suppressing fire


Fires in large, open spaces like aircraft hangers can be difficult to fight with conventional methods, so many industrial spaces use foam-based fire suppression systems. These animations show such a system being tested at NASA Armstrong Research Center. When jet fuel ignites, foam and water are pumped in from above, quickly generating a spreading foam that floats on the liquid fuel and separates it from the flames. Since the foam-covered liquid fuel cannot evaporate to generate flammable vapors, this puts out the fire. 

The shape of the falling foam is pretty fascinating, too. Notice the increasing waviness along the foam jet as it falls. Like water from your faucet, the foam jet is starting to break up as disturbances in its shape grow larger and larger. For the most part, though, the flow rate is high enough that the jet reaches the floor before it completely breaks up. (Image credit: NASA Armstrong, source)


A wildfire in the foothills near Yosemite National Park has consumed eight structures — and is threatening 1,500 more in tiny Mariposa, Calif.

The town’s 2,000 residents have been ordered to evacuate because of the blaze known as the Detwiler Fire, and Gov. Jerry Brown has issued a state of emergency for Mariposa County.

The California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection, known as Cal Fire, posted on its website that “firefighters experienced extreme and aggressive fire behavior” on Tuesday. “Firefighters on the ground as well as aircraft are actively working to contain and suppress the fire.”

‘Extreme And Aggressive’ California Wildfires Force Thousands To Evacuate

Photos: Josh Edelson/AFP and Justin Sullivan/Getty Images

Swhaggar is confused as to why she isn’t the one taking over the universe

The Lost Legacy of Doom’s Hitscan Enemies

I’m dancing. My feet follow no pattern and make no sound as I glide effortlessly over the terrain, but the rhythm of the Super Shotgun guides my every move. I weave to and fro among the soaring fireballs and scything claws, spotting opportunities, darting near and far, catching hellspawn in efficient point-blank bursts of scattershot. Boom, click, ker-chunk. Boom, click, ker-chunk. Boom, click, ker-chunk. Somewhere in the back of my head, I’m dimly aware of the familiar noise of a pneumatic door sliding open, barely audible above a tinny MIDI rendition of ‘Fear Of The Dark’. It’s catchier than you’d think.

Somebody roars. I’ve heard the sound enough times to recognise it as a ‘somebody’. Startled, I pivot to catch sight of the new assailants: two heavyset bald men, cradling imposingly large guns, furious piggy eyes as red as their bulky chestplates. Chaingunners. Before I can close the distance, they open fire, tearing an abundance of new holes in my circle-strafing, road-running backside. I put them out of action, but the damage is done. Was that a fair exchange? It’s not as if I could’ve outpaced their shots. Are they a fun enemy design in this, the most famous of all famously fast-paced first-person shooter? My kneejerk response is ‘no’, but Doom—because of course, it’s Doom—is a lot smarter than it seems.

Few games can claim to have lived as long and as healthily as Doom. Of course, it’s had the unwavering support of a community on its side, constantly tweaking and touching-up and doing everything in their power to stop the wrinkles under its eyes from showing, but its simple formula and flexible combat were always going to hold up well against the test of time. Doom has influenced the design of the modern first-person shooter in more ways than I could possibly articulate, with a little bit of DNA in everything from ARMA to Ziggurat, and yet… I feel there are one or two lessons from it that never quite caught on.

See, the concept of the ‘old-school’ first-person shooter, while not especially formally defined, is very much a thing. We’ve seen bits of it in the likes of Painkiller, Strafe, Tower of Guns, Dusk, Desync, Devil Daggers, and yes, even Doom 2016: games that buck dominant design patterns to focus on swift, streamlined, evasive movement, and a host of enemies that force you to make the most of that movement. Out of style, but by no means out of their depth, these games take after Doom more than most, but no matter how much they borrow from it, there’s one particular feature that many seem to skirt around. Something regarded almost with a kind of hushed, ‘we don’t talk about that’ shame, like the uncle at the family get-together who isn’t allowed to leave the country for reasons that nobody’s quite sure of. Hitscan enemies, a regular staple of Doom’s encounters, have near-vanished from the contemporary games that bear closest resemblance to it. What happened?

