#Joint Inspection Team

[mapgubbins]

Joint Inspection Team funding agreement and indemnity released following FOI request

Post: 5 November 2023

New blog post on my website:

Joint Inspection Team funding agreement and indemnity released following FOI

[carionto]

"OMG, that's so cool! We want one."

The United Federation have unveiled a monstrosity.

On the border before the Neutral Zone, a barren planet now has a new moon. Upon closer inspection, it was indeed a moon, but also not. When it turned, we saw an abomination of a surface. Innumerable laser batteries, shield generators embedded within the core of the planetoid, endless rows of mass printers, underground hangars, and a constant supply of fresh pilots and crew from their subservient races.

The Galactic Coalition are not at war with them, currently, but this kind of provocation cannot go unanswered! We debated long into several cycles before the Human delegates joined us. They took one look at the images of the Federation Battle Moon and exclaimed all at once:

"Holy shit!" "That's awesome!" "It looks like a giant face!" "With GUNS!" "Fuckin' rad." "I want one!" "Yeah, same." "Can we build that?" "I dunno, probably?" "Quick, get the engineers!" "Right on!"

"Sorry, but we gotta show this to everyone, we'll be right back."

In a flurry of motion and excitement, the Humans left to contact the rest of Humanity. Their comments in the blur of the moment gradually filter through to us and we begin to worry. This Battle Moon is the largest structure anyone has ever built! Well, that is until the Humans finish their Planetary Warp Gate and Dyson Sphere...

Okay, the largest military structure. We suspect that will soon change though.

---[Aboard the Department of Strategy (Space Pentagon)]---

"Message from the Coalition delegate team, the Joint Chiefs have to see this."

As the message plays and the Joint Chiefs examine the documents, a variety of expressions hide deep internal thoughts and deliberations. Here they sit, the fifteen people responsible for all of Humanity's decisions and matters of import regarding our expansion and existence on the Galactic stage. Once silence began to reign, Grand Admiral Ekaterina is the first to stand and speak up:

"This is certainly an impressive display on the Federation's part, and further solidifies their stance as a likely aggressor. Given what we know, there is little chance for a diplomatic solution and a long-term peaceful coexistence. Thus, only two questions remain:

Which moon are we gonna use? And what's our Battle Moon gonna look like? I vote giant skull with horns!"

[frostgears]

We Who Will Not Bow

It had been a difficult night.

"You're not an Academy mage. You're her," the injured guard said, defiant. "Bree the Bodiless. Bree the Banished. Bree the Bloody… go on, then. Kill me. Get it over with."

"And what purpose," she said, frustrated, "would that serve? Gods, they've been telling tales about me in my absence, I see. Hold still, I think I can fix this."

She opened a module drawer on her left arm, pulled out a silvery metal module marked with a quincunx of green jade inlay, snapped it into the socket on her left palm. Thin tentacles ventured out from an aperture, tasting the air, dripping with orange ooze. The guard shrank back against the side of the checkpoint tower.

"What are you going to do to me? What is that— aaaahh!"

Bree clasped her hand over the bolt wound on the injured guard's arm. Tentacles sank into flesh, writhing between her jointed porcelain fingers, probing under skin.

"Don't squirm, that's a burrowing bolt head, we don't want it burrowing any deeper. And these are preserved regeneration glands from a nesting bog kraken. They guard their eggs, did you know that? For up to two months. But the Great Bog is a miserable environment. There's parasites, and fungi, and necrotic plague, and so the damn things evolved these organs to channel mana into their eggs and young, almost like healing spells, to give them a fighting chance. Not against me, though. I killed this one and took its regeneration glands and doomed its clutch, just to get back one more thing I used to be able to do before that fucking archon took everything away from me… okay, wiggle your fingers…"

The guard's fingers moved. Bree took her hand away, satisfied. The tentacles retracted into her palm. She held an evil-looking bit of spiraled and fluted black metal between thumb and forefinger, rotated her wrist with a series of clicks, turning it around to inspect.

"Got it. All of it. Regrowth forced it out."

Her chest plate slid open. A lurid orange glow splashed across the burrowing bolt head, the hand holding it, and the face of the guard. She squeezed the bolt head, and it crumbled, not bending as mundane metal might, but falling to dust. The glow flared brighter.

"Gotta feed the furnace. Saved your arm, paid the cost; let's go, sweetheart, I need all the help I can get. Pick up your crossbow and follow me."

Her chest plate clacked shut.

"I'm not following you anywhere, traitor!"

Bree shrugged, then held out a hand. Her other one. No disembodied organs in the right hand, although anyone who'd actually seen what she could do with the thing built into its palm would no doubt prefer to hold the left.

"The bastards who killed your mates were Crimson Vanguard, the Crimson Pact's commandos. Real dickheads even by Pact standards. Drink to your squad's memory tomorrow that you all gave nearly as good as you got, because they don't normally leave any survivors. Plus, the Vanguard always sends a backup team. So, way I see it, either you come with me, and you might live, or you run and you probably don't, and really, which one of us is the traitor then, right?"

The guard glared at her through narrowed eyes, but took her hand. Bree hauled her to her feet. And then the guard ran for it.

"It's you! You're the traitor!" Bree yelled at the guard's rapidly receding back. "In case it wasn't clear from context!"

Her voice in this body was beautifully clear and melodic, but not particularly loud; it hadn't been built for yelling, and it didn't satisfy. Not that it would stop her from trying.

Something twanged behind her. A projectile of some kind bounced off her back.

"Nice try," she said, spinning around and folding her right hand down to reveal a hand-length metal spike nestled in a cavity in the mechanism of her arm, "my turn now." An internal spring released. The spike shot out, and did what it might be expected to do to a human skull.

She wiped fresh blood off her faceplate, afterward; tasted the crimson spatter with the tip of an intricately jointed porcelain tongue. It didn't taste like anything. It never did. Nothing did.

"You didn't have to come here," she said to the headless Vanguard commando at her feet. "Any other town. Or better yet, stay home, and don't murder anyone, and I could return the favor. But you came here armed, and it lives here, and I have this little compulsion to take care of it, yeah? 'HER TASK FOR THE TIME BEING SHALL BE TO SAFEGUARD AND PROTECT HER MOST RECENT VICTIM, UNTIL AND UNLESS SAID VICTIM MAY RELEASE HER FROM SERVICE, SATISFIED'," she said, in a low, mocking tone. "Lyric's horrified to even look at me, so I doubt satisfaction and release are on the table any time soon, right?"

No answer was forthcoming.

"Well, fuck you too, buddy. Time to go find your friends."

She sped along the main road, each step a leap, her torn and patched Academy cape flapping behind her. Everyone trying to get into the town had fled when the first Vanguard team set fire to the checkpoint, with their wagons if they could, on foot if they had to. She passed several wagons that stood abandoned, stopped briefly at another to shatter a yoke with her fist and free two terrified oxen.

Then she saw what she was looking for: you'd have to be an idiot to keep driving your wagon towards a burning guard tower, unless you were the rest of the second Vanguard team, with a wagon full of bad news.

Bree knelt in a ditch by the side of the road, screened from view by a thicket, and swapped out the regeneration gland module with another set of pickled arcane beast parts in a can, which did another thing she'd been able to do on her own before her body had been taken away.

The wagon was almost to her, close enough that her upgraded senses could clearly see the outline of a crossbow beneath the driver's plain black cloak. She tickled the stolen sun-serpent pyrosis organ with an internal actuator, and flame bloomed in the night again.

They came scrambling out, firing back, the snap of bows audible over the screaming of the horses. Disciplined, she had to give them that. Bolts hit her in the face and chest.

Not to much effect, of course. She'd once been Lyric's twin, an almost peerless servant automaton frame, built by her old business partner to last, but fundamentally also built to serve tea and look good in a maid outfit. It wasn't enough. It wasn't her. She'd made Coda upgrade her again and again, until Coda's own restorative compulsion had hit its limits, and the artificer told her there was nothing more she knew how to do. By then, she was strong. From there, she'd upgraded herself.

Three of them rushed her with swords. Close enough, Bree thought; she raised her right hand, opening the palm shutter, and whispered, "Nis zerat volut, ghran."

Her soulcatcher, the glowing point of twisted light in her right palm, was, in some sense, the reason she was here, stuck in this patchwork body with its almost nil astral presence. It was an instrument of more subtlety than power and it still worked for her when the rest of her magic had died. She'd upgraded it too. Now it didn't need a soul to be loosened from its mortal shell first.

Ghostly purple light streamed over them, and a moment later, they were down. She fed their torn-off souls to her furnace. Apparent time slowed to a crawl, the high ticking of her main escapement dropping to a steady thud, thud, thud. She snapped blades, broke bones, ripped through the remaining commandos with accelerated fury. The details were messy and irrelevant, forgotten as quickly as they came. The last two Vanguard were carrying a box. She took it from them and opened the lid.

The shock broke her concentration; her time sped up again. "Titan voidwasp larvae," she said, almost reverently. They'd been covered at the Academy, briefly, not something anyone was expected to encounter. The shiny purple-black grubs were from somewhere far, far away, and their eventual monstrous metamorphosis drank souls, just like she did now, but on a colossal scale. They were city killers.

"Here's the thing, little guys, even I don't trust myself with shit like you. Sorry. Protect and safeguard, you know how it is."

She fired her spike, retracted its cable, fired again, into each one in turn, until nothing was left but ichor and chitin splinters. Then she teased a last fractional burst out of her pyrosis module, playing a jet of flame across the mess, just in case.

That was it. There didn't seem to be much else to do. She checked for Vanguard survivors. One of them wasn't quite gone.

"Who… what… the fuck… are you?"

"Just somebody's discarded doll," Bree told him. "When the Pact interrogates your ghost, tell them Bree said not to come back." She dispatched him, as cleanly as she could.

For an indefinite time, there was no motion on the bloodied road, except for the dying flames, and the wind teasing her cape and her hair.

Silver radiance kindled beside her.

"Oh no, not you, don't you fucking start with me—"

"JUSTICE."

"—can piss up a rope!"

She ramped up her speed again and tried to strike the figure of a burning haloed skeleton with fire and the soulcatcher, both at once, but hit nothing but empty air. The archon was only as tangible as it wanted to be. She'd find a way to get at it someday, but it seemed today wasn't going to be that day.

"CEASE THIS."

"Get fucked."

"IT MAY INTEREST YOU TO KNOW THAT THE SUMMONING OF THE CHOSEN HERO HAS YET AGAIN FAILED."

"Not my fault the archmages can't get it up."

"THE HERO IS SUMMONED TO SAFEGUARD THE KINGDOM. THAT IS THE PURPOSE OF THE RITUAL. THE INVOCATIONS BESEECH THE DIVINE TO FILL A NEED AND PROVIDE A PROTECTOR IN THE TIME OF CRISIS."

