#Scribing Machine

[copenstick]

Tooling Design: Crafting Perfection with Every Cut

Woodworking is centered on Tooling Design. At Copenstick, we feel that flawless results can only be achieved through using the right tools.

Customized Solutions: According to your project-related needs, we provide custom-made tools designed to cater for intricate profile preferences and also accommodate durable notches. 

Quality Materials: For our tooling system manufacturing purposes, we use high performance materials whose longevity guarantees users efficient working conditions without unnecessary breakages.

Alignment field: They put a lot of effort into making sure every single detail, be it a cut, a notch or a mark is exact, consistent and accurate enough so workers would not have to redo things. 

Flexibility: Made from quality materials, our instruments can be used in various types of wooden industry machines or even different ones other than that.

Tradition Divided Light: A Nod to Timeless Elegance

Tradition Divided Light windows never go out of style in architectural design. Copenstick’s machinery makes creating these classic elements easier and more precise than ever.

Authentic Aesthetic: We create machinery that echoes the genuine appearance of typical sash windows which blends traditional beauty with 21st-century functionality. 

Customizable Configurations: We know that every job is one of its kind. We offer machines that can be tailored to meet individual project requirements hence help develop the desired window designs. 

Efficient Manufacturing: We have very advanced machines that can help you make small window frames with lines on them in a short time period and with high precision hence increase productivity without any reduction in quality. 

Durability Improvement: We do use very fine machines which make every part to fit in its most accurate position hence enhancing life span of the product.

Scribing Machine: Elevating Precision in Woodworking

Woodworking depends critically on scribing and our Scribing Machines are made for making it an easy and exact affair.

Sophisticated technology: Our scribing machines of recent time are designed in such a way that they guarantee precision when in it comes to usefulness. All programs are performed by these devices from simple cuts to complex figures. 

Use-friendly widget: An interface that anyone can easily operate on our machinery including beginners in timbers works allows removing the barrier of learning hence concentrating solely on your specialization.

Consistent Results: In woodworking, it is important to maintain a level consistency. To achieve this, we use our scribing machines which guarantee that every piece produced is similar, thus preserving the excellence and form of all your works. 

Safety Features: Safety first is our rule when designing. The machines always contain some inherent precautions meant for guarding the operators from potential harm that might arise from disoperation, hence lowering the rates of accidents and safeguarding an environment where people work without fear concerning their own beings.

Why Choose Copenstick Woodworking Machinery?

When you go with Copenstick you know you’ve made the right decision for your woodworking ventures. That’s why Copenstick stands out:

Innovation and Tradition: We mix innovation and traditional know-how, which make them timeless creation enhancing tools. 

Quality Assurance: We are always dedicated to quality matters and in line with this each machine is taken through vigorous testing to ascertain its quality standards.

Customer Support: Leave your machine selection and maintenance needs in the hands of our team. They will ensure everything operates perfectly. We offer exceptional customer support to all clients. 

Sustainability: It is dedicated to using environmentally friendly methods, keeping our working hours and materials on eco footprint levels with the planet.

If you need woodworking machinery that is absolutely reliable, contact Copenstick. Our high quality machines can help you produce window glazing bars, stretcher bars or components for kitchen cabinets with precision, efficiency and consistent quality. Reach out today!

[lightasthesun]

booktok is ruining ao3 (fanfiction etiquette)

[telestoapologist]

LET HER ADVENTURE WITH US AGAIN!! but also saint is a v good dad/friend.

[larissa-the-scribe]

General Update / "Housekeeping"

Hey everyone! I meant to get back into the swing of things before the tournament ended, but here we are. Anyway, major congrats to Felix and @meadow-roses! (Just as I predicted hehe). 

So, what all is going on with ye old blog and what can be expected going forward?

Currently, I finished setting up my newsletter (which you can find here), a new thing that will be consistent going forward. So you'll probably hear about it every now and then. As far as other author platform stuff goes, I'll be setting up a Ko-Fi and Patreon in the next few weeks, and then a website in the next few months (partially already set up here). I am also taking part in a group promotion for fantasy indie authors, which I will share more about later. Oh, and I finally compiled a masterlist of the all the chapters/updates to Terrarium Lights.

The main and most exciting thing that's fast approaching is the story I'm gearing up to share, shared episodically via email, in episodes/chapters delivered right to the reader.

It will be affected by the audience, as it is structured to allow suggestions, feedback, and votes to shape parts of it; and all of this will be totally free to participate in for anyone interested. I have been slacking about sharing about it, but that will be remedied soon. This is an older story that's gotten re-vamped and fleshed out, and I'm excited to be sharing it.

New pinned post up will be up in a bit with links and a re-introduction to the blog, etc. 

I also have a lot of art from ArtFight that I haven't shared yet, and some new characters and character art that I will be sharing, too. Plus I gotta round up all the stuff I submitted as character propaganda and post it more properly on my blog. So I'll be a bit busy for a few months at least XD  

tl:dr: I have an email list now and am doing other authory platformy stuff, I'm gearing up for a serial story that will start releasing soon and will be free to participate in, and I am going to be posting more about characters, stories, and (belatedly) ArtFight pieces. And I'm glad y'all are here

[distopea]

Maxin wasn't happy --- not at Gambit, no not yet. . . But Her. She, who lived and breathed working in that building for them. She looked so sweet and boring at the same time. Her glasses were ugly, her clothing bland and didn't entice even his appetite which wasn't hard at all to make his tongue roll in a pool of saliva but she made him dry as a bone. Finding Gambit wasn't hard, his lover like himself, just as paranoid, just as cute and sneaky. A tracker sown in his collar? Genius, Maxim shamelessly returned the favor - his however involved a bit of sleeping pills, a skin flap and a flawless needle incursion to make his tracker more . . . Permanent.

Still, that wasn't the point right now.

Instead, he was staring across the way - in full view with cake in his fingers, squished and coffee in the other cold and full to the rim. He wasn't happy but - Gambit, no, Ezra promised him, didn't he? Couldn't live without him? Couldn't be without him. They almost burned together to prove that, once. Inhaling and tossing the cake onto its place and wrapping his tongue around his fingers smeared in the mess, he exhaled with tension loosening.

Ebb and flow, but soon enough, he reached for his phone to finally send a text to his lover. [ You are all mine. ] A simple and forward text, something that made even his spine tingle to his toes.

@nvrcmplt

“Ah! Mister Collins! Mister Collins, wait!” 

Maggie had run all the way down to catch Gambit before he could leave the building. She had forgotten to hand him a few documents she had worked on, after their quick meeting to oversee what she had been digging for the past few weeks. She managed to catch him when he left the main entrance, grabbing his sleeve to get his attention, as he seemed to sometimes have the head in a cloud. 

That was exactly Gambit’s state of mind right now. He had received a text from his lover, his eyes already scanning the area to figure out if Maxim was around. The two of them had the habit of stalking one another like the two crazy lovers they were. He had barely had time to finish reading when he had felt fingers wrapped around his arm. He turned around, adjusting his glasses, slightly shocked. 

“Oh, Maggie,” Gambit said, surprised that she was still around. He had goosebumps running down his spine, definitely certain that Maxim was nearby. He had understood over the months that his lover was quite… determined. Gambit’s eyes felt on Maggie’s fingers, as he wiggled off her grip and politely offered a smile. He had never liked physical contact anyway, at least not with whom he considered subordinates or acquaintances. Plus, without even knowing, she was turning his relationship into a paranoid mess. 

… Was he into it? 

He thought about it, it was running inside his mind like hamsters on a wheel. He loved it. Fuck, he adored it. He wanted Maxim to be out of control. To let his paranoia get the best of him. It was so good... So hot... 