Well, at a glance, they do seem to clash with the desired experience. Doomguy can outrun a lot of things—many of which need at least fifty supervised hours logged before you can operate them independently—but he cannot outrun bullets, nor buckshot. You can’t dodge a hitscan enemy’s attacks by just going fast; the nature of Doom means that they take no time to pivot and have impeccable aim, other than the inherent spread patterns of their weapons. Your only recourse, it would seem, is to get out of range—a bit of a tall order, in most scenarios—or to take cover, which sounds like it would go directly against the fast, exciting experience of running around with the wind in your hair and a rocket launcher under your arm. ‘Cover’ is a dirty word; one that brings to mind hunkering behind a chest-high wall, plinking away at a succession of targets and crawling out only when a grenade gets tossed into your lap. To be in cover implies one is at rest, without any of the spatial analysis, fast-paced action or thrilling escapes that characterise the rest of the combat. You can see this stigma manifest frequently in retro first-person shooters, which often come hand-in-hand with the attitude that cover is for babies, and charging blindly into battle with your enormous, impenetrable testicles hanging out on display is the only acceptable combat strategy for ‘real men’. You could probably write a hefty tome about how unhealthy pulp action-hero masculinity has seeped through various layers of media and eventually pooled, like a discarded half-finished McDonalds’ thickshake, in nooks and crannies of gaming obscurity, but that’s a discussion for another time.

The thing is, Doom itself doesn’t actually work that way. In fact, it does a number of things to ensure that hitscan enemies don’t stifle the player’s movement, but instead add an extra set of considerations and trade-offs, forcing them to look at the play space—and when and where they position themselves in it—in a more nuanced manner. Like most of the ingredients that go into a first-person shooter, the way Doom’s hitscan enemies work is subject to its encounter design—a surprisingly diverse field, as custom WADs frequently demonstrate—but there are a few qualities to them you can count on in every sensible encounter.

Let’s break this down, piece by piece. Of the five enemy types in the first two Doom games with hitscan attacks, the three most common ones by a large margin are the ‘former humans’: undead soldiers who utilise conventional firearms—provided your definition of ‘conventional’ extends to a portable belt-fed chain gun, I suppose—and have all the durability of a cardboard cutout of Master Chief that somebody left out in the rain overnight. Upon noticing the player, they give a suitably enraged bellow and enter their attack routine: move, pause, shoot (if possible), repeat.

This pattern gives us time. Like a fireball whistling through the air, it gives us a chance to handle our predicament by reacting and moving quickly. It only takes an undead sergeant a few tenths of a second to level his shotgun barrel at yougive or take a bit of bumbling around, as they are wont to do—but in the world of Doom, it’s enough to at least start on a decisive manoeuvre. Doomguy runs quickly enough that you can very likely put something between yourself and your foe before they fire—it doesn’t even have to be a wall; other monsters serve perfectly well—and since the poor daft AI has no concept of suppressing fire, you need only be behind it for the split-second it takes them to return to their ‘move’ state. Consequentially, cover is less about clinging to the warm, comforting bosom of a solid wall and more about rapidly, momentarily repositioning yourself when the situation demands it; diving around corners, circling pillars, making use of the nearest solid thing in a pinch and immediately darting back out again. Taking cover is every bit as much about clever, well-timed movement as circle-strafing a pack of imps, and to be honest, probably demands far more split-second decision-making.

Another quality that’s critical to the success of the former humans is their relative squishiness: you can usually count on a single shotgun blast to put one out of action, and even glancing shots are likely to interrupt their routines long enough to buy some extra breathing room. A crowd can be swiftly dealt with by just raking a chain gun across their ranks—conveniently, the exact weapon dropped by the strongest former human, the Chaingunner—and pointing anything bigger at them is usually outright wasteful. This is key because it means that they’re only a very short-term threat—or, in larger battles where they’re mixed up with other enemies, only a threat for as long as you ignore them. Ducking behind a pillar once to evade a sergeant’s buckshot is a rush, but having to go through the same motion two or three times is stagnation. By letting you remove the former humans from the fight almost as quickly as they appear, Doom lets you quickly lift the restrictions they impose and expand the space where you can freely move, ensuring you’re never tied to one piece of cover or trapped in some godforsaken alcove.

