#earth clamp meter

[abalidoth]

Replanting (Chapter 1)

[read on ao3]

When you feel the missile clip the corner of your mech's leg joint, you know it's over.

It feels like a line of white fire directly to your brain; your pain and the mech's mingling. But pain is nothing, pain is your every day. It's the immobility that terrifies you. Your mech knows before you do that the leg won't work, can't carry you back to base.

They won't send a field repair team out this far, not into enemy territory. Not even for the material outlay of the mech. You have no illusions of what would happen to you if they had to extract, but at least it would be fine, given a new pilot and allowed to keep doing its duty.

Don't think like that, it sends to you. I don't want another pilot.

You struggle a few dozen meters until the residual coolant in the leg motivators gives out and the intractable hand of physics pulls your mech to its knees. A cloud of dust billows up around you and you give up the rest of the way, mech lying on its side amid the baked earth and the scrubby bushes.

Creosote bush, the mech says. Didn't know it grew this far north.

You know it's just trying to keep you from panicking. It's not working -- you can feel your heart racing, the connection gel around you contracting in an autonomic effort to keep you from thrashing in the cockpit. Worst of all, your handler's ever present voice in your ear has gone silent.

A pilot's job is to keep its mech moving. No more and no less. You know there's no real affection from your handler, that her ministrations are part of the system, but you can't think about that sudden abandonment without a pang of grief. She should be there, she should always be there, but now there's nothing. Silence and static.

That feeling gives you a rush of adrenaline, coarser and hotter than the artificial flush the mech gives when you complete an objective, purely a product of your own withered adrenal glands. You have to get back you have to get back. You struggle to your knees, planting the mech's hands in the caliche like anchors and shoving so hard you feel something pop. (In you? In the mech? Is there a difference?)

You make it another hundred meters before you fall again, and the Caskie mech finds you, hitting you with an EMP before you can take them down with you. It lands with a jumpjet hiss in your sightline, so you're treated to the view of the alien-looking mech opening its canopy wide, two pilots getting out of the crude-looking mechanical cockpit.

---

They salvage the mech with you in it.

The pilots didn't seem to know what to do with you; you could hear from your outboard sensors that they were discussing in that strange, fluid accent how to get you out without killing you.

(You don't understand why that matters.)

Eventually, they just called for reinforcements; three heavy carriers showed up some indeterminate amount of time later. They haul your mech, pilot included, through the air on a frankly ridiculous web of heavy cables. You see the desert fade to green, canals threading through the land like veins, as you pass from the disputed zone into Union territory.

Your mech keeps a constant stream of commentary, talking about the plants that it sees, pointing out where old semi-arid forests have been restored. Its voice across the neural tunnel holds false cheer, picking up whenever you start panicking, but the enthusiasm is genuine.

Finally the carriers land at a base. It looks much like Conclave military architecture, concrete in utilitarian blocks, but you can see shining glass and chrome off in the distance, a city. They must want to keep you a ways away from civilians. You suppose that's fair.

They land you in an empty mech bay. It’s been cleared out hastily – you can see the Union mech that used to reside there off to the side, plugged into an aux power array. Your mech is not the right size, not the right shape, but a gaggle of mechanics come out anyway. They locked a restraining clamp on you at some point so you can't move, can't fight. Still, the mechanics move around you warily, like you'll snap and take them all out at any moment.

You would, in a heartbeat. Not just to get the euphoric response, but to quiet the anxiety, the feeling that you're entering a world where you don't have the tools to survive. But you can't, and a quiet part of you (or the mech) is relieved at that.

They strip your mech of all its weaponry, a harsh and hasty disassembly. You feel each removal sharply. Not physically -- mercifully, the mech has dialed down the haptic connection so it's left to suffer alone -- but in loss of potential, the closing of options. 

Finally, when everything is done and your mech is defenseless (other than being a fifteen ton vehicle) a tall woman in a labcoat comes out, flanked by guards with red cross emblems on their sleeves.

"Hello," she says. Her voice is formal, neutral. Lower than you expected, with just a hint of that singsong Cascadian accent. "Can you hear me? Or see me? We have sensitive solid-conductance microphones on the outside of your mech so we can hear you if you speak."

You know the trainings. A pilot is part of the system, part of the Conclave war engine, and cogs don't speak. Your tongue flicks idly against the suicide capsule in your back left molar. You go to press in on it.

You feel something, like a hand, guiding you away. A great wave of fear washes over you, and you know it's not yours.

Please. No.

You stop. Think a moment. 

"Hhhhh."

It's been a while since you've spoken. Just whispers in the dark with your handler, words carrying neither voice nor meaning. Your throat is dry, and you feel for a moment like it's not there. (Why would a mech have a throat?) You clear it, and try again.

"Yes. I can hear you."

She nods. "Good. I'm Dr. Mia Crane. I'm required by Cascadian Union treaty to inform you that as a prisoner of war, you have rights including food, shelter, protection from torture, and the right to ask about your other rights." She adjusts her round framed glasses. "I'm required by basic hospitality to ask you your name."

You pause. You know what names are, of course. Your handler's name is Rebecca. But that's not something pilots have. "I, uh. No?"

She blinks, a little taken aback. "Okay, well, we can work on that. Do you at least acknowledge your rights as a prisoner of war?"

This isn't going to end until you acknowledge, you feel, so you just say "Yes."

"Okay. Is there anything we need to know before we get you out of there?"

"I don't want out," you say. Your throat tightens.

You can't stay in me forever. It's okay. You'll find a way back to me.

You hear a hissing sound, and the low, sick gurgle of the connection gel draining out of your suit. Before you understand what's happening, the canopy drops open and you stagger out of the mech onto the diamond-patterned steel catwalk.

The sharp edge of disconnection, the sudden hole where there should be something inside you, keeps you off your feet. You stagger to one knee, felled as surely by shock as you had been by the missile.

The guards rush over to you and help you up. You want to fight them off but your muscles are jelly. Your head hurts.

Dr. Crane looks you over. You know she's not your handler, but you reach for the familiarity anyway, half expecting the usual routine, the ministrations that get lost in the foggy haze of post-battle euphoria. If your arms weren't being held for your own stability, you'd start opening your suit.

Instead she shines a light in your eyes and asks you to stick out your tongue, making notes on a clipboard as she goes. She puts a strip of fabric around your arm and it gets tight for a moment. "Elevated heart rate and systolic pressure, pupil dilation is beyond what I consider normal."

Your heart hammers in your ears. The smells around you -- the saccharine sweet of connection gel, your own body, something undefinable coming off the doctor, heighten to a nauseating strength. Your head hurts. "Are you going to..." You swallow. "Do you have the syringe?"

Dr. Crane tilts her head. "The syringe?"

"When the..." How do you explain this? You haven't had to explain any of this, people just know what to do. "When I'm done. Rebecca, she has the syringe, it's blue, and."

"Do you know what's in it?" she asks, gently. Too gently. The words are too soft, they smother you, it's too hard to breathe.

Your head hurts. The lights beat down.

"No, but it... she... always..."

Your head hurts.

Your head hu--

---

There are voices.

At first you don't care. You just want to go back to sleep. But there's something wrong with your bed, it's too soft. And the voices don't sound right -- that soft lilt, one you've only recently heard.

"Patient has been stable for six hours. Their heartrate is still a little funny, and I'm not sure this godawful cocktail of tramadol, modafinil, and tricyclics we pulled out of their tox panel is good for anything other than keeping them from dying of withdrawal, but we should be seeing them awake soon."

"Thanks, Dr. Chen." You recognize this voice, soft and husky -- it's Dr. Crane. "Have you figured out the... um. Mortality problem?"

"Part of it is that stimulant cocktail, I'm sure -- we haven't had the chance to pull in a full Conclave mech with pilot intact, and our field teams don't have the tools to stabilize someone as quickly as we were able to do here. But the most likely reason... false molar full of tetrodotoxin. We made sure to extract it. Carefully."

You probe the back of your mouth with a sluggish tongue. There's still a tooth there, but it feels strange. The one that had been there was artificial already, of course, but this one is much smoother, more like the rest of your teeth. Something lightens within you -- you've lost an option, sure, but maybe you were never good with options.

"Fuck," Dr. Crane says quietly. 

"That's not all," Dr. Chen says. "There's extensive neural grafts consistent with the autopsies we've performed, but... there's something weird going on with the brain activity scan. I'm not sure what the Conclave is doing to their people, but it's scary."

"Nnn. 'M not," you say.

There's a rustling around your bed. You open your eyes and blink against the sharp light a few times, and eventually the face of Dr. Crane comes into focus.

"Hey," she says. "Glad you're awake. How are you feeling?"

You have no idea how to deal with this. Never expected to be in a hospital room of all things, being treated like valuable materiel instead of ammunition. So instead of answering her question, you just repeat your previous statement. "I'm not. Person."

She gives you a look you don't really know how to read. You never had to get all that good at reading faces, but you suspect this one might be hard even if you did.

"...well. Anyway." Dr. Crane clears her throat. "You had a medical emergency when you left your mech. You mentioned something about a syringe? I assume that's part of your post-operation routine? We've got you stable now. We're going to give you about another day to rest up before we bring you in for questioning."

"Questioning?"

"You're the only Conclave pilot we've brought in alive," she says, with a twist of her mouth. "It's damn near impossible to piece together any information about Conclave technology and hierarchy. I should know -- I'm the Union's top academic expert in Conclave culture and I always feel like I'm flying blind."

That was... a lot. You just nod.

"So you said something about... not having a name? Do you have something you'd like to be called? I know you're technically a prisoner, but you're safe here. People will respect what you say you are."

She says that last part with a lot of emphasis, a particular gravity to the words, but you're not sure why. "No."

"Okay. Designation number?"

"They re-assign our numbers every week so we don't get attached to them," you say.

She says a word under her breath that you don't know, other than that your handler says it when she gets mad.

"Alright." Dr. Crane takes off her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. "How about I just call you "Pilot" for now?"

That's what you are, and you don't see why that's so difficult, but at least this line of questioning seems to be over when you answer yes. She promises to check on you in a while, and leaves.

---

You dream about vines.

They're all over you. You haven't seen many vines up close -- there was sparse ivy on the back of one hangar for a little while before Maintenance took care of it. But you feel you know these.

They aren't strangling you. It almost feels like a caress, like the flight suit, like Rebecca's post combat care, but not quite any of those. It's pleasant. Cool rather than warm, and calming.

There is intense pain in your arms and legs, but it doesn't bother you. It's like someone is telling you that your limbs are being shredded, but the pain isn't getting through to the part of you that cares. It's just another sensation, less pleasant than the vines but certainly not bad.

You feel things you can't explain. A name, a pull in a direction that's not physical, feelings and sounds beyond your ability to parse. They build to a crescendo, and you wake with a shout. But at the edges of your awareness, the green is still there.

---

The next morning, you're herded into a shower stall with a clean jumpsuit, a washcloth, and a bar of soap. You clean yourself off as well as you can, given the circumstances. The soap has a soft smell to it, and no grit. It almost doesn't feel like it's cleaning you at all, without the scratches.

You knock on the stall door once you're finished dressing, and the door slides back. In addition to the two guards, Dr. Crane is there. She's wearing the same white coat, but her hair is pulled back, and she looks even more tired.

Still, she manages a slight smile. "Pilot. Did you sleep well?"

"No," you say.

"Ah. Well, hopefully we can help with that tonight. In the meantime I have some questions for you."

You follow her through a maze of white corridors, lit with skylights. Your sense of direction was never the best (your mech always took care of that, you think with a twist in your gut.) You wouldn't be able to find your way back if you needed to.

She leads you to a room with two chairs, both of them plush and soft. You feel like you're sinking into it; she looks like she's perched on hers. She balances her clipboard on her knees and starts in eagerly on the questions.

There's a part of you that feels you should shut up, refuse to answer, let them finish the work they didn't let your false tooth start. But one handler's as good as another. You're a weapon, and weapons know no loyalty. So you answer -- even when the questions don't make sense, or aren't about obvious things, or are about things you've never been allowed to see.

The reactions don't really make sense to you either. You talk about some of your worst missions, and she seems sad but like she knew what was coming; you talk about your handler, and she's gripping her clipboard so hard her fingers go pale. You stop trying to understand what's going on, and try to hit the same state of unconscious action that you do on a sortie. Question, response. Question, response.

