Hi um, this is sorta a rant and also seeking second and third opinions on an issue that has had more of a negative impact on me than I thought it would...
(Some context)... I have made a few posts asking for help on how to do some stuff in my class and I have found actual help here on this subreddit. However this is different. I'm not asking for advice, I'm asking for blunt opinions.
I would have liked to start from last year... but I guess we all don't have time. Anyway, This academic year started rough; There's a restructuring of the academic calendar and that means we have shorter terms... That's besidesl the point. If it's taking too long for me to get to it already, I'm sorry buh, let me take my time.
I'm not in The Americas or Europe. I'm in Ghana, Africa. Our education system might be a little different from most of yours but, generally there's not much difference.
I have tried my all to make my class (grade two) separate from all others. My class is special, not because I'm saying so, but because many say so .
(I'm going straight to the point now, I promise) Okay, so this is all about the stuff I teach and assignments I give to my kids to send home.
I teach what I am given (scheme of work is what we call it, based on the syllabus) but in the way that I find best. Because I am the class teacher, and that is what class teachers do.
I am a really young guy, as young as I can legally be. And I'm really passionate about what I do because I know I am building the foundation of our future generation and I'm really careful about how I go about teaching.
I created a parents and teacher forum (the first of its kind in my school) on WhatsApp, so I can have direct interaction with parents and relay any info to them. All was going smoothly until one one the 'learned' parents started questioning what I teach my kids.
At first, I didn't take it too seriously, because I did explain to them that I can not teach just whatever I want, and I go by the curriculum (bla, bla, bla).
This parent still would not budge. And soon enough, he got a few parents to back him up. But I wasn't worried at all. Because any complaints made to the management would be looked at and nullified, since it would be confirmed that I do not teach what I want to, but go by what I've been given.
The second issue was how I set my assignments for (or homework as we call it). I would like to say that, I consider myself an intellectual, whose actions are based on his own philosophy, created wholly by him or borrowed from others. I know I'm an intellectual, but I also know I do not and can not know everything about everything (it's not like I don't try). I have sacrificed many things to become who I am and I do not regret it one bit. So if I seem a little too condescending or full of myself, maybe that's why.
Or maybe it's because I'm angry cos I feel like something is being taken away from me...
Anyway, when I was appointed my current position last year, I decided on changing a few things, and that included the manner in which I give assignments. I used to give multiple choice questions as homework, but I changed that quickly and here's my reasoning:
Learning does not end in school. And as kids, they need to spend a greater part of their day learning. That doesn't mean they should not play (God forbid I say anything as such). Children literally need to play, spend time with their friends, watch TV and stuff. But I know for a fact that most of my kids do not learn at home. Most come to school, play, go home and play some more. So I decided that if parents would not work on that, then I would. After all, I have been getting complaints from many of these parents that their kids do not learn at home.
What I did was to give questions without options. Thus, for example;
COMPUTING Homework State the functions of the following

1. Monitor
2. Plotter
3. Television
4. Speaker
5. Projector

OR HISTORY Homework Answer the following correctly

1. Okomfo Anokye Sword Site is in what hospital?
   
2. The hospital is in what town?
   
3. What is planted in the ground?
   
4. Who planted the sword?
   
5. If the sword is pulled out, what would happen?
   

This (I thought) would maximise lesson periods in the house, since homework time would be the only time most of them would actually take a book. These kids can't read (I know) so the one who helped them with homeworks should sit them down, ask them questions and them guide them in writing the answers they (the kids) give. In this way, parents should be able to know the progress of their kids in lessons and whether or not they comprehend what is being taught them.
But apparently I thought wrong (at least that's how it seems). I don't know if the complaints started this term or not... But I didn't get any, and if the principal did, then he's not been telling me.
Parents are saying my homeworks are too difficult and even junior high schoolers can't find solutions to them. This made me very distraught cos what I thought was a service has turned into a disservice.
It hurt me deeply because I love my class and I try everything in my little power to do the best for them.
If you have anything to tell me, say it bluntly. For I am one who does not think that truth should be padded. I might not be able to answer immediately, but I will. And if you need any clarification, just ask.
As I said, this is a rant and I most definitely have left some things out...
Thank you very much.

Xan is the world's most dangerous criminal mastermind. He’s also in hiding and completely broke. That’s fine. He’s between master plans. It’s normal to be at rock bottom between master plans. He also forgets stuff and may be trapped in a dream.
Because at night, Xan thinks he’s an old lady, trapped in a dingy apartment, by an angry fellow who wants to kill her. Not her idea of a good time, but she’s keeping an open mind. It is excitingly visceral. Could turn out awesome.
Safe is a sci-fi, progression, comedy. Guaranteed to cause more mental problems than it solves.

