#Gasket Making Machine

[mimiii-3]

The Food Chain Pt.1

Yandere Platonic Batfam x Fem Reader

Notes: typical yandere themes

…

The overlapping chimes and songs of the games create a cacophony of excitement. You imagine that it mirrors the effect of the slot machines in Gotham’s seediest casinos.

The neon lights flash rapidly as you stalk down each isle of the arcade. Your day is made of soft reminders to not shake the claw machine or resetting a prize back to its starting position.

It’s not the most glamorous job but it feeds you. And you can’t deny the contentment your inner-child feels at living each day in a colorful arcade.

There’s normally two of you on these slow Thursday nights but it’s just you today. Camilla called in sick with the flu and there’s no one else to take her place.

The owner, Charlie, is an elderly man. With the deterioration of his joints and love for children, you know he won’t help out for the evening shift.

It’s not bad. Working the arcade by yourself makes you feel mature. You can prance around and act like you own the place for a few hours of independence.

The warm, orange and pink hues of the sunset melt through the large windows and illuminate the darkest corners of the arcade. With spring rolling around, the no-AC arcade feels warmer than usual.

It’s humid, but not enough that it makes you feel faint. You round the prize counter and take a quick swig from your dented water bottle.

That last family of three files out of the arcade with a quick ‘thank you.’ The little boy bounces away, arms full of stuffed animals he won in the claw machines.

“Have a nice day,” you chirp in your customer service voice. There goes the family of otters. They were quick and a bit noisy but they seemed sweet.

You like to assign everyone you see with an animal. The lady that lives next door, a mongoose. Charlie’s a penguin and Camilla is a rabbit.

You deemed yourself as a pig. Cute and smart but eats a lot of trash. That’s why Camilla and Charlie call you Ms. Piggy.

You look up at the clock to see how much longer you’re working today.

3 hours. It’s not very likely that the arcade will get busy on a Thursday evening so you settle into the white foldable chair in the corner of the prize area.

You pull out your phone and scroll lazily through your friends’ posts. They’re spending spring break in the Bahamas or France while you stay tucked away in Gotham.

You’re not jealous of their lavish lifestyle. But there’s a strange sense of loneliness you feel while gazing at the group pictures they take without you.

“Watch them act like they missed me,” you mutter bitterly. You can’t help but dread Monday morning when they will inevitably drone on about their fancy spring breaks.

Your murky thoughts are interrupted by the bell on the door ringing for new customers. You stand up from the chair and center yourself behind the counter. You put your best smile on and await the patrons.

Their light conversation grows closer and you sneakily eavesdrop on the approaching customers.

“-and Duke fell down both flights of stairs. You should have seen Bruce’s face, he looked like he was about to blow a gasket,” a gentle voice explains.

You hear another voice chuckle at the story, “God, I wish I was there to see that.”

You finally get to see the two as they make their way around the last coin-pusher. They’re two men, both raven-haired and polished.

The taller one has striking blue eyes and a mischievous expression. That one seems like a fox: cunning but still cute like a puppy.

The shorter one’s hair is messily combed through and he has dark circles under his eyes. That one feels like a stag, pretty but skittish.

The two spot you and hold your eye contact. You don’t yield to their intense gazes and widen your smile, “Hi! Welcome to Charlie’s Games. How many tokens?”

The fox’s smile widens and makes his way to the prize counter. He places his palms on the glass and leans on them to get a better look at you.

He taps his fingers rapidly against the glass, “This is actually the first time we’ve come here. How many tokens do you think we’d need to win big?”

The stag follows behind the fox and watches you carefully. You maintain your easy-going persona and reach under the counter.

They both stiffen at your movement. Their wide eyes and tightening fists let you know what they’re feeling.

“Relax guys. It’s not a gun, just a basket for the tokens,” you explain with a smile. Their bodies relax as you fill the basket with 40 tokens.

“40 tokens for twenty bucks. This should be more than enough to win big,” you jest.

The fox’s shoulders sag ever-so-slightly and the corner of his eyes crinkle. “Sorry we just,” he glances back at the stag and clears his throat, “y’know…this is Gotham after all.”

You nod at him and look between him and the stag. You raise your hands, “I get it. Gotham tends to be a nightmare but you can think of this place as a little escape from the guns and murder.”

“Thanks. That’s just what we need,” the stag speaks to you for the first time. He pulls at the left sleeve of his hoodie and tries to bite back a smile.

You snicker and they both look at you quizzically. “I’m sorry but you guys are so awkward, it’s adorable,” you cover your mouth with your hand as your laugh grows in volume.

They exchange a sheepish look and join in on your laughing. Your teary laughs die down and you sigh, “oh my gosh, I needed that laugh.”

“Us too,” the fox utters softly. The moment returns to its awkward beginning and you take it upon yourself to end the interaction.

“How about five more tokens - free of charge. That should make it impossible for you to walk away with nothing,” you say as you push the extra tokens across the counter.

The fox doesn’t say anything and just continues to smile down at you. The stag senses your discomfort and speaks up, “thanks again! We’ll be back for our prize.”

The stag picks them up and grabs the fox by his arm to lead him away. All while being pulled away, the fox watches you. You wave and offer a closed-eye smile to satisfy whatever it is he wants from you.

That seems to do the trick and the fox turns to walk with the stag over to the racing games. Once they’re out of sight, you slip into the employee-only room behind the prize wall.

You fall back onto the sofa and let out an obnoxiously loud sigh. That was…intense. They seem like cool dudes but man do they have a staring problem.

You turn on the couch and lay back against the arm rest. You resume your scrolling and pray that was the only awkward customer interaction you’ll have for the rest of your shift.

~

Your not exactly sure how much time passes as you scroll through Instagram and TikTok. Your unsolicited break is interrupted from the ring of the silver bell sitting on the main counter.

You slowly rise from the couch and stagger back to the door. Pushing aside the hanging beads, you take a quick peak at the clock. 20 minutes till closing, perfect.

The two men stand there with a handful of tickets. Their faces resemble those of children waiting at the door on Halloween.

“Wow! Looks like you two went all out. Let’s count em’,” you say cheerily. You take the tickets from their hands while making sure not to look them in the eyes.

You feed the tickets into the rickety machine. You purse your lips and stare up at the water-stained ceiling. ‘Just pretend like they’re not even there,’ you think.

After a minute or two, the receipt for their tickets pops out. You wrestle the receipt out of the machine before flipping it over and reading the number, “4,860 tickets. That means you get a yellow prize.”

You point up at the yellow-painted shelf and look back at the pair, “which one would you like me to get for you.”

“We don’t really have a preference. How about you pick one for us,” the stag blurts out before the fox can even open his mouth.

“Hmmm let’s see,” you muse. You scan the array of plushies on the self. There’s anything from a Chucky doll to an out-of-season reindeer.

Your eyes finally land on a pink glimpse tucked behind a ghost and mermaid plush. You go on your tiptoes and pull the plush off the shelf by its tag.

Interesting. It’s a pig. A pink, round-bellied pig wearing a monocle. Part of you contemplates putting it back, not wanting to offer up your twin to these two strangers.

But then again, you’ve already pulled it out and they’re watching your every move. You turn and hold out the pig to them, “here. This is what I’d choose if I were you two.”

“It’s cute,” the fox man says giddily. He plucks the pig right out of your hand and brings it close to his chest.

The stag rolls his eyes and places the token basket in front of you, “Thanks for the extra five tokens. I don’t think-”

“Do you work here everyday?”

The bizarre question stuns you into silence. You look over at the stag who’s bewildered expression must reflect your own.

“I’m so sorry. He’s weird,” the stag stumbles out an apology as he repeatedly elbows his friend.

The fox chuckles and rubs the back of his neck, “Sorry! Just ignore me. It’s been a long day.”

“I get that,” you nervously laugh. The sudden ringing of your phone draws your attention away from the two men.

“Oops! That’s my alarm. It’s time for me to close the arcade,” you sigh in relief.

“Oh great,” the fox speaks up, “we can walk you out.”

Normally, you would hate it if a random man offered to walk you somewhere….but this is Gotham. And being a young woman in Gotham is the same as walking around with a sign on your head that says ‘please murder me.’

You swallow down your pride, “that’d be great actually. Mind if I grab my things and lock up real quick?”

The two are quick to assure you to take all the time you need. It takes about eight minutes to run around the break room and collect your belongings.

You swing your purse onto your arm and skip out from behind the counter. You briefly introduce yourself and address the two men, “before we head out, what are your names?”

The fox puffs out his chest, “I’m Dick. This thing here is my kid brother, Tim.”

Dick the fox and Tim the stag. Neat.

Tim, previously known as the stag, rolls his eyes. “I prefer Tim and his idiot brother, Dick,” he huffs. The two start to slap each other and bicker over their perceived superiority.

You soften at their interaction, “you guys are lucky. I always wanted a brother.”

Their mini-brawl ceased instantly. Dick and Tim turn to look at you. You can’t read their expressions. Maybe you said something wrong?

“Ok, let’s go! I made you guys wait long enough,” you squeak.

You start to walk towards the exit with Dick and Tim in tow. You hold open the door for them and lock it behind the three of you.

In complete silence, Dick and Tim walk you to your car. It’s a dingy, little thing that looks like it’s five seconds away from combusting.

“This is me. Thanks for keeping me company during closing,” you say gratefully.

Before they can say anything, you speak once more, “I work here every Tuesday through Thursday. The rest of the week I’m in class.”

You’re not sure why you shared so much information. Maybe the only child in you got carried away by the sibling bond the two share.

Nevertheless, they seem relieved at your answer. “Perfect,” Dick responds, “we’ll be sure to come back with some more family.”

You nod appreciatively and climb into the driver’s seat. You roll down your window and wave bye to the pair as you exit the arcade parking lot.

You can see them waving back to you in your rear view mirror. You drive away feeling content. This might be the start of a beautiful friendship.

What you didn’t see was the tracker that Tim subtly threw into your backseat. Or Dick taking a picture of your license plate. Or the deluxe sports car tucked away in the corner of the parking lot.

…

Extra notes: I’m so excited to continue this fic

Tag list:

@jjsmeowthie @shawty-a-lil-baddie @butratherbutrather @shirp-collector-of-fixations @stove-top96 @yaoizee @bellethesleepypotato @salfishers @eli-mayhaveatencats @wisefuncherryblossom @c4xcocoa @twismare @icanmeltanigloo @tatsuri-zomushiki @wizzerreblogs @crazycaoticsimp @burningkittenprince @dakotali @vanilliona @galaxypurplerose

[athena-gundampla]

MG Ver. Ka. 1/100 E.F.S.F Mass-Produced Middle-Range Support Type Mobile Pod RB-79 "Ball"

It's finally done!!! I showcased this kit's interior earlier here, but now it's finished and ready for a proper review.

This is my first Master Grade kit. I was unsure what to go for, but the RB-79 Ball looked pretty simple and forgiving for new builders. It's a smaller kit, with only six sprues in total - one being the display stand/hangar bay and the rest building the internal mechanics, surface plating, and arms. It even included some metal pieces for the arms, with steel piston parts and small wires. Surprisingly, there's also a small rubber sprue, which has both popycaps as well as some rubber gasket detailing parts for the arms and main engine.

A cool feature of this MG was the impressive internal detail, just like an RG kit (although with larger parts, there's room for a lot more detail). I brought out a lot of the smaller features with my metallic paints, giving it a bronzed look.

I really like how it turned out - it's got an almost steampunk look to it and it really looks like a functional machine.

