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hollyhomburg · 4 years

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Reasons Wretched and Divine (Part 3)

↪ Genre: hybrid au, polyamory au, Hurt/Comfort, Recovery, pregnancy

↪ Pairing: dog hybrid! Namjoon x Reader x Golden Retriever! Jimin

↪ Summary: You live on an isolated but sprawling farm with your abusive husband. But things start to change for the better when you adopt a retired police dog hybrid named Namjoon.

↪ Tags: Mentions of psychological abuse, physical abuse, concussions, hurt/comfort, hybrid mistreatment, Jimin is a little hopeless, first time saying i love you, heavy kissing/touching over clothes, pregnancy, overprotective namjoon, romanticized farm life.

↪ Song rec: Zero o'clock ~ BTS

↪ W/c: 5.9k

🐾 PART 1 🐾 PART 2 🐾

- Taehyung’s smile, waiting to welcome any hybrid to the farm and offer them a bunk and a cup of tea or coffee, does wonders for your retention rate at the farm.

- Pretty soon more hybrids are staying more nights or asking you how long they can stay. And you always reply “as long as you need too” (though there are a few who just only stay a few days to rest and recuperate and then move on, the deer hybrids are particularly nomadic) but the bunk beds in the first finished barn fill up over the course of the first month.

- It's you who has the idea to put up ads in newspapers and at bus stops for humans who want to help hybrids but can’t take any in. You get quite a few calls from people who have seen their neighbors beating their hybrids, or who have found injured hybrids along the road.

- You even get a call from a hospital at one point. Pet stores call too- having picked up hybrids from the streets, or have hybrids that have grown too old- haven’t been adopted after a few months or like they call it ‘excess stock’. Even though it seems horrible to think of them that way, to most of the world hybrids are little more than possessions.

- You and Namjoon always drive and pick whoever it is up rain or shine. You get calls in the middle of the night and have to leave immediately despite the fact that you’re getting more obviously pregnant day by day, and your baby bump fully visible to outsiders, unconcealable under all but the baggiest of shirts.

- Namjoon’s slowly growing collection of red flannel shirts (really he only likes the red ones) is your favorite thing to raid on the days that you’re feeling particularly self-conscious about your body. And it always makes your puppy a certain kind of needy, wanting to have you close always (which is a plus, not that you’d ever tell Namjoon what his whines do to you)

- When it comes to giving up unwanted hybrids, Very few people argue with the crazy pregnant lady and her intimidating hybrid with the scarred face. And if they do argue, a stack of money is usually enough to convince even the most reluctant of people to part with their hybrids.

- The most you’ve ever had to pay an owner to give up their already unwanted hybrid is around 1,000 dollars, and too you- they’re worth much more than that. to see the way they change when they suddenly find themselves safe for the first time in their lives- it’s priceless to you and namjoon.

- It breaks your heart when you take them home, and the first few days, where they watch everything like it might disappear, when they walk on eggshells of their old lives, so worried that they’re going to be thrown out. When they hoard food worried it’s going to be taken away, flinch at every raised hand. it breaks your heart, but it also makes you feel accomplished when they slowly start to heal, start to laugh louder than they ever have, start to joke and play over meal times, seak you out for a reassuring heat pet.

- And although you hold more than a dozen certificates of ownership at a time, you’re clear to any hybrid that walks onto your property that they’re their own person, that they owe you nothing and that their freedom and autonomy will be given the second they ask for it.

- No matter who they are or where they came from, their age, what kind of ears they have on the top of their heads, they are given a bunk, a fresh change of clothes (or two) and at least 2 meals a day. though- mealtimes are easily the hardest part of your operation and the thing that gives you the biggest headache. Making sure you’ve made enough food for everyone after the bunk beds fill up very very quickly when word starts to get around in the stray community.

- luckily- you had the forethought to expand your kitchen, and now you have 3 ovens, a larger than average dishwasher, 2 sinks, and industrial-sized refrigerators in the cellar. Meals become the most important and most involved part of your day. You’re thankful that a few of the hybrid who has come to stay with you- particularly the cat hybrids, seems to have a knack for cooking who often let themselves into the first level of your house before the sun rises- their nocturnal inclinations useful for once.

- it’s quite the shock, the first day you walk downstairs at 6am, intent on starting breakfast, only to find 3 cat hybrids- one arrived yesterday- a middle-aged forest cat with little tufts on the end of her ears named Heesun, who is already pressing a warm cup of tea into your hands and telling you to sit down. The rest of the cats buzzing around your kitchen, the smell of frying vegetables and eggs already tickling at your nose. “are you sure you’ve got everything?”