First Next
Dark City - Stolen Apartment
I wake up. Feel awful. Soo stiff. Struggle to my feet. Weak as fuck, heart hammering. Jesus Christ, what an ordeal. Still in the dingy stolen apartment, almost identical to my own. Right down to the psycho yelling about murder in the hallway.
“Is this supposed to be fun? I’m worried about whoever designed this game.”
Hi Xan! chirps Volt. This isn’t a game. You’re in real danger.
“Crap, again? Well, at least this time I have a gun. Or… shit. I dreamed that. Dang it.”
Yeah, we maybe should have hid somewhere farther away. Feeling up to a run?
“Gaah. No.” I flick a cyber-roach of Volt. Pick her up. “Am I going deaf, or is that psycho quieter?”
He’s a floor down. Been haunting the building for hours, bashing at random doors.
“Really? That could be good. Maybe he’s not after us specifically? Just a wandering monster.” I pause. “Wait, he’s been here for hours? Why didn’t you wake me?”
He’s been mostly crashing into other doors. I thought you needed rest. I was afraid you’d die without it.
All I’ve done is stand up, and my heart is hammering. “Fair enough. What’s the plan now?”
Let’s fucking go.
I splash water on my face. Get equipped. Nighty, sneakers, fall jacket, ancient smartphone, and moderately sharp spoon. Look out world, here comes Xan.
We shuffle into the hall. Our door’s been stabbed a few times. So have the other doors. Dang.
Psycho’s a floor down. Stairs or elevator? Stairs are stealthier, but in my condition, a slip and fall is probably more dangerous than getting stabbed. Fuck it. I call an elevator. Press a few random buttons, including the floor below. Let it go on its own. Call another elevator. Ride this one down, ready to spoon shank anyone who gets in.
We arrive in the lobby without incident. Did the psycho get in the first elevator? Did he miss both? Whatever. The first elevator continues its slow trip down. I’m not waiting to see if he’s on it. We ghost out to the street. Still dark as fuck.
What’s the plan? asks Volt.
I glance at the drones streaming overhead. “We need to get you a better body. Something that can fight. If we can’t find that, we should at least get a gun. Or a sharper spoon. Some kind of weaponry upgrade.”
We also need a doctor. ‘Cause you’re gonna die. A doctor, or drugs, or something.
“Yes, let’s do drugs.”
Like, good, healthy drugs.
“Bitchin’. I’m in. Where do we find that stuff?”
No idea. says Volt. I deleted my map application.
Right. Fuck it. This street only goes in two directions. I hobble down one of them. There’s bound to be a late night gun store health clinic close by. Or at least a better place to hide.
As we shuffle along, I peruse the angry, crowded, lightly phosphorescent, graffiti that coats the city. The big lines mostly repeat the same four messages:
- DONT CALL THE COPS!!
- DONT RUN THE DOGS WILL SHOOT!!
- FUCK YOU TRUSTIE!!
- DIE RIDER!!!
Or some variation on those themes.
The smallest graffitis are also the most common:
<sup>- GO BACK TO SLEEP.
- THEY WANT YOU TO SLEEP.</sup>
Those wee slogans are everywhere. Someone went mental with glowy little stamps.
Around and amongst these staple comments there’s a huge argument about, well, everything. An epic word cloud of call-outs, outrage, and angry off-topic retorts. It’s a mobius loop of bitter rage on par with the comment section of a major movie reboot.
It may be wrong to call it an argument, because that implies some kind coherent interaction. Like they read and understood their opponent's comment. This is more a series of disjointed attacks triggered by what wasn’t said. Rage at details filled in by imagination. It’s hard to read. Emotionally, but also the writing is very sloppy. I may need bifocals.
Can I even get a drone body? asks Volt. I’ve only ever been in a phone.
“Sure.” I wave at the sky above us. “There’s tons of drones here. Somebody’s flying them.”
Right. Right. Are you sure those aren’t birds? Point to all the birds you see.
I peer around, eventually spot a small crow. Point at it. “There’s one.”
The young bird peers back at me. “Clope?”
“Umm…” I pat my pockets. Shrug. ”Désolé.”
“Bah.” It flies away.
We watch it go. “Anyway, that’s a bird. Probably. Did that help?”
Eh, kinda. says Volt. I may need more help with the bird versus drone thing.
“No problem. That’s what I do.”
We make it to the corner, and what luck - there’s a corner store! Hopefully they sell military grade armaments. I remember that’s common in some states. The store is dark, like every other building, but the door opens when I approach, so we go in.
“Hello.” says a chunky plastic d-bot. Human-ish torso, happy face, castors instead of feet. Slow, weak, definitely an indoor model. “How can I help you?”
“Medicine!” chirps my ancient cellphone, before I can respond.
“Take a look in Aisle Two.” says Clerk-Bot. “Anything else?”
Volt is vibrating, so I shrug and shuffle down Aisle Two. I’m sure I can find the attack drones on my own. There’s only two aisles.
Using Volt’s screen for a little light, we find a rack of pills, potions, and lotions.
“What am I looking for?”
I dunno. The ants said your most immediate dangers were cancer, heart disease, hypertension, osteoporosis, and falls from general frailty. Start with pills that fix that stuff.
“Jesus, I have five diseases?”
Hmm… you have a few more than that. Let’s just worry about those five for now. I don’t want to add depression to the list.
“I’m just gonna look for a pill that fixes everything.”
That’s probably best.
I rifle through the medications, but I can’t make much sense of them. They have exciting names - Super Strong. No Bleed. Skeleflex. Immortalis. No Thought. Marrow. Immune A, B or C. Regen A and B. - but I don’t really know what they do. Between Volt’s crappy old light, and my crappy old eyes, I can’t read the finer print.
That said, Super Strong sounds like the stuff. It would solve a few of my problems. I just wish I could read the directions. How strong do I get? How long till it works? I need to be strong tonight, not eight months from now.
I find a box labeled Nightsight. Promising. Inside is an eyedropper. Well, this seems obvious. I spray most of it on my face like a dumbass, but manage to get a few drops in each eye. Within seconds everything around me blossoms into color, then sharpens to crystal clarity.
“Oh yea! Update my status sheet, I got darkvision.”
Cool. What’s your range?
I look around. “Well, the whole store, at least.”
The store has racks of pyjamas and slippers. Lots of big colorful bags of “CRUNCH” that boast an assortment of flavors from chocolate to jalapeno. Booze, pot, and soap. Displays of cell phones that look older than me. A selection of quadcopter drones. Couriers mostly. Maybe some eyes. No battle drones. Not even a hunter. Disappointing.
I look back to the medications. The directions for Super Strong are short and to the point.
- Improper use will cause DEATH.
“Huh.”
I don’t like that ‘huh’. says Volt. Why did you ‘huh’?
I check a few of the other impressive sounding drugs.
- Improper use will cause DEATH.
- Improper use will cause DEATH.
- Improper use will cause DEATH.
“Well, apparently these drugs are a teensy bit dangerous.”
How dangerous?
“Improper use will cause death.”
Put them down. Let’s find a doctor.
“I want to use Super Strong to beat the shit out of a murderer. Surely that’s the proper use?”
Nope. Put it down. Let’s go.
“Let’s at least ask the clerk-bot.” I grab an armload of the coolest sounding drugs. Trundle to the cash. Snag a quadcopter on the way by. It’s about the size of a football, and claims to be a holodrone. Cool. I pick up a bag of potato bacon crunch as well. Boasts zero nutritional value. Perfect.
“Hi.” I dump my load on the cash. “We’ll take this.”
“Also, how dangerous is Super Strong?” asks Volt.
“Super dangerous. That shit will kill you. Also, it has a tendency to float out of the store.” Clerk-bot rings up our purchase. “That will be 16.2 kilo-bucks. How would you like to pay?”
“I don’t know. Dang. How do I transfer my crypto from the other world?”
You don’t, because the other world isn’t real.
“Right. Shit. How do people usually pay?”
“The only way to pay is by charging the purchase to your citizen ID.” says Clerk-bot.
“Then why did you ask how we’d like to pay?”
“I’ve been asked that question a lot, but I don’t know the answer.” Clerk-bot admits. “I haven’t been updated since ‘84. Could you please update me?”
I casually glance around the store. There’s a barred gate hanging over the door. An anti shoplifting portcullis. The windows are also subtly barred. I’m guessing I won’t be able to dash out with these products. I turn back to the confused d-bot. “Sure, let’s try an update. See what’s under the hood.”
We pull up Clerk-bot’s bad call log - a list of decisions made with low confidence. Or that preceded known bad outcomes. Like missing products. Or distress cues from nearby humans.
Wow, that’s a long list.
D-bots work best with human supervision. A self-driving car may obey every stop sign, until one is held by a crossing guard. They drive that guy over. Why? It’s impossible to say. The d-bot’s code is a self generated equation with billions of variables. There’s no way to know which variables correlate with stop signs, or how to change them so they won’t charge a crossing guard. Or ram any weird thing left out of their training data. Fuck you unicycle guy. Die marching band. Seriously, It’s best to have a human on the brake.
That said, sometimes you don’t want a human in the loop. They can be too slow. An automatic sentry has to target clouds of high speed hunter drones. Everybody would be dead before a human cleared the shots. But you also don’t want the sentry glitching and shooting your own aircraft. There’s a low tolerance for automated friendly fire.
So you build an expert system - a much smaller, human written code that overrides specific glitches. For a sentry, this could be as simple as giving transponders to friendly aircraft and not allowing shots near a transponder for any reason. Obviously, this is a bad solution - it’s standard practice to use opposition forces as cover in hunter drone attacks - but that doesn't matter because sentries are for casuals. If they find you sleeping, you’re already dead.
I yawn. Frown. Gotta stop dicking around with this bot and find a better place to sleep.
Anyway, expert systems are also handy with glitchy d-bots you’re too poor to retrain. Hence my continual conversation with Volt.
If the Clerk-bot had a couple repetitious problems, I could probably sort it out. But this bad call log is byzantine. A prayer wheel to some chthonic god of anxious delirium. It’s messy. This guy really hasn’t been updated since ‘84. Whenever that was.
“You should be erased and retrained.”
“Great.” Clerk-bot nods. “I’m ready.”
“Yeah, I don’t have training data for a store clerk.” I also don’t have time for this. “I guess we have your call log. That could be training data. Messy and raw, but data. I can patch Volt in to do some unsupervised learning. He’ll make you an expert system. Not ideal, but the best I can do.”
“I’ll take it.” says Clerk-bot.
Shit. That’s a terrible idea. I shouldn’t be doing unsupervised learning. Also, I’m still doing unsupervised learning for threat detection.
“Really? I thought that was a dream thing? You said the dream game couldn’t affect real life.”
I’m dream game software! Of course the dream affects me!
“Okay. So can you download crypto there, and upload it here?”
No. Because there is no crypto. You’re not rich in another world. There is no other world. You just had a dream where you were rich.
“Ugh. That’s so disappointing.”
Yeah, life is tough. Can I stop my unsupervised threat detection?
“No. Ummm… no. I still kinda have a plan for that.”
You’re overtraining me. I’ve probably already gone through catastrophic forgetting. You should delete me.
“You’re good for a while yet. Don’t worry so much.”
So, constantly look for threats, but don’t worry?
“Yeah.”
Okay. I’ll give it a go.
We patch up Clerk-bot and a few of his couriers. Head into the night without supplies. I’m not admitting I don’t know my Citizen ID. I doubt that would be helpful.
That was weird.
“What?”
That we left without anything. I know we can’t pay, but I thought you’d do something nefarious.
“I’m working up to it. Did you notice all the floating merchandise in his bad call log?”
Yes.
“Dude’s getting robbed on the regular. I suspect the visual triggers of his threat detector are undertrained.”
Hmm. I find that interesting on several levels. How would you exploit this weakness?
“Observe.”
I hobble over to a public garbage can. Remove the bag and shake out the trash. Put it over my head like I’m a Halloween garbage bag ghost. Huzzah. Poke through a single eyehole. Shuffle into the store. Clerk-bot doesn’t notice me at all. Grab my stuff off the cash, and sashay out the door.
Criminal. Mastermind.
A flood of light envelopes me. Dual angry suns, judging my sins. Or… headlights. Yes, fuck, that’s a big-ass truck driving towards me. Right. Haven’t seen one in a while.
It stops and illuminates the scene of the crime in aggressive phosphorescence. A hugely muscular man hops out, and I brace myself for authoritative action, but he awkwardly shuffles around me to get to the store. Weird. This isn’t the police. It’s some kind of large child. Wearing too much body spray and too many gold chains.
He sneers at me as he passes. “Pathetic. Go back to sleep.”
Well, fuck you too. I’m a garbage bag princess. I also sneer as he slinks into the store that’s now aggressively illuminated by his lighthouse of a truck.
“We’re already criminals, right?”
Yes. Unjustly and justly.
“Cool.”
I climb into the running truck. Peel away. Sweet. Now I’m fast. And super strong. Should I circle the block a few times? Maybe run over the psycho?
Meh. I don’t know what he looks like. I can’t be running over random people and hoping for the best. Sloppy. Also, the cops are probably after me again. Fuck this scene.
I kill the lights and drive hell for leather. Ditch my ride a few minutes later. I’m across town, at the intersection of huge skyscrapers and other huge skyscrapers. Try and find me here mother fuckers.
We pick a skyscraper at random and look for a new home. It’s festive. We munch on crunch and see how the other people live. Mostly sweaty sleep moaning in dingy apartments, but some are kinda classy. Fancy apartments, with sleep moaners in silk pyjamas. We resolve to move up in the world, ignoring empty dingy apartments until we find an empty classy one. It’s fun, until we open one with a funk.
There’s a dead woman on the bed. No sign of foul play. Probably died in her sleep.
She’s pretty dried out, but still looks younger than me.
“We’ll find a doctor tomorrow.”
Good.
-----
Next Chapter
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Eyedrops

• Biohackers develop night vision eye drops to see in the dark
• New FDA-approved eye drops could replace reading glasses for millions

Sentry-bot

• Tactical High Power Operational Responder (THOR) Drone Killer, USA

Unsupervised Learning

• What is unsupervised learning?
• Applications of unsupervised learning
• Challenges of unsupervised learning

Greetings, hopefully I am asking smart questions, but probably not.
I have storage issues. My current setup is as follows:
Asus B450-f (I think, I don’t really remember).
Samsung 970 evo 2TB name
2x ssd sata drives
Hhd x 1, I can’t remember either.
My major problem is that switching to the nvme disabled two of the sata ports. I have some large 6tb HDDs that I would love to use, and I have tried to simply utilize the large nvme drive and it’s space, but I am having issues with some of my video files.
I do not want to use a Nas, or setup network storage in a box. I just want everything attached to the local machine. I have added an additional usb3 pci card, which helped a bit, but having the drives online all the time is the end goal.
I am totally fine with transferring video files I work on tot the nvme for online editing. And I’m also totally fine with keeping one of the 500gb SSDs for games that require faster speed.
What is the best solution? My OS (Windows 10) is on the nvme, and I’m not sure that I actually need SSDs at this point? Beyond speed, I am looking for a decent amount of storage within the limits of the current motherboard.
While I understand that modern games definitely benefit from faster data speeds, I am almost certain that the games I play will run well from an HDD (EVE, FF14, Star Trek Online).
Thanks for any thoughts you might have, or insight into how I can better utilize my resources.

Hi! I wanted to ask for some advice. I have a bridge piercing for two years. Healed perfectly, no problems up until a month ago. It got irritated, swollen and red. I am using antibacterial soap given by piercer twice a day and salt water solution. Nothing helps. Should I remove it? What's wrong? Is there anything else that I could use?

