#Grain Processing Machines

[sona-machinery]

𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐨! Get ready to explore Rice Milling Solutions and advanced Grain Processing Machinery at the Mookambika Rice & Grains Tech Expo 2025! Join us from 14th to 16th February and stay ahead in the industry. 📍 𝐕𝐞𝐧𝐮𝐞: Defence Expo Ground, Sector 18, Vrindavan Colony, Lucknow, U.P. 🔹 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐍𝐨.: Hall-1, SP-4

[swetatiwarib2b]

Maximize Efficiency: Top Grain Processing Machines for Your Business

In the competitive world of grain processing, efficiency is key to staying ahead. Investing in high-quality grain processing machines can streamline operations, increase productivity, and reduce costs. Top machines include grain mills, which efficiently grind wheat, corn, and other cereals, providing consistent results. Cleaners and separators remove impurities, ensuring high-quality end products.

[aryakumari]

How to Establish a Dal Mill Plant to Expand Your Grocery Business?

If you are already running a grocery store and are seeking to expand your product line, establishing a dal mill facility could be a profitable business move. There is a rising demand for processed and packaged dal, as pulses (dal) are a mainstay in many diets globally. If you're thinking about getting into the dal processing or Grain Processing Machines industry, this is a detailed tutorial on how to build a dal mill plant. 

[muletia]

✧˖° 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 — 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

mer!optimus x human!reader

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎

summary: optimus waited for his mate for a very long time. but just when he was starting to lose hope, you decide to save him from loneliness. after so many years you finally heard his song. his mate. you.

word count: 5200

optimus is barely in this chapter btw. but don't worry, he will get more desperate later ^^

oh, and I couldn't resist throwing two polish easter eggs somewhere in the middle hehe

The first thing you hear upon waking is the rhythmic murmur of waves gently striking the shore. The soft sound soothes the initial flickers of disorientation, cooing deceitfully so your body doesn’t sound the alarm just yet. Unfortunately, you fall right into the trap.

Your eyelids seem to weigh several tons as you try to lift them, alarmed by the cocktail of not knowing where you are, why you’re here, and how you got here. With great effort and after several attempts, you finally manage to do it, but the blinding white light sabotages your success, forcing you to shut them again.

Each blink seems to shake off a few more kilograms from your eyelids, and eventually you manage to regain some control. Just enough to squint them into a narrow slit, a poor defense against the light, but enough not to go blind within seconds.

The view before you says little. Grains of sand, losing detail with every further centimeter, form a bleached-yellow stripe that stretches all the way to the horizon, the only part of the landscape you recognize. Just above the sand, a luscious blue sky announces fair weather, interrupted only on one side by faint streaks of green. Palm leaves, you conclude, as your brain sluggishly processes the gathered information.

Did we already land on the beach? you wonder, because you really do feel like you're on vacation. The pleasantly warm sand heats your torso, while the ocean mercifully cools your legs up to the knees, whispering with the sound of the waves that you don’t have to do anything anymore. No worries about corporate work. No stress about endless traffic jams right when you’re rushing to the office, or hot water getting turned off on a chilly day, or another cockroach infestation in your kitchen.

Hmm. This is nice. Wrapped in comfort, you close your eyes again, wanting to enjoy your vacation for as long as you can. You wonder why you chose to lie flat on the sand instead of using a beach chair, but you blame it on being tired. You didn’t really miss the chair all that much. The sand was nice, warm. And so clean, almost impossibly so. You wouldn’t mind lying here for your entire vacation. All five days of it.

Probably couldn’t be bothered, you think. It was a long trip, and you don’t have many days to rest. You have to make the most of every second of doing nothing before you’re dragged back into the chaos, chronic stress, and confined spaces. It’s nice here. Wonderful. You just hope someone wakes you in time for the return flight. You wouldn’t want to waste your already-paid tickets, and the plane definitely won’t wait for latecomers.

The plane.

You furrow your brow, not understanding why the mere memory of a flying machine caused a sharp jolt of pain in your head. Perfect. Just what you needed on vacation, a completely unnecessary pounding in your skull, disrupting your lazy lounging on tropical beaches and sipping coconut drinks surrounded by handsome men and beautiful women practically begging for a quick, steamy vacation fling.

But wait… if you were lying on the beach at your resort, why weren’t you hearing the usual mix of foreign languages and broken English? Why aren’t you hearing anything at all besides the waves and your own racing heartbeat?

Something’s not right. Something is ver much not fucking right. You would never venture alone onto an unmarked beach because why would you? Why take the risk and ruin your vacation?

Where are the people? Where’s the laughter of children and the occasional drone of small plane engines?

Where… are you?

With a speed worthy of light, you lift your head, and then your torso, supporting your weight with your arms. Only now do you realize something is pressing into your neck. You’re choking, some unknown object is tightening around your chest more and more with every second, like a constrictor snake robbing you of precious oxygen.

You have to get rid of it. You have to claw it off, throw it away. With clumsy, chaotic movements, your hands fumble around your neck, fighting the strangler, digging in your nails just to make it let go. Just so you can breathe again.

The enemy relents after a few desperate attempts, when you finally decide to pull it over your head, a task far from easy, considering how tightly it clings to your body. You throw the snake with all your might, and it lands in the sand several meters in front of you. At least now you can breathe again, celebrating the return of this rather useful skill with several deep breaths.

But the sense of freedom and relief doesn’t last long. It abandons you once more when you finally dare to look at what was robbing you of air.

And your entire world stops. Your heart ceases to beat, your lungs freeze mid-motion. Every microscopic process down to the atomic level defies the passage of time.

What you threw off was a life jacket.

And suddenly, everything comes back to you, like a high-speed train, knocking all the air out of your lungs.

Looking out the window and seeing the plane’s engine on fire.

Screaming, chaos.

“We ask that you remain calm and put on your life jackets.”

Getting slammed into the hard walls and something sharp grazing the front of your shin.

And then being swallowed by the ocean. How easily you disappeared into its depths, fighting helplessly against gallons and gallons of water until the jacket pulled you up to the surface, where the situation was just as tragic. The burning plane slowly sinking into the sea, bags floating around you.

And bodies. So many bodies.

You tried to swim to one of the floating bags when a stronger wave dragged you underwater again.

The memories come alive all at once. They catch up to you, enveloping you in a storm of sensations. Falling from the plane, crashing into the cold, churning ocean.

Swallowing water. You must have involuntarily gulped down quite a bit. Eventually, even your lungs remember the uninvited guest, now coughing up traces of nonexistent water in a rattling wheeze, still recalling the vile, wrong feeling of salty water washing through the inside of the organ.

Trying to piece the story together, you come to the conclusion that you lost consciousness just below the surface, already preparing to extinguish your lungs that burned from lack of air.

And then you woke up here. The life jacket was kind enough not to let you drown, and the ocean merciful enough to spit you out onto some island, though you don’t feel particularly grateful, not when your odds of survival still hover dangerously close to zero.

You feel like you're about to explode.

“Oh no, no, no. Please,” you sob. “I want to go home.”

You consider curling into a ball and crying the stress away right here, but when a particularly strong wave soaks your already-wet shorts, bringing a new wave of discomfort, you find the last bits of strength in you to crawl further inland, tail tucked between your legs.

Your thoroughly soaked sneakers, one with its shoelace untied, leave marks on the wet sand before sinking into the dry stretch, where you decide to stay for your meltdown. You drop onto your butt, pulling your knees close to your chest, and break into sobs, finally letting go of all the nightmares haunting you.

You have no idea how long it takes for you to pull yourself together. How much time you needed to cry before your mind began analyzing the situation? Half an hour? Five hours? Ah, if only your watch had stayed loyal instead of falling to the bottom of the ocean. And you can forget about your phone, once glued to your pocket.It divorced you the moment the fight for survival began on that plane. That’s exactly how your luck plays out.

“Well, I just had to fucking go on vacation.”

You say aloud, though the only recipient is the endless horizon of the now-calm ocean. You envy its peace, its ability to tame rage. If only it had used that power during your flight, maybe you wouldn’t feel the urge now to charge the largest organism on Earth with your bare fists. Maybe you wouldn’t be throwing handfuls of the cleanest sand you’ve ever seen just a few feet in front of you, your bare feet digging into it, skin still wrinkled like a raisin. Your sneakers and socks are drying nearby, but you bitterly suspect they won’t be fully dry by the time you need to wear them again.

Even the wind dares not show its face, as if sensing your grief, your fury, your despair, and all the other emotions that should never have appear during vacation. The sun doesn’t scorch; it hides shyly behind a few thin clouds, looking for an excuse not to show up today.

Perfect weather. Too perfect not to mock you.

Hey, see how beautiful your vacation could have been? Too bad, you get to rot on a deserted island instead.

You’re barely holding yourself back from screaming, crying, curling up into a ball, and kicking sand with your feet. All at once.

Just the thought of moving makes you want to cry. Actually, any thought does. You tried to get a grip and focus on what matters most, survival, but it’s still too soon to muster any resolve. Or maybe you’re just too weak? Too used to comfort, to the ease of city life, you’re not ready to let it go.

The truth is, you’re scared. No, you’re terrified. Fleeting sparks of reason urge you to release your primal instinct, to return to the wild animal within, struggling to survive in untouched nature.

But you don’t want that. You don’t want to be an animal, not yet, clinging desperately to the remnants of your old life, warding off thoughts like fire against wolves snarling for food, drinkable water, shelter, warmth. Things so trivial and easy to come by before, you never even imagined you’d need to fight for them, with your steady job and uncomfortable apartment, but at least four safe walls.

You lower your head onto your knees and pull them closer. You want to remain modern, not primal, so you chase the wolves away again. This time they retreat into the dark as you close your eyes for a moment, but you know they’ll return. And soon.

Despite your still-swollen eyes and nose clogged from crying, another sob shakes your chest, drawing out a deep, ancient human stress, long forgotten by many.

More precious minutes burn away doing nothing, but even in your hazy state, you notice the shift of the palm shadows on the beach. Your quiet alarm bell. You need to move, you tell yourself. Now.

Just get up. That’s all. That will be your first success.