The kit looks just as good with the armor plating, arms, and main. cannon attached. The surface armor just clips on over the mechanical struts, and can be removed pretty easily for display of the internals. I'll probably leave it on for now until I get a more dust-free display though.

The markings for this kit are a combination of dry decals and stickers. Unfortunately a lot of the stickers are poorly sized and need to be cut to fit properly on the kit. I also found the dry decals to be really fragile and difficult to work with, and would've preferred waterslides instead.

I ended up leaving most of the dry decals off, and relied on a heavy weathering with gunmetal and silver drybrushing, and some finer wear and tear with the Tamiya weathering pigments (sets D and C).

The main 180mm cannon is nicely detailed, and fits into a rubber gasket polycap on top of the kit, on which it rotates freely as well as pivoting up and down. Unlike the HG Ball, there's no twin autocannon option, or really any optional parts in this kit.

There are PC rubber parts over the ball joint connection the manipulator claws to the body as well, helping to hide the connection and adding a bit of extra realism.

The claws are the only part of this kit that can really be posed, apart from the gun moving and the cockpit opening. The upper claws open and close, and the lower set can swing outwards for larger items or fold backwards and store away underneath the upper arm. They're really nicely detailed, with a metal bar implying a piston and a few exposed red wires on the upper claws.

The kit also contains 3 miniature figures: one pilot and two support crew, which were fun to paint, although the detail is lost at a distance.

The pilot is just barely visible within the cockpit, and really emphasizes how surprisingly large the RB-79 Ball really is. There's a little paintable control screen in front of him, although it can't really be seen once the kit is assembled.

I decided to spruce up the hangar bay base that the kit comes with, as, lacking legs, the kit requires it to be displayed. I've added a warning strip, some fuel lines, and plenty of oil stains and scuff marks, as well as the support crew, idling underneath the collosal mech. I just wish this kit had also included some scale ammunition, which would've looked great on the base as well.

Overall, this was a great introduction to MG kits, and it really makes me want to buy more. If you're looking to start getting into MGs, I definitely recommend this kit, although a 3rd party waterslide decal set might be necessary.

[mmani-e]

NOW I'm curious on how the other musicals for the other classes went. We know about V3's experiences and Dr2's Wicked experience, but what about everything else with Class 78 and 77's other musicals?

(Your brainrot got me in a chokehold and now I'm brainrotting about it too!)

Alright then! Brainrot spewage below (setting it to read more because it's just a lot haha)

- 1st Year -

DR1: Heathers

Cast: Veronica - Toko, J.D. - Mondo, Chandler - Junko, Duke - Celestia, MacNamara - Aoi, Martha - Sakura, Kurt & Ram - Leon & Yasuhiro, Ms. Fleming - Sayaka, Veronica's mom - Kyoko, Byakuya n Taka - Kurt n Ram's dads.

- Went perfectly.

- Lots of them expressed doubts at putting out such a risqué musical for their first showing, Toko, Celestia, and surprisingly Junko REALLY wanted this though and socially engineered/blackmailed/convinced everyone else to do it too and give it their all.

- Toko goes from pigtails design to her despair girls design in the show.

- Mondo is a very unique J.D. where he utilized his size and presence onstage to make himself REALLY scary. He can actually punch holes into the set with his fist

- They never ended up doing Dead Girl Walking, but in rehearsals they tried it and Genocide Jack kept forcing herself out to slobber all over Mondo.

- Toko lowkey developed a crush on Mondo because of this.

- Junko took this role way too seriously, and Celestia too. While Junko isn't a theatre nerd, she really loves this one show in particular, Celestia is a theatre nerd and that side of her kept coming out in rehearsals.

- Sayaka was not cast for any main roles because she's actually not that great of an actor. Mukuro's amazing singing voice was also not utilized because of the same reason. Kyoko is kind of terrible at everything needed for musicals, while Makoto and Hifumi were lead set designers and took a backseat.

Dr2: Be More Chill

Cast: Jeremy - Hajime, Christine - Chiaki, Michael - Nagito, SQUIP - Gundham, Jeremy's dad - Nekomaru, haven't thought abt the rest but the bi one is Kazuichi.

- Went pretty well tbh.

- Nagito wasn't a good michael, he was half cast because of funny gay jokes between him and Hajime at the time. This wasn't very funny after a while but they were in too deep. He's also just not a great actor for musicals.

- Chemistry between Hajime and Chiaki was good, too good. Emma Stone/Andrew Garfield in Amazing Spiderman levels of too good, honestly kind of suffocating.

- Rest of the cast did well.

- Kazuichi's machines don't vibe that well with the techno-modern sensibilities of BMC.

- Overall 2nd place.

DRV3 Class: Waitress

Cast: Jenna - Kaede, Becky - Maki, Dawn - Himiko, Ogie - Kokichi, Cal - Kaito, Dr. Pomatter - Shuichi, Earl. - Rantaro, Joe - Ryoma

- The opening was done perfectly.

- The rest of the show was kind of a mess

- The students are probably the most OP when it comes to making a production, the problem is that they are also the most chaotic and difficult to control

- Kokichi thought it would be cool to pretend to act like Ogie during rehearsal, only to ditch the costume in the actual show.

- Angie's set design was a little too bombastic the for the grounded production

- Kaito misunderstood his character

- Kaede and Shuichi had the same problem as Chiaki and Hajime, just worse somehow

- No matter what Rantaro tried to do everyone kept thinking he was too hot

- Mess, last place. Himiko blew a gasket, Kokichi looked hollowed-out for the rest of the year

- 2nd Year -

Dr1: Phantom of the Opera

Cast: Phantom - Byakuya, Christine - Mukuro in a blonde wig, Raoul - Leon, other guys I haven't thought of.

- Basically they flew too close to the sun

- This was a disaster

- After the first production, nobody really wanted to work for Toko and her co-planners, and the whole class was divided.

- Junko was also placed under investigation for a whole year for suspected terrorism plots (Mukuro finally got friends and snitched)

- Toko was also MIA to hide from the cops for a good chunk of the year

- Mukuro ended up being a really good Ingenue though and has a great voice for opera.

- Byakuya was very convincing as Phantom

Dr2: Wicked

Cast: Elphaba - Mahiru, Hiyoko - Galinda, Nessa - Mikan, Fiyero - Kazuichi, Oz - Hajime, Morrible - Sonia, Boq - Teruteru, Dillamond - Gundham, The Lion - Nekomaru, Dorothy - Chiaki

- Production went down in school history as the perfect storm.

- Had mad repercussions on a class that wasn't even performing it and all future productions.

- After their performance, the other classes said they won because they performed the show, but actually Chisa straight up said if they didn't perform this show perfectly they would lose by default.

- That's because this show wasn't even really an option to perform, but Sonia and Hiyoko were adamant about performing it instead of anything else on the selection list. This was meant to be a year 3 production.

- Hiyoko basically threw a tantrum to play Galinda, Mahiru calming her down was what made them both get cast as the leads.

- Kazuichi thought Sonia was Galinda (she lied to him) which made him accept the role of Fiyero

- Sonia's infinite resources + Kazuichi's brains meant they might as well have made Oz real. Real Oz the great and powerful mecha with control panel, real time dragon, jet powered broomstick, industrial powered fans, bubble machines that generated real, enormous bubbles, and an emerald city that popped out of the floor.

- This production also put a hard cap on all future musical budgets btw, hmm I wonder why.

DrV3: Hercules

Cast: Hercules - Kaito, Megara - Maki, Hades - Kokichi, Phil - Ryoma, Zeus - Gonta, The Muses - Angie (head Muse); Kaede; Tsumugi; Tenko; Miu, etc, Persephone (bonus character added by the class) - Himiko

- Actually went really well, retconning it so that this is better than Waitress

- Still, the reason they did this was because Himiko crashed out and got depressed because she didn't even get the chance to play Elphaba

- Kaito and Maki make for a very convincing Herc and Meg

- Kaito just isn't a tenor, so they transposed his songs down

- Maki is essentially playing herself

- Kokichi genuinely tried setting his hair on fire for this role with special fireproof gel but Chisa put the kibosh on that

- Gonta was kind of the problem point, he kept forgetting his few lines. He was taught by Nekomaru how to generate inexplicable lightning from his body though

- Year 3 -

Dr1: Company

Cast: Not going into detail about this one because this is a 12 or 14 character show. Know Makoto plays Bobby, Mukuro, Kyoko, and Sayaka play his 3 love interests, Toko is Amy, and Junko plays Joanne.

- If this was played last year, it might have actually beat Dr2's production because of how insane they went here.

- They follow the 2006 revival of Company's schtick where each character except Bobby plays an instrument, they all learned instruments for this and cut back dancing almost completely

- Kyoko, Mukuro, and Sayaka all play the part of frustrated ex/prospective girlfriends very well... A little too well...

- Junko got fucked up by her time in prison and wants to vent by acting like a jaded middle aged woman

- Mukuro plays a southern ditzy belle really well and also doubles as the backup Opera singer for "Not getting married today" where Toko plays Amy.

- Genuinely a great step up with the budget used extremely effectively to make the set look classy but not absurdly expensive.

- Byakuya's favorite musical

Dr2: Little Shop

Cast: Seymour - Hajime, Audrey - Mikan, Audrey II - Gundham (Voice) Kazuichi (Puppeteer), Mr. Mushnik - Fuyuhiko, Orin - Nagito, The Singers - Hiyoko; Mahiru; Ibuki

- This is actually meant to be a year 2 show.

- They ended up last place due to their budgetary restrictions not allowing Kazuichi to make a fully powered mechanical Audrey.

- That wasn't the only problem, but Kazuichi says it is years after the fact.

- Mikan keeps slipping when she tries to dance. This is why she was Nessa in year 2. She makes for a really good Audrey though

- Overall a good production. Just not a great or inventive production, overall last place.

DrV3: Beetlejuice!

Cast: Lydia - Himiko, BJ - Kokichi, the Maitlands - Kaede and Shuichi, Delia/Miss Argentina - Angie, Charles - Korekiyo, Maxie - Ryoma, Maxine/Juno - Kirumi, Girl Boy Scout - Kaito, Otho - Gonta

- The musical that proved everyone else that if these students took themselves seriously they are literally unbeatable.

- Angie on set design and props, Tsumugi for costumes, Shuichi and Korekiyo on research, Kaede on re-scoring, Himiko on stage direction and production, Kokichi on extra manpower, Tenko on choreography.

- Kokichi stepped tf up to help make this musical a reality as a way to make things up to Himiko. Also he really wants to play Beetlejuice. They removed the restriction on manpower this year so they let him bring in his goons

- Angie also trained herself to be really flexible for this role so she moves around like a cartoon character in Delia's song

- Kaede and Shuichi are so white

- They recast the girl scout to he a boyscout and let Kaito play as him as a request, because Kaito wanted to make light of almost dying of a disease earlier in the year

- Only complaint anyone had was that BJ and Lydia seemed to be a little too comfortable with eachother in this performance

- When asked why Korekiyo was Charles, Angie replied that he was the only one that could believably want to marry her depiction of her character

- The FX work is especially crazy, with many of the machines being possessed by Keebo's consciousness to move without need of automatic systems or puppets, like the Sandworm, many of the walls are holograms made by Miu, and Keebo personally lifts Himiko up at the end by detaching his hands and crawling them up her dress like spider before using magnets to levitate her.

-

And yeah that's about it! Hope this satisfied, tell me what ya think.

[clonedchaos]

𝔐𝔞𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔐𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰- 𝔇𝔞𝔶 20: 𝔊𝔬𝔰𝔰𝔦𝔭

Summary:

Wally and Norman have a habit of gossiping together.

