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diginerve · 11 months ago

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What is Ventilator? What are some common Types of Ventilators

Ventilator: Medical equipment that most people have heard about. It is one of the most common tools in critical care, often seen in Intensive Care Units (ICUs). Healthcare professionals use ventilators for patients who have difficulty breathing on their own.

So, for students who aim to head into the critical care environment, learning about ventilators and taking care of patients with artificial airways is crucial.

Let’s learn about ventilators in detail.

What Do Ventilators Do?

A ventilator is a device that supports or recreates the process of breathing by pumping air into the lungs. Additionally, a ventilator:

Helps remove carbon dioxide from your lungs.

Provides pressure to keep the small air sacs in your lungs (alveoli) from collapsing.

The ventilator is used in scenarios where patients experience respiratory failure. When this occurs, a person cannot get enough oxygen, which can be life-threatening.

The following are the injuries that cause respiratory failure:

Sudden cardiac arrest

Lung disease

Spinal cord injury

Head injury

Stroke

Neonatal respiratory distress syndrome

Acute respiratory distress syndrome (ARDS)

Sepsis and more.

Remember: Patients with different causes of respiratory failure require different ventilators. So, it is also essential to know about its various types.

Some Common Types of Ventilators

Pressure-limited assist control (PAC) ventilation

PAC ventilation is a type of mechanical ventilation mode that delivers a breath to the patient based on a pre-set inspiratory pressure (IP) limit. The ventilator will continue to deliver gas until a set pressure is reached, ensuring a breath is delivered regardless of the patient's lung resistance or compliance.

How it works:

The patient initiates a breath effort, triggering the ventilator.

The ventilator delivers gas flow until the set inspiratory pressure limit is reached.

The ventilator then cycles off to allow for exhalation.

The patient can breathe spontaneously between ventilator breaths.

Synchronized intermittent mandatory ventilation (SIMV)

SIMV ventilation is a mode that combines mandatory breaths delivered by the ventilator at a set rate with the patient's spontaneous breathing efforts.

How it works:

The ventilator delivers a set number of breaths per minute (rate) regardless of whether the patient initiates a breath or not (mandatory breaths).

The ventilator synchronizes the delivery of mandatory breaths with the patient's spontaneous breaths whenever possible.

The patient can also breathe spontaneously between mandatory breaths.

Volume-limited assist control (VAC) ventilation

VAC ventilation is a mode that delivers a pre-set tidal volume (VT) to the patient with each breath. The ventilator will cycle off to exhalation once the set VT is delivered, regardless of the pressure reached.

How it works:

The patient initiates a breath effort, triggering the ventilator.

The ventilator delivers a set volume of gas (VT) into the lungs.

The ventilator then cycles off to allow for exhalation, even if the set pressure limit is not reached.

The patient can breathe spontaneously between ventilator breaths.

Above, we tried to give a basic idea about ventilators and their types; if you want to get more detailed information, including the resources, enrol in the Online Critical Care Course created by DigiNerve.

About Critical Care Training Program

The course is designed for students and healthcare professionals to make Critical Care Medicine practices easy to understand.

Learners will get a chance to dive into a range of critical care topics, including resuscitation, trauma management, hemodynamic instability, neurological emergencies, and sepsis management.

Though understanding the basics of such critical topics is challenging, but esteemed Chief Editors Dr. Yatin Mehta, Dr. Subhal Dixit, and Dr. Kapil G Zirpe at DigiNerve have put their best efforts into compiling all the resources that can make complex topics easy to understand.

The Critical Care Training Program combines theoretical knowledge, case studies, and interactive learning activities that help participants enhance their skills and competencies in managing critically ill patients.

The best part is that candidates will receive Critical Care Certification Online after completing the course.

So, don’t wait anymore; visit DigiNerve Now to get more details about the course to start early.

#Critical Care Certification Online #Critical Care Training Program #Online Critical Care Course #Pressure-limited assist control (PAC) ventilation #Synchronized intermittent mandatory ventilation (SIMV)#Volume-limited assist control (VAC) ventilation #mechanical ventilator

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some-programming-pearls · 1 year ago

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Would the sequence of execution of threads be T1, T2, and T3 in this sample code provided?

