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dozedoffeugene · 1 month ago

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death & romance⚕️⋆⭒˚.⋆

Chapter 1/10 : 4.3k words

Cross-posted on AO3

Warnings: needles/injections

Context: post-fall of Overwatch

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When you left Overwatch, you thought you were done.

You had nothing: no orders, no purpose, just some credits to your name and what was left of your pride.

That is, until you received an unmarked letter in your mailbox.

Talon, requesting your presence. No details. Just a location.

You should’ve ignored it. But you didn’t.

What you found there wasn’t just a job—it was her. Moira. Cold hands, sharp eyes, and promises too precise to be lies. She said she could make you stronger. Said there was potential in you, if you let her bring it out.

Eventually, the line between choice and control starts to blur. You keep returning to her lab. Letting her study you. Change you. The injections burn, but the way she touches you afterward: the way she watches you like you’re hers, burns hotter.

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You don’t ask where they’re taking you.

The Talon escort is silent. Helmeted, with no insignia. Just a pulse rifle slung low and footsteps that echo like a countdown.

You’ve been walking for seven minutes—down clean, windowless corridors, past red-lit doors that stay closed and most definitely hold secrets. The place smells like metal and antiseptic.

It’s all too quiet.

You’ve walked through facilities like this before. Years ago. Though with a different symbol on the walls. Different handlers, too. Back when your orders came from elected officials, men and women you once trusted.

Back when people still called you by a name.

You don’t use that name anymore.

Now, you just walk.

You’ve stopped asking where you’re being taken. If they wanted you dead, you’d already be in a body bag.

You knew what Talon was before you ever walked through their doors—whispers of blacksite labs, discarded test subjects, science that didn’t ask permission.

You told yourself you’d never crawl to them, not after what Overwatch cost you. But survival chips away at pride fast, and you were tired of bleeding for people who spoke about justice like it was clean. At least Talon doesn’t lie about what it is.

Still, your gut twists with each new turn.

Eventually, the escort stops in front of a smooth, unmarked door and types in a code without a word. The lock hisses open.

“Inside,” he says. Then he leaves.

The lab is colder than you expected. Not just in temperature, though the air has that sterile chill that clings to your skin, but in atmosphere. The lighting is low, with a soft violet cast from the wall monitors and status bars flickering quietly across machines you don’t recognize.

Tables are lined with instruments: precision tools, surgical arms, vials of iridescent liquid in subtle, pulsing hues. There’s a scanner in the corner shaped like a medical cradle, its frame dark and braced with restraints. The air smells sterile, but it doesn’t exactly feel like a place built for healing.

The room is quiet—save for the woman waiting at the far end.

She stands at the far console, back turned, her silhouette unmistakable even in the dim light. She’s tall, sharper in profile than you expected, all angles and intent. Her lab coat drapes like a shroud, cinched neatly at the waist, not a wrinkle in sight.

One gloved hand taps out something on a data pad, the other resting against her hip with unconscious control. Her hair glows faintly under the light—rusted red swept back into a signature arc, its color almost unnatural in this place.

You know who she is before she says anything.

Moira O’Deorain.

The name alone carries weight, even in whispered rumors. Ex-Overwatch. Disavowed. Visionary or villain, depending on who’s telling the story. Her reputation precedes her—but it doesn’t prepare you for seeing her in person.

“Sit,” she says, voice crisp and low, like something engineered to cut through static.

You do, watching her still.

She’s not wearing armor or a mask or any of the usual Talon regalia—just a high-collared black coat with plum accents and sleeves rolled to the elbow, exposing surgical gloves and veins traced with faint bioluminescence.

She taps a few times on the datapad, then looks you over momentarily. When she does, her eyes catch the light unevenly. One is a sharp, clinical blue, the other a deep, warm brown. You can’t decide which one feels more invasive.

“I’ve reviewed your file,” she says flatly. “Overwatch discard: Field capable. High trauma tolerance. Excellent improvisation under duress. Behavioral markers suggest a need for structure.”

You blink slowly. “How flattering.”

She finally meets your eyes.

“It’s not a compliment,” she says. “It’s an observation.”

You say nothing.

She picks up a small glass vial.

It glows a violet-gold, shimmering like it’s alive.

“This compound interfaces directly with the nervous system. Enhancing response time and increasing sensory clarity. It’s temporary—at first.”

You study it, trying to understand what she’s implying.

“You’ve been trained to survive,” she says. “But survival isn’t evolution.”

You narrow your eyes. “So what is this? A shortcut?”

Her mouth lifts, just barely. “It’s a correction.”

That lingers. Long enough that you shift where you stand, gaze trailing across the room’s cold steel edges.

Moira watches you from across the console, head slightly tilted, her expression unreadable.

“You’re treating this like I’ve already agreed,” you say.

“Hesitation is still a form of consent,” she replies. “If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”

You told yourself you were done taking orders that led nowhere. Done bleeding for people who forgot your name the moment the mission ended. Maybe that’s why you walked in here. For once, you wanted to be changed on purpose.

You swallow, pulse kicking a little harder.

“You want me to be a lab rat.”

Moira doesn’t blink. “I want to see what happens when something already dangerous stops limiting itself.”

Her tone doesn’t change—flat, composed, like she’s narrating a thought experiment.

She steps closer.

The vial turns in her fingers.

“This is the offer,” she says. “Power without doubt. Function without weakness. You’ll become what they failed to make you.”

Your mouth is dry.

You want to laugh. You don’t.

You want to tell her she’s wrong.

But she isn’t.

You’ve lived too long on the edge of usefulness. Too long pretending your silence is control.

You watch the vial in her hand for longer than you should.

It hums faintly. The light inside shifts colors—gold, violet, something in between. Not like any compound you’ve seen before, and you’ve seen more than most.

Moira watches you the way a sculptor watches raw stone, already imagining what she’ll carve away. And what will be left when she’s finished. She gestures to an exam table, clearly already prepped for you.

You approach and stand at the edge of it, fingers twitching against your side.

“This… is official, right?” you ask. “There’s a contract? Something binding?”

Moira doesn’t look up from the tray she’s prepping—syringes aligned like surgical instruments. “There’s no paper, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You wait.

She turns, finally, her tone smooth as ever. “Your consent is the contract.”

The words feel thinner than they should. Too easy to swallow, too hard to spit out.

Risky…

You glance once over your shoulder, toward the door. Then back at her.

“I could just walk out.”

“You could,” she says, then: “You won’t.”

She gestures once more to the table.

It’s nothing you haven’t seen before. You’ve bled on worse. Laid down in tighter spaces. Still, something about the clean sheet, the smooth leather straps resting neatly on either side.

It gets to you. Your stomach coils.

You climb up anyway.

You lie back, the surface colder than expected. Moira steps to your side with measured grace and takes your left wrist in her gloved hand.

“This is just for safety,” she says.

The strap clicks gently into place.

Then the other.

Then ankles.

Not tight. Not yet. But firm enough to remind you this isn’t casual.

“You’ll feel resistance,” she says, standing above you now, her gaze unreadable. “Physiological. Psychological. Let it happen.”

Your throat feels dry.

"I'm still not sure about this."

She cocks her head.

"And yet you came."

You close your eyes. Exhale once, slow and tight. You try to remember what was waiting for you outside this room. No job, no orders. The long, dull silence of a life with no purpose. And then you stop trying.

Beside you, you hear the faint, clinical hiss as she draws the dose.

“You’ll be permitted access to the facility after this,” she says. “You may come and go. No handlers. No surveillance.”

You glance up. “That’s rare.”

“You’re no prisoner,” she says. “You’re an investment.”

Moira places her gloved hand at the side of your neck, pushing your head slightly to the side. The injector is cold against your neck. She doesn’t wait, pressing it with clinical precision.