"Okay, I don't care."

"IF A PROTECTOR IS ALREADY INCARNATE, THE DIVINE FEEL THEIR DUTY IS DONE. EVEN IF THE HERO IS UNAWARE OF THEIR ROLE."

"I jacked the Chosen Hero's soul and sold it to Coda and put it in a doll, right, I was there. So what, you're saying they can't do it again because Lyric's already here, even if it's a doll maid and not a hero? Tough shit, I guess. You met it, you know it isn't exactly hero material."

"YOUR ASSESSMENT IS CRUDE BUT CORRECT. IT IS NOT, AND IT WILL NOT BE. IT IS CONTENT TO SERVE AND TO ENJOY ITS NEW FORM. AND YET A HERO EXISTS. SOMEONE PROTECTS THE KINGDOM ALREADY, ALTHOUGH THEY DO NOT THINK OF IT IN SUCH TERMS. THEY DID SO AGAIN, THIS NIGHT."

"Wait."

"YOUR ACTIONS PRODUCED A HERO."

"Oh gods no."

"THE GODS WATCH. THE SKEIN OF DESTINY IS RE-COILED, A TANGLE REMOVED."

"I can't be—"

"JUSTICE MAY YET BE DONE. GOOD LUCK TO YOU."

Bree roundly cursed the archon in her annoyingly pleasant and musical voice, until it disappeared, and then another fifteen minutes for good measure, in case it felt like coming back. When it didn't, she started walking.

She looked back, once, to see the lights of the town. Somewhere back there, Coda and Lyric lived in their little shop. Lyric didn't sleep any more than Bree did. Maybe her once-twin was leaning out the window, one of its cute dresses ruffled by the night breeze. Maybe it was even looking this way.

"Well, let's face it, Bree," she said to herself, resigned. "You wouldn't have been a very good maid." □

---

prev: We Who Serve

next: We Who Are Far From Home, ch. 1: Bree 1

[darlingshane]

Let it rip, Coach

Pairing: Michael Berzatto x F!Reader

Summary: Searching for a new sponsor for the soccer team you coach leads you to meet and quickly fall in love with Michael.

Content/Warnings: Friends to lovers, Fluff, Crack, Alcohol, Eating, Kissing.

Word Count: 3,2k

— You can read below or at AO3.

“Hey, Cousin!” Richie taps on the frame of Michael's office door. “There's a woman here to see you.”

“Oh? Is she a health inspector or something?” He swivels in his chair, putting a pen down on the desk.

“No. Though, if she’s looking to inspect something, I’d be the perfect specimen to study.”

“That hot?”

“Smokin’ hot. Total knockout. Banging body,” his track suited friend remarks frivolously. “But as usual, she didn't want to do anything with me, cause I'll never stand a chance against the great Mikey Bear.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself, Cousin. Girls love those baby blues. It's when you open your mouth what makes them run in the other direction,” Michael taunts. “What does she want? Did she ask for me specifically?”

“She didn’t mention your name exactly. She requested an audience with the proprietor of this fine establishment.”

“Wow, those are big words, Cousin.” Michael rises from his chair, adjusting the waistband of his jeans.

“Well, I'm a big guy… If you know what I mean.”

“Unfortunately, I do know what you mean.” Scoffing, Michael palms his friend's back and walks out of the office.

They both head out of the kitchen, and Richie points him to the table with the woman, you, who asked to talk to the owner of the sandwich joint.

As he rounds the counter, he counts four young girls sitting around the table with you, ready to dig into the food they just got served.

“Hi, I'm Michael, the owner of this place,” he gestures vaguely with one hand in the air. “What can I do for you, ladies?”

After introducing yourself and the four pre-teens that came with you, one of them being your niece, you explain to Michael that you're the coach of the girls' soccer team. The reason for your visit is that you’re searching for a new sponsor for the team after losing the one you had.

Michael listens closely as you add a little more information, telling him that grew up in this neighborhood, and thought of asking a few businesses of the North River area.

“I dunno, girls… I don't know the first thing about soccer,” he runs a palm over his beard and then pushes his hair back.

“That’s okay, you don't really need to. You'd only have to cover uniforms. Think about your name being on every jersey. And I promise to bring the whole team here after every game. Right girls?”

They all respond in unison positively with mouths full of food.

“See? They love your food already. Think about the publicity. The games are always packed, let me tell you. Women's leagues are booming right now.”

“I don’t doubt that. What's your team's name?”

“The comets,” one of the girls responds.

“That's a great name. Are you guys good?”

“The best,” your niece boasts.

They're actually pretty good. Most of them have been playing for a couple of years before you started coaching them, and the new additions are quickly catching up.

“Okay, let me think about it.”

Michael goes back into his office, crunches some numbers, and by the time you've finished your food he's made out his mind. He accepts your offer, and you exchange numbers to stay in contact.

Two days later, you return to the restaurant to finalize the details. You show him a handful of the designs the girls, and you came up with, and go over a list of print shops in the area to choose one that meets your needs. You type all the details in your phone and head up together to the shop.

It's surprising to see him so invested in just a few days. When you place the final order for the jerseys, he adds one more to the bulk in his size, so he can wear his own to support the team.

You text occasionally for updates, but in between you've found yourself texting back and forth casually talking about your day, the restaurant, your other job… Michael is easy to talk to and quite the charmer, you’ve realized. It has made you wonder at times if he’s hitting on you or not, especially face to face. He’s always flashing a smile, or an innocent wink when you leave, that utterly dismantles you in ways you never thought possible.

When the new jerseys arrive, you make sure Michael gets his. You deliver it personally to the restaurant one night after he’s closed shop.

Your new friendship is strangely familiar. Michael slips into your life as if he'd always belonged there. He has an open heart. A big, contagious laugh; and a sweet smile that could make what's left of the poles completely melt. He's easy on the eyes, too, regardless of what he says. Much as everyone else on the planet, he has his faults too and one of them is the self-deprecating jokes he makes about his appearance, which are completely unfounded. The sharp angles of his face might not be up to classic beauty standards, and that's what actually makes him stand out in the crowd.

You adore his passion about food and his business, and how much confidence oozes out of every pore of his body. It's really disarming. And despite the fact that he almost never shuts up, he's a great listener too when it’s your turn to share.

Quiet has settled after everyone has left the restaurant, all the lights are down except for the ones coming from the neon sign above the counter and the vending machine. He sits backwards on the chair across from yours and slides a beer along the table. You stay right there, swapping life stories, sap anecdotes, fun moments of your life, anything, and everything in between like two old friends hanging out.

A couple of hours go by like nothing, while the table collects empty bottles.

“Last one,” you pick up your third beer, hold it to your lips and take a long swig as the chef timidly nods at your statement.

“Can I ask you something?” his tone mellows from its usual volume.

“Shoot.”

“Would it be unprofessional to ask you out?”

“No, I don't think so,” the corners of your mouth curl up nervously as your nails try to remove the sticker on the glass of your beer. “We don't really work together.”

“That's right. Would you say yes if I asked you out, though?”

“Hm, maybe.”

“Don't give me — maybe. Yes or no only, sweetheart,” his head tilts to the side, trying to capture the truth behind your eyes in the faint neon lighting striking across your face.

“I guess I wouldn't mind if you did.”

“I guess — is not an answer either.”

You take a deep breath and let him hang for a second while you put a couple of thoughts together.

“Not everyone is as confident and decisive as you are, Berzatto. Some people need a little time to process things,” you pause to gather some insight. “And you already know that I like you and wouldn't be asking if I didn't. So yeah… If you asked, I'd say yes.”

“That's all I needed to hear,” a grin splits his face as he tilts his beer up to take a gulp.

“Sooo… are you going to ask me now?”

“Eh, not right now. I just needed to know,” he quips.

“Suit yourself, but don't wait too long,” you say casually, as if it didn’t care as much whether he asks you out or not. You do. And it’s a relief to find out that he likes you back and that he's open to pursue something more than a friendship. It's hard to click with people that fast, but with Michael, it has felt too easy. They say you find love in the most unexpected places. You definitely weren’t looking for it when you came into his joint just a few weeks ago, and now it’s hard to imagine your life without him.

When you pull your phone out of your pocket to look at the time, it's way later than you thought.

Michael walks you to the L, and before the train arrives, he asks you right on the platform if you'd like to have dinner with him sometime.

Obviously, you say yes.

As the train slips into the station, you lean in and kiss his cheek goodnight, letting your lips meet the edge of his beard. His mouth takes the form of a pleased grin, and as you step inside the car, he tucks his hands in his pockets and watches you occupy a seat by the window. You stare at him for a long moment behind the glass as the doors slide close until the train is set in motion.

Texting the next day, you set up your date for the following week on a day you’re both free.

Before that day comes, you have also a very important event on your schedule that is the first game of the season.

Though the chef initially wasn’t going to come, Michael decides to surprise you by showing up on that day.

“Hey, Coach,” you hear his lively voice from behind while the girls warm up on the field.

You turn your head to see him wearing his jersey, and a blue baseball cap set backwards that shows his hair sticking out behind his ears. It’s impossible to stop the corners of your mouth from pointing out automatically as he walks up to you.

“Hey, Chef. Didn't know you were coming.”

“Yeah, it was last minute. You made it sound so good, I wanted to see you in action.”

“What about the shop?”

“Left Richie in charge for a couple of hours.”

“Are you sure that was a good idea?”

He balances his head from side to side, “as long as he doesn't burn it, I think it'll be fine.”

“Well, I'm glad you came. You should take a seat before it's too late,” you gesture at the bleachers, almost packed.

“Yeah, I’ll leave you to it. Let it rip, Coach,” he winks at you, and takes a seat in one of the middle rows on the bleachers.

You still have a dopey smile plastered on your face when the game starts. On occasion, you glance over your shoulder to see him cheer and root for the girls when they have the ball. His enthusiasm, and voice, increases during the second half when the team dominates the game, earning their first victory of the season.

As promised, you take the whole team to The Beef for a celebratory meal afterward.

During Michael's absence, Richie has set up a few tables together to fit the full team, and while they eat their food you park your butt on a stool at the counter, so you can chat with Michael.

“I need to run something by you,” he's on the other side of the counter, propped on his forearms.

“What?”

“It's about our date. I was thinking that I could make you dinner instead of going to a restaurant.”

“Here?”

“No, we already spent too much time here. I thought maybe you could come over to my place, or I could go to yours and just… chill.”

“Chill, huh?” you lift a french fry from your plate and take a bite.

“Yeah, but not like that,” he bashfully scratches his neck. “It’d be just dinner with no strings or expectations. Maybe it’s unusual for a first date, but just wanna spend a nice time alone with you and cook something you’d love. Have a couple of ideas that you’d… but if you wanna do something else…”

You stare at him while he rambles. It's refreshing to see him nervous for once.

