#Record Keystrokes

[mourning-again-in-america]

jesus christ.

if you want horror, open up inspect -> network inspector and record tumblr as you write a post. it starts out normal, if a bit excessively latter-day web2.0-y.

then try to add tags. fucking keysmash it. look at the network tab.

#is it really recording every single fucking keystroke. #webbed FUCKING site.

[happytalepanda]

keystroke Recorder

#keystroke Recorder #free keystroke recorder #computer keystroke recorder

[dutchiha]

aaahhhw man, tumblr ate the inbox answer I’ve been working on.

this hellsite ate my small fic

bleh

#are keystroke loggers able to record everything I type and thereby retrieve posts #because then I want one #geez #this sucks #I never learn #ugh #tumblr bugs #the ctrl+v is dangerous if the mouse pointer is outside the writing box. #sorry shisui #you'll have to wait a little longer #i'm off to bed #bleeeeeeeeh #pout pout

[desert-fern]

A Gun Amongst Daggers - Jake “Hangman” Seresin X Fem!Navy Seal Reader

Part 20: Golden

Summary: When Jake meets a woman at the Hard Deck, the last thing he expects is for her to be a Navy Seal. And not just any Seal, the Commander of Seal Team 3. She’s beautiful, smart, dangerous, and everything about her just makes him want to get close. Her name? Bear. When the Seals need backup, Cyclone puts the Daggers on their radar and now, Jake has to work with Bear and her team, all the while trying to stay professional. Can he do it? Or will he end up falling for the Navy sniper and mission Commander?

*Image is from Pinterest*

MINORS DO NOT ENGAGE! 18+ ONLY. MINORS & BLOGS WITH NO AGE/EMPTY BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED.

Warnings: swearing, mostly just fluffy and sweet (lmk if I kissed anything)

Word Count: 4.2k

Masterlist >> Part 19 >> Part 21

===

Bear had made herself scarce on the long days aboard the Lincoln. She was finally well enough to busy herself with work, dealing with paperwork and helping Bug work through the massive amounts of evidence they had against Hazard. It had surfaced from the Riyadh Air Base Commander that a few others were likely involved in the scheme and that Hazard had to have had help in orchestrating what he had. Bear knew his work ethic and there was no way that he and Chip were the only ones involved. Hazard could barely complete his paperwork by himself.

So she, Bug, Flare, and Phoenix, who was acting as the Daggers representative, spent hours combing through everything. “So, what I’m hearing,” Phoenix began, shuffling through the file in front of her. “Hazard was in contact with this Saif character weeks before the mission…”

“So before or after he planted the keystroke recorder on my laptop?” Bear asked, stretching out lightly, still trying to avoid pulling the few remaining stitches left in her torso. “Because the pieces I have say that he planted this thing after he made contact.”

Bug snorted at how Bear was holding the keystroke tracker, dangling it between her fingers and letting it swing in the air. “That was my thought too.”

“Wait, you had the wrong documents on the way to Riyadh, right?” Flare spoke up suddenly. She’d been awfully quiet lately, something that was unusual for the young woman. “I spoke with IT when we got to the base, and they told me that they didn’t find anything odd in the software, only one strange login that required three different password retries. Maybe that’s when he fucked with the email?”

“He fucked with a lot more than just my email,” Bear groused. Her pride was still wounded from how easily Hazard had been able to fool her. How his greed had not only nearly destroyed her, but also had resulted in Jake getting caught up in the middle of everything and was nearly killed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. “He deserves so much worse than what is coming to him.”

The other women in the room nodded. Flare biting her lip to stop it from trembling. She had been adopted in a way by Bear, the older woman serving as a mentor to her throughout her journey to becoming a Lieutenant. So when Bear had vanished, been taken, Mei had broken down the minute she saw Bug shake her head sadly. Even just thinking about the events made her heart break. “He does,” Flare mumbled in the silence that had befallen the room. “I’d give it to him if that weren’t Shrike’s job.”

“You and me both, Mei,” Phoenix replied, her face drawn together in a frown. She had seen first hand how Bear’s disappearance had impacted everyone, herself included. Bear had brought them all together, sewn the two teams into one single-handedly, and her absence had hurt every single person who cared for her. Not to mention Jake. The blonde had been practically inconsolable the minute he found out she was gone and had dove head first into helping Bug and Fireball sort out what they knew from what they didn’t.

It had been both good to see and worrying all at the same time. Jake had barely taken a moment to breathe; all he had wanted was to bring Bear home. Home to him. Bear, however, had had other plans. She crawled her way out of the unimaginable hell she had been through, and stood in the open doorway like a ghost. Phoenix had spent those in between weeks keeping an eye on Jake, making sure he ate, showered, and above all, had a place to grieve. They had become unlikely friends as they grieved together, leaning on the other in a way they never deemed possible.

Jake had been absent since the USS Abraham Lincoln had left Jebel Ali and it was worrying to Phoenix. She now sat in another meeting room, this time without him, and she couldn’t help but be concerned. “Though I’m pretty sure Shrike led Hazard directly into Jake’s path.” Her voice broke the pensive silence that had blanketed the room.

Bear grinned, a toothy expression that was so much like her old self that it made the others in the room smile too. “That wouldn’t surprise me,” she mused aloud. “Bug made it clear that the Seals couldn’t touch him, but as Maverick and Jake told me a few days afterwards, they were under no such instructions.”

Flare nodded. “Maybe they should have been. I know that Nat over here would have killed him if Jake hadn’t gotten there first.” She was met with a sharp look from Phoenix, but Mei stood her ground. “What? I wanted to kill him too, but that wouldn’t solve anything.”

“Still,” Phoenix grumbled. She had folded her arms across her chest, staring darkly at Flare. “He hurt my friends. You should be thankful that it wasn’t my fiancée here instead of me. Hazard would be a grease spot.”

“Fiancée?” The room was quick to explode into questions, making Phoenix lean back in her chair, trying to get away from the chaos that had erupted among the women.

Bear looked at Phoenix curiously. “Man or woman?”

“Woman, why? You have a problem with that?” The pilot’s voice was sharp, challenging. She was daring Bear to say something, anything.

“Not at all.” Bear was calm, almost amused by the look in Phoenix’s eyes. “I have two moms, Natasha and have been known to have a girlfriend too. I was merely curious.”

The anger appeared to visibly leave Phoenix at Bear’s words. “Okay then. And yeah, she proposed a few weeks before we left.”

“Congratulations, Nix,” Bug told her, smiling gently. “I think now is a good time for a break, don’t you?”

“Oh for sure.” Bear nodded. “Take a break ladies. I’ll lock up after you all.” She stood up and ushered the other three out of the room before shutting the door and sitting back down. She has wasted so much time recovering that she was behind when it came to her job, so she had to make up the time. Whether or not people understood wasn’t the point, Bear took pride in her work and the fact that she had been captured and nearly killed because someone on her team betrayed her would be a story told with her name for years to come. All of the admirals who had opposed her promotion would use this as ammunition to defend their positions on why women couldn’t be Seals.

She wouldn’t let them.

Her job was hers for a reason.

So she had to prove them wrong. Hazard would pay and Bear would get the last laugh.

She wouldn’t let him win.

So she busied herself with the papers covering the table in front of her, and there she sat, reading frantically and desperately searching for the missing piece.

====

Jake knocked on the door that he knew Bear was hiding out in. He hadn’t seen her for longer than ten minutes at a time over the 18 days that had passed while traveling, and he was worried for her. A part of him wondered desperately if she still cared for him like she had assured him she did, if Bear could tear herself away from plotting revenge for just a moment to be with him.

And what if she couldn’t? What did that mean for them?

But, they could discuss this later.

They had to.

He received no response from the other side of the door, so when he tried the door, he was surprised that it even opened. “Teddy? You in here?”

Nothing. Just silence.

Jake stepped into the room, eyes widening at the papers scattered about the room. He couldn’t find Bear at first glance, but hidden behind a stack of papers, her head pillowed on her arms, sat a sleeping Bear. “Teddy…” he whispered, grinning a little as she stirred at the sound of his voice. “It’s late, darlin’.”

“Hmmm…” Bear let out a soft, sleepy noise at the sound of his voice, shuffling a little towards the noise source. She was dreaming, but was still lucid enough to understand the words being said. “Jake?”

His face split into a grin, loving how soft and sleepy she was. Jake had been lucky over the weeks to see more than the one side of herself that she usually displayed. It was almost like Bear was intentionally dropping her walls when he was around and it thrilled him to see a part of her that she usually kept hidden. “Yeah darlin’, it’s me.”

“What are you doin’ here?”

“Came to get you so you could go to bed. It’s late Teddy.” He was amused by the situation, loving her messy hair that had slid from its bun, and felt himself fall a little more for the woman across from him.

“It is? I swear I was only in here for an hour…” she trailed off, glancing at her watch. “Never mind, I guess I got caught up in this.”

“Did you find anything out?” Jake took a seat next to Bear, chuckling as she propped her booted feet up on his lap.

“I did,” Bear began, flipping through the pile of papers she’d been pouring over earlier. “He had help. Saif had him recruit four others that were completely useless to the plan by the way, but we have two of them in custody now. Apparently there was someone else with the four, someone who fought Hazard on every turn. Colton mentioned often that this person was a huge flight risk.”

Jake’s face darkened. “Who?”

“Easy Flyboy. I took care of it.” Bear had scooted her chair closer to him, gently smoothing the crease between his eyebrows with the pad of her thumb. “They will be handled accordingly.”

“I know. I know. It just pisses me off that this happened so easily,” Jake whispered, leaning into her touch. “All because a man got too greedy.”

“Chip surrendered to us a few days ago. Told us that he had been blackmailed into joining Hazard. He will likely face time, but he never actually did anything. Only acted as a lookout for Hazard under threat. Dex, on the other hand, keeps denying everything.” Bear ran a hand over her face, pinching at the bridge of her nose. “We have theories on the other two, but no identities yet.”

“Maybe I can help?” Jake offered. He had theories of his own while helping Bug and Fireball. Dex had been one of his picks early on, while Gallows and Dodger, his other two had shown no indication of involvement but that didn’t change the gut feeling he had. “Would Chip indicate who else is involved?”

“Maybe. But it’s late and I should go to bed. This will all be here in the morning.” Bear yawned, stretching out. “Ow!”

“Are you okay?”

Bear smiled softly. “I’m fine. Just pulled on a stitch, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?”

She couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped her. “Flyboy. I would tell you if I wasn’t fine, okay?”

“Okay.” But he didn’t look sure. So Bear slid from her chair to his lap, peppering kisses over his face.

“Believe me now?” she asked, kissing his nose.

“Mhmm.” Jake had been caught off guard by her movement, but let his hands wander down to her ass, squeezing it once, twice. “I do.”

Bear grinned as she kissed him again, letting herself relax against his chest after pulling back. “You sure? I thought for a moment I took the last Dagger braincell.”

“Darlin’, you’ve had my last one for ages,” Jake replied, grinning at the woman in his lap. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sap.”

“Mmm you love me.”

“I do.”

Jake kissed her forehead, smiling against her skin when Bear curled closer to him, burying her nose into the crook of his shoulder. “Come on Teddy. You need to go to sleep somewhere that isn’t a table.”

“But it’s comfy,” she mumbled against his shirt. “And I’m already dressed.”

“That’s great for a nap,” Jake countered. He loved Bear. Honestly he did. But how she had survived this long on her own was a miracle to him. She lived simply and from what he had seen, she seemed to have a hard time putting herself first.

It was a good thing that he was here now, he hummed to himself, letting his hands move up and down her back. He would always put her first. Bear was worth it. She was worth everything. “But you need real sleep. In bed. Not on a table.”