The hiss is subtle. The effect isn’t.

Your body tenses immediately, a cold rush running through your veins.

The injection surges through you like fire laced with ice—your muscles convulse, your vision blurs, and something deep inside begins to split. It feels like your body is being stripped molecule by molecule, peeled down to bone and then rebuilt in fast, clumsy layers.

You gasp, but the air won’t come right; every breath feels like it’s catching on a new set of lungs that haven’t learned how to work yet.

Moira watches your vitals spike, then level. She walks to you—measured, composed—and places two fingers to your neck, just below your jaw. You flinch slightly at her touch.

“Pulse elevated. Oxygen efficiency increasing.”

She doesn’t remove her hand.

“You’re responding beautifully,” she murmurs.

You look up at her, closer now. She doesn’t move away. Her face is unreadable. That heterochromatic gaze lingers on you just a moment too long.

For a second, you think she might say something else.

She doesn’t, instead stepping away and finding her spot at the console, adding her data.

The worst of it passes like a storm—fast, blinding, and impossible to track. Your limbs still shake, but the seizing has stopped. You blink against the overhead light, breath coming in slow, uneven pulls as sensation returns to your fingers.

It feels like you’ve been scraped out from the inside.

You don’t realize how hard you’re gripping the edges of the table until you hear the soft click of the restraints releasing.

Moira steps back, folding the data pad under one arm. “Sit up when you can.”

You do, slowly. Your muscles don’t hurt—they feel new. Unfamiliar. Like they don’t quite belong to you yet. You glance down at your hands, flex them once, twice. There’s a tremor you can’t control. Your skin is damp, flushed. Not quite feverish, but close.

“How would you describe the sensation?” Moira asks.

You swallow, tasting metal at the back of your throat. “Like… like something was trying to tear its way out of me. And build something else on the way out.”

She nods, typing. “Respiratory constriction?”

You nod. “Like drowning and overheating at the same time.”

“Good.” Her voice doesn’t praise or soften—it just records. “Can you feel any difference in your vision?”

You blink a few times, squinting toward the light. Colors seem sharper around the edges, like they’ve been turned up just slightly too high. “Clearer,” you say. “Too clear.”

Moira tilts her head. “Fascinating.”

You breathe again, slower this time, grounding yourself with one hand on the table’s edge.

Everything still feels wrong. But not in the way you expected.

“Monitor yourself for the next twelve hours,” she says. “Return if there are any hallucinations, blackouts, or signs of violent compulsion.”

You nod in response. Moira reaches into the drawer beside her console, eyes still watching you.

From the tray, she lifts a slim, dark device. It’s smooth, featureless, no bigger than a coin. She holds it out to you between gloved fingers.

“In case of failure,” she says, voice even. “Or compromise.”

You take it carefully, feeling the weight of it settle in your palm. There’s no button visible, but you know it doesn’t need one.

“It’s a tracker?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

She nods her head, just slightly. “It’s a tether.”

Her hand brushes yours as she releases it. “Press it once,” she murmurs. “And I’ll come find you.”

You take it, sliding off the table on unsteady legs and tuck it into your pocket. Every step is unfamiliar—like your body is a suit you haven’t fully grown into.

”If nothing arises, return in a week for your next dose.”

You nod again, and say nothing as you leave.

The lab’s door slides closed with a gentle click. Outside the room, you catch your reflection in the polished steel: flushed, trembling, eyes wide with something between awe and regret.

When you finally step through your own door, legs still unsteady from the dose, the silence hits harder than the comedown.

Your apartment is small: barely more than a room with a sink and a bed jammed into opposite corners. The walls are stained from old coolant leaks, and the overhead light flickers every few seconds, humming faintly with low-grade energy draw.

A cracked holo-screen flickers above the desk, half the interface permanently glitched, stuck on an outdated Talon newsfeed loop. It’s the best you could afford after going off-grid—no pension, no backup, just your name and whatever credits you hadn’t burned through staying alive.

Later that night, you don’t sleep.

You try.

The lights are off. The window’s open. Your gun’s within reach. But nothing feels right.

Your heart is still racing, but you’re not anxious. You’re... alive.

Every sound in your apartment feels amplified—the creak of the floorboards, the hum of the air vent, the tiny throb of your blood in your ears. The serum’s still in you. Still humming.

You stare at the ceiling and think about her hand settled on your throat—fingers steady, gloved, but not without sensation. You’d felt the faint press of her nails just beneath the material.

Measured. Possessive.

You think about the way she looked at you—not with attraction, but certainty.**

Somehow, that felt more intimate than anything else.

The days after the injection are strange too, but not unpleasant.

You feel sharper, like your blood’s running cleaner—muscles taut, reflexes tight, your thoughts moving just ahead of themselves. Whatever was done to you, didn’t break anything.

On the third morning, you find an envelope in your mailbox, unmarked except for a symbol you haven’t seen since your Overwatch days. Talon, unmistakably. Inside: a small stack of credits. A sum you haven’t seen in one place since you left the field.

There’s no note. No instructions. Just payment—for your body, for your silence, for your return.

It’s not a hard decision, you know you’ll go back.

Not because you were told to.

Because you want to.

You return to the lab after a week.

In the days since the injection, your body has felt like it’s finally catching up to the person you were always meant to be. Strength has become a constant hum beneath your skin. Your thoughts are clearer too, probably since you haven’t craved a drink since the day you got back.

For the first time in years, you feel like you have a future. You’ve had doubts, of course—Talon’s reputation isn’t lost on you—but you told yourself you’d know if something felt wrong.

That you’d recognize the line before it was crossed. And nothing’s felt wrong—not really.

So you come back.

The halls of Talon stretch out in cold, quiet symmetry as you follow the guard—each step clicking steady against the polished floor.

When the final door slides open, she’s already there.

Moira.

Exactly as you remember her.

Posture straight, back turned, reading something across a pane of blue-white light. Gloves on. Sleeves rolled. Hair pinned back with sharp precision.

She doesn’t acknowledge you at first. Just keeps working, tapping something on the display with long, pale fingers.

Then, without looking up—

“You came back.”

Her voice is soft. Even. Not surprised. Not pleased.

You stand near the door a beat too long.

“You told me to.”

Moira turns.

Her eyes land on you like a spotlight—blue and bronze, unnerving. She studies your stance, your breathing, your delay.

“You metabolized the first dose efficiently,” she says. “No adverse reactions?”

You shake your head. “No.”

“Good.”

She reached for a new vial—slimmer than the last. Darker, it’s yellow glow almost overpowered by the purple.

She steps toward you.

You don’t back away.

But you don’t move forward either.

“Here is your second dose,” she says, lifting the injector slightly. “Necessary for stabilization.”

You eye the vial, then her.

“What exactly am I stabilizing for?”

Moira doesn’t answer right away. She steps closer, gaze sharp with interest.

“Does it matter?” she asks, voice low, almost soothing. “You’re to reach a final form. Stability is the foundation of evolution.” She tilts her head slightly, lips just barely curved. “Unless, of course, you’d rather go back to being ordinary?”

She waits.

The thought settles fast, heavy in your chest: you don’t want to go back. Not to the dull ache of survival, to the half-life you clawed through before this. Ordinary was killing you slowly. At least this feels like becoming something.

“Lie back.”

The command is quiet. Unassuming. But it doesn’t leave room for negotiation.

You settle onto the table, the cold pressing through your spine as your body adjusts to the sterile, unwelcoming surface.

Moira’s fingers move with methodical ease, guiding the restraints over your wrists and ankles, locking them into place with a soft metallic click.

She steps to your side, her gloved hand brushing your hair back from your neck with a sterile kind of care. Then, she places her hand at the base of your throat—not rough, but steady.