“So, yes, I thought we could investigate this firm as well. If this police officer is involved with criminal organizations, it’s worth trying!” Maggie finished talking, and Gambit blinked, as he had barely listened to her words. He quickly checked the street and could see a flash of white hair somewhere. His heartbeat began to pulsate inside his throat. He was in danger; he knew it. He could taste that the air surrounding him was different; charged with a certain electricity. Maxim could attack them both if he wanted, driven by his uncontrolled jealousy and his uncommon violence. 

He would probably slice her throat right in front of him, and maybe… Just maybe, they would have the best fuck in the back alley over there, or in the parking lot, again? Gambit felt his crotch growing hard. He was such a pervert… He hoped that Maggie wouldn’t notice he was turned on right now; it was definitely not about her. 

“I’ll have to see if we can safely investigate. I don’t want you to be endangered because of my little suspicions over one group.” He lied to her face, as he pushed his glasses up onto his nose. He heard another ding and immediately checked at his phone, a little pout appearing onto his features when he saw it was only an app advertisement. “Off you go, now, Maggie. Don’t you have classes?” He said with a friendly tone, while he pictured her cute round face half-eaten by his lover. 

He didn’t wait for her to answer, he quickly turned around and gripped his phone, opening his text message. 

2:47pm: Bony, you see me right? I’m horny. I want you. You’re all mine. 

[seasonallydefective]

The OG Rareware crew just can’t stop getting shafted … Jesus.

Fuck Nintendo

[mothermorrows]

Good to know even the authors of the Prima guidebook were unnerved about Oblivion’s epilogue. (Ramble below)

“Martin was Oblivion’s real hero and protagonist” is an agreeable but somewhat misleading statement. I’ve always considered Martin and the HOK as two sides of the same coin. There is absolutely no way Martin could have done “what he was born to do” without your help, and likewise no other person besides Martin who could have made you “the scribe of the next Elder Scroll.”

Martin was born for a specific inescapable fate in true Dragonborn fashion while you were an agent of free will given the grace to choose your level of fidelity to Uriel’s final wish, prescribing your own meaning to the obscure prophetic dreams he shared with you in the sewers. When presented with Jauffre’s invitation to join the Blades, there is an implication that you have personal motive and reasoning for doing more than what was initially expected of you. Martin innovated the possibility of each foothold against the enemy as he studied the Mysterium Xarxes while you were the ground-level means of executing it. You watched his rapid metamorphosis from farmer’s boy to emperor while you had simply stayed a valued trusted friend in his eyes. And lastly, Martin’s final form is that of an Aedric avatar while yours is a Shezzarine and Daedric Prince. The two of you served different, yet complementary roles of equal importance. Though I’d still consider Oblivion’s epilogue and canon player ending as grim, the fact that both of you become immortalized in opposing fashions, one of grandeur and sacrifice and the other in moral ambiguity is really fitting. It makes sense that a machine missing its adjacent part whirrs for only a little longer before breaking down. But as mortals, you two are always remembered together: there will be no history books about the Oblivion Crisis written in the 4th era where your names aren’t inked on the same page.

[srbachchan]

DAY 6274

Jalsa, Mumbai Aopr 20, 2025 Sun 11:17 pm

🪔 ,

April 21 .. birthday greetings and happiness to Ef Mousumi Biswas .. and Ef Arijit Bhattacharya from Kolkata .. 🙏🏽❤️🚩.. the wishes from the Ef family continue with warmth .. and love 🌺

The AI debate became the topic of discussion on the dining table ad there were many potent points raised - bith positive and a little indifferent ..

The young acknowledged it with reason and able argument .. some of the mid elders disagreed mildly .. and the end was kind of neutral ..

Blessed be they of the next GEN .. their minds are sorted out well in advance .. and why not .. we shall not be around till time in advance , but they and their progeny shall .. as has been the norm through generations ...

The IPL is now the greatest attraction throughout the day .. particularly on the Sunday, for the two on the day .. and there is never a debate on that ..

🤣

.. and I am most appreciative to read the comments from the Ef on the topic of the day - AI .. appreciative because some of the reactions and texts are valid and interesting to know .. the aspect expressed in all has a legitimate argument and that is most healthy ..

I am happy that we could all react to the Blog contents in the manner they have done .. my gratitude .. such a joy to get different views , valid and meaningful ..

And it is not the end of the day or the debate .. some impressions of the Gen X and some from the just passed Gen .. and some that were never ever the Gen are interesting as well :

The Printing Press (15th Century)

Fear: Scribes, monks, and elites thought it would destroy the value of knowledge, lead to mass misinformation, and eliminate jobs. Reality: It democratized knowledge, spurred the Renaissance and Reformation, and created entirely new industries—publishing, journalism, and education.

⸻

Industrial Revolution (18th–19th Century)

Fear: Machines would replace all human labor. The Luddites famously destroyed machinery in protest. Reality: Some manual labor jobs were displaced, but the economy exploded with new roles in manufacturing, logistics, engineering, and management. Overall employment and productivity soared.

⸻

Automobiles (Early 20th Century)

Fear: People feared job losses for carriage makers, stable hands, and horseshoe smiths. Cities worried about traffic, accidents, and social decay. Reality: The car industry became one of the largest employers in the world. It reshaped economies, enabled suburbia, and created new sectors like travel, road infrastructure, and auto repair.

⸻

Personal Computers (1980s)

Fear: Office workers would be replaced by machines; people worried about becoming obsolete. Reality: Computers made work faster and created entire industries: IT, software development, cybersecurity, and tech support. It transformed how we live and work.

⸻

The Internet (1990s)

Fear: It would destroy jobs in retail, publishing, and communication. Some thought it would unravel social order. Reality: E-commerce, digital marketing, remote work, and the creator economy now thrive. It connected the world and opened new opportunities.

⸻

ATMs (1970s–80s)

Fear: Bank tellers would lose their jobs en masse. Reality: ATMs handled routine tasks, but banks actually hired more tellers for customer service roles as they opened more branches thanks to reduced transaction costs.

⸻

Robotics & Automation (Factory work, 20th century–today)

Fear: Mass unemployment in factories. Reality: While some jobs shifted or ended, others evolved—robot maintenance, programming, design. Productivity gains created new jobs elsewhere.

The fear is not for losing jobs. It is the compromise of intellectual property and use without compensation. This case is slightly different.

I think AI will only make humans smarter. If we use it to our advantage.

That’s been happening for the last 10 years anyway

Not something new

You can’t control that in this day and age

YouTube & User-Generated Content (mid-2000s onward)

Initial Fear: When YouTube exploded, many in the entertainment industry panicked. The fear was that copyrighted material—music, TV clips, movies—would be shared freely without compensation. Creators and rights holders worried their content would be pirated, devalued, and that they’d lose control over distribution.

What Actually Happened: YouTube evolved to protect IP and monetize it through systems like Content ID, which allows rights holders to:

Automatically detect when their content is used

Choose to block, track, or monetize that usage

Earn revenue from ads run on videos using their IP (even when others post it)

Instead of wiping out creators or studios, it became a massive revenue stream—especially for musicians, media companies, and creators. Entire business models emerged around fair use, remixes, and reactions—with compensation built in.

Key Shift: The system went from “piracy risk” to “profit partner,” by embracing tech that recognized and enforced IP rights at scale.

This lead to higher profits and more money for owners and content btw

You just have to restructure the compensation laws and rewrite contracts

It’s only going to benefit artists in the long run ‎

Yes

They can IP it

That is the hope

It’s the spread of your content and material without you putting a penny towards it

Cannot blindly sign off everything in contracts anymore. Has to be a lot more specific.

Yes that’s for sure

“Automation hasn’t erased jobs—it’s changed where human effort goes.”

Another good one is “hard work beats talent when talent stops working hard”

Which has absolutely nothing to with AI right now but 🤣

These ladies and Gentlemen of the Ef jury are various conversational opinions on AI .. I am merely pasting them for a view and an opinion ..

