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nakmaka · 4 years

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qqueenofhades · 6 years

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the tangled web of fate we weave

This is highly self-indulgent because I, an extremely stressed-out final-year history PhD student, needed extremely stressed out final-year history PhD student Lucy Preston and also Garcy, because I always need that.

This is an unofficial sequel to this, where Flynn was the one to save Lucy from the car accident in her sophomore year.

March 19, 2010

It’s Friday, and it’s the first time all week that Lucy Preston has seen the sunset. Possibly in two weeks, for that matter, or more. She has been shut up in the library since what feels like the start of the new year, buried in her carrel among an endless stack of books, articles, notes, photocopied primary sources, her overworked laptop, her three thumb drives (someone else in the department has a horror story about their computer dying five days before submission, and Lucy isn’t taking any chances), a rotation of takeout cups and sandwich wrappers from the library café, and whatever other sustenance she needs to keep going. She’s rented a campus studio apartment, otherwise she would probably be sleeping in the stacks in the basement. Be way too much hassle to try to commute back and forth to Mom’s house in Mountain View otherwise.

The Stanford campus is cool and blue and quiet, and Lucy leans against the outside library wall, rubbing her eyes and trying to get them to focus. They don’t seem to want to. She turned twenty-seven two months ago, and feels about eighty-one. It’s been a nonstop grind of work, from that moment she nearly died seven years ago, almost exactly to the day – that was the twenty-first of March, 2003, she’s never forgotten. Dumped Jake, abandoned her plans of joining a band, enrolled for junior year of history, finished, graduated, went straight onto her master’s degree that fall, and now, the fact that the end might actually be in sight is one Lucy cannot wrap her head around. It feels surreal and dreamlike.

Overachiever that she is, her PhD is being conferred jointly by two departments, history and anthropology, which means her dissertation is at least one and a half times longer than everyone else’s. She’s teaching HIST1210 on the Civil War and HIST1300 on primary sources, she still has papers to mark from both, and she needs to update her CV and apply for research funding for the conferences she submitted paper prospectuses to. And think, again, about the future. Even having a mother who basically invented the Stanford women’s studies department isn’t a guarantee that she’ll get a job, even if it does pitch her odds a lot better than most people’s. Lucy has already had most of her tuition paid by Carol Preston’s institutional pull, and she can’t help but wonder where the gravy train stops. She likes to think that she’s smart enough that she’d have earned scholarships on her own merit anywhere, but why go anywhere else, when it’s Stanford, for God’s sake? Not Jim Bob Jones Community College.

After a long pause, Lucy straightens up, swings her bag to her shoulder (she leaves most of her stuff in her carrel overnight) and starts down the path. She’s wondered if now might be an opportune moment to develop a drinking habit, but her anxious mind won’t let her. One near-fatal car crash was bad enough, after all. No need to push her luck with a second.

(She thinks again of the man who rescued her. Just dove in, no hesitation at all, and fished her out, told her not to quit history for a boy, and vanished. She never got a name.)

(Is he pleased, then, that she threw herself in headfirst? Is that what he wanted? Not that it matters. Not that that is the reason she’s doing this.)

Lucy comes to a halt in front of the beige-stucco residence halls and digs for her keys, wondering how obnoxious her neighbors feel like being tonight. This is postgrad housing, supposedly quiet, but the way they go at it, you’d think it was undergraduate party central. Lucy has been over to bang on their door at 1AM a few times, and she could complain to the office, but – again, Lucy Good Girl Preston – she shirks from the idea of actually getting anyone in trouble. She’ll be out of here soon anyway, moving on. She can endure it, she can –

“Good evening, Lucy.”

She almost has a heart attack. Drops her keys and fumbles for them madly in the dimness, having some panicky idea that it’s someone jumping out of the bushes to put a bag over her head and drag her off behind a dumpster. Yes, it seems odd to politely address her by her first name beforehand, but who knows? It’s a man’s voice, gravelly and accented, almost familiar. But it’s been at least two years between boyfriends, it’s not any of her professors (and it would be more than a little creepy to follow her home) and –

She whirls around, gets a good look at his face in the portico light, and feels momentarily faint. She was, of course, just thinking about him, and wonders half-seriously if she’s charmed up him up like a djinni. He looks exactly how she remembers: tall, dark hair, sharp-nosed profile, though this time he is not dripping wet, having not had to dramatically dive into the Bay to save her from her sinking car. He’s wearing the leather bomber jacket and a nice pair of jeans, has his thumbs linked casually through his belt like a Grease extra, but it comes off casually competent and slightly chilling. She also remembers what she thought about him last time, that instant response to high-pressure situations might be something he deals with a lot. What the –

“You,” she says at last, having managed to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “What are you doing here? How did you – how did you know where to find me?”

He has apparently been prepared to remind her how they know each other, but sees at once that he doesn’t have to. He shrugs. “I know people.”

That’s not exactly a reassuring answer. Lucy clutches her bag closer, as if he’s really come here for the $3.20 in her wallet and her backup thumb drives. “Have you been stalking me?”

