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Harbinger: An astral-themed class that manipulates celestial energies to predict and control the flow of battle. They would have three specializations - Stargazer (healing), Comet (ranged DPS), and Meteor (tank).
Artisan: A class that uses their crafting skills directly in battle. They'd have different specs based on their professions - Blacksmith (tank), Engineer (ranged DPS), and Alchemist (healer).
Psion: A psychic-themed class that uses mental powers to damage enemies and protect allies. Specializations could include Telepath (healesupport), Kineticist (ranged DPS), and Mindblade (melee DPS).
Warden: A law and order-themed class. Wardens would specialize in protection and crowd control abilities. Specs would include Guardian (tank), Justicar (melee DPS), and Arbiter (support/debuffs).
Berserker: A class fueled by rage and the desire for battle. They would trade defense for high, reckless damage. Specs would include Ravager (melee DPS), Mauler (ranged physical DPS), and Warbringer (area control).
Dreadnought: A heavily armored class that specializes in absorbing damage and battlefield control. Specializations could include Bulwark (tank), Siege (melee DPS), and Vanguard (support/buffs).
Chronowarden: A time-themed class. They would have abilities that can rewind damage, slow enemies, or speed up allies. Specs could include Timekeeper (support), Temporal Assassin (DPS), and Continuum Guardian (tank).
Geomancer: A class that manipulates the terrain to their advantage, creating barriers, pitfalls, and shifting the battlefield. Specs could include Earthshaker (melee DPS), Skyweaver (ranged DPS), and Stonewarden (tank).
Bard: A music-themed class that uses songs to damage enemies, heal allies, and provide buffs. Specializations could include Minstrel (healing/support), Skald (melee DPS), and Troubadour (ranged DPS).
Dreamweaver: A class that utilizes the power of dreams and nightmares to heal and deal damage. Specs would include Visionary (healer), Nightmare (DPS), and Somnambulist (tank, by using lucid dreaming to manipulate their dream form into a perfect defensive state).

Reaching certain stages in the game shifts the focus from learning the mechanics to adopting unfavorable tactics and exploiting loopholes for victory. It's common to encounter adversaries who, despite being the same level, deal significantly more damage. The only way forward seems to be resorting to tactics such as grab locking them or crafting the most cheesist range build possible to advance. The damage these opponents inflict is disproportionately high for the same level. At present, my stats hover around the mid to high 400's, yet it feels as if I need to reach the range of 800 to 1000 to compete with characters at the same or even lower level.
Capcom, could you please reveal the skill levels of each adversary? With this, I could better determine when to switch from dealing chip damage to replicating the amount of damage my opponents inflict on me, assuming it's feasible. Ideally, I would prefer to engage in an actual fight rather than resorting to tactics such as grab-locking, spamming, and other strategies that can potentially hinder my skill development on learning how to play.
I have to show you some of the cheese you're going to face in the future. The normal Mobs you can deal with pretty easily it feels like the normal mobs are just like you... But the "Boss" characters or your some of the oppoenents you'll face... Not it.. Reminds me of playing Like a Dragon where you can smooth sail all the way until you have to fight Majima and Saejima...
Don't even think you can fight fair with this guy... By the time you reach him you need to be in the 800s
https://medal.tv/games/street-fighter-6/clips/1ctayQTBJwsDSd/d1337BtjaldI?invite=cr-MSxBcVIsMTYyMTE0NTg1LA
Tournament 2 https://medal.tv/games/street-fighter-6/clips/1cuT1d9MlbMluD/d1337hQZdHzB?invite=cr-MSxEMlosMTYyMTE0NTg1LA
TLDR: Show us the Stats of the opponents we're facing because these guys are hitting like mac trucks and we're suppose to be the same level or lower or higher... But it feels like I am missing something.. It's forcing me to Cheese or grind for HP potions and brute force it.

I want the best lense for a canon 5d IV for macro shots, I’m currently using a 70-200 2.8 lense for anything close, I was thinking of getting EF 100mm f2.8L Macro IS USM I’m wondering if this will far surpass that or if there is a better lense to get for true macro, see nose hair on a bee kind of deal, preferably within the same price range or as close too, but please do tell me the best ones regardless. TIA

I want the best lense for a canon 5d IV for macro shots, I’m currently using a 70-200 2.8 lense for anything close, I was thinking of getting EF 100mm f2.8L Macro IS USM I’m wondering if this will far surpass that or if there is a better lense to get for true macro, see nose hair on a bee kind of deal, preferably within the same price range or as close too, but please do tell me the best ones regardless. TIA

Fall is my last semester, so I only need housing for then. Most places I've looked into have 1 year long leases, but I don't want to have to keep paying for a place I'm not living in or deal with the hassle of finding someone to sublease it out to. Does anyone here know of apartments that do ~6 month leases or something like that?