The injector touches skin. A sharp press. Then the hiss.

This dose is different.

The serum tears through your veins with violent precision, flooding every nerve ending with heat so sharp it feels like you’re being stripped down and reassembled all at once. Your back arches slightly against the table—every muscle tight, spasming, then locking into new form. Your vision fractures, sharpens, breaks again. You bite down until your jaw aches just to keep from screaming, though you can help but groan in pain.

Moira observes silently. She notes your vitals without shifting her stance, her eyes flicking between the monitor and your face—studying.

When the worst of it finally ebbs, you’re left shivering, breath coming in broken pulls, your limbs molten and useless. Sweat clings to every inch of you like a second skin.

Moira tilts her head slightly. “How do you feel?”

You let out a shaky laugh, more breath than sound. “Like I just fucking died.”

Her lips twitch, just barely. “Good,” she murmurs. “Then it’s working.”

After you’ve caught your breath, she undoes the cuffs holding you down.

Moira slips a hand beneath your shoulders with practiced ease, guiding you upright like she’s repositioning a specimen.

“And your cognitive clarity?” she asks. “Any visual distortion? Maybe auditory?”

You shake your head, still catching your breath. “No distortion. Just… intense.”

She steps closer, holding a small scanner close to your temple. “How was your muscle control?”

“Bad,” you answer, rubbing your sore arms.

She doesn’t flinch. “Residual pain is expected.”

Then, quietly—she speaks to herself.

“Good retention. Stable neural response. Adrenal system… adapting.”

Her gaze flicks back to you, searching. “You’ll be operational within the hour.” She returns to the console and begins typing away.

After a moment, she speaks.

“I knew you’d return.”

There’s no smugness in her tone. Just certainty.

“I didn’t,” you admit.

You don’t mean to say it.

But the serum makes you honest.

“Yet here you are,” she says quietly, turning to look at you, “Still seeking what only I can give you.”

She approaches where you’re sat on the table.

You start to answer, but nothing comes.

Moira peels off her glove with practiced ease as she comes closer, the material slipping free to reveal skin that’s unnaturally pale underneath. Along her forearm, faint veins pulse with lilac bioluminescence, glowing subtly beneath the surface, the lines raised just enough to catch the light. It looks engineered, not healed—something evolved past human.

You don’t mean to stare, but the moment her glove comes off, your eyes lock onto the exposed skin.

Moira notices.

She doesn’t hide it. Doesn’t pull the glove back on. Instead, she lifts her arm between you, palm down, offering it like a demonstration.

“Curious?” she asks, voice unreadable.

You glance up, but she’s already watching you, observing you.

“I started with myself,” she says, letting the bioluminescent patterns catch the lab light. “Every breakthrough I’ve made since—every risk I ask of others—I earned by testing my own limits first.”

Her hand lingers in the air between you, impossibly still.

“I wouldn’t ask anything of you I’m not already willing to survive.”

When Moira reaches you, she raises her unaffected hand and lets her warm fingers trace the edge of your jaw. You hold still, refusing to flinch, though your eyes flick downward the moment her skin brushes yours.

She scans your face like she’s watching something unfold beneath the skin. A map of circuits lighting up in real time.

“What reason have you to fear me?” she asks, lips twitching in a near-smile.

She tilts her head slightly.

Curious.

Already calculating your next threshold.

Her gloved hand slips from your jaw to the back of your neck, firm but not forceful. And she kisses you.

Her lips are poised. Precise. You tilt forward instinctively, breath hitching, deepening the kiss with a hunger that surprises even you.

The warmth rushes up your neck, prickling down your spine. Her hand is firm on your neck, her fingers anchoring you in place. She tastes faintly of pine, and maybe citrus—heady, electric.

Your body reacts faster than your thoughts, heat surging low in your gut as your hands find her hips, pulling her closer.

Her other hand comes up to rest lightly against your chest, not pressing you closer, just marking the distance. Controlling it.

It lasts longer than it should.

Then it’s over.

She breaks the kiss slowly, deliberately, like drawing the final line of an equation.

For a moment, her face stays close. Her breath brushes your skin, cool and steady. You half expect her to whisper something—stay, good, again.

But she doesn’t.

She steps back like a pulse just ended.

You’re still leaning forward, breath caught, blinking like you missed a step on solid ground.

Moira turns without a word and retrieves her data pad from the counter. Her fingers move quickly, efficiently—already documenting.

“Increased cardiovascular irregularity,” she says aloud, tone devoid of judgment. “Cortical spike aligns with prior instability markers. Emotional volatility appears more responsive to close proximity stimuli.”

She doesn’t say I kissed her, it’s close proximity stimuli.

Like it was inevitable.

You don’t speak. Can’t. The shame floods you too fast, thick and hot, dragging every rational thought under. You’re not even sure what you were hoping for. Recognition? Softness?

All you’ve given her is a reaction. A hunch confirmed. Something she can name.

You sit in silence, the lab colder than before, your hands clenched tight in your lap.

Moira finishes typing.

She turns toward you, perfectly composed. “Your first mission will be in three days. You’re to report here the morning of. I’ll prepare the next dose.”

You nod once—mechanical. You don’t trust your voice.

She turns back to her console, already moving on.

You don’t know what you expected.

But it wasn’t this.

You slide off the table without a word.

Your body moves on autopilot, but your mind won’t settle. The door hisses shut behind you, and the silence of the corridor wraps around you like a vacuum.

You keep your pace steady. You don’t look back.

But every step away from that lab feels like you’re shrinking back into something smaller than what she saw.

Your apartment is, as usual, quiet when you return. Still. Clean.

You pace once from wall to wall, strip off your jacket, and sit heavily on the edge of the bed—barely able to breathe through the weight pressing into your chest.

What the hell were you thinking?

You kissed her like you meant something.

You kissed her like she wasn’t already watching every reaction you had.

You bury your face in your hands.

It wasn’t calculated. It was raw. Messy. Human.

Weak.

She didn’t even have to reject you. She just observed it. Wrote it down. And moved on.

You lie back. Try to sleep. Try to clear your head.

But you don’t.

Because every time you close your eyes, you feel it again. Her hand gripping your neck, guiding you closer, steady and possessive.

You remember the exact pressure of her mouth, the way she held you there—not resisting, just allowing, and how badly you wanted more.

You imagine her stepping in closer, slipping a thigh between yours, grinding down until your breath hitched. You see yourself yanking that lab coat off her shoulders, baring her piece by piece, worshiping every inch like she deserves.

When you wake, these thoughts make shame settle deep, low and hot.

One kiss shouldn’t make you feel so completely undone.

You roll onto your side and curse under your breath.

The next morning, you train.

You wake before dawn and work until your limbs shake. You go for a run, set up your old punching bag, and do everything you can to drown out the humming in your ears. The dose left you with more energy than you know what to do with.

At night, you try to rest.

But you don’t.

Sleep never comes clean. It’s hot, fragmented. Every time you drift off, her voice catches you in the dark. Her eyes. Her breath just barely brushing your skin.

You dream of her lips—her body pressed against yours, imagining the feel of her skin against yours. The memory is twisted now, need tangled up with shame.

When you wake, you’re sweating. Thighs pressed tight together, breath hitching from the edge of a dream you can’t speak aloud.

You don’t touch yourself. The idea of looking Moira in the eye afterward, knowing one kiss left you that desperate, that wrecked, makes your stomach twist with humiliation.

Instead, you stare at the ceiling, jaw locked, waiting in agony for the night to end.

You do this every night.

And when the third night breaks into morning, and your alarm clock ticks toward your arrival—

You’re itching to go back.