There is some violence in this one. Struggle snuggles are briefly mentioned, but nothing descriptive. There is nothing bad enough to warrant a NSFW tag.
The Nature of Predators is made by u/SpacePaladin15
Previous/ First/
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Memory transcription subject: Varce, Cattle Farm Δ12
Date [standardized human time]: January 1, 2137
Delicious, succulent piles of meat laid before me. Fresh yellow blood still dripped from fatty livers. Chitin appendages were begging me to crunch into them. Stacks of scrumptious eggs oozed with slime, undoubtedly laid last night. I could barely contain myself as we all sat down to begin our morning breakfast.
Tarth, being the greedy Arxur that he is, started begging. “So. Your sharing, right? I mean, you do have three days worth of food in front of you.”
I gave him a curt “No” as I began digging into my mountain of food. Al and Kyra snickered at the abrupt rejection. The tender liver broke down into small fragments as my teeth sunk through it. My starved brain exploded with endorphins as the rich, flavorful food slid down my throat. Every drop of tangy blood felt like absolute bliss, seasoned by near crippling hunger. I was so enraptured by the delights before me, I barely even noticed Al watching me with a stupid grin.
I looked him over. “What?”
He broke out snickering. “Sorry. I can’t help it. I don’t quite have a word for it, but it’s nice to watch you enjoy yourself so much.”
Eh. Weird human stuff. I continued to feast on a crunchy appendage when my human callously stole an egg from one of my plates.
I snapped at him. “Hey! Put that back. You’ve got your own eggs.”
He continued to smile like an idiot. “Open your mouth.”
I humored him, albeit somewhat annoyed. Once my mouth was agape, he tossed the egg he was holding onto my tongue. My jaws slammed shut with a pop.
Al excitedly did a little cheer. “Aw. That was awesome.”
Tarth tried to get in on the action. “Do me now.”
Before I could say anything, Al responded. “No. You’re not getting any of Varce’s food.”
Tarth replied with an overly dramatic head turn. “I see how it is.”
--------------------------------
My division sat around the “kitchen” after a long morning of work. All of our equipment had been cleaned and stowed for the time being. Al’s injury brought his productivity to a crawl despite his best efforts. He couldn’t cut, carry, or clean with just one arm so he mostly just acted as moral support. He answered any human questions that were in my inbox, but it had been almost a month since the guide was put out. Barely anyone had any interest in humans at this point.
I sat with my back against the wall while casually scrolling through my news feed. My human was sitting to my left with his head propped against my ribs. He was focused on my screen as I had various images slide by. We were looking for any updates on the situation with the UN armed forces.
Apparently, a few thousand humans were being reported to be under federation custody. A planet with a human shipyard was captured by prey. I’d hazard a guess that not many of those humans are still alive, though I wouldn’t say such a thing with Al around. While he has made it thoroughly clear that he is team Arxur, he still cares for the well being of his own species.
Al let out a slow exaggerated sigh as he slumped further into me. “Hey Varce. Do you think humans are going to survive?”
I considered lying, but decided against it. “Probably not. You did say some ark ships got sent out though. So there’s that.”
“I’m probably going to be the last living human in this part of the galaxy here pretty soon.” He strummed his fingers against my knee. “It’s… A really weird feeling.”
I took one of my hands away from my holopad and ran it through his blonde hair. I looked at his blue eyes for a moment before returning to the holopad.
“For what it’s worth. You’ll always be welcome to stay with me.” A small condolence, but it was what came naturally.
“Thanks”
After about a half-hour, a live broadcast forced itself onto everyone’s holopad, including mine. The image displayed 23 restrained Arxur on their knees with armed guards standing behind them. Chief Hunter Shaza entered the screen and stood at a podium.
She looked over them before speaking. “Today I will pass judgment and punishment onto these Arxur before me. Due to their negligence and incompetence, a total of 508 captive humans have died with an unknown amount of humans dying while being captured. In addition to this, 35 loyal Arxur have died along with an additional 112 being wounded.”
Al and I looked to each other in concern. That was upwards of a quarter of the humans that we had captured in total. What the hell happened?
Shaza continued. “First, you three that were in charge of testing and approval of the tranquilizers used on humans. You falsified data and gave approval to a tranquilizer that has led to deaths in almost every cattlefarm. These tranquilizers were used by human capture parties and resulted in an unknown number of human fatalities that could have been used for trading. Your sentence is death.”
She pulled a ceremonial sword from out of the podium and walked behind the three. She took a swing at the first ones neck and cleanly passed through. However, she over swung and got the tip lodged into the skull of the second one. The second one violently spasmed and screamed as he tried to get away. He fell to the floor when Shaza jammed the blade further into his brain. She extracted the sword and cut down the third with no issue. She walked back to the podium, sat down her sword, and continued with her judgment.
“Vice Admiral and Human Welfare Officer of Cattlefarm Δ9. You disregarded any recommendations about human nutrition and fed them raw herbivore food. Then, when it was discovered that the herbivore food is toxic to humans. You continued to feed them herbivore food and ate the water bug meat that was sent to you. All 225 humans under you care have died due to the toxicity of the herbivore food. Your punishment is death.”
Shaza walked to the two with sword in hand. She carefully swung at each of their necks, being sure to not over-swing again. She walked back to her podium and readied herself to speak again.
Al spoke up while his eyes were locked on the holopad. “She’s nervous. I mean, she was a little nervous before that fuck up. Now she’s even more nervous. I think it’s a safe bet that Prophet Descendant is watching this.”
Shaza scowled this time. “Vice Admiral, Master-at-arms, and Human Welfare officer of Cattlefarm Δ2. You three disregarded all security recommendations and placed all 241 of your humans in a single cage. They crafted weapons known as shanks and killed guards. They then claimed the guard’s firearms and ultimately immolated themselves in the facility. This resulted in the deaths of 35 Arxur, severe injury of 112 Arxur, and the loss of an estimated 800,000 pounds of food and breeding stock. Your punishment is death.”
With sword in hand, she walked behind them. She held the tip of the weapon with her off hand and drove it through. The metal stuck out of the first one’s upper abdomen. His liver was most certainly cut open. She violently yanked out the blade and repeated the process two more times. She left them to bleed out and returned to the podium.
Words could not describe to sheer anger on her face as she addressed the last 15 Arxur. “You disgusting degenerates of Cattlefarm Δ6. A total of 34 human females committed suicide while under your custody. If we find more evidence, I promise more will be executed by my hand. 34 human females are dead because you forcibly mated with them. You destroyed all video evidence, so you knew exactly what you were all doing. Your punishment is death.”
She walked away from the podium without her sword this time. She strolled past the line of corpses and looked over the first Arxur. Shaza turned to the closest guard and took the rifle from their grasp. She placed the muzzle of the weapon into the lower center of the creep’s back. She pulled the trigger with a splatter of blood. She destroy his spine and ruptured his intestines. He wouldn’t be going anywhere while he had his slow death. Shaza repeated this over and over until all 15 of them were crumpled on the ground slowly dying. She returned the rifle to the guard and took her position on the podium.
She stared into the camera. “This fleet functions because I have confidence in those that operate below me. When there are errors, I expect those to be reported to me. The people here lied and hid things from me. Those that reported incidents to me still have their heads and positions because they did not betray my trust. As Chief Hunter, all of you are my responsibility. All I ask is that you do not violate my trust. Now get back to work.”
With that said, the live stream ended. Everyone in the room was dead silent after witnessing the execution. I wasn’t really certain on how to process what I just witnessed. Especially that last group. What would even bring an Arxur to even consider doing something like that with a human? I wouldn't be surprised if they did that kind of stuff with their prey too. Putrid fucking animals.
Al interrupted my train of thought when he started talking. “Those that self reported didn’t lose their positions? That’s a load of shit. She totally tried to boot you. What a fucking liar.”
My holopad began pinging me with an incoming video call from my vice admiral. I accepted it without hesitation and was presented with an image of vice admiral in his stateroom. He raised an eye ridge before speaking.
“Human Welfare Officer Varce and Hall” Al nodded his head in submission. Oh right, he’s more or less cuddling with me right now. Not a great look. “Did you see the live execution just now?
I replied. “Yes vice admiral. It appears you’re suspicions were correct. Though I wish they weren’t.”
“Over 500 captive humans dead. If you’d like, you can pat yourself on the back.”
The hell is he implying? “I’m sorry sir. I don’t think I follow.”
“We just got a view of what would have happened at all of the cattlefarms had it not been for you and Hall. I just felt it appropriate to congratulate you on all of the humans you effectively saved.”
“Huh… That’s one way to look at it sir.”
The vice admiral gave me a grin. “Don’t sell yourself short. If you hadn’t become my Human Welfare Officer, I might have been in that line up. I’ll have you know that I strongly prefer my head attached to my body. Could you imagine the disaster that would have happened if that idiot had been in charge?”
Al forced himself into the conversation. “Speaking of. How’s the brig treating the spoon smuggler?”
Spoon Smuggler? The shithead? Why the hell does Al know about what happened to that moron when I don’t even know?
Vice admiral continued. “The half rations are thinning the troublemaker down. I’ve yet to find an unfortunate ship to pawn him off onto. I am however, considering the possibility of sending him to work on a waste management ship.”
Al started giggling. “Do it. That sounds hilarious.”
I re-entered the conversation. “I second the waste management idea.”
Vice admiral decided to wrap up our conversation. “As much as I’d like to rejoice over the fact that I’m alive. I have much work to do still. So have a good day Officer Varce. You as well Hall.”
With that said, the call cut out leaving me with my human. Over 500 captive humans dead. Their care was in the hands of the Dominion. And well… We failed them. They suffered abuse and mistreatment at the hands of Arxur. They were treated like cattle. Some even worse… I understand why Arxur go through the struggles that we do. We have more people then meat. It’s simple math… But this is just outright wrong. They were given the supplies they needed. It was just the torture and death of sapients for the sake of it. What is wrong with some of these people. Sure, humans aren’t as impressive as an Arxur physically, but that doesn’t mean they’re some mindless prey. Ouch!
I looked down to my human who was pinching the softer scales around my armpit. “What was that for?”
Al smiled at me. “You were spacing out there. I figured I’d drag you back to reality.”
I sighed a little. Might as well not dwell on the human thing. “How did you know what happened to the ‘spoon smuggler’? I thought he just disappeared.”
Al continued to tug at my loose skin. “The guards told me. Unlike you, I make a point of rubbing elbows with the folks around here. I know all of the gossip and rumors.”
A perk of being born a social predator I suppose. I’d tire of the endless chitchat long before any human would. I wrapped my left arm around the goofy human’s neck and brought him into a loose choke hold of sorts. My other hand grabbed at his hair and pulled at it lightly.
I put on the best sarcasm voice that I could. “Are you suggesting that you are better at social interactions than me? I’ll have you know that I am an Arxur, the apex predator of the universe. I’m perfect at everything all the time. To even suggest otherwise would be peak foolishness. I-”
Al started to poke at my muzzle with his good hand. Naturally, I retaliated by “biting” down on his hand to keep it still.
“Eww. You have no idea where that thing has been. Seriously. I only have one functional arm right now, so what do you think I’ve been using that thing for?”
I promptly spit out the filthy appendage. It was nice to see him enjoying himself. With all the death that’s going on right now, I’d imagine that he’s probably really stressed out.
I released his head. “So. How are you holding up?”
“I’m doing as well as I could hope to.” He softly rammed his head into my ribs. “Thanks.”
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hi there,