What's with these black range rovers? My immediate thought was that some mafia group has moved into the City.

Amazing to deal with helped pick a good replacement for an out of stock item, fast delivery and a large range 👽

Previous
If I were to guess, I’d imagine they took Andrew to Boss Harold before anyone else and the rumors around Golgotha seemed to support this supposition; the Bosses enjoyed their personal retribution away from the eyes of citizens, maybe it was talking or maybe more, and although there were whispers of the boy being strung up on the wall or maybe he’d be violated in the stocks for all to see, I imagined that the council I held with Boss Harold might’ve had something to do with that never materializing. When I was allowed to the boy’s cell, it was dark, and his face was bruised and the bandaging I’d applied to his severed wrist had been removed probably for amusement. The room was small and there were no windows and only a single doorway let out into the hallway which contained other cells and further, near the exit, there was the office of wall men. The guard that’d let me in locked the door behind me and Andrew sat on a metallic cot without cushioning, and he stared at the grimy floor through swollen eyes.
“Hello,” he said. And I was taken aback by the comment because he spoke it as quickly as he might passing a person in the street. He'd been through so much that the word was abrupt, skittish. I nodded and moved to him, reaching for his arm where he’d been nearly fatally wounded. It was infected. Without fighting me, he allowed me to tend to it without even a question; I wiped it and applied salve. Once it was cleaned and rewrapped and only after I’d settled on the cot beside him, he spoke again, “I heard stories about the cells, but I never thought they’d smell.”
I withdrew a handful of antibiotics, and he took them without putting them to his mouth. “You should have them,” I said, “You might lose the whole arm if not.”
“I might lose my life.”
“Maybe not,” I offered a grim smile and water with for the pills. “You’re alive still.”
“How much longer though?” He took the medicine and grimaced hard. The boy looked older than he was. “It smells like blood here. I can smell the people that’ve been here before.”
I patted him on the back and removed myself from the cell and he did not call after me, not even to ask for the return of his hand and I hoped that I could stave off whatever tortures the Bosses might have in store for him.
It’d been two days since I’d returned with Dave and Andrew and quickly after our arrival, I’d tried departing from the man and hoped he’d drop whatever revenge he believed I could assist him with, but it was to no avail for he attended everywhere with me since our return to Golgotha. Although he’d not been allowed to enter the cells alongside me, he was waiting for me outside as I stepped through the wall men’s office and into the noonday sun; I deftly plucked a pre-rolled cigarette from my pocket and tried at lighting it but before I’d even gotten the chance, he was there at the stoop of the office, pestering, “We should go somewhere quiet,” he said.
“What do you take me for exactly?” I asked while maintaining eye contact with the flame off a match.
“You’re capable enough. You could be a hero. I’d do it with you. We could scrounge up a handful of people and change things. We really could.” Dave was casting sidelong glances at those that passed us in the dirt street just off the stoop, but nary one seemed to care about our conversation.
“Leave it.”
“I won’t.”
I sighed.
He put a hand on my shoulder, but I shrugged it off.
Felina’s was a structure partially built from ancient shipping containers directly in the heart of the hydroponics towers in the center of town; the chicken shit smell from the base of the towers came with nauseating stagnation and could make a passerby sick, but upon entering Felina’s, the smell subsided and was replaced with the smell of body sweat. The older barwoman stood behind the counter and me and Dave took up on the far corner where we sat around an old card table, using crates as chairs; no one else was there—the smell of the hydro towers probably had some hand in that.
Dave took in close to me so that I could feel the moisture off his breath, “I’ve been talking to a few others over at the towers and they feel the same way I feel—but with you—well without you I don’t think I’d want to do it.”
“No, please go on without me,” I slanted my body across the table to push my face away from Dave’s; with me positioned with my back against the wall, I spied Felina beyond the counter, arms across her chest and watching us with an air of suspicion. She came to our table, slowly with her club foot and upon reaching us, she used our table for mild support with her big hands and greeted us without excitement.
Dave asked for water and her gaze shifted to me and I dismissed her, and we were alone till she limped back over with a pitcher and glass and Dave drank it greedily while Felina watched on from beyond the counter—her eyes suspicious but pretty blue too. She kept the haft from a dismembered axe behind the counter and was known to throttle unruly patrons with it.
