#power relay module

[jjss2ngell]

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RT1 Series 16 A SPDT 12 VDC PCB Mount General Purpose Power Relay

[rssll2nett]

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[ksj-power-control]

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[mich2cpon]

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What is a Power Relay, Power relay module, Transistor relay switch 

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[gry2ahuue]

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[dniel2can]

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[oncomponentsdm]

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[rarrd2gan]

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What Is a Power Relay, latching power relays, power relay switch circuit

RT1 Series SPST (1 Form A) 16 A 12 V PCB Mount General Purpose Power Relay

[tmo2sbury]

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Non latching, Socket power relay, DPST relays, DPDT relays, Power Relay Module

RT1 Series SPST (1 Form A) 16 A 12 V PCB Mount General Purpose Power Relay

[wlie2rgnn]

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General purpose relay socket, industrial relays, PCB relay, power relay switch

RT1 Series SPST (1 Form A) 16 A 12 V PCB Mount General Purpose Power Relay

[hnry2ghee]

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RT1 Series SPST (1 Form A) 16 A 12 V PCB Mount General Purpose Power Relay

[internetskiff]

Falke is so compelling. Usually when a machine is imbued with a God complex in fiction it immediately decides it's superior to humanity and goes on a rampage - but FKLR units are nothing more than tools, just like the other Replikas. In Replika hierarchy, yes, they're basically deities - hell, their inner circle is literally comprised of units designed to be reliant on her guidance, ADLRs explicitly designed to be dependent on them and KLBRs acting as relays for their bioresonant abilities. They built polyethylene icons of godhood and then they built hopelessly devoted apostles for them. And yet, despite that, even the corrupted Falke unit in charge of Sierpinski never considers herself above humanity - perhaps it's because her ego is satiated by her status as a superweapon of the Nation, or perhaps it's simply a devotion of her own.

And then her godhood is challenged. She passed through the Gate, came back different, split by the flood of memories foreign to her. At first she sees it as an attack, a curse sent down to her from afar, but slowly she grows enamored with it. "These memories are mine now" - as if passed down, inherited, gifted to her. Is losing yourself really a curse when the "self" wasn't yours in the first place? Is this whole ordeal that much different from her creation? In the end, despite her status, her power, her authority, her influence on this dollhouse of manufactured devotees - she's just like any other Replika: a vessel to store memories that don't belong to them. Nothing is truly hers. Her body manufactured, her mind passed down to her from a frozen body, her power bestowed unto her by a module inserted into her shell. This isn't hers either, but it gives her something she'll otherwise never experience - memories of being loved. Not the hard-coded obsession of an ADLR unit, not the pride AEON feels towards her as a technical marvel - memories of someone's actual fondness. These memories don't belong to her, but at this point, the one they truly belonged to is gone. She is not alone anymore. She isn't one. She is split in two. She isn't just Falke anymore. She is also Elster. And perhaps she prefers being Elster to being Falke.

So when she is pierced with her own spears and left to bleed out, she is content. She is Elster. She is one entity in two bodies. And now, with one body left as nothing but a pile of eroded, tumorous, bleeding flesh, only one remains. She was two. And now she is one.

[djarrex]

got you under my skin

ND-5 x f!reader

read on ao3 (more warnings here too) | masterlist

in Outlaws I crash the ship into things on purpose just to hear ND scold me. yeah I'm a robofucker now. can't help it. minors be gone.

The Trailblazer had just landed on the landing pad, the engines whirring as they powered down, when Kay came up behind you where you were tinkering with your blaster at the workbench. Nix jumped onto the table from her shoulder and chirped at you. 

“You good to hang back with ND?” she asked, even though she knew the question was pointless – and it was more of a taunt, no less. You tossed her a sideways glance, rolling your eyes at her knowing grin. 

“We’ll be fine,” you assured her as you ran a cloth along the barrel of your blaster. “We’ll get started on mapping out the next locations.” You paused, setting down your blaster to pet the merqaal, who beamed at you with those large eyes and wide smile of his.

“He can’t hate me forever.”

“ND doesn’t hate you!” She chuckled at that, and opened the side gangway door as Nix jumped back to her shoulders. “I already told you that it just takes him a while to warm up to people. Especially if those people needed their lives saved right out the gate.” Kay winked at you, and you remembered how Kay’s initial relationship with the old commando droid had been rocky as well.

You partially followed Kay as she started to head down the gangway. “I need you to work together on this. I should be back in a few hours,” she called back to you. With a smirk, she then added: “Try to get along until then.”

The gangway door shut and you could almost laugh out of pure disbelief, a heavy sigh blowing out between your clenched teeth. Kay knew just how much ND got under your skin, and if ND had skin, you were positive the feeling would be reciprocated. The droid and you hadn’t been able to get along ever since he’d been forced to save your life just after you’d joined their crew. Months ago now, Kay had run into you on Renpalli Station. You’d been on the run from your former employer and were trying to secure a ride out of the sector. She’d been nice enough to offer you a ticket to freedom, but after those several hours of hyperspace travel–including multiple games of Sabacc, drinks, and shared stories–Kay had offered you a place with their crew. You had certain skills that could be put to use, and Kay had known that, which is what she argued with when reasoning with her droid partner that you would be a useful addition. ND-5 was hesitant, but trusted Kay’s judgment, just as he always had. 

From that moment–the way he’d shaken his head at you while reluctantly agreeing with his partner–you were able to tell it would take a while to prove yourself to the droid. But getting into trouble with the Empire a couple days later really sealed the fate of your relationship with him. Every little thing you did since then had been attempt after attempt to prove yourself to ND-5, that you were worthy of his trust and you were not a liability to the crew, but it still wasn't enough. The dismissive attitude toward you and his overall demeanor when it came to you eventually turned into a sour taste in your mouth, and now, you were just plain bitter. The only friendly interaction you had on the Trailblazer was with Kay or little Nix, but she was always out and about doing her thing with her small companion by her side; which was fine, because she was good at what she did. You were more comfortable hanging back, even if that meant sharing the space with the droid who so blatantly disliked you. You were always able to keep yourself busy, and really the only times you needed to interact with ND-5 was when Kay requested it. Like now. 

“She is still at the workbench,” you heard ND-5’s deep, modulated voice come from the cockpit. He may be a droid, but he sure as hell learned to cadence his speech to appropriately deliver what he was trying to relay. You shook your head and took a centering breath before you made your way into the cockpit. ND was still seated in the co-pilot's seat, as he always was, as he spoke with Kay on the comm. His head slightly turned upon hearing you enter. 

“I’m here, Kay,” you call out, rolling your eyes at the back of the droid’s head. You took a seat in the pilot’s chair, and kicked up your legs, resting them up against the console. “Didn’t you just leave? ND bothering you already?”

“I have narrowed down a few systems that–” ND-5 paused, his head turned in your direction. “Get off of the console.”

“ND,” came Kay’s mock scolding voice. You could picture her facial expression. “Be nice. Now, what were you saying about those systems?”

You tucked your legs onto the seat instead, holding your knees close to your chest and spun back and forth as the conversation carried on. ND and Kay went back and forth about the systems that he’d mapped out without you, and you remained silent for the most part, biting your tongue. Kay disconnected a couple minutes later, but not after tossing out another reminder to get along with one another. 

“So,” you started, dropping your boots into the ground with a thud and resting your elbows against your knees. “I know we told Kay we’d work together on that, but it looks like you already went ahead and did everything yourself instead.”