#overwatch #ow2 #overwatch2 #moira o'deorain #moira overwatch #moira x reader #overwatch fanfiction #moira ow #writing #writers on tumblr #fanfic #fanfiction

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fanfictionalraven · 1 year ago

Text

Piece by Piece Pt. 1

Title: Piece by Piece Pt. 1

Summary: Nearly 18 years old, the reader runs away from a bad situation. On her way, she meets a handsome stranger running from his own problems.

Characters: Reader, Dean Winchester, other SPN characters mentioned

Word Count: 2,422

Warnings: Mentions of abuse and abandonment, implied smut

Author's Note: This story was originally posted by myself under the account Winchestersgirl92. It was published in 2017.

The snow was coming down heavier now than it had been when you’d left. Stupid, channel 10 weatherman. He’d said the snow would let up overnight. He didn’t say a blizzard was moving in. You didn’t have a winter coat – or a plan for that matter. You’d just wanted out. So, you’d thrown together the few belongings you’d amassed over your past 17 years and climbed out of the second story window. Well, more like you’d fallen from the second story window, twisting your ankle in the process.

Now, here you were. Middle of the night in the driving snow, limping down the side of the road. You had originally thought you would be able to hitch a ride but not a single car had passed by in the hour you’d been walking. You needed to get as far away as you could before they woke up. You couldn’t go back.

The road suddenly lights up and you hear the sound of an engine approaching from behind. You turn and shield your eyes from the headlights as you stop and hold your thumb out. That’s what they did in all the movies. The women also generally showed a little leg but you weren’t stupid. It was dangerous enough being a 17-year-old girl out in the middle of the night by herself asking complete strangers for rides. The vehicle slows, coming to a stop next to you. You pull the handle on the door and quickly slide into the passenger seat, immediately thanking whatever entity was listening for the radiating heat inside.

“Where you headed, Sweetheart?” The driver of the car asks. You look over at him for the first time and your heart nearly stops. He was gorgeous, probably around your age. In his bright green eyes, you could see – concern? Why was he so worried? Did you look like a deranged serial killer?

It wasn’t until he reached over and turned the heat up even more that you realized you were shaking so profusely. You hadn’t noticed how cold you had actually gotten standing out in the snow. You probably would have drifted into hypothermic shock if he hadn’t come around that corner when he did. Your savior quickly sheds his leather jacket and reaches over, draping it around your shoulders.

“Th-thank you,” you tell him through chattering teeth. You pull the lapels of his leather jacket tighter around you and his scent envelopes you immediately; a mix of the leather, cologne, and earth.

“Where you headed?” He asks again. You frown and shake your head slightly.

“As f-far away from here as p-possible,” you admit. His response is unexpected. He laughs. You look at him and his smile is breathtaking, highlighting two perfect dimples in his cheeks.

“You too, huh?” He asks. It takes a second to register then you smile as well. He was running away too. He puts the car in gear and slowly continues down the road. “I’m Dean by the way. Dean Winchester.”

“Y/N Y/L/N,” you tell him. The two of you ride in silence for a few minutes as you bring your body temperature back up to normal. Once the shivering subsides, you glance over at him. “So, Dean Winchester, what are you running away from?” He lets out a sigh and you see his hands tighten on the steering wheel.

“My dad – he’s got some pretty high expectations. Got tired of it,” he says. You nod and he cuts his eyes over at you. “What about you? Family trouble?” You shake your head, looking out the window at the driving snow.

“No. I don’t have a family,” you say. You know he’s still waiting for you to explain. You hesitate for a moment then sigh. “My mother got pregnant when she was just a kid, 17, my age. Neither of my parents wanted me so I’ve been in the system since I was just a baby. I was with this one family, the Baxter’s, till I was 13. They were great. I thought they were going to adopt me but…I don’t know. One day, they called my social worker and told her to come get me. I’ve been in eight different homes since. And this one…it’s not a good place. I’m almost 18 but – I don’t think I can handle another 3 months.”

“Sounds like a damn good reason to me,” he says. You glance over at him, surprised. You’d expected him to press you for more information, ask you a ton of questions you didn’t want to answer, but he didn’t. He let it go and, instead, punched in the cassette tape that was sitting half out of the player. The sound of a lead guitar fills the car as you ride on into the night.

Eventually, the snow gets too heavy to keep going. Dean pulls the car off onto a side road and parks between a couple of trees. He turns the volume down so that it’s just background noise then turns to face you. You expect those difficult questions now but that’s not what you get. He asks you your favorite color, movie, song, book. And you ask him the same questions. The two of you spend the next two hours playing 20 Questions, or 120 Questions more like.

“And Sammy got mad, threw the ball at me but he missed and knocked out the back windshield,” he laughs. You smile and shake your head, watching him. His smile falls slowly as the memory continues to play in his mind. “He was scared to death. I told Dad it was my fault.” He looks at his hands, an unspoken truth hanging in the air between you. Sliding across the seat, you take his hands in yours.

“Sam’s lucky to have you. I’d give anything to have someone love me the way you love him,” you tell him. He smiles slightly then turns your hands over in his. He carefully pushes the sleeve of your shirt up. You watch as he gently runs his thumb over the small circular burns that pepper your inner arm.

“You know, I’m not sure I like the idea of you out on your own,” he says, glancing up at you. You raise an eyebrow at him, fighting a smile.

“Oh? Why’s that?” You ask. He looks up at you fully now and the look on his face is one you’ve seen already, when you first got in the car – concern.

“There’s a lot of bad stuff out there, Y/N. Evil stuff. Monsters,” he says. You smile a little sadly and look down at your arm again.

“I already live with a monster,” you tell him. He shakes his head, letting your hands go. You return your attention to his face to find he appears torn, as though there’s something he wants to tell you, something he needs to tell you. He’s searching your eyes for an answer to an unspoken question. You bite your lip then takes his hands in yours again. “What is it, Dean?”

“You’ll run if I tell you,” he says. That sentence should scare you, but it doesn’t. He says it with so much care and concern. Something deep inside tells you that you’d never run away from him, no matter what he says or does and that scares you. But he’s worried about you and you can count on one hand the number of people in your life that have been genuinely worried for your safety and well-being.

“I don’t scare easy,” you tell him. He looks at your hands then closes his eyes and for a moment you think he’s praying; praying that you’re right. You squeeze his hands and he sighs before speaking.

“Monsters are real, Y/N. I don’t mean just bad people. I mean…monsters. Like vampires and werewolves and ghosts and — when I was four years old a demon killed my mom. So Dad, he packed me and little six month old Sammy up and we’ve been hunting down these monsters ever since, trying to find the demon that got Mom,” he confesses.

There’s nothing but the sound of the wind and Bon Jovi playing quietly in the background as his words hang in the air. Vampires. Werewolves. Ghosts. Demons. Dean looks up at you slowly, trying to read your face but years of practice help you keep your emotions in check. You take your time, processing each word carefully. Finally, you look out the windshield at the snow.

“One of the houses I was at, I was sure it was haunted. No one else believed me but every night my room would get so cold and I could hear a girl crying. But I was the only girl in the house. Then finally I saw her. She was in the corner, crying. They were convinced I was crazy, had me taken away the next day,” you say slowly. You look at Dean to find he’s watching you and you smile. “Joke’s on them, I guess.”

“You believe me?” He asks, staring at you as though you were telling him monsters were real. You let out a light laugh and nod.

“I don’t claim to know everything or have all the answers to life’s questions so yea. I’m sure there are plenty of unexplainable, paranormal things out there,” you tell him. He gives you a big, goofy grin that makes you laugh even harder. “So…if I can’t go out on my own because a…goblin is gonna get me…”

“Goblin? Really?” He asks, laughing now. You smile, watching, as he leans back against the door, shaking his head. “Sorry, Sweetheart, but David Bowie isn’t gonna come kidnap you.”