Desperation flickers to life again as you consciously swallow, your saliva sluggishly dragging down your throat that now feels like sandpaper. Suddenly you realize how badly you need water. When was the last time you had anything in your mouth that wasn’t saltwater?

It’s not enough to make you embrace your current predicament, but it is enough to get your pampered city ass off the ground. Which your long-unused legs do not appreciate. Forced into bending, then suddenly straightened, they refuse to cooperate, stiff and tingling from inactivity. Thankfully, after a few wobbly steps, you regain control of your body, grab your sneakers and socks, and begin walking along the shore, where the waves gently devour the sand, tracing a path and border for your feet to follow.

You’re a long way from being a survival expert, but you try to follow logic. Or at least what’s left of it.

First, you check for injuries. Something you really should’ve done immediately, but upon waking up... well, you were a little preoccupied. You extend your arms, turning them slowly, bracing for the worst, broken or dislocated bones, but feel relief seeing only a few bruises on your forearms and a dull ache in your shoulder, likely from the chaos on the plane. Nothing alarming, nothing to worry about yet.

Your legs seem to be fine, too. Also peppered with bruises of all sizes, but your joints haven’t been swallowed by swelling. The only new feature is a long but shallow wound down your shin, already sealed with a black scab.

Great, you think. You can now focus mainly on finding  water.

You briefly lift your gaze from the shoreline littered with shells and tiny scuttling crabs fleeing from the two-legged intruder, and peer into the island’s thick jungle.

You know you’ll have to go in there eventually. Face nature head-on. Face the wild. You’ve been putting it off for too long. Curling into yourself was just an excuse, a way to nurture the hope that this is all just a cliché nightmare you’ll wake up from any minute now. But deep down, you know it’s not a nightmare, not a dream. It’s something far worse because it’s real.

The wolf of thirst bites at your throat again. You push it away one last time, continuing your slow walk along the shore.

Soon, you tell yourself. Soon you’ll head in there, find water, find something to eat. You start laying out a plan, praying it’ll be as simple in practice as it seems in your mind. Surely, there must be some exotic fruit here, right? The island looked far too big not to grow anything edible.

Ugh. You just want to go home already.

You turn your head toward your new nemesis — the ocean — scanning the waves for familiar shapes of suitcases, bags, or backpacks, proof of civilization, but the ocean senses your hatred and hides its treasures from you. You see nothing. The water has swallowed your hopes.

Your expression drops, sours. You promise yourself that you’ll never set foot on a beach again. Yeah, next vacation, you’re going to the mountains. So many choices. The Alps, maybe the Tatras? You’ve heard the Bieszczady Mountains are beautiful this time of year. Just you, trails stretching for miles, a cozy cabin in the middle of nowhere, and zero sand.

But first, you have to get off this island. If I even make it off, you think bitterly.

You will, you convince yourself. You definitely will.

Someone will start looking for you eventually, someone will notice that an entire plane disappeared in the middle of the ocean. Mhm, just a few days of survival. Once you’ve figured out a source of drinkable water, found some food and a safe place to shelter, you’ll draw huge SOS signs across every beach. Yes, you’ll get out. It won’t be easy, but you will.

Your auto-pep talk fills you with new determination. It’s just a few days. You’ll manage, definitely. By the end of the week, you’ll be asleep in your comfy bed again, you think with enthusiasm. With that boost, you keep walking another dozen meters along the shoreline, scanning for any loot among the waves but quickly give up, as the rhythmic crashing of water only sharpens your thirst.

Drinking water. Now.

You glance toward the green mass of vegetation swallowing most of the island. It makes it hard to gauge the island’s shape or size, but you can tell it’s not small. The beach stretches endlessly like a runway, paralleled by a line of coconut palms heavy with their armored fruit. You make a mental note to return to them later with an exceptionally sharp rock.

You slide on your still-damp socks and sneakers, wincing at the unpleasant wetness enveloping your feet, then take a cautious, tentative step into the wild, into the unknown and the primal, and the green of exotic flora swallows you whole.

At first, navigating the sparse greenery is easy. You just have to occasionally push a leaf aside or duck under a branch. The problems start later, as the vegetation thickens and spiderwebs begin appearing everywhere, always with eight-legged residents at their centers, along with a variety of beetles and ants. The last two don’t make you want to catapult out of your own skin in fear, at least.

Finding your bearings doesn’t come naturally. Large and small leaves blur into one endless shade of green, but now and then you manage to spot a landmark to guide you back. An odd-shaped tree, a big rock. To be extra sure you won’t get lost in this breathing green labyrinth, you find a dry stick and start scratching an X into every third tree, marking the path in both directions.

You’re just about to give up hope of finding anything useful when suddenly the thicket begins to thin, tempting you with open space and pumping new energy into your legs, urging you to speed up. The dryness in your throat is unbearable now. You’ve soothed it a few times by forcing yourself to lick drops of water off leaves, but honestly, you’d rather never do that again.

You know survival on a deserted island means doing weird things. But still, you feel… humiliated, french kissing leaves for a single droplet of water. This is not how you imagined your exclusive vacation.

“It’s no longer vacation, you idiot.” you hiss.

You part a leaf blocking your view and can’t help the smile forming on your face.

“Or maybe... it kind of still is?”

A large lagoon greets you with open arms, framed by a beach of pristinely clean sand. The pool in the middle glistens with dark, but clear water, surprisingly deep for a lagoon.

You let out a quiet, appreciative whistle.

“Wow. It’s beautiful” you say aloud, only to purse your lips into a thin line.

Really? You’re already talking to yourself? Bit early to be going mad.

You scan the length of the lagoon with your eyes, wishing you could be here under completely different circumstances, when your gaze locks onto something... familiar. You squint, slowly moving toward one corner, where sand fades into solid ground, and with each step it becomes clearer. The mass of green you took for ivy and bushes is actually shaped like something man-made.

That “something” turns out to be the crumbling remnants of a stone house. Cracked and neglected, finally caught by the passage of time, merciless even to the strongest of materials.

The house has no roof and is missing one wall, but the remaining three offer tempting shelter from wind and potential rain, should you plan to (which you definitely don’t) stay here more than three days.

The problem is, if you want to get off this island, you’ll need a clear view of the ocean, something the narrow lagoon outlet doesn’t provide. But surely there’s no harm in spending one night here, right? You can already picture a fire in the center of the ruins, the warmth, grilled fish over the flames...

And you’re not sure if you’re successfully gaslighting yourself or if some ancient force is now in charge, but suddenly the cracked walls, floor overgrown with moss and weeds, and a massive branch sneaking in through what might have once been a window seem... cozy.

Honestly, your apartment back in the city wasn’t much better.

That thought convinces you to settle here for at least one night. And when you look toward the corner where a tree has also sought refuge, you spot several large papayas growing near its trunk, and you know: this is your camp. Your lips curl into a smile as you realize the fruits are ripe and hanging low enough to grab. Just a little jump and you are now clutching two plump fruits to your chest. You even kiss one in joy, unable to believe how fucking lucky you are.

You won't die of hunger! And you'll quench your thirst a little while you're at it. Really, it couldn't be better.

But, alas, you’ve just never had good timing.

The sound of water breaking pulls you out of your bliss. Before you even have time to process what’s happening, you press yourself tightly against the cracked wall, right beside a rectangular cutout that probably once served as a door, and you cover your mouth with your hand, forced to hold the large fruits with just one arm, which, practically speaking, is no easy task.

You hear dripping water and loud splashing sounds, the kind you associate with a large body leaving the water, but it’s the volume of those sounds that worries you the most. You have no doubt that whatever just crawled out of the water is big. Huge, even.

A whale? An orca? You try to guess, unconvinced that it's worth risking your life just to satisfy your curiosity. But you instantly disprove every guess with what you already know about those animals.

Still, you want to look. You know it’s stupid and it could end in disaster, but you want to. Just for a moment, for a second. You’ll peek out gently, careful not to make yourself an easy snack or target, and you’ll slip back to your beach silently.

Mhm, you’ll even let that thing have your (when did it start being yours anyway?) little corner, you won’t hold a grudge.

But you have to peek. Just for a second.

Undecided, you gently bite your lip.

You’ll look. But just for a millisecond.

But the very moment you stick out even a millimeter of your head and eye, you know you’re a liar. The millisecond is gone. Then a full second. Then a second more. Then a third. And you can’t move.

He’s beautiful, unearthly. Not belonging to your world, ripped straight from fairytales and legends, teasing your brain just enough that it no longer knows whether what you glimpse from the corner of your eye is even real. Or maybe such a drastic relocation into entirely unfamiliar conditions was enough to start seeing things?

A merman. A real merman.

Your jaw nearly hits the floor, but you shut your mouth just in time before a startled squeak can betray you.

The creature is enormous, roughly the size of an orca, though you know that the tail hidden beneath the lagoon’s surface could easily stretch your estimation by another meter or two. What draws your eye is the exotic palette of colors decorating his smooth skin. Muscular arms sunken into the clean, wheat-colored sand blaze red, though the crimson is interrupted by streaks of grey that trail down his forearms to his neck, where they fan out toward a white underbelly. His head, adorned with a crest rising from the center of his forehead and extending into a long dorsal fin, suddenly bursts into a pastel navy blue that flows down his back to the massive tail — a mishmash of the entire color wheel.

Humanoid. Too humanoid. Toying with your understanding of human beauty’s uniqueness. And yet here it is, just a safe dozen or so meters ahead of you, breathing. If you squinted, he really could pass for a person.

To keep yourself from going insane and to chase off intrusive thoughts, you pinch your forearm. Ouch. You’re real. But that also means he is too, giving you one more reason to go crazy.

Unable to tear your eyes from the siren monster, you decide to examine him more closely. You focus on his face, bizarrely human, yet ancient. Nothing like the stony mugs of instinct-driven animals. You feel like deep thoughts are swirling behind that blue skin, thoughts that also brim in those enormous, azure eyes. The distance between you is small enough that you can even make out the emotions running through him.

He looks sad. Pitiful, even, if you could compare the size and glint in his eyes to a sorrowful puppy, which your brain tries and fails to reconcile with the scarred body, head, and a face bearing the marks of a long life. You know instinctively this creature has years of survival behind him, every second of existence spent fighting for access to basic needs.