He looks amused, but only briefly. “We should get inside.”

Lucy goggles at him, not least at his apparent presumption that she’s going to ask him into her house, but something makes her do as told. Hands trembling for no good reason, she taps her key card, buzzes them in, and climbs the stairs to her second-story apartment. She can hear the thumping of rap music before she even reaches the hallway – yep, her neighbors are at it again. Trying to ignore it, not least because she suddenly has bigger problems, she reaches into her bag for her phone, trying to dial a 9 and 1 without him noticing. But why would the man who saved her life want to kill her?

His eyes flick to her hand. “You don’t need to call the police, Lucy.”

“Don’t need to, or you would prefer that I didn’t?” Lucy refuses to budge. “There’s a difference.”

He looks admiring of her bravery, if irritated at the timing. “Don’t need to. Go inside, I’ll be along.”

Lucy debates dialing the last 1 with her thumb. Or campus security, they could probably get here faster. But – weird as this is, and as he is – something stops her. He slowly removes his hands from his belt and holds them up, then opens his jacket to show her that he isn’t packing heat inside. There is, however, a holster as if he usually does, and he reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a slim black case, and flips it open, holding it out. It’s a U.S. government ID. Gives his name as Garcia Flynn.

“Okay,” Lucy says, a little weakly. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”

Garcia Flynn doesn’t bother to answer this perfectly reasonable question, making another gesture at her apartment. Lucy goes inside, puts down her bag on the couch, and feels like collapsing onto it. Next door, the music continues unabated for a few more moments, until it abruptly cuts off. The silence is blessed, but suspicious. She hears voices, but can’t make out what they’re saying. Then her front door opens again, she jumps, and Flynn enters, looking smug. “That’s better.”

“You didn’t kill my neighbors, did you?” Lucy isn’t sure they wouldn’t deserve it, but that is obviously not a man she wants to be alone with. Not that she knows how he would kill three people in thirty seconds with no noise, but. . . it’s the sort of thing that doesn’t seem out of his ability. “Or – ”

“I didn’t kill anyone.” He seems somewhat aggravated that she keeps harping on this point. “I’m not here to hurt you, Lucy.”

Lucy remains looking at him tensely, but he returns her gaze forthrightly, and she finally lets out a whisper of a breath. “What’s going on?”

“That’s complicated.” Flynn is prowling around her living room, tapping and shaking things, picking them up and turning them over, in a way that seems – to say the least – out of line in a perfect stranger’s house. Maybe Lucy’s watched too many spy movies recently, switches on whatever looks halfway interesting on Netflix and vegs out, but it looks a lot like sweeping for bugs. He takes a small silver thing that looks like a coin out of his pocket and sets it on her bookshelf. “I’m not sure you’d understand.”

“I’m a PhD student,” Lucy says, voice brittle. “I’m pretty sure I’d understand.”

Flynn glances up at her, one eyebrow raised, but doesn’t answer. He presses something on the silver thing, which hums as if to disrupt any nearby listening equipment, and finally seems satisfied that her shithole student flat is in the clear. “So you kept up with history?”

“Yes. And I’m due to submit my dissertation in about two weeks, my supervisor is supposed to email me by Monday with my oral exam date, half the committee is from Harvard, and I just spent thirteen hours reading nineteenth-century handwriting. So you better make this quick.”

Flynn half-grins, seemingly despite himself. “A PhD at – what, twenty-seven,” he says. “That’s very impressive. You’ve worked hard.”

Lucy doesn’t want to accept the praise of a possibly crazy government operative, but it makes her glow, a little. Her mom always wants to know how much more she still has to do, as if keeping a timetable in her head and marking her off, and of course Amy is encouraging, but Lucy has kept her nose to the grindstone so long that she’s barely picked it up to look at the rest of the world. She doesn’t even know what she’s doing, other than that she has to do it. She does love history. She really does. You don’t get this far without it, and you have to enjoy the tedious parts (well, mostly), even if you’re re-reading your draft and shouting at your first-year self because they didn’t put in page numbers, thus obliging you to go grumbling to hunt them down. She is damn and justifiably proud of this accomplishment, and she doesn’t need anyone, much less FBI Freddy here, to tell her that. But still.

“Never mind that,” she says. “Why are you here?”

Flynn regards her for a long moment. Then he says, “Scientia potentia est. You’ve heard that?”

“It’s Latin,” Lucy says, a little shortly. She is not up for having a fright, and her time wasted, for something he could have typed into Google Translate. “It means knowledge is power.”

“Yes, I know that.” Flynn sits across from her, looking too big for her secondhand armchair. “It’s also a motto. Have you seen it anywhere?”

“No.” A phrase as banal as that could be a motto for dozens of private schools. “Mr. Flynn, I’m afraid I can’t – ”

“Very well.” He sits forward, gripping his knees. “Rittenhouse, Lucy. Have you ever heard of that?”

