gotta get on the road, dude. Are you ready?” He shoved half a hot dog down into his mouth as if to deep throat the thing and said, “yeah, let’s go. Come on Christina.”
We all got back to the truck and I jumped in the passenger seat first that morning, taking us out of our parking space and further down the road. I figured I’d get my drive time out of the way first so that I could make my money without having to fight with Chris, and alternatively, if Christina drove the afternoon, I could spend it in relative peace without fear of molestation. Of course, that first shift was hell. Christina was still in heat – swampy, musky heat – and kept trying to coo her way into giving me road head. Thankfully, Chris was still the same scum that he was from yesterday and made things too awkward even for the beast beside me for her to make her moves. Every time she got a little too close to me, I’d find some way to rouse Chris’s attention and he would fluster her with his incestuous masturbatory desires.
When my shift finally came to an end, I got up and headed to the back to relax in my bunk while Chris and Christina fought over the driver’s seat. Chris shouted, “dude! I haven’t drove at all this whole trip! I need to make money so I can get some new figures for my army. Get up Christina,” to which Christina replied, “shove it. Just ask dad for some money. I wanna drive the truck.” Well, Chris wasn’t having it. I guess dad had been cutting him off as of late and gave the landwhale a hard shove, sending her careening into the side of the truck, causing the whole rig to rock back and forth. She came back and lunged at Chris and they started throwing blows at each other. I didn’t intervene, of course. I sincerely doubted either of them had the required upper body strength to actually injure the other. No, I let them get tired. Christina gave up first and said, “fine! Drive the damn truck! I’ll just go hang out with honker donkers.” At this, my ears perked up, I got up from my bunk, and plopped down in the passenger seat – a place only big enough for one person mind you – and Christina cast me a sour look. She knew I didn’t want to be anywhere near her, but that didn’t seem to stop her from still trying to put on the moves. With a dejected sigh, she waddled towards the back, and I screamed, “you better not lay down on my bunk,” and she said, “fuck you, I’m not going to lay in your bed.” Chris did his pre-drive checklist before casting a glance over to me, mumbling, “women, am I right or what, bro,” before putting his phone on the dongle and pressing play. We pulled onto the road to the throaty cries of “nani? Baka!”
As we drove, I did my best to ignore the people about me, grateful that I was safe with Chris driving the truck. I descended into my book as best I could while the poopycum man took us down the road. I was doing a good job pretending I wasn’t there, of course, but it certainly didn’t last forever. Somewhere around the hour mark, however, a symphony of squeaking bedsprings arrested my attention. Chris even looked away from his podcast for a minute and locked eyes with me, and we exchanged a what the fuck moment. Cautiously, I looked over my shoulder towards the back of the cab.
The ham planet had made herself comfortable in my bed, alright. Too comfortable. Her languid, throaty breaths punctuated the awkward scene before me. Her swollen red ass was firmly planted on my bed and she sat there, one hand lifting up her sagging belly, the other fondling her yawning crevasse. She smiled coyly as she saw that I had turned around and motioned for me to approach, but I did not dare to do so. I recoiled in absolute disgust, letting out a “what the Hell are you doing?” Chris swerved a bit at my outburst but managed to stay on the road. My disgust only elevated exponentially when I saw that the hand that touched her rancid cooch held something in it. “What the fuck is that?”
She smiled wryly as she held up a dirty old sock, and I practically gagged. She replied, “Even if you don’t come here inside me, I’ve got your come inside me.” I dry-heaved for a moment as Chris said, “what the Hell is going on back there?” Pale as a ghost, I mumbled, “dude, she’s masturbating with an old sock.” Chris swerved again. “Oh fuck. Christina, where did you get that sock?”
Things got real quiet real fast. Christina mumbled, “I got it off of honker donker’s laundry hamper. I can tell he must have been thinking about me when he used it.” I shuddered. I don’t beat off into socks in the back of the truck cab, and even if I had done it, I certainly hadn’t done it today. Whatever hypothetical cum sock she had found would have been long dried up from the night before if I had made one. No, somebody else’s cum was on that sock. She smiled wryly as she lifted it up and played with a sticky strand of goo that adhered to the fabric before pulling her fingers down to her snatch and I gagged.
“Christina,” I said slowly, “that isn’t my sock.” She retorted, “don’t lie, it was on your hamper,” and I practically yelled at Chris “why are you throwing your cum socks in my laundry basket, bro?” Chris said, “I didn’t throw a cum sock in your laundry basket honker donkers, for fuck’s sake. What the Hell is Christina doing back there?” I described the scene to Chris, telling him, “well, she must have found a cumsock of yours from today and she’s rubbing it into her ax wound.” Christina paused for a minute, a strand of that goopy jizz hanging from her lips to the sock and I practically threw up. I rolled down the window and heaved for a minute as the gravity of the situation was dawning on me. Christina had grabbed one of Chris’s cumsocks, thinking that somehow it was mine and still had a trace of viable seed on it, and began rubbing it into her vagoo.
Christina cooed, “what’s wrong, honker donkers? I’m sure you taste even better when you’re fresh,” and I practically shouted, “That’s Chris’s sock!” Things got real quiet as the gravitas of the situation kicked in for both Chris and Christina. Christina instantly flew into a rage, throwing down the cumsock and waddling up behind the driver’s seat and began to beat Chris on the back of the head. The truck swerved left and right, and I started yelling, “Chris! Brakes!” I pressed the hazards and grabbed the wheel while he tried to shield his head and slowly decelerate us to a stop while Christina screeched about how Chris had just raped her. The whole deceleration, Chris was pummeled by his sister’s hamfists, until we finally made it to the shoulder of the road with the hazards on. The whole time, Christina, half-naked and shrieking, accused Chris of having tricked her into inseminating herself with his poopysplooge.
Chris got up from where he sat and started to throw blows against his sister, the useless and ineffectual impacts of each combatant wailing upon each other’s heads with little to no actually damage inflicted. I figured they would tire themselves out eventually, and when things finally did settle down, Christina collapsed into a sobbing, half-naked mess, still clutching the gnarly sock that contained her brother’s fetid ejaculate. She lifted up a corner of it and used to wipe a tear that trickled down her cheek. Across from her, Chris stared ahead for a thousand miles, comatose and catatonic.
I didn’t break the silence. I just listened to the wails in meditative silence. Finally a choked sob came from Christina. “You’re… you’re just messing with me, right?” I came back hard and unapologetic. “At what time between then and now did you think I went into the back and rubbed one out? In the two minutes you guys were fighting over the driver’s seat, did you think I whipped it out and spanked it? I’m not gross like either of you two.” The wails intensified. Chris continued to gaze into the abyss, wondering just what in the Hell had led to this culmination of events. When things started to calm down, Christina whined and sniveled and said, “well, what happens now?”
I remarked that she should probably go head to a hospital and get checked for STDs. I mentioned Chris’s long history of having unprotected sex with truck stop tutes, which he fervently denied in the moment, calling me a liar, but I persisted and said that that was the best course of action for her. She should probably go get checked out. She curled into a ball in the back while Chris looked at me with a scowl and said, “dude, I can’t believe you’re telling lies about me like that. Why would I ever sleep with a prostitute bro? I’m an alpha pussy magnet.” I said, “whatever, fat boy, get back in the driver’s seat and get your sister to the hospital so they can take a look at her.”
Begrudgingly, he got up from where he sat and got to the driver’s seat, starting the truck up again and taking us off the shoulder in a tense and awkward silence. Not even the cries of “nani? Baka!” serenaded us as we went down the road, the gravitas of such a situation apparent to even one poopycum man who was otherwise oblivious about everything. We rode for about an hour before we finally came off the interstate on the of Amarillo, and Chris drove us into a hospital. Christina got up from the back and sullenly walked towards the hospital entrance while Chris and I sat there in quiet.
We exchanged a look between each other, a silent, “so what do we do now,” before Chris mumbled, “I guess I’ll call in to dispatch and let them know what’s going on.” I replied that that would be the best, and so Chris picked up the radio receiver and Chris told dispatch, verbatim, “hey, uh, dispatch, this is Chris, and we’ve had to stop at a hospital. I guess my sister found one of my cum socks and used it to masturbate and now she needs to get checked out because she’s worried about STDs or something.” The line crackled in awkward silence. I tried not to cackle with laughter. He could have stopped at “I had to drop my sister off at the hospital” and that was that. Well, it took about a minute to get a response. I’m sure dispatch was wondering just what the Hell Chris was even talking about, and trying to come to terms with that awkward sentence he had given them. Eventually, dispatch got back to us. They wanted to know how long we would be. Chris said there was no current ETA at the moment.
Eventually, we were told to sit tight, and Chris and I sat back in the truck, letting the hours whittle away while we waited for Christina to get checked out. He was a man of few words then, just repeating to himself, “I can’t believe this happened,” and “god, my sister is such a stupid slut.” I couldn’t disagree on either of those points, of course, and so I held my tongue too. We must have sat in that lot for several hours, before Chris shot upright and yelled, “it’s not fair!”
I didn’t reply. Something was bothering the big guy, obviously, and I wasn’t about to invite it out of him because I didn’t give a damn. He launched into a rant about how he never wanted to take his stupid sister out on the road anyway because women don’t know how to drive trucks and she was a disgusting beast who shouldn’t have masturbated with his laundry and now he was gonna be late for the drop off which was eating into his time for roaming the lots looking for drugs and lizards. All these things were true, but like I said, the last thing I wanted to do was encourage him. When finally he tuckered himself out with all his whining and complaining, he collapsed into the driver’s seat once again in sullen silence. I have anticipated for him to start up, again. Quietly, he mumbled, “so, do you think she’s gonna keep it?”
I was mortified at the thought. Another hour passed in awkward silence before we could see Christina come barreling down the parking lot towards the truck. When she hoisted herself into the cab, the truck lurched under her weight and she came in, sullen faced and more disturbed than ever. I didn’t ask her what happened, but Chris was eager to know. The short summary is that the hospital gave her something called prep, which is basically a medicine to guard against HIV infection, and a morning after pill for her to take on her own time. When Chris heard the mention of the morning after pill, he started up, “so you’re just gonna kill our baby like that?” Christina loudly voiced what everyone was thinking. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Chris? Ugh, god forbid if anything even took root, of course I’m going to kill it.”
This precipitated a long argument as Chris pulled us out of the lot, shouting over his shoulder that his sister was a disgusting infanticidal sow and that it was morally repugnant for her to terminate the life of a small child, even, yes, if it was forged in the poopycum passion of a serial molester’s mistake. I let this get more and more heated, of course. I wanted it to end, don’t get me wrong, but at this point, I was banking on them becoming so antagonistic to each other that either Chris or Christina quiet and I could continue the night in relative peace. The good lord must have been listening to my prayer that evening, because eventually Christina shouted, “screw you! I’m calling daddy!” and she whipped out her phone to call her father.
She ranted into the mouthpiece that Chris was a disgusting subhuman troglodyte (accurate) and that he was also a gross pervert (also a fact) and that she didn’t think she could hack the trucking lifestyle if she had to copilot with Chris. Her father, doting on daddy’s girl, I can only assume, responded something, and she continued, “fine, I’ll be there in an hour.” She turned to Chris in a huff and told him to take her to the airport. My reprieve had come. Chris didn’t do that, though. He pulled over the truck, told her to go screw herself with a used splooge sock, and that she could walk home. Christina did get out of the truck, presumably to call a cab.
I never did encounter Christina again, but according to Chris’s reckoning, their dad placed her in another truck to learn under someone else, and my heart went out for that poor soul who inevitably was sexually assaulted by her discolored nipnops and yeasty odor. Thankfully, no poopycum child was ever forged by Christina’s spoiled eggs and Chris’s stagnant seed, either, because that, my friends, would have truly been an abomination against all that is holy. I don’t know if Christina got the clap or the herp or any of that, but my best is safely on, yes, it happened.
After she left, Chris and I were surprisingly sympatico for the next two days. I almost felt a debt to the poopycum man for saving me from his sister’s sexual wiles by way of his own disgusting degenerate nature, but I never expressed it. The last thing I wanted him to think was that I was approving of him jacking off in the truck again and giving him carte blanche to do so. We never spoke of her again, though from time to time, when I would walk through the yard office back in California, I would catch the odd wafting fragrance of curdling yeast and wondered if Christina actually did manage to get herself into a company truck. I would not be surprised.
And that, my friends, concludes today’s installment, but don’t you guys a worry, because even though the real world is calling my name, I’ll be back in the not too distant future with yet another story about everyone’s favorite opprobrious little cumstain, Chris.

GONZO
Not sure If I am using the flair correctly, I'm not sure how to edit it to say what I want...? Any tips would be helpful..
Since I've begun reading some american literature, I am very fascinated with Hunter S Tompson, his work Fear and Loathing and his Style of writing.
To share my love of his work I am working on a book called "The Feathered Starfish" using his style or GONZO style journalism.
This work is 60% an auto biography if not more, most of the things you will read happened, the drugs consumed, the happenings, the psychosis induced meth stupors, the near death experiences, the memories, they are all real experiences coming from myself- Michael Worthy Duke, and my best homie Josh Carr.
I do add many quotes of Hunters into the book, just for fun, he'd a legend in my eyes.
I have just did my first revision of chapter one, and I will post it on reddit to gain some constructive criticism.
Any and all criticism is welcomed this is my first time writing anything.
Chapter 1: Aufbruch
In the desolate confines of a decrepit apartment in Buckhannon, West Virginia, Duke slouched over his grimy desk, a faint glimmer of hope piercing through the darkness that engulfed him. The rain pelted relentlessly against the windowpane. "I really hope this one does it, man, I don't know how much more of this shit I can take"- Duke whispered with a mix of desperation and anticipation. With trembling hands, he carefully emptied six stamps of fentanyl into the tarnished spoon. Carr, his weary companion, cast a skeptical gaze upon Duke "Well you're not going to die if that's what you want. It's just not how GOD or SATAN works, or maybe I'm thinking of manifestation. Either way, they're both going to make us suffer, I doubt we'll get off that easy, as much as I want it to end, you're just wasting good dope, but go ahead, I won't Narcan you this time"
"You know? You're right, that makes a lot of fuckin sense dude, it's like each time there's something in the way. I always thought it was the LORD SAVIOR, SATAN, or maybe one of his DEMONS hoping I would strike some sort of deal with them to get off of this godforsaken ride" Duke's hands moved with a mixture of determination and trepidation, crushing a few clonidine tablets into a fine powder, adding it to his lethal concoction. The raindrops continued their relentless assault on the window, their rhythmic patter a cruel symphony accompanying their dark ritual. As the orange powder melded with the white, Duke drew back the plunger of the syringe, his eyes fixed on the swirling fusion of drugs and vodka. The amber liquid, held the weight of his hopes and fears, this white-orange liquid could very well be his out. "That's not what I meant, though hat's off to you if it works," Carr says.
In the ethereal glow of uncertainty. Duke's heart raced as he prepared to plunge into the abyss, the needle poised to deliver a bittersweet release. The rain outside intensified, its melancholic symphony matching the intensity of their clandestine act. As the raindrops continued their melancholic descent, Duke pressed the needle against his skin, the moment of truth inching closer. The world held its breath, suspended in the eerie stillness before the storm. The needle was dull and has been used many times before, but Duke hopes this will be the last time. He pressed, and with hesitation, it severed the skin between this world and the world unknown. He pressed on the plunger and as the toxic elixir coursed through Duke's veins, time seemed to distort, stretching into an abyss of darkness. His consciousness is on the verge of oblivion, teetering between life and death. A kaleidoscope of vivid hallucinations painted his mind, a swirling maelstrom of distorted images and fragmented thoughts of fear, abandonment, lost love, and the unforgettable regret of his life so far.
Hours turned into eternity as Duke slipped into a state of unconsciousness, surrendering to the unforgiving embrace of his drug-induced slumber. The world outside carried on, oblivious to his internal struggle.
When Duke fatefully awoke, his surroundings were shrouded in a haze. The dim light filtering through the tattered curtains cast a somber glow over the room, revealing the remnants of his despair. His body ached with a dull ache, each pulse a testament to his fragile existence.
A sharp knock on the door shattered the fragile silence, jolting Duke from his dazed state. His heart raced, the sound reverberating through his chest like a war drum. Slowly, he reached behind the couch and grabbed a pistol, he then stumbled towards the door, uncertainty gripping his every step.
Carr remained peacefully asleep on the sofa, unaware of the potential danger that lay ahead. If the stranger turned out to be a threat, Carr would have to confront the aftermath and dispose of the bodies. Meanwhile, Duke envisioned a scenario where he would paint his doorstep red. In this grim scenario, Duke's action would likely be repeated twice, burdening Carr with the task of disposing of not one, but two bodies upon waking up.
Duke muttered something like "How the fuck did you evoke second-stage manic psychosis on a goddamn Tuesday morning at 7:32 AM? Incredible," Duke grumbled under his breath. His grip tightened around the cold, steel frame of his .357 Magnum-Rhino, resting firmly at chest level, as he cautiously flipped open the peephole. With a deliberate motion, he placed his index finger on the trigger, a well-spoken prayer escaping his lips. "Oh, twisted universe, In this blurry dance between life and death, my words resound: To the enemy of the state lurking beyond this door, I offer this plea. Reveal thyself, if foe you be, let your presence be known, As adrenaline courses through my veins, May my aim find purpose, In this grotesque theater of existence, may the forces that guide us grant me strength in this dark hour, Should the door reveal an adversary, may my aim be swift and true, Grant me the resolve to protect what I hold dear, Yet let mercy temper my actions, even in fear. May peace find us all, in this realm or beyond."
As his heart raced and his vision blurred, he stood firm, bracing himself for any sign of movement. Suddenly, a thunderous knock shattered the silence, echoing like a gunshot. Startled, Duke's instincts took over as he pulled the trigger, blasting a hole through the door. Convinced he had vanquished his adversary, he hastily returned to the living room. In a corner, wild-eyed and gripping an Avtomat Kalashnikova, stood Carr, poised to unleash a barrage of bullets upon Duke's entry. With a swift stop at the coffee table, Duke muttered, "Weird heroes and mold-breaking champions exist as living proof to those who need it that the tyranny of 'the rat race' is not yet final."
In that intense moment, Duke proceeded to lay out two substantial lines of schneef, while Carr discarded the AK, preparing for their habitual morning routine.
Schneef takes the lead, followed by the ritualistic sipping of coffee with a few swigs of dirt-poor vodka or rum followed by another round of Schneef. As the haze thickens, They indulge in a flurry of cigarettes, punctuated by yet more Schneef. Duke then meticulously prepares a 1-0z plastic med cup, a concoction of SOMAs, a 100mg Ghost, and a dose of 40mg Adderall. And then, a 3.5-gram blunt of the finest, high-grade cannabis. A choice between PurplePunch #1, GratefulXChemdog #6, or an obscure local strain only known as BaileyRidge.
With his morning muscle relaxant held loosely in his lips, Duke leisurely strolls towards a weathered shelf adorned with cherished relics. Each plastic circle, steaming with echoes of bygone eras. In a deliberate gesture, his hand reaches out and retrieves a Stevie Ray Vaughan vinyl record, the album "Texas Flood". Duke places the disc upon the turntable, maneuvering the needle to land on the tenth and final track, titled "Lenny."
In the sounds of crackling vinyl and bluesy vibrations, Duke and Carr find a quiet moment, merging the intoxication of sound with their morning ritual. The melodic tendrils of "Lenny" intertwine with the smoke-filled air, creating a harmonious sanctuary within the confines of their dwelling.
Carr begins, his voice etching with concern, "Duke, you know I love you dog, willing to go any length for you. But there's a real possibility that one day you might mistake an innocent stranger at our door for something else entirely." Duke, frustrated by the untimely disturbance, retorts, "Damn it, it's 7 AM on a Tuesday morning. Who the hell would be knocking like an undercover agent if they weren't an enemy of the state?" Carr counters with a hint of humor, "Well, maybe it's just some friendly girl scouts trying to sell us cookies? Or perhaps the postman delivering a parcel?" Duke scoffs, as he brandishes a rattle crafted from turtle shells, wearing a Booger Mask made up of wood and hornets nests. Duke's deep connection to his Native American heritage is evident, as these artifacts are believed to possess the power to repel evil spirits.
Carr, chewing on a mouthful of pepperoni roll, springs to his feet and marches toward the door, eyeing Duke as he sets fire to some sage and palo santo, engulfing the space in smoke. Duke traversed the apartment with purposeful strides, occasionally stopping to shake his turtle shell rattle and speak to the Great Spirit. Meanwhile, Carr reaches the door, peering through the gaping hole in their door.
To his surprise, there are no dead undercover agents, no bloody girl scouts scattered amuck, nor fallen postal workers. Stepping outside, Carr scans the surroundings, his gaze darting left and right. With a sudden surge of curiosity, he sprints toward the mailbox, chirping birds echoing in his ears. The alluring scent of fresh grass beckons him, and he wonders why they don't venture out more often, even just to bask in the scent of blooming flowers. Reaching the mailbox, he momentarily forgets his purpose.
A bird chirps once more, its call now transformed into unmistakable human words, "Post." Carr offers a nod of gratitude before tearing open the mailbox, revealing a vibrant yellow letter adorned with a starfish-shaped white wax seal. Hesitation grips him, recognizing that this could be the perfect weapon to subvert him into an unwitting insurgent—its contents potentially laced with deadly anthrax, capable of bringing an end to both his and Duke's tumultuous existence. Yet, deep down, the knowledge that they have been flirting with death for what feels like an eternity seizes his hesitation. With anticipation, Carr seizes the letter, a glimmer of defiance in his eyes, and heads back toward the door. Before retreating, he tosses a ball of bread to the friendly bird that aided him, a small token of gratitude.
Inside the apartment, Carr's voice breaks the silence, "Looks like we've received some mail. You lucky bastard, you better thank the Great Spirit that you didn't blast a hole in the mailman. You know, if you witness someone offing a postal worker, and then turn in some sort of evidence to help with the arrest and conviction for their murder, there's a $100,000 reward waiting for you." Duke chuckles and with a hint of mischief says, "Oh, come on now. You wouldn't have ratted me out for 100 grand, would you? Is that all I'm worth? Although I must admit, that kind of cash does sound tempting." A grin spreads across Duke's face. "How about this: We order something to be delivered to the unsuspecting folks down the road. I'll take aim with my hunting rifle and wait for the mailman wearing a camouflage ghillie suit, while you capture the entire spectacle on camera. We'll scoop up the reward money and ride into the wind. What do you say?"
The room's energy takes a sudden 180-degree turn as Duke witnesses Carr's eyes widening. Duke, his paranoia deeply ingrained with thoughts of the enemy of the state, mutters "Who the fuck is it? Burn after reading, always. No exceptions. I don't care if it's a letter from my dead mother." Carr responds, "Dude, it's Allicent." Duke's heart skips a beat as memories of the girl who got away rushed to his intoxicated mind. His eyes well up with tears as he stammers, "Not a funny joke, not funny at all." He hastily prepares three consecutive lines of schneef on the coffee table. "She's been missing for four damn years. The last time we spoke, she despised me, despised us. She wanted nothing to do with us ever again."
Allicent was a vision of perfection, encapsulating everything desirable in a woman. Endlessly driven, she possessed an insatiable thirst for adventure. Her smile radiated warmth, except when met with condescension. She was a genius—a basement chemist, mycologist, historian, free-thinker, a natural-born leader amongst so much more. Her beauty was unparalleled, captivating anyone with her deep blue eyes, flowing blonde hair adorned with random braids, and forgotten dreadlocks. Painted with hand-drawn sacred geometry tattoos, her flawless body was a canvas of her own expression. She effortlessly glided through life, this woman could gracefully execute a gazelle flip off a half-pipe and then lay down a wicked bassline on a head full of acid. In their eyes, she embodied the true essence of beauty.
Their minds raveling in disbelief, An unopened letter from Alicent clutched tightly in Dukes hands as he Loomed over the worn wooden desk. His fingers traced the edges, his eyes scanning over the envelope that bore the familiar flourish of Alicent's handwriting... A cigarette hung loosely from his lips, its smoke twisting upwards in the gloom of the room. He scanned the room, his eyes shadowed under the heavy weight of exhaustion and intoxication. Carr sprawled across the ragged sofa, a joint lazily balanced between his fingers as he rustled his nostril trying to clear the ketamine out of it.
An oppressive silence clung to the room, disturbed only by the ramblings of the TV. The voice of 'Gonzo' from "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" echoed through the air, "Jesus, did you see what GOD just did to us, man?" They had been sitting like this for what seemed like an eternity, suspended between anticipation and apprehension, caught in the throes of a drug-induced stupor.
Finally, breaking the silence, Carr exhaled a cloud of smoke, its pungent scent blending with the stale odor of spilled beer and unwashed clothes. He ran a hand through his unkept hair and glanced at Duke with a mix of impatience and curiosity. "So, are we gonna read it or just fuckin' stare at it all day?" he drawled, nodding towards the letter on the table.
Duke blinked, emerging from his daze, and cautiously tore open the envelope, revealing Alicent's familiar handwriting sprawled across the pages. Alicent's familiar handwriting sprawled across the pages, each word etching a growing unease into their hearts.
"The pursuit of happiness..." Duke muttered, reading Alicent's message aloud. Her words painted a vivid picture of a place far removed from the choking grasp of the modern world, a commune nestled amidst nature's bounty. She spoke of the hills of the feathered starfish, a place of tranquility and kinship, a sanctuary from the greed and hatred that plagued society — this was a stark contrast to their own reality.
Yet, amidst her words of contentment, a chilling reference to the "day of the light" sent a shiver down their spines. Alicent's words held an ominous undertone, her tales of happiness tainted with the subtle hint of finality.
Turning over the letter, Duke's gaze fell upon a picture of Alicent, standing on a mountain with rolling hills in the background, dotted with tepees and yurts, bathed in the soft hues of a setting sun sprawled behind her. Her face held a serenity they had never seen, a serenity that seemed to belong to a world far removed from theirs.
Carr leaned over to study the picture. "This place...It doesn't look like anything I've seen before. Where the fuck is she?" he mused, his fingers tracing over the photograph. A deep frown etched itself onto his face as he fell into deep thought.
Duke sat back, his gaze shifting between a typewriter in the corner of the apartment and the picture of Allicent, "The edge... there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over." a tale of a voyage into the unknown. He could feel it in his bones, the gnawing curiosity, the deep-seated desire to uncover the truth of where she was and why she decided to write to them after so many years. His gaze fell onto the typewriter, each key echoing "A man who procrastinates in his choosing will inevitably have his choice made for him by circumstance."
A sense of determination replaced Duke's initial bewilderment. He stood, moving towards an old gun safe, he quickly dials in 0 4 1 9 0 4 1 9, an old suitcase was tucked beneath boxes of ammunition and firearms.
"We had 9 grams of schneef, 120 European Cadillacs, a vial of JORs long lost #5, a knee-high tank of nitrous oxide, a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers... and also a quarter of opium, a ball of speed, 2 oz of mushrooms, enough weed to serve the east coast, and a zip lock bag of substances we were either too high or didn't care enough to label. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.”
Carr nodded, stubbing out his joint in the ash-tray. His eyes held a spark of determination, his usually laid-back demeanor was replaced with a newfound sense of purpose. The impending journey already stirring his usually placid demeanor. They knew what they were signing up for, the journey wouldn't be a walk in the park, but Alicent was worth the ride.
As the day began to fade, they started packing. The room was soon filled with the buzzing of zippers and rustling fabric, each item selected for their journey. The once quiet room now bursting with anticipation. Their adventure had begun, but will their determination to DIE fade away as they start this new journey? Will the promise of reuniting with Allicent be enough for them to go on one more day?
Duke paused, his eyes scanning the room, its walls painted with stories of disturning happenings and shenanigans. Among the clutter and graffiti, a worn-out green balloon caught his eye, its faded letters spelling out the haunting words, "RIP Mya...."
A twisted grin curled on Duke's lips as he muttered to Carr, his voice with a hint of madness. "Fuck, man, Remember when you found this in the woods?"
A smirk tugged at Carr's lips. He ran his fingers through his hair before letting out a big sigh, his eyes reflecting a hellish nostalgia. He let out a deep sigh, releasing a cloud of smoke that hung heavy in the air. The memory stirred within him. "Are you joking? I'll never forget that night," Carr began, his voice tremoring with blend of fascination and dread. "I recall being up for days on meth after a witch performed some black magick on me, I heard the loudest crash I've ever heard, almost like a god-damn plane crashed in the woods 35 feet away. I walked into the woods letting curiosity get the best of me.
Duke leaned in, his eyes wide with anticipation yet again even though this was the hundredth time he had heard this story. Carr continued, his voice dropping to a low, ominous tone. "I then saw a bright flash of green light in the distance, but as I got close enough to see what it was it was only that damnned busted balloon on the ground that said "RIP Mya" an 8yr old girl who had passed away. Carr's voice trembled as he recounted the aftermath. "The next day, fate took a hellish turn. Mya, my faithful companion, died without reason or explanation. And then, my young cousin, only eight years old, whispered something that sent me into full-blown psychosis...you shoud've taken the witch seriously, this is just the beginning, when you hear 3 knocks, just know the devil will be waiting"
They shared a nervous laugh, then collectively thought this was somewhat nice reminiscing in their hellish nature, yet hoping this new adventure would bring positive memories to replace all of the dark ones that brim their minds.
Duke turned back to their suitcase, and popped it open to reveal a secret compartment. There, tucked between 2 firearms, was a small amber jar, containing some of the most sought-after cocaine in the world. Miss Pinks's Cocaine, Duke was only 14 when he was able to navigate the Dream Market, Oasis, Hansa, Alphabay, many DarkNet markets on the web, to secure some of the most wanted drugs known to man.
Now this is not your ordinary schneef, this is genuine staghorn, not your cheap knockoff stepped-on monticorn staghorn, this schneef was carefully manufactured in a top-of-the-line German laboratory. Miss Pink uses the finest cocoa leaves, she makes small batches to ensure quality, and most of all, using anhydrous acetone, she washes each batch of these nose beers 15 times. Then an additional 5 times with chloroform. It is truly a testament to the dope feind, this is 98% pure, with a 2% cut of Vitamin B12, to, ya know balance shit out, you gotta take your vitamins.
With practiced ease, Duke poured a small mound onto the glass top of the coffee table. Using a battered ID card, he carefully shaped two neat lines. Carr watched, tapping his fingernails at the speed of sound against the table, Duke has only brought this stuff out once before, who knows when he will again. The illicit substance represented more than just a chemical high—it was their means of escape, a vehicle of dissociation and derealization they so desperately needed.
"Carr," Duke began, offering him the rolled-up Benjamin, "To old times, and to the journey ahead if we end up dying- at least we fed the head."
With a nod, Carr accepted the note, leaning over the table. He snorted the first line, the sharp sensation sending a shudder through him. After a brief moment, he screams "Jesus Christ this shit is jet fuel!" he passed the note back to Duke, who quickly followed suit.
Duke rips the line with ease, then swabbed the remaining powder for some scoobysnax. Carr, who is now blaring techno and dancing says "Bro we should start a go-fund-me, or go build a school in Nepal, fuck I just want to run, Do you think I could outrun an emu? I heard they can run like 30 MPH, I think I could run 30 MPH, idk man I would probably need better shoes-, Duke interrupts and says "Dude you are literally yakked out huh" - "I'm literally yakkychan" -"I'm the lead singer of the yak street boys" they both laugh for a while and lit up a cigarette.
This buzz coursing through their veins, its effects immediate and potent. An electrifying energy pulsed within them, and their senses heightened. They exchanged a look of understanding.
Hours passed as they packed the remainder of their essentials, the room now resonating with the focused hum of their preparations. With every item tucked away into their suitcase, they were a step closer to finding Allicent and the hills of the Feathered Starfish.
As Duke loaded the last of their belongings, he took one last glance around their apartment. The battered furniture, the stained carpets, the spilled beers and unwashed cloths, the dirty needles scattered everywhere. – it was a melancholic farewell to a past that had shackled them for too long. It was time for a fresh start, time to go in a new direction for once and for all and leave this version of themselves behind.
They stood at the precipice of an extraordinary journey, their hearts fluttering with a mix of anxiety and excitement. As the dusk painted the sky with hues of purple and red, they packed up their belongings into Hallii, Dukes' 1991 Mercedes-Benz 420 SEL, they gassed her up and took her down Route 50 towards OHIO blasting the song "KoKo by E.VAX".
To be Continued...