“What do you say, sweetheart?”

“What if I had some expectations other than dinner?” you playfully raise an eyebrow.

“I guess I wouldn't be opposed to that.”

“You guess? That's not an answer,” you echo back his own words from when you gave him a similar response.

He presses his teeth on his bottom lip for a beat, “no, I wouldn't mind if you wanted to take it farther.”

“Which it's what you wanted all along,” you tease.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Coach. My intentions are just making you dinner. That's it. Anything that happens after, it's really up to you.”

“Say, Richie,” you call for his friend's attention as he comes out of the kitchen. “What would you think if a guy invited you for dinner at his house on a first date?”

“I’d say he’d only be interested in wetting his whistle. Why? Are you going on a date with this puto?” Richie claps Michael’s shoulder.

“Uh-huh.”

“Wow, you must be special. He hardly ever invites anyone to his place. Last time he did, it was-”

“Shut up, Cousin,” Michael cuts him off, annoyed by the fact that's actually true. It's been a long time since he's wanted to actually bring someone home that felt right.

“Like I said, I never stood a chance against Mikey Berzzato,” Richie nods at you and circles outside the counter to check on the tables.

“Aww, am I that special?” you wonder once Richie is out of hearing range.

His gaze falls to look at his hands, as he tentatively extends one to caress your fingertips with his,“I think you are really, really special.”

You stare at those fingers, brushing softly the inside of your hand, making your stomach flutter.

“Did it bother you that I involved Richie in this?”

“No, sweetheart. It didn't. Well… Maybe a little.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. It's just… I love Richie, but he knows a lot of stuff about me that could change your opinion about me, and I don't want you to get the wrong impression, you know?”

“Michael, I already got a pretty good impression of you. Especially after showing up like you did today. There's nothing he can say that would ruin that.”

He lets out a small snort, “give him time.”

“You know what? I'd love to have dinner at your place.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure.”

You don't have many rules when it comes to dating. Common sense and your gut are what guide you most of the time. When something feels muddy, you back up immediately. And when something feels good, nothing can stop you from pursuing that, you're off to the races. The latter hasn't happened that often, admittedly. Hopefully, this is one of those times.

In the short time you've known Michael, you've only gotten a deep sense of longing for him, growing eager every passing day. It's hard to ignore it anymore.

Following that desire, you dress up, do your hair, put some makeup on, and take the train to Michael's apartment with no hesitation. There is some natural anxiousness rumbling in your stomach, of course, but that doesn’t stop you from chasing that thrill.

When you knock on his door, Michael welcomes you with the most beautiful smile you've ever seen, splitting his freshly-groomed beard. He’s out of his usual work clothes and has chosen a casual outfit that consists of a dress black shirt, half unbuttoned, and a pair of jeans.

“Shall we?” he offers his hand, inviting you in. You take it and let him walk you inside.

As he closes the door, you take off your jacket, scanning every detail of the modest apartment. The lights are dimmed, and he's set up the dining table with two lit candles in red-tinted glasses, and a small centerpiece of flowers. There's light music playing on his phone that's hooked to a speaker system next to the TV. The delicious smell of the food incites your appetite as he moves your chair back, like a gentleman, so you can sit.

“Fancy,” you hum as you take your seat.

“Glad you like it, sweetheart.”

He then leaves for a moment to collect the food from the kitchen and returns with two plates filled with paella. As appetizing as it looks, it tastes vastly better. He really has absorbed a lot of information about you during those casual hang-outs. Not only knows how to please your stomach with Mediterranean food, but you're also granted the best conversationalist, as usual, he's a downright delight to be around.

For dessert, he keeps outdoing himself by bringing out a homemade tiramisu he made earlier. He serves one big serving on a plate, and lays it down in the middle of the table to share with you.

“Do you like it?”

“Hm, this is the best thing I've ever had in my mouth. You'll have to teach me how to make it someday,” you request, picking another spoonful. “Would you?”

“Sure.”

“I'm torn,” you say, enjoying the delectable alcohol-soaked bottom layer on your tongue.

“How so?”

“Because – I really want to kiss you right now for making all this, but I don’t think your mouth can’t top this.”

“You’ll have to try me,” he snorts, scooping his way through the other half of the tiramisu.

“Hm, we’ll see,” you grin. “You really outdid yourself here, Chef. You shouldn't have made something so delicious.”

“I'll take it down a notch next time.”

When dessert is over, you make a quick trip to the bathroom to empty your bladder while he puts the dishes away to wash later.

He has sat down on the couch when you come out, and you stop for a beat in the middle of the hallway before deciding to sit sideways right on his lap.

“Excuse me, Sir. Is this seat taken?” you ask right after plopping your ass on his thighs.

“It is, now,” scoffing, he links an arm around your waist. “Is it comfortable, ma'am?”

“Best seat in the house,” you can’t fight the smile taking over your lips.

“You're really something else, sweetheart,” he hushes oh so softly, as his free palm lands on your denim-clad leg.

“So are you,” your head leans forward, touching his forehead.

Biting your bottom lip, eyes locked, you both go silent for a long moment while you get used to feeling his hands on you, and vice versa. His thumb absentmindedly draws circles on your leg while you play with the hair of his beautiful beard.

“I think I wanna make out now,” you whisper.

“Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

Drawing a breath, he brings one hand to frame your jaw, letting a thumb swipe across your lip slowly. Then, his tongue juts out to wet his lips, his face leans an inch closer to capture your mouth. Your stomach flutters and your skin buzzes at the firm grip of his hand on your hip while you taste the waters without fully diving into the deep end. You let your mouths bounce together and get used to that little intimacy you’ve just created with him. When you’re ready to fully dip further, he opens his mouth wider, and so do you, and before you realize it, you're devouring each other's faces. Firmly but sweetly, your tongues play together with ease as the tight seal of your lips shuts every change for air to escape or intrude. You close your eyes and free yourself of any thought, so you can enjoy this right here, right now, with him.

[tropes-and-tales]

Team Prime, Part One

CW:  Unrequited love; pining; heavy angst.

Word Count:  5349

Other pieces: This is part of a mini-series.

AN:  Not beta-read; barely proof-read. An angsty companion piece to @youvebeenlivingfictional's Jake Seresin piece (and upcoming Bradley Bradshaw piece).

When your sister, Hannah, gets engaged to her long-term boyfriend, she chooses you over your other sisters to be her maid of honor.

“Maid of horrors, more like,” you grumble, but you’re secretly touched by the trust she puts in you.  She and Eric have dated since high school, and they’ve been through a lot—mostly long-distance during the years as she went to college and graduate school and as he joined the Navy.  And yet here they are.  Still together.  Still in love.  Ready to make it official-official.

“Eric’s best friend from the Navy will be the best man,” Hannah tells you.  “I met him a few times.  Bob Floyd.  He’s nice.  You’ll like him.”

Bob Floyd.  Something about the name puts you in mind of a middle aged man with strong opinions about lawn maintenance and grilling meats, so when you finally meet the baby-faced Bob with his bright blue eyes and stammering flush at the engagement party, you find yourself surprised, knocked back on your heels.

-----

You were never the sort of girl who dreamt about her wedding day, but when Hannah foists much of the wedding planning onto you, you decide then and there to elope if you ever meet someone you want to marry.

The cake tasting wouldn’t be bad, but Hannah has an entire binder of ideas she gleaned from the internet. It’s difficult to enjoy the white cake with raspberry compote, for example, when you’re worried about how the pearl luster dust will hold up under the California sun.

The venue only rents out some things in-house, so you spend two entire weekends tracking down a dance floor, chairs, linens.  You pick the wrong linens (white instead of cream), and you have a minor breakdown that night, crying in the shower at the stress of planning a party that isn’t even for you.

It’s a moment of weakness.  At the engagement party, Bob gave you his number and mumbled shyly, “if you need help.  You know, with the planning or anything.”

You hadn’t thought of it originally, but you’re tired and figure, why not reach out?  He offered to help.  Worst he can say is ‘no.’

He doesn’t say no.  He says tell me what you need.

-----

What you need:  help with the menu.  Help with the seating arrangements.  Help with the joint bachelor and bachelorette party.  

For the menu, the two of you do a whirlwind tour of the local catering companies.  Two of the three companies confuse you and Bob as the bride and groom, and you laugh to see Bob’s face turn bright red, the way he stammers to correct them.

“I apologize,” one woman tells you.  “You make a really cute couple.”

Afterwards, pleasantly stuffed from peach and goat cheese crostini and tri-tip, you reach across the driver’s seat to where Bob sits to your right.  You poke him lightly on his still-flushed cheek, call him really cute…which makes his face burn even hotter.

For the seating arrangements, he spends an evening at your apartment in Monterey.  You split a pizza and a six-pack, and you pore over the massive guest list.  You list out the people who can’t sit together—old family grudges, friendly rivalries—and you get a rough chart pulled together for Hannah’s inspection.

For the joint party—by then, you and Bob work like a well-oiled machine.  You book hotel rooms in Vegas.  You book tickets to shows, reservations to restaurants.  You book dance lessons, since Hannah insists that everyone in the wedding party learn how to not stumble around the dance floor for the first dances.  You send out itineraries, details.  You collect money.  

When it’s done, you sit back on your couch and heave a sigh of relief.  Your head lolls back, and you turn to look at Bob.

“Team Prime strikes again,” he says with a soft smile, and you hold up a hand for a high five.  It’s an inside joke between the two of you, a dumb joke about how you’re the first bridesmaid and he’s the first groomsman, the best of the best, the chosen-above-all-others.  The Primes.

“Hell yeah we did,” you reply with an answering smile, and that’s when you first feel it:  the pleasant little dip in your stomach at the sight of his smile, his blue eyes.  The first little tremor of infatuation.  Of burgeoning love.

-----

Two months pass, and after the initial press of planning, things stabilize.  With Bob Floyd’s help, the wedding plans firm up, and you can breathe.

You stay in touch.  You trade daily texts, checking in on each other.  Sharing funny memes.  Talking about movies you’ve seen, books you’ve read.  Joking on the side about the main wedding party group chat.

Then the bachelor and bachelorette party in Vegas in upon you.  You text Bob about your fear of flying.

Reassure me that it’s safe, you plead via text.  Tell me I’m safer flying than driving.

You’re safer flying than driving.

You snort.  Funny, you type back.

He doesn’t text anything in reply.  Instead, he calls you.

Bob Floyd, graduate of Top Gun, walks you through the physics of flight.  His soft voice, his slight drawl that comes out when he’s comfortable….he soothes you with his matter-of-fact discussion of lift and thrust, of yaw and roll.  He tells you that planes are stringently designed to be safe, maintained for safety.  That pilots train rigorously while any dumbass can fumble their way into a driver’s license.