There are a few about your accommodations. They're fine, of course. You have little standard for comparison, and if she asks if you need anything else, you feel she won't leave you alone with a "no," so you ask for books. Rebecca was always reading when you were doing synch tests.

After what feels like the whole day, Dr. Crane lets you go. She doesn't ask you any questions about the haze of green starting to fade in around the corners of your vision when your mind drifts, so you don't volunteer any information.

---

The next day's meal comes with a couple of books, and Dr. Crane seems determined to find you the right reading material because every meal tray thereafter has more. There's a shelf in your room for the purpose. It was a ruse at first, but it is genuinely a better way of spending your time then staring at the wall.

There's more questions, along with a handful of medical tests, supervised by Dr. Chen. Dr. Chen's questions are even stranger than Dr. Crane's, but at least they seem satisfied with the answers given by the scans and blood draws.

A few days pass until you get a good enough feeling of the layout of the facility to know which direction the hangar is in. You occasionally see Caskie pilots in groups of twos and threes, talking and joking with each other. No handlers, no augments that you can see -- if you hadn't seen people in those same outfits walk out of their primitive looking mechs in the desert, you wouldn't believe that they were pilots at all.

All of them are coming and going in the same direction, and it's a direction that Doctor Crane and your guards never take you. So naturally, the first chance you get when both of your escorts are distracted and you have the chance, you peel off that direction and start running.

Your augments sing as you stretch your legs. They’re not like infantry augments (or so you’ve heard) and they don’t have auxiliary power – you can feel them burning away your body’s energy, energy that would normally be supplied by your mech. But your desperation fuels them just as much as your calories do, and the initial burst of speed and agility is all you need.

The facility is confusing as always, but you spot a sign that says HANGAR and get reoriented. Startled cries fly in your wake, doctors and workers and pilots confused at your frenzied speed. Something that might be an alarm and might just be lighting flashes at the corner of your vision, nearly obscured by the green.

You get lucky, and a mechanic is coming through the secured door at the checkpoint at the same time you arrive. You take advantage of her confusion and duck underneath her outstretched arm, through the door and out into the hangar bay.

It's not hard to find your mech. You remember the layout from your brief spell of consciousness after arrival, the way your mech looked so different from the rest and didn't quite fit into its space.

You pull up to a stop, wheezing from exertion, and look at it with dismay.

Your mech has been dismembered, all four limbs strewn about the bay hooked up to various pieces of testing equipment. The body itself is on a riser jack, slightly askew like there wasn't the right connector to fit it, hooked up by thick cables and patched-together connectors to the exposed limb contacts. The canopy stands open, the inside unlit but visibly cleaned of leftover connection gel.

The sight makes you sick. You hold it down, but barely; but the nausea makes it hard for you to resist when a burly mechanic comes up behind you and wrestles you to the floor.

You're not sure you would have, anyway.

By the time Dr. Crane has shown up, your face is wet with tears and snot, and your breath comes only with sobs. You're still being pinned to the ground by a mechanic, but she's not putting her full weight into it. She more or less let go when you started crying.

Dr. Crane pushes through the crowd of onlooking mechanics and kneels down in front of you. "Are you all right?" she asks.

At first, you think she's addressing the mechanic; it would be such an incongruous question to a pilot about to be terminated for insubordination. After a silence disproves that theory, you shake your head and gesture with one semi-restrained arm to the mech. "No."

"I'm sorry, pilot," she says, "but you are still a prisoner. I'm going to request the board not to restrict your access for this, given that you didn't really hurt anything -- and I'm sure they'll listen to me -- but you surely didn't think you could just get back in your mech and run away?"

"No," you say again, frustration at your own inadequate words prompting a fresh fall of tears. "It's... you're hurting it, you're..."

Things click together, things that you've always known. Feelings shared through the neural tunnel, deeply held beliefs that couldn't be kept from a pilot. You understand, now, what your mech was trying to tell you all along.

"You're hurting her."

Dr. Crane looks from you, to your mech, back to you. She goes pale.

"Are you telling me," she says quietly, "that there's an AI in your mech? A sentient AI?"

You nod. It's too late to lie, now. To protect her. The green in your vision threatens to overwhelm you. You're sorry, so, so sorry...

"A sentient AI that... we have been effectively torturing for four days. Fuck." She takes her glasses off, buries her face in her hands for a moment. "I can't believe that didn't come up during questioning."

It could have. You had avoided the topic, because you were afraid of this happening -- your greater part, torn away and experimented on because you couldn't keep her safe. You had always heard that the Union had strange beliefs about machine minds.

Dr. Crane looks around to some of the mechanics. "Anyone who was working on this mech -- did you have any idea there was a sentient AI? Any anomalous readings?"

"Some anomalies came up in the report that indicated synaptic activity in the post-0.4 Turing level," says one mechanic, nervously playing with their hair. "But everything about Conclave tech is anomalous. Kinda got buried in all the other weirdness."

"Okay." Dr. Crane sighs. "Can we get some input/output hooked up to her, please? And give her her limbs back."

One of the guards flanking her frowns. "I don't think that's a good--"

"She's a prisoner of war, Ortega. Pretty sure removing a sapient being's body parts is against something in the codes. Not to mention the First Principle."

Ortega sighs, and waves some mechanics over.

---

They don't know what connection gel is, but it doesn't matter. The sensation of her against your skin is important, but not as important as just reestablishing the connection.

Dr. Crane apparently spots your longing glances towards your mech, and takes you by the arm. When you flinch back, she holds her hands up in a defensive posture. "I'm sorry," she said. "I was just going to guide you over there again."

There's a lot of activity going on in the hangar, between the mechanics re-arming your mech and the other pilots getting suited up to react in case she tries to start killing people. (You don't think she's going to, but you suppose you can't blame them too much.) It would be a shame if your reunion with your mech got postponed because you got beaned in the head by an inattentive mechanic carrying a crysteel strut, so you offer your arm to Dr. Crane again and she guides you through.

You don't want to take too long, but you're only going to get to do this once. You run your hand over the lip where the canopy seats into the body, feel the soft seal and the framework beneath, then lift yourself up over and inside the cockpit.

There's no gel, so you can't hear her voice right away, but you know what to do. Years of drilling guide your hand to the hidden compartment with the emergency connection pads. It falls open with a clunk, the ribbon cables and connection pads jutting out in a fall like vines. One on either temple, one on either side of the chest, one on the back of each trembling hand. You're probably being watched, stared at as you have been since you broke into this hangar, but you don't care. She's here.

Hello, love.

You shudder, come apart, not in a procedural way like with your handler but in a form that shoots through to the very core of you. Untouched, but undone. You have no words for her, but you know she can feel your relief and your joy. You crumple, weeping, and run your hands over the familiar inside of the cockpit.

The green in your vision doesn’t go away, but it recontextualizes. It’s her. It’s the part of her that lives in you, a fragment within a fragment.

It's a little while, just basking in the connection, before you realize you've fallen in an uncomfortable position. Your skin, your joints, protesting their treatment. You reorganize yourself, pull yourself from the connection just long enough to get there. 

They've hooked a set of speakers up to her ports. They come to life with a spiky flare of static as she finds her voice.

"Hello," she says. You can feel her voice from inside and outside, through the tunnel and through the skin of the mech. "I am a Conclave of God Armored Forces Samson-B Light Interdiction Unit, but I would prefer if you called me Acacia."

#mechposting #empty spaces #might be a bit too cheerful to be empty spaces proper but it's part of the conversation #tessa writes stuff #tesserants #There's going to be probably one chapter after this

[vvatchword]

Who We Were

Although bruised and dazed, Eleanor didn’t wait for anyone. Their eyes burned on her. Sinclair’s mouth opened—he was going to ask her what had happened—

She squeezed her eyes shut and popped into being at Delta’s side—but he was still running. He flew past her in a flash. She chased him with her mind. He was running the perimeter of the fence, flying across a deer path he walked every day.

She flung out her arm, she reached into his brain, and she clamped down. She didn’t have an intent; nor had she scouted out the lay of his thoughts before she dug her tendrils in. She should have; she knew she should have; she knew better. Some regulatory barrier of his had broken loose, and when she squeezed down, she could feel it snap free entirely. She could feel him hit the ground skidding, even from 300 meters away.

She was at his side in a second. He lay spasming under a tree, kicking in mad circles, hands digging into his scalp as though attempting to bore into his own brain. Calming him was like trying to put a lid on a volcano. The fury inside was directionless, horrified, alien. The minute Delta felt her influence, he screamed, and to her shock, it was in someone else’s voice entirely.

Who the fuck are you? he asked. Where am I? What’s going on?

Eleanor’s mouth fell open, for he mouthed what he was saying at her as though he still had a tongue. He was spitting all over the ground.

Calm down! she said. It’s me, Eleanor!

Get me out of here! he said. Oh my god, they’re coming! Shit! Shit!

A far-off crunching, crackling sound, and someone calling out: the Sisters and their families were entering the woods.

He curled into a ball, dug his toes into the loam. He had writhed so violently that his shirt and swimming shorts had twisted half-off. He no longer made any sound, but there was ungodly screaming inside of him—a mind-boggling despair, an all-consuming self-loathing.

“Daddy!” Eleanor said. “Calm down! You’re safe! I’m here!”

I hate you! he said. I hate you! I hate you!

His jaw was moving, his lips were shaping sounds, but all that came out of his mouth were whining, moaning noises pitching up and down. Eleanor stared down in utter horror. His face wasn’t only expressive—it was someone else’s. Delta had never looked like this. Eleanor released him.

To her relief, he stayed there, rocking back and forth. He was still making sounds as though he could speak, and beat his head into the earth over and over. The other Big Sisters appeared beside her.

“What’s going on?” Masha asked.

Delta froze in place, trembling violently. Fuck! Fuck! Shit!

Daddy, please! Eleanor said. Don’t talk like that!

Fuck you! Delta spun in a circle, burying his head in his armpit. Tell them I’m sleeping!

Eleanor started crying.

“What did you do?” Cecilia whispered.

“Nothing!” Eleanor said. “Daddy had a memory and I… I didn’t mean to but he… I… he remembered his past and then he…”

Stop talking! Delta said. Stop talking! Give me the fucking Heal-All already! Jesus-fucking-Christ! Jesus-fucking-fuck!

“Daddy, please!” Eleanor said. “We’re not in Rapture anymore!”

Then tell Sinclair I want it! he said. Tell him I need it! He’ll say I can have it!

“Oh!” Cecilia said, eyes brightening. She popped away.

One of the littlest kids found them first. When he saw the girls gathered around Delta, he ran off, shouting: “Mr. B is hurt! Mr. B fell down!”

The next second, Cecilia was running up the path with Sinclair thrown under her arm. He started kicking the minute he realized there was an audience.

“That’s all right! That’s all right!” he said. “Thank you, I can still walk. I can still… good lord, Sissy, it’s a limp, not a missing limb. John! John, what are you doing?”

Delta hissed. Stuttering bestial nonsense poured out of his mouth.

Tell him I want the Heal-All and he can fuck off!

Eleanor and the Sisters looked up at Sinclair miserably. Cecilia took his arm and relayed the message. For a moment, Sinclair stood utterly still. Horror flickered across his face. Then the look was gone, replaced by a slow, spreading smile.

“That’s John, all right,” he said, and limped up the path. “John, it’s me, August.”

Delta snarled and spat. The earth was dark with blood and tears and spit and sweat. He’d kicked up fallen leaves and foliage into a circle. His shorts were twisted into a coil over his thighs.

Get me the fucking Heal-All already! he said. I’m dying!

Cecilia kept her hand pinched on Sinclair’s, her eyes flickering with light.

“I can’t get you any Heal-All, John,” Sinclair said, kneeling down with a grunt. “You can get better without it now. Did you know that?”

Don’t talk to me like I don’t fucking know! Delta bared his teeth like a wild animal in a trap. You did this to me! Not me, you! You!

Sinclair took a deep breath. “Yes. I did. But I’m going to try and make it easier on you from now on. You don’t have to fight anymore. I got you back from Fontaine.”

The shuddering stopped. When it returned, it was less violent. Delta blinked up at Sinclair.

You’re serious?