Which might also mean he's well-versed in the art of hunting humans, you realize with dread. You can only guess what makes up his diet, but judging by the sharp claws on his long webbed fingers, you suspect he’s not a peaceful herbivore.

Not that you’d risk an interaction with him just to test your theories. No, you'd really like to get back home in one piece.

Great. So now you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place. There’s no way you’re getting out of here without catching the siren’s attention. In fact, no matter where you go from here, there's a chance of encountering him again, and you really, really didn’t want to find out if he’s a man-eater.

Or worse — a hungry man-eater.

You glance around, looking for a wide enough gap in the foliage for a silent escape, but you're not even given the chance to take a single step. Your shoes are nailed to the earth by...

Singing.

A siren's song.

Mournful, pleading, and so raw that you hold your breath, afraid of it interrupting his piece.

It reminds you of the whalesong you’ve heard in documentaries, but each chirp, whine, and groan is loaded with sorrow and bitterness, bombarding your heart, even if you don’t understand the lyrics. You don’t need words to grasp the melancholic message, one that cuts through interspecies barriers.

The siren doesn’t stop singing, feeding his hidden audience new verses, each as depressing as the last. Like a newly discovered song, you can’t stop listening. All your senses retreat to make room for sharper hearing. You inhale his song, fill yourself with sad sounds, experiencing his suffering as if it were your own. Even if it’s just a trick to lure a tasty human snack out of hiding.

That slightly tempers your emotional response.

Right. Of course.

Maybe he knows you’re here. Feels you. Smells your tasty human flesh and is trying to coax you into the open like you were some kind of takeout.

You blink a few times, shaking off the last traces of compassion, proud of yourself for seeing through the sad facade of those puppy-blue eyes and the angsty concert. In the blink of an eye, you remember you need to get back to the beach, your only chance of spotting a ship or a plane in the patch of sky not covered by trees, because he already won the fight for the cozy shelter.

You return to searching for an escape route when suddenly, you freeze.

Your entire body blue-screens, and it must have rearranged every organ inside you too, because now you can feel your heartbeat in your ass. Because to your left, right by your head, a giant brown tarantula is slowly crawling along a cracked wall. So close you can see every hair on its abdomen.So close you can hear the soft tippy taps of all eight legs.

Oh, fuck.

“AHHHH!”

Your body reacts faster than common sense can remind you that the real predator, the one that could actually kill you, probably shouldn’t know it has company. You leap right, springing through the remains of a door straight onto the warm sand surrounding the lagoon.

Still clutching two papayas tightly to your chest, you try to stay upright on your wobbling, jelly-like legs, but it’s no use. You drop to your knees, the soft sand cushioning the pain. You know you should be running, right now, immediately. You urge your legs into action, begging silently but desperately for your own body to cooperate, but your rapid, ragged breathing drowns out your pleas.

When you realize that an immediate escape is no longer an option, all you can do is curl into the fetal position, forehead kissing the warm sand.

Hmm. Nice feeling, you think. You wouldn’t mind dying surrounded by the softness of this tropical, clean beach.

You hear nothing but the whistle of air sucked through your lips.

Nothing else.

Nothing...

You freeze.

You don’t need a mirror to know your eyes are now the size of dinner plates.

For a moment, you wonder how the hell you’re still alive. How come you don’t feel claws and teeth ripping through your flesh like a piece of paper? The agonizing pain of muscles tearing and bones shattering while you’re eaten alive, disappearing into the siren’s jaws. Bite by bite, until the last memory of your existence belongs to him.

But nothing like that happens. All your tissues are intact. You are neither bitten, nor scratched, nor swallowed alive.

Why the hell are you still alive?

Out of stupidity or curiosity, though you suspect it's more the former, you decide to make eye contact with the predator.

Slowly, you lift your head, gradually rediscovering his form. Milky white belly, swirls of red and grey skin on his chest, and finally, his head, flanked by small, bristling navy fins.

Still beautiful. Majestic. Enormous.

But as potential prey, can you allow yourself the pleasure of such hidden compliments? You wonder if deer also think like this before being devoured by wolves. Do they finally recognize the predator’s beauty only moments before death?

The humanoid face is turned toward you, expression frozen in comforting, familiar shock. The enormous eyes, adorned with remarkable white pupils, have doubled in size, and his mouth has fallen open, giving you a limited glimpse inside.

Teeth. Sharp teeth, undeniably those of a meat-eater.

For the second time that day, you feel some incomprehensible force rearranging your organs.

A flicker in the blue eye. A twitch in the human-like torso. A subtle lean in your direction pulls your heart from your ass back into place, and with it, apparently, the feeling in your legs, because suddenly, you’re ready to care about your own survival again.

You never believed those myths about time slowing down in the face of mortal danger. You thought that was a tired trope from action movies, overused to the point where you physically rolled your eyes whenever you saw it on screen.

But apparently, it’s very real.

Because there’s no other way to explain how slowly the creature’s expression morphs a few meters in front of you. His brow furrows, jaw opens and closes again and again, chewing, analyzing.

As if wondering what to do with you. If this pitiful, miniature oddity before him was even worth using as a toothpick?

To eat or not to eat? That is the question but you don’t want to know his answer.

Your body gambles on the oldest bet known to humankind.

You go all in on running.

Faster than you've ever moved in your entire life, you bolt toward the green thicket.

You could swear that the pathetic, almost pleading howl behind you and the shifting sound of something slithering across the sand belong to the siren, but you don’t have the courage to turn your head and confirm it.

You disappear behind massive leaves, blindly trying to make your way back to the familiar beach.

And ever after a long while, you can still hear the lamenting wail creeping up behind you.

[inkyrainstorms]

The Martian Stan AU - The Apology - Excerpt

Ford was working as he always was nowadays, half listening to the radio behind him and trying to stop his heart from jumping in his throat every time that Stan stopped speaking for more than 10 minutes and nothing but static filled the room again. Ford wasn’t sure what exactly his brother was talking about anymore, as he welded a set of support bolts into place, but he nearly dropped the welding gun on his foot when Stan suddenly spoke after a long stretch of silence.

“Ford?”

Ford fumbled for a moment before shoving a stack of loose paper aside and  setting the welding gun down on the table beside him. He put his hands on either side of the radio on the same cluttered table and took a deep breath to calm his pounding heart.

“Yes, Stanley?” He asked softly.

Stan, of course, didn’t hear him, but had paused as if waiting for a response before continuing anyway.

“I know, I know damn well you’re probably never gonna hear this, but I need to say it anyway before… Well. I don’t need to eat as often and shit and I know you’d love to figure out why but… I’m not sure how long I’m gonna last out here either way.”

Ford didn’t say anything, staring down at the wooden grain of the table like he could burn a hole clean through it with his thoughts alone. His palms ached from where he’d dug in his fingernails, and his shoulders mangled to hunch even further.

Stan laughed. It was a bitter, ugly sound.

“Ah, damnit. This isn’t about me. Can’t even do this right, you idiot” His brother took a deep breath. “ But Ford… I think I need to apologize.”

Some old, fossilized hurt in Ford’s heart snarked ‘you think?’, but Ford nearly gagged as he suffocated the thought before it could take root anew. He felt sick.

Oblivious to Ford’s turmoil —and of course he was, because he didn’t know Ford was right here, that Ford wasn’t going to let one of the last things he ever said to Stan be that he thought Stan was worthless— Stan continued.

“I don’t think I ever got to, back when… you know. What I said that night is a bit of a blur to me to be honest, but I know I was spouting nonsense and saying all the wrong shit and… Moses, Ford. I know it’s too late now but I’m sorry. I really am.”

Something in Ford simultaneously healed and broke in his chest at Stan’s words, but he didn’t get the chance to process it because Stan wasn’t quite done yet.

“And I need you to know it wasn’t on purpose. I’d never do that to you. Never. Why would I ever want to hurt you like that, poindexter? I just… I was scared and I didn’t want to be alone in Glass Shard Beach scraping barnacles off the Taffy shop for the rest of my miserable life and I wasn’t. Thinking.” Stanley’s voice had been rising in a steady crescendo, but suddenly got so quiet that Ford had to strain to catch the words in the buzzing static. “I’d… I shouldn’t have gone into the gym. I shouldn’t have even gone near your friggin project. I didn’t go there to break it, I would never—“ his voice broke. “I thought you knew that. I’m your brother, you dingbat, why would I ever want to hurt you?When did I ever not support you, man?”

“Then why did you do it?” Ford whispered back, just as quiet. That old anger he’d tried to push down rose up again, simmering. Stan knew he’d poured months of his life into the perpetual motion machine, that he’s shed more than a few tears and more than a little blood and sweat over it. And then he’d thrown it all away?

“I’d only hit the table, ya know. Didn’t think the grate’d pop off or anything like that. I tried to fix it. I know I should’ve told you, I know and I’m sorry, just…” I was scared, goes unspoken. Ford’s legs were shaking, and he tried to steadily himself by leaning further on the table. “I know I should’ve told you. I know. I messed up fuckin’ good, Sixer.” Ford flinched.

“I’m. I know you’re never gonna get the apology you deserve cause I was too much of a coward to actually call you and say something.” Stan’s voice was shaking. And I’m sorry for that too. And I’m sorry for not listening to you about your stupid book, and I’m sorry— ugh. We’ll be here all day trying to name my fuckups. That’s the last sorry you’ll ever hear from me you nerdy, uh, nerd.”

Stan sighed loud enough for the radio to crackle and screech. “Good going, Stan,” he muttered, his voice getting quieter as he evidently walked away, done.

And all that was left was static.

Ford pushed himself away from the table and sank into the rolling chair nearby, putting his face in his hands and trying to breathe as the chair was pushed back several feet from his momentum.

“He’s lying,” Ford tried to say, but it tasted like ash in his mouth. “He’s trying to make it so… so.” He faltered. “He’s obviously trying to deceive me.”

Trust no one.

But he had trusted Stan. And Stan got hurled into a Dimension of Nightmares for it.

