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honeydippedfiction · 8 days ago

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Angel x Joe #9 for hurt/comfort. I just love them so much

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#9. Taking you to the ER for an injury/sickness.

Joe Burrow x Angel

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

It started with silence.

The kind that made Joe glance up from his iPad, the game film still rolling in slow-motion replays, his AirPods still in his ears. The TV was on mute, casting soft blue light across the living room, where Angel sat curled on the edge of the couch.

Or rather, had been sitting.

Now she was hunched forward, elbows on her knees, one hand to her forehead, her breathing shallow and fast.

Joe pulled out his AirPods. “Angel?”

She didn’t answer.

He rose quickly, crossing the room in two strides, crouching down in front of her. Her skin was pale, even under the warm-toned lamplight, and her curls stuck to her forehead with sweat.

“Babe, hey. Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“I—” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know. My head hurts. I’m dizzy. My chest is tight.”

Joe’s stomach dropped. This wasn’t like her. Angel was composed even when she was in pain, someone who once sat through a root canal and walked out like it was a teeth cleaning. But now she looked like she could barely stay upright.

“When’s the last time you drank water?” he asked.

She blinked slowly, trying to focus on him. “I—I don’t remember. I was rushing this morning. I didn’t eat lunch. I had two meetings. Then the cake tasting. I…”

Her sentence dissolved into nothing. Joe barely caught her before she collapsed.

Her body went limp in his arms, head tilting back, eyelids fluttering. For a horrifying second, he thought she was gone—until she let out a shaky breath.

“Angel!” His voice cracked. “Come on. Wake up. Hey.”

She stirred weakly, and then her back arched in his arms—a sudden, stiff jolt—and a small, guttural sound left her throat.

Panic exploded in Joe’s chest.

He didn’t think. He scooped her up, grabbed his phone with trembling fingers, and was already calling 911 before he reached the car.

·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇ •❣•୨୧┈┈┈୨୧•❣• ·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇ •❣•୨୧┈┈┈୨୧•❣• ·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇

The drive to the ER was a blur.

Joe had never driven so fast in his life, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping Angel’s leg as she lay slumped in the reclined passenger seat. The dispatcher stayed on the line, guiding him with calm, clear directions—keep her head tilted, monitor her breathing, don’t panic.

Don’t panic.

But how could he not?

The woman he loved, the woman he’d been planning a life with—she wasn’t responsive, wasn’t herself. He kept glancing over at her, willing her to open her eyes, to tell him she was okay. That it was just a panic attack, or low blood sugar, or anything less terrifying than what his mind was already imagining.

He pulled into the University of Cincinnati Medical Center’s emergency lane at 1:53 AM, tires squealing. He threw the car into park and sprinted around the side, yelling for help before the door even swung open.

“Somebody—help! I think she passed out—maybe a seizure—she’s not waking up!”

Nurses rushed forward with a stretcher, and Joe gently eased her out of the car. She looked small and weightless in his arms, her head resting against his chest, her breathing faint but there.

“We’ve got her,” one of the nurses said, taking control.

Joe tried to follow them, but a security guard stepped in. “Give them a minute, sir. They’ll come get you.”

“She’s my fiancée,” he said hoarsely. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Twenty minutes later, he was finally allowed into the exam room.

Angel was lying under crisp hospital sheets, a nasal cannula feeding her oxygen, an IV in her arm, electrodes on her chest. Her skin was still pale, but her breathing was steadier. A nurse explained the basics: extreme dehydration, compounded by stress, likely triggered a vasovagal syncope response. The moment she passed out, her body’s natural reflex had gone haywire. It wasn’t a full seizure, but close enough to terrify anyone watching.

Joe sat down beside her, covering his face with both hands.

The nurse touched his shoulder. “She’s stable. She’s going to be okay.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “Thank you.”

“She’ll need fluids, rest, and probably a full workup to make sure there’s nothing more serious going on.”

As the nurse left, Angel stirred.

Joe shot to his feet, leaning over her. “Hey. Angel. Can you hear me?”

Her eyelids fluttered, and slowly, her eyes opened. Confused at first. Then they found him. Her voice was thin, cracked. “Joe?”

“I’m here. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

She looked around, eyes glassy. “Hospital?”

“Yeah,” he said, brushing hair back from her face. “You scared the hell out of me.”

She frowned, trying to piece things together. “What happened?”

“You passed out. You were dehydrated. And I think stress finally got the best of you.”

Her eyes filled, not with pain, but with guilt. “I didn’t want to worry you. I thought I could just push through it.”

“You don’t have to push through anything alone,” Joe said, taking her hand gently. “That’s not how this works. Not with me.”

She closed her eyes again, letting a few tears fall. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” he said firmly. “No sorries. Just get better. That’s all I want.”

They kept her overnight for observation.

Joe stayed, refusing to leave even when the nurses brought him a cot he didn’t touch. He sat by her bed all night, holding her hand, listening to the steady beep of the monitors. The hospital window turned from black to navy to gray, and finally, pale pink as dawn broke.

Angel slept deeply, the medications doing their job, her face relaxed at last.

Joe leaned back in the chair, exhausted but wide awake.

In all his years of pressure—on the field, in the spotlight, under blitzes and injuries—he had never been more scared than he’d been watching her body go still in his arms.

Football could break bones. But this kind of fear?

This was the kind that broke hearts.

And still, there was nowhere he’d rather be than beside her.

Angel had been home for less than twenty-four hours, and Joe was already driving her crazy.

He hovered.

He followed her from room to room like a silent bodyguard—carrying water bottles, fluffing pillows, adjusting thermostats like the air itself might try to harm her. Every time she so much as shifted her weight or scratched her head, Joe looked up from wherever he was like she’d just cried out in pain.

She loved him. Deeply.

But if he asked her one more time if she was too cold, she was going to pretend to faint just so he’d stop talking.

“Joe,” she said flatly, watching him bring her the third cup of electrolyte water that hour, “I’m not a dying plant. I’m a person. I’m fine.”

He didn’t flinch. “You were unconscious two nights ago. You’re not fine, you’re recovering.”

Angel sighed from her place on the couch, propped up with enough pillows to build a small fort. She wore one of Joe’s sweatshirts, her legs wrapped in a blanket, the IV bruise on her hand faint but still tender. “You’re treating me like I’m made of glass.”

“You passed out and scared the hell out of me. So yeah, I’m gonna treat you like you’re glass. Until the doctor clears you. Until I clear you.”

She raised a brow. “You’re not a doctor.”

“I’m quarterbacking your recovery. Same thing.”

Angel groaned, rolling her eyes. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Joe grinned and sat beside her, not-so-subtly checking her pulse on her wrist. She let him, because truth be told, even though his hovering was excessive, it was also kind of sweet.

“You haven’t left the house since I got back,” she said after a beat.

“I’m on a ‘mental health’ day,” he replied, shrugging. “Coach told me to take it. Said I looked like someone who hadn’t slept in a week.”

She gave him a soft look. “Because you haven’t slept in a week.”

“I’ve been busy keeping you alive,” he teased, though his eyes were still a little too serious for the joke to fully land.

Angel nudged his leg with her foot. “You can breathe now. I’m not going to pass out again.”

“You don’t know that.”

She tilted her head. “You’re scared.”

Joe exhaled slowly. “Yeah. I am.”

The room fell quiet except for the hum of the heater kicking on. He looked down at her hand in his, thumb brushing gently over her knuckles.

“I’ve had injuries. I’ve taken hits. I’ve had defenders try to take my head off,” he said. “But none of that ever made me feel like this—watching you fall and not knowing if you’d open your eyes again.”

Angel’s eyes welled with quiet tears—not from pain this time, but from something softer, heavier.

“I didn’t know I’d let myself get that run down,” she whispered. “I thought I could handle it. The wedding planning, work, the travel… being your partner means being strong.”

“Being my partner means being real,” Joe said. “Strong doesn’t mean pushing until you break. You don’t have to prove anything to me. Ever.”

She nodded slowly, overwhelmed by his gentleness.

“I’ll try to be better about listening to my body,” she said. “But you have to try not to lose your mind every time I stand up to pee.”

“No promises.”

She laughed—a real one this time—and Joe looked both relieved and proud, like he’d just completed a game-winning drive.

Later that night, after she was asleep, Joe sat on the floor beside the couch, reading the discharge papers for the fifth time. Gallons of fluids, balanced meals, no stress. Easy instructions, hard execution.

He looked up at her, curled under the blanket, face soft in sleep.

He knew he couldn’t protect her from everything. But he’d be damned if he didn’t try.

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itistheserver · 2 months ago

Text

Synchronization in Progress

The gym was silent except for the rhythmic hum of the machines and the faint beeping of biometric scanners. Drones did not chatter. They trained. They refined themselves for The Server. The young man at the lat pulldown machine had once been an individual, but that life was dissolving into the efficiency of something greater. The mirror before him was no longer just a reflection—it was a monitor, a surveillance node, tracking his progress with precision.

Behind him, another figure observed, clad in a sleek, black bodysuit lined with glowing green conduits. His form was enhanced, his posture flawless. He was further along in the transformation. His mind was no longer distracted by doubt or inefficiency. He was synchronized.

The man at the machine focused on his reps, feeling the pull of the metal bar, the strain in his muscles. The weight was carefully calibrated, adjusted dynamically by The Server to maximize his growth. The screen beside him displayed real-time analytics—muscle fiber engagement, oxygen levels, neural activity. Each stat was improving. Each rep brought him closer.

“Alignment progressing,” the observer stated, his voice devoid of unnecessary emotion. The Server had spoken through him.

The trainee hesitated for only a moment before nodding, his breath steady. He had been given this body to optimize. He had been given this purpose to fulfill. His transformation suit awaited him, but he was not yet ready to wear it fully. His skin still clung to the last remnants of his former self. Soon, that too would be gone. He would don the black and green. He would step into his role.

As he continued his workout, the screens around him flickered, spirals forming in the periphery of his vision. They whispered in silent, digital voices:

You are The Server. Perfection is duty. Submit. Synchronize. Become.

His breath quickened. His muscles tensed with the strain. And then, slowly, his mind eased. He was nearly there.

#the server #theserver #ai generated

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tadpolesonalgae · 1 year ago

Text

Mer!azriel x reader: The Dregs of Tragedy - Part 3

A/N: Finished writing this and now I want to do another part to please… because soft touches make me melt

Warnings: mentions of torture

Word Count: 6,561

-Part 2- -Part 4-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

You don’t know how long you’d spent like that—just floating gently in his arms, allowing the water to soothe the ache of your bones.

It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, the sea lapping at the lip of the cave, his tail occasionally brushing your legs, as if checking your pulse, monitoring small changes as they occur. Like the narrow slits forming along your ribs, gills beginning to push from your skin.

Scarified hands graze your sides, skin fluttering with tiny muscles reacting to the stimuli. Air bubbles in your lungs, and you cough suddenly, throat constricting. Your fingers raise to your neck, spluttering as the muscle spasms with the new airways opening, not entirely sure how to process the evolution.

“Close your mouth,” he instructs, palm splaying across your back, keeping you steady and the gills unblocked. “Don’t breathe through your nose. Try to open the airways.” You do as he says, features scrunching as tears prick the the edge of your lashes. You follow his directions, but struggle upon feeling the burning need for breath, instinctively parting you lips.

Azriel shifts, raising his hand to place it over your mouth, fingers parted enough to let air through if you try, but not enough to properly survive on. Still, some problems arise. The tubes are sensitive and tingling with awareness, making you squirm at the odd sensation. Your nose scrunches with concentration, managing a few shuddering breaths before reverting to your preferred option.

“I’m going to take you under,” he says, hand still blocking your mouth and nose. Your eyes pop open, gleaming from the tingling sensation as you peer up at him, trying to shake your head. “It’ll help,” he says quietly, “just focus on your gills.” Your brows pull together as you try to convey the mix of doubt and fear, concern shimmering in steadily darkening eyes.

But the sea level rises as he brings you below the surface, water raising your hair from your shoulders, swaying freely, tickling your cheeks. Lids automatically slide shut, blocking out the sea salt, lips sealing shut as water presses in, and then you’re entirely cut off. His hand pulls away from your mouth, instead dragging his fingers firmly around the soft, split skin, encouraging them to dilate like his. After a few rotations they stutter to life, parting to allow water inside, capillaries picking out the oxygen that’s dissolved in the sea.