- “of course! when the others told me that you usually cook the food in the mornings- i didn’t think that was right you see- you’re doing so much for us here- let us do this” you watch as she divides labor, the other two cat hybrids following her lead, you ask, and the hybrid tells you she used to be a cook for the family she used to live with. you don’t ask what emancipated her out of their care, Heesun had shown up on the edge of the farm yesterday with a noticeable limp.

- It’s not surprising to you that after a few days Heesun asks you if she can become a permanent resident of the farm. Any hybrid is free to leave when they want but most choose to stay and contribute. It’s a little surprising, the first day you walk out your front door to find one of the hybrids sweeping up some leaves, or when one of them comes to get Namjoon’s help repairing the side of one of the barns.

- At first- both of you are adamant apposed to them helping, but Taehyung helps mediate between the main house and the hybrids in the barns. And the 10 or so that have stuck around who express to you that it would make them feel more comfortable staying here if they could help out.

- And it’s not like you don’t need the help- because really, as the population of the farm exceeds 20, you really really do.

- They mostly run the chore system themselves, Namjoon and Taehyung keep a running list of chores that need to be done and guide a few groups in the morning that want to work. All hybrids who stay contribute in some way, Weather that is with the bunny hybrids that run around doing laundry and sweeping, and cleaning to their heart's content or the bear hybrids led by Taehyung. Everyone has their jobs.

- You have three bear hybrids in total, Tae, a small honey-colored bear named Beomgyu, and a panda hybrid named Jackson that help you collect the honey from beehives and sell it at the farmers market. Though Taehyung manages to eat more honey than they sell somehow and is constantly scolded by both Jackson and Namjoon (Even if the beehives where his idea). Most of the time when you see him- Tae has sticky cheeks.

- But Namjoon will basically let Taehyung get away with anything, seeing as the hybrid contributes the most to making the farm run smoothly. Taehyung is always egger to help you with anything that needs to be done unable to keep still. Whether that be runs to the store with you to buy mountains of food needed to feed everyone, Coupon clipping, or the general wrangling and organization. The more technical things, like fixing up some of the other buildings, like the chicken coop and actual animal barns that have fallen into disrepair, are left mostly to namjoon.

- You’re given nearly 30 chickens and half a dozen sheep by a local after the owners of them get too old to properly take care of them. As much as they’re a headache access to more than three dozen eggs a day helps to cut down the cost of breakfast significantly. And you’re happy with the chickens because at the very least they aerate the soil and keep it free of bugs too, even if it means you need to fence in the vegetable garden that you’re cultivating to keep them away from the tomatoes.

- Scrambled eggs with bacon, breakfast burritos, frittatas, and fried eggs are some of your breakfast staples. And you get more than a little help from some of the hybrids who have experience in cooking during meal times to feed the nearly 50 occupants of the farm by the end of the second month.

- You’ve accumulated a few dog hybrids as well, Wide-eyed collie Dahyun, chow-chow Yugyeom, and muscly great-dane hybrid Shownu who help Namjoon whenever something needs to be moved, as well as an assortment of rare breeds like the lone alpaca hybrid Seokjin who takes care of the sheep when you have to shear them and spin the wool into fine quality yarn.

- Seokjin is a quiet hybrid, uncannily taciturn despite his kind face. he can often be found in the workshop at the south end of the property, his hair blonde and poofy hiding his soft pink ears. Piling the mountains of wool into vats of dyes and setting others out to dry, whistling along to the radio as he weaves it. the hybrid is quiet- and prefers his space from the bustle of the center of the property. Namjoon likes to help him when he can, and you’ve seen the way that the usually taciturn hybrid turns smiley when namjoon is around.

- There is always someone volunteering to do the countless other little jobs and things that the hybrids do or make to help give back to you. Most of them want to do as much as they can, even though there are still days where there simply isn’t a lot of work to do outside of mealtimes.

- At night, when you retreat to your house after dinner with Namjoon, happy for a little bit of calmness in your kitchen so late. You’ll hold his hand, let him spin you to the tune of whatever plays out of the radio, and thank him for finding you again after you disappeared into yourself for a little while after your husband's death. You don’t feel quite so sad anymore, with the hybrids here- you have a purpose again.

- The large fortune you have from your late husband is barely dented by the start-up costs and day-to-day costs of running the farm. And since you got licensed by the state as a hybrid rehabilitation center you have no shortage of funding or generous donations by the countries rich looking to deduct from their taxes too. The same rich people that stop by in their fancy cars and barely used trucks to see the farm, often asking to adopt, as enamored with the hybrids as you are.

- There is a long judgment period before you sign over anyone, and more than once you have declined an offer after the hybrid in question tells you they’re unsure. Sometimes there are red flags, the way the children act almost fearful, and a lack of care shown during mealtimes or something else that leads you to believe that they will be neglected. The ones you do part with give you a hug, often almost not wanting to let go, some of them choking out ‘thank you’s’ and ‘please never close’ that make every bit of effort worth it.