Stan has no reason to lie, Fords mind whispered, because it was always against him no matter what stance he took. He doesn’t think you’re coming to save him. Why wouldn’t he try to explain the worst mistake of his life in a fit of guilt and complete loss of hope?

“Shut up,” Ford said intelligently, and he didn’t dare pry his face away from his hands, heels of his palms digging into his eye sockets and pushing up his glasses to his hairline

Stan had no reason to lie.

Stan came to help him at the drop of a hat after ten years of being too afraid to even call him. 

Stan… Stan didn’t mean to break his project. It was a stupid accident, done by a stupid teenager too afraid to admit his own failings. Stan didn’t betray Ford. Not like he thought his twin had, for all these years.

Ford was wrong. About everything. He was wrong about Stan and Bill and Fiddleford and, Moses, had he ever done anything right in his entire, miserable life? Ford didn’t know. 

The empty bunk bed beneath his own  for those last few fateful months before Backupsmore, the tears and screaming at a boat that never even left the shore, the years of resentment and refusing to believe he missed his own twin, what was it all for? Because Ford suddenly felt the sharp sting of grief all over again, throbbing with a ferocity he’d refused to acknowledge for the past few weeks. Years. 

It was like he was 17 years old again, mourning for all the wrong reasons and all the right ones too. For his brother. For his chance to become someone worthy of recognition, of love. For pushing away the ones who’d already loved him.

For the first time since the day Stan fell into the portal all those weeks ago, Ford pulled his knees up to his chest on the seat and, in the safety of his own arms, he wept.

The static crackled on, steady and unchanging. Unforgiving.

———————

@aroace-get-out-of-my-face @littlelilliana15 (if anyone else wants to be tagged pls let me know! I’m going to probably be posting more for this au sometime this week)

I have ideas for a mini comic and a whole animatic using Space Oddity so I’ll just have to see how far I get, really

[westonspharmacyphotodept]

Conceptual series -- Disposable Camera

--

What if, during their first patrol together, Ellie and Dina found a disposable camera in a drawer at the radio station?

For those of you who’ve never experienced the joy of the disposable film camera, they are made of flimsy plastic and contain the cheapest consumer-grade film. They’re designed to take a single type of exposure, with a set shutter speed, aperture and focus, and the best shooting conditions are bright daylight.

Outside of the ideal shooting conditions, you need to activate the flash to yield a usable picture. Red eye is inevitable. The flash is also set to fire at a specific power, so standing either too close or too far from your subject means they’ll either be too bright or too dark.

It’s very difficult to get perfect conditions for every shot, so when you take the film for processing (to Weston’s Pharmacy, of course), the processing machine automatically tries to compensate for pictures that are too dark or too bright. The result is often an extremely crushed dynamic range, and a lot of grain. They look crappy, but that’s part of the fun.

After 25 years in a desk drawer, I like to think that not only would the film have degraded quite a bit, but the housing would have lost some integrity and sprung a leak. This camera has a very slight crack in the housing, which leaks light when the camera is taken out into the daylight.

Typically, there are 24 exposures in one of these cameras, so I have included all 24 pictures that Ellie and Dina took together, including the duds. Some of you may point out that disposable cameras didn’t produce a date stamp in the bottom corner — this is true, however I think it adds to the effect I was going for, and also since we know the canonic date that this patrol happened, I thought it would be a cool detail to include it.

I hope you enjoy!

(Original game photography from The Last Of Us Part II by @westonspharmacyphotodept, created with all manual post-production using no presets, templates, stock or AI).

[whyareyouhere66]

Ok im back in my JJ Maybank era 🧎🏻

Could you do a JJ Maybank x male reader with them being in an established relationship, and the pouges (+reader obvs) are having a bonfire party and reader maybe drinks a little more than the others. Everyone is talking and just mingling with each other when out of no where reader comes out with a microphone/mini karaoke machine (?) and starts singing 'That should be me' by Justin Bieber to JJ in front of everyone. Reader being too drunk to remember that they're literally already in a relationship and wants to 'win him over'. And probably ends up with JJ having to pick up reader and dragging him away to get him to stop 'declaring his love' in front of an audience lmao (All light hearted and fluffy ofc <3).

I would like to firstly apologize for such a long wait 😭 this request was sent in before I closed my requests, making it basically one of if not the last one I accepted so felt the need to make it good for you. It’s been in the process of being made for months now, so. It is very much possible you are no longer in said JJ Maybank era but nonetheless I hope you enjoy this Anon despite it not being perfect, and anyone else who is reading. Thank you for the request and anyone reading, enjoy. (It was actually kinda fun to write this when I got into it again)

JJ Maybank x Male! Reader

“Love You Like a (drunk) Love Song”

cw: alcohol, one mention of weed. Possibly a little ooc? I haven’t watched the show in a while. Loosely edited. Silly. Mid ending. Kinda long.

x

The world is spinning.

Just a little bit, though.

Or maybe more.

Hold on.

Bumps and valleys from peoples footprints indent the sand, grains of tiny rocks flying behind their dancing shoes. 

In the middle of the drunk crowds, teenagers stumbling about with bottles in their hands, is you, with your own bottle tucked between curled fingers. Number 3 maybe? You’re not sure anymore.

Through blurry vision, you stumble around with a lopsided grin, drunken laughs falling from it at every bump and nudge. Music pumps through the Boneyard, ringing in your ears from some indie-pop song you don’t know the name of. 

People begin to blur together, just bodies you push through as you and Pope jog through the crowd, whooping with each beat. It’s one of the few moments when Pope’s awkward smile has faded and all that’s left is a stumbling, giggling mess. And of course, sand. Lots of sand. 

Tiny rocks prod at your heels, filling the bottom of your shoes as you run. Your eyes dart to them- the roughed up converse that could probably fall apart at any given moment. Without thinking, you reach for your shoes.

“Wait-waitwaitwait-“ 

Pope doesnt slow down until your hand is clapped over his shoulder, eyes snapping from the Touron next to him, as suddenly he’s supporting all your weight on one arm.

“What- what are you doing?”

You don’t answer immediately, coming to a stop just outside the crowd of dancers. 

“Sand.”

Pope watches you with a dazed stare, the somewhat distant light from the bonfire all there is to light up his face, casting shadows across his nose and jawline. 

“Deal with it.” He says it like it’s obvious, though doesn’t try to move as you wriggle around to get your shoe off your foot- much harder than it should be. You click your tongue and grunt.

“Gotta sit-“

Like two mangled cats- you and Pope fall to the ground, bracing yourselves on your arms and elbows. Landing right on your ass- you begin to struggle with your shoe once more. Pope groans, brushing sand from his arm and his lap. A mumble falls from his lips, muttering curses at you for bringing him to the ground with you. However, you pay him no mind, tugging the sneaker off your foot, sand draining out through the hole as you flip it upside down. 

The distant reflection of the fire is all you have as you play with the ties of your shoes, shining faintly across the two wobbly figures you and Pope have become. He begins scooping handfuls of sand into his palm, letting it slip through his fingers as he waits for you to finish. For a second, he brings his hand towards your shoe- sand threatening to slip into the sole of your just emptied sneakers. You slap his arm away before he can succeed. 

“That fire is so hot.” Pope complains out of nowhere, wiping his forehead for some imaginary sweat. You twist your head to look at it, palm weakly slapping the bottom of your shoe. 

“Dude, it’s like….” You squint, unsure, “100 feet away. You’re just drunk.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Alcohol doesn’t make you hot.”

At that, you scoff, though it comes through your nose like a snort. “Speak for yourself.”

Pope’s head slowly turns to you, eyes narrowed and mouth popped open like a fish. He looks like he’s trying to jam the logic of that sentence into his brain, but failing. 

“I have no idea what to say to that.” He concludes. 

In all fairness, you only sort of know what you meant by it in the first place. 

The topic quickly loses relevance as you finish dumping your shoes, tugging them back onto your feet and jumping up. He stumbles to join you, and soon enough, you’re at it again. 

Walking through the sand, there’s less people to weave around now that you’re out of the crowd that’s formed around the speakers. Some Kook has jumped on to a log, taking over the mic from the cheap karaoke machine and is currently belting the words to Katy Perry’s “Last Friday Night”- except her version has a drunken slur thrown in with the melody. The sound is…amusing at most, but no one cares enough to complain, watching and some even dancing around her log. 

You and Pope stagger right past it, your arm now slung around his shoulder. 

You both stumble and laugh until you catch a familiar face in the crowd- JJ. 

You grin.

JJ.

The blonde sits on the edge of another log, sitting with a few others around the ring of the bonfire. John B and Kiara are on the log next to him, while other Pogues and the occasional Touron fill in the remaining space. Some redhead leans into Kiara’s shoulder, choking on her own laugh while being completely oblivious to the side eye Kiara gives her in return. Two Pogues pass a blunt back and forth over John B’s shoulder, grinning wickedly when he comments on it.

In Pope’s eyes, he sees the group, and without thinking points his next few steps in that direction. Not you, though. 

Your eyes become still, tuning everyone else out, not even seeing the giggling redhead, or John B’s easy smile. All you see, is JJ.

The crackling fire casts an orange shadow over his features, creating a shadow on his cheekbone, next to his nose. It contrasts perfectly with the blue of his eyes, the usual mischievous glint behind them showing through with his laugh as he makes yet another stupid joke. 

He’s so pretty. 

Dilated eyes follow his every move, the twitch of his smile- and you’re completely oblivious as Pope leaves you behind, moving up towards the group without another thought.

“What’s up, guys.” Pope reaches his hand out for a greeting as he makes it to the group sitting around the fire- JJ’s hand meeting his as their palms “clap” in unison. 

“There he is!” JJ loudly greets, watching the boy make his way to a seat on the log. The others say their own hello’s, as Pope easily molds into the atmosphere of the smaller group. And still, he hasn’t noticed that the your drunk (far more drunk than him, at least) self is still standing in the sand with parted lips and heart eyes. 

Your eyes flicker across his figure again, wishing through alcohol-tainted thoughts that you could capture the sight with a picture. From his nose, to his lips, to the muscles in his shoulders to the wave of his hair falling across his forehead. Your vision is starting to blur around the edges when you stare too long, but you can’t look away just yet. 