“Rittenhou – David Rittenhouse?” Lucy is vaguely familiar with him, a leading intellectual of the eighteenth century, polymath and professor of astronomy at the University of Pennsylvania, and correspondent and cohort of the Founding Fathers. Has Flynn come here to ask for help with some research project, some kind of sponsorship some historical society is doing to raise awareness of his life? That at least might make more sense. “Is that what we’re talking about?”

The expression on Flynn’s face seems to say that he momentarily isn’t sure. “So he founded it?”

“What?” Lucy gets up, not entirely sure that she isn’t asleep atop a stack of books back at her carrel, drooling on her notes. “Founded what?”

“The society in his name. Rittenhouse. Scientia potentia est. That’s their motto.”

“There is no society in his name. Unless you mean the astronomy club?”

“I don’t mean the astronomy club. The other one.”

“Is this a – ” Lucy isn’t sure what it would be, some extended performance-art practical joke, perhaps, but he doesn’t look like he’s trying to prank her. Besides, why would an eighteenth-century astronomer have anything to do with why Flynn wanted to sweep her apartment for bugs? “I work more on the nineteenth century than late colonial-early federal America, but if you have some kind of question about him, I can recommend someone in the department to – ”

“I’m not asking anyone else,” Flynn says brusquely. “I’m asking you.”

“Well then. You’re in the wrong place, I can’t help. I don’t have time.” Lucy gets up, pacing toward the kitchen. Flynn remains seated, but she can feel his eyes following her. She runs a glass under the tap and takes a drink, then returns to the living room, as if this will somehow have fixed the problem. “What do you want to know about him for? There’s Wikipedia, there’s whatever else, there’s – ”

“Nothing of what I want is available online.” He says this with the tone of somebody who’s looked – and NSA Nicky probably has. “You, though – I thought there was a chance you might. Given who your father is – ”

“What?” Lucy’s father died almost nine years ago. Lung cancer. The reason she won’t take up smoking either, that and the way her mother’s been coughing a lot and she’s urged her to get it checked out. She feels slapped. “My father’s dead.”

“Henry Wallace?” Flynn shakes his head. “No, not him. I meant your biological father.”

“What?”

He pulls a slip of paper out of his pocket and holds it out to her, but Lucy does not budge to take it. In a savage whisper, she says, “You need to leave.”

Flynn belatedly seems to realize that it might not have been the best time to bring this up. He opens his hand and lets the paper flutter onto the floor, but doesn’t move to retrieve it. He gets to his feet instead, eyes never wavering from hers. He is just so damn intense in everything he does, it makes Lucy feel like she’s on the inside of a forge, burning, burning. “Very well.”

With that, he starts across the floor, but seems reluctant to go entirely. Any other person would apologize for the intrusion, or tell her to be careful, but he doesn’t. “Ask your mother about your father,” he says. She can’t tell if his eyes are green or brown – in some lights they look one, in some lights the other. He looks at her challengingly. “Ask him if he is who you thought.”

Lucy’s about to respond, but just then, headlights waver on the ceiling through her half-closed curtains, and she looks down to see a car pulling into the parking lot. It’s the sort of nondescript black sedan that screams shady government business, and she might have thought it was Flynn’s ride, but after he strides to the window and looks out, his mouth goes very thin. He jerks the curtains shut, reaches into his jacket, and remembers he’s left his gun off in a bid not to alarm her. He swears in something that sounds Slavic; Lucy can’t be sure exactly what. It fits with the accent and appearance, but he had a U.S. badge – unless that was some kind of forgery and –

Flynn whirls back to the silver gizmo he has, switches it off, and pulls something else out of his jacket that kills the lights. Then he takes hold of Lucy – it feels much too forward, even as she remembers him pulling her out of the water – and tugs her flat on the floor. “Don’t open the door,” he hisses. “You’re not home.”

Lucy is about to struggle, to ask questions, but the look he gives her is so searing that she bites her tongue instead. She can hear footsteps on the stairs, then a knock on her door. “Miss Preston?” a voice calls. “It’s FedEx.”

She’s pretty sure it isn’t FedEx. She and Flynn lie close together on the floor, his arms still around her, the lights off and the apartment dark. Are they going to go look at the library next, or just assume she’s out having a life like an ordinary twenty-seven-year old woman would on Friday night? She tries to concentrate, to slow her breathing, as if they could hear it. The thump of Flynn’s heart seems distractingly loud, though her ear is pressed directly against his chest. He is so tall that if they were standing, her head would tuck easily under his chin. What is it about him and appearing out of nowhere to get her out of – or into – life-threatening situations?

The faux FedEx man knocks again. They don’t budge. Lucy has to admit, it is more than a little freaky that this has happened right after Flynn has turned up talking about secret societies and – whatever else, and it unwillingly makes her think that there might be something to his story. Oddest of all, however, is the fact that it almost feels familiar to lie next to him, not just because he saved her life. Like it’s something else, and she just has to remember what.

After a long pause and one last knock, the fake deliveryman departs. Flynn doesn’t let go of Lucy until several minutes after they’ve heard the car pull out, he’s looked through the window to make sure, and swears again. “That is the last time I leave my gun at home.”