Since I've begun reading some american literature, I am very fascinated with Hunter S Tompson, his work Fear and Loathing and his Style of writing.
To share my love of his work I am working on a book called "The Feathered Starfish" using his style or GONZO style journalism.
This work is 60% an auto biography if not more, most of the things you will read happened, the drugs consumed, the happenings, the psychosis induced meth stupors, the near death experiences, the memories, they are all real experiences coming from myself- Michael Worthy Duke, and my best homie Josh Carr.
I do add many quotes of Hunters into the book, just for fun, he'd a legend in my eyes.
I have just did my first revision of chapter one, and I will post it on reddit to gain some constructive criticism.
Any and all criticism is welcomed this is my first time writing anything.
Chapter 1: Aufbruch
In the desolate confines of a decrepit apartment in Buckhannon, West Virginia, Duke slouched over his grimy desk, a faint glimmer of hope piercing through the darkness that engulfed him. The rain pelted relentlessly against the windowpane. "I really hope this one does it, man, I don't know how much more of this shit I can take"- Duke whispered with a mix of desperation and anticipation. With trembling hands, he carefully emptied six stamps of fentanyl into the tarnished spoon. Carr, his weary companion, cast a skeptical gaze upon Duke "Well you're not going to die if that's what you want. It's just not how GOD or SATAN works, or maybe I'm thinking of manifestation. Either way, they're both going to make us suffer, I doubt we'll get off that easy, as much as I want it to end, you're just wasting good dope, but go ahead, I won't Narcan you this time"
"You know? You're right, that makes a lot of fuckin sense dude, it's like each time there's something in the way. I always thought it was the LORD SAVIOR, SATAN, or maybe one of his DEMONS hoping I would strike some sort of deal with them to get off of this godforsaken ride" Duke's hands moved with a mixture of determination and trepidation, crushing a few clonidine tablets into a fine powder, adding it to his lethal concoction. The raindrops continued their relentless assault on the window, their rhythmic patter a cruel symphony accompanying their dark ritual. As the orange powder melded with the white, Duke drew back the plunger of the syringe, his eyes fixed on the swirling fusion of drugs and vodka. The amber liquid, held the weight of his hopes and fears, this white-orange liquid could very well be his out. "That's not what I meant, though hat's off to you if it works," Carr says.
In the ethereal glow of uncertainty. Duke's heart raced as he prepared to plunge into the abyss, the needle poised to deliver a bittersweet release. The rain outside intensified, its melancholic symphony matching the intensity of their clandestine act. As the raindrops continued their melancholic descent, Duke pressed the needle against his skin, the moment of truth inching closer. The world held its breath, suspended in the eerie stillness before the storm. The needle was dull and has been used many times before, but Duke hopes this will be the last time. He pressed, and with hesitation, it severed the skin between this world and the world unknown. He pressed on the plunger and as the toxic elixir coursed through Duke's veins, time seemed to distort, stretching into an abyss of darkness. His consciousness is on the verge of oblivion, teetering between life and death. A kaleidoscope of vivid hallucinations painted his mind, a swirling maelstrom of distorted images and fragmented thoughts of fear, abandonment, lost love, and the unforgettable regret of his life so far.
Hours turned into eternity as Duke slipped into a state of unconsciousness, surrendering to the unforgiving embrace of his drug-induced slumber. The world outside carried on, oblivious to his internal struggle.
When Duke fatefully awoke, his surroundings were shrouded in a haze. The dim light filtering through the tattered curtains cast a somber glow over the room, revealing the remnants of his despair. His body ached with a dull ache, each pulse a testament to his fragile existence.
A sharp knock on the door shattered the fragile silence, jolting Duke from his dazed state. His heart raced, the sound reverberating through his chest like a war drum. Slowly, he reached behind the couch and grabbed a pistol, he then stumbled towards the door, uncertainty gripping his every step.
Carr remained peacefully asleep on the sofa, unaware of the potential danger that lay ahead. If the stranger turned out to be a threat, Carr would have to confront the aftermath and dispose of the bodies. Meanwhile, Duke envisioned a scenario where he would paint his doorstep red. In this grim scenario, Duke's action would likely be repeated twice, burdening Carr with the task of disposing of not one, but two bodies upon waking up.
Duke muttered something like "How the fuck did you evoke second-stage manic psychosis on a goddamn Tuesday morning at 7:32 AM? Incredible," Duke grumbled under his breath. His grip tightened around the cold, steel frame of his .357 Magnum-Rhino, resting firmly at chest level, as he cautiously flipped open the peephole. With a deliberate motion, he placed his index finger on the trigger, a well-spoken prayer escaping his lips. "Oh, twisted universe, In this blurry dance between life and death, my words resound: To the enemy of the state lurking beyond this door, I offer this plea. Reveal thyself, if foe you be, let your presence be known, As adrenaline courses through my veins, May my aim find purpose, In this grotesque theater of existence, may the forces that guide us grant me strength in this dark hour, Should the door reveal an adversary, may my aim be swift and true, Grant me the resolve to protect what I hold dear, Yet let mercy temper my actions, even in fear. May peace find us all, in this realm or beyond."
As his heart raced and his vision blurred, he stood firm, bracing himself for any sign of movement. Suddenly, a thunderous knock shattered the silence, echoing like a gunshot. Startled, Duke's instincts took over as he pulled the trigger, blasting a hole through the door. Convinced he had vanquished his adversary, he hastily returned to the living room. In a corner, wild-eyed and gripping an Avtomat Kalashnikova, stood Carr, poised to unleash a barrage of bullets upon Duke's entry. With a swift stop at the coffee table, Duke muttered, "Weird heroes and mold-breaking champions exist as living proof to those who need it that the tyranny of 'the rat race' is not yet final."
In that intense moment, Duke proceeded to lay out two substantial lines of schneef, while Carr discarded the AK, preparing for their habitual morning routine.
Schneef takes the lead, followed by the ritualistic sipping of coffee with a few swigs of dirt-poor vodka or rum followed by another round of Schneef. As the haze thickens, They indulge in a flurry of cigarettes, punctuated by yet more Schneef. Duke then meticulously prepares a 1-0z plastic med cup, a concoction of SOMAs, a 100mg Ghost, and a dose of 40mg Adderall. And then, a 3.5-gram blunt of the finest, high-grade cannabis. A choice between PurplePunch #1, GratefulXChemdog #6, or an obscure local strain only known as BaileyRidge.
With his morning muscle relaxant held loosely in his lips, Duke leisurely strolls towards a weathered shelf adorned with cherished relics. Each plastic circle, steaming with echoes of bygone eras. In a deliberate gesture, his hand reaches out and retrieves a Stevie Ray Vaughan vinyl record, the album "Texas Flood". Duke places the disc upon the turntable, maneuvering the needle to land on the tenth and final track, titled "Lenny."
In the sounds of crackling vinyl and bluesy vibrations, Duke and Carr find a quiet moment, merging the intoxication of sound with their morning ritual. The melodic tendrils of "Lenny" intertwine with the smoke-filled air, creating a harmonious sanctuary within the confines of their dwelling.
Carr begins, his voice etching with concern, "Duke, you know I love you dog, willing to go any length for you. But there's a real possibility that one day you might mistake an innocent stranger at our door for something else entirely." Duke, frustrated by the untimely disturbance, retorts, "Damn it, it's 7 AM on a Tuesday morning. Who the hell would be knocking like an undercover agent if they weren't an enemy of the state?" Carr counters with a hint of humor, "Well, maybe it's just some friendly girl scouts trying to sell us cookies? Or perhaps the postman delivering a parcel?" Duke scoffs, as he brandishes a rattle crafted from turtle shells, wearing a Booger Mask made up of wood and hornets nests. Duke's deep connection to his Native American heritage is evident, as these artifacts are believed to possess the power to repel evil spirits.
Carr, chewing on a mouthful of pepperoni roll, springs to his feet and marches toward the door, eyeing Duke as he sets fire to some sage and palo santo, engulfing the space in smoke. Duke traversed the apartment with purposeful strides, occasionally stopping to shake his turtle shell rattle and speak to the Great Spirit. Meanwhile, Carr reaches the door, peering through the gaping hole in their door.
To his surprise, there are no dead undercover agents, no bloody girl scouts scattered amuck, nor fallen postal workers. Stepping outside, Carr scans the surroundings, his gaze darting left and right. With a sudden surge of curiosity, he sprints toward the mailbox, chirping birds echoing in his ears. The alluring scent of fresh grass beckons him, and he wonders why they don't venture out more often, even just to bask in the scent of blooming flowers. Reaching the mailbox, he momentarily forgets his purpose.
A bird chirps once more, its call now transformed into unmistakable human words, "Post." Carr offers a nod of gratitude before tearing open the mailbox, revealing a vibrant yellow letter adorned with a starfish-shaped white wax seal. Hesitation grips him, recognizing that this could be the perfect weapon to subvert him into an unwitting insurgent—its contents potentially laced with deadly anthrax, capable of bringing an end to both his and Duke's tumultuous existence. Yet, deep down, the knowledge that they have been flirting with death for what feels like an eternity seizes his hesitation. With anticipation, Carr seizes the letter, a glimmer of defiance in his eyes, and heads back toward the door. Before retreating, he tosses a ball of bread to the friendly bird that aided him, a small token of gratitude.
Inside the apartment, Carr's voice breaks the silence, "Looks like we've received some mail. You lucky bastard, you better thank the Great Spirit that you didn't blast a hole in the mailman. You know, if you witness someone offing a postal worker, and then turn in some sort of evidence to help with the arrest and conviction for their murder, there's a $100,000 reward waiting for you." Duke chuckles and with a hint of mischief says, "Oh, come on now. You wouldn't have ratted me out for 100 grand, would you? Is that all I'm worth? Although I must admit, that kind of cash does sound tempting." A grin spreads across Duke's face. "How about this: We order something to be delivered to the unsuspecting folks down the road. I'll take aim with my hunting rifle and wait for the mailman wearing a camouflage ghillie suit, while you capture the entire spectacle on camera. We'll scoop up the reward money and ride into the wind. What do you say?"
The room's energy takes a sudden 180-degree turn as Duke witnesses Carr's eyes widening. Duke, his paranoia deeply ingrained with thoughts of the enemy of the state, mutters "Who the fuck is it? Burn after reading, always. No exceptions. I don't care if it's a letter from my dead mother." Carr responds, "Dude, it's Allicent." Duke's heart skips a beat as memories of the girl who got away rushed to his intoxicated mind. His eyes well up with tears as he stammers, "Not a funny joke, not funny at all." He hastily prepares three consecutive lines of schneef on the coffee table. "She's been missing for four damn years. The last time we spoke, she despised me, despised us. She wanted nothing to do with us ever again."
Allicent was a vision of perfection, encapsulating everything desirable in a woman. Endlessly driven, she possessed an insatiable thirst for adventure. Her smile radiated warmth, except when met with condescension. She was a genius—a basement chemist, mycologist, historian, free-thinker, a natural-born leader amongst so much more. Her beauty was unparalleled, captivating anyone with her deep blue eyes, flowing blonde hair adorned with random braids, and forgotten dreadlocks. Painted with hand-drawn sacred geometry tattoos, her flawless body was a canvas of her own expression. She effortlessly glided through life, this woman could gracefully execute a gazelle flip off a half-pipe and then lay down a wicked bassline on a head full of acid. In their eyes, she embodied the true essence of beauty.
Their minds raveling in disbelief, An unopened letter from Alicent clutched tightly in Dukes hands as he Loomed over the worn wooden desk. His fingers traced the edges, his eyes scanning over the envelope that bore the familiar flourish of Alicent's handwriting... A cigarette hung loosely from his lips, its smoke twisting upwards in the gloom of the room. He scanned the room, his eyes shadowed under the heavy weight of exhaustion and intoxication. Carr sprawled across the ragged sofa, a joint lazily balanced between his fingers as he rustled his nostril trying to clear the ketamine out of it.
An oppressive silence clung to the room, disturbed only by the ramblings of the TV. The voice of 'Gonzo' from "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" echoed through the air, "Jesus, did you see what GOD just did to us, man?" They had been sitting like this for what seemed like an eternity, suspended between anticipation and apprehension, caught in the throes of a drug-induced stupor.
Finally, breaking the silence, Carr exhaled a cloud of smoke, its pungent scent blending with the stale odor of spilled beer and unwashed clothes. He ran a hand through his unkept hair and glanced at Duke with a mix of impatience and curiosity. "So, are we gonna read it or just fuckin' stare at it all day?" he drawled, nodding towards the letter on the table.
Duke blinked, emerging from his daze, and cautiously tore open the envelope, revealing Alicent's familiar handwriting sprawled across the pages. Alicent's familiar handwriting sprawled across the pages, each word etching a growing unease into their hearts.
"The pursuit of happiness..." Duke muttered, reading Alicent's message aloud. Her words painted a vivid picture of a place far removed from the choking grasp of the modern world, a commune nestled amidst nature's bounty. She spoke of the hills of the feathered starfish, a place of tranquility and kinship, a sanctuary from the greed and hatred that plagued society — this was a stark contrast to their own reality.
Yet, amidst her words of contentment, a chilling reference to the "day of the light" sent a shiver down their spines. Alicent's words held an ominous undertone, her tales of happiness tainted with the subtle hint of finality.
Turning over the letter, Duke's gaze fell upon a picture of Alicent, standing on a mountain with rolling hills in the background, dotted with tepees and yurts, bathed in the soft hues of a setting sun sprawled behind her. Her face held a serenity they had never seen, a serenity that seemed to belong to a world far removed from theirs.
Carr leaned over to study the picture. "This place...It doesn't look like anything I've seen before. Where the fuck is she?" he mused, his fingers tracing over the photograph. A deep frown etched itself onto his face as he fell into deep thought.
Duke sat back, his gaze shifting between a typewriter in the corner of the apartment and the picture of Allicent, "The edge... there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over." a tale of a voyage into the unknown. He could feel it in his bones, the gnawing curiosity, the deep-seated desire to uncover the truth of where she was and why she decided to write to them after so many years. His gaze fell onto the typewriter, each key echoing "A man who procrastinates in his choosing will inevitably have his choice made for him by circumstance."
A sense of determination replaced Duke's initial bewilderment. He stood, moving towards an old gun safe, he quickly dials in 0 4 1 9 0 4 1 9, an old suitcase was tucked beneath boxes of ammunition and firearms.
"We had 9 grams of schneef, 120 European Cadillacs, a vial of JORs long lost #5, a knee-high tank of nitrous oxide, a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers... and also a quarter of opium, a ball of speed, 2 oz of mushrooms, enough weed to serve the east coast, and a zip lock bag of substances we were either too high or didn't care enough to label. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.”
Carr nodded, stubbing out his joint in the ash-tray. His eyes held a spark of determination, his usually laid-back demeanor was replaced with a newfound sense of purpose. The impending journey already stirring his usually placid demeanor. They knew what they were signing up for, the journey wouldn't be a walk in the park, but Alicent was worth the ride.
As the day began to fade, they started packing. The room was soon filled with the buzzing of zippers and rustling fabric, each item selected for their journey. The once quiet room now bursting with anticipation. Their adventure had begun, but will their determination to DIE fade away as they start this new journey? Will the promise of reuniting with Allicent be enough for them to go on one more day?
Duke paused, his eyes scanning the room, its walls painted with stories of disturning happenings and shenanigans. Among the clutter and graffiti, a worn-out green balloon caught his eye, its faded letters spelling out the haunting words, "RIP Mya...."
A twisted grin curled on Duke's lips as he muttered to Carr, his voice with a hint of madness. "Fuck, man, Remember when you found this in the woods?"
A smirk tugged at Carr's lips. He ran his fingers through his hair before letting out a big sigh, his eyes reflecting a hellish nostalgia. He let out a deep sigh, releasing a cloud of smoke that hung heavy in the air. The memory stirred within him. "Are you joking? I'll never forget that night," Carr began, his voice tremoring with blend of fascination and dread. "I recall being up for days on meth after a witch performed some black magick on me, I heard the loudest crash I've ever heard, almost like a god-damn plane crashed in the woods 35 feet away. I walked into the woods letting curiosity get the best of me.
Duke leaned in, his eyes wide with anticipation yet again even though this was the hundredth time he had heard this story. Carr continued, his voice dropping to a low, ominous tone. "I then saw a bright flash of green light in the distance, but as I got close enough to see what it was it was only that damnned busted balloon on the ground that said "RIP Mya" an 8yr old girl who had passed away. Carr's voice trembled as he recounted the aftermath. "The next day, fate took a hellish turn. Mya, my faithful companion, died without reason or explanation. And then, my young cousin, only eight years old, whispered something that sent me into full-blown psychosis...you shoud've taken the witch seriously, this is just the beginning, when you hear 3 knocks, just know the devil will be waiting"
They shared a nervous laugh, then collectively thought this was somewhat nice reminiscing in their hellish nature, yet hoping this new adventure would bring positive memories to replace all of the dark ones that brim their minds.
Duke turned back to their suitcase, and popped it open to reveal a secret compartment. There, tucked between 2 firearms, was a small amber jar, containing some of the most sought-after cocaine in the world. Miss Pinks's Cocaine, Duke was only 14 when he was able to navigate the Dream Market, Oasis, Hansa, Alphabay, many DarkNet markets on the web, to secure some of the most wanted drugs known to man.
Now this is not your ordinary schneef, this is genuine staghorn, not your cheap knockoff stepped-on monticorn staghorn, this schneef was carefully manufactured in a top-of-the-line German laboratory. Miss Pink uses the finest cocoa leaves, she makes small batches to ensure quality, and most of all, using anhydrous acetone, she washes each batch of these nose beers 15 times. Then an additional 5 times with chloroform. It is truly a testament to the dope feind, this is 98% pure, with a 2% cut of Vitamin B12, to, ya know balance shit out, you gotta take your vitamins.
With practiced ease, Duke poured a small mound onto the glass top of the coffee table. Using a battered ID card, he carefully shaped two neat lines. Carr watched, tapping his fingernails at the speed of sound against the table, Duke has only brought this stuff out once before, who knows when he will again. The illicit substance represented more than just a chemical high—it was their means of escape, a vehicle of dissociation and derealization they so desperately needed.
"Carr," Duke began, offering him the rolled-up Benjamin, "To old times, and to the journey ahead if we end up dying- at least we fed the head."
With a nod, Carr accepted the note, leaning over the table. He snorted the first line, the sharp sensation sending a shudder through him. After a brief moment, he screams "Jesus Christ this shit is jet fuel!" he passed the note back to Duke, who quickly followed suit.
Duke rips the line with ease, then swabbed the remaining powder for some scoobysnax. Carr, who is now blaring techno and dancing says "Bro we should start a go-fund-me, or go build a school in Nepal, fuck I just want to run, Do you think I could outrun an emu? I heard they can run like 30 MPH, I think I could run 30 MPH, idk man I would probably need better shoes-, Duke interrupts and says "Dude you are literally yakked out huh" - "I'm literally yakkychan" -"I'm the lead singer of the yak street boys" they both laugh for a while and lit up a cigarette.
This buzz coursing through their veins, its effects immediate and potent. An electrifying energy pulsed within them, and their senses heightened. They exchanged a look of understanding.
Hours passed as they packed the remainder of their essentials, the room now resonating with the focused hum of their preparations. With every item tucked away into their suitcase, they were a step closer to finding Allicent and the hills of the Feathered Starfish.
As Duke loaded the last of their belongings, he took one last glance around their apartment. The battered furniture, the stained carpets, the spilled beers and unwashed cloths, the dirty needles scattered everywhere. – it was a melancholic farewell to a past that had shackled them for too long. It was time for a fresh start, time to go in a new direction for once and for all and leave this version of themselves behind.
They stood at the precipice of an extraordinary journey, their hearts fluttering with a mix of anxiety and excitement. As the dusk painted the sky with hues of purple and red, they packed up their belongings into Hallii, Dukes' 1991 Mercedes-Benz 420 SEL, they gassed her up and took her down Route 50 towards OHIO blasting the song "KoKo by E.VAX".
To be Continued...