- You keep a logbook, of every hybrid that comes to stay and when they leave, even some come back more than once, every now and then. At the top of the page is namjoon’s signature, and next is taehyungs, and then on and on. you fill up the first page, and then the second, and then the third with names.

- All the hybrids know that they won't leave with anyone unless they want to. You hold adoption weekends every month or so to help mitigate some of the influx, but you never turn anyone away who comes to stay. There are some hybrids that come stay at the farm and still want a home of their own, which is the primary reason why you start to have open houses and adoption weekends.

- You devise a system, red tags on clothing to indicate a hybrid that doesn’t want to be adopted, yellow for the ones that might be but need space, and green name tags for those who want to be adopted.

- The first time you have one of these weekends, 3 months after the death of your husband, you leave Namjoon’s choice of which sticker he wants up to him. He rolls his eyes at you before slapping 5 red stickers on his lapel just for good measure, really? Why would you expect any differently?

- “Whose going to love a washed-up old soul like me anyway?” Namjoon says over dishes, helping you finish up the few that are leftover from breakfast. The hybrids that normally help are out meeting with the ten or so people that have come to adopt today. The words sound so sour, much more than he wanted them too.

- You snort, rubbing at a dish harder, splashing the grease onto the front of your apron, angry, maybe it’s just the hormones. “I don’t know, me maybe.” Namjoon looks up abruptly; nearly dropping the dish he’s drying. You take it from his hands and put it on the counter, and you might be smaller than him by nearly a foot but he still feels shy. his cheeks pinking as he looks down at you.

- “No ones- no ones ever loved me.” Namjoon says in a rush, not sure why he’s saying it, because you know- if anyone in the world knows Namjoon it’s you. your batterd soul matches his.

- You tilt his chin down to yours, “no one has ever said it to me and meant it either. But I love you Joonie- you have to know that by now- of course I want you to stay for good.”

- And then suddenly Namjoon is kissing you feverishly, sloppily despite the fact that his body is brimming with careful intent. And it may not be the first kiss you’ve shared- there have been more than a few in the shadowed shared moments In the morning. Mostly chaste pecks of the lips or kisses to your forehead or the ones to your tummy that namjoon knows make you feel a little sad. But for all intents and purposes, this is the only kiss that matters. The kisses that come after the first “I love you” are always sweeter than candy.

- You thread your fingers through his hair and pull, making tingles erupt like starlight down his spine. Namjoon almost growls into your mouth as he reaches down to grip underneath your thighs where your ass meets your hips. Picking you up as gently as he can manage and placing you on the butcher-block countertop next to the sink.

- Your nails rubbing along the curve where his ears connect to his scull and he pulls you closer, always closer, dissatisfied with your nearness even though you’re pressed against him completely and he can feel the gentle swell of you through his clothes. your legs parted so he can step between them. Namjoon wants to not be able to tell where your skin begins and his ends. Your hands run up and down his chest, pushing his flannel off of his shoulders, so you can feel his biceps, the strength there in them taught.

- Your dress hiking up to the point where it’s verging on lewd as his hands grab fistfulls of your plush thighs. He grips the weight you’ve gained there through your pregnancy and almost groans as he smooth’s his hands up over your curves unable to get enough of the way his fingers press into your supple skin. “Fuck, do you know how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that? To touch you? i love you too- so much it hurts sometimes.”

- You’re looking up at him, already looking needy and wrecked the spaghetti strap of your dress sliding off your shoulder, as you nod and Namjoon wants more than anything to keep kissing you, to never stop, he never will if you let him.

- He feels like he almost wants to devour you nipping lightly at the skin exposed by that fallen strap. As your fingers hover around the nape of his neck, answering his question with a broken whimper as he nips along your clavicle to your neck. Drunk on the smell of you, feeling like his soul is bare but safe in your hands. “I love you- god I love you so much, please can - can i- touch you?”

- You feel almost incredulous, you head spinning with the knowledge that Namjoon loves you, he loves you, and you love him. You nod your ascent, and After everything, you’d never honestly believed that you’d ever be kissed again, much less that you’d ever be kissed like this. You tug up the hem of his shirt to dig your fingers into hips, dragging them carefully down his stomach without using your nails, the gentleness of the touch making him groan.

- You can feel his heartbeat in your fingertips, the rapid rhythms of each heart beating in time as Namjoon kisses down your chest, mouthing roughly at your nipple through the fabric, careful not to nip, you’re already keening, your breasts so sensitive to his gentle but hungry ministrations.

- Before it can go any further a cat hybrid, a small tortashell cat named Irene whose missing the tip of one of her ears from her last owner opens the front door looking for you- announcing a few people come for the open house, shocked to find the scene before her. And before she can manage more than a squeak Namjoon is snarling at her to leave without words.

