ArchivedLogs:Reaching Up

Reaching Up
Dramatis Personae Isra, Peter	2013-06-24 Peter meets Isra!
Location <XS> Workshop
A large barn-like building situated at the far end of the gardens from the mansion proper, this makerspace functions as a classroom for many of the more hands-on classes. An expanse of workshop space, it is subdivided into smaller segments for the different types of activities: Woodshop, Welding shop, Machine shop, Electronics, Bike shop, Screen Printing and Photography, Fabric Arts, and the Rapid Prototyping Lab with a trio of 3D printers. The space comes complete with a large host of tools available for use, although many of the more dangerous require prior clearance from administration to use -- students with appropriate clearance to use them can gain access to locked equipment with their student IDs. From sanders to MIG/TIG welders to soldering stations to industrial sewing machines to its own darkroom, though, this space is well equipped for teaching students how to /make/. Peter’s presence in the workshop is something of a time-honored ritual; over summer break, he returned here -- time and time again -- to tinker with his various ‘toys’. There was a week where he was notably absent -- having fled to the city under unusual circumstances (he’s might /still/ going to detention for that), but now that he’s back at the school, he’s returned to the old haunt. Except now, he’s returning in crutches -- the whump, whump, whump of his arrival producing a slow but steady rhythm. The boy’s carrying a black nylon backpack stuffed to the gills with his old equipment; a laptop is slung over his shoulder in a case -- it’s a lot for him to carry, considering both his ankles are currently in casts (and his arms are firmly wrapped around those crutches). Still, Peter doesn’t seem to be having much trouble with it. He’s dressed in a sharp blue collared shirt, buttoned up, and loose tan khakis -- split-toed socks (Japanese tabi?) are on his feet. An unusual property of the boy’s face and skin -- he’s covered in /chitin/. It’s a dark, metallic blue, and in direct light, produces a swirling pattern of unusual colors -- like the wings of a dragonfly or the back of a shiny beetle. Or a puddle of oil mixed with water. Peter moves toward the rapid prototyping portion of the room, apparently intent on setting his laptop up there. He’s also edging toward the fabric production end of the workshop...! Apparently, whatever he’s doing is going to involve /fabrics/! Isra stalks into the workshop with a laptop bag slung over one shoulder. She wears a white linen dress of the open-back design she had come to favor, for it does not interfere with the movement of her prodigious wings, which are folded tight against her back to avoid knocking over objects. Or people. Even not counting the clawed thumbs that tip the apex of those wings and the backswept horns sprouting from her hairless head, she stands well over six feet in height, though this measurement varies greatly with her posture. Her legs are digitigrade in arrangement, so long that the flouncy hem of her dress only barely covers her knees. From the elevated ankles down, her feet are wrapped in athletic tape, but talons click softly against the floor as she walks. She pauses just inside the door and cants her head in the young man's direction, then continues to the gigantic 2D printers used for maps and posters. Without sitting down--the tail probably made that an awkward proposition--she opens her laptop and loads a program with a splash screen that reads "STARSYNC" in huge letters across a sketch of a five-pointed star. This is immediately followed by a progress bar that begins with promise but slows to a crawl before reaching 5%. Isra does not seem surprised or dismayed. There is a kind of jaded fatalism in the way she stares at the screen. Then, as if only just remembering she is not alone, she straightens up and turns toward the boy. "Peter," she says, with a calm and level voice that one might not expect from a gargoyle, "that is your name, yes?" Peter is in the process of setting things up when Isra arrives; the laptop is out, set on the table -- already booting up -- the black nylon pack slung down beside it -- shifting to hop into a chair and boot up the computer, his crutches perched against a nearby table. He reaches for the black bag when he notices Isra entering -- and for a moment, his eyes /widen/. Like, ‘whoa’. He