Buckeye home medical equipment

Look, I've been playing for years. When I was a greenbeard I used to think it would be great if new classes were added to the game. Then as I played for longer I came to believe that the 4 class model was perfect as is. Now I think there is room for new classes. Not just one new class, but many, at least 2. Even with two additional classes the number of potential team comps excluding repetitions jumps from 1 at 4 to 15 at 6. If the developers ever end up going that route here is a concept for a medic class that I believe would fit well into the existing game. Sorry it is medic yet again but there is a reason it keeps getting suggested: it opens up new conceptual space. If new classes are ever added perhaps some of these concepts can be added to other classes in the form of alternate equipment.
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The medic is a mid-heavy combatant that can use a gyropack for mobility and deploy healing drones to revive and top off allies.
Gyropack: Selecting this equipment slot causes a collapsible antenna with rotary blades to extend from the top of the medic's pack. Two control sticks emerge from near the medic's waist on either side that he grabs on to. While using the gyropack the medic cannot fight or mine as both of his hands are occupied. Left mouse for ascending, right mouse for descending, and aerial movement is controlled via the directional keys. Prolonged use of the gyropack will cause it to overheat and there is a delay between uses. It is used for maneuvering around the battlefield quickly in short bursts to get where you want to go. It is also useful for getting up to platforms for mining. There is a short delay before activation on equip meaning you have to be quick to catch yourself while falling. This gyropack really shines with the addition of jetboots as you can alternate between jetboots and the gyropack for aerial combat and stunts.
Healing Drone: This healing drone works similar to the Gunner's shield in that it deploys for a limited duration, must recharge between uses, and has a limited number of uses replenished upon resupply. While deployed the healing drone will prioritize downed allies, seeking them out and reviving them. If no allies are down, it will go around topping off the dwarf with the least health. If everyone is at full health, it simply hangs out by the medic. It can only perform one revive per deployment. When its duration has ended it returns to the medic.
Primary Weapon Examples
The medic's primary weapons can be classified as squad support weapons. They aren't as heavy as the gunner's but are heavier than the scout's.

• Light machine gun: A magazine fed light machine gun with a reload on the longer side, consistent spread, and a small movement speed penalty while firing.
• Rocket Gun: A multi rocket magazine fed rocket launcher. Holding the trigger allows you to lock on your shots.

Secondary Weapon Examples
The medic's secondary weapons are sidearms somewhere between Gunner's and Driller's in terms of size.

• Signal Gun: A single shot pistol that launches a burning swirling firework that detonates at the end of a short duration. It can stick on enemies doing fire damage in an area and fearing the enemy its stuck to. (think a traditional single shot flare gun)
• Magnum handgun: A desert eagle style pistol somewhere between the subata and bulldog in terms of stopping power.

Throwable Example:
The medic's throwables focus around buffing allies.

• Stim Pack: Throws a fluid filled grenade. Dwarves in the effect radius have increased rate of fire, reload/cooling speed, melee speed, and movement speed for a short duration.

Feel free to comment as you like with your own ideas or reasons why a new class would or wouldn't work.

I work for a 3rd party IT company and one of my clients has several employees that will be working from home soon (and more to come in the future) and their existing physical PCs will be used by new employees working in the office. Because the home employees will still need a PC to work on I hope to spin up a VM host server to create Windows VMs for the employees at home to remote into via VPN instead of having to buy a new physical company PC for each of them to be able to remote into. Given that it's a business environment, what is the best and most cost-effective option for this to be a possibility? This company has all updated networking equipment, complete with a Meraki MX85, and fiber internet. I intend for the physical host server to be an HPE server. I understand virtualization can be expensive (the company is expecting this to be a bit spendy) but I want the most cost-effective option, but I also am willing to spend extra for dependability/reliability and quality/security. I'm experienced with ESXi/VMware/vSphere. This company has a few different virtual servers running on a single ESXi host server already. I have never set up a virtual server host for end-user PC virtualization before though and I'm just not sure of any other options out there or what I should go with on the software side of things. My company is an HPE reseller so the physical server brand itself will be HP but internal hardware option suggestions are welcome too! Any help would be appreciated! Thank you.

Coaches,
Based on my experience, there are 5 great avenues to making money as a personal trainer. Here’s a quick breakdown of the pros and cons of each.
Others who have been in the business can and should chime in with experience and critiques as well.

1. Employed by a gym as a W2 employee. W2 employees are hired and paid by the gym to work for the gym. Employees will have benefits, and a base pay.

W2 employees are hired by Crunch, Equinox, 24 Hour, Life Time etc.
Some local private gyms may hire as well.
There are definite pros to being an employee: healthcare and benefits, paid job training and education, a steady stream of clients, and mentors to learn from in the beginning. Some gyms like Life Time and Equinox can be very lucrative as well. Admin tasks like taxes and marketing are done for you, and you have low risk relative to ownership and contracting.
The cons include exploitive pay at some gyms, sales is a requirement (though some local gyms may not require coaches to sell), expected long hours, and a competitive environment to the detriment of the team, and the eventual ceiling where can neither raise prices or work more daily hours.

1. Online Coaching. Online coaching is being a personal trainer online, coaching those from the comfort of your home rather than the box setting.

Pros: Location flexibility, reach to help more people, more money for less time worked, easily scalable with potential to be a medium sized business with little to no overhead.
Cons: It can be very hard to get started online, the market doesn’t understand how to value coaching online vs in person, and tasks of running a business may not be the strong suit of many coaches (taxes, contracts, payment processing, organization etc). Some say the market is over saturated, which I personally vehemently disagree with, but I will say that differentiating yourself from the marketplace can be tough.

1. Independent contractor. An independent contractor is a coach who rents space from a gym in exchange for time and equipment to coach a client book.

Pros: the age old question, would you rather work for someone else and make 200k, or yourself for 100k? If you have an independent streak, most choose 100k. You also build your own brand, set your own prices, and work your own hours. A good relationship with the owner can also help with lead gen.
Cons: the inverse of most of the pros. Most trainers that wash out as ICs generally think they’re better off working for themselves, but didn’t account for the risk and didn’t know how to build a business. If you’re dealing with a bad owner, you may not get clients or the gym could close. Acquisition and business expenses are on you, not the gym.

1. In Home Trainer (this is a copy and paste from point 3). Same as an IC, but you are in a clients home. Equipment costs and wear and tear on the vehicle are a con. Pro is that you often have no split, what you make is what you make with no rent. The time horizon can also make it hard to build a book of business, and virtually impossible if you’re a new trainer with no referrals.
   
2. Gym/Studio owner. You own the space. You have the equipment. You have the staff. Your success begins and ends with the choices you make on a daily basis.
   

Pros: you’re the king. Memberships can be very lucrative with the right marketing and branding. Personal trainer rent can be 1500 a month in my area… you have 20 trainers at that price point and you can do very well.
Cons: one misstep and it’s all over. One bad hire and your business reputation can be over. You rarely do the fitness thing anymore because you’re cleaning toilets, dealing with vendors, chasing down payments, negotiating with the landlord for a new lease, and making sure your staff is taken care of.
In terms of earning potential, online coaches and gym owners have the highest pay on average. There’s some very notable exceptions, but across the board, a successful online trainer or gym owner can scale and have multi million dollar exits or incomes.
In terms of security, employment as a W2 will be the safest move, and one can earn 200k plus in the right location… but that is exceedingly rare.

Species:Dog
Age:4
Sex/Neuter status:Spayed female
Breed:chihuahua mix
Body weight:13lb
History: No previous serious medical problems. General skin issues caused by yeast in ears and armpits.
Clinical signs: Profuse bleeding in vomit and diarrhea. Taken to emergency vet and clinically diagnosed with ITP. Her platelets count was under 2000 at her lowest. (Normal levels are around 200000+)
Duration: 2 days. She’s been recovering with immune-suppressant drugs and is now back home (thank God)
Your general location: NC
Links to test results, X-rays, vet reports etc: N/A
Hey everyone, our chihuahua Peanut was just diagnosed with ITP (auto-immune disorder that destroys platelets in blood). Our emergency vet said there was really no way to know what could have triggered this to start. She’s now on a regimen of immune suppressant drugs. I was just wondering if anyone had experience dealing with this condition long term and if you had any advice for me. Also if anyone has had experience with a relapse where platlet levels drop again after an initial recovery, I would love to hear how that went and what you think may have caused it (if anything). Thank you!

It's ovulation week and this last month has been a doozy. My elderly mom has been hospitalized multiple times. She's having so many scary medical issues. I was handling that alright. In addition to my three kids and adjusting to summer break beginning with my very independent and emotional seven year old. My friend went off on me for no reason randomly when I inquired how she was. Whatever sucks but I dealt with it. I hadn't spent a night in my own home or bed in almost a week. Living out of a suitcase type thing. But when my dad lost it on my over having to put his cat in a closed room because my mom's health aid is highly allergic and his cat would no doubt try to run on her... Nope I'm done. I feel bad for everyone. I'll make sure my kids have snacks and are clean but I'm done. Done. Done. Done. So I've been keeping to me bedroom in my own home today not being productive. I swear it feels like it's precisely ovulation day so fingers crossed I'm peaking in how bad i feel. Usually I'll peak at ovulation and though I won't feel normal or happy until I bleed, it'll get more manageable for a few days. But then I haven't done much for myself or my own home so it could all stay awful.
But for now the best self care I can do is give myself permission to binge tv, snacks, mobile games, and sad movies when I need to sob. All my sympathies to anyone else also feeling this way.