“Hmmm.” Bear let out a soft noise, already half asleep from Jake’s warmth and the steady thrum of his heart. “Kay.”

“Come on Teddy. I can’t carry you to bed like I did before,” he whispered, gently running the back of his hand over her face. “You have to stand up.”

Bear groaned, moving her hips back slowly before placing a foot on the ground. “I really don’t want to right now.” She knew that whining like a child probably wasn’t the best move, but she was too tired to care.

Jake chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Darlin’, you gotta. I can’t carry you. C’mon, help me out here.”

“Fine.” Bear slid out of his arms, standing between his legs. “I guess I’ll just be cold all night long then.” She knew it was a low blow, but she was too tired and too caught up in his touch to care. All Bear wanted was to be close to him tonight. To share in his warmth, his touch. She wanted to wake up with his arms around her, with her head on his chest, like she had those weeks in Riyadh. It wasn’t fair to have the distance between them, but Bear couldn’t be caught. So despite her insistence, she knew that it wasn’t fair to either of them to keep pushing. “Goodnight Jake.”

“Woah, woah, woah. Hold on now, darlin’.” Jake shot to his feet, following Bear out the door and down the deserted halls. “Don’t run away from me.”

“If I were to run, would you chase?” The glint in her eyes was full of mischief, practically daring him to try something in the middle of the empty corridor. “Or would you stand and watch?”

“Careful Teddy. Don’t push your luck.” Bear saw his pupils dilate suddenly, the comforting green eclipsed in a moment. “You’re playing with fire.” He’d backed her up against one of the walls, looming over her. Jake looked smug as he braced himself with an arm next to her head.

“Is that right?” The smirk on her face grew wider and Bear slipped out of her position with a practiced ease. She stood a ways off from him, grinning as Jake drew a shuddering breath, almost like he was trying to restrain himself. From what? Well, she had a few ideas. Namely her finally finding out if the rumors that she had heard on base were grounded in fact or fiction. “And what are you going to do about it?”

A muscle in his jaw tensed. Jake knew that her baiting him would only end in a position that neither could explain if caught, but goddamn was he willing to take that risk. The sounds that Bear would make; the whimpers under his mouth, the shivers as his touch turned teasing. God help him. He wasn’t strong enough to handle the temptation that was every little thing she did, and it was only a matter of time before his grip on his resolve snapped. Then, only then, would he show her exactly what he would do about it. But for now, Jake grit his teeth and kept his mouth shut.

His non-reaction made Bear pause. She had finally caught on to the amount of self-control he had. From his darkened gaze, to the tenseness of his muscles, she finally saw just how on edge he was. All because of her. The thought hit like a freight train and she could feel heat pooling behind her legs at the look he was giving her.

But they couldn’t. Not yet anyhow. They both knew that once they gave in to the desire, there was no going back. So Bear let her smirk fall a little, watching Jake step towards her. “I’d show you here and now what I would do about this little attitude,” he growled. “But you deserve better than that.”

She grinned, the thought spiraling through her mind. She needed him, needed to feel him, to feel the muscles she’d traced over during countless make out sessions. But that was for another time. Bear bit her lip, looking up into his eyes, watching the pupils constrict and his eyes return to the lovely green she adored. She took a cautious step forward, placing a hand against Jake’s nearly heaving chest. “I can’t wait,” she whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his jaw.

“Mmmm…” Jake hummed, watching her step back and continue down the hall. All it took was for her to get close, to tease, to give him some sign that she was willing to relinquish her control, and Jake could barely control himself. “Goodnight Teddy.”

She had led him to her room, standing in the open door and looked up at him. “Goodnight Flyboy. For real this time.” Bear was watching the emotions flicker over Jake’s face as he stood over her, his eyes hidden in shadow but she could make out the very real glimmer in them.

“Teddy…” His voice was rough, sending more shivers racing through her body, but there was hesitation. Like he regretted saying what he had moments earlier.

“Jake?”

He licked his lips, lost in thought. “Yeah. Jus’ thinkin’.” The twang on his words made Bear grin a little, stepping closer so that they were almost chest to chest.

“Thinking about what?” She was grinning, relishing in his hesitation and she had a sneaking suspicion that she was what was occupying so much of his brain space.

“You.” Even though Bear had expected it, the weight of the word hit hard, slamming into her body like she wished he would. “Thinkin’ ‘bout you, Teddy.”

She swallowed hard, her brown eyes flicking over his face, searching for any indication that he was lying. “I should…” her hushed tone was so unlike her. It was too timid, too fragile.

“Yeah…”

“Jake?”

“Teddy?”

“I love you,” she whispered, letting her words fill the silence between them.

Jake’s hand slid along her jaw, cupping her face. He knew that she could see his gaze tracing an invisible line from the chocolate brown of her eyes to the lips he wanted to feel everywhere, but he couldn’t find it within him to care. So he bent down and closed the distance between them, his lips finding hers like he’d kissed them a million and one times before. He felt her sigh against his mouth, which made him grin when he pulled back. “I love you more.”

A soft look flickered over her face, the very same look he would wake up to less than a week ago. “That’s not possible,” Bear replied softly, the earlier heat between them reduced to a low simmer. “I don’t know if you can, but you can sure try.”

“Mmm. I’ll spend my life convincing you.” And damn her to Hell if those words didn’t send her heart racing. Jake was here, practically ready to pledge himself to her forever. The rational part of her was screaming that it was too early, but that one part was bouncing up and down in exhilaration, thrilled to have found Jake. “See if I don’t, darlin’.”

Bear smiled up at him, indulging him in another gentle kiss. “I need to sleep, like you said earlier.” She tried to back up, but Jake slipped his arms around her, doing his best to keep her from moving. “Jake, honey. Come on.”

“Not without me.”

“Jake… you know we can’t.”

He heaved a sigh, playing it up a little to hear Bear let slip that little giggle that never failed to make his heart sing. “Fine. But I want to see you tomorrow at some point.”

“Deal.” Bear stuck her tongue out at him, grinning as he pressed a kiss to her nose, making her giggle again.

“Good.” Jake was still holding her close, savoring their proximity and the feeling of her against him.

“Ummm… Flyboy?” Bear was laughing gently at his hold on her. “You do have to let me go.”

“Fine.” Jake stepped back, giving her one last peck before leaving her standing at the open doorway, watching him retreat down the hall away from her.

===

Bear kept her promise the next day, having stepped out of her meetings to have lunch with Jake. They sat together with Rooster and Bob, both men expressing their desires to see their partners after having been away for far longer than expected.

“Well she understood, but hated every minute of the fact that she couldn’t fly out here.” Rooster had just stuffed a mouthful of his sandwich in his face and had been waving his hand around in an attempt to explain. “She’s Navy too,” he turned to Bear to clarify.

“So am I going to face the gauntlet that are the Dagger wives?” Bear asked jokingly, grinning at the look on Bob’s face.

Bob shrugged. “Maybe. All I know is that I have one hell of an apology to make,” he said, taking a sip of his water. They had become close since Jake had beaten the shit out of Hazard weeks ago, Bob providing a calming soundboard for her frustration about how easily she’d been fooled. It was something she hadn’t felt comfortable sharing with Jake just yet, and Bob offered his ear.

“You have one hell of a lucky woman, Bob.” Bear shot the bespectacled man a wink, before turning to Rooster. “You too, as I would imagine. Us Navy ladies are a force.”

Rooster grinned at her. He still didn’t trust the attachment that she and Jake had, but she was fun to be around, so he could look past what he still viewed as a trauma bond and just focus on befriending Bear. “You haven’t met Nix’s girl yet, have you?” He asked with a smirk.

“No, why?”

“Rooster, man, don’t.” Jake’s tone was off, like there was something he wanted to say, but couldn’t. “C’mon.”

“You wanna tell her, or should I?”

Bear glanced between the two men, confusion filling her expression. “Tell me what?”

Jake sighed, eyes narrowed at the man across from him. “Nix’s girl is my ex,” he said simply.

“You’re clearly over her though, right?” Bear was watching him carefully, reading every microexpression that crossed his face.

“Yes. I am.”

“Good. So I don’t see the problem here, Bradshaw,” Bear spoke coolly. Jake had told her about Rooster’s insistence that they had trauma bonded over everything that had happened in Riyadh and she still wasn’t completely over it. “I don’t know what you were hoping for here.”

“I meant nothing by it,” Rooster said quickly. He had been caught off guard at the frigidity of her tone and knew that he had made a misstep. “Just that Bagman over there has a type. Women that could and would kick his ass. Reaper is exactly like that.”

“Sounds like my type of woman,” Bear mused aloud, shooting Jake a wink.

“She’s amazing,” Bob chimed in, trying to break the tension that had erupted moments earlier. “Nat loves her so much that it’s insane.”

“Damn right I do,” Phoenix said as she came and sat next to Bob, reaching over to slap Rooster upside the head. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do Chicken, but knock it off.”

Rooster swallowed hard, trying not to choke on his food. “I was just… never mind.”

“Good.” Bear nodded before standing up. “I have to go get the last of my stitches out, so I will see you guys later.”

“Hold up.” Jake stuffed the last of his sandwich in his mouth and got up after her. “I’m comin’ with you.”

Bear rolled her eyes playfully. “Anyone else want to tag along?” She asked, glancing at Rooster and Bob.

“I’ll come to make sure that Jake doesn’t crack his head open when he inevitably faints at the sight of blood,” Bob said, grinning at his teammate. He had gotten a lot more comfortable with his team and they soon found that his shyness hid a wicked sense of humor.

“Bradshaw?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Alright then kiddos,” Bear said teasingly. “Let’s go.”

===

Bear had finally gotten the last few stitches out and she was so fucking happy. The itchiness was gone and she could finally stretch without fearing that she would tear something. So it was a great day.

Her and Bob were chatting about restaurants in San Diego, what their favorites were, recommendations for date nights, and the like. Jake was walking behind them, just content to be with her before Bear darted off into the pile of paperwork that was continuously looming over her. “No!” Bear exclaimed loudly, bumping into Bob. “You never go to Lorenzo’s for a special occasion!”

“Why not?”

“Well, let me tell you all about…” Bear went into a ramble that Bob seemed to follow, but she had lost Jake almost immediately.

They continued walking, Bear and Bob filling the silence with their chatter, until Bob ran into someone.

“Well, well, well,” said a familiar voice. “Look what they just decided to throw into my path. Commander Bitch, her lap dog, and Where’s Waldo.”

===

A/N: Ooops… 🫣 I did say we weren’t completely done with the drama and yeah… big thank you to @startrekfangirl2233 & @sarahsmi13s for your support. And even bigger thanks to @dakotakazansky for helping me with plot lines.

Taglist: @horseshoegirl @roosters-girl @lovinglyeternal @lavenderbradshaw @roosterforme @bobby-r2d2-floyd @bradleybeachbabe @footprintsinthesxnd @twsssmlmaa @fandomxpreferences @dempy @gizmodear @fighterpilothoe @chaoticassidy @eli2447 @iwantmyredvelvetcupcake @djs8891 @rhirhikingston @sisterslytherinog @impossiblebagelcowboyfreak @sgt-barnesveins @taytaylala12 @urmom-999 @formulapierre @pinkpantheris @havlindzk @a-beaverhausen @killcomet @buxkybarnez @topgunruinedme @hangmanscoming @smoothdogsgirl @a-court-of-roscoe-and-baby

#fern writes #a gun amonst daggers #jake hangman seresin x reader #bear and hangman #jake seresin x reader #top gun maverick #jake seresin imagine #jake seresin #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin x oc #jake seresin series

[i-was-today-years-old-when]

i learned that HP was busted multiple times shipping their laptops like the EliteBook, ProBook, Pavilion and Envy with keyloggers that could record keystrokes to a local file accessible by anyone. This alarming discovery by a cyber-security firm impacted over 460 laptop models. And it happened multiple times. (x)

#today i learned #facts #truth #history #technology

[ms-demeanor]

Hello, I'm currently in the process of switching over to Firefox, and was wondering if you could help me with something. One big feature I am painfully missing from Chrome, is being able to group tabs together in collapsible categories. I have terrible ADHD and frequently need to leave groups of tabs open for multiple days until I can get back to them. I'm currently running Tree-Style Tabs extension, but it's not quite what I want Do you know of any plugins/extensions that can provide similar functionality to Chrome's tab grouping? Thanks!