- He’s flushing so hard at being caught that you can’t help but laugh, as he turns from sultry to painfully shy. After a few more kisses and a frustrated groan on his part, you go back outside to join the adoption day festivities.

- You get the call to pick up a golden retriever hybrid much like you would get any other call.

- It’s the second you’ve gotten in the last week and it’s only Thursday, though the first hybrid of the week has been clear that she wants to be re-adopted as soon as possible. You get the call and a blurry picture as proof, a brutish man with a hand tugging a small blonde head with golden ears as curly as the rest of his head. the neighbor tells you he’d seen the man beat the hybrid out in the yard, heard his cries of stop- and though of your add in the paper.

- You and namjoon leave soon after dinner in your old red truck, before you go Taehyung assures you that he’ll make sure everyone cleans up from dinner and that the two child hybrids that came to stay last week will be in bed before 10. It honestly endears you that Taehyung takes on an older brother role with a lot of the younger hybrids, who during free hours, can be found bothering the bear hybrid to play games or let them steal spoonful’s of honey from the storeroom.

- The drive is long, the day fading into night as you and Namjoon take mile after mile to heart. He switches off with you on the straightaways. You’ve been trying to teach him how to drive over the past few months (with many quaint misshapes where he accidentally knocked over your mailbox and a street sign or two, it’s a good thing your old truck is incredibly sturdy).

- You whistle along with the song on the radio and namjoon smiles over at you, you're leaning your cheek on the door, hanging your head out of the open window the warm spring air tickling your long hair, your smile soft and happy. The love he has for you overflowing in his chest, thick and sweet like hidden honey. He might not say he loves you often, but you can taste it on his lips every time he kisses you, since the first confession, the kisses have come every day.

- Namjoon still gets a little misty-eyed if he thinks about it too much. How much better you’ve gotten in the past few months since you’ve opened your home and started helping hybrids. He knows what it means for you to be able to help others out of situations like this.

- With most pick-ups and house calls, you’re never sure what you’re driving into. Namjoon is always a little worried, unsure what kind of danger they’re going to find at the end of their journey.

- Namjoon always anticipates the day that the human owners become violent, and his protective instincts go haywire whenever Namjoon has to leave you near someone abusive. Dredging up memories from a time that you’re both desperately trying to forget, but he’d never ask you to stop coming on these runs.

- This is why when you get to the house on the edge of the city where Namjoon used to work he lets you handle the transactional part of this, it helps that you’re very convincing.

-The large jean jacket that was Namjoon’s at one point but has become yours pulled snugly over your stomach. You answer the door, talk to the owner weave a story of a widow who needs help on their farm. The man smells distinctly of alcohol and cheep cigars, namjoon sees you holding your breath- even as the conversation becomes less than cordial. Namjoon stops the door from closing in your face by shoving his foot into the door.

- “I’ll level with you asshole,” you say, “you can either take my money and hand over the hybrid now- or I can go to the police with this” you hold out your phone and the video. “The fine for abusing hybrids is just about as much as what I’m offering to take him off your hands. Either way he’s coming home with me tonight. You can either make 500 dollars tonight or lose it- your choice.”

- Through the whole conversation, Namjoon stands behind you, a silent sentinel even as the owner of the hybrid raises his voice. You argue more, but eventually, he agrees. Namjoon goes to retrieve the hybrid after a small nod from you; you’ve got this handled, Namjoon follows his nose.

- Over the past few years, Jimin has become accustomed to just about every kind of abuse there is.

- Even when he sleeps, adrenaline lugs it’s way through his veins ready to jump at the slightest indication of his owner coming down the hall. He knows he shouldn’t sleep right now, get it when he can, but the concussion he got earlier today makes his head feel heavy and nausea still rolls in his belly.

- He lies- hides- underneath his bed; an old military cot in the cold garage. Not that he ever sleeps on top of it- it’s safer to sleep underneath. That way if his owner comes in later at night he’ll think Jimin has fucked off to some other corner of the house.

- He knows the concussion is all his own fault- he’d been stupid- but he’d just wanted to shower, to get some of the grime out from under his fingernails, he hadn’t expected his owner to come back from wherever he disappeared to so soon. Jimin shivers as he remembers the jarring crack of his own head hitting the rocks outside where he’d been tossed outside. His memories after that were muddled with pain, though he was certain he’d vomited at one point from the taste in his mouth.

- You weren’t supposed to sleep when you had a concussion right? That was dangerous right? Jimin was trying to remember, lying on the side of his face that wasn’t bruised to all high heaven. He freezes when he hears the voices in the kitchen, but relaxes. If people are here that means his owner probably won’t bother Jimin tonight.

- he might be able to get to the bathroom later and dab some cool water on his face, maybe sneak a few handfuls of something from the kitchen. Always small portions so that his owner couldn’t tell Jimin had taken anything- he couldn’t handle another beating so close to this one. Hunger eats his way through his stomach.