“I’m serious. Not only did I get you back from Fontaine, I got you right back up to the surface, just like you wanted. See?” He dug his fingers into the loose earth, raised it, let it trickle through his fingers.

Oh. Delta watched the dirt crumble. I’m still not fucking you.

All of the Big Sisters flinched. Eleanor’s jaw dropped.

“That’s just fine, John. That’s just fine.” Sinclair slapped him on the shoulder and slumped against the tree beside him. “You know what, you taught me something important.”

I want Heal-All, Delta said.

“There’s no Heal-All on the surface, John.” Sinclair breathed out and dug his cane into the soil, relaxing the heel of his hand against it. A third Delta’s size, and he was completely relaxed. It was like watching a person take a siesta by a grizzly bear.

Delta watched him suspiciously, eye flicking from his cane to his hand to his face.

Something’s wrong in my mouth.

“Oh, never mind that. Think on this: you’re free,” Sinclair said. “You can do anything you want. You know, there’s a pond over there, and a barbecue, and lots of good folks who love you. You like kielbasa? Coleslaw?”

I have a headache. Why is it so hard to talk?

“Oh, you just took a bad spill, is all,” Sinclair said, pulling out a carton of cigarettes. “How's about a cigarette?”

Gus, there’s something wrong with my tongue.

Sinclair flipped a cigarette out and jammed it against Delta’s lips until he opened up.

Jesus! Don’t do that! You’re gonna break it!

“Then open up faster.” Sinclair cleared his throat. “Say, ladies—if some of you will assure the others that all is well and we’re just getting Mr. Barton here through a bad headache… ah, do stress the need for a little silence hereabouts.”

Delta’s wild eye followed the five girls who raced off into the trees. It flicked back to Sinclair as he brought out a lighter. The Big Sisters were pale with horror all around them. Delta didn’t seem to see them. Eleanor squelched the urge to reach in and see what he saw. She could feel him radiating an intense confusion.

“Real tobacco all the time, John,” Sinclair said, lighting him up. “Every day, whenever you want it.”

Thank Christ. I hate that seaweed shit.

Eleanor had seen Delta smoke a hundred times. She’d never seen him hold his wrist like that, balancing the cigarette on the end of his finger. He always had the cigarette clamped down like he was afraid it would blow away.

“What happened to your clothes?” Sinclair asked. “Do you need help?”

Delta glanced down.

Fuck, he said.

With stiff hands, he yanked his shorts up and his shirt down.

“I missed your constant swearing,” Sinclair said. “But the girls might not like it. You have a lot of girls, by the way. Hell of a father.”

What? Delta’s voice grew horrified. What are you talking about?

“Nothing you don’t already know.” Sinclair lit his own cigarette. “You know, the new you is a lot more polite and helpful. You should start your own handyman business.”

Gus, what the fuck is going on?

Delta’s hand came up as though he were thinking about signing something. Then he caught himself and dropped it again.

Something’s wrong, Delta said.

“No, it only feels wrong,” Sinclair said. “You’re just having a nightmare right now, that’s all. You’re going to wake up feeling fine.”

You mean I had another attack?

“Right! Just an attack.”

Well, fuck.

“But you know, you haven’t had one of those in a long ol’ time, so that means you’re getting better and better and better.”

Oh, thank Christ. I don’t remember what just happened, though. I mean, I thought I saw Tate. It was like I was there.

“Oh, Tate’s old news, honey. Long dead.”

No shit! Couldn’t happen to a nicer gal.

Sinclair started laughing uproariously. He slapped his knee and groped in a pocket for his handkerchief.

It wasn’t that funny.

“Oh, I just didn’t expect it, that’s all. Besides, I just like hearing you talk.” Sinclair wiped at his eyes.

Yeah, I’m still not fucking you. Wait, we were looking for medicine, right? Or was it the shrink?

He was starting to sign every other word, although it was half-baked, and mostly into the ground.

“We just saw the shrink. She wasn’t the right fit for you, honey.”

I don’t know. I kinda liked her.

“Don’t worry about it. We had a whole conversation about that just last night. It was nothing personal, as I recall… but don’t let me bore you with the details. You’ll remember it in a second.”

Right. Right.

Delta’s full-body shudder had sunk off to a low-key shiver that ran down to his hands. He had stopped trying to say words out loud.

“You need my hankie right now something awful, son.” Sinclair held it out, shook it.

Delta felt under his nose, drew his shivering fingers away. They glistened with blood.

What the hell did I do?

“You ran into a wall.”

Jesus Christ.

Delta took the hankie and pressed it under his nose. It took him several tries. His grip was unsteady, his wrist stiff, and he didn’t seem to have an idea of where his body was in space. He pressed it against his cheek and his ear a couple of times.

Sinclair smiled. “Well, don’t worry about it. Just clean up. You’re doing just fine.”

I’m covered with blood, but sure.

Sinclair’s eyes popped and he laughed once. “Hell, it’s good hearing you like this.” He looked up at Cecilia. “Does he often talk like this when I can’t hear him?”

Cecilia shook her head no.

Who’s that? Delta asked.

“That’s Cecilia. She helps me take care of you. She thinks you’re swell.”

Delta squinted at her. Flushing red, Cecilia squirmed behind Sinclair.

She’s young for a nurse, he said. They hiring out of grade school now?

Without warning, Sinclair laughed again. He looked absolutely smitten.

“The squint!” Sinclair said. “Look, girls, that’s the old John. Oh, I thought for sure he was gone.”

Eleanor could feel their dismay. Nobody liked old John. Utterly ignorant of his own failure, Delta swung 'round to look at the gaping faces around him like he was seeing them for the first time. He lingered on Eleanor’s face. His mouth fell open a little. He had forgotten the handkerchief; it hung limply over his fingers.

I know you.

“You do!” said Sinclair. “You know her! What’s her name?”

I… Delta pressed the handkerchief back against his mouth. I can’t remember.

The shudder was starting again in his shoulders. His eyes unfocused, staring off into space.

“Oh, it’s all right. You’ll remember in a second. Look, the long and the short of it is that you don’t have to worry about a damn thing right now. You’re actually in a great place. Would you believe it?” Sinclair asked.

Would I believe it? Delta repeated. He sounded robotic.

“You’re on the surface, right where you always wanted to be. There’s a big group of people here, and all of them adore you. The sun’s setting right now and you can watch it go down. There’s a big rack of ribs with your name on it. I got iced tea in the fridge. Tomorrow morning, I am personally gonna make sure you get a big stack of biscuits and gravy.”

Delta’s body had begun to relax, one taut muscle at a time. The shoulders slowly lowered. The hips sank to the earth. The knees stretched out. One of Delta’s enormous arms flopped to the earth, as broad across as Sinclair’s shoulders; with his other hand, he took out his cigarette and blew a lazy smoke ring.

“Iced tea,” Delta signed. He turned his glazed eyes to Sinclair’s. Where’s the iced tea? My head hurts. I need Heal-All.

He had begun to sign in earnest—up in the air, toward Sinclair, complete with proper facial expressions. Eleanor could feel the horrible stranger sinking back into the darkness.

Sinclair laughed. “I can get you some aspirin. How’s about some aspirin, John?”

Eleanor’s lips pinched together. Don’t call him that.

She didn’t dare say it.

“Aspirin sounds good,” Delta signed. He set the cigarette back in his mouth and slowly lifted to his feet. “I feel bad. My head hurts. My throat hurts, too.”

“Nothin’ a good night’s rest won’t fix.”

Delta took the cigarette out of his mouth. He clenched it like it was going to blow away. His whole body was shaking.

“Sleep sounds good,” he signed. “I’m tired.”

“You’ll want to eat something first.”

“Oh. Yeah. I forgot.” Delta wobbled in a circle. “Eleanor! There you are! Where are the floats?”

“I… I left them in the garage,” Eleanor said.

“Well, you’d better go get them, then, shouldn’t you?” Sinclair said, stabbing his cane into the ground. “John, honey, help me up. I’m a mess in my old age.”

“You’re not old,” Delta said, throwing his arm under Sinclair’s. “What happened? I don’t remember walking out here.”

“You got a bad headache and had to sit down. Don’t worry, we were with you the whole time.”

“Good.” Delta blew out a stream of smoke and shook his head. “I feel bad. I want aspirin.”

“We’re headed straight there,” Sinclair said. “Aspirin, ribs, and a big glass of ice-cold tea: just what the doctor ordered.”

~*~*~*~

Something was definitely wrong with Delta. He staggered like he was drunk. He couldn’t feed himself; he slopped most of his food on his chest. Eleanor quickly shuffled him into the kitchen to finish his meal out of the sight of the husbands and boyfriends, who had begun eying him in ways she didn’t like. He took a handful of aspirin—she measured it out carefully—and then shuffled off to his bathroom to take a shower. He could not undress without toppling over. When she trembled under his weight, she took a deep breath and cast out a thought.

Sinclair, she thought. Help me, please. We’re in the shower.

Sinclair appeared, right on cue, acting as though he’d simply walked by and happened to notice them. He bowed to Eleanor as she shut the door.

“Why, I just noticed you two seemed to be having some trouble!” he said.

Together, they took turns propping him up and making sure he was clean from head to toe. Soon enough, Delta hobbled out, wrapped in his bathrobe, one hand on Sinclair’s shoulder and the other on Eleanor’s. Both Eleanor and Sinclair were soaked through.

“Do you want to put him to bed, or shall I help?” Sinclair asked.

“I can do it,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Just call if you need anything,” he said, winking, and strolled off.

While Delta didn’t seem angry anymore, he also didn’t seem terribly concerned about anything. He didn’t ask about the other Sisters, he didn’t seem concerned about the floats anymore, and he started signing only single words. When Eleanor dropped into his brain to see how it was faring, her heart sank. It was like he had reverted to the Delta of two months prior, the Delta who couldn’t shave himself. What she had seen as a brightening of his intellect had been the return of some sense of self, and now that self had retreated into the dark.

Once he was safely tucked in, Eleanor came out again. Fireflies sparked in the woods outside, and peepers and crickets had begun cheeping in the trees. The sky was sprinkled with stars. The bonfire had been lit. Everyone was bunched around it, laughing and roasting marshmallows.

Everyone except for Sinclair, who sat on the swing, rocking back and forth with little kicks.

“How’s chief doin’?” he asked.

“He’s… he’s not good,” Eleanor said in a tiny voice.

Sinclair sighed and threw his head back.

“I didn’t do anything,” Eleanor snapped.

“I’m not tryin’ to imply a damn thing here, darlin’,” he said. “I just care about that boy, that’s all.”

“Was that really what he’s like?” Eleanor asked.

“That was him from a bad place.” Sinclair stopped swinging. “From Fontaine’s labs. Early on.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Then how’d it start?”

“The light outside… it’s like the light grew dim, and a little green… and he saw a lady in the darkness. She had Hypnotize, I think.”

“That’d be Ava Tate.” Sinclair took a deep drag of his cigarette.

“You were there,” Eleanor said. She folded her hands into fists.

“Yes, I was. I got him out of there safe and sound, in fact.” Sinclair smiled grimly. “Believe it or not, I have never wanted to hurt the man.”

“He was so different,” she said in a small voice. “I didn’t realize he was so… so…”

“Filthy?” Sinclair laughed. “He was a sailor, honey. He swore all the damn time. He had a cute girl on his arm every ten seconds. The man was a sexpot.”

Eleanor shuddered.

“He was a fully-fledged man long before you were born, honey,” Sinclair said gently. “To make him this way, they had to clip his wings. Hell. They had to take them straight off. He was only ever meant to play second fiddle to you.”

“I didn’t like him,” she said in a small voice.

“Mmm. Yeah.” Sinclair leaned down, set his chin on his hands. “That was him as a splicer, hun. Full madness. Cancer probably set in around the same time. Of course you didn’t like him. Nobody likes splicers.”

There was something in the way he said it that made her feel guilty. He was frowning. His expression was unreadable in the unsteady dark.

“If we fix him,” Eleanor said, “if we revert him, will he just be… just like that? He’ll start screaming and swearing and fighting and…”

“I don’t know. We know for sure what will happen if we don’t try, and it’ll be all of that and more.” Sinclair smiled grimly into the fire.

Eleanor sank to the porch floor, folding her dress beneath her. Sinclair shifted. When she looked up, he was sliding to the other side of the swing and slapping the seat next to him.