Okay so at the moment i'm using Simple Tab Grouping, which appears to do what you're looking for but I just have to give you a word of caution that if you open a group of tabs in a window that you haven't created a group from it closes all the tabs in that window, which is how I lost like fifty of my open tabs (which, LBR, was probably a good thing).

I've been using it for a couple of weeks and so far it's really handy, especially combined with multi-account containers.

So for instance I've got tumblr open in a catch-all group which is where I go for random bullshit like webcomics and digging around wikipedia and reading the news and general internet surfing stuff; I have a separate group that is just youtube videos and any time i open a youtube video in a different group I move it to that other group so I don't clutter up my other groups. I have a "work" group which is where I keep work stuff and where I'm logged in with my work container accounts and I have a "fandom" group where I've got a bunch of ao3 tabs open and i'm logged into cryptpad and have WIPs open.

If I open a new window that new window doesn't go into a group unless i make it go into the group and if I'm in a new window and I select a group from the menu it opens those tabs in that window and closes anything that wasn't part of a group; if i'm in an open window in my "work" group and select my youtube group it opens all the youtube tabs in that window and exits out of the work tabs but the work tabs are preserved and i can just as easily switch back to them.

So what this means at this point is that instead of keeping eight windows with about 150 manually sorted tabs up at all times, I have three windows with about 10 tabs up at all times and I can open 10 other windows with different tabs in a few keystrokes.

I'm sure that doesn't explain anything actually, but Simple Tab Grouping is working out well for me and seems to do the thing you're describing but you'll want to play with it before you decide to stick with it and make sure you've got a record of any tabs you need to keep before you start clicking through stuff because oof.

[lingthusiasm]

What if the IPA looked like weird nerd art and you could put it in your pocket?

The International Phonetic Alphabet chart is sometimes called the periodic table of linguistics -- an important technical diagram that's also visually interesting and which many linguists hang up on a wall, carry around inside a notebook, or simply know the exact keystrokes that'll get them to a page to type or listen to it.

Like with the periodic table of the elements, the layout of the IPA chart is a key to what the symbols mean: from top to bottom, the chart goes roughly from sounds where the mouth is the most closed to the most open, and from left to right, it goes from sounds where the constriction is the front of the mouth to the back of the mouth. This means that many linguists only know well the parts of the IPA that they encounter regularly in languages they work with, and rely on their knowledge of the overall structure to retrieve other parts on occasion. Hence the need to have it handy to refer to.

But there's also an important way in which the IPA chart and the periodic table differ: art. If you want a handy reference chart of the elements for your wall or your pocket, there are hundreds of possible designs, ranging from subtle, minimalist designs that look like cool nerdy art to intricate, maximalist designs with all the technical detail you might possibly want to refer to.

With the International Phonetic Alphabet, most people are still printing out (or occasionally stickering, or laminating) the same greyscale diagram from the International Phonetic Association. We, your Lingthusiasm cohosts, have a lot of affection for this classic design, which we've spent many hours poring over (especially the forbidden grey areas, ahem), but we also wondered, wouldn't it be cool if there was a more subtle, minimal version that would look more like weird-yet-stylish nerd art and less like a diagram from an academic paper?

Well...we know a linguist-artist. So we put this idea to Lucy Maddox, who's brought you previous Lingthusiasm art such as the space babies, the schwa never stressed pins, the "thanks" and "congrats" greeting cards, the bouba/kiki shapes, and more. And Lucy was excited about it too!

After many months of back-and-forth on coming up with and refining the design, we're very excited to share the near-final design with you! 

[Image description: an abstract, minimalist* rendering of the International Phonetic Alphabet as a grid of white, sans-serif letters on a midnight blue background, with no row or column headings. Bright green is used as an accent colour, for solid green circles around the voiceless consonants; white circles with green font for the rounded vowels, and narrow green borders around the lateral sounds. There's a small lingthusiasm logo in the bottom corner and a translucent "demo" watermark splashed in the background.]

*Yes, we know there's a syntax theory called Minimalism as well, which this has no real relationship to because it's a different subfield. Consider it a bonus easter egg!

(By the way, the design still has "demo" on it because, while we've checked it with several very helpful phonetics/phonology friends, there remains a possibility that there's a typo somewhere which the linguistics internet at large will tell us about before we get it printed. Hey, did we mention -- if you notice a typo here, now would be a GREAT time to tell us about it before we print a zillion copies.)

We've actually recorded a whole episode chatting with Lucy about the design process, which will be September's bonus episode, but a few brief notes about our design inspirations until then:

First, we were inspired by the ad-hoc IPA diagrams that linguists draw quickly on blackboards and notebooks when they want to discuss a point, which just have the minimal amount of information, and which generally don't have any labels for the rows or columns. So we ditched the labels. This is an IPA chart for people who already understand the general principles of reading an IPA chart, even if they don't quite remember all the symbols -- everything should be figure-out-able based on its position relative to common, well-known symbols. Same with the various circles for non-positional information: if you know that the difference between /p/ and /b/ is that /p/ is voiceless and /b/ is voiced, you can deduce that the solid green circle also indicates voicing for less familiar symbols. Or, if you're inclined to puzzles, this is an IPA chart for people who enjoy the challenge of decoding what some cool-looking symbols mean based on some familiar ones with maybe an assist from Wikipedia or a clickable IPA chart.

But wait -- this left us with a conundrum. The main consonant and vowel charts are totally decodable based on position. But there are also two other extra consonant charts which contain a grab-bag of other symbols arranged in no particularly decodable order. Simply removing the headings from these charts left them confusing. But after all, the IPA sounds are all produced with the same vocal apparatus...could we just fit them all into one diagram? It turns out that this (eventually, after much tweaking) looks really neat. And, we think, even makes these oft-disregarded consonants easier to remember.

Oh and by the way, since the 1900 version of the IPA chart had the consonants and vowels all on the same diagram, what if we included the vowels on there too? (We could not, alas, figure out a way of arranging the diacritics to make their meanings decodable from position only, so in the end we omitted them. If anyone does figure this out, please do let us know and we can talk about a revised version.)

With such a cool-looking IPA design, we also wanted to make it exist as a durable, tiny, lightweight object that you could carry with you everywhere and which might even be useful for secondary purposes. Which brings us to...lens cloths!

Lens cloths are a small, durable format for a reference image and you can use them to clean glasses, sunglasses, screens, camera lenses, and so on. Plus, they're a kind of merch we've never been able to do before, because lens cloth printing companies want you to place orders in the hundreds or ideally thousands.

Thousands? Oh, that brings us to The Plan:

We're going to place ONE (1) massive order for aesthetic IPA chart lens cloths on October 6, 2022. If you want one, be a patron at the Lingthusiast tier or higher on October 5th, 2022, timezone: anywhere in the world. If you’re already a patron at that tier, then you’re set! (That's the tier where you also get bonus episodes and the Discord access, we've never run a special offer at this tier before but we think this time it'll be worth it!)

If you want several IPA lens cloths, to give to friends or to make double extra sure you never leave home without one, you can also join the higher tiers (or stick around if you're already there). Patrons as the Ling-phabet tier will get 4 lens cloths and patrons at the Phil-ling-thropist tier will receive 12, in addition to the other rewards at those tiers.

We've ordered sample lens cloths from several different companies and we're really pleased with the quality of the company we're planning on going with -- the design will be entirely sublimated into the microfibre material so there's nothing to scratch your lenses, and it has a satisfying thickness and image resolution. The lens cloth production company estimates about a 2 week turnaround on ordering, so we expect we'll be mailing the lens cloths in late October or early November, which *should* be plenty of time for the major winter gifting holidays, assuming the supply chains cooperate.

We do also want to make this sleek aesthetic IPA chart design available on posters and possibly other objects (tell us what you'd be excited about in the comments below!) but that's going to take a second phase of design work to also make the design look good as a rectangle in addition to a square and figure out some additional colour options to go with a variety of decors. To be honest, running the square design as a special offer is also a bit of a test-run/fundraiser for the rectangular stage of the design, since we've already put quite a lot of our own energy and paying-the-designer into it. If people aren't as excited as we are about this idea, then maybe a rectangular version and/or more colours don't need to exist. Which would be fine too! But, I mean, c'mon.

If you know other linguists or linguistics fans who might be excited to have a snazzy aesthetic IPA chart that they can carry around with them (plus, y'know, get access to the usual Patreon perks like bonus Lingthusiasm episodes and a Discord server that's enthusiastic about linguistics), please help them find out about this before it's too late! We are not planning to ever order a second batch of IPA lens cloths, so this is your one chance to get them.

Whew, that was a long post! Here's the highlights: 

[Image description: What if the International Phonetic Alphabet looked like weird nerd art? Get this design (arrow to previously-described abstract IPA demo) on a handy-to-carry lens cloth (image of those microfibre cloths you clean glasses with; these are not the actual cloths but just to give you an idea of the genre). (Tiny abstract drawing of Lauren & Gretchen silhouettes from the website.) We're placing one bulk order for everyone who's a Lingthusiast patron or higher as of October 5, 2022. Sign up at patreon.com/lingthusiasm]

Stay lingthusiastic!

Gretchen and Lauren

#linguistics #phonetics #International Phonetic Alphabet #IPA #IPA Chart #art #linguistics art #linguistics merch #lingthusiasm #patreon #patreon special offer #special offer #special offer 2022

[mostlysignssomeportents]

How Apple could open its App Store without really opening its App Store

Last week, Mark Gurman published a blockbuster story in Bloomberg, revealing Apple’s plan to allow third-party Ios App Stores to comply with the EU’s Digital Markets Act. Apple didn’t confirm it, but I believe it. Gurman’s sourcing was impeccable:

https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2022-12-13/will-apple-allow-users-to-install-third-party-app-stores-sideload-in-europe

This is a huge deal. While Apple’s “curated” approach to software delivers benefits to users, those benefits are unreliable. As I explain in a new post for EFF’s Deeplinks blog, Apple only fights for its users when doing so is good for its shareholders. But when something is good for Apple shareholders and bad for its customers, the shareholders win, every time:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2022/12/heres-how-apple-could-open-its-app-store-without-really-opening-its-app-store

To see how this works, just consider Apple’s record in China. First, Apple removed all working VPN apps from its Chinese App Store, to facilitate state spying on its Chinese customers:

https://www.reuters.com/article/us-china-apple-vpn/apple-says-it-is-removing-vpn-services-from-china-app-store-idUSKBN1AE0BQ

Then Apple backdoored its Chinese cloud servers, to further facilitate state surveillance of Chinese Iphone owners:

https://www.nytimes.com/2021/05/17/technology/apple-china-censorship-data.html

Then, just last month, Apple neutered Airdrop’s P2P file-sharing in order to help the Chinese state in its campaign to stamp out protests:

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2022/nov/11/apple-limits-iphone-filesharing-feature-used-by-protesters-in-china

Apple claims that its App Store is a fortress that protects its users against external threats. But the Iphone is designed to block its owners from choosing rival app stores, which means that when Apple betrays its customers, the fortress walls become prison walls. Governments know this, and they rely on it when they demand that Apple compromise its customers to totalitarian surveillance:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/11/foreseeable-consequences/#airdropped

Now, there’s an interesting contrast here. When the DFBI demanded that Apple backdoor its devices to aid in the prosecution of the San Bernardino shooters, Apple took its customers’ side, bravely refusing to compromise its devices:

https://www.eff.org/cases/apple-challenges-fbi-all-writs-act-order

That was the right call to make. Does it mean that Apple doesn’t value privacy for its Chinese customers’ privacy as much as it values it for American customers? Does it mean that Apple respects the CCP more than it respects the FBI?

