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c1qfxugcgy0 · 3 months

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adventures in aerospace

So I recently started working at Large Aircraft Manufacturer. (LAM) The plant I work at employs 30,000 people. The company as a whole employs 170,000. Usually you only hear about LAM when something goes wrong. But no matter how bumbling it seems from the outside, it's way worse on the inside.

Three months after my first day, I have been "graduated" from "training." In reality, I'm still completely worthless on the floor: the training center has given me a paltry subset of the production certificates I need to actually to do my assigned job. A commonly cited statistic at LAM is that a hundred men a day are retiring, each one representing decades of experience, walking out the door, forever. The training center is in the unenviable position of managing a generational replacement, and have resorted to shoveling heaps of zoomers through as fast as possible. (As one of the few people with a visible hairline and who is not wearing a Roblox graphic tee; I am frequently mistaken for an instructor, and asked where the bathroom is, what time the next class starts, etc)

In theory, the training center knows what shop I'm assigned to, and can simply assign me all the required classes. In practice, they do the absolute minimum amount of training in a desperate attempt to relive the crowding in their handful of computer labs and tell graduates to pick up their certs later.

Of course, the irresistible force of the schedule meets the immovable object of the FAA. If you don't have the required production certificate to perform a particular job, you don't touch the airplane. Full stop, end of story.

And so the curtain opens on the stage. It reveals a single senior mechanic, supervising a mechanic who finally received all the certs and is being qualified on this particular job, surrounded by another three trainees. Trainees are less than nothing, absolute scum. At best we can fetch and carry. Mostly we are expected to stay out of the way. And the senior mechanic is only senior in title. He is one of six assembler-installers who is certified to actually work on the plane, out of twenty people on the crew, and spends every day with a permanent audience. He is 23 years old.

("Mechanic"? If you think the jargon at your job is bad, try joining a company that's a century old. Assembler-installers are universally referred to as "mechanics", despite doing work that's nothing like what a car mechanic does, and who are generally paid far worse than FAA certified A&P mechanics. Mechanics are the 11 bravos of LAM, grunts, the single largest category of worker. The tip of the spear. Hooah!)

Large Aircraft Manufacturer is in a dilly of a pickle. All of its existing airframe designs are hilariously antiquated. It tried designing a brand new plane from a clean sheet, and lost billions of dollars to a decade-long integration hell. After that, to save money, it tried just tacking bigger engines on an older design without changing anything else, and the stupid things plowed into the ground in an excruciatingly public manner.

LAM is now trying a middle road. It is upgrading one of its designs that is merely middle aged, rather than ancient, and with proven, de-risked components built in-house, rather than scattering them to subcontractors across the world. And it's still blowing past deadlines and burning billions of dollars LAM really doesn't have to spare.

This is the program I've been assigned to.

Advanced Midbody - Carbon Wing has taken the bold step of just tacking on carbon fiber wings to a conventional aluminum fuselage. Shockingly, AMCW is now stuck in lightning strike testing, due to that troublesome join between conductive aluminum and conductive...ish carbon fiber. But LAM, confident as ever, or perhaps driven by complaints of its customers, has announced that full rate production will begin just next year. Thus the tide of newhires. According to the schedule, we're supposed to jerk from one wingset a month to one wingset a week. That's not going to happen, but, oh well, orders from above move down at the speed of thought, while reality only slowly trickles upwards.

"120 inch pounds? Really?"

I startle upright. I have observed one hundred pi bracket installs, and I will observe a hundred more before I can touch aircraft structure. This is the first disagreement I've witnessed. A more advanced trainee is questioning the torque spec on a fastener. It is not an entirely foolish question-- most sleeve bolts we use are in the 40 in-pounds range. Doubling it that is unusual. I cough the dust off my unused vocal cords and venture an opinion.

"Well hey I could look it up? I guess"

The lead mechanic glances at me, surprised that I'm still awake, then looks away. Excuse enough for me!

I unfold myself from the stool I've been sitting on for the last four hours then hobble over to the nearest Shared Production Workstation.

We do not get Ikea-style step by step instructions on how to put together the airplane. Like any company that's been around for long enough, LAM is a tangled wad of scar tissue, ancient responses to forgotten trauma. If you state a dimension twice, in two different places, then it is possible for an update to only change one of those dimensions, thereby making the engineering drawing ambiguous. Something real bad must have happened in the past as a result of that, so now an ironclad rule is that critical information is only stated once, in one place, a single source of truth.

As a result, the installation plan can be a little... vague. Step 040 might be something like "DRILL HOLE TO SIZE AND TORQUE FASTENERS TO SPEC". What hole size? What torque spec?

Well, they tell you. Eventually.

(Image from public Google search)

You are given an engineering drawing, and are expected to figure out how things go together yourself. (Or, more realistically, are told how it's done by coworkers) Step by step instructions aren't done because then dozens of illustrations would have to be updated with every change instead of just one, and drawings are updated surprisingly frequently.