Rating: G/PG

<- Previous Part Next Part ->

"Word has it that you snatched Mr. Lawrence’s cake,” Norman commented from up in the projector’s booth. The older man was shining the projector’s metal to the point Wally was certain he could see his reflection in it. It was his night routine before he headed out for the day… Just like how it was Wally’s plan to end the day mopping the music department.

"Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,” He smiled with a roguish glint in his eyes. He leaned against the mop’s wooden hilt. “A little birdie told me it was rather delicious. Mighty delicious indeed. Perfect chocolate curls, whipped cream and all. What a beauty that must’ve been. Wonder who the lucky fella was to snag that treat.”

Norman briefly paused cleaning the rim of the lens. “So, it was you then?” He laughed. “Nothing escapes my vision, Mr. Franks.”

"Please, call me Wally, old pal,” Wally said, briefly tipping his hat to the projectionist. 

Norman did the same. In Wally’s eyes, they were practically two peas in a pod. Yin and yang, peanut butter and jelly, yada yada. He was one of the few people in here that understood him. Wally respected that.

"Everyone in this studio knows better than to tamper with Mr. Lawrence’s things. He’s almost as crazed about it as Mr. Connor. You, however, you got caught with your hand in the cookie jar.”

"Guilty as charged,” Wally put his hands up in defeat before quickly moving to grab the mop before the handle could hit the ground. He went back to work. These cursed ink stains never got out of the floorboards. “Ya ain’t gonna tell no one about this, are ya?”

"Tell them what?” Norman grunted in amusement. “I hold more secrets up here than you know, Wally,” he said, tapping his forehead. 

"Oh?” Wally perked up in curiosity. “You’d be surprised what I pick up on while changin’ trash bags and cleanin’ offices. Real drama. Drama no one wants to talk about.”

"Ain’t that the truth,” Norman replied and kept cleaning. “Mr. Lawrence puts on a front for Mr. Drew. But the moment his back is turned… he’s somethin’ different, I tell you what. Can’t blame him. He’s shiftin’ deadlines so fast that by the time you finish your final cut, he calls for a whole lotta changes that don’t seem to make much sense.”

Wally felt a bit less proud of his cake thievery now. “Grant’s gonna blow a gasket the way Joey’s been hounding him for cash. I was taking out the garbage and found him crunching numbers. Poor guy looked like someone just told him his grandma passed.”

"It’s that serious?”

"I believe so. As long as I get my paycheck, I’m golden,” Wally laughed despite the situation. “All I gotta say is, if I don’t get my paycheck, I’m outta here.”

Norman finished his upkeep check for the projector. “You always say that, Wally. And yet here you are with all of us. Just another cog in the machine.”

"Of course I am,” Wally nodded. “Where would I be if I didn’t have no one to gossip with?”

[themummersfolly]

Fuck it. Octoboss content

In the Wasteland, you went by what other people called you; that was your name. What did it matter what his mother had called him? She’d been dead almost as long as he’d been alive.

He figured he was almost twenty when he killed his first rival boss and took over his gang. When he killed his eighth, his men started calling him the Octoboss, having gotten the idea from one of the History Man’s wordburgers. He didn’t argue, and it stuck.

“Always searching the heavens,” the old man had said when they had known each other about a year. Perhaps he was. He had seen flying machines when he was young, heard stories of men who did air war like he did road war. He’d seen the old wrecks in the desert and knew they had once been as beautiful and dangerous as motorbikes, maybe even more so. He’d sat at the feet of the History Man and listened to words like “paragliding” and “Bernoulli’s Law.” And when trade with the Underdune had brought him vast amounts of parachute silk, he’d taken himself and his crew to the skies again.

So it wasn’t really a surprise that he was the first one to see it.

“Whatcha see, Boss- hey, what’sat?”

Any notion that there was something wrong with his eyes vanished. It was high up, higher than any of his gliders could go, and definitely not a bird. As they watched, it got either bigger or- no, no it was definitely getting lower. Over the course of a half-hour they watched it move across the sky, maneuvering westward and then coming back around in a broad, slow spiral. Its shape became clearer: a sturdy open frame, tan wings and tail fins. Fixed-wing aircraft. He couldn’t remember the rest of the wordburger. Finally it vanished, soundlessly, behind the ridge.

“Wanna go after it, Boss?”

It hadn’t made a sound; that was what puzzled him. Fixed-wings needed either a tow or an engine of their own to get in the air. He decided they’d claim it intact, and he’d have a good long look at it before his men stripped it for parts. The roar of a half-dozen motorbikes would have anyone in it hightailing, if they hadn’t died in the landing. If they hadn’t died in the wreck and they didn’t die in the desert, well, he’d have some questions for them.

The aircraft had scraped a ling, shallow furrow in the desert, not quite parallel to the ridge. To his surprise, the lone figure beside it stayed crouched in the open, apparently unperturbed by the approach of a raiding party of the Great Biker Horde. Only when he and his men stopped less than twenty yards away and trained their weapons on them did they rise, wiping grimy hands on equally grimy coveralls.

The woman- it was a woman- wore a flier’s cap and a pair of goggles over a wind-toughened face. A coat and gloves were cast aside over a strut. She was broad-shouldered and strong-looking; “well-fed” some people might say, and others, “great tits.” She eyed the raiding party warily but without fear.

Out front, Sketch and Brakeline looked back at him for direction. He looked down the length of the aircraft, the horns on his helmet exaggerating the movement and signaling his interest. Brakeline turned back to the woman and leaned on his handlebars.

“Whatcha got there?”

“A plane.” She had an accent he couldn’t place. Her hands hung at her sides, relaxed, ready. Ready to pick up the nearest weapon and bash someone’s head in with it.

“Why ain’t it in the air?”

“Gasket blew. You got a repair kit? Then I’ll be on my way.”

Sketch grinned. “You ain’t on your way anywhere now, sweetheart.” His hand was on the hilt of his bowie knife. Any reasonable person in the Wastelands would be petrified with fear by now; the woman just looked at Sketch like a water-seller might look at a preteen making piss jokes.

The two point-riders dismounted and started toward the woman. They had taken exactly one step when she moved, quick as a snake, and brought a derringer to bear not on Sketch or Brakeline, but between them, on the Octoboss himself. They froze.

There was a clatter behind him as Tyro, VW, and Huxley brought their own weapons up, but the way they were spread out it would have been hard to shoot at the woman without hitting their comrades. She kept her eyes on their leader, the little double-barreled pistol pointed between his eyes.

Smart bitch.

Not breaking eye contact, he put down his kickstand and tossed back his mesh sandscreen, then lifted the faceplate of his helmet. Neither the woman’s aim nor her expression changed.

“Where you from?” he asked.

“Couple days north, by air. Dunno how long it takes on the ground.” The fact that she was surrounded by Wasteland bikers with nothing to hand but a derringer did not appear to faze her. He put his hands up where she could see they were empty, dismounted, and took a few slow steps forward, until he was close enough to reach out and touch one wing.

“You build this?”

“Nah. Just fly it.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Me pa.”

“He know you have it?”

“Hope so. He’s dead but he said I could have it.”

The frame of the little machine looked like hollow aluminum rods; the wings were covered in canvas. A propeller was mounted behind the wings, forward of the tail fins, and appeared to be powered by a twin-cylinder engine. Ahead of this was a seat, and ahead of that a bundle of gear was strapped to the very front of the frame. The whole thing couldn’t have weighed more than his bike.

A subtle motion of his head, back the way they had come.

“Dig in, boys. We’re camping in the rocks tonight.” He took a step back, hands still visible, a slight smirk on his face. The woman blinked, then, hesitantly, lifted her derringer away from him.

“What we gonna do with her?” Sketch had been itching to have some fun with the woman. A shrug of the Octoboss’s shoulders put those notions to rest.

“Nothing.” He took a few backward steps toward his bike and directed his next words to her. “You can join our fire if you want. Tell us about you plane.”

[seat-safety-switch]

In this modern day, the common person has lost confidence in the advice from authority. Everyone wants to get a leg up on the other fools, and often that comes from a belief in secret knowledge. The president is really a hologram. Toothpaste is just baking soda coloured blue. And a car can get 150 miles per gallon running on nothing but water.

This kind of kooky scam operation has been with us forever, but it's really taken off lately. I think that this is because more people than ever feel a little powerless. Hey, you can figure out this one angle, and hold onto it. Make it part of your identity, especially when the rabble points out that it doesn't make a whole lot of sense. That's how I feel about Subarus.

Subarus are popular now, amongst the mall-adventurer crowd. If you're wearing a fleece jacket indoors right now, or if you just have a child and a dog at the same time, you're probably going to be asking a smarmy salesdroid about a Crosstrek at some point in the next century. This, too, is a form of secret knowledge: let those ordinary rubes suffer winter with their front-wheel-drive Camries while I am thrust aloft their corpses by an unstoppable all-wheel-drive war machine.

As a long-time (and now lapsed) Subaru owner, I can tell you that the reason folks used to get into Subarus is because they were fucking weird. Flat engines, sometimes with pushrods. Spare tire in the engine bay. Turbos in everything, no matter how inappropriate. And sure, we thought that we were onto a vibe that the average person didn't appreciate. Most of them don't like pulling the entire engine just to do a driver-side valve cover gasket, for instance.

If you ask me, they've just gotten too normal right now. That's why I'm moving onto the next big thing that nobody else knows about. In fact, a lot of people hate it and throw rocks at you for owning one. It's called Chevrolet, and they make a whole bunch of cars for not very much money. Dealerships all over the place, just full of salespeople staring at the walls, waiting for anyone to come in and be dumb enough to put down money for an Equinox. Dumb enough like a fox.

[rogueshadeaux]

Chapter Thirty-Eight — Prognosis

I think those were the worst parts of it all; the waiting. That silence that left way too much time for the thoughts to get louder. Sitting on the stiff examination bed in a hospital gown felt more suffocating than a noose, the center of a horrible sort of attention.

4.5 k words | 15-20 min read time | TRIGGER WARNINGS: Hospital, procedures, medical events

⚠️AUTHOR'S NOTE: Another chapter, another friend! How could I not let the world's best doctor be a part of this tale, especially when the RowlandRoweWhatever family needs someone with a special set of skills they can't get at just any ol' hospital? Thank you @infamoussparks for letting me steal your girl and show off her brilliant skillset, the inaugural first outreach towards the people who make this fandom fantastic.

I sat up as the patient couch pulled out of the scan machine, pulling the earplugs out of my ears and opening my jaws to force a pop. 

Dad had nearly blown a gasket when Dr. Sims explained what they wanted to do on Monday—or, moreso, how they wanted to do the imaging for it. A dose of diluted raythium with a dye in it for tracing the conducrine and every protein it produced in the time I was in there. “You want to put that stuff in my daughter?” Dad demanded, “A day after we just figured out how dangerous this shit is?”

Dr. Sims did his best to try and placate Dad’s worry, telling him it wasn’t the same. “It’s at least not gonna cause anything bad,” he assured him, “But it’s the only way to activate the proteins in her to observe them,” 

Dad eventually relented, letting Dr. Sims whisk me away as he stayed back with Brent; he wasn’t allowed in the radiology department while I was getting an MRI just in case the magnet became too attracted to his steel. 

“You did great, Jean,” Aunt Sia assured me with a low voice as I slipped off of the patient couch, Dr. Sims wheeling in a wheelchair. They wouldn’t let me walk, and I hated it—I wasn’t crippled, just broken. 

Didn’t matter—either way, I was pushed through the hall like some spectacle. 