“Yes,” he told you flatly, clicking away on the datapad held in his long, metal fingers. While you were busy playing with your blaster, I got to work on what was requested.”

“That’s not– Kay had just left!” You practically shouted, but ND didn’t spare you a glance. You sat up straighter. “I know we don’t see eye to eye, and we don’t exactly get along the way crewmates should.” You sighed, trying to calm yourself down. “But I pull my weight, and Kay likes having me here. I made one mistake months ago and I have been trying to prove myself to you but you won’t even let me do that!

ND-5 visibly froze as you stood up, but didn't bother to look toward you. You stepped over to where he was sitting, more words buzzing on your tongue. “And if all this animosity toward me is your way of trying to get me to leave, then you may just get what you wanted. I don’t know what your problem with me is.”

None of the anger died with those last words, but you decided to save your breath and go back to what you’d been doing before – but before you could make it all the way out of the cockpit, ND’s voice arrested you in place.

“Do you really want to know?”

The way it sounded so genuine sobered you, and when you turned around, ND was actually looking at you. It was your turn to be frozen as he stood up, his imposing height towering over you. You felt like shrinking, your chest tightening at the mere way ND was looking down at you. Anxiously, you awaited his next words as you could practically see the gears turning and springs bouncing in his head.

It dawned on you that you’d never stood this close to him before. Strange, you thought, because you do live on the same ship.

“You… are a distraction.”

You narrow your eyes, and swallow hard. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He looked away.

“...Nevermind.”

“ND-5, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” You huffed in frustration. “You know what? You’re distracting me from “playing” with my blaster,” you tossed out his own words back at him. “Fuck this.”

You turned to leave the cockpit, but ND’s metal fingers found their place wrapped around your arm. He didn’t yank you, or apply serious pressure as you know he probably could have without even realizing, but the gesture definitely stopped you in your tracks. He had never touched you before, not even with the fabric of his trench coat whenever he would walk by. You couldn’t face ND, too concerned with the way your face heated up at the contact of the cool metal against your skin.

He spoke your name, quietly, and the sound of it made your heart skip a beat.

“I can hear a lot,” he started to elaborate. “My audio sensors can pick up what organic hearing sometimes cannot.” 

You finally turned around, feeling even smaller than before with how close he was to you. ND could probably sense how heated your skin was. You were embarrassed now, too – flames kindling all over your body. Never would you have ever predicted that you’d feel this heated from something other than anger and frustration with ND. A new feeling emerged from somewhere deep within you – a lust that must have crawled its way out. 

Your throat felt dry. This was new. 

“...And?”

“I cannot get the sounds you made out of my memory banks.”

You were in shock. ND-5 could hear you – late at night in the semi-privacy of your little alcove bunk. As quiet as you always were–something you’d always take precautions with–proved to be futile when in the proximity of a droid, one who was actually able to speak to you about it – a droid who was apparently making you feel… desire. 

“I did resent having to save you from those Imps,” he continued. “But I have, unexpectedly, found myself intrigued by you.”

You raised a brow and instinctually bit your lip.

“Oh? Is that the case?”

“Yes. I have often calculated how I could pull those sounds from you myself. That is why you are a distraction.” 

You were still in shock, even more so than before. You could say it all made sense now – why ND kept you at such a distance, why he shut you down with disapproving comments and taking it upon himself to complete tasks solo, rather than working alongside you. You could say it made sense, and maybe this was your way to bridge things with ND, to make things amicable with him for the first time. 

This was never something you’d consider before. There never was an attraction until now and it’s growing rapidly, beyond your control. You figure that all the resentment you harbored for him in retaliation was the catalyst – and now you need to fuck it all out of your system. He’s a droid… but maybe that was a good thing.

“Tell me,” you cautiously prodded. Nerves and the newfound desire fought for the reins. “What, um, calculations have you made?”

He was so close that for the first time you could hear the faintest of whirs in even the smallest of his movements. “This is a surprise,” ND noted with a cadence in his tone to match. “I never calculated that you would inquire about this.”

“Well.” The drive took over, and with the newfound confidence, your palm rested on his cool metal chest, just below the jagged scar. You glanced up. “I am.”

ND froze, as if he were computing his next move. 

Maybe you were making a fool of yourself. It wasn’t like you woke up this morning already pining for the droid, and even now, you weren’t even sure how it would work – but something in the back of your head screamed at you, that ND knew exactly how it would all play out – and that tempted you to your detriment.

“Good,” he said quietly and in a way that meant no backing out now. Raising his arm, ND dragged a finger down your cheek and cradled your jaw. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. “Get against the console.”

You blinked at him. “I thought you didn’t like it when I–” The wordless stare you were leveled with was enough to jolt you with the realization. A devious, knowing smile grew on your lips. “–Oh.”

“If you are going to be a brat–” His hold on your chin tightened. “–Then this will not continue.”

“C’mon, ND. Admit it.” You sauntered over to the console when he released you, arching your back and presenting yourself. It was cheap, and you felt a little embarrassed by it, but you’d tossed all caution to the wind. “You like it when I talk back, don’t you?”

ND-5 shook his head. “Tell yourself whatever you would like.” 

The sounds that came from his metal feet hitting the ship’s floor never sounded so loud and imposing until now. Each thud against the floor flooded you with more and more anticipation, and if you could really focus, it almost seemed like he was purposefully taking his time making his way over to you. Maybe that was part of it, part of his calculations. Whatever it was, it was working. Your cunt clenched around nothing, and you felt your underwear dampen.

You held your breath until you felt his hands on you, then everything came to a halt. He spoke your name again – entirely too soft and genuine and a huge contrast to the way he’d say your name before today. Your heart skipped another beat, and you turned your head over your shoulder. 

“Are… you sure you want this,” he asked. A check-in. A final confirmation. You could not recall any other time when you’d been asked something like this. You were filled with gratitude, and it blindsided you. You weren’t sure how to respond, but your defensive instinct to rub ND the wrong way was prominent, and it kicked in quickly.

After all, you were pretty good at it. 

“Who knew you could be so considerate?” you teased.

An audible sigh came from behind you. “What did I say about being a brat?”

“Fine.” With a deep breath, and with everything within you screaming for you to give in to this, you nodded your head. “I want this.” You took another breath, and offered up just a little more. “I… need this.”

“Yes, you do.”

From the right you saw him toggle a switch, and the viewport’s transparisteel tinted before your eyes. The outside light still filtered into the cockpit, however the privacy settling ensured nobody on the outside could see in.

ND’s hands were on you again, the length of his fingers closing around your hips. He gripped them, offering up more pressure than he had on your arm before. His hands don’t stay in place long; soon the fingers were sliding down and around your front, pausing again where you were practically throbbing.

“If I alternate between rubbing and applying pressure on and off right… here–” ND told you, his fingers having somehow found your clit even from over your pants, “–You will be making those same noises for me in a matter of moments.”

You grin to yourself. “Try it, then.”

A thoughtful hum is what he offered in response, and just as it was spoken, ND started to slide a single finger between your legs, adding pressure to right where your clit was, and repeated the motions. You were so worked up that it didn’t take long for you to start letting your moans fall freely, giving in to exactly what he had calculated. Even though it was so much, it still somehow wasn't enough, and you couldn't help but start to rock your hips against him, dragging your ass against the cool metal of his body that was caging you in as his hand remained cradled between your legs. 

