#Junk Magazine Kit

[sweetlyfez]

As I promised @elodieunderglass (ty for the reminder), pictures of my finished (ish) crazy quilted notebook covers.

If you haven't previously heard of crazy quilting, it was a HUGE craze among housewives in the late 19th century, which revolved around patchworking and appliqueing together irregularly shaped fabric scraps and then embellishing the shit out of them.

I embarked on this project because after filing away the idea of crazy quilts from a coffee table book my spouse picked up in a charity shop a year or so ago, I saw a couple of people on youtube sharing their work; and because I needed covers for my next junk journal.

I cleaved pretty close to the base principles of the style - using precious scraps, making as much of them as possible, and creating a canvas for lots of embroidered embellishment. These two 5x7ish pieces barely used up any volume of my accumulated scraps so there will be more crazy quilting in my future, once I think of ways to make use of it.

I'm very pleased with how the compositions came together, and it was lots of fun picking the embroidery thread colours to speak to all the different patches. Actually the whole things was stupid fun and I worked on barely any other projects or, in fact, chores while Iw as working on it. Next time I will probably match the weight of my fabrics more closely (mostly bc the velvets have made things lumpier than I'd have liked), and I'll prewash the old bits retrieved from my nan's sewing box bc when I rinsed the embroidery pen out from the wild rose piece the pink bled and I was quite lucky it was mostly synthetic patches around it.

Under the cut for an inventory of scraps used (all out of stash)

"love" embroidery, from a magazine kit released ca 2018/19

orange & pink flower print, velvets, floral corduroy, ribbon, and pink twill all from my Nan's sewing box

Pink silk leftover from my wedding dress, flower print and the translucent silk the spider is mounted on from a scrap bag - all from Beckford silks (they don't carry the scrap bags on their website but they're well worth a visit in person if you're in the neighbourhood)

The other printed silk was a tunic of mine which stood up poorly to wear

Blotchy yellow and rust silk from a natural printing demo

Green corduroy and black flower print viscose from Will's sewing projects

Blue and fuchsia check from my old pjs

planets print quilting cotton bought for a hat band from the remnants bin of the friendly local fabric shop

green leaf ribbon leftover from an Audrey ii costume

[freakqueer]

zine/collage/junk journaling kits are now up in the shop! they come with:

6 gelliprinted patterned collage papers

5~8 paper or ephemera scraps

5 magazine pages

1 sticker sheet

5~8 assorted sticker flakes

20 assorted text clippings

one blank minizine

business card

logo sticker

link in reblogs!

[thatrickmcginnis]

MOE BERG Toronto 1990

I’m going to make a broad generalization here and say that Moe Berg’s band The Pursuit of Happiness are a cultural marker for Generation X here in Canada. If you were in your twenties and – even more so – single and living in a city you’ll probably have a surge of memories when you hear the singles from Love Junk, their first album: songs like “Hard to Laugh”, “She’s so Young” and “Hard to Laugh”. I know I do. Which is why I have a kind of fond memory of my portrait sitting with Moe back in the spring of 1990 – a shoot for the cover of the free weekly where I had started to work, in my studio loft in Toronto’s Parkdale neighbourhood.

Moe Berg was born in Edmonton in 1959 – technically a late Baby Boomer, but there’s always a lot of drift when it comes to culture. He’d played in several local bands before moving with drummer Dave Gilby to Toronto and forming The Pursuit of Happiness. They released “I’m an Adult Now” as an indie single a year later and landed a deal with Chrysalis Records based on radio airplay and a low-budget video for the song. They released the Todd Rundgren-produced record Love Junk in 1988 and One Sided Story in 1990; Berg was probably doing publicity for the record when he showed up at my studio.

My photo editor at the free weekly told me that the paper’s publisher was a friend of Moe Berg as a way of warning me that I needed to turn in some flattering shots for the cover story. I did my best; I had moved into a live/work loft space so I was buzzing with having my own studio to shoot in, and thanks to coming into a bit of money I’d bought some new gear – a Bronica SQ-A medium format camera (a kind of poor man’s Hasselblad that was popular with wedding photographers) and a kit of ProFoto strobe lights. The colour shots were for the cover, which had a rigid format to allow for type and the magazine logo. I went all in on coloured gels to make it pop on the stands, but for the inside black and white shots I went for the kind of flat, clean, high-key lighting scheme that I’d been trying to nail down for several years, and which was infinitely easier to pull off in a studio with multiple lights. I remember Berg being very soft-spoken, happy to take direction but palpably wary of the camera.

The Pursuit of Happiness have gone through several line-up changes but still occasionally perform, while Moe Berg has his own solo career in addition to working as a producer and working with the Trans-Canada Highwaymen, a supergroup with members of Sloan, the Odds and the Barenaked Ladies. TPOH never really broke big outside this country but it would be hard to make a soundtrack of Canada at the turn of the ‘90s without including their biggest hits.

[littlewalken]

jun 20

Today's earworm is Rio by Mike Nesmith.

The crock pot is started, the beef bits should be ready any time after 10am. I have bending and reaching to do today but I need to only do a bit at a time because my goal is to not blow my back out before 6am.

Actually ended up watching some Batman related stuff, while the quick recap of the Three Jokers was appreciated, the 90 minutes of yapping how'd they'd fix it and somehow having less story than the comic weren't, so there's a few more gigs of space on the external hard drive now.

I need it for circus documentaries and copies of Bandstand magazine.

If anyone sailing the seven seas knows where I might find the 1979 red unit Ringling show hosted by Danny Kaye I'd be much appreciated. That was the only one I actually got to see IRL, had the program forever until it got put with several other things or mine only that were "safe" in the leaky tent in the back yard. Had to replace it from the internet. Tho not expensive, especially the ones without the poster of Gunther, they aren't the most common thing either. Then not long after I found another program for the blue unit at the junk store.

Something something there are a batch of dresses in one of the spectacular segments that have fairy tale scenes illustrated on them and I'd like to see the whole batch something something I remember sitting in the cheap seats on a short end looking for it something something

Part of today's plans include setting up the trinket shelf, now that I have shelf liner for it, but not all the little details as the wizard school Rement is due tomorrow and I have to remember to mix in the witch house with the Harry Potter surprise ball stuff. Can't wait for spooky season because I really need another cauldron shelf.

Almost got a 1/12 dollhouse cottage kit to put the stuff in but I didn't. I have a coffin shelf but it's deep, if it fits in this shelf, and I'd like one not so deep to be able to see more of the tiny potion stuff.

I don't feel like writing yet, if I go with the cs story there is something I should watch before I do, but I am getting some thoughts on how to work on structuring the choose your own plot holes Spider-Man idea.

That thing feels like it's never going to get anywhere I feel like posting but it's a fun thing to occupy myself with. Like the thought I'll get to watching any of Andrew Garfield's movies. But working on that is good practice should I get an original idea I think I could CYOA.

[stevishabitat]

Your New Place

Part One

Getting Started

I've seen a few posts going around with pics of the rooms of folks who have just moved out on their own or been recently unhoused or similar situation.

And the gist of several of them have been "What now? How do I make this white box room with a mattress feel like home?"

Since I have been there and done that several times in my life (more than I'd like to admit). I have some ideas to pass along.

I'm going to focus this on making your room functional, comfortable, and pleasant.

First, you need a few supplies. You may have some of these already, or have a friend who can give you some. But if you are really starting from scratch, do a bit of shopping when you can and build up your "tool kit."

Each item should be less than $5 USD and can be found at dollar stores, corner stores, Walmart, or even grocery stores.

Scissors

Markers

Safety pins

Small Sewing kit (needle & thread)

Twine (heavier than thread)

Clothes pins

Sticky hooks

Tape (clear and masking/painters tape)

Glue (regular white glue is fine)

This basic toolkit will give you a lot of flexibility with decorating your space, making basic repairs, and getting creative. Get what you can as you go along.

Next, ask your friends/neighbors/whoevers to save some recycling bits for you. You want:

Empty jars/bottles/cans

Magazines/newspapers/junk mail

Cardboard boxes of varying sizes

And, here are a few things you can make just with the dollar store kit and some recyclables...

I found these on Pinterest by searching decoupage, and paper crafts.

[moonfeatherquill]

PAMPHLET-MAKING MATERIALS

Literally any paper, for filler

Cover paper, meaning a stiffer paper at least as large as your other paper. Or cardstock, or a cereal box, or anything you wanna play with. I've chosen linen-textured scrapbooking paper.*

A bone folder is best, but a butter knife or a thick ruler is fine

Thread, preferably thicker than hand-sewing thread, but honestly that’ll still work. Embroidery floss would also work. I like size 8 pearl cotton, which is cheap and comes in lots of colors.

A needle appropriate to your thread

An awl**

A ruler

Scissors or thread clippers. If you need to trim your cover paper, you can use those scissors or a paper cutter or a craft knife and self-healing cutting pad.

*A cover is actually optional. If all you want to do is elevate a zine or handout with a personal touch, you can skip the cover and just do the hand-stitching. **If you don’t have one, I’m sure you can get creative with your needle and do okay, but it really is easier with an awl.

Most bookbinding starter guides will tell you that you need a lot more and more specialized stuff than this, and they will also wax poetic about paper grain, but don’t worry about that. We’re making a pamphlet.

If you want to spend like $10, you can get a bookbinding starter kit with more than you even need right now. Here’s the one I got a while back.

Get your filler paper. If it’s thin paper, your pamphlet can fit quite a few sheets without looking too bulky or refusing to lay right. What I have here is slightly thicker than cheap copy paper, and I’m using 10 sheets. If you fold yours and don’t like how it looks, just remove some outer sheets until you are happy. No harm done!

Now, take your paper and lightly fold it in half crosswise to make a book shape. If you want it to look extra nice, tap it on your work surface so it’s all square, then let it fan out juuuust a little bit when you lift the short edge before you grip it together.(A) When you fold a pile of paper this way, you get a little point that looks fancy.(C) If you keep one edge square, their other edges will have a more dramatic fall-off. But that’s still fine and will work!

Use your bone folder or butter knife to set the fold. Press it into the middle of your fold and press outward from there, returning the center before pressing out the other direction.(B) This is less likely to cause drift in your fold. Look how crisp it is compared to hand-pressing! You can go over it again with your bone folder if you want.

Open your paper up and lay a ruler against the crease. Use it and the awl to punch a hole in the very center and a hole about a half inch from the top and bottom, making three total holes. You can pre-mark the hole locations in pencil or just go straight to the awl.(D) Do not stab the awl into your table, however. Place a cutting mat or some cardboard or a junk magazine underneath to protect it.