Dad pushed off from his place leaned against the wall when the door to the exam room opened, rushing to meet me as Aunt Sia wheeled me in. He glanced down at me, smile stressed and forced, before looking up at Dr. Sims. “Get what you need?” he asked.

Dr. Sims nodded, taking the chair back from Aunt Sia. “Yeah. I’ll be back with the specialist in a bit.”

And there we were, caught in another waiting lull. 

I think those were the worst parts of it all; the waiting. That silence that left way too much time for the thoughts to get louder. Sitting on the stiff examination bed in a hospital gown felt more suffocating than a noose, the center of a horrible sort of attention. It didn’t help that they all had quickly shifted back to treating me like broken glass; Brent was silent and blankly watching me, seeming to examine every move, Dad was still acting as if I’d drop dead any second, and Aunt Sia insisted on coming. Said she wanted to support me. And I mean, sure, I was thankful that they cared…but it was suffocating. Demeaning. Even if that’s not how they meant it, it’s how it felt. 

There was a swift knock on the door, and Dad didn’t even finish saying something about coming in before the door opened—and the sharp click of heels against the hickory floor. 

The person that walked in most definitely wasn’t Dr. Sims. Her red hair was more natural auburn than Aunt Sia’s bright red, shoved away in a messy bun that somehow looked like it took twenty minutes to set. There was one fancy silver pen sticking out of it and that somehow looked deliberate too. If someone asked me to picture a ‘confident scholar,’ it’d probably be someone like her; white blouse, black pants, eyeliner that looked sharp enough to prick my finger for a blood sample. The lab coat swayed behind her as she walked confidently into the room, Dr. Sims closing the door. 

But her smile was warm and welcoming as she looked over the room, greeting, “Hello!” She regarded me first, smiling, “I’m Dr. Hutch—you must be Jean.” 

I smiled back sheepishly as Dr. Hutch’s eyes moved to Dad, something in them registering. “You must be Mr…Rowland? Rowe?” 

Dad chuffed, “I’m not even sure, at this rate,” 

Dr. Hutch accepted his admittance with grace, offering a hand to shake. Dr. Sims turned just as Dad stood, eyes widening when he moved to share the doctor’s hand—and with a shimmering sound and a flash of blue, he was across the room in an instant, gripping Dad’s wrist and yanking it upwards away from Dr. Hutch.

“You don’t wanna do that, D,” Dr. Sims warned, looking at Dad knowingly. The realization struck me almost immediately. 

She was a Conduit. 

Brent seemed to come to the same conclusion, eyebrows shooting up as he glanced at me. “Right, sorry.” Dad said, letting his hand fall. 

Dr. Hutch smiled, “I’ll go with Rowe, then,” she said simply, her own going to rest on her hip. She looked between Dad and I, getting right down to business. “I’m a certified genetic counselor, and I’m here to run one last diagnostic on Jean before we go over your test results—and what I found out from what you sent me,” she added, looking over her shoulder at Dr. Sims. 

I looked her over; nice outfit, a lab coat, and…quite literally nothing else. She made no move to pull anything out of the pockets on her coat, either. Hadn’t we established there was nothing wrong with my DNA? Why was there a genetic counselor here? Dad seemed to think the same, because he asked, “What sort of diagnostic?”

“I want to observe her health on the cellular level,” Dr. Hutch informed him. “It would give us a better idea of what could possibly be the problem here.”

“Do you—” I hesitated, not even sure how to ask what I wanted to ask. “Do you have to draw blood?”

Yeah, that’d have to do.

Dr. Hutch smiled gently, shaking her head once. “No. I’d just need about ten seconds of your time, and your hands.” 

My brow furrowed; my hands? How was she going to examine me with those? Was she gonna palm read her way to my diagnosis? I glanced over at Dad, who looked intrigued more than confused. “Alright,” he said simply, giving consent for whatever procedure she had in mind. 

Dr. Hutch nodded, beginning to roll up her sleeves before asking, “May I see your hands please, Jean?” I hesitated, looking at the cast on my right arm, and Dr. Hutch seemed to understand my concern, placating it with, “Don’t worry—just your fingers are fine.”

She brought her own hands out in a gentle show of faith, a soft coax of her fingers convincing me to lay mine in hers. Her manicured nails clicked gently against my cast as her hands closed over mine, and I could just barely hear her hum to herself as the seconds ticked by. 

Dr. Hutch spent the first few of those ten seconds looking down at where our hands met, but once she passed five, she looked up, eyes trailing along my body as she began to look for something. It was there that I saw it; her eyes were this rich green with golden flecks around her pupil, but the longer the time passed, the brighter that yellow got. 

She was using her power on me. 

Her brow furrowed further as she went from looking at me to around me, like she was searching for something in the air. Her counting progressed further, past seven, and she began to stare at specific spots like she was deciphering hieroglyphics, trying to understand something more than any of us could fathom. 

“...ten.” She breathed. She glanced over at Dr. Sims and shook her head before letting go of the hand in a cast to gently pat the back of my other one before setting it in my lap, moving away to stand by Dr. Sims once more. 

Dr. Sims crossed his arms, looking down at the floor for a moment before saying, “Thank you, Dr. Hutch.” 

Neither of them seemed happy. 

I think everyone else caught on to the sudden shift in tone in the room as well; Aunt Sia moved a bit closer, and her hand came to my back, rubbing it gently. Dad moved two steps to close the gap between us to put his hand on my knee, and Brent’s brow furrowed as he watched them both move. 

Dr. Hutch sighed hard before looking up at Dad. “I’d like to clarify, before we begin, that my power is magnification,” Dr. Hutch began. “I can essentially narrow in on the gene structure of any person and pick apart their DNA sequence just by ten seconds of contact, much like how an electron microscope functions when examining a blood sample. I prefer hand holding as it’s comforting and easy to mask with extended handshakes for those I simply have a hunch about. As I build up to ten seconds I can see the DNA sequence clearer and with that I can determine if anything is out of place or exists when it maybe shouldn’t. I’ve yet to find an instance where I’ve been wrong.”

Jeez, with a power like that, I don’t understand why we didn’t come here to begin with.

“So you’re sure you know what’s wrong with Jean?” Brent asked, looking at Dr. Hutch. 

“We had results before bringing in Dr. Hutch, however, she’s the best second opinion you could ask for. I wanted to make sure.” Dr. Sims said. He inhaled deep, looking like he was biting down on his cheek so roughly he was going to chew a hole straight through it. He looked between Dad and I, cutting right to the chase: “I’m diagnosing Jean with conducrinopathy.”

Dad’s grip on my knee tightened and his jaw tensed, and I swear to god he looked like he was about to start breaking down walls. “What’s…” I glanced at Dad before looking back at Dr. Sims. “What’s condu…that?”

Dr. Hutch took over the explanation, beginning with, “Well, your conducrine—between your shoulder blades, right about where she’s touching right now—is what gives you power. It produces rayacitins, the proteins that change this energy into your elemental conduvergence.”

Conduvergence—that was what they called the powers, right? Using a power was conduvergence. “Okay,” I hummed, nodding. But I didn’t understand; what did this have to do with what was wrong with me?

“A typical Conduit has a set amount of rayacitin proteins in their body, and when they’re running low, that causes that pain you feel in your shoulders.” Dr. Hutch continued, trying her best to dumb this down for me. “They’re also what influences other cells to heal faster. Less proteins, less power, slower healing. More, the opposite.”

Oh, okay. “So is my condushine—”

“Conducrine.” Dr. Sims interrupted. 

“Conducrine,” I corrected, looking back at Dr. Hutch. “Is it just not making enough proteins?”

She looked to Dr. Sims, who sat on my question for a moment. “Sort of.” he agreed hesitantly, head bouncing side to side gently like he was considering which way to go with his explanation. “Conducrinopathy is when the conducrine itself begins to dysfunction. Its protein output wanes, you’re correct. That’s probably the cause of your pain, currently. But it…I suppose the best way to understand exactly what happens is to consider it…a sort of organ failure.”

All my breath left in one huff, and it felt impossible to breathe in more. “What?” I whispered. 

“Your conducrine is in a manageable state right now,” Dr. Hutch interrupted. “But as the disease progresses, it will begin to produce corrupted proteins. Your power will…will turn on you.”

“Wait, like the old forced Conduits?” Brent cut in. He looked furious, but his anger wasn’t aimed at Dr. Hutch and Dr. Sims with his question. 

Dr. Sims nodded. “That’s the main instance we’ve seen conducrinopathy, yes. The conducrine is due to turn on a Conduit if it is forced to copy artificial proteins. It’s like using the wrong blood type in a transfusion. But it has happened to two Prime Conduits. A patient here, and—”

“Mom.” I looked at Dad. “That’s what happened, isn’t it? When she started looking gray a-and sick in the pictures. Her power was killing her.”

“We can’t assume that it was killing her,” Dr. Sims interrupted as Dad’s eyes fell and he stared at the floor, face void of any emotion. “But if we had to compare how she was to the data we have now, then…yes, she more than likely had the same condition.”

My fingers went to mess with my cast, and I couldn’t think of anything to ask. What the hell was I supposed to say? Cool, doc, thanks for the Conduit cancer diagnosis! I felt on the verge of a panic attack. 

Aunt Sia rubbed my shoulder like she was trying to ease the tension out of it, and that was enough to get me to regurgitate one of the thousands of thoughts running through my mind. “Can you cure it?” I asked, looking back at Dr. Sims and his partner with pleading eyes. 

Dr. Hutch looked down at the ground as Dr. Sims appeared to try and swallow back bile. “We…there’s no known cure yet, though in your situation, this has only happened to one other prime whose progression of illness could be followed. There are noted differences between the symptoms in primes versus forced Conduits, but we’re…these are uncharted waters. We don’t know what to expect.”

“What are the differences?” Dad finally asked, voice robotic. “What can we expect?”

Dr. Sims looked like he wanted to do anything but answer Dad’s questions. Like he hated being the bearer of bad news. “The pain and tenderness between the shoulderblades is common. That will probably be the most persistent symptom. However the amount of healthy rayacitin proteins in her body will…they won’t be replaced by healthy ones. The damaged cells will spread further instead, and it’ll…her powers will start getting weaker. Maybe disappear entirely. The healing is usually the first to go.”

Dr. Sims looked at the ground and scuffed his shoe on the wood before adding, “We don’t know how her power will turn on her, either. That will change the status of her condition from manageable to severe more than anything else. And…between Fetch, and the other prime Conduit we’ve observed, decline is…faster in prime Conduits. The way a forced Conduit is already stunted in power is enough to delay it significantly more than a prime, especially when considering how much weaker they are.”

“And you’re sure it’s this?” He asked, looking between the doctors. His eyes settled on Dr. Hutch. “How can you be positive?”

Dr. Hutch was trying her best to keep her face neutral. “When using my powers, I can see this aural ring around people. I can tell if they have the gene, if they’re activated—your daughter has both signs. But there is also something wrong with the aura on her. It’s turning black. The only other times I’ve seen that is when I’ve run diagnostics for Dr. Sims upon his request.”

Dr. Sims shook off the discomfort of the moment, moving a step closer. “Delsin, I’m gonna be here every step of the way in case something happens,” he looked at me, “We’re going to make sure you’re, at minimum, comfortable.”

I hated how he phrased that. Comfortable? It didn’t sound like he was offering to just help me with pain, it sounded like there was more to the statement. A promise for there to be a comfortable end.

And I wasn’t a fool, I knew how this was going for all the old DUP agents; they were either all ill as could be, or slowly succumbing to their illness. His words sounded like he was offering me management if it came to that, too. 