“Didn’t have you pegged as a Jim Henson fan,” you say, smirking at him. He smiles and shrugs.

“You watch whatever you can growing up in motels,” he explains. You nod then look at your hands, still intertwined with his own.

“Okay, no goblins then. I can’t go out on my own because a…vampire?” You ask, looking back at him. He nods once and you continue. “A vampire might attack me. What do you suggest I do then?” He smiles a crooked, half smile and shrugs his shoulders.

“I was thinking – maybe – instead of dropping you off at the Greyhound station in the morning, we could stick together,” he suggests.

“You asking me to run away with you, Dean Winchester?” You ask, watching him. He shrugs again. You smile a sad, knowing smile and shake your head. “No.”

“No?” He asks, surprised. You shake your head again and look at your hands.

“No. See, you don’t really want to run away. You’re just mad at your dad right now. You’d want to go back to him and to Sam,” you tell him. His face falls and he looks away, knowing you’re right. “And me, well – I know what’ll happen to me if I run away. I’ll end up on the street, a nameless victim for some monster, human or otherwise.”

“You’re going back there??” He asks, looking back at you quickly. You smile and reach up, placing your hand against his cheek. That same concern was back in his eyes, his beautiful green eyes that you never wanted to forget.

“I am. Sure, it’s bad, but…I turn 18 and graduate in three months. I’ll be able to leave and get some help with college and work. Lesser of two evils,” you explain. He still frowns, unsure. Your smile slowly turns into a smirk. “Besides, aren’t you 19? I don’t think this counts as running away anymore.” That makes him smile before chuckling.

“Yea, pretty sure we’ve crossed into grand theft auto,” he says, nodding slightly. You laugh and now it’s his turn to smirk. He sits up, leaning in towards you slightly. “Guess that makes you my accomplice.”

“The Bonnie to your Clyde?” You ask. He nods and you just catch his eyes quickly dart down to your lips. You pull your bottom lip in between your teeth for a second then let it go. “How mad is he gonna be?”

“I’ll just tell him I was rescuing this girl from a goblin,” he tells you. You throw your head back laughing and he smiles widely, showing off those dimples again. “Ya know, it’s crazy. We’ve known each other barely three hours but…I’m really gonna miss you.” You smile softly and put your hand against his cheek again.

“Me too,” you say quietly. You see his emerald eyes drift down again, slower this time, before returning to your Y/E/C ones. Your fingers slide back into his hair before you lean in, pressing your lips against his. His lips are soft and timid at first, unsure of your intent. You move forward, slowly straddling his waist. His hands find the edge of your shirt and his fingers just graze the skin underneath, sending a shiver down your spine.

************************************************************************

Dean finds a blanket in the backseat as you slip into his flannel button-up shirt. He smirks as he watches you before pulling his jeans back on.

“What?” You ask, laughing. He shrugs slightly.

“Looks better on you,” he says, pointing to the shirt. You smile as he lays back on the seat before laying down next to him, curling into him quickly. He throws the blanket over the two of you then wraps his arms around you tight. “You sure you don’t wanna go on back? Sneak back in and avoid trouble?” You shake your head quickly.

“Can’t sneak back in. Besides, I’d really rather stay here for a few more hours,” you tell him. He nods and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“Alright. Sweet dreams,” he whispers into your hair. You close your eyes and quickly drift off to sleep.

The next morning, Dean drives you back to the house. You share one last kiss that neither of you wants to end before he drapes his leather jacket back over your shoulders. You get out of the car and trudge up to the house slowly, knowing you’ll never see Dean Winchester again. When you get inside, the family isn’t happy like you knew they wouldn’t be. You return to your room, fresh wounds on your arms. Later that afternoon, a man knocks on the door, asking to speak to you. He says he’s with the FBI and asks you about the bandages on your arms. Before he leaves, he speaks to your foster parents alone in the other room. They don’t touch you again after that.

Read Piece by Piece Pt. 2 here.

#fanfic #fanfiction #reader insert #supernatural #dean x y/n #dean x you #dean x reader #dean winchester #sam winchester #john winchester #spn

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ahedderick · 4 months ago

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Heating/Cooling

I was reading up on 'cooling paint' yesterday (this article was pretty good and understandable, https://www.sri.com/fcd_technology/self-cooling-paint-a-passive-radiative-cooling-solution/ ). I also saw a thumbnail of a video claiming that you can make your own "Thermal infrared cooling paint" yourself at home - I felt quite dubious about that but didn't have 40 minutes to spare to check it out.

A quote from the linked article: Self-Cooling Paint is a passive radiative cooling solution – without requiring any power or electricity, it can cool down any surface up to 5-8 ºC ( 8-12ºF) below ambient air temperature, and 10-15 ºC (18-25 ºF) below an uncoated surface based on internal tests*. Achieving sub-ambient temperature is significant, and has been accomplished by engineering a coating that combines high solar reflectance with high infrared emittance in the sky transparency window.

This is so interesting. Cooling a surface below ambient air temp? Just amazing. I would love to see what that would do to my attic space, for example, which gets extremely hot in summer. My only puzzlement is - would that also be in effect in winter? If so, then my 'cooling roof' would turn into quite a drawback. Unfortunately, I don't understand the underlying science well enough to draw a conclusion here. It may be that the paint is primarily of use in climates where there is little or no cold weather, and heat is the biggest concern.

Fell free to chip in your two-cents-worth, if you know more about this.

#technology #coolingsolutions #coolingtechnology

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jpitha · 9 months ago

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The Dreams of Hyacinth (redux) Preview

This is a preview of a future chapter of my redo of Dreams of Hyacinth. Long time readers will remember this as the serial I started right after Just a Little Futher ended. I liked a lot of it, but I didn't like the direction it took. It felt too much like a redo of the same basical story of JaLF. I'm going to start it over - posting it here and to Reddit - with a lot of the original intact, but changes keeping it to High Mars Hyacinth, more of a cyberpunky feel I was going for originally and less Nanite/Galaxy Domination Stuff. This is a preview somewhere in the middle. Nicholas North is separated from Eastern Standard his partner and is trying to escape... something :)

****

Nick made his way up the stairs, out of the transit station, trying to look inconspicuous. Just another commuter going to work right? Nothing strange about that. He tried to ignore his headache. It wasn't working.

Out in public, the scars on the back of his neck, hidden under his collar itched. All of his implants were colored to look like skin, and the blending was admirable, but he still felt exposed walking around. He seemed to have lost Houndstooth forces for now, but who knows how long before he'd be noticed again. For the fifth time he checked his camera hacks. It looked like the code Queenie copied for him worke; when he peered in on the camera lines, he didn't see himself. He couldn't be invisible, that would have been too obvious. Instead he had replaced himself with a composite based off of a bunch of media he had downloaded two nights ago. He looked generically male shaped, generically handsome and generically dressed.

The very illegal submachine gun strapped to his back under his coat, and the very very illegal crystal memory cube in his belt pack weighed heavily and reminded him that he was not very generic at all.

He went to a coffee cart and got a flat white. He wasn't really thirsty, but a coffee would give his hands something to do while he walked, so he didn't fidget. Cradling the hot coffee in both hands to warm them - Hyacinth was a controlled environment, but it was also old enough that they adjusted the temperature for Earth based seasons. It was 'winter' and while nobody would die of exposure on Hyacinth, it was still colder than Nick preferred. It never got this cold on Parvati.

As Nick walked around Congregation Square trying to look inconspicuous and hide from Houndstooth, he sat down on a bench - leaning forward a little so the gun didn't hit the back of the bench - across from a merchant. They sold beverages of all different kinds, human, k'laxi, Sef, and others. People were walking in and out carrying small paper bags. Maybe he'd gotten away with it. Maybe he'd actually lost them.