Grudgingly, she lifted to her feet and settled on the far end, her knees pressed together.

“It’s hard, loving someone when they’re this way,” Sinclair said. “And I’ve got to bear the responsibility of it. I let my pride speak for me. When John rejected me there at the end, well. I just let my pride take me all the way to the bank.”

“And people like me didn’t matter at all,” Eleanor said.

“It wasn’t a question of mattering. It was a question of accepting what kind of world we lived in,” Sinclair said.

“I was a child,” Eleanor said.

“I’m not saying it was right. I’m saying I believed in a world where human beings pay the piper, and sometimes that human being was a child. I didn’t much believe in luck, and I didn’t much care about the power of an environment or society. Figured people could make something of themselves if they’d only try, even kids. See, people like me…” Sinclair paused, licked his lips. “‘Nature, red of tooth and claw.’ You know the line? Well. I figured we were living it. Human beings are part of nature, too, you know. Let the child learn to survive, I thought. Then we’ve made something of him.”

“That’s not how nature works,” Eleanor said. “That’s never been how nature works. It’s complementary. It’s full of teamwork. Individuals would be nothing without other individuals. They even evolve in ways that mean that they don’t have to compete with each other. You can see it all around you.”

Sinclair nodded, smiling at her. Her jaw snapped shut. She felt frightened, frozen, blank: she had been about to repeat her mother verbatim.

“No, no, don’t stop. You’re right,” he said. “Nature is so much more than that. But I made a mistake. It’s the mistake that a layman makes, eyeballing some complex subject and assuming he can get the idea of it through summaries. Except the summaries I was reading weren’t by biologists or sociologists. They were by political scientists and lawyers seeing what they wanted to see. There I was, thinkin’ I was so smart, being taken as a fool, going for what made me felt better instead of what was true.” He smiled up at her. It seemed honest enough. “You are the right person to take this to, you know. I’m sure you got to read some of my own philosophy before taking it apart.”

“Yes.” She looked down at her hands, lacing her fingers together. “I read some of your essays when I was 12.”

“Oh, you poor thing.”

“I hated you so much,” she said softly. “I blamed you for why I was… this way.”

“You were right to.”

“Why don’t you care that I hate you?” she asked. “Even when the other girls hated you, you didn’t seem to care. You don’t seem to care about anything.”

She stopped herself before she went on: I want you to care about something because caring is human, and you don’t feel like one.

“Darlin’, I’ve been hated my whole life. What’s new?” he asked. “You can spend your time beating yourself up, or you can go make things better every way you know how. Was I a monster? Oh, darling, I was. I made monsters of other people, too, all the way down to the man I loved the most. I get to go to bed tonight with an image of him reliving some of the worst pain of his life. That’s a great deal worse than hate, I think. Imagine seeing Jacob Marley every night of your life, not just at Christmas—and his misery is all your fault. You know there’s no great hereafter—you’re stuck with what you’ve done—you’re stuck with who you were.”

The fire was leaping up, its outermost flickerings green like witchfire. Eleanor couldn’t say anything at first. Sinclair let the silence sit. She twined her fingers together.

“I think I made it worse,” she said softly. “I was asking him why he liked you and I was angry he wouldn’t change his mind. I wonder if it… I wonder…”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” Sinclair said. “You’re trying to do the right thing. No reason to think the leopard’ll change his spots.”

“Why did you, then?” she asked. “What changed?”

“Well.” He cleared his throat. “Rapture fell apart. And eventually the only places money mattered were the vending machines. And when the vending machines stopped working, well!

“Point being, without a society, without people, Rapture didn’t matter anymore. And I think it’s when you start connecting dots: that I can only have what I have because of other people, one way or another. I could only have a Rapture with clean, sweet air because of a woman halfway across the city who grows trees underwater—that’s what she knows how to do best, and nobody else can do it, and when she dies, everything dies with her. I could only have a clean office because someone came in with a dustpan, and they could only afford to clean it if there was a life worth returning to somewhere else. A human being who didn’t feel like their life was worth living went and shot themselves full of ADAM and then I had a brand new splicer ranting and raving in the hallway and a waste-bin spilling over. If the people who keep your world from falling apart don’t feel like it’s worth it anymore, that’s it. It’s the end.

“And humans are so much more than what they do. They inhabit more than a home—they inhabit their bodies, you understand? And what’s so funny about that is that I already believed a man was limited to his body. Hell, most of the reason I came to Rapture was because I was being forced by society to ignore what my own body preferred in general.”

Eleanor glanced up sharply. He was looking her straight in the face. He kept talking, unblinking.

“Then I started taking other people’s bodies away from them.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette and flicked it down into the ashtray beside him. “That right there, honey? That’s not philosophy. I could talk myself into thinking I was a good man all day long, but human beings need their bodies, they deserve the time they have in them, and they need the freedom to take those bodies where and when they desire. I had no right to warp them into tools of my own, even if they had signed a dotted line somewhere.”

“You mean you thought people signed up to be lab experiments?” she asked. “Why the hell would you ever think something like that?”

“Figured they knew the philosophy, same as me, and what it meant to fail. That’s all.” Sinclair stretched back, popped his arms. “Thanks for letting me talk this out, by the by. It’s not conversation you can have with just anybody.”

“If we can bring… John back,” Eleanor said, her voice growing smaller and smaller, “he’s going to hate us, isn’t he?”

“Well, he’ll hate me,” Sinclair said. “He won’t hate you. If he’s able to remember that you two met in the city, he might even stick around.” He took a deep breath. “I’m worried about only one thing. See, he didn’t try to solve problems—he tried to leave them. He ran from every romance he ever started. I’m concerned he’ll get enough brain cells to mash together to realize what’s happening to him and then he’ll try to sprint off somewhere before he’s well enough.”

“He’d leave us,” she said softly.

“Don’t make my mistake, honey,” Sinclair said softly. “You have to be ready to let him go. He’s not yours and he’s not mine. He’s his. If I’d done what was right, I’d have sent him topside the first minute he started getting jumpy. Then, at least, he would have been spared this—this half-life. I couldn’t solve his problems. Neither can you. There’s a point where he has to deal with himself. That said…” Sinclair drew out another cigarette. “I think he’d think the world of you. You’re a hell of a woman, Eleanor Lamb. You came through a hell of your own. You overcame someone who swore she loved you, and probably thought she loved you, and you were able to see what love really was. Hell, for that matter, I’m proud of John. You’re probably the first problem he ever solved—ah, if you’ll pardon the phrasing.”

“He had to help me,” she said. “He was going to die.”

“He didn’t have to at the end,” Sinclair said. “As he didn’t have to save me. I wonder what he was thinking. I don’t think that I’ll ever know. I think when a man is made to kill, the way he had been made, there’s something meaningful about refusing to. And maybe that’s enough, and I’m fine if that’s all it is.” He shrugged. “At least I had him for a while. Of course, that’s easy to say, after a certain space of time.”

He glanced over at her, and it seemed as though something meaningful was glittering behind those eyes. She thought she might know what it meant, and she hated it.

UPRISING: BLACK SCRAPBOOK HUB

#bioshock #bioshock 2 #subject delta #eleanor lamb #augustus sinclair #topclair #fanfiction #writing #uprising #long brown evening #vvatchword #why do I keep posting these rofl this is not going to be the final by a long shot #that's kinda why I like tumblr tbh #I can post at my leisure #first-drafts and such have a place here #also it's worth mentioning that I usually research the etymology of words and phrases #as well as the existences of certain technologies and concepts and when they emerged #because I try to be period-specific #and in this case I haven't done that research #anyway enjoy my bullshit #or don't #bye

[silyabeeodess]

FusionFall Headcanons: Great Ironjaws

The concept art for this monster reveals that it stretches at around 3 meters in length; however, its tail makes up around half of this size and, with its more skeletal structure, makes the Ironjaw smaller than it can appear at first glance. Nevertheless, it is a terrifying beast to face, noted to have "the strongest bite of any creature in Fuse's army."

Known to be eager killers, these monsters take every terrible story you've heard about bull sharks swimming inland and crank them up to 11. Given that sharks in freshwater areas are rare--nevermind in a largely closed-off source of water like Leaky Lake--it could even be said that these stories might be the inspiration for the Ironjaws' very existence. Fuse would learn early on that, while humans are the dominant species on Earth, they are still undeniably weak to/fearful of sharks. If he was going to create a fusion monster on any of Earth's species, it would those that others at the top of the food chain naturally avoid.

The biggest threat of the Ironjaw isn't actually how vicious it is, but how deceptive it can be. One look at it is enough to strike terror in many, but on the battlefield, most won't know they're facing an Ironjaw until it's too late. While they have a different structure, these monsters are known to mimic the Cogfish; moving their bodies in a similar way, copying the grinding sound of metal parts, and taking advantage of dark/murky areas. A number of fusion fighters have been tricked into thinking they've crossed paths with an injured Cogfish only to learn the much more frightening truth all too late, swiftly caught in the teeth of this monster.

The Great Ironjaws seem to be made from a wide variety of both wood and metal scrap pieces, from plating around the face, to saws forming as gills, to an almost trunk-like core. This mess of sharp material alone can make them dangerous to engage with, shielding any clear weakness with a hard, barbed armor. It can also throw off Earth's forces, as most people with some knowledge about shark attacks would typically aim for the gills, eyes, or nose as a means of defense. Doing so with the Grear Ironjaw would likely only result in further injury.

In their description, they are said to attack by "grabbing onto their prey and dragging them underwater." This method isn't too different from other aquatic fusion monsters. It is notable for those surrounding Leaky Lake though in that, unlike the Cogfish, the Great Ironjaws can stand being in the water for long periods of time without suffering the same damage. They were fashioned to be much sturdier, while the Cogfish were moreso just readily available thanks to the origins as decorations.

The Ironjaws also utilize the "bump and bite" method of attack exhibited by real sharks, in which they charge at their target while clamping down on them with their fangs. From there, they can easily tear a person apart by jerking their heads as a means of sawing away at their victims. However, due to their size often matching an adult human's, drowning is simply an easier and safer bet. It allows them to pick off teams one-by-one with its members unable to save each other easily. It also makes it harder for their victims to fight back while weakening them at a much faster rate.

A Great Ironjaw's biggest weaknesses are their fins and tail. As hardened as their bodies are, these are often only supported by thin beams, again referring to their more skeletal structure. Breaking these beams will inhibit the monster's movements. After that, it is best to attack the less shielded parts of their bodies covered in wood. The section where the tail connects to their abdomen is particularly vulnerable, as it is more prone to tearing and the insides are more exposed once the spine-like beam is snapped off.

Medics tending to the Resurrect 'Ems around Leaky Lake often note that, despite their limited numbers, the Great Ironjaws can leave the most scarring impact on their patients due to the brutality of their deaths. Another reason is that it's difficult for them to respond to the way they died. After falling to a fusion monster once, a soldier will replay the scene in their head. This allows them to come to grips with what happened, as well as give them a chance to think of how they could've reacted in the fight and survived. By the time they're ready to rejoin the battlefield, their strategy will have greatly improved. For monsters like the Great Ironjaw though, not only is there the existence of pre-existing fears, their attacks are often too swift, too sneaky, and too overwhelming to know how to counter.

#fusionfall #fusion monsters #headcanons #great ironjaws #video games

[coffee-writesthings]

OH THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE CRACK. ITS VERY QUICKLY BECOME HORROR

This was inspired by this song which is actually really cool, taking it to its horrific extent. (Song was made by rob cantor dude, he's great and also behind tally hall)

This story contains gore and cannibalism (more implied but still) and also nausea (for my emetophobia havers in the crowd). If you don't like that I don't recommend reading this cus it made me feel squicked out to write but I just had to keep going.

Summery: Heavy is out in the woods, and he encounters a shape shifting, cannibalistic, monster. He runs away, finding shelter in that very cannibal's home.

It was a dark night, one where Misha felt reminded of the same dark nights back at home. Aside from his family the only thing he missed was being able to see the Aurora Borealis. At least here, and now, the moonlight was enough to see by. A full moon is always welcome.

From New Mexico, all he could see in the limited light were trees. Endless trees. Why had he let Miss Pauling station him in a forest with no backup?

At least he was alone.

A twig snapped, a good way behind him. Maybe 10 meters? Before he could think his head whipped around in an attempt to see it. Maybe just a deer, or something.

