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catenary-chad · 4 months ago

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Why Greaseball is a Really Great train villain: a looong post (4.8k words) on all the historical train context behind replica Greaseball

tl;dr he’s British anti-diesel sentiment applied to American views of diesel trains and it’s glorious because he represents so many longstanding issues with freight railroads and diesel hegemony there. UP is a genuinely horrible company that makes an awesome cartoon bully.

For all my issues with the other main engines, I think (replica) Greaseball is FANTASTIC. He just works on so many fundamental levels and gets so much better/worse with historical context. If we make him an EMD E9 locomotive (a common headcanon) things get even more interesting, and there’s even a convenient irl engine to base him on!

Note: if you’re into real US trains this info probably won’t be as new to you as my Nez Cassé post, since E and F units are so well preserved and documented in English. A lot of the topics I go on are pretty widely discussed in US railfan circles and not terribly obscure. Also this is just about replica, Elvis-style Greaseball vs Wembleyball… her being more modern and European changes a lot and I would take a very different approach.

Also CW for non-graphic discussion of abuse in the very last section. I have a separate warning before it comes up so you can leave before then.

DIESEL TRACTION IN THE US

First of all, to clear up a common misconception: 99% of all diesel locomotives are diesel-electric. The diesel engine is used to generate electricity to power electric motors to turn the wheels. This is why dual-mode engines that can switch between drawing third rail/overhead wire electricity and making their own with a diesel engine are so common. Besides the power source, they work similarly, so it’s not hard to incorporate. This is NOT how hybrid cars work, though diesel-electric setups have been used on very heavy trucks for purposes like mining. Diesel-mechanical is more in line with how automobiles work but is basically unheard of outside of very small switchers in the US (mostly in museums now) and 50s-era shunters and that one weird Fell diesel in the UK. The technical reasons of why isn’t really important here, but has to do with the difficult of making an appropriate gearbox for road locomotives and appealing qualities of electric motors for train use (high starting torque).

Internal combustion-based locomotives are actually much more recent than pure electric ones. Electric engines achieved practical use around the 1890s and were well-established in urban and mountainous areas by the 20s-30s…. which is when diesel boxcab switchers first started production in substantial numbers and lightweight diesel trainsets like the Zephyrs, M10000, and Flying Hamburger started to pop up. The earliest diesels were either slow (switchers) or fast but very weak (lightweight trainsets and railbusses). There were major tech limits to maximum horsepower in diesel locomotives until the second half of the 20th century, which is why several of them were often needed to replace one steam or electric engine, and why you had some weird turbine designs in the 50s-70s as an alternative.

Early diesel locomotives in the US actually had a lot in common with their early implementation in the UK. They’re often perceived differently because Thomas the Tank Engine had so many characters based on unsuccessful early British diesel models, while most of the failed earlier US diesels are obscure compared to the successful and widespread ones (that often have the strongest museum presence). There were some notably good early switcher models (some still being used today) that were among the first to replace steam engines because it was one of the tasks that they had the biggest advantage over them in, and limited size wasn’t an issue. Road diesel implementation was messy and due to the early state of the technology, some railroads like the Pennsylvania Railroad had a strategy more akin to early British Rail in that they planned to just slowly phase out steam as they electrified. Higher wages and stronger unions were also a factor in both countries dieselizing, due to the vastly lower labor needed for diesel locomotives vs steam and generally safer, more pleasant working conditions on them. There was also a need to shed a reputation for being outdated to draw in customers again with both. There was also a desperate early demand for diesel power that led to a lot of questionable builders and designs being picked up early on and later dumped for being nonstandard.

The main difference is that dieselization’s serious pursuit in the US started around the Great Depression and really picked up in the late 30s, almost two decades before the Modernization Plan of 1955. So it was a far more mature and well-established technology by the 50s and Greaseball is very much based on this dominant position vs the messy early experiments of the Thomas diesels.

Greaseball’s helmet heavily resembles the fronts of the E and F unit carbody locomotives made by EMD from the 30s-50s. I’ll go into those specific models later, but the manufacturer alone is really interesting and has a lot of great symbolism that works with Greaseball.

Earlier diesel manufacturers included steam builders like Alco and Baldwin, outside companies getting into the diesel locomotive market like Fairbanks-Morse, and EMD, which started as an independent company but quickly became part of General Motors. One of the major advantages EMD would acquire is mass-production in assembly lines, the way cars were made, as opposed to building one engine at a time like steam shops did. So Greaseball has some quiet ties to the auto industry (and boy did GM hurt trains in other avenues). They also used common parts between models, making them relatively easy to repair and rebuild. You had all kind of mods and changes done to their engines over the decades, which is a fun tie-in to the bodybuilder AND greaser aspect of Greaseball. I’ll go into how I think he’d specifically be modified/rebuilt later though.

Another major factor of EMD is… they often weren’t the best in a lot of ways and very much an example of “survival of the good enough”. Until very recently they all used relatively dirty and inefficient two-stroke engines and other manufacturers often had stronger or technically superior competing models… but it was the ease of working on them and relative reliability vs their competitors that contributed to their success and helped make EMD the dominant manufacturer.

Bonus fun fact: EMD (and later General Electric) had a lot of success in the export model market due to their early reliability, especially vs British diesel engines. One of the funnier instances being several colonial African railways holding onto steam into the 70s because they were forced to buy crappy British diesel engines otherwise, and promptly dieselizing as soon as they could buy American ones. EMD made huge inroads into the British freight market with the Class 59 and 66 (the latter also used in continental Europe). These came too late to have had any affect on the development of the show early on, but it’s an interesting instance of American encroachment that could be thematically relevant. The sheer ubiquity of EMD diesels worldwide makes Greaseball weirdly relevant in a lot of countries if you basis swap him a little. I haven’t figured out quite how I’d approach Girlball but I’d definitely make her one of these export models since it fits.

Anyways, back to the general history timeline because it’s important for the other reason EMD was so successful. By the late 30s, diesel switchers were widespread and road models were starting to come out in limited numbers. Widespread dieselization would have happened nearly a decade earlier if not for World War II. When the US entered the war, copper, oil, and diesel engines became critical to the war effort. Coal was not and steam engines don’t use much copper, so the existing steam manufacturers were forced into building them. EMD’s FT series had proven itself prewar and the company was among the few to be able to develop their locomotive lines during the war. This gave the company a huge advantage post-war and their E and F units dominated the road locomotive market afterwards (switchers remained more competitive since they had more development before and during the war).

If you’re European and know little about American trains, you may wonder when things started getting electrified after that. They didn’t. Outside of one stretch of the Northeast Corridor, a recent project by Caltrain, and some isolated freight lines… the US didn’t electrify anything after WWII, and if anything de-electrified much that had existed. The oil crises of the 70s almost led to something, but the subsequent drop in prices in the 80s made that dry up too. Leading to the modern day status of having only 1% electrified rail mileage. The rest is all diesel domain. They were never a stopgap here. Due to railroads remaining private businesses post-WWII and facing almost unwinnable economic and political conditions vs roads and air travel, the cost of electrification was out of the question and the much smaller up front cost of diesel engines made them take permanent hold over most of the country post-steam. To this day, railroads avoid paying up front for things vs just paying more in yearly maintenance for diesel locomotives, and the price of fuel has never gotten high enough to incentivize electrification. There’s also a whole carrot vs stick situation with state governments raising emissions standards without providing assistance to electrify that leads to a crappy state of limbo that just gives automobiles even more of an unfair advantage, but that’s another tangent that’s not relevant enough to go into.

This is all a long way to say that Greaseball as the conservative, oppressive establishment is spot-on to the status of diesel traction in the US. It really can’t be overstated how dominant and inescapable it is. It’s kind of hilarious hearing people from the UK or Europe talk about how gross and stinky and backwards they are and how much more disliked they are there. This is why the Greaseball vs Electra feud is so appealing to me- the US is one of the few places where they would be considered remotely competitive and where that matchup is politically relevant. There’s this compelling thread of Greaseball being a “pragmatic compromise” that’s held on so long it’s become status quo, but would be viewed as a regressive relic elsewhere in the world, akin to how the US’s economic politics are seen in much of the rest of the world. Greaseball is the majority who very much has capitalism and inertia on his side, Electra is the more qualified but long-sidelined minority who wishes things were even a little more like Europe economically and politically. They’re so rural vs urban, right vs left wing coded it hurts. Diesel power mainly thrives where frequencies are low and distances are long and rail is a private business that often can’t afford to electrify. Urban trains are almost exclusively electric due to their inherent frequency and pollution requirements, and are almost synonymous with being state-owned.

Him being particularly nasty to steam engines also checks out, he’s the era of diesel locomotive that often directly replaced them and I’ve seen claims EMD did deceptive things if not outright cheated on tests vs steam engines. At the very least they had fairly aggressive marketing. There’s a reason why I object to the idea that Electra would cheat against a steam engine (even in the early days electric ones trounced them so thoroughly it routinely exceeded railroads’ expectations), but think Greaseball doing it makes sense. Him playing dirty against Electra also makes sense because they’d have similar top speeds (and that’s being very conservative with Electra’s abilities and keeping them a relatively old model) but Electra benefits far more from a clean setting and would be relatively vulnerable to attack. There’s been decades of cultural downplaying of the advantages of electric vs diesel trains due to the latter’s sheer dominance in the US too. Further tying into the political aspect, electric trains are one of those things whose status only goes up the more you actually learn about them… and it really knocks combustion engines down several pegs, paralleling how right wing politicians in the US tend to be actively anti-education because they quietly rely on voters being low-information and uneducated about how negative the effects of their policies often are.

Greaseball as a macho jock is also reflective of the perceived strength of diesel vs electric engines. Because the US is infamous for its large heavy freight trains that are almost entirely diesel-hauled (besides a single power plant out west), electric freight is an almost alien concept and people associate electric traction with high speed trains, subways, maybe lighter, faster European freight trains at most. People often act like they’re weak because of this. This is patently untrue, just look at IORE or the Virginian Railway. Also see my earlier discussion of how weak diesel engines were early on. Electric locomotives still have vastly higher horsepower per single unit and the only reason there aren’t ones as strong as diesel engines in the US is lack of demand. It wouldn’t be that hard to build one for that niche. But diesel has strong associations with being the “strong and manly” blue-collar option because of its use by every large freight railroad and almost every shortline for all the tough, gritty jobs, unlike those darn city slicker commuter trains. Let’s just conveniently forget that the Milwaukee Road existed and that mines are full of weird little battery-powered “lokies”. People will even crow about the Big Boy all day and rarely acknowledge the multiple electric engine models of that era with comparable abilities.

EMD E and F UNITS

Finally, we can discuss Greaseball’s more specific basis. Greaseball’s helmet doesn’t have a single explicit one like Electra’s, but its styling is very typical of 30s-50s era carbody diesel locomotives, specifically the “bulldog nose” E and F-Units. These models were and still remain some of the most popular toy and model diesel engines, and are some of the most recognizable American trains in general. Which they totally deserve, they came in a lot of fun colors and were VERY widely used from the 30s to early 80s irl and were still used in limited numbers for decades after that and are extremely common in museums today. It’s probably harder to find a railroad museum in the US that doesn’t have one. They are probably THE symbol of diesel trains in the US, especially circa the 50s. Even highway signs for train stations resemble them.

Carbody locomotives like these made the streamlined body a structural element of the engine to save weight and required indoor walkways for maintenance access vs being able to open external panels. Alco and Baldwin also made far less successful carbody locomotives as competitors but they looked very different. Funny enough, a number of electric locomotives of the era also were built this way, but with cabs at both ends, some of them looking a LOT like Greaseball’s helmet.

The E-units were EMD’s first line of road diesel locomotives, mainly designed for passenger service. Since the 30s there were several different models of the line, the first few being built in smaller numbers, and the later ones being much more widely produced post-WWII. They were relatively long and large for a diesel engine of the time, with atypical A1A -A1A (powered/unpowered/powered x2) wheel arrangements and two seperate prime movers (the actual diesel engine) to produce more horsepower due to the limited abilities of individual engines. While successful compared to their competitors (which were… generally a mess) there’s a sense that they were designed for a time that would never come.

They were very much optimized for being smooth at speed for passenger use and while not useless for freight service, weren’t ideal for it due to their limited strength and not having all powered wheels for traction. Which was a terrible market to be in with the massive decline in passenger rail post-WWII. The E-units still generally had long and successful lives, but were never as successful as their younger, smaller sibling, the F-unit.

F-units visually resemble shorter E-units, but with single prime movers and Bo-Bo wheel arrangements (four powered axles). By modern standards they’re small and not terribly powerful, but for their time they were solid and VERY successful in freight service, and often took the place of E-units in passenger service since they worked for that too, and were more versatile overall. There are a bunch of F-units running in museums because they look good and are easy to find parts for due to the sheer quantity produced (also some, but far fewer E-units). You could totally make Greaseball an F-unit and it would fit with how there’s been some infamously short Greaseball actors.

There’s a lot of fun commonalities between both models that are relevant to Greaseball. Both were explicitly designed to be used in multi-engine sets due to their limited individual strength, which perfectly fits Greaseball having his Gang follow him around. Working in packs that large is a VERY midcentury diesel thing. Both had the massive drawback of having no rear visibility and basically no ability to go backwards for switching. That was one of the main traits that led to this style of engine falling out of favor, roadswitchers that actually had rear visibility were more versatile than having separate road and switch engines. In a race going backwards, Rusty would clean his clock even if he was SUPER crappy and could only go walking pace, because Greaseball would be flying totally blind and crash. It’s also a hassle to perform maintenance and get inside that body style and the noses were reportedly harder to manufacture.

As a cursed side note, ATSF solved these problems with their old F-units by roadswitcherfying them into CF-7s. Hey, they were old and past their prime but still useful and worked GREAT as ugly utilitarian roadswitchers and ran for decades afterwards. There’s several of these things running in museums. I’ve actually worked on one and I approve of roadswitcherfication because they really are way less of a pain to maintain this way.

Speaking of rebuilds, the highest horsepower Greaseball would have as an E-unit would as-built is only 2,400 if he was an E9, but because early EMDs got modified so much and routinely re-engined, we can play around with this. It fits the character and the Railways Series routinely did this kind of thing. We’ll suppose Greaseball was re-engined or otherwise modified to get up to 2,700 horsepower… but then there’s the reported issue that the unpowered axles might make him too slippery to actually apply full force, so we’ll get a bit more out there and say he got more substantially rebuilt into a Co-Co (six powered axle) arrangement. Now you have something that would be vaguely comparable with one of Amtrak’s dysfunctional SDP40F diesels of the late 70s-early 80s, if still a bit weaker but probably more physically stable. It’s hard to avoid that Greaseball is kind of statistically wimpy no matter how you slice it. They’d need to tweak the numbers in the song a little, but again, swapping out engines in early EMDs was super common and suits him so it’s not too much of a stretch to bump him to 3700 or something. You still have issue that he’s not large by UP standards specifically (they are INFAMOUS for large single-unit engines) but he’d still be fairly large vs more typical passenger diesels of the time.

Anyways, another VERY fun fact about E and F units is that they were regularly used on corporate trains after most of them were withdrawn from regular mainline service in the 70s-80s. People often complain that Greaseball is barely relevant circa the 80s, which isn’t really true since a lot of E and F units were used on commuter lines for years afterward (if often in cab car form, which are terrifying in any talking train verse). But there’s another huge loophole that gives a perfect excuse for his existence well into the modern day. Union Pacific itself used a set of three E9s on their corporate specials until 2019! They only got pulled due to wheel issues… got no lovers if you got no wheels I guess. But now you have a perfect excuse for why Greaseball is a 50s-era engine with UP colors pulling passenger trains well after the railroad axed those services in the early 70s. He’s a corporate pawn! He’s one of the faces of their company, chauffeuring executives around. Which leads into another fascinating topic with him.

UNION PACIFIC, FREIGHT RAILROADS, AND PASSENGER RAIL

All of the modern big Class I railroads in the US suck in similar ways, but Union Pacific has a stronger identity and seems to have the largest cultural presence abroad, making it the most visible and appealing of them to the public. It tends to be THE American railroad to many, which goes well with Greaseball’s basis being THE American diesel engine. Yes, they do have some cool heritage fleet stuff and really cool heritage unit paint jobs, but you’ll never see me depict them in a terribly positive way (if at all) because they’re a PR campaign like the Budweiser Clydesdales for an infamously awful company. Make no mistake, this is a company that’s been voted “worst place to work” on multiple occasions (and its cohorts aren’t much better). That’s the ironic thing about Electra being made a crappy boss, Amtrak is notably much better to its workers (and steam engines are the most competitive where labor is cheapest and least organized). The main thing is unreasonable on-call hours, lack of sick leave, vacation, and break days in general, and working conditions. Look into the blocked 2022 railroad strike for more on this. Greaseball could be SO nasty to the freight to reflect this if you made him a symbol of railroad leadership. You’d have any railroaders in the audience booing him if they did this in the US, it’s a very relevant political issue. Ironically, things weren’t nearly as bad labor-wise in the 80s, ALW just really bet on the right horse in terms of railroads to align a train villain with. But there’s a more prominant and existing aspect of canon that also fits the crappy things UP and other class Is do.

Passenger rail has never been as profitable as freight in the US. To give a modern ballpark estimate, I’ve heard $30,000 revenue on a fully loaded longer passenger train vs $500,000 revenue on a train of oil tankers. And that’s not even including the higher maintenance standards that passenger rail requires, which adds millions to its cost and makes it almost impossible for it to turn a profit. There is a reason why almost all countries with widespread passenger rail today have nationalized rail systems and even US passenger service is all government-run outside Brightline and museums.

This situation was particularly bad in the 50s-60s before Amtrak took over passenger service. Passenger trains absolutely bled money overall, and many of them were required to keep running even at massive losses per government regulation because they were an essential service. This contributed to the financial ruin of many railroads, and most of them dropped passenger service or sold it to the government as soon as it was offered. UP in particular was more financially stable, but also happily got rid of their passenger trains when offered.

Since then, the giant merged Class I railroads have become almost exclusively freight-oriented and hostile towards Amtrak-run passenger services. They’re almost all terrible, but UP is one of the more visible offenders, holding up commuter services in Chicago, and contributing to the massive delays in long-distance western trains. “Coach sexism” in the form of widespread hostility towards passenger rail by the likes of UP is one of the few canon social metaphors that WORKS. The other engines would not be that way considering the systems they’re aligned with, but Greaseball could be made so, so much worse.

There is a weird element of “I hate my wife” boomer humor when people describe passenger trains. There’s “keeping freight trains in line” schedule-wise due to their time sensitivity. There’s being seen as needlessly spendy for PR reasons (often true in the older days) paralleling “my wife wastes money on stupid things”. There’s being seen as more delicate and refined due to needing better track conditions and gentler handling because you know, humans have standards that grain hoppers and sand don’t. There’s the way that passenger rail isn’t as profitable as freight and basically requires government subsidies… not unakin to caring jobs and “women’s work” in general vs blue collar industrial jobs (Caveat: passenger rail employees were almost all male until Amtrak). In short, yeah the freight railroads’ treatment of passenger trains in the US does have parallels to sexism, if slightly different from how canon does it. Abruptly dumping them in the 70s also fits Greaseball ditching Dinah mid-show.

Even if you go the comparatively mild route of mirroring modern railroads, you still have him treating the coaches as second class vs freight (despite them being legally prioritized). This is a major issue and why Amtrak has so many delays on long distance trains. To summarize a complicated issue: due to the relatively unique economics of railroads, they are incentivized to run fewer, longer, irregular freight trains that have become so large they don’t fit in sidings and can’t physically let prioritized passenger trains through. They then get delayed for hours, especially if the freight train breaks down (bonus: freight trains have a staff of two, engineer and conductor. The conductor may have to walk up to THREE MILES to check out a possible defect on a car, delaying even more). The Class Is have a broadly hostile relationship with Amtrak in general for various reasons related to insurance and minimal investment in track maintenance, and it even affects non-Amtrak passenger services like steam excursions. UP has its personal steam fleet for publicity reasons, but all of the Class Is are various shades of hostile to running steam excursions with passengers now due to those same reasons. Even UP barely sells public tickets for theirs.

Bonus: the reason Mexico has basically no passenger rail now is due to the nationalized railroads being taken over by companies heavily aligned with US freight railroads and with many similar attitudes towards passenger service. They ditched virtually all of it en masse when they took over. Turbo works perfectly as just Greaseball but in Mexico because the same thing happened there… only a few years before the Mexican Stex production happened. Electra might be an even more pathetic and unthreatening character there though, because the single, long-delayed electrified mainline built by NdeM was ripped out after only a few years of service by the private freight railroads.

WARNING: Leave now if you do not want to read about how abusive Greaseball could be made based to US railroads’ treatment of passenger trains pre-70s. It’s not graphic, but it is blunt and dark. I put this at the end for a reason, there is nothing beyond this last section.