“You really did need it. Look at you,” he praised. “Keep going. Take it.”

Never had you ever considered just how lethal ND-5’s voice could be. The rich, modulated sound of it shot straight through you. You felt like an exposed nerve, and every little sound and touch was electrifying. It had been far too long since you’d gotten off with a partner – but this – this was something else entirely. You started to sweat from the exertion, and the entirety of your body being clothed became too much. 

“ND,” you breathed out his name and paused your movements, pathetically tugging on your shirt. “Get this off of me.”

“Not yet,” he countered, much to your chagrin. You sighed in frustration and started to undress yourself, but he gripped you tighter. “You were close, weren’t you? Finish first, then I will comply with your request.”

You were much too worked up to argue, but he was right – you were close. Relinquishing yourself again to ND’s process quickly built you right back up to where you’d been before, and with shaky legs, you practically collapsed with the intensity of it all. It was barely several seconds later when his hands disappeared and his heavy footfalls moved from behind you, and when you picked yourself up off the console and turned your head, you saw ND sat right back in his seat, spun to face out. The trench coat he wore was pushed back behind him, giving you clear access to those metal legs. Realization dawned on you once again, and you were partially ashamed to admit to yourself just how eager you’d become. 

“Over here.”

Still clearing the stars from your eyes, you slowly made your way over to him, awaiting instruction. 

“What would you like me to remove?”

“All of it,” you told him in a voice far too breathy. ND cocked his head at that, but obliged. You kicked off your boots, unclasped your holster, and shrugged off your jacket, but ND handled the rest, carefully peeling off your shirt then your pants and tossed them over to the other chair. You stood there in only your bra and underwear, mentally batting away the sudden shyness that threatened to creep up and out. You knew there was a huge wet patch staining your underwear, and ND visibly took note. 

“Very good,” ND praised. It was simple, but enough, and it brought your confidence back. He patted his lap. “Sit.”

That one word turned you into a picture of obedience. You straddled his leg, your sticky and heated skin pleasantly bitten by the metal.  

“What else did you calculate?” You took off your bra then, and threw it to join the rest of your clothes.

“That you would be able to reach orgasm just like this.”

“Like how?” you asked coyly. 

“Hold on to me here,” ND instructed. He directed your hands to rest on his shoulders, the rough material of the trench coat beneath your palms. “Yes. Good.”

“Then?”

ND said your name in warning. You couldn’t help but chuckle. 

“You think this is funny,” ND commented flatly. He pinched your nipple, and it hurt. You yelped in surprise, and he shook his head – displeased. 

“Now take it, or get off of me. We don’t have all day.”

Your jaw dropped at his words, but your grip on him strengthened. “Fuck, okay.”

“You have the mouth of a pirate,” he added.

Leaned back in the seat, ND rested his hands on your hips and kept them there as you dragged your soaked pussy against the hard metal of his leg. You could hold on to ND as hard as you could and you’d break your own fingers before he’d feel a thing, so you used that to your advantage, riding his leg quick and rough while clinging to his shoulders for purchase. His bulk and solid weight made it so that he barely budged while you moved, but the seat squeaked rapidly, and it echoed throughout the cockpit along with your heavy breaths.

“Touch me, ND.”

It was almost comical how he looked down at where his hands were grabbing your rocking hips, then back up at you, like a huge question mark hung in the air above his head.

“Touch me here,” you clarified, guiding his hand to your chest. “Like what you did before, but not so hard.”

“Understood.”

ND took over then, your breasts held within his large fingers. You looked down, savoring the sight of his metal digits bending at the joints as he groped you. You kept rocking against his leg, your clit catching against the fabric of your underwear. Moans and whimpers fell freely from between your lips, and ND just sat there taking it all in as you continued to inch your way toward another orgasm. 

“You’re close again,” ND noted matter-of-factly. “I can tell. The sounds you make get breathier, and higher in pitch.” 

You were too far gone to make any type of comment back, sarcastic or otherwise, but he was right once again. You felt it in your toes, a tingle that shot all the way up your legs and to your chest where his fingers started to experimentally twist and pull at your nipples. It felt so good that you could cry, and after another few moments of the same repeated motions, you did. Tears of pleasure started to stream down your cheeks, and your pussy started to clench uncontrollably against his leg. Your legs quivered and your chest rapidly flexed with your breaths. Almost as if you’d forgotten who you were with, your head fell forward and you rested your cheek against the unscarred surface of his chest as you caught your breath.

ND spoke your name, and you shot up. 

“Sorry– I–”

“It’s all right,” he offered. “That was intense for you.”

Smug.

You ignored the comment and made it on your feet, but felt a huge wave of embarrassment come over you as you looked down to ND’s leg, where streaks of your release had made it through your underwear and ended up stained on the metal.

“Let me, uh, get that.” 

Despite your weak legs, you quickly redressed and ran over to the kitchen for a rag. Rather than heading right back to the cockpit, you took a moment to stand there in the daunting silence, a million thoughts bouncing around in your head. Did this actually fix anything? Or did this ruin everything? As if you’d been doused in ice-cold water, all of the pleasure you’d experienced and the thrum of adrenaline was gone in seconds, insead replaced with regret and concern. Everything came rushing back to the forefront of your mind, and mixed emotions with it all. ND-5 didn’t want you as part of the crew. He never did. He put up with you living on the Trailblazer and working the jobs with them because he trusted Kay, but that was it. You were a distraction, and now, arguably, you were an even bigger one. 

You didn’t want to take too long. When you finally came back, ND’s head followed your every move, and he continued to stare as you wiped him off. He couldn’t read your mind, but you knew how analytical he was. Calculating. Always assessing. It made you tense. 

Breaking the palpable silence, ND said your name for the fourth time. Not that you were keeping count.

“I don’t hate you.”

Caught by surprise, and suddenly a little irritable now, you backed away from him as if you'd been burned. You would have been angry before. Now, you felt lost. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

You tossed the rag to the side, somewhere you’d be able to remember to grab it to dispose of later.

“You are part of the crew,” he reminded you. “It does matter.”

You didn’t have anything else to say. In fact, you were so overwhelmed with too many emotions and feelings alike, that you just wanted to retreat to the semi-privacy of your bunk and wait it out until Kay came back to naturally break this newly uncovered tension.

“Come back here,” ND called after you. “We need to talk.”

You stopped in your tracks and whipped around to face him. After all these months, now he wants to talk? You were more confused now than anything, and didn’t really have the energy to be angry, but your defensive instinct to start swinging quickly took over.

“About what, ND? You say you don’t hate me, but you sure as hell don’t want me here.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you here. You are a dis–”

“A distraction, yes, you’ve said that. Message received, ND.” You shook your head dismissively, waving your hands in the air. “There isn’t much more to discuss.”

“I’m sorry.”

That was the first time you’d heard ND apologize to you for anything, and some of the stronger feelings diffused. ND’s heavy footfalls came toward you, and he said your name again, only this time, you truly listened.

“I meant it when I said that I resented saving you,” he began. “But you are here for a reason. I trust Kay, and she trusts you. That is enough for me.” 

“I see.” You look down at your boots. Your face felt hot again as you recalled what had started all of this. “And I didn’t intend for you to, uh, hear me.”

“I know that, and you cannot control how distracting you are.”

You shook your head, unable to hide the grin that grew on your lips. You plopped down into the pilot’s seat and looked up at ND. “Well, what now?”