It wasn't a deer.

It looked something like Medic. Or it would look like that, if it weren't on four legs, trying to walk in jerky movements. Movements that no human should be able to make. One of the robots? There was no way for it to be a robot, it wasn't possible.

No creaking, shrieking, sound of metal on metal came from its limbs. No light, nor steam, emanated from its crevices. For that matter, it didn't seem to have crevices anyway.

Not a robot. But not human either. Those movements. The way its neck snapped to attention. The way it seemed to track everything surrounding him. Its wide eyes. The way it smiled, revealing something on its teeth.

Its mouth opened. Blood. Dark and red, and gushing out. It was more blood than made sense for something to be able to let go.

His stomach twisted in horror. He would love to leave, to run away, but where would he go? Home was miles away, straight ahead. That thing was in the way. He couldn't go over it, couldn't go under or around it. He would have to go through it. If only his feet weren't trying to sink into the earth. If only his body wasn't preoccupied with trying to bury itself.

It hacked up something from its mouth. They were long, lumpy things. Fingers?

It continued to gag. A small bone fell with a subtle thunk. Part of someone's arm.

Something in him wished to be that creature, just so he could vomit up the acid trying to come out on its own.

It moved again. One of its limbs advanced with a wicked, fleshy snap, it definitely wasn't a robot. With it, the rest of its body moved.

The moonlight caught its face, smeared with mud and blood, revealing a sickly pale flesh underneath. Its hair was more of a blood-soaked mop, which hadn't seen a wash in so long it looked rock-solid.

It sniffed the air, tentatively. He couldn't imagine what there was to smell through the blood coating so much of it.

Still, he couldn't help but stumble backwards. He fell flat on his ass with a thump. It locked onto him, almost giggling. Was this just a game to it?

The sounds which escaped from its mouth were deep, rumbly. It almost seemed to do this in an attempt to warm up its vocal chords. How long had it been for this thing?

He made a feeble attempt to get back on his feet, as the beast shrieked more and more.

He ran. Or, at least, he tried to. Three steps in, a sharp metal clamped down on his left calf. A bear trap. Fuck.

His pant leg soaked with blood in seconds. He swore long, loud strings of curses as his shaking hands found the mechanism to release it. Fighting bears back in the day had its benefits.

Foot now released, he regained some balance. As he moved to stand, quickly as he could, he noticed the pain numbing to barely a whisper-- something he could ignore. Adrenaline, one of the things Medic used to talk about experimenting with. That's what this stuff flowing through his veins was.

Regardless of what it was called he needed to run, now. That thing started to move again, crawling towards him in the same jerky motions as before. There was something different, they were almost smoother now.

The shriek it let out sounded a little deeper, a little more boisterous. A little more like him.

The very idea... he took off like a bullet, running for what felt like miles until he came across a cabin. The smell of smoking meat is what gave it away at first, someone had to be inside, cooking something like pork.

He redoubled his efforts to get there, it was only a little ways away. The creature wasn't even close to him. Maybe it got scared, or bored.

That didn't matter anymore. His stomach growled, he was hungry.

He didn't care to knock on the door, he just opened it with hope that whoever inside wasn't armed. Maybe they'd also have something he could use as a crutch, for his leg.

The inside was warm. He hadn't realized how cold he had gotten before. The smell of woodsmoke and cooking meat was much stronger in here, making his mouth water where was it coming from though?

"Ahhh, there was a fire!" He put his hands out to warm them faster, closing his eyes so he could focus on the heat.

That smell... He opened his eyes. Above the fire was a spit, the kind used to slow-cook big meats. And, cooking on the spit, covered in oil and seasonings, were multiple human limbs.

The door creaked open seconds later. He heard his own voice start to speak.

#tf2 fanfiction #writeblr #tf2 #horror #tf2 heavy #cannibalism #gore #emetephobia tw

[silverslipstream]

Hi Jeb! Happy STS! Have you ever thought about the cover of your wip or maybe some illustrations of your favourite scenes? Could you describe them?

Hi again Flock, sorry for the late answer... (I declare Storyteller Sunday to be a Thing now, because I'm officially a lazy ass)

I haven't really thought about the cover of White Sky, but there are plenty of scenes I've thought about in a visual medium. Unfortunately, I have zero artistic talent - I stick to painting pictures with words rather than brushes, pens and pencils, haha :)

There's one particular scene I was thinking of yesterday, when the Tsiolkovsky's prototype fusion engine is test fired for the first time. It's a very high-energy design, so many people are expecting it to be spectacular. It's being built in high lunar orbit, and when it ignites, it's briefly visible as a small, purplish-tinted star near the moon's orbit. From the Moon's surface (where the main characters are) it's so bright that you have to look away, and it briefly lights up parts of the dark side of the moon. Suffice it to say, it's a very powerful spacecraft :)

Another scene I was thinking of was Kat's introduction to POS-7, the space station that the Dowager Caroline's crew live and work on when not 'in the field' on jobs. It's basically an immense staff-shaped structure spinning vertically relative to it's orbit around the Earth. About a kilometer long, POS-7 is about eighty meters in diameter at the nadir end (the 'lower' point), which is ringed with docking clamps, hangars, and huge, sun-tracking, high density solar arrays that provide most of the station's power. It has a capacity of about 600, who mostly inhabit the two rotating rings used for living and exercise quarters, while the Central Atrium is a commercial/central area - kind of like a town's 'high street' but in space. I made this crap little infographic in Google Drawings to explain: very simplified, but this is the essence of it (scale may not be entirely correct)

#storyteller saturday #sts #ask box #writeblr #wip: white sky #science fiction

[paktechpointsblog]

Restricted Earth Fault Protection Stability & Sensitivity Test.

This article is to guide the responsible persons in conducting Restricted Earth Fault Protection stability & sensitivity test. Testing restricted earth fault (REF) protection involves ensuring the stability and sensitivity of the relay to detect earth faults within its designated zone while minimizing the risk of maloperation. Test Equipment: 1phase AC Generator kit, Clamp Meter and Phase Angle…

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[powertechelectric]

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[lappelduvideo]

worm throes

It was Spring. Spring meant rain.

The sky tapped the green expanse a thousand times over, prodding and bothering the earth. 15 meters below, a chill slowly crept downwards through the soil. Even further below, stirred the Worm.

When it was dry, the Worm always slept. That, or aimlessly slithered to some direction in search of a fresher spot to sleep in. His frequent dreams invariably hovered around his 2 prime desires which spare no creature roaming the earth: food, and answers. Food came intermittently and once sated, the Worm had no need to think about it until hunger inevitably crept back into his body. Answers, on the other side, never came - which only exasperated and sharpened his desire to reach them. Answers to questions like “Who am I?” Where was he? Where was his heart? He had to have been alive, that he knew - but he sought to resolve the puzzle of what exactly let him eat and sleep and wonder things like this in the first place. 

And so, at once feeling the earth’s temperature shudder by a thousandth of a degree, he bolted straight up to meet the coming water. Wriggling and thrashing around in the indistinguishable splatters, any eye-equipped creature would’ve interpreted this spasming as death throes and thought fit to end this minuscule thing’s suffering with a clamp of the jaw. But the field was desolate - the rain deepened this quality. Flinging himself at any visual stimuli he could latch on to, the Worm hoped to resolve his dreams at once by finally seeing any part, even a sliver of his reflection in the surrounding moisture. Yet, despite the effort, his reflection avoided him, and the thrashing would hopelessly continue until either the Worm’s or the rain’s energy ran dry. First it was excitement that propelled his dancing, then suspense, then suspicion, then dread. Eventually, he kept dancing out of sheer spite for everything he imagined to be sabotaging his quest for truth. In times when the rain won, the Worm quite literally succumbed to unconsciousness and was slowly sinking through the viscous topsoil.

There was no count kept of these desperate endeavors, only a growing sense of frustration and disbelief. Dreams turned to mares and tumors of doubt plagued them. Did the reflection hide deliberately? Did it fear something unknown to him? Once he finally found himself in a stray puddle, will this answer be as absolute as he thought - or slowly pass through him like a morsel, leaving yet another question in its place? These looping thoughts drove him to near-catatonic restlessness and his horizontal travels turned into a daily and erratic routine. Rain grew sparser throughout the days and when it finally fell, it left much quicker. Summer was coming.

Eventually on a particularly dry day, the Worm gave in. The answers never existed, and the questions were about as real. He stopped struggling, and through no seeming effort, slowly sank upwards like a dead fish, resigning to a fate of being scavenged or dried out under the intensifying sun. On the surface, he didn’t look for anything - and nothing came to him. It is only when a boom of thunder struck the air that his senses once again became subservient to him. 

Looking around, the sky seemed tediously blue, and the green was the same shade as before. It was only then that he noticed a flat dark-gray strip of ground, incising itself through the field perpetually. It was where the sound whirred past him, like nothing he had seen or heard before. Warily approaching the strip, the Worm noticed more yet - sparse swirling veins of green and blue fluid, lucidly reflecting some of the sky. A few seconds passed before it dawned on him - the realization thrumming his entire length - this was it. This was where he would see and understand, an understanding so great that he would be forever gratified in its shadow. The air thumped like a heart around him, flowing from the puddle that was seeming closer, yet closer. The thump, the whir and the thrum all grew into a deafening drone when he crossed himself over the strip - thunder. The air sucked out from under him, an impact of a thousand storms rolled forth to strike and depart in a single heartbeat, a gap, neurons, strings of neurons departed and thrashing, separate from him, splayed down as he was, but where was he? In a gap, one between the mush and the benzene, a gap widening from over the consciousness, a gap between the shock and the realization - infinite. Something twitches. Nothing.

A space devoid of space greeted the mush. An insignificant amount of time passed before a voice rang out (if space existed, it would be from above): “Greetings, Worm”.

The worm, now remembering himself in the world, wondered. The voice knew.

“Yes. You’re not alive, but neither are you dead. Not until your inquiries are stilled.”

Who are you? “God.”

Who am I? “Worm.”

No, but really, who am I? “You are a worm.”

That’s it? That’s all I am? “No.”

Ok. Where am I? “My globe.”

Where on the globe? “The crust. The outer layer.”

What if I was somewhere else? “Then you’d be asking the same thing.”

This doesn’t make sense. “I didn’t make ‘sense’, I made you. Final question.”

Where is my heart?

“Here.”

What do you mean?

“It’s all of you. It’s everything.”

What?

“You are the heart muscle. You feel with entirety. When you tunnel, you feel the earth and the earth feels you back. You are all that you touched, all that you’ve eaten, everything that you dreamed of and cursed. I’ve seen you - I’ve seen you dancing, and I’ve seen you rotting. All of it, all of that time, every moment, it’s you. I’ve seen you.”

…

All of it? I’m all of it? “Yes.”

The last word spoken to him wasn’t an answer. Not in the sense of what he dreamed of - it did not satisfy a question. It simply erased it - every single one, turned into a gap, a vacuum that didn’t need anything. It all passed.

It was Summer. Summer meant recess.

(jan 30 2023, interior of taco bell)

#writeblr #writing #original writing #short story #worm #taco bell

[patrickcharlton-oshea-author]

Waging War, An Age of Steam and Sorcery Novel.

Chapter Thirteen

After a full day's march from the nearest town, the exhausted Travellers sat, stood or wandered about in a loose semi-circle. The focus of this was an enormous pair of iron blast doors set into the sheer rock wall in front of them. The dusty road ran right up to the base of the doors that were bordered by an equally massive frame of dark rock that contrasted the lighter brown of the cliff face.  Pham rapped a podge bar, a metal shaft with a ring spanner on one end and a tapered point on the other, against the doors and declared “Mel-lon!”

“You’re a melon!”

“Ya mum’s a melon!”

“Instructions unclear, got my… mrmphe ner imlon.”

The last one was muffled by Warren wrapping his arm around the head of the guy to his left and clamping his hand around the speaker’s mouth. “Let the geek work his magic,” he whispered in their ear. “Unless you have a better way to open a twelve foot iron door?” Not to mention that his… tool is almost as big as he is. How strong IS that geek?