Although some might have called Felina’s a bar, it was just short of it because of the rarity of spirits—besides, it was the upstairs brothel portion that the establishment owed to its popularity. Anyone might brave the smell from the street for companionship and if the noises from the rusted overhead support beams were anything to measure, the clientele was content indeed. A man descended from the stairs by the bar, gave a brief nod to Felina then to us and disappeared through the front door; a waft of the outside air rushed in, and Dave scrunched his nose.
“It’s a funny thing, I’ve passed by here all the time, but I don’t think I’ve been inside since before—” he paused, “Well, since before anyway.” He took a drink of water and rubbed his palms against his cheeks. “I know someone that works underground and could get us some gunpowder.”
I merely laughed at this. “Gunpowder, huh?”
“Well sure. The Bosses have reserves in the basements. We could blow them sky high.”
“More likely that you’d blow your hands off.”
“What’s it going to take to convince you?”
I thought, “Could you promise no one would die?”
Dave seemed baffled at the question. “Who cares?”
“These things hardly ever happen quietly—or without collateral. How’s this? Could you promise that no innocents get caught in stray fire?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are as ill prepared as I’d imagined.”
“What’s that mean?”
“The meek are intended to inherit, but many will die before all that.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I wish you’d leave it be.”
Another patron stumbled down the stairs, a scrawny tall man with a thin beard came charging into the chamber without clothes and a voice followed him, crying loudly, “Sonofabitch tried choking me!” A pair of arms and legs came stumbling down after—the source of the cries. There was a topless woman, a belt secured around one of her wrists and a pink mark around her throat. The naked man protested and put up his hands as the woman swung the arm with the belt and whipped at him with it, striking across the forearm he’d shielded himself with.
Felina moved carefully from around the counter, raised the haft, then brought it down across the man’s back. He stumbled to his knees, pleading. The barwoman raised the weapon once more and the sound was like wood against wood as it met the man’s head and his body was taken to the ground completely, perhaps dead, perhaps unconscious. The two women lifted the man out the door and Felina spat through the opening. Outside wind came again and Dave scrunched his nose once more before the door shut. The topless woman removed the belt from around her wrist, tossed it to the floor, then secured an arm across her chest before hurrying upstairs.
“So, gunpowder?” I asked Dave.
He nodded and took another drink of water while eyeing Felina as she took herself back to the counter and stowed the makeshift club into whatever place she kept it. “Yeah.”
“Go for it then and leave me out of it.” I fiddled with my thumbs across the table. “I’ll even make you a deal for when you come running to me for help later. If you blow your fingers off, I’ll try and help you find them. How’s about that?”
“I’ll wear you down.”
Another gust of wind came from the far door and I half expected to see the man that’d been removed there in the doorway, standing on his feet and ready for another round of punishment, but there was no one there in the hollow spot; as my gaze drifted from person-face level, I saw a medium sized mutt there in gray fur, pushing the door in with its nose and then sliding the rest of its starved body through—each of its yellowy sad eyes peered in and I could not tell the breed but Dave lifted himself from his seat and Felina went to the dog too.
“No dogs,” stated the woman.
Dave, the indomitable sweetheart that he was knelt to the dog’s face and touched its snout; it licked his hand and Dave said to Felina, “He’s not mine, but have you got some water for him?”
“No dogs inside. I don’t like repeating it.”
“Fair enough,” said Dave, “I don’t know who he—” he froze and then examined the rear of the dog before petting the dog on the head, “She belongs to, but I’ll take her outside. Just. Please some water, won’t you?”
The barwoman first drummed her fingers against her leg then went to the counter and I noticed Dave flinch as she reached under there, but she came back with a bowl and he took it and ushered the dog out; as he exited, he called to me, and I sighed and moved with him.
Remaining in the street was the man that’d been tossed out, face up, half-opened eyes, and flies buzzed about, and I touched him with my foot, but he didn’t move. Blood leaked from his ears. “Dead,” I said.
Dave took the dog from the body around to the side of the building and the feces smell was strong with the hydro towers, but he sat the water down and the dog went at it quickly, without restraint and spilt half before the man went to steady it with his hand; he knelt by the dog and pushed a shoulder against the wall of the brothel.
“There you go,” I told him, “You’ve found someone dumb enough and maybe loyal enough to follow through with your little gunpowder plan. Strap a handful of dynamite to him and watch him go boom in the Boss’s faces.” I genuinely did try it as a joke.
“You can be very mean,” said Dave.