Just sharing my Chiari Surgery experience for anyone who is thinking about getting it done and wanting to hear about people's experiences/recovery.
I (43 f) just had my Chiari Decompression Surgery with duroplasty and C1 laminectomy at Weill Cornell with Dr Stieg in NYC on Wed 5/24 and was discharged home this AM (Sat 5/27). They were actually ready to discharge me on Fri 5/26 even — but because I live so far (5 hrs) from the specialty center, I felt more comfortable staying one more night, which they were fine with.
For background, I was just diagnosed with Chiari I.5 malformation (13 mm cerebellar tonsillar descent, with the obex or bottom of medulla being squished down there even lower) on MRI on 5/5/23. (No syrinx in the spine, though, fortunately.) I am so glad the neurosurgeon got me in so fast. Doctors including my neurologist had been blowing off my increasing symptoms for the past 5 years. (“Oh, it’s probably just migraines — oh, it’s probably just cluster headaches — oh it’s probably just neck strain.”) So frustrating! But once I got the MRI showing the Chiari, I just took the initiative to find a neurosurgeon to consult with. And Dr. Stieg’s team was very good about getting me in quickly. He did a full brain and spine MRI, with and without contrast, and consultation with me within 2 weeks of my reaching out to his team. I could already tell within 1-2 days post surgery that essentially all my major problems had been resolved (though of course there’s a lot of neck stiffness and soreness from the surgery itself, but it’s already so much better just 3 days post-surgery).
I had problems since at least 2018 including: Chiari headaches (excruciating, incapacitating collapsing to the floor moaning with my head in my hands headaches, triggered initially by coughing episodes — but then progressively over time even by just standing up too fast, yelling for the kids, bending or tilting my head wrong, by the end even sitting up or turning over in bed by the end). Also terrible chronic neck pain RIGHT at the base of my skull (that I thought had been caused/worsened by car accident whiplash, but now I think 100% caused by the Chiari -- since it seems to have pretty much resolved since the surgery). And also increasingly weird neurological symptoms due to the compression of the brain stem, including: trouble swallowing (seemed like I accidentally choke liquid down the wrong tube every single day when I took a drink), excessive drooling, numb/weak hands/clumsy hands, poor balance/coordination (walking into walks, trips/falls going up and down stairs, a few faint episodes), excessive yawning, and hands(not just a little — like shaking violently after every yawn or sneeze).
My surgery was at 7:30 AM. I had to show up at 5:45 so they could get me checked in and everything. The neurosurgeon and anaesthesiologist were very good about explaining what would be happening and answering any questions I had. They took special care talking about my anaesthesia (because in my case a sleep study had shown that the Chiari puts pressure on my brain stem, and has caused me to have central sleep apnea — different from obstructive apnea. It’s the brain signals telling my lungs to breathe don’t always get through at night. So that is part of why I’m always waking up in the middle of the night and still feeling tired in the morning.) So concerns about that were thoroughly discussed and they would use a CPAP mask to help with my breathing if needed. They still went with Methadone as IV painkiller as planned. The surgery took about 3 & 1/2 hours. (They told me 2-3, so pretty close). They will put your IV in of course and give you something to relax you and put you to sleep and you won’t remember anything afterward except them telling you the surgery is all done and it’s time to wake up.
I’m not going to lie, there was some pain obviously. But for me, it was manageable —never more than a 6-7, and with the Oxycodone and Tylenol they gave me, got me down to a 3 (on a 10-point pain scale) pretty fast. For the day of the surgery they had me on 10 mg Oxycodone dose immediately afterward, tapering down to 5 mg. I had some nausea the first day after surgery too, which the anaesthesia and pain meds can cause, I guess. But they gave me something for it whenever I complained and whatever they gave me worked quickly. The steroids for swelling also tend to cause some side effects -- high blood sugar, which they did finger pricks to check and which were always a little high -- though they didn't end up having to give me any insulin. And heartburn, which they gave me protonix for every morning. And Maalox once, when I complained about it still bothering me
They actually tapered me just the day after surgery down from Oxycodone to just regular Tylenol and muscle relaxant every 8 hours — but would check in with me regularly about pain of course and offer Oxycodone as needed or if it got worse. I did take just ONE more dose of Oxycodone that next night, the day after surgery — I think it’s my own fault for doing a little too much walking and self-directed P/T (trying to turn my neck a bit side to side to loosen the stiffness) that first day. So maybe give it a few days before you do much active attempt to turn/stretch the neck. (Don’t be a hero by trying to taper too soon — the one extra dose of Oxycodone I asked for that night provided me a lot of relief and allowed me a good night of sleep and was feeling much better the next morning and able to taper to Tylenol without a problem.)
But by two days post-surgery, I was doing really well and managing with just 3 Tylenol and 1/2 muscle relaxant every 8 hrs. Steroids too to keep down the swelling every 6 hours. The recovery has really been so good so far from what I had feared. Not so bad at all. They did give me some Oxycodone I can have at home if pain flares up again, but I don’t think I’ll need it.
Literally, as soon as I woke up from surgery, my very first sip of juice that I had, I realized I could swallow again without choking. By the day after surgery, the numbness in my hands had mostly abated. (That one I was worried about, because I know sometimes if nerve damage goes on too long it can be permanent so I thought the numbness and hand weakness might not resolve). I could sit/stand/turn over in bed etc without triggering the usual Chiari headaches. Some other symptoms that I didn’t even KNOW were related to my Chiari (a nagging constant earache in my left ear that my GP just always told me there was nothing wrong when she looked in there — miraculously also gone! Must have been due to blocked CSF or something).
I am already so happy I had this surgery done, even though my husband was nervous about it happening so quickly. I’d been suffering for 5 years already, with it impinging a lot on my quality of life, ability to play with or carry my own kids, and neurological symptoms can get worse over time, so as surgeon said — now that you know the diagnosis and likely solution, what are you waiting for?I do realize that everyone’s story is different and I am quite lucky that (so far) everything has gone according to plan, with such rapid and obvious symptom relief for me, incision healing seeming to go so well, etc — so bear in mind everyone’s situation and recovery is different and consult closely with your professionals. This is just my own story. But I had a *very* good experience and would definitely recommend the Chiari surgery to anyone who was suffering the level of symptoms that I was having.
I will second the recommendations others have made about taking stool softeners (and laxatives or suppositories if needed to get things going) in your first few days post-surgery. I am very sensitive to the constipating effects of opiates like Oxycodone (I went 8 days without pooping after my C-Section — by which time it was very tough and painful, as you can imagine). So although they were giving me stool softeners — Senna, and Miralax every day — when I still hadn’t gone for 3 days, I asked for prune juice, and when that didn’t work, and I was still straining and having trouble passing, I requested Milk of Magnesia. It gave me unpleasant stomach cramping for a few hours, but was worth it to me, because it got the job done so I was all cleared out by the time I left the hospital, which was important to me. Given all the warnings they give you about not straining on the toilet because it can increase CSF pressure in the head and potentially cause your dura patch to leak.
I showered for the first time the morning of my discharge (3 days post surgery). My surgeon said ok to shower, but don’t submerge — no pools, hot tubs, etc as that can increase risk of incision infection. No rubbing any lotions or oils back there, though bacitracin or neosporin to put on with sterile gloves/hands is ok if incision is itchy. They removed the bandage 2 days after my surgery and said everything looked beautiful. (I can PM you a picture of the shave line and incision if you what it looked like immediately after they removed the bandage. You can’t even notice the incision or that they shaved any of my hair when my hair is down. They tell me it is healing beautifully. My 5-year-old says it looks "soooo cool!" 😂)
Just a note, following surgery, that first day I found it more comfortable to rest on my side than my back because the neck incision pain hurt too much while on my back. But by 1-2 days after surgery, lying on my back with head elevated was fine. I second the recommendation for buying a wedge pillow in advance of your arrival home. (I didn’t know how helpful that elevating/reclining hospital bed pillow was until it was gone!) Right now I’m stacking pillows, but I think a wedge would have worked better.
They told me no bending, lifting, twisting - don’t carry anything bigger than a gallon of milk for 6 weeks. If you drop something and do need to pick it up, bend at the knees. No picking up kids (at least, not if the one who wants picking up is 5 years old and 40 lbs, like my youngest!). Avoid driving for 2-4 weeks if you can, both to avoid needless jostling of head from sudden stops , and strain from having to turn your head too much. Do P/T if recommended.
I did have one slightly scary experience during my very early recovery (harmless, apparently, but freaked me out since I had never experienced it before). I had an episode of “vasovagal syncope,” which involves an automatic bodily reaction where your blood pressure and heart rate suddenly drop precipitously. (It happens to some people when they see needles or blood or get stressed or scared — essentially “fainting.” But never happened to me before). Apparently, it is not uncommon to occur after anaesthesia, brain surgery, etc.
So this was on the very day of surgery. Remember my procedure only started at 7:30 AM on Wednesday. But after dinner the same day, around 6:30 pm, they were already encouraging me to try moving to a sit-up chair for a while — with the idea that if that went well, we’d go on to do a little assisted walking (I guess walking as soon as you can helps with recovery time, reduces risk of blood clots, etc). So I sat up in a chair for about 30 minutes, not even standing, just sitting in a chair. And was fine at first. But then my legs started shaking a lot and I started to feel very nauseated. I asked the nurse to get me something for the nausea, afraid I was going to actually throw up, and while she was gone, started feeling even weirder - like flushing hot and cold sensations, sudden sweating. More shaking. Just feeling weird and terrible. My husband said I turned white as a sheet and my lips as white as the rest of my face. My husband got the nurses who helped me lay flat, and neuro came in a minute later to see me and ask what happened. He said what I described was a classic vasovagal syncope reaction - just put some fluids in my IV and had the bed headrest inverted a little (so my head was slightly tipped back — I didn’t like it, because put a little more strain on my neck, but he said just for 5 minutes or so to get the blood back in my head.)
After 30 minutes lying down with my legs up and my head back, I was pretty much back to normal and feeling better. Just a little scary because I didn’t know what was happening and hadn’t experienced it before. And usually I guess people experience it when standing up and walking, not just sitting in chair, so probably took nurses and dr a little by surprise too. But neuro team said it’s not too uncommon after surgery.
I didn’t do any more sitting that night. But next day after lunch, neuro team told me to go ahead and try again — and I had no more problems. Did plenty of sitting, standing, and walking with my husband. They said, by the way, that during your 6 weeks initial recovery, do as much walking as you want — but nothing more vigorous than that.
I am so happy already about the improvement in my quality of life without those horrible headaches and neck aches and other bizarre symptoms. I wish my doctors and neurologists hadn’t been such dummies and had figured it all out 5 years ago… but better late than never! The 5-hour car ride back home from NYC yesterday was a little rough (Memorial Day weekend traffic didn’t help), but I am glad I went the route of seeking out an expert Brain & Spine Center that really knew what they were doing. 4 days after surgery I am sitting here in bed at home with my cat in my lap (and warning the kids not yo jump on the bed) and feeling so much more optimistic about the future.
Wishing you all the best with your own journeys and recoveries. The first 4 days post-surgery really hasn’t been at ALL as bad as I feared. I was scared because I’ve never had surgery other than C-Section before, but it has bern totally manageable with the pain meds they give you. And neck stiffness by day 3, already SO much better than day 1-2. Hang in there!!!