“You lot are a bunch of uncultured swines,” Pham sighed. “Fine, we’ll do this the hard way.” He turned to his left, where an almost invisible metal box was set into the rock beside the doorway. Using a mallet and impact screwdriver he removed the fasteners securing the lid and pried it open. Inside was a very neatly laid out circuit board with a series of lights arrayed along the right edge. Along the left were a set of seven coloured jumper cables that clearly needed to be plugged into the appropriate holes on the right. He tried the simplest solution first, plugging them straight across. This had no effect at all. He tried inverting the sequence, top into bottom and so on, and one light lit up and a ticking began.

After five seconds the ticking stopped and a hatch at the top right of the massive door frame opened with a noise like a tortured donkey to reveal what could only be described as an autoturret. It was a level of technology they’d never seen in the game before and to a man they stood agape, staring at the mechanical mystery. Its corroded snout tracked back and forth in a shaking, jerking motion as it sought a target. Concentric rings along the length of the snub barrel flickered to life and with a whine that would annoy a mosquito, it began spitting some sort of pellets at the gathered Travellers. With shouts and cries of pain, they all scattered but the turret’s refire rate was abysmal and its tracking was almost non-existent so nobody was hurt.

Not badly anyway.

“Oops,” Pham said.

“Oops my sainted aunt,”  Dennis shouted, tucked against the wall where he was out of the line of fire. “You’d better get that thing turned off or I’m going to smack you one, Warren’s protection or no.” He was obviously nursing a bruised bicep and a grudge.

Pham pulled the plugs once more and the hatch screeched shut. Nobody was brave or foolhardy enough to set foot in front of the door, however. “It’s some sort of puzzle,” Pham pondered out loud. “There’s got to be some sort of clue.”

“Maybe it’s written in the lid, like a box of chocolates,” one of the cowering fighters suggested.

“MaYbE iTs WrItTeN iN tHe LiD.” Pham mocked. “Sure, like it could be that easy.” He picked up the lid from the dirt where it lay and rubbed away the accumulated muck of ages from the grimy surface. “ROYGBIV 1634527. You have GOT to be kidding me.”

With the cords plugged into the correct sequence, and no small amount of pouting on Phams part, the doors ground slowly apart as their rusted bearings complained loudly to reveal a great stone hall sloped gently down into the earth. Every few meters the smooth walls were interrupted by square section supports that ran up the wall, across the roof and down the other side. On all three exposed faces of the uprights at roughly head height for a human was a dark bezel set octagonal gem the size of a dinner plate. As the Travellers watched, the gems closest to them slowly began to glow, the luminence beginning as a spark in the centre of the jewel and increasing until the whole thing was almost too bright to look at. Soon the entrance was nearly as bright as it was outside. As the gems closest to them reached full luminescence those on the next set of supports started to glow. Once they had reached full brightness, the first set dimmed and those on the next supports came to life. The sequence was repeated down the hall, though once lit the gems never fully extinguished again. Even at their lowest the gems provided enough light to see the floor.

“Well,” Warren said, stepping into the doorway. “That’s about the most welcome we’re going to get. Loot and levels, guys.”

Brandishing weapons and shields and shouting war cries, Warren’s fledgling mercenary troupe thundered down into the deeps. For about a hundred meters before they pulled up at another metal door. This one was much less corroded and had no external control box this time. Not knowing what else to do, they milled about in front of the door, occasionally hitting it with their weapons and swearing. Pham came sauntering down the hall in their wake.

On their left the stone wall only came up to their waist and the rest of the way to the roof was a transparent material much like glass. This too received the attention from the mercenaries weapons with nary a scratch to mar its surface. When they grew bored of the sound of metal bouncing off glass they started trying to prise the gems from the supports while Pham moved forward to apply his expertise. Warren watched as Pham conducted various tests with a range of esoteric tools. The tuning fork in particular raised his eyebrows involuntarily.

He left the elf to tinker and watched his crew extracting the maximum amount of loot that their levels would allow. The gems they managed to free without damaging disappeared into bags and satchels for later appraisal and sale. Small whoops were uttered randomly as one Traveller or another experienced a skill increment. “How about you lot leave us enough to see by?” He cautioned. “No use wasting the torches we had to pay for when there’s lights provided.”

“Sure, boss, but what do we do while we wait for the geek to get the door open?” Dave asked, using his chin to point to where Pham had spread out an array of tools around himself and was staring at the glass deep in thought.

“The geek has figured it out,” Pham responded sharply. “Did no one else see that big red button over there?” He pointed through the glass to where a very obvious button sat on the control panel like the angriest mushroom ever conceived.

“Yeah, we saw it,” Dave stage whispered, “but in case you hadn’t noticed, there’s an unbreakable window between it and us.”

“Oh, I noticed,” Pham snarked back. “I’ll be you didn’t notice that though.” He pointed at a round plate set into the roof, central to the door and in line with the button. It was difficult to see as it was flush with the surface and made of the same material, but was held in place with eight hex screws that protruded slightly. “Boost me up there and we’ll see about getting this door open.”

Dave muttered something under his breath, but when Warren shot him A Look he subsided and hoisted Pham onto his shoulders to let the elf reach the plate. Eight screws tinkled onto the floor followed by a clang of the plate and a vent shaft was revealed.

“Observe,” Pham took a brass ball the size of his fist from his inventory and rolled it overarm into the vent. It rolled noisily down the metal chute and dropped out of a hole directly above the button, depressing it and setting off an almost deafening klaxon. Two rotating beacons at the top left and right of the door emerged and began lighting the space with an orange strobe effect. Every remaining gem along the hall slowly came to full brilliance as the crew hurriedly stashed tools and spoils and readied weapons. A deep booming thunk echoed deep into the mountain and the inner doors began to grind open.

In the void beyond, countless lights twinkled and shone.

“My god. It’s full of stars,” someone breathed.

One pair, then another, then a third blinked.

“Those aren’t stars! Nope!” Pham accelerated back up the slope. “Nope! Nope! Nope! Nope! Nope!”

Conversely, the rest of the crew flowed down the ramp into the darkness with varying attempts at battle cries. The ululation reminiscent of an Amazonian Warrior Princess mixed with an extended “Leeeeeerrrrrroooooyyyyy!”

                Warren felt his pulse quicken in response. He hefted his katana, now a veteran of multiple skirmishes and battles, and added his voice to the choir. The doors, now fully open, allowed the light of the ramp to supplement the rising glow suffusing the chamber beyond and reveal the twisted bodies of the creatures packed in like sardines. Their sallow skin and matted hair dripped with a greasy gel-like substance that vanished into the grated floor. That same floor quickly wicked away their blood as the mercenary crew charged amongst the pack in an effect best described as “the blender”. It helped that the monsters were at best waist high and roughly as strong as your average five year old. That didn’t mean they were entirely defenceless. Warren yipped as small, needle-like teeth punctured his shin and he punted the owner the length of the room to splat against the far wall.

                “Goal!” Warren funky-walked a few steps like he’d kicked a field goal at the grand finals. The celebration only lasted a moment though, as by the time he’d stopped there were no more creatures to kill. The remains of the creatures turned to goo as he watched, and oozed through the grate. “What the heel?” The specific configuration of the room around him finally dawned. They were standing on a raised grated walkway not quite the width of the room. Handrails prevented anyone from falling off the edge into the gently green pool of goop below. Short pipes ran across the roof before angling sharply downward to end in weird iris-style valves. The room was lit by more of the octagonal gems as well as the glow from the pool, leaving no shadows at all. Here and there crumbling piles of metal leaked brown goop into the pool as though someone had poured acid on a heap of scrap iron and left it to dissolve.

            Despite the multiple minor injuries the crew had taken, it had been an entirely underwhelming fight. The creatures hadn’t offered much resistance, nor had they shown any of the tactical skills of any of the mobs they’d faced before. Even kobolds knew how to form a basic defencive line. Worse yet, the bodies had turned to gunk and disspaeared through the floor leaving nothing to loot. Warren ignored the mutterings from his troops and shouted back up the slope. “Oi! Git yer feartie ass back doon here!”

            Pham inched back down the slope, removing a fizzing fuse from another brass ball as he came. “Are they gone?”

            “Of course they’re gone, ye daftie. Was that a grenade you chucked into the vent before?” Warren indicated the brass ball still sitting on the control panel on the other side of the glass.

            “Duh,” Pham tossed the fuse down through the grate whre it extinguished with a hiss. “What about it?”

            “What if it had gone off and ruined the panel?” Warren huffed. “How were we supposed to get in then?”

            “You know this is a game, right? You wait for it to reset. Besides, I didn’t put a fuse in it. It’s not going to go bang without one.” He pulled a second sphere from a pocket and smacked it against the first, grinning as everyone else in the room flinched. He then began to juggle the brass balls, badly and dropping them every few seconds.

            “Orright,” Dave shouted. “You made your point. Put ‘em away. How do we get through THIS door?”

            Pham tucked the explosives away and examined the doors at the far end of the room. Then he checked the doors at the front of the room.Then he leaned over the rail and lowered a length of the fuse strand into the pool below. When this had no effect, he brought the strand up and used it to transfer a droplet of the goo onto a glass slide and snapped a monocle down over his eye to examine it. “Hmm,” he snapped the monocle back and held the slide up to the light. “I’d say you probably pull that lever over there.” He pointed at a large lever by the door at the front of the room.

            “Imma kill ‘im,” Dennis growled. “Can I kill ‘im boss?”

            “You can’t kill me, you’d never get the door open,” Pham sassed back. “Thinking isn’t your stong suit.”

            “He’s outta line, but he’s right,” Warren shook his head and waving a placating hand at Dennis. “He’s gotten us past two and a half doors so far, and there’s probably quite a few more down the way.”

            Dennis grumbled but put his sword away. “Fine, but I can't promise when all of this is over I'm not going to kill ‘im.”

            “See, this is exactly why you never have any friends in meatspace,” Dave clapped him on the back. “Let it go.”

            Warren watched the exchange for a moment, then grabbed another of his guys and pointed at the lever. “Craig, go pull that for us, will you?”

            “My name is Soul Cleaver!” Craig replied boisterously, brandishing the pair of meat cleavers he used as weapons.

            “I don’t care what you put on your character sheet, Craig, I’m not calling you that. Go pull the lever.”

            “Yeah!” Pham shouted, snapping his goggles over his eyes. “Throw the lever Kronk!”

            Criag looked sad for a moment, but bounced back with an enthusiasm that implied he was somewhat younger than the middle aged man’s body he was currently wearing and rushed over do as he was asked.

            The klaxon started once more as the front door closed, somewhat quicker than it had opened. The moment the doors boomed shut, the irises on the valves overhead cycled open and brand new, gleaming bright metal humanoids were ejected. Their limbs unfolded as they fell, unblemished steel, shining copper and golden brass parts snapping into place.  By the time they hit the grated floor they already scanning for targets and begun powering up arm mounted weapons both ranged and melee. Fortunately there were also only eight, one for each pipe.

            “Wrong lever!” Pham shouted, pressed up against the closed doors.

            The metal monsters stood there looking menacing but the Travellers didn’t give them a chance to turn the dangerous look into actual danger. With nearly twenty Travellers milling about on the walkway when the mechanical men landed, they were attacked from every direction at once and turned into fresh piles of scrap for the goo to start melting into the pool below. Overhead, a light on each iris blinked in increasing frequency, heralding another wave of combatants. Pham dove at the nearest pile and jammed his hands into its ruined chest. In the next instant the klaxon died again and the inner doors opened to reveal a t-junction.

            “Ok, make that three doors,” Warren smiled. “Which way next?”

            “If it follows the logic I’m expecting, when you turn left you’ll find a doorway to a hall that leads to the control room we could see through the glass,” Pham guessed. “Turning right should take you past another door that leads to a garrison and down the hall to the rest of the complex.”

            “Suuuuure, smarty-pants,” said a Traveller who looked like a cross between Chewbacca and Schwarzenegger. His name, or even his species, had  temporarily slipped Warren’s  mind, but in his head he’d dubbed him Schwarzenbacca. “What makes you say that?”

            Pham just smiled in the most infuriating way possible. Clearly irritating meatheads was both hobby and a calling to him. And since Warren needed his help, he could do it safely. Ish. “I’m going to go get my grenade. Is there anything else?”