doesn’t look frightened; rather, he looks -- /fascinated/. But when she goes to move toward the 2D printers and start on her own thing, a flicker of violet slips across his face and he turns back to the backpack -- opening it and reaching inside for his gear. Said gear includes a length of unusual dark red fabric -- a red hood (currently fastened into something of an unusual mask; it looks like a blend between -- a luchador and a fireman) -- and a length of hollow plastic tubing as thick as a thumb. There’s also a few unusual brass cylinders, each approximately the size of a thumb, that proceed to roll out across the table and threaten to spill down on the floor. When Peter’s addressed, his eyebrows /bolt/ up, and he looks up from the laptop -- eyes slinging over to Isra. Once again, he looks wide-eyed and fascinated; he manages to smother this expression under a veneer of embarrassed politeness: “Umohyes. Hi. Uh.” Don’t look at the horns, Peter. Don’t look at the horns, don’t look at the -- DAMMIT he’s looking at the horns. If Isra has noticed Peter staring, she gives no indication. "I am Isra al-Jazari. I teach astronomy, though..." When she shrugs, her wings rise and dip more visibly than her shoulders. "I have been on leave quite a bit . Dr. McCoy had to cover half of the semester for me." Her cat-green eyes dart between the various items that Peter had spread out in front of him. "I should not wish to distract you from your work, but I /am/ curious. Is that for a summer class, or a personal project?" Peter’s eyes try /very/ hard not to move toward Isra’s wings, but. He’s not /good/ at not-staring at things he finds fascinating. He’s trying to drag his eyes down, instead, to the laptop she has in front of her. “Astronomy? Oh, yeah, I’m probably gonna--” He pauses, a hand drifting toward the unusual mask on the table -- trying to very quietly nudge it behind the backpack. Like, NOPE, nothing to see here. At her question, that hint of violet returns to his face, along with an uneasy grin. “Oh, it’s fine, uh -- I’m probably gonna have a lot of time to work on this anyway, so -- it’s, just a personal project,” Peter offers, before thinking for a moment -- and soon adding: “I’m trying to build -- um. A lot of stuff. At the same time. But, right now,” he adds, glancing to the roll of plastic tubing, “I’m working on a ventilation and cooling -- thing. Suit.” "Yes, just astronomy for now," Isra replies, gesturing at the progress bar still creeping across her display, "at least until I complete my graduate program." She almost adds something else, but visibly stops herself and allows a wry smile instead. "It will be a slow summer for me, as I have no class to teach. I am printing out some class materials all the same. A cooling suit, you say?" She rises up a couple of inches on those inhuman legs and her pointed ears prick forward. "I have built quite a few cooling systems--for PCs. What sort of coolant are you using?" Oho! Peter’s face tints a slightly darker shade of violet at the mention of Isra having built cooling systems in the past. He shifts back from the table, glancing -- almost shyly! -- down to the tubing he’s unspooled. “Um, just -- ice-water -- I think,” he says, like he’s suddenly /ashamed/ of it; exposed as an amateur! He quickly adds, in a slight rush: “But I mean the idea is that -- the system is supposed to be modular, the cooling operation can be replaced with anything, I just wanted -- something simple? I guess, cuz I don’t -- know a lot about it, yet. I read the really low tech ones just use -- a bag of ice.” Violet creeeeeps toward indigo, before he continues: “I, uh -- there’s a couple of reasons I’m -- I want to make it, something you can. Fit under any clothes, to help -- it’s the sort of thing you use when you can’t rely on sweat to cool off,” Peter finishes. “Like, astronauts use them? Firefighters, too. The idea is to...” He trails off, as if realizing he’s on the threshold of launching into what might be a /tirade/. “--keep the body cool,” he decides, is an apt enough summary. "Water has many benefits as a coolant," Isra says, nodding. "It is inexpensive, easy to acquire, and non-toxic. That last is pretty vital for something meant to be /worn/." Her tail swishes, which causes the voluminous skirt of her dress to swish, whereupon she looks down at it with an almost admonishing expression. Then her eyes snap back to Peter. "Do consider using /deionized/ water, though, or at least distilled. The more sterile your coolant, the less likely you are to end up with algae or bacteria in your tubing or heat exchanger..." She cocks her head again. "Well, I am sure you have /that/ worked out, but what kinds of conditions do you have in mind for this, anyway? A stifling August afternoon in the City is a far cry from low Earth orbit." Ohman and she has a /tail/, too. For a second, Peter struggles not to look like a kitten who just caught sight of a dangling ball of yarn. “...ohyeah,” Peter says, briefly thinking over the suggestion of purified water versus plain tap water. “Or I could add alcoh--no that would mess up the freezing point,” he quickly adds, eyebrows crumpling in thought, mentally chewing through the problem. “Plus it might stink or evaporate or -- yeah distilled water would probably be best.” He jumps up a bit at the mention of conditions; the blush that’s threatened to swell up over his face shows signs of sinking back to a comfortable metallic blue. “Oh, uh, y’know, just --” Peter’s hand latches up to the back of his head, /scratching/ diligently. “--physical activity, I guess. In the city. Like, I don’t think -- I don’t /sweat/ anymore, ever since,” he makes a gesture at his face. “--and I know the twins -- uh, the sharktwins? They have that problem too, plus if we ever ended up in like a /fire/ you could--” This latter idea seems to shut Peter up for a moment. He just sheepishly grins, before going on: “Not that we’d be /looking/ for fires or anything, just, um. Sometimes. Places catch on -- fire. And you’re there.” As if an aside, he adds: “Thermoregulation is a problem for a couple of mutants I know, I guess. I’m just -- trying to see if -- I mean, if there’s a way to -- fix it. /Address/ it,” Peter corrects, a little suddenly. Isra smiles. However alien her face looks, this is still clearly identifiable as a Teacher Smile, the kind you get when you have done something clever and given her hope for posterity, perhaps. "That is a marvelous idea, Peter. I gather you are trying to keep this low-tech, but if you ever want to incorporate microcontrollers to regulate the heat exchanger, I have worked with Arduino and can perhaps offer some assistance." She rubs the knuckles of one long-fingered hand over her angular chin. "Using a chip would make it easier to program multiple settings, either for different users or different conditions. It would also yield more consistent performance overall, especially if you add sensors..." Her tail is going again, but she does not seem to notice this time. /Peter/ notices. The movement of that tail seems to beckon him to investigate. But he resists! Particularly when Isra affixes him with the all-powerful Teacher Smile; this, it seems, is enough to make Peter (briefly!) beam. The mention of microcontrollers, too, seems to send Peter’s eyebrows rising, a visible struggle on his face not to get /too/ excited. But he’s almost squirming in his seat: “Oh that would be awesome, because -- I mean -- yeah sometimes they need -- the suit to be /really/ cold, other times -- I mean, one of the mutants I met -- he’s kind of lizardy? I never asked him about it, but what if you need the suit to, like, heat /up/ instead? Or just, maintain a certain temperature, um though that would be /really/ tricky since I guess it’s hard to build something that can both keep you cool /and/ heat you up if it needs to, but...” It’s pretty clear for a moment that Peter’s /really/ trying hard not to launch into -- well, a babble. Someone’s been working with him pretty regularly to try and teach him how to /not/ spaz all over an idea. He stops, mid-way through this thought, and takes a breath, pausing -- before adding: “That /would/ be awesome.” Isra listens, nodding periodically. "Well, it /would/ be tricky if you were trying to emulate mammalian homeostasis. Fortunately, you are not limited by the kludge of evolution! You can, for example, build two separate circuits: one for heating and one for cooling, but both governed by your microcontroller, which is in turn informed by temperature sensors. Hmm..." She fishes an oversized smartphone--or maybe a small tablet--from the front pocket of her laptop bag and jots something down using a stylus. "There is bound to be some trial and error in this kind of project. It would be ideal if you can consult someone qualified to give you guidelines on safe temperature ranges for