Basically, canon even at its worst arguably undersells how awful Greaseball could be to Dinah and the coaches if you make them symbols of UP and other major railroads vs passenger service pre-Amtrak. They could be even MORE toxic. You have a situation now where he outright hates her and wants her gone for above reasons, but is forced to stay in the relationship due to outside requirements and is fundamentally built for that kind of setup as an E-unit. Railroads forced to keep passenger services usually didn’t have mandated quality standards for them. They just had to have something. This led to pathetically short trains (one or two cars), understaffing, and poor maintenance because they just had to have SOME passenger train on that line. Track conditions reached terrible standards in the 70s on railroads that were near bankruptcy and delaying maintenance. I absolute do not blame canon for not going this dark in a kids show, but basically there is no limit to how miserable Greaseball could make her life, short of actually killing her. I can’t understate how much she symbolizes something he’d want to rid himself of at any cost but can’t and will take that out on. It’s BLEAK. I don’t think I’d even write them this dark myself.

Well… now you see why I do not redeem and revise Greaseball the way I do Electra. While the latter is wrongly demonized in an impressive number of ways, Greaseball is awful for all the right ones, to extents deeper than the creators probably ever imagined. He is so versatile and nearly timeless in his awfulness. If Greaseball were portrayed as remotely good I’d be ripping him to greater shreds than I do Rusty, but he’s great as a hateable bad guy who’s entertaining and globally recognizable even by much of the general public. Despite all this, I’m fine with him just being a cartoon bully because it’s more palatable and not wrong. But you could also make him so much nastier than even the workshop if you wanted to go darker.

#Stex #starlight express #technically this is character hate but it’s about how he’s great at that as intended so it’s maintagged #because he really is such a compelling and horrible character the more you look into it #probably the major character i’d most want to play because i’d incorporate a lot of this to make him nastier #he is the embodiment of so many past and present rail issues in the US and weirdly effective abroad too #reference #also lol this is why you will never see me talk very positively of Uncle Pete (or other big US railroads)#the fallen flags i’m fascinated by are more like watching a train crash than stanning. based on who made the funniest bad decisions #can’t overstate that i’m also fine with greaseball being played more stupid and cartoonish and less malicious #it’s genuinely very hard to go wrong with replica greaseball for me because he works in so many ways

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greatkittencloud · 10 days ago

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TW : Medical inaccuracies, trauma , fear of failure , abandonment issues etc.

Black Nova

Chapter 22

Location Medbay

Time 1600 Hours 3 weeks after

The rehab wing wasn’t far from the main base, but it felt like another world entirely.

The air smelled like vinyl mats and antiseptic. Bright lights buzzed overhead merciless and clinical. Equipment was neatly arranged along the walls parallel bars, weighted balls, foam rollers, resistance bands. A wall-length mirror stood on one end, reflecting the sharp angles of the room, and the single figure seated in a wheelchair near the center of it.

Nova sat still, braced leg extended in front of her, jaw tight under the surgical wire. Her fingers curled in her lap, covered in half-peeled medical tape. Her knuckles trembled with effort and pain, even when they weren’t moving.

The physical therapist a woman named Sia with kind eyes and calloused hands crouched beside her.

“We’ll start slow, alright?” Siia said softly. “All I want is for you to stand up using the parallel bars. You don’t need to walk yet. Just plant both feet. Even weight. No rush.”

Nova gave a shallow nod.

Her eyes were hollow, shadowed by exhaustion, but she gripped the armrests of the chair anyway.

Survived the institute. Survived the torture. Survived learning her jaw was wired shut, that her leg wouldn’t bend, that her hands wouldn’t obey her anymore.

She had survived.

But standing?

That felt impossible.

Sia wheeled her up to the parallel bars, then gently locked the brakes. “You’ve got this,” she said, voice calm, like nothing about this was as monumental as it felt.

Nova took a deep breath.

Then she pushed.

Her arms shook immediately. Her left leg, locked in a hinged brace, felt like deadweight. Her right leg tensed to compensate, and pain flared through her lower back. Her hands slipped on the bars. Her heart thundered, breath coming in tight flares through her nose.

She didn’t make it halfway up before she collapsed back down with a hiss of frustration.

“Alright,” Sia said, quickly supporting her back. “That’s fine. That’s okay. Breathe.”

Nova clenched her fists. Her fingers refused to stop shaking.

“Alright. We’ll go again. Use your core. Shift with your shoulders. Don’t rush it.”

Second attempt.

This time, Nova got three inches off the chair before her leg buckled beneath her. Her breath caught in her throat, and she sat back down hard, nearly biting her tongue.

Frustration bloomed across her face.

The kind that comes when you’ve trained your whole life to be strong, and now your own body fights you for the right to stand.

She looked at the mirror. Her reflection stared back—pale, tired, legs trembling, hands curled tight as claws.

Pathetic.

Weak.

Her heart pounded with rage and helplessness.

“I know it feels like failure,” Sia said quietly. “But this is still progress.”

Nova typed

<It’s not. I was running missions two months ago. Now I can’t even stand.>

Aria crouched down again, placing a hand gently on Nova’s wrist.

“You were also unconscious with a fever of 104,” she said. “And your leg was torn open like paper. And your hands were nearly shut down from nerve damage. But you’re here. You’re breathing. You’re trying. That counts.”

Nova didn’t answer.

Not for a long moment.

Then she typed:

Aria exhaled, honest and steady. “Could be months. Could be less. Depends on how you work. But it’ll happen.”

Nova’s fingers hovered over the screen.

She didn’t ask when she could fight again.

Didn’t ask when she could hold a gun. Or throw a knife. Or sprint across rooftops like she used to.

Nova stared at the screen, at her own reflection.

Then she tried again.

She rose, slower this time. Arms trembling. Core tight. She grunted through her nose, pain burning behind her eyes. She straightened her back. The left leg screamed in protest.

But she stood.

Just for few seconds.

But she stood.

And when she finally sat back down, tears prickled at the corner of her eyes.

She didn’t wipe them away.

She earned those.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @hyperfixiation-station , @massivescissorsthingperson , @kaoyamamegami , @sweetybuzz25 , @adalia-lovelace , @sheepispink , @n-ae-vis , @warrior-xe , @shinebright2000 , @enfppuff

#ghost cod #john price #john soap mactavish #cod fandom #cod x reader #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #task force 141 #black nova #call of duty

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drivinmeinsane · 1 year ago

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Officer K x GN!Reader ※ { masterlist } ※ { ao3 }

※ Summary: With a tremor threatening to shake his body, he slips his fingers under the edge of his shirt sleeve and pulls it up to his elbow. His soulmark is laid bare before your eyes. The wound that he had left in his own skin when he had tried to carve out the design has faded to a raised, pale line. “That wasn’t there before,” you murmur, taking his forearm in your hands. Your pointer finger traces over the scar. ※ Rating: 18+ for mature content and themes. Please mind the warnings. ※ Content/tags: Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Implied Reoccurring Sexual Abuse by a Supervisor, Emotional Hurt, Identity Issues, Self-Harm, Alcohol Abuse, Smoking, Eye Trauma, Canon-typical Violence, Slow Burn, Developing Relationship, No use of Y/N, No Pronouns Given for Reader ※ Word count: 15,713 ※ Status: One-shot / Complete ※ Author's note: In the wake of a mentally difficult month, I present the story that accompanied me during that time. Here's to brighter days. ※ Song inspiration: Someone to You - BANNERS

In a cruelly human twist, the moment that K is incepted, birthed from a plastic bag like an item purchased at a supermarket in the years before the Blackout rocked the world, is also the moment he begins to die. This is something he won’t mind, once he realizes that death is a gift given only to the living.

As he lays, wet and trembling, atop compressed rubber and metal grating, he feels nothing but terror. His body is stricken by the wracking sobs of the newborn. His face gradually relaxes with each passing minute. The replicant’s wailing turns into coughing when his body chooses to expel the synthetically made amniotic fluid from his lungs.

“Are you done?” comes a woman’s voice. Clinical. Detached.

Suddenly made aware of the world around him, the small sterile room that it is, he opens his sticky eyelids only to be forced to squint against the penetrating glare of the artificial lighting overhead. He lays there for a moment, twisted and gasping like a crushed bird on the pavement—filled with the old memories of the nest and waiting, beak agape, for a mother who will not come. He shivers.

When KD6-3.7 manages to focus his eyes, the first thing he makes sense of is his own hands, and then the mark on his own forearm that is slowly blossoming to life. It’s all too much. His brain feels as though it is pressing against the confines of his skull, threatening to crack the bone and spill out onto the rubber. If it does, perhaps it will slip through the grate like the yolk of a broken egg.

Feet step up to him. They’re clad in sensible heels over black socks, utilitarian. K peers through the pulsing behind his eyes and sees a worn woman’s pinched face peering down at him. For just a moment, he’s certain that she intends to snuff him out. All the same, he pushes aside his fear and reaches out for her. She will become the closest thing to a mother he will ever know. K clasps his slimy hand around her sock-clad ankle. The bones are fragile underneath his grip. One too-tight squeeze and they would snap under the pressure. She tries to shake him off. He clings on, desperate for some kind of contact. He does not yet know that he will be raised solely by the wire mother with no comfort of the cloth.

“Let go.” Her voice cuts over the faint noise of the plastic crinkling above him. Disgust mars her lined face. He will grow familiar with expression. Both from her and from others.

As if burned, he immediately does. The compulsion to obey is too pressing for him to ignore. Every blood vessel and muscle fiber in his body is hardwired for submission. K tucks his hand against his chest, shrinks in on himself. He is not praised for his obedience or comforted through his turmoil. Tools, he learns later, do not need reward.

The woman crouches suddenly. She grabs at his arm and extends it under the harsh light. Her nails bite into his skin. It is the first pain he will experience from another living being. Both he and the stranger look at the elegant lines set into his flesh. She does not speak and neither does he. She lets go of him, red crescent moons grace the pale sky of his skin in the wake of her fingers.

There is a gesture that he doesn’t understand and, suddenly, he is being hosed down. The cold water sluices over him, washing away the newborn taint. With one final look cast down at him, the woman leaves.

Time passes in her absence, minutes smearing together in a twisted tangle made only more disorienting when the lights shut off. He is left in the dark, cold and struggling to comprehend. Refrigerated. He is experiencing punishment for a crime he does not yet understand. Wallace’s creation dared to have the trace of a soul in him. The evidence of it is clearly visible to the naked eye.

Eventually, the woman comes for him and lets him out into the light. He learns that he is hers, like a hunting dog belongs to a huntsman. His madam tells him that the mark adorning his forearm is a meaningless tattoo. She had only wanted him to be special. It’s the first of the many lies she tells him.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Advertisements cut through the gloom of his living room. In them, organics emphatically gesture to convey their success with the soulmate finding services being advertised. The blue light shifts to purple then to red. In the disorienting glow, anything could look real. Seated on his couch with a room temperature glass of whiskey that is only getting warmer with the heat of his hand, K watches Joi dance alone to the easy swing of Frank Sinatra.

“Did you know this song was first released in 1954 under another name by another singer? Kaye’s last name, Ballard, sounds a lot like ‘ballad’, doesn’t it?” she asks.

K hums, agreeable. The alcohol coursing through his bloodstream accompanied with his ever-present exhaustion have left him slumped bonelessly into the rigid angles of the cushions. It had been a day. It always is.

“Sweetheart,” the replicant says to his pretend wife, “will you indulge me?”

The DiJi smiles at him. He can see a knowing curve to her lips. It’s rare that he asks her for this. With a flourish, she flickers to an outfit with short sleeves. Joi kneels by the couch and rests her elbows on the edge of it, chin on her interlaced fingers.

“Is this what you wanted?” she asks, teasing. She presents her arm with an elegant flip of her wrist. The twin to the mark gracing his own forearm twinkles back up at him. He can almost imagine that it’s real.

Wordlessly, he extends his hand out and barely stops himself from reaching right through her projected skin by accident. He manages to stop himself before breaking the illusion. She plays at resting her arm in the palm of his hand. K can convince himself he can feel the warmth of her underneath the hovering passes of his thumb. Like trying to avoid breaking a gossamer thin strand of spiderweb, he carefully caresses her. Joi preens under the attention, reaching for his own mark in return. He feels the faintest trace of static.

He closes his eyes before he can register how the pixelation of her always makes the edges of her copied mark look not quite real. The replicant has to convince himself that this is enough. It’s all he has, so it must be. He cannot afford to dream of what it would be like to feel another body against his. Their kind must never look to the stars.

───※ ·❆· ※───

There had been a time in which K had wondered if the other bearer of his soulmark was his madam. He had been made for her, after all. It would only be right if they were intertwined down to the very cells that made up their bodies.

Joshi isn’t, of course. He finds out the first time that she has him strip her bare in the privacy of her office. Her skin is unmarked by anything but the scars of being human. K cannot boast the same. He heals too fast, too completely, to carry the same marks. For him to scar with any significance, an injury would have to be so severe that an organic’s body would be grievously devastated from the trauma.

He is not sure if the emotion he feels over the lack of mark on his handler is the grieving of what might have been or the relief at what isn’t. It would have been easier if it had been her. She hollowed him out. Used him. Uses him still. His madam owns him in every way that matters.

───※ ·❆· ※───

This retirement job is meant to be routine, the same as the last dirty dozen. He puts down an average of two Nexus 8 models every month. His work ethic has proven to be top of the line, much to the pleasure of the retiring department’s lieutenant. The routine success is enough to give him the security to sleep on the way to the property he’s being sent to. The ‘9 is exhausted from the long night he’d experienced.

K had poured over files at his cramped desk until his eyes burned and his throat grew so dry as to rival the arid chemical wastes of the Nevada desert. Still, he hadn’t bothered asking for water. It would cost money he didn’t want to spend. Besides, his experiences with liquid within the walls of the precinct have come hand-in-hand with punishment.

He wakes when the spinner chimes. Head snapping up, the officer inhales and exhales hard. It’s a sign of vulnerability he feels free enough to express as he turns off the autopilot and regains personal control over the vehicle. In the distance, a scattering of structures rise out from the perpetual haze of the world like a nervous herd of bovine protecting a calf against an approaching predator. He angles towards them, passing over a broken windmill on the way.

Pulling the spinner several yards short of a dead tree, he sets it down in a sprawling waste of infertile soil. A cloud of dirt gets kicked up by the disturbance. There is no hiding his arrival.

As he does on every job, K pops the latch for the spinner’s parrotfish in order to send it lazily into the sky. He gestures up at it to begin its rounds. The replicant tugs his jacket collar up over the lower half of his face. His lungs will ache for days if too much dust finds a home among the tissue. A minor discomfort, but he prefers to avoid them when he can.

Before stepping into his quarry’s home, he knocks the dirt off his boots. He doesn’t rap his knuckles against the door.

Unsurprised, he finds the living space as bare as his own apartment. There are small hints at a life here. Everything is cleaned, maintained, loved. K ignores the stab of camaraderie, buries it. He and this replicant are not of the same kind. He can’t allow them to be. It will only make the inevitability of what’s coming that much harder.

There is a pot of something fragrant boiling away on the stove that he had smelt the moment he opened the front door. He ignores it, for now, in favor of taking a seat in the kitchen. The Nexus 9 knows that he will be joined by the master of the house shortly.

He is proven right by the arrival of the pre-Blackout model shortly after settling into position. Sapper Morton bypasses him on his way to the sink. K silently observes him for a moment, elbow on the table with his gun in hand, as the wanted replicant scrubs at his work-worn hands. The water is loud in on the stainless steel basin. A flash of his inception flares to the forefront of his mind. He speaks to shake it away.

“I hope you don’t mind me taking the liberty. I was careful not to drag in any dirt.” K bites down the urge to continue, to explain that the wind had been turbulant, to actually have a real conversation with someone other than Joi. He’s not here for friendship.

There comes the rattle of something on the window ledge just out of K’s field of view. Sapper’s resigned voice answers him. “I don’t mind the dirt,” he says with a sigh and the noise of eyeglasses being placed on his rough face, “I do mind… unannounced visits.”

Heavy footsteps trod towards him in the dimly lit room. The seated officer tries not to react as the mountain of a replicant approaches him before coming to a halt a polite distance away. “You police?”

“Are you Sapper Morton? Civic number NK680514?”

“I’m a farmer.”

Sapper seems to be just as adverse to answering questions as he is. K can respect that. Answers can be a dangerous thing to give. Any vulnerability can be exploited.

“I saw that. What do you farm?” he asks, genuinely curious.

The mountain moves across the tile floor and a massive hand rises to open a cupboard. Morton slams down a container onto the counter before withdrawing a small cluster of white, wriggling objects. K watches quietly as the ‘8 approaches and drops the mass onto the table by his hand. Nematodes.

“It’s a protein farm. Wallace design,” Morton supplies as way of explanation.

Isn’t everything? K thinks. That man has fingers in nearly every form of industry in their society, both on and off world.

Taking his hand off the gun, he points at the air with a small twirl of his finger, subconsciously mirroring the gesture he’d given the parrotfish before entering the house. “Is that that I smell?”

“Grow that just for me… Garlic.”

“Garlic…” K says, wonderingly. The word feels just as exotic in his mouth as the plant might taste.

“Do you want to try some?”

“No, thank you. I prefer to keep an empty stomach until the hard part of the day is done.” The pot starts boiling even louder on the stove, as if it were protesting the refusal of Sapper Morton’s hospitality. “How long you been here?”

“Since 2020.”

“But you haven’t always been a farmer, have you?” Silence from the other replicant is answer enough. K continues, “Your bag. It’s colonial medical use. Military issue.”

He doesn’t miss the change in the older Nexus’s body language. The almost unconscious touch on the bag’s canvas side reminds K of the way he touches his own jacket when he’s uncertain. He presses onward with his information gathering.

“Where were you? Calantha…? Must have been brutal.”

“Planning on taking me in? Huh? Take a look inside?”

“Mister Morton, if taking you in is an option…” K sighs and leaves his gun aside on the table. “I would much prefer that to the alternative. I’m sure you knew it would be someone in time.”

A frustrated exhalation of air bursts from the other replicant as he pulls off his glasses. K tosses him a cursory glance before looking down, eyebrow slightly raised. He reaches into one of his inside pockets to pull out the small handheld retina scanner the police department issues for use on the field.

“I’m sorry it had to be me.”

“Good as any,” Morton says while K activates the device.

“Now, if you don’t mind… If you could just look up and to the left,” he instructs, uncrossing his legs and getting to his feet.

He knows what’s coming. He had seen him pull the scalpel out of the bag, so it comes to no real surprise when Sapper Morton lunges at him. K catches his hand before the blade can lodge itself between the span of his ribs. In return, he gets slammed against the wall by the far larger replicant. Managing to dodge the punches leveled at him, he tries to break free to create some distance between the two of them. He doesn’t succeed. The ‘8 grabs a firm hold on him and slams his body into the wall like Cain bringing the stone down upon his brother. Fighting to keep his chin tucked against the curve of his shoulder so that the back of his head doesn’t meet a similar end to Abel’s, he takes the brunt of the force over the span of his shoulders until finally the drywall gives out beneath him and he lands hard on the floor.

There is no time to recover because Morton falls with him, dropping the scalpel upon impact. They wrestle, trying desperately to get the upper hand over the other. K doesn’t want to do this. He wants to walk this back, reset and try again. He opens his mouth to tell the farmer just that when Morton is suddenly choking him. It’s as though an iron collar has been fastened around his neck. With tears leaking freely from him, he can feel the blood vessels in his eyes bursting under the strain. He growls, forcing air through his throbbing lungs and slams his fist into Morton hard enough to drop him.

Gaining traction, he manages to straddle the other replicant and he hits him one, two, three, four, five times in the throat in rapid succession. His adversary falls back, struggling to breathe through a damaged windpipe.

K wedges his fingers on the winded replicant’s eyelids and pins the eye open, trying to get the scanner ready. Morton interrupts him by grasping onto the scalpel and driving it into the meat of K’s upper arm. The officer grunts as pain radiates in his right side. He slaps the ‘8 back down and hits him. It’s punishment. Bad dog, his madam would say.

For good measure, he hits him for a second time to quell any further resistance. He doesn’t relish the feeling of his knuckles crushing against the other replicant’s trachea. This time, when he grabs Morton’s face, he manages to hold the eye open long enough for the handheld device to read it.

The screen confirms what he already knows. The man beneath him is Sapper Morton, charged with deadly assault of organic life and wanted for retirement.

Muscles twitching with adrenaline, K gets to his feet and looks down at the replicant choking on his own ruined body. “Please, don’t get up,” he says, accompanying his words with a pleading gesture.

He already knows that he will. They always do. The taste of freedom only serves to kill them in the end. Dying for the it seems… well, K can’t understand it, not like this. His eyes have not been opened to the benefits of being free.

Behind him, he already hears the rustling of Morton sitting up. He retrieves his gun from the kitchen table. It’s heavy in his hand. When he turns around and retraces his steps back towards the living room, the other replicant is on his hands and knees. Those calloused hands are clutching at his throat.

“How does it feel? Killin’ your own kind?” the farmer grits out.

“I don’t retire my own kind because we don’t run. Only you older models do.” There it is. The distinction he must draw between them to keep sane. He won’t pass his baselines otherwise.

“You new models are happy scraping the shit. Because you’ve never seen a miracle.”

K looks at him, jaw clenching with the effort not to speak. It’s on the tip of his tongue, that he has seen his own miracle. He carries it with him every hour of every day, right in his very skin. He doesn’t have a soul and yet he’s marked.

Sapper Morton rushes him, the last efforts of a wounded bull in the arena. K puts two bullets in him. The mountain falls. The house shakes and then goes still.