Fasteners are denoted by a big plus sign, with a three letter fastener code on the left and the diameter on the right, like so: "XNJ + 8"

To get the actual part number, we go to the fastener callout table:

(Note the use of a trade name in the table above. There is nothing a mechanic loves more than a good trademark. Permanent straight shank fasteners are always called HI-LOKs™. It's not a cable tie, it's a Panduit™. It's not a wedgelock, it's a Cleco™. Hey man, pass me that offset drill. What, you mean a Zephyr™? Where'd the LAMlube™ go? This also means you have to learn the names of everything twice, one name on the installation plan, and one name it's referred to in conversation.)

We find XNJ on that table, and fill in the diameter: BACB30FM8A. Now we look up the spec table for that fastener:

The eagle eyed among you might note that there is no "diameter: 8" on that table. As a LAM mechanic, you are expected to simply know that "diameter" is measured in 32nds of an inch, which simplifies down to 1/4.

(LAM preserves many old-school skills like fraction reduction and memorizing decimal equivalents like this, like flies caught in amber. Not least is the universal use of Imperial units. Many American manufacturers have been browbeaten into adding parenthetical conversions. Not LAM! Any risk at all of a mechanic seeing a second number and using it by accident is too great, and anyway, it violates SSOT. Lengths are in inches and feet, weights are in pounds, volume is in gallons and if you don't like it then you can go eat shit!)

After 10 minutes of following references, I arrive at that table, print it off, highlight the correct row, and hand it off to my senior mechanic.

"Great, thanks."

Gratified that I have enhanced shareholder value, I sit back down, and immediately fall asleep. Another day living the dream.

(next post in this series)

#avgeek #large aircraft manufacturer

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ryescapades · 20 days

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aubade · ₊˚ˑ༄ؘ°࿐ | kaiju no. 8

— there is you, and then there is him. as dawn breaks, love lays its claim.

fluff prompt: palm kisses <3 characters: hoshina soshiro x gn weapon specialist!reader

genre/warning: fluff, mutual pining, ooc hoshina prolly, indirect confession, takes place after the sagamihara operation's celebration party, narumi cameo bcs why not

a/n: specially made for my lovely moot @/spookuna <3 i'm a bit attached to this one ngl..

2.9k wc

they say it is a soldier's pride to be able to serve the country they've sworn their lives on. duty, honor and discipline; these are all necessary in order to bring out the best in oneself to protect what matters to them.

expectedly, it is no different in the jakdf. bound by duty, the officers, no matter what position or department they're in, are well aware of the obligation they have to adhere to. they hone their skills and take pride in their abilities to be the best version of themselves so as to protect the lives of the people from the onslaught of kaiju in any way they can.

however, as a defense force officer yourself, your pride lies in your weapons. specifically, the weapons that you made.

ever since you were a mere child, all you've ever known was the forging of heated metals and the whirring sound of machines. the you from years ago used to enjoy watching the process of weapon-making, both machinery and man-made alike. hence, it is only natural that you grew up pursuing a career born out of your interest; a weapon specialist in the jakdf.

you were one of their best, in fact. hardworking and dedicated, you were deserving enough to be stationed at the first division base, where all the cream of the crops reside. studying and researching together with your fellow engineers in the process of making kaiju-specialized arsenals have become as natural as eating your daily meals.

additionally, discussing about the weapons with the soldiers themselves for any improvements is something you'd grown to enjoy doing.

and unbeknownst to most of those around you, you might just have the slightest bit of favoritism towards one soldier in particular...

"how was it, the blaze round? or is the explosive one still better?" you inquire during one afternoon in the testing lab. the first division officer turns to you while holding the rifle containing said blazing cartridges, half of it already emptied after the shooting trial.

"it's working well, y/n-san! your idea of flaming bullets is really doing wonders, seriously. but i do think the design could be better though, for instance..." as he drones on about what upgrades you could add to the gun, you listen with rapt attention, jotting down new ideas on your notebook. after the testing session ends, you mull over your notes in the silence of the now-empty lab.

a curious voice, fused with a bit of bafflement then brings you out of your headspace that is previously filled with a bunch of chemicals, kaiju remains and mechanical parts.

"you're still doing tests on that fire gun-thingy?" you lift your head up to see captain narumi waltzing in, the usual air of confidence and nonchalance sticking to him like a second skin.

you perk up, throwing him a quick salute. "yep, as usual! still got a long way to go though. there's so many stuff i need to fix, especially the cartridge and the substance formula. and there's the barrel part too—"

narumi grimaces, "okay, okay, chill, y/n. i'm only here to pick up my weapon, not to hear you nerd out about your little experiment," he huffs, walking over to the corner of the lab where his bayonet case is kept. you only give a responding chuckle and a lighthearted apology.

being the nosy ass that he is, narumi peeks over your figure to glimpse at what you're working on. however, his magenta hues latch on to your hands. in all the years he's known you, narumi has only ever seen you with your gloves on but today, your hands are bare and free from the confine of those military-issued fabrics.

with the case now slung over his shoulder, he's about to interrogate you about the lines he'd just seen on your palms when your phone that was sitting on the desk rings, a familiar name flashing on the screen.

the captain clicks his tongue. "the heck does this asshole want from you?" he questions in annoyance, albeit while sliding the device to you all the same just as you ask him who's calling.

he takes note of the way your eyes light up when they land upon the name of the caller, a smile quirking up on your face as you feel your heart skipping a (few too many) beat. you immediately slide a finger across the screen to put the call on speaker so that you can still look over your findings and talk to him all the while.

right, speaking of favoritism...