Not at all. It just means that China was able to threaten Apple’s shareholders in ways that the DoJ couldn’t. Standing up to the Chinese government would threaten Apple’s access to 350 million middle-class Chinese potential customers, and an equal number of Chinese low-waged workers who could be tapped to manufacture Apple devices under brutal labor conditions at rock-bottom prices.

Standing up to the FBI didn’t threaten Apple’s shareholders the way that standing up to the CCP would, so Apple stood up for its American users and sold out its Chinese users.

But that doesn’t mean that US Apple customers are safe. In the US, Apple defends its customers from rival commercial threats, but actively prevents those customers from defending themselves against Apple’s own commercial threats.

Famously, Apple took its customers side over Facebook’s, adding an amazing, best-in-class, one-click opt-out to tracking, which is costing Facebook $10 billion per year. You love to see it:

https://www.cnbc.com/2022/02/02/facebook-says-apple-ios-privacy-change-will-cost-10-billion-this-year.html

On the other hand…Apple secretly continued to its customers’ clicks, taps, gestures, apps and keystrokes, even after those customers explicitly opted out of tracking, and used that data to build nonconsensual dossiers on every Ios owner for use in its own ad-targeting business:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

Apple defended its customers against Facebook’s predation, but not its own. When Apple’s shareholder interests are on the line, Apple’s App Store becomes a prison, not a fortress: because Apple controls which software you can install, it can (and does) block you from installing apps that extend its block on commercial surveillance to Apple itself.

Then there’s the app tax. Apple charges app makers a 30% commission on all their sales, which means that certain businesses literally can’t exist. Take audiobooks: audiobook sellers have 20% gross margins on their wares. If they sell their audiobooks through apps and pay a 30% vig to Apple, they lose money on every sale. Thus, the only Ios app that will sell you an audiobook is Apple’s own Apple Books.

Apple Books requires authors and publishers to wrap their books in Apple’s DRM, and the DMCA makes it a felony to supply your own readers with a tool to convert the books you published to a rival’s format. That means that readers have to surrender every book they’ve bought on Apple Books if you switch platforms and ask them to follow you. It’s not just social media that turns creators into digital sharecroppers.

It’s not any better when it comes to the businesses that can eke out an existence under the app tax’s yoke. These businesses pass their extra costs on to Apple’s customers, who ultimately bear the app tax burden. Because every app maker has to pay the app tax, they all tacitly collude to hike their prices. And because mobile is a duopoly, the app tax is also buried in every Android app, because Google has exactly the same app tax as Apple (Google will also be forced to remove barriers to third-party app stores under the DMA).

All this to say that it is a terrible error to impute morals or values to giant corporations. Apple and Google are both immortal colony organisms that view human beings as inconvenient gut flora. They are remorseless paperclip-maximizing artificial life forms. They are, in other words, limited liability corporations.

https://knowyourmeme.com/memes/paperclip-maximizer

“If you’re not paying for the product, you’re the product” sounds good, but it’s absolutely wrong. You can’t bribe a paperclip-maximizing colony organism into treating you with dignity by spending money with it. Companies’ treatment of you depends on what they can get away with — not their “personalities.” Apple doesn’t respect privacy — it thinks it can make more paperclips by giving some of its customers some privacy. As soon as Apple finds a way to make more paperclips by spying on those you (say, by starting its own internal adtech business), it will spy on you, and the $1000 you spent on your Iphone will not save you.

Once you understand that corporate conduct is a matter of power, not personality, then you understand that the way to prevent companies from harming you is to meet their power with countervailing power. This is why tech worker unions matter: organized labor has historically been the most important check on corporate power, which is why tech companies are so vicious in the face of union drives:

https://www.epi.org/publication/unions-decline-inequality-rises/

Beyond labor, two other forces can discipline corporate conduct: regulation and competition. The biggest threat to a business’s customers is that business’s own shareholders. A company might defend its customers against a rival, but they will never defend its customers against its own shareholders.

Regulation and competition both impose costs on shareholder who abuse their customers: regulation can punish bad conduct with fines that come out of shareholder profits, and competition can create a race to the top as businesses seek to poach each others’ customers by offering them progressively better deals.

Which brings me back to the DMA, the EU’s pending regulation forcing Apple to open its app store, and Apple’s leaked plans to comply with the regulation. This is (potentially) great news, because rival app stores can offer Apple customers an escape hatch from mandatory surveillance and price-gouging.

But the devil is in the details. There are so many ways that Apple can use malicious compliance to appear to offer a competitive app marketplace without actually doing so. In my article for EFF, I offer a checklist of fuckieries to watch for in Apple’s plans:

• Forcing software authors in Apple’s Developer Program. Not only does this force developers to pay Apple for the privilege of selling to Iphone owners, but it also forces them to sign onto a Bible-thick EULA that places all kinds of arbitrary limits on their software. It’s not enough for Apple to open up to rival app stores — it also must not sabotage rivals who produce competing SDKs for Ios.

• Forcing App Store criteria on rival app stores. Apple mustn’t be permitted to turn legitimate vetting for security or privacy risks into editorial control over which apps Ios users are allowed to use. Apple may not want to carry games that highlight labor conditions in high-tech manufacturing sweatshops:

https://venturebeat.com/games/apple-drops-uncomfortable-sweatshop-hd-game-from-app-store/

And it may object to apps that track US drone killings of civilians abroad:

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2012/aug/30/apple-blocks-us-drone-strike-app

But those arbitrary editorial conditions shouldn’t be imposed on rival app stores.

• Taxing rival app stores for “security vetting.” Apple is not the only entity qualified to assess the security of apps:

https://www.schneier.com/essays/archives/2022/01/letter-to-the-us-senate-judiciary-committee-on-app-stores.html

and it’s just as capable as its rivals of making grave errors:

https://www.infosecurity-magazine.com/news/apple-fixes-exploited-iphone-zero/

It’s fine to say that app stores must submit to third-party security certification, but they should be free to choose Apple out of a field of qualified privacy certifiers.

• Requiring third-party app stores to process payments with Apple. The app tax should be disciplined by competition. Allowing Apple to extract 30% from transactions in its rivals’ app stores would defeat the whole purpose of the DMA.

• Arbitrarily revoking third party app stores. It’s foreseeable that some third-party app stores would be so incompetent or malicious that Apple could revoke their ability to operate on Ios devices. However, if Apple were to pretextually shut down third-party app stores, it could sour Iphone owners off the whole prospect of getting apps elsewhere.

Apple must not be permitted to use its power to shut down app stores in an anti-competitive way, but distinguishing pretextual shutdowns from bona fide ones is a time-consuming, fact-intensive process that could leave customers in limbo for years.

One way to manage this is for regulators to dangle massive fines for pretextual shutdowns. In addition to this, Apple must make some provision to continue its customers’ access to the apps, media and data from the app stores it shuts down.

All of this points to the role that regulators pay, even (especially) when it comes to disciplining companies through competition. The DMA is overseen by the EU Commission, which has the power to investigate, verify and approve (or reject) the standards that Apple sets for privacy, security, and app stores themselves. The Commission should anticipate and fund the regulators needed to manage these tasks quickly, thoroughly and efficiently.

Finally, Europeans shouldn’t have all the fun. If Apple can do this for Europeans, it can do it for every Apple device owner. If you bought an Ios device, it’s yours, not Apple’s, and you should have the right to technological self determination that Europeans get when it comes to deciding which software it runs.

Image: Electronic Frontier Foundation https://www.eff.org/files/banner_library/eu-flag-11.png

CC BY 3.0: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/us/

[Image ID: An EU flag. The blue background has a fine tracery of etched circuitry.]

#pluralistic #apple #malicious compliance #walled gardens #app stores #interoperability #interop #european union #eu #digital markets act #ios #dma

[ohtobemare]

Abstracts, Part 1 • Iceman X OFC

Summary: It's been six months since the beginning of the end of his life. But, while Tom Kazansky still lives, parts of him have already died. And, he's made his peace with that. Maybe. Partially. But then she arrives, one glorious day in May, and reminds him that even dead things can, in fact, be brought back to life.

Length: ~1700 words

Pairings: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky x OFC

Warnings: Angst, mentions of cancer/tracheotomy, age gap, religious undertones

There's little a man can do when he's handed his death sentence.

Written in hardly-legible cursive, which is then subsequently punched into one of seemingly endless computers that make up the world. That singular computer will digest that singular information, spin it endlessly in its trove of hardware and software as if it doesn't contain information that will, very literally, conclude the end of your life.

It will sit in the cold, unfeeling dungeon of cyberspace, existing as little more than just data. Attached to just another patient record. A record that is faceless, void of emotion, and by all sense of the word, unliving.

Until someone else assigns that record and its subsequent numbers a name. A date and location of birth—demographics that begin to paint the picture of someone who, subsequently, is very much alive and feeling.

A few keystrokes tell the cold and void machine now containing the end of your life to deposit everything that's been discussed on printed paper. Paper that an administrative professional, who has sense changed shifts since the arrival of this dreadful news, hands you with the softest, most sympathetic look a stranger could offer another face which adds to the sea of those she will see over the course of eight hours.

"We'll call you to confirm the appointment," is all she says, handing over the paperwork. "Oncology will leave a message if they can't reach you."

And that's it. Left to face the cold and rigid lines of the world beyond this haven, which has suddenly and unexpectedly become an Eden of safety and promise, the paper is little more than a detail in what has become the last chapter of his life.

At least, that's what he thinks. What he feels. And if not for feeling?

He may as well already be dead.

XxxX

"...we're looking at complete loss of speech, Tom. Tracheotomy is the only light we have at the end of this tunnel. Communication will be difficult, but not entirely impossible. You'll have to adapt—"

The memory of the words rings cold and sharp against the cavity of Admiral Tom Kazansky's chest as he tracks the numbers on the calendar hanging in front of him. It's been six months. Six months to the day since his diagnosis, since the beginning of the end of his living days.

He's not dead, of course. Not yet. Remission means something to the people on the other end of this disease, on the statistical side of cancer. Usually, the words "in remission" were a lifeline to the dying—a weapon against death standing at the door. Chased into the wings, thousands of people continued living with remission forever the adjective before their name.

But just because his body isn't dead doesn't mean a part of him is still living. Iceman still draws breath, his heart still beats a little stronger every day he wakes up and pulls himself out of bed. But a larger part of him–the blissfully ignorant parts—aren't the same. They flatlined the day his doctor had scheduled him for an appointment with oncology, when in reality, he'd simply come in for a wellness check.

The anniversary date, circled in vermilion marker, glares back at him. A spot on his record of life. He doesn't remember writing it, of course—Ice doesn't remember a lot of things these days. But, it's handwriting that can only belong to him. He doesn't remember writing it, no, but he knows his own handwriting.