He talks to you for an hour.  He doesn’t quite talk you out of your fear; he doesn’t slay that dragon entirely, but he makes it smaller.  Less scary.

“We’re on the same flight out tomorrow,” he points out.  “We can try to switch seats and sit together.”

That first little dip in your stomach was nothing compared to the roiling now.  It’s such a damned cliché, yet here you are:  the maid of honor falling for the best man.  Like a stupid Hallmark movie, yet you can’t stop the wide grin from splitting your face.

The next morning, you are able to switch seats after all, and for the entire short flight to Vegas, Bob holds your clammy hand in his, twists himself in his seat so that he can talk to you, low and soft, explaining each bump and lurch of the plane, making them seem like nothing scary at all.

-----

“You’re more sure on your feet than I would have expected,” you tease, and Bob gifts you a shy smile as he turns you gracefully across the dance floor.

“I guess I’m full of surprises.”

You hum in agreement, then look around the studio at the other coupled-off bridesmaids and groomsmen. After an hour-long lesson in ballroom dancing, few people other than you and Bob have grasped the steps of the easy waltz.

Two couples have given up altogether and are standing haplessly where they stopped on the dance floor.  One couple is sorta doing their own thing, that awkward swaying shuffle that kids used to do at middle school dances.

Hannah and Eric are giving it an honest shot, but even from where you and Bob are, you can hear them bickering over who needs to lead, over which step is next.  You glance at your own partner and see him watching them too.  There’s a faint frown on his face.

“I think we’re the best dancers of the bunch,” he whispers, conspiratorial.  

“I think you’re right,” you whisper back.

He turns his gaze back to you, and his returning smile makes his blue eyes crinkle at the corners.  “Do you think if we show them up, they’ll kick us out of the wedding party?” he jokes.

“Oh, please,” you groan.  “If there’s even a chance, I say we go for it.  I’m so damned tired of earnest, late-night discussions about freesias and cake toppers.”

He laughs, and he squeezes your hand lightly as he turns you, an advanced move the instructor showed you earlier.  “It can’t be that bad.”

You settle back into his hold and look at him.  He’s been the most surprising part of the entire miserable wedding planning, this buddy of the groom that you’ve been paired with.  Not a typical military guy at all.  Bob is too sweet, too kind, too polite to be a complete dork…but even if he was, you’d still like him.  He’s an easy guy to like.  An easy guy to fall for.

“Nah,” you reply.  “It’s not that bad at all.”

-----

The first day in Vegas is dance lessons and a nice dinner.  The second day is a helicopter tour, which you politely skip, and then dinner and then dancing at a club.  You and Bob had managed to book a VIP space, and you both volunteered to stay sober to help wrangle the drunks at the end of the night.

So for the first day and much of the second, you remain ignorant.  You lean into all the feelings of your growing infatuation, but it doesn’t feel like your usual harmless crush.  You like Bob Floyd.  You really like him.  There’s not a single ounce of artifice to him—he is genuinely just himself.  Smart.  Driven, in a quiet, steady way.  Kind and funny.  Despite his outwardly nerdy appearance, he seems fairly comfortable with who he is.  He possesses a quiet confidence that you’ve never noticed in a man before.

You’ve dated in the past.  You even had a semi-serious boyfriend, dated him for three years and talked vaguely of getting engaged, getting married.  But nothing ever came of it; neither of you felt that elusive tug on the heartstrings that the other person was the one.  So you broke it off amicably, and a month later, he met his would-be wife.

You remain single, and it rarely bothers you.  You’re alone but not lonely, and you like your own company.  You have your sisters.  You have your coworkers and friends.  

But in meeting Bob Floyd, you start to see the possibilities of finding someone and building a life with them…as long as that someone is…well…Bob Floyd.

For the first day and much of the second, you lean into the burgeoning fantasy.  You play out how the wedding day will be.  The reception.  You wonder if Hannah will aim her bouquet toss at you, and if Eric will aim the garter at Bob.  You wonder if there will be a moment on the dance floor, or maybe somewhere quieter.  If Bob doesn’t make a move, you decide, you will.  

The night at the club starts out great.  The VIP area is elevated and set apart, so you can watch the dance floor but still have space to yourself.  The champagne flows, then everyone switches to liquor.  You and Bob are like hovering parents, easing glasses of water into people’s hands, checking in with them to make sure they are still coherent, cognizant.

It’s so damned easy to fall into the fantasy for these last few moments.  There’s a sort of fraternity among the sober people in the club or bar:  the clear, alert eyes that find each other.  The knowing head nod, the little shrugs as if to say, “what can you do?” as you corral and tend to your drunken charges.  

You and Bob—you catch each other’s eyes as you get a fresh pitcher of water.  You smile at each other in the dim club lights.  He rolls his eyes once, elaborate, and you laugh.

And when he wants to talk to you, he stands close, dips his head.  Puts his mouth right near your ear so he doesn’t have to shout over the bassline, and that sets a low, licking flame of desire deep in your core, his warm breath fanning over you as he gently makes fun of your sisters, the other groomsmen.  You wonder what he would do if you kissed him, if you took his hand after everyone was tucked in their beds and drew him into your room.  Maybe you could kiss him, you think, you could press even a soft kiss to his cheek and see how he reacts.  Maybe you could—

“I told Eric I don’t want any of this,” Bob says.  You turn and look at him, and he gestures broadly with his hand.  At the bridal party, half-debauched and fully drunk.  At the wider space of the dark, loud club.

“Sorry?” 

He dips his head near your ear again.  “I said, I already told Eric I don’t want a big production.”

“For what?” you ask, but you already know—your body already knows, even if your brain hasn’t quite caught up.  The flickering heat of your nascent arousal is doused, and your stomach flips like you might throw up.

“For my bachelor’s party.  I just want a beer and poker night.  Nothing wild.  My fiancée would kill me anyway, but laid-back is more my scene.”

“For your…” you start to say, and then your brain catches up.  “Oh.  Oh.”

And then sweet, unassuming Bob Floyd tells you all about her:  the high school sweetheart, the long-distance fiancée who is finishing up grad school.  The woman finally ready to set a date and make it official-official after all these years.

The woman who will be Bob Floyd’s wife someday soon.

“Congratulations,” you manage to say, and you manage to make it sound convincing, and then you manage to make it to the restroom where you clutch the edge of the sink in a white-knuckle grip.  You manage to take deep, gulping breaths as you choke down your sudden, bitter disappointment.

-----

Bob, Eric, most of the bridal party…they don’t really know you, so it’s easy to mask how you’re feeling.

Your sisters?  Hannah?  They recognize your poor acting performance from the start.

They must have conferred together, and they must have elected Hannah as their spokeswoman because on the second to last morning, she comes to your room, links her arm through yours, and says, “let’s grab breakfast, just you and me.”  Her voice has that artificial cheeriness to it, so you guess what’s up.

“I’m not hungry.”  You tug your arm from hers, turn away from her.  You walk over to the window and peek out around the curtains to see the sun about to rise, the sky a pink wash of color.

“Bullshit.  You’re always hungry.”  Hannah follows you into the room, and at the window, she wraps an arm around your waist, hugs you from behind.  A few inches taller than you, she hooks her chin on your shoulder and gazes out the window too.

“My stomach is off,” you lie.  “I think I ate a bad oyster at that buffet.”

She hums, doesn’t reply for a long moment.  The two of you watch the sun break the line of the horizon, washing the cityscape in a bright yellow light.  

“You know you can always talk to me, right?” Hannah asks.  “I know I’ve been a lot the past few months, but I’m always here for you.  Always.”

You swallow thickly against the lump in your throat.  “I know.”

“You like him, don’t you?”

You don’t bother to deny it.  You nod.

“You love him?”

You shrug, jostle her where she’s perched on your shoulder.  “I thought I did.”

Another hum, another beat of silence.  “Probably wouldn’t hurt so bad if you didn’t love him.”

“What makes you think I’m hurting?”

“You’re my little sister.  I know when you’re in pain.”

You huff out a quiet breath, a near-laugh.  “When did you get so damned wise?”

She chuckles, squeezes her arms comfortingly around your waist.  “I was born wise.”

You sigh, lean your head against hers.  “That makes one of us.”

Hannah squeezes you again, then lays a smacking kiss on your cheek before releasing you.  “C’mon,” she says.  “Seriously, let me take you out for breakfast.  Everything seems easier on a full stomach.”

“Hannah—”

She’s a few inches taller than you, and she’s much stronger.  She man-handles you away from the window, turns you around to face her.

“I’m the bride-to-be.  You can’t tell me no,” she teases, but then her expression turns serious as she studies you closer.

“You know there’s someone out there just waiting for you,” she adds, somber, and she gazes at you so earnestly that tears prickle in your eyes, and before you can stop yourself, you start to cry.

-----

It’s dumb, you decide.  A dumb crush.

You’ve known the man a handful of months.  He was helpful, and you were stressed, so maybe the help seemed outsized.  Bob Floyd is just a regular guy, you decide, and you got wrapped up in his orbit because he seemed nice and kind and helpful and funny.  Which he is all of those things, but to fall in love over it?

Dumb.  Dumb, dumb, dumb.

You make the decision over breakfast with Hannah.  Your wise older sister.  She’s right, you think:  life seems a little less unbearable when your stomach is full of eggs benedict and mimosa.

The rest of the day is sightseeing before another group dinner that evening.  It’s your last day and night in Vegas; you fly out in the morning.  You and Bob are on the same flight home, and you think—you honestly think—that you can get through it.  

It’s just a crush.  It will die off soon enough.

But over the course of the day, once the group has reconvened, Bob sticks close to you.  He’s always right there.  He’s in your line of sight, or right at your shoulder, close enough that you can hear his quiet breathing, or when he chuckles under his breath.  Close enough to smell the cleanly masculine scent of him.

You aren’t sure why he never mentioned being engaged before.  You suppose it never came up naturally, even though the two of you did the bulk of the wedding planning together.  There were a hundred opportunities, you guess, for him to say, “oh, I’ll have to keep this in mind for my own wedding” or “I should tell my fiancée about this.”

Over the course of the day, and now that the fact of his own engagement is out, Bob chats with you about it. You get the entire fucking story.  High school sweethearts who broke up briefly when they went to college in separate states.   How they reconnected over summer vacation their sophomore year.  How they’ve been together ever since.  

How Bob proposed once and was rejected.  “It was too soon,” he tells you with a rueful shake of his head, and you bite your tongue to stop yourself from pointing out that when he proposed, the two of them had been dating for years.

How Bob joined the Navy.  How he kept his budget tight to save up for a better ring.  How his fiancée—Jessica, her name is—finally said yes.  

And now, he tells you how the engagement has stretched on and on, so much so that his parents stopped teasing him and started asking when the hell he and Jessica are going to finish the thing.