Suggested Solution – “To ensure three threads execute you need to start the last one first e.g. T3 and then call join methods in reverse order e.g. T3 calls T2. join, and T2 calls T1.join, this ways T1 will finish first and T3 will finish last.“ This suggests using the join() method of the Thread class to start each thread after the previous one finishes its execution. Here’s the accurate…

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#Best Practices #interview #interview questions #Interview Success Tips #Interview Tips #Java #Multi threading #programming #Senior Developer #Software Architects #Thread Join #thread synchronization

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wheels-tips · 2 years ago

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How To Program VW Key After Battery Change - Synchronizing VW Key FOB

How to synchronize your VW key if your key FOB stops working: the VW key FOB can stop working if, for example, there is a battery change or if you are using the key FOB out of range too many times. HOW TO REMOVE VW KEY HOLE COVER https://youtu.be/vRVbn4PZDKw

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#how to program Tiguan key fob #how to program VW Tiguan key #key programming VW #program VW key #synch key FOB VW #synchronize key VW #synchronize VW key #synchronize VW key fob #VW key FOB not working #VW key FOB programming #VW key programming #VW Tiguan Key FOB programming #Youtube

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moneywise4 · 2 years ago

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#blogger #blogging #dotnet #synchronization #programming

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whowritessometimes · 1 year ago

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Back and Forth - Art Donaldson x Reader

A Stanford!Art Donaldson and Stanford!Reader fic :) Kinda slow burn, very soft very sweet.

Word Count: 3.9k

---

The California summer sun beamed down on the court, making the colors of the advertisements and signs around you appear almost neon. Upbeat music flowed through speakers that you couldn't quite place, embodying the feeling of the tennis matches that surrounded you, the back-and-forth beat pulsating through your head. It was almost overstimulating, but this was your normal.

You were pre-med at Stanford, volunteering at some local tennis camp to fill your summer and add fodder to your resume. You didn't do much, occasionally helping some rich, pompous kid stretch out their wrist, or their knee, or their ankle, or whatever. The days blurred together, they all spoke to you in the same condescending way. For most people, it would be mind-numbing.

But it was exhilarating. You had this intrinsic love for tennis, you always had. Perhaps it was that love that led you to signing up for this gig, and not the resume experience. But you would never admit that to anyone. You had played tennis for fun your whole life, with your family growing up, with your friends in high school. It was only when you shattered your wrist sophomore year that you had to stop.

It sucked. It sucked at the time, and it sucked now. You weren't professional-level at tennis, not like these people, but it was nice to have a hobby unlike anything else people expected you to do. The pre-med thing, the reading, the studying, it came naturally to you. And it wasn't like you didn't enjoy it, and it wasn't like you weren't good at it, but you loved tennis. And every now and again, you missed it.

So here you were. Your head followed all the heads in the crowd in a practiced, synchronized, subconscious back-and-forth. There wasn't really ever a crowd, the games at the program were often informal, the audience often consisted of coaches and other players. But this was a unique match, Stanford's players engaged in a captivating display of athleticism. It was almost like a dance, the way they seemed to know the moves of the other before they made them. You could feel the intensity from your tent by the end of the bleachers.

Stanford's star player (well, one of them)—Art Donaldson. You'd half-watched him play from your tent whenever you weren't working. He was elusive, but undoubtably one of the best there. You had never spoken. He was enigmatic, focused on his training and on helping others. He had perfect technique, people said. Now, you had the chance to really see how he was. And he was. Top of his game.

Usually.

The air was thick with humidity. Your gaze flickered between the players, boredom warring with the gnawing anxiety that always hummed beneath the surface during matches. Then, a sound sliced through the rhythmic thwack of the tennis balls—a sharp cry of pain.

Your head snapped left like a whip, your heart leaping into your throat. There, sprawled on the opposite side of the net, lay Art. His face was contorted in agony, one hand clutching his ankle at an unnatural angle. His racket lay a few feet away, as forgotten as the polite pleasantries that had filled the air before the match.

The shitty plastic chair beneath you creaked in protest as you scrambled to your feet. Ignoring the surprised yelp from the equally shitty excuse for a supervisor you'd been assigned for the summer tennis program, you sprinted across the court. Dust billowed in your wake, blurring the vision that was already swimming with a mix of dread and the adrenaline rush that always came with seeing someone hurt.

You skidded to a halt beside him, kneeling. His eyes, usually bright with playful competitiveness, were screwed shut, teeth clenched as he fought back a string of obscenities you knew all too well.

"Hey," you said, forcing your voice to remain calm despite the tremor running through your body. He flinched at the sound of your voice, a flicker of something akin to fear crossing his normally confident expression.

"Hey," he managed to rasp out, opening one eye a sliver. He tried to push himself up, but his face crumpled again as a fresh wave of agony shot through him.

"Don't move," you ordered, the calmness in your voice surprising even you. You reached out, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. His skin was slick with sweat, and you could practically feel the heat radiating from his injured ankle.

"'S bad, huh?" he breathed, a flicker of vulnerability in his voice.