            A vein began to pulse in Schwarzenbacca’s temple and, not for the first time, Warren marvelled at the effort the devs had put into making the game seem real. And, honestly, he didn’t blame him for getting irritated. The knife-eared git was managing to be both smug and cowardly at the same time. “Look, you do that. We’re going this way and, assuming you’re right about the barracks we’ll meet you in there or back in the hall if we’re done before you get back. Come on guys.”

            To no-ones’ surprise but everyones’ mild irritation the very next door down the right hand hall, an imposing metal monstrosity with a thick glass porthole at eye height, was indeed a garrison. It swung wide on surprisingly silent hinges and Warren led the way into the room quietly, having no skill at all in sneaking but doing his best anyway. The light gems began to brighten the moment he entered, revealing two rows of bunk beds that wouldn’t look out of place in an ancient war movie. The beds themselves were made from a dark metal, all square edges and corners. There was a drawer under each mattress that could be pulled out, one at knee height for the bottom bunk and one at head height for the top. Everything was coated in a thick layer of dust, or possibly mould. The fluffy mass absorbed their footfalls and deadend any noise they made. A gentle breeze stirred dust into the air, causing someone behind Warren to sneeze.

            “Uh, boss, I don’t think we’re alone here.”

            Sure enough, towards the back of the room were slumped figures leaning against the beds or lying flat on the floor. Staring into the gloom,Warren was able to make out humanoid shapes bending at the middle, very slowly sitting up and trying to move. Their attempts were hampered by the thick coating of dust and the fact that several were missing limbs entirely. One emitted a shower of sparks and fell still again, but that short burst was enough to ignite the dust cloaking its body and the flames washed across the floor like a wave.

            “Back! Back! Out the door!” Warren urged his crew. The fire was spreading quickly and would soon engulf the whole room. Everyone was hustling for the exit – all pretense at stealth abandoned. Warren stood by the door waving his crew through and making sure they all got out safely when a scream made his head snap around. Craig was lying on the floor, rolling about trying to put out the flames spreading up his legs. His efforts were hampered by a glowing hot hand gripping his ankle. The skin was sizzling where the fingers were wrapped around the tortured joint but Craig was in too much pain to think straight and free himself. Warren dashed forward in an attempt to pull him free when the torso the arm was attached to exploded. The shockwave knocked the wind out of Warren’s chest and hurled him backwards through the door. The same blast slammed the door shut as Warren fetched up against the wall opposite, dazed and singed but mostly unharmed.

            Dave struggled to open the door against the pressure shouting that he would rescue Craig, but Warren stopped him. “He’s gone for respawn. Unless you want to join him, keep it closed.”

            In the sombre dim light of the hallway they listened to the explosions rock the room on the other side of the door. The glow through the porthole eventually faded, taking their enthusiasm with it. “How about we call it for the night?” Warren suggested. “Craig has to get back here from town and I’m really not feeling it.”

            The remaining members agreed and after setting a time to play again they all logged off.

            “Right, so what did you find?” Pham sauntered down the hall, tossing a grenade from one hand to the other. “Guys? Hello?” He opened the door to the garrison and his eyes lit up. “Oooh, shinies!”

#writing #writblr #litrpg

[standardtitaniumu]

Types of Welding - TIG, Stick, and MIG Make Up 90% of All Welding

What are the different types of welding and what are they used for? If you are looking for a 20,000 foot view of the different types of welding along with applications, stick around for a minute, I think I can help.

Stick welding

Stick welding is often called Arc welding although that is kind of a misnomer because TIG welding and MIG welding are actually arc welding processes too. But ARC welding is what most people still call stick welding.  Stick welding is the old school kind of welding that grandpa used to do to fix his tractor in the barn. It uses a stick electrode like a 6013, 6011, or 7018 welding rod that is chucked up in an electrode holder that looks a little bit like a battery jumper cable clamp. The rod is struck like a match to get the arc going and the rod is fed into the puddle as it burns. Stick welding is pretty simple and the stick welding machine is simple too and also pretty cheap. You can buy a Lincoln 225 AC welding machine at any Home Depot for way less than 300 dollars.

MIG welding

Mig welding is considered one of the easiest types of welding to learn. Why? Because the rod does not have to be fed as it shortens like with stick welding. A wire is fed through a cable and out the end of the mig welding gun and all the operator is required to do is to pull the trigger and weld. Sounds easy right? Well it is not that easy. It is a little bit easier to learn than stick welding but only a little.

Titanium Tube

Mig welding actually kind of describes 2 types of welding...bare wire mig, AND flux core welding.

Bare wire mig is cleaner, and will weld thinner metal, but flux core is easier to use outdoors and does not require a cylinder of mig welding gas or a flow meter. Flux core welding is usually either used for cheap hobby welder s where the buyer does not want to spend the money for gas and a gas conversion kit, or for really heavy duty applications like earth moving equipment and heavy production welding.

TIG welding

TIG welding is considered one of the more difficult types of welding to learn...harder to master than mig or stick welding. That is because both hands are needed to tig weld. One hand holds a tig torch with a tungsten electrode that provides the arc and heat...and the other hand feeds the rod.  TIG welding equipment is generally more expensive and more difficult to set up because there is often a remote amperage foot pedal included and it takes a cylinder of argon or argon mix shielding gas to work.

Tig welding is the most versatile type of welding of all. Virtually all conventional metals can be welded with the tig process. Carbon and low alloy steels, stainless steel, nickel alloys, aluminum, magnesium, titanium, cobalt, and copper alloys can all be welded using this type of welding.

Plasma arc welding

Plasma arc welding is similar to tig welding except that the tungsten electrode is recessed inside a nozzle and the heat is created by ionizing gasses flowing around the arc. Plasma arc welding is used where high precision is required and in situations where a recessed electrode is beneficial.  Plasma arc welding is used extensively in aerospace applications for dimensional restoration of air seals and jet engine blade repair where thicknesses are often below .015" and amperages used are often single digit.

Gas welding

Gas welding is one of the old school types of welding.  Oxygen and Acetylene is the most popular setup for a gas welding kit and gas welding is still used a lot for automotive exhaust applications, as well as by homebuilt airplane enthusiasts for welding 4130 chromoly tubing for airplane fuselages.  It works. It's portable. And it is fairly versatile... There are still some people that swear by gas welding even for welding aluminum.

Titanium Sheet

Some people believe that tig welding is much better than gas welding. I am one of those people.

Electron beam and laser welding. 

These types of welding are considered high energy welding processes because they pinpoint heat so much better than older more conventional types of welding. Electron beam welding can penetrate through 6 inches of steel without any bevel.

Laser welding can pinpoint heat so precisely that weld metal can be deposited on a tool steel injection mold cavity so precisely that heat treatments can be eliminated and only minimal machining is needed in order to restore dimensions.

[powerengeneeringservices]

PESVS is a leading company in Perth Australia offering quality engineering & maintenance services

PESVS is a leading company in Perth Australia that offers quality engineering & maintenance services. They have a team of skilled professionals dedicated to providing the best service possible.

PESVS is the perfect choice for any business or individual needing engineering or maintenance services.

PESVS is a leading company in Perth Australia that offers quality engineering & maintenance services.

PESVS is a leading company in Perth Australia that offers quality engineering & maintenance services. They have a team of dedicated professionals who are always available to help their clients with their needs. Their clients include major companies and government departments in Perth. They deliver a variety of services, some of which are:

Engineering services

Maintenance services

Project management

Design services

Fabrication services

Welding services

Pipefitting services

Civil engineering services

Electrical engineering services

Mechanical engineering services

Asset management

Their engineering services are backed by a team of qualified professionals dedicated to meeting their clients' needs.

Their engineering services are backed by a team of qualified professionals dedicated to meeting their clients' needs. You can be sure that your project is in good hands with them. Their team will be with you every step from the initial consultation to project completion. They are committed to providing you with the best possible service, and they always work to exceed your expectations. Their engineering services include:

 Civil engineering

Structural engineering

 Electrical engineering

Mechanical engineering

 Environmental engineering

 Land surveying

 Project management

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Traffic engineering

Their maintenance services are designed to keep your equipment running smoothly & efficiently.

Maintaining your equipment is essential to keeping it running smoothly and efficiently. As a result, we provide comprehensive maintenance services to assist you in keeping your machines operational. Our skilled professionals will work with you to create a maintenance plan that is specific to your needs and specifications.

So you can focus on your business, we'll handle everything from regular tune-ups and inspections to repairs and replacements. Contact us today to learn more about our maintenance services and how we can help you keep your equipment running smoothly.

Maintenance Services Include:

Tune-ups and inspections

Repairs

Replacements

Regular maintenance

PESVS is committed to providing quality services that exceed the expectations of their clients.

PESVS Power Engineering Services is a company that is dedicated to providing quality services that exceed the expectations of their clients. They work hard to create a lasting relationship with their clients and always look for ways to improve their services. PESVS is committed to providing the best possible service to their clients, and they will continue to work hard to meet the needs of their clients. Some of the services that PESVS offers include engineering design services, construction management services, and engineering consulting services. They also provide a variety of other services that are designed to meet the needs of their clients. PESVS is dedicated to providing quality services that exceed the expectations of their clients.

For electrical systems to be reliable and safe, electrical testing services are essential. Specialized electrical test equipment, such as insulation testers, clamp meters, and earth testing equipment, are needed to perform these tests. In cases where the equipment is only needed for a short period, electrical test equipment hire can be a cost-effective solution. For example, earth testing is a critical test that ensures the integrity of a building's electrical grounding system. By regularly performing these tests and utilizing electrical test equipment, companies can identify and address potential problems before they become more significant, ensuring their electrical systems' safety and reliability.

#electrical test equipment hire #electrical test equipment #electrical testing services

[the-corvus-luna]

CLAMP Herbal Tea Diary

Translation thanks to ChatGPT:

~*INTRODUCTION*~

The four girls from CLAMP moved to a new workplace. They have a cute cat (note: an alien, as referenced in "The Cat Who Fell To Earth") and their days should be filled with fun, but for some reason, they haven't been feeling "happy and content" lately. So, the four of them decided to discuss their symptoms.

"Recently, my body hasn't been feeling good."

"It takes me a long time to fall asleep."

"I get tired easily."

"I don't know why, but I feel sleepy."

"I just want to see cute girls."

Could their irregular work schedule be to blame? The four girls put their heads together to come up with ideas. However, they had jobs to do and were also lazy. They didn't know how to take care of their health properly either. So, they wondered what they could do.

"I know! Let's get a maid!"

"Good idea, a maid!"

"That's a good idea!"

"That's a good idea!"

"That sounds good to me."

"The maid can help us stay healthy."

"The maid will definitely do that for us."

"Yeah, for sure!"

"Anyway, we want to see cute girls."

For some reason, the four girls decided to call for a maid. They loved maids and wives since they were young.

"Where can we find a maid?"

"Maybe at the maid market."

"No, they have a maid fair twice a year."

"Let's search the internet for it."

"Okay."

"We searched the internet to find the hospital in Kakyoin, remember?"

"We can find a maid there."

"Definitely."

"Anyway, we want to see cute girls."

CLAMP used their computers to search for where they could find maids to hire. After a while, they found a website called "Electric Maid Dispatch Association." They sent an email requesting maid service.

After a while, they received a response from the "Electric Maid Dispatch Association." The response said that two maids would be sent to CLAMP's workplace.

CLAMP was overjoyed.

"Now we can have maids come to our place."

"That's great!"

"That's awesome!"

"Now we can become healthier."

"I hope so."

"The maid will kindly take care of our health."

"We're so happy."

"That's so awesome!"

"Anyway, we hope they're cute girls."

And so, two maids arrived at CLAMP's workplace.

Featuring Rosemary and Marigold

Rosemary

Height: 159 centimeters

Weight: undisclosed

Personality: calm, reliable, practical, absent-minded, but quite dependable

Hobbies: growing herbs, aromatherapy, knitting, cooking

Likes: listening to music, reading books

Maid experience: 4 years

Note: A versatile maid who can please any household. There's nothing in particular that she's not good at in terms of work. She has been drinking herbal tea since she was a child. However, please note that without her glasses, she can't see anything beyond a radius of 1 meter.