Once the bowl was dry besides dog spit, he returned it to Felina, reentering briefly, and it was just me and the dog and the dog looked up at me and I turned away while its voice whined in the back of its throat and I took a piece of hardtack from my pocket and tossed it on the ground—the dog went after it, assuredly snapping up dirt in the process. Then the creature made a dry and throaty sound from swallowing too quickly, but moments after the thick cracker was gone. It licked my hand gently, and I scratched its chin and Dave returned and upon seeing me with the dog, he gave me a look and then brought himself to the height of the dog in a hunker.
“Hey there,” he said to it, “Someone’s beat you up pretty bad, huh?” It was true; scars stood out in places where the dog had no fur.
In response, the weathered mutt hoisted its forepaws onto his knees and pushed its nose into his.
“Yeah, girl,” he took one of the dog’s ears between his forefinger and thumb and rubbed it gently and the animal looked up, sad eyed, “What’s a good name for you?”
“Dog-meat?” I proposed.
Dave shook his head. “What sort of sick joke is that?” but he was smiling, “No. I’ll come up with something to call her. Isn’t that right?” He asked the dog, massaging the face of the animal with his thumbs; the dog stared dumbly at him. “Maybe a Beth or a Patty might suit you. How do you like them?”
The dog licked his face but couldn’t speak.
“Well,” I said, “It’s a shame it got you, you’ll pick a person name for it and that’s strange. Why not call her Mary if you want a person name?”
“Bah,” said Dave, rising to a full stand; momentarily, even with the other folks passing us in the street, he took a moment to see the dead man we’d passed on our way out of Felina’s and for a moment he remained quiet. “I’ll come to you again Harlan. Maybe when I’ve got more of a plan. I only hope you’ll listen to the stuff I’ve said about it. I really do. I really hope you’ll be on the right side of this thing.”
“Sides are overrated.”
Dave put a hand on my shoulder, “Of course,” he nodded, “Whatever you say.”
He left with his new friend—the dog following him traced from left to right close behind Dave and I watched him take off and around the nearest hydro tower and I was alone on the street and evening wouldn’t be far away, so I took to home while staring at my moving feet and speaking to no one. A few people along the way tried nodding at me or saying a small greeting here or there, but I was absorbed in my own head, and nothing took me from it once I got going. Maybe that was one of the reasons I enjoyed the wastes; there were no pretenses out there and with the constant thought of death there was no other thing to think about than each passing moment. I could not shut my thoughts up. I could ramble more about the motivations of a scavver, but I don’t think I should—leave that for someone that cares.
Upon taking the catwalks where I could look out on a swatch of Golgotha with the sun beating down and the constant hum of people going about their business, I was frozen on the railing and wishing I’d taken my own life and wishing that Dave had not found me out there; maybe if I was faster or smarter or better in whatever way that mattered.
I pushed into the door into my small abode and cool blood pushed through my body on seeing the robed girl there on my mattress, holding a shotgun with its barrel angled directly at me; she donned a flowy mess of dresses and kept her head wrapped in garb so that only her eyes shone through, but her arms stuck from the mess of cloth and I could see they were skinny with long scab marks like a blade had drawn across the flesh.
“Harlan?” asked the girl.
“Is that mine?” I nodded at the pump-shotgun in her hands. The slowness of the world was gone, and I could think again; if things were different, I’d have been a dead man, but it was unloaded, and I knew it.
“It was hanging on the wall—I don’t know how to use the thing anyway. I don’t know what I was doing with it,” she said, “You just scared me, and I didn’t know who you might’ve been.”
“This is my place.”
She laid the shotgun on the bed and unwrapped her face; it was Gemma, “You were with Andrew.”
“I was.”
“You said he was dead.”
I brought in air slowly through my nose. “I did.”
“You lied.”
I nodded, letting the air come out.
“Why?”
“I needed to find you.”
“But you found us both then, I guess.”
“Not on purpose.” A thought occurred to me, “Does you father know where you are right now?”
She shook her head; although rest had done her good, there was still a fair amount of fatigue present on her. “I snuck out.”
“Would’a though you learned your lesson on that front.”
“Is Andrew okay? No one will tell me anything about it.”
“He’s locked up right now, but he is alive. For how long? I don’t know. I figured your pop paid a visit to him already—wouldn’t you know about that?”
She shook her head again. “Woo,” Gemma slumped onto the side of my mattress and gathered the robes around her, “I’m feeling faint.”
I moved to the bed and gathered the shotgun, putting it back on the hooks in the wall. “You shouldn’t break into people’s homes.”
