#Cement Testing Machine

[keferon]

Part 3! Ratchet and Deadlock time.

The ray of sunshine has left, leaving us in the cold dark of the angst.

Ratchet works through some stuff.

———————————————————————

Ratchet hadn’t actually meant for the conversation to start with Roddy.

The medic had wanted to fully explain why he’d left the Mecha Program for awhile. His outburst earlier cementing the fact he needed to get it off his chest, or he’d start lashing out at the wrong people.

Again.

The Kid deserved to know what staying with him could drag him into. Ratchet kept his hands busy cleaning his bowl in the shop sink.

Hot Rod, Ratchet realized, was a good enough bridge into the topic. Someone Deadlock could put a face to. Not just nameless pilots upon pilots.

“There’s a condition called Congenital Insensitivity to Pain. CIP for short. The abbreviated explanation is sometimes humans can be born without the ability to feel pain or that the sensation of pain doesn’t translate correctly to the brain. It’s a very dangerous condition to have since it means that the person doesn’t get the usual warning signs that’s something’s wrong.”

The bowl was completely clean but so long as Ratchet didn’t turn around, he could pretend he was just training a med student.

“So that question about “weird pressures”. You were checking for damage Hot Rod doesn’t know he’s sustained due this CIP condition?”

Kid was smarter than he gave himself credit for. Ratchet thought for not the first time. He almost got it right.

“Hot Rod doesn’t have CIP. Not actual CIP.”

Ratchet put the bowl down, his hand not moving from the faucet after turning it off.

“He wasn’t born with it. Because I caused it.”

—————————

“I was so damn proud.” Said Ratchet.

At the time, he was. The integration process for recruits to become pilots was horrific. Excruciatingly painful. And something out of a science fiction movie.

In order to condition the human nervous system to work with the mecha neural interface, it necessitated mapping out every nerve and neuron in the pilots body.

While conscious.

Orion came up with the best analogy for it once: You could create a perfect 3 dimensional map of an entire ant colony’s nest. Provided you poured enough molten lead down the hole.

Ratchet wasn’t one to standby watching friends or strangers suffer, so he rolled up his sleeves and set his mind to fixing the whole damn thing.

On the line between man and machine, Ratchets role in the mecha program was right on the fence.

Specifically, he’d started very close to the fence on the side of the machines, and during the course of the program, picked up enough extra PHD’s to hook a leg over said fence to reach across and start smacking the shit out of some particularly stupid doctors handling the men.

Ratchet worked for years along side Pharma and Shockwave to make the integration process less permanently damaging.

Common long term side effects were: Blurry Vision Jazz, Disassociation Swoop, Memory Loss Sludge, Paralysis Snarl, Nerve Damge Slag, Internal Hemorrhaging Grimlock, Altered Personality Shockwave, and Brain Death Orion.

There were dozens more faces Ratchet could pair with any given symptom.

Eventually, Ratchet got his lucky break. A fresh batch of recruits to try his tweaked integration process on. Hot Rod was one of them.

Ratchet had thought he’d hit a breakthrough. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t publish it yet. Not until he was sure.

Hot Rod aced the physical and mental exam. The rest of his test group did pretty well too. They weren’t cream of the crop. The higher ups didn’t want to risk loosing more valuable pilots to an experiment. When Pharma had already established an “acceptable level of care” that nicely suited them.

Ratchet personally watched the lot of them like a hawk. Just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It didn’t come. Hot Rod was fine. The whole group was fine.

He was so damn proud.

The pilots went straight into mecha training and then-

They dropped like flies.

It was on the bad end of the bell curve for pilot fatalities. Ratchet thought it had to be the new series of mecha that had been built at the same time. He’d switched into engineering mode to rectify that. They had glaring safety issues where the flamethrowers and thrusters intersected. Plus, it wasn’t unusual for the mecha program to just have particularly rough seasons. The tentacled fucks were out in swarms. And by god was that a bloody summer for everyone.

It happened three days after the last big fight. Pretty much everyone who came back alive came back with some sort of injury. Except for Hot Rod, who Pharma gave a clean bill of health.

Ratchet was in his corner of the medical wing, looking over his proposal for the new integration method when Jazz dragged Hot Rod into his office.

Red flag number one: Jazz was a nightmare patient who avoided the med wing like a bear trap.

He tried. Goddamn it if Jazz didn’t try, but he was physically incapable of getting through medical procedures without being heavily sedated. The last time Ratchet tried to do minor stitches with only a local anesthetic, Jazz panicked and damn near broke his arm.

Jazz and Hot Rod were both wearing shorts, t-shirts and sneakers. Judging from the smell, they had just gotten here from the rec room. Probably basketball or maybe dodgeball.

Ratchet had gone through a full medical checklist before they finished coming through the door. Neither looked sick or injured. Nothing was obviously wrong beyond the clear look on Jazz’s face that said “Something is actually very wrong.”

Jazz wheeled Hot Rod in front of Ratchet.

“Show him.”

Hot Rod looked more embarrassed than in desperate need of medical attention.

“I’m fine Jazz, I probably just need to stretch.”

Jazz waved his hand cutting him off. Ratchet would usually start telling them off by now but something stopped him.

“Hot Rod raise your arms above your head. Both of them.”

The red headed pilot reluctantly obeyed. His right arm lifted straight up above his body. His left. Hot Rod made a face of concentration, as his left arm refused to go any higher than his head.

Three days.

Hot Rods shoulder had been dislocated for three days and no one fucking noticed.

Ratchet chewed out Jazz at first thinking he’d caused it. Then he chewed out Hot Rod for not coming to medical as soon as he knew about the injury.

And then, something very cold settled into his stomach the more and more Hot Rod swore he didn’t notice. That it didn’t even hurt.

“Ratchet, I’m fine!”

He should have been in pain. In agony after three days.

Later, Ratchet would go through each medical file of every pilot he had been responsible for. They had all had ailments in their files. Minor visible injuries that were all taken care of. Major ones went surprisingly smoothly. Patient notes praising the med staff for keeping them so comfortable. Praising him. Not one pilot had made a single pain med request since going through the integration process. On his files, there was one surviving active duty pilot from the same integration process.

Ratchet’s integration process.

————————

“Hot Rod said he forgave me.” Ratchet laughed. A little too wet and little too rough.

“Just like that.”

When’d he start shaking?

Ratchet still didn’t, couldn’t look the Kid in the eyes. “I left, not long after. There’s so much fucking more that was happening. That was the last straw, because when I told Shockwave and Pharma, those heartless fucks wanted to make it standard across the board. Soldiers that can’t feel pain? Of fucking course they wanted that. Didn’t matter the fatality rate was nine times as high.”

Ratchets voice was getting worse. But he couldn’t stop. “I thought I could fix it all from the inside. I thought as long as I stayed I could be some, fucking moral compass to a bunch of greedy, prideful, fucking deranged people. I was an egotistical IDIOT that thought I could somehow save every doomed kid tricked into walking into that “necessary evil.” I actually believed I could-”

Ratchet was abruptly cut off from his ranting as two massive hands grabbed him around the waist and deposited him on a ledge, at eye level.

“Kid, what-“ Deadlocks eyes looked shiny.

“I-I can’t keep looking down at you.”

The two of them sat in silence.

Neither seemed to know or want to start talking again right away. Ratchet was used to stewing in regrets on occasion. That had felt more like putting those regrets into a blender and then forgetting the lid.

Deadlocks plating was pulled tight. Ratchet had almost forgotten what he looked like when he was stressed. He wanted immediately to take it all back. Make it better. See him laugh drunk and cozy again like yesterday.

“Kid, I’m sorry. That- that was too much to put on you.” Deadlocks hands weren’t gripping him anymore but resting on either side of the ledge. Ratchet pet small circles on a thumb that twitched slightly under his hand.

Deadlock straightened and looked at him with a steely expression, mouth tense, eyes determined.

“You are one of the most intelligent, stubborn, and caring people I’ve ever met. Nope.” Deadlock corrected himself, lifting a hand. “THE most intelligent, stubborn and caring person that exists.” He dragged out the syllables of that last word.

“You!” He poked Ratchet in the chest. “Saved me. And I’m fragging terrible.”

Ratchet took offense to that, “You’re not terrible and you’re worth saving!”

Deadlock grinned, “The worst thing you can possibly say about yourself is that you care too much to put up with some kind of slagged up torture facility. Which, by the way, I am still fully offering to blown up.”

“Still full of innocent people kid.”

“Okay kidnapping then. I say we nab Hot Rod first.”

Ratchet leaned back against the wall and made one of those desperate chuckles you only hear when someone has their face buried in their hands. “Kid. The quintessons.”

That took a little wind out of his sails.

“The system is fucking broken and trust me I want to see it all burn someday. But we’re in a goddamn war. And as much as I hate the mecha program, it’s the best shot at survival we have.” Ratchet watched Deadlocks finales pin back again.

He offered a palm to Ratchet, who after a moment’s consideration, not very gracefully scooted on. Instead of lowering him to the floor, Deadlock brought him to his face. His eyes closed and he gently bumped his medic with his forehelm.

“Whatever you need. Just ask. Please.”

Ratchet sighed and rested his own forehead against the cybertronian. “I want you take care of yourself. I told you all that stuff so you understand why I’m fighting giants here and you can decide to back out. They can hurt you kid. Kill you. I don’t even want to think about what would have happened if Shockwave found you instead of me.”

Deadlock snorted, “Please, do you think any of those suits could handle me?”

Ratchet tapped his hand to put him down, which Deadlock obliged. He hummed.

“Well I can think of three candidates off the top of my head, but one got lost in space and the other might technically be a zombie.”

“What’s the third?”

Ratchet started shrugging on a coat, “Hot Rod.”

He smirked a bit as Deadlocks finales snapped up in offense. “What? Absolutely not. No fragging way that little rust spot can beat me in a fight.”

Ratchet began packing a go bag of medical supplies, “Well I was going to keep it to myself, but part of the reason I brought him in was because I asked Hot Rod to look out for you where I can’t.”

He slung the heavy bag over one shoulder. “Plus, I knew Hot Rod was going to love you. He sees the best in people. And kid?” Ratchet paused at the door.

“You’re someone special.”

———————————————————————

It’s always darkest before the dawn. This…has become a four parter. Dang. Good news is the ray of sunshine will return in style next time.

Some extra tid-bits, I got a head canon that the main side effect Jazz got from the integration process (other than PTSD) is blurry vision. He can see fine while hooked into a mech but can’t get his eyes to focus properly as a human. So Ratchet whipped up a visor that tricks his eyes into thinking he’s still looking through a mecha so he can see normally.

Also, a lot of you guys guessed correctly what was going on with Roddy! Good job everyone!

Lastly I have nothing personal against the dinobots if you love them I’m very sorry.

The next (last?) part will be much brighter. Because the suns coming back.

- SSTP

Oh.....oh fuck....wait WAIT THIS HAS SO MUCH MORE LAYERS THAN I WAS EXPECTING OH MY GOD

I was like. Okay huh. So Roddy can't feel pain right? He must be having this rare condition and? I don't really see where this is going? Huh. Guess it's time to find ouUUUUUH FUCK.