Fuck. Fuck. Tears immediately began to pool in my eyes and it was hard to keep them away. No cure, no help, no idea what was going to happen. But I needed to know one thing: “Am I gonna die?” 

That was the wrong set of words to use; Brent immediately threw his hand back to hammer the side of it against the wall, the hit so hard plaster immediately caved under his fist. He pushed off and stalked away, brushing past Dr. Sims to the door and throwing it open, disappearing into the hall. 

Dad sighed, head falling. “Sia, can you—”

“‘Course,” she said, patting my shoulder gently before leaving the room, heeled combat boots echoing loudly as she jogged to catch up to him. 

The silence in the room truly was deafening, the air thick as the remaining four of us grappled with what just happened. Everything felt like it was slipping away; the color in the blue hospital gown I had on, the noise of the cars on the street outside. This was it. I really was broken. 

And there was no way to fix it. 

Dad squeezed my knee three times, and suddenly I was shot back to when I was a little girl trying to sit through the scariest moment of her life: vaccine day at the doctors. Me sitting at the end of an uncomfortable bed just like this, gripping the edge for dear life as Dad sat across from me, a hand on my knee. Three reassuring squeezes. I love you. 

Took me far too long to realize he’d do it when the needle went in and I’d miss the scariest part of the whole event. 

Now he was trying to reassure me yet again, forcing a deep breath into his chest as he lifted his head, looking at Dr. Sims. “This didn’t start happening to Jean till that fight with Augustine,” he began. “Conducrinopathy doesn’t happen to just anyone. Something caused this.” 

Dr. Sims sighed. “Delsin, her powers just manifested. We truly don’t know if this can be an inheritable condition or not.” 

“Well,” Dr. Hutch held up a finger. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that yet, either.” 

Both Dad and Dr. Sims shot her a confused look. Dr. Hutch didn’t bother waiting for one of them to interrogate her, instead digging into the pocket of her lab coat and pulling out three blood collection tubes full of anything but blood. “I analyzed the two samples you sent, Eugene. And your friend downstairs passed a third to me earlier this morning.” 

Dad immediately bristled. “We don’t have another friend here,” he said, guarded. 

Dr. Hutch cocked her head to the side, concern on her face. “You don’t?” 

“What did they look like?” Dr. Sims interrupted. Dad’s hand tensed on my knee. 

“Short, wide set. Wore sunglasses inside for some reason which I’m…” she drew off. “Now I’m worried was to disguise himself.” 

I knew someone that matched that description exactly, but it wasn’t someone with a hidden agenda. “That’s Zeke,” I forced myself to murmur. My voice didn’t sound like mine. It didn’t even feel like I was talking. Was this what dissociation felt like? Feeling like I was witnessing the room from outside the window to the right? 

Dad scowled…but something in his expression shifted. “He brought you something to analyze?” He asked Dr. Hutch, surprised Zeke even cared. 

“He did,” she confirmed, holding up a collection vial that had black liquid in it that turned iridescent with a deep green where light hit it. I knew that liquid—that’s what Zeke took from the First Sons’ base in New Marais. “Said he hoped it would help me find answers for Jean.” 

Dr. Sims looked at Dad, who almost looked remorseful in a way before blinking a few times, inhaling. “And what did you find?” he asked. 

“Well, from what I understand, these two samples were acquired in New Marais,” Dr. Hutch said, shifting the samples in her hands so she could hold a pair up to the light. “I examined their properties and their aural signatures, and they’re certainly interesting. To save you the technical terms, these two samples almost replicate poison in a way. This one—” she pointed to the black and dark green liquid, “—the poison itself while this contained the cells it was affecting. However instead of killing the cells, they seemed to mutate them. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Dad went on to tell Dr. Hutch what we saw when underground, and how we found files that suggested the creepy crawlies in the First Sons’ basement were Conduits turned creatures. She reacted with horror in the right parts of the tale, but her eyes were alight with a curiosity that she couldn’t hide well at all. “I didn’t know that was possible,” she said. “I knew there were instances of monsters in New Marais but never really followed up on why.” 

“We were worried, with it corrupting Conduits, that it could be what happened to Jean,” Dad finished. 

Dr. Hutch shook her head. “I don’t think that’s the case. Where these two are similar, the one from Salmon Bay is completely different.” She stored away the two vials in her lab coat and held the one full of tar to Dr. Sims, who took it without hesitation. “It matches the signature of every case of conducrinopathy I’ve seen—including Jean’s. It has the same…darkness to it, but at a strength that made it nearly impossible to read without feeling ill after.” She glanced between Dad and I. “It’s like it’s emitting something far more dangerous than a regular Conduit can handle.”

Dad stood, hand leaving my knee to step forward and take the vial from Dr. Sims’ outstretched hand. “So this tar is what caused Jean’s sickness?”

“She was injected with it, correct?” Dr. Hutch asked. 

Dad motioned to my leg hanging over the edge of the bed. “Augustine’s concrete had this tar on it when she managed to pierce Jean’s leg,” he informed her.

The scarring and spider veins on my left leg hadn’t faded at all in the last week. The raised scars were still an angry red and brown, the veins alight like they were lightning with how bright the blue was against my legs. Dr. Sims took a few steps forward, motioning for me to bring my leg up and hooking his hand behind my calf so he could examine it closer. “I need to get this and the break checked on, next,” I could hear him mutter to himself like he was making a checklist. 

Dr. Hutch joined Dr. Sims, looking at my injury from over his shoulder. “It looks like it attempted healing,” she observed. 

“If you’re right, and that tar caused her sickness, could this be when the conducrinopathy started happening?” Dad asked, pointing to my scars. “They’re healed wrong because it was running out of time?” 

Dr. Sims’ brow furrowed. “The results did come back abnormal,” he muttered. He turned my shin lightly and then looked up. “Knowing the tar is practically the same as the illness, I wouldn’t be surprised if so.”

Dad stared at my scarring for a long time, long enough for Dr. Hutch to clear her throat awkwardly and say, “I’m sorry for bringing bad news. If there’s anything I can do to help…”

Dr. Sims sighed. “We’ll be visiting palliative care later today for the patient, if you’d be willing to meet us there.”

“Of course.” 

Dr. Hutch gave me a nod before turning on her heels and leaving the room, the sound of the door as it latched shut behind her feeling like a gavel strike of a death sentence. Dad, still staring at my leg, shook his head and brought a hand up to rub against his face. “Someone did this.” He said. 

“Del—”

“If that tar matches what’s wrong with Jean, then Augustine caused this. I don’t know if it’s because she got a new power, or somehow fucked with her old one—”

“Delsin—”

“But her power caused organ failure.” Dad finished with a stressed voice, and I wasn’t sure if it was to talk over Dr. Sims or simply because he was stressed. “We need to find out how she got the ability.” 

Dr. Sims shifted on his feet, thinking. “We can’t be sure that it’s not something that Augustine simply developed,” he warned. 

Dad shook his head. “I don’t believe that. Archangel helped Augustine. They tried finishing what she couldn’t do! She had to have gotten this power from somewhere.”

“I understand that, but you have to realize—this is the first time we’ve seen a situation like this with its cause. The forced Conduits develop conducrinopathy naturally, and we don’t know how the other two instances of this happened in primes—“ 

“But we know it’s not normal.” Dad retorted. “What happened to Abbs? What’s happening to Jean? Shouldn’t be a thing.” 

There were three sharp raps on the door and Aunt Sia returned, looking between Dad and Dr. Sims as the latter refused to let his gaze wander. “Archangel did something to make this happen, it was probably the plan the entire time—just for me. But this is some sort of power, right?”

“I’m not sure—“ Dr. Sims tried saying as Dad rambled on.

“—so we just need the power to fix it. Only way it’s coming out is the same way it went in.” 

“Delsin, this isn’t like then. We don’t know where the power came from or if it’s something new at all.” Dr. Sims finally put enough power into his voice to interrupt. “This is the only time it’s happened like this. For all we know, with the old DUP soldiers? It could simply be because Augustine was involved.” 

Dad opened his mouth to say something else when Aunt Sia cleared her throat loudly and pointedly, looking at Dad. “Delsin, I think you should go talk to Brent.” 

Dad blinked. “But—“ 

“Just a small talk, then we’ll finish what we came here for.” Aunt Sia turned to Dr. Sims. “Is there anything else we need to do for Jean? She still has some stitches, do they need to be removed?”

Dr. Sims looked confused and yet thankful for the topic change. “Yeah I-I want to get a general check up on her, but we’d need a more qualified doctor.” 

“Alright, then why don’t you go see who you can find while Delsin talks to Brent?” Aunt Sia asked the men, looking at them expectantly. 

They muttered some sort of agreement as Aunt Sia herded around their attention, the two eventually leaving me alone in the room with her. She stepped up to the edge of the exam table I was sitting on, right between my legs, and moved to cup my face, her expression solemn. “Oh Jean,” she murmured, “I’m sorry.” 

She pulled me into a hug and it was like everything snapped back to my center like a rubber band ball; I was no longer witnessing this from the outside, but fully trapped within the body betraying me, the ache in my back reminding me of the diagnosis. “I’m scared,” I admitted to her, voice cracking. 

“I know,” she replied almost immediately. “This has to be so scary for you. But you heard how quick your father was to begin trying to think of solutions,” she pulled away to look at me. She was right: Dad was always the problem solver. I wasn’t sure if this was something he could fix, though. “We’ll take this a day at a time, but you won’t be alone.”

Want more of Dr. Hutch? Check out Feth’s inFAMOUS: Sparks!

Set 7 years after the good karma ending of inFAMOUS: Second Son, join friends new and old as they navigate what it really means to be a part of the Second Age.

A perfect blend of OC and OG, Feth knows all things inFAMOUS like the back of her hand—for good reason ;). I’m a sucker for a good after story, for the butterfly effect of every choice made in canon to change something in their future, and Feth captures that perfect (and realistic) after. Rosa is one of many amazing new friends the original trio make as they take on foes old and new.

[wild-west-way]

Paw Patrol: Wild West Way - Frozen

A little more about Everest and Marshall, after the events of snow

Since the writer is not fluent writing in English, it is possible that you can find some grammar mistakes.

Marshall deeply regretted saying that out loud.

His blue eyes locked onto hers, searching for any kind of reaction. He imagined that big husky slapping him across the snout and walking away without another word. He would’ve deserved it, had that strange little prophecy in his head come true. The Dalmatian wasn’t just clumsy on his paws—he often spoke before thinking. He wished Mr. Ryder (affectionately referred to by his surname, thanks to his incredible work around town) had invented a time machine to roll things back just a few seconds. That would’ve been enough.

He swallowed hard. His cheeks felt hot. Was he blushing? Maybe. If he were human, he could’ve blamed the whiskey, but the husky would know right away that he hadn’t touched a drop. He felt cornered, and the seconds dragged on painfully. He wished this fragile truce would break, that the newcomer would simply leave and spare him from further embarrassment. But instead…

She laughed.

“Not the first time I impressed someone with my size,” she said, and without fuss, she took a seat on the stools made especially for their kind, crossing one paw over the other. She wore a bracelet on one paw that the black-spotted dog immediately recognised—but chose not to focus on, at least for now.

“Comes in handy to keep those two dummies in check, the ones who came to bother you. I should’ve kept a better eye on 'em—my apologies.”

Marshall took a moment to recall what had even happened seconds ago. He forced his groggy brain to snap back into gear and return to reality before it was too late.