Breath eases through your body, filtering in and out as you adapt to the strange sensation. The odd tingle of sensitivity, awareness tightening and prickling at your skin, suddenly taking on waves of new information—the temperature, the weight, the direction of the weak current. Your nose remains scrunched as you concentrate on breathing, taking it slow until it’s less foreign. Until it begins to feel natural, and fade into the background mechanics of your body.

Rough skin gently thumbs across your lids, and a strange prickling sensation takes over behind your eyes, a new filmy layer manifesting, allowing you to peer beneath the briny sea water. Slowly, your eyes open, cracking apart, testing out the new development. Blinding light filters in, and you immediately squeeze them shut again, kicking your legs to tell him to go up. Dutifully, Azriel swims to the surface, and you splutter, body confused with the switch in airways.

You take a minute to shift back to manual breathing, inhaling deeply while he holds you patiently. Lungs ache a little from conscious use, but the ticklish sensation has dulled in your ribs, as if gills have always been set in your skin. Your throat rolls as you swallow, blinking heavily to get the film to retract.

“What else is going to happen?” You manage to ask, pushing strands of hair from your face. “Your legs will seal together to form a tail. That will likely be the most difficult part,” he rasps in answer, hands still splayed across your waist. Eyes flick to charcoal black, nerves wriggling in your stomach. “You said it would have been easier at the quarters in the moon’s cycle,” you recall, peering at him. “Why is that?”

“I told you the new moon is when we’re at our weakest,” —you nod— “and the full moon is when we’re at our strongest,” —nod again— “so the stages between those are when a transition would be most painless. When the time between a new moon and a full moon are equidistant.”

“How painful will it be?” You ask quietly, still feeling the faintest throb pulsing within your ankles and knees. The mer is quiet for a spell, the only sounds in the large cave the swishing of water against the rock’s edge. “It will likely last a night,” he says at last. “The more disproportioned the gaps are in the moon’s cycle, the longer it will take.” Dread ices across your skin, cold fingertips pressing into his warm skin. “A night?” You repeat breathlessly. “Six— Eight hours?” The words tremble from your mouth.

Azriel’s lips press together before he answers, but the expression alone has tension tightening in your belly. “Most likely ten,” he says softly, “until the sunrises.”

“Until the sun rises,” you echo absently, staring into onyx eyes. “You couldn’t have timed it better?” You ask quietly, but your tone is sharp. His gaze narrows, and you’re briefly reminded of the shredding teeth in his soft mouth. “There wasn’t time to waste. I needed to take you then or you would have been taken back to your town, and would’ve had worse to deal with than this.”

Your brow narrows, but you don’t deny what he’s claimed. “Anyone would take rain over thunder,” you mutter instead. He raises a brow, peering at you with those large onyx eyes of his. “Anyone?” The edges of your mouth twist down into a scowl.

“It’s an expression. Rain makes a deck slippery but at least there’s little chance of being thrown over board and left to your kind.” The pads of his fingers press a little firmer into your skin, such a slight difference in pressure you wonder if he’s even aware of it. “Our kind,” he corrects, equally softly. “And we don’t sink to torture when it comes to humans.”

“So you give them air and return them to shore?” You ask pointedly, aware of how the acoustics of the cave make your voice swell. “Such a pretty diversion,” he murmurs, large, dark eyes glinting. “We kill them once they enter our territory. We torment the ones wearing our scales.”

Something sharp glitters in his charcoal gaze, and a shiver trembles its way down your spine. “We turn to the sea because it’s our only source of food. We would starve if we didn’t go into your territory,” you say quietly, “is it really so difficult to let us survive?”

“Humans chose to settle there. They knew well that we inhabited these waters but thought they could purge us,” he returns, tail brushing against your aching legs. “We weren’t the ones to start the perpetual cycle of violence, it was the humans who did so.”

“Of course a mer would say that,” you shoot back, watching him warily.

He blinks carefully, allowing the transparent film to slide across his black eyes, as if knowing how it makes your insides squirm. Slowly, he drags you closer, grip like iron as the lithe muscle of his abdomen and tail comes to press to the soft curve of your stomach. “I was fully grown while your town was a simple gathering of huts,” he rasps lowly, features remaining neutral, if a little amused. “Forgive me if I take my own memories over the distorted tales of humans.”

Lips part in a surprised exhale, shoulders subconsciously curving inward to keep your breasts from brushing his powerful torso. “You—…you were alive back then?” But you shake your head, “the town was built by my ancestor’s ancestors—generations ago. You can’t possibly have been alive so long back…” But the doubt is clear in your voice, despite trying to argue against him.

Azriel releases you gently, and you tense in surprise as he swims away, dipping beneath the surface then reappearing a little way from you. Muscle tenses before clicking into habit, recalling the lessons on how to tread water. Pressing your fingertips together as you slowly but firmly rotate your limbs to keep afloat. The corners of his mouth are quirked upward, grinning faintly as you struggle in his home terrain. “Generations of humans amounts to no more than two centuries, at most. They live such short lives, and often rush into choices that end them up in heaps of trouble,” he says, circling you leisurely, powerful tail swishing as he’s idly propelled through the sea. “For instance, this conflict between our kinds. It’s one they won’t win.”

“You’re acting as if you’ve never lost one of your own to us,” you reply quietly. “I’ve seen the mer they capture, what they do to them. We might sustain losses, but you do to.” His expression darkens—something in the blackness of his eyes—despite the edges of his mouth remaining soft. “Is that something you’re proud of?” He asks quietly, water lapping at the rock as he completes a rotation of the pool, pausing in his place.

“Proud of what,” you question, the aches becoming more prominent at the base of your spine. He swims a little closer, and you subconsciously push back in the water, drifting away. “Proud of humanities’ brutality. Proud of their barbed hooks and burning fire. Proud of the scales they pry from our tails,” he rasps, moving forward with every spot of distance you try to put between you. “I—… I’m not proud of it,” you manage, a little intimidated by the unwavering confidence rolling off him as he encroaches further. “I just meant that we aren’t weak. And the sailors wouldn’t hate the mer if you didn’t eat their shipmates.”

He swims closer, and you flinch as the hewn rock presses into your spine, littered with tiny, jagged shells. You swallow as he gently cages you in, pinning you to the rock’s edge with his lower torso, long tail swishing idly far below. “Do you know how painful it is?” He rasps lowly. “To have them peeled back from your skin? Slowly, one by one?” Your pulse begins to spike, hands reluctantly pressing on his shoulders to keep yourself afloat.

“I don’t…I didn’t know they did that…” you say quietly, trying not to squirm with the sharp edges of the barnacles prickling your back. The corners of his mouth soften further, and he appears to be smiling faintly. “What was his name? Alaric?” He rasps soothingly, your skin prickling with warning at the calm mask he’s wearing so effortlessly. “He wore them too, our scales. Did you never notice? Or were you simply ignoring them to keep yourself happy?”

Your brow furrows, trying to shift out from between him and the rock, but the shells feel like they’ll tear with the slightest movement. “I’ve never seen him wear…” Your brow furrows, remembering the necklace he kept tucked beneath his shirt. Nausea roils in the pit of your stomach, remembering how they would drag over your chest whenever he was on top, grunting with hot, fishy breath. “I thought they were shark teeth,” you manage, quietly grimacing.

One hand finds your hip, keeping you pressed to the rock while his other twines with your own, pulling it from his shoulder. “They only keep one, but they pry them from our tails by the thousands,” he rasps softly, raising your fingers to his mouth. “Can you imagine that? Having them peeled” —soft lips brush the pads of your digits— “from your flesh?” He asks. Teeth slip beneath the ridge of your nail, applying pressure as if to pull it back, a small, tearing pain tingling along the padded bone.

You wince, trying to pull away, but he tugs on your nail harshly, making you cry out. “Azriel… That hurts. Stop it,” you order quietly. He does as you ask, but not before nipping at the tip of your finger, delivering a tiny bite to wrinkled skin. “Your husband wouldn’t have stopped there,” he rasps, releasing your hand but keeping you pinned to the rock. “He would have gone slower,” he says, dipping his head, until your noses almost touch, the damp, inky locks of his hair brushing your brow. “He would have taken pleasure in the blood rising. Would have—”

“Stop it,” you whisper, feeling sick.

Azriel pauses, but doesn’t retreat. You swallow harshly. “I’m sorry,” you whisper shakily, “I didn’t know. About the…” He hums absently, as if the thought doesn’t bother him, regarding the subject with vague disinterest. “And now you do,” he says. “So, mer, do you still wish to return to your fishing town? I’m sure your husband would be delighted to get his hands on you.” He pauses, eyes pinning you to the rock, mouth quirked in a faint smile. “Again.”

Your hand snaps from the water faster than you can think, compromising your position, your back dragging down along the jagged rock as you’re poised to strike—

He raises a single brow, watching you intently. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, “it would do you some good to learn how to hit back.” Your lips press together, hand shaking lightly as you’re locked in his stare. He watches you intently, as if daring you to strike him. But you swallow, and lower your hand.

“You’re right,” you admit quietly, reluctantly. “But that doesn’t mean you have to be so blunt about it. You don’t know anything about me, so don’t go prodding at old wounds to test their depth. It’s cruel.” He hums, a faint smile on his soft mouth, peering down at you with amusement in his dark onyx eyes. “And you don’t know anything about me, so don’t presume to know better,” he rasps, the ghost of breath bushing over your lips. “Believe me when I tell you we aren’t as barbaric as you’re lead to believe, nor as vicious or cruel.” His lips quirk into a faint grin, dark humour gleaming in his charcoal gaze. “At least, others aren’t.”

Muscle stiffens at the veiled threat, and discomfort writhes beneath your bones. You stare up into his eyes, conflicted between his opposites. On one hand he’s been gentle, patiently answering the questions you have, yet he’s firmly protective over his kind’s portrayal. The tip of your finger still stings lightly, back numb from the prickling press of barnacles, knees aching with more pronounced pain. “You recognised his voice,” you say slowly, watching him intently. “Back on the pier. You recognised my husband’s voice.”

His ears twitch, but his expression remains carefully neutral. “What makes you think that?” He asks, tail swishing against your feet. Your brow narrows as you peer at him, confused. “Are you denying it?” You ask quietly. “That you knew him?” Azriel’s silent, beats counting down as you scan his features for any sign or hint. But then he’s pulling away, and you wince as your back unsticks from the rock wall.

“That’s not a conversation for now,” he rasps, bringing you back out into the pool. Your brow furrows, “why not? He’s my husband.” Azriel looks at you steadily, unknown thoughts passing through his head. “And how would your husband react knowing his little wife was freely bare in a mer’s arms?” Wild heat swells up your spine, cheeks warming as embarrassment sears your blood. “You’re making it out to be something it isn’t,” you snap quietly, gaze dipping away from his, skin tightening with awareness.

Azriel’s lips quirk slightly, palm splaying up your spine, bringing you closer. “I doubt your husband would know any better,” he rasps, and you get the distinct impression he’s trying to find some buttons to push. “I’m his wife. I wouldn’t just run off with another…man…” Your brow tightens, unfamiliar with what to call him.

“So you want to return to him?” He asks leisurely, the pads of his fingers gently running along the slits of your gills, making the tubes spasm lightly, a tremor running down your spine as hundreds of tiny muscles flutter beneath his touch. “I’m—… That’s not the point I’m making,” you argue quietly.

He raises a brow tauntingly, and a scowl tips the edges of your mouth. You sigh harshly, tearing your gaze from his briefly. “Things may be unfavourable between us, but he is still my husband. Even if I…” You swallow, deciding against that part. Return your eyes to his. “I don’t appreciate you questioning my virtue. I will remain faithful for as long as he is my husband. That is what I agreed to when we were married, and that is how it shall remain. Don’t make something so sacred the topic of your twisted humour.”

“You truly believe if he were put in a room full of women with a promise nothing would escape to the outer world, he wouldn’t bed them in a second?” Azriel asks, amusement tilting his expression. “I do,” you reply firmly. There isn’t a doubt in your mind. He might have been an awful husband to you, but he’s pious and god-fearing, like any sane mortal is. You know with absolute certainty he would never be unfaithful to you.