Lucy sits up slowly, rattled. “Are you going to tell me that was Rittenhouse?”

“Might be.” Flynn speaks distractedly, eyes still on the parking lot. “I don’t suppose you carry?”

“I’m a history student.” Lucy has never wanted to touch a gun in her life, especially since she plans on being a professor. “No.”

“Of course.” His brow remains furrowed, as if he’s judging the advisability of leaving her alone long enough to go back and get his own. Finally he says, “I think it’s better for me to stay here tonight.”

Lucy opens her mouth to tell him that he can’t invite himself to stay the night, but the words get stuck. Despite herself, she is scared. Nonstop dissertation anxiety and crushing uncertainty about the academic job market almost seem preferable. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.” Flynn turns slowly, the dim light from outside etching the sharp features of his face. “They could have guessed something about what I knew, or. . . I’m not sure. It could blow over, but I’d feel better about it to stay. Just for tonight.”

“And then what?” Lucy demands. “I can’t go into witness protection, just because of whatever stupid thing you got me into! I have to finish my dissertation!”

“You can do that, Lucy.” He looks at her frankly. “I’ll protect you.”

Whatever she is about to say withers on her tongue. After all, isn’t that what he did – the first time, and then now? She doesn’t know what’s going on, he has been an enigma in a bomber jacket ever since she met him – seven years ago, technically, does it count to have known him for seven years, if it’s only been one night and this one? That did freak her out. As strange and unwise as it might be, she would in fact feel better if he stayed. Not that her sagging yellow-plaid couch, older than her, which she picked up at a garage sale for $12, is exactly comfortable to sleep on. She can’t believe she’s thinking about this, but –

Flynn, still clearly ruing his lack of a firearm, makes another check around her apartment, then sits back down on the couch. It’s about half as long as he is, and his legs will clearly be dangling over the end. Lucy has no obligation of hospitality, and in fact is sorely wishing she left the library at her normal time of eleven o’clock PM. Then she wouldn’t have run into him (unless he let himself in to wait for her) and this would not be happening. It’s not that late, and ordinarily she might get into bed and watch something on her laptop, but her concentration is shot. She heads into her bedroom, shuts the door, and changes into her pajamas, then goes to the bathroom and washes her face several times, staring at herself in the mirror. She still appears to be real. Somehow, this is happening. Maybe it will stop doing that.

Lucy brushes her teeth and hair, and mulls a long bath, but it feels awkward with a NSA (she thinks he’s NSA, at any rate) agent sitting in her living room, even one ostensibly there to protect rather than spy on her. She goes out and climbs into bed, tugs the covers up, and lies there for a long time, staring at the ceiling. Every time a car pulls into the parking lot, she tenses. Keeps listening for footsteps on the stairs, a knock on the door, but nothing.

Lucy eventually drifts off, has scattered and turbulent dreams, and wakes with a start sometime past midnight. She gets up in search of a drink of water, and when she peers into the living room, sees that Flynn has dozed off on the couch, still dressed and sitting up. Something wrenches in her heart, she can’t even explain what, and she pads out. Taps on his shoulder, and he wakes instantly, snapping to awareness, in what must be a long-honed reflex. When he sees it’s her, he relaxes, if only slightly. “Is something wrong, Lucy?”

Her name sounds softer in his mouth than it did earlier. Less as if it’s coming from a stranger, and Lucy shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. It’s. . . you just didn’t look very comfortable.”

“I’m all right.” He grimaces, though he tries not to let her see. “It’s not the worst place I’ve slept.”

“Thank you,” Lucy says simply. “For staying.”

He starts to say something, then forgets or stops halfway through. Their eyes meet with a frisson that Lucy is fairly sure both of them feel. There is a touch of destiny about the idea that they’ve run into each other seven years apart almost to the day, that he saved her life the first time and is making sure he does again. Trying to be unobtrusive, she glances down at his left hand. He isn’t wearing a wedding band, but she doesn’t know if there’s someone else in his life anyway. Not that this is remotely her business. She’s not interested in dating him. For Pete’s sake.

(She isn’t altogether sure, however, that she isn’t interested in something else.)

She considers a moment longer. Then she decides that he can take it however he wants, and says, “Come on.”

Flynn looks almost comically startled as she beckons him to his feet. He hangs back, then follows her into the dark bedroom, her covers still tousled and warm with the imprint of her, her sheets glowing soft white in the murk. It’s clear he’s wondering if he’s supposed to climb in with her, and it is equally clear that he isn’t sure if he’ll refuse. “Lucy – ”

“Look, just. . .” This isn’t her style. Lucy Good Girl Preston. She has never had sex on a first date, this does not even qualify as a first date, and similarly, she likes nice men. Genuinely nice ones, that is, the smart and thoughtful ones with a grown-up job who she can talk to and feel supported. Whatever Flynn is, he is not nice. “It’s a queen bed. There’s room.”