And among all the brouhaha about AI .. we simply forgot the Sunday well wishers .. and so ..

my love and the length be of immense .. pardon

Amitabh Bachchan

[invenusworld]

uttara ashadha 𓃰

this nakshatra relates to the myth of ganesha, the elephant headed son of shiva who broke off his own left tusk and used it to pen the mahabharata as is was being dictated by vyasa. another name of ganesha is ekdanta, one-toothed

uttara ashadha natives make prolific writers - their letters and writings are often published highly regarded and studied, their works are nuanced offering layered symbolism and fraught with various subtexts. they have a penchant for words and possess a natural eloquence and musicality (the mahabharat is written in poetic meter and essentially meant to be sung)

uttara ashadhas make excellent songwriters and scriptwriters and have a natural inclination for music, poetry, prose, wordplay and all professions pertaining to writing, including policymakers, scribes, copywriters, screenwriters, etc.

ganesha had agreed to pen the mahabharata on the condition that vyasa narrate it without pausing

uttara ashadhas possess fast paced minds and often produce large bodies of work in relatively short amounts of time, putting forth several magnum opuses in their lifetimes

in turn, ganesha was instructed to only pen a verse once he fully understood it

leading ganesha to take pauses from writing and contemplate what was being narrated by vyasa, reflecting the highly contemplative, reflective and analytical nature of uttara ashadha

this nakshatra spans the 9th house of Sagittarius (dharma - righteous action) and the 10th house of capricorn (artha - prosperity and purpose) uttara ashadha is of the sthira (stable, sturdy, fixed, foundational) quality and kshatriya (ruling, warrior) caste indicating an inclination for positions of power and authority, roles in government, finance, policy making and nation-building, working for the public in some way, being a public servant.

saturn's rashis, capricorn and aquarius, in essence serve as the backbones of society, the machine which keeps it running. aquarius, co-ruled by rahu represents its advancement, progress and future and capricorn is the foundational essence which holds it together — uttara ashadha, shravana and dhanishta relate to upliftment and harmony based on divine connections and the sharing of a common goal

[prisvvner]

✫・゜・ ☆ﾟ. ʜᴀɴᴅʟᴇʙᴀʀꜱ & ʜᴇʟʟꜰɪʀᴇ

─── pairing: biker!ryomensukuna x mechanic!femalereader

─── synopsis: you used to run tokyo’s streets. now you build the monsters that do. but when a rider in black shows up on a hayabusa with eyes like blood and a smirk like a loaded gun—something starts ticking again. something you swore you buried.

─── content: 5.3k words, street racer au, strong language, swearing, mention of hidden trauma, street culture

─── author's note: if you’ve ever felt like your own space could betray you… if you’ve ever been haunted by a smell, a memory, a sound that doesn’t belong—this one's for you.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ masterlist ⊹ ࣪ ˖ part one ⊹ ࣪ ˖ part two ⊹ ࣪ ˖ next tba.

You don’t just look at the Hayabusa.

You read it. Like a grizzled detective leaning over a blood-streaked crime scene where the echoes of violence still hang heavy in the stale, suffocating air. It’s a map—scratches and bruises scribed in black smoke and the bitter, acrid tang of burnt rubber—a silent manifesto of reckless speed and desperate survival. The matte black paint isn’t just a color; it’s a shroud hiding a wild animal clawed raw and bleeding beneath its cold armor. Every nick, every gouge in the frame is a confession inked in steel, a tattoo burned deep by collisions and near misses, a warning smeared with grease and grit.

The air presses against your skin, thick with the sharp scent of gasoline and the oily residue of a hundred late nights—of lost bets, broken promises, and the kind of desperation only the underground knows. There’s grit in the atmosphere, like dust kicked up by speeding tires and the ghost of burnt clutch plates still lingering in the shadows.

You drop low, chest almost touching the concrete floor, fingertips tracing the front fork with the careful precision of a surgeon hunting for a bullet lodged too deep to be seen. There’s a tremor under your gloves, barely perceptible. A ghost in the machine. A bent axle, coiled like a trap waiting to snap. Bearings grinding thin, whispering their slow death in a language only broken things speak. You don’t deal in maybes. In your world, maybes are the difference between shattered bones and scraped knees bleeding on cold asphalt.

Your fingers curl around the brake lever. It folds beneath your grip like a whispered lie, soft, unreliable, no bite, no fight left in it. The warning is clear as a siren in the dead of night: this bike is done dancing with the devil.

Your eyes flick to the chain—loose, slack, stretched thin beyond salvation and coated in a metallic dust that catches the dim light like rusted ash. One cruel twist of the throttle and the whole damn thing could erupt, chrome shrapnel scattering like broken dreams, pride shattered, blood spilled like ink across cracked concrete.

The garage hums around you, a low mechanical heartbeat beneath the flicker of tired fluorescent tubes that buzz like angry bees. Shadows twitch on peeling paint and cracked tile, crawling like black veins over concrete walls. Somewhere in the background, a radio spits out a static-laced blues riff—slow, mournful, like a ghost drifting through the grime and oil.

“You see everything.”

The voice cuts through the thick haze behind you—low, smooth, like velvet dipped in a blade’s edge. It slides under your skin, raising goosebumps along your spine, sharp and unsettling in its calm.

You don’t turn.

“Yeah. And you’re fucked if you don’t listen.”

A slow, dangerous smirk curls through the darkness in his voice. “Good. I like things dangerous.”

The weight of him settles into the air behind you, dense and dark as a storm cloud pregnant with lightning. Not loud. Not flashy. But heavy, like the eye of the storm, poised to either pass in silence or tear everything apart.

You keep working. Wrench in hand, grease grinding into your nails, sweat tracing dirty rivulets down your temple and into the collar of your jacket. The night stretches out, hours folding into one another as time slips through cracks in the concrete floor like spilled whiskey. Every turn of the wrench peels back another layer of neglect and damage, revealing the raw, brutal heart beneath the scabs of rust and oil.

The sharp bite of metal on metal fills the cramped air, mingling with the acrid scent of burnt oil and the faint tang of ozone, prickling at the back of your throat. Your breath comes steady, measured, because machines don’t plead and don’t lie. They listen better than people do, if you know how to hear them.

You don’t say much. Words are wasted on things with no soul.

Your hands are steady, gloved fingers peeling back the bike’s guts with merciless intent. The rattling clatter of loose screws and nuts hitting the steel bench punctuates the silence, broken only by the dull scrape of your wrench against stubborn bolts. Every exposed surface speaks of violence—cracked piston walls splintered like fractured bone, brittle seals swollen and stretched thin like skin pulled taut over a wound, bolts stripped bare, their heads chewed down to jagged nubs, torque marks scarring the metal like failed promises.

You breathe it all in, every sour note of this machine’s decay, but you don’t curse. There’s no room for anger here. This isn’t just a repair job. It’s a reckoning. A resurrection on the edge of ruin.

“This bike’s begging for one,” you mutter, voice low and rough, half prayer, half threat.

Behind you, the room shifts. He leans in close, and suddenly the stale garage air is tinged with something hotter, sharper—his presence like a flame flickering in the gloom. You feel the heat rolling off him in waves, the faint scrape of his boots against the cracked floor. His breath, heavy and slow, brushes the back of your neck.

“And here I thought you were just a pretty face with a wrench,” his voice is smooth and dangerous, like velvet wrapped around a razor.

You pause, grabbing a rag from the bench, rough and stained with grease and sweat. The fabric catches on a jagged piece of metal as you wipe your hands slow and deliberate, smearing dirt and oil across your skin like battle scars. Then, without turning fully, you flick a sharp glance over your shoulder, eyes cold and steady.

“Flatter me again and I’ll double my rate.”

His grin curls, sharp edges, like broken glass catching the light—all danger and teasing promise.

“Triple if I flirt harder?”

The challenge hangs between you, electric and taut, humming like a live wire about to snap.

“You wouldn’t survive triple.”