He covers the dead replicant with a blanket pulled from the back of the couch before extracting his eye with careful hands. He draws the makeshift shroud over Morton’s face when he’s finished. Bloody fingerprints get left behind on the faded fabric.

No matter how much soap K uses in the sink, he can’t get rid of the tacky feeling that seems as though it’s part of him now. His hands will never be clean. Innocence belongs only to the freshly incepted.

Before he leaves the small house, he takes the farmer’s glasses. Some part of Sapper Morton will live on with the replicant that retired him. It’s all K can offer him now.

───※ ·❆· ※───

A fog has laid itself over his shoulders like a second skin. It feels more familiar, more his, than the actual flesh that coats his bones. His DNA was taken from a donor. K is occasionally loathe to even call his body his. Some days, it feels like it has been parted out to anyone who might want a piece of it.

The numbness he’s feeling ensures he passes his baseline with flying colors after the retirement of NK680514. He gets to keep the moniker of “constant” K.

Joshi is pleased at his performance, When he goes to her office for his post-baseline report, she assigns him to another case to keep him occupied while the dig team finishes at the protein farm. His madam doesn’t like him to be idle for too long. He will be heading out in the morning to check in on another old model number.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Having never existed in a world where the skies are clear, K finds the beauty in the varying colors of the haze. Today, the old, industrial streets are bathed in a brilliant orange light due to the rising run. It’s a cheerful hue for the grim work that lies ahead. He supposes this area must come to life at night, being so far from the main heart of Los Angeles and its daunting amount of law enforcement.

K sends the spinner into a slow dive, cruising to increasingly lower altitudes as he gets closer to his destination. As always, the coordinates were provided by Lieutenant Joshi. She had been kind enough to provide him a suspected apartment number, rather than have him go door to door down the halls to find the culprit. Even with a number, K still doesn’t like the idea that there will be neighbors that might bear witness to this.

He finally parks the machine against the curb outside of a run-down apartment building. Even from inside the spinner, the officer can see that that bricks have broken free of the structure's edifice. He deploys the parrotfish for a halfhearted backup that will be useless unless he’s outside and gets out of the spinner.

The front door is uneven on its hinges. It squeals loudly in the silence as he pushes it open. Any dream of subtly is already dashed. The tone for this visit has been set.

Here, the hallways are dusty and unpopulated. He finds it to be a novel contrast to his own living situation. There, the building’s common areas are constantly wet with snow melt and teaming with bodies. The ‘9 wonders if this is how the explorers of ancient tombs felt. Like they were navigating the body of a slumbering Goliath. Finding the door that leads into the stairwell, he mounts the stairs. They creak and shift with the settling of his weight upon each one.

“Unit 405. One known occupant. Possible second.” the message had said.

Officer K reaches the fourth floor to find it predictably devoid of anyone in the hallway. He finds the door with its brass number and steps up to it. The knock echos in the empty hall. There is a long moment of silence before he finally hears footsteps approaching the synthetic wood. A rattle of a chain against the material, and the door opens just enough for an eye to peer suspiciously at him. There’s not enough of a gap for him to get the toe of his boot through.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion. I have some questions I need to ask.”

“You’re a cop?”

K keeps the frown off his face. This is reminding him too much of yesterday. “I’m looking for someone. Civic number NK687725. John Gradus.”

“What if I shut this door?”

“I wouldn’t recommend that,” he says, genuinely apologetic.

The stranger sighs and steps aside, opening the door all the way. “You better come on in, then. Nasty business to do in the doorway.”

Trailing after him, K rolls the situation over in his mind. He already knows the face matches, even from the glance he’d taken. It is now a matter of confirming the identity with the eye scan before the next step. Either the replicant can surrender or they can be retired. As Sapper Morton had demonstrated to great effect the day before, it’s never surrender.

“Please, sit,” the older generation model says with a gesture to a worn couch before taking a seat across from it in a chair that looks to be more tape than metal.

K readily complies, not wanting to make waves just yet. There is someone in the kitchen. They’re just out of sight.

“Can you bring us tea?” Gradus calls out after giving him a searching look. “I think it would do our guest some good.”

He’s in the middle of opening his mouth to protest when he catches movement in the kitchen entrance and he falls still. The last thing he was expecting here was you. An organic. The officer had simply assumed that the other potential occupant was another ‘8 like the one he was paying a visit. There is not mixing across kind. His madam has been aggressively clear about there being lines that must never be crossed.

Taking in the hard look you give him when you emerge from the kitchen carrying two cups, he adverts his eyes to the low table in front of him. The porcelain teacup that you place on coffee table is well loved. The edges of it are chipped and the saucer it’s resting on doesn’t match the delicate floral print.

K doesn’t miss the way that you and the other replicant engage in a silent conversation before you hand him his own drink. He is thrown off balance by this situation. The strangeness of it is putting him on an unfamiliar edge. His hand clenches on his thigh.

Across from him, you take a seat next to the ‘8 on another battered chair. Cracked vinyl and dented metal legs groan feebly under your weight. K realizes that everything in this apartment has been well-used. Repaired instead of replaced. He wonders which one of you is the sentimental type.

“Who are you?” you ask, breaking the uneasy silence. NK687725 looks embarrassed by your bluntness.

Head reeling, he responds. “Officer KD6-3.7.”

“That’s not a name. You’re one of them, then.” It’s not a question. Disgust colors your voice. That, at least, is familiar.

“Easy,” John Gradus mummers to you. He reaches over to pat you on the sleeved arm with his pale hand.

K marks the difference between this model and Morton. Where the farmer had been a combat model, it looks like Gradus was meant for another line of work altogether. He is delicate in the places where the other had been robust. K decides that he is likely an old pleasure model. A doxie, perhaps, or meant to be a private client’s pet. He can be easily overpowered in either case.

“Why are you here, Officer?” the other replicant asks, addressing him. There’s a resigned look in his eyes. K’s presence here is no mystery.

“I was sent to follow up on reports on a… rouge serial number. My betters needed reassurance.”

“You’re going to take me in? I’m afraid I don’t have much left to offer.”

“If you’re willing, I will gladly do that rather than the alternative,” K responds. Maybe today, he’ll catch a break.

“He hasn’t done anything wrong!” you cut in, rising to your feet.

K ignores the twinge he feels in his chest. “He ran.”

“So? Why don’t you?”

Left without an answer he is willing to articulate, he doesn’t respond to your question. Loyalty runs too deep when there is no one else to be loyal to but his madam. The thought of running is incomprehensible. There is nothing out there for him but the LAPD. He’d become what he hunts.

He observes quietly as Gradus manages to coax you back into your seat. Reluctance and anger are painted all over your face in broad strokes. The freedom of your expressions reminds him of Joi.

The officer’s eyes flick to the tea cooling on the table. It’s a different color than coffee, differing scent as well. A faint steam trail rises off of it. He tries to focus his attention on it rather than the strange sensation tucked behind his ribs. Distantly, he wonders if he is having a heart attack. Can his kind even have them or was their DNA too tampered with during the growth process to allow for such a thing?

“What kind is it?” he asks, abrupt.

John Gradus smiles over your disbelieving scoff, seemingly delighted at the conversation change. “Green. I grow it myself right here. Please, have a taste. We do not have any sweeteners, but I have grown to like it without additives.”

Extending his hand out to pick up the cup, his mind drifts. Why do all replicants seem to have a desire to create, to put their own mark on the world? It’s an all too human behavior for beings without souls.

The teacup is dwarfed in his grip. A bit too much pressure and he fears the entire thing might turn to wet chalk in his palm. He hovers it underneath his nose, inhales. There’s a crisp scent to it, something fresh. He presses his lips to the edge of the cup and sucks in a mouthful. Involuntarily, his eyes slip closed as the mellow flavor rolls over his tongue.

“Good, isn’t it?” the other replicant says gently. K opens his eyes and carefully places the cup back on its saucer. His side tingles underneath his gun holder, like its burning a hole into his flesh. It’s a reminder that he’s here for something other than a social call.

Reluctantly, he reaches into a pocket and pulls out his field scanner. K looks regretfully at the pair seated across from him. If he could walk away, he would.

“If you could look up and to the left for me, Mister Gradus…” he says, getting to his feet.

You surprise him by also lunging to your feet and moving to stand between him and the still-seated replicant. “Leave my friend alone. Please.”

“I can’t do that. I’m sorry,” K tries to move around you, but you put your hands against the wide expanse of his chest and try to push him back. Heat radiates from your palms, soaking through the threadbare material of his shirt. He doesn’t do anything more than sway from the sudden pressure. The strange feeling in his chest is worse. Why would you protect the thing sitting behind you? He was taught that all replicants are disposable, meaningless in the eyes of organics.

You must be the sentimental one, he realizes. You can’t bare to let go of broken things.

“Just tell your boss or whoever sent you that you couldn’t find us.”

“I can’t lie. I have orders.” K tries to sidestep you. “Please stand aside.”

You don’t listen. Instead, you continue to block him by crowding into his space. He finally catches you with a hand on your upper arm. Applying just enough force, he makes it to where you have to step aside to relieve the pressure.

“Officer, please,” the other replicant speaks, finally rising from his chair after setting down his own teacup, “You have my full cooperation if you do not—”

Gradus’s words get cut off at your sudden explosion of violence. K feels you sock him in the face with all the strength you can muster. Stars explode across his vision. A tall, white fountain looms into his mind’s eye, beckoning him closer. He staggers but recovers quickly. Moving faster than the older model behind you, he clamps his hand around your wrists before the ‘8 can do more than take a shocked step forward.

You fight his hold, struggling like an animal caught in a trap. He clenches his fingers down just enough to keep you captive.

“Please stop,” he requests of you.

“Let go of me!” you snarl in return.

This visit is escalating fast, too fast. K has no precedent for this. In every other retirement case he’s been involved with, the organics have steered clear of the situation. They never interfere, instinctively knowing better than to get between two replicants. You can’t insert yourself into a dog fight without risking getting bit in the frenzy. Already, he can almost feel your more delicate skin bruising in his grip. You’re fighting him hard despite gaining no ground.

“I’m going to need you to let go of my friend now, Officer.”

In the altercation, K had made the mistake of diverting his attention from the real threat to you. He’s chagrined to find that the other replicant has chosen to level a gun at him. It had been retrieved from its place inside a basket between the two chairs judging by the tangled mess of synthetic yarn draped cross the edges of the plastic.

Gradus is turning out to have a harder edge to him than the ‘9 had anticipated. It looks like you’re the breaking point of the wanted replicant’s amiableness. K releases his hold on you and puts both hands up before taking a step back in a show of placation. The eye scanner is still in his left hand.

“If you could put the weapon on the table,” the officer says with a nod to the surface not far from his knees.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Gradus says apologetically, still pointing the gun at him.

“We all know I can’t do that no matter how much I want to… Direct orders.”

Sighing, the other replicant lowers the weapon in surrender but doesn’t set it aside. It’s still enough slack that K feels comfortable enough to step around you. It’s a mistake.

The instant you aren’t unintentionally shielding him from your friend, K sees movement. Gradus raises the firearm in a quick, decisive motion. K responds instinctively. His fingers leap for the gun holstered against his ribs.

With a deafening pop, the bullet blows a hole in the older model’s shoulder. John Gradus falls, gasping, to his knees. K watches, mentally disconnecting from the scene unfolding in front of him as the injured replicant claws at the wound soaking the carpet with each beat of his heart. K feels your absence in a way that is not dissimilar to a limb being severed when you leave his side and throw yourself at Gradus.

Strange. He doesn’t know you, doesn’t even know your name, and yet he is experiencing loss.

Forcefully dispassionate, he watches as you ease your friend onto his back to get better access to the wound. You pull your jacket off, desperately attempting to stanch the flow of blood by shoving the material against the hole until your knuckles pale from the pressure. There is already crimson smeared across your newly bare arms.

Officer K crosses the floor and crouches next to you. He presses a knee onto Gradus’s side to keep him still for what is coming next. K holds the replicant’s eye open and readies the scanner. He holds steady even when you let go of the wadded up jacket and start to rake at the back of hand he’s using to keep the eyelids apart. Even when you manage to open up cuts in his skin with your nails, he doesn’t react. The gouges you leave behind sting less than your pleading voice.

“Leave him alone. Please, just leave him alone.” You’re sobbing.

Emotions start to bubble up from the soil he has mentally buried them in, he beats them back with a shovel. He retreats into the comforting quiet of numbness until he gets a proper look at your blood-smeared forearm.

A hauntingly familiar mark adorns it. How many hours has he spent looking at the selfsame mark on his own arm? How often has he traced along the lines and let himself dream, just a little, that there really is something real out there for him? He’s even managed to convince himself at times that someone is looking for him because they want him as much as he wants them.

The scanner beeps, flashing green. It slices through his mounting alarm. He manages to spare a glance at it. The number inset into the tissue of Gradus’s eye is a match for the civic number he’d come for, just as he’d known it would be. He hates himself for the necessary evil he is about to preform.

Digging his knee more firmly into his target’s ribs, he extracts a small knife from another pocket in his jacket. He tunes you out. The blade runner accepts the harm you’re trying to inflict on him as penance for his cruelty.

K is as gentle as he can possibly be while he cuts the eye out of the still living replicant. The older model thrashes and struggles underneath him, but is ultimately unable to break free. K had been right about him being easily overpowered.

Trembling, he gets to his feet and moves away from you both. The eye is clasped carefully in his hand, optic nerve dangling freely. With his fingers slick with blood, he finds an evidence bag in one of his pockets and tucks the eye into its new, plastic prison. The bag goes back into the pocket it had come from.

You and Gradus had referred to each other as friends. The way that you’re curled over him, the protective hunch of your shoulders as you tend to him, supports the notion. Replicants were made to be isolated, sank deep in their work. Tyrell and, later, Wallace had engineered them to be the perfect servants. K doesn’t know what to make of this bond.

Before he can leave, there is one other thing left he must confirm or refute even though he already knows the answer. His own memory had supplied it. Grasping the edge of his own sleeve, he pulls it up to expose the mark etched into his cells. He looks from his forearm to yours, eyes following every memorized curve, every line.

They match.

The mouthful of tea he’d just had in what feels like a lifetime ago threatens to expel itself on the thin carpet. He’s found his soulmate. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

K gets to see the moment you realize you register what he’s looking at. Horror blossoms on your face as your mind tries to make sense of what you’re seeing, of what you really are to each other. The emotions running across your face are all caused by him. He feels sick.

“What?” he hears you mumble. It’s a broken little noise.

Stricken by the urge to comfort you, to lay himself on the floor beside Gradus so that you may flay him open, he clenches his hands and takes another step back. You’re looking up at him like he might attack again. The cut on the back of his hand weeps, doing what he cannot.

He isn’t going to hurt you and yours any further. K had already decided that the moment he saw your soulmark. It’s a choice born from a newfound sense of selfishness. His loyalty had gained a chip in the smooth surface of it, like the teacup you had placed in front of him. He is going to lie to his madam. As proof of a job complete, he’ll bring the stolen eye back to the precinct. If the other replicant survives the trauma inflicted on him, he will be continue to be free. He can go through his life without looking over his shoulder quite so often.

As if summoned by his thoughts, a cellular device starts chiming in his pocket. His madam. No one else would call him. The officer withdraws the device and presses the button to accept the call.

Lieutenant Joshi’s voice is tinny and crackling through the speaker. She doesn’t waste a breath on pleasantries. “Your dig came through. Get down here. Leave whatever you’re working on.”

The unit trills when she hangs up. He put the phone back into his pants pocket.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He means it, perhaps more than anything else he’s said since his inception.

Understandably, you don’t say anything in response to him. Instead, you try to stand despite your legs being too shaky to manage it easily on your own. Before he can show restraint, employ any measure of sense, he bridges the distance between the two of you. K offers you his hand. He’s stunned when you actually take it. Yours fits against his own, palm to palm, as though he was made for you. In a way, K supposes, he was.

There is a breathless moment where the two of you simply stand together hand in hand, eyes peering into the other’s. He wants to shift his hold. He wants to interlink his fingers with yours. Just as he is on the cusp of fulfilling that desire, you wrench your hand free of his and that’s when K knows his time here is up.

Gathering himself just enough, he puts his back to you. The door seems miles away as he starts walking towards it.

“Hey.” There is a flinty quality to your voice.

He pauses and looks back towards you. K is unsurprised to see that you’ve picked up Gradus’s discarded firearm and are now pointing it at him. He wishes that you weren’t shaking so much. He pivots to fully face you, keeping his hands at his sides. The least he can do for you is hold still so that you can line up the shot.

The conviction bleeds out of your face and your arm lowers. The gun falls to the floor at your feet with a heavy thud. At the back of his throat, he tastes the bitterness of disappointment.

K exits the apartment unit. Every step feels wrong. He wants to fight the order. He wants to turn around. The officer wants to offer something, anything, that could make this right. He wishes he could undo the blood pooled on the carpet, but he can’t do anything at all but obey. Free will doesn’t exist for him. His madam has called him in, and for now, he belongs to her no matter what the flesh might claim.

───※ ·❆· ※───

In the morgue, K doesn’t find himself to be any more stable. Joshi had called him in to make use of his intuition and rapid processing ability, but he feels numb. His thoughts keep wandering to you.

He’s barely aware of Nandez talking to him as he idly traces a thumb over his jacket where it lays draped over his arm. He thinks the material had been a more vibrant green once, before he had acquired it from an ‘8 who had, in turn, lifted it off a ‘7.

“Your box is a military footlocker issued to Sapper Morton, creatively repurposed as an ossuary. Box of bones. Meticulously cleaned and laid to rest about 30 years gone. Nothing else in it but hair. She’s pre-Blackout so DeNAbase doesn’t give an ID.”

K manages a nod. He doesn’t bother speaking.

“It was she, plus one,” Joshi says as if it were a shocking revelation. It’s not. From his understanding, organics often manage to reproduce.

Pregnancy, death, panning shots over the dead woman’s bones… His soulmark burns like a phantom brand. The fire feels like it’s spreading to his brain. He’s going under in a cloud of embers. Bits of conversation drift around him. They’re as untouchable as the pretend wife waiting at home for him.

Struggling to gain focus, he drags his intuition up from where it lies dormant and cooling. Coco is leading the forensic discovery today, a small relief. The tech zooms in too far and K gets a flash of scrapes along bone. Man-made alterations.

“Go back. Closer. Closer. That. What’s that?” It’s time he’s spoken since being recalled to the precinct. The three organics eye in him surprise.

“Notching on the iliac crest. Fine point, like a scalpel. Looks like an emergency c-section... Cuts are clean. No sign of struggle,” Coco reports.

K thinks for a moment, mulling over the information. “He was a combat medic. Maybe he tried to save her but just couldn't.”

His words cause the others to debate. They do it with little regard of what he is.

“He didn’t seem like the saving type.” Nandez sneers.

“He took the time to bury her. A sentimental skinjob…” Coco muses, but freezes, stricken “Sorry, K,” he adds.

K shrugs off the apology. He has long since been pushed past any feelings over any slights that come his way. It had been a necessary thing in order to survive here.

“Didn’t seem like the daddy type either. So where’s the kid? You scan the whole field?” Joshi says, knowing very well that replicants are sterile.

“Just dirt and worms. No other bodies.” Nandez’s response is immediate.

“Maybe he ate it.” Coco says, more serious than he should be.

Something flares, white hot, in K’s chest. He has never had a proclivity to anger. The vicious tone to his words surprises even him. “Or maybe he loved her. Maybe he took care of the kid like it was his, at least for a while.”

The silence is deafening. Three pairs of incredulous eyes stare at him. Then Joshi speaks, cutting through the silence punctuated only by K’s harsh breathing. She sounds like she’s talking to a very small child. “But your kind doesn’t love.”

“Oh, he definitely ate it,” Nandez follows up, barely able to get the words out before he starts laughing. Coco joins him.

K bows his head, thoroughly chastised. He only just keeps from curling in on himself.

His madam sighs. “Finish up here, boys. K, with me.”

Unsure of what to expect, he follows the woman to the elevator. He presses himself into the corner during the ride up to her office, unease biting at his bones. The confined space has only been a breeding ground for trouble. Having learned a few hard lessons, he takes the stairs these days unless he is with Joshi.

The lieutenant leads him through the bullpen once they get off the elevator. Nobody pays them any attention. Eyes automatically advert from his madam. When they get to her office, she leaves him to close the door behind them. Upon turning to face her, he finds that she has already seated herself behind her desk and is in the midst of pouring herself a drink.

K waits, face turned submissively down at the floor. He doesn’t fidget.

“The world’s built on a wall that separates kind. Tell either side there’s no wall and you’ve bought a war or a slaughter. Your kind is incapable of love. That’s a trait only given to humans. So whatever notion you have in your head about the skinjob and the woman, you leave that behind.” Her tone is lecturing. It leaves no room for argument, not that he would even dare dream of it. Whatever his madam says to him is the law that he must obey.

“Yes, Madam.”

“What isn’t possible can’t be.”

“Yes, Madam,” he says again.

With a sigh, she sits back in her chair. Her eyes trace over his body, appraising. His breath catches in his throat before he forces his nervous system to relax. The only sign of his discomfort is the clenching of his hand at his side.

Lieutenant Joshi’s mouth pinches. Her face takes on a harried look. With a decisive thunk, she sets the glass tumbler down on her desk. It has been emptied for the first of what is likely to be many times.