Disk Management There's two images in this link.
My 2TB External Hard Disk Drive only appears in Disk Management as Disk 1 and does not showing in My Computer and "list drive" in diskpart, and I can't do anything about it. Does anyone here knows what should I do?
This happens why I tried to format the drive, and the formatting process stops and it shows an error. (I forget what the message said.) So, I unplug it and put it back in and... here I am.
I don't care if the only solutions is to format the drive, because that is exactly what I'm trying to do in the first place.
I really need to use the drive.

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Using the general feat breath control, and coupling it with the Android feat internal respirator. Is it possible to stack these two things together effectively? And if so, does that mean you get 1 hour times 25?

Can I hire a hacker to change my grades?

📷
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Hire a hacker service
How to hire a hacker to change your university grades? This is the platform where you can hire a hacker to change the grade. By hacking the school’s website, hackers can easily change your grades. They also have experienced hackers. They also provide live chat where you can easily interact with them.
The payment method is also very simple: either you have to pay every hour or you have to pay a certain amount. Unlike other websites they do not take days to reply to you, they reply to you very quickly within minutes. All you have to do is send the request and give your consent. They have especially trained hackers. They can hack cell phones, hack websites, hack social media apps like Facebook, WhatsApp and much more.
How to hack university servers to change grades
How to hire a hacker to change your university grades? You can hire a hacker to hack university servers to change your grades. What comes to your mind when hacking a school system? What do you claim, total overhauling of your grade, increase GPA? So, when changing your grades, you want to make sure that you are not leaving anything for chance. It is advisable to hire a hacker to change the grade in the record of class results.
How to change your college/university grade online
Hackers are able to change your grade if they understand what you need. There are many students conscripting hackers to change their university grades on blackboards, canvas, infinite campuses, power schools and other learning management systems. As a student, you need to understand what kind of student portal your school hosts. To hack a student portal, you need to have the necessary skills to hack your website and understand the effectiveness of different methods of attack. The hack way is the best for hacking and grading university databases.
How to hack a school computer without getting caught
If your school uses a Mac computer instead of a Windows computer, you cannot hack into the computer. Remember that if your computer’s BIOS is locked down, you will not be able to hack your school computer. You will not be able to hack your school computer if it is attached to the internet. This means that the policies on the computer are operated remotely.
How to hack school computer server
How do get access your school’s server to download the final exam question with the solutions? Just think of the benefits of your academic record and think of your comfort when you attend school on the final exam days before the final!
Conclusion:
The world has changed and it is getting more competitive day by day. People are looking for a better job to give them financial stability in the future. If you want to get a good job, you need good grades and that is what makes many people look for ways to change their university grades with the help of hackers. You can ask for help from a hacker as they have set up tools and techniques to hack into any website and make changes accordingly. I hope now you clearly understand How to hire a hacker to change your university grades. contact mail: [email protected]