Flynn continues to hesitate. Finally, he shucks his shoes, jacket, and belt, and gets on top of the covers next to her. The bedsprings creak under his weight, and even here, his feet extend a few inches past the end of the mattress. Lucy lies there with her eyes closed, well aware that she knew she wasn’t going to get back to sleep with this unfamiliar masculine presence on her bed, fighting herself back and forth. She thought he was here to possibly throw her into the trunk of a car or whatever else, it is – to say the least – concerning that she is now considering, well, the opposite. Her mouth is dry. It has been two years since Noah and as noted, she doesn’t do one-night stands. She doesn’t think Flynn is horrified or repelled by her. Oh God, this is stupid.

After fifteen minutes of increasingly excruciating feigned-sleep, Lucy gives up the ghost. Sits up fast enough to startle him, and she feels guilty, as if she’s somehow the one jerking him around by all this. They stare at each other, faces close in the dark. She can feel the whisper of his breath on her cheek. In this light, his eyes look almost hazel. His tongue darts out to touch his lips, almost unconsciously, and he shifts as if to ease the fit of his trousers. “Lucy – ”

Slowly, lightly, timidly, Lucy raises her hand and brushes her fingers across his chest, to the unbuttoned neck of his shirt. A shudder runs through him – well, no, he doesn’t look repulsed. It seems to take a great deal of self-control for him not to reach up and grab her hand, but not because he doesn’t want her to touch him. Just that this is a man used to controlling everything, to setting parameters, establishing boundaries. Sweeping for bugs. Making sure it’s clear. He takes the lead by temperament and occupation. That’s just who he is. And yet –

Lucy’s fingers settle in the hollow of his throat. She can feel his pulse bumping against them like a jackhammer, the way both of them have forgotten how to breathe, noses almost brushing. If she kissed him right now, if she actually did that – it would be one way to relieve her stress, an unhelpful little voice whispers in her brain. And then possibly cause any number of other things, but still. If he’s meant to be here somehow, if they’ve been led together again for some greater plan. . . Lucy isn’t religious, exactly, but she finds herself believing in some sort of unity, some kind of intention. Maybe it comes from being a historian. Looking at how everything has fitted together and interlocked, built upon each other like a flowering vine, gone forward and backward. The big picture. That’s how she always looks at it.

This feels like that, but different. Something like design, maybe. If she wants to call it that. But really, a whole lot more like desire.

Flynn doesn’t try to pull away from her, but Lucy can’t tell if that’s just because he’s stunned that she’s the one making a move on him, after the way the night started out. She shifts her weight, absurdly self-conscious, feeling like a nervous, bespectacled seventeen-year-old all over again. Lifts her hand and lays it alongside his face, strokes a thumb over the groove alongside his mouth. Then, when he still doesn’t stop her, she leans closer.

Flynn recovers from his paralysis just enough to lean in himself, and they knock noses painfully, forcing them away with muffled exclamations. It seems to jerk them back to their senses, both of them apologizing at the same moment. Lucy’s cheeks start to flame. “I – we should – shouldn’t.”

If Flynn was feeling as dickish as she gets the sense he might usually be, he could easily point out that she was the one who thought they should. He, however, doesn’t. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, even though they didn’t actually kiss. “I’ll go back out.”

Lucy supposes that, strictly speaking, is a good plan. She doesn’t need to keep making this mistake, having been saved from it the first time around. Her voice is breathy and choked. “Ok – okay.”

Flynn glances back at her, then shifts himself off the bed, standing up and collecting his jacket and shoes. It’s on the tip of her tongue to tell him not to go, but if he stays here on the bed, something else is going to happen, and on the most brutally practical level, Lucy doesn’t have any condoms. They’re not something you need when you’ve been single for two years because your current relationship is with Abraham Lincoln (and in a less weird-cat-lady-way than that sounds). She wishes for once that she wasn’t so confoundedly rational. But still.

Once the door shuts behind him, she falls back on her pillows, flushed and breathing much harder than she should. All that, and she didn’t even get actually kissed for it. This night has been a total bitch.

(Dissertation, she reminds herself. Tomorrow is Saturday, and she needs to go grocery shopping and clean the house, but she can still do a little work.)

(Dissertation.)

Flynn’s face floats in front of hers. She has a hard time thinking that she’ll forget it again.

Out in the living room, the couch creaks as Flynn must sit back down to resume his lonely vigil, and Lucy clenches her fists, reminding herself that she is absolutely under no circumstances going to go out there instead. She rolls over into a more comfortable position, reaches for her phone to check the time – it’s 3:32 AM – and closes her eyes determinedly. Maybe he will be gone when she wakes up, and she will successfully convince herself that it was all a dream.

Finally, slowly, badly, she sleeps.

#lucy x flynn #garcy #garcy ff #timeless ff #and of course it ended up 5k words #the tangled web of fate we weave

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coolblog2stuff-blog · 5 years

Text

The Power of a Good Idea

Munich, 1883 – people gathered in front of the Residenztheater, the city’s most beloved theater. It was sundown and the grand façade of the theater stood in darkness, surrounded by a crowd of music and laughter. Nearby inns emit the mouthwatering smell of Weisswurts and bratwurst, conversations filled the streets, people were ecstatic as electric lights would finally brighten Munich for the first time.