But not every hitscan enemy in Doom goes down so easily, does it, hmm? I’m going to gently refuse to acknowledge the Spider Mastermind—a rare, highly-situational boss that squats unpleasantly at the end of the first game like a cane toad under the wheels of your dad’s Hilux—and instead concentrate on the notorious Arch-vile, whose pale, emaciated, lanky form is enough to set off half a dozen panic alarms in any Martian marine’s head. It’s everything the former humans aren’t: fast, durable, and capable of suddenly blasting half your health clean off from the far side of a munitions bay—to say nothing of its ability to revive fallen monsters, unravelling your work more and more the longer you leave it standing. Crucially, however, while the Arch-vile makes for a more persistent and punishing threat than the former humans, it also gives us much more time to work with. It takes about three full seconds of dramatic posing for an Arch-vile to wind up its hitscan attack—a pillar of infernal fire that explodes around its target—and once again, you are only required to actually duck behind something for the split-second when the attack connects to avoid taking damage. 

Consequentially, while our vitamin D-deficient friend does rather firmly, briefly force players into hiding, it also affords us the opportunity to stretch our legs and take nontrivial actions in between its attacks, giving it a distinctly different effect to Doom’s other hitscan enemies. Between every Arch-vile’s attack, there’s time enough to dart around the immediate area, change cover, take care of some lesser enemies, or—most likely—run up to it and empty both barrels into its repulsive mug. At an abstract level, the Arch-vile clamps down on the player by forcing them to be out of certain zones at certain times, but doesn’t make those zones inherently damaging to cross, like a crowd of former humans does.

Putting everything back together, Doom’s hitscan enemies are designed not to eliminate movement, but to carefully squeeze it; to force the player to take action, moving along vectors towards positions of safety. Restrictions on where in the combat space you can safely be are what make Doom’s fights engaging, and the restrictions that hitscan enemies provide are every bit as important to your positioning as a Revenant’s homing rocket or an Imp’s tossed fireball—they just take a different approach. Yet they’re also designed to ensure you’re never required to linger at your destination a moment longer than necessary, either by being easy to remove from the battlefield, or by only periodically applying their particular brand of pressure. Like every enemy in the game’s toolbox, they can be abused and used outside of their ideal roles—take a peek at The Plutonia Experiment, half of Final Doom, for some truly breathtakingly rude Chaingunner placement—but their basic principles are every bit as valuable as their peers.

Doom will force you to move, but it will never force you to stay. And that’s the philosophy that every first-person shooter should be built on, really.

what if Spock was a garbage person?

I don’t mean ~~oooh what if Spock was eeevil~~ or bad or mean, I mean what if he was just generally garbage at taking care of himself?

Spock never picks up his socks and every time McCoy comes over to yell at him he spends an hour cleaning up and doing the laundry while Spock calls him illogical.

Spock never remembers to turn off the fire in his meditation sconce when he’s done and is constantly getting calls from Scotty begging him to please stop, the fire suppression units have been bothering him all day.

Spock throws himself into his work and doesn’t do the dishes so when he finally drags himself home there’s bowls and spoons everywhere, and when was the last time he ate Plomeek broth, anyway? (the answer is: two months ago)

Spock constantly forgets to eat in general and so Sulu and Chekov set up a meal train where they use the computer to hunt him down three times a day and bring him food wherever he is. 

Spock forgets to wear his thermal undershirt more often than not so they keep a supply of sweaters and blankets on the bridge and in the science lab for when he starts looking chilly.

Spock can go weeks without interacting with someone which is why Jim shows up at his quarters every-other-day with a chessboard under his arm.