Far in the distance a siren started. It had a piercing, long wail. It was mechanical, or made to sound mechanical. As soon as it started, others joined in, making a massive minor chord wall of sound. It was loud, it was worrying. It was meant to be. Nick wasn't the only one who didn't know what it meant, but he was probably one of the only people in Congregation who could query a KB real-time and ask what it was.

Spin Alarm, was what came back. Details, he thought.

The KB began to rattle of a canned explanation. When Hyacinth was so old that it was built before gravity manipulation. To get around that small detail, originally the Orbital spun, so that centripetal force made ersatz gravity. It wasn't gravity, and didn't feel like it, but it was better than nothing. There was a link to a raft of very old welcome articles that explained how to deal with centripetal force and what to do about nausea and how most people got over it within the first week of arrival. As soon as humans learned how to manipulate gravity, Hyacinth was spun down and remained stationary.

That didn't mean the spin engines were removed however.

They could pivot and move in nearly every direction. On the rare occasions that Hyacinth needed to change position or orbit, they could be repurposed. Plus, it was expensive to remove them, and Houndstooth wouldn't spend that kind of money unless they had a good reason.

Just as they were designed to do nearly a thousand years ago, the spin engines on High Mars Hyacinth fired. Being a cylinder sixty miles by twenty meant that - at first - other than a low rumble and a jolt, there was no change. After a minute or two though, Nick looked up and saw the stars start to move. The ever present crescent of Mars below started to move out of the current glass panel and into the next.

Human balance is sensitive. K'laxi is more, but he wasn't around any at the time. As soon as the spin started, Nick felt weird. It was like that carnival ride he rode when he visited that fair on Parvati with his parents when he was small. His inner ear began to argue with his eyes about where 'up' was. He looked down at his coffee, and the liquid in the cup began to slosh oddly, and very slightly start to lean to one side. If it was happening this fast, then the spin engines were thrusting hard. As hard as a Starjumper maybe. Nick queried the KB again and it helpfully mentioned that they could thrust at up to ten gees on when set to Emergency Stop. Nick didn't think there was an Emergency Start, but who knows. The KB wasn't sure either.

In the time it took Nick to query the KB, things got worse. People started to stagger, and some fell to their knees. A K'laxi wearing an embassy uniform fell to their knees and vomited. After, they began a keening wail that Nick had never come out of a K'laxi's mouth before. They were clearly in distress. Nick stood to try and help them, but was overcome with waves of dizziness and his own nausea. He sat down hard on the ground and laid on his back. That made it better.

"Nick! Nick!" His comm chirruped. "Nick, I got it!" It was Eastern.

"Eastern? Where are you? I thought Jameson had you."

"He did. I talked my way out."

Even this uncomfortable, Nick felt incredulous. "Tell me later. Someone is spinning Hyacinth up, are you safe?"

"Safe? Sure I'm safe. I'm in the Basement."

The illegal moving bazaar in the underground maintenance tunnels? "How are you able to reach me on comm? The Basement usually has a comm block."

"Well for one, I'm using your implant line instead of your comm line." She said "And for two, I have root, so I was able to go around the block."

Root? How did she... No, another thing for later. "Well, can you tell who turned on the spin engines? Everyone down here in Congregation is doing poorly. Most everyone is laying on the ground, waiting for the world to stop moving." Nick also didn't mention that they were all starting to feel heavier too. The spin engines were designed to spin Hyacinth up to one gee equivalent, but the gravity generators had already had everything up to a gee. If the engines continued, everyone would feel two gees, and while that's survivable by k'laxi, it won't be without injury if they fall wrong. For the humans it will be mightily unpleasant.

"Millisec, I'll see." A pause. "Nick, it looks like the command was sent from the Houndstooth Command Center. They turned it on themselves!"

What? It was their station, of course they had access to "Why?" Nick said aloud.

"The orders don't say, but I'll give you two guesses."

As soon as Eastern had finished transmitting, Nick heard a rhythmic clanking. He turned his head, and fighting waves of nausea he saw three Houndstooth 'customer protection technicians' in powered armor clomp around the square. They had blackened visors, and their rifles were in their hands. As they walked they looked over everyone as a mini drone hovered behind. Nick could feel it scanning, but it hadn't reached him yet. They turned on the spin to make everyone stop moving, so they could find someone! Talk about overkill. The gun on Nick's back itched. If they scanned and caught it, he was dead - and that was one of the more positive outcomes. Nick had to be somewhere else, now. If he got to his feet though, he'd give himself away to the CPTs. "Eastern! I've got CPTs nearby. They have a drone and it's scanning people." he thought over the comm.

"Already? Fuck. Nick, they must have knew where you were and were just trying to hold you. Talk about overkill though."

"Later, Eastern! What do I do?"

"You have your sub right? You could shoot your way out." She could feel Nick's expression over the comm and quickly said "kidding, kidding. Hold please." While Nick waited, he dared not look at the CPTs clomping around, but he could hear the whine of their servos and the thump of their boots as they moved and stopped, and moved and stopped. It seemed like they were checking everyone. If they knew he was here, why didn't they just come towards him?

Because his hack had worked, he realized. He'll have to thank Queenie later - if he survives. He heard more of that odd keening wail from k'laxi further away from him, and that caught the attention of the CPTs. They walked over to check them out. Nick couldn't believe they were checking out of concern, but that did mean he was right to not make his image on the cameras to be k'laxi.

There was a commotion from the k'laxi, and a odd shout, and then the CPTs yelled and started chattering among themselves. Before Nick could figure out what was going on, there was a deep thump, and he felt a shockwave. Had one of the k'laxi thrown a grenade? Nick knew that their civil war was ongoing, and that there were reports on the news of it being very brutal, but he had no idea that the war had come to Hyacinth. By the alarmed sounds of the CPTs, they hadn't realized it either. One of them had triggered their assistance siren, and the other's suit was yelling 'medic! medic! medic!' over and over again.

"psst!" Nick turned his head, pushed down the wave of dizziness that accompanied it, and saw a gardening robot peer out from underneath a large potted tree. "Get over here!" It was speaking in Eastern's voice.

Without checking to see if the CPTs were busy, Nick half rolled, half undulated towards the opening under the tree. Without grace, he felt down the hatch and landed on his back a couple meters down, knocking the breath out of him. Now, he was dizzy from the centripetal force and the fall. Coughing, he tried to sit up and push past the dizziness. Next to him was a gardening cart, and the little bot was waving a small spade from the front. "Taxi's here Nick! Get your rear in gear!"

He pushed himself to his hands and knees and flopped onto the cart. With an electric whine and a strong smell of ozone, it started to move away - slower because of the high gravity.

Nick kept his eyes shut. It was easier that way. "Eastern, one, thank you for the rescue. Two, where are we going?"

"You're welcome Nicholas North, and I'm taking you to the Basement. I've got some friends down here and they can help."

"Were these the same "friends" that let you get into Houndstooth CIC? How did you know what they were doing?" Nick's voice warbled as the car raced over bumps and gaps in the paneling.

"I told you Nick, I had root. Don't worry about it. You'll be here soon and we can work out next steps. You have the memory crystal?" Eastern sounded distracted.

She was deflecting. "Yes, I have it." Nick didn't say anything else, but a knot grew in his stomach. Eastern was doing things she shouldn't be able to do, and none of her answers about why she could do that were satisfying.