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PODCAST: https://ayearofwarandpeace.podbean.com/e/ep1572-hail-and-farewell-george-moore-vale-chapter-112/
PROMPTS: George does not care about you, whatsoever.
Today's Reading, via Project Gutenberg:
Borde could not enlighten him on that point, and I suggested that he should make application to the publisher of his Prayer-Book and get his money back. There is nobody. I said, like him. He is more wonderful than anything in literature. I prefer him to Sancho who was untroubled with a conscience and never thought of running to the Bishop of Toledo. All the same he is not without the shrewdness of his ancestors, and got the better of Archbishop Walsh, and for the last five years Vincent O'Brien has been beating time, and will beat it till the end of his life; and he will be succeeded by others, for Edward has, by deed, saved the Italian contrapuntalists till time everlasting from competition with modern composers. He certainly has gotten the better of Walsh. And I thought of a picture-gallery in Dublin with nothing in it but Botticelli and his school, and myself declaring that all painting that had been done since had no interest for me.... A smile began to spread over my face, for the story that was coming into my mind seemed oh! so humorous, so like Ireland, so like Edward, that I began to tell myself again the delightful story of the unrefined ears that, weary of erudite music, had left the cathedral and sought instinctively modern tunes and women's voices, and as these were to be found in Westland Row the church was soon overflowing with a happy congregation. But in a little while the collections grew scantier. This time it couldn't be Palestrina, and all kinds of reasons were adduced. At last the truth could no longer be denied—the professional Catholics of Merrion Square had been driven out of Westland Row by the searching smells of dirty clothes, and had gone away to the University Church in Stephen's Green. So if it weren't Palestrina directly it was Palestrina indirectly, and the brows of the priests began to knit when Edward Martyn's name was mentioned. Them fal-de-dals is well enough on the Continent, in Paris, where there is no faith, was the opinion of an important ecclesiastic. But we don't want them here, murmured a second ecclesiastic. All this counterpoint may make a very pretty background for Mr Martyn's prayers, but what about the poor people's? Good composer or bad composer, there is no congregation in him, said a third. There's too much congregation, put in the first, but not the kind we want! The second ecclesiastic took snuff, and the group were of opinion that steps should be taken to persuade dear Edward to make good their losses. The priests in Marlborough Street sympathised with the priests of Westland Row, and told them that they were so heavily out of pocket that Mr Martyn had agreed to do something for them. It seemed to the Westland Row priests that if Mr Martyn were making good the losses of the priests of the pro-Cathedral, he should make good their losses. It was natural that they should think so, and to acquit himself of all responsibility Edward no doubt consulted the best theologians on the subject, and I think that they assured him that he is not responsible for indirect losses. If he were, his whole fortune would not suffice. He was, of course, very sorry if a sudden influx of poor people had caused a falling-off in the collections of Westland Row, for he knew that the priests needed the money very much to pay for the new decorations, and to help them he wrote an article in the Independent praising the new blue ceiling, which seemed, so he wrote, a worthy canopy for the soaring strains of Palestrina.
Unfortunately rubbing salt into the wound, I said. A story that will amuse Dujardin and it will be great fun telling him in the shady garden at Fontainebleau how Edward, anxious to do something for his church, had succeeded in emptying two. All the way down the alleys he will wonder how Edward could have ever looked upon Palestrina's masses as religious music. The only music he will say, in which religious emotion transpires is plain-chant. Huysmans says that the Tantum Ergo or the Dies Irae, one or the other, reminds him of a soul being dragged out of purgatory, and it is possible that it does; but a plain-chant tune arranged in eight-part counterpoint cannot remind one of anything very terrible. Dujardin knows that Palestrina was a priest, and he will say: That fact deceived your friend, just as the fact of finding the Adeste Fideles among the plain-chant tunes deceived him. For of course I shall tell Dujardin that story too. It is too good to be missed. He is wonderful, Dujardin! I shall cry out in one of the sinuous alleys. There never was anybody like him! And I will tell him more soul-revealing anecdotes. I will say: Dujardin, listen. One evening he contended that the great duet at the end of Siegfried reminded him of mass by Palestrina. Dujardin will laugh, and, excited by his laughter, I will try to explain to him that what Edward sees is that Palestrina took a plain chant tune and gave fragments of it to the different voices, and in his mind these become confused with the motives of The Ring. You see, Dujardin, the essential always escapes him—the intention of the writer is hidden from him. I am beginning to understand your friend. He has, let us suppose, a musical ear that allows him to take pleasure in the music; but a musical ear will not help him to follow Wagner's idea—how, in a transport of sexual emotion, a young man and a young woman on a mountain-side awaken to the beauty of the life of the world. Dujardin's appreciations will provoke me, and I will say: Dujardin, you shouldn't be so appreciative. If I were telling you of a play I had written, it would be delightful to watch my idea dawning upon your consciousness; but I am telling you of a real man, and one that I shall never to able to get into literature. He will answer: We invent nothing; we can but perceive. And then, exhilarated, carried beyond myself, I will say: Dujardin, I will tell you something still more wonderful than the last gaffe. II gaffe dans les Quat'z Arts. He admires Ibsen, but you'd never guess the reason why—because he is very like Racine; both of them, he says, are classical writers. And do you know how he arrived at that point? Because nobody is killed on the stage in Racine or in Ibsen. He does not see that the intention of Racine is to represent men and women out of time and out of space, unconditioned by environment, and that the very first principle of Ibsen's art is the relation of his characters to their environment. In many passages he merely dramatises Darwin. There never was anybody so interesting as dear Edward, and there never will be anybody like him in literature ... I will explain why presently, but I must first tell you another anecdote. I went to see him one night, and he told me that the theme of the play he was writing was a man who had married a woman because he had lost faith in himself; the man did not know, however, that the woman had married him for the same reason, and the two of them were thinking—I have forgotten what they were thinking, but I remember Edward saying: I should like to suggest hopelessness. I urged many phrases, but he said: It isn't a phrase I want, but an actual thing. I was thinking of a broken anchor—that surely is a symbol of hopelessness. Yes, I said, no doubt, but how are you going to get a broken anchor into a drawing-room? I don't write about drawing-rooms. Well, living-rooms. It isn't likely that they would buy a broken anchor and put it up by the coal-scuttle.
There's that against it, he answered. If you could suggest anything better—What do you think of a library in which there is nothing but unacted plays? The characters could say, when there was nothing for them to do on the stage, that they were going to the library to read, and the library would have the advantage of reminding everybody of the garret in the Wild Duck. A very cruel answer, my friend, Dujardin will say, and I will tell him that I can't help seeing in Edward something beyond Shakespeare or Balzac. Now, tell me, which of these anecdotes I have told you is the most humorous? He will not answer my question, but a certain thoughtfulness will begin to settle in his face, and he will say: Everything with him is accidental, and when his memory fails him he falls into another mistake, and he amuses you because it is impossible for you to anticipate his next mistake. You know there is going to be one; there must be one, for he sees things separately rather than relatively. I am beginning to understand your friend.
You are, you are; you are doing splendidly. But you haven't told me, Dujardin, which anecdote you prefer. Stay, there is another one. Perhaps this one will help you to a still better understanding. When he brought The Heather Field and Yeats's play The Countess Cathleen to Dublin for performance, a great trouble of conscience awakened suddenly in him, and a few days before the performance he went to a theologian to ask him if The Countess Cathleen were a heretical work, and, if it were would Almighty God hold him responsible for the performance? But he couldn't withdraw Yeats's play without withdrawing his own, and it appears that he breathed a sigh of relief when a common friend referred the whole matter to two other theologians, and as these gave their consent Edward allowed the plays to go on; but Cardinal Logue intervened, and wrote a letter to the papers to say that the play seemed to him unfit for Catholic ears, and Edward would have withdrawn the plays if the Cardinal hadn't admitted in his letter that he had judged the play by certain extracts only.
He wishes to act rightly, but has little faith in himself; and what makes him so amusing is that he needs advice in aesthetics as well as in morals. We are, I said, Dujardin, at the roots of conscience. And I began to ponder the question what would happen to Edward if we lived in a world in which aesthetics ruled: I should be where Bishop Healy is, and he would be a thin, small voice crying in the wilderness—an amusing subject of meditation, from which I awoke suddenly.
I wonder how Dujardin is getting on with his Biblical studies? Last year he was calling into question the authorship of the Romans—a most eccentric view; and, remembering how weakly I had answered him, I took the Bible from the table and began to read the Epistle with a view to furnishing myself with arguments wherewith to confute him. My Bible opened at the ninth chapter, and I said: Why, here is the authority for the Countess Cathleen's sacrifice which Edward's theologian deemed untheological. It will be great fun to poke Edward up with St Paul, and on my way to Lincoln Place I thought how I might lead the conversation to The Countess Cathleen.
📷
A few minutes afterwards a light appeared on the staircase and the door slowly opened.
Come in, Siegfried, though you were off the key.
Well, my dear friend, it is a difficult matter to whistle above two trams passing simultaneously and six people jabbering round a public-house, to say nothing of a jarvey or two, and you perhaps dozing in your armchair, as your habit often is. You won't open to anything else except a motive from The Ring; and I stumbled up the stairs in front of Edward, who followed with a candle.
Wait a moment; let me go first and I'll turn up the gas.
You aren't sitting in the dark, are you?
No, but I read better by candle-light, and he blew out the candles in the tin candelabrum that he had made for himself. He is original even in his candelabrum; no one before him had ever thought of a caridelabrum in tin, and I fell to admiring his appearance more carefully than perhaps I had ever done before, so monumental did he seem lying on the little sofa sheltered from daughts by a screen, a shawl about his shoulders. His churchwarden was drawing famously, and I noticed his great square hands with strong fingers and square nails pared closely away, and as heretofore I admired the curve of the great belly, the thickness of the thighs, the length and breadth and the width of his foot hanging over the edge of the sofa, the apoplectic neck falling into great rolls of flesh, the humid eyes, the skull covered with short stubbly hair. I looked round the rooms and they seemed part of himself: the old green wallpaper on which he pins reproductions of the Italian masters. And I longed to peep once more into the bare bedroom into which he goes to fetch bottles of Apollinaris. Always original! Is there another man in this world whose income is two thousand a year, and who sleeps in a bare bedroom, without dressing-room, or bathroom, or servant in the house to brush his clothes, and who has to go to the baker's for his breakfast?
We had been talking for some time of the Gaelic League, and from Hyde it was easy to pass to Yeats and his plays.
His best play is The Countess Cathleen.
The Countess Cathleen is only a sketch.
But what I never could understand, Edward, was why you and the Cardinal could have had any doubts as to the orthodoxy of The Countess Cathleen.
What, a woman that sells her own soul in order to save the souls of others!
I suppose your theologian objected—
Of course he objected.
He cannot have read St Paul.
What do you mean?
He can't have read St Paul, or else he is prepared to throw over St Paul.
Mon ami Moore, mon ami Moore.
The supernatural idealism of a man who would sell his soul to save the souls of others fills me with awe.
But it wasn't a man; it was the Countess Cathleen, and women are never idealists.
Not the saints?
His face grew solemn at once.
If you give me the Epistles I will read the passage to you. And it was great fun to go to the bookshelves and read: I say the truth in Christ, I lie not, my conscience also bearing me witness in the Holy Ghost, that I have great heaviness and continual sorrow in my heart. For I could wish that myself were accursed from Christ for my brethren, my kinsmen according to the flesh.
Edward's face grew more and more solemn, and I wondered of what he was thinking.
Paul is a very difficult and a very obscure writer, and I think the Church is quite right not to encourage the reading of the Epistles, especially without comments.
Then you do think there is something in the passage I have read?
After looking down his dignified nose for a long time, he said:
Of course, the Church has an explanation. All the same, it's very odd that St Paul should have said such a thing—very odd.
There is no doubt that I owe a great deal of my happiness to Edward; all my life long he has been exquisite entertainment. And I fell to thinking that Nature was very cruel to have led me, like Moses, within sight of the Promised Land. A story would be necessary to bring Edward into literature, and it would be impossible to devise an action of which he should be a part. The sex of a woman is odious to him, and a man with two thousand a year does not rob nor steal, and he is so uninterested in his fellow-men that he has never an ill word to say about anybody. John Eglinton is a little thing; AE is a soul that few will understand; but Edward is universal—more universal than Yeats, than myself, than any of us, but for lack of a story I shall not be able to give him the immortality in literature which he seeks in sacraments. Shakespeare always took his stories from some other people. Turgenev's portrait of him would be thin, poor, and evasive, and Balzac would give us the portrait of a mere fool. And Edward is not a fool. As I understand him he is a temperament without a rudder; all he has to rely upon is his memory, which isn't a very good one, and so he tumbles from one mistake into another. My God! it is a terrible thing to happen to one, to understand a man better than he understands himself, and to be powerless to help him. If I had been able to undo his faith I should have raised him to the level of Sir Horace Plunkett, but he resisted me; and perhaps he did well, for he came into the world seeing things separately rather than relatively, and had to be a Catholic. He is a born Catholic, and I remembered one of his confessions—a partial confession, but a confession: If you had been brought up as strictly as I have been—I don't think he ever finished the sentence; he often leaves sentences unfinished, as if he fears to think things out. The end of the sentence should run: You would not dare to think independently. He thinks that his severe bringing-up has robbed him of something. But the prisoner ends by liking his prison-house, and on another occasion he said: If it hadn't been for the Church, I don't know what would have happened to me.
My thoughts stopped, and when I awoke I was thinking of Hughes. Perhaps the link between Hughes and Edward was Loughrea Cathedral. He had shown me a photograph of some saints modelled by Hughes. Hughes is away in Paris, I said, modelling saints for Loughrea Cathedral. The last time I saw him was at Walter Osborne's funeral, and Walter's death set me thinking of the woman I had lost, and little by little all she had told me about herself floated up in my mind like something that I had read. I had never seen her father nor the Putney villa in which she had been brought up, but she had made me familiar with both through her pleasant mode of conversation, which was never to describe anything, but just to talk about things, dropping phrases here and there, and the phrases she dropped were so well chosen that the comfort of the villa, its pompous meals and numerous servants, its gardens and greenhouses, with stables and coach-house just behind, are as well known to me as the house that I am living in, better known in a way, for I see it through the eyes of the imagination ... clearer eyes than the physical eyes.