The whirring blades of my MD-902 throbbed against the warm evening air, and I smiled.
From 5,000 feet, the ground flew by in a carpet of dark forests and kelly-green fields. The sun hung low on the horizon in a picturesque array of dazzling orange and gold, and I could make out the narrow strip of the Ohio River to my left, glistening in the fading daylight. This time of year, the trees would be full of the sweet aroma of fresh blossoms, and the frequent rains kept small pockets of fluffy white mist hanging in the treetops. It was a beautiful view, one that reminded me of why being a helicopter pilot trumped flying in a jumbo jet far above the clouds every day of the week.
Fourteen more days, and I’m debt free.
That made me grin even more. I’d been working as a charter pilot ever since I obtained my license at age 19, and after years of keeping my nose to the grindstone, I was closing on the final payment for real-estate in western Pennsylvania. With no debt, a fixer-upper house on 30 rural acres all to myself, and a respectable wage for a 26-year-old pilot, I looked forward to the financial freedom I could now enjoy. Maybe I’d take a vacation, somewhere exotic like Venice Italy, or the Dominican Republic. Or perhaps I’d sock the money back for the day I started a family.
“Remember kleineun, a real man looks after his own.”
My elderly ouma’s voice came back from the depths of my memories, her proud, sun-tanned face rising from the darkness. She and my Rhodesian grandfather had emigrated to the US when they were newlyweds, as the violence against white Boer descendants in South Africa spiraled out of control. My mother and father both died in a car crash when I was six, and it had been my grandparents who raised me. Due to this, I’d grown up with a slight accent that many of my classmates found amusing, and I could speak both English, and Afrikaans, the Boer tongue of our former home.
I shifted in my seat, stretched my back muscles, and glanced at the picture taped to my console. Both my parents flanked a grinning, gap-toothed six-year-old me, at the last Christmas we’d spent together. My mother beamed, her dark hair and Italian features a sharp contrast to my father’s sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. Sometimes, I liked to imagine they were smiling at me with pride at how well I flew the old silver-colored bird my company had assigned to me, and that made the long, lonely flights easier to bear.
A flicker caught my eye, and I broke my gaze away from the photograph.
Perched in its small cradle above the controls, my little black Garmin fuzzed over for a few seconds, its screen shifting from brightly colored maps to a barrage of grey static.
Did the power chord come loose?
I checked, ensuring the power-cable for the unit’s battery was plugged into the port on the control panel. It was a brand-new GPS unit, and I’d used it a few times already, so I knew it wasn’t defective. Granted, I could fly and navigate without it, but the Garmin made my time as a pilot so much easier that the thought of going blind was dreadful.
My fuel gauge danced, clicked to empty, then to full, in a bizarre jolt.
More of the gauges began to stutter, the entire panel seeming to develop terrets all at once, and my pulse began to race. Something was wrong, very wrong, and the sludge inside my bowels churned with sour fear.
“Come on, come on.” I flicked switches, turned dials, punched buttons, but nothing seemed to fix the spasming electronics. Every gauge failed, and without warning, I found myself plunged into inky darkness.
Outside, the sun surrendered to the pull of night, the sky darker than usual. A distant rumble of thunder reverberated above the roar of my helicopter’s engine, and I thought I glimpsed a streak of yellowish lightning on the far horizon to my left.
Calm down Chris. We’re still flying, so it must just be a blown fuse. Stay in control and find a place to set her down.
My sweaty palm slid on the cyclic stick, and both feet weighed heavy on the yaw pedals. The collective stuck to my other hand with a nervous vibration, and I squinted against the abyss outside.
Beep.
I jumped despite myself, as the little Garmin on my panel flared back to life, the static pulling aside to reveal a twitching display. Each time the screen glitched, it showed the colorful map detailing my flight path over the ground below, but I noticed that some of the lines changed, the names shifting, as if the device couldn’t decide between two different versions of the world.
One name jutted out at me, slate gray like most of the major county names, appearing with ghostly flickers from between two neighboring ones.
Barron County.
I stared, confused. I’d flown over this section of southeastern Ohio plenty of times, and I knew the counties by heart. At this point, I should have been over the southern end of Noble County, and maybe dipping lower into Washington. There was no Barron County Ohio. I was sure of it.
And yet it shown back at me from the digital landscape, a strange, almost cigar-shaped chunk of terrain carved from the surrounding counties like a tumor, sometimes there, sometimes not, as my little Garmin struggled to find the correct map. Rain began to patter against my cockpit window, and the entire aircraft rattled from a strong gust of wind. Thick clouds closed over my field of vision like a sea of gray cotton.
The blood in my veins turned to ice, and I sucked in a nervous breath.
Land. I had to land. There was nothing else to do, my flight controls weren’t responding, and only my Garmin had managed to come back to life. Perhaps I’d been hit by lightning, and the electronics had been fried? Either way, it was too dark to tell, but a storm seemed to be brewing, and if I didn’t get my feet on the ground soon, I could be in real trouble.
“Better safe than sorry.” I pushed down on the collective to start my slow descent and clicked the talking button for my headset. “Any station, this is Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot, over.”
Nothing.
“Any station, this is Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot, requesting emergency assistance, over.”
Still nothing.
If the radio’s dead, I’m really up a creek.
With my hand shaking, I clicked on the mic one more time. “Any station, this is—”
Like a curtain pulling back, the fog cleared from around my window, and the words stuck in my throat.
Without my gauges, I couldn’t tell just how far I’d descended, but I was definitely very low. Thick trees poked up from the ground, and the hills rolled into high ridges with flat valley floors, fields and pastures pockmarking them. Rain fell all around in cold, silvery sheets, a normal feature for the mid spring in this part of Ohio.
What wasn’t normal, were the fires.
At first, I thought they were forest fires for the amount of smoke and flames that bellowed from each spot, but as I swooped lower, my eyes widened in horror.
They were houses.
Farms, cottages, little clusters that barely constituted villages, all of them belched orange flames and black pillars of sooty smoke. I couldn’t hear above the helicopter blades, but I could see the flashes on the ground, along the road, in between the trees, and even coming from the burning buildings, little jets of golden light that spat into the darkness with anger.
Gunfire. That’s rifle fire, a whole lot of it.
Tiny black figures darted through the shadows, barely discernable from where I sat, several hundred feet up. I couldn’t see much, but some were definitely running away, the streaks of yellow gunfire chasing them. A few dark gray vehicles rumbled down one of the gravel roads, and sprayed fire into the houses as it went. They were fighting, I realized, the people in the trucks and the locals. It was horrific, like something out of war-torn Afghanistan, but worse.
Then, I caught a glimpse of the others.
They didn’t move like the rest, who either fled from the dark vehicles, or fired back from behind cover. These skinny figures loped along with haphazard gaits, many running on all fours like animals, swarming from the trees by the dozens. They threw themselves into the gales of bullets without flinching, attacking anyone within range, and something about the way they moved, so fluid, so fearless, made my heart skip a beat.
What is that?
“Echo Four Actual to unknown caller, please respond, over.”
Choking back a cry of shock, I fumbled at the control panel with clumsy fingers, the man’s voice sharp and stern. I hadn’t realized that I’d let go of the talking button and clicked it down again. “Hello? Hello, this is Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot out of Pittsburgh, over.”
An excruciating moment passed, and I continued to zoom over the trees, the fires falling away behind me as more silent forest took over.
“Roger that Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot, we read you loud and clear. Please identify yourself and any passengers or cargo you might be carrying, over.”
Swallowing hard, I eyed the treetops, which looked much closer than they should have been. How far had I descended? “Echo Four Actual, my name is Christopher Dekker, and I am alone. I’m a charter flight from PA, carrying medical equipment for OSU in Columbus. My controls have been damaged, and I am unable to safely carry on due to the storm. Requesting permission to land, over.”
I watched the landscape slide by underneath me, once catching sight of what looked like a little white church surrounded by smaller huts, dozens of figures in the yard staring up at me as I flew over a towering ridgeline.
“Solid copy on that Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot. Be advised, your transponder shows you to be inside a restricted zone. Please cease all radio traffic, reduce your speed, climb to 3,000 feet and proceed north. We’ll talk you in from there. How copy, over?”
My heart jumped, and I let out a sigh of relief. “Roger that Echo Four Actual, my altimeter is down, but I’ll do my best to eyeball the altitude, over.”
With that, I pulled the collective upward, and tried my best to gauge how far I was by eyesight in the gathering night, rain still coming down all around me. This had to be some kind of disaster or riot, I decided. After all, the voice over the radio sounded like military, and those vehicles seemed to have heavy weapons. Maybe there was some kind of unrest going on here that I hadn’t heard about yet?
Kind of weird for it to happen in rural areas though. Spoiled college kids I get, but never saw farmers get so worked up before. They usually love the military.
Something moved in the corner of my eye, and I turned out of reflex.
My mouth fell open, and I froze, unable to scream.
In the sky beside me, a huge shadow glided along, and its leathery wings effortlessly carved through the gloom, flapping only on occasion to keep it aloft. It was too dark for me to see what color it was, but from the way it moved, I knew it wasn’t another helicopter. No, this thing was alive, easily the size of a small plane, and more than twice the length of my little McDonald Douglass. A long tail trailed behind it, and bore a distinct arrow-shaped snout, with twig-like spines fanned out around the back of its head. Whatever legs it had were drawn up under it like a bird, yet its skin appeared rough and knobby, almost resembling tree bark. Without pause, the gigantic bat-winged entity flew along beside me, as if my presence was on par with an annoying fly buzzing about its head.
Gripping the microphone switch so tight, I thought I’d crack the plastic, I whispered into my headset, forgetting all radio protocol. “T-There’s something up here.”
Static crackled.
“Douglas Three-One-Four-Foxtrot, say again your last, you’re coming in weak and unreadable, over.”
“There’s something up here.” I snarled into the headset, still glued to the controls of the helicopter, afraid to deviate even an inch from my course in case the monstrosity decided to turn on me. “A freaking huge thing, right beside me. I swear, it looks like a bat or . . . I don’t know.”
“Calm down.” The man on the other end of the radio broke his rigorous discipline as well, his voice deep, but level. “It won’t attack if you don’t move too fast. Slowly ease away from it and follow that course until you’re out of sight.”
I didn’t have time to think about how wrong that sounded, how the man’s strict tone had changed to one of knowledge, how he hadn’t been the least surprised by what I’d said. Instead, I slowly turned the helicopter away from the huge menace and edged the speed higher in tiny increments.
As soon as I was roughly two football fields away, I let myself relax, and clicked the mic switch. “It’s not following.”
“You’re sure?”
Eyeing the huge flapping wings, I nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see me. “Yeah, I’m well clear.”
“Good. Thank you, Mr. Dekker.”
Then, the radio went dead.
Something in my chest dropped, a weight that made my stomach roil. This wasn’t right, none of it. Who was that man? Why did he know about the thing I’d just seen? What was I supposed to—
A flash of light exploded from the trees to my right and shot into the air with a long finger of smoke.
What the . . .
On instinct, I jerked the cyclic stick to one side, and the helicopter swung to avoid the rocket.
Boom.
My world shook, metal screeched, and a dozen alarms began to go off inside the cockpit in a cacophony of beeps and sirens. Orange and red flames lit up the night sky just behind me, and the horizon started to spin wildly outside. Heat gushed from the cockpit door, and I smelled the greasy stench of burning oil. The safety belts dug into my shoulders, and with a final slip, the radio headset ripped free from my scalp.
I’m hit.
Desperate, I yanked on the controls, fought the bird even as she spun toward the ground in a wreath of flames, the inky black trees hurtling up to meet me. The helicopter went into full auto-rotation, the sky blurring past outside, and the alarms blared in a screech of doom. Panic slammed through my temples, I screamed at the top of my lungs, and for one brief second, my eyes locked on the little black Garmin still perched atop my control panel.
Its screen stopped twitching and settled on a map of the mysterious Barron County, with a little red arrow at the center of the screen, a few words popping up underneath it.
You are here.
Trees stabbed up into the sky, the belts crushed at my torso, glass shattered all around me, and the world went dark.
Copper, thick, warm, and tangy.
It filled my mouth, stank metallic in my nose, clogged my throat, choking me. In the murkiness, I fought for a surface, for a way out, blind and numb in the dark.
This way, kleineun.
My ouma’s voice echoed from somewhere in the shadows.
This way.
Both eyes flew open, and I gagged, spitting out a stream of red.
Pain throbbed in my ribs, and a heavy pressure sent a tingling numbness through my shoulders. Blood roared inside my temples, and stars danced before my eyes with a dizzying array. Humid night air kissed my skin, and something sticky coated my face, neck, and arms that hung straight up toward the ceiling.
Wait. Not up. Down.
I blinked at the wrinkled, torn ceiling of the cockpit, the glass all gone, the gray aluminum shredded like tissue paper. Just outside the broken windows, thick Appalachian bluegrass and stemmy underbrush swished in a feeble breeze, backlit by flashes of lightning from the thunderstorm overhead. Green and brown leaves covered everything in a wet carpet of triangles, and somewhere nearby, a cricket chirped.
Turning my head from side to side, I realized that I hung upside down inside the ruined helicopter, the top half burrowed into the mud. I could hear the hissing and crackling of flames, the pattering of rain falling on the hot aluminum, and the smaller brush fires around the downed aircraft sizzling out in the damp long grass. Charred steel and burning oil tainted the air, almost as strong as the metallic, coppery stench in my aching nose.
They shot me down. That military dude shot me out of the sky.
It didn’t make sense. I’d followed their orders, done everything they’d said, and yet the instant I veered safely away from whatever that thing in the sky had been, they’d fired, not at it, but at me.
Looking down (or rather, up) at my chest, I sucked in a gasp, which was harder to do that before.
The navy-blue shirt stuck to my torso with several big splotches of dark, rusty red. Most were clean slashes, but two held bits of glass sticking out of them, one alarmingly bigger than the other. They dripped cherry red blood onto my upturned face, and a wave of nausea hit me.
I gotta get down.
I flexed my arms to try and work some feeling back into them, praying nothing was broken. Half-numb from hanging so long, I palmed along my aching body until I felt the buckled for the seat belts.
“Okay.” I hissed between gritted teeth, in an effort to stave off my panic. “You can do this. Just hold on tight. Nice and tight. Here we go . . .”
Click.
Everything seemed to lurch, and I slid off the seat to plummet towards the muck-filled hole in the cockpit ceiling. My fingers were slick with blood and slipped over the smooth faux-leather pilot’s seat with ease. The shoulder belt snagged on the bits of glass that lay just under the left lowest rib, and a flare of white-hot pain ripped through me.
Wham.
I screamed, my right knee caught the edge of the aluminum ceiling, and both hands dove into a mound of leaf-covered glass shards on the opposite side of the hole. My head swam, being right-side-up again enough to make shadows gnaw at the corner of my eyes.
Forcing myself to breath slowly, I fought the urge to faint and slid back to sit on the smooth ceiling. I turned my hands over to see half a dozen bits of clear glass burrowed into my skin like greedy parasites, red blood weeping around the new cuts.
“Screw you.” I spat at the rubbish with angry tears in my eyes. “Screw you, screw you, screw you.”
The shards came out easy enough, and the cuts weren’t that deep, but that wasn’t what worried me. On my chest, the single piece of cockpit glass that remined was almost as big as my palm, and it really hurt. Just touching it felt like self-inflicted torture, but I knew it had to come out sooner or later.
Please don’t nick a vein.
Wiping my hands dry on my jeans, I gripped the shard with both hands, and jerked.
Fire roared over my ribs, and hot blood tickled my already grimy pale skin. I clapped a hand over the wound, pressing down hard, and grunted out a string of hateful expletives that my ouma would have slapped me for.
Lying on my back, I stared around me at the messy cargo compartment of the MD-902. Most of the medical supplies had been in cardboard boxes strapped down with heavy nylon tow-straps, but several cases had ruptured with the force of the impact, spraying bandages, syringes, and pill bottles all over the cluttered interior. Orange flames chewed at the crate furthest to the rear, the tail section long gone, but the foremost part of the hold was intact. Easily a million-dollar mess, it would have made me faint on any other trip, but today it was a godsend.
Half-blind in the darkness, I crawled along with only the firelight and lightning bolts to guide me, my right knee aching. Like a crippled raccoon, I collected things as I went, conscious of the two pallets of intact supplies weighing right over my head. I’d taken several different first-aid courses with some hunting buddies of mine, and the mental reflexes kicked in to help soothe my frazzled mind.