"vice-captain hoshina?" you cheerily greet, and narumi forces himself to hold in a gag (spoiler: he fails) when the man on the other line speaks up, "hey there. you free right now?" internally, you almost punched yourself at how giddy you get after hearing the smooth and light baritone of hoshina's voice.

you send your captain a glare before shooing him out with a wave of your hand. gruntling under his breath, the bicolor-haired man rolls his eyes as he pushes the door on his way out. "damn lovebirds,"

you ignore his not-so vague comment, fully focused on the one you're currently in love speaking with. "no, not really. i was just testing out some new stuff. why?" you query.

"you've heard about the sagamihara operation, right? well, ya see... one of my blades broke while i was fightin' no. 8, and the other one is pretty scratched up. i'm afraid i'd have to get the spare ones you keep at the hq," hoshina explains, and your eyebrows raise in shock.

"what? i've only heard that the mission turned out quite the struggle in the end, but nothing about no. 8 showing up. are you okay?" hoshina finds himself to be a lucky man, for you're not there with him to see how wide he's smiling, his cheeks practically hurt from your expression of concern for him.

"i'm all good, don't worry, dear. and besides, i won't be taken down so easily like that, ya know? have some faith in me, yeah?" you blush slightly at the nickname and his teasing tone before letting out a small laugh. "sorry, sorry. i do have faith in you, vice-captain. you hold that 'strongest close-quarters combatant' title for a reason, no?" you muse, not even bothering to keep the sheer honesty from flowing out.

the grip on his own phone tightens, relishing in the subtle praise sneaking behind your words. throughout his years in the defense force, people have complimented him on his hand-to-hand skills, sure. more often so now that he's a high-ranking officer in the third division. but when it comes to you, it just feels... right. assuring, somehow.

hoshina chuckles breathily, "you're right. so, about my swords... should i go there to pick it up or will you be sending a courier for it?"

for a moment you contemplate, weighing over your decisions. on one side, you really don't have any other purpose to go all the way to tachikawa apart from delivering the weapon. plus, your schedule is not exactly flexible enough to be making such impromptu visits to another base.

on the other hand, going to tachikawa means you get to see him. and deliver the weapon, obviously. but the way you see it, meeting him is enough reason for you to confidently set your choice.

"actually... you know what? i'll be going to tachikawa myself,"

if it were anybody else, you would've reprimanded them for disregarding their duties so carelessly like this. why do something so pointlessly time-consuming when there's a more effective way of doing it? or something along the lines of 'you should stick true to your obligation as a defense force officer, something something, blah blah...'

but who could blame you, really. for hoshina soshiro, you would take the tiniest crumb of chance to see him standing in front your very eyes, only to remind yourself time and time again that he's the one your heart longs for.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

the hour clock strikes around six in the morning when you step foot onto the third division's turf, the sun still on its way to reach above the horizon for the incoming dawn.

you had taken some good five minutes of lecturing yourself about impulsively making a trip to another base, hands gripping tight on the steering wheel as you eventually came to terms with the fact that you were, indeed, driving by yourself from the ariake maritime base straight to tachikawa.

being the responsible officer that you are, you informed captain narumi of your little quote unquote adventure, which he only cackled at. you definitely did not bribe him with a new disc game of his choosing for his bs5 if he promised not tell on you to your superiors...

now, as you settle your belongings in the third division's library, you suddenly feel the nerves wrecking inside. it's quite a silly issue, really. it's not like this is the first time you're meeting hoshina. truth be told, you think you've seen more of him than captain ashiro, even though the latter is the more frequent visitor to the main headquarters out of the two.

you can't help it. everything about hoshina just makes you feel nervous, shy, but warm and happy all the same. your heart would beat a thousand miles per hour when he's near, heat rushing to every part of your body as if you had just burned yourself. well, maybe that's partly accurate, with how stupidly and ridiculously hot hoshina soshiro is—

a knock on the door interrupts your train of improper thoughts.

a figure stands at the huge opened entrance, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed against his— oh, sweet lord... he's wearing that compression shirt again. it takes every ounce of your willpower to not let your eyes stray anywhere below the turtleneck-line, lest you're in for a lifetime of teasing by the man.

you're a bit unlucky, it seems. because when you finally look at him, there is a knowing glint in his wine-tinted irises, as if he understands exactly what goes on in your mind, though he produces no word to address it.

"vice-captain, hi," you start, then proceed to mentally smack yourself because what the heck is that lame-ass greeting?

hoshina smiles, and your eyes greedily take in the sight of his curled up mouth. "hi yourself. how was the drive? i was worried for a second when ya said you're comin' here alone. you could've taken the shinkansen... or better yet, i could've gone there myself," thin eyebrows furrowing slightly, he approaches where you stand in the middle of the room where a metal table sits among others.

you laugh sheepishly, scratching gingerly on the skin of your cheek. "traffic was okay, thanks. and this is kind of an impulsive idea, really. i went straight to my car without thinking instead of going to the train station. plus, i wanted to give these to you myself," you say, mentioning to the leather sheaths sitting on the table.

hoshina tilts his head, giving you a confused smile, "why so? aren't they the same ol' blades like the ones i've been using before?" he asks, which causes your expression to brighten.

grabbing the weapons in your hands, you excitedly unsheathe the twin swords before displaying them in front of him. the blades are familiar, marked as his signature weapon SW-2033, gleaming sharp in the dim light of the library and shaped as similarly as his old ones.