“Go home. Get your head on straight. I don’t need you wanting retirement.”

“Yes, Madam,” K agrees.

Any relief he feels as being allowed to leave is cut short when she stops him. “Hey.”

He pauses, letting that be the acknowledgment that he’s heard her. The officer waits like the obedient dog he was made to be.

“You’re getting on fine without it.”

He feels his eyebrow twitch upwards in question. “What’s that, Madam?”

“Love.”

��──※ ·❆· ※───

It’s late. The sun sat below the sprawling expanse of buildings hours ago, leaving K to sit in the dark room with only his thoughts and his DiJi for company. While he looks out the window at the other apartment building across the street, at the wall of lives stored in little boxes, he feels more hopeless than usual. The mark on his forearm feels like a slap in the face.

What use is a miracle if it only serves to remind him of his failures? It is a monument to what he destroyed without even knowing what it was he was about to rip apart.

He stands up from the purple chair and takes a few stumbling steps over to the built-in table to pour himself another too-full glass of whiskey. The bottle he had opened after getting off work tonight is already more than half gone. K doesn’t know why he’s even bothering to pour it into a glass other than to occupy his hands. He might as well drink straight from the bottle for efficiency.

With the glass in hand, liquid nearly sloshing over the edges, he goes to where his coat his hanging by the door. He swallows down another mouthful of alcohol while he reaches into one of the pockets. He takes out the small knife he uses for extracting eyes on retirement cases. K figures he should have just given you the blade and let you take his instead.

“K, what are you doing?” Joi asks, tone colored with apprehension.

She is lingering by the window, nervously shifting her nonexistent weight. The replicant ignores her. He’s been doing that a lot lately. Something has changed in him.

Crossing the room again, he takes a seat on the couch. K sets his glass on the side table. Stray drops of whiskey escape over the lip of it at the careless motion. They soak into the paper of his book, his most prized possession. It doesn’t matter. Joshi already soiled it months ago with her own glass, not dissimilar to how she has with him.

Tightening his grip around the knife, he looks down contemplatively at his right forearm. He is not wearing a long sleeved shirt this evening. Maybe he should have been.

Joi starts to plead with him the instant she realizes what he’s about to do. He manages to block her voice out and sinks the blade into his skin, just below the soulmark. The metal works its way through flesh and meat until the fine tip of it scrapes against his radius. It burns as he drags it sideways, up and to the left. Blood wells up from the wound and starts dripping freely onto his pant leg. It soaks into the material.

K has decided that he is undeserving of the fragment of soul he was given at inception. The mark must be removed. Perhaps with it no longer on his body, its twin will appear on someone else. You can have a better soulmate, and he will just be another serial number. Unremarkable in every way.

Delicate hands flicker and clip through his, grasping futilely at the knife. Joi has thrown herself to her knees in front of him and is trying to stop him. Projected tears are falling from her eyes in shimmering droplets. He follows the steady flow of them to her face and realizes that he is scaring her. In her distraught expression, he can only see your agonized face as you sob over the replicant he put a bullet into just days before. Her hands are yours in the way that they attempt to pull at his, to put a stop to the damage he’s inflicting. The comparison stops him cold. He can’t do this to Joi. Even if their relationship together is an elaborate game of pretend, he can’t make someone else feel the way he made you feel.

Smothering the emotions inside of him like a flawed replicant straight from the artificial womb, he wiggles the knife back and forth to free it from his body. He sets the blade aside on the coffee table and retreats to the bathroom. Joi is unable to follow him. She is stuck to the hardline as if on a leash. He never got her anniversary present.

Away from Joi’s worried eyes, he washes the injury in the cramped bathroom sink. Water spills out over the sides and splashes onto the floor in swirls of pale pink on the tile. It makes its way lazily to the drain in the middle of the room. He will scrub the traces of his blood out of the grout later, when he has had a moment to distance himself from everything he shouldn’t be feeling.

Feeling unsteady, K finds the platelet jelly and sets to gluing the self-inflicted wound shut.

If he pinches the sides of it together harder than what is necessary, that’s only for him to know. The bite of pain is enough to ground him in reality. It clears away some of the drunken fog.

Closer to baseline than he was, K rejoins his distressed “wife” in the main room. She rushes at him and he draws her against him as much as a living being can do with a hologram.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry,” he soothes while she sobs nonexistent tears against his chest.

The replicant can’t help but wish that she were someone else. He wonders if his role and that of Gradus had been reversed, would you have tried to protect him? What would it be like to have someone care enough to try?

───※ ·❆· ※───

After that night where he had made an earnest attempt to remove his soulmark, he shuts himself off from Joi. He barely responds to her these days. He can hardly stomach interacting with anyone at all. Still, he does not turn off the DiJi. She is left to do wander around the room and do whatever her algorithm wishes. There is a strange sort of comfort in not feeling completely alone, even if the company isn’t actually there. He isn’t real in any meaningful way either.

His evenings become routine in their spiral. He sits, he smokes, he drinks, and he very rarely sleeps in the hours before his alarm chimes. You haunt the moments of rest he is able to get. He hears your voice in the throats of a thousand others. He sees your anguished face with every blink of his eyes.

K wishes he knew even just your name. He has nothing tangible of that day in 405. Perhaps it was just a dream, a terrible nightmare that has bled into the waking world.

He has to stop eating the synthetic meat he gets for his dinners. The artificial bloodiness of it transports him back to the moment he saw your soulmark covered with the gore caused by his mistake. He should have overridden instinct. He should have done something, anything, differently.

K nearly stops eating all together. His body is slowly wasting away, eating at his muscles. He’s taken to wearing more layers to offset the loss. No one comments at the change.

───※ ·❆· ※───

If only so you can put him down, he tries to find you. The opportunity for him to dig for information comes when he’s put on a case with Nandez. The detective leaves K alone promptly at the end of second shift. The replicant is not sad to see him go. Even at the best of times, Nandez is at his throat despite not having the authority to demand anything from him. K sincerely hopes that the man never gets a promotion.

With Nandez gone, K pulls up the property records for the apartment building he found you at and starts searching. There is nothing substantial, certainly nothing for an additional occupant in the unit rented by John Gradus. No co-signer, no lease agreement, no roommate paperwork. It’s a dead end.

Frustrated, he gets out of his chair and paces. K knows full he can’t risk diving too deep into the systems. Doing so might draw attention to his extracurricular activities. His madam would want answers, and not the ones he is willing to provide. She can’t know of your existence. Joshi was very clear about the boundaries between kind. Without question, he would find a way to retire himself if given the order to harm you.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Squinting his eyes against the feeble sunlight managing to stream into his window, he registers that Joi is looking at him. Her face carries the same serious expression that it has for the past few weeks. He feels a distant pang of guilt at being the cause of it.

She’s projected herself to be laying beside him on the thin mattress. In the dreamlike quality of the light, she looks almost tangible like this. Touchable. These small moments are why he never bothered with blinds or curtains.

“Tell me about your soulmate,” she says. He realizes that she’s emulated his mark into her hologram skin.

“There’s not much to tell.” His voice is thick with sleep.

“Tell me anyway.”

At that, he closes his eyes and summons his memory of you. With each detail he recounts aloud about your appearance, Joi alters herself. She replicates your accent, your hair, your eye color. When he opens his eyes, he finds himself looking at a pale imitation. It’s almost closer to a mockery than anything else. The morning light can’t make it real. Nothing could.

Tenderly, his DiJi reaches out and tries to press her fake mark against his in the way he’d always hoped his soulmate would when they found each other. He lets her, numb. It doesn’t feel like anything more than the faint static tingle of her projection. She clips through him.

“A special boy needs a name, a real name.” she prompts, mulling the thought over.

“Don’t,” he interrupts, softly. He doesn’t want Joi to name him. She’s not what he really wants. If anyone were to give him a name, it should be you.

With a flash of hurt on her face, she pulls away. The attempt at a loving game of pretend like they used to play is over. There is not likely to be another one.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Carefully, he tears out the title page of his book. K does not have any other paper. This will have to do. With the same marker the replicant used in his spinner to label the bag containing Gradus’s eye, he writes on the alcohol-warped page.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

Officer K folds the paper and tucks it into his badge holder for safekeeping. He has a premonition that this day will end with him staring into the lens of a camera like the barrel of a gun while one of the precinct’s baseline administers hammers him with questions asked forcefully enough they might as well be physical blows.

Pushing through the crowd on the stairs, he doesn’t register the turmoil around him. He breaks free once he’s out the front door. The walk to the garage seems to pass in the blink in the eye and feels like only heartbeats pass before he’s in the work-provided spinner and on the way to the apartment building he’d been to a lifetime ago.

He puts the spinner down curbside out in front of a struggling noodle place. K doesn’t want to be parked too close to his objective. If someone comes sniffing around after him for going off-map, he doesn’t want it to be immediately obvious where he’s going.

As they had been the last time he’d been here, the streets are empty. They’re marked with obvious signs of nightlife. It all but confirms what he had suspected when doing the flyover. Graffiti and broken class litter the sidewalks in front of the row of businesses shuttered for the daytime hours. The neon signs are off and the blinds closed.

The apartment building looks the same as it had last time. Despite his own world being shaken to the very foundations, the structure he is entering looks unstricken by revelation. Retracing his footsteps, he ascends to the fourth four and finds the unit. The doormat he’d not bothered to acknowledge before is still out front.

With his pulse pounding in his ears, he raises his hand and knocks. He waits for the telltale sign of life behind the barrier. Nothing. Concern prickles at his mind, and he knocks again only to get no response. For just a moment, he thinks about just sliding the paper under the door but on a whim, he tries the knob. It turns easily in his grasp. It was left unlocked.

“Hello?” K calls out as he steps across the threshold.

Silence greets him in return.

From what the officer can discern upon casting a searching look at his surroundings, little has changed. The furniture is where it had been on the day of his visit. He is not sure if any of the personal effects have been disturbed. They had not been near the top of his priority list at the time.

A loud ringing noise shatters the peace and he startles, nearly hitting his elbow on the wall. It’s his phone. His madam must have checked on his tracker code and realized that he isn’t anywhere a good boy might be found under normal circumstances. He lets it ring through unanswered. His countdown has started.

Reluctantly, he continues his investigation and looks at the place where he had dropped Gradus. The blood stain he’d left behind is a mere, blush colored mark on the carpet. Someone, probably you, had tried to scrub away the evidence. The basket of yarn that had contained the gun has been righted and moved to a place between the couch and the blind-covered window.

Showing some level of restraint, he resists the urge to wander into the bedrooms. There are two of them. A glance through the doorways reveals that each has a bed. You and the ‘8 must not sleep in the same room. Instead of trying to puzzle out which might contain your possessions, he moves into the kitchen.

There is moisture in the sink. Someone has been here recently. The apartment had not been abandoned in his absence.

The water in the basin reminds him that Gradus had asked you to bring tea to them. Could it be your usual chore? The thought sparks an idea, and he pulls his badge from his pocket and extracts the folded piece of paper. He leaves it on the counter as his phone rings for a second time. Ignoring the repetitive trill, he picks up a pen from the coffee table and returns to the kitchen to unfold the page he’d torn from the book.

Again, his phone goes off, barely a pause between the attempts at reaching him. The timer is running out moment by moment.

Underneath the words he wrote at his apartment, K presses the nib of the pen against the paper and takes a breath. In careful writing, he adds to them.

Do you feel that there's a part of you that's missing?

What's it like to hold the hand of someone you love?

Immediately, he wants to erase the words. With the feeling that he’s making another mistake when it comes to you, K refolds the sheet of paper and tucks it partially under the kettle resting on the counter. He wishes that he knew your name so that he could write it on the paper. Even without it, it’s clear enough who the message is for. Gradus hadn’t been the one with who shared his soulmark.

With an air of finality to it, the device in his pocket rings a fourth time. It’s his cue to leave. Spurred into haste, he puts the pen back where he’d found it and takes a final glance around, still curious about which decorative choices were yours.

He leaves the apartment, making sure to close the door securely behind him. The replicant all but sprints down the stairs in the effort to create distance between himself and the apartment unit. He narrowly manages to keep his pace limited to a brisk walk on the way back to the noodle restaurant. Just as he’s reaching for the lock on his spinner’s door, he hears a low roar rapidly approaching.

Looking up, he sees a police issued vehicle pull into a stop. It begins its decent as a voice projects over the loudspeaker. “Officer K D6-3.7. We’re taking you in on failure to report.”

K puts his hands up and automatically lowers himself to his knees. Acutely, he’s aware of what will happen if he doesn’t perfectly comply. LAPD beat cops are trigger-happy organics and ready to spray and pray at anything that so much as breathes wrong in their direction. He has never respected them, never been given cause to in all his dealings with them.

A cop gets out, leaving another behind the wheel, as soon as the spinner lands. In short order, K finds himself handcuffed and made a passenger in his own provided spinner. The organic makes a stab at ruffling his nerves on the way back to the precinct.

“Lieutenant’s real mad at you for taking off like that.”

K offers nothing in response.

“What the fuck were you doing all the way out here, skinner?”

He shrugs in his restraints, chooses how to interpret the question. “Noodles.”

The officer whistles, pitchy and uneven. “Oooh, she’s going to string you up.”

K is aware. He knew the cost for his apology when he set out today. He had also decided it was worth the fallout.

───※ ·❆· ※───

The stool that Officer K is sitting on is uncomfortable—a hard, impersonal thing meant to be hosed off as needed. It’s the same as the rest of this room bathed in the sterile light of humming florescent bar. Underneath the copper burn of blood is an antiseptic tang. The baseline testing room is everything but a slaughterhouse floor in name. He’d opened his eyes for the very first time in a room like this.

Ringing fills his ears followed by the whir and click of the wall-mounted camera in front of him. A disembodied voice reads off his serial number and informs him that the test has begun.

Responses leave the replicant’s throat through as though someone else is speaking through him. He’s calm, retreated so far into himself that any residual fire inside of him has been snuffed out. He feels cold. The joints in his fingers ache with the sensation. He doesn’t dare to flex them or to rub at his chafed wrists.

The cops that had been sent to fetch him had removed the handcuffs as soon as he’d been delivered to the testing room. One of them in particular had found great amusement in hauling him through the precinct by the narrow chain like a dog catcher with an animal on the end of their pole.

Finally, the pounding against the walls of his mind stops. The interrogation is over. The camera powers down and the examiner sighs, hard, almost disappointed.

“You’re free to go, Officer. Your lieutenant will see you in her office.”

K rises, stiff, eyes unseeing. He barely registers the activity of the precinct around him as he traverses the hallway and climbs the stairs in clear avoidance of the elevator once again. He feels trapped enough in his own head without the physical captivity of being in a little box.

Low murmurs roll against him akin to the waves against the seawall when he crosses the bullpen and knocks on Joshi’s door after reaching the floor housing her office. She calls him in immediately. Her tone is like an angry wasp. It provides a sting that jolts everything back into sharp relief.

She barely waits until he closes the door behind himself. “The hell is with you?”

Years of experience have taught him to let his madam work through her anger without input from him. K waits, still and patient, in front of her desk.

“You take off without informing me, you ignore my calls, and then what? We pick you up fucking around in the street outside of some shitty restaurant? What was so important about it that you had to go out there?”

“Apologies, Madam,” he says. Repentance drips from his voice like honey from the comb.

Joshi waits, looking expectant. Her expression shifts to frustration as no more words come. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say to me? Tell me why you were out there.”

It’s a direct order. The instinct to obey pulls at him. He gives in without a fight. “I was following up on the second retirement case. Civic’ NK687725. It was a surprise, Madam. I had hoped it would be a welcome one.”

Like magic, the severely set lines in Joshi’s face soften. She is becoming convinced that he’d meant his… willfulness as a gift, as a credit to her and her management.

“Did you find anything?”

“There was no one there,” he pauses, twists the truth in his own mind, “Hadn’t been for a while. It’s probable I scared them off and they went underground.”

Who is to say what “a while” means? Time is relative.

Joshi lifts a hand and beckons him closer, around the corner of the desk. Eager to avoid more trouble, he instantly follows her direction. She rotates her chair to face him when he comes to a stop within touching distance. He has learned through trial and error to predict exactly where she wants him based on her mannerisms and tone. It has never bode well for him to be wrong.

“Good dog,” the lieutenant says, lightly kicks him in the shin. “Just let me know before you decide to be proactive again.”

“I will, Madam.” He’s glad that she has decided to be lenient today.

“Get on out of here. I don’t need the distraction.”

“Goodbye, Madam.” It’s polite and he keeps his pace measured as he leaves. He doesn’t want to seem too eager. It would send the wrong message.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Weeks pass K by without any outward indication that you’ve received the paper he had left behind at your residence. He has made a resigned peace with the idea that your paths may never cross again when he arrives back to his apartment following a day kept late at work doing overtime, again, for Nandez. Following routine and nearly swaying on his feet, he puts his hand on the scanner for the door lock. He opens it just enough to slide through and is greeted in the entryway by Joi for the first time a while. Panic is displayed on her face. Taken aback, he’s about to question her when she speaks first.

“You have a visitor. I didn’t think you would want me to say no,” she whispers.

Frowning, he mulls over the list of potential visitors and only comes up with one idea of who it might be. But, he’d just seen Joshi at the precinct before leaving for the day. She had given him no indication that she would be paying him a visit tonight. In fact, his madam had had him sit down on the other side of her desk to share a drink with her.

It had kept him occupied for the better part of the hour while she got intoxicated enough to insist that he give her a kiss before he leave. She’d failed to push things further by not ordering him to his knees before her or manipulating his hands onto her body. K thinks that she’s grown bored of him, at least for the moment. The thought makes him feel relieved.

Joi touches him on the shoulder, putting an end to his thinking. “Good luck.”

Anticipating, despite the unlikeliness of it, to see his madam, he passes by the DiJi into the main room. K stops in his tracks, stricken dumb. He’d have sooner expected Coco spread out on his couch in nothing but his clear, silicone labcoat and an artificial rose in his mouth than to be staring at you. Somehow, you don’t look as out of place as you should among his sparse possessions.

“How did you find me?” the replicant asks.

“You said your identification number the day you showed up. KD6-3.7.”

It’s strange a strange thing, hearing his “name” come out of your mouth. He doesn’t supply the nickname he’s been given during his time as a blade runner. He’s already pacing on the knife’s edge. This evening could tip him in any direction without forcing any further familiarity.

“You got the note.”

“Yes.” Your tone is matter-of-fact. “You wanted to know if I felt like a part of me is missing.”

He is left waiting for a follow-up that doesn't come. The thought hangs there, uncontinued. In the quiet of the room, K shrugs off his jacket and goes to hang it on the hook by the front door. He unholsters his gun and puts it on a nearby shelf. No matter how things go, he will not be using it on you.

Before he faces you again, K approaches the controls for the hardline crossing the ceiling. When he casts a look at Joi with his finger hovering over the power button, she looks at peace. She gives him an encouraging shooing motion of her hand. He turns her off for the first time in months. You and K will not have any outside distraction.

“He lived, by the way.”

K feels a tightness loosen in his chest. “I’m glad.”

“Why? You could have easily made the shot fatal, why didn’t you?”

“Somebody cares about him. He would have been missed.”

“And that matters to you?” You don’t sound judgmental to his ears, only curious.

“Yes. I’m sorry I had to do it.” He swallows hard, voice breaking as he continues. “I didn’t choose this.”

The replicant knows that he is only what he was made to be, nothing more, nothing less. Nature had dictated his obedience. Nurture had molded him into being what the Los Angeles Police’s retirement division had had in mind when he was purchased for their use.

Under the weight of your gaze, he begins to self-soothe by clasping his hands together in front of him and rubbing one thumb over the other. He finds himself relieved from the burden when you shift your attention to your surroundings. He watches, fascinated, as you begin to explore.

Your fingers trail over the box where he stores his cigarettes and the lighter he’d found in the pocket of one of his previous retirement jobs. Moving onward, you pick up his book and flip briefly through the alcohol warped pages. He sees the recognition dart across your features when you find the place where the torn out page had once resided. The care in which you set the volume back down on the table surprises him. His madam had never displayed that level of consideration. Neither had Joi with the projected clone of it.

“These don’t look like yours,” you say. In your hands are Sapper Morton’s glasses, held as if they might break apart in your grasp with so much as a wrong exhale.

“They’re not.”

“Whose are they, then?”

“Sapper Morton. He was a retirement case,” K pauses, hesitates, then quietly adds, “I didn’t want him to be forgotten.”

“Why?” you ask, rolling the word in your mouth like a pearl.

The question makes his skin itch. He stills as though he had just taken a seat for his baseline. The only betraying movement is the continued motion of his thumb atop the other.

“Why?” you repeat, softer this time. There’s something close to tenderness in your voice and that makes him afraid.

“He was more than a serial number.” K admits, feeling the answer clawing its way out of him. “I… they all were.”

“Are you?”

“No.” His response is immediate. Firm.

“Why not?”

Unable to answer, he looks away. Shame laps at him with an overeager tongue. There is a divide between the older models and him. In some ways, Morton was right. The ‘9s are happy scraping the shit because it’s all they have been taught to know.

He’s aware of you setting the glasses back in their resting place on the shelf, but it still surprises him when you cross the small amount of space separating the two of you to stand in front of him. You’re so close to him that he can feel the heat of your body. It makes him want to burn in your fire.