Check for bleeds, stop the worst, then move on.
Aside from my battered chest and stomach, the rest of me remained mostly unharmed. I had nasty bruises from the seatbelts, my right knee swelled, my nose slightly crooked and crusted in blood, but otherwise I was intact. Dowsing every scratch and cut with a bottle of isopropyl alcohol I found, I used butterfly closures on the smaller lacerations that peppered my skin. I wrapped soft white gauze over my abused palms and probed at the big cut where the last shard had been, only stopping when I was sure there were no pieces of glass wedged inside my flesh.
“Not too bad.” I grunted to myself, trying to sound impassive like a doctor might. “Rib must have stopped it. Gonna need stitches though. That’ll be fun.”
Pawing through the broken cases, I couldn’t find any suture chord, but just as I was about to give up, I noticed a small box that read ‘medical skin stapler’.
Bingo.
I tore the small white plastic stapler free from its packaging and eyeballed the device. I’d never done this before, only seen it in movies, and even though the cut in my skin hurt, I wondered if this wouldn’t be worse.
You’ve gotta do it. That bleeding needs to stop. Besides, no one’s coming to rescue you, not with those rocket-launching psychos out there.
Taking a deep breath, I pinched the skin around the gash together, and pressed the mouth of the stapler to it.
Click.
A sharp sting, like that of a needle bit at the skin, but it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as the cut itself. I worked my way across the two-inch laceration and gave out a sigh of relief when it was done.
“Not going to bleed to death today.” I daubed ointment around the staples before winding more bandages over the wound.
Popping a few low-grade painkillers that tumbled from the cargo, I crawled wriggled through the nearest shattered window into the wet grass.
Raindrops kissed my face, clean and cool on my sweaty skin. Despite the thick cloud cover, there was enough constant lightning strikes within the storm to let me get glimpses of the world around me. My helicopter lay on its back, the blades snapped like pencils, with bits and pieces of it burning in chunks all around the small break in the trees. Chest-high scrub brush grew all around the low-lying ground, with pockets of standing water in places. My ears still rang from the impact of the crash, but I could start to pick up more crickets, frogs, and even some nocturnal birds singing into the darkness, like they didn’t notice the huge the hulk of flaming metal that had fallen from the sky. Overhead, the thunder rumbled onward, the feeble wind whistling, and there were other flashes on the horizon, orange and red ones, with crackles that didn’t sound quite like lightning.
The guns. They’re still fighting.
Instinctively, I pulled out my cellphone, and tapped the screen.
It fluttered to life, but no matter how I tried, I couldn’t get through to anyone, not even with the emergency function designed to work around having no service. The complicated wonder of our modern world was little better than a glorified paperweight.
Stunned, I sat down with my back to the helicopter and rested my head against the aluminum skin of the craft. How I’d gone from a regular medical supply run to being marooned in this hellish parody of rural America, I didn’t know, but one thig was certain; I needed a plan. Whoever fired the missile could have already contacted my charter company and made up some excuse to keep them from coming to look for me. No one else knew I was here, and even though I now had six staples holding the worst of my injuries shut, I knew I needed proper medical attention. If I wanted to live, I’d have to rescue myself.
My bag. I need to get my go-bag, grab some gear and then . . . head somewhere else.
It took me a while to gather my green canvas paratrooper bag from its place behind the pilot’s seat and fill it with whatever supplies I could scrounge. My knee didn’t seem to be broken, but man did it hurt, and I dreaded the thought of walking on it for miles on end. I focused instead on inventorying my gear and trying to come up with a halfway intelligent plan of action.
I had a stainless-steel canteen with one of those detachable cups on the bottom, a little fishing kit, some duct tape, a lighter, a black LED flashlight with three spare batteries, a few tattered road maps with a compass, a spare pair of socks, medical supplies from the cargo, and a simple forest green plastic rain poncho. I also managed to unearth a functioning digital camcorder my ouma had gotten me for Christmas a few years back, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to do any filming in such a miserable state. Lastly, since it was a private supply run from a warehouse area near Pittsburgh to a direct hospital pad in Ohio, I’d been able to bring my K-Bar, a sturdy, and brutally simple knife designed for the Marine Corps that I used every time I went camping. It was pitiful in comparison to the rifle I wished I had with me, but that didn’t matter now. I had what I had, and I doubted my trusty Armalite would have alleviated my sore knee anyway.
Clicking on my flashlight, I huddled with the poncho around my shoulders inside the wreck of the chopper and peered at the dusty roadmaps. A small part of me hoped that a solution would jump out from the faded paper, but none came. These were all maps of western PA and eastern Ohio. None of them had a Barron County on them anywhere.
The man on the radio said to head north, right before they shot me down. That means they must be camped out to the north of here. South had that convoy and those burning houses, so that’s a no-go. Maybe I can backtrack eastward the way I came.
As if on cue, a soft pop echoed from over the eastern horizon, and I craned to look out the helicopter window, spotting more man-made flashes over the tree tops.
“Great.” I hissed between clenched teeth, aware of how the temperature dipped to a chilly 60 degrees, and how despite the conditions, my stomach had begun to growl. “Not going that way, are we? Westward it is.”
Walking away from my poor 902 proved to be harder than I’d anticipated. Despite the glass, the fizzling fires, and the darkness, it still held a familiar, human essence to it. Sitting inside it made me feel secure, safe, even calm about the situation. In any other circumstance, I would have just stayed with the downed aircraft to wait for help, but I knew the men who shot me down would likely find my crash site, and I didn’t want to be around when they did.
Unlike much of central and western Ohio, southeastern Ohio is hilly, brushy, and clogged with thick forests. Thorns snagged at my thin poncho and sliced at my pant legs. My knee throbbed, every step a form of self-inflicted torture. The rain never stopped, a steady drizzle from above just cold enough to be problematic as time went on, making me shiver. Mud slid under my tennis shoes, and every tree looked ten times bigger in the flickering beam of my cheap flashlight. Icy fear prickled at the back of my neck at some of the sounds that greeted me through the gloom. I’d been camping loads of times, both in Pennsylvania and elsewhere, but these noises were something otherworldly to me.
Strange howls, screeches, and calls permeated the rain-soaked sky, some almost roars, while others bordered on human in their intonation. The more I walked, the softer the distant gunfire became, and the more prevalent the odd sounds, until the shadows seemed to fill with them. I didn’t dare turn off my flashlight, or I’d been completely blind in the dark, but a little voice in the back of my head screamed that I was too visible, crunching through the gloomy forest with my long beam of light stabbing into the abyss. It felt as though a million eyes were on me, studying me, hunting me from the surrounding brush, and I bitterly recalled how much I’d loved the old Survivor Man TV series as a kid.
Not so fun being out in the woods at night. Especially alone.
A twig snapped somewhere behind me, and I whirled on the spot, one trembling hand resting on the hilt of my K-Bar.
Nothing. Nothing but trees, bushes, and rain dripping down in the darkness.
“This is stupid.” I whispered to myself to keep my nerves in check as I slowly spun on the spot. “I should have went eastward anyway. God knows how long I’m going to have to—”
Creak.
A groan of metal-on-metal echoed from somewhere to my right, and I spun to face it, yanking the knife on my belt free from its scabbard. It felt so small and useless in my hand, and I choked down a wave of nauseas fear.
Ka-whump. Creak. K-whump. Creak.
Underbrush cracked and crunched, a few smaller saplings thrashed, and from deep within the gloom, two yellow orbs flared to life. They poked through the mist in the trees, forming into slender fingers of golden light that swept back and forth in the dark.
The soldiers . . . they must be looking for me.
I swallowed hard and turned to slink away.
Ice jammed through my blood, and I froze on the spot, biting my tongue to stop the scream.
It stood not yards away, a huge form that towered a good twelve feet tall in the swirling shadows. Unpolished chrome blended with flash-rusted spots in the faded red paint, and grime-smeared glass shone with dull hues in the flashes of lightning. Where the wheels should have been, the rounded steel axels curved like some enormous hand had bent them, and the tires lay face-down on the muddy ground like big round feet, their hubcaps buried in the dirt. Dents, scrapes, and chips covered the battered thing, and its crooked little radio antenna pointed straight up from the old metal fender like a mast. I could barely make out the mud-coated VW on the rounded hood, and my mind reeled in shock.
Is . . . is that a car?
Both yellow headlights bathed me in a circle of bright, blinding light, and neither I nor the strange vehicle moved.
Seconds ticked by, the screech-thumping in the background only growing closer. I realized that I couldn’t hear any engine noises and had yet to see any soldiers or guns pointed my way. This car looked old, really old, like one of those classic Volkswagen Beetles that collectors fought over at auctions. Try as I might, I couldn’t see a driver inside the murky, mold-smeared windows.
Because there wasn’t one.
Lightning arched across the sky overhead, and the car standing in front of me blinked.
Its headlights slid shut, as if little metal shades had crawled over the bulbs for a moment and flicked open again. Something about that movement was so primal, so real, so lifelike, that every ounce of self-control I had melted in an instant.
Cursing under my breath, I lunged into the shrubs, and the world erupted around me.
Under my shoes, the ground shook, and the car surged after me in a cacophony of ka-thumps that made my already racing heart skip several beats. A weather-beaten brown tow truck from the 50’s charged through the thorns to my left, it’s headlights ablaze, and a dilapidated yellow school bus rose from its hiding place in the weeds to stand tall on four down-turned axel-legs. They all flicked their headlights on like giants waking from their slumber, and as I dodged past them, they each blared their horn into the night in alarm.
My breaths came short and tight, my knee burned, and I crashed through thorns and briars without thought to how badly I was getting cut up.
The cheap poncho tore, and I ripped it away as it caught on a tree branch.
A purple 70’s Mustang shook off its blanket of creeping vines and bounded from a stand of trees just ahead, forcing me to swerve to avoid being run over, my adrenaline at all-time highs.
This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening.
Slipping and sliding, I pushed through a stand of multiflora rose, and stumbled out into a flat, dark expanse.
I almost skidded to a stop.
What had once been a rather large field stood no taller than my shoestrings, the grass charred, and burnt. The storm above illuminated huge pieces of wreckage that lay scattered over the nearly 40-acre plot, and I could just make out the fire-blackened hulk of a fuselage resting a hundred yards away. The plane had been brought down a while ago it seemed, as there weren’t any flames left burning, and I threw myself toward it in frenzied desperation.
Burned grass and greasy brown topsoil slushed underfoot, and I could hear the squelching of the cars pursing me. Rain soaked me to the bone, and my lungs ached from sucking down the damp night air. A painful stich crept into my side, and I cursed myself for not putting in more time for cardio at the gym.
Something caught my left shoelace, and I hurtled to the ground, tasting mud and blood in between my teeth.
They’ve got me now.
I clawed at the mud, rolled, and watched a tire slam down mere inches from where my head had been. The Mustang loomed over me and jostled for position with the red Volkswagen and brown tow truck, the school bus still a few yards behind them. They couldn’t seem to decide who would get the pleasure of stomping me to death, and like a herd of stampeding wildebeest, they locked bumpers in an epic shoving match.
On all fours, I scampered out from under the sparring brutes, and dashed for the crumpled airplane, a white-painted DC-3 that looked like it had been cut in half by a gargantuan knife blade. I passed a snapped wing section, the oily remains of a turbo-prop engine, and a mutilated wheel from the landing gear. Climbing over a heap of mud, I squeezed into the back of the ruined flight cabin and dropped down into the dark cargo hold.
Wham.
No sooner had my sneakers hit the cold metal floor, and the entire plane rocked from the impact of something heavy ramming it just outside. I tumbled to my knees, screaming in pain as, once again, I managed to bash the sore one off a bracket in the wall.
My hand smeared in something gooey, and I scrabbled for my flashlight.
It clicked on, a wavering ball of white light in the pitch darkness, and I fought the urge to gag. “Oh man . . .”
Three people, or what was left of them, lay strewn over the narrow cargo area. Claret red blood coated the walls, caked on the floor, and clotted under my mud-spattered shoes. Bits of flesh and viscera were stuck to everything, and tatters of cloth hung from exposed sections of broken bone. An eerie set of bloody handprints adorned the walls, and the only reason I could tell it had been three people were the shoes; all of them bore anklebones sticking out above blood-soaked socks. It smelled sickly sweet, a strange, nauseas odor that crept into my nose and settled on the back of my tongue like an alien parasite.
Something glinted in the beam of my flashlight, and my pulse quickened as I pried the object loose from the severed arm that still clung to it.
“Hail Mary full of Grace.” I would have grinned if it weren’t for the fact that the plane continued to buck and roll under the assault from the cars outside.
The pistol looked old, but well-maintained, aside from the light coating of dark blood that stained its round wooden handle. It felt heavy, but good in my hand, and I turned it over to read the words, Waffenfabrik Mauser stenciled into the frame, with a large red 9 carved into the grip. For some reason, it vaguely reminded me of the blasters from Star Wars.
I fumbled with a little switch that looked like a safety on the back of the gun and stumbled toward a gap in the plane’s dented fuselage to aim out at the surrounding headlights.
Bang.
The old gun bucked reliably in my hand, its long barrel spitting a little jet of flame into the night. I had no idea if I hit anything, but the attacking cars recoiled, their horns blaring in confusion.
They turned, and scuttled for the tree line as fast as their mechanical legs could go, the entire ordeal over as fast as it had begun.
Did I do that?
Perplexed, I stared down at the pistol in my hand.
Whoosh.
A large, inky black shadow glided down from the clouds, and the yellow school bus moved too slow to react in time.
With a crash, the kicking nightmarish vehicle was thrown onto its side, spraying glass and chrome trim across the muddy field. Its electro-synth horn blared with wails of mechanical agony, as two huge talon-like feet clamped down on it, and the enormous head of the flying creature lowered to rip open its engine compartment.
The horn cut out, and the enormous flying entity jerked its head back to gulp down a mass of what looked like sticky black vines from the interior of the shattered bus.
At this range, I could see now that the flying creature bore two legs and had its wings half-tucked like a vulture that had descended to feed on roadkill. Its head turned slightly, and in the glow of another lightning bolt, my jaw went slack at the realization of what it was.
A tree trunk. It’s a rotted tree trunk.
I couldn’t tell where the reptilian beast began, and where the organic tree components ended, the upper part of the head shaped like a log, while the lower jaw resembled something out of a dinosaur movie. Its skin looked identical to the outside of a shagbark hickory but flexed with a supple featheriness that denoted something closer to skin. Sharp branch-like spines ranged down its back, and out to the end of its tail, which bore a massive round club shaped like a diseased tree-knot. Crouched on both hind legs, it braced the hooked ends of its folded wings against the ground like a bat, towering higher than a semi-truck. Under the folds of its armored head, a bulging pair of chameleon-like eyes constantly spun in their sockets, probing the dark for threats while it ate.
One black pupil locked onto the window I peered through, and my heart stopped.
The beast regarded me for a moment, with a curious, sideways sniff.
With a proud, contemptful head-toss, the shadow from the sky parted rows of razor-sharp teeth to let out a roar that shook the earth beneath my feet. It was the triumphant war cry of a creature that sat at the very top of the food chain, one that felt no threat from the fragile two-legged beings that walked the earth all around it. It hunted whenever it wanted, ate whatever it wanted, and flew wherever it wanted. It didn’t need to rip the plane apart to devour me.
Like my hunter-gatherer ancestors from thousands of years ago, I wasn’t even worth the energy it would take to pounce.
I’m hiding in the remains of the cockpit now, which is half-buried under the mud of the field, enough to shield the light from my screen so that thing doesn’t see it. My service only now came back, and it’s been over an hour since the winged beast started in on the dead bus. I don’t know when, or how I’m going to get out of here. I don’t know when anyone will even see this post, or if it will upload at all. My phone battery is almost dead, and at this point, I’m probably going to have to sleep among the corpses until daylight comes.
A dead man sleeping amongst friends.
If you live in the Noble County area in southeastern Ohio, be careful where you drive, fly, and boat. I don’t know if it’s possible to stumble into this strange place by ground, but if so, then these things are definitely headed your way.
If that happens . . . pray that they don’t find you.