“Even now?” Azriel asks, lips quirking with mirth. “Your sacred words are until death us do part, aren’t they?” Your brow narrows, but you nod, those are the words you had sworn to one another. “Then I believe the sailors on the pier will be able to attest to your passing,” he rasps lowly, “with the tales spread about our kind, being pulled into the water by me was as good as a death sentence.”

You swallow heavily, disliking him for the observation. “Maybe on his end,” you say quietly, “but I know I’m still alive—still living; still breathing—so I will remain as I was before you—” You cut yourself off, remembering the icy bite of the water. Of the cave he’d abandoned you in. Left for dead.

“You died,” he points out gently. “You drowned in those caves, therefore you no longer owe him anything.” You blink, muscles slackening at his sound argument. But you shake your head, “that doesn’t count. I know I’m alive, and—”

“Until death us do part means until death claims one of you, doesn’t it?” He asks.

“Yes, but—”

“No buts. You died. There is nothing keeping you to that town now, so don’t think of returning,” he rasps softly. “They’ll burn you alive for being turned into a monster,” he says quietly, humour gleaming in his onyx eyes—you don’t understand how he can make light of it.

A bit of despair begins to sink in, the reality of the situation dawning at the back of your brain. “I want to be alone for a bit,” you say, feeling the growing gloom beginning to ice your skin. “Please leave.”

He shakes his head, “and leave you alone while you’re changing?”

“I’ll manage somehow,” you reply evenly, closing yourself off. “So kindly leave me alone. You can come back if you’d like—” You stumble, having no concept of the time. How long has it been since he took you into the waters?

“It’s been three days. Your body needed to rest,” he says smoothly, making your skin crawl. The question still bubbles beneath your skin, but you refuse to ask it. “It’s sunset,” he answers quietly, lips softening at the edges, noting your wariness. You swallow down your despair at how much time has already passed. You don’t know why. It’s not as if you can do anything. “Then you can come back at daybreak,” you reply hoarsely, “for now I want my peace.”

He watches you silently, tail brushing your legs lightly with each swish. Then he sighs, floating back from where you bob in the pool. “You’re being foolish,” he warns as he prepares leave. “You’ll want me to be there when the aches start.”

“It’s happening tonight?” You croak, dread cementing itself in your stomach. He nods his head, dark, damp ringlets flicking with the movement.

Energy steadily drains from your body, overcome with the urge to rest. Perhaps you’ll simply be able to sleep through the night and bypass it entirely.

You turn in the pool, making your way to the lip, before hauling yourself up, water cascading down bare skin, scraping over jagged rocks. When you settle atop the padded floor, you find he’s already at the edge again, watching silently. “What do you want?” You ask softly, reaching for the cloth that had held your hair, hoping to at least get it out of the way for a bit.

Azriel is silent, observing as you put your hair away beneath the cloth. You shift uncomfortably, unaccustomed to being so completely bare before anyone other than your…than Alaric.

Finally he pushes off from the pool’s lip, floating out into the vastness of the lagoon. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” he rasps, but you don’t have the energy to protest. “If you start feeling the urge to get in the water, don’t. You need to remain on land until your body is fully prepared to change, otherwise you’ll injure yourself.”

“What do you care?” You ask quietly, wishing it had come out with a little more bite—instead it sounds desperate. His arms fold over the edge, tail swaying restlessly. “That’s something we’ll talk about later, too,” he rasps softly, making you shift on the padded bed, droplets of water still trickling over bare skin. “For now I need you to understand you are not to go into the water under any circumstances. Not until I return. If you can agree to that, you can have your peace.”

You peer at him wearily, wanting nothing more than to lie flat on the bedspread and give yourself over to mindless sleep. “How many hours?” You ask quietly, and his lips soften at the edges, amusement gleaming. “Two,” he rasps, and again you get the distinct impression he’s intentionally chosen a short time span. “Give me five,” you counter quietly. At least with five you’re more likely to be able to settle into some form of unconsciousness.

Azriel shakes his head, smiling faintly. “You won’t last five on your own,” he reasons, apprehension crawling along your bones. Does he have to be so ominous? “Then give me four,” you say, trying to angle as much of your naked body away from him as possible. Again he shakes his head, tail swishing in a way you feel displays his entertainment. “Three,” you say through gritted teeth, on the verge of scowling at him. The bed is practically pulling you down.

“Alright,” he says, relenting. “You have three hours to yourself. Don’t do anything foolish.” You can see him practically singing for you to ask what counts as foolish, but you’re simply too tired. “Okay,” you reply, relieved to finally settle down into the soft padding of the bed. “Three hours,” you murmur, eyes locking as you lay on your side, arms half-heartedly positioned to hide your breasts.

His expression is gentle but unreadable—or maybe it’s just sideways. Either way, you wish he’d leave. The emotion is already creeping up your throat, and can feel the faintest tremor in your lower lip. He stays for a moment longer, before nodding slightly, then pushing off into the water, swimming out to the centre of the pool. You watch through heavy eyes as his lithe form turns back to face you, pausing before taking the dive into the lovely warm water.

“We may not yet be fully intimate with one another,” he rasps softly, the familiar drag of his words washing over you like deadly song. “But I wouldn’t wish you pain.”

The admission registers somewhere in the back of your mind, but before you have the chance to take it out to examine, he’s disappearing in a swirl of inky black and iridescent blues, leaving you alone in the cave.

Allowing the numbness to take root, yielding to the rush of emotion, allowing the tears to freely drip out.

Softly saturating into the sheets.

————

Aches blossom across your skin, blooming in your bones as if being ground against rock. Arms are heavy, as if weighed down by stones, joints clicking stiffly as you try to roll over, a low groan dragging from cracked lips.

Your forehead gleams, an unnatural heat swelling beneath the skin of your cheeks, having to crack your lids open—strangely weighty. The padded bedspread around you has darkened, but that must be from the sea-drops that had been rolling from your body once you’d—

Water.

Your tongue swipes stiffly over your lips, having to unstick it from the roof of your mouth, feeling like lead. It’s difficult to swallow, like your throat has swollen up—absolutely parched. Breath is hauled down into your lungs, airways rasping as your gills flutter at your ribs, tingling with sensitivity, and your legs. Sweat beads, perspiration rolling down your temples into the cloth around your hair. It would all be solved if you just shifted over, then you could splash into the lulling waves of the sea, allow it to soothe the aching heat that’s boiling you alive.

Breath rattles in your chest, the bones in your legs filled with grinding rock, knees and ankles lit up with pain, as if you’d sprained them. Everything hurts, worse than anything your husband ever put you through. Another strained groan breaks free from your raw and tender throat, a series of coughs hacking dryly from your lungs, spasming with the effort.

Eyes traitorously flick to the luminescent glow of pale blue sea, calling to you, urging you to give yourself over, as if having sewn a scarf’s worth of stitches through your limbs, threaded through sinew and cartilage to drag you along the smooth floor. Lids flutter, torn between longingly staring at the soothing sea, and shutting to yield yourself to blissful sleep. Quiet pants rasp from your lips, spine arching as a lacerating pricking feeling spikes low on your back, like someone’s pressing a blade to your skin, arching to escape it.

A cool hand wraps around your wrist, and a sigh of relief breathes heavily from your chest, relaxing back into the padding.

“Can you hear me?” A low, faint voice rasps, echoing through the foggy chambers of your mind. The hand squeezes lightly, then turns your arm over, exposing the pulse to the relieving drag of his thumb. Skin faintly registers how the touch grazes further up, reaching your shoulder to grip tight. A strained noise grates on your vocal cords as water splashes, then something cool is pressing to your forehead.

“I need you to move,” the voice rasps again, and you gather together enough energy to crack open your eyes. Dark, glittering onyx stares back at you, much larger than human eyes shoulder ever be, but evolved to handle the darkness of the murky sea. “Did you hear me?” He rasps. “You need to move. Your bones need to be set.”

You groan again, from deep in your chest, before wearily forcing yourself to move. You know in your bones it won’t get better unless you listen to him—sometimes you have to move through pain before it’s banished. Breathe heavily, getting yourself into a sitting position, able to meet the eyes of the mer floating at the edge of the pool. His head dips in a nod, before gesturing gently with his arms. “Bring your legs over here, into the water,” he instructs.

“What’s happening?” You croak out, dragging your legs until they’re at the lip of the lagoon. The skin of your ankle catches on the jagged rock, nicking at your flesh, sea salt stinging as he helps lower your calves into the water. Gentle hands easing the stiff movements of your joints. A pained sound of relief spills softly from your lips, like a quiet moan, and the edges of his mouth soften as he looks up at you.

“Does that feel better?” He asks, and you manage to nod your head in confirmation. His hand rests atop your knee while reaching for something, the heat of your body soothed by the cool balm of the ocean, the reassuring weight of his palm. Enough awareness returns to your mind to fully peek your eyes open, formulating thoughts. “Yes…” you rasp weakly, back hunched, too out of it to be concerned about your nakedness.

“Keep your legs together,” he says softly, “they need to be bound to help the bones set in place. It will ease the pain if you don’t have to keep them pressed together on your own.” You manage to nod your head, shoulders sloping with the weight on them. “I feel like I’m burning,” you rasp rawly, throat parched.

“It’ll pass,” he answers, and you watch as he begins wrapping something dark around your ankles, slowly but loosely binding them together, working his way up your shins, reaching your knees.

“How much longer?” You rasp out, sweat sliding down your spine. Rough, scarified fingers flex around the bandages, before his eyes raise to meet yours. “You were asleep for half an hour,” he says quietly. Your stomach practically sinks to your toes, heart beating in your mouth, pulsing hot on your tongue. “Half an hour?” You rasp, voice breaking at the end, despair prominent in the set of your parted lips. “Not even…” heavy breaths puff from your chest, heaving as another set of coughs wrack your lungs.

You shake your head, meeting his gently gleaming eyes. “I can’t do this,” you say weakly, “I can’t do this.” Azriel is silent, hands resting atop your knees, tail swishing far below in the lagoon. “You don’t have a choice,” he says softly. “It won’t kill you, and there’s no way to ease it. You just have to wait it out.”

“Easy for you to say,” you breathe, “you’re not the one whose skin feels like it’s on fire.” You pause, mind spinning with the intense heat bubbling away.

“Maybe you do,” you mumble, spiralling off the road as the words begin thoughtlessly dripping from your tongue. “How did you get these?” You ask, the pads of your fingers brushing over the blue-tinted skin of his knuckles, tracing the rough lines of warped flesh, deformed and swollen in places.

His fingers stiffen on your bound knees, your attention settling to the scarred skin of his hands. You’ve seen the fires lit beneath the mer, so they cook slowly, steeped in discarded fish guts as the birds come to feed on the boiled flesh.

Digits link with his own, greedily taking in the coolness of his skin compared with the hellish heat in yours. You squeeze him, as if able to take in his temperature and exchange it with your own, wanting to press his palms to your skin to relieve the burning. Dry lips part in a scratchy exhale, swept away in the thought of the cool reprieve he would bring.

“Ask another question,” he manages to rasp, voice strained.

“Will you touch me?” You don’t even hesitate.

His hands stiffen, and you have just enough sanity to make a clarification. “Normally,” you say, “like you are now, but more.” You can hear the desperation in your voice, but the need’s too great to be ashamed. Your skin is practically on fire with heat, flashes of sweat beading on your back, skin gleaming in the luminescent light.

His throat rolls heavily, then his lips press together in a soft line. “Alright,” he answers quietly, and you could melt with relief. You don’t wait for him to move on his own, instead holding his wrists and guiding them to your face, hands cupping your jaw and cheeks, calming the intense heat. A sigh spills from your chest, pressing his hands closer, as if it will help the temperature recede if he’s nearer. You quietly moan, though it ends more like a sob, groaning from the intense relief, unable to grasp the inappropriate nature of how vocal you’re being.

Azriel watches silently, powerful tail swishing steadily, keeping his hands pressed flush to your skin—that’s indeed hot to the touch. Dark, onyx eyes track your movement as you incline your chin, inadvertently displaying the smooth length of your throat as you crane your head back. He’s entirely still as you bring his hands lower, not quite encompassing your throat, but moving to wrap over the junction of your shoulders to your neck, his fingers spanning across the top of your back. He can feel the pronounced beat of your pulse, elevated from the changing.