The concern in his eyes sent a jolt through you. It wasn't just the pain; it was the fear.

"Don't worry," you said, your voice softer now, "We'll get you checked out. Just...hold still."

Ignoring the sting of sweat in your eyes, you carefully slipped your arm around his waist, offering what little support your slight frame could provide. Heaving him halfway onto your leg, you began the slow, agonizing walk towards the medical tent. Each step sent a spike of pain through Art's leg, reflected in the way he gritted his teeth and winced with every movement.

The supervisor, finally spurred into action, scurried behind you, muttering something about ice packs and paramedics. But your focus remained solely on Art, on getting him to help as quickly as possible.

You knew what it was like. Maybe that's what spurred your immediate action, your need to help him recover, to keep playing. You knew what it was like.

The antiseptic sting of the medical tent assaulted your nose as you hovered beside the injured player. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he clenched his jaw with each prod from the trainer.

"Think they all saw that?" he finally rasped, a hint of amusement battling the pain in his voice. You blinked, surprised by his oddly timed humor.

"Doubt it," you played along, a small smile tugging at your lips. "'S not like you're Art Donaldson or anything."

A sheepish grin replaced his grimace. "Thank god."

The trainer finished his work, leaving you and the injured player alone in a tense silence. He cleared his throat, his gaze meeting yours for the first time.

"So," he began, trailing off as he stared into the ceiling of the tent. There was something in his expression, the physical pain, the fear that comes with injury, the odd quiet of an unfinished game.

"So," you mimicked, sitting next to him in another shitty chair.

Something hung in the air, something all too familiar to you. He turned his head to look at you, to make eye contact, keeping his body flat on the cot. You realized then how close you were. Close enough to see his eyes, the sharp point of his jawline, the strawberry blond of his curls.

You averted your gaze, looking out into the brightness of the tent entrance. The typical ambiance of the outside seemed to be drowned by the odd intimacy you'd created together, the silence between you and Art seemed to be the only noise you could hear. His shoddy breathing, despite his attempts to pretend he was okay, only brought you back to when you felt the same way he did, all those years ago.

A blush crept up your neck. You fumbled for something, anything, to break the charged silence in the tent. "I, uh, broke my wrist sophomore year," you blurted, surprised by the words leaving your lips. "Tennis, ironically. One minute I'm playing—probably terribly—and then I'm in the ER holding a bag of frozen peas. And, I don't know, I guess I'm just saying... I get it. Sort of."

"You trying to distract me?" he asked, a slight smile tugging at his lips.

"Yeah," you admitted, a hesitant smile mirroring his. "Is it working?"

"Yeah, actually," he conceded, leaning back on the cot. "Tell me more."

You felt a genuine laugh bubble up from your chest, the first since the moment you saw him crumpled on the court.

---

And that was really the last time you saw Art. Suffice to say you hadn't forgotten about the encounter. It was actually stupid, how often you thought of it. He didn't even know your name, but you remembered the timbre of his voice, the softness of his gaze.

In your defense, he was hard to avoid. Now that the spring semester had started, tennis season was in full swing. His picture was plastered around the most of the facilities you frequented, future NCAA champion Art Donaldson.

The scent of freshly cut grass and blooming jasmine hung heavy in the crisp California air as you hurried across the bustling Stanford campus. The semester had sprung with a vengeance, bringing with it the usual flurry of activity—overloaded backpacks, animated discussions about last night's party, and the ever-present anxiety of looming deadlines.

Today, however, an extra weight sat on your shoulders. Your pre-med advisor dropped a last-minute surprise: mandatory tutoring for a struggling athlete. Juggling med school coursework with a part-time job at the campus health center was already a tightrope walk, and adding this felt like a precarious extra step. But you managed it, as you did most things. How you had some semblance of a social life was a mystery. And maybe your very obvious lack of a love life was why you thought about Art so often. You didn't have time to psychoanalyze yourself, though. You barely had time for whatever this tutoring session was about to be.

Reaching the designated classroom, a small, windowless space usually reserved for last-minute group study sessions, you took a deep breath before pushing open the heavy door. The sterile light inside momentarily blinded you, but as your eyes adjusted, a sight unfolded that caused your breath to hitch in your throat. Sprawled across a cluttered table, papers piled haphazardly around him, was a man who you'd spent the better part of the last few months thinking about.

There, unmistakably, was Art. His signature strawberry blond hair, slightly longer than you remembered, covered with a backwards baseball cap, curled at the edges, framing his face. A deep furrow creased his brow, a testament to the frustration radiating from his hunched form as he focused on a massive biology textbook. An unsettling warmth bloomed in your chest, a reaction entirely too potent for a tutoring session.