Please. Oh my god. The fact that Ratchet was the one who made him to be like that??? This gives both of them and their dynamic more layers than in a freaking onion. And Roddy didn't just suffer from Ratchets actions. He forgave him. Because OF COURSE he did, he's always giving everyone a second chance I LOVE THIS CONCEPT SO MUCH YOU HAVE NO IDEA

[pome-seed]

The Soldier's Keeper ★ 7

Pairing: Winter Soldier!Bucky x Doctor!Reader

Word Count: 800 (Short but important)

Summary: The Soldier, so far out of reach, brings you some semblance of peace.

Warnings: Captivity, angst, longing, helplessness, and more angst.

Authors Note: Song recommendation for this chapter is "We Hug Now" by Sydney Rose. (This mini chapter makes me sad)

Series Masterlist Next Chapter

You were lost.

You were lost in helplessness. 

You longed for your home, for your life before all of this. You grieved your life. You sat at your desk, forcing yourself to focus on the task at hand, but there were days when you couldn’t help it. You’d stare at the cold cement wall, wondering how much time had passed. How many weeks had it been since that first day you woke in that dark room? How long had it been since you first met the Soldier? You’d wonder what your friends thought happened to you. You wondered what your family thought. 

And then, you’d see the Soldier’s reflection in your monitor and you’d wonder those same things about him. 

You wondered what happened to him. His family. His friends. His life. You wondered if once he was willingly here. If he was a part of some cause that slowly got twisted and twisted until he recognised nothing around him.

Or maybe, one day he woke up and everything had changed. 

Maybe one day he looked down at himself and didn’t recognise what he saw. Maybe he cried and screamed and begged for the pain to end. Maybe he was afraid. Maybe he was still afraid. 

Maybe he would never stop being afraid.

There was something about the soldier that twisted a knife in your chest. Something human and cold and aching. Something about the way he breathed softly, like he was used to making everything about him blend into the silence. Something about the way you could see his cheek pinched between his teeth when he waited. 

Something about those tragically blue eyes. 

Everyone around you seemed to look at him like he was a machine, some cog in something much bigger than either of you two knew. 

They looked at him like the piece that kept him human had died a long time ago.

But you saw the twitch of his fingers when you pressed a needle through his skin. You saw the way he hunched slightly when he saw it was you walking through the door, and not Pierce. You saw the way he tilted his head when you explained the science behind one of your tests, confusion painting his furrowed brow. 

You saw that small bit of human still inside of him, that small bit he still clung so desperately to. 

You didn’t know this man. But you felt a part of yourself longing to help him. 

Trapped, helpless, and doomed, you still wished you could shield him from something bigger.

Maybe it was because you were a woman, and you, in some way, understood the deep objectification. Or maybe, because you too had spent a portion of your life feeling helpless and invisible. 

Maybe it was just because you couldn’t stand the image of someone being used like they weren't their own person. 

All you knew was that when you looked into those blue eyes, you saw something soft, like a flickering light still clinging to life.

You felt the weight those eyes held every time you turned your back. Just like you, he seemed to be trying to figure you out. He watched you with a pinch in his brow, seemingly in a constant state of confusion. 

You never mentioned it. You never stopped him. You figured he needed it, something else to focus on. Something beside the looming shadow that always seemed to hover over him.

So you turned a blind eye to the intense way he stared at the back of your head. You pretended not to notice the way he tracked every movement of your hands when you worked. You ignored the gentle frown of his lips that always followed when you smiled at him. 

You didn’t want to question him and take the one thing he had left. His thoughts.

You couldn’t save him.

You couldn’t save yourself. 

You could beg, and wish, and pray to whatever was out there, but you knew the truth.

The Avengers weren’t coming. 

A Savior wasn’t coming. 

It was up to you and him. 

It was left to you to find a way to stop it all. And if it was the last thing you did, you were going to do it. It’s all you had left to cling to. You had seen your captors faces. You knew about The Winter Soldier. You knew what they did to him. You were never going to make it home. 

So if it was the last thing you did, you were going to try to help the man with the sad blue eyes.

A/N: I thought it was important to show what draws you to the soldier. Because in all reality, the reader is alone in captivity, with the worst realization about your future in front of you. And all you want is something to cling to, something to make you feel safe and understood. And in front of you is someone so equally alone, you can't help but understand him.

@rafesgurl @pleasecallmeunhinged @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @frog-fans-unite @lonelyghosts-stuff @cherryandsugar @a-world-with-pure-imagination

[bixels]

Portal 2 is still the perfect game to me. I hyperfixated on it like crazy in middle school. Would sing Want You Gone out loud cuz I had ADHD and no social awareness. Would make fan animations and pixel art. Would explain the ending spoilers and fan theories to anyone who'd listen. Would keep up with DeviantArt posts of the cores as humans. Would find and play community-made maps (Gelocity is insanely fun).

I still can't believe this game came out 12 years ago and it looks like THIS.

Like Mirror's Edge, the timeless art style and economic yet atmospheric lighting means this game will never age. The decision not to include any visible humans (ideas of Doug Rattmann showing up or a human co-op partner were cut) is doing so much legroom too. And the idea to use geometric tileset-like level designs is so smart! I sincerely believe that, by design, no game with a "realistic art style" has looked better than Portal 2.

Do you guys remember when Nvidia released Portal with RTX at it looked like dogshit? Just the most airbrushed crap I've ever seen; completely erased the cold, dry, clinical feel of Aperture.

So many breathtakingly pit-in-your-stomach moments I still think about too. And it's such a unique feeling; I'd describe at as... architectural existentialism? Experiencing the sublime under the shadow of manmade structures (Look up Giovanni Battista Piranesi's art if you're curious)? That scene where you're running from GLaDOS with Wheatley on a catwalk over a bottomless pit and––out of rage and desperation––GLaDOS silently begins tearing her facility apart and Wheatley cries 'She's bringing the whole place down!' and ENORMOUS apartment building-sized blocks begin groaning towards you on suspended rails and cement pillars crumble and sparks fly and the metal catwalk strains and bends and snaps under your feet. And when you finally make it to the safety of a work lift, you look back and watch the facility close its jaws behind you as it screams.

Or the horror of knowing you're already miles underground, and then Wheatley smashes you down an elevator shaft and you realize it goes deeper. That there's a hell under hell, and it's much, much older.

Or how about the moment when you finally claw your way out of Old Aperture, reaching the peak of this underground mountain, only to look up and discover an endless stone ceiling built above you. There's a service door connected to some stairs ahead, but surrounding you is this array of giant, building-sized springs that hold the entire facility up. They stretch on into the fog. You keep climbing.

I love that the facility itself is treated like an android zooid too, a colony of nano-machines and service cores and sentient panel arms and security cameras and more. And now, after thousands of years of neglect, the facility is festering with decomposition and microbes; deer, raccoons, birds. There are ghosts too. You're never alone, even when it's quiet. I wonder what you'd hear if you put your ear up against a test chamber's walls and listened. (I say that all contemplatively, but that's literally an easter egg in the game. You hear a voice.)

Also, a reminder that GLaDOS and Chell are not related and their relationship is meant to be psychosexual. There was a cut bit where GLaDOS would role-play as Chell's jealous housewife and accuse her of seeing other cores in between chambers. And their shared struggle for freedom and control? GLaDOS realizing, after remembering her past life, that she's become the abuser and deciding that she has the power to stop? That even if she can't be free, she can let Chell go because she hates her. And she loves her. Most people interpret GLaDOS "deleting Caroline in her brain" as an ominous sign, that she's forgetting her human roots and becoming "fully robot." But to me, it's a sign of hope for GLaDOS. She's relieving herself of the baggage that has defined her very existence, she's letting Caroline finally rest, and she's allowing herself to grow beyond what Cave and Aperture and the scientists defined her to be. The fact that GLaDOS still lets you go after deleting Caroline proves this. She doesn't double-back or change her mind like Wheatley did, she sticks to her word because she knows who she is. No one and nothing can influence her because she's in control. GLaDOS proves she's capable of empathy and mercy and change, human or not.

That's my retrospective, I love this game to bits. I wish I could experience it for the first time again.

[ilovejeongintoo]

"𝕎𝕒𝕟𝕟𝕒 𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕪 𝕒 𝕘𝕒𝕞𝕖?"

Jigsaw (Saw) & the Reluctant Participant Kink: Interrogation Play Warnings: cnc, degradation (just a lil),Jungwon is lowkey scary, sex machine, orgasm denial, edging Prompt: Trapped and powerless, you find yourself at the mercy of the infamous Jigsaw, your body craving the twisted pleasure he offers. As control slips from your grasp, desire and submission blur, leading you down a dark, seductive path where surrender becomes the ultimate thrill. How far will you go when there's no turning back?

The second installment to my Kinktober List 2024.

Darkness surrounded you, you were drowning in the dark around you. Your eyes couldn't make out any surrounding walls the slightly dimmed, single light above your head not helping you see. It wasn't quiet though, a whirring in the background maybe some kind of machinery being a constant noise. A smell of old dust maybe cement or stone you couldn’t tell.

When you start becoming more aware you feel the press of cold metal around your wrists and ankles, moving them but being pinned too close to really move at all. They wrapped tight around your limbs and the chair you were tightly strapped to. Your heartbeat increases more the more conscious you become. Your head pounds when you try turning it and a metallic noise sounds out in the room.

Then you hear a voice, talking slow and calculated, and a shiver runs through you. You can't really tell where it's coming from, still disoriented.

There’s bold lettering on the walls spelling out the sentence;” Wanna play a game?” Though your muffled brain doesn’t catch the clue. The writing done with red dripping paint.

"You’ve been living in the shadows of your desires for too long, haven’t you?"

You know who it is immediately. The telltale sign of the room, his voice, his choice of words. It all points its fingers to one person. Jigsaw. You've heard of people disappearing but it all seemed so unbelievable, so distant until right now.

You can’t tell where the voice is coming from. A small old speaker situated in the corner gives the output of his voice a slight crackle. Each word was slow, methodical like he really wanted you to listen carefully.

“For too long, you've indulged in a life of selfishness and excess, but today you will confront the truths you’ve buried deep inside. Today, you’ll face your punishment.”

Your punishment? For what? What did you do? Your mind races to find any explanation. The last thing that you remember before getting here….

Your breath catches in your throat in panic. A hiss cuts through the air. The uselessly dimming light illuminating a corner. That's when you see it, the machine that you've been hearing since the beginning. A big construction of steel, wires, tubes, and complex-looking engineering.

Right in front stands a cloaked figure, masked in the infamous puppet.

Jigsaw

He steps forward brushing his fingers along the machine's surface, the sound ominous, making you scared of what is to come. His voice, though distorted from his mask is clearer now booming through the room without the speaker.

"This machine I constructed will test you—your limits, your fears, your deepest urges. It is the key to your survival."

You struggle more against your restraints, he only continues watching in amusement.

“Your life, your choices... they’ve led you here.”

He pauses slightly  “You believe control gives you power, that by dominating others, you are invincible. But true power comes from understanding weakness. Now, you will be stripped of your control, left to endure the very submission you’ve forced onto others.”

You froze when he mentioned this. Yes, you had been a bit of a control freak and maybe that had led to your partners leaving you but did that really warrant you getting punished by the one and only Jigsaw killer? You weren’t a corrupt authority figure or a drug abuser. You just liked being in control of everything, your life, your decisions, your partners, and everything in the bedroom. 