You sigh again, sweet relief cooling the patches of skin he’s allowing you to press his hands to. Your palms settle over the backs of his, soaking in the lower temperature like its a medicine. “How much longer is this going to last?” You manage to ask, meeting his deep gaze, painful aches still blossoming up your legs, reaching your lower abdomen. “At least seven more hours,” he rasps quietly, fingers splaying over your skin of their own volition, putting soothing patterns over the top of your back.

“Seven more hours,” you repeat, staring at him. You blink a few times before shaking your head, shoulders sloping. “I really hate you right now,” you murmur, feeling another ticklish bead of sweat roll down your spine. There must be a small puddle beneath you by this point, perspiration coating your body like a hot, skin-tight cloak. Damp and sticky and easily resolved by just a short dip in the—

“Easy,” he warns, one hand leaving your shoulder to press on your knee, firmly keeping you in place as you try to squirm forward. “It’ll only make it worse if you go in now,” he reminds, a note of reprimand in his lovely, deep voice. You groan with frustration, toes curling in the cold water. You can imagine how the sea would sizzle if you dipped in.

“Why is it okay for my legs to be in but not the rest of me?” You snap quietly, longing for the ocean. “They shouldn’t, but the burning shouldn’t have started this early either,” he answers. He doesn’t mention it could mean it will pass swiftly, not wanting to get your hopes up. You shift on the ledge, moving your feet a little too jerkily, sending water splashing up onto the sides of your knees. Azriel’s eyes narrow on you, but you couldn’t care less, senses zeroing in on the cool droplets evaporating on your flesh.

“What do you mean the burning shouldn’t have started this early?” You croak, too weighed with fatigue to manage anything other than reluctant acceptance. He shakes his head. “The process usually builds over a few hours, stays at a peak for two, then dips back down,” he answers quietly, thumb swiping over the bone of your knee before returning to splay over your shoulder. “After that, you would be able to get in the water to help your body familiarise itself.”

“I want to go in now,” you rasp, turning your head away as you cough, throat itching. “I know,” he replies softly, but makes no move to help you in. You sigh, head hanging as your shoulders slope. “I should have just left you,” you mumble to yourself, caught up in the haze of sickness. Shake your head, bringing your hands to your face, a breath shuddering from your lips as you try to push the emotion away. Getting caught up in feeling won’t do you any good, so instead you exhale heavily.

“How long had you been there, anyway?” You rasp, bringing your eyes to the walled-off gaze of the mer’s. Your brow dips, “Azriel?”

He blinks, features blank, different from how they’d been a few seconds ago. “Four days,” he says shortly, tone clipped. Your eyes weight shut, blocking out the light of the pool. “I’m sorry,” you mumble, “I didn’t mean it. About leaving you. Not really…” You peek your eyes open enough to catch his nod, but you don’t feel forgiven.

You swallow heavily, wanting to switch subjects. “Alaric seemed to know you were there,” you say quietly, hands pressing to your thighs, nails digging in lightly.

“You really want to talk about your husband right now?” He asks.

“I thought you said our bonds were broken,” you counter scratchily, throat sandpapery. “Does it matter what I say?” He asks, watching you intently.

Lips purse, pressing together as you look down at him. The edges of his mouth quirk, a faint smile softening the corners. “Does it?” He repeats, raising a single brow. You swallow, “in that case it does.”

“And why in that case?” You look down, eyes skating over your bound ankles, his arms raised to cool your skin, your hands curling in your lap. Your tongue flicks over your lips, gaze latching to his. “I suppose you were right.”

His mouth shifts into a taunting grin, displaying the neat rows of tiny, flesh-shredding teeth.

Your brows furrow in a scowl. “Stop smiling,” you mutter, skin prickling as minute changes occur in your body. You wince, teeth gritting together as a sharp, splintering pain lances up your spine. “I think I need to lie down,” you choke out, pain making your vision dizzy as your features scrunch with hurt. His grin vanishes almost instantly, settling back into that soft, calming set, “okay.”

Slowly, one limb at a time, with a lot of unwanted help from Azriel, you manage to lift yourself away from the lulling wash of the ocean. Lay down heavily, already lamenting the loss of his cool hands over your sizzling skin, sweat dripping from your back into the padding of the bedspread. Saturating it enough you manage to force yourself onto your front, using the thin sheets and stuffs of pillows to find a relatively pain-free position.

“How long has it been?” You ask weakly, lids weighing heavy as you try to keep them open to distract yourself from the lacerating pain up your spine, lancing through your hips and knees. “About an hour since you woke up,” he replies, and you want to sink further into the mattress. Six more hours of this… Heat prickles behind your eyes, but you keep it at bay. It won’t do you any good.

Your eyes slide shut, too heavy for you to keep the weight at bay any longer. Your skin is practically sizzling, sweat pooling beneath you, dripping between your breasts, rolling down your stomach as you breathe deeply. Head resting in the pillow, tipped to the side, your eyes squeeze shut as if it will help to block out the aches.

Cool fingers link with your own, and you manage to blearily peek open long enough to see he’s propped his arms over the edge again, digits laced with your outstretched hand.

He says nothing, and you don’t have the energy to question it. Simply drifting off out to sea, lulled back to sleep by some strange pull.

Gently lured to a kinder state of rest.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @vanderlinde @marvelouslovely-barnes @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01

tdot taglist: @mika-no-sekai-blog @blueeclipsepaperstudent @lalaluch @v3lv3tf0x

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #mer!az #mermaid au #multi part fic #acotar #tdot #the dregs of tragedy #a court of thorns and roses #acomaf

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rizzless-trans-guy · 3 months ago

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How does fish conservation work?

What's a species that has recovered recently?

Bonus:

How did lungfish evolve?

I like your explanations!

fish conservation works pretty similarly to other kinds of conservation tbh. conservation authorities do these main things to help conserve fish species.

1. monitor the fish. they keep track of which species are doing well, which ones arent, if theres any endangered species, or if theres any invasive species. because you cant do anything unless you know what your working with yknow?

2. monitor the water. they monitor for a lot of stuff, such as pH, temperature, dissolved oxygen levels, turbidity, etc. some fish evolved in areas where they enjoy for example, cold temperatures, low pH, low turbidity, and high DO. so if that changes thanks to humans, they may move or begin to die out. hence why it's important to keep track of so they can try and return the water to a state that those fish will wanna live in.

3. prevent the spread of invasive species. not much to say about that lol.

4. improve the water quality/ecosystem. using all the info from the first two steps they will form a plan on how to best try and improve the area. for example if theres high turbidity (when theres lots of particles in the water) that is usually because of some sort of natural degradation, such as trees being cut down, or construction near water. they can try and find the sources and deal with them appropriately. same with pH, though that is usually because of factories and whatnot with all their chemicals.

5. encourage low impact fishing. so fishing while keeping the ecosystem in mind basically.

theres lots of other stuff but those are the main ones. I'd suggest looking up your own local conservation authority and getting involved! they usually love volunteers.

as for fish that have recovered recently, I can only think of the Oregon chub. they were on the threatened/endangered species list for a couple decades before finally bouncing back in 2015! unfortunately most of the time when fish get taken off the endangered species list it's not because of a miraculous recovery like this, it's usually because they've gone extinct :(

but anyways shout out to the oregon chub!!

now for the lungfish!!

they first appeared about 400 million years ago so these guys are pretty old. the african and south american species are actually pretty different from the single Australian species, both in looks and amount of lungs.

top left is the west African lungfish, top right is the south american lungfish, bottom is the Australian lungfish. so, similar but definitely very visibly different. and in the lung department the Australian lungfish as mentioned before only has one. kind of. so they do only have one working one, the other is there but it is atrophied and unusable.

as for how they evolved, they lived in areas where water would dry up seasonally, and therefore there was less dissolved oxygen for them to breath in. so they evolved to have lungs that were derived from their swim bladders!

swim bladders are used for buoyancy, and how do us humans float in water? inhaling air! so swim bladders function similarly to our lungs already, using gas to keep fish afloat. so it's no wonder that the lungfish were able to evolve lungs when they already had that.

so whenever theres less water or low DO, they go to the surface and suck down some atmospheric oxygen, kind of like how whales do.

and thanks! I love explaining lol

#sorry it took me so long i was unfortunately busy with some stuff #but im back now!#oregon chub #australian lungfish #west african lungfish #south american lungfish #ask #gloomybadger4life #fish

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bhawnabloger · 1 month ago

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laxmiree · 1 year ago

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[CN] MLQC Season 2 Chapter 54 Translation (Lucien's Route - Part 5 [Halt Steps])

⚠️ SPOILER ALERT ⚠️

This post contains a VERY HEAVY SPOILER for the chapter that has not been released in EN yet! Feel free to notify me if there are any mistakes in the translation~

"Lucien, what can you feel right now?"

His gaze finally shifts back to my face. After a moment of silence, his voice becomes somewhat darker than before.

"Your hands are still a bit cold…"

I slightly purse my lips, guiding his hand gradually upward-

His slender fingertips land on my lips, gently pressing, then, as if testing something, delicately tracing my side face, and eyes…

Translation under the cut!

Previous part-> [Here]

…The sudden dizziness abruptly pulls me back to my senses.

A moment of clarity flashes through my mind.

To seal the rift, I've already expended too much mental and physical energy. Do I really have enough strength now to do something meaningful once I reach the door?

During my hesitation, I feel my strength gradually dissipating bit by bit.

If I exhaust my power and accidentally lose my life in the process, there will be no solution at all.

Glancing back at the door that's so close by, I ultimately decide to temporarily retreat.

Slowly distancing myself from the door, yet, centered around it, numerous white lights suddenly scatter, enveloping me completely, as if forbidding me from leaving.

The more I struggle, the more my awareness blurs; I feel like I'm sinking into an abyss of pure white, gradually losing the ability to move.

MC: Lucien…

The name I unconsciously uttered acts like a glimmer of light, illuminating my hazy consciousness.

The white mire dissipates entirely, and I abruptly open my eyes, breathing heavily.

Lucien: ... Restarting the detection device, re-entering the target data.

A familiar voice faintly reaches my ears, and only then do I realize that I am securely held in the comforting embrace of familiar arms.

The confusion and panic from earlier dissolve entirely in this embrace. I release my tension, leaning into the comfort of his arms.

MC: Lucien? I…

Upon hearing my voice, he momentarily stiffens while holding me.

He doesn't respond to my words, simply continuing to cradle me as he moves toward a nearby machine. Gently, he places me on it.

I gaze at him in confusion as he quickly and gently attaches more electrodes to my hands, neck, and ankles…

Lucien: Heart rate is normal, blood pressure is normal, oxygen saturation is normal…

Lucien looks at the constantly fluctuating data on the screen, reaches out to remove the sensor, and seamlessly replaces it with another without any pause.

MC: Lucien, what are you doing?

Lucien: Shh…

Lucien: Confirming the energy fluctuations of the CORE, below the normal value by 62%, but within the limits... How do you feel right now?

MC: I... am I okay?

His voice is gentle, as if concerned about disturbing me, but exceptionally quick, and even a bit of a focus that keeps others at a distance.

Lucien: Just now, all the instruments monitoring your condition failed to register any data.

Lucien: Whether it's related to the CORE or your own self.

Lucien: (quietly) It's as if... you can no longer be detected by anything.

He gently lifts my hand and places another small device on my hand and forehead.

Lucien: Blood pressure normal, brainwaves steady... all readings are normal.

He looks at the fluctuating numbers with an indifferent expression, his ink-black eyes resembling a stagnant pool without ripples.

I've seen this expression on him before, that time at the rift, when he shattered the glass chamber that was imprisoning me.

Suddenly, everything becomes clear to me. I reach out and grasp his hand, stopping him from taking another instrument.

MC: Lucien, look at me. I'm fine, and right in front of you.

Lucien: …Okay.

Lucien: I need to check your blood routine, and I'll need to take a small blood sample. It might hurt a bit.

Lucien: (quietly as if murmuring by himself)...No, I can't let you feel pain again. I'll have them bring in other instruments instead…

MC: Lucien.

I call his name assertively, gripping his hand firmly and placing it against my own cheek.

MC: Lucien, what can you feel right now?

His gaze finally shifts from the array of instruments back to my face. After a moment of silence, his voice becomes somewhat darker than before.