This post is part of a series looking at the massive amount of 'rhyming' (and occasionally rhyming) recursivity I believe exists between (a) the homecoming of Petyr Baelish to the Fingers and (b) the homecoming of Theon Greyjoy to Pyke.
While this series/post can be read simply as a study 'for its own sake' of the curious recursion between these storylines, it is my belief that the 'rhyming' explored here between the stories of Petyr and Theon exists (at least in part) to foreshadow that, like Theon, Petyr Littlefinger, is (among other things) a scion of ironborn kings, because Petyr is Hoare-ish: I.e. because Petyr's blood is (in some part) the blood of the ironborn kings of House Hoare of Orkmont and, later, Harrenhal.
You can find an index of every post I've made on the topic of a Hoare-ish Littlefinger [HERE].
Even if I'm wrong about Littlefinger's lineage, the 'rhyming' recursivity between the homecomings of Theon and Petyr detailed in this series remains, and certainly merits attention.
NOTE: In what follows, all uncited quotes are from ASOS Sansa VI, which describes Petyr's homecoming to his "Drearfort" tower of the 'Smallest Finger', or ACOK Theon I, which describes Theon's homecoming to "drear" Pyke.
As in past posts, I sometimes use "→" as shorthand for "prefigures" and/or "informs" and/or "is reworked by" and/or "finds a recursive 'rhyme' in".
As in: ACOK Theon I → ASOS Sansa VI.
This post picks up straight-away from where Part 7 left off. You can read Part 7 [HERE].
If you want to begin at the beginning, Part 1 is [HERE].

Smallfolk Who Do Not Know Them

What about the rest of what we read about Petyr's sight-seeing field trip with Sansa? What about that fact that most of Petyr's smallfolk do not "know him"? And what about that hermit? I submit that all of this—

Farther inland a dozen families lived in huts of piled stone beside a peat bog. "Mine own smallfolk," Petyr said, though only the oldest seemed to know him. There was a hermit's cave on his land as well, but no hermit. "He's dead now, but when I was a boy my father took me to see him. The man had not washed in forty years, so you can imagine how he smelled, but supposedly he had the gift of prophecy. He groped me a bit and said I would be a great man, and for that my father gave him a skin of wine." Petyr snorted. "I would have told him the same thing for half a cup."

—is a masterful kaleidoscopic reworking of several aspects of Theon's homecoming chapter. I'll explain.
As Theon approaches Lordsport, he thinks of a few faces he thinks he might find waiting for him, including one Sylas Sourmouth:

As the Myraham made her way landward, Theon paced the deck restlessly, scanning the shore. … [S]urely his father would have sent someone to meet him. Sylas Sourmouth the steward, Lord Botley, perhaps even Dagmer Cleftjaw. …

We'll see shortly that Sylas is a dead, smelly wino, just like Littlefinger's hermit.
When Theon makes landfall at Lordsport, none of the "smallfolk going about their small business" know him, nor does he know them:

[Theon] saw no familiar faces…
[The captain:] "I've brought your heir back to you."
The Lordsport men gazed on Theon with blank, bovine eyes, and he realized that they did not know who he was. It made him angry. He… strode down the gangplank. "Innkeeper," he barked, "I require a horse."
"As you say, m'lord," the man responded, without so much as a bow. … "Where would you be riding, m'lord?"
… The fool still did not know him. He should have worn his good doublet, with the kraken embroidered on the breast.

When he later enters Pyke castle, Theon again knows no one and no one 'seems to know him', so to speak, save the "old crone" who keeps the castle for Balon:

The gates stood open to him, the rusted iron portcullis drawn up. The guards atop the battlements watched with strangers' eyes as Theon Greyjoy came home at last.
A pair of gaunt children and some thralls stared at him with dull eyes, but there was no sign of his lord father, nor anyone else he recalled from boyhood. A bleak and bitter homecoming, he thought. …
A bentback old crone in a shapeless grey dress approached him warily. "M'lord, I am sent to show you to chambers."
"By whose bidding?"
"Your lord father, m'lord."
Theon pulled off his gloves. "So you do know who I am. …" … "And who are you?"
"Helya, who keeps this castle for your lord father."

So clearly the smallfolk of Pyke "did not know" Theon, whereas he is at least recognized by Helya, the "old crone" with a position in Balon's castle. It's easy to imagine "Prince" Theon bitching:

"Mine own smallfolk, yet only the old crone who keeps Pyke for my father seems to know me!"

That entirely true statement would, of course, neatly prefigure what's said about Petyr and his "own smallfolk" during his sight-seeing 'field trip' with Sansa:

"Mine own smallfolk," Petyr said, though only the oldest seemed to know him.

Note the recursive use of the term "know" there:

• Theon: "They did not know who he was"; "The fool still did not know him"; "So you do know who I am" → Petyr: "Only the oldest seemed to know him"

And note that we don't see Petyr having any more idea who any of his smallfolk are than Theon does who his are (or who Helya is): Yes, "the oldest seemed to know him", but as with Theon, there's no sign he knows them. (Maybe he does, in-world, but the text is silent.)

Recognition & Barnyard Eyes

Meanwhile, Theon being recognized by Helya — an (a) old crone and (b) Balon's castle-keeper — seems to be reworked when Petyr makes his landfall at the Drearfort, when he is verbatim "recognized" by all save the youngest of his castle household:

Servants emerged from the tower to meet them; a thin old woman and a fat middle-aged one, two ancient white-haired men, and a girl of two or three with a sty on one eye. When they recognized Lord Petyr they knelt on the rocks. "My household," he said. "I don't know the child."

GRRM's odd choice here to write, "When they recognized" him…" rather than e.g. "When they saw Lord Petyr…" or "When they realized it was Lord Petyr…" makes sense if we 'know' that GRRM is writing a 'rhyming' 'song': Theon was at least recognized by Helya, and this nods to that, even as the warm greeting and mutual recognition Petyr receives from and shares with his household is otherwise the yin to Theon's yang.
Note that Petyr doesn't know (and isn't known by) "the child… with a sty on one eye". This conflates and reworks (a) Theon being unrecognized by the "gaunt" — i.e. decidedly un-pig-like (see: "sty" as in pigsty) — children of castle Pyke, whose eyes are flawed in their own way—

A pair of gaunt children… stared at him with dull eyes…

—and (b) the "blank, bovine eyes" of the Lordsport men who "did not know who [Theon] was":

The Lordsport men gazed on Theon with blank, bovine eyes, and he realized that they did not know who he was.

This seems intentional: Eye styes can be spelled "sty" in the singular, as GRRM does here, but "stye" is preferred to differentiate from "sty" meaning a pig pen. The choice to spell it "sty" gives the girl who doesn't know Petyr a livestock-evoking eye and thus recursively riffs on Theon's homecoming, in which the men who "did not know who he was" had cattle-evoking eyes. The 'rhyme' is patent.

Sylas Sourmouth & Petyr's Hermit

Getting back to Theon's homecoming and its prefiguration of Sansa's 'field trip' with Petyr… Having been recognized by Helya, Theon asks her about Sylas Sourmouth, who he'd remembered when sailing into Lordsport:

"Sylas was steward here. They called him Sourmouth." Even now, Theon could recall the winey stench of the old man's breath.
"Dead these five years, m'lord."

So Sylas was a foul-smelling wino who is "dead these five years". He thus prefigures Petyr's dead, foul-smelling wino-hermit, who "had not washed in forty years". But he's not the only character in ACOK Theon I who seems to have inspired the story of Petyr's hermit.

"Sylas" Marner

The name "Sylas" shores up the fact that there's a connection between Theon and Petyr, if "only" via the 'rhyme' between Sylas and Petyr's hermit, as it's surely a reference to [Silas Marner by George Eliot], the plot of which massively resonates with Petyr's story.

• Silas is accused of embezzling funds. (See Littlefinger.)
  
• The evidence against him is a knife. (See Littlefinger.)
  
• Silas loses his fiancee to a rival. (See Littlefinger.)
  
• Silas goes to live in the middle of nowhere and loses all faith in God. (See Littlefinger.)
  
• Silas hoards and loves gold he earns from weaving. (See Littlefinger hoarding/loving gold and weaving his webs of lies. See also the "woven leathers" on the Myraham, which 'rhymes' so comprehensively with the Merling King. This also jibes with elpadrinonegro's conviction that the Vale story is riffing on Midsummer Night's Dream, with its weaver.)
  
• Silas adopts a daughter sired by a highborn man and found on a snowy night, her mother dead in the snow. He names her after his deceased mother. (See Littlefinger, and AGOT's first chapter.)
  
• The daughter "grows up to be the pride of the village" (as Sansa is set to be the pride of the Vale?).
  

There's more but those are the highlights. Note that the daughter ultimately redeems Silas from his fallen ways, and continues to treat him as her father even after her 'real' family emerges. Will Sansa 'fix' Littlefinger, as well? Or is life indeed not a song?
One more point of immediate interest to the hypothesis being explored here: "Marner" means sailomariner. If Petyr is in part a riff on Silas Marner, this could be yet another suggestion that he's Hoare-ish and thus ironborn.

Aeron & Petyr's Hermit

Sylas has something in common with the one person who does 'greet' Theon when he lands at Lordsport: Aeron, who we're quickly told twice is "sour", just like Sylas Sourmouth, the stinky dead wino who we already 'rhymed' with Petyr's hermit:

He is as mad as he is sour. Theon had liked what he remembered of the old Aeron Greyjoy.
Mallister… was a more amiable riding companion than this sour old priest that his uncle Aeron had turned into.

Indeed, it's clear that the "sour" Aeron of ACOK Theon I & II and Sylas Sourmouth are mashed up and rejiggered into Petyr's hermit story (repeated here for reference):

There was a hermit's cave on his land as well, but no hermit. "He's dead now, but when I was a boy my father took me to see him. The man had not washed in forty years, so you can imagine how he smelled, but supposedly he had the gift of prophecy. He groped me a bit and said I would be a great man, and for that my father gave him a skin of wine." Petyr snorted. "I would have told him the same thing for half a cup."

Consider that Petyr's hermit was a drunk who "had not washed in… years", who "supposedly… had the gift of prophecy", who received a "skin of wine" for telling Petyr's father Petyr "would be a great man", and who died some unknown number of years ago.
That all 'rhymes' with the Aeron we meet during Theon's homecoming in ACOK. To wit…
Aeron's thin physique, uncut hair and "untrimmed beard" make him look like a stereotypical hermit, but where Petyr's hermit was given a "skin of wine", Aeron carries a "waterskin":

Tall and thin, …the priest was garbed in mottled robes of green and grey and blue…. A waterskin hung under his arm on a leather strap, and ropes of dried seaweed were braided through his waist-long black hair and untrimmed beard.

The seaweed braided in his beard evokes the beach, where dwell… hermit crabs, who likewise pick up and make use of beach detritus.
That Aeron is a priest is also consistent with his prefiguring Petyr's hermit, in that being a 'proper' hermit is a religious calling. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hermit)
Aeron echews the comforts of a castle, refusing Theon's offer to "stay the night and share our meat and mead":

"Bring you, I was told. You are brought. Now I return to our god's business." Aeron Greyjoy turned his horse and rode slowly out beneath the muddy spikes of the portcullis.

This prefigures Petyr's hermit being a cave-dweller,
Where the hermit was a wino, Aeron's a former drunk—

The priest's manner was chilly, most unlike the man Theon remembered. Aeron Greyjoy had been… fond of… ale….

—who is now "drunk on seawater and sanctity":

"Aeron is drunk on seawater and sanctity. He lives only for his god—" - Theon (ACOK Theon II)

That phrase neatly prefigures the juxtaposition of the seawater-shooting blowhole with the boulder chiseled with the sign of the Seven, which we see just before the show-and-tell around Petyr's hermit.
Where the hermit "had not washed in… years", Aeron is called "Damphair", as if he's just bathed—

As the man approached, the smallfolk bent the knee, and Theon heard the innkeeper murmur, "Damphair."

—and he greets Theon by giving him a bath:

"Bow your head." Lifting the skin, his uncle pulled the cork and directed a thin stream of seawater down upon Theon's head. It drenched his hair and ran over his forehead into his eyes. Sheets washed down his cheeks, and a finger crept under his cloak and doublet and down his back, a cold rivulet along his spine.

We're also told twice that Aeron was "washed" in the ocean. The first time foregrounds "memory" and letter-writing, which prefigures Littlefinger the letter-writer recounting his childhood memory of the hermit to Sansa:

A memory prodded at Theon. In one of his rare curt letters, Lord Balon had written of his youngest brother going down in a storm, and turning holy when he washed up safe on shore. "Uncle Aeron?" he said doubtfully

The second time paints Aeron as a dry drunk again, even as Aeron tells Theon that the man Theon knew as Aeron "drowned", implying he died some years ago, as the hermit did:

"And what of you, Uncle?" Theon asked. "You were no priest when I was taken from Pyke. I remember how you would sing the old reaving songs standing on the table with a horn of ale in hand."
"Young I was, and vain," Aeron Greyjoy said, "but the sea washed my follies and my vanities away. That man drowned, nephew. His lungs filled with seawater, and the fish ate the scales off his eyes. When I rose again, I saw clearly."

Finally, where the prophet "supposedly… had the gift of prophecy" and used it to tell Petyr's father that Petyr "would be a great man", Aeron offers a prophetic interpretation of the red comet:

[Theon, to Aeron:] "They say the red comet is a herald of a new age. A messenger from the gods."
"A sign it is," the priest agreed, "but from our god, not theirs. A burning brand it is, such as our people carried of old. It is the flame the Drowned God brought from the sea, and it proclaims a rising tide. It is time to hoist our sails and go forth into the world with fire and sword, as he did."

Everything we subsequently read about Aeron only reinforces the 'rhyme': In AFFC it's spelled out that he was a drunk, he calls himself "the prophet", and we learn that he was molested by Euron, thus 'rhyming' with Petyr being "groped… a bit" by the hermit. Then, in The Forsaken, he has an apocalyptic vision of the future while tripping on special wine.

Groping, Bragging, Snorting

But what about when GRRM wrote ASOS Sansa VI? Were there already things in Theon's ACOK homecoming prefiguring Petyr's quip about getting "groped" by the hermit?

"He groped me a bit and said I would be a great man, and for that my father gave him a skin of wine." Petyr snorted. "I would have told him the same thing for half a cup."

Or for that matter prefiguring Petyr snorting and/or his quip about "doing the same thing for half a cup" and/or the hermit saying he "would be a great man"?
Naturally.
One of the first things we see Theon do is 'grope' the captain's daughter. A lot.

Theon agreed, squeezing her breast…
Theon's finger circled one heavy teat, spiraling in toward the fat brown nipple.
"As I have," he said, rolling her nipple idly between his fingers.

And how does Theon get her to let him grope her? With the same thing with which Petyr's father paid the hermit: wine!

The captain's daughter… had come to his bed willingly enough all the same. A cup of wine, a few whispers, and there she was.

(I guess Theon couldn't find a girl who'd let him do it "for half a cup.")
So where Theon gropes the captain's daughter for a "cup of wine", Petyr, "for half a cup", would have been willing to say, as the wino hermit did, that he'd be "a great man"… which is not coincidentally what Theon in effect tells his just-groped captain's daughter (for free) when he implies that he's going to be a king:

"As many times as I've fucked you, you're likely with child. It's not every man who has the honor of raising a king's bastard."

Theon still more unmistakably prefigures Petyr's hermit (saying Petyr would be "a great man") when, during his ride back to Pyke from Lordsport with "Esgred" a.k.a. Asha in ACOK Theon II, he says he will be verbatim "a great man":

[Asha:] "A grievous thing when a great man grows old."
[Theon:] "Lord Balon is but the father of a great man."

What is he doing when he says this? Making even more like Petyr's hermit by 'groping' her, too:

When they were well beyond Lordsport, Theon put a hand on her breast. Esgred reached up and plucked it away.
[Theon] slid his hand back up to where it had been. Her breasts were small, but he liked the firmness of them.

In reply to Theon's groping and flirting and declarations of greatness, Asha… "snorted", just like Petyr when he talks about the hermit:

"I like a woman with a good tight grip."
She [Asha] snorted. "I'd not have thought it, by that wench on the waterfront."

Thus it's hardly a stretch to imagine that this—

"He groped me a bit and said I would be a great man, and for that my father gave him a skin of wine." Petyr snorted. "I would have told him the same thing for half a cup."

—was written as a recursive, kaleidoscopic riff on Theon's homecoming.

Qalen, Wendamyr, & Petyr's Hermit

There remains one detail regarding Petyr's hermit that is as yet unmoored/un-'rhymed':

There was a hermit's cave on his land as well, but no hermit.

The hermit having a cave "on his land" but the cave having "no hermit" is a 'rhyming' rejiggering of what Helya says after Theon (having heard that Sylas Sourmouth is dead) asks her about a Maester Qalen:

"And what of Maester Qalen, where is he?"
"He sleeps in the sea. Wendamyr keeps the ravens now."

"He sleeps in the sea" is clearly a euphemism for being dead. The words "he sleeps in the sea" thus prefigure Petyr talking about a dead hermit who once lived "on his land". (sea → land)
Note that it makes sense that Qalen should prefigure Petyr's hermit, as the name "Qalen" recalls [Hermetic Qabala].
Meanwhile, the rest of Helya's answer prefigures Petyr having "a hermit's cave… but no hermit", as the line "Wendamyr keeps the ravens now" invites us to think this untitled Wendamyr fellow might not be a maester, but rather a 'mere' raven-keeper (a la Chett and later Sam at the Wall or Pate in Oldtown), which would mean there's a maester's tower, but no maester.
Yes, the appendix clears this up, but in the narrative itself it's as if there's now only some rando dude named Wendamyr who isn't a maester but who "keeps the ravens" so Balon doesn't lose access to rapid communication, even if (we might infer) he doesn't want those pesky maesters around now that he's brought back the Old Way.