Spock doesn’t drink water. He doesn’t really need to because of his Vulcan biology but it does make him look constantly sick. Rand brings him water instead of coffee on the bridge and Uhura teaches him how to do his makeup to hide the sallow bags under his eyes.

Spock is constantly tripping over things because he’s too busy looking around and being interested in the world to pay attention to where he puts his feet. All security guards have special training to catch him when he falls.

Just give me Spock who doesn’t have the energy to care for himself, but all his friends love him very much so they support him. 


Micro Galil Pistol

Though the actual Micro Galil is a shorter, compact version of the original Galil, a pistol version is mostly U.S creation. Classified as a handgun it would qualify for the use of a brace or a candidate for SBR conversion. Note the uncommon 50 round magazine. These were supposedly intended for suppressing fire use in a sort of squad automatic role, but because of the length it made prone fire almost impossible. (GRH)

Well This is Awkward Part 3 (Peter Parker x Stark!Reader)

A/N: I’ve re-written this part several times because I’ve not been that happy with it… Seems more like a filler chapter if anything… Not my best work but I thought I’d post it to move the plot forward lol Thanks for the patience and I’m sorry for the wait.

Summary: The reader watches the latest breaking news story on television.

Word Count: 1,821.

Warnings: CAPTAIN AMERICA: CIVIL WAR SPOILERS. Violence? Swearing? Le teen angst.

Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four

Originally posted by datpizzasparkle

Masterlist | Prompts | Let’s Talk/ Send a RequestRequest/Taglist/Share

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A familiar figure sprints by. It’s United States Air Force Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes, a.k.a. Rhodey. If there is anyone that Stark wants to see in this particular situation, it’s Rhodey. Square jawed, with no trace of fear in his eyes, and black skin made even darker since it’s smeared with charcoal. He is firing a 50-caliber machine gun. It’s impossible for Stark to determine whether he’s shooting at something in specific or just laying down suppressing fire or maybe just shooting wherever he can and hoping to God he hits an enemy. He notices Stark peering out of the window.

“Get down, Tony! Get the–”

More explosions. Smoke is billowing everywhere. Rhodey fires into the chaos, and Stark wonders how Rhodey can see what he’s shooting at. Maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s just firing blind. It’s easy to sit nice and snug at home and wonder how one’s own soldiers can wind up getting killed through friendly fire. Now Stark sees all too easily how such a thing could occur.

Rhodey advances into the smoke and murk.

-Iron Man Novelization
more novelization posts
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anonymous asked:

Could I request McCree, Genji and Pharah finding out their s/o is pregnant? Preferably with female pronouns but if you want to make it gender-neutral you can.

Yessssss pregnancy fluff 

The night before the doctor’s started their surgery on Genji, just a day after his fight with Hanzo, Mercy slipped into his room. She quietly asked him if he’d like to provide a sperm sample, for ‘the future’. Just in case, she told him. Once the transition to his new body was complete, it wasn’t something he’d be able to do organically. Genji told her flatly that the idea of children had never crossed his mind, and considering current circumstances, maybe it’d be best if it stayed that way. 

You never know, she had said. Yes, it may seem ludicrous to ask now, but maybe in the future he’d be in the place where he wants that. Better to have it as an option and not need it then never having the option again. After some soft coaxing and some almost motherly advice, Genji relented. It’ll never happen, he said. But he had nothing to lose. 

And years later, as you waggle a positive pregnancy test between your fingers where he can see, an impish grin on your face, the first thing that pops into his head is that he’ll have to send Angela flowers or something for this. He’ll also have to endure one of those I-told-you-so looks.

He practically dashes across the room, wrapping you in his arms and dragging you into a hug that lifts you off your feet, spinning you in a spiral so enthusiastically you two almost topple over. 

When he puts you down he still doesn’t want to let you go, opting to flutter his hands around your face, smoothing at your hair, cupping your cheeks and kissing your forehead. He’s absolutely enthralled with the idea already. You’re going to be parents! 