There was silence, and in a flash, the theater glowed in all her splendor. The light pierced through the crowd as they cheered. No more lamps fueled by oil. Rather electric lights, cleaner and brighter than before were transporting people to the future.

Among the crowd was four year old Albert Einstein. He was atop his father’s shoulders when he witnessed everything. The young boy was astounded, curiosity filled his soul as electric lights seemed like stars he could touch and put in his pocket.

Years later, Einstein becomes one of the greatest physicists, changing the world with his revolutionary ideas. A genius in his own right, Einstein paved the way, inspiring millions of young minds to be passionately curious about the world.

NatGeo recently aired “Genius”, a show depicting the life of Einstein. It portrayed the rise of the Physicist from a curious learner into one of the foundations of modern physics. To celebrate his life, the show held “Everyday Genius” a contest encouraging young minds all around the globe to submit ideas that might the world. Hundreds of entries were received by NatGeo, but one stood out from the rest.

John Elmer Loretizo, a 5th year Software Engineering student of CPU, bagged the top spot with his innovative phone application PaDS or Patient in Transit Diagnostics System in the National Geographic’s “Everyday Genius” Contest besting other contestants from around the globe.

PaDS is a mobile app that sends a patients diagnostics to the target hospital for treatment preparation. When asked on how he came up with the idea for PaDs, Loretizo shares that it was his experience when he himself was seeking medical treatment that made him realize the importance of such innovation. “It was three in the morning, and all of a sudden I had asthma. I had to be rushed at the hospital but instead of receiving immediate medical attention, I still had to wait and be diagnosed. I thought to myself that this is all unnecessary. When it comes to providing medical services, every second counts.”

The background of his study showcases the Philippines as a country with a high percentage of smartphone users. Mobile applications can play a vital role in emergency response situations in order to provide a solution to the prevailing problem of delayed medical services, Loretizo came up with the concept that will allow users to identify themselves during registration as any of three different roles namely: an emergency responder, a regular citizen or a medical practitioner (either an emergency nurse or a doctor).

Both emergency responders and medical practitioners shall be required of a license number or identification card during registration in order to ascertain their identity. Once registered, varying user interfaces shall be made available to each user depending on the role they have and all is set to go. During emergency situations, a responder or civilian will select the hospital to which the patient will be brought to and fill out an information sheet thereafter in the most detailed way possible. No field is required for either the responder or civilian but filling out more fields with accuracy would help the target hospital design a treatment plan while waiting for the patient to arrive.

There shall also be an option to send images of the patient of specific areas of wounds/injury or area of focus to be treated. Once the diagnostics are sent, medical practitioners in the target hospital will immediately receive the data and get notified of the emergency.

They will be able to know the location of the ambulance or vehicle. Through the diagnostics and images sent, doctors would be able to initially plan out a treatment plan (i.e. ready the emergency room, operating materials) or send back a response of what to do while the patient is still in transit. PaDS bridges the gap of emergency response needed especially in countries like the Philippines. It helps elevate the level of technology and its usefulness in saving lives (learn more about PaDs on http://everydaygenius.asia/#winners).

Loretizo shares came to know about the contest through Facebook. “When I stumbled upon NatGeo’s post about the competition around April, I wasn’t really that sure of entering. However I saw it again in my saved post and I finally decided to join.”

On May 26, 2017, NatGeo finally called Loreritizo to tell him that he was adjudged as the Grand winner of the competition. “I felt happy and excited when I heard the news. I wasn’t expecting to win because I came to know about the other entries and some of them were very technical.”

As Grand Winner, Loretizo attended the first ever National Geographic Explorers Festival at NatGeo headquarters in Washington D.C. on June 12-18, 2017. There he met fellow innovators, scientists, NatGeo photographers. During the festival he had a chance to meet Avatar and Titanic director, James Cameron and Astrophysicist, Neil deGrasse Tyson. “It was so surreal meeting them, James Cameron is an award winning Director and Neil deGrasse Tyson is famous astrophysicist who is widely known for his wit and humor. The learned so much from the festival, I learned about innovations from people across the globe and I also had a chance to share about my ideas as well.” He was able to watch a live session of an interview session with James Cameron and Neil deGrasse Tyson.

During the festival, Neil deGrasse Tyson received the Habburd Medal, National Geographic’s highest distinction, which recognizes lifetime achievement in exploration, scientific research and discovery.

Loretizo graduated as elementary and high school valedictorian at General Santos City Sped Integrated School. He came to study in CPU after knowing that the university offers Software Engineering. “I knew that I always wanted to take up engineering but I wasn’t sure specifically what kind of engineering. A lot of people did encourage taking up software engineering. I had a chance to talk to a professor from Mapua Institute of Technology and he encouraged to take up software engineering.”