“Eric and Hannah,” he says, jerking his chin in their direction.  “They were the kick in the ass we needed.  Once they got engaged, we finally set a date.”

“Yeah?”  Your voice comes out a rough croak, and you’re grateful for the huge sunglasses hiding your eyes from him.

“Next June.  A little more than a year from now.”

You force a smile.  “That sounds lovely.”

Bob nods, then grins at you.  “All this planning, it was good practice for me.  Now I know what to look for in a caterer and a linen-rental company.”

“I’m glad.”  You try to keep your voice light, conversational, but something in your tone must clue him in that something is off.  His grin fades, and he peers at you closer through his thick glasses, his blue eyes swimming behind the lenses.

“Everything okay?  You seem…off.”

You force the smile back on your face, and you swallow back the shakiness in your voice.  Of course Bob would notice that you aren’t yourself.  Any other guy wouldn’t even register your more taciturn nature over the past few days, but Bob seems to miss very little, and he’s kind enough to care, to ask after you.

“Just tired.  I never sleep well in a hotel room.”

He peers at you a moment longer, then nods, but his expression looks doubtful.  “You should head back to the room early and rest,” he advises.  

It’s a good idea.  It would get you away from him, at least.  You nod, and then you go to find Hannah, tell her you’re dipping out early and will meet back up for dinner.

-----

It’s the final dinner when you finally snap.  You reach the end of your ability to sit and smile and nod your head, and your earlier bravado melts away.

Of course Bob sits beside you.  Of course Hannah and Eric are the picture of true, enduring love.  Of course you’re feeling sorry for yourself, positively maudlin, and then Bob—between bites of steak—tells you that Jessica can make it to the wedding after all, and not to worry because Hannah was able to find space for her at the reception.

“No need to redo those seating charts,” he chuckles, and then he tells you how excited he is for you to meet Jessica, how much he’s told her about the wedding planning, how much he’s learned, how much he can’t wait to get started on his own wedding planning.

It’s too much.  Too much to take.  You nod weakly at him, push your own meal around your plate with the tines of your fork.  You keep your head bent, and you miss the looks people start to shoot at each other as they finally notice that the usually-chatty, usually-chipper maid of honor has gone sullen and silent.

It’s Hannah who gets up, makes a show of saying she needs to use the restroom.  When you lift your head to look at her, she makes a “come along” gesture, and you stand up and follow her.

In the bathroom, she cups your face and stares at you, frowns.  

“You look like shit,” she declares after a beat.  “Seriously, are you okay?”

“’m fine,” you lie.

“I know you’re not.  Why don’t we get out of here, huh?  Get some air?”

You shake your head.  “It’s the last night here.  Please don’t…don’t let me ruin it.”

She laughs, then smushes your cheeks together.  “You couldn’t ruin it if you tried.  C’mon…you did all the shit-work for me, planning this wedding.  The least I can do is get you out of here.”

You shake your head again, more emphatic.  “No.  Why don’t I just go?  You can make up an excuse that I’m not feeling well.”  You bite your lip, swallow hard against the lump in your throat.  “I just can’t be around him anymore right now.  I just need space to get my head right.”

“Oof, you got it bad,” she says with a sympathetic cluck of her tongue, but then she nods.  “Why don’t I go grab your purse, and then I’ll make something up.”

You offer her a shaky smile.  “Thank you.”

She nods again, then kisses your forehead, more motherly than sisterly.  Hannah always had a maternal streak to her as the eldest sister, always was the first to tend to you and your sisters’ scraped knees and bruised hearts.  She’ll be the family’s matriarch someday, you realize:  the person who will hold you all together, who will gather you up for holidays and celebrations and moments of grief long after your parents are gone.

“A little distance from Bob Floyd will cure what ails you,” she jokes, and you have to agree.  Tomorrow you’re supposed to fly out with Bob, and the thought of his hand in yours, his reassuring voice right by your ear…you can’t do it.  You’ll snap and say something you won’t be able to take back.

That evening, in the hotel room, you call the airline and cancel your ticket.  You book a rental car instead.

-----

You don’t see Bob Floyd again.  The two of you are supposed to meet in the lobby the next morning to share a ride to the airport, but you wake up earlier and leave alone, bound for the rental car part of the airport.

Decided to drive back, you text Bob.  Enjoy your flight and thanks for all your help!

He doesn’t text you back.  He calls.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, and for the first time since you’ve met him, his voice is deeper, edged in real concern.  “You’re driving back to California?  It’s eight hours or more.”

“I just wanted to clear my head.”  It’s not a lie, and the reason falls easily from your lips.

“But you’ve not been sleeping well, and you were sick last night,” he points out.  “Should you even be driving?  Flying is safer anyway, and it’s only a two hour flight—”

You cut him off gently.  You tell him that you’ve already cancelled your ticket, that an eight-hour drive is nothing.  That you want a little alone time to think.  That a road trip through the desert with the music blasting is sometimes just the cure for what ails.

“I promise I’m okay to drive.”  You’re touched by his concern, and you realize that your bravado was false, that it isn’t just a dumb crush.  Bob Floyd is a genuinely good man.  Of course you fell for him.

And if it isn’t just a dumb crush, then the only way to handle it is to endure it.  There’s no cure but time.

“Well, let me know when you make it home,” he finally concedes.  “Team Prime looks out for its own.”

You smile in spite of your crushing self-pity.  “Team Prime.  I’ll text you when I’m back.”

You end the call, and you situate yourself in your rental car.  Challenging situations always make you want to flee, but you were right too:  a road trip is a good time to think, to turn over your muddle thoughts and sort them out.  To clear the head, ease the heart.  

You pull out into the Nevada sunshine and turn towards home:  the sun rising at your back in the east, and maybe the possibility of finding love, as Hannah said, to the west.

*****

Bob frowns when you cut that call, and for the entire plane ride home (the seat beside him still empty; there were no standbys), he mulls it over.

You had been so gregarious, so funny and sweet in the months since he’s met you.  Despite the overwhelming pressure of the wedding planning, you were level-headed.  Managed to joke about it all.  When he stepped in to help, you thanked him profusely, called him a life-saver, called him your hero.  

It was easy to let it get to his head, a little.  People rarely noticed Lieutenant Robert Floyd, and it made him feel good to be seen by such a sweetly cheerful woman.

Something happened in Vegas, and he couldn’t put his finger on it.  It’s like a switch was thrown.  The chipper demeanor disappeared, but it wasn’t like you were sullen or angry.  You seemed pained, almost, on the verge of tears a few times that he noticed.  You tried to pretend you were okay, and that made it sadder, more perplexing.  Whatever you were going through, you were trying to power through it, hide it.

He tried to draw you out by talking about his own impending wedding, talking about Jessica…but after a while, something about that line of conversation made his stomach dip and twist unpleasantly.  

He had been looking forward to the flight home.  That got to his head too, the way you clung to his hand the entire flight to Vegas, the way you needed him to get through it.  The shaky exhale you gave when the plane finally touched down.  The shaky, embarrassed laugh, then the half-hug in your seats, the two of you twisted towards each other, as you wrapped your arm around his shoulders and thanked him profusely.

He likes being needed, he finds.  Not in an extreme way, or an unhealthy codependent way.  He just likes being needed by someone once in a while, for little things like that—sketching out a seating chart, being a bulwark against a fear of flying.  Jessica never seems to need him, and it—

Bob pushes the thought out of his head.  He won’t compare the two of you.  He won’t.

The entire flight home, he mulls you over.  The drive back to base too.  He calls Jessica to hear her voice and he gives her the abridged version of the Vegas trip.  He runs errands:  restocks his refrigerator, does laundry, presses his uniform shirts and pants.  He goes for a jog, then hits the gym on base, lifts until his arms burn.

He goes home and showers, and then he settles in front of the TV.  He dozes off and wakes in the middle of the night with a start, his heart hammering in his chest and the taste of pennies in his mouth.

He has no idea what’s wrong until he checks his phone, notes the time…and notes that you haven’t called or texted.

Bob scrubs his face with his hands.  He makes his way to the bathroom, splashes himself with water.  He studies his own reflection, and even with his glasses off, he can see the worry writ all over his expression.

Maybe she got tired and pulled off for the night, he thinks.  Or maybe she just forgot to let me know she’s home.

That’s what he imagines when he moves to his bed and tries to fall back asleep—he imagines you home in your own apartment, the cozy little space that is so perfectly you.  He imagines you returning the rental car, showering off the road dust, then turning in for a long, well-earned sleep.

When he finally drifts off, his dreams are unsettling, and he wakes early, coated in a thin sheen of sweat despite the AC running at top capacity.

“Something’s wrong,” he mutters aloud to the empty bedroom.  He can feel it in his gut.  Something is off, and just as he makes up his mind to call you, to check in on you, even if it’s rude and even if he wakes you up, his phone lights up with an incoming call.

From Eric.

Eric, his best friend, his oldest friend.  Eric, who rarely calls and who prefers to text.  Eric, who only calls—especially at four-thirty in the morning—when there’s bad news.  

Eric, the most unflappable man that Bob has ever known, openly, obviously trying to hide the tears in his voice.  In the background, Bob can hear a woman crying—Hannah—as Eric relays the news:  the only other member of Team Prime, the best of the best like him, was struck in a head-on collision by a speeding driver.  

That you were life-flighted to the nearest trauma center, but that the prospects for your survival are so bleak that the attending surgeon told your father over the phone to not entertain much hope.  That the doctor asked if you had a religion, if there was perhaps a priest or pastor or rabbi…someone who might come and offer final blessing, last rites, whatever.

“We’re trying to get everyone here,” Eric says.  “Dude, what do I…I mean, what can I even do?  If a doctor says…fuck, Bob, I don’t know what to do—”

Bob says the only thing he can think of, an echo of what he texted to you all those months ago.

“Tell me what you need,” he says, and he keeps his voice level despite the emotion—shock, sorrow, burgeoning guilt—coursing through him like electricity.  “Tell me what you need and I’ll do it.”

[flyingwargle]

sakusa emerges from the bathroom in a curtain of steam, towel wrapped around his neck, hair still damp. dressed in old sweats, he slips his feet into the slippers left against the wall, and shuffles down the hallway, head raised at the sight of his partner sitting at the dining room table, engrossed in his nail care.

the apartment, usually comparable to a nightclub with how loud atsumu prefers his music, is quiet. all sakusa can hear is the file running over his nail, with occasional pauses for an inspection before resuming. most things that atsumu does related to volleyball, sakusa noticed, is done in silence. from silencing the crowd when he serves, practicing tosses to the tune of squeaky court shoes and bouncing balls, even doing cardio and weights to the rhythm of his own breath. there are few things that he devotes his undivided attention to, and sakusa is simply glad that he is one of them.