Hey everyone. My wife has been in the medical billing field for about 2 years now, and is in need of a new job. Her current company suffers from gross mismanagement, and the final straw was her being written up for not working yesterday, despite Wednesdays being her scheduled day off and no one notifying her of the change in schedule.
She also has experience as an assistant in the radiology department of a hospital, and wants to go back to school within the next year or 2 for radiation tech. So while she would prefer a work from home job in the billing/coding field, she would also be ok with an in person job in a hospital somewhere.
We live in Beaver County, so anywhere north of downtown would be good location wise if it’s in person, or around the Cranberry area. Any recommendations are much appreciated!

I need some outside perspective.
Our oldest daughter is who I am asking for advice about. She is currently 28.
My daughter has a history of being a pathological liar. She lies to people to get them to feel sorry for her and give her attention. She lied to a past boyfriend about what terrible people I and her dad were, when he found out it was all a lie he broke up with her.
A while ago she accused our oldest son of touching her inappropriately and SA her when they were kids. I do not believe this ever happened. I had to perform medical procedures on her that caused me to be very aware of when she lost her virginity. Now I know that not all SA includes penetration, but that is what she said he did. I know my son, he has never done this. That's just not who he is. She never tried to file charges or anything like that, she just said it to some friends and other family members. She has a boyfriend that is a real piece of work. He refuses to hold a job, so they have always had to live off other people. He has a son from a previous relationship. A few months ago I got a message from my daughter telling me how I was abusive to her growing up. How I was never there for her unless I got something out of it, among other things. I tried to raise my daughter to know that she can do anything she wants to in life. She wanted to be a cheerleader, so we signed her up. We went to each and every game so she could participate. We followed the busses to all the away games also. We made sure that every field she cheered from was wheelchair accessible. If there was a school trip and she wanted to go I went, so I could be there to make sure she was taken care of. When the school refused to make accommodations for her based on her disability, I hired an attorney and I sued the school to force them to do so. When she decided she wanted to do beauty pageants, we made sure the stage had wheelchair access. When she was offered the once in a lifetime opportunity to make history by going to the grand canyon and being the first person in history to hike to the very bottom of the grand canyon that couldn't walk or ride a mule, I took off work and I went with her and hiked it right along with her. Whenever she had a medical procedure, I was with her through it all. When she had a major abdominal surgery and was in ICU for 5 days on a vent unsure if she would make it, my husband and I slept on 1 single cot together next to her bed. We never left her side. When she had her entire spine fused from T1 to the sacrum, we were by her side the entire time. My entire life revolved around her. I wasnt able to live my life because I always had to be available for her. And I loved every minute of it! She was my child so I did it proudly and with zero regret or complaint. To be accused of never being there for her, and the other stuff hurts! She accuses me of not treating her boyfriends son the same as I treat my other grandchildren, and I don't, I dont know him! I have only been allowed to spend a handful of days with him! We always always spend the same amount on him for Christmas or his birthday. They lost custody and visitation with him for a year and a half, and when they finally got visitation it was supervised. I offered to be the supervisor and offered my home to be used as a safe place for the visits to happen. I was turned down on both. Because his mom only trusted boyfriends step mother. Whenever we would see the little guy in public we would try to say HI but he wasn't allowed to talk to us.
Now she wants to have a relationship again. She has already started with the lies and is claiming she has epilepsy, she claimed she was being diagnosed as Schizophrenic the last time we spoke.
What I'm asking is, what do I do? How would you all respond ? I haven't spoken to her in several months. She even accused me of causing my youngest 2 children to stop talking to her. I love my daughter but how do I do this? How do I move on from here and set boundaries? What boundaries do I set?
My husband is her step father, her biological father left before I found out I was pregnant and was never really there for her. None of that side of the family have anything to do with her because her bio father claims that she isn't his because he doesn't have disabled children. She watched him play favorites with her brother over her.

AAAClean carpet cleaners provide professional carpet, curtain and upholstery cleaning services throughout London to domestic and commercial customers. All of our skilled technicians are trained to the highest standard, highly educated in all areas of carpet and upholstery care, come fully equipped with commercial grade carpet and upholstery cleaning equipment and spotting solutions and are fully insured to work in your home.

I am 24F and I feel so ashamed of my "voluntary" motor tics, I developed my first motor tics when I was 14, I don't konw how it started, it was eye mouvement, then when I was 17, I switched to a face gesture including my eyes muscles and also some eye mouvement. Then when I was 18, I had to quit home and go to another city with another environement and I decided that I had to stop my tics, and I DID IT!! I stopped my tics for 5 YEARS and at time I I believed I was free and will never go back to my tics, but suddenly, I don't know how I started doing motors tics AGAIN!! it's been two years now and it ruining my life, I make too much effort, I strain my eyes a lot to the point that I feel too much compassion for myself, I don't think of what people think of me at work, but my motor tics are consuming too much energy, that's why I want to STOP IT ... I read and did some research about Comprehensive Behavioral Intervention for Tics, and I started focusing on the idea of doing a tic rather than doing it, and I do well sometimes, but other times I forget to focus on my thought and I do it involuntary, I don't know how to stop it and I can't remember how I stopped my motor tics 7 years ago, I don't want to take any medication to reduce it but I have to take control over myself but I still don't know how to do it.

The lease will expire at the end of June. The tenant has agreed to vacate at the end of June. Just now, the tenant asked to use his security deposit as the last month's rent. He gave the following reasons: disability due to medical condition, unable to work and running out of money. (He said he could provide proof of the disability if needed). Another reason is that he has lived at this property for 6 years and always paid on time. At the end he said I am a reasonable person and hope that I can OK this.
So this is the first time I encounter this situation. I don't feel very good about this. I am currently sick at home. I haven't been in this property since the tenant notified about moving out. He has many many stuff at this condo, to be moved out. What should I do to respond this request? Thank you.

My cat came home today from being outside for a few hours with this new completely hairless patch on his front leg. Do you know what it might be?
He seems to be in a bit of pain and walks around a bit stiffly and has difficulty jumping up to the sink to drink and such. He has less energy, and he has less appetite, but he still eats and he is able to pee and poop without difficulty.
He is a short-haired Maine Coon. He is a bit over 1 years old.

• **Species: Domesticated Cat
• **Age: 1 y 3 m
• **Sex/Neuter status: Male, neutered
• **Breed: Short Haired Maine Coon
• **Body weight: 5 kg
• **History: No other medical history
• **Clinical signs: Initially: Hair loss, a bit in pain (meaws when touched, but is not aggressive in any way), loss of balance (walks aroud a bit stiffly and fails to jump up to the sink to drink) lethargic, can only lick front paws and legs, but can urinate, eat, and poop. He is not aggressive.

Update: 10 days on, all the other symptoms are gone, but the hair loss is still visible and the skin underneath has turned from light red/pink to light blue/gray. Though he is more skittish to loud sounds than before his injury, otherwise he seems to be his normal self.

