i want to bring her estrogen pills but i fear i'd bring it into the dark world and it would turn into mrs. prescription and the she/herlings or something and ralsei wouldn't be able to take it
Im grading the final exams for the class I TA for and I'm checking the name of the one I've just graded so I can enter it in the gradebook when I notice that after the name it says in parentheses "just visiting ! =)". And that I do not know this student, they are not enrolled in this class, and they just showed up on the last day to take the final . Innovative use of free will
[ID: A three way Venn diagram between In Stars and Time, OMORI, and Deltarune. In between ISAT and Omori, it reads, âyou need to change and to change you need to be destroyed.â In between ISAT and Deltarune it says, âThereâs always another way no matter how trapped you feel.â In between Omori and Deltarune it reads, âEscapism will kill you as much as it has saved you.â Between them all, in big bold caps lock, it shouts: âTALK TO YOUR FUCKING FRIENDS.â End ID.]
every person you meet will have one bit that only they find funny. it is important that you hate that bit as much as possible in order to enrich their experience of doing the bit. it is part of the enjoyment of the bit
Jeez, I didn't think this would rile people up so much.
Okay, this happened a long time ago. I must've been around 12.
My family and I visited an Italian restaurant sometime in the beginning of January.
Little me was in the mood for lasagna and they had it on the menu. Who doesn't like lasagna? Now I didn't supect anything bad. Little me was under the assumption that if you own a restaurant that serves a certain kind of food, then you are familiar with the culture that food comes from. Or even come from that place yourself. This is Europe. It's gotta be that way! (it isn't)
When I got said lasagna, I couldn't really place what was wrong. I kept eating because you don't wanna throw away or give back food, because that's rude and a waste of money. But at some point I voiced my issue to my parents and decribed the lasagna as "tasting like Christmas". Which was my way of saying there was a shit load of cinnamon in that lasagna.
To make sure I wasn't just bullshitting my parents also took a bite of the Christmas lasagna, and lo and behold, I wasn't imagining things. Naturally we then wanted to know what was up with that and called over a waiter.
The answer we got essentially boiled down to "Oh yeah, these are leftovers from our Christmas party."
So not only was I given cinnamon flavored lasagna I didn't ask for. But also was given leftovers that sat in some freezer for weeks.
Now everytime I see people having cinnamon rolls or butterscotch cinnamon pie and I cry a little on the inside because I am reminded of a shitty ass lasagna I had more than over a decade ago.
The first ship that arrived was pretty matter of fact about its fate. The pilot introduced himself as Eric, then told us he was part of the first sublight resupply attempt in modern history. He then gave me and the ground control team his bad news.
âSo,â he said. âWithout real time telemetry, we werenât even sure which half of your orbit youâd be in. Thatâs half a solar systemâs worth of wiggle room. Decelerating enough to survive contact with your low orbit would take me two weeks, which, you know, it looks like we donât have. That means that in order to get the second ship in before you lose orbital control to the Kresh, Iâm gonna have to make a sacrificial flyby. Ten to the negative four torr is good enough for a lot of things, but at point-seven c itâs gonna be like sandblasting a soup cracker. Good news is that all the expensive toys are in the next ship, so this really ainât costing you more than a ship and a pilot.â
âYou knew,â I said. If they put the expensive toys in the second ship, they knew that the first was likely a sacrifice. No one smart enough to handle orbital physics would miss that.
âI did,â he replied. âBut someone had to go first.â
That was, of course, a lie. No one had to go first. No else had had, at least. When our connection to the FTL network was lost, weâd understood that as the end of our reinforcements. Doing resupplies via sublight was just too risky. It was a testament to Earth that it had accepted the risk and continued anyway.
âIs there anything we can do for you?â I asked. This man had come here to die for us. I wasnât sure how much I could give, but what I had was his.
âI do have a few requests,â he said. âFirst up, I need as much high-orbital data as you got. The whole lot.â
I began directing tightbeam resources to him immediately. It was an easy resource to exchange - it wasnât like there was anyone else out to talk to anymore. When we lost FTL, we found ourselves very, very alone.
âSecond,â he said. âRight, I know Iâm gonna sound like a princess right now, but I have been stuck in this stupid tin-can for almost two-years now, and I seriously overestimated how much I like synth music. If you have anything thatâs analog - I donât care what kind of string or drum or brass you play, but Iâd kill to hear something without a beep in it.â
I jumped my own queue in the tightbeam, and added a short playlist that I ripped from the local web. Human Music, it was labeled. 3 Terabytes. I prayed there was something on it that heâd like.
âAnd third,â he said. âThird. The uh, next pilot is pretty mad at me. Turns out this will just be one of those things left unfinished. Thatâs all death really is, I guess - a lot of unfinished things. Let him know that he was right: He is a better pilot than me. But tell him that wouldnât have made a difference here. Bad luck beats skill, and this luck was shit.â
I promised, and he went silent after that. We could see what data he was analyzing, and the short answer was all of it - everything from atmospheric density to troop positions and his own shipâs blueprints. He knew he had one shot at this, and that if the price wasnât paid here, it would be paid by whoever came next.
--- --- --- --- ---
Ground control didnât get a verbal warning that heâd entered atmosphere. Just a ping. A little here-I-am, whispered in the dark.
After that, we could keep track with visuals alone.
He hit the outskirts of the exoatmosphere in his first pass, burning bright enough to be seen with the naked eye. He caught the sparse particles like a kite, trying to shed enough speed to hit actual low orbit. Automatic telemetry updates gave us the grim news for the ship: Thermals were holding up decently, but the ablative was wearing out fast.