Cupping her brow in a hand so that I could only see her mouth and the bottom of her nose, she said, “I just needed to know he was alive. These past days I’ve been so worried about him. I knew you told me he was dead, but I knew you were a liar too. So, I had bad thoughts about what might’ve happened to him out there. If what happened to me was anything to go off.” Her voice broke for a moment and then she pulled her hand from her face and blinked a few sudden times. “I just.”
“I get it. You love the boy.”
She nodded without looking at me.
“So, beg your dad to let him go.”
“Everyone’s so mad at him. It’s funny that everyone’s so mad at him, but it was my idea, and they all treat me like a darling little flower. Like I couldn’t have been the one with the idea of running away. I had more reason to run than he ever did.”
“You should leave.”
“I don’t want to. Can’t you see that’s what I’ve been saying? Judge all you like. Call me rich all you like, but I can tell you this: I don’t feel like it.” Gemma grabbed the edge of the bed as her head wavered on her shoulders. “Dizzy spells are awful.” She shook her head. “Like no sickness ever.” Her eyes locked on mine. “Help me.”
“I’ve already tried convincing them not to kill him.” Taking a pause, I thought to add, “And I personally saw to his injuries. Please go and leave me be.”
“Oh, but you’ve asked for it,” she said, “You put yourself in the business of it.”
“Look. All’s I wanted was to save you if I could and get the water running again. That’s it. Now go.” I put my arm up to wave her out the door and she stood to make her way there, catching herself on the frame, then out on the catwalk railing before turning and looking at me over her shoulder.
“Bastard.” she said.
“Yes.” The door shut between us, and I took myself to sitting on the bed’s edge and reminiscing over how Dave reminded me so much of Jackson. Jackson was a real tough one; whatever happened he always kept a cool head (so I reckon him and Dave would be different in that way) and the idea of being a hero was so big for him. It’s a curious thought: whether Dave would have such ideas if hadn’t been for the tragic loss of his family.
The shotgun sat on there on the wall, and I took it and looked over it, putting the stock in my left hand then my right and laid it across my legs; the woven strap on it had gone thin so that the place I’d once worn it over my shoulder was mostly threadbare. I moved to the cabinet by the sink where I kept a few essentials and in the very back there was an old box of shells—it was a surprise they still seemed good, but with old ammo you never could tell, and the shells were just as likely to fire true as they might be to never send pellets from the barrel. I took a knife and began whittling into a shell I’d plucked from the box. Pellets spilled between my feet as I sat on the bed and they rolled across the floor and then I found the gunpowder and rose again, sprinkling it onto the cabinet top into a neat pile. Dave said he had a fella’ he knew that worked in the underground—the sort of person that could get him all the gunpowder he needed. Was he familiar with its destructive force; had he ever fired a gun? He promised me no one innocent would die and I knew that was a lie and there’s surely a piece of him that knew it was a lie just as well.
It was just then as I took a forefinger and thumb and pinched up a bit from the gunpowder splat that I remembered a thing that Jackson told me all the time when he thought none of the others were listening. The gunpowder rained from my fingertips as I rubbed them together and I sniffed the place where they’d become sooty, taking in a smell I’d not smelled in a long time. Jackson would say, “Whoever fights monsters should be sure that he don’t become a monster.” It wouldn’t be for a long time—after I’d visited the libraries in Alexandria or Babylon (take your preference)—till I realized it was a quote that Jackson stole from some guy named Neet-chee. It seemed like a good thing to adhere to, and it was certainly something I wasn’t good at keeping with and if I couldn’t then there was little certainty that Dave would keep to it either. Maybe I had become a monster; morally dubious anyway.
Jackson was a hero, and he was dead as was Sibylle as was Billy as was John and all of them. We’d tried heroing and it got all of us dead. Almost all of us.
I hung the shotgun on the wall and left it there and swept the gunpowder into the floor with a flat palm where the pellets were and chucked the box of old shells into the cabinet again.
Ringing of bells came from the hall of the Bosses and it was time for a display. Denizens gathered in the front square by the gates and awaited while they trotted out Andrew; perhaps the words I’d passed to Boss Harold rang hollow after all. The Bosses were there just as always, drinking their wine on the platform, and Maron was out front with his wall men in the semicircle of gathered Golgotha residents. Of the population, only a hundred or two gathered for this poor boy’s execution. The guards had, at some point after my departure, removed the bandage on his empty wrist and he looked more sickly in the face than before and his cheeks were swollen and he wept, seemingly not from the terror of it but from the skin around his eyes having been so damaged; tears came through swelled eyelids and a wall man kept him by the elbow and Maron marched to the boy and lifted the boy’s face with his hand to look into it and maybe he whispered something to him.