SIX MONTHS is circled so boldly, so determinedly, that he can only feel distraught that the Tom who had sat down to mark this date half a year ago had been so doomsday. So apocalyptic. His six-months-ago self had been hopeless, drowning in anger and fear and confusion— marking out a date on a calendar had been poignant, important enough to warrant capital letters and the importance of a red Sharpie marker.

The corner of his mouth ticks up as he stares at the date.

Six months is a long damn time. He remembers the days that he could blink and half a year had already happened—but not anymore. Six months was unfathomable to those who watched the sands in their hourglass pass through the needle's eye. When he'd schedule this date, six months had felt fleeting. Like a drop in the bucket.

But the reality is this—six months is six months.

He shakes his head and pulls his eyes off the calendar, instead dropping them to the desk before him. Pristine, everything is as it should be, including a marker that is sure to be identical to the one he's already recognized for a good ten minutes on the calendar. Grabbing it, he snaps the cap off, discards it, and spins the marker through his fingers, its sharp, acidic scent as familiar as it probably had been six months ago.

Smirking, he takes the Sharpie and scrawls REMISSION through the bold, printed letters of May, which really don't deserve the wrath of his scrawl. Satisfied that this month this year will forever be marked with his victory, he recaps the marker and sticks it behind his ear. It looks good. Poignant.

It's all anyone who glances at the calendar will ever notice. Akimbo before the calendar, arms crossed over his chest, he smiles at the feeling lighting up every vein in his body. There's still a dull ache behind his ribs, this damn tube is still sensitive and raw at home in his throat, but there is something new—something he hasn't felt in a long damn time.

"Ice? You here?"

The voice calling to him from beyond the office is familiar—it's one of his students. Moving from the calendar to exit the office, he emerges from the small space and into the air of the studio, which is suddenly far more alive with the rush of lights and movement than it was when he'd slipped in here a few hours ago.

Kneading life into his hands, he approaches the young man unloading his backpack on one of the sculpture tables. Theo is one of the most gifted sculptors in the country, at least in his own opinion—he's been coming to the studio since he'd opened it. From Charlotte attending UCLA, Theo runs the floor when other matters demand his attention—other matters that pull him from his grotto, his place of healing.

Tom claps a hand on his shoulder, offering him a full smile. "Here early, aren't ya?" Theo teases him, offering his hand. Ice shakes it, like always, and shrugs a shoulder. "Figures. You're basically a vampire, you know that?"

His face twists into an amused wrinkle, prompting a grin from Theo. "Is there anything shipping out today?" There isn't, but, before he can offer a response Theo is backpedaling away from the table, thumbing over his shoulder, "I'm gonna make coffee. I'm dragging ass this morning, T."

Rolling his eyes, this kid doesn't even have an idea of what dragging ass actually means. There's little more privilege than spending your day tucked away in the confines of inspiration and peace, able to work for yourself and accomplish something as holy and serendipitous as art, and that's all Theo and others like him know.

Coming here, spending their days immersed in the lifeblood of culture and society—once, it had been nothing but a hope for him. A desire, a dream. One that was born after he started chasing sky and fulfilling his life's mission of flying for the United States. That had been manifested in his soul at birth, thanks to his father, but—-art. God, art. It had been in his veins, living against his heart, for thirty years.

It had only taken this damn disease—the end of his career—to recognize that heartbeat. And perhaps a small part of Tom Kazansky should be grateful that he's survived this, even without a voice. Because without this, art may never have found him. May never had revived him from the flatline his life had become.

Maybe he's a little grateful. Or stupid.

Either is a distinct possibility, these days.

Tags:

@cherrycola27 @thedroneranger @mayhemmanaged @desert-fern @startrekfangirl2233 @soulmates8 @chicomonks @angstytalesrx @dakotakazansky @books-are-escapes @sarahsmi13s @cassiemitchell @lovinglyeternal @bobby-r2d2-floyd @that-one-random-writer @horseshoegirl @lavenderbradshaw @bradleybeachbabe @roosters-girl @footprintsinthesxnd @chaoticassidy @roosterisdaddy36 @callsignharper @hisredheadedgoddess28 @genius2050 @ohgodnotagainn

#top gun fanfic #top gun maverick fanfic #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun fanfiction #controlled chaos squad #call sign meerkat #tom iceman kazansky #iceman top gun #val kilmer #tom iceman kazansky x ofc #iceman x ofc #tom kazansky x ofc

[ninjathrowingstork]

Blade Runner: Bitter Water

Hello I am back again with more heartbreak.

I'll probably update with my actual notes once I remember what I wanted to add for this.

______________________________________________________________

Chapter 3

A blood black nothingness.

A system of cells.

Within cells interlinked.

Within one stem.

And dreadfully distinct.

Against the dark.

A tall white fountain played."

He’d passed. He always passed. 

Leaving the dingy white room, the rapid-fire questioning had left his mind feeling scraped raw, but he was still on his baseline and he had a job to do. It had been nearly a week, and he was running out of time. This hadn’t been the fight he was looking for, but hunting down where a fugitive replicant would go to ground meant finding other fugitives sometimes. Fugitives who fought back. 

But they weren't designed to fight, to hunt, to kill, the way he had been designed. 

The investigation was getting nowhere. 

kD6-3.7 scanned through another day’s worth of surveillance recordings, fruitlessly looking for one, specific spinner. 

While pursuing his other lead had resulted in the crash landing in a pile of slush, he’d eventually tracked down first a shop owner who’d recognized the lost heiress’s replicant companion and that had led to someone else who’d confirmed the woman’s daily route, and finally to the series of cameras along the streets. 

Just for once, he wished something could have been easy. It took days to get some of the recordings back, from stores and private security cameras. Sure the Police Department could request the files be turned over, but tracking down the paperwork and waiting for permits to go through had already set him back, even before sitting and watching through the days and days of recordings. He’d eventually had to put each camera’s recording of the last day the replicant woman had been seen together in sequence,  tracking her path along the usual route, and- 

There. 

One moment she was walking, head down under an umbrella, and the next she’d turned a corner and by the camera next in the sequence, she was gone. There was still one more recording, partially blocked by an awning, that had a viewpoint of the alley in between the two streets. It was slim chance, but- 

He had it. The woman turned the corner onto the street, lined with parked spinners, speeding up slightly on the empty sidewalk. He watched as the door of one swung open as she approached, and with one last look over her shoulder, she’d slid into the dark, unmarked vehicle and it had pulled away and vanished into the flow of traffic around the next corner. But- 

Zooming in. Another flick of the controls and the image of the spinner’s open door was magnified to take up the whole screen. He brightened it, and there. It was her mistress. The missing heiress was already in the vehicle, holding the door open for the replicant woman to join her.         

He’d been told not to look into the human woman’s vanishing as well, and he’d surmised the two were connected, but their timing and circumstances for disappearing had stayed a mystery, until now.  While finding the method of their disappearance solved several questions, it only raised more. If the two hadn’t been abducted, hadn’t been taken by force, that left the questions of who helped the pair, and why did they leave ? Answering those would be a start in finding where they went. 

Wearily, he ran his hands down his face, it had been long hours sifting through the recordings, and it was getting close to dinnertime. That didn’t mean he was done for the night, though. With a few keystrokes, he sent the shots of the replicant Alice entering the car and a report of his progress to the Lieutenant, and put in a request for any ID on the spinner the system could find.. She’d given him a week, and he had one more day to work the case before she’d said it would be passed along, solved or not. He hoped he’d made  enough progress to buy more time. Whether that was to work the case or to live, he wasn’t sure. It was the highest profile assignment he’d been given, and the family of the missing girl could easily ask for his retirement for not finding the pair. Still. Joshi had phrased it to sound like this was just a courtesy and a preliminary investigation before more important resources were invested in the case. He could still be retired and replaced over a courtesy, when dealing with a family with the money of the missing girl. 

The only thing left was to go take a look at the street where the replicant woman had been picked up, if he could still find any evidence. If he could get any lead in the case from there. 

Trudging through the station, he kept his head down as always. The past week had been. . . different. The other officers still either ignored him entirely, or else he had to endure the gauntlet of glares and the occasional curse flung as he passed, sometimes a shoulder slamming against him as he passed, but. But. No one had grabbed him, no one had touched him more than in passing. He wondered how long the sergeant’s influence would keep them off of him, but he would take whatever reprieve she’d bought him. 

Sergeant Flint. He hadn’t spoken to her since that night, but he’d seen her at the desk in passing a few times. She’d looked up, nodding in recognition each time, but he’d been focused on the case, and it seemed wrong to approach her uninvited, with others around. There had been that one time he’d passed a hallway to see her red hair shining in it’s tight knot as the tall woman was speaking with the Madam. The conversation had seemed friendly, but there was the now-recognizable angry set to her jaw, and Joshi had been standing even more stick-straight than usual. Whatever the two women had been discussing seemed personal, and he’d turned and left them alone. 

“Officer K?” As though summoned by the memory, there she was striding down the hallway as he passed. With barely a pause, she fell into step beside him as they entered the entryway together. “On a case tonight?” It was less formal, less restrained than she’d been at first but there was a new tautness to her words, and that set to her jaw that said anger  had returned. 

Best be wary then. “I am, ma’am.” Then, “the report is due tomorrow.” 

She paused as they neared the desk, and he stopped a step later, looking back at the tall sergeant. “Think you’ll have time for dinner again?” 

Dinner? Was this a regular thing for them now? There was a small flutter of - of something in his chest, a strange lightness, but still. . . “If this lead doesn’t turn up anything, I - I could meet you somewhere.” It was one of the longest sentences he’d said to her so far. He told her the neighborhood, and after a moment, she nodded. 

“There’s a rail station there. Meet you there at seven?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“If you’re not working, officer, it’s not an order.” 

The pitch of her voice shifted minutely, the tone softer as it had been when she’d reassured him before. Oh. Not an order. He could. . . he could say no, could say another time, if he wanted. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll meet you there at seven.” This was already too close. Too familiar. Before she could say anything else, he’d turned on his heel and headed out into the evening. 

Within cells interlinked. 

The streets on the way were as busy as they’d been on the day of the disappearance, but turning down the side street, it was quiet. The backs of a few stores, and crumbling brick walls. It was. . . nice, not a neighborhood a wealthy heiress would be walking through, but someplace her tutor and assistant replicant would be left alone. Stopping at the point across from the camera, still with an awning stretched over a door blocking a corner of the view, he looked along the empty stretch of street. A single spinner hummed by in the evening chill. Not for the first time, he recalled his instructions not to look into the missing girl, the missing human. Investigating her would possibly give more information about the spinner’s route, where she had boarded it, who was driving it behind the dark privacy-tinted windows. If anyone had been watching the street here that day, they wouldn’t have any more insight than the camera had given about the spinner or the two passengers. Between the tinting and the positioning of that awning, any identification of the vehicle or driver had been carefully hidden. 

They knew someone would come looking.  

They knew, and he’d get nothing else from here. 

Once more, Officer KD6-3.7 turned, trudging into the evening. He might still make the station for seven. 

By the time he reached the monorail station, he half expected she’d have gone. It wasn’t long after the hour, but she had no reason to wait for him. 

But. 

There she was, lights glinting off the damp on the shoulders of her coat. She peeled herself away from the wall when she spotted him, lowering the boot she’d propped up behind her. “Didn’t know if you’d make it.” 

Didn't know if he’d make it alive, he realized. There never was a guarantee he’d come back. “I don’t have that much of a social life,” he shrugged. “Didn’t know if you’d still be here.”            

That got an almost-grin from her. “Not much of a social life either, I had time to wait.” 

The thought that a human would willingly spend her time just waiting for him, not knowing if he’d make it back, was. . . strange. 