You couldn’t let yourself be vulnerable with them but it could have been worse, you kept telling yourself.

What if I can’t take this? What if I break? The thought sends shivers down your spine but maybe… maybe I deserve this.

Your brain supplies uselessly, just adding unnecessary fear.

The chains tighten against your body suddenly, pulling you upright and facing the machine. It’s louder now as if it was preparing itself for the task ahead.

"You see, this is not a game of pain alone, but a game of pleasure and control—of denial and submission. If you wish to live, you must learn the cost of indulgence. Every choice you make will bring you closer to release... or your end.”

Your eyes widen in fear your body trembling just slightly 

He moves closer his voice deeper and more intimate now. You can see a mop of brown hair peeking out from his hood and it drops slightly in front of the mask.

“But I warn you... the release you seek may not be the one you think.”

The lights turn on and off, and a cold metallic arm extends from the machine, hovering inches from your body. Terrified you look at it then back at your captor as if your pleading look would get him to release you.

“Your test begins now.”

The metal arms the machine carries click further, stirring in their place. For a moment you hold your breath in anticipation of what's going to come next. The cold air hushes against your skin and you become aware; that you’re still clothed but for how long?

He steps closer his voice as calm as ever though the weight of his words grows heavier each time.

“You’ve spent your life hiding behind the armor of your choices. Your clothes... your mask. But here, there is no mask. No barriers.”

He makes another pause that drags on uncomfortably long so.

“The truth is revealed when there’s nothing left to hide.”

He gestures slowly to the arms and before you can react they lurch forward, grasping at your clothes and removing them one by one. There’s no aggression no rush, the movements are slow, practiced sharp motions stripping you of your last clothing items.

They easily slice through the fabric and your skin forms goosebumps from the cold in the room. You stay impossible still though in case they would accidentally cut not just the fiber.

Jigsaw watches without any noise or reaction, he sees every twitch of discomfort, every taken breath, and every bodily response. His gaze isn’t lustful, it’s calculating almost clinical as if undressing you was just another test, just another day.

He was doing more than just removing your clothes, he was getting rid of your last defenses. You press your eyes closed in hopes of waking up from this nightmare and if not just helping you slip into a state of ignorance bliss. 

He notices immediately.

“The more you fight, the longer this will take,” he murmurs. “You cannot hide from your desires. And soon, you won’t be able to hide from mine.”

The final fabric falling to the floor you open your eyes again, left completely naked, completely exposed, bound to the machine, revealed by the forever flickering overhead light. Your skin burns with the cold but even more from the burning gaze of being watched - Jigsaw’s masked gaze drinking up everything.

For a moment, all is still. The whir of the machine quiets, leaving only the sound of their ragged breathing.

“Now,” Jigsaw finally says, stepping closer, his voice low and deliberate, “we can begin.”

The masked man’s voice breaks the silence, his tone calm but heavy with purpose.

"You’ve spent your life controlling everything and everyone around you. But what happens when the one thing you can’t control… is yourself?"

He steps closer around you, circling like you’re prey and he’s the predator that will sink his teeth into you. The constant noise of the machine does nothing to calm you down, it just furthers the energy in the room.

"Here’s your first question: When was the last time you let someone else take control?"

You thought about it for a moment, your cheeks heating up despite the situation given, out of embarrassment at having to admit to these kinds of questions.

"I don’t remember. It’s been a long time." you reluctantly respond, unwilling to give up any more information. You were hoping he didn’t know you too closely to think of this as a “wrong” answer. Playing stupid in front of a genius killer.

“Please you don’t have to do any of this. I already learned my lesson, just…please let me go.” You tried reasoning because you really would try to change.

You gulped your fear down slightly. Not willing to show how much he affected your emotions. He can’t know, because exactly that, he will use against you.

Jigsaw’s mask tilts slightly, as if in curiosity, though his voice remains in the same tone as always, no hint of any emotion. He ignored your effort to try and convince him to let you go.

"You’re not as good at avoiding the truth as you think. You’ve let someone take control before... and you’ll do it again, whether you admit it or not. But denial has its consequences."

His hand moved in his dark coat, probably pressing a button.

Your heart rate spiked up. And the machine’s arm buzzes, the hum rising in pitch as it begins its cruel teasing, it started slow, the touch foreign. A little uncomfortable on your skin, surgical. The coldness of the metal pipes that brushed against your sides contrasted with the softness of the hands themselves. They caressed your chest, not going straight to torturing your most intimate parts. They just slightly massaged your nipples, making them hard rather quickly because of how soft the hands themselves felt. You stared down at them in focus and bit your lips to stifle any noises.

You could deal with this, if it stayed just like this, which you seriously doubted. But nonetheless, you pep-talked yourself.

Just when you thought you were getting used to the sensations on your body the arms moved down your body until they reached the place that was dripping now. One circled your clit, and buzzed a little in vibration. It made you try and curl into yourself, denying yourself to enjoy the pleasurable feel but your restraints kept you immobile, you could only squirm and clench your teeth to not make any noise however when the other one moved down to your slicked-up hole, and began pushing a solid digit in, a moan slipped out.

You were slowly breaking, each movement making it harder to concentrate, soon you’d have to choose between stifling your noises and answering your captor.

“Avoidance won’t save you. You can’t control what you refuse to face.”

A pause. Then, the next question cuts through the silence.

“Tell me... when was the last time you let yourself lose control—completely?”

The words hang in the air like a challenge, daring you to confront your deepest vulnerabilities.

And you think about his words from before, there was a slight warning in it, making you rethink how you should reply to this one. You pause a little more.

"I… I don’t know. I can’t remember." You nonetheless answer.

His laughter, low and almost mocking, fills the room. Oh, you fucked up, didn’t you? Regret flooding your system immediately, and wishing you could take your response back.

"You’re lying to yourself now. You remember.” He steps behind you now. The hair on your neck rises in anticipation and fright of not being able to see him. Losing that control so easily.

 “You’ve lost control before, and you will again. But you’re still clinging to your delusion of power. Let’s see how much longer that lasts."

The machine’s touch becomes more relentless, it drags so deliciously over your folds, then back into your hole and out again. teasing you more relentlessly now. You were so close but it just wasn’t quite enough. Each time you almost let yourself step over that edge it would get pulled away from you. The constant denial drives the message home: the more you refuse to admit the truth, the less control you have.

There’s only one way out of this. To answer honestly. And that’s the thing you dread most.

The machine turns so loud now, but you can barely focus on anything besides the constant stimulation your pussy is receiving. You’re so so close. Your body is trembling in frustration from not getting any release your breathing is shallow and quick. Your ass was soaked in your own juices making the slide so wet. Your hips unconsciously tried pushing against the hands searching for just enough stimuli to reach your high.

Jigsaw’s voice, calm but with an undercurrent of menace, cuts through the tension. And he steps back into your line of sight his tall frame intimidating even if he isn’t physically big.

“You’re still avoiding the truth. How long do you think you can hold onto this delusion?”

The pressure increases, the sensation teetering on the edge of unbearable, and yet it keeps you hanging just short of satisfaction. The more you resist, the more helpless you feel. The room grows colder, the air heavy with the weight of Jigsaw's impending next question.

Jigsaw’s voice becomes darker, more insistent. He unbuttoned the first buttons of his cape, slowly taking it off. Revealing a dress shirt, a grey vest, a tie, and matching slacks underneath. Formal wear, something you definitely didn’t expect

You threw the cape into a corner of the room. His clothes pleasingly fit his form, lean muscles making them fit on him deliciously. You immediately shook your head from the thoughts invading your mind.

“Since you can’t seem to tell the truth about losing control, let’s make it simpler.”

You sigh slightly in relief, maybe he would make this easier on you. He pauses, letting the silence stretch painfully long, allowing your mounting frustration to fester.

“When was the last time you were forced to submit to someone else’s will?”

He leans closer, the weight of his presence suffocating, even though you can’t see his face clearly behind the mask. You could just slightly make out his dark eyes behind the mesh of the eye holes.

His hand came up to your face picking it up and tilting it, making you automatically have to let your eyes stay on him.

“Tell me, who made you feel powerless?” With his eyes piercing you it was like he lured the truth out of you.

You felt the machine's arms twitch, waiting for the answer, threatening more denial or perhaps something worse. The movement completely halting made your answer finally be something akin of the truth.

“I… I was forced before. It’s happened before, and I hated it.” Your thoughts flashed back to your ex, how no matter what you told him, he just did whatever he wanted. You had lost total control not just of your guys’ relationship but also yourself. And you never absolutely ever wanted to experience something like that again.

Now you were forced to confront that same thing.

The room falls silent, and for the first time, Jigsaw’s voice softens, though it still carries a chilling edge. He caresses your head in a gesture that was supposed to be reassuring but made it feel more mockingly with the mask staring down at you.

“Good. You’re starting to understand. Submission is not a weakness, but denial of it is. The truth you fear most is what will set you free... if you survive.”

The machine’s teasing is slower now, giving them just enough reprieve to catch their breath. The chains remain tight, but the suffocating pressure eases. Jigsaw’s voice lowers to a whisper. His hold on you releasing.

“But this is far from over. You’ve only scratched the surface of your truth. There’s still more to reveal.” He steps away from you, crossing his arms and tilting his head in observation.

The tension from your body slightly eases from the slowed-down movements, giving you time to take some much-needed shaky breaths. The cold air once again seems more present now, prickling your skin your heart still pounding from the onslaught of pleasure from before. The machine’s grip eases just a fraction.

 After what feels like an eternity, he finally speaks, his voice quieter but still filled with unmatched control.

“Good. Admitting that you’ve submitted before means you’re starting to understand the game. Submission isn’t weakness—it’s inevitable when your will is tested beyond its limits.”

It almost sounded like he wanted to reassure you that it was okay, to admit these dark vulnerabilities to him. Well if you did, you might as well do it here. You doubt a serial killer will judge you much for what you’ll be saying.

A brief pause, his masked face tilting the other way slightly as though studying you.

“But don’t mistake this for mercy. Your truth is just the beginning. Now we see how deep your submission runs.”

The machine remains poised, its presence a constant threat, but for now, it lingers, awaiting the next phase of the game.

Jigsaw steps closer, the sound of his footsteps sharp against the cold floor. The black dress shoes that you take notice of now, snapping against the concrete.  He’s still calm, still methodical, but now there’s a palpable shift in his demeanor. He’s pushing deeper into your mind, now that he knows you have started to break.

“Since you’ve confessed to losing control, it’s time we explore something else.”

His voice lowers, the intensity rising in his tone as he moves even closer. Each time he was about to ask a question your heart would pick up a few beats, the only thing filling you being pure and utter terror.

“You’re not just afraid of losing control… are you? You’re afraid of how much you crave it.”

Your breath hitched because you knew, you knew how right he was about that. The tension in the air thickens as he leans in, his breath cold against your skin. A shaky breath escaped you at the contact. Just a little more and his mask would brush against you if he would just take it off and do exactly that. You almost missed the constant rubbing and teasing the hands provided.

“So tell me... when was the last time you gave in to that craving and enjoyed being powerless?”