• **Duration: 10 days (and counting)
• **Your general location: Norway
• **Links to test results, vet reports, X-rays etc. NA

Hi all, this is my first post in the HVAC community, so please be patient with me and forgive any mistakes or omissions.
Our home HVAC systems have been operating without any issues. A friend who owns an HVAC install/service business sent one of his techs to perform a "system tune-up" before the hot summer weather hits and let us know if anything in the system needs additional servicing or repair. The tech suggested some services and I want to make sure that these services actually need to be performed and whether the price is reasonable (for the Los Angeles County market).
The entire HVAC system is 6.5 ears old and pretty much all equipment is Carrier brand + Nest thermostats. There are two separate systems - one for upstairs and one for downstairs. Each system has its blower unit and gas furnace in the attic and an AC condenser unit outside.
(1) Replace Dual Voltage Regulator on Condenser Unit (on only one of the units) — $187. Tech explained that this voltage regulator / capacitor helps kickstart the condenser unit, and the capacitovoltage regulator for the upstairs system is slightly out of spec. He stated that according to Carrier's specs, the voltage should be between 4.7-5.0V, and the reading during his testing showed 4.6V. --Given that this is only out of spec by 0.1V, does this need to be replaced now? If so, is $187 reasonable?--
(2) Clean Condensate Lines - $450 ($225 ×2 units) & Install Ceiling Saver Kit - $450 ($225 x2 units) -> $900 TOTAL. Tech examined the main blower units in the attic and noted that there are no signs of leaks or blocks in the condensate drain lines. Tech confirmed that in addition to the built in condensate drain lines, both units have a drip tray in case the line gets backed up. However, he suggested cleaning out the drain lines as a matter of maintenance ($450 for both lines). He also suggested installing a sensor that would turn off the blower unit / system in the event of a condensation overflow, but not sure if that constitutes an entire "ceiling saver kit" ($450 for both units). --Are these items needed, and if so, is $900 a reasonable price?--
Thank you in advance for your help and feedback

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“So, how’s everyone at home been?” Milla asked Celenamartra as she began to stretch her legs out, preparing to stand up.
“I’d be lying if I said they weren’t worried after they heard what happened to the Ridgerider, and then that you were being sent out of UPC space,” the Goddess admitted.
“I thought so. They’re ok though, right?”
“Yes, though your parents are eager to see you as soon as possible.”
“Hopefully I’ll be home before too long. We just need to get the Langan settled in, and then they should at least put the Ridgerider’s crew on leave.”
“Don’t spread this around as it’s not official yet, but the whole crew of the ship will be going on leave so those that wish to partake in first contact celebrations can do so.”
“That’s good then,” Milla replied, cautiously standing up, using the bed frame to balance herself for a moment, before turning to Hannah’rah and Daniel. “Hey, I imagine you’re going to celebrate with your friends, mind if I tag along?”
“Sure, but one of your little brothers will be there as well,” Hannah’rah warned her.
“Xailin isn’t so bad that he requires a warning,” Milla chuckled.
“It’s good to see you’re already mostly recovered, Milla,” Celenamartra told her, turning her attention to Daniel. “May I speak to you in private for a moment, please?”
“Uh, sure…” Daniel replied, following the Goddess to the other side of the room, finding that the sound around them became muffled as Milla and Hannah’rah conversed on the other side of the room.
“I’m sure you have many questions about the past few weeks, and I feel like answering a few,” the Goddess explained. “Not everything, there are some things I don’t wish to talk about, and others that I am not allowed to at the request of others, but feel free to ask away.”
“Uhh…” he mumbled.
“It’s alright, take a moment to think.”
Daniel’s mind began to frantically process what was going on, realising he had a fully private audience with a Deity; a being far beyond his comprehension, who had near infinite knowledge and wisdom, and she was willing to take questions from him. His mind ground to a halt as it tried to make sense of what was happening in the moment, as his mind still hadn’t fully processed the fact that she requested him by name to follow her into the room, let alone the current situation. All he could think about was Deities, and a single question he had been wondering for a while stuck in his mind.
“Ordos. Who is he, and can I trust him?” Daniel asked.
“I don’t wish to reveal his identity; that is for him to do. I will say that he can be trusted as much as any Deity. He follows the Divine Contract, just like the rest of us. You shouldn’t worry about being aligned with him any more than any other Deity.”
“Ok, but if Ordos isn’t known to anyone else, then other Deities could exist…. How many Deities are there really?”
“At least seven,” the Goddess replied, the corners of her mouth forming a faint smirk.
“I see…” he mumbled, realising she wasn’t going to give him clear answers given the chance. “... Did we leave any living Langan behind?”
“No, you rescued all the survivors,” she confirmed.
“That’s good to hear,” Daniel replied, feeling a weight on his mind lifting that he wasn’t aware of. “The attack on the Ridgerider, what really happened?”
“You have the report with all the details available to you.”
“Well, why did Haemish defect then? It’s not like he was raised in that environment.”
“Not everyone likes the UPC or us Deities being around, and they sometimes act irrationally, thinking that fighting is the only way, when leaving the UPC and is an option, and us Deities will respect anyone’s wishes for us to not intervene in their lives. Sometimes it’s as simple as they were raised under an older Human religion that doesn’t allow for the existence of us Deities, and they feel their way of life is threatened by us.”
“If they were to leave, where would they go when all the planets and stations are part of the UPC?”
“It’s not hard to get the necessary equipment to terraform a good candidate over the course of a few years at this point, especially as part of a larger group, and the UPC has said that they will recognise any group that does this as independent. But that’s not what happened here. He came into contact with a group of people that had no qualms with doing unspeakable acts because they can, and he joined them because he also felt that it was fine to commit such atrocities to get his way, even if the safer paths were easier and more likely to be successful. That’s just the way some people are.”
“Thank you for being honest with me.”
“Honest? Well, I didn’t lie, but I didn’t answer half your questions either,” she chuckled.
“Well, thank you for answering those questions.”
“No problem. I’m just surprised you didn’t ask about the other thing,” she replied, tapping the hidden compartment in his arm with the tip of her tail before walking back towards Milla and Hannah’rah.
He furrowed his brow as he tried to work out what she was hinting at, almost kicking himself when he overcame his mental block and remembered exactly what was hidden there, and that he had potentially just missed his only chance to gain some much needed information. He almost called back out, but he didn’t dare bring it up in front of anyone else, even if he felt like he could trust Hannah’rah and Milla more than most people, nor would he want them getting involved if he did. He knew it was his mess to deal with, and no-one else’s.
"How are you feeling now, Milla?" the Goddess asked.
"Better, thank you, though I won't be jumping the ship anywhere for a while," she admitted.
"That's not a problem. It shouldn't be necessary for the time being. Let's carry on with the task at hand, shall we?"
-----------------------------
Daniel sat at his console, watching the large station dominate more and more of his view as the ship drew closer to the large torus that housed the docking beams to the Langan's temporary home, with the large central spire blocking out the light of the system's star from their angle. He fought the urge to look back at Celenamartra and Oprin, who were engaged in deep conversation about philosophy and religion, the former more eager, and the latter still put off by the dominating presence the Goddess exuded. He did glance back at Milla however, and while she was obviously uncomfortable, she sat in her seat, ready for her duty, but desperately hoping a portal wasn’t needed anytime soon.
The Trailamker slipped through the small fleet acting as a defensive force, ready in case one of the few civilian ships that had arrived in the system entered the broadcast restricted perimeter. It did afford the crew a sense of ease however, as while they still had jobs to do, it meant that they didn’t always have to be almost combat ready for the first time in about a month. The ship continued onwards, sliding into an open docking arm’s grasp, sending reverberations down the length of the ship as it clamped down onto various sections, and attached docking ports to the ship's airlocks.
“And there we have it,” Captain Harris announced as a silent but collective sigh of relief washed over the bridge. “We’re officially docked with the recently named ‘Olinath Orbital’, and our mission is now officially complete. Operations will take over from here, so wrap up your business, and those of you not involved with the next tasks, go get some well earned rest. Inform your teams that access to the station is available upon request, and we now have an active uplink to the internet if they wish to use it.”
Daniel began to close most of the running programs on his console to make sure none of them got in the way if anyone came along to perform maintenance, and then logged himself out. As he stood up, Hannah’rah did the same, and they began to leave the bridge, checking if Milla was leaving as well, but she remained where she was, seemingly waiting for the Goddess to conclude her conversation, and waved to Daniel and Hannah’rah to go on their way. They both headed to their team rooms, splitting up as they reached the server room, which Daniel headed inside, pleased to find all four members of his team, though Corporal Kreklan was half asleep and Corporal Seling’ten looked like he had only just woken up.
“Hey all,” Daniel began. “Just a quick one. We’ve finally docked. Station access is under light restriction, so make a proper request if you want to go aboard. It should get approved if nothing is going on at the time. Bridge duties are over until the time comes for us to undock, and internet access has been established. You’re all free to use it, but we just need to keep an eye on the monitoring tools. Operations should be the first port of call for any issues, but anything severe will likely fall to us. That’s all I have to say. Any questions?”
“Thank you, Sir,” Sergeant Zent replied. “... I don’t think we do.”
“Good. Take things easy now. Also, Corporal Kreklan, Corporal Seling’ten, is there any reason why you’re both up?” Daniel asked.
“We both got pulled out of bed. ‘No one slacks off while we have a Deity on board,’” Corporal Kreklan replied, his voice slightly slurred. “So we’re waiting in here until the Goddess departs.”
“Who said that?” Daniel asked.
“Just some Sergeant that sleeps in the same room as us,” the Centaur explained. “Don’t know their name.”
“Ok, I’m ordering you both to rest until your next shift starts. If he gives you shit, send him to me. I’ll be right here for a few more hours. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir,” they both replied, faintly smiling as they left.
Daniel shook his head and sat down at his desk, bringing up a half-complete report he'd been working on. He continued on from the section on system performance, finishing it with a recommendation for someone to look into installing a background radiation filtering tool, as one really should have been added for sake of convenience, even if there was a risk of a faint signal being lost. He also made sure he mentioned the signal spike before departure, recommending that the EM sensors be checked out, and the signal analysed, just in case. He then began to write up about the performance of his subordinates, making sure to credit the actions he had noticed or been made aware of, though pointed out that due to his time on the Langan's home world, he had not been around constantly to properly monitor the team for a short period of time, mentioning how Sergeant Zent had stepped up instead.
Daniel's attention was pulled away by someone knocking on the server room's door, and he began to wonder if the two Corporals had returned, or if he was about to set someone straight.
"Enter," Daniel called out.
A large Human man entered the room, who quickly stood to attention when he saw Daniel.
"... Well, why are you here, Sergeant?" Daniel asked, standing to his feet noticing the rank on the man's slides.
"Sir, I came to you to report that two of your Corporals are slacking off, Sir," the Sergeant replied, wearing a very faint smug grin.
"What do you mean, 'slacking off?'"
"They're sleeping in the middle of the day, Sir."
"Do you sleep in the same room as them, Sergeant?" Daniel asked calmly.
"Yes, Sir."
"Then why the fuck haven't you noticed they're late shifts!?" Daniel shouted. "They've been doing this for a month! Did you not see them sleeping when you finished for the day, or got up in the morning!?"
"Yes, Sir," the Sergeant responded, losing his faint smirk immediately.
"So why do you think now is any different to then!?"
"Because we have a Deity on board, Sir."
"There are no rules or regulations stating everyone must be awake and working 24/7, and I can personally assure you that Celenamartra doesn't care if they're awake or not. In fact, I think she'd prefer it if they were asleep, as that way our ship's security is at less risk of being compromised by half-asleep crew!"
"But, Sir, isn't it disrespectful?" the Sergeant tried to argue. "Everyone should be at full alert."
"What's your job, Sergeant?"
"Sir?"
"I asked, what's your job?"
"I work in engineering, Sir."
"If you're meant to be at full alert, why are you in the crew quarters and not engineering?"
The Sergeant opened his mouth, but no words came out, so he closed it again.
"Well!?"
"I don't know, Sir."
"You don't know? Then why are you harassing people who do know why they're where they are!? … Apologise to the people you disturbed if they're awake, but leave them alone if they aren't, and apologise later instead. I will be asking them to see if you have done so."
"Yes, Sir," the Sergeant replied, turning to leave.
"You are not dismissed, get back here."
The Sergeant turned back around to face Daniel, regret clear on his face.
"If you have done the same to the members of other teams, I suggest you apologise to them and their superior officers very quickly before they blow up on you as well."
"Yes, Sir. I will do that, Sir," the Sergeant promised.
"Good. Dismissed," Daniel told the Sergeant, watching him leave.
"... Remind me not to give bad orders to anyone under you, Sir," Sergeant Zent commented.
"Eh, you'll probably be fine. You aren't terminally stupid after all," Daniel chuckled, sitting back down.
"Why did you go so hard on him?" Sergeant Zent asked. "Yeah, he was wrong, but he was trying to do the right thing."
"Don't reward dumb, even when it comes from a good place, else people will never learn to think and do things right. Also, us techs get pushed around a lot. I'm just making it clear we shouldn't be. I advise you to do that as well if you're in a position like that. The last thing you want is people walking all over you and the people that depend on you."
-----------------------------
First / Previous / Next