Marigold

Height: 160 centimeters

Weight: undisclosed (jokingly says 3 tons)

Personality: forgetful, short-tempered, quick to argue, scatterbrained, but quite emotional

Hobbies: collecting cute cups, making potpourri, playing tennis, fighting games

Likes: gaming, singing

Maid experience: 3 months

Notes: A still problematic novice maid. It seems that she caused some problems even in the household she worked before coming to CLAMP's workplace. She recently started studying about herbal tea. She has good physical coordination, so she is good at moving her body.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ABOUT HERB TEA

All the tea made by the maid is made from dry herbs. Please be aware that the blend ratios are also made up of dry herbs. Note that commercially available dry herbs come in two forms: finely cut leaves and whole (original shape). Recently, tea bags are also sold, so please ask at the store.

How to make dry herb tea.

Prepare a teapot, teacup, hot water, dry herbs, and a tea strainer.

2. Boil water and then turn off the heat. Let it sit for about 30 seconds until the water settles down, then transfer enough hot water for the number of people (one cup per person) to the teapot and add the appropriate amount of dry herbs. One spoonful of tea leaves is enough for one person. Adjust the ratios accordingly for blends. For example, if you are making a blend of chamomile 1: linden 1: orange peel 1: lemongrass 1 for four people, each will require one spoonful.

3. Immediately cover the teapot with a lid and let it steep for 3-5 minutes. Always cover the teapot during the extraction process to avoid losing the volatile components of the herbs.

4. Meanwhile, pour the remaining hot water into the teacup and warm it up. Discard this water when the tea is ready.

5. Then, using a tea strainer, pour the tea into each cup, being careful not to include any herb leaves. Gradually pouring the tea into each cup ensures that the concentration of each cup is the same and makes it a delicious and enjoyable experience for everyone.

#CLAMP #Tea

[silyabeeodess]

FusionFall Headcanons: Heavy Pinchers

Rather than having been formed from a specific vehicle, these monsters have been frankensteined together from multiple types of heavy machinery. While they do still have the single, large crane attachment, remains of other cranes--with only one claw to each--make up their front legs. Meanwhile, excavator parts make up their back legs and lower jaw. Standing at 3.5 meters (approx. 11.5 ft.) on average, according to concept art, these titans can easily crush whatever stands in their way.  

If their bodies were to be compared to any specific creature, the Heavy Pinchers share a number of physical similarities to frogs. Also like frogs, as seen in their in-game animations, these monsters can move both with a quadrupedal walking gait and saltation (a hopping pattern), the latter type of movement used more often when the monsters attack. This was possibly intentional due to the strong likelihood of frogs in the nearby environment for fusion spawns to mimic.  However, thanks to the claw crane attachment, the Heavy Pinchers are incapable of jumping the same long distances as frogs, relative to their size, since it would likely throw them off balance or even cause damage to themselves.    

Another habit they take from frogs is hunting by overpowering their targets. Large species of frogs, like the bullfrog, will not only eat insects, but birds, snakes, mice, and other frogs. The Heavy Pinchers can attack Earthlings in a similar manner, unhinging their metal jaws to clamp down on a person practically whole--a death grip that can be almost impossible to escape. 

If a fusion fighter finds themselves caught in a Heavy Pincher’s maw, you have to stay calm. With the exception of any other objects or fusion matter also caught in its mouth, there should be some room to move around.  You can target the joints of the jaw to force its mouth open and escape. 

Still, that’s far from their only means of attack. Heavy Pinchers are known for crushing anyone that gets too close, their forelimbs can be used to slice and stab at enemies, and their working crane claw can even pick up small vehicles and fling them across a battlefield. Simply put, it’s best if you try avoiding going head-to-head with these monsters.   

At the very start of the war, they were used to deal severe damage to both civilians and property, since their massive strength and size could tear through the average neighborhood without much resistance. However, Earth’s forces were quick to set up defenses against them. For one thing, they’re pretty noisy and their size also makes it extremely hard for them to move with anything remotely resembling stealth. Guards can spot Heavy Pinchers coming for miles. Fusion Fighters have set up positions surrounding the area where the majority of Heavy Pinchers are located, largely keeping them contained. 

They do so not just with manpower, but by using the terrain. Again, the Heavy Pinchers have similarities to frogs, but aren’t as nimble because they’re so big and bulky with added attachments. Heavy machinery like cranes and bulldozers are very much capable of getting stuck in soft ground, like muddy areas, so Heavy Pinchers can get trapped in a similar way.  This makes it difficult for them to move across the creek without using the bridge. Fusion Fighters also set up numerous traps or use torn apart sections of land caused by the Maelstrom Creepers to their advantage, creating pitfalls.  This might explain the large hole at the edge of Peach Creek Estates closest to Goat’s Junkyard.       

While armored, their weak points are pipes along the back and sides and exposed sections of the engine. You can also shoot out the glass windows from what was the driver’s seat of the original vehicles, but they’re often flooded with fusion matter and so can cause large leaks.  

Their evolved cousins, the Heavy Punchers, are noted in their description to have an even stronger claw that can pierce solid rock.   

#fusionfall #headcanons #heavy pinchers #heavy punchers #video games #fusion monsters

[meierwhitehead97]

Sotorasib regarding Endometrial Preparation within Sufferers Starting In vitro fertilization: A Systematic Assessment and Meta-analysis

A new stretch-activated (SA) Clist(:) channel inside the plasma televisions membrane layer of the man mast mobile or portable collection HMC-1 has been determined inside outside-out patch-clamp studies. SA voltages, caused by stress put on the actual pipette, exhibited current dependence using powerful external rectification (Fityfive.1 pS in +100 mV with an concerning tenfold decrease conductance with -100 mV). The probability of the particular SA channel staying open up (S (to)) also revealed large to the outside rectification and also force dependency. The open-time syndication ended up being fixed together with three components eventually always the same associated with tau(1o) Is equal to 755.1 microsof company, tau(2o) Equals 166.Several ms, and tau(3o) Equals 07.Your five microsof company from +60 mV. The particular closed-time syndication also required 3 parts after a while constants involving tau(1c) Equals 661.Half a dozen milliseconds, tau(2c) Is equal to 252.Only two milliseconds, and tau(3c) Equates to Your five.Six microsof company from +60 mV. Reducing extracellular Clist(-) concentration reduced your conductance, changed the particular reversal possible in the direction of click here chloride change potential, and lowered your P (to) with positive potentials. The actual SA C-list(-) power have been Epidermal growth factor receptor reversibly blocked with the chloride route blocker Some,4'-diisothiocyanatostilbene-2,2'-disulfonic acid solution (DIDS) however, not by (Unces)*1-(p-dimethylaminoethoxyphenyl)-1,2-diphenyl-1-butene (tamoxifen). Additionally, in HMC-1 tissue inflammation due to osmotic anxiety, DIDS might slow down the rise in intra cellular [Ca(2+) and degranulation. All of us conclude that will inside the HMC-1 mobile line, your SA facing outward gusts are usually mediated through Craigslist(*) influx. Your SA Clist(--) route may give rise to mast mobile or portable degranulation due to physical stimuli or even speed up tissue layer combination in the degranulation method.Trojans are the most plentiful and diverse biological entities inside of soils, nevertheless his or her environmental affect is essentially unfamiliar. Understanding how garden soil viral areas modify with perturbation or throughout conditions can bring about comprehending the bigger enviromentally friendly significance of dirt malware. A whole new way of looking at the particular arrangement associated with dirt viral areas determined by haphazard PCR boosting regarding polymorphic DNA (RAPD-PCR) was created. A key methodological improvement had been the usage of virus-like metagenomic sequence data to the design of RAPD-PCR primers. This specific metagenomically educated way of for beginners design empowered the particular Selleckchem Olaparib optimisation of RAPD-PCR sensitivity regarding looking at modifications in earth viral areas. Original putting on RAPD-PCR popular fingerprinting to be able to garden soil viral residential areas demonstrated that your make up involving autochthonous dirt well-liked assemblages visibly changed over a range involving meters alongside any transect of Antarctic soils and around soil subjected to different terrain employs. Regarding Antarctic soils, viral assemblages segregated upslope through the fringe of dried up valley wetlands. Regarding warm soils at the Kellogg Biological Station, virus-like towns clustered based on territory make use of therapy.

#Sotorasib #Olaparib #Epidermal growth factor receptor

[anantradingpvtltd]

Price: [price_with_discount] (as of [price_update_date] - Details) [ad_1] Product Description THIS GAMEPAD JUST FOR ANDROID AND DO NOT SUPPORT IOS SYSTEM, PLEASE DON'T BUY IT IF YOUR PHONE SYSTEM IS IOS, THANKS! NOTE: Our controller can work with PUBG and Fotnite perfectly, the problem such as connection or can't control two buttons at the same time, it is due to your game setting, please let us know first instead of returning, we will guide you to reset the controller. Google has blocked your access to Fornite on Google Play, you can download Fornite through the Epic Games App on the Samsung Galaxy Store or their website. Features： Supports Action / Racing / Fighting / Shooting / Athletics games from App Store or Google Play Store.Supports PUBG MOBILE, Call of Duty Mobile, Asphalt 9 Legends, Bike Race Free Style Games, CSR Racing 2, Guns of Glory, Garena Free Fire, Last Day on Earth Survival, Last Shelter Survival, Grand Theft Auto 5, Pixel Gun 3D Battle Royale, Sniper 3D Assassin Gun Games, The Walking Dead Our World, World of Tanks Blitz MMO, DRAGON BALL Z DOKKAN BATTLE, Game of Thrones Conquest, Injustice 2, King of Avalon Dragon Warfare, Mobile Legends Bang Bang, War Dragons, Golf Clash, NBA 2K Mobile Basketball, WWE SuperCard, MLB 9 Innings 18 and more!Built-in lithium battery, supports charging and play, no worry about running out battery during gaming.Phones can be placed on the telescopic holder, it is convenient for playing games, maximum can clamp 3.4inch phone in vertical view.DO NOT SUPPORT MediaTek chip (MTK CPU), including Dimensity chip & Helio chip. What will you get: 1 x Gamepad for Android 1x Phone Clamp Holder 1 x D Cap 1x Micro USB Cable 1x User Manual Specification Compatible System Android 5.0 above Battery 400mah Wireless Range Approx.6-8 meters Battery Life Approx. 18 hours Battery Standby Life 30 days Charging Time 2 hours Charge Cable Type Micro usb Cable Length 30cm/9.8ft Working Voltage 5.0V/200mA Smartphone Clip Size Maximum clamp 3.4inch in horizontal view Product Dimensions ‏

: ‎ 11 x 15 x 15 cm; 220 Grams ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0B8NDMT6C Country of Origin ‏ : ‎ China Manufacturer ‏ : ‎ AOKO Item Weight ‏ : ‎ 220 g Item Dimensions LxWxH ‏ : ‎ 11 x 15 x 15 Centimeters Net Quantity ‏ : ‎ 1.00 Set Generic Name ‏ : ‎ Wireless Gamepad PUBG & FORNITE FULLY SUPPORT – The gamepad supports most controller supported Action/Racing/Fighting/Shooting/Athletics games from Android App store. Summoners War, War Dragons, NBA 2K Mobile Basketball, NBA LIVE Mobile Basketball,Madden NFL Overdrive Football, MLB 9 Innings 18. COMPATIBLE MODELS - Requires Android 6.0+ version. Support Samsung Galaxy S10+ S10 S9 S8 S7 Note 10+ 9 8 A9 C9, Samsung S20 S20+, LG, Sony Xperia, Moto, Google, Nokia Lumia, Huawei, Xiao MI, Table[BUT do not support Android device with MTK CPU]. SUPPORT MOST GAMES - Call of Duty Mobile, Halo, Asphalt 9 Legends, CSR Racing 2, Guns of Glory, Garena Free Fire, Last Day on Earth Survival, Last Shelter Survival, Sniper 3D Assassin Gun Games, World of Tanks Blitz MMO and so on. NOTICE – The gamepad is 100% compatible with PUBG/ Fotnite, problem such as can not press 2 buttons simultaneously or key doesn't work with settings, it is due to your game setting problem, please contact us first, we will guide you to solve problem. [ad_2]

[calibrationprism]

Electrical Measurement Calibration and Electrical Instruments Supplier

Prominent & Leading Distributor / Channel Partner from Ahmedabad, we offer Digital Clamp Meter, Earth Tester, Digital Three Phase KVA Meter, Digital Energy Meter, Digital Leakage Current Tester and Digital Insulation Tester.

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