“We work together to do our job,” he supplied, and took his place in his seat once again. A holomap appeared in a brilliant blue light, illuminating the cockpit. A few planets were at the forefront, the ones that ND had picked out. “Let’s get to work.”

You pulled up the same holomap on your end, but kept your eyes on your crewmate. “So, will you make it easier for me now?”

“Only if you stop being a brat.”

You chuckle. “I can’t make any promises.” 

ND audibly sighs, conceding with a head shake. “I didn't expect anything less.”

[thecreaturecodex]

Sabreclaw

Image © TSR Inc.

[The sabreclaw first appeared in Sabre River, a Basic D&D module, and then was reprinted in the Creature Catalogue. And then in the Mystara Monstrous Compendium for AD&D, which is where this art appears. The sabreclaw is clearly an attempt to fill the design need of making minions challenging to high level characters, which is where their cumulative defenses came in. Since AC is much more scalable in 3.x and Pathfinder than it is in earlier or later editions, I gave it cumulative offenses as well. I did tone down its nastiest ability; originally, all members of a wing fully share hit points, so none of them die unless all of them die. Combine that with an immunity to 1st-3rd level spells in the original, and every fight with these is gonna be a bit of a slog. The transfer health ability is intended to capture some of that flavor without being nearly so hostile to the players]

Sabreclaw CR 3 LE Aberration This humanoid creature has greasy black fur over its body and leathery wings growing from its back. Its face is distorted, rugose and vaguely simian. Its left hand is prehensile, but its right is taken up with a single oversized claw.

Sabreclaws are unnatural creatures, created through fleshwarping to be soldiers without goals or desires of their own. Sabreclaws are found in squads, called wings, almost exclusively; a lone sabreclaw is likely to be the survivor of a destroyed wing, and is usually desperate, insane or both. Sabreclaws do not have a functional individual identity—they think of themselves as agents of their creator, and view other members of their wing the same way typical creatures think of their arms and legs as parts of themselves.

Sabreclaw wings fight en masse, dive-bombing a target and tearing them to pieces with their namesake claws. Their tactics are usually uncreative, but effective: gang up on a single target until it stops moving, move onto the next one. The more sabrewings are clustered together, the more effective combatants they become, and a sabrewing can even relay hit points to a wounded comrade to keep them in the fight longer. Whether a sabreclaw wing retreats to choose its battles, or goes out in a blaze of glory, depends more on the desires of their master than it does any tactical sense or personal choice for the sabrewings.

Unlike many fleshwarped monster, sabreclaws are created from non-sapient creatures, namely baboons. They are always made in batches—if a single sabreclaw awakens without a wing to call its own, it lashes out violently and uncontrollably. Fledgling fleshwarpers may view using animals to create fleshwarps as a lesser evil than transforming humanoids, but few creators are resolute enough to remain at that level of mad science. Indeed, sabreclaws are often used to gather “raw materials” by their masters. Sabreclaws are carnivorous, but require much less food and water than natural creatures of their size.

Sabreclaw CR 3 XP 800 LE Medium aberration Init +5 (+9 with hive mind); Senses darkvision 60 ft., Perception +8 (+12 with hive mind), true seeing

Defense AC 15, touch 12, flat-footed 13 (+1 Dex, +1 dodge, +3 natural) hp 27 (5d8+5) Fort +2, Ref +2, Will +6 Immune poison; SR 14 Defensive Abilities cumulative defenses, evasion

Offense Speed 30 ft., fly 90 ft. (poor) Melee claw +6 (1d12+4) Special Attacks cumulative offenses, powerful charge (claw, 2d12+4)

Statistics Str 17, Dex 13, Con 13, Int 6, Wis 14, Cha 2 Base Atk +3; CMB +6; CMD 18 Feats Dodge, Improved Initiative, Mobility, Outflank (B), Precise Strike (B) Skills Fly +4, Perception +8 (+12 with hive mind), Stealth +7 Languages Common (cannot speak), telepathy 120 ft. (other sabreclaws only) SQ hive mind, transfer health

Ecology Environment any land Organization solitary, wing (2-20) or army (21-200) Treasure incidental

Special Abilities Cumulative Defenses (Su) A sabreclaw gains a +1 insight bonus to Armor Class and saving throws for every 2 sabreclaws in range of its telepathy, to a maximum of +5 for 10 sabreclaws. Cumulative Offenses (Su) A sabreclaw gains a +1 morale bonus to attack and damage rolls for every 2 sabreclaws in range of its telepathy, to a maximum of +5 for 10 sabreclaws. Hive Mind (Ex) As long as a sabreclaw is within telepathic range of one allied sabreclaw, it gains a +4 racial bonus on Initiative checks and Perception checks. If at least one sabreclaw is aware of combatants, all other allied sabrewings within the range of its telepathy are also aware of them. Transfer Health (Su) As an immediate action, a sabreclaw can lose 5 hit points in order to heal another sabreclaw within range of its telepathy 5 hit points. True Seeing (Su) A sabreclaw can see as if under the effects of a true seeing spell as a supernatural ability.

[sngl-led-auto-lights]

I have a 2007 Chevy Avalanche and the headlights and taillights come on and it tries to turn over and it doesn’t, it’s weak. Can it be the battery?

Yes, a weak or failing battery is the most likely cause of your symptoms in a 2007 Chevy Avalanche. Here's a breakdown of why, along with troubleshooting steps:

Why the Battery is Suspect Symptom Match:

"Lights come on but won't crank/cranks weak": Headlights/taillights require minimal power (5–15 amps), while the starter needs 400–600+ amps. A weak battery might power lights but fail under high-load demands.

"Tries to turn over but weak": Indicates low voltage reaching the starter. Avalanche-Specific Factors:

Leaky Batteries: Older batteries (3+ years) lose cranking power.

Corroded Terminals: Common on GM trucks; causes voltage drop.

Parasitic Drain: Faulty modules or aftermarket accessories slowly drain the battery.

Troubleshooting Steps Check Battery Voltage:

Use a multimeter on battery terminals (key off).

Healthy: 12.4V–12.7V.

Weak: Below 12.2V → Needs charging/replacement.

Critical Failure: Below 11.8V → Will not crank. Test Under Load:

Have an assistant crank while monitoring voltage.

Voltage Drops Below 9.6V: Battery can't hold charge → Replace.

Voltage Drops Below 10.5V: Weak/starter struggling → Jump-start test. Clean Battery Terminals:

Remove cables → Scrape corrosion off terminals/posts with a wire brush → Reattach tightly. Try Jump-Starting:

If jumps successfully starts the truck → Bad battery or charging issue.

Fails even when jumped? → Bad starter, ground, or wiring.

Other Possible Causes (If Battery Tests Fine) Component Symptoms Overlapping w/Battery How to Check

Starter Motor Slow/weak cranking, clicks/no crank Tap starter lightly with a hammer while cranking; if starts → Replace. Ground Connections Voltage drops under load Inspect chassis ground near battery/starter → Clean corrosion. Alternator Battery not recharging while driving Test charging voltage at idle → Should be 13.5–14.8V. Starter Solenoid/Relay No crank/single click Swap starter relay with identical one (e.g., horn relay).

Quick Avalanche Checks Fuse Box: Inspect underhood fuse/relay center (common failure).

Ignition Switch: Faulty switch can cut power to starter circuit.