The memory of him sprawled on the opposite side of the tennis court last summer, his ankle twisted at an unnatural angle, flickered across your mind. The panic that had gripped you then seemed almost comical now. The sterile environment and the way his eyes had held a curious blend of pain and something else—gratitude, maybe?—all formed a vivid memory you hadn't realized had imprinted itself so deeply.

His presence filled the small room, unexpectedly stealing your breath and injecting a jolt of something entirely different into the monotonous routine of your day. A shyness spread across your face, tinged with an unfamiliar nervousness as you cleared your throat, the sound echoing awkwardly in the sudden silence.

A slow smile took over his features as he looked at you, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. For a moment, you were caught in that smile, a memory resurfacing from the hazy days of summer.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice warm. He reached a toned arm, pulling out a chair for you.

"Hi," you blinked, momentarily flustered by the gesture and the echo of familiarity in his voice. There was a moment of tension in the air, of uncertainty, of a strange sense of reconnection. Finally, you managed to force out the words, "How are you?"

"My ankle's a lot better now, if that's what you're asking," he replied with a playful glint in his eyes. His gaze lingered on you for a beat too long, making you hyperaware of the way your heart hammered against your ribs.

"You remember me?" you blurted out, the question leaving your lips before you could stop it.

"Course I remember you," he said, his voice laced with amusement. You couldn't ignore the way his eyes flickered from your face down to your body, and back up. Blatantly checking you out. And you could hear his smile in the way he spoke, warm and genuine, sending a familiar flutter through your stomach. The memory of his teasing laughter in the sterile medical tent resurfaced.

"Right," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. You shifted in your chair, suddenly hyperaware of the weight of his gaze on you.

The next hour or so unfolded in a way that surprised you both. Art's initial confusion melted away as you hovered next to him, animatedly explaining each concept. Social life, love life, Art Donaldson, you couldn't explain. Biology, medical stuff, sports, you understood.

And he was beginning to as well. Time became a forgotten entity, measured only by the turning of pages and the occasional frustrated groan from Art. He wasn't the cocky athlete you'd half-imagined, but someone with a genuine curiosity about the world around him and some kind of depth hidden beneath his confident facade on the court.

Finally, Art leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. "We should probably call it," he declared, stretching his arms above his head with a satisfied groan. He thanked you, looking into your eyes as he said your name, the syllables dancing off his tongue in a way that made you feel like it was more than a word you had offhandedly mentioned to him.

"Yeah, sure," you replied, your voice softer than you intended.

The study sessions became a regular occurrence. The two of you exchanged numbers, only to arrange meetings, you reminded yourself.

But whenever he called, you found yourself talking about so much more than biology. It started with him asking how you were, a simple courtesy that somehow felt more genuine coming from him. Yet, as you replied, a comfortable ease would settle in. You'd find yourself laughing at inside jokes, dumb stories, the kind that wouldn't be particularly funny to anyone else, would mindlessly tumble out, fueled by the comfort you felt in his presence. It was a kind of nonsense, a space where you could just be yourself, and somehow, it felt like everything and nothing all at once.

---

Now, it was late, and it was finals week.

Papers and textbooks were scattered across your desk, a battlefield of scribbled notes and highlighted passages. You were in the trenches, neck-deep in the intricacies of biochemistry, desperately trying to cram information into your sleep-deprived brain.

Suddenly, the familiar buzz of your phone cut through the silence of your cramped dorm. You fished it out of your pocket, a flicker of annoyance battling with the ever-present hope that it might be a break, a distraction from the relentless onslaught of scientific jargon. Gratefulness shot through you when you saw Art Donaldson's name on the screen.

You answered the call. His voice crackled through the phone, laced with desperation. "I need your help," he blurted out, completely unlike his usual easygoing self. "What the fuck is molecular cell biology?"

You couldn't help but let out a small laugh. "In general?" you replied, already picturing the hours that it would take to explain the subject. Finals be damned, apparently.

"Can you just come over?" he groaned. "If you aren't doing anything."

You glanced back at the flashcards on your desk. "I'm not doing anything."

So here you were, knocking on the door of Art Donaldson's dorm. You heard rustling from the other side, making you wait just a beat longer in the dimly lit hallway. You rocked back and forth on your heels, chewing the inside of your cheek and rethinking your current appearance. The oversized Stanford hoodie, mess of your hair, and lack of makeup now seemed ill-fitting for a meeting with the boy who had somehow winded his way into becoming your crush. You felt like a kid again, back in high school.