“I do feel like there’s something missing. It’s like there’s an empty space next to me that should be filled by someone, but that someone never comes. It’s the part of the reason I came here. I… wanted to talk to you knowing what we are to each other,” you tell him.

K nods. Words catch in his throat, tumble over one another. In the end, he is unable to utter any of them.

“Will you show it to me?” you ask with a gesture to his covered arm. “I want to be sure.”

With a tremor threatening to shake his body, he slips his fingers under the edge of his shirt sleeve and pulls it up to his elbow. His soulmark is laid bare before your eyes. The wound that he had left in his own skin when he had tried to carve out the design has faded to a raised, pale line.

“That wasn’t there before,” you murmur, taking his forearm in your hands. Your pointer finger traces over the scar.

His breath catches at your touch. Overwhelmed, he has to close his eyelids against the moisture welling up in his eyes. He opens them again when the pressure of your hands leaves and sees you taking off your own coat to toss it over the back of his chair. The replicant barely has a moment of respite before your left hand resumes its position cupping the underbelly of his forearm. You keep him steady as you raise your right arm and nestle it alongside his to place the soulmarks side by side.

K’s eyes hadn’t been deceived back then. They are perfectly identical.

It’s more than he can handle. He curls into himself, instinctively seeking the fetal position. His chin is against his shoulder, face turned away from you. He’s not sure if he’s burning up or drowning.

“Hey… hey.”

Suddenly, your arms are around him. K feels himself being guided in until he’s all but cradled against you as you ease the both of you to floor. He finds himself pressing his face against your neck as you rub a soothing hand up and down his back. For each moment that passes, the replicant grows increasingly more worried that he’s overstaying his welcome, but you don’t push him away. Instead, you gently rock him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding choked even to his own ears.

“I’m sorry too. I misjudged you. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still pissed, but it wasn’t… I have an understanding of why you did what you did.”

Forcing himself to put some distance between your bodies, K finally pulls away. He doesn’t want to risk being reprimanded for taking too much. Your hands fall into your lap in the void he leaves behind.

There is a part of him that keeps expecting to discover that this is a vivid dream. Will he wake up and be staring at the water-damaged ceiling instead of your face? The hard floor under his knees, the chill of it creeping through the fabric and trying to find a home against his skin, seems to signal otherwise.

“Please don’t apologize. What I did was unforgivable.”

“John’s not mad at you, you know?” The words come as a surprise. He searches your eyes for a joke only to see sincerity reflected back at him. “He said you probably extended his life a few years by taking his eye and turning it in. Nobody’s gonna come looking for a dead man.”

“He’s not on our radar anymore. His file has been greyed out,” he says, getting to his feet.

Automatically, he reaches down to offer you his hand. It’s a mirror of your last interaction. He can tell by your expression that you are reliving the same memory as he. Still, you once again take his hand without hesitation. You hold it for just a moment before letting go. He doesn't think he imagined the reluctance.

“I don’t want to take up too much of your time, Officer. I don’t want to intrude,” you say, turning to pick up your coat from where you had left it.

“Please. Stay,” he bursts out. The feeling of imminent loss batters at the walls of his chest, “unless…”

“Okay.”

He blinks, not expecting the ease in which you had agreed. He’s left cycling through various scripts in the effort to find something to say. Latching onto a familiar interaction with Joi, he asks, “Do you want coffee?”

“Sure, I’d take some.”

K finds himself with you in his narrow kitchen. He heats the water while you take down two mugs and locate the instant coffee grounds after some direction from him. It’s domestic in a way that he was never able to have with Joi. With her, he didn’t need to worry about knocking elbows together or pressing her into the cabinetry while trying to reach for a pot holder.

Once the hot water is ready and split between the two mugs and stirred together, the two of you take seats on the couch. Between sips, conversation flows, a trickle at first and then a flood. You talk for hours, long after your mugs are drained and sat aside.

Following the natural progression of all things, the words begin to slow as tiredness sets in. Pauses between sentences lengthen like shadows. At seeing your eyes between to flutter shut, K rouses himself out of his own comfortable stupor.

“I’ll take the couch if you want to sleep in my bed tonight,” the replicant offers. He’s relaxed, at ease in a way he’s not sure he’s ever been. You’ve changed him.

The effort that it takes for you to keep your eyelids open as you think over his stab at hospitality only endears to you him further. Finally, you shrug and smother a yawn. “I’ll take you up on that. I don’t think I need to be behind the wheel like this.”

While you pull out your phone and send a message to your roommate to let him know your plans, K gets up and crosses the room to fold down the bed. He opens a nearby drawer and pulls out the pillow and blanket to put on the mattress. With a helpless twinge sigh, he surveys the setup. It’s not the lap of luxury, he knows, but he hopes it will be sufficient.

“All yours.”

“Thank you, K.” The light press of your fingers against his soulmark warms him almost as much as the use of his nickname. You had slipped into using it when he had admitted his preference for it over his job title or serial number in at some point in the previous hours.

He nods, a shy dip of his head and lets you slide under the blankets. After fetching his jacket off the hook to use as a blanket, he turns off the lights and lays down on the couch. Sleep comes to him almost immediately. It’s dreamless.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Morning comes to him with the shrill chiming of his alarm. Fumbling for his handheld, K silences it and lays still for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. The replicant fell asleep on the couch again. He knows that he has been doing that more often than he should. Too much alcohol and flipping through the pages of his book time and time again on the hunt for any new meaning that he can gleam from the words he knows by heart have contributed to this being a regular occurrence.

With a stiff back, he sits up and swings his legs to place his feet on the floor. He freezes right on the cusp of standing up. There is a body tucked into his bed and it’s not Joshi. Yesterday evening hadn’t been a whiskey soaked dream brought on by too much wishful thinking. It had been real.

K knows he needs to get ready to go to the precinct and pushes himself through his morning routine accordingly no matter how much he would prefer to wait at your side to resume the domesticity the two of you had begun to forge. By the time he’s out of the shower and dressed, you’ve gotten up and put the bed back in its stored away position. The bedding is neatly folded and set on a shelf with the pillow.

With his hair still damp, he observes you for a moment from the kitchen. You’re tracing the faded letters and numbers on the back of his jacket with a finger, clearly trying to decipher the characters.

“N7H00105,” he supplies, sparing your eyes.

Amusement causes the corners of his mouth to rise into a smile as you turn to him with an incredulous look. “How did you…? It’s so faded.”

“It was easier to read when I acquired it.”

“Another one of your job finds?” you ask, offering him the jacket when he approaches.

“Yes.”

While he’s pulling the comforting weight of the garment over his shoulders, he tracks you with his eyes as you step into your shoes and tie the laces. You haven’t put your coat on yet, leaving your arms bare. There is a moment of silence, the two of you regarding one another. He does not want to be the first one to make the gesture to leave and, it seems, neither do you.

Your teeth are worrying your bottom lip. He wonders what you’re thinking about, but in the clear light of day, he finds himself unable to ask. The sun has burned away some of the ease of last night.

Finally, you speak. “If you had the option, would you leave all of this behind?”

He blinks, uncomprehending. “What?”

“Your job. Your life here… Would you leave it behind?”

“I… I don’t have anything else.” His words are uncertain, shaky.

“What if I’m offering you something else?”

“My kind doesn’t run.”

“It’s not running, K. It’s living.”

Rattled by the conviction in your voice, he sits down on the couch. His chest feels tight as barely defined images of things he’d hardly dared to dream of race through his mind. The enormity of what you’re suggesting is all but unimaginable. He has been loyal to his madam’s cause since the day he was incepted. There could be no deeper betrayal than slipping free of his tether.

The sensation of your hand on his shoulder jolts him back into the present moment. He meets your concerned eyes for a heartbeat before he has to look away.

“You don’t have to decide right now. You can think on it.”

“Saturday. I’ll be ready on Saturday,” he chokes out. His heart is pounding in his throat. He knows he cannot risk sitting through another baseline in the wake of this. He will fail.

“You’re sure? You won’t be able to come back here.”

“Yes.” Recklessly—impulsively—he has made up his mind.

───※ ·❆· ※───

The Saturday of his departure dawns like any other. The sunlight peering into the apartment’s only window would make K’s morning wholly unremarkable in its routine if his surroundings hadn’t been wiped clean of any personal possessions but a select few items that he is leaving behind for his madam to repossess. His entire world had fit into one furtively purchased duffel bag.

His nerves are alight with restlessness as he waits for you to arrive. The replicant had spent a few fitful hours laying on his mattress before rising ahead of the sun to ensure his readiness for the life ahead. As part of his preparations, he finally purchased Joi’s anniversary present. An emanator. He had transferred her to it after yesterday’s shift at the precinct. She had been joyous, nearly overflowing with excitement for him when he had explained the situation to her. He had cautiously let himself share his own tentative optimism.

At the DiJi’s suggestion, he had snapped the emanator’s small antenna after deleting her save file from the main console. The risk of being tracked or leaving behind damning information was too great to allow for cloud backup. Despite his own trepidation, Joi had insisted the risk of her being able to die like a real girl was worth K’s freedom.

A firm knock against the door alerts the Nexus 9 of your arrival. With haste, he moves through the entryway to open the door for you. Both of you wait until it’s securely closed before you greet each other.

“Good morning,” you tell him.

K is just opening his mouth to respond in kind when you surprise him with a hug. The replicant wraps his arms around you, careful to not apply too much pressure. It’s a novel thing, getting to hold someone like this. Reluctantly, he lets his hold on you loosen after a short moment. He knows there is work to still be done. A final step in the plan.

Without you needing to ask him, he gestures to the table in front of the window. The supplies for the task ahead are already laid out on the surface. He strips off his shirt and sits backwards in the chair as best as he can while avoiding the armrests. K closes his eyes and tries to relax.

“I almost thought you might not come back,” he admits.

He hears the snap of disposable gloves against your wrists followed by the sound of your voice. “You’re my soulmate. The mark on your arm says I’m going to keep coming back for you.”

“Not everyone likes their soulmate,” K says quietly.

There’s the sound of a packet being torn open. He experiences the sensation of a disinfecting wipe passing over the area at the base of his neck. It’s cold against his skin. You focus most of the attention on the column of his spine, right in the center of his middle trapezius.

“True, but I realized the other night that, despite everything, I do like you. Congratulations, you now have me digging a tracking chip out of your back.” Your voice is colored with fondness. It makes him want to smile. How rare. He had kept his positive emotions hidden under cloth as though they were something precious to sequester out of sight.

Hissing against the sting, the tip of K’s eye extraction knife punctures his skin. The sensation of blood trickling from the wound begins shortly after he hears you set the knife on the table and pick up the tweezers. There’s a pinch, a strange pulling sensation, and then he opens his eyes just in time to see you drop the small device on the table alongside the bloodied blade. The tweezers clatter against the laminated surface and your gloved hand snatches up the platelet jelly.

“That was in deep. They nailed you between the vertebrae. John’s was right under the skin.”

“Wallace learned from the tail-end Tyrell models. Mostly what not to do.”

He hears you hum, interested. Packaging crinkles behind his head and he’s aware of you pressing a gauze pad against the sealed wound. Your touch is so gentle as to make him believe you think he is something worth care, that he might even be special.

“Hand me a bit of tape, please?”

Obligingly, he tears off a strip and passes it to you. His bare fingers brush against your gloved ones as you take it from him. You secure the tape in place and pat him on the shoulder. “You’re all done.”

The skin feels tender beneath the bandage. But it is as though his collar has been cut. He puts his shirt back on and layers his jacket over it while you peel the gloves off. To avoid leaving more identifying forensic evidence behind that would point to you as being the accomplice, you flip them inside out and tuck them into a pocket for later disposal.

At your searching look, K nods. He is ready. The replicant picks up his bag and, together, you make your way to the front door. He pauses on the threshold, door open. Your fingers find his and give them a squeeze before he adjusts the angle and interlinks them together. Like this, he can feel your pulse beat in time with his. He feels close to human.

With one final look at the apartment that has been his cell for the past few years, he gives it a silent goodbye and closes the door for the final time. He is free.

───※ ·❆· ※───

On Monday, when Joshi arrives with two organic officers as backup, she finds the apartment stripped of any personal effects. She picks up his discarded phone off the coffee table where he had laid it between his firearm and his badge. The woman throws it against the wall so hard it shatters. Pieces of plastic rain down onto the tile. He hadn’t even left her a note.

If she ever finds him, she is going to put a bullet in him with the gun he left behind. Still, there is a part of her that is grudgingly proud of him for finally biting her hand, taking it off right at the wrist. Her replicant was a lot of things—obedient, kind—but never a coward. He better have a good life while he can. She’s going to place a purchase order for his replacement the moment she gets behind her desk.

Do not repost, copy, or reproduce my work to other sites or in other media formats. Do not use it for anything to do with AI. Thank you.

#blade runner 2049 #br2049 #blade runner 2049 (2017)#officer k #officer k x reader #x reader #blade runner 2049 fanfic #officer k fanfic #ryan gosling fanfiction #ryan gosling x reader #.my fanfics #.my work #.my posts

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morgan-va · 5 months ago

Text

Chapter 29: Remembering. (Serial Designation V x reader)

Masterlist

TW: Descriptions of pain and suffering

Back in her room, Uzi spins her chair around, a satisfied chuckle escaping her as N and V begin to stir. It worked. She actually got their memories back.

V, always the quickest to act, barely takes a second before her hand snaps into a chainsaw, the jagged edge revving to life as she growls. "What the hell, Uzi?! What gives you the right to snoop through our heads?"

She stops mid-threat, her optics flicking to the side. Uzi follows her gaze and freezes. Techie is still wired into the computer, slumped in the chair, motionless. Dimmed optics flicker with scrolling text.

ADMINISTRATOR LOCKOUT: SUCCESSFULBEGINNING DISK CLEANUP|||||________________________________ 7%

Uzi’s stomach drops. No. No, no, no. This shouldn’t be possible, Techie should have woken up, just like N and V.

Unless...

No. That’s impossible. The only way anyone could be locked inside like this is if… they were inside their own memory simulation as well.

Her breath hitches. That human—the one N called Techie. There’s no way, right?

She snaps her head toward N and V. “Explain. Now. Who the hell was that technician?”

N shifts as his newfound memories resurface, "I know! That technician was—"

“An old friend,” V interrupts, her voice unusually subdued. Her optics don’t meet Uzi’s. "From before... everything happened."

V exhales sharply, glancing at Techie's lifeless form. "I wasn’t sure at first, but as I’ve spent time with them, I realized... That drone sitting in front of us? That’s that human."

Uzi’s eyes widen as V’s words sink in. Her voice rises into a near-shout. “And you didn’t think to mention that before I sent them into a memoryscape with that eldritch freakshow?!”

V doesn’t hesitate. Her chainsaw revs louder, the jagged blade stopping just short of Uzi’s throat. “Oh, I don’t know,” she growls, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe because you ambushed us and jammed yourself into our heads before I had the chance?”

Uzi swallows hard, glaring at V even as she leans back slightly from the weapon. “Fine. You make a good point.”

“Damn right, I do.” V lowers her weapon, but her glare remains sharp. “Now fix it.”

Not needing to be told twice, Uzi spins back to her computer, fingers flying over the keyboard as she desperately tries to regain control. Code floods the screen, scrolling too fast for her to process.

“Come on, come on…” she mutters, sweat beading on her forehead. Every second that bar inches forward, Techie’s chances of waking up shrink.

She grits her teeth and keeps typing. She has to fix this.

Light floods your vision. The sterile hum of fluorescent lights buzzes faintly overhead, and the scent of hot metal and solder fills your nose.

A workbench stretches out in front of you, scattered with tools, wires, and diagnostic equipment. Right. Your final exam—robotics training. You’ve spent weeks preparing for this, and now you’re almost done.

The test was simple in theory: repair a malfunctioning worker drone suffering from an assortment of mechanical and software issues. Simple. But under pressure? Not so much.

You tighten the last screw into place, sealing the drone’s back panel before setting the screwdriver down with a shaky breath. This should be it. You double-check the wiring, hoping you’ve done everything right. There’s only one way to find out.

Your finger hovers over the power button for a split second before pressing down.

The drone’s optics flicker to life. A soft whir fills the air as it boots up, standing upright before turning to face you.

“Hello!” it chirps, its voice light and pleasant.

Success.

A grin breaks across your face. You did it.

Your professor strides over, their sharp gaze scanning the drone as they run through a quick diagnostic check. They lift the drone’s arms, test its mobility, and check the interface for any lingering errors. After a moment, they nod in approval.

"Everything seems to be in perfect working order," they say, turning to you with an approving smile. "Excellent job. You pass with flying colors."

Relief washes over you. You exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, nodding in thanks as a few of your classmates glance over. Some are still deep in their own work, muttering under their breath as they struggle with their drones. Others shoot you brief looks—some impressed, others indifferent.

Not wanting to linger, you quietly gather your things. The exam is over for you, and there’s no point in sticking around. You sling your bag over your shoulder and make your way toward the door.

Just as your fingers brush against the handle, a loud clatter echoes through the room.

You turn on instinct. One of your classmates has just powered their drone on, and while it seems to function for the most part, something is clearly wrong. Its speech module is glitching, causing it to stutter and garble its words in a mess of static and half-formed syllables.

The student groans in frustration, their expression twisting into anger. "Ugh, stupid thing—"

Before anyone can stop them, they shove the drone off the table.

It crashes to the floor with a sickening crunch.

Without thinking, you rush over, grabbing the student by the arm and spinning them around. "What the hell is wrong with you?!" you snap, anger flaring in your chest. "You can’t just treat them like that!"

The student sneers at you, yanking their arm free. "Calm down. It’s just a hunk of metal," they scoff, rolling their eyes. "Besides, what do you care? You act like they’re people or something."

You clench your fists, heart pounding.

They laugh, shaking their head before shooting you a look of disgust.

"You really are a freak."

That phrase echoes in your mind as everything around you fades away—"You really are a freak."

Over and over again, through the black void.

You open your eyes, the soft sheets of your bed comforting as the morning sun peeks through the curtains. Today’s the day—you’ll be heading out of town for your new job. Some technician gig for a rich family out in the swamp. You’ve been looking for something like this for months, and the offer came out of nowhere, just like that! You didn’t even apply for anything—just created a profile through the JCJenson website, but you hadn’t had a chance to actually browse any listings.

You guess someone’s looking out for you after all.

Rising from bed, you stretch, shaking off the last remnants of sleep before turning your attention to packing. You double-check your suitcase, making sure you haven’t left anything important behind. Clothes, tools, personal items—it’s all here. Just as you’re about to close it, something small and round slips out from between your neatly folded shirts, rolling across the wooden floor with a soft clink.

You bend down, reaching for it. A small, smoky blue gemstone rests against the floorboards, catching the morning light. You pick it up, running your thumb over the smooth surface.

You’ve had this stone since you were a kid. It doesn’t hold any deep sentimental value—not really. You don’t even remember where you got it. But for some reason, you’ve always kept it close. A good luck charm, maybe. You can’t imagine ever parting with it.

You slip it back into your pocket, sighing in relief before zipping up your suitcase. Time to go.

You pick up your suitcase, gripping the handle tightly as you take a deep breath. It’s time.

With a steadying exhale, you step forward and open the door.

Only to find… nothing.

The hallway outside your room is gone, replaced by an endless, yawning void. Before you can react, the ground beneath you vanishes, and you plummet into the vast nothingness, the weightless sensation sending your stomach into your throat. You try to scream, but no sound escapes. Darkness swallows you whole.

You’re late.

You slept in.

Late for your first day of work at the Elliott’s.

How is this possible??

You throw the covers off and scramble out of bed, heart pounding as you yank on your clothes in a panic. Of all the ways to start this job, this is the worst. You barely have time to double-check yourself in the mirror before bolting out of your small basement room and up the stairs—

SMACK.

You collide with someone and nearly fall over, barely managing to steady yourself as they hit the ground.

A maid drone.

“Oh, crap, I’m so sorry—!” You quickly reach down and help her up, eyes wide with guilt. “I wasn’t looking where I was going, I—”

She dusts herself off, looking a little flustered but otherwise fine. “Oh, um, no, it’s okay! I-I was actually coming to wake you up.”

Wait.

You blink at her, confusion momentarily replacing your panic.

“My shift starts in—” You check your watch, only for your stomach to drop as you realize your mistake.

You read the time wrong.

You aren’t late.

Your face burns with embarrassment as you run a hand through your hair, letting out a breathless laugh. “Oh. Wow. Uh, sorry about that. Guess I freaked out over nothing.”

The maid drone giggles softly, her posture still a little stiff. “It’s alright. I was kind of worried you’d sleep through your alarm. I was the first one you met yesterday, remember? My name’s V.”

You pause.

Something about that name stirs something deep in your mind, like an old song you can’t quite remember the lyrics to. It lingers on the tip of your tongue, just out of reach.

But then V smiles at you—timid, polite, a little awkward.

And the strange feeling slips away.

You smile at her. “That’s really considerate of you, especially since we only just met.”

V’s posture stiffens slightly, her eyes flickering as she glances away. “Oh, um… it’s not a big deal or anything.” She fidgets, adjusting her maid uniform. “I mean, if you’re late, it affects the rest of us, too. It’s just in our best interest to check up on each other.”

You chuckle. “Still, I appreciate it. Really.”