Fuel Pump: Listen for hum at key-on (no hum = fuel problem).

Recommendation

Start with the battery → 90% of "weak crank with lights on" cases are due to battery issues. If the battery is 3–5+ years old, replace it (use a group 75 battery with ≥700 CCA).

If newer, charge it fully and have it load-tested at any auto parts store (free service).

If a new battery doesn't fix it, suspect a starter or corroded ground cable at the engine block. For wiring checks, see an Avalanche-specific wiring diagram (https://gmt800parts.com/wiring-guides). Safety Tip: Always disconnect the negative cable first and reconnect last to avoid shorts!

[geniusboyy]

Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 32

Pas De Deux

     The kitchen was thick with the haze of cigarette smoke, curling in slow, ghostly ribbons toward the yellowed ceiling—the nearby open window doing little to disturb it. The rhythmic snip of scissors cutting through thick strands of hair punctuated the space between conversation. Fidds stood behind Ford, one hand firm on his head, angling him just so as he worked around his ears, the blade gliding through his curls, sending chunks tumbling down into loose piles on the linoleum beside their feet.

     Fidds worked methodically, his fingers raking through Ford’s hair before lifting another section to shear away. He held his cigarette between his lips, the ember flaring each time he took a slow drag.

     Ford exhaled, watching the smoke unfurl from his own cigarette, his mind a restless hum of half-formed equations and shifting patterns. His knee bounced, an unconscious, jittery rhythm, his body unable to match the pace of his thoughts. “If we want the system to sustain itself without a hard reset every time we hit a high-energy event, we need better buffering.” He gestured vaguely with his cigarette, nearly knocking into Fidds’ arm. “The ore’s output spikes too erratically. We need something that can absorb and redistribute the excess before it fries the circuit.”

     “Quit bouncing your leg or this is gonna come out crooked,” Fidds muttered.

     Ford forced himself to still. “Sorry, I’m just excited.” He took another drag, holding the smoke in his lungs for a beat before exhaling. “I was thinking—if we configure a layered capacitor matrix, something that can cycle the overflow before it hits critical, we can smooth out the draw. And if we tie it to an active relay system, we won’t have to manually adjust the thresholds every time we recalibrate.”

     Fidds hummed, combing through the uneven layers before snipping away another curl. “So a real-time modulation loop—treatin’ it like a fluctuating power source instead of tryin’ to regulate it at a fixed rate?”

     “Exactly,” Ford said, straightening slightly. “We need to predict oscillation patterns before they happen. If we can get ahead of the waveform, we can redistribute power dynamically. That way, the system doesn’t just react to instability—it compensates.”

     Fidds let out a slow breath, considering. “That’s tricky.” He took another drag of his cigarette, the ember flaring red before he flicked away the ash. “If we don’t get the timing right, we’re just shufflin’ the problem around instead of fixin’ it. Best case, we smooth out the flow. Worst case, we overload a different node and the whole thing locks up.”

     Ford nodded, tapping his cigarette against the edge of the ashtray. “I’ve been running projections, testing different modulation intervals. There’s a sweet spot between overcorrection and lag. We just have to find it before we scale up.”

     Fidds made a small sound—somewhere between acknowledgment and mild amusement. “You been up all night thinkin’ about this?”

     Ford huffed a quiet laugh, tipping his head forward as Fidds guided it, his neck bowing under the weight of his own thoughts. “Barely slept,” he said.

     Fidds made a small sound in the back of his throat, not quite sympathy, not quite amusement. “Ain’t that always the way,” he murmured.

     Ford tapped his fingers against the table a couple times. “I figure I’ll spend the next couple weeks stress-testing the relay system, making sure it holds under simulated conditions. If we can fine-tune the redistribution speed, we should be able to handle a full-scale field test before the month’s out.”

     Fidds snorted. “Keep it to the simulations, can’t have you blowin’ yourself up before I get back.”

     Ford smirked. “Wouldn’t be real progress if something didn’t explode at least once.”

     Fidds chuckled, shaking his head. “You got some strange ideas of fun, Pines.”

     The scissors made their final pass through Ford’s hair before Fidds ran the come upward from the nape of Ford’s neck, and then there was a pause—just the quiet hiss of their cigarettes burning, the faint creak of the old kitchen chair beneath him. Fidds tapped the excess ash from his cigarette into a half-drunk mug of coffee, squinting at the back of Ford’s head.

     Then, a small noise, a brief exhale—something between a laugh and a grunt. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered, tilting Ford’s head forward. His thumb pressed lightly against the ridge of Ford’s spine as he examined something at the back of his head.

     Ford blinked, pulled abruptly from the tangled web of equations in his head. “What?”

        “You got some grays back here.”

     Ford’s brow furrowed. “What?” he repeated, sharper this time, his hand reaching blindly toward the back of his head.

     Fidds snipped a small section and reached around, depositing it into Ford’s palm. “See for yourself.”

     Ford brought them up to his face, the salt-and-pepper strands stark against his skin. His stomach twisted, a strange, leaden weight settling in his chest. He turned them over in his fingers, rubbing them against his thumb like the texture might reveal it was simply a trick of the light. But the color wasn’t uniform—some were almost entirely silver, others brown streaked with pale gray, the pigment leeching out in uneven waves.

     Fidds laughed, the sound light and easy—just another jab, just another thing to tease Ford about. “Sorry, big guy,” he said, setting the comb down with a quiet clink. He patted Ford’s shoulder, not noticing the way he stiffened beneath his hand. “Happens to the best of us. You ain’t no spring chicken.”

    Ford exhaled sharply through his nose, slumping back in the chair. He reached up, tugging at a curl near his temple, stretching it straight, pulling it down over his eye. He twisted the strand between his fingers, staring at the color—deep, rich brown, still untouched. He didn’t know why he was focusing on it, why he felt the need to look at it for so long—maybe to commit it to memory.

     Fidds gave a small, thoughtful hum. “Well, guess it kinda suits you,” he said offhandedly. “It’ll give ya that distinguished look—y’know, professor and all that.” He ran his fingers through the back of Ford’s hair again, this time more absentmindedly, like he was just making sure he hadn’t missed a spot. “’Course, means you’ll be lookin’ like an old man before I do.”

     Ford let out a burst of air, barely a scoff. He pressed the cigarette butt lightly against his teeth a few times before speaking. His voice was quieter now, like it had to fight to make it past his lips.

        “Yeah, it uh—it runs in the family…” he said.

     Fidds’ hand hesitated. A fraction of a second, barely perceptible, but there.

     Fidds resumed the motion, slower this time, gentler. He didn’t say anything right away. He wasn’t sure if he should. Instead, he took another drag from his cigarette, the smoke leaving through his nose as his eyes scanned his work, checking that everything was even—but out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the movement.

        Ford’s leg. Bouncing lightly up and down again.

     Not like before. Not with that eager, restless energy from earlier, when his mind was alight with discovery, when he couldn’t sit still because his body couldn’t contain the momentum of his thoughts. No, this was something smaller, something more contained. A twitch. A subtle, nervous movement. Fidds didn’t tell him to stop this time.

     Ford took a slow drag from his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs too long before exhaling. “Thanks for doing this before you head out.”

     Fidds exhaled too, though it came with a quiet sigh. “No problem, bud. You needed it.” His fingers did a final ruffle through Ford’s freshly cut hair before he unclipped the towel from around his neck, shaking loose curls onto the floor.