The Abandoned Mine

That said, there is another piece of the puzzle. About two pages before Helya tells Theon about Sylas and Qalen and Wendamyr, he sees the abandoned workings of a mine during his ride to Pyke:

They kept a steady plodding pace, past a shepherd's croft and the abandoned workings of a mine.

An abandoned mine pretty clearly prefigures Petyr's hermit's cave with no hermit.
Moreover, given that that passage comes but one page before Theon is pointedly unrecognized by the people of Pyke castle, I suspect GRRM deliberately recycled the word "mine" into the odd way Petyr talks about his smallfolk just before he shows Sansa the hermit's cave:

"Mine own smallfolk," Petyr said, though only the oldest seemed to know him. There was a hermit's cave on his land as well, but no hermit.

(The "abandoned workings of a mine" formulation, meanwhile, foregrounds the work done at a mine, such as chiseling through rock, and thus prefigures the place on Petyr's lands where the Andals "had chiseled the seven-pointed star of the new gods upon a boulder" before abandoning it to become the desolate place it 'now' is.)

Slyas Sourmouth & Jon Arryn

Just one more thing regarding Theon's exchange with Helya, in which we read that Sylas and Qalen are dead, while someone called Wendamyr "keeps the ravens now":

"Sylas was steward here. They called him Sourmouth." Even now, Theon could recall the winey stench of the old man's breath.
"Dead these five years, m'lord."
"And what of Maester Qalen, where is he?"
"He sleeps in the sea. Wendamyr keeps the ravens now."

Petyr's smelly wino-hermit aside, what does Sylas the Steward — a verbatim "old man" with terrible "breath" who died five years ago — evoke if not Lysa's complaints about the "stinking" and "foul breath" of Jon Arryn, who was, she thought when she wed him, "such an old man, how long could he live", and whose breath smelled like "bad cheese" (of the sort a "Sour" steward might serve)?
Note the 'perfect' pairing of their breaths: sour wine and bad cheese.
To be sure, Lysa voices these complaints in the Drearfort during Petyr's homecoming chapter, the morning after she weds Petyr, whose breath, she says, "is always fresh", thus creating another strong thread of connection between ACOK Theon I and ASOS Sansa VI. But there's something else going on here.

Petyr Pan & Wendamyr Darling

Noting that we're told about Sylas and his breath just before we're told about Qalen and Wendamyr, surely we might say something like this:

• Where Pyke's former keeper of the cheese, the wine-breathed "old man" Sylas the Steward, is 'out' and where Wendamyr is 'in' as raven-keeper at Pyke… the cheese-breathed "old man" Jon Arryn is 'out' and the fresh-breathed Petyr is 'in' at the Eyrie.

So:

• much younger Petyr & Wendamyr have replaced the old men Sylas/Qalen and Jon Arryn.
• Petyr & Wendamyr ≈ Peter and Wendy
• Peter Pan and Wendy Darling → Petyr & Wendamyr

There's great resonance between [Wendy Darling] and Sansa: Wendy is about 12 or 13, on the cusp of adolescence/adulthood. She loves story-telling and fantasizing. She has two younger brothers, who become "Lost Boys". In Peter's realm of Neverland, she is forced to take on maternal tasks. (See Sansa in Petyr's Eyrie vis-a-vis Sweetrobin.) The parallels are plain.
It's worth noting that after getting caught up in Peter's world and enjoying herself for some time, Wendy remembers who she really is and decides to return home, bringing her brothers with her.
On a totally different note: Does the foregoing suggest that Wendamyr might somehow 'belong' to Petyr?

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 9: "Cargos, Slatterns & Butchery" with Helya & Grisel.

I (23F, pcos, autoimune thyroid issue that doesn't yet affect thyroid hormones, normal weight) have pain in the joint closest to the nail of my index finger at the right hand. It started a few months ago when I bought myself a wireless mouse for work (where I click a lot) that I think was too curved and that joint began hurting after work. At that time also started hurting if I put pressure a certain way. I changed my mouse ~1-2 mths after the pain started and it doesn't hurt anymore after work but there is a constant pain in that joint if I curl my finger and from time to time (randomly, no noticeable cause) starts to have pulsating pain. It still quite badly hurts if pressure is put from a certain direction at the tip of the finger (still didn't figure out the direction, I only accidentally hit it) for 3-5 seconds. The joint also feels stiff (still has full range of movement but it's harder to move) and a bit thicker than the finger on my other hand. It also feels like it's kind of spreading to my middle finger (?) When the pain is worse, I'm not sure but it's a possibility. The finger also cracks at the base more and louder than my other fingers.
It doesn't help that my hobbies are video games so, although left click is way rarer when I game, the finger is still being used in my free time.
My family doctor gave me an anti-inflammatory cream but it didn't do anything.
I already scheduled for an orthopedist at my mom's advice (she's a nurse) but after I took the clinic's online test it says I should go to a rheumatologist because the symptoms suggest arthritis. So, where should I go?

Funny how a game concept, which there always was finally put those demons into game like Dragon Age . Also funny how taoist cultivators could fall into malevolent spirits and heart demon's trap.
Full circle back into 1978's Jackie Chan's "Spiritual Kung Fu" movie, I always though it was kinda weird. I remember a early 2000s Kung fu tv episode, a shaolin monk explains the "keeping" of chi promotes you to heabe tempted by malevolent spirits. I mean that's why the "expel" excess chi after every excercize/gigong training? I wonder why almost no one talks about this in donghua shows.
Kinda funny how some of the left handed path learn some cool "dark arts" moves. From ghost steps to ghost palms etc... Even death curses. It'll be cool if there was a donghua to explain it all. It would make donghua more appealing to the west. Instead of Kung fu/Chinese martial arts looking like finger painting and "fake kung fu" to western eyes. Instead of looking like some fat bearded asian guy doing tai chi and looking around mountains for some good pangolins with the pig flu.
On a more positive note just look at the world/lore building of Naruto and Full Metal Alchemist did to the west, it could do it again with a good Donghua show.

As the title says, got a little over eager and some lingering tweaks have become full blown, if still relatively minor, right middle finger A2 and right hammy injuries. I’m 95% a boulderer and have just sent my first V9, with a bunch of other 8’s through 10’s that I’ve been projecting.
I’d like to take 4-8 weeks off of hard bouldering and properly rehab myself so I’m in fighting shape come the cooler fall temps, and I was hoping the brilliant minds here could help me identify points I could work on in the meanwhile.
For starters, I was thinking I could work: -weighted pull ups & rows -core work -finger rehab R hand and no-hang training of L hand. Would pinch training of the right hand be contraindicated with an a2 injury ? -hamstring rehab -on outdoor days, touring maybe non crimpy/heel hooky v4’s and below, also doing slab boulders -in about 4-6 weeks, some light (5.10-11) sport climbing
I have been working on flexibility and mobility heavily, however I overdid it and that’s what initially tweaked my R hamstring so I think I should back off of that a little bit. But I could keep doing hip work, maybe side splits, but I think I should lay off the forward fold and pancake for now.
Anyways, any other tips and suggestions would be appreciated!

Alright, apologies for the delays, but we're back now! Gonna keep trying for Tuesday mornings, and hopefully the post notifications will start working soon.
[First] - [Prev]
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Memory Transcription Subject: Ensign Sifal, Arxur Dominion Fleet
Date [standardized human time]: October 18, 2136
“Oysters are a local delicacy here in New York,” said David, gesturing towards the little molluscs in the spread. “Long before we were called the Big Apple, New York used to be called the Big Oyster. We’re on a major estuary, so these little guys used to be everywhere before environmental damage and overfishing tanked their numbers in the early 20th century. Thanks to the work of a few grassroots organizations, their population was on the upswing again until the recent, ah, irradiation incident.” David looked bemused. “What’s the radiation shielding efficacy of water again?”
“Halved per seven centimeters,” I rattled off offhandedly, hoping my measurements would translate to something he recognized. David held his hands approximately the correct distance apart to visualize it, and grimaced. I guess oysters live in the shallows.
I poked the little pinkish tan creature with a claw. It squished slightly. “Hey, are these still alive?” It looked whole in any event, minus the top half of its shell. It smelled lovely.
David blinked. “I think they are, technically?”
My eyes lit up. “I’m impressed! All this talk about pampering your prey, and then this? You Terrans didn’t seem like the type to eat live food.”
David’s eyes went wide. “They, uh, don’t really have a central nervous system.”
“So more the exception than the rule,” I mused. Even when the humans let their instincts out, they picked targets that felt it the least. “I suppose you really do tend to actively shy away from cruelty.” David shrugged, and I picked up one of the oysters. “Any other fun oyster facts I should know?”
David considered for a moment. “I dunno. I suppose oysters are traditionally considered aphrodisiacs?”
I froze with the creature halfway to my mouth, and stared at David incredulously. That was an unexpected turn. Why was he feeding me an aphrodisiac? We weren’t the same species. What was I meant to infer from this? Humans seemed happy to look for friendship and companionship outside of their species; were they inclined to go further, given the chance? I certainly wasn’t. What a bizarre notion! I mean, alright, I had to confess that I was at least curious, but that wasn’t the same type of interest. It was intellectual, rather than instinctual. But barring the sudden establishment of an alliance and a cultural exchange, I was probably leaving forever within the next hour or so. Given the time constraints, our current conversation was more than adequate to sate my curiosity.
I hoped I wasn’t reading too many layers deep into casual conversation again, but I had to decline politely. “Listen, David, you’re a very interesting man, but I can’t imagine making you and I work.”
This got a surprisingly good-natured sounding laugh out of the two scouts, and it was directly mostly at David. Alright, lucky me! It looked like I’d misread the conversation, but they thought I’d made a passable joke. No reason to disabuse them of that notion. I had to take my social victories where I could find them.
“A terrible shame, but I’ll just have to carry on somehow,” said David, smiling and trying to play it off as humor as well. “Frankly, I’m just surprised the Arxur seem to be this relaxed about same-sex relationships. Took us a while to figure that one out.”
Now I was confused again. “Arxur don’t really do… relationships,” I pointed out. “Also, I’m sorry, I thought you were male?”
David looked taken aback. “I… I am.”
“Then we’re not the same sex,” I said.
Alright, now everyone was staring at me like I’d made a social faux pas.
“I’m sorry,” David said slowly, “but I don’t think I ever asked you which gendered pronouns, if any, you preferred.”
“She and her,” I said, even more confused. “I thought it was obvious.”
“No part of that was obvious!” shouted Charmaine.
“My apologies,” I said in my best amused monotone. “I’ll try to display more sexual dimorphism in the future.” I let my eyes briefly flick down to where the female Terran scout’s shape differed from her male colleague. “Shall I ask my armor quartermaster for a padded breastplate?”
David aggressively swatted at the air for silence, while Charmaine growled offense at the word “padded” in particular for reasons unknown to me. David had a natural demeanor of a respected elder that the scouts seemed to pick up on and defer to. I wasn’t quite sure why; he barely looked older than the soldiers and I. “I apologize,” the chef said. “I tend to pride myself on my knowledge of as many topics as I can find, but I find myself coming up a bit short on the subject of herpetology.” That translated to the study of reptiles and then also amphibians? Why would those two be grouped? Even David seemed suddenly stiff on the subject. “I also can’t imagine that you folks have the same gender roles that we do,” David continued.
“The same what?” I asked. The term had barely translated.
“Gender roles?” he repeated. “Like… what’s expected of you by society based on your gender?”
I still didn’t follow. “I’m sorry, is this a mammal thing?” I guessed. “Half of you have to waddle around vulnerable for a whole gestation period, and now you’re grappling with second-order effects on your culture?”
David considered this. “That’s… hrm. That’s not entirely accurate, but not entirely inaccurate either?” He had a brief moment of gesticulating like he was reading an invisible book on the ceiling; he seemed to do that anytime he was trying to remember something. “I don’t think that’s generally true with other mammalian predators, at least. Like, with more solitary predators, the mothers often need to be strong enough to hunt and fight on her own, but humans aren’t solitary. It all gets really muddled when you take into account how much of human behavior is dependent on the assumption of group dynamics.” David shook his head. “I dunno, this isn’t really my area of expertise. So, what, the Arxur just…?”
I shrugged. “Arxur are Arxur. Around half of us can lay eggs. The end.” I took a sip of water, and David topped it back up from a bottle without comment. “Hatchlings are raised by whichever relatives feel like it, or else by state-sponsored boarding schools. I was raised by my father’s sister, who had a knack for training difficult children.” I idly scratched at an old scar on my left arm. “Her lessons were… useful.”
This was beginning to dredge up memories, so I reached for my oyster again. “Alright, may I continue? This isn’t going to start stirring any weird urges in me, is it?”
“Eh, probably not,” said David. “Certainly not enough to bring you around on… God, what do I look like to you? A guy who’s squishy with small teeth?”
“Hm,” I said by way of noncommittal half-agreement. There was no need to insult him about it. I popped the oyster into my mouth. I was honestly disappointed. It had a satisfying crunch to it, I supposed, but it mostly tasted like chalk. There was maybe a hint of some nice flavor in the middle, but I could hardly notice it over the taste of the shell.
David’s eyes were wide. “I… I’m sorry, I should have clarified that we don’t eat the shells.” He showed off his puny teeth. Like most humans, his fangs were millimeters away from fully vestigial. “Don’t think I could if I wanted to. The meat’s detached. You can just slide it with the juices right into your mouth. Try again?”
Only moderately deterred by my error, I picked up another oyster, held it like a small cup, and drank the creature. Alright, now we were getting somewhere! The briny taste of the sea added a natural seasoning of salt to an intensely savory morsel. It had a lovely chew to it as well, as the creature came apart in my maw. I could see why humans considered oysters delicious enough to compromise their morals over.
“Fantastic,” I said. I wanted more, but I thought I’d try the other options first. The next item was a shrimp cocktail. “Now, I see this one also has a shell?”
David nodded. “Thin and chitinous, but I still don’t recommend it.” He showed me a picture of a small insectoid creature. “We remove the heads and limbs of the shrimp before serving, but the shells are sometimes left on to be peeled at the table.”
My claws made short work of the little creature’s meager defenses, and I tossed it in my maw whole. This one seemed lightly cooked, but I didn’t mind too much. The flesh was a touch rubbery, but came apart so easily that it nearly felt stringy. It had a slight off-taste that was almost gamey, but grew on me. I dipped a second in a reddish condiment to the side. It was acrid and bitter, to the point where it overpowered the shrimp’s flavor. It was refreshing, but didn’t quite seem to match the dish by my estimate. “Cocktail sauce,” said David, making note of my facial expression. “Traditional, but not my first pick either. Try the white sauce? That’s a homemade garlic and herb aioli. Matches most crustaceans nicely.”
He wasn’t wrong. The aioli was much less tangy, and complemented the shrimp without overpowering it. The garlic and herbs added more flavor notes to harmonize around the gamey taste of the meat, and it added some much-needed fat to what was otherwise a fairly lean bit of meat. “This is better,” I agreed.
Finally, there was a dish of… “Tuna tartare,” David repeated. “It’s a raw fish, lightly seasoned, and chopped to make it easier to chew.” He flashed his teeth again. I flashed mine back. He blinked.
The small cubed pieces of fish were an incredible shade of dark red, and almost translucent in spots. It looked like red meat, or maybe gemstones. “What did you add to make it this color?” I hoped it wasn’t fruit juice.
“Oh, nothing for color,” said David. “Touch of soy sauce, little sesame oil, some spices, splash of vinegar. I’d normally add something for sweetness, but I’m gonna hold off on serving you sugar substitutes until I know what’s safe.” He pulled up a picture of a fairly large scaled fish, gutted and hanging from a hook. The inside was ruby red. “But yeah, no, tuna flesh just looks that color.”
“I’ve never heard of a fish with red meat on it before,” I said, “but after that pink one, I suppose it’s hardly the oddest thing I’ve seen today.”
David shrugged. “Eh, I’m just doing simple fare today,” he said. “Basic Earth foods. None of my usual trickery.”
I tilted my head, confused. “Trickery?”
David sighed. “I normally do a lot of, uh, molecular gastronomy. Dishes that use knowledge of chemistry to vary the flavors and textures in unexpected ways. Like, for example, one of our signature dishes is a cod filet cooked in lamb tallow. Cod is bland, and most of the lamb flavor is in the fat, so with a bit of finagling, this results in a piece of fish that tastes like lamb. You expect to taste fish, and you get the flavor of red meat instead.” David rubbed his eyes behind his odd civilian model holo-lenses. “The problem is, if you’ve never had cod before, and you’ve never had lamb before, you’d just… assume that cod tastes rich and gamey instead of bland. Trickey of this sort requires you to have preconceptions that I can undermine.” He shook his head. “Not that it really matters, since nobody’s wanted to order lamb-flavored anything since the fucking summer.”
“Why not?” I asked. “What’s changed?”
David pulled up another picture on his holopad. “Take a guess,” he said wryly.
He showed me a picture of a quadrupedal Venlil, and I nearly fell out of my chair laughing at its dumb fluffy face.

Apple Logic Pro for iPad - Tutorial: How to use Visual Synth Inside Logic Pro for iPad
https://apps.apple.com/gb/app/logic-pro-for-ipad/id1615087040
Apple - Logic Pro https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLirh7S2cI3fjxWF7YkPUnl4yj_3tfj5hz
Logic Pro for iPad is a professional music creation app that puts the power of Logic at your fingertips. Logic Pro features a complete collection of sophisticated creative tools for professional songwriting, beat making, editing and mixing - all with an interface that's been designed from the ground up for iPad. Use Multi-Touch in Logic Pro to play powerful software instruments with the tap of a finger and interact naturally with intuitive controls. Creative production tools - including the new Sample Alchemy and Beat Breaker plug-ins - make it easy to quickly make beats and explore new sonic territories, and a full-featured mixer gives you everything you need to create a professional-sounding mix entirely on iPad.
Creative interface optimised for iPad
• Play powerful software instruments and interact expressively using Multi-Touch • Quickly shape and tweak your sound using Plug-in Tiles • Fine-tune MIDI and audio using intuitive Multi-Touch editors • Discover powerful features and strengthen your skills with integrated guided Lessons • Roundtrip capabilities let you open projects in Logic Pro for Mac or Logic Pro for iPad* • Connect any Bluetooth keyboard to access powerful key commands • Create precision edits and detailed track automation with Apple Pencil
All-new Browser
• Quickly access all Logic Pro sounds from a single location • Easily discover inspiring sounds with a predictive filtering system • Use the Sound Library to access an expanding collection of free sound packs
Professional Instrument and Effects Plug-ins
• Create music with a massive collection of powerful software instruments • Shape your sound using high-quality effects • Build your own guitar or bass rig with Amp Designer • Expand your instrument and effects library with third-party Audio Units**
Beat Making and Production Tools
• Radically reshape and reshuffle audio with Beat Breaker, a new sophisticated time and pitch morphing instrument • Use Sample Alchemy to transform audio into entirely new malleable sounds • Chop or loop any sample into a playable instrument using Quick Sampler • Build and play custom drum kits using samples and plug-ins with Drum Machine Designer • Create drum beats, bass lines and melodic parts using Step Sequencer • Use Live Loops to capture inspiration and quickly build arrangements by mixing and matching loops, samples and your recordings • Create authentic acoustic, electronic or hip-hop drum tracks using Drummer, a virtual session player and beat producer • Record external instruments or microphones by connecting an audio interface or MIDI device***
Full Featured Pro Mixer
• Shape a mix using channel strips with volume faders, pan controls, plug-ins, sends and precision automation • Mix naturally with Multi-Touch by moving multiple faders at once • Use the meter bridge to navigate an overview of all track levels • Create Track Stacks to organise and simplify mixing large projects
Massive Library of Sounds
• Over 6,300 samples of drums, vocals and sound effects • Over 4,800 instrument and effects patches • More than 9,000 loops in a wide range of styles * requires Logic Pro 10.7.8 or higher and macOS Monterey 12.3 or higher ** Requires compatible third-party Audio Unit Extensions apps from the App Store *** Logic Pro for iPad supports any class-compliant audio interface or MIDI device
This video contains the following product demonstration:

• How to setup a quick pattern track with a drum pattern
• How to setup the same pattern track without an instrument and replace the instrument with Visual Synth
• How to configure the different sounds in the first pattern track to send different midi messages per active step
• How to configure Visual Synth to receive and react to Step Sequencer
• Etc.