The question is like a knife, cutting into your deepest, most secret desires. Your body stiffens, the air suddenly feeling even colder, as you realize what Jigsaw is really asking—the fear and desire to submit intertwined.

“I… I don’t want to admit it, but I have enjoyed it before. I didn’t mean to, but I did.” Your eyes fell shut again at your admission like that could hide you.

Jigsaw falls silent, and the air feels thick with tension, each second feels longer and longer. The mechanical humming seems to soften slightly, but the weight of the your confession hangs in the room like a dark cloud.

“Now you’re starting to understand.” His face moves away but not very far.

The machine slows, giving the victim just enough relief to let their body relax, though the threat still lingers. Jigsaw steps back, watching as the victim trembles, their skin still sensitive from the teasing denial.

“Admitting you’ve enjoyed powerlessness is the first step. But now comes the real test. We’re going to see how much you can take before that craving becomes your breaking point.”

Jigsaw stands still for a moment, letting the weight of the victim’s confession settle in. Processing. The air feels heavier, your pulse racing as you realize what you’ve just admitted. The machine, which had briefly slowed its torment, hums again, but this time with a new energy.

"So, you’ve finally confessed. You’ve craved the very thing you’ve always denied—powerlessness."

He steps forward, his presence even more imposing. The cold metal of the machine hums louder, and the victim's body, trembling with anticipation, tightens as the teasing pulses resume. The sensation is different now faster, more concentrated more focused in a new vigor.

Jigsaw’s voice lowers, almost intimate, as he leans in close to the victim’s ear.

"Now, let’s test how deep that craving goes."

He flips a switch on the machine, and instantly, the teasing becomes an overwhelming onslaught of pleasure and pain, pushing you closer to the edge than they’ve ever been before. In a matter of seconds, you're back to panting like a dog in heat. The mechanical arms grip tighter, pulling your body taut as the pulses of sensation ripple through you. It’s like they knew each brush, each thrust, each button to get you closer and closer.

You buck involuntarily against the restraints, your breath quickening, muscles straining. Your moans ring out clearly through the room no restrain anymore in them. 

"Do you want to submit completely?" Jigsaw’s voice echoes, a command hidden in the question.

Jigsaw stands still for a moment, letting the weight of the victim’s confession settle in. The air feels heavier, their pulse racing as they realize what they’ve just admitted. The machine, which had briefly slowed its torment, hums again, but this time with a new energy.

"So, you’ve finally confessed. You’ve craved the very thing you’ve always denied—powerlessness."

He steps forward, his presence even more imposing. The cold metal of the machine hums louder, and the victim's body, trembling with anticipation, tightens as the teasing pulses resume. The sensation is different now—more intense, more invasive—yet still withholding that elusive release.

Jigsaw’s voice lowers, almost intimate, as he leans in close to the victim’s ear.

"Now, let’s test how deep that craving goes."

He flips a switch on the machine, and instantly, the teasing becomes an overwhelming onslaught of pleasure and pain, pushing the victim closer to the edge than they’ve ever been before. The mechanical arms grip tighter, pulling their body taut as the pulses of sensation ripple through them.

Your body bucks involuntarily against the restraints, your breath quickening, muscles straining. 

"Do you want to submit completely?" Jigsaw’s voice echoes, a command hidden in the question.

"Tell me," Jigsaw continues, his voice a dangerous whisper. "If you want release, beg for it. Admit you have no control left. If you refuse, you’ll stay here, until your mind and body break."

You can barely think, your body trembling involuntarily as the machine keeps you teetering on the edge, closer to release than ever but still denied. Every muscle strains against the chains, to try and get out, as you feel your resolve slipping.

"Submit completely," Jigsaw orders, the demand hanging heavy in the air. "Or resist, and you will never know release again."

It was clear what your answer was going to be. Too out of it to even try to resist his commands. Too fucking desperate to get that release, to feel yourself leak onto the machinery below. To make a mess of everything even more.

You're too overwhelmed by the relentless sensations, gasping for breath. Aching for release, the denial becoming unbearable, bordering painful.

You wanted to let go, absolutely you did. You wanted somebody to completely take over the reins that you so desperately held on to. To give yourself completely over, to not focus on any control at all because that someone, you would trust completely.

“Please…” you whisper, your voice trembling, soaked in desperation. “Please, I can’t take it anymore. I submit. I’m not in control. I… I need it.” Each word spills from your lips, raw and pleading, your gaze locked onto his, craving touch, his touch

A sinister smile creeps beneath his mask, a dark victory shining in his eyes. The machine’s movements slow, almost as if savoring your confession. The restraints tighten one last time, an agonizing reminder of your submission, before—release. The mechanical pulses surge, overwhelming your senses in a tidal wave of sensation.

But it’s his fingers you feel now—long, thick, and unmistakably human. Your eyes snap open, and there he is, Jigsaw, looming over you, a predator inching closer. As his fingers plunge deep inside you, you can’t help but feel the unmistakable hardness pressing against your thigh. The heat radiates from him, mingling with your own arousal, igniting a primal fire within.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with lust. “So eager to be used. You’re just a filthy little thing, begging for it.” Your body convulses at his words, caught in a dizzying mix of pleasure and pain. Each thrust of his fingers drags against your walls, expertly hitting that sensitive spot the machines had cruelly denied.

“Can you feel how much I want you?” he breathes, his breath quickening, sending shivers down your spine. “You’re mine now. I’m going to make you feel every bit of it. I’ll take that control and give you exactly what you crave” The way he speaks makes your head spin, and you realize he’s as lost in this moment as you are, his arousal palpable and intoxicating.

“Good. You’ve learned your lesson,” he growls, his voice a low, seductive rumble that vibrates through your core. “But remember… this is only the beginning of your real submission. I want you to scream for me, to beg for more.” The tension hangs thick in the air, the two of you bound together in this dark, twisted dance of desire.

As your mind spirals into blissful oblivion, everything fades to black—just as it all began. You’re left spent, breathless, fully aware that you’ve relinquished the control you once clung to so desperately. In this dark embrace, surrender becomes the sweetest ecstasy, a thrilling intertwining of your desires and his.

[fatehbaz]

"defending civilization against bugs"

lol the mosquito sculpture

see Pratik Chakrabarti's Medicine and Empire: 1600-1960 (2013) and Bacteriology in British India: Laboratory Medicine and the Tropics (2012)

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Sir Ronald Ross had just returned from an expedition to Sierra Leone. The British doctor had been leading efforts to tackle the malaria that so often killed English colonists in the country, and in December 1899 he gave a lecture to the Liverpool Chamber of Commerce [...]. [H]e argued that "in the coming century, the success of imperialism will depend largely upon success with the microscope."

Text by: Rohan Deb Roy. "Decolonise science - time to end another imperial era." The Conversation. 5 April 2018.

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[A]s [...] Diane Nelson explains: The creation of transportation infrastructure such as canals and railroads, the deployment of armies, and the clearing of ground to plant tropical products all had to confront [...] microbial resistance. The French, British, and US raced to find a cure for malaria [...]. One French colonial official complained in 1908: “fever and dysentery are the ‘generals’ that defend hot countries against our incursions and prevent us from replacing the aborigines that we have to make use of.” [...] [T]ropical medicine was assigned the role of a “counterinsurgent field.” [...] [T]he discovery of mosquitoes as malaria and yellow fever carriers reawakened long-cherished plans such as the construction of the Panama Canal (1904-1914) [...]. In 1916, the director of the US Bureau of Entomology and longtime general secretary of the American Association for the Advancement of Science rejoiced at this success as “an object lesson for the sanitarians of the world” - it demonstrated “that it is possible for the white race to live healthfully in the tropics.” [...] The [...] measures to combat dangerous diseases always had the collateral benefit of social pacification. In 1918, [G.V.], president of the Rockefeller Foundation, candidly declared: “For purposes of placating primitive and suspicious peoples, medicine has some decided advantages over machine guns." The construction of the Panama Canal [...] advanced the military expansion of the United States in the Caribbean. The US occupation of the Canal Zone had already brought racist Jim Crow laws [to Panama] [...]. Besides the [...] expansion of vice squads and prophylaxis stations, during the night women were picked up all over the city [by US authorities] and forcibly tested for [...] diseases [...] [and] they were detained in something between a prison and hospital for up to six months [...] [as] women in Panama were becoming objects of surveillance [...].

Text by: Fahim Amir. "Cloudy Swords." e-flux Journal Issue #115. February 2021.

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Richard P. Strong [had been] recently appointed director of Harvard’s new Department of Tropical Medicine [...]. In 1914 [the same year of the Panama Canal's completion], just one year after the creation of Harvard’s Department of Tropical Medicine, Strong took on an additional assignment that cemented the ties between his department and American business interests abroad. As newly appointed director of the Laboratories of the Hospitals and of Research Work of United Fruit Company, he set sail in July 1914 to United Fruit plantations in Cuba, Guatemala, Honduras, Costa Rica, and Panama. […] As a shareholder in two British rubber plantations, [...] Strong approached Harvey Firestone, chief executive of the tire and rubber-processing conglomerate that bore his name, in December 1925 with a proposal [...]. Firestone had negotiated tentative agreements in 1925 with the Liberian government for [...] a 99-year concession to optionally lease up to a million acres of Liberian land for rubber plantations. [...]

[I]nfluenced by the recommendations and financial backing of Harvard alumni such as Philippine governor Gen. William Cameron Forbes [the Philippines were under US military occupation] and patrons such as Edward Atkins, who were making their wealth in the banana and sugarcane industries, Harvard hired Strong, then head of the Philippine Bureau of Science’s Biological Laboratory [where he fatally infected unknowing test subject prisoners with bubonic plague], and personal physician to Forbes, to establish the second Department of Tropical Medicine in the United States [...]. Strong and Forbes both left Manila [Philippines] for Boston in 1913. [...] Forbes [US military governor of occupied Philippines] became an overseer to Harvard University and a director of United Fruit Company, the agricultural products marketing conglomerate best known for its extensive holdings of banana plantations throughout Central America. […] In 1912 United Fruit controlled over 300,000 acres of land in the tropics [...] and a ready supply of [...] samples taken from the company’s hospitals and surrounding plantations, Strong boasted that no “tropical school of medicine in the world … had such an asset. [...] It is something of a victory [...]. We could not for a million dollars procure such advantages.” Over the next two decades, he established a research funding model reliant on the medical and biological services the Harvard department could provide US-based multinational firms in enhancing their overseas production and trade in coffee, bananas, rubber, oil, and other tropical commodities [...] as they transformed landscapes across the globe.

Text by: Gregg Mitman. "Forgotten Paths of Empire: Ecology, Disease, and Commerce in the Making of Liberia's Plantation Economy." Environmental History, Volume 22, Number 1. January 2017. [Text within brackets added by me for clarity and context.]