"they are, but i added some touch ups to them too! i did some tweaking in the metal constitution of the blades to make them lighter, but more sturdy and tough to cut through harder things. they're supposedly more responsive to any change in your combat power too. the new composition has some kaiju remains in it, but you didn't hear that from me, okay?" you whisper the last part cheekily.

hoshina laughs, comfortably taking the swords when you hand them out to him and slowly turning them back and forth for observation, awestruck with your creation when suddenly a small detail catches his eyes. "what's this?" he mutters curiously, bringing the handle of the swords for a closer scrutiny.

you immediately straighten up at his attentiveness, your arms sliding behind your back and your fingers starting to play with the hem of your gloves from the jitters. "ah, that. well, i figured the swords would hold out much longer this time. so i thought it wouldn't hurt to do a little mark of ownership on each of them," you mumble, holding your breath while gauging his reaction all the same.

there, beside the jagged, razor-sharp edge of the dark steel blade, a small and intricate swirl of his first name is carved, along with a pressed mark of your own initials just above the izumo tech logo at the hilt.

there's a lump his throat, his slanted eyes widening in surprise.

bashfulness washes over you when he doesn't say anything, still staring at the weapons. "o-of course, i can remove my name if that's what you're concerned about! the hilt is easy to be swapped so—"

"no, they're perfect... thank you," he breathes.

your own eyes widen, gulping down the nervousness that is starting to dwindle down a bit, thankfully. you inwardly smile, relieved at how this is turning out. "think nothing of it! it's just something i thought to do in passing and it's not like there are many others in the defense force who specializes in swordsmanship." your hand reaches up to brush it off.

hoshina suddenly freezes when his eyes latch onto your gloved hand, the piece of stitched up cloth slightly nudged up from your earlier fidgeting to reveal a smidgen of your palm, causing you to tense slightly. you move to hide your hand from his view but your speed is no match against his; the man snatches it into his own, frowning deeply.

he puts aside the twin blades and takes a step towards you. one of his slender, much longer fingers slides under the dark fabric, exposing more and more of your palm to his amaranthine gaze at such a slow pace that it just makes the embarrassment to settle even deeper, simmering in the depth of your stomach and causing shivers to run down the length of your back.

eventually, the glove comes off and his eyes rove over the skin of your palm. it's soft to the touch, hoshina thinks. even so, he can't help but to stare at the lines upon lines of raised skin, ragged and roughly positioned on the surface. your hand is severely scarred.

you try to clench your hand into a fist and pull back but the swordsman seems persistent enough that you just relent, looking away to avoid his eyes. "it's bad, isn't it?" you smile, no mirth whatsoever.

play with knives, and you're bound to get nicked, you'd heard once.

his downturned expression remains. "it is. did you get them while refining my new swords?" he questions quietly into the air between you. your teeth catches on your bottom lip before you let out a low hum, "i always get them when i refine your swords.” the space around you grows tight, and the next thing that happens causes your chest to be even tighter.

hoshina moves closer into your space, your forehead almost knocking against him as he brings your palm to his lips. your mouth dries and feels like sandpaper as the airy, featherlight sensation continues to descend on various spots on your skin a few more times, your pulse quickening as he trails them to your wrist. he's careful with his fangs, but the sudden appearance of his tongue has you gasping slightly. it's wet, and it's warm against your skin. "w-what..." you stammer.

"it's beautiful. you're beautiful, y/n," hoshina murmurs, causing the sharp intake of your breath as the blood in your veins pumps in a frenzy.

he glances up to see your fluttering eyes and reddened cheeks. with those as the only indications he needs, he closes the distance to press his lips onto yours in a shy, tender kiss.

finally, your foolish little heart wants to scream. after months of lingering eye contacts, of shy touches, whispered praises and not-so-platonic gestures. after months of dancing around these intense, dizzying feelings.

the softness of your mouth gives to the pressure of his, dancing unhurriedly against each other as you savor the heat he emits. hoshina holds you close, your imperfectly perfect hand cradled protectively against his chest as his free hand comes up to steady a palm over your warm cheek.

he pulls back slowly to give you space and take a minute but you follow him, eyes still closed and lips chasing after his in an attempt to be connected once more. hoshina breathes out a chuckle and calls out for you, fondness seeping out from each syllable of your name that has you opening your eyes to peer at his own.

and here, as the first rays of sunlight pour through the windows of the library, casting a golden hue across the room and painting him in such an exquisite way it leaves the air rushing out of your lungs. the bell chimes somewhere in your mind, the musical vibrations synchronizing with the love you hold for the man in front of you.

somewhere in the back of your mind, you’ve never thought so beautifully of your hands ever before.

what i would give to be otp with hoshina like i'm his actual gf ... *cries in non fiction

©🅁🅈🄴🅂🄲🄰🄿🄰🄳🄴🅂. do not steal, translate or repost my work anywhere else !