I hope you enjoy the demo / Tutorial and find it useful.
Do not forget to subscribe.
https://youtu.be/N6BTYcaRga0

Chapter 1 Prev Next
I dig into my soup as Virin lies back into his bed of straw — but almost immediately, he sits up again, his eyes wide. "You fix my bed!" he says. "How you fix?"
"I just... kind of tried to move the Firmament around a bit?" I say. "It all settled once I did. I'm not sure."
"It not easy to move other people Firmament," Virin mutters. "It hard, actually. And this bed experimental. I use new Firmament. Harder to anchor. But you anchor it?"
"Not on purpose?" I certainly hadn't tried to tie it down the way Mari had suggested; I don't have nearly the skill needed to anchor it down to every individual piece of straw.
"No, not anchor..." Virin runs his feathers over the straw, concentrating. "Stabilize? Firmament not stable before. Why stable now?"
I start to answer, but Virin isn't even looking at me — I don't think he's paying attention. He's completely lost in the mystery of how I apparently fixed his bed. I watch, amused, as he starts muttering to himself and pulling out individual pieces of straw, brushing over them with Firmament as though he can better understand what I've done.
Good luck to him. I don't even know what I did. Maybe it has something to do with the instability of my own Firmament.
Eventually, though, Virin seems to fall asleep while still muttering to himself. I chuckle a little at the sight — his beak is buried in the straw. Every so often, he shifts, scratching at his belly and then muttering something about Firmament imbuement; it only stops when Nori tosses down a stick from her nest up in the ceiling and somehow manages to nail her father right in the head.
"I guess she's used to it?" I remark to Ahkelios, amused. The mantis nods very seriously to me.
"Sleep is important," he says. "She must have picked up the skills necessary to survive."
I snort. "Where'd you get your sense of humor from?"
"My father," Ahkelios replies immediately. "And he got his sense of humor from his father's father—"
Ahkelios shuts up as another stick appears in Nori's little nest, and focuses on eating his flowers. I snicker a bit to myself and continue sipping my soup, enjoying the quiet warmth of the morning.
I'm worried about the notifications in the system, of course. I'm worried about the Trials. I'm worried about the bursts of Firmament from the Fracture, and I'm worried about Tarin.
But this is the longest I've ever survived in a loop, and just for a moment, I want to appreciate the quiet morning.
Eventually, I finish my food, and I pile it together with Ahkelios' leftovers — the mantis doesn't even need to eat, and most of the flowers he nibbles on either get disintegrated by his Firmament or fall through his body. He seems happy enough, though, and I gather the scraps into one of the bowls and put them both to the side. I'll clean them once I've had a chance to visit Mari.
Speaking of which... I've given her enough time to nap, I think.
The village is pretty quiet, even as late in the morning as it is. There are a few crows up and about, chatting to one another or doing their laundry by the river, but by and large most of them still seem to be asleep. I make my way to Mari and Tarin's hut without much disturbance at all, and knock on the wall of the hut.
Gently, just in case Mari's still sleeping.
"Trialgoer!" Mari bursts through the makeshift door, startling me and nearly bowling me over. "You come in!"
She doesn't give me much of a choice. She grabs me by the wrist and pulls me in, and I wonder for a moment exactly how much sleep she's gotten; even Ahkelios is grabbing on to my hair just to stay on, squeaking in surprise at the suddeness of the movement.
I don't understand why she's so aggressive about this until I see what's happening inside the hut. The translation stone sits at the center, flickering softly with purple light and floating a good two feet above the ground.
"Uh," I say. "Is that supposed to happen?"
"Of course!" Mari says irritably. "What you take me for? This ancient relic. All ancient relics float and glow. Common sense."
I want to question this, but Mari doesn't give me much of a chance. She jabs a wing at the floating stone, in particular to a little ring that sits at the top of it, flickering with that same purple.
"This Firmament indicator," she explains without preamble. "Translation stone translate when it make contact with ancient language, but it take time. When ring full, translation complete. Then Trialgoer add Firmament, and stone will translate."
I blink. "You found all that out overnight?"
"I very good," Mari says, sounding incredibly smug. "Mostly it activation sequence that take time. Activation complicated. Need. code. I not know code."
"How'd you activate it, then?" I can't help but ask.
"Need understand underlying structure. Then can figure out what code is." Mari puffs out her chest a little. "Code strange, though. It crow word. I not understand why."
I blink at this. "What was the word?"
"Old crow word. Aarivari." The Interface doesn't translate the word, to my surprise; Mari seems to notice my confusion, and attempts to translate. "It mean... Knowledge. Purpose. Understanding."
"Makes sense, for a translation stone," I mutter. Ahkelios makes a noise of agreement, peering curiously at the stone. I wonder how much of it he remembers, now that it's activated. For that matter, how did he figure out what the activation word was?
He seems to be quieter than usual — contemplative, almost. I'll ask him more about it later.
"Is that it?" I ask. "I just take it, bring it to the Hotspot, and wait for the ring to fill itself?"
Mari nods firmly. "You trust. It work."
"I believe you," I chuckle. I stare at the stone, wondering how I'm even going to pick it up — it's still floating there, and I'm half-worried that I'm going to damage it if I try to touch it. But Mari doesn't stop me, so I grab it and fold it beneath an arm.
It's still glowing, and it feels warm against my skin, but it's not uncomfortable.
"Any sign of Naru?" I ask, and Mari shakes her head.
"Idiot son not come here," she says. There's no small amount of bitterness in her voice. "You careful. Maybe he still in your Hotspot."
"He'd have to spend an entire day in it," I mutter. I don't know Naru well enough to know if he would, but he seems impulsive and aggressive; I can't imagine him staying in one place for long.
"You not want me to come with?" Mari asks.
"Not this time." I shake my head. "I don't know where Naru goes after he leaves the Hotspot. If he decides to pay the village a visit, I think you should be here. Especially since Tarin's..."
I glance at the crow. He's still fast asleep, looking for all the world like he's perfectly healthy — if it weren't for the storm of Firmament raging inside him, I wouldn't know anything was wrong at all. Mari tenses a little bit at my words, and nods.
"I stay here. Protect village and Tarin. You stay safe." The way she says it, it's more of a command than a request.
I lift two fingers in a mock-salute. "Yes ma'am," I say.
Mari snorts and shoos me out of the tent, but not before I catch her smiling.
—
Carrying the translation stone with me to the Hotspot is uncomfortable, but not unbearable. Ahkelios and I make the journey in relative silence, stopping only to take the necessary breaks. Ahkelios seems lost in thought, and I don't want to interrupt him — I have my own worries. The notifications, for example, still hover in my mind.
Mechanical Remnant. What is that, exactly? And how did I defeat one of them?
As I ponder the question, I glance over my status. I've gained a number of credits from my unexpected 'defeat' of those remnants, and I might have to put them to use either now or in the Hotspot, especially if Naru is still there. I'm not particularly inclined to get captured.
[ Loop 13 in progress. ]
[ Status:
Name: Ethan
Strength Skills: Crystallized Strength (Rank C) Durability Skills: Tough Body (Rank E), Second Wind (Rank B), Barrier (Rank D), Crystallized Barrier (Rank C) Reflex Skills: Mental Acceleration (Rank C), Intuitive Analysis (Rank C) Speed Skills: Firestep (Rank C), Triplestep (Rank E) Firmament Skills: Temporal Fragment (Rank D), Firmament Manipulation (Rank D), Color Drain (Rank C)
Inspirations:
The Mirror Twice Shattered (Firmament, Unique)
The All-Seeing Eye (Reflex, Rank A)
Credit Distribution: Strength: 117 (47 banked) Durability: 203 (84 banked) Reflex: 38 (124 banked) Speed: 141 (79 banked) Firmament: 24 (100 banked) ]
...I am incredibly tempted to bank them all right now. The only reason I resist the urge is because I want to reserve at least one of them for the Hotspot itself; banking any of these will trigger an Inspiration, a meeting with Gheraa. I'm not sure I'm ready to meet him again. I need to be prepared, to come up with the right questions, to probe what his intentions and the intentions of the Integrators are.
And there's a second reason, too. The time stop effect of the meeting might be useful to buy me time to think. It feels like a waste to squander an opportunity like that.
But I should decide what I want to bank next.
Speed and Durability are well on their way to reaching 250, which is the number of points I need to get a Rank B skill, though Durability is closest. The only one of those I have right now is Second Wind, and it's one of the most powerful abilities I have, if somewhat limited in scope. I'd like to keep aim to get at least one Rank B skill, and a Speed one might be the best one to get, especially with how much running I seem to need to do.
I already have Second Wind for Durability, along with Crystallized Barrier, which will only get more powerful with each use. I'm mostly lacking in offense, which means the next stat I bank should be Strength.
If the Hotspot calls for it, I'll bank Strength. I'll save the Durability Inspiration for a proper meeting with Gheraa — hopefully netting another Rank B or even a rank A in the process — and I'll also try to save enough credits for a Rank B skill in Speed.
Okay. That's the plan, then.
The edge of the Hotspot comes into view. As before, color drains away from everything, collecting into sticky pools on the ground. This time, however, I have the translation stone with me — and it stays unaffected, glowing purple with Firmament.
There's just one small problem with that.
I'd forgotten how those color-pools reacted when they were first struck by the Obelisk's Firmament, and I hadn't considered how they might react to other forms of foreign Firmament. Apparently, the translation stone counts, and it's emanating waves that I can't stop even with Firmament Manipulation. They're weak, but they're there, rippling out through the hotspot.
And all around me, pools of color start to rise.
"Oops," I mutter.
"Oops," Ahkelios agrees. He sounds significantly more nervous than I do.
Chapter 1 Prev Next
​

Author's Note: Too tired to come up with any chapter notes for this one, but my last day of work is tomorrow! Hopefully I'll have much more time after that.
Here are the Patreon and RoyalRoad links, as usual. Patreon is up to chapter 48, and I recommend checking out the latest RoyalRoad chapter for more art (or here is the link, also from Loaf, same as in the last post).
As always, thanks for reading!

Hello and welcome to the 23rd installment of The Great Spice Off! What is The Great Spice Off?
I love the scent of Old Spice, so much so that it's the only aftershave I use as I don't really feel a need to splash anything else on. But, as we all know, Old Spice no longer makes shaving soap. They do still make a cream but that's hardly a great soap and it doesn't actually smell like Old Spice. As such my plan is to test out all the Old Spice options that are out there on as many bases as possible both to try out a variety of bases from different soapmakers and to report back to you on who really nails the scent.
I'll be shaving three times with each soap, using a variety of brushes and razors, and blades. Yes, I know that means it won't be exactly scientific but this is going to take a while and I want to use all my other shit too. Soaps will be rated on a few factors and given points from 1-5 for each.

• Oldness: How much does the soap smell like OG Old Spice. This is the more analytical scent analysis and I'm comparing to an OG Old Spice aftershave I have and the Shulton aftershave from India.
• Spiciness: This is the je ne sais quois of Old Spice. Does the soap make me feel the nostalgia, warmth, and whatever it is about the scent that works. Is there something special about it that makes it stand out? Does it invoke a memory or make a new one? The most subjective of this list.
• Lather: You know, can I make a shave soap out of it.
• Shave: How's it work on the ol' face while shaving.
• Post: How's the scent profile after the event. How does my face feel.

Pinnacle Grooming The Good Ship OS

Pinnacle Grooming is a UK-based soapmaker with a pretty solid following around the wetshaving community. I couldn't find exactly when they launched but their Facebook page says it was created in October of 2019 and since we all know social media is nothing but a bastion of truth I'm going to say it was around then. They say their ingredients are ethically and sustainably sourced but it's a little hard to trust them on the whole for reasons we'll dive into in a few paragraphs. (That's called a teaser, now you have to keep reading to find out THE SHOCKING TRUTH).
The Good Ship OS was a late addition to the series despite launching in 2021, well before I began digging around for Old Spice dupes. That may be because, from what I've seen, Pinnacle Grooming released this soap on a limited release, meaning once it was gone it was gone and it appears that The Good Ship OS is gone (outside of The Razor Company's stock, which is where I picked the soap up). This actually seems to be something they do often as their site notes, in some awkwardly written English, that they release limited editions of scents in order to cater to their cutomer's needs. Those scents seem to range from the weird (nutmeg/green appple/rose) to their "take" on already established scents.
"Take" is, of course, a controversial word in the land of duping and there's no clear statement from them on if they're just using dupe scents they've bought or actually building their own but most soapmakers aren't very clear on that anyway. I think this is meant to be a straight dupe but they do list two scent notes that don't always appear in descriptions of Old Spice: Clary Sage and Frankincense. So in the top layer you have the addition of Clary Sage alongside the more normally listed notes of Orange, Lemon, Spices, Anise, and Aldehydes. The middle notes are all the same with Cinnamon, Carnation, Geranium, Jasmine, Heliotrope, and Pimento berry. Then the base notes add in Frankincense to accompany the traditional Vanilla, Musk, Cedarwood, Benzoin, Tonka, and Ambergris.
The base is a bit of a hodgepodge of stuff you find in shaving soaps, with a wide variety of oils, butters, and other soapy things tossed in. It honestly reads like the creation of a child in their dad's soapmaking lab who just pores everything into the pot and lucks out with creating a soap: Beef Tallow. Potassium Stearate. Mango Butter. Distilled Water. Avocado Oil. Castor Oil. Goats Milk. Olive Oil. Aloe Vera Juice. Kokum Butter. Vegetable Glycerine. Almond Oil. Shea Butter. Silk Amino Acid. Coconut Oil. Lanolin. Grape Seed Extract. Bentonite Clay. Cocoa Butter. Camellia Oil. Sodium Lactate. Vitamin E Pure. mica pigment s (CI77019, CI77891, CI77288) Fragrance & Essential Oils. Gotta give props as always for goats milk, though. The soap itself is on the harder side and a darker color, heading into dark brown territory.
On a side note, Pinnacle Grooming did something pretty awesome with this soap. For every purchase £2.00 was donated to the Royal National Lifeboat Institution (RNLI), which seems to be the British equivalent of the the U.S. Coast Guard... or maybe the Coast Guard is the U.S. equivalent of the RNLI. Anyway, it seems like a good cause and they even posted a picture of the donations being sent to their Facebook page.
Sadly, no matter how good this review is or isn't and no matter where some of the proceeds go, I can't recommend buying from Pinnacle as they appear to be thieves. I thought at first that Pinnacle Grooming had some of the coolest artwork around with a variety of unique images, unfortunatley that seems to be because they've stolen most of it. I ran about 10 searches on random artwork on their tubs and every single one of them came from either an artist's website, a literal official piece of character artwork, or one of those t-shirt design sites. This extends to The Good Ship OS artwork, which appears to be taken from an artist named Ian Gowdie. The piece itself is a fantastic rendition of what I assume to be an RNLI lifeboat cutting through a brisk sea, supposedly on its way to save someone's life while smelling really fucking good. I bet whomever it saves will instantly say something like, "Thank you for saving me, and damn you smell good." But despite being perfect for an Old Spice soap container, it's not theirs to use. They don't credit any of the artists anywhere on their page that I can see nor do they mention it on the tub so even if they did pay for a digital copy of every piece of art on a tub it's still pretty shitty and a total bummer.
Caveat: I would be happy, by the way, to be proven wrong about that and discover that they are paying the artists for their art but it seems unlikely. And now I've spent two hours doing research on a shaving soap company and the images on some fucking tubs, basically ruining my desire for the soap itself so... now I'm just grumpy. Let's get on with the review (which was actually written first and not influenced by any of the above).
Oldness: 3
While they may be aiming for a dupe, Pinnacle Grooming should really market this as a riff. They aren't veering far off from the original but the scent feels different. Off the puck, the soap is especially strong in the anise with the citrus playing hard in there as well. That settles down on the shave with the on-point middle notes and base coming through stronger but it still isn't a traditional Old Spice scent. Don't get me wrong, it's definitely an Old Spice scent but there's something a bit fresher and more modern to it. Maybe it's the Clary Sage but I couldn't tell you what that actually smells like or who this suspicious Clary person is and why he's got special sage.
Spiciness: 5
Honestly, I love this scent. It feels fresh and modern for some reason and at some point I'm going to have to buy some U.S. Old Spice to see if it maybe matches closer to that. Part of this is, of course, the fact that it's just something different enough from the OG scent I'm using all the time to stand out but it's also really great to smell. There's something incredibly refreshing about Good Ship OS that makes it actually fit with the sea-faring theme of Old Spice -- like a brisk breeze on the ocean air. It's not aquatic but it feels like something you would wear while on a boat, going fast, wearing a nautical-themed pashmina afghan.
Lather: 2
Pinnacle's Base builds up easily enough for sure but what it builds into is kind of lackluster. The lather is kind of airy no matter how long you work it. It's not so bad that it looks broken or overly thin but it never heats that glorious zone where the lather turns into a slick, fluffy mess. It's also super thirsty, which isn't always a bad thing but does mean that it can be tricky to dial in if you're not patient, which we all know is a strong suit of people shaving their faces at 6 a.m.
Shave: 3
Sometimes an airy lather can still deliver a great shave, which is one of the reasons that I separate shave and lather. The Good Ship OS kind of does. In fact, the shave is all sorts of "kind of." It's got kind of good cushion, and kind of good slickness, and kind of good face feel. Nothing stands out especially about it but it's definitely not delivering a bad shave either, plus it helps that the scent is so good. I will say that it doesn't do much in the residual slickness department but, again, it's not terrible.
Post: 2
Good Ship doesn't do anything to special on the face despite the presence of goat milk (and a bajillion other face-softening ingredients)! I'm not sure how that's possible but maybe they're getting their milk from lackluster goats. You know, the shady kind that eat the wrong kind of grass. Anyway, it's a perfectly fine post-shave feel but now we come to the real rub. This more "modern/brisk" verson of Old Spice doesn't play so well with the classic scent of the aftershaves. It's OK with the Indian version, where the elevated anise and crisper scents mingle fine, but put it with the vintage one and it goes together about as well as stolen art and a moral compass. (OK, that last sentence was edited post research it originally said "a fish and a bicycle.") While its score could easily be improved by one by just not using an aftershave that doesn't work with its scent, the point here is to use Old Spice as much as possible so I had to ding it.
Final Verdict: 15
Why, oh, why is this fantastic scent stuck in this middling soap (and attached to a crummy company). The Good Ship OS delivers one of my favorite takes on Old Spice but can't manage anything else great and has a shave that is simply on par. The soap is a cut above the truly terrible ones, easily, but it can't deliver anything special either. Maybe, outside of the confines of this review system, I'd like it more but within the bounds of The Great Spice Off it mostly misses the mark.
Previous Great Spice Offs:

1. 1940s Old Spice Shaving Soap in Vintage Mug (9)
2. 1973-91 Old Spice Shaving Soap (7)
3. Old Spice Shaving Cream (Original) (12)
4. Master Soap Creations Vintage Spice (19)
5. Black Ship Grooming Classic (17)
6. OSP Old Gold (19)
7. Chiseled Face Groomatorium Trade Winds (17)
8. Wholly Kaw Twice as Spice (17)
9. Barrister and Mann Barrister's Reserve Spice (21)
10. Mama Bear Aged Spice (10)
11. MERShaving Old Timer Spice (20)
12. Soap Commander Endurance (20)
13. Signature Soaps Novus Spice (17)
14. Hoffman's Shave and Soap Company Burn the Ships (19)
15. Phoenix Artisan Accoutrements Cold Spice (15)
16. Hendrix Classics & Co Commodore (20)
17. Ginger's Garden Old Spice Type (15)
18. Lisa's Natural Herbal Creations Mariner (10)
19. Stone Field Shaving Company Ltd. No. 37 (18)
20. Cooper & French Old Goat (19)
21. The Holy Black Artisan Line Shaving Soap (21)
22. Stirling Soap Co. Stirling Spice (20)
23. Van Yulay Spicy Man (10)

I'm also looking for the below soaps if you've got any you're willing to sell/trade/donate:

• Wild West Shaving Co. Snake Oil
• Whickam Spice Trade
• Occult Grooming Essentials Modern Spice
• Artifact Soap Works Old Spice Type
• Wet the Face Spices From the Sea

I already have these soaps that I have not reviewed yet:

• Seaforth Spice
• Pinnacle Grooming The Good Ship
• Hendrix Classics & Co Commander
• Crowne & Crane The Spice
• Mystic Water Windjammer
• The Village Soap Smith Old Spice Type

Q: I’m having a tough time finding a job in tech. What are proven strategies I can use to land a job?

Tech is a fascinating field, a blend of artistry and functionality, psychology and aesthetics. But breaking into it can feel like trying to solve a Rubik's cube blindfolded. As someone who has successfully made the transition into the tech industry, I know firsthand the challenges and struggles that designers and product managers face.
Today, I'm sharing 8 proven strategies from my personal story, a self-taught designer who landed a Design Lead role at Gotrade (YC S19).

Let's dive into the 8 key strategies (📷 with interesting historical references from famous figures).

Step 1. Understand The Company

Before you can woo a company, you need to know them inside and out, like a biography writer researching their subject.

📷 True story: Remember when Steve Jobs returned to Apple in 1997 and steered the sinking ship back into clear waters? He had an intimate understanding of Apple's mission and culture. You need the same level of understanding about the company you want to join.

Actionable steps:

• Research the company's mission, recent news, market trends, and the backgrounds of its leaders and interviewers.
• Use tools like Glassdoor, LinkedIn, and the company's own website to gather information.
• Try to understand the company's pain points and how your role could address them.

Step 2. Leverage Warm Intros

In the world of networking, warm introductions are the holy grail. They're like a secret handshake that gets you past the velvet rope and into the VIP section.

📷 True story: In the early days of Airbnb, the founders used warm intros to connect with potential investors and mentors, leading them to their first funding round. It can work the same way for you in landing a design role.

Actionable steps:

• Scan your networks for any connections to the company.
• Engage with their content and ask for advice or mentorship.
• Use platforms like LinkedIn or ADPList to find potential connections.

Step 3. Craft for "Tell Me About Yourself"

This is your moment to shine, to craft a narrative about your past, present, and future that will captivate your interviewers.

📷 True story: When Elon Musk explains his journey, he doesn't just list off his accomplishments. He talks about his passion for technology, his visions for the future, and the key decisions that led him to where he is now. This is the same kind of storytelling you need to master.

Actionable steps:

• Develop a concise but compelling story about your journey into design.
• Highlight key decisions and insights that have shaped your career.
• Practice this story until you can tell it naturally and confidently.

Step 4. Targeted Companies

Just like how different species of birds have unique calls, every company has its unique needs and preferences. Meta and Google, for example, lean towards data-led design, while Apple is all about visuals.

📷 True story: In 2009, when Square was just a small start-up, they weren't looking for a jack-of-all-trades. They needed a designer who could build a simple, user-friendly payment app. Knowing what a company is specifically looking for can help you tailor your approach and stand out from the crowd.

Actionable steps:

• Understand the needs of the companies you're interested in.
• Learn about their past hires and what they valued in them.
• Tailor your portfolio to match the company's style and needs.

Step 5. Targeted Network

Before you send off that job application, try to connect with a few employees at the company.

📷 True story: When Sheryl Sandberg was considering joining Facebook as COO, she met with numerous employees to understand the culture and challenges of the company. This not only gave her insights into Facebook but also helped her establish connections within the company.

Actionable steps:

• Reach out to 1-2 employees at the company.
• Send a personalized note asking if they'd be willing to share their insights about the company.
• Use the information you gain to improve your application and interview preparations.

Step 6. Challenge Them (Humbly)

When you're asked, "Do you have any questions for me?" during an interview, it's your chance to show your preparation and curiosity. You want to challenge their thinking, not just ask about vacation days or company culture.

📷 True story: When Reed Hastings was considering investing in Netflix, he didn't just ask about their business model. He asked challenging questions that made the Netflix team think deeply about their strategy and future. You want to do the same in your job interviews.

Actionable steps:

• Prepare thoughtful questions about the company's projects, strategies, and challenges.
• Show that you've done your homework by asking specific, informed questions.
• Be respectful and humble when asking these questions.

Step 7. Contribute Into Future

Interviews are not just about what you've done in the past, but what you can do in the future. People want to hire folks they're confident can bring in results (fast).

📷 True story: When Sundar Pichai was interviewed at Google, he didn't just talk about his past experience. He also shared his vision for Google's future and how he could contribute to it. This approach can work for you too.

Actionable steps:

• Think about what skills and ideas you can bring to the company.
• Show them how you can contribute to their future success.
• Be specific about what you'd improve and how you'd do it.

Step 8. Tell Story With Results

Forget about going on and on about your design process. What matters is the impact you've made with your work. It's like showing the delicious cake you baked, not explaining every step of the baking process.

📷 True story: When Jony Ive presented the design of the iPhone, he didn't just talk about the design process. He demonstrated the end result and its impact on the user experience. This is the kind of storytelling you need to employ in your interviews.

Actionable steps:

• Showcase the results of your design work in your portfolio and during your interviews.
• Highlight the impact your designs have had.
• Limit the explanation of your process to about 10% of your presentation.