The rest of the day he’s bubbling over, rambling about anything baby related. He’d like yellow for the babies room, he thinks yellow is a very soothing colour. What kind of names do you like? He has some ideas if it’s a girl but he’ll leave the boy names up to you. He must tell Zenyatta, his master will overjoyed he just knows it. Won’t Hanzo make such an awkward uncle, oh isn’t that going to be hilarious?

Children were always so far from McCree’s mind, when you first quietly call him into the bathroom he thinks you’re trying to initiate something saucy in the shower. He’s kissing along your neck, hands sliding along your hips before he notices the pregnancy test sitting on the sink. 

He picks it up cautiously, eyes flickering along it several times before it sinks in. When it does a slow smile grows on his lips, stretching until he’s grinning like a madman. 

He lets out a hoot, spinning neatly on one heel so he can wrap you in the biggest bear hug you’ve ever experienced. He doesn’t realise how hard he’s crushing you to him until you squeak and awkwardly tap at his arm.

He lets you go, tilting your head up so he can look at you, really look at you, staring at you with those big brown eyes. Asks you sincerely if you want this. Want him. He has to know that you’re both in it for the long haul, has to hear you say it. He catches you in a slow loving kiss when you say you do.

He chuckles, almost giddily. Immediately falls to his knees in front of you, pressing gentle adoring kisses along your stomach as though you’re already nine months along. Murmurs about how happy you make him between smooches, how you’re the best goddamn thing to happen to him in a long while. Only stands up when you tug at his hair to pull him into another kiss.

He makes it his mission to tell everyone on base the good news. Hollers it down the hallways, calls up every friend he’s got in the field. Genji don’t you mind that suppressing fire you’re under, he’s gonna be a pa! 

Despite how hard she tried not to, Pharah had grown incredibly impatient with the IUI treatments. It had been nearly two years and you’d yet to yield any results. The both of you were stressed from the medical checkups, exhausted from the constant second guessing and the ever present strain it had placed on the relationship.

You had slipped into the bathroom, giving her a soft kiss on the cheek. She acknowledged it with a weary hum and prepared herself for disappointment once again. 

Five minutes later she heard you yell and her heart lurches from her chest to her throat. She’s stumbling through the doorway, hardly daring to believe, almost expecting it to be a yell of frustration, another let down. Instead she finds you, the little plastic stick clutched tight to your chest, eyes sparkling when they meet hers.

 She snatches the test from your hands in a way that would have seemed rude if you didn’t understand her desperation. She stares at that gorgeous little positive mark for a good ten seconds, eyes wide and still. Lets the relief sink into her, washing away the months of anxiety. 

The test slips from her hands, its purpose served and she’s pulling you into a needy embrace. Arms tight around you, she can’t decide where she wants to kiss. Kisses you on the lips and tells you she loves you, kisses you on the forehead and whispers that you’re going to be mothers. Kisses you on the head and tries to hide her tears in your hair. 

You spend the rest of the day wrapped around each other in bed, dreamily making your plans. After two years, she’s got a lot built up.  

anonymous asked:

Hello, are you taking request?? If so, could you do headcannons for reaper, 76, and Reinhardt with s/o dying in battle?? Thanks!


  • Death is something that Reaper has become rather accustomed to. Ever since the ‘incident’ at Overwatch’s Swiss Headquarters, he’s been trapped in a perpetual state of purgatory, neither truly dead nor alive. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel, but his condition has made it difficult for him to express many emotions other than rage and hatred, save towards you. You manage to drag that little bit of humanity back out from within the cold husk he calls a body, you make him feel things he’d though impossible.
    • A stray bullet through the throat, it seems strange that something so seemingly insignificant could take away a human life so quickly. He’s aware of the very instant when you pass on, your soul floating above your limp body. Reaper stares at it for several minutes, anyone who could witness this has either run away or has been dead for some time. The orb hovers mere inches from him, almost begging him to reach out and touch it, to feel those emotions for a final time.
    • He holds the orb in his hand, his talons delicately tracing the intriguing substance. Reaper has drained the souls from many of those unfortunate enough to run into him on the battlefield, but this is different. He’s never had someone he’s cared about die while he was in this state, he’s not really sure what to do. He debates leaving your soul be, a tombstone of sorts for the one he loved. Consuming souls had become second nature to Reaper, but yours is something special, and he hesitates for the first time.
    • Ultimately, he gives in to his inward desire, though not out of hunger or power, rather, out of love. To leave your soul alone would be a crime even he wouldn’t commit, not to someone as dear to him as you. Your soul will find a home within him, sectioned off from those he has consumed out of necessity. He will carry you wherever he goes, holding on to that fleeting feeling of love, after all, Gabriel Reyes has always held on to the past.