You were starting to worry you had the wrong room until the door swung open, bathing the hallway in a golden, hazy light. There stood Art, moving his large frame out of the way to gesture you into his room with a short greeting and a "thank god." You didn't know what you expected, really, but there you were, slinking a little too closely past him as he stood in his doorframe. You felt his breath on the back of your neck as he stood behind you, guiding you to his tiny desk in the corner of the room. His hands ghosted over the small of your back, and you felt his warmth, despite him not actually touching you.

The room itself was small. It wasn't unlike yours, or any of the others on campus. But it somehow felt smaller with Art next to you, burying his face in his hands every time you patiently explained a concept you'd gone over already. His face. He was so close to you now, the quiet of the night and the room only making you feel closer.

The energy of this study session felt so different from all your others in the past. You weren't in a classroom, or meeting him after practice in the library. You were seeing another side of Art, the part of himself he didn't publicize. Every freckle, the stretch of his faded t-shirt over his body, the curls he brushed out of his eyes every now and again, the way he flexed his callused hands as he cracked his knuckles, a nervous fidget.

It felt like time slowed down. You labored over the biology textbook, finding practice questions and asking him some of your own. You were gentle, cautious. Maybe it was the weird intimacy of the moment, maybe it was the lack of air in the cramped dorm. Your voice was soft, and you couldn't help but notice how the tension Art held over the phone and when you entered the room melted away. Did you do that? You felt this reciprocation, possibly imagined. But whenever you cracked a dumb joke, he'd laugh and put a hand on your arm. The contact always made you freeze. The touch was a reminder he was real, he was tangible. Every fleeting gaze, every smile in your direction.

You had almost reached the end of the chapter, and Art was getting almost every practice question right. You fidgeted with a sheet of his messy notes, reading it over to continue some rant you were on about RNA.

"...made up of nucleotides, which are ribose sugars attached to nitrogenous bases and phosphate groups..." You trailed off, looking up from the papers only to find his gaze already on you. How long had he been looking at you? And the way he looked at you...

"Do you want to take a break?" He tilted his head.

You quirked an eyebrow, unable to fight your smile. "Sure."

He got up with an over-exaggerated sigh and stretched his arms over his head, exposing the bottom of his toned abdomen. For a moment. He reached under his desk, pulling out a box of some cheap canned beer. He popped the tab of a can, taking a long draw and passing it to you.

You looked away from his watchful eyes as you took a sip. Your face heated as you took into account the fact you were drinking from the same can he had.

You winced. "God, that tastes like ass."

"Sorry." He laughed, taking the can from you. Warm, callused fingertips brushing against yours.

"I didn't take you for a Steel Reserve kinda guy."

"What did you take me for?"

"I don't know. Gatorade?"

"Okay." He shook his head. "No more for you."

"Wait, wait, okay, I take it back."

He held out the can for you again.

"Mhm."

"Still taste like ass?"

"It tastes like what I imagine WD-40 tastes like."

You felt your heart swell as he laughed at that. You hadn't noticed how the two of you now sat impossibly closer, thighs brushing, shoulders sending sparks whenever they met. The half-empty can of beer felt like a nervous talisman being passed back and forth between you. Dumb jokes tumbled easily from your lips, punctuated by laughter that echoed weirdly loud in the quiet room. Finals week stress had completely evaporated, replaced by a warmth that had nothing to do with the shitty beer.

It was so easy, talking to Art. Easier than it should have been, considering you were explaining the intricacies of cellular respiration to a man who once thought mitochondria were a type of pasta. But he listened, truly listened, his eyes locked on yours. You caught yourself getting lost in their depths, a dizzying kaleidoscope that mirrored the nervousness in your stomach.

He leaned in, as if to hear you better, and you mimicked the movement unconsciously. The space between your faces shrunk, the air thick with unspoken words. His gaze did its familiar dance—right eye, lips, left eye—and this time, it lingered on your lips a beat too long.

A sudden self-consciousness washed over you. Should you pull back? This wasn't your intention. But before you could overthink it, Art's lips were hovering over yours, a question in the way they hovered, hesitant but hopeful.

"This okay?" His voice was impossibly low, breathy, quiet. His eyes raked over your features, eye contact shifting from left to right, back and forth. His hand, warm and calloused came up to cup your cheek, grounding you in the moment.

"Yeah." You breathed.

The kiss, when it came, was soft and unexpected. More of a tentative exploration than a passionate assault. It tasted of desperation and relief, of unspoken feelings finally finding a voice.

Your hands moved from your sides to toy with the curls on the back of his head, earning a barely audible groan from Art. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone, his other hand moving down to pull you impossibly closer by the small of your waist. His touch was shy, tender.