Final key takeaways

1. Research: Thoroughly understand the company, role, and key personnel before the interview.
2. Networking: Leverage your connections for introductions and insights into the company.
3. Prepare Your Story: Craft a compelling response to "Tell Me About Yourself", focusing on key decisions and insights.
4. Tailor Your Approach: Understand the unique needs and goals of the company and tailor your portfolio and application to match.
5. Connect with Employees: Prior to applying, engage with 1-2 employees from the company to gain insights.
6. Show Critical Thinking: Use the opportunity to ask the interviewer questions to challenge their thinking and demonstrate your preparation.
7. Internships: Shine in an internship by exceeding expectations and making yourself indispensable.
8. Apply for the Right Jobs: Exercise empathy, make your CV/resume a story, and tailor your approach to the company you really want to work for.
9. Nail the Interview: Articulate your creative process, describe design challenges you've experienced, and explain the rationale behind your creative decisions.​

“Show of hands. Who can tell me Day of Memorium’s origin?”
“It was when we kicked those aliens’ asz…butts, sir,” Bobby blurted out.
“Not only inaccurate but failed to follow instructions. Your enthusiasm is appreciated, though.” The instructor glanced over the class, choosing the girl trying to hide her partially raised hand behind another student. “Madelyn, if you would, please.”
Madelyn shrunk in on herself at the attention before offering, “It was when the Drak’nal were defeated, though we didn’t do it?”
Mr. Watkins shook his head. “Closer, but still not correct. Anyone else want to venture a guess?”
Arms drooped as hands disappeared beneath desks under his gaze. “It hasn’t been long since that bit of history was current events–” he paused when a lone hand reached into the air “–but there is still hope. Mr. Davis, if you would, please.”
The boy stood and cleared his throat.
_______________________
“We’ve arrived in-system, with no sign of the Drak’nal yet.”
The Elder nodded his understanding. “And the translation process?”
Their subordinate stared for a moment, eyes shifting to the data playing in the air before them. “It appears to be finished, though the Codex itself may not be complete.”
“It will have to do,” the Elder responded. “Let us make contact. And hope.”
* * * * *
Ensign Katsuma’s sensor screen flared red. “Commander! Contact, unknown configuration, unknown energy signature. Closing…closing faster than something that size should be able to.”
The signal station lit up. Ensign Yoruba called out, “Incoming signal across all channels, massive bandwidth… looks to be a program. Initiating lock out – can’t block the signal, sir.”
Commander Lewis rose from the station’s command chair as the CNC’s lights flickered, and a digitized garbling filled the air before clarifying to Common speech coming from the comms console. “–you receiving? We bring information and warning. They are coming.”
________________________
“Very good, Mr. Davis,” Mr. Watkins said, motioning for the speaker to take his seat. “Who knows how our military responded?” Another pair of raised hands pleased him, and choosing one, he nodded. “Go ahead.”
________________________
“Looks like ‘they’ are here,” the commander muttered before issuing orders directing available ships to intercept and station weapons to target the alien vessel. Multiple capital ships moved to take position at their maximum firing ranges. Lewis called for an open channel and declared, “State your name and intention.”
The response followed the same yet shorter pattern of garbled noise before shifting to a pleasant overlapping of male and female voices speaking Common. “We are the Shal.vae, and we come offering assistance. The Swarm is on its way. There is not much time.”
Ensign Katsuma spoke up. “Sir, readings are coming back now. That vessel is leaking energy we’ve never seen before. Looks like it took a beating getting here.”
“Our systems are also slowing down, sir,” called out Ensign Yoruba. “Operating at eighty percent and dropping. All nearby ships report the same.”
A brief squeal and *pop* blared across comms before fading to silence. The blended voice said, “We must speak with your leaders immediately, or we won’t be able to help.”
______________________
“Imagine not only being there, but being one of the people to actually first experience such things. That was a tense time, no?” the instructor asked the class. Multiple heads bobbed in agreement, though he noted confusion on one student’s face and pointed at them. “Yes?”
“I figure we would’ve started shooting at anyone who just showed up like that, let alone tried leaving us defenseless. And how did they know Common? That’s a human language, right?”
“Indeed it is. Bridging the communication gap was the first gift they ever gave us. First contact protocols had been in place since before we reached the stars, but being able to actually communicate with anyone we finally met? Quite the concern.” Mr. Watkins smiled. “Since we didn’t ‘shoot first and ask questions later’, as much of our entertainment suggests we would, who can tell me the good commander’s response?”
He took a moment to scan the room and picked a newly interested face. Engagement made the job so much more rewarding.
________________________
“This is Commander Lewis, the commanding officer of this sector. I can tightbeam any information you share back to SC HQ, but I’m what you’ve got until they make a decision. You mentioned the…Swarm, right?” Commander Lewis asked, looking at his comms officer for confirmation. “We appreciate your offer of help, but with what? How?”
There was no noise before the Common reply came this time. “Yes, the Drak’nal. They consume and destroy all in their path. We come to help you leave here and survive.”
Lewis glared at the embattled silver-gray ship on his screen. “We’d need proof anything you’ve said is true, first. Even if we had reason to trust you and wanted to leave the system, it’d take weeks for just the ships in flight to get clear. I don’t want to think about the chaos of evacuating the civilian population.”
"Proof we can provide," the speaker responded. Every screen in the command center flickered before displaying scenes of devastation and horror, each viewer shown different atrocities. The silver-gray ship on the main screen was replaced with a silent video feed more ominous than the rest: a multi-hued planet viewed along its solar terminator hung glowing in space. The daylight showed a pair of large purple-green land masses surrounded by water, while the night side glowed vibrantly with signs of civilized life.
A pulsing, rounded shape came into view, contrasting against the gorgeous backdrop before emanating a swirling black mass toward the world below. It flowed across the visible landscapes before crossing into dark and swallowing the light to engulf the entire planet in a squirming, shifting blanket of – he found his mind balking at the very concept of anything acting like that.
Commander Lewis felt nauseous, the sensation of insects crawling across his skin flooding his senses as he watched the mass withdraw, leaving only barren, lifeless rock behind. "My God, what is that?"
________________________
The instructor motioned for his student to stop, hoping to avoid what often devolved into wild speculation among his classes. "We still have no clear answer to the commander's question, as any recordings and logs of that broadcast were lost. There are only verbal and written accounts of what they saw, but suffice it to say the images were terrible. Multiple survivors of the conflict that followed spent the remainder of their lives under close supervision in mental care facilities.”
“Mr. Watkins?”
“Yes?”
“Why’d they stop at one of the stations near the Belt? Why not just go straight to Earth, or at least Mars? Wouldn’t it have sped things up?”
“There’s always been much speculation on that, and you are correct that certain things might have happened much faster if they had. Or much worse. Perhaps they chose a more remote location to prevent panic or an…overly aggressive…military response when they appeared? Or maybe the damage to their ship prevented them from reaching the other locations?” Mr. Watkins shrugged. “Could even be my favorite and personal belief: it was the place they were supposed to be.”
______________________________
“That is the Drak’nal, and evidence of their actions against life everywhere,” the voice, now morphed into a perfect blend of male and female tones, explained. “Among what remains of my people, I am called Elder. Apologies for our actions upon arrival, but we often find…expedience…to be the best course in our efforts.”
“Such efforts could have also resulted in a hail of gunfire, depending on who’s in my chair when you showed up,” Lewis retorted. “You arrive unannounced, in close proximity and moving fast, then assault our systems with a potentially hostile program before saying a word.”
The signal ensign spoke up before Lewis could continue. “Sir?”
He turned his gaze toward her. “Yes?”
“Systems are coming back up.” She double checked her instruments. “Station wide power draw has decreased by over ten percent and dropping.”
“So we’re losing power?”
“No, sir. All functions reading nominal, just not drawing as much power. Report the same from all ships.”
The commander focused a look at the ship now back on the main screen. “Elder, is this your doing?”
“That would be the Codex, our gift to you.”
________________________________
Every hand in the class went up at that, while several students made noises hoping to draw his attention.
Of course they would, Mr. Watkins thought. That was when everything changed, after all.
“I’m glad to see enthusiasm about some part of our course, at least,” he laughed, “but let’s stay on topic, shall we?”
He watched all but Madelyn’s hand lower to their desks and nodded acknowledgement to her before continuing. “What happened next?”
_______________________________
Lewis fired off an update to SC HQ via tightbeam before listening to the Shal.vae Elder go on at length about the Codex and what it held before interrupting them. “That’s well and good, but I can’t accept such a gift on our behalf. Hell, I didn’t even understand half of what you said, though my science officer is practically dancing in place over here. That said, as long as this won’t affect our ability to function any further, we’ll consider it a gesture of good will.”
“It is all we can offer, sadly. You’ve doubtlessly noticed the damage to our ship, but even fully functional, we would be unable to stop the Swarm.”
“And you don’t think we’ll be able to either, do you?”
“Not with what is here, nor in the time you have remaining before they likely arrive, no.”
The commander stood silently, processing the best courses of action before asking, “How long?”
___________________________
“Is it really true the Drak… Drak –whatever– showed up right behind the good aliens?” Bobby blurted out, interrupting Madelyn.
Mr. Watkins waved the question away. “No, it wasn’t like in the vids, where the bad guys show up on cue and with dramatic music, but it wasn’t far off in this case, either. We still relied on tightbeam transmissions and relays at that point, so the fastest reply Commander Lewis could have expected would have been roughly an hour after sending a message, and we all know bureaucracy moves nowhere near the speed of light, right?”
Once the class’ laughter trailed off, the teacher explained, “That said, everything between the Shal.vae arriving and the Sacrifice did occur that same day.”
____________________________
Ensign Katsuma called out, “Contact! Large shape at the edge of sensor range, inbound to our location.”
“Not long at all,” Lewis muttered, answering his own question as the Elder spoke up.
“We feared the damage suffered in our last encounter might draw them to us, a predator chasing failing prey, as it were, but not so soon. Our hope was to leave the Codex so it could prepare you for what was to come.”
“Elder, I need you to head in-system and let them know what’s coming. We’ll do our best to keep them here.” The commander issued orders to all combat ships and weapon systems to lock onto the incoming target before instructing Yoruba to relay everything back to HQ. “All combat units, hold station and fire on my command. Concentrate fire at the transmitted coordinates. All other ships, make best speed away from here.”
“What are you doing?” Elder asked, confusion in the blended overlapping voices. “We told you they could not be stopped. Flee, survive. That is the only reasonable option. Fighting only brings loss and death.”
“And I told you to go warn our people. We don’t have FTL, so the ships here can’t escape. You getting earthside is the best chance for humanity’s survival,” Lewis replied. “We’ve sent word, so they’ll know you’re coming.”
“Change in target,” Katsuma stated. “Readings unclear, but looks to be growing, expanding in our direction.”
“But you’ll die here.”
“I know,” Commander Lewis sighed. “But sometimes the point of the fight is the fight itself. Now go. Please.”
With that, he gave the command to engage the Drak’nal.
____________________________
A voice interrupted Mr. Watkins. “What did he say?”
“Excuse me?”
“Commander Lewis, when he ordered the attack. Plenty of military leaders have memorable quotes, so why wouldn’t he?”
The teacher gave the question its due consideration. “To our knowledge, he gave the troops no rousing speech, only his words to the Shal.vae and actions thereafter. That’s what made the Sacrifice all the more astonishing.”
____________________________
Sol Cooperative ships unleashed their fury at the dark shape moving toward them, altering their trajectories clear of the Drak’nal’s path while preparing a second volley. The station itself vibrated and rumbled with the coordinated fire of missile and gun batteries, flinging the SC’s most potent weapons across the expanse of space. Every serviceperson held their breath, waiting for impact…only to watch the munitions be absorbed, with dim flickers of detonation within the Swarm itself.
The dark mass shifted, sending tendrils of matter at its attackers. Nearby ships were quickly engulfed, and signals winked out on the CNC’s main display. Other vessels took evasive measures, to no avail. The Swarm consumed them whole when it reached them.
“Weapons, maintain fire,” Commander Lewis ordered, moving back to his station and sitting down. After tapping commands into the console on his right armrest, he pressed his palm against a scanner newly revealed on the left. A retinal scanner swiveled into position from the top of his chair back, and he leaned into it, spouting a sequence of words and numbers once it beeped. That done, Lewis spared a glance at the sensors and noted the Shal.vae ship hadn’t moved. “Elder, I asked you to leave. Let our sacrifice give you the time to help our people as you can.”
“You can not hope to defeat them, not like this,” the Elder answered. “They will take you.”
“I’ve initiated the station’s self-destruct measures, so we’ll detonate when they reach us. We can’t win, but they’ll damn well know they were in a fight.”
“This fight is senseless!”
Lewis looked at the screen. “Like I said, sometimes the point of the fight is the fight. Let us take our stand, and you go do your job!”
__________________________________
Bobby piped up. “That never made sense to me. Why not run away? We couldn’t be sure they would have gone to Earth, and Mars and Luna didn’t even have life on the surface back then. What would have made them come after us if the Shal hadn’t shown up?”
“Shal.vae,” Mr. Watkins corrected, “and we can never be certain the Swarm didn’t just follow them to Sol, true. However, the evidence provided suggested they sought out life wherever it was. Even if it didn’t happen at that time, it’s reasonable to believe the Drak’nal might still have shown up at some other time, and we would not have known what was coming. Without the Shal.vae’s actions…who knows?”
__________________________________
The channel fell silent for some time before the silver-gray started to move. “Finally.”
“Sir?”
“Yes, Katsuma?”
The ensign hesitated. “Shal.vae vessel moving to intercept the Drak’nal.”
He pounded the armrest, yelling, “What are you doing?”
“What we should have done in the beginning,” the Elder replied, “and ending their threat.”
Commander Lewis sputtered, “Why would you not have before??”
The Elder responded, voice muted. “Because this ship and all on it are the last of our people. We, we ran to give warning…and because we feared the end of our race. No longer.”
“Energy readings increasing on their vessel!” someone cried out. “Shal.vae on a direct course for the Drak’nal mass.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Lewis cajoled them. “You said you wanted to save us, save us.”
“And so we shall.”
“Energy spike!”
_____________________
Mr. Watkins paced across the silent classroom, shifting the students’ focus. “Consider this: we’d spent our entire existence wondering if we were alone. Even with several of the ‘ancient wonders’ on Earth, we had no proof there was other life out there, not until not one but two alien races arrived and at the same time. Not only that, but we’d been presented with evidence that multiple other races had existed, implying others may still exist.”
“For all its warts, humanity also has a history of standing for the weak and sacrificing for those in need. The Shal.vae activating their FTL drive to plunge through the very heart of the Drak’nal swarm and giving their very existence to save us…well, it set us a shining example, did it not?”
Madelyn raised her hand. “Why’d they do it?”
The teacher shrugged. “No way to know for sure. While they managed to end the Drak’nal’s existence in the end, the Swarm had enough momentum to carry it into the station. With no way to know at the time that the Shal.vae had actually killed them, Commander Lewis did indeed detonate the station’s reactors, obliterating the remnants of the Swarm.”
“Then how do we know what happened?” Bobby asked.
Watkins raised a finger. “Remember the Shal.vae’s gift, the Codex?” He watched everyone nod. “It was also included in the transmission back to Earth. While we’re still unpacking elements of it all this time later, it was able to relay those events up to Commander Lewis’ final action. Since then, we’ve witnessed it grant us access to knowledge humanity may have never achieved. Instantaneous communications. The ability to treat or eradicate any ailment. It even allowed us to crack multiple forms of faster than light travel, once we understood that the Codex unlocked and shared information as we learned as a society.”
With that, he strode back and placed his hands on his podium. “While some consider the Codex the greatest gift the Shal.vae gave us, I disagree.” He rested his elbows on it, leaning toward the class and lowering his voice. “I believe their greatest gift was giving us hope.”
/ / /
Been a minute since I've posted, I know, but I was inspired to write this one shot by the concept of Memorial Day and remembering those who've given all for those around them, regardless of how they've done so. I hope you enjoyed it.
My wiki has everything else I've written for HFY, and it's a variety of tales in an assortment of styles. Maybe you'll even find something that inspires you to follow me. Who knows, right? Thanks for reading.

I’ve been looking at the map, and I have to say that Roshar is easily one of my favorite fictional continents in terms of overall shape.
It’s weirdly shaped, but at the same it also feels natural in comparison to so many other fictional fantasy maps in a way that I can’t quite put my finger on.
What did Sanderson use to design the continent?