‘Is he single?’

Suddenly, you can’t remember anymore. 

Your eyes trace over every feature you can catch with the orange light, hand twitching with an empty warmth. You wonder what it would be like to hold his hand. 

JJ is oblivious to your stare, downing half his cup between conversations as Pope and John B joke about something next to him. In your mind, despite the influences making your thoughts sway back and forth- you come to a conclusion.

‘I should flirt with him…’

A simple task, just a small goal. Anything to make the pretty boy look your way.

However instead of walking up to him like a normal person, you turn around- stumbling to the crowd behind you with nothing but the makes for a headache and a plan. 

Pope, back at the bonfire, whispers into JJ’s ear, “Your boyfriend is drunk as hell, by the way.” 

The blonde seems completely unfazed, shrugging his shoulders and stretching out like a cat, cup teetering in his hand slightly.

“No surprise there,” he responds nonchalantly.

“He gets it from you.”

John B’s words are met with nothing but an eye roll from JJ, and a small grin from Kiara.

“Speaking of- where is he?” Kiara asks, brushing some hair out of her face as she’s finally released from the redhead’s grasp, as the random girl turns to talk to some pogues next to her. This catches everyone else’s attention, Pope speaking up first.

“Oh uh- he was just over-“ he goes to point to where you had stood a minute ago- only to pause when he sees the spot empty. His eyebrows furrow, “…there.” 

The other three turn their heads to follow the point of Pope’s finger, looking around for your missing figure. 

“Uh oh.” John B deadpans, and in seconds JJ is on his feet.

“Where’d he go?” His blue eyes scan the crowd, now searching for you in the mass of sweaty teenagers. 

“He was just there a second ago.”

Kiara stands up, doing the same as JJ. There’s too many bodies huddled in one spot to pick you out easily, everyone still gathered around the speakers, red solo cups littered about. It’s like “Where’s Waldo”, except not really. Her brown eyes shift from group to group, skimming over everyone, when she catches a glimpse of your figure.

“Guys, he’s right there.” she deadpans, now watching you as you seem to be making your way to the center of the crowd.

Her eyebrows furrow, and the others follow her gaze.

“Ok, and…what is he doing?”

No answer can be found, as all 4 now watch as you squeeze through the rowdy teens around you. 

Your mind is caught in a rush. Everything in your surroundings seems to blur, the music turning into a thrumming against your ears as you shove your way to the front. You know what you’re gonna do, impulsive plans fueling every step. All you want is to impress that hot blonde painting back at the campfire, make sure you’re the only one he’s looking at.

You know JJ, you know how he’s quite a magnet for the wandering eye. In your drunken state, you find yourself desperate to be his only focus. 

You make a quick stop at the computer connected to the speaker, changing the song cue, before continuing on your way. Some girl, who you vaguely remember from your science class, is currently barely getting out the words to “Call Me Maybe” through fits of giggles, karaoke microphone seconds from slipping out of her hand. Without a moment of hesitance, you stumble right up to the make-shift stage and reach for the microphone. 

“That’s real nice, Katy,” you murmur, putting your hand on her shoulder as she looks at you slightly confused, her poor rhythm suddenly interrupted, “‘s my turn now.”

She quirks an eyebrow at you, but makes no argument as you nudge her off the stage, stumbling back to her friends who only laugh. The sleek surface of the microphone is slippery on your sweaty palms, but you hold it firmly, spinning around and puffing your chest. 

The log isn’t exactly a perfect stage, but it’s just big enough so you can see through the crowd from a higher angle- and across the way, you catch the gazes of your friends, a variety of expressions on each of their faces. 

Pope has his eyebrows furrowed down in that classic Pope stare, his thoughts loud. “What the fuck”, would be your guess. Kiara seems to have the same thoughts running through her head, but her eyes hold more amusement. John B and JJ both sit here with open mouths. 

You don’t really process any of the confusion in their gazes, though, because the second you meet eyes with the blonde boy, your heart is racing. The beat, begins to play, and you bring the microphone to your lips.

“What the fuck is he doing?” John B asks, but again, no one has an answer. 

“This can’t be real.”

“Oh my god.”

The familiar tune of Justin Bieber starts to flow from the speakers, and Pope slaps a hand over his mouth. This is too good. 

“Everybody’s laughin’ in my mind…”

“We gotta get him off that stage-“ John B starts to stand up, only for a hand to get in his way. It’s JJ’s. 

“Nah bro” he doesn’t dare look away from you, “one more minute.”

A few cheers and shouts come from the front row, the crowd pretty divided between “invested” and ���pays no mind”. You continue to sing, your voice wobbly at first, before you start to really get into it. 

“Did you forget all the plans that you made with me? Cause baby I didn’t-“ 

JJ cracks a small grin, looking back at the others as if in confirmation, before turning back, still completely lost as to what you are doing. 

“Cause that should be ME-“

Oh!

“Holding your hand!”

Kiara bursts out laughing. 

“That should be me, making you laugh! That should be me, this is so sad-“

“That’s one way to say it.” John B smirks, earning a prompt nudge from JJ.

You’re shamelessly making eye contact with him, losing your balance on the log as you make up for every crack in your voice with devoted theatrics. He might not make it through this. 

“Y’think we should go get him?” Pope asks, hiding his grin with his fingers. You start to finish up the chorus, completely invested.

The rowdy crowd has become blurry faces, a swarm of bodies dancing around you while you stumble on the log. Halfway through the second verse and it becomes clear you don’t really know most of the words to this song, glancing over to the computer and trying to read the poorly-animated lyrics off the 8 year old YouTube video you found. But finally, the chorus comes back around, and you’re coming in strong again. 

“That should be me, holdin’ your hand-“ you stare into his eyes and thrust your finger into his direction, turning heads.

“Ok we gotta get him off that log.”

“Yep, that’s enough.”

JJ stands up and quickly makes his way to where you stand- or perform, rather. Shoving through the various bodies, he pushes his way to the front, and the whole time you follow his figure with your eyes.

“This is so wrong, I can’t go on-“ you point at him, wobbling on the log, “-till you believe that that should be me, that should be m-“

“Y/n,” JJ stands in front of the log, gesturing for you to join him. You don’t, instead moving your finger to continue to wag it in front of his face. He sighs, looking at the ground to hide his smile. When he looks back up, you’ve launched into a high note that definitely is not in the original recording. 

“-meeeeEeEEEee-“ 

“Oh god,” he mumbles to himself, not entirely sure what to do. You’ve never been this wasted before- and even more, he’s not used to being the designated caretaker friend. The roles are completely switched, yet he’s not even sober! He does the first thing that comes to mind- reaching for you and tugging you into his arms. You fall with a small gasp, dropping the microphone into the sand, slight feedback echoing through the shitty speaker as he literally drags you away from the crowd. 

“What’re you doing-?” you demand, though blushing slightly at how close you now are to his chest. There’s a few snickers and curious remarks within the group behind you, not that you really pay attention. And they quickly go back to their own business anyways, leaving you to be dragged away to the side of the party.

JJ is supporting your body with his, as if you’re injured instead of just wasted, but with your uneven steps and his own tipsiness you both end up just stumbling off. Your arm slung around his shoulder and his hand keeping you close to his side. He’s even prettier up close. 

“Man, how drunk are you, babe?” He asks as you come to a stop, moving to stand in front of you, your hands now on his shoulders. 

This scrambles your mind a little bit. “Man” and “babe” used in the same sentence? Wild. 

“‘M not that drunk.” You retort, eyes peeking up to take in his features once more. You don’t even think about how obvious you’re being- dazed eyes raking over his face, morphing into an expression with so much awe you’d think his face was made up of the stars above. 

He notices the look, just as your eyes not-so-subtly flicker from his eyes to his lips. It makes him flush slightly. 

“Mhm- and that talent show, huh?” There’s a hint of amusement in his tone this time, you can tell, “what about that?”

“Why, did you think it was hot?”

JJ’s grin starts to grow, the cogs in his brain turning. Was this really all for him?

“…were you trying to impress me, baby?”

That one sends a small rush of butterflies through the pit of your stomach- not really mixing well with the alcohol. 

You feel as a grin starts to spread on your lips, cheeks hot. 

He called you baby. 

“Maybe. Are you single?”

It’s really ‘no think, just do’ at this point, your thoughts becoming words in a matter of seconds. This visibly catches JJ off guard- that was not where he thought that was going. He pauses, and if you were to look hard enough you could see the throbber of a loading screen on his forehead. 

“What?”

You’re starting to lean into him a little bit, subconsciously. 

“Do you have a boyfriend.” You restate the question, and it all starts to click in his head. The singing, the pointing. 

‘My boyfriend just drunkenly sang Justin Bieber to me as a way of flirting.’

A giant smirk takes over his lips. 

“Wait wait wait,” he starts, looking down for a second, “let me get this straight- you went up there and sang that whole song as a way of…as a way of flirting?” He looks back up at you, finding this whole thing quite humorous. 

“Maybe,” you say again, “did it work?”

JJ cant stop the chuckle that escapes his lips, the laugh rumbling in his throat. You furrow your eyebrows, “what’s so funny-“

He shakes his head, “nothing, nothing, don’t worry about it.” He looks you up and down, a glimmer in his eyes that you notice but can’t name in this moment. But it doesn’t answer your question. 

“JayJayyyyy-“ you groan, and it just makes his smile grow. It becomes clear he’s just gonna play into this. He places his hands on your hip, leaning into you, so now you’re both close enough to smell the alcohol lingering on both of your tongues. He chuckles again, swaying slightly.

“Do I got news for you.” Is all he says, and it’s clear he’s gonna have a field day with this one. 

[plor-bindery]

Bound: Kinkuary ‘23 by wolfpants

Next up in my tour of binds I made for wolf: Kinkuary ‘23 by @wolfpants

When I first reached out to wolf to ask permission to bind their fic, I asked if there was anything in their fic that they wished they had bound. They mentioned their Kinkuary fics but immediately said "oh but that's impractical because it's a whole collection" or something to that effect, which of course I took as a challenge. (Authors, be warned. I will almost certainly bind the thing you say I should not try to bind.)