- But then he hears the footsteps and thinks that maybe he isn’t so lucky tonight. he presses himself closer to the wall, tucking his knees up to his chest.

- But why are the footsteps a different pattern, what is that scent? it smells like another hybrid- a little spicy musk twined in with pine. Jimin doesn’t like strange smells. The door opens slowly, and the scent seeps in further, along with- what could that be? The scent of something delicate and sweet clinging to the hybrid as strong as his own scent, milky and soft, and inexplicably vulnerable.

- He watches as the stiff workboots come into view, At this point, jimin can tell that it’s definitely not his owner.

- Namjoon finds Jimin curled up under his bed in the garage, and beacons him out in his calm voice, careful not to get close and startle him. “Come on out pup- we’re here to take you somewhere safe, I promise I will let no harm come to you again.” jimin eases when he sees the hybrid ears- another hybrid like him! another dog, his tail gives a single wag. “mm not a pup- i’m just small,”

- Jimin pears out from under the bed at him, ears pinned to his head in fear. the hybrid looks fierce and intimidating with the scars on his face that jimin almost flinches back. But the wide worried eyes that he can see underneath those scars, the muted dimples stretching into a worried smile.

- Jimin has been so downtrodden on his entire life that he doesn’t really believe Namjoon when he repeats the words, “we’re here to take you somewhere safe?” jimin dosent believe him- but at the same time, he thinks that nowhere could be worse than right where he is.

- The other hybrids smile is kind, and dimply, despite the scars that mark his face as he sits on the ground so he dosent have to bend over to see under the cot. “sorry, it’s hard to get a good look at you, i’m namjoon, you’re Jimin right?”

- Jimin crawls out from under his cot in the garage slowly, the room spinning. half expecting the other hybrid to get tired of his slowness and yank him out. his owner did that sometimes when he felt like Jimin was being disrespectful of his time. Namjoon winces outwardly when Jimin’s left side turns towards the light, and Jimin knows that it can’t look good. He can barely see out of his eye after all the skin tender and swolen under his hands.

- He’s mindful of all the dust on his clothes and the tare in the left leg of his red shorts, brushing a dust bunny off his side, suddenly feeling lacking in front of the well taken care of hybrid.

- He follows a pace behind Namjoon back into the living room, his owner stands with you, you’re shorter but holding your own with sharp stubborn eyes. A human, so this must be Namjoon’s owner. The second your eyes fall on Jimin, on his swollen side of his face, your eyes turn softer and definitely angrier.

- The scent of flowers and cream hits Jimin like a wave so pungent that it fills his nostrils and overwhelms him a little, it’s not unpleasant- just unexpected- and when he sees you he understands why. Though you’re obviously trying to conceal your pregnant stomach your scent is a dead giveaway every hybrid in a mile radius probably can smell you.

- Jimin can see Namjoon straighten up a little, becoming more protective the closer they get to Jimin’s owner, who doesn’t look happy (not by a long, astronomical shot) Jimin shivers as he turns his eyes on him, his arms crossed, and Namjoon instinctually steps in front of Jimin to hide him from view. Jimin sways on his feet.

- You plunge your hand into your bag by your side, pulling out a stack of bills, for a moment jimin almost wants to stop you- tell you that he’s not worth that much, but Namjoon holds out a hand, almost pressing it to Jimin’s chest to keep him from doing so.

- The money is counted, “good riddance useless mutt,” his owner spits after he signs over the adoption documents to you. Jimin’s flinch is sobering, his owner laughs. Namjoon actually shoves him back The saliva hitting Jimin’s feet as he reels, and you lay a gentle arm around his shoulders, guiding him outside. Sending a final glare in the direction of the man.

- Jimin can barely process any of it through the spinning in his head, a spinning that moderately stops the second he gets outside into the cool air of the May evening. The scent of flowers and pine in his nose and the taste of blood in his mouth.

- You soothe him with a soft voice once they’re out of earshot and take a quick look at Jimin’s half swollen face. A cellphone flashlight in his face and thundering in his ears. Momentarily blinding him. Jimin closes his eye as the pads of your fingers turn his chin this way and that to assess his wounds. “Do you think you need to go to the hospital Jimin?” you ask, careful to stay quiet and delicate with him.

- In the window of Jimin’s old house, the curtain twitches, and Namjoon knows they need to leave soon. Bad will and money lead to safety that only lasts so long, and they definitely don’t need the cops called on them especially after Namjoon shoved him, hybrids have been sent to jail for less.