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dcxdpdabbles · 1 year

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Respawn and Relive

@thenightwolf51 who tagged me in this months ago, but I didn't know enough about Respawn to write something. I didn't forget! I just still haven't found much on him, so sorry if I get his character wrong.

They don't give him a name.

It's one of the first things he notices they do to dehumanize him. It's not like they see clones as humans- he's just a science experiment meant to keep the legacy of the League of Assassins alive, even at the cost of his life.

He is just there to be trained to follow commands, and if needed, he is spare parts for the Real Son. He is made from part of the same DNA as the Real Son, but that hardly matters to what should be his mother, as she does not feel anything for his biological father and thus feels nothing for the being created from the two DNAs.

He is the clone created by Slade Wilson- alias Deathstroke- and Talia al Ghul. She may not had a hand in his creation, as that was done by her father, but she had no issues using him.

Torment him. Rip him apart and put it back together just to see what happens.

She looks at him with the same gaze she would a sword. Valuating his worth by how well he can do in training, how healthy his organs are, and how he should be nothing but a loyal dog.

But he isn't. Not really.

If this was all he knew, maybe he would be the weapon they wanted, but he knows more. Remembers more. Yes, he doesn't have all his memories, but he has flashes- glimpses- of the life he had before the Leauge.

They would disapprove of the memories, which makes them all the more precious.

He can still clearly remember his mother- his real mother- a brilliant mind, his father's warm, solid hugs, and his sister's gentle eyes. He can recall his home's layout even if he can not remember the street or how far it was from his school. He can identify his two best friends' faces even if their names slip through his fingers like falling sand.

He also remembers his first name and the initials of his last.

Danny F.

He thinks he died before, waking up as the clone. He remembers standing inside a metallic cave- or a large hole in a machine?- and being electrocuted. He remembers the screams, the flashes of light, the pain, and even a glimpse of his best friends' horrified faces but not much else.

The next clear memory is looking in a mirror to see white hair and green eyes. The same combination he now sports as the Leguage's weapon and spare organ farm.

The memories after that are filled with harsh training, even more, brutal torture, and the reintegration that should his half-brother ever need them, he would give up his organs for the Real Son.

He is, after all, Damian Wayne's gift. He was created to harvest his super healing for the boy's body parts. Danny thinks he hates him, but he's not sure he can remember what hate is supposed to feel like.

He does remember what love is supposed to feel like.

Sometimes, when all he can do is lay in his cell, body aching as they test his healing factor beyond its limits- they cut off his left arm once, just to watch the tissue slowly regrow- he lets himself drown in his old memories, in the few dream-like sequences.

Some make sense, others don't. For some, he's a black-haired blue-eyed boy, and for others, he has white hair and green eyes.

Danny is sitting in class, eagerly taking notes on a topic he has been having trouble with-

-He's playing fetch with a small green dog, throwing snowballs into the air, flying after the excited creature-

-Danny is playing video games with a goth girl and a nerdy boy, laughing so hard he can't see the buttons on the control correctly-

-He's flaying alongside his sister, aiming his outstretched arm at a figure in the sky, shooting a green ray at the same time she does down below in her mechanical armor-

-Danny is helping his mother mix the dough for the cookies. He is swaying his hips to the song she has on the speaker. She's in her teal jumpsuit, having come up from the lab to do mother/son cookies as they do every Thanksgiving-

-He's testing the latest blaster with his father. They wanted to see if the auto-aiming feature was interfering with his flying. He flickers the white bangs out of his eyes as his father cheers from the roof while he takes aim-

Yes, Danny knows what love is supposed to feel like, even if he can't remember all the details, even if his full name evades him. He will escape the Leauage of Assiagins and find that feeling again.

Maybe he'll track down his biological father. Deathstroke does not know a clone was created by him, so maybe he will be willing to take him in.

It takes months, but eventually, they tell him Damian Wayne needs a kidney. Why? They don't say, but Talia knows her Beloved will donate his own, and she won't stand for it. She orders him to fulfill his duty as guards drag him to the operation table.

He grits his teeth as they strap him down and prep for surgery. Thankfully, they don't apply any anesthetics- they don't deem him worthy of a painless operation- so he has a clear head for escape.

The surgery has a thirty-window opening with no guards around. He waits until they are about to begin when he taps into the powers his memories tell him. He makes his limbs intangible, slipping through the restraints with great effort.

The medics only have a few seconds to be shocked before he is upon them. They lay in a pool of blood- not dead. His chest flares up in pain if he kills, so he tries to avoid it as much as his environment allows- as he flies through the walls. He has been planning here, so he knows what to do. Turning invisible, he passes under a helicopter scheduled for a month supply run.

By doing so, he does not appear on any radars using the large cargo as camouflage. Danny drops into the ocean as the alarms go off on that wrenched island, allowing his whole body to turn tangible. This way, the water does not slow him down as he flies deeper and deeper down, praying that they won't be able to track him the further he goes. When he gets to the part where everything is too dark to see- he picks a direction from where he came and hits top speed.

Traveling three hundred miles an hour, Danny escapes the League of Assians with all his organs intact, so take that Damian Wayne.