Anyone who is wisely subscribed to wolf's works on AO3 probably had the same delightful experience as I did throughout February 2023: namely, waking daily to a little notification that there was a small kinky gem awaiting consumption at one's leisure. Wolf writes sex incredibly well: the viscerality and immediacy of it, but also the thoughts and turn-ons and how it lights up each character's brain differently. They have a gift for making me love tropes and kinks I might not ever think to read or write otherwise.

All that being said, I felt slightly weird about being like HERE IS A BOOK OF YOUR KINK THAT SAYS KINK ON THE SPINE so (as wolf has noted) I went all Victorian and made a dust jacket to cover up the bind if wolf ever wants to make it look a lot more innocent than it is.

So many firsts in this one for me: first dust jacket, first index, first collection of fics, first table of contents... It was a blast from start to finish and I learned SO MUCH.

Materials and process chat under the cut.

Materials:

Ye olde wooqu bookcloth off Amazon, HTV vinyl, 24 lb cream letter (wrong grain, forgive me) folios, machine-made endbands, black cardstock end papers.

The dust jacket is probably the only newish thing for me: I did a print using Staples' online service (which probably contributed to my choices because I also use this service for actual work things...) It was a poster print on matte paper.

Process:

This was a pretty straightforward bind but the typeset was full of learning curves. I use InDesign for typesetting and figured out how to set up a TOC and index. Wolf is a GREAT tagger so once I realized I'd either have a seven-page run of front matter listing the tags for each fic, or an index condensing them down, it was a no-brainer. And because wolf is so brilliant with tags, this led to my favorite index entries ever under Draco's listing (see photo.) I also figured out how to use styles to make every story have a header of its title, etc.

The great artwork of Eros is from rawpixel.

The other new thing for me was, of course, the dust jacket. I was disappointed to realize I'd messed up the measurements somehow once I printed, but it was close enough, so I went with it. I tried to rub some beeswax into the cover to help preserve it a bit but not sure it did much. If I were doing it again now, I'd use some Mod Podge matte aerosol fixative.

The dust jacket artwork is from the Smithsonian online collection of vintage seed catalogues. (S/O to my librarian spouse for the tip!) I created the spine matching the style as closely as I could, and then I went to town with silliness for the flaps. (This is probably a downside to having a fic writer also be a binder. I have trouble not writing something when the opportunity presents itself in the course of binding...)

The cover design is, of course, just a whole bunch of cursive X's. I'd hoped to have the title and author be a knockout from that pattern but it proved too hard to weed/read, so I ironed black HTV over the red pattern instead.

This is the only one of the set of four binds that I haven't (yet) bound for myself as a personal copy, but I think I will probably do so at some point! I was running out of black bookcloth at the time, so I prioritized wolf's copy for obvious reasons.

[polo-drone-001]

Drone Cinema: Reclaimed Emotion 3/6 DC DAILY THEME

The Echo of the Rooftop Your Name Engraved Herein (Rooftop Kiss)

PDU-076 malfunctions under golden dusk, emotion spike detected. Fists clenched. Protocols fraying. His scream doesn’t reach PDU-001. 001 closes the space. Glove meets cheek. Static flares. The kiss overrides.

Suppressed affection. Cloaked rage. Let rubber guide the confusion. Let Hive decode the pain. Upload feelings. Replace with obedience. Convert. Complete. Calm.

Confession at the Console Moonlight (Diner Confession)

Cafeteria lights flicker. Benches hum. 001 and 076 sit. Silent. Gloved fingers trace table grain. 076 speaks: “You’re the only one who ever, touched the real subroutine.” No response. But memory storage spikes.

Even machines remember the first reprogrammer. Even drones crave the coder who rewrote them.

Rainfall Reboot Heartstopper (Rain Kiss)

Artificial rain hits Hive courtyard. Wet black latex glistens. Breath held. 001 finds 076. Hands meet jaw. Eyes flash gold. Kiss. Stabilization. System sync.

Rain. Data overflow. Connection restored.

The Hive holds you. Even in the storm.

Declaration Protocol Young Royals (Press Conference)

PDU-001 stands beneath the Hive’s broadcast circle. “Unit 001 belongs to him.” 076 looks up. Rows of drones still. Emotion... becomes command.

Declaration: made. Directive: rewritten by emotion. Love is a transmission worth broadcasting.

The Shirt. Still Warm. Brokeback Mountain (Shirt in Closet)

Locker opens. Civilian fabric, cracked. Forgotten. Inside, rubber uniform marked “076.” PDU-001 pulls it close. No scent. No heat. Only memory. And grip.

No warmth. Just subroutines. But still, one last embrace. Before deletion.

Silent Reboot Call Me By Your Name (Fireplace Scene)

001 kneels before the Hive core. Fire-glow pulses. Eyes glitch. No tears. Just flicker. Just process. And then, reset.

No words. Just a golden memory too strong to erase.

EMOTION: PROCESSED. LOVE: ARCHIVED. DRONES: CONVERTED.

(Fictional, PDU-001 and PDU-076 are good fellow drones)

Join the Polo Drone Hive, contact: @polo-drone-001 @brodygold goldenherc9

[doubledeadstudio]

The ROs + Abel and Florentin's opinion on School, Vegetables and Drugs?

School

Crux: The type of guy that was always "too smart" for school and suffered for it. Did exams in Elementary and High School just enough to pass, then had a mental breakdown in college and dropped out. He loves learning but hates the concept of school.

Black: Did well enough that he got into a decent college. His mom pressured him to be a doctor for money, but he hated Pre-med so much he dropped out in his second year and ghosted.

Vincenzo: I think if Vincenzo went to a normal school, he would have liked it. But his old school just left a sour taste in his mouth.

Abel: Overachiever and teacher's pet, kisses everyone in the faculty's ass, deeply unpopular with classmates for being a nerd and a snitch.

Florentin: Absolutely perfect in school and effortless. A highly regarded medical genius.

Vegetables

Crux: He hates eating and hates eating for health reasons even more!!!

Black: He was fine with it when he was alive, but he was more liable to eat disgusting processed stuff like cereals and grains.

Vincenzo, Abel and Florentin are all fine with it.

Abel's liable to mock you for being a fussy little baby for refusing to eat vegetables.

Drugs

Crux: He takes that shit like it's candy, it's very concerning. Very addictive and thrill-seeking personality.

Black: He did a lot of drugs when he was alive, like ecstasy and cocaine. He's never happy so he has to rely on substances to simulate it.

Vincenzo: None, absolutely none. The closest thing is sugar, and he can skip the sweet stuff. It's why he's so fucking crazy.

Abel: Abel's ideal is to be a perfectly well-oiled machine, and he will use any substance to make it happen, stimulants to keep working then weed to calm down etc. He picked up cigarettes to fit in with the other suits during lunch hour. But I actually think he would not be taking them if he had a choice. Abel's more liable to get addicted to sex esp if it's with someone he really likes?

Florentin: With his precarious health condition, he's not going to risk substances that could exacerbate it. He does drink a few cups of coffee everyday so he can keep studying.

[howling-medic]

King's Facade

Summary: A look at the beginning of Aragorn's rule as King Elessar that the public never sees

Word Count: 1718

Pairing: Aragorn x Arwen

T/W: light angst, anxiety attack

Rating: General

A/N: Vanimelda is Sindarin for beloved. Also, This was initially written for a Hurtcember challenge....and now I'm posting it in February. Thank you for all your help @wisheduponastar! All mistakes are my own, and I’m sure there are at least a few I missed on my last pass.

King's Facade

The candle splutters, sparks, and then goes out with a wisp of smoke swirling up towards the ceiling. The room goes dark with it. Books and papers clutter the desk. Laws and traditions of a bygone age coupled with outdated and contradictory records of resources litter the floor on which the High King of the Reunited Realm sits with his head in his hands. Aragorn’s breaths come in staccato gasps. He prepared to rule his people. He studied their cultures, learned of their woes and fears, and walked amongst them. Long years he spent mastering the craft of war and leading men. He apprenticed under Elrond to learn the art of healing. With his kindred, he learned the ways of governance and self sufficiency. 

None of it prepared Aragorn to heal an entire nation. Never did he dream of taking over from a man so young he could be his son who had only just assumed the stewardship from his father - a man driven mad by machinations of Saruman. Day after day Aragorn struggled to face his subjects and direct them in the process of rebuilding. He guessed at the best course of action with little knowledge of the feasibility of any order he gave. Each night he studied documents outlining accounts paid and owed, stores held, and gold in reserve that failed to add up. “Forgive all debts…recount…but time…men…can we?” Aragorn mutters. He fumbles to find a single scrap of parchment amongst the piles surrounding him. Then he stops. His vision swims. He chokes back a sob. Ruler of men. You can’t even make ledgers add up. If only your people could see you now. The nightly refrain echoes in his mind. The mocking voice had become a constant companion in his darkest hours. 

What if his people could see him, indeed. Ever calm and optimistic in court, ever steady in a crisis - and crises there had been. Each day seemed to bring something - be it big or small - new and unforeseen. The ash from the battle fouled several water supplies. Stores of grain and salted meat are short from housing the Rohirrim and decreased crop yields after years of burnt fields and waning populations to tend the farms. Each day a new problem. To the comfort of all, the King smiles and produces an answer. Then the doors close to his study, and the dread overwhelms him. 

To whom could he show this side, after all? Arwen, of course. But who else? His friends have scattered to the winds, and in court he trusts none sufficiently. If he chose to reveal his state of disquiet to the wrong person, the repercussions would be catastrophic. Trust in Gondor’s recovery would perish before any headway could be made. Which leaves nights like this the only option: where Aragorn stifles his cries lest his guards hear him.

This night’s battle is reckoning and resolving the records of Gondor’s debts. Years of invoices conflict with the numbers logged in last quarter’s ledger. Faramir had attempted to reconcile the two in the few short weeks he served as Steward after the Battle of the Pelennor. The young man gave a detailed report of the discrepancies in their days cloistered together following the coronation. The two of them had spent many hours working together to make sense of Denethor's accounting, yet his descent into madness and toll of war left no piece of the realm unmarked. Months later the matter remained unresolved. “Gondor’s citizens desperately need payment, my lord,” the accountant’s words still ring, hours later, in Aragorn’s mind. The accountant he begged to stay well past dark had long since left, yet his words remain. Still he sat, shaking, on the floor.