Next, fold your stiffer paper in half in a direction that’s logical for making a cover, but don’t crisp the fold with a bone folder. It has to wrap around the outermost sheet of filler paper, which is the least crisp one, and they won’t nest as well if the cover is so severe.

If you need to trim your cover paper, now is a good time. I recommend making it about 4mm taller than your filler and measuring out about 3mm from the fore-edge to trim that.(E)

Notes about cutting: First, I measured where I wanted my edges to be and punched in some marks with my knife. Then, I removed the filler paper, flipped the cover over, and used those holes as a set point to line up my ruler with the help of a square.(F) I could have also measured things and cut them with a paper cutter, or penciled in a line and used scissors. Do what makes you most comfortable; just be aware that cutting things square is, to some (me), the most maddening aspect of bookbinding. It's okay if it's not perfect!

Center the filler inside your cover, then put the awl through the holes you made earlier to pierce the cover.(G) For extra neatness points, put the awl through the cover holes (but not the filler paper holes) again, from the outside, to smooth out the spine.

Now thread your needle with thread that's about three times as long as your pamphlet is tall, just to be safe.

Starting from outside the spine, pass the needle through the top hole, then out the middle. Pass it into the bottom hole and out the middle again, being careful not to pierce the thread that’s already there. (That will make tightening everything difficult). Tighten up your thread until it’s taut but not straining and tie the ends of your thread together.(H,I)

If your cover was the same size as your paper, and you don’t like that the paper is sticking out at the fore-edge, you can use a ruler and a craft knife (and, ideally, a square) to cut that whole edge flush. Just push down hard with your ruler and cut along it, making several passes until you’re through all layers of paper.

You’re done! You have made a pamphlet!

Now you can decorate it if you want! If you leave some extra thread, you can put beads on it or braid it all pretty. You can draw or paint on the cover. Or put a sticker on it, or use a foil quill. Have fun with it! For this one, I did beads and some Cricut-assisted papercraft. Cat silhouette courtesy of Mungang Kim of the Noun Project.

Did you make a mistake? You probably learned something, and without the stress of ruining a long, printed manuscript or a fancy covering material.

If you liked doing this, consider what other materials might be fun to experiment with.

If you’re eager to move to more complex bindings, may I suggest a criss-cross binding or Coptic binding? Or some other varieties of pamphlet! Do you want words printed into your pamphlet? Look up “imposition” in bookbinding or watch this space for another tutorial.

Make a pamphlet

Tons of people are realizing that you can make books at home, a fact that totally floored me two years ago when I found out about it. Is that you? You should make a pamphlet!

Sometimes, people show up to the bookbinding community and ask something like, “I would like to bind a 100,000-word fan fiction into an heirloom object/gift. Where do I start?” You should start by making a pamphlet.

I think some of them don’t like hearing that, and I think I understand why. They are not approaching bookbinding as a hobby to learn and explore; they want a DIY project that will result in An Object. But this isn’t like when I painted my shutters, and all I needed was a paint sprayer, some fasteners, a chisel, and YouTube to get me going. For most folks, it’s more like if you wanted to design and build a shed from scratch, and you’d never held a saw. Why not draw up and make a little firewood shelter out of cheap lumber first?

Why not make a pamphlet?

Now, if you are coming from a strong crafter background, and especially if you already do a lot of papercraft or chipboard box-making, you can admittedly skip the pamphlet phase. But should you?

Pamphlets are cheap! Quick! Fun! Pamphlets and other simple bindings let you play with tools, materials, and techniques without expending excessive time or precious materials. You probably have everything you need already. Bookbinding is a craft with dozens of best practices and rules of thumb and recommended materials, and each one is negotiable. If you truly understand the importance of a given recommendation or standard, you can decide how much it’s worth to you and your projects. If you’re a novice crafter, you’ll quickly figure out if this fussy paper-bending nonsense is enjoyable for you at all–without buying a bunch of tools you may not use again. If you’re experienced, you’ll have a quick win, get to play with new kinds of paper, and see how different materials work together.

And you can explore how to decorate books! 

So please, if you’re even curious about bookbinding, make a pamphlet.

I’ll even tell you how. With pictures!

[after-witch]

Sweet Escape [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Title: Sweet Escape [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Synopsis: Escape isn’t easy. Nor is it very long-lasting. When Overhaul’s men drag you back into captivity, you brace yourself and wait for what your captor will do with you. 

Word Count: 7,592

Notes: yandere, kidnapped, humiliation, degradation, mentions of eating disorder behavior, improper use of household cleaning products, Overhaul is a mean man 90% of this fic is just Overhaul being an asshole to you

There are going to be bruises on your shoulders. Fingerprint shaped bruises from the men holding you steady, afraid that you'll try to sprint off--maybe afraid that you'll try to spring at their boss, disobedient, unruly possession that you are.

You know that Overhaul won't like it when he eventually sees those black-and-blue fingerprints marring your skin--he might kill them for it, or worse. They're digging in too hard, but you don't warn them to ease up lest they find themselves on the wrong end of Overhaul's hands; they brought you back to this place, after all, and they deserve nothing but your hot, raw contempt.

You could run. You could slip out of their grip, if you put your mind to it. Your clothes are wet and the medical table that you're sitting on is slippery from the rainwater that's dripped out from your soaked clothes. But Chisaki Kai--no, Overhaul, you remind yourself, for the energy he’s exuding now is very much that of a foreboding boss--is standing in front of you, and you'd never make it to the doorway.

"Leave us," Overhaul says, not bothering to move as the men gripping your shoulders release their painful hold and swiftly leave the room. He tears off a sanitizing wipe from the ever-present canister on his desk and wipes down the doorknobs that they touched, before locking the door. An unnecessary precaution, given your nerves, given your state, given your realization that your escape attempt was a massive fluke that would never be allowed to happen again.

You numbly watch as he gathers up supplies from around the makeshift clinic he'd created in the small suite of rooms he allowed you to exist in. The canister of disinfectant. Medical-grade soaps. Sponges. A bucket. Needles, needles, needles... you remember the feel of the syringe you'd stolen in your hand and distract yourself from the fear of what he's going to do to you by retracing the steps of the past day.

**

You got farther than you thought you would--really, you did. At every stage of your plan, you expected Chisaki to suddenly reveal that he knew every step you'd taken so far. That he'd catalogued every act of false obedience to lure him into relaxing the rules, that he saw you swipe the syringe of tranquilizer from the clinic when he'd left for a moment to grab a fresh pair of clothes for you, that he knew you asked to sit with him at his desk only to sneak a glance at his calendar, so you could sweetly plead for an afternoon in the garden when he would be busy, when he would surely ask a highly trusted subordinate to watch over you.

A highly trusted subordinate who knew all about your weeks of good, sweet behavior and who was none the wiser when you'd jabbed him with the syringe, plunging the medicine, the same kind your captor once used to 'calm you down' when you were having fits, right into the man’s thigh. 

You didn't hesitate: you'd dipped your hands into the man's pockets, pulled out his wallet and ran. You barely remember anything until you were in the forest--you vaguely remember using the key card to open the gates surrounding the base, you remember the fear that at any moment you would hear an alarm sound; but from there, everything was a blur as you sped into the forest wearing only the soft day shoes you'd been given to go outside.

You made it through the forest, though not without bumps and cuts and sore feet and a dimly throbbing ankle that was thankfully only turned. You ran until you reached a small town, one you'd never been in before. You buried your first instinct deep, deep, deep: do not contact the authorities. Who knows what connections Overhaul had, especially in a town so close to where he operated? So instead you waltzed into a little corner shop and made a beeline for the bathroom--where you promptly vomited out your breakfast as all of the anxiety and fear and adrenaline caught up with you in an instant.

You remember staring into the bathroom mirror afterwards, your face cold with splashed water. It was then, staring into your pale and anxious face, a face you hadn’t been allowed to see in a mirror for ages, that you felt freedom slamming back into you. You could do what you wanted, now. You were going to get your life back. You could make your own schedule and have your own hobbies back and eat what you wanted and--your stomach had gurgled, as if on cue. You had to get something to eat. But how would you pay?

The wallet you'd pilfered felt heavy in your pocket, and you opened it without a second thought. No cash. But a credit card. It would do, until you were able to get some cash of your own. You wandered back into the shop and even now, you can still feel how struck you were by how cozy, how nice, how different it felt. Just a small general store with big open windows and soft music in the background, and an old woman behind the register who immediately asked you if you needed any help finding this or that.

You smiled--a real smile, how nice that felt--and shook your head and loaded up a basket. A first-aid kit, a large water bottle, a toothbrush and toothpaste... then came the snacks. Candy. Chips. Soda. Things you hadn't tasted in so long. You even grabbed a pointless fashion magazine. The old woman had glanced at the name on the card and you offered a sheepish smile, a fake one that made you feel a pang of guilt for lying to her: "My boyfriend sent me to do the shopping. He's no good at this stuff." She'd smiled and nodded, oh I understand dear, before packing up your order.

You stepped out into the sunshine--you can't pretend like you remember how it feels, right now, shivering from the damp rain on this table--and took a deep breath of fresh air. It smelled crisp and sweet and clean. Not the sterile cleanliness of your captor's clinic, but truly pure--real. There was a slight tinge to the air, and you spotted grey clouds on the horizon. Not an omen, no: just another sign that you were outside, you were in nature, you were free. The smell was the promise of thunder, of electricity, of cool rain.

It also smelled like... well, lunch. Or more precisely, you smelled the vague scents of the little pizza shop a few shops down.

And here is where you made, looking back, your biggest mistake. You should have headed to a bus station. Or called for a taxi. You should have gotten the hell out of there right that second. But your mind flashed back to Overhaul's little calendar, the words printed neatly in the little square for today: he would be away until the evening, which meant you (surely, surely) had a few more hours before he came back and discovered your escape.

He’d ordered no one to bother you and your now-unconscious guard in the garden, so if no one saw you run out, then an alarm certainly wouldn’t raised for a while. You had time, didn't you? Time to grab a meal? You could always get it to go, and you could even ask an employee inside about buses or taxes. Yes, it was fine--you would get a few slices to go and hop on a bus and leave forever. More than that, it was practical. You needed energy, and the junk in your bag--while undoubtedly delicious--wasn't going to be enough to sustain you for long.