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[On] February 20, 1915, [...] [t]o signal the opening of the Panama-Pacific International Exposition (PPIE), [...] [t]he fair did not officially commence [...] until President Wilson [...] pressed a golden key linked to an aerial tower [...] whose radio waves sparked the top of the Tower of Jewels, tripped a galvanometer, [...] swinging open the doors of the Palace of Machinery, where a massive diesel engine started to rotate. [...] [W]ith lavish festivities [...] nineteen million people has passed through the PPIE's turnstiles. [...] As one of the many promotional pamphlets declared, "California marks the limit of the geographical progress of civilization. For unnumbered centuries the course of empire has been steadily to the west." [...] One subject that received an enormous amount of time and space was [...] the areas of race betterment and tropical medicine. Indeed, the fair's official poster, the "Thirteenth Labor of Hercules," [the construction of the Panama Canal] symbolized the intertwined significance of these two concerns [...]. [I]n the 1910s public health and eugenics crusaders alike moved with little or no friction between [...] [calls] for classification of human intelligence, for immigration restriction, for the promotion of the sterilization and segregation of the "unfit," [...]. It was during this [...] moment, [...] that California's burgeoning eugenicist movement coalesced [...]. At meetings convened during the PPIE, a heterogenous group of sanitary experts, [...] medical superintendents, psychologists, [...] and anthropologists established a social network that would influence eugenics on the national level in the years to come. [...]

In his address titled "The Physician as Pioneer," the president-elect of the American Academy of Medicine, Dr. Woods Hutchinson, credited the colonization of the Mississippi Valley to the discovery of quinine [...] and then told his audience that for progress to proceed apace in the current "age of the insect," the stringent sanitary regime imposed and perfected by Gorgas in the Canal Zone was the sine qua non. [...]

Blue also took part in the conference of the American Society for Tropical Medicine, which Gorgas had cofounded five years after the annexation of Cuba, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines. Invoking the narrative of medico-military conquest [...], [t]he scientific skill of the United States was also touted at the Pan-American Medical Congress, where its president, Dr. Charles L. Reed, delivered a lengthy address praising the hemispheric security ensured by the 1823 Monroe Doctrine and "the combined genius of American medical scientists [...]" in quelling tropical diseases, above all yellow fever, in the Canal Zone. [...] [A]s Reed's lecture ultimately disclosed, his understanding of Pan-American medical progress was based [...] on the enlightened effects of "Aryan blood" in American lands. [...] [T]he week after the PPIE ended, Pierce was ordered to Laredo, Texas, to investigate several incidents of typhus fever on the border [...]. Pierce was instrumental in fusing tropical medicine and race betterment [...] guided by more than a decade of experience in [...] sanitation in Panama [...]. [I]n August 1915, Stanford's chancellor, David Starr Jordan [...] and Pierce were the guests of honor at a luncheon hosted by the Race Betterment Foundation. [...] [At the PPIE] [t]he Race Betterment booth [...] exhibit [...] won a bronze medal for "illustrating evidences and causes of race degeneration and methods and agencies of race betterment," [and] made eugenics a daily feature of the PPIE. [...] [T]he American Genetics Association's Eugenics Section convened [...] [and] talks were delivered on the intersection of eugenics and sociology, [...] the need for broadened sterilization laws, and the medical inspection of immigrants [...]. Moreover, the PPIE fostered the cross-fertilization of tropical medicine and race betterment at a critical moment of transition in modern medicine in American society.

Text by: Alexandra Minna Stern. Eugenic Nation: Faults and Frontiers of Better Breeding in Modern America. Second Edition. 2016.

[ask-the-oz]

Spirit That Denies

--In which the ghost in the machine is real, from a different timeline, and he's giving you a pop quiz. Starring: McGillis Fareed, Treize Khushrenada

@wordsandrobots in my defense, I was provoked. *cough* This fic is embryonic and intended mostly as a thought experiment;;; please excuse any wonkyness and inaccuracies :'D i've never written this boy before.

_______________________

The eerie stillness of this place, the mirror lake that served for so many centuries as a mausoleum to sleeping greatness, shatters in an eruption of steam and water.

Outside the shelter of this ancient cockpit, a battle between augmented behemoths rages. The Tekkadan attack dog against a dead man from his past, neither of whom he can strictly call a friend nor an enemy.

They do not matter. It is convenient for him that they fight one another, giving him the time he needs to grasp the reigns of destiny at last.

It hurts savagely— there is no gentle way for a foreign metallic body to complete a circuit with your spinal processes. The Alaya-Vijnana System is still a barbaric solution from a barbaric time. But with the pain is the taste of victory. It is real— and it is his.

As his involuntary spasms subside and movements become his own again, he invokes Bael’s name, its true name, exultant:

"Wake, Agnika Kaieru. It’s time."

He feels it stir, electrical patterns coalescing into the shape of a 300 year old consciousness, the knight of a bygone era who destroyed the threat of automated weapons. Soulless, mindless armor; man-killers, hoards of dragons to be slain and through their deaths win glory, cementing the right of lordship for generations. Seven great heroes, from an age of calamity, their deeds obscured by time but not forgotten. No, not forgotten!

"Come, live again! We will destroy the corruption of this stagnant world! Use me as your vessel, Agnika— I am ready!"

The wrath of battle shakes the ground beneath them, but he pays it no heed. The cockpit hums with life and a dull green glow. His chest burns with triumphant radiance; he has dreamed of this since he was first able to dream, when words on a page filled his empty shell with a soul. His feet lock in to the pedals, his fingers tighten around the antiquated steering hand-grips to assume control.

And they freeze. He watches them twitch, just beyond his command.

A soft voice, just over his shoulder… no, behind his eyes, inside his own mouth, speaks:

<< Why? >>

He wishes he could reach out and touch it, the owner of that voice, the architect of his ambitions. But this is a test— a final test, no doubt, of his worthiness to claim Bael and become the new incarnation of Gjallarhorn. He must answer. But how should he respond to something so simple?

"Agnika, I am your disciple," he intones, "everything you envisioned, I have endeavored to embody. My life has been in service to your ideals, even if I am alone in this dedication. The Seven have forgotten your truths. I will make them remember— because those truths brought me out of weakness, they taught me what was valuable in this world," he smiles, self-assured. "In this parody of Gjallarhorn, I alone understand you."

<< And what, would you say, are my truths? >>

He thinks of the words he has imprinted on his heart, and chooses their distillation:

"Strength" he says, unwavering, "Without strength there can be no change, no mobility, no justice. There is nothing to prevent systematic power from stifling those who lack power, unless strength rises to meet it. All other truths serve this one: ideals without strength mean nothing, and so you must seek strength, at all costs."

<< To what end? >>

These questions were… frustrating, not the trial of faith or the battle of wills he had been expecting. Yet it was impossible for him to fail this test. His life up until this very moment had been the test. That he was inside the cockpit of Bael now was testament to his ascendancy.

"Victory," he answers, now as though he were disappointed in the question itself, "The goal of might is always victory! Only the victorious can create change."

<< I see. >>

…How much personality was left in this decrepit neural mechanism after centuries of dormancy? Perhaps too much, he thinks, but chastises himself in the same instant. Whatever Agnika’s judgement, he would prove himself worthy as his pupil. This is his destiny.

<< McGillis Fareed. You may not pilot this Gundam. >>

He lurches in his seat, control of his body given back to him in polite denial, like a declined invitation.

"…What?"

The controls do not move when he presses them, the pedals are frozen with 300 years of rust. He screams at the immobile levers, slams his back into the artificial spinal cord that tethers him to the seat. Unbearable cymbal crashes of titan weapons ring just outside the cockpit that has refused him, dangerously close.

If he cannot move this machine, it will soon be his coffin.

"WHY, AGNIKA?"

He could weep with rage. Of all life’s betrayals, this was the one he could not stomach. After what he had given up— every kinder turn he might have taken that he had passed by with a steely heart— he would not tolerate this.

<< You do not understand me. And in this you are blameless. You are not nearly the first to have misunderstood my intentions, having sought them in isolation. That is, and has always been, my failing. >>

"No. You will let me in," he hisses, "I have burned every other precious thing to the ground for this opportunity and if I must burn you as well, then so be it. This is the dream you delivered to ME! You will not deny me!"

The lungless presence seems to sigh.

<< I admire your conviction. >>

The controls do not budge. He does not feel the awareness of an external framework compounding his own. Only the voice, in its damnable, eternal patience, remains.

Was the machine itself mocking him? Was this entire journey a farce? His existence, and everything in it, the cruelest joke imaginable, and he its punchline? Certainly he was laughing at it— high and tight as a tripwire.

"So that’s it… You’re a ghost… just a ghost… not Agnika Kaieru at all. A fake idol, to go with a fake order."

<< Neither are you are the first to accuse me of this. In more than one sense, you are correct: Agnika Kaieru was a title, not my name, and, most idols are fakes. But, you knew this already, yes? >>

He grinds his teeth, tasting iron. The fighting will reach them sooner or later— he is out of time.

…By any means necessary…

He bows his head. "In that case. Whoever you are. What do you want from me? If I am unworthy as a pilot of this suit as I am, then tell me how I achieve that worth in your eyes. I cannot turn back now."

A paternalistic sadness finds its way through the wires in his back, making his skin crawl. He wants to yank the cord out by its root. But it is not pitying him, he realizes. Whatever is inside this relic, it still feels shame.

<< I have not lied to you— I DO admire your conviction. Ambition such as yours is exactly what I would have prized in a student when I was alive, just as my ambition was prized by those who taught me. For that alone, I cannot let you access this power. Not least, for your own sake.>>

"For my sake? For my sake you’re going to get us both killed!" He shouts, slamming his hands into the seat before he can compose himself. As if to punctuate him a piece of shrapnel, the shattered tip of a sword, cracks into the back of Bael’s head, making the suit rock forward precariously in the waves.

<< …Ah. So I see. One moment. >>

McGillis gasps as the cockpit closes of its own accord. The controls move themselves, through his muscles controlled by another. Suddenly he is merely a passenger inside his own destiny, the destiny he’d come to grasp with bloody fists. Now that it has grasped him, he can no longer see where they are headed.

"No… What are you doing?"

<< Pardon the intrusion. You must not be the pilot of this suit while you intend to achieve only victory— but neither do I wish to see you die here. >>

"Then… what?"

<< There are more opportunities in this world than you have yet seen… Lessons that can only be learned when you abandon the path you have been set upon. Do not make the same mistakes I did. I would spare you from that, if I may. >>

"Wait— Wait!"

But like a shooting star they are airborne. Bael, who flew under a different name long, long ago, spreads its wings of blue flame and bursts through the vaulted white ceiling— hatching once more into a world of confusion, with a new charge in its protection.

[scribblesquid077]

———————-

𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓻 12: 𝓡𝓲𝓬𝓱 𝓜𝓪𝓷’𝓼 𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓵𝓭

—————-

💕𝓢𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂💕: Aspiring diva Kang Mi-na takes part in this year’s Squid Games, challenged among the fellow lower class. In order to have a safe chance of winning, the aspiring fashionista teams up with former-rapper Thanos. Not only is she tested on what she is willing to risk for money, but her place as one of Thanos’ confidants.

💜𝓟𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰💜: Choi Su-Bong(Thanos) x Kang Mi-na, Thanos squad + Kang Mi-na

💕𝓖𝓮𝓷𝓻𝓮💕: mi-na lives au, se-mi dies instead tho :( , romance, angst, fluff, casual, flirty bantering, lots of jealousy on nam-gyu’s part

💜𝓦𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼💜: graphic depictions of violence, murder, mild gore, explicit language, drug usage, mentions of suicide, major character deaths, spoilers for squid game s2,

💕𝓘𝓶𝓹𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝓲𝓷𝓯𝓸💕: like the original show, this is intended for a mature audience, please proceed with caution. updates will be posted biweekly at the latest, constructive criticism is welcome as long as it is dmed to me!!