The silence that follows is thick, charged, like the moment before a thunderclap. The air snaps tight between you, stretched so thin it vibrates with unspoken warnings and a pulse of something fierce and volatile, waiting to explode.

He shifts beside you, his movement slow and deliberate, stalking the garage like a predator scenting fresh blood. The dim light catches the sharp angles of his face, shadows tracing the edges of eyes that burn with quiet hunger and calculation. His boots scrape lightly against the concrete, a soft rhythm under the hum of flickering fluorescent bulbs. He doesn’t rush, he owns this space now, prowling your territory with casual menace.

His gaze drifts toward your workbench—a cluttered altar of wrenches, sockets, and grease-stained rags. Like a hunter drawn to the scent of prey, he edges closer, fingers twitching as if to touch.

“Didn’t peg you for sentimental,” he mutters, voice low and rough, laced with a dark amusement.

You straighten up, wiping sweat from your brow with the back of your hand. The sticky heat of the garage clings to your skin, mixing with the grit embedded beneath your nails.

“Don’t touch unless you wanna lose a finger,” you warn, voice steady but sharp.

But he’s already found what you thought was hidden. A faded photograph, shoved behind a battered tin of bolts. The edges are worn, curled from years of neglect, but the image inside still burns bright: you, younger, eyes wild with fire, clad in blazing red leathers that scream rebellion and speed. One hand thrown up in a defiant victory, the other clutching a trophy taller than your waist—a symbol of triumph and desperation, like a weapon forged in adrenaline and danger.

He lifts the photo slowly, turning it over in his hands like a rare artifact. “This you?”

Before he can linger too long, you snatch it back with a quick flick of your wrist, sliding it out of sight and back into its dusty hiding place. “Ghost from a past life.”

His smirk tightens, just a flicker in the dim light, less amused now, more calculating.

“You don’t ride anymore.”

Your jaw clenches but your voice stays even. “Never said that.”

“But you don’t race.”

The words hang heavy between you, a silent accusation. You say nothing, letting the quiet fill the space.

He glances back at the Hayabusa, its matte black frame gleaming faintly under the flickering garage light, battle scars mapped across its body like old war wounds. “You miss it?”

You slam the tail section shut with more force than necessary, the metallic clack ringing sharp and final.

 “Miss dying for a crowd that forgets your name before the smoke even clears?”

His laugh is low and gravelly, like stones grinding together in some dark cavern. “Guess we share that.”

No questions follow. No explanations. Some ghosts don’t need chasing—they linger, silent and watching, waiting for the right moment to strike.

You jab a thumb toward the wall. “Grab the compressor. Hose too. Blow the carb clean. If you’re gonna loiter, earn your keep.”

He raises a brow, slow and skeptical like he’s testing how far he can push before you snap. But then he moves. Lazy grace, too confident by half. Like he’s used to giving orders, not taking them.

“Bossy,” he says, dragging the hose toward you with one hand. “I like it.”

You don’t look up. “You’d better. I’m not done tearing this girl apart.”

And she needs it. The Hayabusa lies half-dissected on the lift—frame exposed, guts splayed like a crime scene. Oil puddles beneath her like blood from a fresh wound. You’ve got your arm shoulder-deep in the heart of her, coated in carbon and fury.

The hours grind on.

Fluorescents above buzz and flicker like dying fireflies, their strobe-white glow making shadows twitch on the walls. The whole shop hums, tools singing metal songs, sockets clicking, torque wrenches hissing satisfaction. The scent of gasoline, hot rubber, and brake fluid settles into your lungs until it feels like you’re breathing the road.

He helps. Clumsy at first. His fingers are made for breaking things, not fixing them—but he listens. Watches. He picks it up fast. Muscle memory formed in darker trades, maybe, but it transfers.

You show him how to thread the new chain, precise teeth on the sprocket, tension perfect. You show him how not to crush the gasket when it seats—just enough pressure, no more. You guide his hand when it falters at the torque wrench, make him feel the difference between over-tightened and just right.

He doesn’t flinch when you curse, loud, sharp, colorful. Doesn’t blink when you chuck a wrench across the bench after a bolt seizes. Just raises an eyebrow, like you’ve confirmed something he already suspected.

He doesn’t talk much. Just studies you.

Not the way men look when they’re hungry. Not the way they look when they’re sizing you up.

It’s colder than that. Calmer. Like he’s reading you. Trying to find the kill switch.

You catch him staring when you’re hunched over the front brake calipers, sweat beading on your neck, grease smearing your cheekbone. You turn, meet his crimson eyes head-on.

“You gonna tell me your name,” you ask, wiping your hands on a rag, “or should I keep calling you asshole?”

He leans against the lift, thumb idly tracing a long scratch on the tank.

A beat. Then—

“Ryomen Sukuna.”

It’s smooth, like silk pulled over barbed wire. A name he wears like a weapon, not an introduction.

You pause. The name’s unfamiliar. But the weight behind it isn’t. That’s a name you feel more than hear—like it drags history behind it. Something bloody. Something earned.

You grunt, ducking back down. “Alright, Sukuna. Don’t make me regret knowing it.”

Time keeps moving. You both don’t.

The engine finally hums again, deep and dangerous, like a wolf waking up from a long, bad dream. You run your palm along the fresh-tuned frame, every bolt exactly where it should be. The tire's mounted. Chain tightened. Carb purring like it’s forgiven you. She’s not showroom-ready. But she’s alive.

You lean back on your heels, finally breathing, bones aching in that good, honest way. Then you pull the keys off the hook and toss them at him without ceremony.

“Don’t fuck this up.”

He snatches them one-handed, spinning them once between his fingers before pocketing them with a casual flick.

“I won’t.”

He means it. Not cocky. Not bluffing. Just... certain.

You narrow your eyes, step close. Close enough he smells the sweat in your collar and the iron on your skin.

“You break her again,” you murmur, voice like steel dragged across pavement, “you better break with her.”

A silence falls. He doesn’t smirk this time.

He just looks at you. And something shifts in his face—like a mask slipping, just a crack.

“You’ve got fire,” he admits. “Most people just run on fumes.”

Not a compliment. An observation. A diagnosis.

You cross your arms, oil smudged on your forearms, grit streaking your jaw like war paint. You’re a mess. You’re a monument.

You grin, all teeth and defiance.

You snort. “Keep talking pretty, and I’ll make you change the oil too.”

He grins again, feral and quiet. But this time, there’s something else in it. A trace of something older. Sadder.

“Been through worse,” he says, tapping ash to the floor. “Besides… I like getting my hands dirty.”

You watch him swing a leg over the Hayabusa like he’s done it a thousand times, like the machine already answers to him.

Helmet in one hand. Keys in the other. His spine relaxed but alert. The kind of stillness you only see in predators and people who've survived too much.

He turns to look at you.

And the rest of the world seems to stop.

Dawn bleeds pale orange across the sky, brushing the tops of the buildings like the city’s just been set on fire, but slow and quiet. The light hits him from behind, outlining him in gold like a painting half-finished. His shadow spills long and thin down the alley, stretching toward your boots.

The street is dead quiet. Not even the hum of distant traffic. Just the lingering smells of scorched rubber, oil, sweat, and adrenaline, wrapped in silence like a noose. Your arms are crossed tight across your chest, muscles taut from hours of grinding metal and holding yourself together. Shoulders aching. Fingernails black with grease. The collar of your shirt sticks damp to the back of your neck.

But you hold his stare. Unflinching. Daring him to speak. Daring him not to.

And he studies you.

His gaze doesn’t wander, doesn’t stray. It stays right there, locked on you. Heavy-lidded, unreadable, but not indifferent. Focused. Like he’s memorizing your silhouette, committing the way you look in this exact moment—oil-slicked and half-lit, raw and sharp around the edges—to something deeper than memory. A possession. A warning.

There’s no smirk. No cocky retort. Just a silence so dense it’s almost intimate.