The door to the pizza place dinged when you entered, and you almost teared up at the normality of it. It was a buffet style place, with rows of pizzas under yellow-cast lights and rows of red booths and people lifting slices onto their plates with shared tongs. Unusual for a small town, but maybe it was a remnant from a more bustling time, when American-style pizza places were all the rage. For a moment, your thoughts had turned back to your captivity: Overhaul would have never set foot into a place like this--nor would he have let you. Germs, germs, everywhere. And you loved it.

You paid with the card, but there was no need for excuses this time--the young man behind the register didn't even check for a name or signature, much less ask for identification. You asked about a to-go box and he'd shrugged, mumbled out an apology--they didn't do that here. You have to eat inside.

For a moment, the rational part of your mind screamed: get the hell out of here, then! But your stomach growled, and hunger beckoned, and damn if that row of glistening pizza slices didn't make you want to eat. And eat.  And… eat. You shoved repressed thoughts deep down, your heart hammering all the while, and took a tentative step towards the buffet. Thunder rumbled as you debated. You could be out of here in... 30 minutes? Enough time to eat--to binge, your mind whispered, you can now--and maybe get it out after? Yes, it would be fine. (It would not. Future you, the one sitting on the table and watching in increasing anxiety as Overhaul finishes up his tasks, wishes she could tell you.)

You should have seen the start of the rain, sudden and relentless, as a bad sign. Instead you ignored it and filled up a large cup with diet soda that spilled a little when you forgot to let go of the button. You ate without thinking, not even really enjoying the taste of the first greasy pizza slices you’d had in ages.

You were on your fifth slice when the restaurant doors dinged, but the sense of small town charm was overrun by the immediate realization that you were caught. You were fucked. The air thickened--were you the only one to notice?--as two men in slim suits entered the restaurant with an air of immediacy. You were spotted in a second, if that. You thought about running.

But then you thought about the bored teenager behind the register and the old man cutting up his wife's pizza slices because she had trouble chewing and the little girl stacking up pepperonis while her mom chatted on the phone and you resigned yourself. You didn’t want anyone else to get hurt…even if it meant giving in. You didn't struggle, couldn't struggle, and let them lead you swiftly outside where the torrent of rain soaked you immediately  as they pushed you down the block, where an unmarked car waited. You glanced up helplessly as the cloudy sky and rain streamed down your face before you were unceremoniously pushed into the backseat.

Overhaul was sitting inside, staring at you with an intensity you've never seen before.

**

Your backpack drops with a thump next to you and you flinch out of your memories.

"Let's see what you bought with that stolen card during your little adventure."  His voice is deceptively calm. He must be furious with you, you think. And you can't believe you didn't think about credit fraud alerts before you used the damn card.

The noise of the zipper is thunderous and you scoot yourself back on the exam table, pressing against the wall to put a little more room--even if it's only inches--between you and your captor. He begins to pull everything out of the bag, one by one, and seeing it all lined up makes it clear what type of lecture is coming.

A few bags of chips, a bottle of soda, bars of chocolate, all junk, junk, junk. All food he would never permit you to eat, and certainly not in such quantities.

"Disgusting," he murmurs, before tossing each item into a trash bin kept against the wall, one by one. You cringe at the sound of each bag, each bottle, hitting the bottom of the trash. You didn't even get to taste them. He stares at the trash, eyes narrowed, as if the food itself was worthy of his venom. "Full of unnecessary sugars and fats and oils. Eating so much of this will make you sick. We've talked about this."

You say nothing. You press your lips together. You won't give him the satisfaction of argument. You won't let him pretend like he has any right to lecture you on what you eat, and certainly not what you eat after you've escaped (however briefly) from his clutches.

"At least you didn't have time to ingest them during your ill-planned escape, hm?" He replaces his previous gloves--tainted with the thought of germs on the junk food bags, no doubt--and your stomach flips at the sound of the medical gloves he's snapped on in their place. "Which is more than I can say for the pizza." You never knew someone could say pizza with such a ridiculously nasty tone, but you've learned a lot of things during your captivity.

"You weren't content with this junk hoard," he says, gesturing towards the trash while keeping his eyes firmly on you. "You had to gorge yourself on greasy pizza from a dirty buffet, too? We are going to clean your mouth out, by the way.”

You hate the way he says gorge--you hate the way he says greasy--you hate the anxiety that comes with wondering what he’ll do to ‘clean’ your mouth. You hate him, you hate him, you hate him. The hate makes you answer defensively, despite your earlier resolution to stay quiet. You can't help yourself, in a lot of ways.

"I was hungry," you say, still feeling defiant.

"No one working on their fifth slice of pizza is hungry," he answers, simply. You feel diminished, but not enough to shut you up.

"So? It's not your business what I eat anyway.” A familiar tightness is springing to your throat. You don't want to cry in front of him ever again, so you clip the words out, fighting to retain control.

He presses a fist to his forehead in a sudden, rather surprising show of frustration. "Not my business? Not my business? It's my business to take care of you. Do you have any idea what could have happened to you out there?"

The fullness in your stomach, the cold rain soaking you, the remembrance of the wind and branches lashing at you as you ran hours before, all these freedoms have made you feel bold. Or maybe you're succumbing to the effects of an adrenaline crash and you just can't control your mouth.

"I could have been free. You can’t--you can't just keep me here. You can't just kidnap someone and decide you know what's best for them."

There's a long, steady pause as he stares at you. His expression--what you can see from his eyes--is blank, and you almost wonder if perhaps you've stumped him.

"I can," he says, lightly. Easily.

Fucker.

He sighs, and you get the distinct impression that you’re a nuisance, something to deal with, something he’s having to deal with instead of doing far more important things. "You’re showing a severe lack of appreciation for all the work I do to take care of you."

You don't know how to respond to that. "You kidnapped me.” It’s all you can think of--the bare truth.

He doesn't speak at first. Then he lifts something from the supply tray he's set up--a blue hospital gown, thin and short, and tosses it towards you. You catch it instinctively, feeling the thin, feather-light material in your fingers. He tosses a towel, next, and you hold it against your damp chest. He turns around.

"Change."

You don't want to. You don't want to. But you've never pressed your luck on what would happen if you refused to get dressed before, afraid that he might do it himself, and that fear overrides any thoughts of outright rebellion. For now. You slide off your wet clothes and push them towards the end of the table, then use the towel to dry off your skin. There are scratches and bruises, including a nasty looking one that's already turning green on your ankle. Your feet are swollen from running on the hard forest floor with your thin day shoes.

When you're finished, you clear your throat, and he turns back around. He tosses your wet clothes right into the trash--damn, you liked that shirt--and wipes off the table with a separate towel. You sit, legs dangling off the table, and wish he'd just get the punishment or examination or whatever it is he has planned over with. You can feel the coldness of the table through the medical gown, and its thinness makes you feel even more helpless. Weak. You want to retain that feeling of freedom that you had earlier in the day. Even choosing to return without a fight, choosing to avoid hurting the innocent people in that town, made you feel bold.

He stands in front of you until you force yourself to look up, to get it over with. He's swapped out his mask for a medical one.

"Have I ever hurt you?"

You hate this.

"No," you admit, voice tight. "Not physically," you add spitefully, because fuck him for trying to make himself sound like a decent person because he kidnapped you but didn't happen to hit you.

"Do I take care of you?" His tone is firm, commanding. It leaves no room for silences. Instead, it makes your stomach feel light, makes your heart feel like it wants to race.

"I can do that on my own," you counter.

"Can you?" He says, voice dripping in condescension.

"Yes," you spite, bile rising into your throat. "I can take care of myself."

He reaches back and grabs the little stool he keeps in this room, rolling it up to rest in front of the table and in front of you. He sits down and cups his hands together, resting them on his thigh. He leans forward. An easy gesture. Like he wants to have a conversation. But something about his movements sends out warning signals. Big, glaring, flashing warning lights that scream DANGER.

“You can take care of yourself.” It’s a statement, yet the way he says it is brutally mocking.

“I can,” you insist, your voice cracking just the slightest bit under his gaze.

"So, where would you live?" He watches you intently and it takes a moment for you to realize what he just asked you. He isn't offering you freedom, no. But maybe you can win an argument, just this once, and forcibly stop his delusions that he's "taking care of you."

"Anywhere," you say, but he looks unimpressed. "An apartment," you correct. "Like my old one. Doesn't have to be big." Your heart pangs with nostalgia for your old place, for your independence, for your life.

"Ah." Overhaul brings a gloved finger up to his chin and rests is there, nodding, as if he's seriously considering your words. "And how will you pay for rent at this apartment?"

You can't resist the snarky tone. "A job."

He rests both hands on his thighs. "Tell me, how much did you make at your last job, again? No--tell me, how long did you hold your last job?" You cross your arms defensively around your waist as he continues. "If I recall correctly, you were fired rather quickly from that one... and the one before."

You squeeze your waist, hoping for the tiniest bit of comfort from the gesture. "I... it wasn’t my fault.” You feel like you’re under a magnifying glass. “The first time. And the second, well, I was looking for something better, anyway."

He raises his eyebrows, curious. "Looking where? At the bottom of a bottle?"

Your entire body tenses.

"After all," he continues, voice almost taking on a syrupy sweet tone. "Your fridge was so well-stocked with them. Hmm. Do you think it's responsible to spend so much money on alcohol when you're behind on rent payments?"

"No," you say, voice tighter, "But--"

He doesn't give you a chance to finish. He stands, and you immediately squeeze your arms again. "And how much were you spending on other luxuries? Those clothes you kept carelessly shoved in your closet... they were a name brand, weren't they?"

Your throat is dry and your mouth is dry and you lick your lips. "There were sales," you insist.

"Ohh," he says, his voice lifting in mockery. "And I bet there were sales on the jewelry, the trinkets, the--" his eyes drift upwards, an implication of his disdain, "--figurines."

You lift your chin in defiance. "I'm allowed to buy things that I like."

He begins to pace. Not aimlessly, no, nothing with him is ever aimless. He paces until he stops in front of you, turning to face you for effect.

"What happens if you're late on three rent payments? Remind me of the policy that decrepit building you called an apartment complex had."

You squirm on the table. "I was only behind on two--"

"What happens?" His voice is firm. You can't avoid it.

There's a pause before you murmur, unwillingly. "You get evicted."

"So." He takes another step, and turns back towards you. "Do you think it's responsible to spend money you don't have on luxuries, when you're behind on rent?"

You want to run. Maybe you should have run at him earlier. Getting tossed into a solitary room after attacking him might be better than this interrogation.