Apart from being an “Everyday Genius”, Loretizo also took up leadership roles in the university as the college representative of the College of Engineering. “I think that everybody has this concept that if you’re smart you have the ability to lead. As a leader, I always motivated my fellow-officers to participate in every activity. I always acknowledge them and help them grow.”

When asked on how he deals with pressure and expectation Loretizo shares that it’s important to be motivated with your passion on what you want to do rather than other people’s expectations. “Always look beyond people’s expectations of you. Make pressure a stepping stone. In your own little way you leave an impact.”

According to Loretizo, one’s mindset is important in creating ideas. The necessity of being passionately curious should be a habit that let’s see the potential of moments. “One should always be curious, to ask how things work or how they don’t work. Good ideas can spring from ordinary moments, your perspective should always be to innovate and to do something that has never been done before.”

Germany had Albert Einstein to share to the world. Now, CPU and the Philippines have John Elmer Loretizo.

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simplesinger · 5 years

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I had no idea that this is what Jai Paul was going through. What a brutal experience, and example for how tech/culture can be so incredibly destructive. It’s really great that he is back, and that he was able to describe, work through, and come out on the other side of this experience.

So looking forward to what he brings into the world next.

“A message for fans.

I wanted to use this opportunity to share a little information about what happened regarding my music in April 2013. As you may know, some of my unfinished demos were put up for sale illegally via Bandcamp. The leak consisted of a fairly random collection of tracks I had made over quite a long period of time (from roughly 2007 to 2013), in various stages of completion. Some are short skits and beats from my MySpace page back in the day before I signed a record deal. A large proportion of this music was to be completed and released officially in some format.

Regarding how this music got leaked, the short answer is that I don't really know. I believe these particular versions of tracks may have come from a burned CD that got misplaced - a fair amount of people would have had access to my music in various forms between 2010 and 2013.

The first I knew about the leak was when I woke up to a phone call from my management at around 3 am on the night it happened. I contacted the City of London Police immediately. No-one in my team knew how best to deal with something like this and there was some confusion as to how we should react. I remember thinking if we could act fast we might be able to contain it somewhat and keep damage to a minimum. However, because it was 3 am on Saturday morning it was tough to get hold of anybody. Whoever was behind it likely planned it this way.

I understand that it might have seemed like a positive thing to a lot of people - the music they had been waiting to hear was finally out there - but for me, it was very difficult to deal with. As things unfolded I went through a number of phases, but the immediate, overriding feeling was one of complete shock. I felt numb, I couldn't take it all in at first. I felt pretty alone with everything, like no-one else seemed to view the situation in the same way I did: as a catastrophe. There was a lot going through my mind, but the hardest thing to grasp was that I'd been denied the opportunity to finish my work and share it in its best possible form. I believe it's important for artists as creators to have some control over the way in which their work is presented, at a time that they consider it complete and ready.

I was also frustrated by how all this was being framed online, leading to the widespread belief that I had decided to leak my own music, despite my record label and I saying otherwise. It didn't fit at all with anything I had done previously in style or attitude, and especially not in presentation. To make matters worse I was advised at the time to keep quiet and leave things ambiguous, but this didn't really fit with my vibe and there was disagreement among us. I soon felt unable to engage with it at all.

I suppose the music was special to me in a way, stuff that I began writing as a teenager in my room just for fun, eventually signing my record deal with it at 21, and hoping that I could put it towards a debut album with XL. I guess having that dream torn up in front of me hit me pretty hard. Of course, I'm not the only person who was affected, it was disappointing to all who worked on the music and to the wider team working on my project at my management, label and publisher etc.

A police investigation started during the Summer. Email addresses from the Bandcamp page and a linked PayPal account led to two suspects who were eventually arrested, their property raided and computers seized. Nothing was found, but by this time it was almost a year after the leak had taken place. The BPI kindly offered to step in and help towards the investigation so I'd like to thank them for their concern. I'm grateful to the City of London police for their efforts. Whoever was behind the leak collected a significant amount of money from sales, which was quickly frozen by the Police. Thanks to co-operation from PayPal and Bandcamp, everyone who paid money to download the music was refunded.

There were some long term effects for me following the leak. There was a significant loss of trust. For the next 3 years or so this one event was all anybody asked me about. Everyone was convinced that the story they had read online - that I'd leaked the music myself - was true, so I had to repeatedly explain the reality of the situation over and over again. It was frustrating and disorientating to find that I had no ownership over the story (or the music) and that people were choosing to believe a different truth. I guess this all made it feel like I had thousands of people not believing me, not trusting me, and also that in some strange way I was responsible for all of it. On a personal level, things gradually went south and I had a breakdown of sorts. I was in quite a bad place for some time. I was unable to work and withdrew from life in general.

Recently, I've been having therapy of various kinds, and this has helped me get to a place where I can begin to think about returning to music. I am thankful for that. It has allowed me to understand some of what happened in 2013 a little better - not through anybody else's lens, but through my own, and through this, I've been able to acknowledge some of the trauma and grief. I've grown to appreciate that people have enjoyed that music and lived with it, and I accept that there is no way to put that shit back in the box. There was no way to fix what happened and continue down our original path. Looking back, it's sad to think about what could have been, but it is what it is and I had to let go.