- “No, I think I’ll be fine” Jimin mumbles, unable to resist leaning into your hand, so soft, your scent making him feel almost hazy and out of it than his probable concussion does. And Namjoon freezes, reminded that not too long ago that you looked like this too- that he was the one leaning into your hands. The memory hits him so violently that he whines, low in his throat. Jimin looks up, ears flicking agitated like he’s asking what wrong, sending a panicked glance between the two of you defaulting to namjoon, the elder hybrid, to know what to do around you- his new owner.

- “let me- let's get you into the car” namjoon grips jimin around the top of his arms and lifts him in, his skinned knee resisting the bend that would be needed to pull himself up into the back seat. He sits tense and curled up before you remind him that he can stretch out. and he settles onto the seat with his his back up against one side, and his feet pressed against the opposite door. the back window open to let the night air wip in.

- You stop at the gas station and give Jimin ice for his black eye and some food and snacks, which he gobbles up hungrily. He’s so preoccupied with food, that he dosent notice Namjoon’s dimpled smile in the mirror after Jimin groans at how good the gas station burrito tastes, licking his fingers with a pop. You give Namjoon a soft, knowing look when his tail thumps against the seat. he tosses Jimin two more bags of chips and a sweet elecrtolite drink, and watches expectantly to see more of Jimin’s happy little whines and pleased grumbles. and you stifle a huffing laugh.

- Namjoon can’t help it, the hybrid in the back seat looks so thin, almost startlingly so; he’s smaller than average too- probably malnourished. Namjoon’s natural caregiver instincts flaring up and demanding to be satisfied so desperately that he even tosses his flannel over him when he sees the hybrid shiver. You sent Namjoon a curious look, and he hides his flush by turning to watch the roadside.

- Jimin stretches out across the back seat with Namjoon’s giant flannel thrown over his shoulders, checking to make sure neither of you is looking back at him before he presses the collar to his nose and takes a deep breath of your combines scents, trying to reconcile his senses with what surely must be a dream.

- This has to be just a concussion dream jimin decides, what else would his mind come up with, other than a sweet fantasy. Someone comes to take him out of the hell his life was, give him food. He wants to take in everything, the smell of the night air, the silhouette of your face in the headlights, namjoon’s ears poking out above the headrest.

- He hovers on Namjoon’s hand entwined with yours over the center console, the hand that Namjoon occasionally reaches out to rest against your swollen stomach, gently drawing lazy circles as you pull onto the main road.

- Yup, Jimin decides, this is definitely a dream, but he hopes it’s real. The last little bit of hope feels almost stupid to have, for hybrids like Jimin, there are very rarely happy endings.

- He falls asleep by the time you reach the highway, lulled by the thrumming road and the oldies song faintly playing out of the crackly speakers of the beat-up truck. His last thought before sleep takes him is hope.

- Jimin hopes with the last shred of himself that is joyful and kind and not purely concerned with survival that this is not a dream, and that where he is going will be a little bit better than where he just was.

- Even just a little bit better than this dream, he doesn’t even need anything like the affection burning in both of your eyes or the kindness you’ve shown him, if he can just lay his head down and rest without being worried he’ll be woken up with pain and fear again, that will be enough.

- To Jimin, the farm is an Eden.

( my Kofi )

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shawtygonemad · 3 years

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What Is This Feeling: Chapter 2

Fem!9th Doctor x Male!Rose Tyler

WITF Masterlist

Back in the TARDIS, the Doctor was frowning at the screen. This was not good. The signal was getting stronger, meaning the plastics were as well. Good thing the Doctor made a portable device to track down the signal. The Gallifreyan stepped out of the blue box and was on her way.

She was lead towards a housing complex. The signal was very strong here. The Doctor was about to approach the plastic bin when a girl popped out of it. The girl walked over to the yellow buggie and got inside. She was definitely plastic. The Doctor was about to approach the plastic when Ross stepped out of the house. He started to walk towards the yellow buggie. The Doctor quickly hid out of sight. This boy is extremely danger prone. This handsome pink and yellow human seemed to need her help constantly.

"Handsome?" She quietly questioned herself. When did she start to think of him as attractive?

The buggie drove by her. A growl rumbled in her throat. Her distraction let the plastic get away, and with Ross! The plastic tracker was out in a matter of seconds. She quickly followed the signal again.

The Time Lord soon found the buggie once more. It was parked outside the little café she left the TARDIS behind earlier. She put the tracker away, and stepped inside. Casually looking around she finally spotted Ross sitting at a table with the plastic girl across from him. The Doctor quickly grabbed an unopened bottle of champagne off a table, unnoticed. She headed towards their table.

"Your champagne," she offered the bottle, waiting to be noticed.

"We didn't order any champagne. Where's the Doctor," the plastic demanded.

The Doctor frowned and turned towards Ross.

"Sir, your champagne," she offered again.

"It's not ours. Mickey, what is it? What's wrong," Ross asked this girl.