"No," you admit. You swallow, dry and thick and a bit painful. "Okay. I'm not great with money. I bought things to make me happy because I was stressed out about---life. It's not that big a deal. I--I didn't get kicked out, anyway."

He sits again, but keeps himself upright, the air of faux casualness replaced with an air of command. "How did you catch up on your rent? Tell me."

You hate him. You stare at him, hoping he'll end this, but he simply stares at you until you blurt out the words. "You paid my landlord. Anonymously." You stare down at the floor, at the drops of water still there from earlier. "I didn't ask you to. I would have figured something out."

"I'm sure."

He stands, and you stare at the wall until you hear him roll the tray of supplies towards the table. Your body trembles of its own accord when he grabs your arm firmly and wraps a blood pressure cuff around the top. You sit in silence as the cuff gets tighter then mercifully deflates.

He tsks at the number, and jots it down on the pad resting on the table. For once, you're not tempted to peek.

"I need to take some blood," he says, and you stick out your arm in automatic, habitual compliance before your brain even realizes it. He grips your wrist firmly while he swipes your arm with an anti-bacterial agent.

"How much do you weigh?" He asks suddenly, voice nonchalant.

You stare at him, incredulous. He's never brought up weight before. He’s always been careful to avoid details about weight, nutrition--calories. The most he would do is point out that you need a well-rounded diet with the right vitamins and nutrients, and ignore your questions about sauces and cooking oils and grams, all attempts to find out something that could give you an ounce of control over what’s going into your body.

"I--I don't know.  You don't let me look at the scale when I step on it." He knows this. He knows that he's forbidden you from seeing the number, because he knows about your past, knows your tendency to get obsessive and strict and focus on food and weight and worth.

"Why don't I let you look at the scale?"

Your stomach feels like it's twisting.

"I don't know." The lie is bitter on your tongue.

The casual tone in his voice when he replies is far more biting than any cruel insult. "Yes, you do." 

His words are punctuated by the harsh medicinal smell of the next wipe. But you're in no mood to appreciate that he's still choosing to numb your skin despite your earlier transgressions.

The tears you felt building earlier begin to prick at the corner of your eyes. You don't want to cry, you don't want to cry, you don't want to cry.

“Why don’t I let you look at the scale?” He repeats, firmer, more insisting. He winds a band around your arm and taps at your veins.

Your arm looks fatter, like this. You swear it does. You look away to avoid your arm and the needle and his gaze.

“Because, um, I sometimes have problems with food. Or weight. Or whatever.”

“You have an eating disorder,” he tells you, all business as he plunges the needle into your skin; there’s only the ghost of a sting as he begins to slowly draw your blood. But you barely feel it, you can only feel the impact of his words, blunt and hateful.

"You were going to throw up in that germ-infested hovel. Eat until your stomach was distended, then head into a bathroom--which I'm sure the staff hadn't cleaned in ages--and stick your unwashed, greasy fingers down your throat until it all came back up. Am I correct?"

You can't tell if you feel woozy because of the needle or the way that your heart is racing at his words. Throw up. Greasy. Disgusting. You're disgusting.

"Stop it," you say, voice muddled with humiliation and anger.

He pulls the needle out, and quickly presses a bandage to your skin. He keeps a finger there, firm and pressing. He looks up at you, now, as he continues his onslaught.

"And then what? Let me make an educated guess. You were going to get on some filthy bus and open up all the junk you bought earlier? Perhaps," he muses, as he rips off a piece of tape to keep the gauze in place, "you could have asked the bus driver to stop at a public bathroom for a vomit break. And you'd probably make sure that whatever flea-ridden hotel you found along the way had a scale in the bathroom so you could keep track. And another one of your delightful," he practically spits the word out, "cycles would have started, hm?"

"Stop it," you repeat, voice breaking. "I wasn't--I wouldn't have--"

"You were going to," he says simply, interrupting. "Thankfully, we got there in time. Although I'm sure now you will endure a stomach ache after your reckless indulgence. A lesson, perhaps, though not the exact one I would inflict myself."

As if on cue, your stomach rolls and clenches. You’re keenly aware that you’re going to have digestive problems tonight, and the thought of being at his mercy while you’re dealing with them threatens to send you over the edge.  Could you get even more disgusting? The thought of how you look right now, stomach no doubt bulging, hair disheveled and damp, covered in ugly bruises and cuts--combined with the fear of spending the night on a toilet sends you over the edge.

You press your knuckles against your mouth and squeeze your eyes shut and try to force the sobs down. Your body begins to tremble, even more so as he lifts your leg. Without warning, he begins to unceremoniously scrub it down with a sponge dipped in disinfectant.

It stings and your eyes feel like they might pop at the sudden pain. You hiss at the feeling of the liquid on your cuts and try to pull away, to no avail. Your legs feel like jelly in his grip.

“That hurts,” you whine. 

“It can’t be helped,” he tells you, holding your leg firmly as he scrubs the sore bottom of your feet. Any sensitivity you had there is overruled by the soreness and pain from running, from the stinging aches that remain in your cuts. “I have to clean every cut or you may get an infection.”

He sets your leg down and lifts up the other, and you cringe before he even begins to move. You can’t help but whimper as he scrubs your leg, and the helpless stings of pain only increase when he moves on to your arms.

“Please,” you say, feeling low, nearly flattened. “I can’t… I can’t take this.”

He pauses, and the seemingly genuine concern in his eyes (it’s not, you remind yourself, it’s not--you think of the shop and the pizza place and the old man cutting his wife’s food, that was concern, that was care) has you feeling sorry for yourself.

“The stinging will go away in a few minutes. You chose to run away, you can certainly deal with this minor consequence.” He retains his grip on your upper arm and he swipes the sponge across your shoulders, briefly pushing the fabric aside as he does so. He pauses when he sees the blooming fingerprints on your shoulders, but says nothing.  You wonder if those men will survive the night.

There’s a a cut, thin and long, dragging from your collarbone down across your chest. He dips unceremoniously below the gown, touching you in a spot he normally avoids. The feeling of him so close, touching you--not quite on your chest, but close enough--only intensifies your humiliation. You whimper again and try to pull away, but his grip offers no room to move.

“I can’t--” You don’t finish. Your throat is so tight and you hate it, you hate that you can never talk about anything with him, never argue with him without clamming up with tears and a thick throat.

You bring your hands up to your hair, tugging on it until it prickles. Your breath starts to come in short bursts, your chest having as you pull on your hair and will yourself to be anywhere but here. For a flashing moment, you wish you’d never tried to escape. If you didn’t, you’d be getting ready for bed right now. Things would be--not okay. Never okay. But you wouldn’t be here, on this table, cold and stinging and in pain and utterly despondent from having your failures shoved in your face. But then you remember that if he’d never kidnapped you, you wouldn’t have had to try to escape in the first place, and the wish fades.

He remains silent, and instead simply keeps a steady, firm grip on your upper arm until your breath slows, until you can control yourself. Your skin feels at once numb and prickling in anxiety and adrenaline and emotions coursing through you.

Overhaul gives your arm a squeeze that is, perhaps, meant to be reassuring. “Are you suitably recovered?

You nod. Your stomach feels sour. You want to ask if you’re done, if you can just go sleep or get sent (you dread the idea) to solitary confinement or whatever it is he has planned in the wake of your escape. Anything would be better than this room and this soft, thin gown and his bright blue surgical gloves and your failure hanging in the air.

He extends his arm out and you pause for a moment before you grasp it, holding tight as you get off the table and stand on wobbly legs. You’re loathe to touch him, but you’re even more loathe to fall flat on your face on the hard floor.

He speaks before you get a chance to ask if you can change out of the medical gown.

“Now, we’ll go to the bathroom.”

Your knees suddenly feel like they might drop out from under you. “The bathroom?”

He nods, and pulls himself away from your weak grip as he begins walking towards the door. You follow without thinking, pausing when he stops to slide his medical gloves into the trash before slipping on another pair.

“We’re not finished here,” he tells you, and you swear his voice is almost giddy as he turns his head to meet your questioning face. “I told you earlier, we’re going to clean your mouth out.”

He can’t mean--

You take a step back, and your knee buckles. He’s quick--he catches you before you fall, but doesn’t let go. His pulls you upright and pulls you along. Your legs have no choice to walk--walk or be dragged--and you struggle for words as he leads you out of the clinic. Before you know it, you’re back in your room (familiar, warm, the same as it ways this morning) and led swiftly into the attached bathroom.

He pulls you in far enough that he’s able to shut the door behind him, trapping you inside. As if you wouldn’t be trapped by his mere presence. For a moment you wonder if he was bluffing, trying to scare you into submission, but by the time you take another breath he’s running the sink water and tearing into a new box of bar soap.

Your voice catches as you finally speak up. “You--you can’t be serious.”

“What makes you think I’m not serious?” He doesn’t even face you as he speaks. Instead, he turns on the tap and fills a paper cup with water before setting it on the sink’s edge. Next comes the bar of white soap, which grows slick underneath the water. He turns off the tap and lets the excess water drip off, before turning to you, soap bar in hand.

“Open your mouth.”

Your lips press together automatically, and you shake your head. No, no, and no. This isn’t happening.

He sighs, and again the feeling that you’re annoying him creeps under your skin. Why does it bother you that you’re annoying him? It shouldn’t bother you at all, but somehow you feel a pang of regret at how much has changed in less than 24 hours. 

“If you don’t open your mouth willingly, I will open it for you.” He takes a step closer, but your legs feel heavy now, rooted to the spot. It isn’t like there’s anywhere you could run, anyway. “I don’t want to do that,” he continues, voice slightly softened. “Cooperate and open your mouth.”

What choice do you have? You could protest, you could argue, you could leap into the bathtub and make him fight for what he wants. You could keep your mouth shut tight and force him to find a solution. But he is stronger than you, in more ways than one, and he would get his way in the end.

So you make the only choice available to you. Your entire mouth shakes and seems to fight against you as you slowly open your lips in compliance. You feel stupid, standing here with your mouth hanging open.

You can’t reflect on the feeling for long, as he wastes no time in shoving the bar inside your open lips. You can’t help but whimper at the intrusion, but he doesn’t let up and begins methodically scrubbing at your tongue. At first, there’s no taste--then the built-up slick of clinical soap makes itself known, and you take advantage of the soap slipping out of your lips to press them together again, denying him entry.

“Open,” he orders, soft and firm.