He has no real destination in mind but maybe, he can find the little town of his memories or maybe he'll find Deathstroke.

Maybe he will discover what the F. in his name stands for.

For now, he'll work under the name Respawn because that's a name he picked out for himself, and he'll do what he wants. He's no one's tool any longer.

(Miles away Tim Drake squints at the small dot darting from Nanda Parbat on his spying map. He's not sure what kind of misle Ra's just shot, but it's traveling fast, and he feels like he needs to phone this in.

"Hey B, we may have an issue." )

#dcxdpdabbles #dc x dp crossover #Respawn and Relive #Danny wakes as Respawn #He's out in the world #Sort of resents Damian but it's not like his half brother knows about him #Yes he escape earlier because of his somewhat memories #Partial amnesia #TW: Mentions of torture

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miguelhugger2099 · 6 months

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Power of the Sun

Summary: You're Doc O'Hara's assistant A/N: tentacle pron? Art: vencipality on twt

Miguel x Reader, No warnings, a little violent/screaming, Angst?, Word Count: 3,004

Miguel was a man of science. He took pride in his work but was always humble about it. He was a kind mentor, encouraging young brilliant minds to pursue their passion in science and math, connecting with his peers and exchanging ideas to enrich and evolve humankind for the greater good. Knowledge is not a privilege, it’s a gift, he would say. Like any other one of his colleagues and apprentices, you admired him and his work. You followed him around as his assistant and confidant. Miguel trusted you after many years and you had fallen in love with him after many years. For a while, it had remained one-sided. A love you kept to yourself and didn’t believe that a man so brilliant as him would ever fall for someone like his subordinate. He deserved someone equally as knowledgeable–capable of keeping up with him. “Dr. O’Hara, I’ve printed all the documents of the latest experimentation process as well as sending a copy to Osborn.” You walked in his vast lab, heels clicking with each step against the marbled floor. Miguel was all the way in the back, only a dim fluorescent light highlighting him and whatever he was working on. His face was scrunched together as he focused on the task at hand. However when he heard your voice, he looked over his shoulder and his scowl melted. He called out your name gently, now a small smile on his face. He joined you in the middle, hands out as he collected the papers from your hands. He briefly flipped through the pages, scanning with his eyes before looking back up at you. He patted the front pages with the back of his hand and nudged his glasses up further his nose. “What would I do without you?” You flush, scoffing and looking to the side before reverting back to him. “You’d be fine, Dr.O’Hara.” You shake your head and swerve around him to take a look at whatever he was working on.

Miguel turns. “I beg to differ. For years, you’ve been a great asset at my side.” You hum. “And for years, you keep telling me that. But really, Doctor, it’s you who does the actual revolutionary actions.” He meets you at your side once he’s placed the papers securely somewhere. “Miguel.” He corrects you. “We’ve been together all this time. You know what else I keep telling you? That honorifics is unnecessary. Call me Miguel.” You clear your throat. “Okay, Miguel.” No matter how many times he reminded you, you would always say his name before reverting back to calling him Doctor. Perhaps habits are hard to break. “How’s it coming along?” You turn your head to see what he had been working on for a long time now. Miguel brightened up, standing straight and walking around the device. Four long green mechanical tentacles held up on their own all attached to a long spinal machine. He grazed his hands over the tentacles, admiring his own work. “We’re close, darling. It just needs some testing.” “Well if you’d like I could set up a volunteering headline for–” “No, no, no!” He stopped you by shaking his head and hands. “No, I–we can’t let this get out to the public yet. This is for the expo next month where Osborn will be. Perhaps he can finally understand why I’m doing this…” He mumbles to himself. You’re taken aback by his outburst but you rationalize it by thinking how exhausted he might be. Ever since Norman Osborn had disregarded Miguel’s research, Miguel had been working on crunch time to prove the CEO wrong. “Then how will you test it?” Your hand comes up to hold a claw from one of the tentacles. You examine the carbon fiber skeleton that Miguel used, trying to find the details of the prosthetic. Miguel admires you from the side, his eyes longing and far as he watches.

“I’ll–” He sighs. “I’ll think of…someone.” He murmurs. He feels an ache in his chest and looks back at his invention. The green of the arms glow softly against his brown skin, reflecting off his glasses. He looks over at you and sees the same for you. The curve of your cheeks and the light in your eyes tinged with green. “You know, um. It’s been a while since we’ve-eh- hung out?” Miguel stammers, taking off his glasses and cleans the right lens with his lab coat. “Maybe later tonight we could–if you like, of course– to join me for dinner?” He coughs and quickly places his glasses back on to hide his blush. He fails. You turn your head to face him, surprise evident on your face. “O-oh. As…colleagues?” Your voice pitches higher with nerves. Miguel gulps, Adam's apple bobbing with the action. “Well, no–it’s–what I’m trying to say is I’d like to have dinner with you as…more than colleagues.” Miguel burns brighter. He could solve the hardest equation, understand quantum physics and talk to scholars and billionaires with no sweat but when it came to you, you turned him into a babbling idiot. He glances at you from his peripheral vision, hoping you would not reject him. “Oh..! Then,” You give him a small smile. “I’d love to.”