You raise a brow, the weight of exhaustion tightening your tone. “What?”

Still, he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink. His mouth twitches at the corner, maybe a smile, maybe not—just a flicker of something restrained.

Then, finally, he slides the key into the ignition.

The Hayabusa growls like it’s been waiting to be unleashed, low and guttural, the kind of sound that echoes in your ribcage more than your ears. Headlights flare on, slicing clean through the alley’s dim blue gloom, catching in your eyes like a dare.

He throws the helmet on, visor down in a single smooth motion, and suddenly his face is gone. Replaced with glossy black and the faint reflection of you, standing still in the half-light, arms crossed like you’re holding yourself together.

Then—he's gone.

Tires spit gravel, the back wheel biting into the street with a snarl. The Hayabusa launches forward with a howl, the roar of the engine echoing down the narrow spine of concrete and brick. It’s a scream and a promise. It’s a goodbye.

He disappears around the corner like a shadow chased by dawn.

No words.

No promises.

Just the echo of what could’ve been, tearing into Tokyo’s sleeping veins like a blade in the dark.

You stand there long after he’s gone, the engine’s growl still ringing in your ears like the aftershock of thunder. The morning air clings to your skin, cooler now. Emptier. The warmth of his stare lingers like phantom heat across your collarbone.

Then you exhale, slow and sharp. The kind of breath you forget you were holding until your chest aches.

Your fingers curl around the edge of the steel garage door. The metal is cold beneath your touch, damp with dew. You hesitate, just for a beat—just long enough to wonder what that look really meant.

Then you drag it down hard.

CLANG.

The slam echoes off the walls like the full stop at the end of a sentence no one dared to finish.

5:04 AM.

The sky is just beginning to bruise, streaked purple and dull gold. The city’s not awake yet, just turning over in its sleep, unaware of what passed beneath its nose.

You dig your phone from your pocket. The screen is smeared with oil and lit by that faint, ghost-blue glow. Your thumb hovers for a moment, then you type:

[You, 5:05 AM] sleep in don’t come till 2 long night. i’m dead.

No fluff. No punctuation. Just the kind of message Inumaki knows better than to argue with.

You rub your face with both hands, dragging grit across your skin, smearing sweat and grease like war paint. You don’t bother washing up. You just want to be horizontal and unconscious.

The fire escape creaks as you climb it, an old, rust-bitten ladder of metal and memory. You move slow. Everything aches. Every step a reminder of how long the night was, how much you gave to that bike, to that man, to whatever the hell is now coiled like a spark plug in your chest.

At the top, you slip through the narrow window you left cracked open hours ago. Inside, your place is still and silent. Your world.

You kick off your boots. Let them thud to the floor. Peel off your jacket and let it drop like a shed layer of armor.

No lights.

No shower.

Just the magnetic pull of the mattress dragging you in like a riptide.

You collapse half-on, half-off. Muscles giving in. Limbs heavy. Breathing uneven.

Your eyes fall shut, but behind your lids, he’s still there.

That stare.

That silence.

That flicker of something he didn’t say, and you didn’t ask for.

You wonder, in the fading haze before sleep:

Was he looking back because of the bike?

Or because of you?

But then your thoughts scatter like dust in a crosswind, and the city forgets you ever burned this hot.

☆☆☆

The late afternoon sun leaks through your apartment windows in thick, syrupy streams, like molten gold bleeding in from a world that feels too far away. It casts long, jagged shadows across the warped floorboards, beams of light stretched thin and tired, like fingers clawing for warmth they’ll never reach. The dust in the air floats slow and aimless, suspended mid-flight like the moment before a sigh. Tiny particles catching and refracting light, turning the quiet into something reverent, like a chapel with no god.

The heat sits on your skin like a memory you didn’t ask to keep—humid, sticky, the kind of summer air that doesn’t move, just settles. It presses into your pores and seeps into your bones until even your breath feels heavy. The ceiling fan turns above you, but it doesn’t help. It only circles the warmth, pushing it down like a hand on your chest.

Outside, the city hums its usual dirge. The distant drone of engines sounds more like insects now, hollow, persistent, mindless. A car horn blares somewhere in the distance, long and aggravated, then cuts off like it gave up mid-thought. Down the block, a stray dog starts barking—sharp, staccato bursts of frustration—but even that sound doesn’t last. It’s all consumed by the slow churn of city noise, swallowed like everything else.

Up here, you might as well be floating in space. In the liminal quiet between sleep and the waking world. The apartment is cloaked in a hush that feels almost sacred, broken only by the lazy whisper of your own breathing. The only illumination comes from the light bleeding across the walls, slanting like sunbeams from an old projector, painting gold onto the clutter: an abandoned wrench glinting with oil, a half-empty mug with its rim kissed by cold bitterness, the ghost of steam long vanished.

You’re sprawled on the bed, half-curled into yourself, asleep, but only just. It’s not the kind of sleep that restores. It’s the kind that traps you. You hover in it, adrift in a sea of static. Somewhere between a dream and a memory. Your nightgown, an oversized band tee, clings to your frame like a second skin. The scent of motor oil and exhaustion clings to the fabric, a talisman from a night that never quite ended. Your fingers twitch. Your jaw clenches.

Something moves in your head. A flicker. A whisper. Then—

Knock.

Not loud. Not frantic. But sharp. Three taps.

Precise. Intentional. The kind of knock that doesn’t ask. It announces.

You jolt awake like a wire’s been pulled. The silence beforehand was thick, dense with heat and sleep. But now it feels heavier. A presence. The knock echoes inside you, reverberating not just in your ears but in your ribcage. A sudden, crystalline awareness prickles across your skin.

Your eyes blink open. The ceiling above you glares down, cracked and water-stained, a faded map of damage and neglect. Every vein in the plaster looks like a scar, a roadmap of everything that’s ever gone wrong inside these walls.

Your breath catches in your throat. It takes a second too long to remember where you are.

Another knock.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Measured. Unyielding. Not desperate. Just… relentless. It knows you’re in there. It always did.

You swing your legs off the bed. The movement feels underwater, thick and delayed. Your bare feet thud against the dusty floorboards, cool against your skin, grounding you with a shiver that runs all the way up your spine. Every joint protests. Every muscle creaks. You’re not rested. You’re worn thin, like brake pads that should’ve been changed months ago.

You move through the apartment, slow at first, then faster, crossing the room like you’re chasing a thought. Past the cluttered table stacked with receipts, loose bolts, engine manuals with pages stained and dog-eared. The sink is full of silence and a single mug with coffee scum dried into the curve.

Down the narrow staircase now. The old wood groans under your weight, each step a tired exhale. The air shifts—cooler, somehow. Expectant.

The knocking stops.

You freeze at the door. Your hand hovers above the lock. The wood in front of you is aged, the grain splintered from years of weather and neglect. Scratches mar the surface like fingernail gouges. You stare at it like it might open on its own.

Then you twist the latch.

And open it.

The man on the other side is an anomaly. A foreign object in your world.

He’s too clean. Too calm. Like he walked out of a different narrative and ended up at your door by mistake. Black windbreaker zipped to his collarbone. Worn sneakers, meticulously untied. Dark curls flattened from wind and rain. He carries no badge, no name tag. Just a simple cardboard box, held in both hands like an offering.

And a ribbon. Purple.

You fixate on that. It gleams faintly in the evening light. Thin. Velvet. Delicate enough to look ridiculous in this part of town.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t ask your name. Just holds out the box like he knows.

“Delivery for you,” he announces. Crisp. Clipped. Not unkind, but devoid of warmth. Like he’s already halfway gone in his mind.

You take it. His fingers brush yours—cool, firm, electric in the worst way. Then he turns. No signature. No clipboard. Just the sound of his footsteps fading down the to the corner like the tail end of a warning.

You shut the door. Lock it. Slide the bolt home. Press your back against the wood like it might hold you up.