And you do, heaving your shoulders in an unreleased whimper. What else can you do but listen? He continues to scrub, this time moving the bar into the side of your mouth to scrub at your teeth. The clammy, greasy feeling of soap coating your teeth makes you curl your wide open lips downward. You must look ridiculous, in all respects, lips gaping in an unpleasant frown as your captor mercilessly soaps the inside of your mouth.

“Do you not like the taste?” His eyes glance over at your frown, and the mockery in his tone is more than blatant. 

“Uhh-uhh,” you mumble, open-mouthed, shaking your head. The position you’re in--Overhaul scrubbing into your mouth, your shaking body, the dim feeling of your bruises and cuts from earlier--makes you feel so painfully exposed. So painfully helpless.

He hums and rests the soap against your tongue. Before you can attempt to move your tongue, lessen the feeling of the taste of the soap against it, he gives you a command.

“Bite down.”

Your teeth sink into the soft bar, keeping it in place, and your whimpers grow stronger at the humiliating order you’ve just obeyed. Could you sink any lower?

You watch him through tear-brimmed eyes as he moves to stand in front of you. You know what’s coming before he even speaks and when he does, it’s no surprise.

“Have I ever hurt you?”

Back to this, again.

You shake your head, mumble around the soap: “No.”

“Are you capable of being on your own?”

You hesitate, and he merely jumps to another question, one far more pointed.

“Have you held a single job for longer than a year?”

You want to protest, but any attempt at complicated speech is marred by the soap--the weight of it, the taste, and your need to keep it steady in your mouth.

“No,” you admit, hating the feel of the bar as your lips press against it with the effort of speech.

“Would you have been evicted if I didn’t pay off your debts?”

“Yes.” Tears sting at your eyes. You want to wipe them away but you’re afraid you’ll get soap in them, somehow.

“Are you responsible enough with money to hold a job, maintain an apartment, and buy yourself the necessities for life without someone else stepping in?”

The soap somehow tastes even more bitter. “No, I can’t.” Your tongue pushes up against the soap at this, and you resolve to keep it to one-word answers only.

“If we didn’t intercept your little outing, would you have attempted to throw up at that restaurant today?”

You shake your head, but it’s a lie, and you know it’s a lie--and he knows it’s a lie. So you nod, weakly. “Mm-hmm.”

“Have I been feeding you healthy meals? Have I been ensuring that you don’t engage in disgusting self-destructive behaviors?”

He has, but that’s not--your mind wants to argue, but you’re so tired and sick and your stomach hurts and the taste of the soap is too much. So you nod, instead.

He nods in response, and you pray that he’ll take the soap out and end this. Instead, he lifts your chin with a single finger, making you keep eye contact as he speaks.

“Do I take care of you?”

“Yes,” you cry out, your words garbled around the wet soap bar. He releases your chin and it’s these words, this final question, that make you break entirely. Your shoulders ache from bruises as you cry, hunching over slightly and watching as some drool-laden soap droplets fall on the floor. “Yes, yes, yes,” you repeat, mechanically, crying around the bitter soap that’s digging into your front teeth.

Satisfied, he takes hold of the bar and waits for you to release it, then tosses it with ease into the trash. You blubber and spit, only succeeding in releasing a trail of soapy drool down your chin. Your tears are hot and stinging as they roll down your cheeks. You open your mouth, you try to say something, but all that comes out is soft cries punctuated by your attempts to spit out the soapy film.  

“Look at you,” he murmurs, bringing a gloved hand up to your cheek and wiping at the tears. “My poor thing. You can’t even speak. You can’t even articulate yourself. How could you ever hope to make it on your own?” His words are soft and cruel and you merely cry harder, humiliated and helpless.

Your throat is sore. Your stomach hurts. You want your warm nightgown on. You want to be in bed. You wish your stomach didn’t hurt so much from eating junk. You wish you weren’t covered in cuts and bruises. You wish you’d just enjoyed the garden and went back inside. You wish you’d never done this at all. You’re so stupid. You’re so stupid.

And you finally say so, all of it, blubbering, bits of soapy drool dribbling out of your mouth as you cry and admit your faults out loud.

After your wrought-out apology dissolves into meaningless whimpers, Overhaul finally grabs the glass of water he set on the edge of the sink, and you gratefully swish the lukewarm liquid with earnest. You lean over the sink and spit, body trembling, then fill the cup again and repeat the gesture again and again to get rid of every bit of white soap stuck in your mouth. Even as you spit, you realize that the taste isn’t going to be completely gone anytime soon--it’s stuck in your mouth like a bad memory.

You jerk when his hands are suddenly on your back, rubber gloves sliding up and down the thin medical gown covering your cold, helpless body. But he merely keeps rubbing, gentle and soothing, while you swish and spit, and cry and cry.

His hands leave your back only to grab a washcloth from the built-in shelves across from the toilet. You watch as he wets the cloth and you stand silently, allowing him to wipe up the drool and soap from your chin, your neck, even a bit on your chest where it dribble-dropped downward.

When you’re all cleaned up, he fills up a cup with mouth wash and silently hands it to you. You gratefully swish it for as long as possible before spitting it into the sink. The soap taste is still there, but lessened somewhat by the overpowering mint of the mouthwash. He gestures to your toothbrush and you pick it up, and begin mechanically brushing your teeth, stopping when the 2-minute timer flashes on the bottom. You instinctively grab your floss without having to be told and make quick work of that, too.

He opens the door to the bathroom, but gestures for you to wait. You do, standing numbly, wishing that he let you have a mirror so you could see your own state. But he doesn’t, and you can’t, and so you wait until he returns with a bundle in his arms.

It’s your pajamas. A soft, pink nightgown--he didn’t pick the soft blue one, tonight, and you’re grateful to avoid any reminders of the medical gown you have on--with matching socks and underwear. You nod and accept the bundle meekly. He turns around and you make quick work of the medical gown, tossing it in the trash yourself before you get dressed for bed.

“M’done,” you mumble, though you quickly realize speaking makes the lingering soap taste stronger. You follow him silently out of the bathroom and into your bedroom, which is just as you left it that morning. The only thing different is you. Subdued, humiliated, helpless.

Overhaul pulls the cover on your bed and you sit down, numb and chastened. You pull your legs up and tuck them under the soft comforter. You’re forcing yourself into the routine you’ve been following for the past few weeks, but the secret thrill you once had of obeying with ulterior movies is no longer there. It’s been replaced by a heavy stillness, the knowledge that you failed in more ways than one. The occasional roll of your stomach reminds you that the night may not be over, bedtime routine be damned.

But you ignore it for now, and you lean your head back on your pillow as he pulls the comforter towards your shoulders, tucking you in. Rather than leave immediately, he sits next to you on the bed, looking down at you with an obsessive, possessive expression in his eyes.

You force down an instinctive flinch when he suddenly begins to stroke the top of your forehead, moving up to pet your hair softly. His gloves are gone. While not completely new, it’s rare--rare enough that the feeling of his bare fingers is still an unusual sensation.

You close your eyes. It usually makes him leave faster. Your heart begins to pound as you hear him stand, as you sense him leaning in, as you feel the ghost of his breath against your face.

“Sweet dreams. We’ll start fresh in the morning.”

What a silly thing to say, you think. Your dreams are never sweet anymore.

[bprinny]

Two peshiye of the EOA take a break while on campaign during the invasion of Ruengesta II, a jungle world in one of the outlying systems of what the Ossians consider their “sector”. Both are wearing uniforms considered standard for the time period, with flak weave overcoats and synthetic fiber vests for protection. The tunics are likely made from synthetic materials with iron or steel buttons, as only Home Guard units would have access to silk. Despite this, synthetic tunics were consistently proven to be equal in durability and protection to silk tunics, if not as comfortable. These tunics featured additional pockets for smaller pieces of kit such as additional mags, calorie bars, or bandages, though the scavenger nature of native Korsunites meant that these pockets often filled up with junk the soldier stashed away for later use. 

Unit identification was threaded onto the left shoulder, with military flag of the Emperiya Ossia threaded onto the right; these were normally threaded onto the tunic, and rarely the flak overcoat. Soldier personal identification was printed onto a paper strip that soldiers were expected to keep with them at all times, usually in an armored pocket. Paper was exceptionally rare in the Ossian state at the time, and it’s use prevented forgery, while the fragile nature of the material was meant to encourage soldier to act with care when handling military equipment. 

Puttees were still in use for most units, particularly units deployed far from Korsun, as the Military High Command felt it was cheaper to send synth strips than the more durable (and preferred) All-Terrain Combat Boots. Colonial regiments still use puttees, though logistics officers usually try and replace them with proper boots as soon as they can. Leather straps were used to secure webbing and armor, though the quality of the leather varied wildly depending on where and what it was sourced from, with some units boasting leather with protective qualities comparable to flak armor. 

The soldier on the left is wearing a Mark IV Mortis Combat Helmet (MCH), an exo-armor class protective device based on the skulls worn into combat by the tribal warriors led by the Matriarch Herself, and on the hollowed out Men of Iron heads worn by the Exomortis Tribe before they were conquered by Her. Variations of this helmet have been worn by the EOA since it’s founding, and the emphasis on cranial protection is often cited as key factor in their early victories during the Rekonkista. The Mk IV MCH was considered powered armor, though they lack the sheer protective qualities possessed by the power armor worn by Astartes. Power for the helmet typically came from a miniaturized power cell based on the ones found in lasgun magazines, and were often removable. Issues arose from the necessity of removing the helmet to replace the battery, if someone was not available to replace it for the user. The MCH included a rebreather and poison gas detectors, with the rebreather filters needing to be replaced after any gas attack. Thermal imaging systems were included as part of the basic package, but were often considered of poor quality, and were prone to interference from lasbeams. Ballistic and energy protection were rated as consistently high, equivalent to standard Imperial Flak helmets, and offered superior degrees of protection, as the face was shielded with the MCH. The MCH was expensive to produce, however, and not every soldier got one; it’s likely that the soldier pictured here is an NCO or similarly ranked individual.

The soldier on the right has a Mark II Mobile Field Generator, an early version of a concept brought forth by the Military High Command of soldiers being able to sustain their ammunition reserves while on campaign, or deep in enemy lines. In practice the generators were heavy, bulky, and largely unnecessary, as the standard lasgun mag can be recharged with sunlight, fire, or being hooked up to any expeditionary vehicles a unit might have attached to it. 

“That’s the weird thing about Korsunites, once they take their masks off, they just look like ordinary humans, like they could have come from any world in the Imperium--as long as they don’t smile.”