💜𝓢𝓽𝓪𝓽𝓾𝓼💜: work in progress 🤭

💕 𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽 💕: 1461

———

💕𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 💜𝓷𝓮𝔁𝓽 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓻

—————-

Mi-na saw the money fall from the piggy bank, in awe of all the mouth-watering cash just above her head. If only it were glass, not plastic.

Out of all 220 players, 110 were eliminated from the last game. The prize money was now up to 20.1 billion won, giving each remaining contestant 78 million.

78 million won. That was it. She had more than enough. With money like that, she could finally get the bank off her dick. And with at least 30,000 won to spare!

No need for complaint. Yes, to a majority, the prize could just cover 10% of their debt. But it was over 100% for her!

Soldiers moved the large, ribboned voting machine to the front of the room. She could already feel the crisp paper in her fingertips, smell the coppery scent, and taste the riches that would soon max her credit card.

The head guard called the upcoming vote a “democratic” exit; Everyone chose their own departure. Mi-na knew she was in for a wild ride she was desperate to get off.

“We stay.”

Thanos pointed to the digital board of numbers. “If we all choose ‘O,’ we got a better chance of winning the vote.”

“You really want to stay?”

Thanos laughed, as though it were the funniest thing she had said all day.

“Why wouldn’t we?”

Mi-na bit the inside of her cheek, unwanted attention now sprung upon her from the men. Those wretched walls came up again, always surrounding Mi-na; Uneven cement, constantly scraped off and slathered on again, sprouting golden nails.

“Duh,” Mi-na began, “I want more money, but I also don’t want to die. If I die next game, I won’t be able to spend it..which is kind of the point?”

They eyed her as though she was the sole reason they were stuck in debt. That she was the obstacle that kept them from lifelong luxury. She sensed the nails protruding farther from the cement.

“You’re not actually considering leaving, are you?” Nam-gyu asked in disbelief. He stayed calm and composed. A distinct contrast to Thanos, but no less kind.

“You’ll make it out fine with that low debt of yours. I’m sure. But us? We won’t last a fucking week. Have some compassion for your teammates, why don’t you?”

It was as though he was trying to make her look bad. In front of the group. In front of Thanos.

Gyeong-su rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean-I could use more money..” he said.

Min-su, who had the ‘X’ since the start, left her hanging. But it was expected.

Everyone was in silent agreement, refusing to take her side.

“Cmon, lay offa’ her. She’s obviously going to vote ‘O’,” Thanos turned to Mi-na, “right, Flower?”

Two days prior, Mina would have dismissed the question and left the ground running. Yet, those expectant blue eyes ate her away

Voting was much more than pushing buttons. She could see it now. If she voted to leave and lost, it was likely they wouldn’t want her back in the group. Thanos wouldn’t have her back, and Nam-gyu..

“Of course.”

“Attention, players, please place your votes.”

The vote started with Player 001 and proceeded in numerical order.

Mi-na watched the scoreboard climb with each vote. Some players wavered; others remained firm.

“Don’t betray us,” she heard Nam-gyu whisper, but he wasn’t looking at her.

Min-su looked like a newborn, unsteady and confused, drifting in and out of himself. “What?” he mumbled.

“We agreed to another game, right?”

Mi-na ignored his helpless plea, those sad, little hamster eyes. It wasn’t spite, just energy conservation for the vote.

When it was Nam-gyu’s turn, the vote was at a tie. The 34 ‘O’s soon became 35. A firm believer in gambler’s luck.

“Player 125.”

With a firm pat, disguised by temporary companionship, Min-su teetered out and down the red and blue lines.

“There’s no way he’s gonna vote ‘O’,” Mi-na whispered.

Thanos kept his attention on the scoreboard. He was very focused on her.

“Probably not.”

Min-su remained at the machine, agonizing over his options. Mi-na couldn’t figure out what he wanted. Until he pressed the blue button, and up went the score.

Min-su chose the easy route. She hoped he’d choose freely, uninfluenced by Nam-gyu’s snootiness. But she wouldn’t be any better.

The ‘X’s would have welcomed him with open arms. Min-su would fit right in. But the ‘O’s will have to do. They had agreed.

Min-su situated himself to the ‘O’ side, branding his new blue patch but looking no less ashamed.

Not all things seemed to run smoothly after. Again, the strange man-no-it was Player 001 that had to speak out.

“Don’t you see? We need to get out while we still can. Or, there will be no other steps. We have to stop!”

Mi-na had to physically stop herself from groaning. Has a vote ever proceeded without a hitch?

Of course, there was another fight. Similar questions, some tears. Yet Mi-na could counteract them with style. She was set.

“You still want to keep going after all those people died?” More for Mi-na. “Who’s to say you won’t die in the next game?” Why, herself, of course.

And the guards-

Survival often seems routine. Eviction notices were like guns; The only difference is that guns brought a quick end. The money would only keep piling up.

Many came from unfortunate places. Mi-na’s plight paled compared to many others. Many agreed to keep playing. Their pieces on the issue already took on what every blue patch shared. With the money now, it would triple next game. Meaning far more leftovers for people like Mi-na and a higher chance to truly live for people like Thanos.

“It’s not like the games are difficult,” a player said. “Way more than half of us survived. We’ve made it this far, so let’s do this one more time!”

Ddakji. Red Light, Green Light. Spinning top. Games from everyone’s childhood, it wasn’t rocket science.

“Let’s play just one more game!” “Yeah, let’s play one more game!” “One more game! One more game!” Blue Patches chanted ferociously, and the votes came.

‘O’ won in a landslide, 139 to 116. A third game was waiting for them tomorrow.

Mi-na peeled off and stuck the ‘O’ patch for the hundredth time; Her life and a lot of money depended on it. Yet, her focus remained fixed on her tracksuit. The rhythmic hiss of the Velcro side of the patch was a counterpoint to the frantic beat of her heart, a drum solo accompanying her desperate dance with death.

She could relax once the patch was perfectly attached.

Thanos lifted her chin, instantly revealing her predicament. He swayed his arms in jagged swings, launching into a rap:

It’s you and me together; that’s a given.

Standin’ strong in this madness we’re winnin’

You voted ‘O’ no doubt, no fear.

Together we’re unbreakable, yeah, we’re in the clear

He crouched, his movements mimicking a typical R&B music video.

“Bloodstained and lookin’ fine! Now I’m ready for mealtime,” he finished, another serenade — a congratulatory performance for her “correct” choice, the choice he wanted her to make. He flaunted himself with the flamboyant energy of a tropical bird.

Mi-na laughed, a genuine laugh that captivated Thanos, as entrancing as everything else she created.

“You liked that one?” he asked.

Mi-na dropped her smile in an instant. He shouldn’t have breached her composure, shattered the carefully constructed façade she maintained.

“I’ve heard a lot worse,” she retorted, though he knew she had enjoyed it.

“I. Am. Hungry,” he announced, patting his stomach, emphasizing each word.

On cue, the lights flickered on, signaling lunchtime—perfect timing, considering Thanos’s appetite. Pink-masked soldiers unfolded tables laden with cartons of food.

Thanos twirled, drawing her attention. He seemed full of energy.

“This place sells plenty, but nothing compares to you,” he said, forming a heart with his hands.

“I voted ‘O’,” Mi-na replied, joining the line. “You don’t need to flatter me.”

Thanos followed. “Is that a problem?” he asked. She disliked his intense gaze, as if she were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. A persistent gleam shone through his apparent intoxication—attention solely for her. “..I didn’t say it was,” she mumbled.

Thanos pouted. “You’re sending mixed signals,” he complained. “Do you like me or not?”

This was the last thing she wanted to think about: gruesome murders, easy money, and this bizarre lunch.

Moving up the line, she heard a shout and saw the gap she’d created.

She’d miss this—his dancing, his odd English, his cheesy raps, the unpredictable chaos. Maybe that’s why she wanted to stay.

She turned, their noses nearly touching.

“Maybe I just don’t want to make it easy for you.”

—————-

💕𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 💜𝓷𝓮𝔁𝓽 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓻

—————

[storiesconsumemysoul]

I dearly love how viscerally Egwene is responding to finding out that Siuan/the tower wanted to cage Rand. Babygirl can still feel the collar on her neck every night she's not about to be amenable to that idea. Regardless of the very different contexts of their experiences and the reality of how dangerous Rand will become. All that is meant to serve as "justification". And it's not even just the tower. I love that she point blank says to Moiraine - who is exiled and actively working against tower policies - that she will not help her control him. It's like the

1) seed previously planted that the collar is an Aes Sedai invention

2) being sold to the Seanchan by an Aes Sedai (Black Ajah or not, Liandrin served this institution for generations, there is no easy separating of what she is and what she's doing from the institution, even if she's its enemy)

3) and that a very real attempt was already made on Rand's freedom while she was still sporting her damane collar

... yeah, they've completely cemented the connection between that kind of violence/violation and the Aes Sedai in her mind. And Egwene seems to be feeling that in a really raw place. Like the contrast between her attitude towards the tower in the first half S2 as a novice (eager to please, supplicant, respectful) to how she talks about and to Aes Sedai in these first three eps.? Damn.

I really hope we get lots of scenes with her and Moiraine. Every one-to-one scene from the start of the show they've shared have been little gems that allow Egwene to test and sharpen her sense of identity and what her relationship to the Aes Sedai is. Doing that with someone who IS still an Aes Sedai down to her bone marrow even as she works against the machinations of the institution in exile, who IS still trying to control Rand even if not with the same methods, who IS still very willing to hurt Egwene and her loved ones if she deems it necessary ... what a challenging and formidable figure to stand before as Egwene is reconstructing her relationship to her own body, to the one power, to the tower, and to her own sense of identity.

[awesomecooperlove]

world’s most powerful figures. These children were found in sprawling underground facilities beneath the U.S. border—high-tech hubs equipped with medical labs, holding cells, and advanced transport systems. One base, hidden 100 feet below the desert, was camouflaged to evade detection and revealed horrors beyond belief: cryogenic storage units, evidence of genetic experiments, and classified technology used for inhumane tests.

The Elite’s Pyramid of Power

Testimonies from the rescued children expose a system of trafficking that touches every layer of society. Documents revealed lists of high-profile clients, including politicians, CEOs, and entertainers, all participating in these heinous acts. Major banks and corporations facilitated these transactions, hiding the money trails in plain sight. Even more damning, blackmail operations ensured the silence and compliance of these elites—photos and recordings used as leverage to enforce their global agenda.

Big Pharma and Silicon Valley: Silent Partners in Evil

Stockpiles of experimental drugs were found in these facilities, linking Big Pharma to the sedation and manipulation of children. Tech giants were also implicated, with advanced tools used to protect traffickers and censor whistleblowers. These companies provided both the means and the cover to allow this network to thrive.