"hey."

he looks up, startled. atsumu has lowered his nail file to gesture at him. "c'mere. lemme do your nails."

“i think they’re fine.” sakusa isn’t as meticulous, but he gives them a trim once a week.

“they’re too long fer my standards. i don’t want ya to chip ‘em.”

he acquiesces and sits across from him, waiting for atsumu to wipe the table down before he places his hands on top. atsumu is gentle as he grasps his right hand, cradles it in his own, and runs his file over the nail.

a comfortable silence blankets them. sakusa, unsure if talking is allowed, settles with watching. his partner's eyes are narrowed, brows furrowed together, lips pressed into the tiniest pout. it’s a familiar expression, often seen at their favorite ramen joint as he contemplates between tonkotsu or shio, juggles between two brands of seaweed to save money or indulge, flip-flops between his playlists to determine the mood. sakusa suppresses a smile, endeared by his level of dedication.

“whatcha smilin’ at?”

atsumu looks up at him. of course he noticed. sakusa replies, “you.”

“what, i got somethin’ on my face?”

“you enjoy this.”

it’s not an accusation; just a mere fact. atsumu returns his eyes back to sakusa’s nails, having moved onto his index finger. “’samu never remembered to cut his nails. durin’ a match, he was blockin’ the other team an’ they got a wipe off ‘im. it hit his finger at a bad angle, an’ it broke his nail. he couldn’t play for a week.” his chuckle is light, full of goading but love. “after that, every time he saw me do my nails, he asked me to do his, too.”

sakusa can imagine it: the twins, perhaps positioned similarly as they are now, running a file over each finger, rough but tender, grumbling and protesting the entire time.

“ya wanna know who was up in my face about carin’ fer my nails? my ma.” atsumu’s fingers are rough against his, as most volleyball players’, but he runs the file gently, with slow, rhythmic movements. “i used ta feel bad that she got two boys instead of a girl. she didn’t have a daughter to dress up or paint her nails.”

he releases his hand, reaches for the other. sakusa remains still, lets him take hold, adjust his hand as needed, and continue. “if it weren’t fer volleyball, i woulda let her paint mine. she never got the chance, though, since we started playin’ in elementary school, an’ now, i still play, and ‘samu can’t ‘cause of work. well, not that he woulda let her paint his nails, anyway.” he pauses, eyes raised toward the distance. sakusa recognizes the expression well: nostalgic, edged with bittersweet longing. “instead, she was always on my case ‘bout keepin’ my fingers in good condition, ‘cause they’re what makes a setter.”

sakusa doesn’t respond, overwhelmed by the memories of all the tosses that atsumu made, often deemed impossible until they weren’t, becoming tosses that allowed his hitters to score. he never falls short of delivering the best, and he expects his hitters to reciprocate.

“there. don’t they look better?”

at his voice, sakusa blinks, glancing down at his hands, the sliver of nail on each finger uniformly shaped and filed. atsumu starts to clean up, retrieving another wet wipe, when sakusa speaks up. “motoya and i used to paint our toenails. he has an older sister, so he’d steal her nail polish. we used to paint them before games.”

“really? didn’t expect ya to be interested in polish. aren’t there a buncha nasty chemicals in ‘em?”

“yeah. motoya couldn’t convince me until high school, and even then, he had to buy a brand that i deemed safe.” sakusa draws in a breath. “i still remember what it is, if you want to try it.”

atsumu hums. “only if ya paint yers with me.”

“sure. it’d be fun.”

“never thought i’d hear ya call somethin’ like this fun.”

sakusa rolls his eyes. “i didn’t hate it when we did it before. no one would see it, anyway, except for us.”

“like it’s our dirty little secret,” atsumu replies with a wink. he laughs when sakusa reaches over to shove his shoulder. “not dirty! a fun, ‘lil secret. ooh, we can get our team colors!”

while he finishes cleaning, sakusa fetches his laptop from his room to look up the nail polish brand and find their website. atsumu joins him a moment later, and by the end of the night, they’ve placed an order for several different colors. as they head to bed, sakusa places a hand on atsumu’s shoulder. “in return, can you do my nails next week?”

“anything fer ya, omi.” and sakusa knows that he means it.

[dragonnarrative-writes]

GhostGaz Week - over consumption // sun burn

CW: Brits trying Mexican cuisine without knowing what it is (not fraught), accidental alcohol consumption, sun burn,

@ghostgazweek

Simon had to admit, this whole private beach situation was a lot more enjoyable than he’d expected. When Alejandro and Rudy had suggested a quick flight from Monterrey to Puerto Vallarta before heading back across the pond, he’d been… skeptical. A beach is a beach, sand is sand, and the UK has both. Why fly the opposite direction of from home to sweat in the sand surrounded by civilians? He’d already spent three weeks in joint training sweating in the sand with people he generally liked, and now he just wants to rest.

Well, hell, he’s resting now. He’s reclined on some kind of couch bed on the roof of the villa, hiding from the sun under an awning and letting the heat leach every bit of tension from his body. From here, he can barely hear Soap whooping down by the water. Price is somewhere in town, chasing a Canadian skirt he met at a bar yesterday. And Kyle is… somewhere.

As though summoned, the man appears at the top of the stairs with two of the largest, most vibrantly yellow beverages Simon’s ever seen and a plastic bag hanging from his arm.

“The fuck is tha’?” Simon asks around a yawn. He only sort of sits up to squint as Kyle offers him one of the fishbowls. He sips without waiting for an answer. Citrus and something else, ice cold and refreshing.

“Mechanica something,” Kyle answers, taking a gulp of his own and placing the plastic bag on the table. “Lady at the market was selling jugs of it. Another lady was selling some fermented drink, said they’re good together. These,” he gestures to the bag, which Simon realizes is full to bursting with something fried and delicious smelling, “are molotes, and I got three of every kind they had.”

“Soap’s down at the beach,” Simon reports.

“He’ll come have some or he’ll have to find his own,” Kyle says, taking another gulp of mechanica something. He grabs a pocket of fried dough and chomps into it with a groan. “This one’s cheese. The locals recommended the... see-sos? I don’t know what that is. But there’s chicken, pork, shrimp and mushroom ones, too.”

Simon swipes one, inspects it for a moment, and takes a bite. Spice bursts across his tongue, tasty and just the littlest bit painful. It’s perfect.

Six molotes and a quarter gallon of drink later, Simon realizes that he probably should have slowed down. His belly is pleasantly overfull, but his head is swimming. Kyle, somehow still eating, is swaying in his seat, just a bit. Or maybe that’s Simon.

“’Ey,” he calls, “C’mere.”

Kyle grins, finishes the last swig of his drink, and comes over to flop next to Simon on the couch bed. He drops a kiss on the point of Simon’s shoulder. “Fuck. That was good.”

The burst of pleasure that’s always there when Kyle is casually affectionate feels especially nice this afternoon. Simon kisses his temple with a hum, then meets Kyle's lips when he turns into the contact.

Kyle's lips are warm and the slightest bit greasy from the fried dough. He tastes like citrus, mostly. He doesn't resist as Simon tows him down to the cushions, lets himself be drawn on top to settle in to make out like teenagers.

Except then Simon has to break away and turn his head for a jaw-cracking yawn. He flicks the sleeve of Kyle’s shirt at his snicker. Something about the sun keeps knocking him out, which the team finds endlessly amusing. Simon himself would find it mildly annoying, but he keeps waking up from the best nap of his life every six hours. He snuggles down into his little shaded spot and lets sleep take him again.

He’s a bit stiff, fuzzy headed, and cotton mouthed when he wakes up next. Kyle’s face down next to him, shirtless and snoring. Simon admires the slope of his back in the light of the setting sun for a moment before looking for what woke him up. Price and Soap have apparently joined them, and are pouring shots.

“G’mornin’, bella durmiente,” Soap says with a grin.

Simon grunts something and sits up. Or… he tries, but his head starts spinning so he flops back into the pillows.

“I put a bottle of water by your head,” Price says, arching a judgmental eyebrow. “Not sure what possessed you two to drink that much mezcal at once.”

“Tha’ the fermen’ed thing Kyle brough’?” Simon fishes the ice cold bottle from in the pillows and makes himself sit up to swallow half of it down.

“The pulque? That’s not what you two drank. You drank a quarter bottle of straight mezcal.”

“Wha’s tha’?”

“Tequila.”

“Oh.” That explains a lot. Simon pushes himself up to one elbow, blinks until his eyes refocus. He places a hand on Kyle’s back and has a moment to wonder at how hot his skin is before the man twitches, yelps, arches away, and yelps again.

“Fuck, ow, fuck!”

Soap snickers for the next half hour while Simon smooths frosty aloe vera over Kyle’s neck, shoulders and back. The sunburn isn’t anywhere as bad as if any of the rest of them had laid in the sun for three hours, but Kyle whines like a baby the whole time. He also shares his coconut water with Simon, though, so that’s alright.

[minecraftbookshelf]

To Walk a Mile In Each Others Shoes: Bad Math

Summary: The soulbonds have consequences, and for some they are more welcome than others. Martyn & Cleo Edition

Characters: InTheLittleWood & ZombieCleo

Word Count: 267

General Note: I'm posting these as separate one-shot style posts for each soulbond pair. They are all written but I have them queued up and spaced out. All posted will be on this blog under the tag "to walk a mile in each others shoes," linked at the bottom of the other posted ones, and also on my AO3, which is linked on my pinned post.

-

His skin is falling off.

He notices half-way through building the Heart, when he stops for food and realizes that his arm is the wrong color.

A quick inspection shows a few more spots, on his cheek, on his side, on his thigh, where the skin has either changed texture to a leathery, dead feel, or is coming off altogether.

A few more days and there is a stiffness in his limbs that wasn't there before, joints protesting every time he moves as if they are supposed be stiff and still. As if rigor mortis is trying to set in.

Almost hysterically Martyn wonders if soon he'll be as rotten and hollow inside as he feels.

-

Cleo doesn't make a habit out of letting themself be fussed by things they can't control. It's a waste of time and energy and she has much better things to do.

But whatever is going on is weird and she doesn't like it.

The closest they can describe it, when Scott asks is an impending sense of vertigo. Like the world itself might fall out from under them at any moment. Like the very fabric of reality might be snatched away.

Also she's gained some of the more standard living sensations back and its altogether unpleasant. She hasn't been able to feel or taste or smell this well in a very long time and. It's a lot.

And pain. They haven't felt this sharp kind of pain in so long. It hurts in a way only Life can, when they have long become used to the ache of Undeath.