He cared for her, or at least this image of the girl and not the plastic. They must be in a relationship. The Doctor felt a little pang of jealousy.

'Stop.' She internally yelled at herself.

"Doesn't anybody want this champagne?"

"Look, we didn't order it," The plastic finally looked up to see the Doctor. "Ah, gotcha," the plastic smiled.

The Doctor started to shake the bottle vigorously. "Don't mind me. I'm just toasting the happy couple. On the house!" She yelled as the cork was released. It flew and stuck in the plastic's forehead.

Slowly the cork was absorbed into her forehead. She soon spit it out of her mouth. Ross looked horrified.

"Anyway," the plastic began to get up, and turned its hand into a chopper.

Ross let out a surprised yell, and fled as plastic Mickey busted the table. The Doctor grabbed the Auton's head, and pulled it off. The other customers saw this, and began to panic. All hell broke loose.

"Don't think that's going to stop me," the head spoke to the Doctor.

The plastic's body got up, and started to flail around. Ross, being the genius that he was, set off the fire alarm. This would allow the customers to escape.

"Everyone out! Out now! Get out! Get out! Get out!" Ross yelled.

The Doctor then led Ross through the kitchen. The head tried to bite the Doctor.

"Oi! Stop that!"

The body of the head wrecked the restaurant before following them to the back exit. The Doctor quickly sealed the exit shut while Ross ran down the alley, past the TARDIS. The Doctor found it ironic that she parked it there earlier in the day. Ross was panicked when he found a padlock on the exit gates.

"Open the gate! Use that tube thing. Come on!"

"Sonic screwdriver," she corrected him.

"Use it," he frantically yelled.

The Doctor casually walked over toward the TARDIS.

"Nah. Tell you what, let's go in here."

The Doctor unlocked the police box, and went inside. The Auton hammered on the metal door, making large dents.

"You can't hide inside a wooden box. It's going to get us! Doctor," Ross yelled.

He tried the gate again. The blonde finally gave up on the gate. He ran into the TARDIS. Ross paused, and stared wide eyed around the console room. He quickly ran out. The human was probably trying to figure out the 'bigger on the inside' concept. The boy finally ran back inside.

"It's going to follow us," he panicked.

The Doctor rushed around the console, pressing buttons and pulling knobs. "The assembled hoards of Genghis Khan couldn't get through that door, and believe me, they've tried. Now shut up a minute."

The Doctor set the head on the console panel, and started to attach wires to it. If she could set up a connection, then she could get to the main signal!

"You see, the arm was too simple, but the head is perfect! I can use it to trace the signal back to the original source." The Doctor turned to the confused human. "Right. Where do you want to start?"

"Um… The inside's bigger than the outside…?" Ross spoke hesitantly.

"Yes."

"'s alien."

"Yeah."

"Are you alien?"

"Yes… Is that alright?" The Doctor prepared herself for a scream and rejection from the boy.

"Yeah."

'Thank Rassilon! I'm no good with emotional situations.' She thought to herself.

"It's called the TARDIS, this thing. T. A. R. D. I. S. That's Time And Relative Dimension In Space."

Ross looked ready to burst into tears.

'Please don't cry! Please don't cry!'

"That's okay. Cultural Shock. Happens to the best of us," she spoke awkwardly. She really wasn't good with the whole 'emotions' thing.

"Did they kill her? Mickey? Did they kill Mickey? Is she dead," Ross asked concerned.

The Doctor furrowed her eyebrows. "Oh, didn't think of that."

"She's my girlfriend. You pulled off her head. They copied her and you didn't even think?" He then wildly gestured to the console panel. "And now you're just going to let her melt?"

"Melt?" The Doctor turned to look and gasped.

"Oh no! No, no, no, no!"

She ran over to the console fast, and set the TARDIS in motion. She needed to follow that signal!

"What are you doing?"

"Following the signal. It's fading! Wait a minute," she quickly latched onto the fading signal. "I've got it!" The signal started to fade quicker and was almost gone. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no! Almost there. Almost there. Here we go!"

The TARDIS landed, and the Doctor bolted out the door.

"You can't go out there! It's not safe," Ross yelled behind the Doctor.

The night time breeze blew through the Doctor's hair. She frowned deeply.

"I lost the signal. I got so close!"

"We've moved. Does it fly?"

"Disappears there and reappears here. You wouldn't understand." She was frustrated with the situation.

"If we're somewhere else, what about the headless thing? It's still on the loose."

The Doctor began to stress out.

"It melted with the head. Are you going to witter on all night," she questioned bitterly.

There was a short pause before Ross quietly spoke up, almost heartbroken.

"I'll have to tell her mother. Mickey. I'll have to tell her mother she's dead, and you just went and forgot her, again! You were right, you are alien."

The Doctor faced Ross now. She was getting very cross.