#humans are deathworlders #humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities #sci fi writing #writing #humans and aliens #jpitha #the k’laxiverse #The Dreams of Hyacinth Redux

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zenithspray · 20 days ago

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Engine Coating Spray: The Ultimate Protection for Your Vehicle’s Engine

Introduction

Your car’s engine is its heart—exposed to extreme heat, friction, and corrosion daily. Without proper protection, performance drops, fuel efficiency suffers, and long-term damage becomes inevitable.

WESAF Engine Coating Spray is a cutting-edge solution that shields your engine from wear and tear while enhancing its efficiency. In this blog, we’ll explore how it works, its benefits, and why it’s a must-have for every vehicle owner.

What is Engine Coating Spray?

Engine coating spray is a high-temperature, protective layer applied to engine components to: ✔ Reduce friction between moving parts ✔ Prevent rust & corrosion caused by moisture and chemicals ✔ Improve heat dissipation for better performance ✔ Extend engine life by minimizing wear

Unlike traditional engine oils that wash away, WESAF’s advanced formula bonds to metal surfaces, providing long-lasting protection.

Key Benefits of WESAF Engine Coating Spray

1. Enhanced Engine Performance

Reduces metal-to-metal friction, ensuring smoother operation.

Helps maintain optimal engine temperature, preventing overheating.

2. Improved Fuel Efficiency

Less friction = less energy wasted = better mileage.

Ideal for high-mileage vehicles struggling with fuel consumption.

3. Superior Corrosion Protection

Forms a protective barrier against moisture, salt, and chemicals.

Perfect for Indian weather conditions (humidity, monsoons, coastal areas).

4. Extended Engine Lifespan

Prevents carbon buildup and sludge formation.

Reduces wear on pistons, cylinders, and bearings.

5. Easy Application

No professional help needed—spray directly on cleaned engine parts.

Dries quickly, leaving a durable ceramic-infused layer.

How to Apply WESAF Engine Coating Spray? (DIY Steps)

Prep the Engine – Clean surfaces with a degreaser to remove dirt/oil.

Shake the Can – Ensure even mixing of the formula.

Spray Evenly – Hold 6-8 inches from engine parts (avoid electrical components).

Let It Cure – Allow 15-30 minutes for the coating to bond.

Start the Engine – Let it idle for 5 minutes to spread the coating.

Pro Tip: Reapply every 10,000 km or as needed for heavy-duty vehicles.

Why Choose WESAF Over Other Brands?

✅ Ceramic + Polymer Formula – Lasts longer than cheap silicone sprays. ✅ Withstands 500°C+ – Ideal for turbocharged and high-performance engines. ✅ Non-Conductive – Safe for wiring and sensors. ✅ Made for Indian Roads – Tested against dust, humidity, and extreme heat.

#Engine coating spray #Best engine coating spray in India #High-temperature engine coating #Car engine protector spray #Engine rust protection spray #Thermal barrier coating for engines #Engine performance enhancer spray #Anti-corrosion engine spray #Ceramic engine coating spray #Engine heat shield spray #WESAF engine coating price #How to use engine coating spray #Engine protection spray for cars & bikes #Long-lasting engine coating #Engine maintenance spray

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altaqwaelectric · 3 months ago

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From Design to Deployment: How Switchgear Systems Are Built

In the modern world of electrical engineering, switchgear systems play a critical role in ensuring the safe distribution and control of electrical power. From substations and factories to commercial buildings and critical infrastructure, switchgear is the silent guardian that protects equipment, ensures safety, and minimizes power failures.

But have you ever wondered what goes on behind the scenes, from the idea to the actual installation? Let’s dive into the full journey — from design to deployment — of how a switchgear system is built.

Step 1: Requirement Analysis and Load Study

Every switchgear project begins with requirement analysis. This includes:

Understanding the electrical load requirements

Calculating voltage levels, short-circuit ratings, and operating current

Identifying environmental conditions: indoor, outdoor, temperature, humidity

Reviewing applicable industry standards like IEC, ANSI, or DEWA regulations (especially in UAE)

This stage helps engineers determine whether the project needs low voltage (LV), medium voltage (MV), or high voltage (HV) switchgear.

Step 2: Conceptual Design & Engineering

Once the requirements are clear, the conceptual design begins.

Selection of switchgear type (air insulated, gas insulated, metal-enclosed, metal-clad, etc.)

Deciding on protection devices: MCCBs, ACBs, relays, CTs, VTs, and fuses

Creating single-line diagrams (SLDs) and layout drawings

Choosing the busbar material (copper or aluminum), insulation type, and earthing arrangements

Software like AutoCAD, EPLAN, and ETAP are commonly used for precise engineering drawings and simulations.

Step 3: Manufacturing & Fabrication

This is where the physical structure comes to life.

Sheet metal is cut, punched, and bent to form the panel enclosures

Powder coating or galvanizing is done for corrosion protection

Assembly of circuit breakers, contactors, protection relays, meters, etc.

Internal wiring is installed according to the schematic

Every switchgear panel is built with precision and must undergo quality control checks at each stage.

Step 4: Factory Testing (FAT)

Before deployment, every switchgear unit undergoes Factory Acceptance Testing (FAT) to ensure it meets technical and safety standards.

Typical FAT includes:

High-voltage insulation testing

Continuity and phase sequence testing

Functionality check of all protection relays and interlocks

Mechanical operations of breakers and switches

Thermal imaging to detect hotspots

Only after passing FAT, the switchgear is cleared for shipping.

Step 5: Transportation & Site Installation

Transportation must be handled with care to avoid damage to components. At the site:

Panels are unloaded and moved to their final location

Cabling and bus duct connections are established

Earthing systems are connected

Environmental sealing is done if installed outdoors or in dusty environments

Step 6: Commissioning & Site Acceptance Testing (SAT)

This final stage ensures the switchgear is ready for live operation.

Final checks and Site Acceptance Tests (SAT) are performed

System integration is tested with other components like transformers, UPS, and generators

Load tests and trial runs are conducted

Commissioning report is generated, and documentation is handed over to the client

Conclusion

From idea to execution, the journey of building a switchgear system is highly technical, safety-driven, and precision-based. Whether you’re in power generation, industrial automation, or commercial construction, understanding this process ensures you choose the right system for your needs.

#switchgear #electrical supplies #electrical equipment #aecswitrchgear #electrical

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helsgcddess · 7 months ago

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❛ ah, so you aren’t heartless after all. ❜ with Rosalie?

— HEARTLESS *

pairing: rosalie hale/original character

word count: 794

a/n — a tiny bit of made up backstory as I wrote is: new student at forks, emmett is obviously now rose's brother, uh, rose is bi, so is "I" (we ain't got a name yet, also human), it's the last day before spring break!! had so much fun with this prompt bc who doesn't love exploring rose's softer side??

Forks high school was a strange place after spring finals. the anticipation, the excitement that in just a few hours, we'd be free. for a week, but still. Some sort of freedom counted.

Rain padded at the windows, not a downpour, not a drizzle. Just...rain. I vaguely heard my name being called. I blinked back into the conversation.

"What do you think about going to Canada?" the beautiful blonde asked me, slight annoyance in her golden eyes.

"Canada?" I parroted back, "uh, not ever a place I thought about visiting."

"Fine," she didn't huff—vampires didn't do that. "If you could go anywhere for spring break, where is it?"

I dragged my pencil across my notebook, drawing idle spirals while actually considering the question. The easy answer would've been somewhere tropical, somewhere that didn't feel like living inside a wet paper bag 24/7. But there was something in the way Rosalie watched me, like every answer was a test I didn't know I was taking.

"Prague," I said finally, the word falling into the space between us like a dare. "In winter."

That caught her attention. The mask of casual disdain she wore like designer armor cracked just slightly, one perfect eyebrow arching up. "Prague?"