After what felt like forever (and you wouldn't have minded had it been), you pulled away slowly, breathless, a blush painting your face. His eyes searched yours for some unknown answer. For a long moment, the only sound was the ragged rhythm of your breath.

A slow smile spread across his face, mirroring the one blooming on yours. "God, you're so pretty."

Leaving Art's dorm room felt like navigating a dream. Your head spun, a mix of the cheap beer and the potent aftertaste of the kiss. Your lips still tingled where his had been, a brand new sensation that sent shivers dancing down your spine. Relief, sweet and unexpected, washed over you. Months of stolen glances, late-night calls disguised as study sessions, and a simmering tension that had threatened to consume you—all of it had culminated in that single, electrifying kiss.

As you walked down the quiet hallway, a giddy smile stretched across your face. It wasn't just the kiss itself, though that replayed in your mind in a loop—hesitant, searching, then deepening with a shared sense of discovery. It was the way he'd looked at you afterwards, his eyes soft with unspoken emotions, mirroring the whirlwind in your own chest. A nervous flutter remained in your stomach, a delicious mix of excitement and uncertainty.

But beneath it all, a quiet confidence bloomed. He felt it too. This wasn't just some fleeting moment, a stolen kiss in the dead of night. It was a turning point, a bridge crossed, and the future, once shrouded in the haze of exams and unspoken feelings, now shimmered with possibility.

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imaginedreamwrite · 3 months ago

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Pretty Little Thing

Part 2: The First Meeting

The expectation that you would be in the agency for weeks without finding a match had left you with the understanding that you could enjoy your time in the facility. While other omega’s were regularly getting matches or gifts from potential alpha’s who were interested, you were waiting in the wings. So, to speak.

There was an omega who had applied for the program, only a week after 18, and had already been given a series of meetings and gifts with alpha’s who wanted her attention. She had been showered with applications to meet, with alpha’s from across the United States who wanted an omega through the agency. You had come to hear that she was only here for a week before she had accepted the offer and courtship of an alpha, and then she was gone.

You had relented to enjoy the time you had in the house, getting to know other omega’s who wanted to seek a more institutional route of mating. There was an ongoing epidemic of violence against omega’s, both male and female, at the hands of alpha’s that had started this international joint effort. The same international effort to make omega’s safe with alpha’s who would treat them right, would be the same international matchmaking service that would give you the best chance.

You knew it was a longshot when you had first applied for the service, being that you were on the tail end of the age ranges these services wanted. Added to your mid-twenties age that was only 6 months away, you were also pregnant with a baby that would not belong tp whatever alpha might have wanted you. Regardless of that, there was a certainty that some alpha in the international matchmaking service would choose you, and if you remained unchosen than you would still walk away with money for your child.

You had been in the omega housing facility for weeks after being accepted into the service. Your stay had been pleasant enough as it could be while omega’s, who were not pregnant, had been going through heat cycles that had quite often synchronized up. These omega’s who were all trying to navigate the potential suitors and courtships that would come for them, also had to navigate heat cycles without having an alpha. The tensions were often high in the house when one or more omega’s had gone into heat at the same time.

At the end of the first month, you had been in the matchmaking service and in the omega housing facility, you had been informed by one of the liaisons between alpha’s and omega’s, that there were interested parties. The liaison that had arranged meetings between alpha’s and omega’s, both in person and virtually if they couldn’t be there for the first meeting, had been the one to tell you that there was a pack.

A pack of four alpha's had unanimously agreed to meet you virtually and start the process of courting if you had agreed to it. If you met them, virtually, and decided that yes you wanted to continue, there would be a period of courting gifts that would be given before you could meet them in person. The liaison had warned you that the process could take some time for the connection to be made, for the alpha’s or you to feel a potential bond that could form. And given that you were pregnant, the liaison had given you the added warning that they could ultimately change their mind once they met you in person, and that in itself could be a setback.

Regardless of the warnings and the potential setbacks that you could face further onto into this courtship, if they chose to continue after the first meeting, you were eager to meet them. The liaison, on your behalf, had contacted the pack of alpha’s and scheduled a virtual meeting between yourself and them. There was a 5- or 6-hour time difference between the UK, depending on where they were, and the housing facility you were in in the US, which was taken into account.

It was at your benefit that the virtual meeting was set after your usual bout of morning sickness, which is how you found yourself in front of a camera and screen set up, shortly after 11am. To give yourself and the alpha’s privacy, the location for the virtual meeting was set up in one of the teahouses a small walk away from the main house. The teahouse would also be the location where you would meet them in person if this continued, a location that was still secure without the watching eyes of other omega’s.