each user..." Looking up at him over the screen, she arches one hairless eyebrow ridge. ".../especially/ if any of them have a habit of finding themselves in places that catch fire." “Oh,” Peter says, at the mention of two /different/ circuits -- eyes brightening. “Like -- yeah and like, most of the suit is just a distribution system /anyway/, so -- you could just -- I mean, the actual cooling unit is supposed to be modular -- you could just switch it out with a -- heating unit, if they couldn’t be in the /same/ unit, and the microcontroller --” The boy squirms a little at the mention of consulting someone qualified re: safe temperature ranges; again, he threatens to plunge into violet, but: “I’m sure Dr. McCoy could help me with -- the sharktwins, I mean. But, um, yeah, I--” Now he’s /definitely/ plunging into violet. “--probably need to make sure it’s fire retardant,” he mentions, very quietly, as if in the process of making a mental note. "Indeed," Isra says, "if there is a significant chance this suit will be exposed to temperatures and pressures significantly above or below STP--such as burning buildings, deep water, or low Earth orbit--you should also take care to select rugged materials for the tubing." It is a bit difficult to tell whether she is speaking in the abstract or not. She adds something else to the list on her phone. "In particular, I would recommend adding a pressure relief valve to a suit meant for high temperatures. Maybe even a backup coolant tank. You really do not want steam venting anywhere near living tissue--in the same way you probably do not want /fire/ to be anywhere near living tissue, yes?" This last she says with green eyes fixed firmly, though not unkindly, on the young man. “...yeah,” Peter says, just a /little/ -- uh, sneakily. “...staying away from fire is probably--” He stops here, grinning just a /little/. “I guess, um, plastic tubing wouldn’t -- it’d just melt.” A quick glance to the roll of plastic tubing he has out, before he adds: “Though if it’s not flexible enough -- still, um. Hm.” Something seems to occur to him, re: that, but he does not immediately share. Instead, his eyes drift toward Isra’s shoulders, and the wings above them, and: “...do your wings -- can you fly?” he asks, as if suddenly injected with a burst of courage. It’s soon followed by: “I guess -- I think some of the liquid cooling suits that like, NASA used and stuff, they sometimes had ventilation shafts? I could see where they put them. Probably on the back,” Peter adds. “I am not a material scientist,” Isra admits, “but silicone might be worth looking into.” At Peter’s somewhat unexpected question, she glances over her shoulder as if to check for someone standing just outside the range of her peripheral. Her wings unfurl just a little--wobbling awkwardly until they settle into another comfortable position, wrapped around her shoulders like a bizarre living shawl. “I do not know, actually. In terms of pure mechanics, I should at least be able to /glide/ an appreciable distance, assuming I am able to minimize drag. Powered flight is a more dubious proposition, but I would not rule it out. At present I am...” She quirks a strange, crooked smile, briefly exposing her long canines. “...in training, I suppose. Alas, I have not yet found anyone who can offer practical advice on the use of semi-chiropteran wings on this scale.” She tucks her wings back again, as out of the way as she can get them. “I think that further research into extreme environmental protection equipment would prove most instructive. My own knowledge on the specific construction of EVA suits is fairly sketchy, but I have former classmates who now work for NASA, and might be able to send some useful documents your way if--” She holds up a long, claw-tipped index finger. “--and only if you promise to apply them responsibly, with supervision.” Peter’s eyes widen on two occasions; when Isra first moves those wings -- shifting them to fold across her shoulders -- and again, when she mentions classmates who now work for NASA who might be able to send him relevant information. The teenager looks like he’s on the verge of squirming out of his seat, for a moment; violet shifts to indigo before shifting back to violet, and: “OhyeahsureImean--” Peter grins back -- his own teeth small, slightly crooked, and lacking on the fang-front: “I wouldn’t use them for /evil/,” he says, but also has enough forethought