What started as one date, began another and another until a series of dates had been planned and enjoyed before it blossomed into a relationship with your boss. You never thought it possible. You always thought of Miguel as someone out of your reach, someone who would rather focus on winning awards and gaining money–helping humankind–before ever thinking of settling down with anyone. For months, you had been going out with him, and establishing your relationship and for months you were helping him with his invention. Miguel screamed as he threw everything he had on his desk aside in anger. Pens, papers and other tools flew to the floor and he gripped his hair in frustration. He tugged on his long curls hoping that the pain in his strands would outweigh the pounding in his head. You ran to his side and placed a hand on his back while he curled into himself, heaving heavily. “You need to rest.” You urged. “These damn billionaires,” He growls, ignoring you. “Can’t they see we’re just trying to help people? Can’t they see beyond something as worthless as the money they want?” He stomps away from you, heading to the pinboard that held all his drawings and calculations. He ripped them off their pins and clips, tearing them to shreds as they fluttered to the floor. “This is the next step to human evolution! And they want to dump my shit, my life’s WORK, just because of what?” He laughs hysterically. “Because that malparido Osborn doesn’t believe in it? Are they so far up that elitists ass?” You watch terrified behind him. You feel your heart pumping, your eyes trained on him in case he hurts himself. “Miguel…” He slams his fists on the now bare pinboard, papers strewn across the floor around him. He heaves out another sigh, his anger simmering. “I just want to help people.” He whispers, resting his forehead on the rough surface. While he takes in shaky breaths, you decide to approach him. Placing your hand on his shoulder, you turn his head towards you. Your heart breaks when you see the defeated look on his face. Eyebags had grown deeper, his eyes bloodshot and half lidded from sleep deprivation. “It’s okay.” You whisper.

“It’s not.” “It is. You’re a smart man, Miguel. You’ve done unimaginable things on your own. Your mind is what they need, but you? You don’t need their money. You have that brain of yours.” You tap his forehead and give him an encouraging grin. Miguel’s face falls into a relaxed smile, chuckling when you tap his forehead. “And you.” He whispers. “I have you.” He takes your hand off his shoulder and brings your knuckles up to his lips to kiss them. He keeps your hand against him until he breathes in and out slowly, looking up at you. “Thank you.” He mumbles, kissing your hand again before standing straight and moving his arms around your waist. “What would I do without you?” He grins tiredly. Your arms snake around his neck. “Probably die without me.” You giggled and he giggled with you. “Probably.” He hums while you look at each other, basking in the calm after the storm of emotions. “How about I bring us some tea?” You offer.

“No coffee?” “I think caffeine should be the least of your worries right now.” You roll your eyes playfully when you see his smirk. “English Breakfast?” You pat his chest before sliding away from his embrace, looking over your shoulder as you walk towards the exit. Miguel smiles and nods. “You know me so well.” He sighs and stuffs his hands in his pockets after watching you leave. His smile drops from his face and he looks over at the giant green robotic tentacles. With a gentle hand, he caresses the silicon with care. Then, he moves onto the spinal cord of the device, wondering if Osborn just saw what he could do–then it would all be worth it. With a glance at the door, he makes sure the coast is clear before taking off his lab coat and shirt–and attaches the tentacles to his body.

You loved Miguel, honestly. The man you met was the sweetest. He was kind and caring, always patient and encouraging for new minds that wanted to learn. He was gentle. Was. You wondered where it all went wrong. Maybe you should’ve seen the signs. It seemed like everyday he would get slowly more agitated. Not at you. Never at you. More like, at the situation–at least you’d tell yourself that. You remember waking up one day in Miguel’s apartment. With your growing relationship, you decided to move in with him but it seemed like you were alone again. Miguel was sleeping at the lab more often than not. Other times you would have had to drag him out of his burrow, him snapping with red eyes that he needed to continue working. With a sigh, you shuffled out of bed, the other side being freezing cold, and got ready for work.

After clocking in, you found Miguel exactly where he was last night—hunched over and murmuring to himself. You place the tea you brought down onto the table along with a sleeping pill right next to him.

“Mi amor, you need to get some actual rest. It’s been days. You’ll wear yourself out.” You speak as quietly as possible to not scare him. Miguel doesn’t flinch, only shrugging you off.

“I’m almost done.” He grumbles.

“You’ve been saying that for weeks now.” You frown deeply and nudge the tea closer to him. “At this rate everything will be in vain. It won’t work if—“

“IT WILL WORK!” Miguel screams, slamming his fist onto the table enough to shake the cup of tea's contents, spilling the sleeping pill. “It has to!”

You jump back, heart racing at his outburst.

Miguel huffs and collects himself, anxiously running his hands through his hair. He drags his hands down his face and rubs his eyes.

“Sorry, shock, I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean to yell at you. You're right—it’s the, uh, lack of sleep.” He sounds exhausted. Every word slurring and when he relaxed even for a moment, his body drooped forward.

“You know better than to do that…” You whisper and he looks up at you with heartbreak in his eyes.

“I…I know, mi cielo—pero—“ Miguel gives you a weak smile, some light coming back to his eyes. “Look. Look! The—the arms! They’re almost complete!” He rushes towards you, ignorant to the way you step back and flinch when he takes your hand in his.