Military Whistleblowers Expose the Agenda

Insiders have revealed that these trafficking operations were tied to secretive military programs. Children were subjected to trauma-based mind control experiments, aimed at creating programmable individuals for elite control. These black-budget projects, funded by trafficking profits, sought to cement a new form of social dominance.

Trump’s Fearless Leadership

Trump’s decisive actions have dismantled a network that past administrations ignored or enabled. His return marks a turning point, proving he is the leader the elites feared. Military insiders and trusted allies have prepared for this operation for years, and Trump’s boldness has struck a fatal blow against the deep state.

The Fight is Just Beginning

This victory is monumental, but the war against the elite machine rages on. The evidence is undeniable, and the patriots are rising. With Trump leading the charge, the tide has turned—but the question remains: Are you ready to stand and fight for the truth? The time is now. Victory is ours.

🏆🏆🏆

Join and share this channel immediately⬇️

Trump Supporters ✅️

Trump Supporters ✅️

[heicodynamics]

This article explores the subject of Cement Testing and cement compression testers and looking at their growing acceptance. It also includes the factors influencing this growth. One can check the significant influence they are having on quality control in construction. You can also look into the business and financial opportunities. This growing industry presents a flourishing future.

[eidolocene]

The overgrowth was a sudden apocalyptic event. To creatures on the surface, it seemed like only two minutes passed as nature swept away buildings, people, and societies. Everything became- well, overgrown. The catastrophe didn't spare a single place on Irt, though urban areas with heavy architecture were hit the hardest, and aid efforts were for naught. It's hard to trace, but for every five creatures, four seemed to perish in a cataclysmic instant.

This is Jack Springbridge, a character I'm playing in a friend's green-apocalypse D&D campaign where a gaggle of unlikely heroes traipse all over fantasy Appalachia trying to figure out why time is speeding up (before their time runs out).

Backstory (w/ song explanations) under the cut. If you are playing this campaign with me (ily), read no further at risk of spoiling the surprise!

Steam Powered Aereo Plane - Jack grew up well-loved, well-rounded, and well-fed. Though he was the middle of three children, he never felt overlooked, thanks to five generations of family living on a large, prosperous farm. The work was hard, but it was shared between many hands.

Soon, the load will be even lighter - Jack intends to propose to his girlfriend, Doris Stillwater, soon. They've been dating five years and are hopelessly smitten with each other. Jack would have proposed sooner if not for the... quirks of Doris' family. They expect her to settle down on the same high-topped plain between the mountains that they've always tended to, but she's finally decided: her life is her own and she'll spend it as she wishes.

He's going to propose after the flight.

The jewel of the family is Jack's innovative grandfather, Nolan Springbridge. After a lifetime of daydreaming, sixty years of study, and two decades of test flights and prototypes, he has finally made a flying machine he feels is safe enough to put his family in - so, he does, for its inaugural flight.

It goes off without a hitch. Jack and Doris, along with children, parents, grand-, great-grand, and great-great-grandparents all soar through the sky, while onlookers cheer and gasp from the ground.

But, when they landed, they found the world had changed underneath them.

Devil's Hollow - There are countless dead and missing, whole towns and cities destroyed. The Springbridges alone are left un-touched, and they begin to offer what they can. They turn away from their dreams of the sky and from the momentum of their comfort to tread water alongside their neighbors.

Jack helps, too. He works as hard as the rest of them, but most of his care is turned toward Doris, the only surviving Stillwater. It's strange: Jack had thought whatever obligation she'd been saddled with would have died with her family, but their absence has cemented her back to that strange, flat-capped mountain, like she's the warden of her own prison.

Ain't No Ash Will Burn - The grief is overwhelming, clinging like pollen in spring, like the coating of black fungus fed by the distilleries upriver.

But, suddenly, it all fades into a singular numbness from which Jack fails to draw any feeling but one: anxiety. Between the floods of non-feeling, he sees himself laid bare. Here is a man who lost nothing.

The shame of being whole is too much. He withdraws. He ends things with Doris.

It's better this way. How could she be properly cared for by someone whose life was still upright? She didn't cry - she was empty of tears - but he couldn't put a name to that last look she gave him. It seemed the world was giving him many chances to try, though; it was now reflected in the face of every stranger and of every relative.

Heart You've Been Tendin' - Jack can't keep living like this, in a town where everyone knows he escaped unscathed; where everyone knows how he isolated Doris in her grief. He will break here, withering away under everyone's pain and judgment. The only way forward is out and away if he has any hope of keeping whatever remains of his heart. Maybe with strangers who don't know a single Springbridge, with people who don't know how goddamn fortunate he is - maybe he can salvage some small piece of goodness. Maybe he can repent by repairing a part of the world far, far away from this one.

This Too Shall Pass - He enlists in an expedition to the roots of all this ruin. He finds he can meet the eyes of those in his party - free of judgment and contempt. And they don't mind that he doesn't want to talk about his past. Everyone's backstory is the same, after all. Why rehash tragedy?

Besides. Maybe if he keeps his fingers crossed, his luck will finally run out.

[aikoiya]

LoZ: Yiga!Link is a Riot

I gotta say that the concept of Yiga!Link is effing hilarious. Especially if it's Zelink.

Because, think about it.

In this situation, Ganon has literally everything lined up perfectly. Link, his eons-long, multi-life arch-nemesis is essentially his minion & he likely doesn't even know it.

Kid's probably deep into the sauce too, man.

Then, either along comes this pretty little princess & he's like, "yeah, sorry bro, but I'm gettin' me some of that." Maybe he was kidnapped as a baby & Link & Zelda met previously as kids? Maybe she did something for him that he'd never forgotten, then when they remeet, she does something for him that seals a huge crush on her, & thus can't bring himself to kill her? I dunno, there's a lot of ways this could go. OR, he learns personally that he's the Chosen Hero, the very person he's supposed to despise & kill. Meaning that if the other members learn about it, they'll likely kill him. His whole life comes crashing down around him. The first blow to the cult's programming.

Like, it'd just be such a power move on destiny's part.

Like, as dangerous as Ganon obviously is, he simply does not win for very long. He always looses eventually.

And this would just cement that fact. Like, he had his effing arch-nemesis in the palm of his fucking hand & didn't even know it & he'll still fucking lose.

I dunno about you, but I'd be pretty damn demoralized after that.

I might just need the next 10,000 years dead before my next reincarnation to mentally recover.

---

At the same time, it does make me wonder. Why do non-Sheikah Yiga stick with them? Like, we know the reason why the Yiga was originally formed. A Hylian King from 10,000 years ago forced the Sheikah to decommission their technology, fearing it'd bring about Hyrule's demise. (Which, despite how unfair it was, he was... actually right. Makes me wonder if he actually learned that the Sheikah Tech could be taken over. Maybe he'd been an accomplished mage & had managed to use his magic to take control of the machines, then realizing that he likely wouldn't be around for the next Calamity, he ordered the Sheikah to find a way to prevent the machines from being possessed by magic. But no matter what they did, they couldn't manage to figure it out, or maybe they did for a while, but the king kept testing them to make sure it was fixed. However, much like hacking in real life, there will always be new ways to exploit the system, thus the king was left with no choice but to decommission them.)

But, anyway, what exactly do they tell their members to get them to want to stay? Hell, why were they even still a thing in BotW? Why hadn't they made their move? There were no more guards, or soldiers, only a few trained Sheikah, all of which were either too old to keep fighting or were swiftly getting there, & there'd been no royal family besides Zelda, who was keeping Calamity Ganon sealed away.

Why didn't they take over the rest of Hyrule, asserting their dominance & killing all the loyalists so that when the Hero returned, he'd be an outlaw, thus making his journey harder? (It certainly wouldn't have been the first time something like that would've happened in the series.) In fact, why reveal themselves to him when they meet? Just wait till his back is turned, then Eightfold Blade him in the back! Or have a Yiga replace the Sheikah & Hylian innkeepers/Stable Managers, then when Link rents a bed for the night, give him a poisoned complementary meal! Then, when he collapses, just execute him!

It's that easy! Or it should be, because they're effing ninja!

I mean, they were perfectly fine with killing Dorian's wife, who Dorian had been a member of the Yiga before, thus they've no issue with the act of killing.

Which, btw, why didn't they instead kidnap her, maybe even his daughters too, & use them as blackmail to keep him under their thumb?

LoZ Wild Masterlist

LoZ My Fanfic Masterlist

[scotianostra]

The rugby player and commentator Gordon Lamont Brown was born on the 1st November 1947.

Known quite simply as Broon fae Troon, Brown was from a sporting family, his elder brother Peter also played for and captained the Scottish side. His father, John played goalkeeper for the Scottish football side and also appeared in the Scottish Open at Royal Troon alongside golfing greats such as Arnold Palmer. He is also the nephew of footballers Tom and Jim Brown.

Broon was a legendary Scotland second row and a fully-paid up component of the Mean Machine; a triple Lion and fierce competitor in the Battle of Boet Erasmus; a ruthless assassin on the pitch and a true gentleman off the field of play.

early interest was in the round rather than the oval ball. His conversion was reportedly the result of a particularly heated football tie, after which he reckoned ‘rugby would be safer’! He emerged on to the international stage in December 1969, from West of Scotland, having just turned 22.

After a winning debut against South Africa, he retained his place for the Five Nations opener against France. Dropped for the subsequent Wales match, he was replaced by brother Peter who revelled in breaking the news to Gordon. Peter was then injured in the match – and replaced at half-time by his younger sibling; the first occasion where a brother had replaced a brother in an international. When the Browns joined forces against England in 1970, it was the first time brothers had played together for Scotland since Angus and Donald Cameron in 1902.

Immovable in the scrum yet dynamic in the loose, Gordon went onto cement his place in Scotland’s front five of the early 1970s, the formidable Mean Machine that also featured Ian McLauchlan, Frank Laidlaw, Sandy Carmichael and Alastair McHarg. Between 1971 and 1976, Scotland lost just once at home, a narrow defeat to the All Blacks.

A giant of a man, both physically and figuratively, he formed a key partnership in the blue jersey with McHarg, winning 30 caps; in a Lions shirt, he was one of the world’s most ruthless competitors. Not only could he move but his outstanding handling skills resulted in eight tries on the Lions’ 1974 venture – including the brutal Battle of Boet Erasmus – a record for a forward. He played in eight Lions’ Tests between 1971 and 1977, playing a major part in the 1971 and 1974 victories. A string of injuries ended his career, but not before an infamous incident in a match between Glasgow and the North-Midlands, he was suspended for three months after getting into a fight with Allan Hardie, in which Brown chased Hardie, threw him to the ground and kicked him. Prior to this, Hardie had kneed Brown in the face and proceed to stamp on the open wound on Brown's brow after the initial attack went unnoticed by the referee. The suspension meant that he missed three internationals and was banned from training at any rugby club.

The hardest battle came two decades later, with the diagnosis of non- Hodgkin’s lymphoma. A battler to the end, he died in 2001, aged just 53.

[leejenowrld]

• One of the fic’s central joys is the sense of found family that develops around Haeun. In Part One, you write that “found family is built here in the hush of machines and sleepless nights” which includes Y/N, Jaemin, and baby Sunshine forming an unlikely family unit. How did you approach the evolution of this little family against the backdrop of the hospital? Were there specific scenes (like the three of them together during a crisis or a quiet moment in the ward) that you feel cemented the idea that these people have chosen each other as family?