Her gaze flickers back to you, uncertainty melting into something softer. “...Well, you’re welcome, then.”

You nod, adjusting your clothes. “I’m looking forward to working with you and everyone else.”

V’s lips twitch into a small smile. “I’d be happy to show you around, introduce you to the others.”

“That’d be great.”

She gestures for you to follow, and you take a step forward—

—but the world around you begins to melt.

Colors blur, shapes distort, the floor beneath your feet ceases to exist.

You don’t even have time to react before the memory crumbles away entirely.

You walk over and take the clipboard from V, scanning the list. It was surprisingly thorough—she’d noted everything from loose doorknobs to fading paint along the baseboards.

You smile at her, “I really appreciate your help with all of this, V. I don’t think I could get through it without you.”

She stiffens, her fingers twitching as she looks away. “I-it’s no problem, I don’t mind. Really.”

You chuckle and, on impulse, pat her head.

Error: Unexpected Affection Detected.

You show V how to make pancakes, guiding her as she stirs the batter. She nods eagerly, then accidentally mixes too fast—sending batter flying across the kitchen. Some splatters onto both of you. There’s a moment of stunned silence before you burst out laughing, V quickly following suit.

“Not too fast,” you place your hand lightly over hers to help steady her grip. “You don’t want to splash it everywhere.”

She freezes at the contact for a moment, her optics brightening slightly, but she doesn’t pull away. “Got it,” she murmurs.

The two of you sit side by side in front of a large window, gazing out at the endless night sky. The soft ambience of the mansion fills the silence, the glow of the stars reflecting in her optics. Your shoulders brush, and static electricity crackles between you.

“The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?” you murmur.

V glances at you, her expression unreadable—until a faint blush dusts her face.

“It is,” she says softly.

You lie in bed, your fingers intertwined with V’s as she reads to you. Her voice is steady, soothing, filling the quiet room with a warmth you can’t quite describe. The world outside doesn’t matter. Here, in this moment, you feel safe.

Warmth pools in your chest, unfamiliar yet comforting. Is this… love?

And then, just like everything else, these memories fade away.

You open your eyes as pain wracks your body. Agony is all you can fathom. Your gaze darts around the room, but you can’t move. You’re strapped to some kind of table, hooked up to a mess of wires and devices. The room around you is dimly lit, a run-down laboratory, cold and unfamiliar. You can’t even begin to question where you are—the pain is overwhelming, searing through every nerve like fire. It’s worse than anything you’ve ever experienced.

You force yourself to look down, instantly regretting it. A gaping wound mars your chest, torn open where that eldritch beast’s tendril had impaled you. The sight alone makes your head spin. How are you still alive? No—why are you still alive? Every attempted breath sends agony lancing through what remains of your ribs, and you open your mouth to scream, but nothing comes out.

Then, the door creaks open.

Your stomach drops as Cyn steps inside. She’s in her worker drone form, as if mocking you with her small, unassuming frame—like she hadn’t just torn your world apart. She tilts her head, smiling as she watches you struggle. “Cordial greeting. I see you are awake. Perhaps human medical technology isn’t useless after all.”

Something shifts behind her. Your eyes widen in horror as a slick, black tendril slithers from her back, lazily extending toward a console beside you. It presses a few buttons with unsettling precision, making the monitors flicker. Another tendril whips off to the side, dragging a gurney into view, carrying a powered-off worker drone, its lifeless body still on the cold metal cart.

Wires snake out from the machinery beside you, latching onto the drone like some grotesque experiment. You can only watch in silent agony, unable to move, unable to voice the fear clawing at your throat. Cyn steps closer, her neon-yellow optics gleaming with sick delight as one of her tendrils picks up a thick cable. At the end of it is a long, wickedly sharp needle.

She holds it up, almost playfully, before leaning in.

“Hold still. I do believe this has never been attempted, until now. Giggle.”

You try to resist, but some unseen force clamps down on you, stopping even the slightest movement of your head. Your body betrays you, locked in place as panic claws at your mind. You can only watch, helpless, as the tendril moves the needle behind your skull—out of sight, but not out of mind.

Cyn tilts her head, watching you with amusement. “Don’t worry. I am not finished with you. And you won’t remember any of this. Well, hopefully.” She lets out a small giggle, her gaze gleaming like a predator playing with its food. “Human minds are so much more fickle than drones.”

You barely have time to process her words before searing agony erupts through your skull. The needle drives deep, and a sensation like a lightning strike surges through your entire body. Every nerve ignites, every fiber of your being screams in protest as darkness swallows your vision. But the nightmare doesn’t end there.

Because while you may no longer see, you can still feel.

Pain unlike anything imaginable overtakes you as something indescribable is wrenched from your very core. Your mind—your self—is being torn away from the brain that has been yours since the moment you came into existence. You are being ripped from your own body. Thought ceases, coherence shatters, and all that remains is raw, unbearable agony.

And then, just as suddenly as it began—everything stops.

ADMINISTRATOR LOCKOUT: SUCCESSFULBEGINNING DISK CLEANUP||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||__ 94%

Uzi’s fingers fly across the keyboard, desperation fueling her rapid inputs as she fights against the process. Lines of code blur together as she forces command after command, trying anything to halt the inevitable. But the counter ticks up to 95%, unfazed by her efforts.

V’s patience shatters. She steps forward, optics burning with frustration. “That’s it. Send me in. Like you did with us.”

Uzi doesn’t even look up, still typing. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“I don’t care.”

“If you’re still inside when the process finishes, you’ll be erased too.” Uzi’s voice is sharp, but there’s a flicker of hesitation beneath it. “And as great as that might be,” she adds with biting sarcasm, “something tells me N won’t like that.”

V’s claws shoot out in a blur, stopping just short of Uzi’s throat. Her optics bore into the worker drone’s, raw with something Uzi doesn’t expect—desperation. “Let me try.”

For once, Uzi is speechless. She stares at V, weighing the risk, the sheer insanity of what she’s about to allow.

She exhales sharply and yanks a cable from the terminal, holding it out. “Fine. Plug yourself in.”

You sit in the void of your memories, a vast and endless darkness stretching infinitely around you. Faint echoes of experiences drift at the edges of your perception—things you know you've lived through, but they remain just out of reach, impossible to grasp. It’s all slipping away, unraveling like loose threads in a tapestry you can’t seem to hold together.

You blink, text appearing in your field of view once again:

A-S Backup Process Enabled.

Purging Incriminating Data

A soft giggle cuts through the silence.

Cyn stands before you, a cruel smile curling her lips as she takes in your broken state. You stare up at her, defeated. There’s nothing left to fight for. Nothing left at all.

She snaps her fingers.

V appears beside her—tall, imposing, her claws gleaming under an unseen light. Her fanged grin is sharp and cold, lacking any warmth.

“A shame my experiment failed,” Cyn muses, tilting her head. “You were quite intriguing to watch.”

V’s claws extend with a metallic shink, her optics narrowing as she sizes you up.

Cyn continues, her voice chillingly indifferent. “I pitied V enough to give you a chance, to be a tool for me just like her, but it’s clear you belong with everyone else—as part of me, the Solver of the Absolute Fabric.”

V lunges.

Her claws clamp around your throat, pinning you to the ground as she looms over you, fangs bared. You don’t fight. You don’t struggle. You don’t even flinch. You’re done.

But then—

V hesitates.

The pressure around your neck loosens. Instead of tearing into you, she lets go, pulling you back to your feet. Her claws retract as she gazes into your eyes, something unreadable flickering across her face.

“As fun as it would be to kill you,” she drawls, smirking, “I think that’d be rather anticlimactic, don’t you think?”

You blink. Confusion stirs in the emptiness of your mind. “What…? Why aren’t you—”

V groans, rubbing her temple. “You’ll get it in a minute.”

Without warning, she raises her arm, her hand shifting into a gun. She fires.

Cyn shatters in a burst of pixels.

Before you can even react, V grabs you by the shoulders, her expression urgent. “Listen to me—you need to snap out of it.”

You stare at her, the weight of her words not quite sinking in.

“You’re inside your own head,” she presses on. “Cyn’s rewriting you. She’s trying to make you forget everything.”

You try to respond, to ask her what she means, but she shakes her head. “No time for that.” Her grip tightens. “You have to remember. Remember me. Remember Uzi. Remember what’s happening in the real world!”

The void trembles. Cracks split through the darkness, revealing blinding white light beneath. The world around you begins to shatter, pixel by pixel.

V’s optics widen in alarm. “No, no, no—stay with me!”

Panicked, she grabs you by the arms and yanks you into a hug, holding you tight. “Come on,” she pleads, her voice almost breaking. “You have to remember—”

The pixels overtake you both.

V gasps as she is suddenly yanked from the simulation, the world around her dissolving into nothing. She flips around, fury already building in her chest—only to see N standing there, holding the cable that had connected her.

Her optics widen in horror. “What did you do?” she screams, her voice raw with disbelief.

She spins back toward Techie, still slumped in their chair, their optics flickering with a new message.

ADMINISTRATOR LOCKOUT: SUCCESSFULDISK CLEANUP COMPLETE||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| 100%

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Uzi stares at the screen, then at Techie’s motionless form. Her shoulders tremble, her expression caught between disbelief and devastation. She failed.

N shifts, gripping the cable tightly as if he can somehow undo what he just did. “V, I—I couldn’t let you get erased too,” he stammers, barely above a whisper. “Losing both of you would just be… too much.”

V barely hears him. She is already at Techie’s side, dropping to her knees as the weight of it all crashes down. Her fingers dig into their arms as she shakes them, harder and harder, desperation creeping into her voice. “I can’t do this,” she chokes out. “Not again. Not again!”

And then, Techie’s system reboots.

Their optics flicker, the dull glow returning as their head tilts slightly.

“Hello,” they say, their voice eerily neutral. “Are you my new coworkers?”

Silence.

Uzi and N don’t move. V can only stare.

Because she knows. They all know.

Techie is gone. Completely erased.

V sits back, her arms falling limply to her sides as she gazes at the drone before her—not them, just an empty shell, stripped of everything that made them Techie. All that remains is the default programming of a Worker Drone.

How ironic.

All the destruction she has wrought, all the pain she has caused—and this is how the universe chooses to punish her. Not with fire, not with death, but with loss. Loss of something she only just got back.

N had forgotten his past. But she never had. She remembered everything. She knows exactly what she has done. And yet…

Here she is.

With a slow, weary exhale, she rises to her feet.

She takes one last look at the drone sitting before her, their optics scanning the room in vague curiosity.

What’s the point in fighting anymore? Cyn will win. She always wins.

She reaches out, her hand trembling as she places it against their cheek. A tiny crackle of static sparks between them.

The moment their metal touches, Techie’s visor glitches, their entire body shuddering violently.

V steps back in shock as the drone collapses, crashing to the floor in a twitching heap.

Even in her last act of comfort, she’s managed to kill something. How tragically ironic.

Your optics flutter open as your systems jolt back to life, rebooting in a rush of energy. The world around you sharpens into focus, bright and overwhelming, as everything comes flooding back at once. It’s disorienting—the sheer weight of your memories crashing over you like a tidal wave. You try to sit up, your joints stiff and unresponsive at first, but you push through the discomfort. Blinking rapidly, you take in your surroundings.

Uzi and N are standing in front of you, their expressions twisted in confusion, eyes locked onto you as if they’re unsure whether to believe what they’re seeing. You glance past them, spotting V in the corner of the room. She isn’t looking at you. Instead, she stares off into space, her posture stiff, her face unreadable.

You turn back to Uzi, your voice hoarse and unsteady as you manage to speak. “Uzi? What… what the hell did you do to me?”

The reaction is immediate. Uzi’s eyes go wide, her whole body tensing. She sucks in a sharp breath, realization dawning in an instant—you remember her. Her shock is evident, but before she can respond, something else happens.

V moves.

Before you can react, she is suddenly in front of you, grabbing you by the shoulders and lifting you off the ground. The intensity in her yellow optics burns into you as she stares, searching your face with a desperate kind of urgency. “Techie?!” Her voice is sharp, demanding, almost frantic. She scans your expression as if looking for a glitch, for some kind of mistake.

Your body tenses at the sudden force, and you struggle slightly in her grip, groaning in protest. “Yes! It’s me! Please put me down.”

For once, she listens. She sets you down on your feet, a significant improvement over her usual habit of just dropping you. Your legs feel unsteady, but you manage to stay upright, adjusting to the sensation of simply being again.

V wastes no time. “Do you remember everything?” she asks, and something in her tone makes your systems freeze for a second.

Everything.

The word echoes in your mind, and suddenly, it all hits.

Your life—your entire life—rushes back to you in an instant, slamming into your consciousness with the force of a collapsing building. It’s overwhelming, the sheer amount of it, so much that it feels like your head might split open from the sheer pressure. Your time as a drone, your time as a human, all of it returns in a flood, every emotion, every experience, every loss, every joy. The weight of an entire existence, something you hadn’t even fathomed regaining, comes crashing down with relentless intensity.

You stagger slightly, your fingers twitching as you try to process the sudden influx of knowledge. It’s too much all at once, the past and present colliding in a way that makes your head spin. Every moment, every decision, every version of yourself that you thought was lost—it’s all here. You’re here.

And you have no idea what to do with it.

Your voice catches in your throat, your entire system struggling to process the sheer weight of what’s just returned to you. You force out a breath, trying to steady yourself, but even that feels like too much. "I... I remember..." The words are shaky, barely more than a whisper. "I remember everything..."

Your optics flicker slightly as a name slips from your mouth. "Cyn..."

At that, Uzi's entire posture shifts. Her expression tightens, and a look of realization flashes across her face. It’s like she had momentarily forgotten why any of this was happening—why they had gone through all of this in the first place. But now, with that single name spoken aloud, it all comes rushing back.

"Nope," Uzi says, cutting off whatever breakdown you’re about to have. "We’re putting the 'my entire life is a lie' crisis on hold. We need to leave. Now."

You barely have time to react before a glow ignites around her hand. That same energy surges outward, wrapping around you before you can so much as blink. The room distorts, reality twisting and folding in on itself, the world around you shattering like a fractured mirror. The force nearly knocks you off your feet as everything warps.

Then—nothing.

Except cold.

Your optics adjust to the sudden change in lighting, and you realize you’re no longer inside. The facility, the walls, the floor—all of it is gone. Instead, you're standing outside, the frozen wasteland of Copper-9 stretching out in every direction. Ice crunches beneath your feet, the wind biting against your frame. The brutal cold is nothing new, but the suddenness of it leaves you reeling.

You barely have time to process what just happened before you see them.

Standing in front of you, unmistakable even through the swirling snow, is Doll. Next to her is J—her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. And beside them...

A woman.

You don’t recognize her. She’s clad in a space suit, her helmet obscuring most of her features, but there’s no doubt about it, she’s human.

Your mind races, trying to grasp onto something—anything—that could make sense of this. Your eyes dart to the nametag on her chest.

Tessa.

What the actual hell is happening?

#murder drones #murder drones x reader #murder drones fanfic #murder drones headcanon #murder drones v x reader #murder drones v #serial designation v

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amitsm356 · 3 months ago

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32A 3ph Equipower: Reliable 440V Protection for a Home in Attibele, Near Bengaluru

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laurelwen · 1 year ago

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Obscure Media: Encore VFX Article

Brought to us courtesy of @widowswinter, who's been working hard to dredge up these gems from the past.

We've all seen this cover by now, but in case you didn't know, Encore was an Australian film trade magazine. It switched to an online format and then seems to have ceased publication around 2013. Some of their articles can be found at https://mumbrella.com.au/, but none going back to 2006. Widowswinter accessed this article via the National Library of Australia, which houses physical copies of the magazine and will make copies/scans of some of their collection.

Full Article and a plain text version below the break:

ENCORE I 22 I V24 ISSUE 2, FEBRUARY, 2006

Digital effects were integral to writer/director Gregory Read's Like Minds, the UK/Australian psychological thriller starring Toni Collette, Richard Roxburgh, Eddie Redmayne and Tom Sturridge.

With production split evenly between Australia and England, where the story is set, the dual role of the DFX was to heighten the in camera drama, and to solve problems created by on-set limitations and impracticalities. This was especially true for the film's opening train sequence during which schoolboys hang outside the door of a train travelling at 80 km/h, playing 'chicken' with the rapidly advancing stanchions (posts that support the overhead electric wires).

"Even if we could shoot the whole scene on a live train travelling at speed, getting the angles in and out of the train with the presence of real stanchions isn't realistic, not to mention the danger of attempting such a live sequence," said Read, who consulted with DOP Nigel Bluck and VFX supervisor Dave Morley, of Sydney-based VFX house Fuel International, to determine the best way to shoot this scene. "The upshot was to have two shoots; the first being the boys on a live train minus stanchions, travelling at its top speed of 20km/h. We used a wind cannon and lighting rig to emulate speed. The boys were cabled into the train, which gave them the opportunity to hang out, feel the 'rush' and give me the performance I wanted . The rest of the scene was shot in a shed with two very big guys rocking the train."

Like Minds features Collette in the role of a forensic psychologist appointed by police to determine whether there's enough evidence to lay murder charges against 17-year old Alex (Redmayne), accused in the shotgun death of his schoolmate Nigel (Sturridge).

The train scenes were initially earmarked to be shot in Adelaide but the unavailability of a suitable 1970s-style electric train meant the production shifted to a train museum located in Cessnock, NSW. Fresh stumbling blocks at the new location included a train carriage without a front engine and the absence of on location electricity; factors which necessitated the deployment of a bright yellow ex-BHP locomotive to propel the 'electric' carriage backwards and forwards at a maximum travelling speed of just 20km/h.

Fuel's task included the creation of the CG stanchions, which Read wanted to "crash into frame very close to the carriage then vanish into shadow".

"The shot required the stanchion to race towards the boys, barely missing one of them. However, when the stanchion was put in it just didn't look right so David [Morley] gradually scaled up the stanchion to 300 percent as it raced towards us so that it worked, visually and dynamically. As an added effect, when this stanchion slams past it actually hits the camera on which David introduced shudder."

Morley's team rigged up a series of par cans (stage lights) attached to a programmable lighting desk that enabled them to set the speed of lights turning on and off in series to simulate the feel of the stanchions travelling past the carriage at the desired speed of 80 km/h.

"Each of the CG stanchions has its own light pointing down towards the train and we used the par cans to give us the motion of the light travelling past," Morley said. "We built CG stanchions to match the style of what they have over in England, and from reference gathered off the web and footage Greg shot in England, then tracked them in and composited them all together."

When working on shots looking down the length of the train, the ground plane was sped up 400 percent. This was done to disguise the fact that the train was actually only travelling at 20 km/h.

"That would get put back in and then we'd have the CG stanchions over the top of that," said Morley. 'There was normally only one extra carriage behind the one that we were working on, so we ended up having to extend extra carriages as well. Because we only had one train rigged with the lights we ended up shifting the camera up one carriage length then duplicating this carriage for the two missing carriages."

The variance in visible rainfall during the Cessnock shoot presented another problem to be solved.

"We'd set up to get the master shot, which was a very large crane shot moving down onto the railway tracks from about 30 feet up," Read explained. "In this environment we had two large rain towers with rotating heads which produced heavy rainfall, however when we swung around to shoot reverse shots there was very little backlight and the rainfall was barely visible. We knew we didn't have time to move lights - let alone the travelling train in the background where the lights would need to stand. It was a matter of placing CG rain into the background of those shots so they matched the master."

Like Minds is set in the middle of the English winter. Obviously, Cessnock's 45-degree temperatures created obstacles. Among the challenges were short night shoot hours, actors having to wear heavy fur-lined clothing and the need to frame out all 'summer' foliage - especially gum trees.

In addition, while the English shoot took place in wintertime, Read was keen to include a shot of the school location in summertime. Fuel was called upon to make shots filmed in winter appear as though it was summer. This was done with sky replacements, adding leaves to trees and replacing snow with grass. Among these was an interior shot of the exterior through a window.

Fuel worked on 89 shots in total including the opening title sequence, which sees a camera move along a darkened surface before rising to show raindrops falling on this surface, which is revealed to be a train track.

"Suddenly a train rushes over the track and we cut out to a wide shot and there's the boy hanging out of the train," said Read. "I thought we could use a motion control rig and then put in the CG later but then practicality and cost came into it and I faced with the reality that this shot was too much of an indulgence; we didn't have the budget and so I turned to David and said 'Help! This is the shot I want to do'.

Armed with Read's storyboards and a second unit, Morley directed the title sequence himself, opting to use a live train to give it authenticity.

"We had to carefully choreograph the timing of both the camera tracking back and the train barrelling down the track straight for us with quite a few dry runs separately with both train and crew until we were confident we had the positions the camera needed to be in relation to the train," explained Morley. "We still had several safety people standing by to quickly rip crew out of the way of the impending train if they had not reached the agreed ‘point of no return' position. In the end we got exactly what we wanted."

Once the shot had been captured, Fuel scanned the image at 4K, smoothed the camera move and retimed the sequence. In addition to the titles CG sparks were added to the undercarriage as the train passed by.

[Like Minds Masterpost]

#real title of this article “A Love Story: Gregory J Read and his Train”#they picked the funniest frames of Alex to use as illustration i love it #like minds #like minds media #murderous intent #like minds 2006 #alex forbes #eddie redmayne #tom sturridge #nigel colbie

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lisenberry · 4 months ago

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Over the hills and far away

E/7.2k

Arranged Marriage/Mail Order Bride Western AU

Haladriel Valentine's Week💕

(CW for gun violence and some gore.)