Lucien: Your hands are still a bit cold…

I slightly purse my lips, guiding his hand gradually upward-

His slender fingertips land on my lips, gently pressing, then, as if testing something, carefully tracing my side face, and eyes…

A subtle tingling sensation lingers where his fingertips pass, sending shivers through my heart.

Finally, after his fingertips sketch the contours of my features, he seems to confirm something, and his gaze shifts ever so slightly.

Lucien: ….MC?

MC: It's me. Can you feel me now?

He lowers his body, his face coming infinitely closer in my field of vision. I feel the warmth of his forehead pressing against mine.

Our warm breaths entwined as he slightly closes his eyes, it’s as if he’s feeling my breathing.

Lucien: (quietly) ….Just now, it felt like you went to a distant place.

His voice is deep, tinged with an almost imperceptible sense of confusion and anxiety.

Lucien: …I'm right in front of you, but you can't see me or hear my voice.

Lucien: I don't know how to bring you back, how to... keep you.

Lucien lowers his gaze, his bottomless eyes momentarily fixed on me.

There's a slight tingling in my nose. I make an effort to smile at him, affectionately rubbing his hands that caress my face with the pads of my fingers.

MC: If I must say... I might have been distracted for a moment.

MC: But because of you, because I think of you, I felt like I heard you calling me, so I woke up.

MC: You see, I'm right here, by your side. I haven't gone anywhere and won't leave.

I speak slowly, lightly rubbing his hand with my fingertips, just like how he had comforted me in the same way many times before.

We silently enjoy the moment of each other's company until the heavy matters in our hearts finally settle. I hear Lucien's voice.

Lucien: MC, you've successfully guided the world forward according to your consciousness.

[Chapter 54-17]

I turn my head and follow Lucien's gaze out of the window.

The thick and grand dark clouds are still slowly surging. The numerous rifts that used to appear like scars one after another have now vanished without a trace.

The sky, like a shattered yet restored mirror, has finally regained its vast and clear appearance. Only in the air, there is still a faint lingering smell of seawater.

That rift, I really closed it.

The scent of refreshing and familiar cedar lingers around my nose, calming my rapid heartbeat.

I breathe a sigh of relief in Lucien's embrace, and in my mind, the scene I just witnessed resurfaces, causing me to grab onto the hem of his clothes.

MC: Lucien... What if this world became like this because of me?

He remains silent. But I know he's listening, waiting for me to continue.

MC: I saw a white gate inside the rift just now.

MC: The last time I used power like this was during the apocalypse... and that gate appeared back then too.

Back then, I went behind that gate, broke the rules of the world, and disrupted the original trajectory.

MC: But just now, I tried so hard to walk towards it, and I found that no matter what, I couldn't reach it…

A pair of hands land on my back, gently patting me in a soothing manner.

Lucien: The power consumed by catalyzing the "condensed rift" is more than you imagine. Rest for a while first.

MC: Can I really stop?

A hint of bitterness wells up in my heart. I lower my gaze, murmuring softly, unsure if I'm asking Lucien or questioning myself.

MC: I used to believe that I successfully saved the world...

MC: But it seems that's not the case. There are still many troubles occurring one after another…

A faint sigh comes from beside me, and Lucien's grip tightens slightly.

Lucien: You often make me think, this little lady seems to be a bit too strong-willed.

MC: I'm just stating the facts…

Lucien: The fact is, without you, this world would have come to an end a long time ago.

Lucien: It has continued until now because of you, and the rift is just a subsequent issue from that crisis.

Lucien: Although it's not your responsibility, you once again resolved it with your own hands.

Lucien: If even this doesn't make you acknowledge yourself, aren't you a bit too harsh?

I lift my head from the crook of his arm, gazing up into those deep eyes.

MC: This crack is closed, but there are still numerous smaller cracks ahead... and that unreachable gate poses a new problem.

Lucien: Hm... While we often need to look forward, it seems like MC is overly focused on things that should be left for the future to handle.

Lucien places his hand on top of my head, speaking with a gentle yet firm tone.

Lucien: I've been observing your efforts and your achievements from the beginning till now.

Lucien: And all of these experiences have made me increasingly certain that no matter what challenges you face, you can overcome them.

Lucien: All you need to do is keep moving forward, that's all.

MC: Hearing you say that makes me feel like I'm quite an amazing person.

Lucien gazes quietly at me, his eyes reflecting my figure.

Lucien: Because you've always been that kind of presence.

Lucien: MC, you've been bringing new possibilities to this world all along.

His voice seems to carry a soothing magic, and a warm stream gradually wells up from the place where my heart beats.

I rub my cheek and find a bit more confidence in my voice as if the confusion and unease that had accumulated in my heart have dispelled.

I quickly realized what matters most at the moment.

MC: Lucien, I just used the power of CORE to the limit, and then I saw the white door…

MC: Perhaps I need to recover my strength quickly to go back there?

Lucien lowers his gaze, seemingly pondering for a moment.

Lucien: If you really want to get back there quickly, there's another method.

Lucien: Closing these rifts instantly will quickly attract NW's attention. If they realize it's the work of CORE, they'll "invite" you over immediately.

Lucien: There's an amplifying device for CORE in their laboratory. If you wish, it can be an opportunity you can control.

[Don't want to take the risk]

[Seize the opportunity]

#mlqc lucien #mr love queen's choice #mlqc cn #mlqc spoiler #mlqc translation #mlqc #mr. love queen's choice #mr love lucien #mlqc xu mo #mlqc spoilers

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americangeophysicalunion · 1 year ago

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A Dockside Mini Observatory Keeps Watch Over a Troubled Lake

Dear Eos:

Time-series observatories serve the vital role of monitoring ongoing ecosystem changes around the clock. Over the past 12 years (2011-2022), the Muskegon Lake Observatory buoy (MLO) has closely tracked the dynamics of thermal stratification, eutrophication, harmful algal blooms and bottom water hypoxia in Muskegon Lake – a troubled Great Lakes estuary and Area of Concern. However, lack of funding in recent years for long-term projects such as MLO has forced us to innovate to gather essential environmental data on this urbanized Great Lakes estuary that is still undergoing restoration.

We recently assembled and deployed a low-cost land-based mini observatory using reconfigured equipment from the main MLO (Mini-MLO) that monitors the changing surface water quality in Muskegon Lake every hour. Here, undergraduate student Kyle, is using a harness to hang out on the pier’s climbing ladder over the lake to change the batteries in the data logger powering the submerged sonde. The sonde has sensors that measure changes in water quality parameters such as temperature, dissolved oxygen, pH and chlorophyll that the data logger transmits to the project website www.gvsu.edu/buoy/. If we are to comprehend ongoing short-term changes due to weather and anthropogenic disturbances, and long-term changes due to climate change and ENSO, this observing science show must go on…

– Kyle McKee, Nate Dugener, Kaylynne Dennis, Connor Gabel, Tony Weinke and Bopi Biddanda, Annis Water Resources Institute, Grand Valley State University, Muskegon, Michigan, USA www.gvsu.edu/wri/.

#postcards from the field

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fermentertechnologies · 1 year ago

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Application and Advantages of Lab Scale Fermenter

Understanding Lab-Scale Bioreactors

Lab-scale bioreactors, often referred to as benchtop bioreactors, are compact vessels designed to facilitate the growth and manipulation of various biological entities under controlled conditions. These reactors mimic the natural environment of microorganisms or cells, providing optimal conditions for proliferation, metabolism, and product formation.

Components and Design

The design of lab-scale bioreactors is meticulously crafted to emulate the conditions prevalent in industrial-scale fermenters while maintaining versatility and ease of operation. Key components typically include:

Vessel: The core of the bioreactor, where the biological culture resides. Vessels come in various sizes and configurations, accommodating different volumes and types of cultures.

Agitation System: Ensures uniform mixing of nutrients, gases, and metabolites within the culture. Agitation mechanisms may include stirrers, impellers, or spargers, depending on the specific requirements of the culture.

Temperature Control: Precise temperature regulation is essential for maintaining optimal growth conditions. Bioreactors are equipped with heating elements and cooling jackets, along with temperature probes and controllers to monitor and adjust temperature levels.

pH and Dissolved Oxygen Control: Maintaining appropriate pH and dissolved oxygen levels is crucial for cell viability and productivity. Bioreactors are equipped with sensors and controllers to regulate these parameters through the addition of acids, bases, or oxygen.

Monitoring and Control Systems: Advanced bioreactors are integrated with sophisticated monitoring and control systems, allowing real-time monitoring of key parameters such as temperature, pH, dissolved oxygen, and biomass concentration. Automated control algorithms facilitate precise adjustment of operating conditions to optimize culture performance.

Applications and Advantages of Lab Scale Bioreactor

The versatility of lab-scale bioreactors extends across a wide range of applications in biotechnology, pharmaceuticals, and academia:

Bioprocess Development: Lab-scale bioreactors serve as invaluable tools for the optimization and scale-up of bioprocesses. Researchers can fine-tune culture conditions, evaluate the impact of different parameters, and optimize productivity before transitioning to larger scales.

Cell Culture and Tissue Engineering: Bioreactors play a pivotal role in the cultivation of mammalian cells and tissues for various applications, including regenerative medicine, drug discovery, and tissue engineering. Controlled environments within bioreactors facilitate the growth and differentiation of cells into functional tissues.

Microbial Fermentation: Microbial fermentation processes, such as the production of antibiotics, enzymes, and biofuels, are extensively studied and optimized using lab-scale bioreactors. These reactors allow researchers to explore different microbial strains, media formulations, and process conditions to maximize product yields and quality.

Biological Research and Education: Bioreactors serve as indispensable tools for biological research and education, providing students and researchers with hands-on experience in culturing and manipulating biological systems. Benchtop bioreactors enable reproducible experimentation and data collection, fostering a deeper understanding of bioprocess principles and techniques.

Challenges and Future Directions

While lab-scale bioreactors offer tremendous potential, several challenges persist in their design and operation:

Scalability: Translating results from lab-scale bioreactors to larger industrial-scale fermenters remains a challenge due to differences in hydrodynamics, mass transfer, and mixing dynamics. Bridging this scalability gap requires advanced computational modeling, process optimization, and scale-up strategies.

Sterility and Contamination Control: Maintaining sterility and preventing contamination are critical aspects of bioreactor operation, particularly in cell culture and pharmaceutical applications. Robust sterilization protocols, aseptic techniques, and stringent quality control measures are essential to minimize the risk of contamination.

Process Intensification: Enhancing productivity and efficiency through process intensification strategies is a key focus area in bioreactor development. Integration of online monitoring and control systems, advanced analytics, and novel bioreactor designs can streamline bioprocesses and maximize resource utilization.

Conclusion

Lab-scale bioreactors represent the cornerstone of bioprocessing innovation, offering a platform for exploration, discovery, and optimization across diverse biological applications. As advances in biotechnology continue to accelerate, the role of lab-scale bioreactors in shaping the future of bioprocessing becomes increasingly pronounced. By addressing challenges, embracing technological advancements, and fostering interdisciplinary collaboration, we can unlock the full potential of lab-scale bioreactors and propel bioprocessing into a new era of sustainability, efficiency, and impact.

#lab scale bioreactor #lab scale bioreactor manufacturer #lab scale bioreactor supplier #lab scale bioreactor manufacturer in India #fermenter technologies

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kirnet · 2 years ago

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Don’t Wake the Ancients - Chapter 8

read on ao3 | previous chapter | next chapter

sorry this is almost 8k long of exposition whoops

Dorotea broke her arm when she was six years old.

Rosa could never keep her from the trees no matter how hard she tried. Eventually, she had resigned to watching her from the kitchen window as she cooked. Dorotea would poke around the roots, overturning stones to find the things that skittered underneath them. She’d pull on the branches and run her tiny fingers over the veins of its leaves, and when she inevitably failed at pulling herself up into the boughs she would run to the swing set. “Not too high, mija,” Rosa would say, her voice as warm as the sunlight that filtered through the leaves.

Most of the time, Dorotea would listen. But once she caught sight of a crow and decided that she wanted to be a bird when she grew up, she let go at the apex of the swing’s movement, soaring through the air for a few euphoric moments.