"I said to call them now, yeah! Fennel's really hur- I said stop her! WAIT!" "Hey, we've got our own here to look after, screw this shit, this job is fuckin' hexed, man!" "Back to the van, anyone who can make it!" "Get downstairs, fast!" One of the few leaders among the mob soldiers and scum present had tried to maintain order, but their boss had not stopped trying to get free and reach Kari's body. She'd almost made it, but they caught up and managed to hold her back. "BOSS! Boss, Fez is almost here, we can still tie her up and get outta here, just wait a little while!" Her snarling growl rose to higher pitch as she tried to tug free, spittle flicking from her muzzle in a mad rage, clutching at the socket she used to see out of. The stinging, horrible stinging had lit her entire skull up with a fury-painted hunger to reach Kari's prone body. "GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY! If she's still alive... haaa, god... if she's alive somehow, we pig stick her until she's coughin' up chunks of her FUCKIN' heart, then we saw off the head... aaah, and get the fuck out of here! FUCK the reward, she... aaagh god.. let me go, I can DO THIS! S-sstop..." The remaining men tried to calm her down and help somehow, blood running freely from the heavy scratches and gouges inflicted. Kari's still body seemed to still be breathing a little and Fennel pulled her buck knife out, still breathless with anger as she stepped close on shaky legs. "Pity... guess I gotta unzip you a bit, wake you up so you can watch this... just take ONE of your eyes real slow and make sure you stay awake, THEN we... then we put out the other one, slice off your limbs and just... haaa.. just let the steets chew on your for a while." A clatter drew their attentions away from the prone woman, a corner of the unfinished lobby looking darker than it should. "Whoever's there, fuck off or die- in fact, no, just shoot this fucker." Said the leader goon, and the others pulled their pistols and fired into the corner until they needed reloading. In this moment, they caught sight of a pair of white eyes look out at them from the inky shadows, and then, a deep rattling voice with a single word as a being of pure midnight stepped closer, holding its arms up. "Burn." All at one, flames of alabaster like blank shapes in reality leapt up all over the place, shocking the assembled criminals and raising the heat to oven intensity. "Oh no! NO!" and more shots were taken, to no avail as they trailed off widely, the entity speaking in a terrible volume. "BEHOLD, ITHOTU, RUIN OF ALEXANDRIA, SON OF THE SCOURGE OF EDEN. ALL WILL BE CONSUMED AND GODS WORK SHALL BE ASHES!" it roared and released a blood-shattering howl, floating forward as the colorless flames leapt up higher. "RUN! grab the boss and run, hurry!" "NO! I have to kill her not... she.." Fennel's remaining vision swam suddenly and she tipped forward, almost falling facedown into the white blaze wreathing the unconscious assassin. From nowhere, Fez had appeared and had caught her body to hold her back, pointing to their rear to indicate an escape route. He managed to pick her up and fireman-carry her bloody body out, all while she tried to wake up, climb off the man she loved, and leap knife-first onto the snow leopard so that shadowed demon could drag them both down to Hell. They were out into the two escape trucks and the wolf's car, all which promptly took off towards the north to find the safehouse. The black being wreathed in flames stepped closer, peeking out of the window hole for a moment before turning and absorbing all the fire into its body with a long exhale of effort and collapse of its own onto hand and knees. Shape and coloration returned to its form; hooded jacket and denim pants with weathered shoes. "Good grief, that was close...", it said as it pulled the hood it wore back to reveal the mask-like pattern and bright yellow eyes of Tom Blackberry. Before anything else, he hurried over to Kari's body and looked over it with his mage sight, his grimace looking worse as he marked trouble spots. "What the hell are you made of, Tracy?" he thought aloud, checking problem areas thoroughly before even thinking of moving her. It was when he saw below her rib cage that he saw it, the seperation and wicked angle it held. "Oh no... oh shit.. Uhh... I gotta get you out of here and fast." he muttered and crouched low to get his arms under her. She wasn't heavy, but it was still a body and Tom grunted with effort before getting her up into his arms without too much jostling, marching out to a featureless parking area with nothing but trees and the fencing surrounding that. The raccoon knew that the police or worse would be here any minute, any second. Tom carefully laid her back down and climbed inside his mind to enact a strong and complex magic. "Dammit, only one thing for it... sorry, Tracy, you can kill me later for this." he said as he suffused magic to his fingertip, a sparkling blue energy gathering there, cupping her head with the other. He exhaled and closed his eyes, concentrating on the visual in his head, the memory of spotting her earlier, where she'd possibly looked and, most importantly, came from. Dream-fasting was not a dangerous magic, but required focus, and Tom often lacked this when times were dire. He inhaled sharply and touched her temple, closing his eyes to see more than anyone could.
A tidal wave of memories seized his body all at once and tumbled him violently thru a riptide of dizzying emotions. There were houses, stairwells, people, adults, groups of other children, physical trauma, firework emotions exploding wild across Tom's mind as it struggled to reach the surface. He felt elation, thrills, bitter regrets, passionate excitement from many kinds of first times, sadness at many things, outward and inwards. The positivity brought his own mind clarity enough to further his dive to memories more recent, but he found himself off the weightless crash of water and was now standing in a warehouse, looking around and smelling. A distant lit panel seemed to hold something he was thinking about needing, and he moved to hurry, only to encounter a slick surface and fall onto his back. He got up fast, blinking on his mage sight, only to gasp and take in the whole room. Blood, dead people, knives, guns, bullets and casings, all of them heaped into a humanoid shape sitting with in an easy repose, the head veiled in shadows or stains, impossible to tell. Tom ran for it as fast as he could, looking ahead now to see an old house his mind refused to recognize no matter how he tried. They were in there, he had to save them, he knew it. The massive corpse golem began reaching for him, emitting a low hollow scream that was growing louder. Tom was much shorter now, but he reached the Door, stumbling into the hallway that led to his main garden. A giant hand tore thru the unseen ceiling and groped madly for him. He cried out and crawled out of the way, running towards his own room as the howling sound grew so loud, it began to hurt.. the door wouldn't open! He slammed into it again and again, still in the form of a little raccoon boy, tears filling his eyes as the hand barreled towards him, and then CLICK! it opened, and he dove inside to land face first onto cold earth and grass, amidst tall trees now. He turned and saw the hand of the slain and the half-built apartment complex, and two people in the distance, one looking right at him--
Tom's eyes slowly stopped shining sky-blue and slowly eased back to yellow. He had fallen asleep sitting up, and felt the dried tears at his cheeks. He turned to look at the unconscious snow leopard. "Sky and stars... just who are you, Kari?" he said, the memories fresh as yesterday in his mind. It would wear off within a day, but he had bigger things to worry about. A quick frisking of her person found the car keys and, even better, her phone. The raccoon hesitated for a moment before turning it on and sighed in relief. No lock, plenty of power, and a 5G connection of all things. He pocketed these things, and lifted Kari up now, his mind and senses still shaking off the somatic connection of the magic. He closed one eye and concentrated on two things: his own appearance, and the direction he'd seen, only backwards. The car was quickly located and the feline woman was carefully laid across the seats. After some tight securing over her body with the seatbelts, he climbed in, adjusted the seat, and started the Harper up, trying to calmly set things up with the phone. He cleared his throat and licked at dry lips before hitting the Tekster icon. "Ok, Tekster, go home." No response, so Tom waited and tried again. "Tekster, home." he said emphatically. Still no reaction, and the panic was prickling at the back of his throat now. "Tekster, navigate home! Tekster, respond." Silence, the kind that crushes the will to live, but he calmed down and looked closer. It was the right icon, the mic was showing a wavelength. "Tekster." The wavelength wiggled mutely and Tom furrowed his brow. "Hold on, I didn't... oh WAIT a second!" he barked, going to the small top menu. It was set on silent, and he changed it to full volume while setting his own impatient growl even higher. "You are certifiable, you know that?" the raccoon shouted at the knocked-out assassin in the back seat, "You're CERTIFIABLE! TEKSTER, TAKE ME HOME, FOR FUCKS SAKE." [Okay, finding directions for.. Nome.. Alaska, Twin Lakes. Would you like me to--] The angered yelling and hollering was muted by the windows, but still fairly audible to the indifferent would outside of car as it pulled off down the access road and towards the marked destination. It was almost an hour later that he'd managed the six mile trip into the forest and up the special path, somehow managing to find her house, park the car, and begin to carefully extract her. Her breath wasn't coming as fast now, and Tom laid a palm gently to her chest. The pulse was faint, far apart, and lessening. Fear chased adrenaline thru his body, and the limp woman now seemed nearly weightless in his grasp "We gotta get you upstairs, get these wounds looked at!" he said aloud, not caring if she woke now, "Stay with me, Kari, you're almost home safe!" And, with one firm push against the opened door, they were inside and he was heading upstairs one foot at a time, nearly cratering the floor with each heavy efforted step.
Time seemed to creep by in her mind, an anaesthetic tiptoe of seconds into minutes into hours, and incremental moments beyond. She had been dreaming off and on about things; flying, swimming, feeling like she was stoned, or when the time she got lost when the house was being negotiated on... fleeting visuals of her parents. It was a strange world she was occupying, pieces of everything she'd known, all while her body felt stiff and itchy as she moved. It was sometime around remembering her school that she became aware of the effervescent sound of an electric guitar playing somewhere. She went peeked into Gulliman's classroom, only to find it wasn't there anymore, replaced instead by long, comforting fields of tall grass, its color that relaxing darker shade of green. She walked out into it, feeling as though strands of her were being snagged on the vegetation and drifting out of her, pleasantly pulling away who she was to replace it with the snow leopard as she currently felt. Her clothes and pelt peeled away, leaving a skinless nightmare of a living visual of the bodily systems to come up next to the source of the shapeless music. Tom turned at looked her up and down, grinning a little as he kept playing "Hm, nice gastrocnemiusi, good tone." he said. "Well, of course they are, I don't do lunges for nothing." she replied, looking at her own hands for a bit, and the curious motion of the muscles and bones and ligaments. Each pulse of her heart was tangible all over her body. "Am I dead?" Kari asked after a moment. Tom shook his head, switching to block chords. "No, you are asleep, but when you wake up, it'll all come back to you." Kari sat down, looking over the grass peacefully for a minute or so, but she suddenly got back and started looking around. "Wait a minute, I got knocked out! I fell-- the fight! I have to wake up." "And you will, right after you promise me something." She silently looked him over for a moment. "Promise what? I have to go, they're... I THINK THEY'RE IN MY HOUSE!" she shouted, checking her body for a weapon. "Oh shit, I-- KARI JUST PROMISE YOU WO-Ohhhh!" She had already vanished, and the dream began to fade all at once. Tom rubbed his face with a tired sigh, feeling himself melting back into reality beyond. "She's gonna be mad." he said plainly, leaving the place behind for now.
Her eyes snapped open and she felt like three people were sitting on her. Sight rapidly adjusted to the semi-darkness of the room, only lit from the banker's lamp on her desk, and she looked around to only see the raccoon, waving placidly at her and sitting in her chair. "What's happening? How did I get here, why can I barely move, was it a stun gun or something? I hit the ground and blacked out, what happened to- mnnhh?!" Tom had pressed a finger to her lips with a soft shushing sound in an attempt to ease her nerves, but she locked eyes on his and let out a guttural growl. "I will bite it OFF." "Okay! Right, sorry, that was to calm you down, just a bit to recollect, is it working?" "Nooo!" she fired back incredulously, still trying to move. Kari paused suddenly and checked under her sheet to notice only the barest details her body could offer, and her temper redlined again. "OHHH, you are DEAD MEAT, asshole! C'mere, get... I swear, you'll- nggh!" the assassin tried again and again to move more than her hands and head, but it was like her limbs and torso weighed a ton each; she could barely flex her fingers to make a fist, though she dearly wished to use one and then some. "Look, you, I'm gonna work up the strength to get back up and vivisectify you, so before that happens, you'd better start explaining, it will make an exquisite epitaph, I'm sure." The bloodlust coming off her was nearly suffocating and Tom cleared his throat a bit to bide time on where to start. Finally, he exhaled and tried to sum up. "Without getting too into it, I can use magic." he said in plain tones. Kari sneered, laying her head back down. "Great, I've been immobilized by a hippie." "No no, I mean it, here-", and Tom snapped his fingers to produce a single ball of flame as big as a cherry and in the flickering shape of a teardrop. Kari's eyes widened, then began to scan his arm. "Alright, I seen this bit before, where's the fuel line and the mechanism." "Kari, it's the real deal, I could make one much bigger, but this room of yours is... well, it's a mess!" He wasn't wrong. She strained again and again, trying to sit up, but Tom talked her down. "Easy there, you're gonna have to stay in bed for another nite or so." "Anoth-- what? When was that battle, how long has it been." "About a day and a half. I've been healing your body after it was rather grievously brutalized in that fight." Her head started to swim at all the details and updates, but one fact poked out in her mind. "...how did you learn my real name." she demanded, rather than asked. Tom held up his left hand, the aura of dark blue magic covering it in backlit neon indigo. "Do you remember when you passed out from the impact?" "I'm starting to, yeah. I went down rough and must've rang my bell pretty hard to get taken out of the fight." Tom got up to move around the room. "Well, in addition to probing gently into your memories to find your keys and home, I was awash in many other memories, and that was the name people called you." The more she heard, the less it made sense. She tried to give the right questions a press, experiencing her own brain whirlwind. "We'll leave the trust issue for later, when I can make sure of it physically, but why not just shake me awake, it's not hard." Tom closed his eyes, opening them again to reveal the yellow shafts of light from his mage-sight, getting an honest gasp of surprise from her. "Sorry, I'll just-" Blink. "-turn those off. I have special sight that allows me to see many things, including thru flesh." "But not clothes?" she asked, her ear flicking angrily. "... well, I can, okay? I'd never think of abusing that side of the power." "Heaven forbid." she grunted, losing a bit of the anger, but still irritated and deeply confused, "So, why the eyes?" "You looked like someone ran you over with a bus and there was this big tear in your clothes anyways, I saw the body armor." Her mind went back to the question. "And this has to do with you not wanting to jostle me to wake me up HOW?" she asked in mild sarcasm. "I was getting to that," he replied, lacing his fingers and leaning elbows on his knees with another exhale, "See... in order to apply my healing magic, I've had to learn baseline understanding of some bodily systems- cardiovascular, muscle, skeletal, basic shit." Kari was watching him with more attention now, still unbelieving about magic really existing. "Go on." she said, since he was seeming hesitant. "Well, 4th lumbar had pretty much nearly separated in the impact, along with hairline fracturing along the 6th and 7th. Kari, you couldn't move or feel anything I'd have done to wake you up because *you couldn't move or feel anything,* at least below your neck." The air went very still for the moment, the snow leopard staring at the fan above slowly rotating. Part of her training had involved electroshock doses to make the most of a partially paralyzed situation, but that sensation was different from when she'd fallen. She'd felt encased, latent motion in her muscles instantly become zero, a wide-awake bodily slumber. It sank in slowly at first, then pushed in hard all the way. She had been paralyzed, from the neck down, almost a brain in a jar. She would've been taken by those gangers by now, buried under horrible experiences before facing execution by the Bear himself. She felt a touch of hyperventilation coming on, but managed to calm her pulse and breathing. "So, that is what you are trying to fix in me, with your healing magic?" she asked finally. Tom nodded, looking up from staring at the floor for a while. "I mean, it's practically all done, and it was careful, gradual, continous work, almost six hours of it total, with two and half being near-continuous." He didn't mean to yawn here, but he did. "Luckily, your skull was fine, just had a contusion from where you thwacked it. See, neuro damage is wh-" "I'm sorry to cut you off, but you said your name was Hugo when we first met, that can't have been your real name." Tom's ears wiggled a little in confusion, then shrugged with a smile. "Well, I could say the same for you, Tracy. No, my name's Tom, Tom Blackberry, but my middle name IS Hugo." "Tom, there's a wastepaper basket by my desk," she began, scooching up into a sitting position slowly, miraculously to the biomancers eyes, "Take the bag out of it, put in the one below it, and bring it here quickly.. I'm going to be sick." He darted over to follow these instructions fast, and was back in record time with the lined bucket. "Here, think you can hold this yourself?" he inquired encouragingly. Kari knit her brow for a moment and began to lift her arms, both feeling like they were weighed down with 50 lbs. of unmixed concrete. They slowly raised, zombie-like, and accepted the container just in time as her breathing hitched and she vomited raggedly into it, pausing a moment before heaving again and laying back limply, handing it back to him slowly. "Okay... okay, I think that's got it, I don't feel sick anymore." She went on to ask for a water bottle on her desk to gargle and rinse her mouth out before deflating completely. "That's all I've got, sorry." "Hey, no no, you've made remarkable time in recuperating. I can keep healing you a little more tonite, once I get this removed." and he carefully held up the basket. "Downstairs, kitchen, under the counter by the fridge," the snow leopard instructed, "And bring up a can of Purple Burpler with you, my stomach is doing flip-flops." "Sure thing, be right back." These instructions were followed too, and he brought two sodas instead, backing into the room. "Here, hope you don't mind-- ooh." Kari was completely passed out, snoring lightly with her head turned at an odd angle. The raccoon grinned a little and went to get her situated, then took a seat in the office chair to keep a vigil on her, just in case. It was almost 4 by the time he finally fell asleep, and when this happened, Kari's eye flashed open and she nimbly, silently got out of the bed and tiptoed carefully to a second backpack she had hidden. "I hope he isn't mad about this." she wished quietly, pulling a roll of Kong Tape and glancing at him over her shoulder, "But if he's seen my memories, then he knows I can't take chances."
​
end of chapter 2.

"You did WHAT?!" The half-completed apartment building was a dangerous ribcage affair of a building, wind easily guiding itself thru it at higher floors, of which there were four total. The entrance office was enclosed and hard to notice, so they'd parked in the nearby crew lot and walked before talking business, which Fennel was already regretting. "Hey, it's a fullproof way to do this stuff without attracting attention, like you said." Her contact with the Syracuse Runners was this wiry albino fox, red eyes and piercings adding to the shock of his white pelt and various tattoos, like the tiger stripes on his burly arms. Fennel thought an 80s action movie was missing an antagonist somewhere, but that was the point of this whole venture; to maintain attention. "She'll come here, we beat her near to death in the ensuing ambush, then we split that reward money fifty-fifty, it's easy as that." "Yeah? Well, genius, what if she decides to just show up now?" He held up a finger as his phone suddenly beeped a phone call, which he answered with a hands-free. "Talk to me... uh huh, did you pay him? Alright cool, once you get the go-ahead from D&D, tell 'em to sit tight at their hotel room until I call 'em, then we can get everyone paid and leave town, alright? Okay, good, set up at the look-out spot once you're here, we'll be waiting. Right, see ya." He hung up the phone and gestured purposefully with both arms. "You see? Everything's coming up roses, all we gotta do now is take her down." "WITHOUT killing her." Fennel said firmly, crossing her arms. "Without killing her, yeah sure." and the gang leader turned to meet his men outside. Fennel's bodyguards came down from upstairs, putting their suit jackets back on. "We checked it out, the real party's ready to go and the last of the extra team is about 10 minutes from here." "Alright, good, some news I can count on. Has Fez sent any further information?" One of them nodded. "Yeah, apparently this red-haired cat was talking with some striper earlier, our guy on the streets saw them and figured to call it in, he said they seemed on complete speaking terms." Fennel's eyes narrowed. "Could be a possible proxy or old partner, do we got any further leads on this guy?" "Only that he's the only northern raccoon the guy's seen in town recently, should make finding him a cinch." The wolf nodded, heading onwards with her entourage in tow. "Alright, that simplifies things; you guys see him at any time before we head home, you pull him off the streets, take him into the woods and slice him, and not a trace left behind, capisce?" "You got it boss, this chick's gonna be our main concern until we break her down, then we just find this dude and ice him." "Right, Moe? Starting to like working out here after all, how 'bout that?" They chuckled maliciously and left the skeletal building, but from up on a pile of particle-board slabs, Tom's head poked out a little and he let out a huge breath, his eyes darting wildly all over the place in mind-crushing trepidation. A step went awry and he fell to land on two feet, skidding backwards a bit to crash into a stack of pallets. Fear stung his mind again as he got up quickly and headed up his escape path, making it to the trees and falling breathless behind a wide-trunked spruce, trying to calm his mind. He'd taken a detour through the woods, but there was still a good 300 paces between the route and the gas station next to the Door. "Fuck... holy fuck, they're gonna kill me... shit, this--" He sat in that one spot for a long time, feeling a terror in his chest even as he somehow fell asleep with thoughts of losing it all ringing in his mind.
Shank of night was approaching, and Karilara Sunkiller was readying herself for a real fight, one that she intended to survive. The point she'd been trained for, and trained in her own time for, was maximum movement, keep the vitals out of the fight, and shoot first. She'd gotten into her old worn-in black jeans and tank top, which she further covered with custom combat armor, meant to maintain ease of movement while covering a few more than the standard weak spots. She frowned a bit while inspecting the plates and weave, wishing she had a better alternative. Still, these fools had called her out, and leaving the engagement area wide open was a mistake... a slightly obvious mistake, but maybe that was for the best. She unrolled an old weapons satchel and began to equip the blades. Throwing knives, a folding dagger she hid at the base of her tail, and then, a hunting knife with a dark crimson hue to the blade. She unsheated it and took a look over the finished sheen of it, putting the pommel to her eye to check the tang and tip, taking some copypaper and deftly slicing it in two with nary a hiss. It had been quenched and treated in special oils to allow a dangerous level of swiftness to its edge, and it was Kari's singular trophy she retained from her days as Death's Eyes. The scarlet color of the weapon shone blood red across her face from the light in her bathroom. The weapon went back into its sheath and the whole bargain was belted to her waist, along with her trusty K90 ten-mil pistol, taken apart and prepared for the occasion earlier. It wasn't the strongest pistol she owned, but the point was to wound and finish up close; if anything, she rarely used the weapon except for a few bad jobs and her escape from DEN. The monitor of her computer had an online map of the area in question, and the ingress/egress routes drawn in dry-erase marker, one of them leading off the road and into the wooded area. It was all in her mind now, and it was time to go. Kari took a while yet to braid her hair into a short bun at the back. Her armor and pride rode on keeping her back away from the enemy at all times, so she worried little about someone grabbing it. With one final tightening of straps and stares into the mirror, Karilara Sunkiller went to leave her room, looking over it for a moment, then headed downstairs and out to her car, leaving the darkened home behind as she crawled inside herself to unlock the chains of a killer that rested patiently there.
There wasn't much to describe of the surrounding area besides the road leading to the attack site. The evening sky was overcast and lent a spooky muted tone to anything he could see. Larry, the look-out spot was in a perfect spot with a long view down the main road, which would give him ample time to call it in, get back to the others, or just hit the dirt and remain quiet while the others got the work done. Equal shares, that's what their leader had said, so this would be easy. Any second now, the binoculars, the road, and his awareness would lead to a huge payout and easy street for the rest of the year, if not, more. Sure enough, a car's lights topped the small rise before heading into the slight downgrade before rising back up into view, only the car pulled off to the right and vanished. Larry blinked, checking the road again; there wasn't any other way to the site than this, maybe he was seeing things? Larry hastily returned to his watch, waiting quietly, breath fogging in slow sequence, his weapon loaded and phone fully charged, he was ready. A blade gently touched under his chin and throat, making him lock up completely. "How many." said a voice, not asking a question. "Fuck you." The blade slid faster than he could call out with a smooth, silent metallic ring in the air and a puff of red mist, the thicker liquid behind drooling from the thin slice across his throat, deep enough to sever vocals, and so wickedly fast. Larry was gone a second after he hit the ground and laid still. Kari wiped the blood off on his coat and hurried to the site down the way.
Tom gasped wildly, his memories tangled at the ankles in dreams before reality. It all came back to him, the site, the run back, the conversation at the site, the orders to find and kill him. He almost got up and ran in a random direction, better judgement holding him in place to plan first. The gradual bones of the building were still nearby, a couple hours had passed, and from a careful peek around the tree and immediate area, he could see the cars hidden behind the portable offices for the project site. Lights were on in the first floor area, the gangers from before were visible, but just as he leaned closer, he noticed some movement on the top floor. His ears turned and listened carefully... definitely voices and movement up there. Further movement caught his eye suddenly, from on top of the portables. A dark monster of some kind was crawling across the aluminum roof, but it took on a more real shape when the red hair and tail were spotted. "You've gotta be shitting me..." he whispered, watching Kari move like a spider, hopping off silently to move around to the sides and disappear thru a small doorway in the wall there. Somewhere between panic and preservation, perverse interest was beginning to mount and urge him on towards what might be something crazy. With his heart pumping a little faster, he hurried from the woods and across to a vantage point. He almost shouted in surprise at someone staring right at him in the window he looked into, only to recognize his reflection as he ducked back down in the throes of a micro-coronary. 'A clean window... I'd only ever heard stories.' he thought, wondering for the 33rd time if this was a good idea, only to hear a voice above him. "I'm just opening it to let the breeze in here." "Just get back over here, something doesn't feel right." Tom sank lower, his shoulders somewhere behind his ankles as he held still. Movement was heard now, up the stairs to the balcony overlooking the office. The raccoon slowly stood up to try and have a look around the office area. They were silent, looking around, guns drawn... there was a squawk, a noise, like when you bump into someone, heard from up high, then near-silent taps. Blood was on the air. "Jack! What's up there, dude, hey!" called their leader, with seven of his men closing ranks. A bouncing thud was heard and something had fallen into the first floor. One of them produced a flashlight and pointed it towards the sound. It was a severed head. Sounds of terror and surprise followed, clicking of hammers, more flashlights now. Tom felt his mouth go warm and wet, portending vomit, but he held in check, looking around for the red-haired woman... something hit the ground heavily to their right and the bullets went chasing after it, the biomancers eyes growing wider as he saw it happen. The headless body had gone in one direction, Kari went the other, landing at their backs now as they turned to shoot, and she attacked. Her movements were continuous, impactful, touch-and-go, almost a dancer's grace. A knife flashed in the dark, and arms went around where it sailed past before their owner fell to their knees and collapsed. Two or three entanglements got more of the group injured or killed outright, one especially for certain as she held him as a bullet shield as a volley of blasts went her way. Gunfire erupted again, chasing the blue-eyed shadow aside, a gagging sound following from the attacker feeling a thin metal needle go into their open mouth. The attacker drew her own gun and fired twice, two shots blowing a splatter of red against the wall. There was only one left now, and barely 23 seconds had passed. "Oh FUCK this!" the fox grunted, laying down more bullets rapidly to force Kari back behind cover as he ran up the unfinished access stairs which lacked walls. The snow leopard wiped her blade off on the sleeve of one of the dead men, exhaling for a moment to assess her body quickly. In the confusion, she'd actually been attacked a few times, but seemed unhurt. She got a thumb under her sweater and lifted it, making Tom feel like looking another direction, only to see one bullet had struck home on the armor. As adrenaline ebbed, he could actually see she was breathing a bit labored; the flattened bullet was low and to the left, definitely struck a rib. Kari dug the slug loose with her knife and sheathed it, hurrying to the stairs to finish the job, leaving Tom to consider how to follow for a bit. That was when he heard the shout of 'NOW!' and football-arena lights erupt from the third floor landing. "That can't be good!" he said under his breath, moving into the atrium gingerly to try and see up above. There were probably 14 of them, all too big and almost arm to large arm. Kari began marking off targets in her mind, but it would be a terrible squeeze. It would hurt, and she was fine with that, it would really hurt, and she was fine with that... but capture was tantamount to death, so that she was not fine with, and would prevent at all costs. The hallway 'ledge' might be her only shot, but two stories down without a minute to prepare could cause a broken leg or arm. Many variables, all of them pointing to a grim conclusion. No capture. "She's cut off, get her!" someone shouted, and they came at her and she came at them. A haymaker greeted her first, dodged, a second attack stopped in a spray of blood as she clawed at the exposed side, aiming a hard kick up at the third, but three more were already upon her. Kari raked out and hissed, putting her foot hard into the side of an exposed knee to extend in sideways. The owner shrieked in pain, but Kari felt two blows, and another begin hitting home, so she dove through the opening and tried to get clear from the four behind them. Another fist cut across her face, all the shouting and yelling from her and them was gathering into a fever pitch, she was throwing fists and kicks, but could barely see from the mob striking at her from all directions. Someone pulled her back, and the racket was muffled by bodies as she was kicked at from the left and right, her arms crossed over her face and chest to guard. One hand closed around something, a brick, and she managed to hold it hard and punch its dense weight into what shins she could, managing to make enough room to get back up and go on the attack again, putting two of them down hard with savage brick-slams to the head. Suddenly, an explosion went off behind her and she went down to barely stop on one knee: her back stung like it had been ripped off and replaced again, she'd been shot and it went thru the armor just behind her right shoulder. Winded and wounded, she collapsed to the floor, motionless, hair hanging from the tight braids. The assembled attackers stayed around her, out of breath and some clutching at hard injuries. "Fuck... aaahh-- fuck, the bleeding won't stop.." "Did we get her? Someone make sure she's still breathing." "Hold still, man, I think your skin is flapping off." "AAAAHH! DON'T TOUCH IT!" "Moe! Hey, someone get the med kit, he's not breathing!" The damage sustained from the attacks were enough to hopefully repair, but Kari was facedown and feeling her body alive with pain, wisely trying to breathe shallow to appear harmless. Hands suddenly grasped her from behind and hauled her around on her knees, bent before the doorway as her breathing came in low, labored gasps. It hadn't gone well, and there could be more in reserve. What the feline wasn't expecting to see was Fennel, who had flipped her off only two days ago now, stepping out of the shadowed doorway to close the distance. A zip-tie closed at Kari's wrists and her odds shrank significantly. Fennel put a finger under the snow leopards chin to meet her face-to-face. "Hey, bitch, guess you've been having a pretty nice fuckin' time of it, yeah?" Heavy breathing only responded, Kari's face contorted in anger. "Well, don't expect us to lose any sleep over those guys you killed or anyone in your career, no... we're here because one specific job." Kari felt inwardly lucky; this Fennel woman seemed to have a need to talk, a perfect way to buy time. It was a long time ago, but she had ways of escaping zip-ties. "You're gonna have to refresh my memory here, sweetheart," she managed, coughing only once, "I've killed a lot of people." Fennel's eyes narrowed and she began to pace, Kari barely resisting rolling her eyes at this move. "2005, it was," said the wolf, "an old villa house in a secluded area of Campigliano, the home of a very important old man, one Allesandro Gabriele Russo." Kari thought for a moment, her ears pointing up as she pretended to vaguely remember "Oh, him! Head of a rogue crime syndicate that was attempting to muscle in on the Cosa Nostra operations setting up in Salerno. Yeah, entire crew found dead on the scene, and apparent leader stabbed once and left burning in a hearth like the old trash bag he was, THAT Allesandro Gabriele Russo?" Fennel looked beyond enraged, and decided to let a hard kick to Kari's nose provide the rebuttal. Her face exploded in cold pain, she felt something crunch in her nose and she bent forward, nearly falling onto the poured concrete to cough again, blood pouring from her onto the floor. She laughed somehow and leaned back as she sat up, feeling her options shrinking and somehow, not minding so much, or so it appeared and sounded. "Ha ha, heh.. kffh hnhh... oh wow, I haven't been beaten like this since prom night. Look, if you're gonna kill me or take me back to them for the reward, let's hurry it up already, can we?" Composure managed to return to the wolf woman's attitude and she came closer again to hunker down with a psychotic glint in her eye. "Oh, it'd be easy and a better use of time, no doubt. But you see, you killed my great grandfather, ruined my family's wealth in the subsequent criminal charges and all, and broke my father's heart... so no, we're not going anywhere." She had cupped Kari's cheek here before patting it gently and getting up again. "You gotta understand two things I got to work with here: one, the contact from DEN just said alive, not necessarily intact, and two, when I put the word out for people interested in this gig, I made sure to find some scum, I mean real monsters here, the kind of people that can't be trusted with pictures of a playground." There was sinister chuckles and calls from behind Kari and she began to feel a sting of actual worry, trying to hurry up with her wrists. "Once these disgusting reprobates are done holding you down and violating your fucking brain to pieces, we're gonna take some of these here medical tools and cut you down to size by numbers. We even brought a doctor to make sure you're alive when we toss what's left at the feet of this Bear guy." 'Come on, hands...' Kari thought wildly, almost stuck in the zip-ties now. Fennel smiled viciously, her back teeth exposed in the killers grin. "Gotta admit, this'll be fun to watch. Alright, you sick fucks, she's all yours." As a foot was pressed to her shoulder, Kari opted to make a quiet, scared noise all of a sudden. The others were still coming closer, but Fennel held up a palm and they stopped. "What?" said Fennel. Kari shook and trembled, feeling the terrible visions the imagination produced of her damnable fate. "Oh god, it's the end... let me just say something fast." The wolf huffed a bark of laughter and crouched close, shaking her head. "Always such badasses until you clip those wings... what is it, bitch?" "The... oh god-" and she whined a little, her head hung and trying to breathe, "Just remember this next time you have to kill someone, please!" "What about it, cunt?" Kari's palm slid up the other and relocated into place, and she smiled a skull-like grin.
"Just kill them."
All at once, she sprung out onto Fennel's torso like a cobra, her free hands scratching and raking at whatever she could reach, the wolf's going berserk as she shouted in pain while clawing and kicking at the serpentine assailant. The others recovered from the stunning instant and moved to attack her, but faltered as Fennel's screams became a wild shriek of agony, rising in pitch as Kari's head pulled back, one blood-soaked paw holding her down. Clamped in her sharp teeth, at the end of a long, stretched line of viscera and optic nerve, was a dark brown eyeball, coming free with a snap. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAGGHHAAAAAAA!!" Kari looked coldly into Fennel's shocked face as the moment froze in aghast eternity, her jaws holding the little fleshy ball up before smiling again and chomping it with a wet splatter and taking off to run to the stairs to the third floor. The goons were coming, she had to hurry. Clamored voices from below; they'd cut off the stairwell. Kari lungs were working like bellows as she gained distance down a 3rd story hall. With a little luck, the scaffolding could be a way down, if she had one good jump in her. It was on the left side of the building, she was almost there as the footsteps neared from behind, but the incomplete walls vanished fast and the jump was before her. 'Jump, take the landing, roll with the impact.' she hurriedly thought before turning to get a sprinting start back. As she turned, it all happened in slow motion. The loading mechanism advanced a shell into the barrel, and the quiet clicking of the trigger pull barely registered before there was an explosion and an impact that knocked wind and mind from her. She flew backwards so suddenly, the snow leopard might've seen her own tail. She tried to turn in mid air, but only glanced her arm across an unseen fixed pipe. It was definitely broken, and the pain threatened to blur out her senses. She turned more now and felt a dull explosion at her back this time, and the limit was reached. Her autonomic system seemed to have shut her down for reboot, and when she fell with a thwack to the poured cement below, she barely felt anything. One weak attempt at rising proved nothing and the lights went out all at once, leaving her at the worlds' mercy.