I weaved through the crowd, moving to the steps that led to the stage where the Bosses stood with their foods and wines and their plenty and upon approach, I was stopped by a wall men, but upon catching Boss Harold’s eye, he told the guard to let me through and I took the stairs and from the platform, I could see over the crowd—Dave was far in the rear of those gathered, totally disconnected from the others for he hunkered by a set of crates, patting the head of the dog we’d found just earlier in the day. For a moment, I wished I was there with him and not on the stage at all.
“Dear boy!” Boss Harold shouted at me over the excited jeers of the others, “It’s so good to see you again. You are quite the hero, and it’s always good to be in the company of those.”
I nodded at him and within a flash, he’d slammed his cup of wine into my hand, telling me to drink, and only moments passed before his own cup was replaced by a nearby servant. “We spoke about this?” I tried.
His face was red, and I could just make out the miniscule veins vibrant along the corners of his nose; the man was far gone drunk. “That boy’s been a thorn in my side for too long, so I know you understand it when I say that he needs punishment. I took all that you said into account,” his words slurred, and the sweet sick came off him in a breath of hot air when he pulled me in, resting his ear on my shoulder. “Nobody dies today, but ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’,” the Boss paused. “You’re not a father yourself, are you?”
I shook my head.
“Ah! Then you might not be familiar with that proverb required in bringing a child up in this world.” Boss Harold laughed. “I’d never take my sweet Gemma out in the square like this, but God there’s been times I’ve wanted it. ‘Spare the rod’.” He repeated. “But we’ve something a fair bit more interesting than a rod for that boy.” Boss Harold swayed on his feet and took the fist containing his cup of wine, pointing with his index finger at the open place by the wall where Maron and Andrew and the wall men were. “Speaking of!” Boss Harold was giddy, and he took a magnificent gulp from his cup, throwing his head far back. “You’re a learned man, yes?”
“What?”
“You know how to read? Maron said something about your reading. That’s a rare quality! I’d love to talk about books with you sometime. I’ve my own personal collection.”
The wall men stripped Andrew of his clothes then threw them to the ground and a gasp escaped the audience and the boy shouted and Maron moved to a nearby bucket and reached into the mouth of the container, coming back to a full stand; a whip was coiled around his arm. The Bosses didn’t even look on. The punishment was for the benefit of Boss Harold, and not even he looked on. He jabbered on about how he’d like to speak with me over an old philosophy called Objectivism then he went on about how he’d learned long ago the greatest achievement of man was his own happiness and I listened to the drunk man and when the whip broke skin the first time, I’m sure Andrew felt every bit.
Blood exploded in violent dew off his back and the crack of the whip struck the boy till he couldn’t stand and then several times more. Splatter reached onlookers each time Maron lifted the whip over his head, and it was only once the boy stopped moving that the Boss Sheriff swaggered over to inspect him; Andrew had fallen face down and Maron took his boot to the boy’s side so that the boy rolled onto his back and seconds passed without movement and even Boss Harold quit with his talking. The prone body just lay there and for a moment Andrew looked like the body I’d seen earlier out front of Felina’s. Then the boy spasmed and gasped air and Maron shouted about how he was still alive before giving the toe of his boot to Andrew’s ribs.
“What a show,” said the Bosses—what a show indeed.
The crowd dispersed in clumps, taking back to their jobs or leisure and I left the platform only after agreeing that Objectivism sounded good and Boss Harold laughed and stumbled in pivoting to take on in conversation with the other Bosses and I briefly imagined giving him a nudge, so he’d fall off the stage, but refrained from doing so.
When I met the boy lying in the dirt there, there was me and Dave moved in too and Maron had taken to his station where there was a table by sandbags, and he was engrossed in a game of solitaire; it seemed the man was totally unfazed by the justice he’d dealt. There was a time when that body could’ve been a hero and yet there he was, poisoned.
I called out to the Boss Sheriff, “Ain’t you going to put him back to his cell?”
Without even looking over, Maron swept his mustache with his fingers and waved me off, “Harold was real clear on letting the boy out of custody once it was done.” He lifted his cowboy hat and scratched his head while looking at the cards on the table then he laughed. “He’s a free man. I’ve heard that was your meddlin’ that did it.”
I moved to the boy and snatched up the clothes they ripped from him and Dave, not saying a word with his new mutt by his side, helped me to return some dignity to the boy.
We took him to my small apartment and washed him and tended over him while he lay in my bed.