“Ah… Ah! You mean Mister Boomer and Miss G-Gasket,” he said with clear hesitation. His stammer was obvious. He cleared his throat and broke eye contact, searching for something to occupy his paws—eventually settling for fiddling with the badge hanging from his grey uniform.

“No need to worry. That wasn’t my first run-in with them, as you may have gathered, Miss… um…”

She placed her front paws together gracefully.

“Snow. Everest Snow. And you must be Mister Marshall, or so those two blockheads told me. Marshall… what else?”

“Just Marshall. Marshall the… Marshal…”

Marshall had to press his lips together to keep from laughing because of his own joke, trying to appear as the serious, respectable pup he was supposed to be. When he was around Rocky and Zuma, he didn’t care about appearances. Their mutual trust—built from the time they were just pups—allowed him to be himself. That trust was everything to him. It was why they could show him their tattoos without fear of consequences.

But outside that circle, the Dalmatian had to play a very different role. He crossed one leg over the other, his gaze fixed on the untouched shot of whiskey before him. He licked his lips, tempted to take a sip, but worried that his mind might betray him again halfway through and make him clumsy. He couldn’t afford to be clumsy in front of civilians. If not for his training, the pressure on his shoulders would’ve crushed him long ago.

"I locked them up in Country Road,” Marshall went on. “They tried to rob a bank, and the job didn’t go quite as planned. Lucky for them, they didn’t end up… well, you know…”

He made a circular gesture around his neck with one paw, mimicking a noose, choosing not to say the word aloud in a saloon full of people. Most of them were humans, but there could’ve been a pup or two listening. Some words hurt, even when they were true.

“All things considered, the judge was rather lenient with them.”

“Well, I’m grateful for that, because I need 'em for my work. The project Mister Cement offered me is one of the toughest I’ve ever taken on.” Everest said, her ears drooping as she lowered her gaze.

Marshall raised an eyebrow. Cement was how outsiders referred politely to Rubble. That the bulldog had another project underway didn’t surprise him—what did surprise him was hiring help from outside town. Usually, his own crew was enough to pull off whatever idea popped into that massive head of his. If he needed extra paws, then the idea had to be something big. Big enough that even five pups with pup-packs couldn’t finish it in a blink.

That wasn’t the real problem, though. The issue was how many projects Rubble ran at the same time. If the whole town had risen from the ground in just a few months, it was thanks to him and his ambitious plans.

“Rubble,” Marshall corrected.

“Sorry?” Everest seemed momentarily confused.

“I mean Rubble. We just call him ‘Mister Rubble’ here. We don’t use surnames much.”

“Yeah, I noticed that. And pedigree tags aren’t really a thing here either,” Everest said, shaking her left paw slightly so that her bracelet jingled.

“What’s that about? Was there a revolution or something?” she added jokingly.

She wasn’t the first pup to show that kind of attitude. He couldn’t blame them—it was part of a growing global trend. Pedigreed pups had guaranteed lineage, better jobs, and a spotless reputation. But he had tucked away his bracelet in a drawer the day he arrived in town, and hadn’t worn it again except in rare cases. Wearing it around Rocky felt like an insult—Rocky, who had never been allowed such a luxury—and it ran against everything Wild West Way stood for.

Where surnames held no worth.

For a moment, he hesitated to tell the truth. He had only just met Everest, and something inside him wanted to keep her around a bit longer, to get to know her better. He knew he wouldn’t get far from a single encounter, but the instinct was strong—he felt like Miss Snow was a promising beginning. Still, a political conversation like that could easily ruin what could’ve been the start of a lovely friendship. Some folks preferred to stay far away from “revolutionary” talk.

It had taken a long time for women to win the right to vote, and there were still people who thought that was nonsense.

But loyalty to his brother won out, just this once.

“All I’m saying is that surnames hold no meaning here. Noble titles mean even less. When someone arrives in this town, they basically start from scratch.”

And saying that, Marshall felt both relieved and awkward. He glanced away, his ears turning red with embarrassment. A strange tension settled between them.

Then he heard the wooden box Everest carried on her back unlatch. A small claw-like tool emerged from inside, gently removing the bracelet from her paw and storing it back into her pup-box, one of Ryder’s brilliant inventions that had made life easier for all the pups: The pup-boxes.

“In that case, that’s one burden off my back,” the husky said. The Dalmatian lifted his head slightly.

“Really?”

“Are you kidding? I hate that bracelet. Feels like wearing a sign that says ‘Look at me, I’m purebred, you’ll have the perfect family with me.’ My father’s always reminding me where I come from and I… I just want to live my life, without worrying about what’ll happen to my surname. Leaving Hope was the best thing I’ve ever done.”

She rested her chin on one paw, looking frustrated.

“He even hates my job—always saying it’s not proper for a lady. Like I’m some delicate little pup.”

No, you’re not, Marshall thought, fighting the urge to say it aloud.

He couldn’t deny it—he liked Everest. Not just her looks. Sure, she was attractive, but what had really drawn him in was her character. She didn’t tiptoe around anything. She wasn’t delicate. She knew what she wanted, and she stood her ground even when outnumbered.

Boomer and Gasket could’ve lunged at her by instinct—but they hadn’t. Somehow, Everest still came out more intimidating.

It wasn’t just her appearance or her personality. It was that aura—the one carried by pups who’d survived the harshest conditions. Miss Snow’s only “ladylike” feature was her youthful face, because she could probably knock out the toughest pup in town if she wanted.

And she was from Hope! A region in southern Canada, nearly inaccessible during winter. Life there was brutal during the cold times. Everest had clearly endured a lot—no wonder she had such strong legs. She’d probably crossed the region on foot more than once in some of the harshest weather imaginable.

And in that moment, he realized: he’d rather have her on his side.

“Well, construction’s tough work,” Marshall said, clearing his throat. His voice was starting to dry up, and the temptation of that drink was stronger than ever—but he resisted a bit longer.

“But Mister Rubble’s team has a lot of pups in it. Any idea which project he brought you in for? The Roxi racetrack? Katie’s vet clinic expansion? The Coral musical theatre?”

None of those names were final, of course—they were just easier to remember since they came from purebred pups with deep pockets.

“Mister Rubble’s a great friend, but honestly, I’ve lost track of everything going through his head these days.”

Rocky usually keeps that list, he thought about adding, but held his tongue. For some reason, he didn’t want to bring up another pup in this conversation—maybe to keep it just between them.

“None of those,” Everest said. “It’s not construction.”

She raised a pale paw to touch the tip of her wool hat, where a snowflake-shaped emblem shimmered faintly.

“It’s maintenance. Winter’s coming fast, and someone’s gotta keep the roads and rooftops clear of snow—so carriages, horses, and, well, us can get through.”

Winter. Marshall had completely forgotten that the year was drawing to a close. The town was growing quickly, people were moving in, and the workload of keeping the peace had tripled in no time.

Rocky’s dream of building a town where everyone was equal depended on constantly reminding people of that fact—and not a week passed without some racially charged fight in one building or another. So much paperwork and bureaucracy had made time pass like a runaway train, racing toward the end of the year… and with it, the first winter in Wild West Way.

If it had slipped his mind, it was only because his trust in Mister Rubble was absolute. The bulldog’s mind was always two steps ahead, designing buildings that could survive fires, floods, and anything else nature threw their way.

Towns were popping up all over the continent like mushrooms, but few survived their first winter without crumbling. Rubble’s creativity was the wall standing between Wild West Way and oblivion.

Marshall shivered at the thought of the cold creeping in.

“You alright, Marshal?” Everest asked.

He straightened up quickly and smiled beneath his snout.

“Oh, yes! Of course. Just remembering that Dalmatians aren’t exactly built for the cold. I’m going to need a warmer uniform and…”

He glanced down at his paws and raised an eyebrow.

“Boots, I suppose.”

“And you moved to a town right on the border of the U.S. and Canada, brushing up against British Columbia? Didn’t think you’d be better off down south somewhere?” Everest chuckled.

Marshall opened his mouth. He was going to mention Rocky, but once again, the words stuck in his throat.

It was as if he didn’t want to bring his brother into this conversation—and the realisation made him feel miserable. He’d never been possessive. Their parents had raised them to share everything. They used to sleep over at each other’s houses, eat from the same bowls…

But this husky had tipped over the whole mental chessboard he’d carefully arranged.

He decided he needed a drink to keep the conversation going naturally.

But when he reached for the glass, his paw misjudged the distance. His brain failed him halfway through, and his fingers knocked the glass, spilling it over.

He cursed under his breath—cursed the moment, his apraxia, and the fifty-three cents wasted. With his current salary, that wasn’t pocket change.

He tried to save face by grabbing a napkin with his other paw, but the spilt whiskey on the bar was enough to make him slip.

“No!”

Suddenly, he stood up. In the mirror behind the bar, he saw himself—his uniform stained with alcohol. He was going to smell like whiskey the whole way home. Bloody hell.

“Oh no!” Everest jumped into action. She tugged a strap on her pup-pack with her snout, activating it. Her fingers, connected to the pup-pack, moved fast: a small claw emerged from the box on her back, grabbed a dish towel, and started wiping down the Dalmatian as best it could.

“Okay, I think we can fix this…”

“No, not really. I’ll have to take this to the cleaners,” he muttered. Another expense. He had no idea where the money would come from. He continued, “Don’t worry. These things happen.”

“Could be worse. Could’ve been blood. Those stains are much harder to deal with.” She paused at his alarmed expression and reconsidered her words, speaking again, "At my job, there are accidents. We work with heavy tools. They can be dangerous if you’re not trained properly. That’s why only professionals should handle them—and I’ve been in this business a long while.”

Her effort didn’t have the intended effect. The stains were still there, and so was the smell. Marshall lowered his head, ashamed of how badly he’d handled things.

He’d ruined what had been a nice conversation. Even his thirst had taken a back seat to the embarrassment. The smell of alcohol clouded his thoughts. He slipped off his coat, leaving only his dark shirt underneath, and set the wet garment on a dry patch of the bar.

What stung most wasn’t the mess—it was the example he’d just set for Everest.

The old grandfather clock struck half past ten.

“Darn it, I’m late!” Everest hopped down from the stool. Marshall felt something twist in his chest as she said “Hey, do this for me. When you get home, grab some vinegar and water, and scrub really, really hard. Then wash it with soap to get rid of the smell. Maybe my trick’ll save you a bit of money. I mean, since it’s already stained, might as well go all in.”

“Right…” he mumbled. “Wait—hold on! Where do you live?”

And just like that, Marshall wished the earth would swallow him whole.

He had never been this spontaneous in his life. It was like someone had yanked the words out of his mouth and bolted for the door, leaving him alone in the most awkward moment he’d ever experienced.

Whether pup or human, asking someone for their address on the first day was—at best—indecent. At worst, it was outright shameful. The perfect way to ruin a meeting that had almost gone well. He wished he could disappear or at least run off and hope no one recognised him.

But everyone knew who he was: the Dalmatian marshal of the region.

He swallowed—what little saliva he had, since he still hadn’t taken a single sip—and looked at Everest. She had stopped in place, one paw lifted mid-step, caught off guard by the question.

It was, without a doubt, the least inspired moment of his entire day.

And in just fifteen minutes, that ship had completely gone off course.

“At the motel near the sheriff’s tower” she finally said. “I’ll be there temporarily. But I probably won’t show up until late, so…”

And then he saw it: along her snowy-colored snout, a faint pink blush appeared, giving her an even more adorable look, one that matched his own.

He hadn’t expected her to respond at all. He completely forgot to say goodbye. And she, perhaps just as flustered, didn’t say it either. She rushed off toward the exit. Disappeared from view.