“And anyway, I was the one who asked to meet,” turning on her heel, she led him into the station and towards the monorail car. “Wasn’t about to leave you here, if you got held up on the way and happened to be late.” 

As little as he could trust most humans, and even less those who held rank over him, whose orders he was bound to obey, he could feel himself actually trusting the sergeant. This was well beyond caring for his well being as department property, coming to this corner of the city just to meet him. The first night she’d led him from the station, had given him food and kindness, she’d said she didn’t want to use him, and his instincts were telling him this woman didn’t change her mind easily so he doubted that was her plan for the evening. 

Ahead, his companion quietly slid by the kiosk where evening passengers stopped scanning passes with a soft chime before crossing the platform to board. “We’re not paying, ma’am?”  He’d been on the monorail that wound through the black buildings and neon lights once before, in his first, disorienting days alive as he was learning his new life on the force. He’d been with another officer then, taking him  through the city on foot instead of spinner for once, leading him along with a hand clamped painfully around his arm, and it had all been too overwhelmingly new for him to process if there had been any fare paid then. He hadn’t tried the rail system since, preferring either the privacy of a department spinner or the economy of traveling by foot. 

Without stopping, Flint glanced back at him, reaching to tap at the insignia pinned to her coat shoulder. “Not in uniform, officer, we ride free, department wants us to have a presence out here and the transit folks say it keeps the rides safer.” He caught the corner of her half-smile before she turned back. 

As the lights of the city slipped by in the night, he glanced sideways at the woman standing still as a statue, gazing calmly out the window as she held onto the overhead strap for balance. Maybe her presence in her uniform-blue coat did make the other passengers in their car feel safer, maybe not, but if all he’d gotten from them was the occasional side-eye, he knew the weight of presence she carried around her was keeping him a little safer. They didn’t talk during the ride, despite the ease between them earlier Flint had slipped back into being the stone-faced sergeant beside him with the closeness of the other riders around them, and. 

And. 

And there was still that flicker of the suppressed anger in the set of her mouth and line of her jaw. Had something happened in the past week? Was this night with him for her to unwind for once instead of him? But there had been that something in how she’d asked to meet him, something masked behind the rare lightness in her tone. Either way, whatever her intentions, he reminded himself, it wasn’t his place to question her. Even if she had said it wasn’t an order. 

Still in silence, they left the rail car, a jerk of her head the only signal it was time to exit before she led him out and back into the city streets. There were more holo-signs here, the city more dense than the area they’d just come from. High above them, a glowing pink woman was dancing on the side of one building, and he stopped, for once watching one of the myriad of advertisements he walked through daily. “Those digis really are something.”  The sergeant had stopped, joining him again to stare up at the display. “Wonder if they really can be whoever you want, like she says.” 

“Wouldn’t know.” The idea of just having someone around to talk to had been utterly alien  to him until little more than a week before, but having someone, even a fake, digital companion had been so far above any wildest dreams, if he’d had any. “Probably costs a lot, though, so they must be worth it.” 

“Probably right.” The rosy light slid over the orange of her hair, turning it a strange, murky shade, “ but I guess if folks really need someone to talk to. . .” she shrugged, before turning and leading him further through the streets.  

Dinner that night was some kind of meat, likely vat grown also, but with a slight char to the corners and served on long skewers, and tonight, he didn’t protest her buying him food. Tonight, they ate quietly again, only commenting on the sauce on the meat, on the crowds. Tonight she wasn’t trying to distract him from anything, to save him from anything. There was no sharing of memories or stories of life- on the force and just of living . Just the company of sharing a meal with someone else as they watched the crowds pass by. 

She was subtle. So subtle it took until they were both nearly finished eating for him to realize she was watching for someone , and as she quickly finished her food, he wolfed down the last bites of his, savoring the memory of the sauce and crunch of seared vegetables, trailing a step behind her as they crossed through the  evening foot traffic to another table across the market from theirs. 

The pair, a man and a woman, stood, talking over plates of food and something- something in the way they stood, the fit of their clothes, despite being nondescript civilian garments, said this pair were also police. Plainclothes, likely detectives- 

Like the sergeant had been, he remembered. 

“Roark and Nguyen,” Flint had stopped, just far enough the pair wouldn’t notice them, her voice just loud enough to be heard above the noise of the street. “I’ve known ‘em for a while. They ever give you any trouble?” 

The question caught him off guard. Had they ever been among the ones he’d learned to avoid? Their faces were familiar, but just as another pair he’d seen around the precinct, never when his tormentors were around, never among the hands reaching to drag him into corners or rooms. “No, no, they’ve never bothered me.” 

“Good.” She nodded curtly. “Knew I could trust ‘em, just had to be sure, you know?” 

He didn’t know, but the realization she’d asked if her friends  had ever. . . the thought she’d checked her knowledge of them was real against his experience was something he’d lie awake in his thin, fold-out bed thinking about in the night. But for now, he was following her again, straight for the pair. 

“Evening, detectives.” There was a new wryness in her voice as she greeted them. It was almost. . . playful? 

“Sarge, it’s been a while.” 

“Hey, you.” The other woman, shorter, dark hair brushing damply against her shoulders, grinned up at the sergeant. 

He was seeing their friendship, seeing the serious, hardened senior officers he passed every day as people, as friends. There was that pull, that twisting in his chest again for something he’d never truly be a part of. 

“Hey back at you both. Been keeping out of trouble?” 

“Nothing we can’t get ourselves out of, you know.” The man, average height with a fighter’s build, his instincts filled in, as the detective leaned his elbows on the table, a smile in his eyes despite an otherwise serious expression. “Who’s your friend?” 

“Matt, Alicia, Officer K’s new around here.” A tilt of her head invited him  to step into their circle, joining Flint and her friends at the table. “K, these two and I go way back. Went out drinking with  them when I first made detective.” 

And she still stopped to ask him if they’d ever hurt him. 

“And the Sarge here has been kicking our asses in the shooting range since the academy days,” The man - Matt’s face finally cracked into a grin as he ran a hand through short, sandy hair, brushing out a scattering of snowflakes. 

“He’s the new ‘runner, right?”  Detective Nguyen - Alicia - eyed him curiously. 

“Yeah, since they stopped partnering with human detectives, don’t think I’ve seen much of the last few. Well, uh, it’s good to finally meet ya,” finally looking past the sergeant to greet K. 

Beside him, Flint’s jaw twitched with- with annoyance? 

“That’s part of why I need to ask you two a favor.” 

“Oh?” The shorter detective leaned forward to mirror her partner, curiously. “What kind of favor?” 

“Have you two seen Walters and his pals much this week?” 

She shook her head, as her partner drawled a slow “can’t say that I have.” 

“Well, that pack’s been givin’ K here trouble lately, and L-T can’t do much through official channels to stop it.” Her voice had slipped into the nomad drawl as she spoke to her friends. “Try as I might, I can't watch everything at once-” that got another grin from the detectives, “so I’m askin’ if you two could help keep an eye out, run interference for him. Keep that pack of degenerates off his back. Leastways until they get bored and back off. It’ll save me the worry and keeps the L-T from coming down on me if he takes any damage in the station that’ll put him out of commission.” 

This was. . . different, from how she’d been- been concerned for him, framing the request as a favor for her, for the department instead. Using her own friendship with them to shield him again. 

Both detectives stared at him, she with a cool appraisal and he with a sharp curiosity, and he found himself wanting to shift uncomfortably under the new scrutiny. He’d learned this much attention from anyone not connected to a case was rarely ever good. 

Roark straightened up, the sharp grin he’d greeted the Sergeant with almost returning. “Well. Never thought about the runners having trouble like that, but Walters and his guys are jackasses, so- K, was it?” 

“Yes, sir.” His reply was too quiet, again, as he stared at the flickering light of a holo ad on a wall past the man's shoulder. 

“K, you find me or Alicia here if there’s any trouble, those degenerates know not to mess with us.” 

It wouldn’t help if he was ambushed in the hallways again, but it was a start. 

“And I know this is already a big favor,” Flint jumped in, “but anyone else you can trust, who’s not been taking advantage of K here,” the muscle of his shoulder twitched as she dropped one hand onto the fabric of his coat, resting it with the slightest squeeze before dropping away,, “run this by them also, that the Sarge says he’s off limits.” 

Off limits. He almost missed the two nodding in agreement as he processed what her words meant. 

“Hey, Tam,” Nguyen reached across the table, tapping the surface by where the Sergeant’s arms were folded. “In exchange for this massive favor, you gonna come back out from behind that desk again? Joshi’s got that standing offer for you to join us in plain clothes again, I hear.

Beside him, Flint shifted minutely. Uncomfortably? “I’m  fine where I am, Detective, you know that. ‘Asides, if she wants me back that badly she can make it an order.” She shrugged, barely a lift of her shoulders. “You never know, though. Someday I’ll get bored in the precinct maybe, and finally go outside again.”  

The humor in her voice sounded forced to his ears, but the seriousness of the moment was broken. Making their goodbyes, Flint excused herself from her friends, and strode back along the street, with him following a step behind, the two of them alone in the crowds again. 

The carefully-designed investigator’s mind they’d built in him was racing with questions as he followed, watching the sharp set of her shoulders in the blue coat. All of them led back to why . Why had she asked him to meet her and  spend another evening out with her? Why go out of her way to meet him at the station, Why introduce him to her friends, and ask- 

She’d known. She’d known the pair would be eating in this neighborhood, and for her own reasons had made the encounter and request appear casual. But. But that still left the question of why . She didn’t have to do this, didn’t have to protect him. He’d been built to endure the violence that came with the solitary life of a blade runner. He - didn't’ want, couldn’t want anything else  - would have survived. But the sergeant had told him she’d used her position and influence to put the fear of real consequences, the fear of their sergeant into his - his attackers. Off limits , she’d said. She’d already done that for him. Now, she’d gone further and requested help from detectives . Human detectives. For him. If he could have felt shame, felt it even after what he’d been subjected to in his short life so far, he would have been ashamed of the request that the well-known and respected partners have to watch out for him, that they have to watch out for one replicant in the station who can’t- 

But. There was, once more, that strange warmth in his chest that she was trying to protect him, and they’d agreed. He’d never spoken with  the pair - still hadn’t beyond a few words, he realized, playing back the conversation - and, because she’d asked them, the two had agreed to help watch out for him and keep Walters and his cronies off his back. It wasn’t much on the surface, but, if they kept their word, then the number of humans in this world who gave a second thought for his life had just tripled. It seemed unlikely, but. . . but the memory of warm food and tea, of the blue-coated figure parting the crowds ahead of them, and of the rare, warm touches said it just all might be true. 

That figure strode ahead, hand now shoved deep back into the pockets of her coat, and he followed as always, just a step behind her shoulder.  With one long step, he caught up, for once walking beside her. She looked as she did that first night, that determination, that deeply hidden burning anger that only highly-tuned senses could have detected. “Thank you. . . thank you for doing that. You didn’t have to” He sounded too quiet in his own ears again, each word carefully measured out. 

She shrugged one shoulder, “can’t always be around to keep those sonsabitches off you, already asked Bernal and Elliot to help keep an eye out also. They’ve never bothered you, right?” One eyebrow tilted, she glanced across him finally. 

He’d seen the two men on occasion also, they’d maybe looked at him in passing but never longer than it took to recognize his approach before going back to their own conversion, their own lives. “No, they’ve never bothered me. “

“Yeah, those two are the last guys I’d ever suspect, and the last who’d be into whatever kicks Walters and the others get  from. . . well, it’s just not their thing.” 

There were several things she could mean, but right now it meant he had two  pairs of respected, senior, human officers watching his back in the station. 