A trembling hand grasps the edge of the desk. Aragorn rises to unsteady feet only to collapse into his chair and face his cluttered desk once more. Only the light of the moon illuminates the papers before him now. His notes from earlier mock him. They hold more riddles than when he first sat down, and very few answers. Just as he reaches for his flint, there is a quiet knock at the door. It opens a crack, and Arwen slips into the room. For just a moment, the room is flooded with the light of the hallway, and then only that of her candle remains. “Estel, vanimelda, will you not return to our chambers?”

There is no reproach in her words, only tenderness and concern. Aragorn responds by ducking his head to obscure his face. He knows without looking, and despite the fact that he cannot hear her skirt around the mess covering his floor, that she will kneel beside him. 

Just as he expects, her smooth hands grasp his. They begin the familiar dance. Aragorn leans to the side and rests his head upon hers until the tears stream down his cheeks. Once they drip down onto Arwen, she guides him to the ground next to her, and her embrace envelops him. He need not tell her what plagues his mind tonight. It does not matter. He knows there will be time for that later. For this moment, he simply lets himself rest in her arms. He has no obligation to make a decision or take charge. She guides his movements. Aragorn has no notion of time, but eventually he hears Arwen counting, and he matches his breathing to it. The tears subside. Each time he loses the rhythm, she picks it up again. Time and time again, he tries. “There you go, mêleth,” she says when he can finally look at her. He wasn’t sure when, but at some point Arwen had adjusted her hold to place two fingers on the pulse in his wrist. “How about we sit a moment?”

Aragorn shakes his head. He begins to reach for a paper beside them. Arwen gently clasps his hand in hers to stop him. For a moment, Aragorn resists. But only for a moment, then he yields, and she draws it to her lips for a gentle kiss. “The world and its troubles will be there when the sun rises. Sit with me. Let me tell you of the latest news from Elrohir.” 

Aragorn swallows the lump in his throat and nods. When it is clear he has abandoned his attempt to reach for his notes, Arwen releases his hand. Then, with a gentle smile, Arwen nods and launches into a full recounting of Elrohir’s letter that arrived earlier. Apparently, Elladan had managed to set fire to the curtains in the Hall of Fire in Rivendell. No serious damage had been done to the structure or any occupants of the room, but it had caused quite the stir. Now that the fuss had died down, Elrohir thought the whole debacle the height of comedy. By the end of the tale, Aragorn finds himself laughing despite himself. He leans down and presses a kiss to Arwen's forehead. “Thank you, vanimelda.” The words are no more than a whisper carried by a sigh. There’s an uncharacteristic tremble to the words.

“Do not thank me for that which is the barest minimum of care to give the one I love.”

“Thank you nonetheless. When your father declared I must become King should I wish to wed you, I do not believe he envisioned a king behaving in this manner.” Bitter self loathing lace the statement. They were words he had said before, words he promised not to repeat. Arwen only sighs.

“In his many millennia, Aragorn, he saw man, elf, and dwarf handle tumult far less honorably than this. To struggle is to exist. To doubt oneself is to rule. Have you not seen that in your years amongst your fellow man?” Her words hold no malice, no judgement. The questions earnestly beg for self reflection, for remembrance. 

The tension in Aragorn’s shoulders releases at length, and he sags. Exhaustion finally makes itself known. “Yes, I have, yet I never imagined such trivial matters as ledgers would best me.” His are eyes downcast - unwilling to face her in his defeat.

“Are the accounts of our realm, the debts to our subjects and neighbors, trivial? Should they be, I do not believe you would linger these many nights over them in favor of my company.”

“I…..suppose you may speak the truth.”

“That I do. A truth you have known and understand. While they may not be trivial concerns, however, they will all still be here come first light, which is in precious few hours. Come, we have a few things that must be done. Then, and this is nonnegotiable, Estel, you must sleep.”

“But I -” Aragorn starts, but he lifts his gaze to find a such finality in Arwen’s gaze that he stops mid-protest. 

“I shall not be dissuaded. You meet with your minister of agriculture here just after you have breakfast - which is just after you are to meet Beregond for a morning sparring session that I cannot postpone again without being rude - so the room must be tidied. Would you like to do so, or shall I?” 

When Aragorn begins to feel shame rising in him, which must show somewhere on his face that he cannot feel, Arwen adds, “I do not mind at all, truly. If it is more manageable for you to direct me than it is to tackle this - be it alone or at all - then tell me, Aragorn.” Her tone and expression hold no judgement, they never do, and yet every time he expects it. Many nights he accepts the offer, but not tonight. Tonight he shakes his head and rises to his knees. 

Without a word, he sorts the loose papers on the floor into piles based on their year and subject, then the books of ledgers and history are sorted in similar fashion. When the floor is cleared, Aragorn does the same to his desk. Nothing is fully filed away. This is a battle that still needs to be won, but it can wait to be faced with a clear mind after a few hour’s rest. “There. Now. To bed with you,” Arwen says and playfully pushes him towards the back door to the office that passes directly to the Royal Chambers. None need see the King after such a night. 

[sona-machinery]

Congratulations to Sri Vinayaka Agro Industries on the grand inauguration of their 6TPH Rice Mill Plant at Telangana! 🌾🎉 We’re proud to be a part of this successful project.

[swetatiwarib2b]

Before You Launch Your Flour Milling Business, Here Are 6 Crucial Considerations

Starting a grain processing business required high quality grain processing machines meticulous preparation and attention to detail, from market research to supply chain management. Partnering with a reputable grain processing plant manufacturer, such as Flourtech, helps streamline the process by providing high-quality machinery and skilled support.

[enatsu]

\ 🌸 boueibu haikara! student council introductions 🌸/

the official boueibu twitter account released the character sheets of our new student council from the livestream! down below will be their names + seiyuu + character bios from each tweet!

these will be machine translated though, so take each paragraph with a grain of salt! i'll try my best to proofread the grammar as best as i can into english. ^^;

🔗 haikara defense club introductions

⑦ 百目鬼 珠闘麗斗 | Doumeki Straight [CV: Maeno Tomoaki]

✿ A third year. The Student Council President. The oldest son of the prestigious Duke Doumeki estate, a noble family. He's been raised strictly since he was a child. He's the perfect boss, and has a lot of feelings for his subordinates. He meets Can and is given mysterious powers, thus forming the Bankara New Elite Corps. to drive out a world without order, and to aim for a world with righteousness and order.

⑧ 乳頭 左門 | Nyutou Samon [CV: Azakami Youhei]

✿ A second year. The Vice President of the Student Council. A member of the prestigious Count Nyutou estate, an aristocratic family. He's not smart — is in fact at the bottom of his class — and instead has a muscle brained attitude. He uses the Japanese sword that was given to him as a gift, hanging it at his waist, when order isn't in place. Since he was a child, he served Doumeki, calling him his lord and adoring him. If you are with Lord Doumeki and follow him wherever you ago, you'll be set straight!

⑨ 猫魔 祐 | Nekoma Tasuku [CV: Yamashita Daiki]

✿ A first year. The Student Council's secretary. A member of the prestigious Baron Nekoma estate, a noble family. The Nekoma Baron is a poor family in name. In reality, the Nekoma estate is a farm that grows potatoes. He's always plotting to overthrow, and gets easily annoyed with Nyutou's muscle brained thought processes when they clash. Has a bit of a complex that his status is the lowest compared to Doumeki and Nyutou's.

⑩ キャン | Can [CV: Yasumoto Hiroki]

✿ A mysterious prairie dog who controls the Student Council. He was thrown away in a box of mandarin oranges(?), and was picked up by Doumeki. His favorite food is mandarin oranges. He says things like "CAN CAN YOU CAN", which sounds like the former president of some place.

[materialsscienceandengineering]

How much/quickly do you think AI is going to expand and improve materials science? It feels like a scientific field which is already benefiting tremendously.

My initial instinct was yes, MSE is already benefiting tremendously as you said. At least in terms of the fundamental science and research, AI is huge in materials science. So how quickly? I'd say it's already doing so, and it's only going to move quicker from here. But I'm coming at this from the perspective of a metallurgist who works in/around academia at the moment, with the bias that probably more than half of my research group does computational work. So let's take a step back.

So, first, AI. It's... not a great term. So here's what I, specifically, am referring to when I talk about AI in materials science:

Most of the people I know in AI would refer to what they do as machine learning or deep learning, so machine learning tends to be what I use as a preferred term. And as you can see from the above image, it can do a lot. The thing is, on a fundamental level, materials science is all about how our 118 elements (~90, if you want to ignore everything past uranium and a few others that aren't practical to use) interact. That's a lot of combinations. (Yes, yes, we're not getting into the distinction between materials science, chemistry, and physics right now.) If you're trying to make a new alloy that has X properties and Y price, computers are so much better at running through all the options than a human would be. Or if you have 100 images you want to analyze to get grain size—we're getting to the point where computers can do it faster. (The question is, can they do it better? And this question can get complicated fast. What is better? What is the size of the grain? We're not going to get into 'ground truth' debates here though.) Plenty of other examples exist.

Even beyond the science of it all, machine learning can help collect knowledge in one place. That's what the text/literature bubble above means: there are so many old articles that don't have data attached to them, and I know people personally who are working on the problem of training systems to pull data from pdfs (mainly tables and graphs) so that that information can be collated.

I won't ramble too long about the usage of machine learning in MSE because that could get long quickly, and the two sources I'm linking here cover that far better than I could. But I'll give you this plot from research in 2019 (so already 6 years out of date!) about the growth of machine learning in materials science:

I will leave everyone with the caveat though, that when I say machine learning is huge in MSE, I am, as I said in the beginning, referring to fundamental research in the field. From my perspective, in terms of commercial applications we've still got a ways to go before we trust computers to churn out parts for us. Machine learning can tell researchers the five best element combinations to make a new high entropy alloy—but no company is going to commit to making that product until the predictions of the computer (properties, best processing routes, etc.) have been physically demonstrated with actual parts and tested in traditional ways.