But her scent lingered—unfortunately, mixed with the sharp smell of spilled whiskey on his coat.

The lively conversations around the saloon brought him back to reality. He slowly lowered his paw and sat back on the stool, emotions buzzing and butterflies fluttering in his stomach. He replayed those fifteen wonderful minutes over and over, smiling. His tail began wagging again, thumping against the underside of the bar—but he didn’t care. He felt happy. Truly happy. Happier than he’d been in a long time.

The motel near the sheriff’s tower. Those words echoed in his mind. He knew exactly which one she meant: the one just down the road that led directly to the lookout, where the whole town of Wild West Way could be seen from above.

Late tonight, Everest might be there. He might see her again—less nervous this time, with better control over himself.

Who knew?

Just thinking about it made him feel like a fool, but the plan was already taking shape in his head.

“Darn it,” muttered Ella, the pup who ran the place. Her voice snapped Marshall out of his daydream. She was glaring up at the ceiling like there was a leak about to drop. “Someone left the bathroom tap running again. If I catch ‘em…”

At first, Marshall didn’t understand. He glanced upward, toward the wooden ceiling that separated the ground floor from the second, and saw a large, dark stain forming.

He thought it had nothing to do with him… until a little voice in his head pulled him back to earth and made his paws freeze.

I’m going to wash my paws.

That’s what Rocky had said earlier. A comment Marshall had ignored, too wrapped up in his own thoughts about Zuma.

But… since when did Rocky wash his own paws?

The mutt’s fear of water wasn’t a simple quirk—it was something much worse. Zuma had helped him make small progress, letting him get wiped down gently with wet sponges and a whole lot of patience. Only Zuma and Katie, the town’s vet, could bathe him properly. And even then, not every day like Zuma enjoyed. Rocky would end up stressed, shaking, shutting down, sometimes even sick.

Rocky never washed his paws with running water. If it had to be done, others would handle it carefully. And if he really had to, he used techniques Zuma had taught him to cope—but only at home.

In a public place…? Could it be that, stubborn as he was, Rocky had tried to do it himself?

And if so—what had pushed him to take that risk?

“That idiot…” Marshall growled, and like lightning, he sprang into action.

It was one of the few times his clumsiness didn’t get in the way: His concern for his brother kicked his brain into high gear—120 per cent—and everything moved like a slideshow. He weaved through the crowd of humans and pups with perfect precision, bounding up the stairs two at a time thanks to his long legs.

He knew Rocky was in trouble. He knew the running water was his doing. There could only be one explanation: One of his trauma-induced episodes. Triggered by water.

When Marshall reached the second floor, he had to skid to a stop. The red carpet was soaked. Water was leaking from beneath the door to the dog bathroom. And in that instant, he knew: He was too late. If he hadn’t stayed downstairs talking to Everest… this wouldn’t have happened.

He yanked down the special lever for pups to open the door. The water hit his paws immediately as he rushed in—

Calling out Rocky’s name.

[captaindibbzy]

I read a cool story a while ago about a rich lady who had some nice fabric and wanted a dress made from it, while staying with her aunt. It's, like, the 1920's or something. So her aunt recommends this local girl who is very good at it and the rich lady is an abject cunt to her. Takes her on as a maid, wants her to make this dress, and calls her stupid and a dimwit all the way through.

It comes to a head at the end when she finds the girl had sewn a makers mark in to the dress cause she's made this dress, you know? And the rich lady blows a fucking gasket and rips this dress off her, fires the girl cause, idk, she's crabby. And in the resulting hissy fit pushes this girl down the stairs. The girl dies.

Rich lady thinks this is awfully inconvenient of her cause, you know, now the party is canceled???

She moves to America later and gets someone else to finish this dress and when she turns up to wear it at the first party she feels a pair of hands on her back that just push while she's at the top of the stairs.

Anyway, so this makes me think of AI "artists" this morning. "I gave the prompt, in as much detail as I saw fit. You are just a machine through which I get what I want. The product at the end is mine and mine alone, and your input can be replaced. Because I am the visionary. And the only important part of it."

[dollsonmain]

Oh, so, you know how I've mentioned I wished Manager would turn off the leaky slush machine because it's launching sticky stuff EVERYWHERE?

The service technician finally came in to fix it and he got on to her for continuing to run it when it was leaking, specifically because the leak was passing over the exhaust fans and being blasted all over the place, and it was leaking into the mechanisms that run the machine so everything was full of caked on, partially dried sugar syrup because she kept making us refill it. It was struggling to rotate the auger that spins the slush so it doesn't freeze solid.

The nozzles were also moldy. She'd said at one point that she'd show me how to clean them but never did, and when I asked about it she said she would not show me because it's a huge pain in the ass and I wasn't responsible for cleaning those on top of already being given the coffee and soda machines to clean (which is Zach's job).

If she'd turned it off and emptied it out as soon as it started leaking, I wouldn't have to spend hours almost every day trying in vain to scrub off the sticky halo and pool of syrup for weeks.

I suspect I'll be doing that tomorrow, hopefully for the last time.

He replaced a couple gaskets and that should stop all of the leaking. He also gave the whole machine a thorough cleaning, thank goodness, so I don't have to do that.

-

When I got in today she had left me a little note again, which is a new thing for her. She does that with the other two employees but usually not with me.

What frustrated me about it, though, is that she had said yesterday that dusting the shelves was a daily task for Coworker G, so when I was told to do it, I did it in a daily-appropriate manner.

Then this morning she left a note saying to finish the job so I was like wth I did. I dusted all of it.

So I started doing a full reset cleaning and was getting really annoyed, thinking "If I'm always doing everyone else's jobs then MINE isn't getting done, and if I don't get MINE done, then SOMEONE ELSE has to do them, and then no one's doing their job......."

She happened to have left the store at that point and I was like "Wait. I'll just stop doing G's tasks and do mine. Then, if I have time, I'll go back to G's because G does need help."

So I got MY tasks done as well as I could then got back to work on G's, and Manager was late returning for my lunch break so then I took lunch. During lunch the repair tech came in and was in the way, then some vendors and sales people. Manager had me doing random stuff around the store though mostly staying out of the way while she did the register, then as soon as the big order came in she was like "Go work on that." I barely got any of that done and then it was time to go.

We got new chicken and tuna salads that expire in 3 days. I don't have the authority or opportunity to reject it and had to just put it away.

They didn't have any egg salad so I might have to make egg salad in-store. Really, we should probably be doing that anyway since each half-gallon tub of sandwich-salads is $30 and expires before we can use it anyway. At least if I were making it in-store we'd get a full 7 days out of each batch and could make smaller, more manageable batches.

She says we can boil eggs there but I don't see how... There's no stove top unless they're hiding one in the office.

[thisworldisablackhole]

Last Train III

🌕🌕🌕🌗🌑

FFO: POST-GRUNGE BLUES ROCK / LISTEN

I must have missed the last train. This band formed in Altkirch, France, in 2007, when the members were barely teenagers, and though they have since shared stages on tour with groups like Muse and Placebo, they have seemingly seen little fan-fare outside of Europe. Hopefully this record changes that.

While Last Train's earlier material was more indebted to the classic blues rock of the 70s (perhaps more by proxy of Jack White than anything else), they have been slowly allowing more post-grunge and alternative metal influences to bleed into their music as their personal tastes evolve. Last Train, in their current form, sound just as at home on arena stages as they would on the soundtrack of your favourite millennial-aged action sports video game—right alongside the likes of Queens Of The Stone Age, Rage Against the Machine, and Nine Inch Nails, but with a tasteful modernity and nods to noise and post-rock that might get an eyebrow raise from even the pickiest of subculture dorks. In 2024, the group even dabbled in composing an orchestral film score, and while they don’t consider that album to be part of the Last Train canon, the experience no doubt strengthened their ear for atmosphere and dramatics—two things that play a vital role in the dynamic flow of their third official full-length.

III is by far the closest the group has come to chiseling out a characteristic identity for themselves. In a way, the simple numerical title juxtaposed over a gaping mouth feels like a purposeful understatement to imply the music on this album should speak for itself. And it does.

"Home" opens the record unassumingly enough, with a quiet kick drum accompanied by Jean-Noël Scherrer's francophone-accented croon, but the band quickly reveals their ulterior motive with punctuations of granite slate guitars that tease the rhythm into a nervous breakdown. Much to the dismay of my raucous punk upbringing, my aging ears are increasingly fascinated by groups who are able to step back from their amps just far enough to see LOUDNESS as one tool in a roll of tools—a gift to be nurtured and preserved for the right moment, and Last Train knows this well. They have dialed in the tone and texture of said loudness to make sure it justifies any stretch of reflective melody in between, whether it's the stank-face-inducing bass tone that reveals itself in the snot-nosed and snarling "All To Blame", or the feedback that wraps itself around the negative closer "I Hate You" like a barbed wire anaconda. I can't stress enough how effective the production is at bringing a chilled industrial heaviness to this otherwise tried-and-true rock record.

And speaking of reflective melody, III would be nothing without tracks like "How Does It Feel?", "This Is Me Trying", and "Revenge" to balance the equilibrium with tranquil piano keys and glacial tremolos, transforming the album into a brooding rock opera televised from the surface of some lost and frozen exoplanet. III is haunted by a poltergeist of anger that is very meticulous about when it allows itself to show (often by flipping a table or blowing a gasket), but it is almost always felt bubbling beneath the surface; even these softer songs convey a sense of sorrow that is often the harbinger of rage if left unchecked.

Now, take any song from this record in isolation, and it might not be something you'd rush to write home about, but in the context of a full modern rock album, they are absolutely refreshing and vital to the experience. And though the undulating formula of the tracklist might run a little dry by the end of the record, especially as the closing duo halts our momentum and takes way too long to get back up to speed, Last Train has still managed to create a memorable statement here. It's arena rock for crumbling coliseums in the solemn heart of winter—not a revolution, but it's beautiful… and loud.

[aita-blorbos]

Am I the Asshole for pranking my substitute teacher?

I, 15m, was walking to class one day with my friends, (15 f) (16m) when I noticed that my teacher was not there. It was a Sub and like look I'm not gonna assume but she looked liked those prissy subs you see in cartoons so. Already not off to a good start. So I arrive to class with my friends, and my friend 16 m is just like ‘oh shit’. Turns out the sub is his aunt! Funny how that works. Also his family is. Not good. Like there's three good people in his immediate family and one of them is a seven year old. So anyways I arrive and she gives me a look that is crustier than her. Overused eyeshadow. So anyways I sit down and IMMEDIATELY she calls me bacl up. I am like, okay, what’s the matter do you need smth or and am jsut very confused. She tells me that my arm is "indecent" (I should also add I have a prosthetic). So like. How do I process this. Like I was honestly kinda taken aback bc holy shit she just said that. To a whole--ass 14 year old too. Like cmon you can’t just tell somebody they’re indecent for like literally doing nothing to you and simply not having an arm what the hell. so she tells me to go grab a jacket or smth from my locker. This is where I get the idea. So I have a friend, who looks almost identical to me, and really the only way to tell us apart I the fact that we have different eye colors, and he has both arms. So, rather than listen to her, I decide to have a little fun. I mean if she’s going to make this hour miserable for me the least I can do is try to make it somewhat enjoyable. so I go to my friends classroom (I was his teacher’s favorite last year when I had him :>) and his teacher is cool with him coming and being me for a bit. So we go, switch outfits, he gets my flannel, and then he goes back to class instead of me. This is where the fun begins! So he wrrives, and she doesn’t notice anything for like five minutes. So it gets hot out and he takes off my jacket (seriously did she expect me to wear that the whole time???) and THATS when she notices that he is not, in fact, me. Meanwhile. I am getting FREE Fritos bc I am hungry. So while my friend plays dumb ya boi got his prosthetic stuck in the vending machine (again) (the janitor at my school is thrilled I think that he has to do this at least three times a week (he is not)) So anyways while my friend is being all gaslight gatekeeper girlboss and convincing her that he never had a metal arm I shoot him a text saying that it’s time to switch. Back. Keep in mind I don't even have the prosthetic now. we switch outfits and I go back to my first hour. Sub is now EVEN MORE CONFUSED and I continue my gaslight gatekeep girlbossing. she’s like ‘just a minute ago you had both arms where did that go’ and I’m like ‘wdym I never had that I think you need to get your eyes checked :>’. She is fuming btw :>. So we continue to swap every so often and by the time first period was over this woman was about to blow a gasket. At some point I brought the Fritos to class and was just snackin instead of working. Somehow she noticed the arm but not this (I think she might actually need her eyes checked) like. Not even when I threw one at my 15 f friend. Also, I gave my other friends teacher a play by play and he was amused by my shenanigans :>. Am I the asshole?