Gemma came soon after Andrew had been draped in a sheet—she was there in disguise as she’d been earlier and upon me opening the doorway, she began to ask me if the boy was with me. I merely stepped aside, and she rushed to Andrew’s side; if he was aware of her presence, there was no way to tell.
“They killed him.” She’d taken to her knees to be nearer his level. “Oh. Oh, he’s dead.” She touched him and he shivered at the touch. Gemma removed the wrappings of cloth around her head and looked at her sweetie closer and she put a hand to her mouth. “They took his hand!”
“No,” said Dave, “He’s going to live.” The man looked to me and I shrugged. “Yeah,” his voice didn’t sound sure, “He’ll live.”
I moved to the catwalk and Dave came with me, the dog following behind him—the timid mutt looked over the edge of the catwalk to the city below then stepped away and returned to my room. When Dave took up beside me, leaning over the railing, and the sun hit his face just so, he looked exactly like Jackson and maybe that was why when he raised eyebrows then cut his eyes at me with a question—the question was everything and I finally nodded.
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RoyalRoad
Neovel

My elderly mother lived in Upstate New York and recently passed away while visiting one of her children in Tennessee. She had a massive stroke and was in the hospital for two weeks before she passed. She had both medicaid (NY) and Medicare and lived in a low income senior apartment complex.
She had no assests, (no car, no house, no life insurance, no will etc.. My eldest sister said she would pay for direct cremation (since I was recently laid off afew days after my mother passed to make matters even worse) and that she would become representative of her estate but she has never been reliable and knowing my sister would leave me to pick up the pieces all by myself like she has always done in the past.
My mother has approximately $2000 between her checking account and savings account. I can't afford a lawyer or the cremation, or her debt. My mental health was not good before all of this and now is getting to the point it is unbareable. I can't handle the stress of losing my mother, my job, dealing with an unreliable and selfish sibling and having to deal with the ramifications from whatever money my mother would likely owe from her one credit card, medical bills etc... She died insolvent. I am terrified and have no idea what do.

I want to start a new army for 10th. Ive only played daemons in 40k and I’ve only been playing for about 6 months. I’ve narrowed it down to 3: Custodes, Guard, & Genestealer Cult. I wouldn’t mind a nice discussion about those. I’ll list my personal thoughts on each and would like your thoughts.
Guard: Pros:
I wouldn’t mind a shooting army which guard would fill that roll nicely. I like their aesthetic and love the tank models.
Cons:
Historically expensive $$$ due to it being a horde army. Not a huge deal breaker for me because the hobby is expensive but I think what you get out of this hobby is well worth the premium you pay.
Custodes:
Pros:
Lower model count army. Also like the aesthetics and some of their lore. I like how they are tough.
Cons:
Lower count army; seems harder for board control.
Don’t think they shoot very week do they?
Genestealers
Pros:
Seems strong with their ambush shenanigans. Can make some superbly tactical plays with their army abilities.
Cool models and lore.
Cons:
Lower model range
Seems difficult to play well.
Not sure if they are good shooting or not.
I’ve only played against Custodes of the three and got my but whipped. The seem very strong. I know that was in 9th and things will change.
All in all they all 3 seem strong at first glance. I’m looking for something that will be fun. That’s the most important thing for me. If you’ve played any of these in the past I would love to hear your experiences with them.
My thoughts on Custodes is a like the appeal of a lower model count

Hello people; I plan to move to JC after my lease expires. I have been told that the rents for apartments in JC (Newport, The Waterfront, Paulus Hook, Exchange place, etc.) are highest for the May-August range and reduced significantly (20% - 25%) for later move-in dates (September onwards to winter move-in dates). Is this true? Is the drop as significant as 20%?
Additionally, my budget is ~$2500 for 2B/2B, and looking for opinions on the following list of apartments. I do not own a car, so I would prefer living closer to NYC and the waterfront area, especially after reading about the inefficiency of PATH rails. The tradeoff is saving a couple of hundred dollars in rent but living in a relatively different place, leading to extra spending on transportation.
Newport Rentals
The Liberty Towers
Warren at York
Portside Towers (Heard about the legal action taken by residents, is it a strict no-no?)
70 Greene (Have heard negative reviews, is it to be avoided?)
Windsor at Liberty House
VYV Apartments
BLVD Collection
485 Marin Blvd
Modera Lofts
Columbus Collection
The Morgan
I know the list is too extensive, but I would appreciate your opinions.

Hey all, another question- a few really. Buckle up, this one is gonna be big.