Miguel leads you to where the tentacles stand and presents it to you with a wide smile. “You see here?” He points to the spinal cord of the contraption. “All these ridges really gave me a run for my money. When trying to attach it to the body, they would stick and often fall. If these are to be used for prosthetics then it needs to not just be connected to the body but a part of it. As if the limb never left—or-or better—made better.” He laughs to himself, placing a hand over his mouth as he stares adoringly at the machine.

Meanwhile your eyes squint. “How…how would you know that? How would you know how they react to connecting to the human body? I thought…this was unstable for human testing.”

Miguel scoffs, waving his hand at you. “No one gets far in their inventions by worrying about the dangers, mija! THINK!” He shouts.

You’re horrified, darting your eyes between his bloodshot eyes and the tentacles. “You didn’t…”

Miguel is already on his way to the device and stands in front of it. The spine digs into Miguel’s back and he grunts, the vest he added secures around his waist, lighting up a soft green. The chip snaps into his neck and Miguel stumbles but regains balance. He slowly stands back up and the tentacles come to life, swirling and curling around him. In the midst of the tentacles wiggling around, it slammed against tables and chairs—knocking the tea you had gotten him to the floor.

“Think about how many lives we could save. Mi amor, mi vida, mi corazón, we’re at the brink of the next stage of human evolution!” His tentacles whip wildly around him as if cheering along with him.

“What…are you talking about?!” You yell, exasperated. “‘Human evolution’? Are you insane?!”

The bottom two green arms slam into the ground, breaking the floor as it’s crushed under the weight of Miguel. They lift him higher so he’s well above you—more than he already is. You take a step back, his height and strength becoming much more prominent.

“Do you think I’m insane, corazón?” Miguel asks softly. There’s a hint of green in his eyes.

“We’re—“ You gasp. “We’re meant to make prosthetics. Legs, arms—I thought this was a test to the future but this…” You run your eyes down the arms of the green silicon. Its claws are digging firm into the ground, holding up a six foot nine man’s weight with ease. Miguel’s face is contorted in a scowl, a burning rage underneath his beautiful brown eyes—a light green glowing in the highlights.

“This…is not you…” “What would you know about me?! You’re just some assistant that doesn’t know jackshit other than printing a few papers! All while I worked on this myself!” One of his upper tentacles slam next to you which makes you jump and lose your balance so you could fall to the ground.

“Day and night, all you did was be some aching headache, forcing me tea and pills when I should be wringing Osborn’s neck with my bare hands to show him what exactly he missed out on!” Miguel cackles, his tentacles lifting him higher like a God.

You’re afraid. Very afraid. It all happened so fast. Who was this man?

The tears well up in your eyes and for a minute—if you said another word it would trigger Miguel to kill you.

Miguel must’ve seen the terror on your face, tears bubbling at your water line and falling down your cheeks while you shivered. He must’ve because his sinister smile dropped slowly, his arms lowering him down.

“No, no, no—bella—no. That’s—it wasn’t me—“ Miguel’s feet finally touch the ground and when he does, he hisses, gripping his head as an agonizing headache surges through his mind. He groaned and moaned and took several steps back away from you.

“No! Don’t make her look at me like that! She’s afraid! Don’t scare her! Don’t make her fear me!” He screams, hyperventilating as his legs shake beneath him.

“What? No! I want Osborn! Not her! She didn’t do anything! Leave her alone! Please!” Miguel’s releases tears, giant globs flowing down his face as he faces an internal battle and the tentacles go haywire.

Finding your chance, you shakily get up from the floor, scrambling to your feet to the exit. You scream and fall after just a few steps, Miguel’s tentacles zipping past your head to break through the wall by the door. Another worker outside screams, peering through the hole and witnessing Miguel looking down at you with fury. They run off and it creates a domino effect for an evacuation.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Miguel growls and hovers closer to your shaking body. You turn over your shoulder, heart hammering in your ears and chest. You feel like you can’t breathe.

“Miggy…” You whimper. Miguel’s eye twitches and he looks like he’s struggling between himself and whatever it is that’s in his head.

He stutters your name out before his face is webbed and he groans. Four separate webs wrap around Miguel’s tentacles to attach to his body. Miguel glares up and sees a familiar red and blue suit with big white eyes.

“Don’tcha know it’s rude to be mean to a pretty lady?” The hero quips, standing front of you to protect you.

“Spider-Man…” You gasp—relief filling your chest.

“Spider-Man.” Miguel growls and rips himself free from the webs only to be hindered again once more—this time with stronger webs and with a force strong enough to stick him to a wall.

“Nope! Not yet! I’m still trying to figure out what exactly you are, so give me like five minutes to save some civilians. Thanks, you’re a swell guy!” Spider-Man winks and picks you up in his arms and quickly swings you away to safety.

You look over Spider-Man's shoulder while he swings away and you could barely hear Miguel scream in frustration, his body fighting against the webs. Inside, your heart breaks as you wonder if maybe there was a chance to save him.

A/N: i dont see doc ock miggys. i would like to see more.

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #spiderman 2099 #miguel spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel spiderman #miguel ohara #atsv x reader #atsv x y/n #miguel o'hara imagine

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