-

Team Ranchers || Team Box || Dessert Duo || The Boat Boys || The Homewreckers || Bad Math || Tilly Death Do Us Part

[stevebattle]

CHERI inspection robot (2017), Future Robotics Technology Center (fuRo), Chiba Institute of Technology and Taisei Corporation, Japan. "Chiba Institute of Technology and Taisei Corporation teamed up to develop an attic inspection system by installing a camera mechanism onto the remote controlled, compact and light inspection robot “CHERI”. This enables implementing efficient operations in dark and narrow spaces, even filled with complicated pipes and wiring." As a result of earthquake damage, "seismic evaluations have been increasing in order to maintain buildings. Generally, the space above a ceiling consists of non-structural materials such as ceiling joints, ceiling joint receivers and the space is usually narrow and dark … there is not enough space for humans to enter for the inspection."

[tasklinemgr]

Satellite Headcanons... Part 2!

Back with another Satellite Investor post, this time with a focus on each of their origins and appearances.

Charon: He was originally a pilot of private aircraft, until he lost his license after a crash. (Authorities differ on whether he was the one responsible.) His shell was mangled in the incident, but as far as he knows, the rest of the damage from it has all been repaired. Though, some days, he does find himself feeling a little more sore than he should be. The scandal from the whole thing made him basically unhirable anywhere else, and that's how he ended up turning to a life of crime. Charon doesn't have many notable features appearance-wise, aside from his strabismus. He does have a built-in GPS, as well as other navigational systems.

Hydra: He's actually an ordinary cog, who was built in some far-off factory to do ordinary cog things. And through a ridiculous series of events (which would take far too long to cover in their entirety) caused by both his horrid luck and his unpleasant demeanor, he ended up having to run from home and leave everything behind. And then he ended up in the middle of a war against cartoon animals, and also as part of the mafia. He's covered in scratches and dents from... various incidents, and has very pronounced canines.

Nix: Nobody knows where Nix came from. Nix doesn't even know where Nix came from. There isn't a single record of her origins, not even in her own memory. For a while, she didn't even legally exist (and that's why she had to take up illegal work). Nix' past (or lack thereof) doesn't bother her much on the day-to-day, but sometimes she can't help but wonder just what the meaning of all the mystery is. Nix runs much quieter than the average cog, and upon close inspection, one can see that her joints are constructed in a way that minimizes the noise they make. Also, she has padded feet.

Kerberos: He was built, alongside a team of other cogs just like him, to explore an uncharted, frigid wilderness. The group's first and only expedition ended in disaster, with Kerberos being the only one to make it home alive. Not wanting to be sent off to die somewhere else, Kerberos stole a large sum of money from the place that made him and then ditched them for good. Continuing in that vein of things, it eventually found itself working among Cosmo and his boys. It had to discard his original shell cause it would've gotten too hot otherwise. Yes, even in the Coal and Ice District. Kerberos has several large tubes connected to his body, meant to hold (and dispense) excess oil.

Styx: This guy was an experiment. A test of the limits of cog design, created with one key purpose in mind: to always get back up again. At first glance, he might seem more fragile than the average cog, but by being built to "break" along designated points, he can easily be put back together again and keep fighting. Er, that was the idea, anyway. In practice, it's honestly a bit of an inconvenience, and so he was deemed a failure and abandoned. As for how he ended up in the business of organized crime? It was probably inevitable, given the less-than-legal circumstances of his creation. Other features of Styx' include his large fangs (which seem to have been made for puncturing things) and the fact it's near impossible for him to fully shut down.

[merlincersei]

Merlin BBC UK TV Show - Opinion Piece Part 11 - Kingdom Come Is Fanfiction !!!

A tumblr user recently bought to my attention that there is an un filmed Season 6 script for Merlin.

Please refer link below:

______________________________________________________________

They also have a Youtube channel where they have uploaded a "trailer" for Season 6.

They have also prepared a playlist of soundtracks for each episode:

______________________________________________________________

This is what is mentioned on their Tumblr site:

We are a team of writers who have written a complete script for a sixth and final season of BBC's Merlin, entitled “Merlin: Kingdom Come.” To be clear, this is not merely fanfiction or a spin-off. Rather, it is a serious and finished script, in continuity with the characters as they were portrayed onscreen -- but also taking inspiration from opinions expressed by the actors themselves. Although we thought the ending of season five was quite beautiful, we also saw many possibilities as to how the storyline could be further developed. It took roughly a year and a half to write.

In February of 2015, we sent a query letter to Alex Mahon who passed it on to Daniel Isaacs, a joint CEO for Kudos. They were very gracious in their responses to us. Isaacs told us the team that made Merlin had all moved on and no longer worked within the Shine Group, and that while they did discuss continuing the show, their broadcasters had decided against it.

Unsure of what to do with the script, we decided to put it aside for a while. However, although there are no further plans within BBC to continue the show, we thought it would be a shame for it to never see the light of day -- and we believe many Merlin fans would deeply appreciate it. With that in mind, we've decided to post it here, one episode at a time. Spread the word!

______________________________________________________________

Upon closer inspection, there is a tiny blurb which states the following:

Question: What relation do we have to the makers of Merlin?

Answer: As stated in the description of our Merlin Season 6 Trailer on youtube: *This project is not affiliated with BBC or Shine in any way. We do not claim, nor intend the impression of, any rights to BBC's Merlin, nor the characters created by Johnny Capps and Julian Murphy. This is merely a work of creative commentary and is in no way for monetary gain.*

______________________________________________________________

PLEASE NOTE, THIS IS FANFICTION AND NOTHING ELSE !!!

I don't have problems with people writing fanfiction.

Fanfiction is by definition stories involving popular fictional characters that are written by fans and often posted on the Internet.

However I cant help but feel that these people used some very deceptive means in trying to legitimize their fanfiction by insisting they have written an official script.

I am very passionate about Merlin , so I don't take kindly to such practices !!!!!!!!

[madmonksandmaenads]

There are so many posts about robotgirls, but where are the posts about robotwomen? I want to see an android queen come in for a servicing and watch with a commanding gaze as a skillful mechanic lovingly oils her joints, disassembles, and cleans her servos piece by piece, rewires connections, and tests sensors one by one. Any mistake is corrected with a firm hand over the mechanics tools.

I want to see an old butch factory automaton come in for full body refurbishing. She smiles as a blushing craftsman sandblasts her chasis. She cracks dirty jokes as they fluah out half a decade of grime from her exhaust.

I want a grand dame of a sentient warship to sigh in contentment as a whole team of specialist shipwrights crawl over her body. Each system inspected is a small tingle of pleasure. Every slight shift of her mass responded to with energetic scuttling.

[usafphantom2]

Stray flashlight sucked by F-35 engine caused $4 million in damage

Fernando Valduga By Fernando Valduga 01/19/2024 - 20:18in Incidents, Military

The F-35's ALIS system should soon be replaced by a new cloud-based platform.

A portable flashlight left inside the engine inlet of a USAF F-35 fighter was sucked into the engine during a maintenance operation at Luke Air Base, Arizona, in March 2023, causing almost $4 million in damage, according to a new accident investigation report.

The investigation, released on January 18, blamed the maintainer for not following the joint and U.S. Air Force guidelines as the main cause of the accident, which damaged the $14 million engine enough so that it could not be repaired locally.

However, the researchers also cited problems with the Autonomous Logistics Information System (ALIS) of the F-35 as a factor that contributed substantially. ALIS is intended to integrate operations, maintenance, forecasts, supply chain, customer support services, training and technical data, but the system has struggled with the lack of real-time connectivity, clumsy interfaces and much more.

As a result, the report states, “the substantial number of checklists and the difficulty in accessing the corrections cause complacency when users consult the necessary maintenance procedures”.

The accident in question occurred on March 15, when a three-person maintenance team was completing a Time Compliance Technical Directive on the F-35 to “install a measurement buffer on the engine fuel line and perform a leak check on the new measurement buffer while the engine was running,” according to the report.

After the plug was installed, a maintainer conducted a tool inventory check, before another maintainer performed a "Before maintenance operations" inspection of the engine. For this, the maintainer used a flashlight to inspect the engine inlet and left it on the edge of the entrance.

The maintainer who performed the engine inspection then operated the engine for five minutes to check for fuel leaks. During this time, the cabin showed no indication of damage from foreign objects to the engine, but when the engine was turned off, the team reported hearing abnormal noises. The maintainer who conducted the engine operation performed another inspection and identified the damage, while the maintainer who completed the first check of the tool inventory performed another and noticed the lack of a flashlight.

Finally, the engine suffered damage to the second stage rotor, the third stage rotor, the fifth stage rotor, the sixth stage rotor, the fuel nozzle, the bypass duct, the high pressure compressor (HPC), the high pressure turbine (HPT) and the variable fan input vane, valued at US$ 3,933,106.

Investigators found that the maintainer who conducted the inspection before the engine ran did not follow the Joint Technical Data warnings to remove all loose items before entering the aircraft entrance and to ensure that all engine inlets and exhausts were free of foreign and loose objects. The aviator also did not follow the instructions of the Air Force Department to "perform a visual inventory" of the toolkit after completing each task.

Finally, the report also concluded that the local practice of the 62ª Aircraft Maintenance Unit did not fully follow the instructions of the DAF, which require the individual who signed the toolkit to perform visual checks of the inventory. Instead, the practice of the unit was to make the individual who performed the operation of the engine conduct the inventory check. As a result, the two aviators involved in the accident thought that the flashlight had been found.

The ALIS factor in the accident marks another problem for the problematic F-35 support venture. The program has been affected by high costs and technical problems, and lawmakers have expressed frustration with ALIS before. The Joint Office of the Program is in the process of moving to a new "Integrated Operational Data Network", but the authorities have described it as a gradual effort - it has already been under construction for four years.

Source: Air & Space Forces Magazine

Tags: ALISMilitary AviationF-35 Lightning IIIncidentsUSAF - United States Air Force / U.S. Air Force

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Fernando Valduga

Fernando Valduga

Aviation photographer and pilot since 1992, he has participated in several events and air operations, such as Cruzex, AirVenture, Dayton Airshow and FIDAE. He has works published in specialized aviation magazines in Brazil and abroad. He uses Canon equipment during his photographic work in the world of aviation.

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[tubetrading]

The Heart of Boiler Systems:  Exploring the Role of IBR Fitting and Flanges

Boiler systems serve as the backbone of numerous industrial processes, powering everything from heating and hot water supply to steam generation in various manufacturing operations.  Within these systems, ensuring safety, efficiency, and reliability is paramount, and this is where IBR (Indian Boiler Regulations) fitting and flanges play a pivotal role.  As a trusted distributor in Vadodara and a leading dealer in Gujarat, Tubetrading is dedicated to providing top-quality IBR fitting and flanges to industries across the region.  In this blog post, we'll delve into the significance of IBR fitting and flanges in boiler systems, explore their crucial functions, and highlight the expertise of Tubetrading in supplying these essential components.