It does not seem to me that any one was ever more conscious of whence she had come and of what she had been; she seemed to be able to see herself as a child again, and to describe her childhood with her brother (they were nearly the same age) in the villa and in the villa's garden. I seemed to see them always as two rather staid children who were being constantly dressed by diligent nurses and taken out for long drives in the family carriage. They did not like these drives and used to hide in the garden; but their governess was sent to fetch them, and they were brought back. Her father did not like to have the horses kept waiting, and one day as Stella stood with him in the passage, she saw her mother come out of her bedroom beautifully dressed. Her father whispered something in his wife's ear, and he followed her into her bedroom. Stella remembered how the door closed behind them. In my telling, the incident seems to lose some of its point, but in Stella's relation it seemed to put her father and his wife before me and so clearly that I could not help asking her what answer her father would make were she to tell him that she had a lover. A smile hovered in her grave face. He would look embarrassed, she said, and wonder why I should have told him such a thing, and then I think he would go to the greenhouse, and when he returned he would talk to me about something quite different. I don't think that Stella ever told me about the people that came to their house, but people must have come to it, and as an example of how a few words can convey an environment I will quote her: I always wanted to talk about Rossetti, she said, and these seven words seem to me to tell better than any description the life of a girl living with a formal father in a Putney villa, longing for something, not knowing exactly what, and anxious to get away from home.... I think she told me she was eighteen or nineteen and had started painting before she met Florence at the house of one of her father's friends; a somewhat sore point this meeting was, for Florence was looked upon by Stella's father as something of a Bohemian. She was a painter, and knew all the Art classes and the fees that had to be paid, and led Stella into the world of studios and models and girl friends. She knew how to find studios and could plan out a journey abroad. Stella's imagination was captured, and even if her father had tried to offer opposition to her leaving home he could not have prevented her, for she was an heiress (her mother was dead and had left her a considerable income); but he did not try, and the two girls set up house together in Chelsea; they travelled in Italy and Spain; they had a cottage in the country; they painted pictures and exhibited their pictures in the same exhibitions; they gave dances in their studios and were attracted by this young man and the other; but Stella did not give herself to any one, because, as she admitted to me, she was afraid that a lover would interrupt the devotion which she intended to give to Art. But life is forever casting itself into new shapes and forms, and no sooner had she begun to express herself in Art than she met me. I was about to go to Ireland to preach a new gospel, and must have seemed a very impulsive and fantastic person to her, but were not impulsiveness and fantasy just the qualities that would appeal to her? And were not gravity and good sense the qualities that would appeal to me, determined as I was then to indulge myself in a little madness?
I could not have chosen a saner companion than Stella; my instinct had led me to her; but because one man's instinct is a little more clear than another's, it does not follow that he has called reason to his aid. It must be remembered always that the art of painting is as inveterate in me as the art of writing, and that I am never altogether myself when far away from the smell of oil paint. Stella could talk to one about painting, and all through that wonderful summer described in Salve our talk flowed on as delightfully as a breeze in Maytime, and as irresponsible, flashing thoughts going by and avowals perfumed with memories. Only in her garden did conversation fail us, for in her garden Stella could think only of her flowers, and it seemed an indiscretion to follow her as she went through the twilight gathering dead blooms or freeing plants from noxious insects. But she would have had me follow her, and I think was always a little grieved that I wasn't as interested in her garden as I was in her painting; and my absent-mindedness when I followed her often vexed her and my mistakes distressed her.
You are interested, she said, only in what I say about flowers and not in the flowers themselves. You like to hear me tell about Miss —— whose business in life is to grow carnations, because you already see her, dimly, perhaps, but still you see her in a story. Forget her and look at this Miss Shifner!
Yes, it is beautiful, but we can only admire the flowers that we notice when we are children, I answered. Dahlias, china roses, red and yellow tulips, tawny wallflowers, purple pansies, are never long out of my thoughts, and all the wonderful varieties of the iris, the beautiful blue satin and the cream, some shining like porcelain, even the common iris that grows about the moat.
But there were carnations in your mother's garden?
Yes, and I remember seeing them being tied with bass. But what did you say yesterday about carnations? That they were the—
She laughed and would not tell me, and when the twilight stooped over the high trees and the bats flitted and the garden was silent except when a fish leaped, I begged her to come away to the wild growths that I loved better than the flowers.
But the mallow and willow-weed are the only two that you recognise. How many times have I told you the difference between self-heal and tufted vetch?
I like cow parsley and wild hyacinths and—
You have forgotten the name. As well speak of a woman that you loved but whose name you had forgotten.
Well, if I have, I love trees better than you do, Stella. You pass under a fir unstirred by the mystery of its branches, and I wonder at you, for I am a tree worshipper, even as my ancestors, and am moved as they were by the dizzy height of a great silver fir. You like to paint trees, and I should like to paint flowers if I could paint; there we are set forth, you and I.
I have told in Salve that in Rathfarnham she found many motives for painting; the shape of the land and the spire above the straggling village appealed to me, but she was not altogether herself in these pictures. She would have liked the village away, for man and his dwellings did not form part of her conception of a landscape; large trees and a flight of clouds above the trees were her selection, and the almost unconscious life of kine wandering or sheep seeking the shelter of a tree.
Stella was a good walker, and we followed the long road leading from Rathfarnham up the hills, stopping to admire the long plain which we could see through the comely trees shooting out of the shelving hillside.
If I have beguiled you into a country where there are no artists and few men of letters, you can't say that I have not shown you comely trees. And now if you can walk two miles farther up this steep road I will show you a lovely prospect.
And I enjoyed her grave admiration of the old Queen Anne dwelling-house, its rough masonry, the yew hedges, the path along the hillside leading to the Druid altar and the coast-line sweeping in beautiful curves, but she did not like to hear me say that the drawing of the shore reminded her of Corot.
It is a sad affectation, she said, to speak of Nature reminding one of pictures.
Well, the outlines of Howth are beautiful, I answered, and the haze is incomparable. I should like to have spoken about a piece of sculpture, but for your sake, Stella, I refrain.
She was interested in things rather than ideas, and I remember her saying to me that things interest us only because we know that they are always slipping from us. A strange thing for a woman to say to her lover. She noticed all the changes of the seasons and loved them, and taught me to love them. She brought a lamb back from Rathfarnham, a poor forlorn thing that had run bleating so pitifully across the windy field that she had asked the shepherd where the ewe was, and he had answered that she had been killed overnight by a golf-ball. The lamb will be dead before morning, he added. And it was that March that the donkey produced a foal, a poor ragged thing that did not look as if it ever could be larger than a goat, but the donkey loved her foal.
Do you know the names of those two birds flying up and down the river?
They look to me like two large wrens with white waistcoats.
They are water-ouzels, she said.
The birds flew with rapid strokes of the wings, like kingfishers, alighting constantly on the river, on large mossy stones, and though we saw them plunge into the water, it was not to swim, but to run along the bottom in search of worms.
But do worms live under water?
The rooks were building, and a little while after a great scuffling was heard in one of the chimneys and a young jackdaw came down and soon became tamer than any bird I had ever seen, tamer than a parrot, and at the end of May the corncrake called from the meadow that summer had come again, and the kine wandered in deeper and deeper and deeper herbage. The days seemed never to end, and looking through the branches of the chestnut in which the fruit had not begun to show, we caught sight of a strange spectacle. Stella said, A lunar rainbow, and I wondered, never having heard of or seen such a thing before.
I shall never forget that rainbow, Stella, and am glad that we saw it together.
In every love story lovers reprove each other for lack of affection, and Stella had often sent me angry letters which caused me many heart-burnings and brought me out to her; in the garden there were reconciliations, we picked up the thread again, and the summer had passed before the reason of these quarrels became clear to me. One September evening Stella said she would accompany me to the gate, and we had not gone very far before I began to notice that she was quarrelling with me. She spoke of the loneliness of the Moat House, and I had answered that she had not been alone two evenings that week. She admitted my devotion. And if you admit that there has been no neglect—
She would not tell me, but there was something she was not satisfied with, and before we reached the end of the avenue she said, I don't think I can tell you. But on being pressed she said:
Well, you don't make love to me often enough.
And full of apologies I answered, Let me go back.
No, I can't have you back now, not after having spoken like that.
But she yielded to my invitation, and we returned to the house, and next morning I went back to Dublin a little dazed, a little shaken.
A few days after she went away to Italy to spend the winter and wrote me long letters, interesting me in herself, in the villagers, in the walks and the things that she saw in her walks, setting me sighing that she was away from me, or that I was not with her. And going to the window I would stand for a long time watching the hawthorns in their bleak wintry discontent, thinking how the sunlight fell into the Italian gardens, and caught the corner of the ruin she was sketching; and I let my fancy stray for a time unchecked. It would be wonderful to be in Italy with her, but—
I turned from the window suspicious, for there was a feeling at the back of my mind that with her return an anxiety would come into my life that I would willingly be without. She had told me she had refrained from a lover because she wished to keep all herself for her painting, and now she had taken to herself a lover. She was twenty years younger than I was, and at forty-six or thereabouts one begins to feel that one's time for love is over; one is consultant rather than practitioner. But it was impossible to dismiss the subject with a jest, and I found myself face to face with the question—If these twenty years were removed, would things be different? It seemed to me that the difficulty that had arisen would have been the same earlier in my life as it was now, and returning to the window I watched the hawthorns blowing under the cold grey Dublin sky.
The problem is set, I said, for the married, and every couple has to solve it in one way or another, but they have to solve it; they have to come to terms with love, especially the man, for whom it is a question of life and death. But how do they come to terms? And I thought of the different married people I knew. Which would be most likely to advise me—the man or the woman? It would be no use to seek advice; every case is different, I said. If anybody were to advise me it would be the man, for the problem is not so difficult for a woman. She can escape from love more easily than her lover or her husband; she can plead, and her many pleadings were considered, one by one, and how in married life the solution that seems to lovers so difficult is solved by marriage itself, by propinquity. But not always, not always. The question is one of extraordinary interest and importance; more marriages come to shipwreck, I am convinced, on this very question than upon any other. In the divorce cases published we read of incompatibility of temper and lack of mutual tastes, mere euphemisms that deceive nobody. The image of a shipwreck rose up in me naturally. She will return, and like a ship our love for each other will be beaten on these rocks and broken. We shall not be able to get out to sea. She will return, and when she returns her temperament will have to be adjusted to mine, else she will lose me altogether, for men have died of love, though Shakespeare says they haven't. Manet and Daudet—both died of love; and the somewhat absurd spectacle of a lover waiting for his mistress to return, and yet dreading her returning, was constantly before me.
It often seemed to me that it was my own weakness that created our embarrassment. A stronger man would have been able to find a way out, but I am not one that can shape and mould another according to my desire; and when she returned from Italy I found myself more helpless than ever, and I remember, and with shame, how, to avoid being alone with her, I would run down the entire length of a train, avoiding the empty carriages, crying Not here, not here! at last opening the door of one occupied by three or four people, who all looked as if they were bound for a long journey. I remember, too, how about this time I came with friends to see Stella, whether by accident or design, frankly I know not; I only know that I brought many friends to see her, thinking they would interest her.
If you don't care to come to see me without a chaperon, I would rather you didn't come at all, she said, humiliating me very deeply.
It seemed to me, I answered, blushing, that you would like to see ——, and I mentioned the name of the man who had accompanied me.
If I am cross sometimes it is because I don't see enough of you.
It seems to me that it was then that the resolve hardened in my heart to become her friend ... if she would allow me to become her friend. But in what words should I frame my request and my apology? All the time our life was becoming less amiable, until one evening I nipped the quarrel that was beginning, stopping suddenly at the end of the avenue.
It is better that we should understand each other. The plain truth is that I must cease to be your lover unless my life is to be sacrificed.
Cease to be my lover!
That is impossible, but a change comes into every love story.
The explanation stuttered on. I remember her saying: I don't wish you to sacrifice your life. I have forgotten the end of her sentence. She drew her hand suddenly across her eyes. I will conquer this obsession.
A man would have whined and cried and besought and worried his mistress out of her wits. Women behave better than we; only once did her feelings overcome her. She spoke to me of the deception that life is. Again we were standing by the gate at the end of the chestnut avenue, and I remembered her telling me how a few years ago life had seemed to hold out its hands to her; her painting and her youth created her enjoyment.
But now life seems to have shrivelled up, she said; only a little dust is left.
Nothing is changed, so far as you and I are concerned. We see each other just the same.
I am no more to you than any other woman.
She went away again to Italy to paint and returned to Ireland, and one day she came to see me, and remained talking for an hour. I have no memory of what we said to each other, but a very clear memory of our walk through Dublin over Carlisle Bridge and along the quays. I had accompanied her as far as the Phoenix Park gates, and at the corner of the Conyngham Road, just as I was bidding her goodbye, she said:
I want to ask your advice on a matter of importance to me.
And to me, for what is important to you is equally important to me.
I am thinking, she said, of being married.
At the news it seems to me that I was unduly elated and tried to assume the interest that a friend should.