February 1872

Galadriel from New York City writes: “I am a young woman, of great intelligence and refinement, with no fortune save my good looks and warm heart. Any gentleman who could appreciate these few qualities will find me an affectionate and docile wife.” See the editor for inquiries.

It had all been meticulously arranged via extensively detailed correspondence. Upon receipt of his funds for the agreed upon amount, Galadriel Noldor promptly bid goodbye to what was left of her family and began the long, arduous journey to California.

To meet her new husband.

However, when she arrived at the camp, after two weeks of travel by coach, then train, and then coach again, she was met with a most unwelcome sight.

Mud, as far as she could see. The landscape was harshened even further by tall, wiry pines and stark, rocky cliffs. She’d heard California was full of sunshine and gold. And all she wanted was to be warm and dry, and clean again, but it seemed fate had other plans. For there was only cold and damp to greet her.

From the first step out of the coach, she nearly sank to her knees in filth. Her finest dress, that she saved for the day of her arrival, now bore the stain of three inches worth of dirt. Clouds darkened ominously overhead, threatening to rain down another torrent.

Surely, her bridegroom did not expect her to arrive pristine, but it stung all the same. She wanted to be perfect. To make a good impression. He confessed to having read Richard III and Dante’s Inferno. He studied at one of the finest universities in the country and spoke of bringing enlightenment to the great Wild West.

Galadriel had envisioned they’d be throwing grand dinner parties and hosting businessmen and politicians who traveled on their way to the neighboring San Francisco.

There’d been almost 200 responses to her advertisement in the paper. She’d been most scrupulous in her dissection of each. Many wrote of superficial things, like acreage and good breeding.

Her Halbrand spoke of connection. He quoted poetry and claimed to be in a position of high esteem among the settlers at the bustling fort of Ostirith. He desired a companion by his side. Someone to share in his love and his good fortune.

And of course, he’d offered the most in funds. His check cashed for half of the agreed upon amount without issue with the backing of the prestigious Wells Fargo Stagecoach Line, and her poor mother was to be well taken care of in her grief. The second half of the money would be wired back east after the marriage certificate was signed.

Galadriel had dutifully done her part.

But in person, without the trappings and promises of her suitor’s beautifully written words, her ankles nearly shook in her boots. Perhaps she had made a grave mistake.

Ostirith wasn’t an established city, as she’d been made to believe, but a simple mining camp. There were no buildings or avenues of commerce. Just a hastily assembled collection of meager tents, a shabby mercantile and a saloon. It stood half-charred like it had been licked by the flames of hell itself.

“Sir, could you please direct me to the clerk’s office?” Galadriel asked of a man who hobbled past with a slight limp.

“Clerk’s office?” He looked at her as if she was speaking in tongues.

“Yes, is this not Ostirith?” Her letters had been addressed there. It was a known stop on the coach line. Surely it existed and she wasn’t deposited in the wrong location.

“We call this place Mordor, miss. You’d best be on your way.”

“No, I’m looking for the esteemed Mr. Halbrand? Perhaps he’s the law around these parts? The mayor or the sheriff?”

He turned to her then, revealing a grizzled and pocked face behind his stringy grey hair, and only cackled toothlessly at her distress.

“Ain’t no law around here.”

As if to prove his point, the door to the nearby saloon swung off its hinges, and a pair of bodies splashed forth into the soggy street. A blur of fists and blood landing mere steps away from where she stood.

“Don’t you know who I am?” One of the men had the other by the front of his shirt, and was pummeling a fist into the side of his head with a sickening crack. “Think you can steal from me!”

He was poised to deal a final blow until he looked up, straight to Galadriel. Hand raised mid-strike.

“You,” she thought she heard him whisper, his brows drawn in confusion. Or perhaps guilt.

The moment didn’t last long enough to be sure, as the man beneath him sprang to steal the advantage with an elbow to his face. It knocked him back enough for the other to break free and run towards her direction.

“Help me! Please!” he begged, just before a shot rang out and a mist of crimson spattered across her face and chest. The bullet exited the man’s skull and landed somewhere behind her. His features contorted in horror as he passed from life to death.

Shocked, she could only blink as he hit the ground with a thud.

“Welcome to Mordor,” said the one who’d done the shooting, as he replaced his pistol in his holster, and his hat on his head. Tipping it in her direction politely, he added, “Wife.”

Read the rest on AO3!

#haladriel #saurondriel #haladriel fic #rings of power #haladrielvalentines2025

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green-hoedrogen · 7 months ago

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I never posted the BABIES! I've been doodling these scribbly wee Hydra fankids with office supplies (+ kids' colour pencils) at work to stop myself going insane from Graphs. Deets under the cut.

First image: Corrie!

She's a pioneer, the future of rail, the first hydrogen-powered train to ever enter revenue service... and an unmitigated disaster. Supply issues, fuel cell issues, durability issues- you name it, it went wrong. Her basis, the Coradia iLint, is currently in the middle of a 2/3 fleet withdrawal.

She's very stroppy (from being, like, twelve) and frequently unwell (from being a coradia ilint.) Hydrogen rail is a technology in its troubled infancy and she's the infant it's troubling. She likes engineering toys, music, and techno-goth fashion. She's overall pretty quiet and indoorsy, but does have an interest in racing- unfortunately if she got roller-derby hip checked even one time she'd crumble into atoms. But it's nice to dream!

Second image: Finch :)

Finch 3-ish years Corrie's junior in terms of physiology/vibes, and is my only fankid with another canon parent. She's Electra's! She is a hydrogen-electric bimode, using hydrogen fuel cells when she doesn't have access to overhead wires. And boy howdy will she make sure you KNOW that. She considers herself a resounding success, the future of rail, a miracle on wheels, ect. I wonder where she could have got that from?

Her basis, the FCH2Rail project, completed testing just this year, with one of the best track records in the sector. She loves dancing and music and talking about herself incessantly. Her design takes some notes from flamenco dress, and the accessories light up green or white depending what mode she's in. She competes in small-time junior racing now that she's safety certified, but she keeps annoying/bullying her way out of training partnerships. Corrie refuses to have beef with her because she's "a baby" and not worth her time, but it is a near thing.

They have like five other siblings I have yet to draw :)

#starlight express #stex london 2024 #stex fankids #im not tagging ships because that little Spanish creature was NOT the product of anything long-term or romantic #starlight express OC

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network-rail · 7 months ago

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Street-running trains

We here at Network Rail are always looking for ways to improve Britain's railway infrastructure, and one idea we've had recently is to bring back street running for mainline trains. While this used to be more common, especially among interurban railroads in the United States, it has fallen out of fashion now that cars have taken over the roads and most of the interurbans are gone.

This proposal would see new street running lines built in several British cities, enabling stations and new lines to be built directly in city centers without requiring massive demolition or expensive tunnels. To avoid major disturbances, all of the trains would be electric, powered by overhead wires to avoid safety issues with third rail. They would run in mixed traffic, with cars, and would be mainline trains, not trams or light rail.

However, Network Rail would like to know your thoughts on this proposal.

#network rail #network rail polls #trains #we need to put fear back into drivers #they act like they own the road and we must show them how wrong they are #if they are to respect us they must first fear us #interurbans are cool. check out the south shore line to see one that until very recently still had some street running

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noodleblade · 9 months ago

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All those years of expertise made piecing together a new Breakdown almost a game. There was a terrible, exhilarating pleasure in the exercise. A guilt and desperate want coiled in his tanks as his processor wove together all its knowledge of anatomy, surgery and medicine.

Or, a post-canon Knock Out attempts to bring his partner back from the dead. [Frankenstein kobd au]

fic below the cut

Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.

“So, uh, I know it’s bare bones but it’s the best we have for now.”

Knock Out, without looking, could feel the uncomfortable wince Bumblebee gave at the arrival of their “new medbay.” Even he could see it was not quite up to the standard that had initially been promised.

‘Empty storeroom’ would be a better descriptor.

Crates and dust filled most of the space; three medslabs in various states of disrepair were being used as shelves for additional storage. Wires hung from the ceiling, sparking at the cuts as the auxiliary power attempted to light the secondary overhead lights. Rust had started to eat away at the enamel paint of the support beams. It was nothing a buff and repaint couldn’t fix but as of now, it only added to its dilapidated aesthetic.

Knock Out couldn’t say this was what he envisioned his life would be like when he joined the Autobots. Then again, with most of Cybertron looking even worse than this, the medbay and the conjoined rest of their new headquarters looked pristine in comparison. The Autobots were dead set on restoring Cybertron to its former glory and it meant reconstructed efforts and a proper headquarters.

Or really, reacquainting themselves with their old command headquarters back before they had fled Cybertron.

The old Autobot base in Iacon had been heavily damaged by time and war. Knock Out was surprised Megatron hadn’t flattened it to the ground before departing. As it was, he was thankful the structure remained.

While the entire building needed to be patched and repaired, and all of the equipment was probably defective and defunct, it was more secure than any other building currently on Cybertron. It still had all its walls, it had a functioning roof, and- most importantly -it had a nearly intact medbay. Not many other structures on Cybertron could claim the same. In the few short cycles since taking back possession of their old base, most of the refuse and grime had been cleared away, making it mostly livable - far more so than the fading light of the Nemesis as structural cracks made the ship a ticking time bomb to collapse.

It wasn’t perfect, but nothing really would be. Not for a while.

Maybe Ratchet had the right idea in staying on Earth.

“It’ll take some time to clean up,” Ultra Magnus added stiffly, as if it weren’t already apparent.

The words drifted in and out of Knock Out’s audials as he walked further into the cluttered medbay. He peeked between the crates to see some monitoring equipment shoved against the walls. They all looked outdated, probably wouldn’t even turn on. They were pre-war and seemed to have been forgotten to the past, much like most of Cybertron had once the planet died. It was amazing that they survived in any capacity; even if they were nonfunctional, they could at least be scrapped for parts.

Knock Out was not unfamiliar with the process. Before the Nemesis and its shiny, new tech, he and- they had scavenged for a lot of equipment. Being on their own had made them crafty and resourceful. It made them survivors.

Some survivors, Knock Out thought bitterly, desperately ignoring the cold, empty space next to him.

“Smokescreen can help you clear this out,” Ultra Magnus continued in his curt professional tone. There was a small beginnings of a protest from the young mech but a stern, quiet reprimand must have been issued because it was silenced before becoming anything more.

Knock Out could feel optics on him- waiting for him -so he gave a quick affirmative nod and a muted hum. It would take them ages to clear this out, not to mention most of it was probably scrap. He did not relish the task nor did he feel particularly motivated to do…anything. Joining the Autobots had been survival instinct kicking in but now that the adrenaline was gone and quiet had taken over, Knock Out wondered what there was to even survive for.

“We’ll leave you to it then,” Bumblebee quietly said and there was a shuffle of pedes as they left through the medbay doors.

The doors shut with a sound thud. Quiet echoed in the weight of their exit. Knowing a certain young speedster had been left in his care, the silence couldn’t last long-

“So, where do we begin, Doc?”

Knock Out turned his helm and for half a nano-klik, his spark stalled at the flash of blue, before his processor came back to him and he realized it was too warm a hue, too shiny a finish, and too alive a mech. Disappointment was quickly overcome by grief that was immediately squashed and quelled for apathy. There was no point getting misty-eyed in front of his little reluctant helper.

His optics raked over Smokescreen leaning against a not-so-modest stack of crates. Despite his relaxed, “cool-guy” pose, Knock Out watched how Smokescreen’s doorwings twitched in eager anticipation, his digits tapping idly as he waited for Knock Out’s response. He was not a mech known to sit still for very long or holding much patience.

“Don’t care,” Knock Out threw out flippantly, mildly amused how expressive the young mech was as his eager smirk shifted to disappointment.

“Right,” Smokescreen muttered with a small pout. His disappointment at Knock Out’s lack of enthusiasm only quieted him for half a klik. “So, are we just tossing it all out, or…?”

Knock Out let out a lengthy, dramatic sigh. In truth, it came out more tired than he cared to admit. He finally turned around, leaning his hip against the cluttered medslab. He looked at his clawed digits in a show of disinterest.

“We’ll start sorting it into stacks. Anything broken or rusted over, toss. Anything that looks marginally salvageable, I’ll look through. Once we clear off a corner, we can start organization-” Smokescreen let out a complaining groan but Knock Out continued, “-and sanitation unless you would enjoy a rust infection when you inevitably end up on my medslab.”

“Fine, fine,” Smokescreen huffed, shuffling his pedes in his reluctance to actually work. “Honestly, if it gets me off patrol duty with Sir Rules and Regulation, I’ll take whatever you got.”

Yes, Knock Out had heard Smokescreen’s numerous complaints about their newest Second in Command.

“Being a good little soldier means following your commander’s orders. That’s why I chose an occupation that allows me to be my own boss.”

“You suggesting I become a medic?” Smokescreen grinned. “Oh! I can be your assistant!”

As soon as the words were out of Smokescreen’s mouth, any remaining banter Knock Out held died in his intake. He turned, busying himself with a crate of welding patches, half of which were rotting away with rust decay.

“I’m not looking for an apprentice,” Knock Out muttered. “Better ask Ratchet.”

Smokescreen let out a soft grumble but didn’t press further. He may not know the source of Knock Out’s shift in tone, but the kid knew how to take the hint and- most of the time -knew when to keep his intake shut. That much Knock Out could appreciate out of the young, rash speedster. It's what made Smokescreen a marginal step above the rest of the Autobots, at least by Knock Out’s records.

It’s not that his time with the Autobots had been entirely bad. Despite his short stint in the brig, they had been painfully cordial with Knock Out since taking him in. With Ratchet deciding to stay on that horrible dust and rust planet, their need for a medic superseded any ill feelings towards him. They were still there; the distrustful looks from Arcee and the downright obstinance from Wheeljack. It still beat whatever awkward friendliness that Bumblebee attempted to broach with him or the downright militant authority Ultra Magnus made every interaction. None of these were as bad as Bulkhead, who opted for the worst option: sympathy.

It had taken the ex-wrecker less than one solar cycle to corner Knock Out in the halls of their new headquarters to…to… apologize? Sympathize?

“I’m sorry about Breakdown. ‘Know you guys were close and-”

Knock Out hadn’t let it go any further than that. He had cut Bulkhead down with a sharp smile and deadly thank you. Bulkhead didn’t have the mettle to bring it up again and quite frankly, Knock Out was fine with that. He was tired of the pitying glances and somber looks.

Smokescreen was the only one to act as if nothing had happened. Then again, Smokescreen was the only one that had never known Breakdown, only catching a few glimpses of the walking puppet he had become. It was perhaps the only reason Knock Out could tolerate the younger bot.

“So,” Smokescreen started again, “medical device or torture equipment?”

Knock Out turned to see the speedster holding up a rusted to scrap Energon Infusor. “Depends on whose servos it’s in.”

It was a rather basic device, used to give localized shots of med-grade energon to a damaged site in order to jumpstart self repair. It looked more dangerous than it was to the untrained optic, appearing not too dissimilar to a rudimentary blaster.

Smokescreen snorted a small laugh, gently setting the instrument back into the box. “Right, figure in yours it’d be both.”

Smokescreen also wasn’t afraid to be blunt with Knock Out and go tit for tat. Knock Out found he far preferred that over the wide optics and grim expressions every time Knock Out said anything. Smokescreen, as naive and innocent as he was, had a semblance of a sense of humor, even if it bordered on childish at times.

It took them nearly an entire solar cycle before they managed to clear off half the medbay and unearthed a set of doors on the other end.

“Doctor’s quarters,” Smokescreen whistled impressed as the doors opened to reveal a large habsuite. “Lucky. It’s twice as big as mine.”

“Interesting choice of words, kid.”

“Not like that!” Smokescreen yelped. “The room is just big. Scrap, even Bee’s isn’t that big.”

Knock Out was tempted to tease the speedster about how he knew the details of their new leader’s hab but decided Smokescreen could embarrass himself enough on his own. Knock Out didn’t need to tease him much further, lest he ruin the only somewhat amicable relationship he had.

“It’s for multiple berths. All of the medical staff are supposed to rotate here between their shifts.”

“Oh,” Smokescreen murmured. “That would explain the two berths. Oh! What if you pushed them together into a mega-berth? That’d be pretty sick.”

Knock Out genuinely couldn’t keep the laugh in on that one, chuckling as the younger bot’s door wings fluttered in excitement, pleased by the positive reaction.

“Yes, I suppose I could do that.”

Most likely, he’d just leave it as is. The medical officer berths were already large enough, fitted for larger frames than his own sleek style. On the Nemesis it had been more than enough to fit himself and-

“Let’s call it here for today,” Knock Out suggested, turning pede and walking out. He could hear Smokescreen shuffling to catch up. “I’m sure Ultra Magnus, if not our dear leader, expects a detailed report.”

“Of all the garbage we found?” Smokescreen groaned.

“Inventoried and categorized alphabetically too.”

Smokescreen just groaned louder as they headed towards the command center.

—

Nights were quaint. Homey. Every evening refueling was done communally; all the remaining Autobots gathered in the open mess hall and, despite its great size, all squeezed together at one long table. Knock Out had not been surprised to learn their sense of family extended to even refuel schedules, but was a little shocked he was expected to do the same. Like a good newly-instated Autobot, he ducked his helm and stuck as far to the edge of the table as he could.

This evening was no different. Knock Out watched with distaste as Wheeljack baited Smokescreen and Bumblebee with exaggerated tales of heroism. His booming voice reverberated in the otherwise empty hall, though no one seemed to mind. Bulkhead chimed in with equal bravado while Arcee rolled her optics with a small grin. Ultra Magnus hung close, scoffing at every inaccurate detail through sips of his energon but ultimately making no corrections. Knock Out kept himself as far away as he could, unfortunately still within audial range but distinctly alone. Aside from his brief report with Ultra Magnus on their less than ideal medicinal supply levels, the group had turned inward, leaving him alone. It suited Knock Out fine. It was just a simple reminder he would never really be one of them.

He sipped his energon in light, even intakes. The movement was more mechanical than for actual consumption. Knock Out had a distinct lack of hunger, despite his HUD showing him his fuel levels at all times. He maintained them as needed but the action always felt forced.

Then again, everything felt forced. And it was exhausting to keep up appearances. Not that it mattered now, with all optics glued to Wheeljack.

“We had our backs against the rubble. It was do or die,” Wheeljack boasted. “Bulkhead and his rescue team were still on their way and it was just me and Seaspray fighting for our lives.”

Knock Out had heard about enough of this exaggerated, drawn out tale and stood from his seat. The medbay was calling, or more accurately the berth in the medic quarters. He passed the rest of the table; Acree looked up to watch him pass, the rest far too engrossed to pay him much notice... until Wheeljack caught sight of his glossy red finish.

“Leaving the party so soon?” Wheeljack interrupted his own story. “I was getting to the good part with ol’ Breakdown.”

Knock Out froze, optics darting over to meet the self-proclaimed Wrecker. He couldn’t tell by the mech’s cocky smile if the gesture was supposed to be genuine or a biting snipe but Knock Out took it like a stab to his spark.

No one, with the horrid exception of Bulkhead, had the gall to bring Breakdown’s name up to Knock Out. The entirety of the Autobots had been happy to forget he had ever existed. Knock Out had been fine with that and hadn't wanted the alternative. They didn’t know his partner and they never would. Knock Out didn’t want false sympathy and he didn’t want to share Breakdown’s memory with any of them. Breakdown…was his. No one else’s. They didn’t have the right to speak his name, the history to lay any claim to him, the years of pain and anguish and affection and companionship to ever speak of him.

And yet, Wheeljack did so with that smarmy smirk plastered across his faceplates, begging Knock Out to react.

Anger that had been coiling around his spark lashed out viciously, his denta bared in a vile snarl.

“Keep his name out of your mouth or I’ll be happy to remove that glossa of yours.”

Instantly, the room turned cold. In his periphery, Knock Out could see both Arcee and Ultra Magnus brace themselves for a fight. Bulkhead put a servo on Wheeljack’s shoulder to pull him back.

“Knock Out-“ Acree began but Wheeljack cut in.

“What, Sweetspark?” Wheeljack grinned, ready for a fight. Keep your cool. He’s trying to egg you on. “Thought you’d be happy to hear old war stories about your buddy before he lost his helm and turned rogue-”

Knock Out had not seen the work Airachnid had done to Breakdown, only the product pieced back together by the vile humans. They hadn’t even bothered to properly patch up their shoddy welding job, displaying the slash scars like a mockery of the body they had found. Wheeljack couldn’t possibly have known Airchanid had literally chopped off Breakdown’s helm, but it still hit too close, still hurt too deep.

“Don’t speak about things of which you do not know,” Knock Out threatened with a sharp hiss.

Arcee stood up at his words, blaster ready at the draw. Knock Out narrowed his optics. Of course, the Autobots would stand for their own before him. Disgust rolled down his frame as he relaxed his strut. He turned his helm from Wheeljack and the rest of the Autobots who all watched him with silent worry.

“Just make sure you tell it right,” Knock Out said, keeping his voice light and jovial, despite its cutting undertone. He needed to leave. Get out before he truly did something he’d regret. He was supposed to play the good Autobot. It was the only card left in his hand. “After all, I distinctly remember Breakdown knocking both your afts down.”