     The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t the easy kind—the kind they usually sat in without issue, just two men smoking, working, sharing space. No, this one settled into the room differently, a bit heavier.

     And Ford, still staring down at the cigarette in his hand, didn’t move to break it.

     Fidds took one last glance at Ford’s reflection in the darkened kitchen window, his freshly cut hair a little uneven where it curled at the edges, before turning away and tapping the ash from his cigarette into the sink. The ember flared for a brief second before dimming, burning low. He checked his watch.

     “Gotta get goin’ here soon if I’m gonna make that flight,” he said, grabbing his button-up from the back of one of the dining chairs. He shook it out, the fabric snapping lightly in the quiet before he started pulling the sleeves over his arms.

     Ford exhaled and nodded absently as he stood and went for the broom. He tapped the cigarette over the edge of the ashtray, watching the embers flick away before snuffing it out entirely. 

     Fidds kept talking, rolling his shoulders to settle the fabric. “Fridge is stocked up for ya, but two weeks is a while, so you’ll probably have to go into town at some point.” He paused, shaking his head as he fastened the buttons. “Try not to get into any fistfights.” His tone was light, but there was an edge of sincerity to it, a pointedness in the way he glanced over.

     It earned a quiet chuckle from Ford, one that loosened some of the tension that had been hanging between them. “You know me, Fid, I’m no trouble maker,” he said, sweeping the last of the stray hair into the dustpan.

     Fidds huffed, shaking his head with a half-smirk, but something about Ford’s tone made him hesitate before replying.

     Instead, he stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Ford’s shoulder. His palm was warm, steady, grounding. “I mean it, Ford. Take care of yourself while I’m gone.”

     Ford didn’t look up, just brushed the last of the hair into the bin with the edge of his foot.

     Fidds squeezed his shoulder lightly. “Don’t get too caught up down in that lab. Please?”

     Ford didn’t answer right away. He just kept sweeping, his movements slower now, almost absentminded. Then, finally, he muttered, “Sure.”

        But it didn’t sound like a promise.

     Fidds didn’t press. He just exhaled through his nose, brief but knowing, and moved toward the door where his bags sat idly against the frame. His coat hung from the rack above them, and he pulled it down, giving it a sharp shake before threading his arms through the sleeves. His hat followed, settled easily onto his head with a practiced tug at the brim.

     Then he crouched, unzipping the duffel at his feet. His fingers sifted through its contents, pausing when they found their mark.

        “Hold out your hand,” he said.

     Ford hesitated, brow pinching slightly, but followed the instruction.

     Fidds pulled something about the size of his fist from the bag, his grip careful as he placed it into Ford’s palm. “Happy Hanukkah,” he said.

        Ford looked down. A snow globe.

     He turned it slightly, brows furrowing as he examined the tiny scene inside. Then, slowly, his lips parted. The realization hit him in pieces—the shape of the porch, the placement of the chairs, the shed out back, the exact curve of the gravel driveway. It was the cabin.

     The level of detail was almost unsettling. The way the shingles layered over each other, the faint etching of wood grain in the porch railing. Even the path of the fence line, twisting slightly where the old post leaned.

     Ford shook his head slightly, looking up at Fidds, who was already grinning.

        “Hanukkah ended on Saturday,” Ford said.

     Fidds huffed, shoving Ford’s shoulder. “You bastard, you gotta tell me this shit!”

     Ford laughed, the sound breaking through something in his chest as he gave the globe a shake, watching the snow swirl and settle over the tiny model. “How’d you even make this?”

     Fidds just shrugged, adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”

     Ford exhaled softly, his fingers tightening around the glass. “Thank you, Fiddleford. This is… very thoughtful.” He hesitated, rolling his thumb along the base of the globe. “I… don’t have anything to give you.”

     Fidds shook his head, brushing it off with a quiet laugh. “That’s alright.” He leaned down, zipping his bag shut before straightening again. “Just make sure that little critter in the lab stays fed.”

     Ford sighed, tipping his head back slightly. “Yes, wouldn’t want anything happening to our class pet.”

     Fidds snorted. “He likes green apple,” he said, pointing a finger at Ford as if to emphasize it. “But don’t give him too much.”

     Ford rolled his eyes but smiled. “You got it, Dolittle.” He nodded toward the door. “Now get going. Wouldn’t want you to miss your flight.”

     Fidds lingered for a second longer, eyes scanning Ford’s face like he wanted to say something else. But whatever it was, he left it unsaid. Instead, he just clapped Ford’s shoulder again, squeezed once—as to emphasize the something in the nothing, then grabbed his bag and stepped out the door.

     Ford stood by the window, one hand resting against the cold sill, watching as the glow of Fidds’ taillights faded down the gravel drive. The car’s low rumble drifted through the trees, tires crunching over the uneven road, kicking up dust that swirled in the weak light of the porch lamp before settling back into the quiet. The wind had picked up, rattling the loose pane in the kitchen window, making it shudder in its frame. It carried through the house, slipping through cracks in the walls, whistling under the door—a restless presence moving through the empty spaces Fidds had left behind.

     Ford didn’t move. He stood there long after the car had disappeared, staring at the dark stretch of road, at the empty place where the headlights had been, at the trees swaying against the late afternoon sky.

     The house felt different now. Still, but not peaceful. Hollowed out.

        “And then there were two.”

     Bill’s voice curled at the base of Ford’s skull, thick with something half-amused, but mostly indulgent, stretching itself out just to hear the sound of it. A deliberate pause, a silence filled with its own meaning. Then, finally:

     “So.” Drawn out, lazy. “What are your plans for the solstice?”

     Ford glanced at the empty stretch of road, then away. “You’re looking at it.”

     “Oh, come on, Fordsy, no garlands?” Bill’s voice lilted in mock disappointment. “No lights? No merriment?” He let the words stretch, savoring the shape of them. “I certainly wouldn’t mind watching you swing that axe again. Lug in one of those trees that stay green…forever. What are they called?”

        “Evergreen”

     “Yes! Evergreen…well, not after the ritual—you humans do that this time of year, right? Hack one out of the earth, drag it inside, let it die slowly in the corner?”

     Ford shook his head, lips pressing into something like a smirk. “I’m Jewish.”

     Bill hummed, almost thoughtfully. “Right, right…  The eight crazy nights and whatnot.”

     “Yeah.” Ford muttered, fingers absently tugging at the hairs at the nape of his neck, a restless, unconscious movement. After a beat, he let his hand fall, something final in the gesture.

     “I thought all you humans flocked back to the nest for those sorts of things.” Bill’s voice took on that probing, casual lilt, the way he always did when he already knew the answer but wanted to see how it would unfold anyway. “Big, noisy feasts—everyone yelling and interrupting each other. But for some reason, there’s always one of the older ladies commenting on who’s gained weight.”

     That—that—did get a chuckle out of Ford. Brief. Quiet. The kind that escaped before he could smother it. “You’re not too far off.” His gaze flicked, almost involuntarily, back to the window. The road was empty. Whatever he’d been looking for—whatever he’d half-expected to see—wasn’t there. He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes.

        “But not you?”

     Ford sparked a match, the flare of it sharp in the dim light. The scent of sulfur curled at the edges of the room. He inhaled deeply, letting the burn settle behind his ribs before shaking his head. “No.”

        “Certainly someone’s waiting for you?”