Soldier 76:

  • Soldier 76 has known loss, he lived an entire lifetime as a different man, and the memories of that life stay with him still. Jack Morrison had friends, he had family, but he left that all behind with the collapse of Overwatch. But you saw through all of the bravado and anger, breaking through to the remnants of Jack Morrison he had buried deep within himself. At first he didn’t know how to feel, the conflicting emotions of his two lives made him unsure of how to proceed, but you were right beside him, and that was all he needed.
    • You told him you could handle yourself, and though he trusted you, he wanted to make sure you were prepared for the worst. He trained you well, at least, he thought he did. Some things you can’t train for, a lot can go wrong on the battlefield, and sometimes it’s out of your control. The shrapnel from a grenade had lodged itself into your chest, the wounds were deep, and there was little he could do to ease your pain. His biotic field was working overtime, humming inconsistently as he held you in his arms, his visor discarded to the ground.
    • He promised that he’d get you through this, that you’d go back to Gibraltar together and reminisce with his old friends, he was wrong. There were no medics nearby, and Mercy was several klicks outs, though she might as well have been across the world. He wouldn’t stop assuring you that you were going to make it, that you just had to hold out a few more minutes while Mercy gets here, anything to get you to stay with him just a bit longer. Even when your eyes shut one final time, and your body was as cold as ice, he continued to scream for a medic.
    • You’d be given a hero’s funeral, that’s the least he could do for you. Among the rocky cliffs of Gibraltar, a lone grave would stand, looking over the waves that crashed into the shore below. He had lost friends and family before, even others he had felt a similar attachment to, but it never got any easier. Jack would visit the grave every day, promising that he would carry on the dreams of Overwatch, that he would save the world. His visor would be left on the grave as an offering, a memento for those he’s lost. You brought Jack Morrison back, though the pain of your loss torments him still. He’ll keep fighting, not for his own sake, but for yours.


  • Reinhardt is an old hand on the battlefield, he’s seen enough combat to last several lifetimes, though the thrill of glory never seems to subside. He made you aware of the risks when you told him how you felt, that it was very possible that he might not make it back one day, but you didn’t care. From that moment on, Reinhardt pledged to protect you, to act as your shield against the world, both on and off the battlefield. The love you filled him with was comparable to the glory he craved, and you were the only thing he’d speak of as passionately about besides battle.
    • Despite his best efforts, Reinhardt’s shield can only cover one flank. The cover available was lackluster, to say the least, and several agents had to be crammed behind the same pieces of rubble. A flash of light high in a building caught Reinhardt’s attention, a thundering crack rung across the battlefield as the sniper fired. He glanced behind him, hoping that everyone was okay, the sniper’s shot has impacted with his shield. It wasn’t the sniper he should’ve been worried about. Talon soldiers had flanked from the east, laying down suppressing fire on the Overwatch agents.
    • Reinhardt was placed into a lose/lose situation; turn his shield to block the Talon soldiers and leave them exposed to the sniper, or hold his shield against the sniper and leave the agents under heavy fire. He chose to defend against the sniper, confident in his allies abilities to deal with the advancing forces, though casualties were to be expected. Once the agents had confirmed an all clear, Reinhardt dropped his barrier, making his way towards you. You each grinned at each other, thrilled to make it through another battle in one piece, but you had celebrated too soon. Another crack rang out, a shot piercing through your chest, the sniper had not been cleared out.
    • Reinhardt would clutch you in his massive hands, holding you delicately, as though you were a doll. The fire of the agents on the sniper would become white noise to him, focused only on you as a crimson pool began to form in his hands. You smiled weakly, comforting Reinhardt as tears flooded down his cheeks. He’d hold you close as you passed on, gripping you tightly even after the last signs of life had faded away. There was honor and glory on the battlefield, but not today. Today, there was only sadness and grief.