(original art by @https://birdy-the-artist.tumblr.com/)

[infestedslime]

Ok now that I’ve gotten everything that was added in angels of the zariman (aside from the arcanes) here are my thoughts

I saw a lot of people complaining about the quest, and it wasn’t anything to write home about, but the last quest they implemented was 6 hours and the main selling point of the update was always the new missions and content so i don’t feel like that’s entirely fair as the quest was really just meant to be an introduction. I imagine some of it was also meant to set up duviri given how they referenced the ship as being a plug keeping the void from a spilling out. I will say I was a little disappointed with the fact that they didn’t go for horror with the quest like they did with chains, or the fact that they have kuva soldiers but no mention of the queen. There’s also the fact that it didn’t wrap up any loose ends from the new war, and I’m a little worried that they’re just gonna drop teshin and erra and the fact that the narmer remnants are still very much being led by someone but we don’t know who.

In terms of the holdfasts I wasn’t super invested in them at first (at least not as much as say the entrati or the Solaris after their intro quests) but they did end up growing on me. I liked that they did the rank up cutscenes like they did with deimos, although the final one was kinda underwhelming. I’m hoping there will be some sort of special max rank bounty or something like there was with fortuna, or maybe that they’ll also appear more in duviri paradox.

I think all of the mission types are good. I would say void flood is my favorite and void cascade is my least favorite. Void flood is almost relaxing whereas I find void cascade to be stressful and annoying. It could be improved if they went with the interception thing where it only takes place in one area, rather than having it stretch out across a whole map. Void Armageddon is fun at first but you have to do way too much of it for the hespar part. It’s about a 25 minute run for a 10% change at the blade part. They either need to increase the drop chance and remove some of the junk rewards like endo and lenses or they need to make it like disruption where it’s always on c rotation after a certain point. The bounties are also very frustrating because if someone who hasn’t done the quest is there it’ll force drop endo or credits which is also what they did for the new war bounties. They should either have it only give the person who Isn’t supposed to be there the bad reward or they should just kick them from the mission automatically like they do with relays and nodes that require keys.

The zariman itself is probably one of the best tile sets that has been added to date. There are so many cool details and the void corruption effects look absolutely stellar. The inclusion of things like voidplumes, zarium accolades, and audio logs in normal missions rather than just in syndicate special mission to encourage exploration is really nice, and it’s something I hope they continue to do in the future.

Im terms of gear I really like pretty much everything they added. Gyre is fun and has a decently powerful kit with good synergy and her weapon is also pretty decent on top of being really cool aesthetically. It makes me feel like I’m using the plasma rifle from doom. The main drawback for it is that it’s got a pretty small magazine and it’s alternate fire where you launch a grenade that sends out waves of electricity is pretty underwhelming. Hespar is really fun, it’s not the best melee but it’s decent an the new melee grip is really fun. I hope they add more soon, although it’ll probably be like the warfans where they wait like 3 years to add another one. That seems to be what they’re gonna do for assault saws. The aeolak is ok but it’s kinda forgettable. The incarnon weapons are the big thing, especially since they’re basically an experiment for future evolving weapons, and oh boy were they a success. All 3 weapons are really fun and really powerful. The sidearm is a semiauto pistol that’s charged by headshots and can be transformed into an automatic rifle with exploding shots. The rifle is the same deal except it turns into a heavy weapon comparable to the mausolon. The melee can be changed by getting up to 5 with the combo counter (or 3 with one of the upgrades) and aside from looking cooler and being bigger I’m not really sure what the difference is. I very much expected them to be harder to transform in normal missions and for the upgrade trees to not be very helpful, but it’s pretty easy to get all of them into their alt forms and there are some really useful upgrades. For example one of the ones you can choose for the guns gives you a 50% chance to do 2000% damage on non-critical hits. The challenges to actually evolve them can be a bit tedious, like the one where you have to get headshots on an angel, but none of them are too bad. They announced earlier that the next update will add 2 more and I’m excited to see if they’re also as good. I’m hopeful that they’ll eventually start branching out into other factions, I imagine they’d have a pretty easy time coming up with evolving sentient and infested weapons.

The player housing is fun, It’s nice to have flat walls to put stuff on. I haven’t done too much because I’m waiting to get more decorations from hombask. But it’s very nice to have a more open space for decoration that isn’t a dojo, and it’s doubly nice to have someone who sells a bunch of decorations and furniture for something other than plat. The visographs are kinda cool, but I wish hombask sold some. It’d be nice to have a forest one or a lua one. The void shell skins are a cool concept but i feel like I’d have been more interested if they put ones out for frames that didn’t already have like 20 skins. Also there are a few materials that i just don’t think you could get to look good on anything like the focus school patterns. Xaku should’ve totally gotten a void shell skin and I will die on this hill.

Last thing I guess would be the reworks. I can’t speak to every school because I haven’t looked at them but Madurai is way better. I had always found waiting in void mode to build up damage really annoying and being able to get the damage boost with one button press now is a vast improvement imo. I also like being chain void sling for longer. I know a lot of people don’t like void sling but I find it to be way smoother than void dash, and I also like that fact that it’s replacing void blast, which I always thought was kinda clunky. The ability to change back to your frame by doing a melee attack also makes it a lot smoother to use operators in combat, especially since switching to operator seems to have a lot less lag. The ability to get focus from enemies without a lens is a nice addition, as is the focus represent since there’s now something to spend extra focus on. Overall I really like all the operator changes. The eximus changes however are a much more mixed bag. I think the eximus visuals are a vast improvement, I can tell what most of them do just by looking at them and their attacks are much better telegraphed. However the overhealth is a problem. It’s fine in normal gameplay, but I’m higher level missions like steel path and the zariman it’s an absolute nightmare. Eximus take way too long to kill, do way too much damage, and don’t really have any adequate rewards to justify the increase in difficulty, especially with the immunity to cc abilities. The particles effects can also get really overwhelming, although it’s not as bad now that they have more spawning limits.

I’m terms of improvements there are a few thing. Firstly I think eximus either need to be toned down at higher levels of they need to drop much better stuff. I think the easiest thing would be to have them drop ephemeras that resemble their type. That would be probably not too hard to do, and it would be a good enough reward to justify how hard they are to take down at higher levels. I also think they need to rework how decorations are placed because there are so many wall decorations that just place in the most bizarre ways possible, and I don’t want to spend 20 minutes trying to make a painting attach to the walls, especially now that we have personal quarters with no function other than to decorate. They also absolutely need to change how bounty rewards work when someone isn’t where they’re supposed to be, it is immensely frustrating not being able to get a single part for hours on end because people are taxi-ing their friends in a public mission. In terms of thing I’d like to see added, evolving weapons for other factions are a big one, and one I assume they plan to do. Sentient and infested weapons are the obvious ones but I could also see them doing corpus ones in the style of transformers, especially since that’s already kinda what the ambassador transforms like. I would also like to see more void shell skins for frames that don’t have many cosmetics like xaku or lavos. I also think it would be cool to have a frame with an evolving void angel themed skin in the vein of the protovyre stuff. Same goes for armor, I think the holdfasts should have an evolving armor set as a standing reward. Also, I know it’s not one of the planned incarnon weapons but I think it would be cool to have a scythe that transforms into an heavy scythe, especially since the other melee even mentions farmers using makeshift weapons.

[twopoppies]

it really fucks me up that people have to indulge in such shitty pr stunts to promote something (talking about the whole industry). like why cant a person being nice and humble be enough. are people really that starved for drama. it just doesnt makes sense to me that you have to be so fake and different from the real version of yourself to actually achieve something

As Louis said, “Nobody cares when you’re boring”.

I agree, it sucks. And yet the junk gets consumed in record numbers. Look at the absolute crap TMZ writes. In the last six months they averaged 55.6 million views per month. That’s a shit ton of people. People magazine is the second most read magazine in the US reaching almost 100 million people monthly according to their 2020 press kit. That’s an even bigger shit ton of people.

And each of those people is a potential customer to buy a ticket to your movie, to watch your TV show, to buy your album, to buy a ticket to your concert, to sell those sunglasses to, to market that restaurant to...

It’s infuriating because we happen to think someone like Harry (or Louis) is incredibly charming and wonderful and talented just as they are, so why do they need these ridiculous stunts? But to the suits behind the artists, I think what they see is “hey... why should we only reach x number of customers when we have the potential to reach 100 times that many customers?” It’s all about money, at the end of the day. 

And I don’t mean that that’s Harry’s driving force (although I know certain people like to say it is). But the thing is, the more money Harry makes for his label or a studio, the more creative freedom he’s given and the more power he has. Yes, of course he also makes a lot of money himself. But a musician (or actor or whatever type of creative person) who’s only in it for money, isn’t someone who talks about music, performs, or writes the way Harry does. Given what I’ve seen of him, that’s a man who loves what he does and who wants a long career doing it. I’m sure he’s very happy with his bank account, too, but it’s not his driving force. 

So, yeah... that’s why we’re stuck with these shitty stunts, IMO. 

Please don’t come at me with discourse on capitalism and the price of his tickets or how elitist some of the things he does are. I’m aware of all of that. But that’s not what I’m talking about here. 

[emmyrosee]

Staying.

On The Run II

Part One.

This most certainly isn’t timely; hell, I doubt there’s any interest for this story anymore; but after writing it, scraping it, writing it and scraping it and finally getting it? I don’t care what you guys want, I’m happy 🥰

This certainly isn’t the most fun chapter, but boy HOWDY I was excited when I saw all my dots connect and UGH I’m pumped😂❤️

WARNINGS: verbal fighting, language

Gordan Merkel x Fugitive!Reader; after a series of unfortunate events lands you in East Berlin, you fear almost everyone and everything that lands in your path. And it forces you to cross with a stranger who takes a risk on you.

---------

“I’m sorry it’s nothing fancy.”

You can’t help but find some humorous comfort in the words. Gordan’s small home definitely wasn’t anything fancy. Two bedrooms, one full bathroom with a small half in the hallway. The kitchen was standard, present as soon as you walk past the frame of the front door.

You clutched the blanket around your shoulders tighter as your eyes scan the room thoroughly. Some art work decorated the light brown walls, curtains drawn tight. It wasn’t exactly in the city, a small cel de sac in which houses were spread along the curve. According to Gordan, the lovely people who lived there were more than happy to either assist him or become part of the rebellion, so while hiding you would be mandatory, being heard would only be concerning if they caught your face.