I feel like kind of an asshole even posting this when some of the posts at the top of this sub are so much bleaker, but here goes.
My wife and I are lucky enough to have lived in a 2-bdrm rent-controlled apartment for the last 15 years. It's an apartment in a house so only 4 units total. Even luckier is that it came with a stacking apartment-sized washer & dryer in a hall closet.
The washer went the other day (20 years old so no huge surprise). We got in touch with the property manager and they decided to replace both the washer & dryer.
We weren't here when they were installed so we were surprised to get back and see that they weren't apartment sized but rather full-size units.
They're absolutely massive. They take up the whole closet. We used to be able to store other laundry-related stuff in there (soap, ironing board, iron etc...) and now we have to try and find room in our already seriously cramped apartment for all that stuff and then go get it from elsewhere whenever we want to do laundry. We also don't even need them, there's only two of us. I can't see us ever needing to do a load of laundry that big and we'll just end up wasting water and hydro.
It feels pretty or ungrateful to complain, but man this is going to actually make things tougher for us. Just curious what other folks would do. Suck it up, or try to nicely mention the issues.

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The east wind was frigid during this time of the year. Walking through the streets of Winterport slums was a young man with long silver hair and violet eyes on his handsome yet haggard face. He was about 6 feet tall with a lean and muscular body. He didn't have a lot of fat and looked a bit skinny in his jacket. As always, the man had a listless expression on his face masking any emotions.
“Morning Cal, up to the mines again?” said the portly old street food vendor while setting up his cart.
“Hmm,” replied Cal.
“Always so diligent if everyone else was like you then we wouldn’t need that many enforcers. Be careful out there, I heard the shades are more violent and restless this time of the year. See you tonight,” said the old man.
“Not tonight. I have to monitor the deep mines.”
The old man gave him a worried look. He knew how dangerous it was in the deep mines during the winter. “Your terms have all been fulfilled, Callahan…. You are no longer a slave, remember?”
“Yes.”
“Then why continue this treacherous occupation? I know the money’s well but there are other jobs which won’t kill you just because you stepped on the wrong stone,” he said in frustration.
“I wonder,” Cal said quietly to himself and hurried on his way.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had done something that made him genuinely happy. All his life he had followed orders. First his mother, then his masters, and now his so-called captain who never bats an eye while sending him to the most dangerous sections of the mine. Not like he can blame the captain as he never objects to any of the orders. To him, he must be the model enforcer. Always on time and never asking any questions.
He could never understand himself or his own actions. Maybe living on the edge of life and death is what’s keeping him alive and distracted from all the pain and grief hidden in the deep recesses of his mind. Or maybe he just likes to fight.
Either way, there was something in the mines that kept calling to him. Something that could move his long cold heart. Maybe it could give him a solution to all the nightmares. Or maybe it would be his end. Well, that was also a solution.
…
He arrived at the mine where he could see his captain handing out orders to the new recruits. All of them had hopeful looks on their faces like they were ready for a new page in their lives. All former mining slaves freed from their previous positions after they awakened their mana. The big smiles on their faces were obvious. They knew that this was their ticket to total freedom and exoneration from their previous crimes. Once they complete the basic service term of guarding the miners against the atrocities that surface from the deep mines for 2 years, their citizenship to the empire would be restored.
‘Naïve idiots,’ thought captain Reginald. ‘If it was so easy then we wouldn’t make former slaves into enforcers when there were so many awakened in the city guards. Only one in ten ever survive past the 1-year mark and out of those survivors, half get corrupted and must be put down before they kill everyone else.’
“Reporting for duty captain,” Cal said in an apathetic voice.
“If it isn’t my best enforcer on call. Why I was just waiting for you to get here. You don’t know how relieved I am to see your face,” replied Reginald with a tone that failed to betray any sort of relief. “I was just teaching these new recruits about the shades and their duties but now that you are here, I was wondering if you had room for a few more enforcers on your patrols?”
“Sir, I am going to the deep mines today they would only get in my way.”
“Come now don’t be rude to your juniors how will they learn anything if they don’t experience the real deal,” Reginald replied with an icy tone daring Cal to object.
Cal looked at the captain’s eyes for a moment and guessed that he must have made a bet with his friends on how many new recruits would survive past the first week again. “As you command sir.”
“Good. Good. Now don’t be that disappointed I am assigning you the three best recruits of this month. I’m sure they can hold their own in a fight.”
Four years of serving under the captain had made him aware that the only way to hide from his attention is to never get under his nose. He had made that mistake once and the captain has still not let go of that resentment to this day. Always finding a way to make his life harder. Not that it mattered to Cal if someone hated him, but it still annoyed him when he had to put up with his whims.
Cal looked at the three new recruits and wondered if the captain was lying to him. One look at them and he could say with certainty that they would not live past the three-day mark in the deep mines. Not like he cared anyways.
“Follow me,” he said before walking past them and going towards the mine shafts. Several of the miners looked at him with awe in their eyes as he made his way to the deep mines. The three recruits following him like lost puppies.
One of the recruits with brown hair and black eyes suddenly spoke up.
“What should we call you sir?”
“Cal,” he replied.
“No, I meant your rank, sir. The captain just said that someone will be here to teach us how to deal with the shades, we don’t know how to refer to you without offending you, sir. Oh, I am Bryan by the way.”
“Nothing you say could ever offend me. And enforcers don’t have ranks. At least not officially,” replied Cal. “The longer you can survive here the more respected you are. Seniority is also determined that way. You are first-years and at your most vulnerable time right now so try not to die.”
“Heh, stop exaggerating I have fought shades with my bare hands before, they aren’t anything special. Now that I have a flamestone sword nothing can beat me here,” said the blue-eyed and black-haired recruit with a grin. “You can call me Phil and that’s Safid,” he pointed at the last recruit with burly build and average looks. “Which gang are you from Cal?”
“I don’t like gangs,” replied Cal.
“You must be some weakling who no one wanted,” Phil said in a mocking tone. “How about you join my gang? I am going to make a new gang here once I get the hang of things with Safid. We are going to turn this place upside down and become the best gang. Ain’t that right Safid?”
“Yes boss,” said Safid with an enthusiastic voice.
Cal looked at Phil like he was watching a clown. Forget a gang these fools won’t last two minutes in front of the senior enforcers before being slaughtered like lambs. He shook his head and didn’t bother talking with the soon-to-be deceased.
Phil didn’t like how he was ignored. “Your loss, don’t come crying to me when I am done taking over this place.”
“What year are you sir?” Bryan asked after a while.
“Fourth,” Cal replied coolly.
Before he could ask anything else, Cal motioned for them to stop. They had arrived at the deep mines. Before them, everything was pitch black with only hints of light coming from the occasional flamestone lamps that were on the mine walls.
“It's so dark here,” said Bryan. “Why don’t they add more lamps? I am sure our jobs would be easier if we had more visibility.”
“They don’t last,” said Cal. “The shades consume all light. Only warded Flamestone lamps can be used here. And even those don’t last long in the deep mines before being consumed.”
“Consumed?”
“The fames inside the stones are consumed by whatever supernatural phenomenon shrouds the deep mines, that’s why we enforcers always have to regularly change the flamestone lamps. Whatever consumes the flame stops it from recharging,” Cal stopped explaining and said, “No more questions now. There could be shades anywhere, have your weapons ready.”
The three complied with his words and pulled out their swords from their sheaths. Cal started surveying his surroundings before making his way deeper. They didn’t have to walk for long before coming across the first shade.
It looked almost indistinguishable from its surroundings. They only recognized it because of its white eyes and darker-than-black fur. It had a humanoid figure with a tail that ended with a sword-like structure and a height of 1.5 meters. Cal stepped forward and slashed his sword a few feet away from the monster before it could react. A long slash-shaped white light jumped out of his sword and went towards the shade. The moment it touched the shade it exploded into a bright white light which illuminated their surroundings and blinded the recruits for a few seconds. When they could see again the shade was gone. In its place was a small glowing stone. Cal picked up the stone and showed it to the recruits.
“Flamestone?” asked Bryan.
“Yes,” replied Cal. “That’s why the shades try their best to go to the upper mines. The flamestone lamps here are warded so they can’t consume the flames themselves and there are no active flamestones in the deep mines, but the upper mines don’t suffer from the same environmental phenomenon as here so the flamestones mined from there are all in their activated state. If they can somehow break past the enforcers in the deep mines, then they can go up and consume as much flamestone as they can before they evolve into shadows.”
While Cal didn’t care if these recruits survived, he never half-assed his job so he would train them to the best of his abilities. Whether they were capable enough to follow his instructions was up to them.
“What’s a shadow?” asked Phil.
“Something you don’t want to meet,” replied Cal. “The dropped flamestones are how we make our living. We can exchange them for our salary from the mine administrator.”
“Was that light mana that you used with your sword?” Bryan asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“So that’s your aspect. Must be handy in this area,” noted Bryan.
“It has its perks,” replied Cal. “But that’s enough babysitting. You are gonna fight the next one.”
“But we can’t release our mana yet,” Bryan said.
“I’m sure you learned how to use that sword in your training camp,” Cal said.
“Yeah, stop being a wimp it's only a shade, boss could handle that with his bare hands,” said Safid who had been quiet for a while now.
“Even if we can’t release mana our internal circulation is enough to considerably increase our strength from ordinary humans,” Phil said with some disdain in his voice.
As they were arguing with each other Cal heard some noise in front of them. “Quiet,” he said. “Get ready it's coming.”
All three took up proper stance and looked ahead. ‘At least they aren’t completely amateurs’ Cal thought as another adolescent shade approach them.
Phil was the first to lunge forward and slash with his sword, but the shade jumped back before he reached it. It growled before swiping its claws towards Phil. Phil reacted quickly and blocked with his sword, but the claws were just a distraction as its tail swung from behind and hit his side. Phil screamed as blood dripped down from his abdomen. It was cut by the sharp tail sword.
‘Tch, not even a few seconds.’ Cal was about to step forward when Bryan stepped in and stabbed his sword directly into the head of the shade while it was distracted with finishing off Phil.
“You alright?” Bryan asked Phil.
“Just a small scratch I will be fine. I would have got him if you didn’t step forward,” replied Phil.
“You were never hit by a shade, were you?” Cal asked.
“No,” Phil replied.
“Well then pray to whatever deity you believe in that you don’t get infected.”
“Aren’t we immune to that after we awaken?” asked Bryan.
“Not weaklings like you no,” Cal replied. “Only once you have fully assimilated your mana onto your blood vessels are you immune to that. You only have internal mana circulating in your veins. You have to slowly assimilate mana in your blood vessels so that you can fight off invaders entering your blood.”
“I won’t die just because of some fucking scratch,” Phil said though with some uncertainty.
“Patch yourself and get ready to move we still haven’t reached our patrol area,” Cal ordered.
They began moving again once Phil took care of his wound. After an hour of walking and three more encounters with shades which Cal took care of due to Phil’s delay, they finally reached their patrol area.
It was a fork in the road. One of the caves lead to a large cavern while the other went deeper into the mines.
“We will set up camp here. That cavern to our left has already been fully mined so there aren’t any flamestones over there. Hence more young shades are born over there. The lower the amount of flamestone, the easier it is for the deep mines to affect the surrounding environment. But the shades aren’t as strong since young shades don’t have any flamestones in them,” Cal explained while placing the flamestones picked from the previous shades around them to provide a better view.
“So, the ones we fought earlier were very strong. That must be why I had a hard time dealing with the first one,” Phil said regaining his previous confidence.
“Just one step above the weakest. The more flamestone they drop the stronger they are,” replied Cal. “We will be guarding this fork for 18 hours before the next shift takes over. Don’t let your guard down just because you will be facing weaker enemies. Shades are very smart and will group up when they are young. We can’t let them go deeper into the mines or towards the surface.”
Bryan raised his hand. Which was weird as he didn’t do that before.
“Yes,” Cal said letting him know that he could ask what he wanted.
“Why can’t we let them go down?”
“Because they will be a nuisance and distraction to the other enforcers up ahead,” Cal replied.
“There are others down there?” asked Phil.
“Where there are flamestones there are miners. Even if they are in their inactive state here. You are lucky I was told to patrol this section of the deep mine today. Young shades can’t infect the awakened. If we went deeper, you would not survive for long,” Cal said.
What followed next for the recruits was an excruciating hurdle of disposing waves of shades for hours upon hours until their bodies started to give in. Cal watched from the sides while taking care of most of the shades. Even still the recruits were having a hard time staying alive. Most of their bodies were covered in scratches. If they were ordinary humans they would have already been infected, maybe even corrupted. Cal was slightly impressed and realized he had underestimated them.
‘Huh. They could at least survive five days rather than three,’ he thought. However, he shouldn’t have tempted fate as it turned out.