Your pulse is too loud. You can feel it in your gums.

You carry the box upstairs like it might shatter. Like it might detonate.

The ribbon slips off with a whisper, unraveling across your fingers like a secret that’s waited too long to be told.

You open the lid slowly. Cautiously. As if the air might change.

Inside, purple lilies. Not just any lilies. Those lilies.

Their scent hits you like a slap. Heavy. Sweet. And wrong. Beneath the floral perfume, there’s something bitter. Something that clings to the back of your throat like smoke from an old cigarette. Like memory.

The petals are vibrant but flawed. A few edges browned. A single bloom starting to curl inward on itself, petals folding like hands in prayer, or defense. The stems are bruised, faintly crushed near the base. Like someone held them too tightly before letting them go.

You don’t touch them.

You don’t have to.

Your jaw sets. Your lips pull into that old shape—a half-smile that tastes like rust. The kind of expression you wear like armor. Crooked. Defensive.

Of course it’s him. Always theatrical. Always sending messages wrapped in flowers and sealed in silence. Not love. Not regret. Just the echo of his own ego.

You place the box on the counter like you’re laying down a loaded weapon. It sits there, lurid and loud in its stillness. The light hits the petals, throwing jagged shadows across the kitchen wall like stained glass from a church long abandoned.

You don’t look at it again.

You move.

The shower hisses to life, steam flooding the small bathroom almost instantly. You step under the scalding stream like it can burn away the scent of lilies. The memory of his hand, once, threading a flower into your hair like a promise made in a burning house.

You scrub until your skin is raw. Until your chest unclenches. Until your hands shake.

You step out. Leave the mirror fogged.

You don’t want to see yourself.

Throw on jeans stained with engine grease and a shirt from a band you no longer listen to. Twist your braid tighter than it needs to be. Pocket your keys with trembling fingers.

Out.

The city is cooler now. The sky streaked in bruised blues and greys. The bakery glows on the corner, a beacon against the dark clouds. You walk in. The air smells like sugar and something safe. The barista doesn’t ask questions. She just hands you your coffee and pastry with a look that says I get it. You grunt thanks.

The kouign-amann flakes on your lips. You barely notice.

Because the alley still lives in your mind. The heat. The silence. Sukuna.

His name isn’t just sound. It’s sensation. Metallic. Final. Like a blade resting on your collarbone.

And worse, he saw you. Not just your face. You. Beneath it. And something inside you cracked in response.

You shove the thought down, lock it behind your teeth, and swallow hard as the garage yawns open like a beast waking from slumber—wide, slow, and reluctant. The rolling metal door rattles up into its housing, each gear-grind and screeching hinge echoing off concrete like a warning shot. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker to life one by one, buzzing like angry insects, their glow sterile and cold.

Then the scent hits.

Hot oil, old sweat, scorched rubber, iron filings. The unmistakable cocktail of your world. Sharp. Real. Grounding. It wraps around you like a weighted blanket stitched from memory and muscle memory. This place smells like control. Like effort. Like something you can fix with your hands.

Inumaki’s already there, crouched next to an engine block half-gutted on the bay floor. His hoodie’s two sizes too big, sleeves rolled to the elbows, grease smeared across his cheekbones. One hand wields a wrench with the easy precision of someone who grew up knowing what torque feels like. The other clutches a rice ball, halfway devoured, flecks of seaweed stuck to his lips.

He glances up. Bleary eyes, dark under the weight of too many nights like this. No words. Just a nod.

That’s all you get.

That’s all you need.

You exhale, the breath leaving your lungs in a low hiss, like pressure bleeding from a sealed valve. Then you move. Toward the work, into the rhythm, under the hum of lights and the low thrum of classic rock playing tinny through a speaker in the corner. Time loses shape as your hands busy themselves with bolts and belts and busted parts. Every click and clang, every knuckle scrape and socket slip, layers over the noise in your head until it's nothing but static.

You work until the sky bleeds into darkness. Until the sounds of the city go soft and distant, swallowed by the belly of the night. Until your body feels wrung out, empty. Until your thoughts slow enough to stop circling the drain.

By the time you drag yourself back up the stairs, your limbs are trembling with fatigue, every joint aching like rusted hinges. It feels like hauling a corpse behind you—one made of yesterday’s grief and this morning’s dread.

You reach your apartment door. Push it open with a shoulder. Flick the switch.

The light stutters on.

And you freeze.

The box is gone.

The lilies—those too-vivid, too-alive lilies—are no longer tucked neatly inside cardboard. They’re arranged now. Carefully. Deliberately. Placed in a glass vase you forgot you even owned. Centered on the counter like a shrine. Like a message.

You hadn’t touched them. You know you hadn’t. You didn’t even look at them after you left. You were in the garage the whole time. Working. Focused. Present.

…Weren’t you?

Your breath catches mid-step, your spine locking as a slow chill climbs up the back of your neck. You scan the room. Every shadow. Every corner. The silence is suffocating, too intact, too untouched.

But something has been touched.

Your fingers curl slowly at your sides. You step forward. Each movement a little more cautious, like the air itself might shatter. The lilies look the same. And somehow, entirely different. The scent is stronger now—richer, thicker. Like it’s been stirred. Sweet rot masked by floral perfume. Like perfume trying to hide the smell of something buried too long.

Then you see it.

Tucked between the stems.

A sliver of white, barely peeking out from the bloom of a petal, folded once, sharp and clean, like a pressed knife.

Your pulse thunders in your ears.

You reach out. Slow. Like it might bite. Your fingers brush the edge of the paper, and even that feels intimate, like interrupting a conversation not meant for you. You pluck it free. It’s warm from the heat of the lilies. Or maybe just your hand.

You unfold it.

No name. No seal. No symbol.

Just two words, penned in a hand you know too well.

Be there.

And beneath it, a time.

A place.

That’s all.

The note is silent, but your blood isn’t. It roars in your veins, crashing through you like a storm surge. The paper trembles between your fingers, delicate and weightless. But it might as well be lead.

It’s not the wind.

It’s not fear, either.

It’s something else.

That slow, crawling certainty. That sharp edge of recognition.

Because you already know.

Not the details. Not the plan.

But the shape of it.

What’s coming.

And who.

Your jaw clenches. Your breath stutters out.

Of course.

Of course it’s him.

You press the paper flat against the counter, staring at it like it might rearrange itself. But it doesn’t. It just waits.

And so do you.

Until you move.

Because you will.

You always do.

tag-list:

@dahliadaenerys @greenday-bingus @w31rd0s7mblur

✧･ﾟwritten by @prisvvner ⊹ dividers by @cafekitsune ⛓️ do NOT repost, steal, translate, or claim as your own. 🖤 reblogs are love — theft is not. 🏍respect the grease and the grind.

[eeriepromis]

This post is part of a small series exploring Caleb’s failed psych test and what it reveals about his trauma, priorities, and coping mechanisms:

1. Caleb's Failed Psychological Test [link] [reddit] 2. Caleb's Failed Psychological Test | Caleb's Unfiltered Thoughts + Evaluation Reply [link] [reddit] 3. Caleb's Failed Psychological Test | Follow-Up Interview with Candidate Caleb Summers [reddit]

Evaluator: Dr. Elias Vance Candidate: Caleb Summers Transcript Status: Unsubmitted

[BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]

Dr. Vance: "Candidate Summers, thank you for coming in today. We have a few things to go over regarding your written evaluation." Caleb: "Of course. Happy to be here. Love a good existential interrogation." (Evaluator notes initial sarcasm but remains neutral.)

Dr. Vance: "Let’s start with your response to the first question. You were asked what you fear most when flying. You wrote, ‘It’s hard to get home in time.’ Can you elaborate?" Caleb: "Sure. It’s a logistical issue. Schedules don’t always line up, and, you know, space travel isn’t exactly forgiving when it comes to delays." Dr. Vance: "That’s… not quite what we were asking. Most candidates mention equipment failure, mechanical malfunctions, or loss of control. Your response suggests a personal attachment that outweighs self-preservation." Caleb: "I mean, if I die, I won’t be making it home anyway. So technically, the answer still fits." (Evaluator pauses. Scribes a note.)