The escorts who were attending you in the teahouse had helped you settled into a large, cushioned armchair, with blankets stacked in a cloth storage bin beside the chair if you got cold. There was a series of doctor approved snacks and tea that you were able to have on a small silver plate to your left. You were left, mostly, to your devices with the camera and screen on you, and then the scheduled call was beginning with a dial tone that made your heart leap.

Before you had even left the house for the teahouse to meet them, some of the other omega’s in the house had aided you. There was a kinship between omega’s, friendships that would grow and last lifetimes as you all sought the same end—a happy and mated life. When you told the other omega’s in the house that you had your first meeting, some of them had immediately offered to help you choose what to wear. It was a welcomed exchange that helped you strike the nerves from your system, knowing that a lot was riding on this.

The options you had were limited since most clothes were going to be quickly outgrown and, in the end, through a consensus as a group of omega’s, comfort was the top priority. You had ended up wearing a soft and buttery pair of leggings that helped support your growing bump without being too tight, and a soft waffle-knit sweater. It was a choice you would have likely made yourself but it was nice to have second and third opinions.

Now, a half hour later, you were sitting in the teahouse with snacks and a settled stomach thanks to your ginger tea.

“...the connection sucks. Where did you get this shite?” The screen was black, but you heard a voice, thick and heady English accent coming through the speakers. There was an underlying buzz that was audible through the speakers, slightly irritating to your senses but easily ignored. Especially when the screen has finally shifted from black to a full range of colours, and on the other side were four alpha’s staring at you.

“Hi?” You were unsure if they could hear you, and for a moment you thought the video call with these alpha’s had frozen. There was no movement, no sound, not at first as they stared at you, and you stared at them. “Are you-”

“Steaming bloody fuckin-” One of the alpha’s had finally spoke, his voice carrying a lilt of surprise, though his accent was even thicker than the first alpha who had spoken.

“Y/N,” the Scotsman was cut off by an alpha with chestnut brown hair wearing a kind of bucket hat that sat too low on his forehead. His blue eyes were striking yet slightly narrowed in the corners as he watched you, or your video wasn’t coming through to them. “Captain John Price.”

He introduced himself and you were wholly proven wrong by assuming you couldn’t see them, when his eyes had flit down from your face to the baby bump that was currently acting as a table for your teacup. He hadn’t commented but you could detect the very faint edge of a smile beneath his mutton chop style beard—a look that only a man like him could pull off.

“John,” you repeated his name as your fingernails tapped against the side of your porcelain cup, as if you could commit his name and face to memory on the first meeting.

“Sergeant Kyle Garrick,” the attention had been drawn to another alpha, one with beautiful brown eyes and flawless skin, and s charming smile that made your heart flutter, “but everyone calls me Gaz.”

Gaz was among the younger of the pack, while John was the oldest. Unlike John who carried a sturdy if not immediately strong and stoniness to him, Kyle was much more relaxed. He carried this natural charm with him, a penchant for being a little sarcastic and quick witted, with a smile that could easily disarm anyone.

“Aye the bonnie omega we’d been pining after for hours,” the focus of your attention had shifted again to the Scotsman who took center focus, and flashed a half-smirk your way, “look at the wee bump.”

“I’m only 4 months,” you spoke without thinking or allowing him to introduce himself, you jumped right into the progression of your pregnancy, “5 more to go.”

“Johnny ya wanker-” The rough and husky voice of another alpha wearing a skull mask, had taken the opportunity to introduce the third of four alpha’s. There was contention between the two alpha’s as one spoke over the other. The one you had now known as Johnny, had given the taller and almost broader alpha a seething glare, before his blue eyes were fixated back on the camera.

“John MacTavish,” he introduced himself with that same half-smirk, and crossed his arms over his chest. He was drawing attention to his size, which you were undeniably forced to admit was large and bulky, an intimidating alpha like the one wearing the skull mask. Johnny, the second youngest you guessed, had a mohawk of deep brown hair and stubble, yet no real beard like John.

“Johnny,” you repeated his name like you had with John and Kyle, mentally comparting each alpha with a distinct feature. John would have the monicker of Captain or Cap, Kyle would be pretty eyes, Johnny would be Scot or Scotty, and the last...

“Introduce yourself, lieutenant.” John had given the direct yet indirect order to the only alpha you hadn’t been introduced to.

He stood like a phantom near Johnny, his thumbs hooked into the straps of whatever was on his back, the tips of his fingers resting against the black hoodie he wore. There was something entirely nondescript about what he was wearing, paired with the skeleton mask that obscured his face—except his brown eyes.