So, to clarify some prior posts, I work in a level 18 office in SoCal (not clarifying further for plausible deniability anonymity reasons). Four routes, three PTF clerks (FTF position in arbritration), and a LOT of problems. Those being, we only have two RCA's, one is on medical and fighting labor to even get treatment while the other is 6-days acting regular on an overburdened (~49hweek K route + DACA-5 every week) route.
So, a good few things: I was an RCA before, and thus have the training to run routes. I've done so for our Auxi before, and have not been appropriately paid for the mileage- but am not sure if it's viable for eTravel as it's personal vehicle delivery. At this point, I'm wondering if I'm even allowed to deliver routes, not just express- I've not gotten a straight answer when asking more directly.
My Postmaster is currently out on medical, he had a massive surgery and has been out for a good few months as is. We had an OIC come from, way away, and was doing genuinely fantastic work and fixing things that were long standing issues. Unfortunately, HIS home office practically imploded for something only a month in, his MPOO pulled him back to his district, to my knowledge. As a result- it's just us clerks, and the occasional nearby postmaster coming in for reports we don't have access too. We're doing CSAW, DCV, DMS, things that I'm fairly sure we're good to do, but some other ones- Scheduling, even giving instructions (instructing to pass instruction to carriers or other employees), feels like it's way sketch.
Yesterday we had a full route vacant due to callout- I called eight neighboring offices near and far, but with Saturday being a popular K-Day, there's jack squat available to come and cover. I'm there at like 2:30 AM on another postmaster's suggestion due to having a heavy and unexpected late UPS/Amazon drop yesterday afternoon, and it's enough it'll impact carrier time if trying to do my normal arrival times. (Note: All other clerks are otherwise indisposed on saturdays, I fly a solo ship and was told there MAY be relief later in the day if a nearby clerk in a single HWY route office gets done.) So, crap's hitting the fan, there's a whole route just fusterclucked, another one with a fairly fresh RCA that's gonna get in past 1800 as is. Eventually, I pull a big trigger- I contact District on another Postmaster's reccomendation (unsure why they didn't do it themselves, since I'm a PTF clerk...). I've never seen both my personal phone and hotline blow up so fast. Every postmaster nearby I had contacted is wondering what is going on- mind you most of them were told the details of my MIA route risking full failure to deliver- and others from farther offices immediately offering help later in the afternoon if I'm willing to case the mail (which, at this point to avoid being in a HUGE hot seat I am willing to do.) I'm already catching huge professional but passive flak from my Boss, but he's on medical, frankly should be resting- as well as the fact that he's not even hooked to the office in terms of accountability right now. The long-gone OIC is. I have postmasters telling me I made the right gut call- it was either being on the radar for requesting Aid on a level over what I usually have to (but with my hands otherwise tied), or get in trouble in one of three ways: Go into major OT (14 hr+ knowing my time on that route) and leave a lot of mail undelivered in PO Box, and fail integrity for all the PO box parcels and see if the RCA can help and get us both less overtime with the same PO box issues, or say 'not my problem' and end up on a big red flag list for failure to deliver- with me being the one that made the call to just not deal with it. Rock, meet hard place, meet blast explosives. It's already causing major friction with coworkers who hate being on anyone's radar, let alone district level management- fair enough.
How much of this am I realistically even supposed to be doing? I'm not getting paid OIC/EAS17-18 rates (technically no supervisor position here) rates, I have access to some head clerk tools and such, but by no means any supervisor, timekeeping or leave input, any of that. I just make the schedule, cover a vacant route with other RCA's as I can, and dangit if I don't do it WELL too, this being the first major issue, though one I was dreading to come inevitably given staffing issues.
What doesn't help either is that our steward is very much barely doing anything, and the actual rep is radio silent on myself and other clerks, same for the Rural rep. Glad I didn't join either of those, thank god.
Guess my questions are really: How much of this should I not be touching with a 0.5 mile delivery range pole? What calls am I on the hook for, given that I've only been verbally told what things to do, and that I'm a kinda, a standing scheduler? Was my call way too overboard, or was making sure it got done while doing a proper CYA with the call/communication a good call? Any other input would be, greatly appreciated. I just find myself anxious as hell about what's going on above my head, while still performing these duties.
Semi-related: I've also been informed though, that if I want to be put at a nearby city office to train back end OIC/Sup, I may well be offered it considering what I've been doing came to light in a big way today. Yay? Thank y'all for reading, and thanks ahead for any input. Ask any questions, I'll answer to the best of my ability.
Edit for TL;DR: Doing a LOT of things that I have no clue if I should be/if its above my pay grade, had a major incedent or so it seems, and seeking reflection and advice.