Dr. Vance: "You mentioned that when overwhelmed, you distract yourself with workouts until the feeling ‘goes away.’ Do you think that’s an effective long-term strategy?" Caleb: "Depends. Do you need me to last a decade or just get through the next mission?" Dr. Vance: "That’s not an answer." Caleb: "But it’s a good question." (Evaluator exhales audibly. Adjusts glasses.)

Dr. Vance: "Your answer to how you handle extreme distress was, ‘Don’t make it other people’s problem. Fix the problem.’ Would you say you have difficulty asking for help?" Caleb: "Nope. I delegate all the time. Just last week, I told someone else to refill the coffee machine. True leadership." Dr. Vance: "That’s… not what I meant." Caleb: "Then maybe you should be more specific." (Evaluator marks response as ‘evasive.’)

Dr. Vance: "Let’s talk about your stance on therapy. You said, ‘Sounds like a great idea for other people.’ What about for you?" Caleb: "Listen, I’m sure therapy works wonders for people who enjoy unpacking their emotional baggage with strangers. I personally prefer to keep mine in a locked briefcase labeled ‘Do Not Open.’" Dr. Vance: "And you don’t think that might be a problem?" Caleb: "No, because the lock is really sturdy." (Evaluator scribbles furiously.)

Dr. Vance: "Regarding your response to whether you have intrusive thoughts, you wrote, ‘Sometimes I get stuck on thinking about things I should’ve done differently.’ Can you expand on that?" Caleb: "Pretty self-explanatory, doc. Sometimes you think back to a moment and go, ‘Wow, I could’ve handled that better.’ Then you try not to let it keep you up at night." Dr. Vance: "Does it keep you up at night?" Caleb: "It doesn’t not keep me up at night." (Evaluator underlines response twice.)

[A/N: I originally removed this question from the first post, but I've included it here since Caleb's response kept lingering in my mind.]

Dr. Vance: "Your file suggests you failed this assessment multiple times. Does that concern you?" Caleb: "Not really. I’m still flying, aren’t I?" Dr. Vance: "It suggests a pattern, though. Avoidance of emotional distress, prioritization of others over yourself, unwillingness to engage in self-reflection-" Caleb: "Look, doc, I appreciate the concern, really. But the way I see it, I’m functional. I get the job done. I don’t freeze under pressure. And if I ever do need a therapist, I’ll be sure to schedule an appointment… right after I survive my next mission." Dr. Vance: "And what if something happens that you can’t just ignore? That you can’t just work through?" Caleb: (Pauses. Shrugs.) "Guess I’ll deal with that when it happens."

Dr. Vance: (Exhales slowly.) "Final question. If you had to summarize yourself in one sentence, what would it be?" Caleb: "Too stubborn to die, too competent to get fired." (Evaluator sets pen down. Stares at Caleb.) Dr. Vance: "That’s… quite the motto." Caleb: "Right? I was thinking of getting it printed on a T-shirt." Dr. Vance: (Rubs temples. Ends interview.)

Final Evaluator’s Notes:

🔍 "Candidate remains evasive and uncooperative in self-reflection. Avoids discussing personal distress and repeatedly redirects with humor or sarcasm. Displays an apparent reliance on external validation and responsibility for others, often at the expense of personal well-being. While highly competent, candidate exhibits patterns of emotional suppression and avoidance that, if left unaddressed, could impact long-term psychological resilience. Therapy remains strongly recommended."

Caleb’s Unsubmitted Reply Letter to the Interview:

Dear Dr. Vance, First off, I want to commend your patience. If I had to deal with me, I’d probably be tired too. That said, I feel like we may have different definitions of ‘evasive.’ Just because I don’t enjoy unpacking trauma like a Christmas present doesn’t mean I have issues. Maybe I just don’t see the point in sitting in a sterile office rehashing the worst parts of my life for an hour. And yeah, I prioritize external responsibilities. Because someone has to. If it’s a choice between dealing with my own issues or making sure the people I care about don’t die, guess which one’s gonna win? As for therapy being ‘strongly recommended,’ look - I get why you’re saying that. But what exactly do you expect me to do? Walk in, sit down, and say, ‘Hey, doc, fun fact, I was experimented on as a kid, watched Mei die repeatedly, and was forced to use my Evol on living things against my will. Let’s unpack that, shall we?’ Yeah. That’ll go well. They totally won’t think I’m insane and lock me up for observation. Anyway, thanks for the concern. Appreciate it. Still not going to therapy, though. Hope that doesn’t keep you up at night. Sincerely (but not really), Caleb Summers

⸻

Note: Logo on the left of Header Image generated with AI.

[rosegardenofeden]

Honestly though like. The warmth of printer paper as the love and eroticism of the machine. The bridging of worlds between the digital and physical. The transposition of the pixels on the screen, scribing ink onto paper, one of the oldest methods of communication still wired to the new. And all the work it puts in warms and seals the ink, like the warming of blood pumping through your heart. Press a freshly printed stack of paper to your chest. That's love. Unfortunately all printers are under a terrible curse (manufactured by printer companies) so they can not truly be free and beautiful.

[soliiform]

Y’all ever think about how one of the few friends Elder Maxson had as a kid was Liberty Prime. He would talk to the robot as a friend before he was kicked out and was told he couldn’t be friends with a machine. It was futile, they didn’t have the ability to care. When Liberty Prime sat in the Boston airport, laying broken, did he sneak in and look at the remains of his ‘friend’? Did he sit and talk to it like he used to? Or did he simply not care?

Did he remind himself of Scribe Rothschild when he told SS to kill Danse? When he told SS to kill their friend, because he was a synth, he couldn’t be their friend, did he see himself in their eyes? Sad and disappointed, not understanding how a robot couldn’t be their friend. That flesh was flesh and machine was machine.

[queereads-bracket]

Queer Fiction Free-for-All Book Bracket Tournament: Round 1D

Book summaries and submitted endorsements below:

The Murderbot Diaries series (All Systems Red, Artificial Condition, Rogue Protocol, Exit Strategy, Network Effect, Fugitive Telemetry, System Collapse, and other stories) by Martha Wells

Endorsement from submitter: "My favorite sci-fi spacefuture world where being queer + polyam is normal and yet the protag is still queer in its own special way <3"

"As a heartless killing machine, I was a complete failure."

In a corporate-dominated space-faring future, planetary missions must be approved and supplied by the Company. For their own safety, exploratory teams are accompanied by Company-supplied security androids. But in a society where contracts are awarded to the lowest bidder, safety isn’t a primary concern.

On a distant planet, a team of scientists is conducting surface tests, shadowed by their Company-supplied ‘droid--a self-aware SecUnit that has hacked its own governor module and refers to itself (though never out loud) as “Murderbot.” Scornful of humans, Murderbot wants is to be left alone long enough to figure out who it is, but when a neighboring mission goes dark, it's up to the scientists and Murderbot to get to the truth.

Science fiction, queernorm, novella, series, adult

The Splinter in the Sky by Kemi Ashing-Giwa

The dust may have just settled in the failed war of conquest between the Holy Vaalbaran Empire and the Ominirish Republic, but the last Emperor’s surrender means little to a lowly scribe like Enitan. All she wants is to quit her day job and expand her fledgling tea business. But when her lover is assassinated and her sibling is abducted by Imperial soldiers, Enitan abandons her idyllic plans and weaves her tea tray up through the heart of the Vaalbaran capital. There, she learns just how far she is willing to go to exact vengeance, free her sibling, and perhaps even secure her homeland’s freedom.