Allegedly.

Woods decorated the backyard and seemed to stretch for miles, and the sun raising was no match for the branches.

It seemed fine, small and sweet as it stays happily in the ground. You most certainly are ready to regrow your clipped wings and sleep on a bed, with lamps and blankets and windows with golden sunlight to peek through them.

That is, until Gordan guides you gently to The Room.

Hidden only by the back of a reclining chair, The Room is a small cubby-like hole, dropping down to a five-foot tall landing. The small opening is a perfect square, and the short stool just under it seems large in comparison to just how little of room there is to spare.

Boxes of liquor and crates of naught magazines take up even more room, and in the corner, a pile of blankets and a single pillow on top of a twin mattress. There’s a small pile of empty water bottles and discarded wrappers of German junk food that litter the already messy hole, and you can barely make out the small lamp and curtain drawn window against the wall.

“It’s not exactly the most spacious or comfortable room,” Gordan sighs, staring in the dark room. “But my rebels, they use the it as well. It’s never failed me before.”

Your eyes fixate on the small space, wondering silently as to how many rebels were in this port before. Gordan smiles, “it’s a lot bigger than it looks. And it’s only for a couple hours a day. When I get back home, assuring everything is shut, I will be able to let you out.”

Your eyes drift over at Gordan, who’s smiling face is focused on the Room. He holds an expression of relief, and while you can’t pinpoint your feelings, a certain calmness washes over you as well.

He seemed to have that effect on people- hell, he was able to ground you after being so skittish for three years. His whole aura was full of protection, and you couldn’t help but relish in this new feeling.

This was going to work.

—

The first few days were fine.

From 6:30 am, to 8:30 pm, Gordan was out at work. When he comes home, he doesn’t talk much about his day, though he pours you both a glass of wine and starts to make dinner before scurrying off to bed. You’re allowed to walk around when he’s home, but when he goes to bed, you’re only allowed three hours to completely get your “freedom” fix.

Television volume can only be one-fourth of the way up, and make sure the stereo is turned all the way down before playing.

Fridge is open to anything, as is the library and shower, and it all just worked.

And just as it started to come together, you could feel it slowly slipping apart.

Gordan had been staying later and later, cooking less and less and being unable to buy more and more groceries. The Room locked from the outside, though he left a lock-picking-Kit in case of any emergencies. The window creates some light, same with the lamp, but they’re so dim, what’s the point.

He’s given you books to read, mainly about Sweden and the culture and language, you assume it’s sorta like a last resort.

But you can only read for so long.

You can only count the marks on your face and deal with the flicking of the lamp, and draw shapes in the water-stains on the window for so long.

More often than not, you just end up sleeping.

Or, sort of sleeping? It’s hard to tell anymore, you think you’re asleep with how dark it is, but sometimes your muscle jerks and you think “hey, that’s never woken me up before” only to the repeat the cycle. Before, the scary shapes your imagination would try to pain through the darkness would scare you. Now they’re you’re friends, and you feel your heart shatter when they leave.

At least when you were on the run, you had endless space... here, you’re not quite sure what you have.

You just know it’s not nearly enough.

You feel you’re homesickness transform from your home and family, to the streets.

Little did Gordan know just how bad you wanted to go back.

———

You’re not quite sure when you dozed back off.

You must’ve as a loud clomp! makes your eyes fly open, only to slowly fall back shut.

Then to fly back open as the sound of thick, heavy boot-steps pound on the floor in front of the room, and after a loud screech of furniture moving, the lock to the door clicks open, head spinning wildly at the noise. Your eyes fall to the dim alarm clock.

11:42.

At night? Had you honestly been left alone for 16 hours? Left to nothing but sleep and count hair follicles on your arms?

There’s an immense, sudden flood of light that clouds your vision, and in the middle of it was Gordan Merkel. The first part of you is washed with relief, it’s just him and not the authorities as he could’ve easily given you away.

The second part of you? Rage.

“My sincerest apologies,” he says immediately, watching cautiously as you crawl out of the room. “I had to stay late, make some adjustments to files and shit. What can I get you? Are you hungry?”

With each excuse and word that Gordan says, your arms tighten over your chest, and tears sting the back of your eyes.

“Please?” He continues, “I’ll make some dinner and-“

“You’re unbelievable!” You shout, storming out of the room. Gordan’s eyes widen as he shushes you, waving his hands to quell your anger.

“I can explain-“

“I am not some fucking dog!” You scream.

“Please do not yell, we can’t stir suspicion-“

“Fuck your suspicion! You cannot leave me for hours on end with no food, no water, a crappy sense of time, what kind of monster are you!”

“There were issues at work I had to resolve,” Gordan says firmly, gripping your biceps. “You’re just going to have to trust me on this.”

“I don’t have to trust you with anything,” you hiss. You flick yourself away in anger, and Gordan pushes the fallen strands of his gelled hair back, his face holding venom so powerful, you feel sick. It sends a chill through you, and as much as you hate him, you know he’s in control.

“People who actually have to stay here, stay quite and keep to themselves. You think I like having to hide a fugitive such as yourself in my house, putting both of us in extreme goddamned danger? Do you not understand the risk I am taking for you?”

You freeze, and your heart stops. Of course you knew what a risk he was taking. Anyone associated with hiding you could be in jail themselves, but was supporting him really worth being treated like an animal?

“Y-yes, Mr Merkel,” you whimper, looking at your feet.

Evidently, yes.

Gordan takes a stride towards you, eyes still firm and authoritative. “I promised you safety, and safety is what I give you. If you are truly unhappy with my methods, you do not have to stay. Make my life safer. One less tally of suspense on my back.”

Your heart stops as if Gordan held the button to make it cease, and he just pressed it. You knew you wanted to stay, it was warmer and more assuring than outside. It was better. Gordan was nice to you, this much you knew for sure. You’d been lying to yourself, the streets were scary, you never wanted to go back.

You shrink back from him, slowly turning on your heel to blink and dab at the tears burning your sleepless, aching eyes.

You hate him. You hate him you hate him you fucking hate him. You hate this control he holds over you. You hate this twisted freedom-hostage situation. Of course you can leave anytime. You know he’s not going to stop you, but you can’t bring yourself to do so.

Against your own will, a tight, nearly silent sob squeaks through your trembling lips, and behind you, you hear Gordan sigh.

“Look at me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“And I don’t want you to cry, look at me.”

Slowly, your shaking frame turns to face him, and as you see his softened, easy face, another sob catches your throat. He crouches to meet your gaze, and when you try to look away, he tips your chin to look at him.

“Listen to me,” he says, low and firm. “I want you to be safe, alright? Your being here makes me feel like I have a control of you being alright. I don’t know what they’ll do to you if those morons find you- what I do know is when you’re here, yes, I might be late, but you’re here. And the plan is just one day closer. Do you understand me?”

You blink up at him and say nothing, a thick, hot tear slipping down your warmed cheek. He wipes it away with his knuckle, clearly unable to see how he hurt you. “But, if I’m going to keep you as safe as I can, I have to make it seem like nothing has changed. If I make anything questionable, rumors will fly. And I cannot lie to my rebels. So,” he gently grips your chin in his hand. “For now, I need you to just trust me, alright?”

Your eyes avoid his, and you gently nod your head in understanding. Gordan sighs and pushes himself up, “as long as the curtains stay closed, feel free to roam.” He rolls up his sleeves and gently walks down the hall, leaving you and your spinning head alone in the darkened living room.

Another weak, pathetic sob rips through you, and with nothing better to do, you climb back into the room, easing the door shut, part of you secretly hoping that Gordan would forget you.

Forget you, your crimes, and everything in between.

------

OTR taglist (please let me know if you would like to be added or removed)❤

@hecohansen31​

@youaremyfamiliar​

@shyvirgoanon​

@kathryn-jane​​

@billofourtime​

@little-grunge-flowerz​

@bethskarsgard​

[poorlytunedukulele]

Day 25 - What’s Inside?

December 25, 2954; The Last City, Earth

Cayde set the box on the table with a flourish.  Azra crossed her arms and glared at him.

“Cayde.  I told you-“

“Hup up up!” He waggled a finger.  “I don’t care.”

“I’m not-“

“Don’t.  Care.”

Azra had told everyone that had asked (and a few people who hadn’t) that she was not doing Dawning this year.  She didn’t have time to hunt down presents, not with the Dreadnaught to explore and the Taken War to fight across the whole system.  She didn’t need a bunch of kitschy junk cluttering up her vault.

Unfortunately, it seemed some people were too stubborn to get the memo.  Cayde nudged the box closer, a challenging look in his eye.  “I didn’t get you anything,” Azra complained.

He pantomimed checking his wrist for a watch.  “Oh, what time is it?  It’s… my God, it’s I-don’t-care-o’clock!”  He tapped his imaginary watch and held it to his ear to listen for imaginary ticking.  Azra rolled her eyes.  Cayde sighed and gave up his charade.  “Listen, Jax, I know you’re not the holiday type.  But you deserve a break.  You’ve been running yourself into the ground lately.  I really could not care less about getting something- I’m sure you’d be very thoughtful, but that’s not the point of the holiday.  I got you something because I wanted to.  Now open your gift.  That's an order.”

He nudged the box one last time, sending it another inch closer.  “Plus, don’t you want to know what’s inside?” he taunted.

Dammit.  He had her made.  She pulled the box in front of her with another glare at Cayde.  He looked insufferably smug.

She turned her attention to the package.  It was a middling size and covered in a pale blue paper dusted with silver.  A navy-blue ribbon was tied around it with care.  She thought for a second to shake it and listen to the rattle, but her common sense won out.  Too big a risk of some explosion.  Instead, she eased her belt knife out of its sheath and started carefully slicing through tape.

“You’re supposed to rip it open, Jax,” Cayde said, sounding exasperated.

“The paper’s pretty,” she countered.  She slid the box free and folded the wrapping neatly.  It was a gun case.  She popped the latches.

Her first reaction was visceral rejection.  Inside was a very familiar Requiem sidearm.  It was almost immaculate- new paint, not a speck of rust.  She noted distractedly that cushioned in the foam beside it were a few magazines and an old-school leather holster, but her main attention was riveted to the gun.

She took it from the case with numb fingers.  It had been months since she’d even thought about this weapon, practically years since she’d last touched it- and for good reason.