“Thank you” His voice was even quieter this time. Falling back to his usual position  at her back, he almost missed the quirk of a smile his thanks earned. 

“It’s the least I can do, Officer K.” Her voice was that almost-gentle tone again, the current of anger she’d carried all night hidden deep. “Like I said before, you shouldn’t have to put up with how they treat you.” 

Any other protests he might have made, if he’d been able to find it in himself to ever contradict her, were lost as he trailed her through the narrow, winding stalls of the night market she’d led them into.  This was more closely packed than the one she’d brought him to before, smaller openings for evening shoppers to eat, and tighter lanes wrapping around the few, coveted stores hemming the packed streets. Long legs carried Flint smoothly through the press, sliding around crowds with the occasional person slipping out of the way upon recognizing her. Finally, she slowed, giving him the chance to catch up. 

“Up there,” she gestured at a larger booth, selling what looked like fruit from a distance. It was set up against a wall, possibly connected to one of the permanent shops if he judged the large, semi-permanent structure right. They stopped, and he watched over her shoulder as the sergeant leaned in, ordering from the woman behind the counter, her sleek dark hair a contrast with Flint’s fiery copper. It was hard to hear, even with his heightened senses, but he could faintly make out “les vrais” before the woman nodded, vanishing into the darkness of her shop. 

“When I was a kid,” Flint had turned, staring out across the market as she spoke, her nomad’s drawl slipping back into her speech, “sometimes we’d find berry bushes up in the mountains still. Scrubby lil’ things, but they’d be out there clingin’ to life.”  His full attention was focused on the story, another memory of a real childhood she was sharing with him. “Sometimes we’d find berries on them, growing in whatever sunlight the things  could get. Dusty, tart little things, but we’d pick any we could reach. Bring ‘em to the city, get good money for ‘em, even then.” 

He could only imagine, produce that wasn’t grown in Wallace-made facilities was treated like gold, and- 

The thought was interrupted as the soft rustling of paper containers sliding across the counter heralded the woman’s return. Two small, paper cups holding. . . holding blackberries. 

“Since getting here, this is the only place I’ve found that still has a hookup with other dusties, can still buy the berries from outside the city.” Her almost-grin looked more like a grin than ever now. As she reached out, taking the cups from the woman, he almost missed the flash of a slip of paper passed along with one cup to the sergeant, vanishing behind her fingers a moment later. Strange, but her business was none of his, and questioning human officers, no matter how odd their behavior, was not his job. 

The almost-warm almost-grin was back as she passed him one of the small cups, and for once, he barely noticed how her hand pulled away too quickly for their fingers to touch. The cup held barely a handful of small, dark berries, with a small swirl of . . . whipped cream? Slowly, carefully, he tried a berry with a bit of the cream, and- 

For a heartbeat, it was as though a part of his brain froze and a wave of something ran through him as the thin membranes of the berry burst on his tongue. It was sweet , sweet in a way nothing he’d ever tried compared to. There was a tart earthiness to the berry, a burst of flavor and juice that no synthetically grown food could compare with, somehow more substantial than any fruit he’d tried before. 

“Like it?” Beside him, Flint popped one of her own berries in her mouth, eyes suddenly distant as she chewed. 

“It’s. . . it's real. ” This was real food, something more real than he’d ever had, ever be able to afford on his own and that ache  behind his sternum was back, aching for everything he’d never know, never be able to experience, everything that was long-gone from the world even before he’d drawn his first breath. “They’re. . . really real. Ma’am I can’t-” 

“Yeah, they’re real. They get sweeter when they’re on the plant longer,  get to stay in the sun longer, but those don’t stay good as long to get em’ to a buyer.” She popped another berry in her mouth, savoring it for a moment. “And I know what you’re going to say, K, and you absolutely can . Your life doesn’t have to be shitty, leastways no shittier than any of ours down here, just because of what you are. You get a chance to enjoy some small, bright spot of joy down here, you enjoy what you can, you hear me?”

He did, and while most of what she said still sounded wrong to him, he took another bite of berries and cream, feeling the flavors burst in his mouth like nothing ever had before, feeling their realness and beauty. It was wasted on him, of course, since he was neither of those things himself, but . . . but for however long he had left to live, he’d remember the taste. “Yes, ma’am. And thank you, for the berries, for everything. If it’s an order, then I’ll. . . allow myself to enjoy things.” 

 That drew a snort of a laugh from her. “It’s not an order, just a suggestion. It  took me a hellova long time once I got here to start livin’ like a civilized person, enjoying the stuff we never had out there,” she jerked her head in what was probably the direction of the badlands, “havin’ so much running water alone felt wrong. But, I adapted. Learned to take what little softness the city had. It’s different, but. . . you learn to live, understand?” 

He did, a little. Remembering his curt, perfunctory showers framed her words over that being even more water than a nomad girl had in a new  light. “I- I think so. I’ll. . . I’ll learn, eventually. Maybe get to do some living while I’m alive, right?” The dry humor was coming easier now. 

Chewing the last of her cupful of the rare treat, Flint’s quirk of a grin showed it was appreciated. Eventually, regretfully, the last of the purple-black jewel-like berries he guessed to be more rare and prized than actual jewels these days was gone. The only trace was the lingering tartness on his tongue, and the rich, slightly-sweet oiliness of the cream coating his mouth. 

 He’d just eaten what was likely a small fortune in bootleg, genuine fruit. There was a strange mix of - not emotions he didn’t feel - from the delicacy. He knew he didn’t deserve them, that the rare produce grown on some far-off mountain that still had the faintest tang of dust clinging to them was far beyond the station for which he’d been made, been manufactured. They had been more real and valuable than he. But. But she’d told him he could eat them. Had wanted to see him enjoy them. If it had been anyone but Flint he might have suspected they’d wanted to see his reaction, if he reacted, to the taste as their own entertainment. She wasn’t like that and it didn’t take the heightened intuition and observational reflexes that had been carved into his nervous system to see that. She’d told him to eat, and even though the same deeply-carved and wired instincts recognized her as a superior officer, and something deep within his mind knew her as a registered user and her orders were law and there was never any question about obeying her commands. This hadn’t been an order, really. She’d given him the food, sure, but the closest thing to an actual order had been. . . to find what made him happy?  He may not have been given the luxury of free will, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t find peace in the small luxuries he was able to obtain. 

It didn’t make sense, not with everything he knew to be true about himself, how he was created and what he’d been created to do. That he was a product, not a person. Maybe, though, maybe what the sergeant wanted him to hear was that it didn’t mean he had to endure what might be a short, brutal life entirely alone and empty. The idea was . . . new.  As much as he could trust any human, and any who he’d been created to serve and obey, he trusted her. 

They’d thrown the empty containers away as they exited the market, Flint falling back a step to walk beside him, far enough away her elbows couldn’t brush his with her hands back in her coat pockets, face hidden inside the cavernous hood. They walked in silence that way for a few blocks, the sounds and lights of the city at night rippling around them. 

“Bein’ a nomad, it’s not all that folks think it is.” Her voice broke the silence between them, and he half-turned to look at the sergeant beside him on the sidewalk, but the shadow of the hood hid her face as she spoke. “Folks in the Department jus’ know the dusties in raiding parties, maybe some that’ll camp outside the city, sellin’ anything that’ll sell. Anything we’ve found.” 

We , she’d said. It’d been a long time since Flint had been with them, K remembered, but she still slipped and called herself one of them. 

“But ridin’ together, stripping abandoned buildings, cities, looking for anything we can use, sure it’s a rough life but you’ve got the convoy, you know?” 

He didn’t know, but stayed silent as she spoke. 

“There’s scavenging yeah, but we weren’t scaveys, not like those almost-ferals down south. We work as teams, families sometimes, watch each other’s backs. You learn to turn junk into whatever we needed out there. Going on reuse and recycle runs to find supplies off old trucks, old machines. Clean it up, hammer out the dents, and cut it int’a what you need.” 

They walked, surrounded by the darkness and grime of the city that was the only home he’d known, but. . . but her words conjured up memories that weren’t his, of a dirty, lonely childhood spent hammering trash for the few pieces of treasure. Of bleak, dusty stretches of parched land. What could a life out there have been with a convoy and family behind you?  “I. . . I have memories of the ruins,” it was the first time he’d told anyone about the past that wasn’t his. “In an orphanage, they put us to work picking over scrap metal, breaking apart old machines.” 

A small hum of what might have been sympathy sounded from the hooded woman. “Think I heard about places like that, never been near one from what I recall. Yeah the clan had kids around but if’n one lost their folks, we’d just keep ‘em and raise ‘em with the rest.” 

A family, even in the harsh, wild life of the nomadic clans out in the badlands, it was more than he’d ever had. Ever have. “So, why’d you leave and join the Police?” There were notes in the file, and while he could put together pieces from her interview and records, there were also things she’d never said. 

For a few steps, they walked together in silence again until he thought she might not answer. “Lost my ma when I was real young,” that much he’d already heard. “My brother and my Da were on a convoy with me, and one night raiders hit us. We got away but Da got hit and we lost him.” Her words were short, clipped. Rehearsed? Something nearly inaudible in her tone sounded rehearsed but then, he supposed, she must have told this story before. The Madam had been her partner in the past and he doubted the hard-eyed woman he answered to would have let Flint’s history stay a mystery to her. 

“Brother and I stayed on the convoy together for a time after that, then one night we met up with another band, and knew the folks so we camped together that night,” she continued. “In the morning, he was gone. Hopped a truck in the other caravan and left.” 

“He left you?” 

She shrugged, one-shouldered. “Left the memories, saw a chance for a new band to fight with and took it. He liked to fight.” The last sounded almost sad. “Didn’t have anything keepin’ me there, so I packed whatever I had and came here. Knew the city was dangerous and all, but if’n I’m gonna get mine one day, I figured I’d do it somewhere I didn’t hafta forage for food and might get a hot shower first.” Beside him, she rolled her shoulders, head tilting back to look at the sky. It had begun snowing again, and the flakes settled on her lashes in the glimpse of her face he got before, lowering her head once again, she was lost in the hood. 

“Why’d you choose to join the police?” You had the choice to join. He’d never have the choice to or not, only the preprogrammed memories of choosing that he’d been given, like a pile of clothing left folded on a chair for him. 

“Why them? Well, as much as I can keep an engine goin’, things I was best at were fighting and shooting. Spent enough years guarding convoys I thought might as well get paid for it, not that the pay for a beat cop just startin’ out is that much, but it sure as hell was more than I’d ever had before.” 

And it sure as hell had to be more than the small allowance he was given by the same department. 

“Also, picked the Police over private cops because I’d heard they always needed fresh meat, and weren’t as choosy. Knew I could handle anything they threw at me after growin’ up how I did.” Her voice had dropped off at the end, and . . . and he could almost relate, almost understand with his fictional past. Fighting to survive in the orphanage had made the brutality, the isolation of his life here almost easy. But- but her past was real , her humanity stood as a chasm between them and their nearly parallel stories. 

“And now here you are.” 

“Here I am.” 

“Ever think of. . . of visiting them, your clan?” 

Another long pause. “Got no one left to visit. Some old friends, yeah. Might find my brother out there if I go asking around, if he’s still topside. Been so long though, don’t think I’d really know them that much. Anyway, got my life here now. Got work to do.” 

They’d reached the platform for the monorail again, and, now silent, she led him back across the platform and onto the car. She was silent again as they soared through the night, the sleek metal capsule flying past spinners and signs, the smells of bodies and metal dust and late-night spilled alcohol drifting around them.  Soon, they had stopped again, and he realized this was the station closest to the market and his own neighborhood. 