My step kids 11&8 are staying with us for two weeks while BM goes on vacation with her boyfriend. She is missing SD11 elementary school graduation and it’s making me so mad bc she missed her kindergarten graduation to go to a rave festival. They will be with us during the last week of school so I have to drive them to school as well as driving my husband to work. It’s a half hour drive to my husbands work and their school and we already spend hundreds in gas a month and taking them to school is even more. I’m also on food stamps and we only get it for me and my husband (BM lies to DSHS to get food stamps for the kids so we can’t claim them) and with the regular routine me and my husband already skip meals so we have more food for when they come over. I feel like asking her for 100$ just to cover the extra gas and food isn’t unreasonable. Especially since she waited to tell us until a few weeks before that she was leaving and had the kids tell us that we were taking them, didn’t even ask.BM just baby trapped her boyfriend who is very wealthy and they live with practically no expenses bc they live with his dad. She doesn’t buy or do anything for the kids so it isn’t like she doesn’t have 100 to spare for the kids. If I was healthy enough to work and make things comfortable I would but I can’t and I have a toddler (who I get WIC for but it’s just baby food so I can’t exactly buy everyone food with that like I can food stamps) I just don’t understand what the harm is in asking via text so we have a record of her saying no, or on the off chance she says yes we can hold her to her word when she leaves. This woman has never taken her kids on her trips that she goes on. She even went to disney land without them and told them she wouldn’t ever take them. She fights letting my husband see them, even threatening to lie to the police, but when she wants to go rave or go to Mexico or just abandon them for months(which she did when she was living in her car with her ex) she just expects us to drop everything and cater to that, which of course we do bc we love the kids and if they stayed with her family they’d be abused per usual. She is a HCBM and she drives me nuts. She also refused to give me the phone numbers of the kids friends parents to invite them to a graduation party for SD11 that my mom and I are doing. I had to just print invitations with my number on them hoping she didn’t tell the parents to say no. This is all bull shit. I wish my husband would take her to court already and end her power trip. She’s a neglectful, abusive mother and these kids don’t deserve it. They deserve to be home with us. I’m sick of digging their over grown nails out of their fingers and toes bc she doesn’t help them clip them. Sick of emergency rooms and walk in clinics bc they haven’t been to the doctor in years. I’m sick of them coming over with mats in their hair and stinking to high heaven bc they haven’t showered since the last time they were here. I’m sick of the behavior problems bc of her. I’m sick of all of it I just wish we had them so they had a good stable home instead of bouncing around BM family’s houses being abandoned. I know we aren’t perfect but we are a hell of a lot better than her.
This morphed into a rant so I guess I’m done.
Edit: after writing this I realized how silly the doc thing was so after calling and searching for good times the kids have doc apps! I can’t change the apps or take them with my husband concerning or being there but I finally found a day we have them and can get apps! I just scheduled them at the doc office attached to the walk in clinic we take them to!! Thank y’all!

Original Prompt

The Petty Crusade
Port Adriel. One of the scummiest cities in the Empire. When the humans took it back in the war it had been a crown jewel along the coast. Now? Now it was a vacation destination for workaholic paladins like Aisling. One of the most decorated members of The Order, Aisling the Bright chose to use her annual week of R&R to assist the city guard of Port Adriel. Helping them knock some petty crimes off of their books gave her the feeling of doing good that she needed, and made their numbers look better.
Win-win.
Today she was after a young man named Liam who was accused of selling faulty or fake enchanted items. If he was doing so, then he was an idiot for naming his shop Liam's Discount & Refurbished Enchantment Emporium. Aisling had to admit that the painting of a rusted sword glowing with a magic aura had a sort of eye-catching charm, but if crooks could get away because of good marketing then the city would look nicer and feel worse.
The tiefling stepped inside and glanced around as the bell over the door rang. There were many weapons, and none of them were secured by any chains or behind glass. She saw a couple of very large pistols that looked to be far too heavy to hold in one hand. A Giant gunslinger, maybe? she thought as she hefted one. It was even heavier than it looked to be and her arm trembled just trying to lift.
"Please don't touch the merchandise," a voice said from her left. Aisling saw a man enter the room; tall and broad-shouldered with a rotund belly, he had a familiar look to his face that instantly flashed the paladin back to the rebellion a few years ago. A young man, tall and fair and much more fit, had led an uprising after his grandfather was executed. Aisling did not know the politics of the situation, only that the old man had been an upstart some years before. She had no opinion on the execution, but the rebellion? Well, it had ended because of her.
"Liam, I take it?" Aisling asked, setting the gun back down and walking over to the counter, "By the gods you're tall."
"Yeah, I get-" Liam finally looked up from the clipboard he had been paying attention to and his eyes darkened. He recognized her as much as she recognized him.
"Listen here, cupcake," Aisling said, leaning on the counter with one armored hand while the other relaxed on the hilt of her sword, "Here's how it's going to go. You're gonna put down that clipboard, step around the counter, and get on your knees. You're gonna put your hands behind your head. I'm gonna cuff you. Then we'll take a nice walk out to my carriage where you'll get inside and no one will see this, so you can save face or whatever matters to your kind. I don't know, and I don't care. Then I'm gonna take you down to the station and hand you over to the city guard." She loved to talk and every word she said was interesting.
"But I-"
"Bah, bah, bah," the cocky tiefling shook her finger, "It doesn't matter, and I don't care. You stand accused, and I'm just here to bring you in. If you're innocent they'll let you go and if not, I just made their jobs easier. Despite the, uh...weight you've gained in the last few years you still look like a guy who can give a few underpaid guards a run for their-"
As soon as Aisling said 'run' Liam did exactly that. He turned and booked it into the back of the shop. Aisling sighed and touched a crest on her armor. It instantly doffed; melting away in the front so she could jump out, the great sword she wielded firm in her grip. If the fat, failed rebel wanted to run, Aisling was more than happy to give chase. It would be fun.
This was a vacation, after all.
---
This is an Alternate Universe of u/poiyurt 's The Reluctant Crusade. Give it a read!

"Dick." "Huh? What, are we there?" "We've been here for six hours, man, we just haven't seen the car yet, and you haven't seen shit because you keep falling asleep." "Gimme a break, man, I was driving all night to get here." The two criminals were seated in a non-descript car, parked nearby the entrance to the main parking lot at Mt. Loyal University, charged with the details of a specific vehicle set to arrive at some point. The two were only armed with camera equipment, but it was enough to ID at a distance and that's what they were being paid to do. "Look, if this chick's as dangerous as they say, it'll help to be ready when she shows up. Try some of the coffee, they shouldn't be too cold." Dick looked at the two big cups from the morning hours before they showed up. "Dale, that stuff's probably frozen by now, let's just go get some fresh stuff." "We can't leave, idiot!" barked Dale, fitting of his canine species. They both were dogs, Dale a chihuahua and Dick a St. Bernard, with personalities to match. "Look, I'll go get some at that place down the block, come back here, and we can throw that stuff out." "Well then, go, come on, hurry up and get back, I don't want you sitting on a bench and falling asleep again." "I'm going, don't yell at me, man." Dick replied softly. "I'm NOT YELLING!" Dale yelled as the larger of the two got out of the car with another huge yawn to head off on his mission. The actual task they were seeing to was admittedly a dull one, but Dale liked to be alert at all times, especially when dealing with contract killers. About five minutes later, Dick had returned with two coffees, Dale opening the door for him. "Thanks. They had that hazelnut stuff you like, so I-" "Wait wait wait, hold that thought, I think that's our ticket." said the chihuahua, pointing a finger at the gate. Indeed, a white Oz Harper was pulling in and turning their way to find a spot. Dale squawked 'Hide!' and pulled the seat lock, falling backwards with it quickly. Dick just watched the car go by and head up towards the front of the building. "GOL-332, I think that's our guy, Dale." the larger dog said, slurping at his coffee loudly. The smaller one's head popped up to check before easing his seat back up. "Of course it is, I knew this was the gate to trust." he declared, pulling out a cellphone to speed-dial a number. "What are we gonna do now, D?" "Shh, lemme make this call in peace for a second... hey, it's us, the ones you called for recon? ...yeah, no, we stuck to the timeframe you gave us, the target's been confirmed at that college we parked at." Dick was starting to fall asleep in his seat again, so Dale smacked at him while completing the phonecall. "Gotcha.. yes, gotcha, you won't be needing anything else? Alright then, it was a pleasure doing business with you, and we'll just be on our way once our payment is secu- what??" The voice over the tiny microphone spoke in stern volumes, Dale glaring wide-eyed at the device like he wanted to bite a chunk out of it. He managed to inhale and hold it before responding tightly. "I understand, we will get a room and meet with you after the hit. Thank you very much for this opportunity." He beeped off the phone, calmly unclipped his seat belt, vacated the car, and then began to attack the right side of it in a psychotic frenzy, all manner of expletive spraying as hornets do from a disturbed nest. Dick watched him for a bit as he gradually slowed his raging melee with their car and got back inside of it. "We gotta go shack up in a hotel for the night, we're not getting paid until they kill this chick." "Hey, oh boy, a hotel, that'll have a bed for sure." He began to hand the chihuahua his coffee before giving a bit too much gas and causing a second furious explosion, this time in the car. The badly-secured lid had sluiced open and had went mostly all over Dale, staining his undershirt dark brown. Dick looked at him and raised his eyebrows high enough to expose his eyes at last. "Oh no, I'm real sorry about that, we can get the duffel bag out and take it-" Dale held up his paw. "Dick, shut up and let's just... take it to get washed somewhere, real quick. I like this shirt, this is my lucky shirt." "Okay, Dale." and he started up the car and turned off down the main street, looking like he'd be smacked around and scolded by the smaller man. Dale looked sidelong at him for a bit before looking forward quietly. "You're mad." "Dick, I ain't mad, I'm just cranky." "No, you're mad, you say that when you're mad." "What're you, my freakin' therapist? Get over into that one there and let's get this thing washed and dried, I'm gonna need it to keep from KILLING you, right in the face. "Dale, I'm really sorry." They parked and they got out. "Just finish your coffee, man, I gotta go use the bathroom and change out."
Tom was in a late afternoon haze of beer buzz, boredom, and bitterness. Something about the verbal skirmish with the snow leopard had really got on his nerves, and he still wanted to give her a piece of his mind. There was a bit of time left, and he felt like he could be risking at least one more smoke, so he went out the back door into the loading alley and lit up there, largely free of company for the moment, but it was then that one of the black cars from before slowly pulled into sight ahead, blocking off the alley's exit. "Shit.." he whispered, knowing better than to turn around as the sound of crunching rock on tires signalled he was being boxed in. He circled on the spot casually, eyes swallowing his surroundings to make sure there was no one else around in case he had to attack and escape. The two guys that got out had matching casual wear and a bully's confidence as they came his way. Two more door-shutting sounds behind him now, sending that tingle of adrenaline pre-game thru his body. Taking a deep inhale to martial his guts and nicotine, Tom came to a stop and looked to the guys in front of him as he exhaled, flicking the cigarette away. They were certainly taller up close. "Larry, Curly, good to see you, something I can help you two with?" he asked brazenly, getting two accosted looks in response. "How's he supposed to know that? He knows my name, man, how does he know that?" said the wiry one of the pair. Tom's throat tightened; one of their names actually WAS Larry, apparently. "He's calling us stooges, man, you know?" said the other, more standard-shaped one. "We got a smartass here, don't we?" came a voice from behind, followed by a hard shove that almost sent him onto the ground. "Hey!" Tom barked, stepping back to take all four of them in. They all had a kind of standard goon panache, and one of them had a shoulder holster slightly visible. The only animal folk in their number was a fox, shock-white and wearing the worst air of superiority among them, along with the tattoos and pink-red eyes. Tom made a mental note to attack this one first if he had to, but wisely switched gears. "Look guys, I think we got off on the wrong foot here, see... I'm a traveling salesman, and I got these dynamite blindfolds I'm peddling. You four want to line for a demonstration, I could oblige you a discount too!" he said, winking an eye. One of them chuckled off to the right, but Larry had apparently had enough, pulling an H17 into view, and putting the barrel inbetween Tom's eyes. He swallowed hard, carefully putting his hands up and standing his mental ground. "Yeah, talk that shit now, huh? Think you're all funny, man, I'll put you in the fucking GROUND, I don't give a fuck!" snarled this Larry.The fox put a clawed hand firmly on the guys' arm and caught his eye coldly. "Stow that piece, and calm down before you get us all popped, dig?" he said in a sibilant tone. Larry was still looking at Tom, glaring back at him, but obeyed and hung up the gun. The leader took point now, nodding for the raccoon to lower his arms. "I'll just... keep them up, if it's all the same, mutual trust eh?" said Tom, giving a weak smile. "Fair enough." answered the vulpine boss, "Now, my friend here seems to think you were scoping us earlier." "At the traffic light back there? No no, I just saw these nice Golgo Tundras going thru town, all sleek and white-- thought someone was putting on a concert or something. Honest curiosity, that was it." It wasn't necessarily a lie either. The tall fox looked him over a bit, his sharp eyes looking lower. "Got anything in your pockets?" "...I do." Tom carefully produced his wad of bills from one pocket and a pack of Mazzerucci Royals in the other. He really hoped they wouldn't stick their hand in the jacket pocket, for a few reasons at that. "See, I was just out doing laundry, there's no-- hey, dammit!" Larry had snatched the items up, and Tom moved his hands in protest, only to be frozen solid by the clawed fingers of the one in charge. "Mutual trust, right?" he said, smiling with sharp teeth. The bothered canine grimaced and tried to look helpless while they counted up his stolen cash, wishing he'd had enough magic stored up for a bolt of half-power lightning; they would probably survive, but with scars to remember. A sizable chunk of money was missing when it was handed back, and that was it. Tom looked up at the leader briefly, who was already biting onto one of the cigarettes. "I like Royals, consider it part of the toll here for wastin' our precious time with your peeking." and he felt his own pockets briefly before looking up again, "No lighter?" Tom lit his smokes on his own, so he just shrugged and produced his unfolded pockets. The four of them seemed to have had their fun and left, but the fox stayed a second to lean in close as his men returned to the cars. One particularly sharp claw came to rest gently just above Tom's left eyebrow. "Now, make a healthy choice, and stay the fuck out of sight for a couple days, okay? You and I see each other again, well--" He slowly dragged the sharp point across Tom's forehead, blood dripping down freely, making him wince a bit. "--You're gonna need one of those fancy blindfolds for when we execute you, since you uh... seem to be out of smokes too. Arrivederci, bambino~" he said, parting ways. "Yeah yeah, au revoir, Simone." Tom grunted, waiting until they'd disembarked before he snarled and kicked a nearby paint bucket across the alley like a soccer ball. "What the fuck is your DEAL, Canada?! I thought this was supposed to be a nice place!" he yelled. From somewhere in the barkyards of a nearby neighborhood, someone shouted in response. "I AM TRYING TO WORK OVER HERE!", it said. "SHUT UP!!" growled Tom, wiping at the blood on his face.
The raccoon was sitting in a miserable distemper while the dryer was finishing his clothes. 'I ought to just spin the wheel again and find someplace else, this town is becoming dangerous.' he thought, halfway thru another drink. He stopped suddenly at the sound of the door jingling, hurrying to move one of his towels over the opened can. A pair of dogs came in, talking in low voices, and Tom minded his own business, having had enough of strangers for one week. They seemed to mind their own business, so it was business as usual. One of them disappeared into the bathroom for a bit, coming out wearing a different shirt, and they proceeded to wash a single shirt. Tom had been on the streets for as long as he could remember, and had seen a furtive load of laundry or two, so lacking any other concrete plans, he got up and pretended to go check his clothes while pointing an ear their way. "...told you to keep it down, ya idiot." the smaller one hissed. "You worry too much, Dale, we're just there to drive anyone who needs it to safety after they corner that lady and tie her up." Already, this was sounding bad, but the raccoon kept incognito for the moment. "Yeah, well that's why they're calling in this extra muscle, this snow leopard's supposed to be a real killer born, y'know? Kinda like you and being so slow and clueless." Dick shrugged and lapped at his coffee again. "I'm just as my momma made me, Dale." "Yeah, well thank goodness she died before seeing this life of crime you've somehow clung to, she'd have died of shame otherwise." snapped the chihuahua, loading quarters into the machine. "Oh Dale, don't say that, she's already mad at me up in Heaven as it is." His partner scoffed and closed the hatch. "Look, I only yell because you never had no friends or family to steer you straight growing up, and I've told you, I'm your big brother! I gotta make sure you're learning and growing up better, yeah?" Dick nodded happily. "I love my big brother." Dale's face was a bit pinker at the cheeks, but he avoided eye contact for now. "Yeah, hey, y'know, it's... nice to be appreciated. Now, take a seat, will ya? Bad enough we're missing out on the fun work over at that construction site up the way, now I gotta hope this stain comes out." he muttered as they headed to one of the plastic benches. Tom was left with a great deal of trepidation: had he just made brief enemies with a trained killer somehow, or was any of this even true? He hurried to pound the rest of his beer, almost getting foam out of his nose in the bargain, bagged up his completed laundry, and left the place without a trace. He was halfway to the Door when he saw some day laborers around a truck by the gas station of his plaza. Once the clothing was carefull scooted into a distant, safe dimensional hideaway around the corner, he sauntered over to them, pretending to throw some trash away. "I don't mean to bother you guys, but do you know which way the big construction site is, just down this road here?"
Kari had been sitting in the parking lot of the campus for about ten minutes, watching the fracas of newspeople and police nearby and really feeling cheated of a decent day of schoolwork. The day was shot for sure, with the media frenzy still stirred up by people posting misinformation online, and news crew remaining on the scene for interviews with the friends or close ones of those involved. Kari looked over at her bag, containing the completed assignment, and felt supremely cheated as she started the car and looked over her shoulder. A bedraggled human face looked back immediately and she shouted in surprise. It was only then she realized it was from outside the car. Some drifter, bedraggled and carrying a backpack that was as weatherworn as it could be, was standing in the middle of the parking lot, looking past her car, then back at her. Something about it felt like the right thing to do, so she got out of the car and approached him. The man began to back away, muttering something. "No no, easy, I'm not gonna hurt you or waste your time, I wanted to ask if you'd seen anything weird recently." At first, the guy said nothing and continued mumbling something, but he paused on a dime and turned to her slowly before taking a huge inhale of her presence. The snow leopard stepped back, looking affronted. "Hey, what the hell?!" she snapped, "I just wanted a damn answer." The homeless man locked eyes with her, speaking very plainly. "He will lead you thru the door, and to places beyond here or there, and I will show you the other side! The OTHER SIDE OF THE DOOR!" he said in a rising tone before wandering off incoherently, pulling the backpack into his arms and talking placatingly to it in tender whispers. Kari just got back in her car and looked confusingly at her steering wheel, like it would turn into a giant pretzel or something next. 'There's a lot of weirdos in town today, and that can usually mean something's up.' she thought, going from experience, 'The only problem is for who.. and why?" She rolled the window down and closed her eyes, feeling kind of cooped up for some reason "Excuse me?" "AAA!!" Kari's body moved defensively towards the sound, only to find some kid about 6 sandwiched up on himself to avoid the attack. "Hi? sorry there, kiddo, what did you need, are you lost?" she managed, still oddly on edge. "I'm um, here... this, uh, I got my... there's a letter for, here, there's a letter I got to give you. I have to go." he managed, handing a folded paper to her before hurrying back to a small bike and riding away. Kari almost threw it away, eager to put today behind her, but she groaned and unfolded it for reading. "We know who you are, come alone to the location marked at this address at this time only, make this easier on yourself." An address followed and the feline predator smiled with murderous glee, slowly tearing the letter in half. "Know who I am, do they?" she growled, her grin almost too high, "I sure hope they know what I can do." Before she turned the car around to head home, she carefully pocketed the two pieces of paper. "...dammit, why'd I do that."