Azra Jax had gone into the Vault of Glass fully kitted out- sniper rifles, rocket launchers, shotguns, scout rifles- even a sword.  She’d had enough ordinance to take on a Cabal Firebase.  The only gun that had survived was a beaten-up and barely-functional Solar sidearm.  The Requiem hadn’t even been her main energy weapon.  It had been lying around and brought on a whim.

She’d tried to get rid of it afterwards, but something had stopped her.  The armor she’d come out with was dirty and so worn it was falling apart.  The cloak had ended up in tattered rags.  The Requiem had been the one thing she could keep.  A rare bit of sentimentality had stayed her hand.

But she didn’t want reminders of the Vault of Glass and the eternity she’d spent trapped there.  Unable to bring herself to destroy the gun, she’d buried it deep in her vault where she wouldn’t have to look at it.

“Commissioned Banshee for a refurbishment job,” Cayde bragged.  “Kept all the original parts, but it should work like new.”

“Like new, Cayde, I got this originally from the Vanguard before the Great Disaster!  ‘New’ is seven decades out of date.”

“Hey,” Cayde said, offended.  “That gun’s been through a hell of a lot and it’s still kicking.  That makes it top-tier in my book, no matter how battered it got.  Rather have that than some shiny-new model that might fail on you.  It’s proved its worth.”

Azra slipped a magazine in.  Chambered a round.  Flicked on the safety, flicked it off again, cocked the slide and released it.  The motions were the most familiar thing in the world, easy as breathing.

She removed the magazine and ejected the round from the chamber.  The gun was indeed her original one- she could feel her own Light pressed into the metal.  Banshee had miraculously fixed almost every dent and scratch, but there was that tiny deformity in the stock, the pinhole she’d drilled into the sights.

She hadn’t wanted reminders of the Vault.  Holding the gun again hurt.  It brought the fear and despair she’d felt there one step closer.  Horror circled at the edge of her mind, waiting to sink its teeth into her again.

But the resilience and determination she’d forged in the Vault was closer, too.  The Requiem hurt, but it hurt in a good way, like sore muscles after a rough mission.  The pain was a reminder of her strength.  Steeling herself against it brought back good memories, too.

She loaded the gun again, fingers acting without need of conscious thought, and made room for the holster on her belt.  Its weight felt natural there.  And Cayde was right- she’d come out of the Vault broken, too.  But the fact that she was still around was something to be proud of.

“Thanks,” she said roughly.

Cayde put a supportive hand on her back.  “Now go put on that nice suit of yours.  Shiro’s taking both of us out to dinner.”

AO3 Link

[weddingdjassociation]

Darragh O’Dea – Ireland’s Premier Wedding DJ

“Experience is my business card”

My obsession with music started when I was a young kid. I was lucky enough to get a stint at a local Pirate Radio Station when I was fifteen and I played songs that still work for me today. That is the beautiful and bizarre thing about music. If you get to know your crowd and invest in the audience anything can happen.

Being a Wedding DJ in Kildare is profoundly more than simply playing music. It’s creating a backdrop for memories that will quite literally last a lifetime. It’s knowing that there is no such thing as a “wedding play-list”. My experience has shown and taught me to create something unique every single time.

I’ve been a DJ for over 30 years and have navigated my way from a time where music was simply radio. You had to listen live, buy (and read) the magazines and take every morsel of advice from your elders gratefully. They knew what would work because they had the experience. Experience that couldn’t be bought or sold. It was gold.

When I play an 80’s DJ set I am right back there. At 80’s nights I am once again transported. It worked for me then and it’s working for us now. It’s a spectacular thing to be part of and when it works it works. My experience has taught me to thrive on that energy.

When I play a 90’s DJ set I am transported back to my time as a DJ on the Canary Islands. It was 1992 and the world would physically stop turning if “Rhythm Is A Dancer” was not played a minimum of four times. You can’t “learn” those memories. It’s an instinctive and genuine thing. I am right back there remembering what worked and seeing it work again so beautifully!

As a DJ It is no longer acceptable to “not have a song”. We are now the Spotify generation. Every song, era & mood is available at a second’s notice. For couples who wed in their late 20’s/early 30’s Mark McCabe Maniac 2000 is an institution. It’s a right of passage and probably the biggest song in Irish Music History. A time machine of memories, mistakes and everything that represented one’s teenage years! I recently played at a wedding where a band member asked me about the song as he had never heard it before. I thought he was joking and It stopped me in my tracks! (no pun intended)

As a wedding DJ you have to entertain and please a large group of people in no more than sixty songs. You’ve an eight year old flower girl and ninety year old Auntie Breda. Every single guest is worthy and deserving of an amazing experience. My experience has taught me to weed through the junk and PLAY THE HITS. It’s the simplest strategy and a formula for success but sometimes it can be lost in an oblivion of panic and preparation. Every single crowd is different and you often have to change your plans, shake things up and alter accordingly. It’s a gut feeling and a momentary instinct that arrives when you look at that room of people. A room of unique people who have united to celebrate the most important day in the life of someone that they love. Play the hits and make them happy.

Sometimes the dance floor clears. It happens. The temptation to panic and question everything is very real. It happens for a lot of DJs. I’ve reached a point in my career where I pride myself on reading the crowd and the clientèle. If it doesn’t work then you very quickly provide something that does. The dance floor begins to populate once again and you know you’re doing your job. That feeling is electrifying!

I have 30 years experience in this wonderful industry but I am constantly learning something new. Weddings, music and people are complex topics individually. Throw them all together and you have a lot of things to consider. I recently played at a wedding and instantly knew that a song (Buddy Joe) would transport the wedding couple and their friends right back to their youth. I also knew that this kind of song, and indeed set, simply wouldn’t work on the night of their wedding. It would have been lost in the company of the more mature guests and friends and family of the couple. Day 2 of the wedding brought more celebrations and felt to be the perfect time for this genre. It became a thirty minute set and the feedback from the couple was amazing. It brought the bride, groom and all of their friends right back to their teenage years and the atmosphere was out of this world.

Just a week later I played at the wedding of a more Indie/Alternative couple. Their music choices were far from mainstream but they wanted to please everyone at the same time. We found a way to merge the two and it resulted in brilliantly happy wedding guests and a bride and group who still experienced the tunes that brought them back to their college days. We made it happen and it was my experience that gave me the confidence to make that promise.

For More Information about Wedding DJ in Kildare Visit this site

My experience as a wedding DJ in Ireland is my business card. Like any artist I’ve dedicated my life and time to perfecting my skill. I respect the responsibility that comes with the job and I’ve spent my days fine tuning my craft. I’ve grown in an industry that has become so saturated and “tick the box”. Experience is my tool kit. It’s the bag of tricks that makes me 100% confident that your wedding will be everything you have dreamt about and more. It will be “that” wedding that people talk about time and time again.

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[assortedmutts]

01 09 18 28

Go through Merc’s shit!

01. pockets.

Three keys to unlock the door to his home and a small set of lock picks attached to the chain. A Swiss Army knife. A pack of Marlboro Reds and whichever lighter he’s most recently purchased at a drugstore. A small Ziploc bag containing his dose of Xanax for the day. Similar bags containing daily doses of Oxy and modafinil. Cigarette butts collected throughout the day so that he may safely dispose of them, possibly a couple of empty, neatly-folded coffee cups for similar reasons. His wallet which, other than large amounts of cash and a subway pass, likely contains one or two forged driver’s licenses and possibly a passport. Occasionally a burner phone or two; depending on his plans for the day, he might not always carry them for fear of being traced. Occasionally a switchblade and/or brass knuckles.

09. “junk” drawer.

He doesn’t really keep junk at the Blacksite. Or anywhere, tbh. His keepsakes are stored either in his bedroom or the panic room/gun safe at the Blacksite, or in his private bank vault in Switzerland. No sense in keeping what doesn’t serve him.

18. “secret” hiding spot.

I started describing the contents of his panic room and realized that he prepares himself for so many different scenarios that I’ll never see the end of it so, instead, have a description of the contents of the bugout bag he keeps in the panic room which I suppose gives you the general gist of things.

Two changes of underwear and socks; two sets of forged paperwork including birth certificates, driver’s licenses and passports; a compass; a Silcock key; a set of lock picks; an escape & evasion kit; several infrared strobes; a pair of night vision goggles; two spare magazines for his handguns; a survival knife; some ropes and cords; a solar charger; an extra burner phone; a bunch of spare batteries; a headlamp; a lamp attachment for one of his handguns; a water filter straw; a tarp; a blanket; matches and lighters; rubbing alcohol; a tourniquet and some gauze; sheers; wet wipes; dried foods and protein bars to last him a few days; a tin cup to cook and eat with; a hydration bladder and a week’s worth emergency supply of his pills.

28. five most recent sent text messages

Since Merc only really texts people with meeting details (time/location), hates typing and doesn’t really trust phones for much more, I give you instead the Five Most Recent Messages Sent To His Boyfriend Lawyer From Various Burners special.

FROM: --- --- ---- [8.9 23:01]

[the image is dark and grainy and zoomed into a dirty alleyway. if one looks closely enough, one will just barely be able to make out the shape of two men groping one another against one of the walls. if one looks closely enough, one will just barely be able to make out the square face and long nose of an infamous New York attorney peering out over the other man’s shoulder, sickly lit with the neon-green glow of a nearby sign.] 

FROM: --- --- ---- [24.2 10:14]

[the image depicts Holloway smoking in the balcony of his New York apartment. his eyes cast downward onto his upturned hand, he appears to be looking at his phone.]

FROM: --- --- ---- [24.2 10:16]

[the image, sent only two minutes after the former, depicts much of the same; Holloway smoking in the balcony of his New York apartment. his face is now turned, vaguely, in the general direction of the camera and he is presenting it with his middle finger.]

FROM: --- --- ---- [5.7 21:46]

[the image is taken through the front window of a restaurant in the early hours of the night, two diners in its center. the slender figure of a woman in a backless black dress, her red hair elegantly done, dominates the shot, though a familiar face peers, perfectly clear, just over her shoulder. the glass from which Holloway sips red wine fails to obscure the wolfish grin plastered across his face.]

FROM: --- --- ---- [11.12 03:17]

[the image is bleary and dark. if one doesn’t know what to look for, it is a tad hard to decipher. a wooden headboard takes up most of the picture, its nearest corner obscured by an overflowing ashtray and an empty pack of Marlboros resting on a nightstand and the mere hem of a curtain hanging over an unseen window. in the far corner of the picture is a dark mass; a face half-hidden in a pillow; a single irritated, heavy-hooded yellow eye looking sleepily into the camera.]