"Yeah." I wet my lips, hyperaware of how her eyes tracked the movement. "All those ancient buildings drowning in snow, that astronomical clock that's older than—" I cut myself off, but we both knew what I'd almost said. Older than you. "Plus, fewer tourists in winter. You could actually breathe there, you know?"

"You'd freeze," she said flatly.

"That's what coats are for," I shot back, then added without engaging my brain-to-mouth filter, "Though I guess you wouldn't need one."

The temperature between us plummeted faster than my GPA freshman year. Rosalie went still—not human-still, but that otherworldly marble stillness that sometimes made my heart forget how to beat properly. We didn't talk about what she was. Ever. That was the unspoken rule of whatever this was—these study sessions that danced on the knife's edge between almost-friendly and something else entirely.

"Sorry," I muttered, suddenly fascinated by my notebook spirals. "I shouldn't have—"

"Meet me after school," she cut me off, voice winter-sharp. "Don't make me wait."

The rest of the day crawled by like a snail with a vendetta against time itself. When the final bell rang, I found her waiting by her car—that gorgeous red convertible that probably cost more than my entire existence.

She drove in silence, but I noticed we weren't heading toward town. Instead, we wound up into the mountains, leaving Forks behind like a bad memory. Soon we were above the clouds, and weak sunlight filtered through the trees. She pulled off onto a dirt road I would have missed even if someone had put up a neon sign.

We stopped at what looked like the edge of the world. The convertible's engine ticked as it cooled, the only sound besides my treacherous heartbeat.

"You think you know me," Rosalie said finally, her voice barely a whisper. "You sit there in class, making your little comments about the cold, about time, like you understand any of it."

"Rose—"

"No." She turned to me then, and her eyes were ancient. "You look at me and see what everyone sees. The ice queen. The heartless one. The one too proud to even pretend to be normal."

"That's not—"

"But you don't see me turning you away." The words seemed to surprise her as much as they did me. "You don't see me telling you to stay away, even though I should. Even though it would be safer." Her fingers curled around the steering wheel. "Easier."

My heart was doing something complicated in my chest. "Why don't you?"

She laughed, soft and bitter as winter wind. "Because you look at Prague in winter and see beauty. Not death. Not cold." Her hand found mine, ice-cold but somehow burning. "Because you see me."

"Ah," I couldn't help the smile that tugged at my lips, "so you aren't heartless after all."

"Careful," she warned, but there was something like a real smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "That sounds dangerously close to an accusation."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Prague," she said, starting the car again but keeping her hand on mine. "Winter break. I have some loose ends to tie up in Alaska first, but after..." That dangerous smile was back, the one that made me forget how to breathe. "If you're still interested."

"Yeah," I managed, trying to sound casual while my pulse did its best hummingbird impression. "I'm free."

Her smile widened just slightly, and I realized I was completely, utterly doomed. And somehow, I couldn't bring myself to mind.

#rosalie hale #rosalie twilight #twilight #twilight fic #twilight imagine #writing ;;

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sngl-led-auto-lights · 1 month ago

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Why do some people think that their car's headlights aren't bright enough?

The real reasons why people think car lights are not bright enough are complex and multi-dimensional, usually related to physiological limitations, technical misunderstandings, environmental variables and marketing misleading. The following is a professional analysis based on engineering, optics and traffic psychology:

🔍 I. Subjective perception bias (accounting for about 50%)

Age-related visual decline

After 25 years old: Retinal photoreceptors decrease by 0.8% each year, and at the age of 60, the brightness required is 5 times that of a 20-year-old to see the same objects (NHTSA study).

Example: At a speed of 60km/h, a 60-year-old driver's reaction time in low light is 1.3 seconds slower than that of a 30-year-old (equivalent to an additional 22 meters of braking distance).

Contrast deception

The popularity of LED billboards/street lights has led to upgraded ambient light pollution, and the relative brightness of car lights has decreased (such as 300 lux street lights vs. 70 lux car lights).

⚙️ Second, technical cognition misunderstanding (accounting for 30%)

1. Misunderstanding of brightness unit

Parameters Consumer focus Actual impact Lumen value "The higher the better" Beam focusing efficiency is the core (GB4599 requires focus error ≤0.5°) Color temperature "6000K white = bright" Blue light exceeding 6500K will reduce the transmittance by 20% in foggy weather and accelerate visual fatigue

2. Ignore the aging of the optical system

Plastic lens yellowing: The transmittance of headlights over 3 years decreases by 40-60% (UV oxidation + scratches).

Reflector coating peeling off: The high temperature of halogen lamps causes the aluminum layer to powderize, and the light efficiency decays by more than 50%.

3. Wrong upgrade plan

Blindly replace high-wattage bulbs: The original car wiring harness only supports 55W, and using 100W bulbs will result in: → Fuse blown risk ↑300% → Lamp holder melted (case: Volkswagen PQ34 platform wiring harness limit 60W)

🌫️ Three, environmental variable interference (accounting for 15%)

Weather degradation effect Weather Effective illumination distance of headlights attenuated Moderate rain -40% Thick fog -80% Wet road surface reflection Glare increased by 150%

Difference in road materials

Asphalt road reflectivity: 7-10%

Concrete road reflectivity: 25-35% → Cement road is 3 times brighter at the same brightness

📢 Fourth, commercial marketing misleading (accounting for 5%)

Invalid products are rampant

A test on an e-commerce platform shows that 68% of the "300% brighter" LED bulbs actually have a lumen increase of <20% (falsely labeled voltage regulator IC power).

Illegal "laser headlight" modification parts: 90% are actually ordinary LED+light guide tube, which does not meet the GB/T 30036 laser safety standard

KOL test fraud

Common methods used in self-media headlight comparison videos: → The test car deliberately lowers the angle of the original lights → Use color temperature 5000K vs. original 3000K halogen to create the illusion of "whiter = brighter"

💡 Scientific solution

✅ Effective brightness improvement path

Optical system refurbishment

Professional lens polishing and restoration＞95% transmittance (UV coating is required to delay aging)

Replace OEM reflective bowl (e.g. Audi matrix headlight bowl single ￥800)

Compliance upgrade plan Original type Legal upgrade options Brightness increase Halogen reflective OSRAM NIGHT BREAKER LASER/ SH50M +150%/ +700% Halogen lens PHILIPS X-tremeVision GEN2/ SNGL SH70P2 Projector-Specific +130%/ +800% Original LED Replacement assembly at 4S shop (the only legal way) +0%** *Note: Meets ECE R37 standard

Intelligent assistance system

Install thermal imaging night vision device (such as Dongfeng Mengshi commercial version): effective detection distance 300 meters, cost ￥12,000-50,000.

⚠️ Actions that must be avoided

Use >55W bulbs or external power supply with voltage regulator

Modify non-assembly LED/laser modules

Raise the lamp angle to exceed GB4660 standard (low beam <0.7-1.0% inclination)

📊 Cost-benefit analysis

Solution Cost range Actual distance increase Compliance Refurbish lens + upgrade halogen lamp ￥300-800 +40 meters Completely legal Aftermarket LED assembly ￥1500-4000 +60 meters Need to pass inspection Original matrix headlight upgrade ￥8000-30000 +120 meters Completely legal

Ultimate suggestion: When you are dissatisfied with the subjective brightness, first conduct an objective test (measure the low beam illumination distance in a dark area at night, the GB standard should be ≥50 meters). If it meets the standard, the problem is mostly visual decline or environmental interference; if it does not meet the standard, repair the optical system first. Brightness ≠ safety, the beam focusing accuracy is the core - spend ￥50 to do a professional lamp angle calibration, the effect may be far better than ￥2000 modification, or choose an LED bulb with adjustable light type (SNGL) to ensure the beam focusing.

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