     Ford exhaled, smoke rising in slow, heavy spirals. He didn’t answer immediately, and when he did, his voice was tight, controlled, like it was carefully smothering something. “It already passed. It—” He stopped, rubbed a hand over his mouth, then shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

     A quiet stretched between them, long and thin.

        “I see.” Bill replied simply.

     Bill didn’t push further, which was almost stranger than if he had.

     Ford turned from the window, leaving a slow trail of smoke behind him as he descended the stairs into the lab. The shift was immediate—the crisp chaos of the underground space swallowing him whole.

     He shrugged on his lab coat, rolling his shoulders to settle it properly, then absently straightened a row of labeled vials as he passed them. At the far wall, a large canister housed a roll of tightly wound graph paper. He unraveled a clean stretch, slicing it neatly against the razor at the dispenser’s edge.

     The workbench was scattered with old notes, pages softened at the corners, numbers running together in thick graphite. He smoothed the sheet down, clipping it in place, then reached for one of his notebooks. His fingers skimmed past calculations, sketches, stray annotations, flipping with precision until he found the page he wanted:

     A rough concept. Barely a blueprint. Just the beginning of something—a mess of equations, half-solved formulas, notes scrawled hastily in the margins.

     Ford sat, rolling his chair closer to the desk. His pencil hovered over the page for a moment before pressing down, thickening the lines of an equation, adjusting a variable.

     His pencil moved, quick, deliberate. Adjusting for wavelength distortion, refining the detection parameters. The energy output was still too unstable; he’d have to work through that.

     He began marking adjustments, recalibrating, erasing, rewriting. The slow drag of graphite against paper filled the silence, an almost meditative repetition. He sketched out a rudimentary lens array, scratched it out, trying again. There were still problems to solve—the signal resolution, for one, wasn’t precise enough. The data output had too much noise, and if he couldn’t isolate the event patterns cleanly, then—

     He tapped the pencil against the margin, thinking.

     Bill, uncharacteristically, was still silent. It was the kind of quiet Ford recognized—not absence, but expectation. Waiting for something.

     Ford could feel Bill tracing the movements of his hands—not the lines or the figures on the paper, but the motions themselves. The careful precision, the obsessive repetition of it all. 

     He could feel it in his bones, that quiet weight between his shoulder blades—a constant, soft presence, like the brush of fingertips just shy of contact. It was a feeling so familiar, so entwined with his own body that he could forget it was there, and then remember it again, in the space of a breath—oh, how quickly it made him forget the mess.

     He set the pencil down and leaned back in his chair, taking a slow, deliberate pull from his cigarette, exhaling smoke toward the dark corners of the lab.

     “It’s a time to do things you enjoy with people you like.” Ford said simply, voice was measured. He took another slow drag from his cigarette.

        “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

     Bill made a noise—something light, lilting, a bit teasing. “How sweet.”

—

     The world returned in layers—first sensation, then weight, then the slow, deliberate effort of movement.

     Flesh was strange. Heavy. Confining in a way that felt unnatural, as if it were trying to remind Bill of the boundaries of this borrowed body. He rolled Ford’s shoulders, felt the tension strung between the bones, the way the muscles resisted before yielding. He stretched Ford’s fingers one by one, flexed them, curled them into fists, then released. The knuckles cracked, sharp in the quiet. 

     Ford’s body was worn—he’d spent too many nights bent over a desk, hunched, but even so, it responded. He could feel it now—muscles that would bend for him, would let him in when the time came. In some sense, it was always like this—Ford’s body, heavy in its own skin, but soft and vulnerable under Bill’s hands. 

     He tipped Ford’s head from side to side, testing. The weight of it was satisfying. Ford’s neck wasn’t the only thing he felt the pull of—there was the sharp, muscular lines of his arms, the quiet strength of his frame—they held an allure, something not quite of the body but for it. Bill often found his thoughts straying to those moments, the raw, unsaid things that lived in their touch, their quiet heat.

     Bill could feel the tension run deeper, could sense the resistance, the discomfort in Ford’s own willingness to be claimed—as he had been time and again, but never fully. And wasn’t that something? Wasn’t that interesting? 

     There was more here. More in Ford’s life—more in this body, and Bill wanted it. Needed it.

     Curiosity burned deeper than it ever had before. There were pieces of Ford that laid scattered—fragments, parts tucked away in corners, just out of reach. Ford kept them hidden—the things he didn’t want to show, the parts of him Bill hadn’t yet touched. The dreams held whispers of it—in sweat-slick skin, lips pulling in pleasure, with eyes that asked for something more, but never admitted it. 

     But life had a way, Bill had come to find, of leaving traces—ruins that could paint a clearer picture of what had been left behind. So, while Ford slept, Bill was at the helm—he explored.

     Bill had been through the lab, through Ford’s desk, through every drawer and locked cabinet Ford thought he was so clever about. But Fidds’ space? That was new.

     He moved Ford’s body through the house, bare feet brushing the floorboards, his movements less restrained now that they were alone. The door to Fidds’ room was unlocked—of course it was. Why wouldn’t it be?

     Inside, the room smelled faintly of dust and old paper, layered with something warmer—wood, whiskey, a trace of engine grease. Lived-in but not homey, the way men like them tended to keep things.

     Bill rifled through the dresser first, forcing Ford’s hands to move through stacks of clothes, occasionally brushing against the odd pocketful of loose screws. The nightstand wasn’t much better—half-empty cups of water, a few folded notes. Bill unfolded one, skimming the contents. The handwriting wasn’t Fidds’—and there, along the bottom, were several faded pink lip prints. The paper was old, crinkled at the edges. Bill tossed it aside.

     He moved on, fingers brushing along the desk, scattering a few notebooks just to see what lay beneath. Schematics. Numbers. Diagrams, scrawled over loose pages. Boring. He shoved them aside and opened the top drawer.

     A battered deck of cards. Bill flicked open the top, letting the cards spill into Ford’s hand. The edges were soft from wear, but the stack was thinner than it should have been. Bill fanned them out, shuffling through them lazily: only 9s, 10s, and the lettered ones. Useless. He shoved the cards back in the box and tossed them aside. 

     He reached towards the back of the drawer and Ford’s fingers hit something cool, metal. A flask. Bill popped the lid open letting the sharp fragrance of whiskey waft over him. He took a swig, gagging lightly at the burn—then took another before closing it and setting it back where it was.

     What else, what else…a pack of gum with only two sticks left. Then—what was this? A switchblade. Bill flipped it open with a flick of Ford’s wrist, testing the blade against the pad of Ford’s thumb. The body barely reacted to the shallow press. The blade was dull anyway. Disappointing.

        Finally, his gaze fell on the closet.

    ��The door creaked softly as he pulled it open. Inside, a row of shirts hung unevenly, some pressed together, others spaced apart like they’d been tugged on in haste. A few pairs of shoes sat scattered along the floor—scuffed boots, well-worn sneakers, something that might’ve once been dress shoes but had seen better days. In the corner, a long, narrow case leaned against the wall—Fidds’ gun, no doubt. But Bill’s attention snagged on something else.

     His borrowed fingers brushed against a box on the top shelf, its edges softened with age, the cardboard slightly warped. VHS was written across the front.

     Bill grinned—he’d seen these before. He pulled it down and set it on the floor, pushing Ford’s hands into the it, sifting through the stacks. The labels were neat, written on sticky notes.

            Home Movies. Too sentimental—Pass.

        Horror. Not bad…Maybe?