Founding the Paul Institute has also been an important step for me in terms of putting stuff out there again and getting back to what I love. I wanted to create a positive environment that artists could be supported in and stand together through some of the pressures that can make this industry difficult to navigate. I'm proud of what we've achieved so far, and I'm looking forward to seeing our artists develop.

We have decided now to make the April 2013 leaked music readily available so that those who want to hear it can access it via platforms they're used to. In order to do this we had to remove a bunch of samples that we were unable to clear, so what you hear won't be exactly what leaked in 2013 - but I know the original stuff is still floating about if you know where to look. Of course, it's completely surreal to me that this music will now exist officially in this form, unfinished, and even sequenced by the people who leaked it! Much of the tracking and production work was there, but it's a shame about the scratch vocals and the overall mix. This is also not all of the material from those early sessions so again it's a shame not to be able to present something completed, in its entirety. It will always be a little painful for me to listen to myself, but I don't want to deny people a chance to hear it, especially as it's already knocking about. Hopefully, this message gives it all a bit of context and answers a few questions about it.

Finally I just wanted to express how grateful and appreciative I am for the friends, artists, colleagues and strangers that have stuck by me and shown so much love, support and mad patience over the last however many years. I truly appreciate the help and positivity I've been given to get back on my feet. I wanted to put two new tracks out to say thank you.

For the double B side, we decided it would make most sense to pick up where I'd left off, so I've finished two tracks that I was working on at the time of the leak. I've signed and numbered all 500 copies of the white label vinyl. I've not had a website or merch for sale before so I'm excited to share all that stuff with you. We'll see where things go from here.

Anyway, if you got this far thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy the tunes. As always, you can find me down the pub (shout out to all the safe people who've come up to me to say hello over the years) so I'll see you down there for a pint later. Peace, Jai P.S. 10% of profits on merchandise will go to SANE.”

via Jai Paul Returns With 2 New Songs, Officially Drops 2013 Leaked Album: Listen

0 notes

nakmaka · 4 years

Text

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Email: [email protected]

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DMT’s chemical root structure is similar to the anti-migraine drug sumatriptan, and

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When consumed as a brew, the dose is between 35–75 mg. Effects begin after 30–45 minutes, peak at 2–3 hours and are resolved in 4–6 hours.

Street names

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Forty-five-minute psychosis.

DMT is used illicitly for its psychoactive, hallucinogenic effects. Users report “spiritual insight” as one of the most commonly reported positive effects of the drug.

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Agitation

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Loss of muscle coordination

Headache

At higher doses, DMT can cause seizures, respiratory arrest and coma.

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nakmaka · 4 years

Text

Email: [email protected]

+1(806) 337-0729

Email: [email protected]

+1(806) 337-0729

DMT is a white crystalline powder that is derived from certain plants found in Mexico, South America and parts of Asia.

Buy A PHP crystals online

It is typically vaporized or smoked in a pipe, or consumed orally in brews like ayahuasca. Occasionally, DMT is snorted or injected.

DMT’s chemical root structure is similar to the anti-migraine drug sumatriptan, and

it acts as a non-selective agonist at most or all of the serotonin receptors. Serotonin is a neurotransmitter that hugely influences the majority of our body’s brain cells.

When consumed as a brew, the dose is between 35–75 mg. Effects begin after 30–45 minutes, peak at 2–3 hours and are resolved in 4–6 hours.

Street names

Dmitri

Businessman’s trip

Businessman’s special

Fantasia

Forty-five-minute psychosis.

DMT is used illicitly for its psychoactive, hallucinogenic effects. Users report “spiritual insight” as one of the most commonly reported positive effects of the drug.

The vast majority of new DMT users are already experienced with using psychedelic drugs, and as is the case with other illegal hallucinogens, users obtain the drug through the Internet.

Email: [email protected]

+1(806) 337-0729

Side effects of DMT

A person is having a surreal hallucination with clocks.

The primary effect of DMT is the experience of intense hallucinations that alter the individual’s perception of the world around them.

In comparison to other psychedelic drugs (LSD, ketamine, magic mushrooms), recreational users of DMT consider it to have the lowest side effect profile.

Possible side effects of DMT may include:

Increased heart rate

Increased blood pressure

Chest pain or tightness

Agitation

Dilated pupils

Rapid rhythmic movements of the eye

Dizziness

When taken orally, DMT can cause nausea, vomiting and diarrhoea.

Health risks of DMT

Agitation

Confusion

High blood pressure

Loss of muscle coordination

Headache

At higher doses, DMT can cause seizures, respiratory arrest and coma.

DMT could have serious adverse consequences for users with pre-existing psychological problems or a mental illness such as schizophrenia.

Worldwide delivery.discreet and classified packaging, Super Fast Dispatch (within 72 hours) through a registered courier agency and tracking code / data provided for shipment.

EMAIL;;;;;; [email protected]

+1(806) 337-0729

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