*Warning! Sporty, Sexy, and Slutty themes ahead!*
The crowd would cheer after another beautiful victory by the home team. Though it was to almost be expected at this point. They were having quite the run, now onto their eighth straight win and looking to get back in form within their division. A beautiful showcase of pitching on the mound and rally after rally taking place behind the plate, resulting in tons of hits and numerous runs, easily giving them a 12-2 win. It was needless to say that the team was more than in sync, now winning their last five games by ten or more runs. If things continued the way they did throughout the remaining crucial weeks on the calendar, they were looking at top spot in their division, hopefully grabbing the number one seed heading into the dreaded postseason. With only twenty games to go and only four games back on their division rivals, almost anything could happen at this point. They were a young squad with a lot of potential, even some seasoned veterans on the team as well, making nothing but a perfect wrecking ball.
Both teams would exchange fair handshakes, showing nothing more than good sportsmanship as that’s what they were all taught to do. Keep your head down and play the game. Of course during the game, the adrenaline, and pure excitement would cause chirping or yelling from either side, but grown men couldn’t usually help such a feeling. Winning was everything at the end of the day. Heading down into the clubhouse showed that very much. The boys throwing their bats about, jerseys, gloves, it was like a food fight of equipment. Though, in good spirits, someone would have to be cleaning this all up afterwards.
All the chaos would be interrupted but nothing more than the sounds of heels clicking against the ground from all the hallway, dashing into the newly renovated clubhouse, filled with beautiful team colored lighting, newly incorporated baths and jacuzzis, even the lockers fully redesigned, each players name and number above them to indicate who went where.
“Everyone clothed in here!?” A young, petite and dainty woman walked in with her eyes covered. Her voice was upbeat, her smile wide and her body oh so sexy. She complimented it with the team's jersey wide open, wearing a black crop top underneath, some tight leather pants and of course, those bright neon pink heels. It was safe to say she was a fashion guru, as she did tons of modeling throughout her career. Her hair was up in a bouncy bun on her head, her chocolatey hair just shining in the lights. Though, she’d take her hands down from her face, revealing those beautiful Korean eyes and frowned just a tad, “One of these days I’ll see it, huh boys?” She giggled playfully, of course being met by woo’s and cheers from the boys. They loved her. She was kind, sweet, upbeat, and not to mention a piece to look at. “Alright boys another great fucking win yeah!? If you guys don’t stop hitting the balls we’ll be out of bats by the end of the season huh!?” She giggled again, her lovely little accent on full display as she spoke, spinning around the room a-bit as she pulled out her little notebook from her back pocket. “Alright boys let’s settle down! Got some quick news! Johnson, Davids and Willaims, you will be our representatives for the post game interview tonight! Moore, Lewis, you’ll be doing morning interviews with the local radio before gametime! Annnnnnnnnd, Harris! You’ll be starting for us tomorrow night, yeah!?” Of course the team cheered him on, shoving him around playfully, “Alright good! Alright boys get a move on yeah! Clubhouse clears in an hour! Goodnight boys!” She whistled loudly, taking a firm turn on her heel and skipping out of the room like nothing.
“Goodnight Yuri!” Many of them said with a loud clang of the bats, of course spewing talk about her as she left. Typical guy conversation.
“Hey.” One of your teammates came up, nudging your shoulder. “Great game out there.” He nodded, sitting next to you. “Couple of the guys and I are going to get some drinks after the game. You in?” He asked curiously but couldn’t help notice that you seemed to be in a daze of some sorts. “Aye!” He shoved you a little harder, chuckling as he knew exactly what it was. “Thinking about Ms. Kim again aren’t you? Can’t say I blame you. It’s been nice having an upbeat PR around here.. Can’t even begin to describe what it was like back in Cleveland. Always so boring, couldn’t care less about us. But you can tell she cares. Acts like a bit of a slut, but I guess it comes with the position. So, are you in or not?” He’d ask again hoping to reel you in.
—--------------------------------------
So, this is my new little plot I’ve come up with! I know it’s a tad niche, but I’m hoping to find someone who would be interested! Essentially, it’s surrounding a baseball team and their PR manager, a former model, young and totally upbeat. All the guys have a thing for her, being single and practically millionaires from their playtime. But they respect her almost like a younger sister. But you? You can’t help but feel things. So! That’s where we pick up! We can discuss the exact starting scene when we get into planning!
Rules: 1. Be yourself! Though please try to add just a bit of chunk to your intro, as I won’t reply to just “Hello” or “Hi”. 2. If you have any good ideas to bring to the table, please share! The more ideas and creativity, the better the story! 3. 18+ only. No negotiations. 4. I do prefer longterm. 5. I usually am pretty active, but will let you know if I won’t be! 6. I like discord personally for RP. 7. I will introduce my character as we get into planning. 8. I do prefer 3rd person. 9. PLEASE! Try reaching out via chat first. IF you can't, PM is more than ok. 10. I require no knowledge on baseball!