“Ghost,” he finally spoke but not his name, no he had given you something else to call him and you wouldn’t ask questions if you didn’t want answers. That was all there was to it, a single Ghost, and that was how you were supposed to address him which was fine by you. You weren’t the type to push for more when it would get you nowhere, and this was a first meeting, if he wanted to tell you more, he would do it on his own terms.

“Ghost,” you had still repeated the name as you did with the rest of them, and then it fell silent.

Until Johnny had spoken up and broken the silence with his observing eyes and his heavy accent. He seemed, of the younger alpha’s, to be the one who was bolder and more brazen with his words, his observations.

“How the hell did an omega like you end up here, lass?” The question would come up sooner rather than later, and you knew it was inevitable. You hadn’t inherently hidden the reason for you being here from the biography that alpha’s would be given, yet you didn’t necessarily broadcast your rejection.

“I’m pregnant, the alpha who got me pregnant isn’t around and he doesn’t want to be.” You didn’t beat around the bush; you told them the exact reason why you were here and how you ended up pregnant without a mark on your neck or a mate. After you told them your reasoning, you lifted your teacup to your lips and sipped on the ginger tea the doctor approved of, hoping that it would quell your morning sickness for the rest of the day.

“What kind of bastard gets an omega pregnant and leaves?” Kyle is the next to speak, standing in the same stance as Ghost had, with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Fuckers’ that’s who.” Johnny’s voice had reflected the look in his eyes, and there was a deep and low growl that hung to the edge of his words.

“How’s the baby?” Ghost’s question had really garnered your surprise, from the intention to check on your baby and the fact that he cared as much as his voice suggested. From the impression you had gotten from him, the care and genuine curiosity was not expected.

“Growing,” you lowered the cup to your baby bump, resting the edge upon your built-in table, “the baby is about 5 inches long and weighs about 5 ounces. It’s approximately the size of an avocado.”

Your admission had drawn silence between the alpha’s, all of them falling silent as they looked at you through the screen, and you them. That silence had made you nervous, your heart rate had picked up and the subtle twist of your stomach had made you feel nauseous again. You debated reaching for one of the snacks the escorts had left for you but the idea of eating now would really make you feel sick.

“Morning sickness?’” John, their captain, had finally spoke above his men, asking a question that you suspected he knew the answer to. Just from looking at you, you thought he might have known.

“I still have morning sickness; it’ll hopefully be over soon.” You raised your mug that was still tucked between your hands, the string of the teabag wrapped around the handle. “The doctor wants me to drink ginger tea to try and keep the nausea down.”

“You’re having regular checkups?” John continued with his conversation, sliding his hand along the desk with a note tucked beneath his fingers. “Health insurance?”

“I have some, but I still need to pay-”

“We’ll take care of it, and any other expenses you have.” John spoke over you to annouce the intention to care for you financially, even while you were in the housing facility, even with minimal costs.

“Oh, you don’t-” you started to protest, your mind and tongue immediately setting upon the task of denying them the opportunity or even shutting down the very idea that they would need to.

“Aye the bonnie lass wants to argue,” Johnny grinned and leaned in, flashing those pearly whites as he grinned, “it’s all part of the responsibility, ‘mega.”

“Responsibility?” You questioned him, your eyes flitting from one to the other.

“We’re pursuing courtship and a mateship.” Kyle had also offered a charming grin, one that made butterflies in your stomach flutter as the realization of exactly what they were saying was slowly sinking into your skin.

“You all want to...?” You set the mug down on the table to your left, needing to have it settled before you spilled it on yourself. “Are you serious?”

“The earliest we can come see you in person is two weeks. You'll be in your fifth month, or have you just started the fourth month?” John was straightforward, he wasn’t trying to sugarcoat their decision to pursue a courtship with you. They had decided if you would accept them.

“I just started my fourth month of pregnancy.” They had decided as a whole, you could see it. There was unity in this decision, they were thinking as a solidified pack. “I’m just 16 weeks now.”

They wanted you, there was no denying that. They had laid it all out to you, that you were the omega they wanted, and your baby would be accepted by them. It was a unanimous decision between them all, and likely they had come into this meeting knowing that they would choose you.

“We’ll send the liaison an official agreement for courtship, legally binding if you accept.” There were certain obligations that they would have to adhere to if they agreed, and if you had signed the agreement than the process would officially begin.

“I do, I accept I mean.” You would agree, you would read the agreement when it arrived and the courtship between you and the pack of alpha’s would officially begin.

And depending on the first meeting, on the courtship process, you could be out of here before you were in your 6th month of pregnancy.

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