Still in silence now, they walked together through the snow-dusted streets. Around them, the lights rippled off the powder in the moments before it melted to a cold grey slush, turning the streets a momentary shimmering rainbow of neon.

They were a few blocks from his building when she broke the silence. “I’m taking the promotion.” 

Only his expertly crafted neurochemical system kept him from twitching at the jolt of surprise. “The promotion?” 

“Back to sergeant.” She’d shoved her hood back, staring levelly ahead, face back to the stony mask. “Got an ultimatum from the L-T. Wants me to take it, join a new task force that’s being built for these kidnappings, or else I’ll be put on the nomad raids.” 

He remembered that briefing, the events. . . after had made the report less important, and it wasn’t his work anyway, but he’d heard talk in passing of more disappearances in the week since. But that would mean. . . 

“So I won’t be around as much anymore, K. Might be in the precinct for reports but can’t say it’ll be regularly anymore. I’ve done what I can and having detectives saying you’re off limits should keep those pieces of shit off your back.” 

At least as far as anyone could see them, he knew. It might not stop the wandering eyes and hands, but he hoped, as much as he could hope for anything, it would keep them from going any further again. “I. . . I understand. Does this mean-” 

“And these nights will have to end, yes.”  The words were as cold as the snow beneath their boots. “I’ve had word from up above that this. . . association is frowned on. Might impact your effectiveness or something. Point is, I’ve been ordered to back off.” 

It was back, that yawning pit inside his guts, knowing now how much it ached when he wasn’t supposed to feel it ache, feel anything. He knew now what it was to have someone being near him, to walk beside in the dark, to eat with, tasting flavors he’d never dreamed he could ever know. But now, now he knew . And because of what he was, who had paid for him, he was denied that life a second time. “I understand.” He swallowed around the tightness rising up his throat. “I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any trouble, sergeant.” 

They’d reached his doorstep again, and she glanced away, the corners of her mouth turning down as the simmering anger she’d carried all night flared. She’d known. She’d planned this as a final night, he realized. Flint must have been told that week, been arguing with Joshi that day in the hallway, and had planned this night to be a farewell, to tell him others would be looking out for him and to give him one last taste of the life he could never know. A taste of the fruit he would never be worthy of knowing. She’d known it would always end like this. 

“It’s no trouble, Officer K. And if the department wants to come down on anyone for this, they can take it out on me. I’ve been around long enough to handle it.” And for her, censure wouldn’t mean the risk of retirement. 

A rapid flicker of emotions nearly broke her stone-like composure, nearly said something else before the faint click of her teeth killed the words.  “Goodnight, officer.” Turning on her heel, she strode into the dark and snow. 

“Goodbye,” his whisper followed her into the night.            

On feet that felt as dead and heavy as lead from more than just the cold, he forced himself to climb the long flights of stairs up to his apartment. The jeers and hands reaching and groping for him that he usually had to endure on the path to his door all faded out as white noise tonight. Silently, he brushed past all of them, head down, ducking into the safety of his collar. Cans and debris crunched under his boots as he shouldered past figures outside his apartment. Someone called out at him as he unlocked the door, slipping inside as it shut behind him before any reaching fingers could catch the back of his coat (this time). 

He was alone. 

He’d always been alone. Now, he- he could almost feel how alone he was. 

(He wasn’t supposed to have feelings opinions but still-) 

Silently, as always, he moved through his evening routine. He was meant to be alone. The lukewarm water of his shower pelted skin. He’d known almost what it was like to have a friend. The packaged seasoning for the stovetop noodles smelled stale compared to the memory of flavors so sudden his eyes had nearly watered.  The packaged food was better than the protein grubs, although less nutritious, but the meal earlier had been solid and warm and he wished he could forget how the background hypervigilance needed for a blade runner to survive had quieted some with the presence in the blue coat beside him. Harsh alcohol burned down his throat, washing the small meal down, but the memory of the taste of berries and cream still clung to his taste buds. 

Curled in his thin, cold fold-out bed, he thought ahead to what the next day might hold, his time on the case had run out, and depending on what was asked by the people even beyond his Madame’s sphere of power, he could be gone and another, new replicant in this apartment in  the next few days. He’d been given a case with little to use and a short timeline, been given as little choice or consideration in this assignment as he’d ever been, and now the one person who’d cared enough to try to help him the least bit was gone. If the worst happened the next day, there’d be no one left to remember him. A deep curl of something by his heart almost ached at the thought. As he drifted off, the ghostly memory of a rough wooden toy in small hands that weren’t really his made his palms itch with the phantom touch, and the persistent whispered “ survive” slid through his mind, soothing away the thing that another might have called despair. 

<- Chapter 2. Chapter 4. ->

#blade runner 2049 #blade runner #blade runner fanfic #fanfic #blade runner 2049 fanfic #officer kd6 3.7 #officer K. fanfic #ryan gosling #writing #cyberpunk

[emergentfutures]

[speedlimit15]

umm i hate having so many family members who work for national defense in varying degrees like it actually makes me feel so insane and always has. i hate knowing that’s why i’ve survived. i feel so much shame that i can’t even name the companies/branches of government or titles bc i know people would view me differently. i feel like many of the specifics were purposefully hidden from the family’s view for this reason.

i found out another role my grandpa held while my mom was a kid and it’s even more horrifying and impactful; it’s been making my stomach turn bc of how much i idolized him when i was young and bc of how much i take after him internally. he was the smartest person i know and he used it for the evilest purposes and he really felt it was the right thing to do. i don’t know how to reconcile that with my own beliefs. you know ?

like i can accept that my dad is in the coast guard, i know he works in a regulatory capacity in a civilian role now and prior to that he was emergency response/investigation and actually stepped down from more defense-oriented positions which is why he left dc. but my grandfather crafted cogs for the US war machine.

how can i undo that when all i inherited from him was a car that’s breaking as i drive it and a bunch of dusty books and an unshakable feeling of constant surveillance (when i lived with him he installed keystroke recording programs on my devices without my knowledge and would skim them for objectionable material to punish me for. to give you more of an idea of the kind of person he was)

#talking about my family and my feelings re: their roles in the world

[rhopaper]

I haven't been writing in my journal as much this month, because I'm spending a lot of time typing. Or, as I call it, making pages with my typewriter.

I usually write at least one letter-sized page a day, sometimes two. I try to steer myself away from dismissing my thoughts as “rants” or “ramblings”.

Even though none of these pages would likely go anywhere, they are a perfectly imperfect snapshot of who I am at this moment.

Typewriter records every keystroke on paper, jammed keys and typos all. It's an imperfectionist’s ideal instrument.

#journal #typewriter #spilled ink #my writing

[writingwitchs]

Amy Santiago x Jake Peralta

Detective Amy Santiago sat at her desk, surrounded by the muted hum of the precinct. As the city's heartbeat echoed through the police station, she found herself drawn to the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of her fingers on the keyboard. The vintage typewriter, a peculiar addition to her workspace, stood as a relic from a bygone era.

Her colleagues often teased her about the old contraption, but Amy cherished it. It was a gift from Jake Peralta, her husband, who understood her love for all things classic and timeless. The typewriter became Amy's sanctuary, a place where she could escape the constraints of modern technology and delve into the art of storytelling.

One rainy afternoon, when the precinct's energy seemed to match the dreary weather outside, Amy felt a surge of inspiration. The pitter-patter of raindrops against the window became the backdrop for her creativity. With a determined gleam in her eye, she fed a sheet of paper into the typewriter and began to compose a story.

The clacking of the keys transported Amy into a fictional realm, where she crafted a tale of a dedicated detective navigating the neon-lit streets of a city that never slept. The protagonist, much like Amy herself, chased echoes of forgotten dreams while balancing the complexities of love and justice.

As Amy delved into the narrative, she found herself drawing parallels between the character she was creating and her own experiences. The city in her story mirrored the Brooklyn she patrolled, and the protagonist's pursuit of justice resonated with Amy's unwavering commitment to her job.

Hours passed, and the rain outside intensified, casting a cozy ambiance within the precinct. Amy's colleagues had left for the day, leaving her alone with the soft glow of her desk lamp and the steady cadence of the typewriter.

In the fictional world Amy had crafted, her protagonist faced a pivotal moment. A mysterious figure emerged from the shadows, and their connection mirrored the silent camaraderie Amy shared with Jake. The story unfolded with a dance under the city lights, capturing the essence of their own moments of joy amidst the chaos of their lives.

As the final keystrokes marked the conclusion of her narrative, Amy felt a sense of accomplishment. The story had become a reflection of her own journey, a testament to the resilience and passion that fueled her every day. With a satisfied smile, she carefully removed the paper from the typewriter, a tangible record of her creative endeavor.

The following morning, Amy arrived at the precinct, carrying the typewritten pages in her bag. She couldn't shake the anticipation of sharing her creation with Jake, eager to see his reaction to the fictionalized version of their love story. As she approached their shared desk, Jake noticed the glint of excitement in her eyes.

"What's got you so pumped, Amy?" he asked, curious.

Amy grinned, holding out the stack of pages. "I wrote something. A story. I think you'll like it."

Intrigued, Jake took the pages and began to read. Amy watched his expressions shift from amusement to genuine appreciation as he immersed himself in the tale she had woven. The story resonated with him on a profound level, capturing the essence of their relationship in a way that words spoken aloud often fell short.

When he finished reading, Jake looked up, a mixture of awe and love in his eyes. "Amy, this is amazing. It's like our own little adventure, but with more suspense and way cooler descriptions."

Amy blushed, grateful for his positive response. "I wanted to capture the magic of us, the way we dance through life together."

Jake leaned in, planting a quick kiss on her cheek. "Well, you nailed it, partner. We've got our own detective love story, and it's epic."

And so, in the quiet corners of the precinct, amidst the rain-soaked streets of Brooklyn, Detective Amy Santiago found a creative haven in her vintage typewriter, immortalizing her love story with Jake one clack at a time.

#amy santiago #brooklyn 99 #tv shows #sitcom #jake peralta

[shirkers2018dirsanditan]

Larger, more established companies are taking similar steps. UnitedHealth Group has 350,000 employees, a perch high on the Fortune 500 list and annual revenues of hundreds of billions of dollars. It also has strict systems for measuring “idle time” that some employees say are deeply flawed.

Jessica Hornig, a Rhode Island social worker who supervised two dozen other UnitedHealthcare social workers and therapists seeing patients with drug addiction and other serious problems, said their laptops marked them “idle” when they ceased keyboard activity for more than a short while. They were labeled derelict during sensitive conversations with patients and visits to drug treatment facilities.

“This literally killed morale,” Ms. Hornig said. “I found myself really struggling to explain to all my team members, master’s-level clinicians, why we were counting their keystrokes.”

this is a gift link

#horrific……… #the bit about the chaplains too like oh my God????

[sneakymystique]

Keyboards & Coffee Machines-The Tools of a Superspy

What is in nearly every office in the western world? A coffee machine and inside said machine there is a computer chip. If a certain unscrupulous shapeshifter were to secretly invest in coffee machine manufacturers she could have a wireless internet connected microphone ready and waiting for activation in a huge number of offices. The best spy devices are those that are ubiquitous and nobody looks twice at...more coffee anyone? 

Likewise keyboards. In the 1960′s Soviet spies managed to install electromagnetic keystroke recorders on western typewriters. Given that Mystique is hyper-wealthy, buying up the main computer keyboard manufacturers and installing a secret subroutine on the OS of keyboards which enables wireless access and the recording of keystrokes seems like something worth doing. All she’d need is the keyboard’s serial number and she can set up ongoing surveillance of a target’s computer activities without them ever knowing.

#mystique #headcanons #spying