I won’t call Kevin again yet. He's the type to tell me he's busy if I need something from him, even though I go out of my way to help him and take care of him every single time he needs me. I stop at one of the red lights in (City name redacted). At least Kevin lives here too, just a few minutes away from Lucky’s mom’s house.
If Kevin isn’t home, I’m going to be enraged, depressed enough to cry, or both. Kevin doesn’t even really lock his door. He never locks it behind us when we walk inside – people like me can’t help but notice things like that. If he isn’t at his house, maybe I can just walk in, take his drugs, and leave.
I called him earlier in the day, so he will definitely suspect that I was the one who robbed him, but what is he going to do?
I’m homeless right now, and I’ll be back in treatment soon – and hopefully not in the cess pool of fraud, corruption, and death that addiction treatment in Orange County has become. I wonder what could possibly be in the little lockbox Kevin keeps in the closet. It is probably a treasure chest full of various drugs and opioids.
I arrive at Kevin’s house and pull into the driveway. I knock on his front door. No answer. I ring the doorbell. No answer. My heart starts to race. My head hurts, I’m nauseous, I’m sweaty. I’m full of anxiety. I can’t stop thinking about dope. I feel like I’m stuck in a cave that is collapsing all around me. I need to get out, right now.
I knock again, loudly, a few more times. I count to 10. Still nothing. I feel a flash of heat and near-panic. My stomach churns, as if threatening to cramp. I need opiates, right now.
Desperation overtakes me. I turn the doorknob. It opens. I walk in the house, my instinct telling me to creep in. I suppress my instinct and walk in casually.
“Kevin?” I yell, from the bottom of the stairs that are right by the front door. I listen for a second. All is quiet. It wouldn’t be good if I am caught sneaking around if he is here, and it isn’t going to matter if I yell a few times before I steal his drugs if he isn’t here.
Junkie feet carry me up the stairs. My ankle hurts with every step – worse since I am in withdrawal.
"Kevin?” I call out. If he isn't here, I’m robbing him. I can't stand this motherfucker, and while I'm not quite the thief I used to be, I'm still an opportunist, and this is a damn good opportunity. Maybe stealing all this kid’s fentanyl is exactly what he needs in order to be able to quit.
That’s right, Lonnie. You’d be doing him a favor by robbing him.
I peek in the first bedroom at the top of the stairs. It’s the guest bedroom I slept in 5 nights ago. It feels like it has been an eternity since I was last here. Time moves more slowly in the realm of opioid sickness. Nobody is in the guest bedroom.
I peek into the office that sits across the hall. I don’t see anybody there. I would search the office, since he might have the lockbox in here, for now, but he might be sleeping in the bedroom.
"Kevin? Marissa?" I call out. Saying her name reminds me of the fact that he is dating her. She is so young and innocent. I can’t believe he got her addicted to these powerful soul-stealing drugs. I would never associate with Kevin if he didn't have so many different uses. He is not a person to me: he is means to the various ends that I have in mind when I contact him. This isn’t Kevin’s house; it’s a house with fentanyl in it.
If I find that carfentanil, I’m going to have a decision to make. It might be so strong that using it would cause changes to my opioid receptors that I would never recover from. Injecting even one drop could kill me. Carfentanil is also identified as a biological weapon since even accidental inhalation of an almost imperceptible amount can be deadly - or so, the police say. The amount of carfentanil that Kevin has could keep me incapacitated and out of pain for at least a year. Finding that bottle would be a curse.
I find myself standing in front of the double doors to the master bedroom.
"Yo, Kevin!" I shout out. Last chance before I go on a little scavenger hunt. I put my ear close to the door. I hear the bed creaking. Somebody is in there.
“Who the fuck is in my house?” Kevin yells from behind the door.
“It’s Lonnie. I tried to call you 3 times,” I shout out the lie, with conviction in my voice.
“How’d you get in here?” he asks, as the double doors to the master bedroom swing inward and open. He is wearing an angry frown, basketball shorts, and no shirt. I try not to look at his pale, untoned stomach.
“Your front door was open. I need some of that furry, bad. I’ll give you (exorbitant price redacted) for half a gram, right now,” I say.
“Say no more. I’ll grab it,” he says, flashing a smile at me, and then running over to his closet. I am suddenly relieved that he is here, and that I do not have to steal from anybody today. Stealing always catches up to me.
“I’m going to go downstairs,” I say.
As I trot downstairs, my sickness starts to subside, since the gorilla in me knows that he will be fed soon. I go into his downstairs bathroom and get a Q-tip, and then run to my car to get a syringe. By the time I get back to Kevin’s couch, he is there.
“You got that hundred?” he asks.
“I’m sending you a Venmo right now,” I say, unlocking my phone, opening the Venmo payment app, and sending him the money, which takes 10 seconds.
“Check it,” I say, nodding at his phone. He watches his phone for a few seconds. A chunk of Furanylfentanyl sits on a scale on the coffee table between us. I eye it hungrily, waiting for Kevin to say the word.
“You’re good,” he says. I pick up the chunk of furanylfentanyl, which is enough to kill 20 opioid-naïve people twice over. I move to the kitchen table, prep the shot, and point the loaded syringe at my arm.
“You know I hate when you do that here,” Kevin says, from the couch.
“I know,” I say, injecting myself in the forearm, quickly.
“1,” I say, capping the syringe.
“2,” I say, putting it in my pocket.
“3,” I say, diving onto the floor.
“4,” I say, feeling a smile creep across my face.
“When does it hit?” he asks.
“5,” I say, laying down on the floor.
“Now,” I add, closing my eyes.
There is a moment of emptiness that is only perceptible if you’re looking for something and find nothing instead: the non-sensations of a barren organism that is completely devoid of any meaning, pleasure, will to live, or basic comfort.
My heart skips a beat – did I miss the vein?!
A weight crushes my chest, like a meteor of light just collided into it. I am unable to breathe as every ounce of pain becomes washed away by the tidal wave of raw pleasure that spreads instantly from my brain and into my spinal cord, transforming my entire body into light as the furanylfentanyl clings to the opioid receptors all over my body. I lay on the floor, mentally clinging to the tightness and pleasure in my chest, wanting it to stay forever.
The rush fades, and I find myself breathing again, unfortunately. I open my eyes and get up from the floor.
“How was that?” Kevin asks, a semi-curious look on his face.
“Awful. You should never do it,” I say, scratching my nose. Kevin laughs.
“I hate needles, anyway,” he says. I laugh twice as loud as he did and begin to pace.
“So did I. So did every IV drug addict. I’ve never met anybody that was like ‘I always loved needles! I just thought stabbing myself looked fun!’. No way. People always start with a habit of sniffing the drugs, just like you.
“They meet somebody who injects the drugs in front of them, just like I am. The person shooting up says: ‘don’t do it, it’s fucking awful’ as they stick the needle in their arm, just like I am. I can understand how this is hypocritical, but it’s truly something I wish I never tasted. You never, ever forget the rush. It becomes the climax and focal point of your life.
“It is a hyper-pleasurable experience that carves itself into the ridges of your memory-scape. It is a traumatic pleasure. You put the needle into your very bloodstream; the chemical you slam into yourself alters your genetic expression. The experience is more intimate than any other experience imaginable. It changes you forever. It haunts you in your dreams. If you give yourself to it for even a moment, The Needle will never let you go,” I say, moving back to the floor. I need to enjoy this shot, before my tolerance skyrockets again, and my body becomes immune to the euphoria.
“Why do you do it, then?” he asks.
“Because I’m hopelessly addicted,” I say, laying down flat on my back again.
“Didn’t you quit before? Weren’t you sober for a year right before we met?” he asks.
“I’ve spent plenty of time sober. I’ve spent more time off opioids than time I’ve spent addicted to them since I found them 10 years ago – but injecting makes it a whole different ballgame. You are injecting a disease into yourself,” I say.
“I don’t think that’s true,” he says.
“Yeah, that’s the fucking conundrum, right there. Did I get the disease when I shot it up, or did I have it before I injected the drugs? Was I born with the disease, or did the drugs cause the disease? We’re both doing the same drugs. How are you able to function and I’m not?” I ask. (author's note: I no longer believe in the disease model of addiction)
“That’s not a conundrum at all. You COULD function, but you’re not. You COULD get sober again, but you’re not,” he says. I start to laugh sarcastically.
“You must be Nancy Reagan’s son – I can just say no! If it’s that easy, why don’t you stop, then?” I ask.
“Why would I stop?” he asks.
“Why wouldn’t you want to stop?” I counter.
“Sounds like you’re projecting. You obviously want to stop. You should stop, then,” Kevin suggests. I laugh at him again.
“Yeah, I’m going to,” I say. He laughs again as well, but the laughter we are exchanging is not friendly and humorous – it is malicious and hateful; borne of the cruel misery that is the flipside of the Heavopioid experience.
“No, seriously, I’m going to stop. In fact, I’m going to call my boy Sean right now, to set up a naltrexone implant and get my opioid receptors blocked,” I say.
“You can’t get a naltrexone implant, that would kill you. You were sick as shit before you did that furry. Your skin was glistening with dope-sweat, your pupils were as big as dinner plates. I saw it myself,” he says.
“I can fake the drug test at the intake appointment and ask the doctor to prescribe me naltrexone pills to ensure a smooth transition and minimize side effects. He will prescribe me oral naltrexone pills gladly, thinking I am being a responsible patient that will take the pills and therefore be safely acclimated to the naltrexone by the time I get the implant.
“Once I have the naltrexone pills, all I need is a small handful of xanax. Take a small handful of xanax with the naltrexone and black out for a night. Wake up, no opioid withdrawal. Tada!” I exclaim, putting my hands out in wonder, still laying on the floor.
“You’re talking about doing an ultra-rapid opioid detox, which is a medical procedure that is done in a hospital, without the supervision of a medical doctor?” he asks, before laughing harshly.
“I’ve done it a bunch before. It’s awesome, actually. Well, one time, it was fucking hell. Twice, actually. It was legitimately the worst thing I’ve ever experienced – an 8-hour terror attack that makes a ‘panic attack’ feel like child’s play. But other than those two times, it’s been all gravy,” I say.
“You’re kidding me. You’re seriously talking about doing an ultra-rapid opioid detox at home with nothing but xanax and a naltrexone pill. That shit could kill you,” Kevin says.
“Not really. Xanax has a really high lethal dose limit by itself, you know that,” I say, referring to the facts that it takes a lot of xanax to kill a person when xanax is taken alone, and that Kevin is a drug nerd like me.
“Yeah, the median lethal dose of xanax alone might be high compared to other drugs, but if you’re blacked out while you’re in severe opiate withdrawal, you don’t even know what’s going on in your body. You could have a heart attack, a stroke. You could break the temperature regulation system of the hypothalamus-” I interrupt him with a laugh.
“I know exactly what’s going on: a bunch of awful, painful stuff that I don’t want to be any part of,” I say. I hear footsteps coming down the stairs.
“What are you guys talking about?” Marissa asks, walking into the living room. She looks worse every time I see her; her youth and beauty are being stolen by Kevin and the drugs he should not be providing her with.
“This kid thinks he’s a doctor. He’s going to wind up killing himself,” Kevin states.
“What?” she asks, walking to the couch to sit next to Kevin.
“It’s not that dangerous. Doctors do it all the time, it’s called ultra-rapid opioid detox. I do it a little bit differently, but it’s the same idea: anesthetize the patient-”
“Himself, he means, when he says ‘patient’,” Kevin interrupts, looking at Marissa.
“Yes, I am both the unlicensed medical provider and the patient in this case. I anesthetize myself with a small handful of xanax while taking a naltrexone pill at the same time. The xanax kicks in, and I black out.
“While I am asleep, the naltrexone clings to my opioid receptors and antagonizes them. This puts me into ‘precipitated withdrawal,’ which is essentially a condensed version of withdrawal from opioids that is triggered by the naltrexone – a hyper-withdrawal, if you will. The hyper-withdrawal reverses the effects of physical dependence on opioids: my natural opioid-producing system, the endorphin system, kicks into overdrive to offset the presence of the naltrexone and get me out of hyper-withdrawal. At the same time, the anti-endorphin system, which pumps out the pain-creating chemical, dynorphin, in response to continuous opioid use, shuts down.
“To put it simply, over the course of a blacked-out night, I go through the equivalent of 7-10 days of withdrawal. I wake up feeling like I’m 10 days clean. Then, I can take another naltrexone pill, which guarantees me another 36 hours clean. It ends the constant and overwhelming war with myself over whether or not I should use opioids. I make one decision to take one naltrexone pill in the morning, instead of having to re-commit to my decision not to use opioids every time I feel depressed or anxious, which is every second at the beginning,” I say, standing up now.
I want to quit again so badly. I want to be free again.
“You have to feel like absolute garbage from starting naltrexone in the middle of a serious habit like that,” Kevin says. I scoff.
“Of course, I feel like garbage! It’s almost unbearable. My brain and spine and gut are overwhelmed by some of the most basic pain-causing chemicals in the biological world. I am quite literally saturating my system with anti-endorphins. Despite the pain, the benefit is simple and incredible: naltrexone speeds the process of return to chemical balance, or homeostasis, in the brain. Opioid painkillers get us high, but they also depress our respiratory, cardiovascular, and nervous systems.
“Our bodies adapt to the constant presence of external opioids by producing chemicals like dynorphin that stimulate us in ways that have the net effect of pain-creation. These pain-creating chemical responses keep us awake and breathing when we’re nodding off – but they also keep us awake and restless when we try to quit opioids, since our brains don’t shut down their production right when we stop ingesting external opioids.
“For example, suppose I start sniffing oxy when I’m 15. My brain starts to notice a ton of painkilling chemicals floating around. It starts to produce these pain-creating chemicals, to offset the painkillers and keep us in equilibrium. Our brains are always seeking to keep us in homeostatic equilibrium – continual regulation of body temperature and blood pressure are two other examples of this equilibrium.
“I skip the oxy for a day. My brain still has the pain-creators floating around, because the human brain is a prediction and adaptation machine that has learned to anticipate an over-abundance of painkillers in my system, and so continues to over-produce the pain-creators as a proactive, predictive response.
“Naltrexone is an extremely powerful pain-creator. There is a huge spike in pain creation unleashed onto my brain by the naltrexone, on top of the already excessive amounts of pain-creators that are being pumped out constantly by my brain to offset the ever-present painkilling fentanyl. This is like a tidal wave of pain-creators hitting the brain.
“Taking naltrexone when you’re already saturated with pain-creators almost feels like swallowing electricity, or fire, or panic. It feels like your entire body is setting off red alarms. Your heart races, your stomach cramps, your guts scream and contract in agony, your skin singes itself with icy-hot sweat. Your brain is telling you to lay there and die but at the same time won’t let you get comfortable for even one second.
“This discomfort cannot be understated: the clouds of heaven would feel like plywood on the street in a Boston winter. Precipitated withdrawal feels like being surrounded by all your worst fears, memories, and nightmares made real and standing all around you, sticking you with cattle prods to get you to jolt,” I say, barely able to avoid a shudder.
“That sounds awful. Why would you do that?” Marissa asks.
“Well, that only happens when you’re conscious during the process. That’s where the small handful of xanax comes in,” I say.
“You’re doing some dangerous shit to your brain by doing that. Creating that much stress and pain in your nervous system has to be ridiculously stimulating to your body. Have you ever been active during the blackout?” Kevin asks.
“Yes, but those are long and frightening stories. The goal is to reach the point where I just barely black out instead of taking enough xanax to be blacked out for a whole day, going grocery shopping and throwing fruit around and making smoothies at 3:00 AM and insulting strangers and crashing cars and whatnot,” I say. Marissa and Kevin start to laugh – at me, not with me.
“Yo, this is funny. You’re wild. So how many extra xanax do you have to take to inhibit the excitatory signals being sent in your brain by the dynorphin and the naltrexone together? I haven’t ever really thought about precipitated withdrawal. It seems like it would be a whole different animal,” he says.
“I used to take 5 xanax bars, but I woke up in the middle of a panic attack despite 5 xanax bars during one of my previous procedures, so now I take 10 xanax bars. It knocks me out for about 8 hours. I wake up in dizzy, disconnected discomfort, but it gets easier as the day goes on. The second naltrexone after waking up is a different story, though. That brings on a fresh batch of symptoms, though nowhere near as intense. I like to take xanax the second night, too.
“I get vicious rebound anxiety from taking so many xanax in such a short period of time. I have to be very careful not to pick up a xanax habit after I induct onto the naltrexone,” I say.
“That sounds like a lot of pain and work,” Kevin says, raising his eyebrows at me.
“It’s worth it. When I come out on the other side, free from this hellish, soul-sucking poison, I feel great. Well, kinda. I don’t sleep for a while. But I do bounce back, and much sooner than I would otherwise.
“When I have 1 month clean on naltrexone, it feels like I have 10 months clean. This is crucial, because when you have only been clean for 1 month, you typically still feel like shit – if you had a serious habit, anyway,” I say.
“I can’t believe you actually do that. You’re a dumbass,” Kevin says.
“It’s actually pretty smart, in some ways. The shocks to the endorphin system of the brain keep it operating smoothly, which in turn keep the immune system and dopamine system operating smoothly. Did you know that William S Burroughs actually recommended going on and off of heroin for the sake of longevity?” I ask. Kevin laughs, loudly this time. He looks at Marissa, smiling.
“You hear that? Longevity. It’ll keep us alive longer,” he says.
“Naltrexone has the potential to be a miracle drug. If you take a low dose of it every day, you can prevent your opioid tolerance from building up. Combine 0.1 MG of naltrexone with 10MG of oxycodone and patent it, you’ve got a billion-dollar pill. That low dose of the artificial, pain-creating naltrexone will prevent your brain from ramping up its’ own pain-creating response to balance out the painkilling effects of the oxy.
“In essence, that would prevent opioid tolerance and therefore the need for increasing daily dosages. You might be able to prevent addiction entirely. I’ve experimented with using naltrexone to diminish tolerance and had some success. It does lessen the painkilling effect a bit, but I’m sure a seasoned pharmacologist could think of a decent opioid potentiator to add to the combination that would increase the painkilling effects of the medication without further side effects,” I say.
“Holy shit. It can prevent tolerance buildup? Can you get me some naltrexone?” Kevin asks.
“Perhaps, but you need to read into it, first,” I say.
“You’ve really piqued my curiosity. Thank you,” he says, pulling out his bag of furanylfentanyl.
“Ah, some hellish, soul-sucking poison. Great idea. I haven’t slept for days, and I need a nap,” I say. Marissa giggles.
“I don’t think you’re going to quit,” Kevin says.
“You’ll see,” I say. I pull the syringe out of my pocket and start walking to the kitchen, to get more water for my next shot. Another shot will knock me right out, and I won’t have to deal with any of this. For a little while, anyway.
“Seriously, I’m going to be free from this shit. Free from these goddamn pills and powders that handcuff my brain and put it in a straightjacket. No more turning my own body and mind into a prison. I hate living like this. I’m going to quit, and I’m going to be playing college basketball soon,” I say, though after I say it, I feel exactly how I feel after I tell a lie.
“Then quit. It isn’t that hard,” he says. I hear the unmistakable sound of somebody sniffing powder through a straw, and it sounds vaguely like weaselly laughter.

Hey. I live in a country where these gaming equipments have intensive taxes which doubles the prices. I'm thinking of buying a T248 from Europe as I live in Europe right now, and bring it to my home country, where we don't have international warranty for these Thrustmaster products.
Do you think, considering the high value of this product in my country's currency, is T248 a reliable, long-lasting product, or should i just buy a Logitech G923 (i guess this might have some warranty options). In any problem, sending the product back to Europe and having them sent back to me is not quite an option, since they will tax me again on return of the product by almost the same amount of money that i pay to the product.
Waiting for any help, thanks.