Science fiction, space opera, spy thriller, politics, adult

[gynandromorph]

god this shit took forever to sketch. another NofNA emulation comic. it reminds me of the midterms in secretary, for obvious reasons, but Legend is sort of an inverse secretary situation, where she is exceptional at fighting, but wants to write.

let me see what i can remember...

PS, the blue-eyed black lemur, has been friends with Legend since their mutual first season at college, as mentioned above her reference sketch... they probably became more friendly after being paired up to peer edit each others' work. PS has since graduated from college and works as a markscraft. Legend frequently commissions PS to scribe for her, not only because they are friends, but because PS is one of the few markscrafts in the area who isn't a rodent. many primates go into law or medicine. mainly Legend commissions notetaking in classes -- she is too insecure to share her stories. PS has a more relaxed, informal personality, and i tried to get that across -- i think it's relevant to why she decided to become a markscraft instead of pursuing more intense study. still, i also tried to get across that they are good friends, not just scribe and customer, particularly with the amount of touching that PS does. the impulse to touch and groom is probably innate for her as a primate. there isn't as much information about her species, but in ring-tailed lemurs, lemurs usually only groom based on the strongest bonds, rather than more communal aggregate grooming as a sort of social currency. i honestly don't know what PS would need to note during finals, but i think Legend just Wanted her there anyway.

the bird, DL, fighting the squirrel, GG, is a grey shrike. i imagine him as an average student in the middle of his education, but i think he is in the class for combat purposes, because pressure point manipulation can be incredibly powerful, more so if from a less expected species like a bird.

mr. deciding is a much more serious, no-nonsense teacher, possibly due to his specialty. when you're teaching students how to explode a kidney with a handshake, you probably just play it safe and try to put the fear of god into them before any kidneys get exploded. i wanted this class to have a much heavier emphasis on safety of the participants than the class in secretary, with a more focused goal than "who can beat the shit out of each other better." i think the goal of fighting to show off knowledge here is still Fucking Insane, but it's just. their culture, i guess. you can technically "move" your pressure points, so being able to defend yourself by utilizing this knowledge can also show off what you've retained. the mouse next to him is a proctor, who is an extra teacher brought in to judge and often write for another teacher, but primarily as a peacekeeper and bouncer. in classes where a student can theoretically totally disable a teacher by just touching them once, the precaution is seen as necessary. the mouse is probably a combat-oriented point invocation instructor.

the mandrill, MK, is a first-season or first-year student -- i assume that one class, from midterms to finals, is a season, as secretary seems to start near autumn. midterms have snow, and finals are during early spring. anyway, that's tangential. i think he's very new to the educational system. i pictured him as a medical student. in his fighting style, i made him more defensive; he doesn't really know nearly as much about attacking an opponent in a fight. he does think at least about his opponent's most immediate reactions, but doesn't have enough experience with fighting to think ahead to the degree that Legend does. you can see him make the same mistake that Legend did against Machinations, which disables his non-dominant hand. needless to say, he will probably always be aware of headbutt proximity now. he attempts to use two factures in the fight within a style meant to evoke debilitating vertigo by manipulating the connection between the occular, vestibular, and proprioceptive systems. it's obvious that he created the style from his medical classes. it is fairly empty as far as styles go. interrupted facture: nystagmus, which causes the world to spin around the opponent by involuntarily twitching the eyes back and forth. second facture: strabismus, which misaligns the pupils, primarily impeding aim. denied by Legend because a honey badger does not rely on vision or a vestibular system as much as a primate does -- not something he really considered when making the style. factures that never ended up being used: pursuit, which forces the target to follow a spinning image of themselves instead of looking where they should; and mask's lasting, which forcibly initiates saccadic masking, suppressing the intake of new visual information altogether.

the large bird is a bateleur. the mouse is just a regular house mouse. the lizard is an ornate sandveld lizard. the opponent of the lizard is a common mole-rat, also called an african mole-rat (even though most species of mole-rats live in africa). the monkey god i'm not super sure but i believe it's just a vervet monkey. the other mouse is also a common house mouse.

GG is a second-year student, which is the last year for a rodent. i think she's been kind of aimless -- she thinks incredibly fast as a squirrel, and finds solving problems in the moment to be a much more successful endeavor than trying to plan ahead. she doesn't worry about the future and doesn't ruminate on the past much. she's aware that she isn't the best ever and doesn't apply herself as much as others, but it also doesn't particularly bother her. kind of ironic, given the aesop she slops onto Legend after the fight. i imagine that she will eventually choose the name Serendipity. i tried to write her lack of foresight, but compensatory quick thinking in both fights. like the shrike, GG is a combat-oriented student. the style she briefly introduces at the beginning is called fanciful flower's delightful blight. it is based on the deadly nightshade flower and its berries -- which are toxic, obviously, and a hallucinogenic. squirrels flick their tails for many reasons, and the most common reason is simply a default flicking to attract predators. their tails are designed to "deglove" easily; if a predator lunges for their tail, which is the moving part of them, the skin and fur will tear off, and the squirrel can escape. delightful blight utilizes the attention-grabbing flicking of the squirrel's tail as a nightshade plant to induce a trance-like state. the berries represent temptations so much more pleasing than what you ought to focus on. a nice berry and a flower to smell are so much nicer than struggling in a fight. even when you resist them, they linger in your mind, and "plant seeds" when the berry falls as self-restraint is worn down over repeated abstinence from the temptation. factures induce hallucinations and nausea. she primarily uses the base rodent style to fight Legend here, but also uses base squirrel style twists, which include more acrobatics, backflipping, and contortions.

the two things that really catch Legend off-guard use limbs that she doesn't have, and most opponents don't have -- elbows long enough to use defensively, and a long, rope-like tail. she is otherwise supposed to be fairly adept at analyzing what an opponent will do, usually a few steps ahead, related to her ability to fabricate narratives quickly. you can see her also come up with a lie for kicking GG fairly quickly... she was going to say the impulse was in her legs because she was trying to move away from GG's strike.

anyway if any part of this fight is like... unfathomable i can probably explain. i've already been typing for way too long, lmfao

[amber-aura]

This is something I can't wait to write out in my story! Just wanted to share the concepts I'm thinking of...because Breana is going to reveal quite a few things just for fun 😅

Several chapters later, Breana trying to explain a modern phone to folks in 1932 Mississippi be like:

Breana:

“Okay, think of a camera, a radio, a telephone...and a typewriter all smooshed together into one machine that fits in your hand. That’s what a smartphone is.”

Sammie:

(Stares)

Smoke (squinting):

“So you mean to tell me... you can talk to folks, take they picture, write ‘em a letter, AND play music...all from the same lil’ box? How we sure you just ain't high off yo' ass right now?”

Breana (deadpanning): “I already gave you proof I'm from the future Smoke, you know this, what more do you need? I'm trying to explain one of our future inventions.”

Stack (jesting):

“Girl, what else it do? Cook dinner?”

Breana (smirking):

“Actually...it can order you food.”

All three:

“HUH?!”

Breana (laughing):

“Y’all know those silent pictures at the theater, right? Now imagine you're making one of those with your face in it, on your own, whenever you want, from your pocket. That’s what my camera-phone can do.”

Stack (gripping his tie):

“...So you a movie star and a telephone operator and a scribe all at the same damn time?!”

Smoke:

“I’on even got shoes with laces and she out here with a magic brick. And I don't 'een believe in magic.”

Sammie (genuinely concerned):

“Breana...is yo’ box possessed? Nevermind, I'm startin' to sound like my daddy.”

Stack: “And how much one o' them magic boxes sell for? 'Cause all that sound like snake oil!”

Breana: “Depends on the brand but typically, $200-900.”

Stack: “GOD DAMN, just with $100 you can buy ya own farm! $900? You could buy this whole ass town!”

Breana: “I would explain how this era and generations perception of money and the general difference concerning jobs and finances is different from ours in the future but I'm not tryna mess up the space time continuum.”