The entire descent brought us more than two hourâs reprieve. The Kresh hadnât expected to see a resupply, but they knew what one meant: Get it now, get it fast, or deal with a stream of new troops. They could buy themselves ten days' time by shooting this one ship down now.
That was an eternity during a siege.
The first loop lowered the speed by about a twentieth of light. The pilot responded by pulling the ship in tighter, trying to preserve more ablative plating by trading off with thermal. Seven fighters were close enough to fire off heat seekers. I donât think the Kresh had ever anticipated shooting down a craft coming in that hot - the missile's decoy avoidance countermeasure actually made it steer around the thing, chasing down loose pieces of shrapnel. Cooled fragments, still hotter than an engine should be at full blast. The simple mistakes bought it enough time to enter pre-orbit, and the fighters had to stop their pursuit. They werenât willing to die to stop the ship.
Our man, on the other hand, was already committed to that course.
A third loop followed a fourth. Ablative coating went from 65% integrity, to 30%, to 5%. Telemetry scans were exceptionally detailed - the pilot was making the flyby count. The last message we got from him was simple:
Are you EMP shielded? he asked, not even bothering to encrypt the text stream. He didnât have time to process more than that.
Yes, we replied. We knew what he was thinking, but it was still a shock to see it. The fusion torch that was driving his ship flared hot, burning through the nozzle and feeding directly into the craftâs deuterium supply. The reaction went super critical, and the resulting neutron pulse set off everything in the ship with a z-count higher than iron. Three continuous seconds of EM interference screamed through the comms as the hulk burned brighter than the sun.
The explosion itself wasnât powerful enough to reach the Kresh ships still in high orbit, but it made enough broadband radiation to blind both sides LADAR. The man must have been a hell of a pilot - half the shrapnel went down and burned up as it entered the standard atmosphere, sacrificed to move the other half past lagrange. Standard evasion wouldâve made the pieces easy to dodge, but with LADAR down, all the Kresh could do was sit still and cower as the wrath of a dead man riddled them full of holes. Our best ace had managed to shoot down seven ships before this before getting shot down himself. The wreckage of the freighter took down six.
--- --- --- --- ---
The second ship came in stealth. One second, we were holding attrition in high orbit, the next, something the size of a small station came ripping through the atmosphere.
It did the same trick as the former - swapping between ablative and thermal loads, coming down at a speed that the Kresh fighters didnât even try to match. Armies could be built in years, but skills like this took decades.
Telemetry connection was established almost as an afterthought. The way the ship casually ate through ablative armoring made my eyes water, but the pilot himself seemed pretty non-plussed.
âYouâre down to fifteen percent coverage. You need-
âWhat I need,â he said, âis to see the previous shipâs telemetry as soon as I land. And I don't need your help landing it.â
He cut off my chance to reply by flicking the channel off. We watched, and we wrang our hands, but sure enough he came in six minutes later with 4% of the ablative left.
I met him on the landing pad. Under normal circumstances, weâd have needed twenty-four hours for the craft to cool enough to even approach, but weâd had cryo ready just in case. Three tankers of nitrogen, and the loading area, at least, was cool enough to touch. Safety would have to take a backseat to speed here - we needed the supplies fast.
But those both would take a backseat to a promised conversation with the second pilot. He was out of the craft as soon as the air was cool enough to avoid scalding his lungs, picking through the workers to try and find who had the telemetry data.
I found him first. The drive went into his hands, but I needed to keep my promise with Eric before letting go.
âYouâre better than the first pilot,â I said, and I wasnât lying. If the previous flier had been a saint, this one was a god. âBut you wouldnât have been able to manage the landing either. There just wasnât time.â
âLet me see,â he said, tugging on the drive. âJust let me see. I have to know I couldnât do it either. I have to know that someone had to die.â
I let go of the drive and he stalked back into his ship. I didnât follow. I figured Iâd pushed things far enough.
--- --- --- --- ---
The second pilot left the ship six hours later. He looked bleary in a way that put me at ease. Iâd been up the last six hours directing supplies from the ship. Everything from ground-to-orbit rails to AGI targeting systems was inside - to call it gamechanging would be an understatement. It was good work, but I was tired, and I didnât want to have to pretend otherwise. Seeing the other man with bags under his eyes meant we could just be frank with each other.
âI couldnât have managed it,â he said, half-ashamed, half-relieved.
âIt just wasnât possible,â I agreed.
We sat there a moment longer. I didnât mind the break. This was time well spent.
âDid it hurt?â he asked finally.
âAblative failed before heating,â I said, which was the technical way of saying no. âHe overloaded the reactor before the ship actually broke up and did some kind of slingshot maneuver - hit the main body of the Kresh fleet with half a space stationâs worth of shrapnel.â
âGood,â he said.
I knew the signs. The tremor in his cheek, the way his jaw clenched - it wasnât professional, but I hugged him anyway. Let him have the dignity of choosing to weep instead of having it wrenched out of him.
It was a gift weâd all been given at some point in this war. At least now, there was the hope it could be over soon.
one time my sister and i were walking up the stairs and heard a bunch of banging noises coming from an apartment, and she turned to me and said "aborted neighbor". and i was just like. i'm glad we're the same kind of terminally online and i know exactly what you are referencing because otherwise this would sound insane.
Every Friday. Every Friday i either see this post or live in fear of seeing it. I canât wake up and say âitâs fridayâ anymore without thinking of this post. I am living a nightmare and itâs your fault
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