27 minutes ago
Deutsche Welle
A member of The Left coalition in Poland, Jakub Klimek, after being charged with funding a terrorist attack on a PiS office two years ago, took his wife and two sons hostage before committing suicide 2 hours into the police siege. During that time the Warsaw police raided the headquarters of the Civic Coalition and The Left coalition leading to the arrest of dozens of opposition members.
After Jakub Klimek, a member of The Left coalition, was charged with funding a far-left extremist group behind a 2023 terrorist attack in Warsaw against the ruling right-wing PiS party, he went to his home in an apartment in Central Warsaw notifying his relatives he was going to say goodbye to his family before turning himself in, but instead he remained in his home until the police arrived, at which point he took his wife and two sons hostage at gunpoint. When soldiers of the specialized anti-terror unit JW GROM stormed the apartment he immediately committed suicide by gun. His family was not harmed in the siege.
His family said he apologized over and over again for the majority of the two hours the siege lasted, during which his two seven year old sons were constantly crying while their mother was trying to console them. He held his family in the bathroom because it was the only room without a window, according to the police. When he heard the window shattering from JW GROM entering the apartment he immediately shot himself in the head, without hesitation, his wife said.
At the same time the police siege began, the headquarters of the Civic Coalition (KO) and The Left were raided leading to the arrest of at least 60 individuals. The police obtained over 1200 documents they allege support the claim of the 2023 attack being supported by The Left and KO. While all information hasn’t been released to the public yet, Polish sources are claiming the ’’Fists of Freedom’’, the group behind the terror attack, was funded with over $700k by KO and The Left between 2023 and 2024.
The ’’Fists of Freedom’’ were seemingly a very new organization when they attacked that PiS office, but sources say it was created by the cooperation of KO and The Left for retrieving harmful documents to them from the PiS office. It hasn’t been confirmed yet what these documents were or how they ended up into PiS hands.
On Reddit a user on Poland who claims to have sources in the Warsaw Police Department posted unreleased images of the KO headquarters after the raid and wrote that PiS had obtained documents relating KO and The Left officials to a $2.3 mn bribe in 2023 from the Polish defense company Mesko for purchasing additional ’PPZR Piorun’ man-portable air defense systems, or MANPADS. PiS was supposedly attempting to blackmail their opponents into political concessions with these documents until they were destroyed in the 2023 raid. Why PiS didn’t make copies of them is unknown, some have commented that it’s a made up story and its writer is a moron who didn’t think the story logically through before he started writing, but I digress. At the start of the next year in 2024 Poland did indeed place an order for 800 Piorun launchers and 2500 missiles, costing a total of $850 mn between 2024 and 2029. At the time of the purchase, this was justified as refilling stocks of weapons sent to Ukraine, but if this information is true, it might mean the deal was made due to more unethical reasons.
The poster then said the police are going to open investigations into Mesko and into the Armament Agency, the main office for military procurement in Poland. This wouldn’t be the first time corruption was uncovered in the Polish defense industry, although never has it been to this scale. For example in 2019 six PGZ (PGZ is a large government owned defense consortium in Poland) employees were arrested for falsifying documents and influence peddling, and in 2023 four employees of PIT-RAWDAR, a Polish electronic company specializing in military equipment, were arrested for bribery. This incident, however, would be the largest and most influential in modern Polish history.
Another point the poster made is the potential investigation of PiS for claimed blackmail of their political opponents. This would mean essentially all major parties in Poland would be under investigation by the police for corruption.
What comes next for Poland is unknonwn, but several Western activists have expressed distress over the potential elimination of the right wing government’s rivals. If the high ranking leadership of The Left or KO were jailed it would destroy the parties’ reputations and of all their members.
Minor protests took place in Poland and Gdynia numbering no more than 100 total in both the cities combined. When interviewed, one of the protestors in Warsaw said: ''It is insane how people believe what PiS says. They are insane, I don't believe anything they say.'' This seems to be echoed by the rest of the protestors who are marching under the banner of KO and The Left innocence.
The Polish President Adrzej Duda called them ''idiotic hippies'' in a recent tweet. This tweet was replied to by Elon Musk who said: ''Based."

Housing Information
City of boston Rental Relief Program is offering $15000 grant “The Rental Relief Fund provides up to $15,000 in rental and utility assistance for income eligible households for up to 12 months. Eligible households can receive assistance for both back rent and rent going forward. Households receiving assistance for future rent will need to recertify income every 3 months to verify continued need” past due March 13 2020
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MASShousing continues to offer up to 50,000 for first time homebuyers in Attleboro, Barnstable, Boston, Brockton, Chelsea, Chicopee, Everett, Fall River, Fitchburg, Framingham, Haverhill, Holyoke, Lawrence, Leominster, Lowell, Lynn, Malden, Methuen, New Bedford, Peabody, Pittsfield, Quincy, Randolph, Revere, Salem, Springfield, Taunton, Westfield and Worcester. For more information and check eligibility :
RAFT Program is offering up to $10,000 “RAFT can cover utilities, moving costs, and overdue rent”
HOMEBASE through DHCD is offering $20,000 for move in cost, household items for those at risk of homelessness
Family Aid also assist families at risk of homelessness (617) 542-7286
Furniture Information
Masshealth MATCH program is offering up to $5,500 for eligible households. For more information
Rosie’s place 617-442- 9322
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Inquire with DTA as well as your health center for referral for furniture may need uhaul to pick up
Family aid also offers 3000 for furniture
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Automatic technician training program Carpentry apprentice program and other programs Inquire at :
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GREATER BOSTON LEGAL SERVICES 197 Friend Street, Boston (617) 603-1807 (Housing Law) (617) 603-1700 (Eastern Regional Intake) Services: Eviction defense; defense of tenants after foreclosure; subsidy preservation; tenant rights; plus other non-housing services Website: l
VOLUNTEER LAWYER'S PROJECT (617) 603-1700 (Eastern Region Intake) Services: Legal services - for renters facing eviction. Filing court documents against landlord. Post-foreclosure eviction. Website:
HOMESTART 105 Chauncy Street, Suite 502, Boston (617) 542-0338 (857) 415-1454 (Eviction Prevention Hotline) Services: Housing court assistance and legal support. Payment for back rent. Moving expenses for relocation. Email: Website: l
LAWYERS FOR CIVIL RIGHTS (617) 482-1145 Services: RAFT or Boston Rental Relief Fund application help; help with eviction discrimination or harassment; no individual eviction cases. Website:
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CITY LIFE/VIDA URBANA 284 Amory Street, Jamaica Plain (617) 934-5006 (English COVID Hotline) (617) 397-3773 (Español Línea Directa) (617) 524-3541 Services: Eviction prevention; rent relief; tenant rights; community organization services. Website:
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No person is all bad , hard times do not discminate nor are they schedule, we all deserve to live comfortably and be happy. I hope this helps. Heal, Be confident & stay consistent. Wishing you all the best
ITS NOT LETTING ME INCLUDE LINK I APOLOGIZE

It's hard for me to communicate my ideas. I get that a strength of mine is endurance, but all I remember is the enduring, no matter how well I treat myself or attempt to forgive what I had to do to make it out.
If all we want is cultivation, and we're aware how we are cultivating goes against everything we knew because it's new information, it's a path of least resistance to continue growing not a whole and healthy person of propriety but to continue pressing and stamping out industrial, servicing people out of those of servant’s hearts, why would anyone play that game?
Every time I grew disdain for a game I was playing, I took it out and put a new one in—every single time. I tried turning in this easy homework I could do five minutes before the bell rang. When they asked to take work home and do it there, I sat the piece of paper down, walked to the garage, and rode across town.
I'm not even mad that teachers took it personally and wrote a referral for attention deficit. They wrote up another one for depression when ultimately, they were trying to turn me into something I'm not from the brain, outward. The environment and our relay/array type-brain remain in that environment. Our preferences and tendencies are born from our environment.
I'm so full of scorn because they even pretended to be a source of liberality or a source of enlightenment, that the consequences of amputation of my entire mind and body from that playdough factory press of people were so mild, so instructive and fruitful I kick myself for ever allowing them to knock me down from the ladder over and over and over again only to be called good, and the ladder doubles each time exponentially.
No amount of cognitive behavior practice can topple awareness. No bi-weekly $180 medical bill can undo generations of systematic mistakes that led to the fracturing of something once unamputatable. Nothing can live up to the standard taught to expect, something I swore I would try to reach every single day. They wanted that. They wanted ruin upon separation. They violated my brain on a biochemical level to make me like every one of them because they went through it and were genuinely rewarded with virtue on a plate.
I like to call these slippery slopes to avoid inconvenient truths and rely on old ways as a path of least resistance. It's painful, considering it's a complete one-eighty from how I'm developed, but I'm an idiot if I'm anything else. I'm a dolt for even feeling this rough over a god dying or slipping into that place of constantly forgiving transgressions against me or someone I love or from myself towards everyone, from a stranger or lover. I'll become someone of zero decency, zero integrity, and zero excellence.
My problem is that the sword cuts both ways. I'm perpetually scanning my mind and nearly seizing with rage when I make a mistake. It comes about at the moment, and I know it's the amygdala from a place of painful fear. How do you scrape away the senses-assaulting renaissance painting of God off the lenses of the observatory of your mind without it feeling like chilling into the structure?

In HLL, once you choose your squad, you choose your role, and then your loadout, which ultimately defines your weapon and equipment you enter the battle with. As it stands, loadouts have been defined into archetypes, typically, Standard, Veteran, and (other). I believe these archetypes are useful, as they typically have distinct identity. However, by sequelizing loadouts with alternate primaries while retaining consistent equipment sets. I believe we can open up the slightly overly restrictive nature of these archetypes in order to benefit gameplay, player expression, as well as historicity. I do not believe each archetype should have every weapon available to the role, nor would I suggest adding many separate archetypes, as that would confuse the player on what equipment they should expect, as that should remain consistent among an archetype and it’s sequels.
What I suggest is, when appropriate, a sequel of a loadout’s archetype, for example, such a loadout titled Standard II or Veteran II should be available with the same equipment but alternative primary weapon. Again, when appropriate.
These loadouts could be unlocked in the interstages between archetypes. Thus providing more rewarding feedback for leveling up a role, as at times having to constantly level up 2 or 3 times for new loadout content can be a bit tedious.
This sequelization also allow T14 to more freely explore possible primary weapon additions without having to devise completely unique loadout sets or over-saturating the loadouts with too many archetypes to keep up with.
Regarding how to evaluate whether a weapon would be appropriate for equalizing into a archetype. I believe three factors should be considered,

1. That it doesn’t negate the archetype or role distinction. (Don’t give any class but machine gunner an MMG, don’t give 5 round bolt actions to assault, don’t give antitank launchers to any role that isn’t anti-tank etc. Don’t just give every class smgs.)
2. That it doesn’t invalidate later unlock, or overpower the archetype.
3. That it adheres to historicity, sequelizing the more niche and obscure weapons into too many other loadout betrays the reality of how present that weapon actually was, for example, the shotgun which parrels well with most smg focused archetypes, should still not be sequelized into those archetypes as that weapon exceptionally rare on the battlefield in history, as so should only be available in few loadouts. If you wish to sequalize with niche weaponry, the unlock should atleast occur at lvls 8-10, again to avoid over-saturation on the battlefield.

_
For reference, see https://hellletloose.fandom.com/wiki/Category:Roles for existing roles and their loadouts, to compare the following examples of recommended and not recommended sequelizations.
Suggested sequel #1: German, Medic, Sinitater II, lvl 4 unlock, alternative pistol, p38, instead of p08 luger,

1. Does not invalidate architype’s distinction, is just another pistol,
2. Is not overpowering the role.
3. P38 was popularly issue to medics, and is already available to the other medic role.

Other benefits, having this pistol available to a pistol focused archetype allows the player a more intimate opportunity to use this weapon, rather than it only ever being just a secondary to a more viable option.
Not suggested. USSR, Medic, Sinitati II, lvl 4 unlock, alternative pistol, tt-33, instead of nagant pistol,
Fails the third factor, the TT-33 was issues to officers, and would not belong typically in the hands of medic. So despite being just another pistol for the class that uses pistols, I would not suggest such as a sequel.
Suggested sequel #2: US, Support, Standard Issue II, Lvl 2 unlock. Alternative primary rifle, M1 carbine, instead of M1 Garand.

1. Does not invalidate architype’s distinction, is just a lighter, less powerful rifle.
2. Is not overpowering the role. The m1 carbine is pretty mid-tier, just like the m1.
3. The M1-carbine was popularly issued to US radiomen, the aesthetic of the support class is of a radioman. Those who carried material where typically issued m1 carbines.

Not suggested. US, Support, Ammo Carrier II, Lvl 4 unlock. Alternative primary smg, M1 Thompson, instead of M1 Greasegun.
Fails the second factor, such a high power smg is too good to pair with such a rich utility of equipment.
Suggested sequel #3: US, Tank Commander, Standard Issue II, Lvl 2 unlock. Alternative primary smg, M1 Greasegun, instead of M1 Thompson.

1. Is just another smg
2. Is weaker smg to the one already available.
3. Grease gun was issued to tankers in quantity, honestly, it would make more sense for this to be the initial class, and the Thompson to appear in the Standard Issue II* instead.

I may make another post of further suggestions if this catches interest.
_
Further, I believe this sequelization can be used to address most the qualms with British loads as they are, simply replacing the initial loadouts of the rifle based archetypes with the Lee Enfield, as that adheres much closer to historicity, but allow the more niche rifle options to available as sequalizations. Allowing players to maintain their own immersion, while allowing other players to enjoy more varied player expression. The same approach can be applied to the sten, with the more niche lanchester. Especially as both the sten, and lee enfield are on par, or worse then those more niche weapons. Ultimately violating none of the three factors to judge with.
Previous Ideas
https://www.reddit.com/HellLetLoose/comments/13opp51/dumbshit_ideas_5_m1a1_carbine/
https://www.reddit.com/HellLetLoose/comments/139zyj4/dumb_shit_ideas_4_grenadie
https://www.reddit.com/HellLetLoose/comments/12mhx04/dumb_shit_ideas_3_reformatting_the_start_of_a/
https://www.reddit.com/HellLetLoose/comments/tvprdq/dumb_shit_ideas_2_springfield_1903a3/
https://www.reddit.com/HellLetLoose/comments/tsos3x/dumb_shit_ideas_1_finnish_faction/