Understanding IBR Fitting and Flanges

IBR fitting and flanges are integral components of boiler systems that ensure seamless operation and compliance with safety standards mandated by the Indian Boiler Regulations.  These regulations are designed to safeguard the integrity of boiler components, prevent accidents, and promote efficient energy utilization.  IBR fitting and flanges are manufactured according to stringent specifications outlined by the IBR to guarantee durability, reliability, and performance in demanding industrial environments.

The Role of IBR Fitting and Flanges in Boiler Systems

1.   Pressure Regulation:  IBR fitting and flanges are designed to withstand high-pressure environments commonly found in boiler systems.  They play a crucial role in regulating and controlling the flow of fluids, gases, and steam within the system, ensuring optimal pressure levels for efficient operation.

2.   Sealing and Joint Integrity:  Proper sealing and joint integrity are essential to prevent leaks and maintain the integrity of boiler systems.  IBR fitting and flanges are equipped with robust sealing mechanisms, such as gaskets and O-rings, to create a tight seal between interconnected components, minimizing the risk of leaks and ensuring system integrity.

3.   Connection and Interoperability:  IBR fitting and flanges serve as connection points between various components of boiler systems, including pipes, valves, and vessels.  Their standardized dimensions and configurations enable seamless interoperability, facilitating efficient assembly, maintenance, and repair of boiler systems.

4.   Compliance and Certification:  Compliance with IBR regulations is mandatory for all boiler components used in India.  IBR fitting and flanges undergo rigorous testing and certification processes to ensure compliance with safety standards and regulatory requirements, providing peace of mind to industries reliant on boiler systems.

Tubetrading: Your Trusted Supplier of IBR Fitting and Flanges in Gujarat

As a reputable distributor and dealer of IBR fitting and flanges in Vadodara and Gujarat, Tubetrading prides itself on delivering superior-quality products and exceptional service to its customers.  Here's why industries trust Tubetrading for their IBR fitting and flanges needs:

1.   Extensive Product Range:  Tubetrading offers an extensive range of IBR fitting and flanges, including elbows, tees, reducers, bends, and flanges in various sizes, materials, and specifications.  Whether you need standard or customized components, we have the expertise and resources to meet your requirements.

2.   Quality Assurance:  At Tubetrading, quality is our top priority.  We partner with reputable manufacturers who adhere to strict quality control measures and comply with IBR regulations.  Our products undergo thorough inspection and testing to ensure they meet the highest standards of performance, reliability, and safety.

3.   Expert Guidance:  With years of experience in the industry, the team at Tubetrading possesses in-depth knowledge of IBR fitting and flanges and their applications in boiler systems.  We provide expert guidance and technical support to help our customers select the right components for their specific needs, ensuring optimal performance and efficiency.

4.   Timely Delivery:  We understand the importance of timely delivery to our customers' operations.  With our efficient logistics network and inventory management systems, we strive to fulfill orders promptly and ensure on-time delivery of IBR fitting and flanges to our customers across Gujarat.

Conclusion

In conclusion, IBR fitting and flanges are the heart of boiler systems, playing a critical role in ensuring safety, efficiency, and compliance with regulatory standards.  As a trusted distributor and dealer in Vadodara and Gujarat, Tubetrading is committed to supplying top-quality IBR fitting and flanges to industries across the region.  With our extensive product range, quality assurance, expert guidance, and timely delivery, we are your reliable partner for all your IBR fitting and flanges needs.  Contact Tubetrading today to learn more about our products and services and discover how we can support your boiler system requirements.

[darkwood-sleddog]

Hello

I was wondering if you could take about what you look for in a sporting dog's conformation, especially for draught work, particularly what parts of the conformation you look at to determine soundness? What does good movement look like in a dog? What does bad confo and movement look like? Are you able to get an idea of what a dogs confo is like/how sound the dog will be when it's a puppy?

(Question from curiosity as I realised that while i know this stuff about horses i didnt know a thing about dogs and then i starting wondering what dog people look for)

Let me preface this with the fact that I'm not a breeder and I also don't advocate for inexperienced clients choosing puppies, I'd much prefer an experienced breeder or mentor that works their dogs in harness to do that. Additionally there are some other draft breeds, such as the Greater Swiss Mountain Dog and other carters, that I am not familiar enough with to make assessment of their similarities with freighting sled dogs, although I'd guess they share a similar need for correct moderate angulation and bone.

Freighting sled dogs, while bigger than racier sledding types, should still be an agile dog, not coarse or overly heavy. The depth of chest is approximately one half the height of the dog at the shoulders with the deepest point being just behind the forelegs. The sternum should not be overly protruding but should be able to be felt, chest should be muscular upon inspection in mature dogs.The dog should be ~slightly~ longer than it is tall with a thick, muscular neck and a level, if not slightly sloping top line.

(Above: Correct malamute with correct top line)

(above: incorrect top lines)

(Inuit Qimmiq during Ivakkak showing level top line and correct ~slightly~ longer than tall proportion)

Good feet and joint construction are essential to all sled dogs. With freight dogs they should have perfectly straight front forelimbs with the elbows close to the body, but still able to move freely.

(above: examples of incorrect front constructions)

(above: Canadian Qimmiq showing correct front construction and good bone, foot proportion and overall musculature)

The carpal joint should be strong and flexible, the pasterns only slightly sloping with good elasticity and are short in length compared to non freight dogs.

(above: examples of bad pastern construction).

(above: correct front and pastern construction)

Rear legs should be muscular with the width of the thigh carrying down to the hock, the stifles are well bent. From the rear back legs will appear straight.

(above: incorrect rear construction)

(above: correct rear construction)

(above: Greenland dog team showing uniformity in rear construction, good muscle tone and good thickness of bone).

The dog should have thick bone and appropriately large feet for holding up that bone. Feet are a large, rounded snowshoe shape, neither a hare foot or a cat foot, and large in proportion to the dog. Toes should be arched with thick paw pads. Back paws should be slightly longer than the front paws.

(above: incorrect foot construction)

(above: Slash and Zombie showing correct foot size and proportion in relation to the dog. Note that Slash is the ideal freighting height and weight for a Malamute, but his feet are as large as Sigurd's (we've measured), who is 5" taller and 20 pounds heavier.)

(above: various Greenland Dogs. Notice the proportion and size of the feet.)

Movement of a dog will also be indicative of its construction and quality for work: freight dogs should have steady, efficient movement (a fluid, tireless trot is ideal), and should never appear choppy or paddling. Freight dogs do not single track, but tend to converge on a center line when speed increases.

(above: correct relaxed movement, notice where the front toes are in the reach of the dog)

(above: Sigurd showing correct movement over uneven ground).

(above: various working bred malamutes showing relaxed trots).

(above: Greenland dog team in various gaits, again notice where the front extension is during movement).

(above: Qimmiq participating in Ivakkak showing various gaits of correct movement)

While freighting sled dogs also have other qualifications I'd look for overall (correct coat type and head shape to work in an arctic environment), sled dogs are overall built from the ground up. I'd much rather have a dog with correct feet, angulation and muscle tone than I would a dog that does not have those things but has correct coat type and breed ideal head shape.

The above descriptions are consistent across all of the freighting sled dogs. If you're interested they are here: The Alaskan Malamute Illustrated Standard (where I have pulled some comparative images), The Greenland Dog Standard, The Canadian Eskimo Dog (Inuit Qimmiq) Standard, and the Dog Qualifications as described for the Ivakkak Traditional Sled Dog Race (Inuit Sled Dogs ONLY allowed).

THIS video from the Alaskan Malamute Club of America is also very helpful when it comes to understanding correct movement.

I also recommend: Structure in Action, The Makings of a Durable Dog for those interested in canine conformation for various types of work and performance.

[pasdasin]

Entanglement ch 3

levi x reader

summary: meeting again after a while

cw: cussing, violence, bad writing and grammar, prob more (lmk)

an: I love writing this so much! Lmk if y’all think I should post on ao3

read under the cut

previous — next

“Jean unhand her,” Levi commanded, his mind moving a million miles and hour.

“But captain-” Jean was silenced by a glare coming from the captain. Begrudgingly, Jean let you go and you quickly stood up. The two of you stared at each other for a second before you pounced on Levi. Beating his chest weakly as you screamed incoherently. His team prepared to remove you from him, but the guilt was all over Levi’s face. You let out a sob before you wrapped your arms around him. Without any other word to his team, the two of you left towards the master bedroom.

Levi sat you on the bed while he stood up by the door. All it took was a simple look at you before he felt everything rush back. The many nights spent together and the painful memories of his friends.

“You still look the same”

“It’s been seven years, Levi…” You said after calming a bit. “I thought you were dead.”

“So did I” An eerie silence fell amongst you two. The two of you just inspecting each other. Levi looked much older despite his age. Only 26 yet had the face of an old man. Strange really, how much fate had changed both of your lives.

“Did you get the package to?” Levi questioned you. Your eyes widened. “I’ll take that as a yes”

“Why are you here?” You finally spoke up. Your gaze burned holes into him.

“We are both in danger. I needed a place to lie low.” Levi turned his head to stare at the broken mirror on the wall adjacent to him.

“Oh,” you sighed. “You want to stay here?” Levi let out a hum. “Okay, they can stay in…” your voice trailed off. “I thought all three of you died.” Levi turned to you again before wordlessly leaving the room.

----

Levi returned to the living room to direct his squad. The boys will stay in the room on the left, the girls the right. Levi then spouted out some basic rules that they would have to follow. After a while of his mini lecture of the underground, a knock at the door occurred. Levi ordered them in a hush to go to their assigned rooms before he made action to open the door. As he was about to turn the door knob, your hand grabbed his, putting a finger telling him to hide. The moment Levi disappeared and you made sure that the cost was clear inside, you opened the door. Outside stood Conrad.

“Oh my dear sorry for not letting you know I was stopping by!” His voice boomed throughout the house.

“Oh sir! I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, please come inside.” You let in your boss, putting up a cheerful facade. You pulled out a drink for him as he made himself comfortable on your broken couch.

“I see this couch needs to be replaced. I will be sure to find someone who can do that for you.” You handed him the drink and offered a smile as a thank you. “Now the reason for my visit. You see I thought I could discuss your future in the business. You by far are the most popular girl in the whole joint. I was thinking that you could continue to be my bookie while also only being visited by my top dollar connections.” You froze at the suggestion.

“You want me to prostitute myself out?” Your voice was meeker than you liked it.

“Well I guess that’s one way to put it. This is a one time condition It’s just once, tomorrow.”

“I don’t know what to say…”

“Okay I will decide for you, as your boss it is a command. You will sleep with Titus O’lare.” Your boss put a hand on your shoulder. “If you are lucky, he even offered you above-ground citizenship.” With that, Conrad had left and you stood still in the living room. A hand touched your shoulder and you turned to see Levi.