     Honeymoon? The moon was many things, but honey wasn’t one of them—forget it.

        Then—his hand stilled.

     Near the bottom, another label. Half-peeled at the corner, curling slightly.

        Christmas.

     “’Tis the season,” Bill murmured, amused, peeling the sticky note away with deliberate slowness.

     His fingers drifted through the tapes, pushing them aside, skimming the titles.

        Then—one caught his attention.

     The cover was different. Not some home recording, not a garish holiday special. It was a real production, glossy, with dramatic lighting. A man stood on the front, his body taut, arms stretched at his sides in a precise pose. The title curled above him in elegant script:

        Baryshnikov: The Nutcracker.

     Bill tilted Ford’s head, intrigued.

     He didn’t know what this was. Not really. But there was something about the way the man stood—poised, perfect, his body a study in control—that caught Bill’s attention. The way the muscles in his legs and arms defined themselves beneath the very tight fabric. Deliberate. Precise. 

           Bill’s grin sharpened.

        “Well, well.” 

     He turned the tape over in Ford’s hands, running his fingers over the plastic case. The back was filled with little printed images—dancers mid-motion, bodies suspended in impossible shapes. A synopsis, a list of credits, none of which meant much to him. The words blurred, insignificant next to the pictures.

        But something about it pulled at him.

     A performance. A display. A human body moving with purpose and control, and discipline—more than mere flesh.

     This was control without restraint. Power without resistance. A body yielding, but not in weakness—in mastery.

           And that was what caught him.

        Because Ford’s body wasn’t like that.

     Ford’s body—that was rigid. All strict, efficient movements, measured steps. Tension locked in his shoulders, restraint wired into his muscles. He moved like a man who had spent his whole life making sure he never miscalculated, never overreached, never let himself falter—carrying his body as if something terrible might happen if he misstepped.

     Even in moments of surrender, even when Bill had pulled him apart and coaxed pleasure from every nerve, he never fully let go—there was always something held back, something clenched in his jaw, something braced in his spine.

     Even at his most undone, he was never fully free.

     He always talked about diligence. Discipline. He lived by it. But Bill had never seen Ford’s body express that control like this.

        No, this—This was something else entirely. 

           He wanted to see. 

     He padded down the hall and made his way into the living room. There, against the center of the wall, sat an old VHS player, nestled beneath the television—He’d watched Ford do this before—the routine, the ritual. He slid the tape out of the box, the reel uneven on either end, thicker on the right side.

     He crouched, shoving the tape into the slot. The machine whirred to life, clicking as the tape was swallowed into its depths. He turned the dial on the TV—just as he remembered seeing Ford do. 

        The tape whirred, and the picture steadied.

     Bill sat close to the screen, Ford’s body held still, knees drawn up, fingers curled loosely against his ankles. The blue glow flickers over his skin as the stage unfolded across the screen.

     Soft light bloomed, illuminating an expanse of painted backgrounds. He reached for the dial, twisting it carefully, and the sound that followed was a series of delicate notes, slow and reverent—A sound like wanting.

     Bill’s breath was even, but something inside wasn't. A tightness in the ribs, something thin and stretched—He didn’t know why.

     The stage is vast, glowing, its warmth bleeding into the dimness of the recording. And there—her. The woman in white. She made delicate gestures, so careful, so precise, it seems impossible that she is real. She extends a hand. And then—him. The man from the cover.

     He steps forward—moving like he is separate from the world entirely, like gravity is something that only concerns others. His hands are gentle but deliberate, and when he reaches for her, she moves into him with certainty.

     The music lifts. It presses against Ford’s skin, beneath his ribs. Expands into the spaces between—between breath and bone, between this room and somewhere further, vaster, something without walls. It fills them, pushes into them, restless and endless—A sound like knowing.

           She reaches for him.

        And he takes her hand.

     Not like a claim, but gently—A meeting, one movement. She lifts onto the very edges of her feet, and he pulls her forward, just enough, just barely.

           The strings ascend—

        And she rises.

     Weightless, unbound, as if the music itself is pulling her up. As if she is not of this place at all.

     Something inside Bill shifted with them. A pressure, an ache behind Ford’s sternum, a heat pooling somewhere deep in the spine. It is not a thought, not a word, but something else.

     She leans into him, drapes herself across his arms. A body surrendered, but not in defeat. He moves with purpose, and she with trust.

     The figures on the screen turned, caught in each other’s gravity—Wasn’t that what this was?

     A body moving, knowing it would be caught. Hands reaching, knowing they would be met.

     Bill had known that. Had felt that. Had let himself be lifted, weightless in another’s grasp, drawn forward by something beyond them—something that neither of them could name.

     The music changed—rising like a wave. It moved in time with them, or perhaps it was them moving to meet it. It filled the room with an energy he couldn’t quite place—it was bold and exhilarating, yes, but also held a kind of ache, a sort of sorrow—that stirred something in him.

     The music swells, again. It presses into him, filling the empty spaces, expanding in the hollows. He can feel Ford’s body responding before he understands why—the faintest tremor in his fingers, a pull at something in the breath, in the pulse—there. A longing, an anguish. Something vast and unspeakable, drawn up and wrung out of them, spilling across their surface. 

        She folds against his chest.

     And Ford’s hands—their hands—curl inward, pressing into their palms, holding onto something unseen.

     The way he moves her. The way his hands trace her, firm, assured, each motion deliberate. The way she gives herself to him, the way he bears it—it is a kind of triumph, but not of conquest.

     There was something about the way he looked at her—A quiet intensity, a reverence, something fragile, something cherished. The way his eyes burned—it was familiar.

     Bill could feel it. In the chest, in the throat. It ached. He knew that look. He knew that feeling.

           He’d seen it before.

        On Ford.

     On Ford, looking at him.

     It should be a claim, but it isn’t. It is something softer. She gives, and he takes only what she offers. He catches her, never demands. It is a meeting, not an expectation. And Bill knows this, too. Not in words. Not in sound. But in motion.

     He understood movement. The weight of a hand, the shift of muscle, the way touch speaks by tension’s release.

        And Ford’s touch—spoke to him.

     In the way he presses forward, the way he pulls. The way his grip falters, caught between wanting and restraint. How his fingers tremble when they hold too hard, how they soften—afraid to take too much.

     Even in surrender, even in pleasure, even in the moments where his breath is shaking, where his body gives itself over—there is always that hesitation. That measuring. That something.

     A flicker of memory—hands, tracing over him with curiosity. I need to understand, that touch said. Let me know you.

     There was a burst of strings, a note drawn long and low, delicate as thread. Bill startles—not outwardly, not in a way that the body betrays, but inwardly, somewhere deeper. The sound does not enter through their ears alone—what was it reaching?

     Bill couldn’t help it—they stood, eyes never leaving the figures. There was a tug inside them, a strange, frustrated pull. What was it? What made these movements seem so certain?

        He wasn’t made for this.

     And Ford, with his restraint, with his hesitation—

           But together—together, maybe.

        Their fingers twitch.

     The body follows.

     Testing the pull of their limbs, the space between the music and this body, the air between the motion and the understanding of it. He bends Ford’s legs, arms curling into an arc above their head, then slowly, steadily, a curve in the spine, dipping to the side.

     Bill lets the breath sit in their lungs, holds it there, feeling the shape of it, the weight. The music swells once more, fingers lower, barely grazing the air before settling. They move, through the dark—step of two.

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