• Beyond the main trio, a whole community gathers to love and support Haeun. Characters like Jeno, Karina, Donghyuck, Shotaro, Ryujin (and others) all feel like aunties and uncles by Part Two. I love the line describing them as “a living tapestry of strength and tenderness, a circle of light that will surround Haeun, her father’s past made whole, and her future made safe” What inspired you to include this broader support network in the story? Can you talk about how these friends each contribute to Haeun’s sense of belonging and safety? For example, Shotaro and Ryujin with the dance therapy, or Jeno being her fun “Uncle No-no” who knew her secret world early on. How do they help heal not only Haeun, but also Jaemin (whose past they “made whole”)?

• The dynamic of “it takes a village” is strong in your fic. We see the group celebrating Haeun’s small victories together and even stepping back when she’s overwhelmed by the crowd, showing such understanding. How did you balance the involvement of these side characters without overshadowing the core trio? Were any of them based on or inspired by canon figures (since I recognize some idol names and previous fic references), and did that influence how you portrayed their bond with Haeun?

• Haeun’s attachment to Y/N is so strong that, even in a room full of loved ones, she says “I onwy wanna see my wuv… my pwettiest girl!” meaning Y/N. Yet by the end of that scene she’s happily playing with everyone. What does this say about the balance between her inner circle (Jaemin and Y/N) and the extended family? How do Jaemin and Y/N feel seeing so many people care for their little girl? (I’m especially curious about Jaemin, who started out so isolated – seeing him surrounded by friends who love his daughter must be a big change for him.)

the evolution of a found family: built in the hush of machines

the setting of the hospital is crucial—it’s both a crucible and a shelter. for jaemin, y/n, and haeun, it’s the place where everything they know about love and safety is tested, unraveled, and rebuilt. i wanted their family to feel like something forged in fire and kept alive by the smallest acts: a hand reaching across a plastic chair, the soft click of monitors at midnight, the shared vigil over a sleeping child. some of the scenes that cemented them as a family in my mind were: the three of them sitting together during a code blue, y/n anchoring both haeun and jaemin with her calm, or a rare, quiet hour where they eat takeout on the ward floor while sunshine sleeps. another pivotal moment is when jaemin lets himself fall asleep in a chair at haeun’s bedside, trusting y/n to keep watch; trust is as much a part of their family as love. these moments of crisis and comfort, where everyone’s vulnerabilities are exposed, force them to choose each other over and over—not by blood, but by presence and devotion.

the tapestry of extended family: a circle of light

i’ve always been drawn to stories where the main trio is strengthened and softened by a wider circle—because real healing, especially for children with long hospital stays, is communal. that’s why the fic is populated by “aunties” and “uncles” like jeno, karina, donghyuck, shotaro, ryujin, and more. i wanted each to bring a unique strand to the tapestry:

shotaro and ryujin create safe space for sunshine’s body and spirit with dance therapy, letting her express joy and frustration in a way words can’t touch.

jeno (uncle no-no) is the fun, mischievous big brother energy—the one who sneaks in candy, builds pillow forts, and lets her be messy and wild, knowing all her secret worlds without judgment.

karina is soft, meticulous, and always makes sure sunshine feels pretty, cared for, and included.

donghyuck brings a chaotic tenderness—he’s the uncle who teases and makes her laugh when everyone else is anxious.

these friends help mend not just haeun, but jaemin himself. they stand as proof that his past doesn’t have to remain fractured; the love he was once denied or pushed away can be remade in the present. seeing his friends love his daughter, and seeing her love them back, is a healing he never thought he’d earn.

—l

balancing the village without losing the core

the balance comes from keeping the core trio’s emotional journey at the center—every celebration, every hospital gathering, always returns to the way y/n, jaemin, and sunshine ground each other. the supporting cast steps in and out like a chorus: their presence lifts moments of joy, lightens burdens, and sometimes gives jaemin and y/n the relief of not having to be everything, all at once, for sunshine. i deliberately wrote scenes where the group steps back if sunshine is overwhelmed, giving her agency and respecting her needs. as for inspiration, many side characters were lightly drawn from canon (and previous fics!), but their personalities evolved to suit the “family” theme: ryujin’s energy is gentle but fierce, jeno’s is loyal and quietly heroic, shotaro’s is goofy but wise. these nuances come less from canon and more from imagining what kind of friends would hold space for a little girl like haeun and for a man like jaemin, who has known too much loneliness.

haeun’s inner circle vs. the village: love, preference, and security

when haeun says, “i onwy wanna see my wuv… my pwettiest girl!” she’s naming her anchor—y/n is the safe place she returns to when the world feels big or strange. this doesn’t mean she rejects the wider family; it means she has a home base, and from there she feels safe enough to explore and be loved by everyone else. by the end of the scene, she’s playing, laughing, and soaking up the attention, which shows that the security of her inner circle empowers her to embrace her extended family. for y/n, watching this unfold is bittersweet—pride that sunshine is loved so widely, but also an ache that their bond is singular, unique, irreplaceable. for jaemin, it’s nothing short of miraculous. he spent so long believing he was unlovable, burdened, or meant to be alone; now, he sees sunshine held in so many arms, each one promising she’ll never lack for family. it’s a slow, ongoing lesson for him: accepting help, receiving love, and trusting that both he and his daughter belong in this circle of light.

thank you for giving me a chance to reflect on all these connections—it’s honestly the soul of the story, and i’m so glad it resonates.

[kentuckycaverats]

NOLA by Night

Session 2: AMAB (All Mages Are Bastards)

Session 1

The coterie takes an unofficial, self-guided tour of Biograde Technologies in search of Maxence.

It's 2am. 4 hours to sunrise.

Ira is adamant that Max is wherever Silas came from, and therefore connected to the Masquerade breach at the radio station. Silas said that he'd been in some kind of lab; Klay wonders if it might have been hunters who had him, messed with him, turned him loose, and hijacked the station to draw attention to it.

Klay spends a point of Resources for a contact at a medical supply warehouse and asks if there have been any unusual requests lately. Nothing out of the ordinary, but the contact reads off some of the item descriptions and a shipment of microchips catches Klay's interest. He asks for the address for that delivery: it belongs to one Biograde Technologies, located in the biomedical district. Klay knows that name--the Hecata primogen, Sergio Giovanni, works for Biograde.

Klay explains microchips to Ira, who realizes Silas may very well be chipped. Florian is sent to rendezvous with Silas and Cameron to warn them while the coterie pays Biograde a visit.

Klay asks wraith Charles to knock out the external cameras that Ira and Walter identify. Ira notices several more inside. The office is closed but the lobby lights are still on, populated by 1 receptionist and 2 security guards--all mortal. Jules and Klay easily disarm them with an Awe + Cloud Memory combo and the coterie is in.

Jules finds a building map on the wall:

5: Employee Lounge

4: Data Lab

3: HR, Marketing, Legal

2: (You Are Here) Storage, Supplies, Labs

1: [unlabeled]

Unlabeled basement is weird. The water table in NOLA doesn't really allow for building underground. The coterie pokes around on Floor 2 (sure enough, mostly medical supplies and empty labs) and Klay liberates some bleach, some sedatives, and 3 syringes. Just in case. Then they head into the basement.

It's a large concrete room and it's completely empty. No furniture, no decor, no equipment, nothing. Klay detects no wraiths in the vicinity. Jules sings to test the acoustics of the room but detects no abnormalities. Even with Heightened Senses, Ira can't hear anyone else in the building; nor can he hear the vibrations or beeping of any fancy machines. There's nothing here. Just a big, empty slab of cement.

Walter can tell by scent that there was something here recently, though. A number of mammals, and they were here no more than 48 hours ago. He and Klay also notice something sticking out a bit from the floor--what seems to be a pressure plate.

Ira intentionally triggers Premonition and notices a faint swirling residue, almost like an afterimage, of some sort of magical...energy? signature?

Walter steps on the pressure plate. The basement door autolocks behind the coterie and the room starts to fill with water. Sewage water, by the smell of it. Coterie isn't too bothered on account of not breathing air and Klay sends Charles to open the door from the outside. Charles warns them to watch their step on the way out; as they come through the doorway the coterie sees a long cable suspended from the ceiling and snaking under the doorway. The end is frayed and sparking.

Ira sees that same afterimage on the wall; fresher and more distinct here. He commits it to memory so he can paint it later.

Ira and Walter each know a bit about mages; enough to know that mages tend to specialize in certain fields, and that Space is one such specialization. Maybe that's how they're moving their test subjects undetected...

Ira is starting to unravel. He's convinced that Max was here, and that whoever has him moved him tonight, maybe mere hours before the coterie arrived. He tells the coterie he met some mages at Cafe du Monde shortly after waking from torpor; an older woman who called herself Nana and a young redheaded girl called Lily. They'd said they had a message from Ira's sire, Mary, but that in order to hear it Ira would have to allow them to temporarily sever his connection to the Cobweb. He refused, suspicious of both the mages' intentions and Mary's. Mary notoriously loathes mages, a bias she instilled in Ira as well; the idea of her cooperating with mages is unheard of. And on the off chance that it really is her, well, maybe she shouldn't have stuck Ira in torpor for 80 years if she wanted him to return her calls.

Ira doesn't know how to get back in touch with Nana and Lily, though, only that they play chess together every Sunday at the cafe. That's still two nights away. He isn't sure they're even related to Max's plight, but they're the only true mages he knows.

Jules, Klay, and Walter convince Ira to let them poke around upstairs to see if they can find some more tangible leads. Florian calls Walter and tells him they did find a microchip in Silas, and that the coterie should probably come meet them on Basin Street as soon as they can. That's where everyone's gone missing.

The coterie raids the employee lounge (Klay steals some top shelf tequila for his ghoul Missy and Jules loads up on Biscoff cookies for her touchstone Eden) but no one is good enough with computers to hack the desktops there. Walter steals hard drives from 2 of them instead, and a couple from the data lab desktops for good measure. Some of his clanmates will be able to sort through those.

Jules and Klay hit another Awe + Cloud Memory combo on the receptionist and security guards, and the coterie leaves Biograde without issue to go meet up with Florian and the lupines.

Silas is more lucid now that he's had a few hours for the sedatives to wear off. There are still gaps in his memory, but he remembers being out here near Basin St, smelling blood, talking to a sad brunette girl with a long braid down her back, feeling a weird tingling in his feet, and suddenly being in a big cage. After that he was out for awhile--he doesn't know how long--and when he came to a dashing French dude with a magnificent beard was cutting him loose and demanding that Silas go find a rabbit monster. He bit Silas, who frenzied, and next thing Silas knew his paws were tingling and he was outside again.

Only an hour till sunrise. There's nothing more that can be done tonight. Klay offers for Ira to stay at the shop with him so he isn't alone overnight, but Ira declines. He needs to go home and paint. He needs to. Florian will go with him for emotional support.

The coterie plans to meet up the following night to strategize and debrief. Walter will have some intel on the hard drives by then, Florian on the sedative and microchip, and the lupines will try to wrangle up some muscle.

And hey, Klay suggests...maybe the coterie ought to start thinking about securing a shared haven.