to add: “Or, um, irresponsible. Stuff.” At the mention of chiropteran wings, Peter’s eyebrows shoot up, and then, suddenly, he’s grinning /again/, a little more fiercely: “Um. Actually, I--” He slings his eyes this way and that, as if to check and make sure no one might be listening in. “--know a guy. I think, um. He flies? And he’s got bat-wings -- I could. Ask him if he’d be cool, uh. Meeting you? If you’d like. Maybe he could,” Peter makes a little fluttering motion with his hands, plunging straight into violet once more: “...give you, uh, pointers. Maybe.” Isra studies Peter for a moment, as if trying visually assess the likelihood that he might decide to test his prototypes by leaping into a bonfire. “Good,” she says at last, still a little dubiously. “I will put out feelers for documentation on extreme environment thermoregulation, and see if I can find some single-board microcontrollers no one needs. In the mean time, though, I would like occasional updates on your work. You can probably work out quite a few kinks in your design using just cheap plastic tubing and low-powered pumps” Her ears flick forward again at his mention of a bat-winged man. “I...would like to speak to him, yes, if he is not averse. I am not sure why I should be so surprised at an overlap when I have such an extensive constellation of--” She breaks off, eyes darting down quickly, then back up. “Constellation of /traits/.” Taking a square of paper from a note block, she scribbles a few lines of messy but legible text and a string of numbers. “My...non-academic email address, and phone number,” she explains, hand the scrap--her reach is exceedingly long--to Peter, “if you would not mind passing it along.” “Oh yeah,” Peter says, his hands darting back to the plastic tubes, “I was thinking of -- yeah, just, trying to build kind of a low-grade prototype just using, uh, junk, to make sure -- the basics of the design work,” and then there’s a slip of paper with -- email! And phone! And Peter takes it, suddenly /grinning/ again. “Oh I totally will he’s kind of awesome he’s /basically/ Batman,” he says, eyeing Isra’s loooong reach with interest. “I’ll keep you updated too, I’ll keep you /so/ updated,” he says, and though he certainly doesn’t mean it as one, something about this comes off as a threat -- like Isra should expect an ENDLESS TORRENT of update emails. Possibly hourly. If she’s /lucky/. “I didn’t think Batman had /actual/ bat wings,” Isra says, bemused, “but then, I am not very up to date on all the gritty reboots. Grad school does that to you.” Her laptop emits a chirp that a trained ear would identify as lifted directly from Star Trek: The Next Generation. “Ah, there.” She enters a couple of macros, navigates a dialog box using on the keyboard, and hits enter. The industrial grade printer wakes up and begins assembling a poster-sized print of...space, it looks like. With stars, and eventually some wisps of reddish-pink nebulosity.in overlapping circles. When it finishes, she wrestles the print over to the adjacent station and laminates it. “You should take astronomy in the fall,” she suggests idly. “You’ll get to play with telescopes and stay out past curfew.” “Man-Bat had bat-wings,” Peter offers, helpfully. “He was one of -- um,” and now his eyes are on the printer, watching as it produces the stars and nebula. Eyes focused! Interested. “...oh, yeah, that would be -- I think I will,” Peter adds, then: “I always loved -- um, I used to, listen to Neil Degrasse Tyson’s -- yeah,” Peter just finishes. “I will.” Isra picks up the freshly laminated poster of a planetary nebula and displays displays it with a smile of unguarded joy. It looks like a giant translucent egg covered with red, pink, and orange filigree. "IC 418," she announces, a note of childlike excitement creeping into her voice, "the Spirograph nebula." Craning her neck forward to look down at it, she nods. "I requested this observation--had nag innumerable pencil-pushers to get it, too. Didn't need the print-out, but I thought it would make a good poster for the classroom." So saying, she rolls the print up and sets her laptop to hibernate. "Well, it is time for me to eat. Again." A look of very mild annoyance darkens her peculiarly smooth fave, but passes quickly. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Peter Parker. May the spirit of my ancestor smile upon you--there /is/ a story behind that, I shall tell you some time.”