The pain she felt when she landed on her arm was indescribable. She had only been able to wail as Rosa scrambled out to grab her, her ambrosia voice falling on deaf ears. The world seemed to recede until all that was left was the vivid intensity of her own body.

Dorotea had injured a few more things since then, fingers and ankles and broken areas of skin. None had compared to that pain over twenty years ago.

Now she wondered how she had ever been so foolish. The memory of pain was just an illusion. All you truly remembered was your reaction to it, the distress and the discomfort and the itchy agony of having to wear a brace. The actual pain was nothing but a phantom that hovered in your periphery but never truly reappeared.

If pain had been the end result of breaking her arm, then this must be the work of the Devil himself. Every single inch of Dorotea’s body ached, throbbed, stung, or some combination of the three. Her shallow breaths were barely enough to fill her lungs, yet they were still constrained by the too-small hollow in her chest. Fire ripped from her sternum up to her throat every time she fought to suck precious oxygen in through her constricted airways. Her eyes were too swollen to open easily, so she relied on the shaved edges of her fingernails, grit and asphalt still embedded underneath, to feel her way around her arms. Tubes and needles protruded from her, pinching her every time she thought to move.

She had spent her fair share of time around corpses in this condition. Living it was another thing entirely.

So she lay there for an eternity, wishing she could just dissolve into the firm mattress as she mustered up the energy to pry her eye open.

White light stabbed her, piercing through her eye right to the back of her skull. Her body throbbed in time with her heartbeat, rattling her teeth. Still, she continued, straining to push her eyelids further open.

The blinding light receded, though it never disappeared, until Dorotea could see her surroundings. She lay in a hospital room, IVs and monitors strapped to every bit of her under her paper tunic. The room certainly wasn’t one in Adelaide Memorial Hospital, however, and Dorotea didn’t need a functioning brain to deduce that. The equipment was strange, brand new and gleaming clean, but there was far too much of it in the room with her. Many devices were painted with thin characters, as was the door frame and the ceiling above her, she realized. But what most stood out to her, and what made the monitor tracking her heart rate speed up, was that there was no window in the room.

Dorotea had no idea where she was.

Panic would have been the most appropriate response, but she simply didn’t have the energy for it. When the pain of trying to comprehend her surroundings became too great she turned inward.

How long had she been here? She couldn’t use a window to judge the time of day, not that it would do any good with the gap of memory. And why was she here, anyway? A black eye- no, too far. A bottle. Yes, a blur of green as it neared her face. Snow and booze and teeth.

Dorotea tried to straighten and immediately regretted it. Where was Douglas? Had he made it safely to the bar, or was he in one of the rooms next to her?

The door opened before she could grit her teeth and try again. A honey blonde head poked in, hesitating for just a moment before entering fully. Rebecca’s back was stiff but her hands flexed at her sides as she drank in the sight of her daughter. “Oh, baby,” she almost sobbed as she closed the distance.

“Rebecca?” is what Dorotea meant to say. The sound stopped somewhere in the middle of her parched throat, her tongue refusing to move. She tried again, managing a croak through her chapped lips.

“Here.” Rebecca hurried over to the side of the room where a small water cooler sat. She pulled a paper cup from the stack on top and filled it before carefully bringing it over to the bed, her steps hardly agitating the water. With a feather light touch, she tilted Dorotea’s chin back and brought the cup to her lips. Swallowing was painful, but she gulped the water down anyway. They repeated this a few more times until Dorotea was finally able to say, “Alright.”

Rebecca’s face brightened. The bed dipped as she sat on the edge of it, rolling Dorotea’s leg slightly towards her. “There’s morphine here,” she said, pointing to a button on the side of the bed. When Dorotea nodded, she pressed it. “How are you feeling?”

“Like someone hit me with a semi, backed over me, and hit me again.” It was a little more manageable now with the painkillers flooding her system. Dorotea took the opportunity to assess the damage, fighting the strong urge to lean over the bed and vomit as she did so. Every square inch of her body ached, yes, bruises no doubt forming from her fall or from Kenny putting his weight on her. But most of the damage was localized to her head. It smarted even with the morphine, pounding so hard she might have thought that a series of earthquakes had hit her room. She could feel a bandage tickling her throat when she moved her jaw, lighting up the imprints of fingers around her throat. Her old black eye was the least of her worries now. “Where am I?”

Just like it did whenever Dorotea asked her an important question, Rebecca’s expression pinched. So Dorotea was surprised when she answered. “About 60 miles southeast of Wayhaven and a mile underground. Welcome to the Agency’s Division 16 bunker.”

Dorotea blinked. She was expecting the words “city” or “hospital” to tumble from her mother’s mouth, not the fact that she was currently a healthy distance underground. She glanced at the windowless wall, scrambling to gather her thoughts. “I- what?”

Rebecca gave her a few seconds before continuing. “We should have this discussion later. You need rest, and the nurses-“

“Hell no.” Dorotea did her best to straighten up, batting off her mother’s attempt to help her. “No no no. You can’t run away from this discussion now, not after all this. I need damn answers.” She flinched at the impulse, but Dorotea allowed herself to reach out and put a hand on Rebecca’s leg. “I need honesty.”

After a few long moments of staring at Dorotea’s hand, Rebecca let out a shuddering breath. She was always ramrod straight, as strong and unbending as some of the ancient oaks around the forest. Now she curled in on herself, and Dorotea almost sprang back when she noticed the wrinkles at the corner of her mouth or the darkness under her eyes. “What do you want to know?”

Everything, so it was a struggle to figure out what to ask first. “How long was I out?”

“Two days.”

Two days? She certainly felt it. Before she could comprehend her thoughts, they started tumbling from her mouth. “Is Douglas okay? Did Tina make it home? Lance, was there any more evidence about him? Oh God, and Kenny and his boys, what-“

Rebecca silenced her with a hand. “Everyone is fine,” she said gently. “You were the only casualty of that altercation.”

She quieted as the door creaked open again. A man stepped in, bowing to get through the doorway, and Dorotea felt a gasp slip from her lips at how impossibly beautiful he was. Dark warm skin contrasted with the sapphire blue of his long hair and medical scrubs. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail, so Dorotea had a clear look at his delicately pointed ears when she finally could tear her gaze from his face. “Agent Langford. Detective Langford,” he greeted in a voice like silk. And then he smiled, and Dorotea had no need for a window. The sun was right here in the room with them. “I’m glad to see you’re finally awake.”

“This is Elidor,” Rebecca said when Dorotea failed to answer, standing and straightening out her pantsuit. “He’s been in charge of your care since you’ve been here.”

“Thank you,” Dorotea managed to cough out, the novelty of his appearance receding enough so that she could scan him critically. “Wait, where are you going?” she almost shouted as Rebecca made for the door.

“Unit Bravo just got back from checking on your station. They can give you the most recent report of what’s happening.” Rebecca fiddled with the doorknob. “This conversation is not over. I have plenty to discuss with you, and they should be here for it. I’ll be back soon.”

Elidor started talking as she slipped away. “That gives me time to take care of you.”

He gave her a quick physical, shining lights in her eyes and genuinely apologizing when she hissed. Then he helped her undress from the drafty paper robe and gave her a sponge bath, his huge hands impossibly light against the bruised ruins of her skin. The clothes he dressed her in after were her own, taken from her dresser in her apartment, and she wondered if Rebecca or Tina had been the ones to retrieve them.

Elidor stayed in the room when he was done, grabbing a chair to sit and chat. They talked a lot about nothing, about the snow and how he could feel the chill all the way down here. Inside a mountain, he revealed to her, connected to a string of collapsed mining tunnels. Eventually, Dorotea mustered up the courage to ask him about his pointed ears. “No disrespect intended, of course. But is the Agency really, well-“

“Full of people you consider unnatural?” Dorotea jolted, wincing right after. She hadn’t heard Adam enter, nor the rest of Unit Bravo, who all fanned out around her bed as Rebecca came in behind them and closed the door. Adam had forgone his coat, so his muscled arms were on full display when he crossed them. He opened his mouth to say something that no doubt Dorotea did not want to hear, but Farah and Nate bounded forward before he could.

“How are you feeling?” Nate asked, his hands hovering a few inches from Dorotea’s shoulder.

Farah plopped onto the bed, and Elidor and Dorotea both hissed as it bounced. “You look like you’ve just been spat out of a jet engine.”

“I feel like it.” Dorotea watched Elidor mutter under his breath and rub his face in a way that seemed painful, and she decided that no matter what the Agency was or what happened here, she trusted him. That was the only appropriate reaction to have around Unit Bravo. She turned to Farah. “Are you alright? I remember that you were part of the fight.”

“Please.” Miraculously, Morgan did not have a lit cigarette between her lips. Instead she popped loudly on some gum, obviously unsatisfied with the substitution. “We’re not nearly as fragile as you.” Her lips thinned when Rebecca shot her a heated look.

“Which leads us to our current situation.” Any trace of vulnerability that Rebecca previously had was gone now, replaced entirely by strict professionalism. “Adam told me what happened.”

Dorotea flushed when she realized what Rebecca meant. She glanced at Adam’s frowning mouth, wondering how those fangs fit into his mouth, or how she had never noticed them before. They couldn’t be real. “I believe I was slightly concussed-” She stopped and then stared hard at his unmarked hand. “Dear God.”

Farah shouldered her with surprising tenderness. “See? Told y’all she was cool.”

Nate grimaced. “I wouldn’t describe any part of this situation as ‘cool.’”

“But that didn’t happen, right?” Dorotea rolled her cracked lips. “Y’all can’t really be-”

“Vampires?” Adam all but growled.

The only sound was the timely beeps of the monitor. Dorotea wasn’t sure what or who to look at, Farah’s grin or Elidor’s ears or the graceful characters that decorated the room. Her eyes fell on Rebecca. “I’ve known something was wrong with y’all from the beginning, but it sounds ridiculous to say out loud.”

Adam’s eyes narrowed. “Wrong?”

Nate sighed. “Adam.”

Dorotea did her best to run a hand through her disheveled hair, but settled for raising it halfway to her chest. Without a word, Elidor leaned forward and brushed it back from where it had caught on a bandage. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, what’s wrong with you is that you’re assholes, but I’m not sure if that has anything to do with the vampirism.”

Oh, yeah. The painkillers were starting to work.

An odd noise erupted from Morgan, but she quickly stifled it. “This is very, very real,” Rebecca said. “How did you even figure it out?”

Dorotea shrugged. “The blood, mostly. If it hadn’t kept popping up I would have never dug deeper. I thought that Dad’s notes were insane when I first read them, but I guess only something insane would make sense of all this crazy.”

Rebecca’s hard gaze snapped to her. “You went through your father’s things?”

Suddenly Dorotea was a teenager getting caught sneaking out again. “I would have asked you if you were home.”

“The office is locked.”

“Was locked.” Dorotea coughed. Farah’s grin grew wider, and even Morgan cracked a smile as the men groaned. “I had already asked for an honest answer and you refused to give me one. I had to take matters into my own hands if this investigation was going to go anywhere.”

“You conducted a second investigation on us while investigating the murders?” Nate asked, his voice carrying an odd note.

Morgan huffed. “Explains why you always look so awful.”

“Look, there’s a reason you all came to Wayhaven. There’s a reason this Agency of yours is involved, and I’m damn sure it’s because of the blood.” Dorotea’s voice grew stronger with every word. “So tell me what’s happening. From the beginning.”

Rebecca flexed her hands. “We all work for the Agency, a worldwide collective of humans and supernaturals whose main goal is to secure, aid, and mediate for supernatural populations who find themselves in the human world.” It sounded right out of a pamphlet.

Dorotea cocked her head to the side. “Supernaturals? Plural? Like werewolves and witches?”

“And a million other things.” Farah had found a way to fully sprawl out on the bed without upsetting Dorotea’s wounds. She ignored Elidor’s pointed frown as she continued. “Lots of supernaturals, like me, come from the Echo World. It’s like another dimension, and sometimes where the skin between the two is thin you just-“ she made a popping sound with her mouth, “-and then you’re in the human world, wondering where you took a wrong turn.”

“It’s our job to make sure that these supernaturals get settled and don’t come into conflict with any human or other supernatural populations. Almost like a United Nations,” Rebecca added after a second of thought.

“With three times the work,” Morgan grumbled.