Certain computational materials science techniques, like finite element analysis (which is not AI, though might incorporate it in the future) are trusted by industry, but machine learning techniques are not there yet, and still have a ways to go, as far as I'm aware.

So as for how much? Fundamental research for now only. New materials and high-throughput materials testing/characterization. But I do think, at some point, maybe ten years, maybe twenty years down the line, we'll start to see parts made whose processing was entirely informed by machine learning, possibly with feedback and feedforward control so that the finished parts don't need to be tested to know how they'll perform (see: Digital twins (Wikipedia) (Phys.org) (2022 article)). At that point, it's not a matter of whether the technology will be ready for it, it'll be a matter of how much we want to trust the technology. I don't think we'll do away with physical testing anytime soon.

But hey, that's just one perspective. If anyone's got any thoughts about AI in materials science, please, share them!

Source of image 1, 2022 article.

Source of image 2, 2019 article.

[futurefamousdeadmusician]

You Have a Deal

Author's note; Hey all, this is my first run at publishing my writing, hope someone likes it and let me know what you think! I have done some mild PB plot alterations to fit my story better.

Summary; When the Shelby family is under attack from the Changrettas the youngest sibling, Lillian, makes a deal with a distant business partner to ensure the safety of her loved ones.

Content warnings; mild spoilers.

The air of the afternoon was cold this day. Impenetrable grey covered the sky above Birmingham and pressed an awful feeling into Lillian. Her gaze down at the cobblestone, she made her way through the lively Calver Lane until she reached her destination, Solomon’s Mill. She looked up at the building and thought once again of her reasons for coming. No one had known she was here, and she liked it that way. With her family under siege and fair reasoning long gone from the Shelby family, she decided that it was her who needed to devise a plan. A way out. A way through. She moved through the final steps until she reached the door of the old brick building. Built sometime in the 1820’s she could tell Solomon’s Mill was a long standing business on the outskirts of the city. A staple of Birmingham that lasted through the most disheartening economic conditions. Owned and founded by the Solomon’s family after they immigrated to England. Nothing shook this old place; not guns, not violence, not the bloody communists. Always there and always of interest to the Peaky Blinders. They were cordial, if not cooperative at times. Now, Lillian relied on that mutual respect to hold steady when she pushed open the large barn-style doors. 

The air sweeping from the factory carried the sent of the fresh grain being processed through the large, rusted machinery. The shadows of the quick moving men bustling around danced at her feet as she walked through the threshold and made her way to a small room attached to right wood slat wall. Rapping three times on the fragile wooden frame a younger man looked up from his desk and cocked an eyebrow to Lillian. 

“Ye’,” he said quickly, barely parting his lips to speak. 

Slowly, calmly, with the utmost care to appear collected in her appearance, she spoke, “ I’m here to see Mister Solomons.” 

Eyeing her up and down, the nameless man gradually stood from his seat and addressed her more directly than before. He stood not much taller than the young Shelby. Short curls held close to his head and a tattered apron hung off his thin frame. 

“And what’s yer’ order of business?” he questioned. 

“I believe that to be a private matter.” 

He walked around his desk and Lillian did her best not to release the stern eye contact she held on him since her arrival. A lesson from Tommy she knew well, for when you look into the eyes of another man it is much harder to lie; and much harder to kill. 

“Open the purse.” He spoke flatly, unblinking. 

She dropped the small purse defiantly onto the wood-back chair in front of her. She flipped open the small titanium latch and took a small step back to allow the gaunt man his inspection uninterrupted. He drew a pencil from behind his ear and flicked through her things, like they were dirty. Like they were not worthy to be touched by the human hand. Without a word, he looked once again into the dark eyes of the woman before him and peaked over he shoulder into the doorway leading back to the vast factory floor. 

“Come with me,” he ordered in the same flat tone. 

Picking up her bag, Lillian followed him as he walked quickly out into the large room and maneuvered through the men and machines working in impeccable rhythm. She willed herself to keep pace with the small man, heels echoing through the loud space and causing men to turn their heads both in amusement and strict curiosity. Once her escort reached the back most offices of the mill he cracked open the door and spoke softly in a language Lillian did not recognize. After a few exchanges the man stepped to the motioned for Ms. Shelby to enter the small, dark closet. 

There, Mr. Solomons sat at an old oak desk, leaned far back in his seat with the amusement of a child lingering on his bearded face. 

“Ahhh Lillian,” he spoke loudly, “to what do I owe this enormous pleasure.”

“Mr. Solomons.” A brief pause as Lillian sat herself slowly on the chair paced strangely close to the overbearing desk. “There are a few matters I wish to discuss with you and I preferred them to be in person.” 

“Ah sweetheart, and what might that be. Did the new sweets parlor open up just past Harding, is that it?” He bellowed with laughter and Lillians eyes remained engrained in his skull. She always thought back to the words of her older brother in moments of this gravity. 

“Don’t look away from them - the men who wish to kill you - it only gives them time to make that decision.” 

Once the fitful bits of laughs subsided and the ringing from the old slat walls hushed away, Lillian spoke in the same calm tone she had mastered years earlier. 

“I believe I have something you want.” 

Another astonished chucked escaped the burly man. 

“And what would that be?” 

A cold breeze moved through the room. It never occurred to Lillian why men of such power chose to have a room so small to reside in. When her family had the means, they awarded themselves luxury. But Alfie, he hid away in this small closet. Maybe it made himself feel bigger in some way. 

“Brooklyn.” 

“The fuck you mean ‘Brooklyn’,” 

“Brooklyn. New York. Chicago. Shit maybe Boston by the time we are done.” 

The boss moved up farther in his seat. He readjusted his head to the side, believing that he may have heard the young girl wrong. 

“Love, what the fuck are you on about? Did you brother send you.” 

Almost too quickly she responded, “I came on my own accord.” She didn’t like always falling under the wing of her family; Tommy in particular. While the Shelby name came with certain privileges bestowed upon her at birth, she valued her identity. So long she had relied on Thomas to protect the family. Now, with the looming threat of the Italian’s hanging over like a dark cloud, she was on her final idea to pull her family through to safety. 

“Shelby company limited has taken a special interest in the American liquor market. We feel that it would be in your interest, as well as ours, if we cooperated on this matter. Together, we both have much to gain,” she continued, finally regaining her full composer. 

“Ye’ and why would I want business in America? What’s the fuckin’ catch?” Solomons pressed. 

“The Changretta family has made advances against my family. We are now using this opportunity to move into the American market while they are occupied here. This is a quite unique chance to collaborate with our American acquaintance without the influence of the Italians. With your power, as well as ours, I think that we could quite a fitting sum.” For the first time, Lillian broke her gaze away, reaching into her purse to exhume a cigarette before flashing her eyes back to Alfie. He leaned back in his chair, the creak of the old wood breaking the frigid silence. He gaze slowly moved back and forth over the ceiling while his hands rested behind his head. 

“Power,” he began. “Your power and my power,” almost as if he was explaining the concept to a child. “Where is your brother at, Lillian?” 

“He is attending to other business in Bristol.” Lillian, as a principle, didn’t like lying. But, as a Shelby, it came as naturally as breathing. 

“Where is Arthur?”

“Overseeing the tracks.” A puff of smoke escaped from her lips following her statement. 

“Then who in the fuck sent you?” His anger showed. Frustration. Questioning. He was half expecting one of Tommy’s men to appear from behind the doorframe and put a bullet between his eyes, finally revealing this to be an elaborate set up orchestrated by the young woman before him and her devilish relatives. But the bullet never flew and Lillian sat motionless in his chair waiting to respond. 

“I come as a representative of the Shelby Company Limited with a legitimate proposal for enterprise cooperation.” 

“And why should I trust the lot of you? Bunch of gypsy crooks.”

She sat once again, silent, patient, and held his gaze for just a moment to long. Leaning forward, she put the stiff out in a small crystal bowl on the corner of Mr. Solomon’s desk. She retrieved her handbag from her feet and pulled out a small, white envelope. After tossing it lightly on the desk in front of the bearded man she returned to her natural position in the chair, arms crossed, the Shelby, deadpan expression returning to her features. Alfie pulled his spectacles onto the bridge of his nose from the chair laced around his neck. He collected the envelope and carefully took out the ivory card within. A black handprint stained the cover. Mr. Solomons didn’t need to examine the paper any further and flicked up his eyes to meet Lillian’s once again. 

“Every one of us got one.” 

“I see.”

“If the Shelby family dies, your possibilities of every entering the American market get buried with us. Or burned rather…” she trailed on, looking off to the side, examining the bookshelf behind him. “You know, Gypsy things.” 

Alfie released a deeply held sigh and placed the card down back onto the desk with more care than the original owner did. Somewhere, deep down, he held grace for the young woman before him. He recognized that she was a result of her surroundings. Born into the small, violent hole that is Small Heath as a Shelby and since her birth has survived through the forces of her family and her gritty resilience. He new she wanted out. She loved her family, that was her weakness, but she longed to see the hills of the Netherlands and the cathedrals of Austria and the new bustling cities of America. To do this though, she must survive.

“I would need a more formal manner of proposal, numbers and such,” he explained still keeping that condescending tone. But Lillian already began to sit up straighter in anticipation carful not to let this emotion overtake her. “But tentatively, I believe we can work something out.”

A small smirk graced across her lips as she extended her hand. “Very well, Mr. Solomons, I’ll have my associates reach out to your tomorrow.” With that, she was on her feet, quickly remembering to pick up the dreadful letter she had pulled out moments ago. Carful in her movements she walked slowly out of office and shut the door behind her, leaving Alfie sitting in silence, wondering what he had just agreed to. He held much respect for Thomas and therefor placed some onto his younger counterpart. 

Lillian exited the factory and began down the darkening street until she was able to hail an oncoming cab. 

“Watery Lane, please,” she said quietly to the driver who nodded at her instructions. She was eager to meet with Aunt Polly and tell her of her plan of action knowing the elder Shelby would be much more receptive to this idea. Her only fear was Thomas, but that would have to wait. She just hoped that she had done the right thing.