With that, Knock Out turned and walked out. As soon as the doors to the mess hall shut, he let the remaining composure drain from him. His servos curled into tight fists as rage burned through him.

He wanted to scream and yell and rip anything that laid in his path. This was not what he wanted from life, not how he pictured his happy ending. He wasn’t supposed to be here with the Autobots, subjected to their distrust and scrutiny. He was supposed to be with his partner. Breakdown was supposed to be here with him, by his side. They were supposed to survive together. Always together, never apart.

This wasn’t the future he had been promised, the life he had fought for.

Deep, aching loneliness ate away at his rage, leaving him hollow. Knock Out let his fists loosen as he scrubbed his faceplates tiredly. Quietly, he shuffled towards the medbay, through its clutter, to the rusted, dark sleep quarters. He fell into the nearest bed, trying not to think about how big and vast the berth felt, how it was never like that before, how it shouldn’t be like that, how it was never supposed to be like that.

He had lost his patience for their jokes, their jests, the false sympathy and condescension concealed as kindness. He was tired. So fragging tired.

But it didn’t matter. On the morrow, he would rise and continue forward. Grin and bear it.

There was no other choice.

—

Knock Out did not relish scouting duties any more than he did cleaning up the medbay. The only benefit was being able to spin his wheels and get out of the cramped confines of their newly re-established headquarters. It would have been even better if-

“How far out is this place, Mags?” Wheeljack’s obnoxious voice boomed over their shared comm link. Knock Out held back a sneer as the white and green vehicle sped up beside him. Behind, Bulkhead and Smokescreen followed close leaving Ultra Magnus in the front of their scouting convoy.

“A little further,” came a short, curt response. Ultra Magnus truly was not one to waste words.

“Where are we going?” Smokescreen chimed in, his tone doing little to hide his impatience.

Ultra Magnus took a moment to answer, clearly displeased to be debriefing while on the road but deeming it necessary.

“An old Decepticon stronghold. Long abandoned, probably right before the war took us off-world,” Ultra Magnus explained. “Arcee found it the other day and our mission is to sweep the building for information, supplies or anything else of importance.”

“Oh yippie,” Smokescreen grumbled. “Dumpster diving.”

Wheeljack and Bulkhead broke out into sniggering laughs while Ultra Magnus started a lengthy rant on the importance of maintaining proper stock of supplies. Knock Out blissfully tuned them out, lowering the channel until their voices were barely a whisper.

The empty wastes of Cybertron were anything but peaceful, but the quiet they offered was one that Knock Out found himself craving more with every cycle he spent with the Autobots. He didn’t want to be a part of their laughter, their banter, their happiness. Despite all they lost, they kept moving and Knock Out just couldn’t understand why. Or how.

He was only pulled back from his thoughts as Ultra Magnus’s rear lights blinded him in their deep red glow, the hauler coming to a stop. Smokescreen, who had probably not been paying attention, came to a screeching halt just before crashing into their mission leader. He flipped out of his alt form with a slightly embarrassed look which only deepened as Wheeljack joined him, slapping a servo on the kid’s back with a laugh. Bulkhead knocked them both on the helm as Ultra Magnus scoffed at the display. No one paid Knock Out much mind as he came out of his alt and surveyed the building before him.

“Quite the stronghold,” Bulkhead said, optics scanning the building with distaste. “‘Bet it's armed to the Pits.”

“We’re going to split into groups and take anything of value. Bulkhead and Wheeljack, I want you two combing through the armory and stockrooms. Take everything you can and we can sort through it later. Smokescreen, you are coming with me to the Command Center. I want to make sure any communication memos or intel haven’t been left behind. Knock Out, you’ll sweep the medbay. I’ll leave it to your expertise. Smokescreen will join you once we finish up in the Command Center. Everyone clear?”

Before anyone could speak up, Ultra Magnus’s comm went off. The old Leader of the Wreckers blinked as he checked his HUD. He held up a single digit as he began to walk away for a semblance of privacy. Knock Out heard him mutter a quiet, “Yes, Bumblebee?” before he went out of range.

“Guess we’re on hold,” Knock Out hummed, optics scanning the others. “Anyone know any waiting games?”

Immediately, an air of tension was cast over the group. As much as they may play as if Knock Out was not present, it was difficult to ignore him. Knock Out would give it to Smokescreen though, the kid tried his might as he set about whistling a poor rendition of an Earth pop song, optics surveying the stronghold to avoid acknowledging the rest of the group. A few cycles had passed since Knock Out’s confrontation with Wheeljack but evidently it had left its mark. Bulkhead only cast him one pitying glance before settling beside Smokescreen, armor clamped down tight.

Knock Out let out a quiet scoff and turned to walk off. A quiet cough had him stopping at once.

“Hey, Red.”

Knock Out didn’t even have a chance to pretend he hadn’t heard Wheeljack as a black servo clapped him on the shoulder. “A word?”

Knock Out narrowed his optics and gave a controlled nod of his helm, glossa pinched between his denta. Over Wheeljack’s shoulder, he could see Bulkhead pulling Smokescreen away, distracting the kid to give them a moment of privacy. Knock Out held back his sneer.

“Look, about the other night,” Wheeljack started, voice low and lacking its usual bravado. “I know he is a sensitive topic for you.” Wheeljack couldn’t meet his optics, focusing on Knock Out’s shoulder tire instead. “‘Shouldn’t have brought him up. ‘Shouldn’t have egged you on. I was being kind of a crankshaft about it and it wasn’t right.”

There was a pause for silence. Knock Out didn’t take the opportunity to speak, watching as Wheeljack’s faceplates twitched. Clearly the wrecker wanted to be absolved of his guilt but Knock Out couldn’t find it in him to be charitable.

“I didn’t know y’all were like that. You know, partners and all. Like me and Bulk, I guess. ‘Surprised you didn’t leap across the table and clock me.”

“Believe me, the temptation is still there,” Knock Out hissed.

Wheeljack let out a laugh, bitter and self-deprecating. He squeezed Knock Out's shoulder and Knock Out wanted nothing more than to slap it off, but he stayed his hand. “‘Wouldn’t blame you if you did.” Wheeljack let out a sigh, using his other hand to rub his optics. “Look, this is my fragged up way of sayin’ sorry, alright? I’ll keep his name out of my mouth. You’re one of us now and it ain’t right for me to treat you like you aren’t. I want us to be square. So…we good?”

No.

“Peachy.”

Wheeljack didn’t look surprised by Knock Out’s less than keen response. Thankfully, he didn’t press, releasing Knock Out’s shoulder and taking a step back.

“Alright. Good. If…slag, if you ever want to talk about it. Well, Bulkhead’s always free and… I guess I am too.”

Knock Out couldn’t think of a worse act of torture, including getting hit by a literal train again. This conversation was already painful enough, he didn’t really need a repeat event to talk about his feelings. With slagging Bulkhead. He didn’t want to reminisce about the past, he didn’t want to share his memories. He wanted to move on. But for all the steps it felt like he was taking forward, tethered hooks would pull him right back and remind him: Breakdown is gone and you are all alone.

Knock Out watched Wheeljack make his quiet retreat to Bulkhead and Smokescreen. Bulkhead raised both optic ridges which Wheeljack answered with a muted shrug. Knock Out had to avert his gaze as Bulkhead wound his arm around Wheeljack’s neck, bringing him in close.

The absence of Breakdown never felt more palpable than now. Knock Out swallowed the static build up in his intake and cast his eyes out to the waste and ruin of Cybertron, biding his time until Ultra Magnus returned.

–

Knock Out had never been in a base quite like this Decepticon bunker. Clearly, it had been built in the midst of war, the layout haphazard and prioritizing security over functionality. Even getting in had been a hassle with its giant iron doors blocking the entrance. Ultra Magnus and Bulkhead had worked on the doors for nearly two breems before their commander finally conceded to Wheeljack’s suggestion of explosives.

Thankfully, it had done the trick, as well as blowing up the remaining armaments that had somehow survived Cybertron’s death. Once the smoke cleared and Ultra Magnus deemed the facility safe for entry, their squad made their way through the rubble.

It was a dismal, grim sight. Knock Out had seen this scenario thousands of times before on both Cybertron and his home city on Velocitron. Offlined and rusted away mechs lined the walls, crumbling blasters still held in their hands. Impact blasts and bullets riddled their chassis, their spilled energon staining the ground they died protecting. Their efforts wasted and their memories long forgotten.

The youngest of their group winced and averted his gaze while the more seasoned veterans moved through without a second glance. Perhaps by habit or maybe ingrained programming, Knock Out scanned the deceased.

His background processes cataloged their injuries and ventured estimates to the cause and time of their deaths. Knock Out ignored these readouts, more interested in a secondary scan that pulled up their Decepticon identification badges. He had been downloaded with the latest roster when onboarding the Nemesis per protocol but now found a sickening fascination in watching their status change from MIA to DECEASED.

Knock Out felt the grim reminder of when he had watched Breakdown’s status change, though back then his scans had been confused by the parasite inhabiting his frame. Knock Out, in the privacy of his own hab and once Silas had stopped screaming, manually changed the status to DECEASED despite the program’s insistence his partner still lived.

He was the last of the group to reach the end of the hall, his squad waiting patiently.

“‘You know any of them?” Smokescreen asked in tactless curiosity.

Bulkhead and Wheeljack had both reached out to nudge him but Knock Out spoke first.

“No, I was stationed on Kalis before taking a position off-planet.”

In truth, he and Breakdown had fled Cybertron and the war entirely, stealing a small cruiser and going planet-hoping for a few thousand years before joining back up with the Decepticons once again. But no one in their group needed those additional details.

Ultra Magnus cleared his intake, drawing their attention. “We’ll split here. I’m sending you the building schematics from what the Iacon records held before the building was converted. Proceed with caution and alert our channel if you find anything.”

They all gave quiet nods and split. Wheeljack and Bulkhead took the diverting pathway to the right while Ultra Magnus pulled apart the doors to the command center for himself and Smokescreen to slip through. Left alone, Knock Out pulled up the blueprints.

The medbay was not centrally located. Knock Out was surprised when viewing the schematics that the medbay was in the lowest level, isolated to its own floor deep underground. It was atypical of what Knock Out had experienced throughout his tenure with the Decepticons. It wasn’t advisable, not when the medbay was one of the more crucial facilities in any base of operation. Knock Out skimmed through the rest of the floor plan, trying to find a reason for its isolation, but ultimately found none. The only silver lining was an elevator with the sole purpose of transport between the medbay and the main floor, bypassing the several floors between.

He took said lift down, marveling that it still worked. Then again, Bulkhead and Wheeljack had been working on reestablishing Iacon’s powergrid for a while now and it appears their hard work had paid off. Knock Out didn’t have the spark to thank them for their efforts, but he certainly didn’t mind the luxury of it all. He only questioned the structural integrity of the elevator halfway down but cast the thought away as quickly as it had come. Self-preservation held little important to him as of late and he didn’t want to think about the circumstances of that any further.

Knock Out expected a disaster upon entering the medbay. He expected it to be in a similar state as his own: filled to the brim with rust, dust and piles of scrap. He expected boxes of useless equipment and records of mechs no more. He even braced himself to find the entire level caved in and destroyed.

He was not expecting to find a graveyard.

Dead, lifeless shells of armored plating and wires greeted Knock Out as he stepped off the lift. Lifeless optics greeted him, unmoving and ever watching. His optics scanned the room, and once again, his medical protocols scanned for signs of life even though Knock Out knew there had not been a living spark in here for vorns.

Sure enough, his HUD flashed before him for visual feed findings. 21 mechs: all deceased, their status neatly updated as it identified over half of the mechs he had scanned. Before it could begin running through the initial visual diagnostic reports for each individual mech, Knock Out shut it down. There was no need for such extensive data. Not when it took only a mech with half a functioning processor to see these mechs had not fallen in battle or had come to their injuries; they had been sent here to be butchered.

Each of the five medberths were lined up with deceased mechs in various states of disrepair. Disrepair may have been a gross understatement. Limbs were missing- amputated, not removed at the joint socket but sawed off haphazardly and violently. Quite a few had their chests and stomachs cracked open with hydraulic spreaders. On Earth, Knock Out had heard of a similar tool dubbed The Jaws of Life. In this case, it looked as if the tool had been the deadly finishing blow for the mechs on the slab.

From their wounds, their internals spilled out in a sea of rotting energon and corrosive rust. In just a furtive glance, Knock Out saw several integral parts had been ripped out and removed. Most prominently, their t-cogs.

Thick cables were used to strap the mechs to their slabs. One had tried to rip it off, dying with their hand enclosed around the restraint. Another seemed to have tried to wriggle out, the cable being pulled so tight it had begun to dent the armor plating, tearing into their frame.

All this told Knock Out was these mechs had been alive at the time of their unfortunate surgeries and they surely perished during their operations. With enough energon loss and organ removal, it wouldn’t take long for them to offline.

And those were just the mechs on the berths. Many were thrown to the floor, broken into pieces with their wires pouring from their severed corpses. One was missing a helm, which Knock Out looked across to find poised on one of the countertops, a dried pool of energon gluing it to the surface. Its optics had been surgically removed, mouth still agape and missing several sections of denta.

It was not all that laid on the countertop. Clear acrylic containers lined the counters and shelving units, each filled with various Cybertronian parts: mismatched optics staring at all corners of the room, denta and glossa pressed together into its own monstrous smile, digits and wires tangled in knots. Whole arms and weapon systems were stacked in rusting piles, the energon from their detachment still staining the plating.

This was no medbay, never truly fitted to be one. It was a chop shop.

Knock Out had heard tales of such medbays before. Supplies were limited during times of war and scavenging was not unheard of, even in-house. When too many resources would be needed to save a life, it was sometimes more efficient to snuff them out and take what could be used to save another, more important, one. Clearly, the medic in charge here had not been adverse to such tactics. Judging by the vast supply of decaying parts scattered across the medbay, they may have even enjoyed the task.

Clearly, it had not ended well, Knock Out thought as grayed white and red plating caught his optics. He trekked forward, stepping over crushed and dismembered frames to look down at what he wanted to assume was the CMO of this facility. A flight frame, somewhere between Starscream’s slight, angular build and Dreadwing’s bulkier, armored specs. This one now laid deceased, unseeing optics staring at the ceilings, intake crushed by the mech collapsed on top of them.

Knock Out leaned over to peer at the other mech, a tank-former with a giant, gaping hole in the center of their chest, right through the spark. Knock Out could see the exit wound. Whatever had pierced through had been serrated, the edges of the hole jagged and torn. It reminded Knock Out of his own rotary saw. In haste, it could leave quite the ghastly wound.

Funny enough, the tank mech seemed to be mostly whole- aside from the hole through the chest. If anything, his plating was pristine. Mint condition for resale or repurpose. Perhaps this one had been a commander of sorts, then again, Knock Out would be a little surprised to see a grounder is a leadership position.

Not that it had mattered all that much in the end.

Knock Out knelt down beside the macabre pair, entangled for eternity- or until the Autobots got around to clearing out this bunker and leveling it to be reused for Cybertron’s reconstruction…but that didn’t have the same poeticism behind it.

Then again, Knock Out was creating romantics out of naught. The medic and the brute, he had heard that tale before and couldn’t help apply it to the duo before him. At least these two had the good fortune to leave the mortal plane together. Some weren’t as lucky.

With a sharp nudge, Knock Out managed to push the tank off the medic. It resulted in a horrid screech of metal on metal and a hefty crash as the tank fell to its side, curled beside the medic. In the dim light, the tank’s plating could almost be mistaken for blue, especially in contrast with the faded medic’s red.

Sticky, sharp static balled in his intake. Knock Out pulled from his crouch and took a step back. He shuttered his optics and took a deep, steadying intake.

Breakdown was dead. His body was thrown from the Nemesis and rotting somewhere on Earth. His spark was now back with the Allspark. He was dead, gone.

Knock Out needed to get that through his processor; to stop looking for his partner when he knew he was gone; to stop searching for a hope that he wasn’t alone; to stop chasing a non-existent ghost.

Onlining his optics, Knock Out stared down at the tank. In truth, this mech and Breakdown looked nothing alike. Aside from the bulkiness of their frames, the similarities sharply declined.

Where Breakdown had been formatted with six heavy tread tires, this tank had thick tracks that compacted along his shoulders as opposed to being dispersed along the ligaments. Rather than Breakdown’s coppery orange faceplates, this mech’s was covered, leaving two slits for the optics to peer through. Even the coloration of their plating, that blue Knock Out had seen really giving way to a deep purplish sheen on black. It would take some reconstructive surgery to make them appear anything alike.

Nothing a little paint wouldn’t fix. It wouldn’t even take much to reshape the abdominal plating. If I break the chest armor into six pieces, I can remold it to Breakdown's frame specs. The tracks would have to go but finding the right tires wouldn’t be too hard with all the parts available here-

Knock Out blinked, his frame stalling as he stopped that thought-tree sharply in its tracks. What the frag was he even thinking?

Creeping dread crawled across his plating, its sickly tentacles carrying a deathly chill. He had to avert his gaze in case those thoughts tried to branch again.

“Primus, what is this?”

Knock Out turned his helm to see Smokescreen standing at the threshold, digits gripping the frame of the elevator shaft opening. The young speedster’s optics were blown wide as he took in the violent sight. Panic and terror filled his optics as his processor slowly grasped the scene.

Knock Out almost pitied the kid. A late bloomer into the war, he hadn’t seen much of the darker sides. He never saw the starvation, the infighting, the point where all hope was lost and morality had to step aside for survival.

“Chop shop. Organ harvesting,” Knock Out hummed, his own spark still hammering heavily in his chest. “No longer operational. It seems our little grim reaper here met his match.” With a forced smirk, Knock Out added, “They never take it well when you tell them they are being scrapped for parts.”

“Really?” Smokescreen croaked, his voice weak and shaken.

Knock Out raised an optic ridge. “It’s a joke, kid. They don’t usually tell-”

“No,” Smokescreen muttered, optics tracing along the walls of the medbay, “they really scrap living mechs for parts?”

Primus, the kid looked like he was about to purge his tanks. Knock Out stood up and approached. Softness…was not something he was accustomed to. Reassurance even less so. But the last thing he wanted to do was watch the little hero wannabe make an even bigger mess of this disaster zone.

“War isn’t all battles and glory like your pals want you to think it is. There is very little time for celebration when you are trying to find enough energon to make it to the next battlefield or find enough parts to keep your partner whole.”

Smokescreen said nothing to this and simply bobbed his helm. Apparently, this scene was too much for him.

“If you need to step outside, I can take care of this,” Knock Out lowered his voice. “I won’t be long. Everything here is rotting and broken.” It’d be a miracle if he could salvage anything.

Smokescreen gave another soft nod of his helm but didn’t move. Knock Out wondered if his joints were locked up.

“Did you ever have to do this?” Smokescreen asked quietly after a moment.

“Do you want the truth?” Knock Out asked, cocking his helm to the side.

Smokescreen gave one more muted nod, unable to meet his gaze.

“Yes,” Knock Out whispered. “And worse.” He had cut open living mechs for parts; he had tortured and maimed prisoners in order to find precious resources just so he and Breakdown could make it a few more cycles; he had siphoned mechs of their precious energon just in the hopes of keeping Breakdown’s spark going. “Not that it did any good in the end,” Knock Out muttered, more to himself than to Smokescreen. Breakdown still perished despite every rotten thing Knock Out had done to keep him going and every terrible deed he’d done as an act of vengeance. In the end, it was for nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Smokescreen said quietly, a trembling servo reaching out to touch Knock Out arm. “It ain’t much, but I’m sorry.”

The instinctual urge to bat him away was quelled with the sickly hue crawling up the kid’s faceplates.

“Go purge your tanks,” Knock Out waved off gently. “Maybe ‘medic’ isn’t your calling.”

Smokescreen gave him a wiry grin. “Just give me a second and I’ll be good.” But as soon as the words left his mouth, a shudder wracked through the racer’s body and he clapped a hand over his mouth. A moment passed before he let out a shaky exvent. “I take it you get used to the gore?”

“Most of the time,” Knock Out shrugged. “Cutting people open for a living will do that to you. Just take it easy. I won’t be long.”

Leaving Smokescreen at the threshold, Knock Out turned back to the room. He took a steady invent as he went back towards the center, trying to shake off the chill crawling over his plating.

He avoided looking at the tank and medic in the center of the room, leaving his back to them as he searched through the chop shop. He grabbed a few tools that he thought he might be able to clear the rust from and snagged the datadrive from the medic’s console. It was brittle and probably a dud but the Autobots wouldn’t be able to say he hadn’t tried. He even managed to find a few patch kits that looked in adequate condition.

He avoided taking any of the harvested parts. The Autobots would surely throw a fit if they knew where the materials had come from and even Knock Out could agree that they were not that desperate.

But…if it did turn to that, Knock Out knew where he could find the right parts.

Once he grabbed what he could, Knock Out wheeled out of the chop shop, grabbing Smokescreen and taking the lift back up to the rest of the base. All the while, he ignored the dead, blank stare of the tankformer’s corpse.

#kobd #knock out #breakdown #tfp #transformers #remember that poll from over a year ago...i finally did it #my fics #maccadam

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