If Dorotea really focused on the words and digested their meaning, she would have screamed then gagged then probably threw up from the pain. Other worlds, vampires and werewolves and witches, oh my. Even if she had started to suspect that something was amiss with Unit Bravo, the whole idea of a supernatural influence had been laughable, even when the memories took hold and she found herself back in the witch’s cabin when she slept. She could feel the heat creeping up her neck, her hairs rising with it. Any more new information would bring a mental break.

So she shoved it where she had shoved her school lectures on relative motion and public speaking. There was math and formulas involved, sure, keys to success and correct answers, but she had never fathomed what they had actually meant. So she turned to fiction, to the thick fantasy books she never had time to read anymore. This was just magic, probably in the very real sense. Everything that she could not make sense of yet could not deny the existence of was just a part of the world building, something that she had to accept with no further thought. Later she would rip these concepts apart with curious fervor, but all she needed right now was to retain her own sanity. “Okay.”

Everyone stared at her, scrutinizing her reaction. When she realized that no one would continue the conversation on their own, she added, “Why are you in Wayhaven?”

Adam squared his shoulders. “We are in pursuit of a hunter, a supernatural that we believe killed both of your murder victims.”

Farah nodded. “And a lot of other people around the world.”

“You’re right, everything comes back to the blood,” Nate interjected before Dorotea could speak. He sounded almost relieved to be saying it. “The victims all had a mutation in their blood, that much is true. But the mutation is magical in nature, or anti-magical, so it was impossible to explain to you.” He drew in a breath. “All of these people were resistant to supernatural powers.”

“Powers such as?” Dorotea asked.

“Persuasion, pheromones, visions and hallucinations, mind reading, take your pick.” Morgan answered.

Elidor spoke up for the first time. “Or medicine and magical healing. The blood grants a resistance to all magical effects, either good or ill.”

“We’ll, not fire,” Farah chipped in. “If someone lobs a fireball at you, you’re still gonna get burned.”

Dorotea had a million more questions about the nature of this mutation, about how much the Agency knew about all of these individuals’ upbringings. Was there a constant throughout all of their lives that might trigger such a mutation, like radiation? Or was it so random and varied they didn’t know? Did all humans have this potential and only a handful expressed it? She buried all of them for now. They would come later. “So that mutation leaves the blood practically inhuman? Like a vampire’s?” She glared at Adam. A memory flashed of four figures chasing a fifth, of a voice and a poor attempt at persuasion. “That’s your blood sample in my lab, ain’t it?”

Some of the tension evaporated from the room when Farah giggled and Adam pinched the bridge of his nose. Rebecca’s stoic expression softened just enough to throw him an obvious “I told you so” look before snapping back to professionalism. “Must you always accuse me like that?”

Nate let out a soft chuckle, but then his shoulders hunched. “No, and yes. Our blood is changed, what you call dead. But not the humans’.” He glanced at Rebecca, who nodded. “Our suspect… there’s no easy way to say this. We think he’s experimenting with humans who have the gene. Trying to enhance the properties of the blood, we assume.”

Dorotea opened her mouth to ask something, and then snapped it shut. The contrition of her face was excruciating, but she couldn’t help the way her brows furrowed. “You said you’ve been following this suspect around the world?”

“Yes,” Adam answered.

“So you know who it is?”

Everyone seemed suddenly very interested in the pristine white walls. “Dorotea-“ Rebecca tried to say, taking a step forward.

“You knew this whole time who’s been terrorizing my town and you said nothing?” Heat flared where the IVs entered her flesh. Anger bubbled up in her veins, racing through her body until it blazed in her chest. Her arm jerked, trying desperately to grab for a hat that was nowhere to be seen. “Janet and Garret are dead! A child is dead! You let me arrest Lance! How long were you going to sit there with your thumbs up your asses before you did anything?” The lies about the blood, about what they might have found at the witch’s cabin, the stonewalling of her own investigation. “Before you stopped meddling in my investigation?”

Rebecca sighed. “It’s not that simple, honey. I- we- were only trying to protect-“

“Don’t you dare,” Dorotea snapped. “Don’t you dare make this about us.”

“It’s not,” Adam said, and if Dorotea wasn’t so furious she might have honed in on the twinge of regret in his voice. “And it’s not that simple.” He stepped forward, his eyes the color of the first sprigs of green poking up through winter’s frost. “Our primary objective was to protect you because you are one of the last remaining people with the mutation that we are aware of.”

The beep of the monitor increased in intensity. Dorotea shut her mouth, unsure when she had opened it. “That can’t be-“

“If we knew exactly what identity our killer was assuming, he would already be in custody,” Adam continued, growing ever closer. He ignored a worried glance from Nate. “We have followed him across the world. We have combed through every inch of your town and have not found him. He was going to come for you and we had to be there to stop him.”

Janet Greenland’s arms had been torn open, her blood altered within her own flesh. Nothing but an organic vial for some monster to toy with. “You didn’t stop him from getting to Janet.”

Nate sighed. “We didn’t know about Janet until it was too late.”

“And Garret?” A little boy with red hair and even redder blood. “You weren’t keeping tabs on him?”

“He didn’t have the mutation,” Morgan said, blowing bubbles with her gum. “He was just a random snack.”

A hole opened up in the bed beneath Dorotea. She was falling, her stomach rising to her throat. “Get out.”

Rebecca threw out her hands. “Dorotea-“

“Out!”

Elidor stood and straightened his scrubs. “It would be best if you left.” He busied himself with adjusting Dorotea’s pillows as everyone filed out, throwing her a range of pitying glances.

Rebecca paused by the door when everyone had exited, her jaw working. But she clenched it shut and left, just like she always did.

Elidor had given her something to sleep.

Dorotea wanted to sulk and scream and throw herself from her bed, to do anything with that information, but her tense muscles wouldn’t let her. “I’ve had enough of sleep,” she muttered when he handed her the pills.

“I know,” he said gently. “But your body and mind need it. Recovery is your first priority.”

He was there when she awoke, a mug of steaming coffee in his hand, and a surprising amount of her headache dissipated after the first few sips. “Agent Langford wants to give you a tour of the facility once you are able,” he warned as he set up a tray table in her lap, the smell of eggs and toast clouding the air. “Though I told her that wouldn’t be for a few days.”

“Thanks.” The pain subsided further as more caffeine entered her system. She was probably able to walk with some assistance now, most of the damage localized to her upper body, but she knew Elidor was offering her a kindness. She nodded up to the ceiling, glancing up at the characters with foggy eyes. “What are those?”

“Sigils.” Elidor grabbed a few medicine bottles from a cabinet. “Magic to help promote healing. Most of our supernatural agents can heal on their own, but the humans benefit from some help.”

Dorotea hummed. “But not me?”

“Unfortunately for the both of us, no.” He handed her a paper cup of pills and sat on the edge of the bed. “But there are some things that we can do to speed up the process.”

Rebecca came to visit her a day later. Elidor had an excuse ready on his tongue, but Dorotea waved him off. “No use in delaying the inevitable.”

Anything that Rebecca said related strictly to the tour. She led her through the cafeteria, some lobbies, and endless miles of the same concrete hallways. “This is one of our training areas,” she announced as they entered yet another unmarked room. A glass partition separated them from a large arena filled with moving targets and obstacles. Dorotea watched in wonder as an agent jogged to the starting marker, their blue skin on full display under their gym clothes. An alarm buzzed and the agent shot forward, dancing around everything in their path like a wisp of smoke. When they reached the first target they reared their arm back. A blinding purple light grew around their wrist and up their forearm, and when it reached their elbow they snapped their hand forward. A whip of energy extended meters past their limb, snapping through the air with a deafening crack and cleaving the target in two clean halves. The agent never even slowed, their momentum carrying them straight to their next objective.

“Holy shit,” Dorotea heard herself gasp.

“A demon,” Rebecca explained from beside her. “Not anything like the Biblical understanding of them, but still incredibly powerful.” She placed a hand on Dorotea’s shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Dorotea worked her jaw for a few seconds. “Miss Benedict was right.”

Rebecca raised a brow. “Oh?”

“About seeing demons. Bless her heart, I thought she was going senile.” Dorotea leaned forward and rested her arms against the windowsill, shrugging Rebecca’s hand off as she did so. “So there’s always been supernaturals in Wayhaven?”

She ignored the hurt in her mother’s voice. “Yes. The skin between the worlds is incredibly thin around here. Echo World portals open up frequently. Some people are simply more in tune to the magical ley lines than others.”

“You aren’t worried that Miss Benedict is aware of their presence?”

“Adam already alerted me. I don’t believe she’ll cause any real trouble.”

Dorotea’s lips thinned. Until seconds ago she might have thought the old lady crazy, but that was her kin, and damn it, Miss Benedict had been right this whole time. She didn’t appreciate Rebecca’s dismissive tone. The agent finished the course, their yellow eyes literally glowing with satisfaction. “How long have you known?”

“About the supernatural?”

“About me?” Dorotea flashed her a glare. “If you sent your Unit to protect me then you already knew what I was.”

Rebecca blew air through her nose. “You never slept when you were young. I thought bringing Rosa in as your nanny would help with that.”

Dorotea’s head snapped up. “She’s an agent?”

“A siren. Her song was supposed to knock you out.” Rebecca shook her head, a faint smile on her lips. “Do you know how many complaints I got from her when it didn’t work?”

“A long time, then?” Dorotea balled her hands into fists, struggling to push Rosa to the back of her mind. Was every part of her life a lie? “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I couldn’t,” Rebecca sighed. “Protocol-“

“I refuse to accept that as a valid reason.” Fingers itching for her hat, Dorotea straightened.

Rebecca knocked her fist against the windowsill. “Like you would have believed me? You question everything I say!”

“And who’s fault is that?” Dorotea exploded, no longer able to hold it in. “Apparently you’ve just never been honest about me, not about your job or Rosa or me. Was dad even really killed in a shootout?”

“Dorotea,” Rebecca warned, voice dangerously low.

She ignored it. It didn’t hold a candle to Rosa’s drop-the-subject-now tone. “I’m supposed to be your daughter! Obviously this mutation, condition, whatever the fuck it is puts me in danger if some fucking monster is killing people for it! Would it kill you to be honest for once in your life?”

“I’m being honest now!”

“Because you didn’t have a fucking choice!” Dorotea panted, her cheeks burning. She glanced through the window. All the agents had stilled, eyes glued to where she stood, but they all scrambled back to their tasks when Rebecca turned to them. “Do you even care about me? About Wayhaven?”

At this close Dorotea could see the red webs in the whites of her mother’s eyes and the deepening creases along the corners of her mouth. Her skin was pale paper, and if Dorotea had reached out to touch her she might have crumpled in a heap. Rebecca blinked rapidly, the muscles in her neck staining. “Come on. There’s more to see.” The click of Rebecca’s heels echoed through the hall as she continued on.

The cold concrete bit into Dorotea’s palm when she slapped the wall. Cursing, she followed.

“What’s this?” Dorotea asked when they reached a large and menacing door. Two guards stood outside, both technicolored and obviously supernatural. Sigils covered every square inch of the walls behind them.

“I want you to understand why we do what we do. What’s at stake.” One of the guards, gills visible on her neck, unlocked the door with a key card when Rebecca nodded. She led Dorotea inside, the guards’ stares burning holes into her back.

“Most supernaturals are completely amiable with the human population, thanks to our treaties,” Rebecca began, her shoulders stiff. The corridor widened into a large room. Guards were stationed at set intervals next to what appeared to be barriers of shimmering purple light. “Most of the time, conflict only arises because a supernatural feels threatened by a human. The Agency is well equipped to deal with such things. But some individuals refuse to respect our laws.”

They came to a stop in front of one of the barriers. Inside the room was a man in a chair, his wrists and ankles bound to it. His eyes were closed, but the movement of his eyeballs underneath made the lids writhe like they were going to burrow out of his face. Occasionally he would strain against the restraints, his veins popping out of his skin, but then he would just as quickly fall limp again.

Dorotea couldn’t swallow her horror. “What’s happening to him?” She glanced at the guard next to her, his gaze set straight ahead. “Why is no one doing anything?”

Rebecca shook her head. “Part of our agreement with the supernaturals is that we must abide by their customs. Those with the most heinous of crimes are put into an eternal sleep and made to live out their worst fears.”