More Raven!Neil! This is coming on in in bits and pieces, but sooner or later I’ll have a complete chapter which means I’ll HAVE to start writing the thing properly.

Andrew POV for now (probably because most of H4 is Andrew POV).


Andrew thought it had been tiring enough, dealing with Kevin back in June when he’d discovered Riko’s little stunt with the district switch and everything, with the Foxes finding out that they’d be facing the Ravens on the court that season. Dealing with the coward swinging back and forth between ‘we’re not good enough’ and fighting with the rest of the rejects as he struggled to make the Foxes into some sort of team ‘worthy’ of their Class I Exy status – fighting literally with Boyd and Gordon most days, to the point that Andrew was getting rather annoyed with having to remind those two morons about his ‘don’t touch’ rule.

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We are reliving the wrong parts of the 80s

When I was young we had a woman Prime Minister who many of us deeply disliked. Irish radicals played an awful, central role in British government. And people died because other people couldn’t be arsed building structures to regulation, or indeed basic standards.

I could put up with having the first two back if it meant we never had to go through the third again.

We followed the news of the Grenfell Tower fire on Twitter, all the Brits in the office, some getting details from Facebook, all of us updating when there was actual news at first, then not, when there was no news, because the fire was too big and people could not get out, firefighters could not get in.

It took about an hour for the idiots to start tweeting. “How did they do this so efficiently?” a woman named Kathleen asked, hashtagging terror.

‘They’ got a lovely profit on the building work, Kathleen, by doing things like not installing decent fire alarms, or fire suppression systems, or adequate evacuation pathways. 'They’ may even have made the building more flammable by installing a £10 million cosmetic upgrade rather than a £300,000 sprinkler system, though that part is still speculation. The previous sentence is fact, though.

A chap named Ciaran declared that if Muslims dunnit, he was gonna deport all of them out of Europe by himself. When asked if he planned to embark on a mass transportation of shit builders, though, he was struck with a sudden sore thumb and stopped tweeting.

Another chap, whose name I didn’t note, tweeted that the Muslims would have been awake because of Ramadan, and we all know what that means. Yes, thank goodness, some were and they were able to raise the alarm and rescue many people who would otherwise have been trapped. A small mercy!

Another chap whose bio describes him as MAGA, said it was clearly just too big a coincidence that the whole building caught fire like that. Absolutely true! several of us replied. It required a complex set of fuckups from the people in charge of that building to have left it with such piss poor safety mechanisms.

And look, it’s been 12 hours. The fire brigade haven’t said what started it. It may not have been the wiring. But even if Dave in flat 23 was engaged in a quick Satanic ritual that got out of control, that so many people have reported a lack of fire alarm, a single inaccessible escape route and a total lack of sprinklers still means the blame ultimately lies with the people in charge of the building. Who had been dismissing resident concerns about the dangers of the building for over four years.

Amid the idiots, some of Twitter reminded me not to turn into a raving misanthrope. The people offering shelter, lifts, food, clothing. The churches, mosques, synagogues, Sikh temples, small hotels and community centres opening their doors to both take people in and gather supplies for those who have lost everything.

And the prayers, to God, to Allah, to G_d, to hope, all of them the same: Please save them. Please keep the firefighters safe. Please let everyone be all right.

I love those people. Each of them chose to hope instead of hate. Because that’s what a prayer is. A wish for the most awful thing to not be true. A wish that somehow it can all be all right. If only they could be answered.