[persepor]

Let's talk about my favorite villains pt 1

Let's face it, sometimes the villains are better than the heroes or they are just as compelling as the heroes. So I want to go over some of my favorite villains which spans back to my childhood, I'll also put villains in quotation marks because some are framed as villains when they really are not (you'll see why).

So let's get into this!!

Eris

Eris is first on my list and- hoo boy! Do I love her so much. I need to re-watch this movie because the last time I saw this was when I was 8 or 9. First off she's a badass and I mean that, she has a plan and she'll do whatever it takes to make that plan work.

Eris is the goddess of discord, and she strikes a deal with Sinbad for him to get the Book of Peace for her. He backs out of the deal though, so she uses her powers to frame Sinbad for stealing the book. Sinbad must now track down the book and return it.

Eris' design reflects her personality and how she stirs up discord and chaos. She's designed as if she were simply smoke, with her form constantly shifting and being able to change her shape and grow. She can make herself tower over humans or make herself the same height as humans.

I always loved her for how she was simply herself while being an unforgettable villainess, her personality is unmatched and adds to why i love her so much.

Ramesses

If you haven't seen the Prince of Egypt please give it a watch it's really good. As someone who doesn't care about religion I feel DreamWorks struck gold with their adaptation of the story of Moses. They paint Rameses as a complicated villain with conflicting emotions.

Rameses doesn't want to let Moses' people go because he wants to uphold the legacy their family's dynasty has built. But, he wants his brother, Moses, back. This culminates in their sibling relationship shattering.

Rameses is not a black-and-white villain, he is 3 dimensional. But, he is still evil in wanting to keep the Hebrews as slaves. He is the reason all the plagues are set upon Egypt, resulting in his sons death.

Rameses is an interesting villain you'd have to watch the movie to really get what I'm saying about his character.

Ratchet and Madame Gasket

Putting these two together because they are a Mother-Son duo. Ratchet deals with things on the outside while his mother, Madame Gasket, deals with things on the inside with her chop shop. They both want to take over Big Weld Industry and the whole city.

These two are HILARIOUS, Ratchet acts as a sophisticated, well-put together person with a plan, but is actually a scared mama's boy. He has very hilarious scenes and lines, his interactions with his mother are also hilarious. One of my favorite scenes of his is the one where he knocks out Big Weld and says this: "Oh my god I'm as crazy as my mother!!....HYAH"

Madame Gasket used to terrify me as a child, and I can see why. She is ruthless in her approach while also being a doting mother to Ratchet. She collects 'Out modes' with her sweepers to turn them into metal to create new, shiny parts. She even got her husband out of the way so she can focus on her plan of taking over Big Weld Industries. A villain who will get rid of anything in their way is terrifying.

They are both defeated with Ratchet being chained up by his father and Madame Gasket being thrown into one of her machines.

Tatiana

A character that's posed as a villain but is put into that light. Yes she is wrong for Vinyl City's power outages, but she knew what kept the city going. She used to be Kul Fyra, leader of the rock group the Ghoulings.

I won't go much about her her because I want to talk about her in full but she is so well written. Am ex rock star that switched to EDM now has to deal with a musical revolution. She sees B2J's revolution as irrelevant because nothing will come of it.

As she points out they made the same amount of energy as EDM and that they went into this without a plan. They would put people out of jobs and cause a revolution from people who live EDM. She's the common sense B2J needed.

Fairy Godmother

You should not be surprised she's on here. She is an icon when it comes to DreamWorks villains. When DreamWorks villains are mentioned, she's the first one to be brought up.

She is portrayed as a caring individual but is a selfish person who wants her darling son Prince Charming to be king. She uses the fact Shrek took a potion to make him and Fiona human to her advantage. She makes Charming pretend to be Shrek so he can get closer to Fiona.

She also is a master manipulator, basically threatening the king to do what she wants him to do. She wants Shrek out of the picture because "Ogres don't get happily ever afters." She wants Fiona to have the picture perfect happily ever after married to charming.

Yes her entire scene at the ball is stunning. The red dress is so good and fits her character perfectly. The rendition of Holding Out for a Hero is absolutely a banger and is a go-to song of mine.

Iconic villain and has had a lasting impression on me.

Mother Gothel

I grew up with Morher Gothel as a character. Both her Disney and barbie version, which I'll talk a bit about here and in a dedicated post about early 2000s barbie. I love her character very dearly. We are talking about a gaslighting, manipulative person.

She kidnapped Rapunzel because of her hair, she doesn't love Rapunzel she loves her hair. Meanwhile, in the Barbie version, she's a cold, distant person who kidnapped Rapunzel as revenge. But we're focusing on the Disney version here.

She makes Rapunzel believe she loves her, makes the outside world to be dangerous, and manipulates her into thinking Flynn Rider abandoned her. She was willing to murder to keep Rapunzel's hair to herself. As all she cares about is her beauty and youth.

She is a master manipulator and an amazing villain as well.

Preminger

Ah Preminger one of the best Barbie villains. A villain with a great plan that fails miserably. A villain with hilarious scenes.

Preminger wants the crown to himself amd at first plans to marry Annaliese. But when that goes wrong, he tries to marry the queen. But that also goes wrong.

He has hilarious scenes such as him knocking on the cabin door to see if Annaliese is still locked in there. To the hilarious scene where he almost faints when finding out the princesses wedding will be next weak.

Preminger is the most loved barbie villain for a reason. He's dramatic, funny, and cunning. His sidekicks are hilarious and give a lot of laughs. His dog is also a great component of his character as he is an extension of Preminger.

End

Well that's the end of part 1, I have 4 more I'll discuss in part 2 so keep an eye out for that.

[iliterallydecepticanteven]

So. My car is as good as dead. I took her in for repairs on an oil valve and spark plugs on Wednesday and it totaled to just over $1k in repair costs. Then on Friday, as I was trying to go home from work, the engine wouldn't start. So I got her towed to the same shop that did the repairs on Wednesday and turns out the head gasket is blown. Only one shop in my area will do head gasket repair and that will cost at least $3k assuming they can do it which they won't know until they see the car irl. She won't run so that will be another tow. The shop who did the repairs were very apologetic and are letting me store her at their shop with no storage fee until I can figure out what to do with her. So now I'm looking for a new car (or rather new to me because lord knows I can't afford a brand new car). Combine that with having headaches on and off all week plus work being chaos between a machine going down and delayed shipping of a new machine and this week has royally sucked. I'm currently coping by sitting on the couch with one of my cats, crocheting a Christmas gift for someone, and watching old Mythbusters episodes. Later, to cheer myself up, I'll make myself a latte and write smut. Such is life.

[leam1983]

Terminal Affluenza

You haven't glimpsed at something close to Dom Delilo's Cosmopolis until you've visited a Mercedes-Benz dealership.

Keep in mind, their cars are shit. The drive train isn't suited for North-American roads, rubber gaskets in the doors routinely crumble away and engines in the C-Class are particularly temperamental.

Then, you start digging and realize that there's blue-collar roots hidden away behind the polished exterior, exemplified by the fact that most of every business that needs a solid panel van or a wide vehicle that's easily moddable goes for a Sprinter or a Metris. The same goes for my Paratransport service, as I've technically consistently schelpped about town in a Mercedes for the past eight years. As far as their panel vans are concerned, though? Zero complaints. These things are rock-solid workhorses, which is a stylistic anomaly in the world of dealerships that make it a point to wine-and-dine you with a Nespresso. Some even go the extra mile and even splurge for the water-mains-connected type of espresso machine and list "barista skills" as an essential point for any receptionists to be hired.

The thing is, these panel vans are, as I mentioned above, extensively modded. We're talking tool racks, removed seats, vinyl jobs, extra batteries, even mobile workshops - without forgetting the obligatory van-lifers that take the same cars and turn them into compact little apartments on wheels.

Needless to say, that shit ain't resellable. Yet, despite that and every single goddamn year, all the Mercedes dealers in the province get it in their thick, oil-slicked and money-hungry heads that there's gotta be someone out there who might consent to not only a buyback offer, but to the ludicrously expensive task of re-converting their work or pleasure rig into a civilian vehicle - on their own dime.

A Sales rep mentions that to you and you just spend a few seconds blinking dazedly. Jesus Christ, what are these morons putting in their coffee?! Powdered hundred-dollar bills?!

[paper--constellations]

Fabric Softener

I was taught a few things about doing my own laundry, but one thing was ingrained in my head: You use laundry detergent and fabric softener. It is The Way. But!! When you use fabric softener or dryer sheets, they can make your clothes feel softer and reduce static. They can also leave waxy residues over time. Not only that, it can also reduce the absorbency of towels and other fabrics, and can leave residue on your washing machine or dryer. It can also mess with the fire retardant chemicals that are meant to prevent the fabric from being flammable. That's no good! So what can you do instead??

Enter distilled white vinegar! Distilled white vinegar is an incredibly versatile tool that happens to be used for more than just cooking. It can be used to remove stains and odors, whiten clothing, remove mild mold and mildew, and can get rid of the residue that fabric softener and dryer sheets can leave on clothes! It can also be used to clean your washing machine on occasion to power through hard water and other buildups. The amount you need to use varies depending on your specific need, the types of fabrics you're washing, and the chemicals you're using with it.

A word of caution: Many sources recommend that you do not use it every time you wash your clothes, as it can harm certain fabrics and break down rubber gaskets in your washing machine, incurring expensive repairs. For instance, if you're washing something with elastic like gym clothes, it can break down the elastic and remove the stretchiness of it. You should also take care to not combine it with chlorine bleach, as this creates chlorine gas which can be dangerous and outright fatal. Don't combine it with hydrogen peroxide either, as it creates peracetic acid (which is irritating and corrosive). Do your research before combining any sorts of substances just to be sure!!

If you want extra fluffing and drying action, you can also put dryer balls in your dryer. They come in different varieties including but not limited to wool, plastic, and rubber. They each have their pros and cons, and I see wool balls recommended quite a lot, but do some research before settling on one type just to make sure it suits your needs. Regardless, they help knock the wrinkles out of your laundry and helps it dry faster, cutting down on drying times.

I hope this information helps! As always, if you have any advice requests, handy tips, or corrections, please let me know.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Sources: [The Spruce] / [Better Homes and Gardens] / [Healthline] / [Maytag]

Find me elsewhere: Ko-fi