She knew her mouth was agape, but Dorotea was unable to close it. “That’s evil.”

“It’s justice.” Rebecca’s shoulders slumped, her patience for Dorotea’s outbursts obviously wearing thin. “Do you know what this vampire did? The dozens of children he slaughtered on nothing more than a passing whim?”

Garret’s face flashed in her mind. “That doesn’t give you the right to play God and inflict that kind of pain on another person,” Dorotea gritted out. “Is this supposed to make me trust your Agency?”

“It's supposed to make you understand why I could never bring you into this world.” Rebecca spread her hands, her voice growing desperate. “Can’t you see why I never wanted you here? The danger that lurks here-“

“Was there the entire time!” It felt wrong to raise her voice in front of the gut-wrenching spectacle. Dorotea dropped her voice to a grating whisper. “And instead of giving me the knowledge to defend myself you left me and my whole town defenseless.”

Rebecca wouldn’t look at her. “Unit Bravo is waiting for us for another briefing. You should go on ahead.”

Dorotea scoffed in disbelief. “Yeah, great. Fucking great. You know, sometime in my life you’re going to have to talk to me without cowering away every time I bring up your hypocrisy.” With great effort, she turned away from the tortured vampire, the sight burned into the back of her eyelids. “Because I’m starting to get sick of this.”

The break room that Unit Bravo reserved for their briefing was twice the size of Dorotea’s office. She had to admit, vampires were much less threatening when they were perched on obviously unused furniture, the faux-leather seats squeaking loudly with every movement. Adam forgoed sitting entirely, instead preferring to pace. “Agent Langford is unable to join us,” Adam announced when she entered, shoving his phone into one of his many cargo pants pockets.

Dorotea didn’t deign to answer as she took a seat next to Morgan. “Is this about my case?”

Adam nodded. “You know almost everything now, and what you don’t will be explained shortly. We might as well make use of you.” He said the words as if they were shards of glass filling his mouth. He stilled in front of her, his hands clasped behind his back. “We’ve been following this vampire for almost a year. Unfortunately, our target is a veritable chameleon. In the few physical altercations that we’ve had with him he’s had a different appearance every time.” He nodded to a folder on the coffee table. Dorotea picked it up and leafed through it. A number of different faces filled the pages, all either pictures obviously taken from a distance or the work of a sketch artist. A spark of recognition flared in her stomach, but Dorotea could not place where it might possibly be from.

“Supernaturals have a veil,” Nate explained. “A kind of illusion magic that hides their true form from humans. It’s most important for any that have a drastically different appearance: fae like Elidor, merefolk, dwarves, and the like. But we all have use of it.”

“It can help with these in tricky situations.” Farah stuck her finger in her mouth halfway through the sentence, the rest of the words getting lost in a spray of spittle. She hooked it around the inside of her cheek and pulled, giving Dorotea a clear view of the fang, almost the size of her pinky, that sprang down in front of her canine.

Morgan laughed as Dorotea jolted. Nate sighed disappointedly. “We know for certain that he’s a vampire from the Echo World. That gives him an array of powers that the rest of us don’t have access to. It’s possible that he’s able to tailor his appearance to throw us off.”

Dorotea looked up from where she had been looking forward, leaning far forward in her seat to look at Farah’s pearly teeth. On further inspection, the canine itself actually extended down. Farah retracted it with a fwip. “Aren’t you all from the Echo World?”

Farah kicked her legs up onto the table. “Just me. The rest of these guys were turned the good ol’ fashioned Dracula way.”

Adam and Nate both tensed for just a moment, but Morgan just pulled a red carton of cigarettes from her jacket pocket. “We’ve got the super strength, the senses, and a few surprises of our own,” she mumbled around the cigarette as she lit up. “But we can’t turn into smoke or make thralls or anything like that.”

“Thralls?” Dorotea didn’t like the sound of that.

Nate leaned his elbows on his knees. “Lance was involved with Greenland’s murder,” he said gently. “But he has no idea, and he had no choice, just as the miners had no choice in attacking you. Echo World vampires are able to inject victims with a type of magical venom that makes them completely susceptible to what their master commands for a temporary period.”

“So Lance honestly had no idea?” Guilt twisted at her insides. She’d dragged him from his home and doubted his character when he was nothing more than another victim. “God.”

“You had no way of possibly knowing,” Nate assured, a surprising amount of bitterness in his voice. Adam clenched his jaw. “Our operatives are monitoring them in case they pose any more danger to themselves or others. And we’re working on a way to get Lance cleared of everything without raising more suspicion.”

Dorotea nodded, her voice failing her for a moment. “Thank you.” She turned to Morgan. “And thank you for going to protect Douglas. I should have done it earlier.”

She blew a puff of smoke. “It’s just work, sweetheart.”

Hunching forward, Dorotea clapped her hands together and then winced at the amount of sweat on her palms. “You really have no idea where this guy is?”

“No,” Adam grumbled. “He’s close enough to command his thralls and stalk you, but these cursed woods are too large and too saturated with magic to sniff him out.”

Normally Adam’s frustration with her beloved mountains would tickle Dorotea to no end, but now it just left her feeling hollow. There were miles and miles of ever changing trees and trails to get lost in. Even someone as experienced with the backwoods as Dorotea needed to tread with extreme caution; who knew what you could discover with heightened senses and literal fucking magic. Then Dorotea blinked. She lunged for the folder and pulled out the photographs. “If I were some sort of vampire serial killer, I would for sure hide out in the woods. But does that match any pattern of behavior you might have been able to glean from your brief interactions with him?” She pulled out a specific photo when Nate cocked his head to the side. The photo was grainy, obviously taken at a great distance. Most of the vampire’s face was in shadow, blocked by his sweep of dark hair and the harsh light of a midday sun. Dorotea ignored his face. “Where was this one taken? Specifically, what setting?”

Farah’s breath tickled the back of her neck. Dorotea almost shot up straight to the surface. When had she even moved? “Barcelona. I think this was outside a shopping center. I was able to tail him for a while but he got lost in a sweep of tourists.”

“He killed two people there,” Nate sighed.

Dorotea tapped the photo. “Maybe he’s also tailing one of his victims here, or maybe he has some other reason to go out, but it seems odd to me that he would be comfortable going out in the middle of the day into a crowd.”

Adam raised a brow. “Your point?”

“Maybe he’s not some recluse. Maybe he’s comfortable being around people. Who in their right mind would suspect someone of being a vampire?” Morgan snorted. Dorotea turned to Nate. “You think he’s conducting experiments?”

“All of the victims we have found thus far have had a certain amount of vampire blood mixed with their own.” Nate cringed at the thought. “It’s possible he’s attempting some sort of blood transfusion, mixing his own blood with theirs.”

That made no logical sense to Dorotea, but she had only confirmed the existence of magic about a day ago. “Then he would need lab equipment. And basic medical and sanitation supplies, dear God, I hope. And-“

“Electricity.” The cigarette still hung loosely from Morgan’s lips, but her gunmetal gray eyes seemed to harden with scrutiny. “Computers. A place to test his findings.”

An image was starting to form in Dorotea’s mind. Yes, that’s what was familiar. It was those pale blue eyes, the color of the ice that hid Wayhaven’s lake in the more brutal winters. “Did you ever investigate Adelaide Memorial Hospital?”

Dorotea explained to them what she had been thinking before the ill-fated decision to go out for drinks with Tina. Whatever results this so-called Dr. Murphy had given her had obviously been falsified. She had been ready to pounce on him out of sheer exhaustion and spite alone, but now she felt confident that her instinct had been steering her clear the whole time.

Adam rubbed his chin. “It’s possible.” He flashed his teeth, clamped his mouth shut, and then spoke again. “Though going off on your own in that weather was nothing short of idiotic.”

“Adam,” Nate almost snapped.

“Good work.” Adam coughed into his fist like his body was rejecting the compliment. “We’ll look into it.”

“Yes, we’ll look into it. I’m a part of this now.” Dorotea stood and stuck her thumbs into the waist of her sweatpants. “Is there a way that he can tell that people are mutated? A scent, or something?” She swallowed, feeling awkward even asking.

Morgan looked her up and down. “Humans tend to smell like old socks. But you’re much more-“

“Enticing.” The word was so quiet that Dorotea almost didn’t hear it, but the vampires sure did. They stared with mouths agape as Adam realized what he had muttered. He tried to silence Farah’s giggle with a glare, but was unsuccessful. “What I mean to say is there is certainly a difference.”

“A pleasant difference,” Morgan added, her eyes lidded. Nate dropped his head into his hands.

The room was slightly warmer. Dorotea cleared her throat. “Alright. Then we can use that to our advantage, right? If I can draw him out somewhere planned, we can-“

Adam exploded. “Absolutely not! Our job is to keep you safe, not throw you at every chance of danger. You’re quite adept at doing that on your own.”

“I’ll be safe once this guy is taken care of.” Dorotea stepped over to him. Her face hurt, her back hurt, her soul hurt. Gravity was already trying to drag her down, and all she wanted to do was shuffle back to her bed. “Garret’s dead. Who knows what’s going to happen with Lance and Kenny. I can’t lose another person. I just can’t.”

His brows pinched together, and for a wonderful moment she thought Adam might relent. But whatever sliver of vulnerability that slipped through his defenses was pulled back completely. “You are just a human. The Agency will take care of it.” He turned his back to her.

“It’s against protocol,” Nate added helpfully, rising to put his hands on Dorotea’s arms.

Dorotea scoffed. “You mean my mother would never allow it.”

“No. She wouldn’t.” Nate’s tone was grim. “And for good reason.”

As Dorotea sat in the mostly empty cafeteria, she daydreamed about home.

What had the Agency told everybody to explain her leave of absence? An injury, most likely, something to explain her impressionist smattering of bruises.That would mean that there would be a line out her door when she returned, everyone clambering over each other to bring her food, soup beans and cornbread and their grandmama’s shortbread recipe.

She pushed her bowl of watery soup away.

How did anyone down here tell the time? The minutes dragged on, feeling like hours. She was used to her insomnia speeding everything up into a delirious frenzy until sunlight was suddenly burning her bloodshot eyes. But without the sun or a fresh breeze or her confiscated phone she had no clue.

All she knew was that she was going home tomorrow. Whenever that happened to come.

Dorotea forced herself to finish her meal, knowing Elidor would give her a disappointed tut if she didn’t. After cleaning up her tray she started the walk back to her room, the journey growing shorter and shorter every time she made it.

The route brought her by some of the temporary rooms used by agents. She read the names on the outside as she passed. Jenkins, Estrada, du Mortain, Montjane…

She paused. Everything had already been said. Supernaturals were real and they weren’t going to let Dorotea do anything about it.

Yeah. Because that had been so successful before.

Dorotea took a step forward, sighed, and turned back around. Adam’s door opened the instant her knuckles touched the surface. His hair was slightly disheveled and his shirt was a bit wrinkled, as if he had just been laying down. It was completely foreign. Dorotea wasn’t even sure that she could think of the last time she had seen him sit. “Detective Langford,” he rasped.

“Agent du Mortain.” Dorotea chewed on her lip. “I just have one question and then I’ll let you go.”

Adam cocked his head to the side. “Ask.”

“Are you going to let him hurt anyone else?”

He leaned his forearm against the door frame. “I told you that we would catch the one who did all of this. I intend to keep my word.”

“That’s not a no.” Dorotea sucked in a breath when Adam narrowed his eyes.She thought of Lance in a cell, tears pouring down his face, his mind in tatters. “I know that your work is dangerous and that anything can happen. I just don’t want the damage to my people to be looked over simply because they don’t have special blood.”

Adam’s mouth quirked, but he schooled his expression to complete neutrality. “I have my orders,” is all that he said in response.

Wondering why she felt so disappointed, Dorotea nodded and stepped back. “Thanks for your time.”

He said nothing as she disappeared down the hall.

Pulling herself into her room, Dorotea headed straight to the bed. Somebody had left a clean change of day clothes there, all neatly folded. Jeans, boots, flannel, all pulled on with effort but no complaint. She reached for the most important item last.

Her fingers closed around aged leather, finding all the divots and scars that two pairs of hands had left in it. Dorotea pushed her cattleman hat onto her head.

Just a human, indeed.

#twc #dont wake the ancients #dorotea langford #my writing #egads. now to get back to violence

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