"Look, if I did forget some kid called Mickey-"

"She's not a kid!"

"It's because I'm trying to save the life of every stupid ape blundering on top of this planet, all right!"

Selfish. That's what these humans are. Ungrateful for the acts of heroicness she does. She risks her life countless times, and all they care about are themselves.

"If you're an alien, how comes you sound like you're from the North?"

"Lots of planets have a North." She was starting to calm down.

"What's a 'police public call box'?"

"It's a telephone box from the 1950's. It's a disguise."

"Okay. And this, this living plastic. What's it got against us?"

"Nothing. It loves you. You've got such a good planet. Lots of smoke and oil, plenty of toxins and dioxins in the air, perfect. Just what the Nestene Consciousness needs. Its food stock was destroyed in the war, all its protein plants rotted, so Earth, dinner!" She made an eating motion.

"Any way of stopping it?"

The Doctor grinned, before taking out a tube filled with blue liquid.

"Anti-plastic."

"Anti-plastic?"

"Anti-plastic! But first I've got to find it. How can you hide something that big in a city this small?"

"Hold on. Hide what?" Ross asked.

"The transmitter. The consciousness is controlling every single piece of plastic, so it needs a transmitter to boost the signal."

"What's it look like?"

"Like a transmitter. Round and massive, slap bang in the middle of London."

Ross stared behind the Doctor, but she didn't notice.

"A huge circular metal structure like a dish, like a wheel. Radial. Close to where we're standing. Must be completely invisible!"

Ross kept gesturing towards the Eye.

"What?" The Doctor looked around confused. She finally saw the Eye and caught on.

"Oh. Fantastic!"

The Doctor then began to bolt across the Westminster Bridge. Ross was running right next to her. She grinned and held out her hand to him. He took it. They both ran together hand-in-hand down to the Eye.

"Think of it, plastic all over the world, every artificial thing waiting to come alive. The shop window dummies, the phones, the wires, the cables-"

"The breast implants," Ross added in.

"Still, we've found the transmitter. The consciousness must be somewhere underneath."

Ross took off out of the Doctor's sight.

"What about down there," Ross calls.

The Doctor went over to investigate. She ended up finding a manhole. She grinned.

"Looks good to me!"

They ran down the parapet's steps. The Doctor opened up the hatch to find a red glow from below. She began down the latter. Once down, she cautiously opened the door. Inside was, to no surprise, the consciousness.

'Ross is fantastic! I might have to keep him around.'

"The Nestene Consciousness," She pointed to the vat. "That's it, inside the vat. A living plastic creature."

"Well then, tip in your anti-plastic and let's go," Ross said, a bit unnerved.

The Doctor frowned, before heading down the stairs.

"I'm not here to kill it. I've got to give it a chance."

She walked down to a catwalk overlooking the vat.

"I seek audience with the Nestene Consciousness under peaceful contract according to convention fifteen of the Shadow Proclamation."

The vat of plastic started to flex. It approved of her request.

"Thank you. If I might have permission to approach?"

The Doctor noticed Ross run straight to Mickey with worry. She just rolled her eyes at them.

"Oh god! Mickey, it's me! It's okay, it's all right."

"That thing down there, the liquid. Ross, it can talk!" Mickey was practically shaking from fright.

"Doctor, they kept her alive!"

"Yeah, that was always a possibility. Keep her alive to maintain the copy," she informed him.

"You knew that and you never said," he asked slightly cross.

"Can we keep the domestics outside? Thank you." The Doctor shot as she walked down to get closer to the consciousness.

"Am I addressing the consciousness?" It replied with a yes.

"Thank you. If I might observe, you infiltrated this civilization by means of warp shunt technology. So, may I suggest, with the greatest respect, that you shunt off?"

The vat of plastic started to reply angrily.

"Oh don't give me that. It's an invasion, plain and simple. Don't talk constitutional right."

The consciousness started to angrily splash back and forth.

"I am talking!" The Time Lord yells. "This planet is just starting. These stupid little people have only just learnt how to walk, but they're capable of so much more. I'm asking you on their behalf. Please, just go."

"Doctor!" Ross yelled out.

She turned around just in time to see the plastics grab her. She struggled against them. One dummy took the anti-plastic from her pocket.

"That was just insurance! I wasn't going to use it!"

The consciousness was extremely angry now.

"I was not attacking you! I'm here to help. I'm not your enemy. I swear, I'm not!"

The consciousness screeched at the Doctor.

"What do you mean," she asked confused.

Just then, a door slid back to reveal the TARDIS.

"No. Oh, no. Honestly, no!" She knew where this was going. It was horrified of her, because of the war.

"Yes, that's my ship." It screeched at her more. "That's not true! I should know, I was there! I fought in the war. It wasn't my fault. I couldn't save your world! I couldn't save any of them!"

"What's it doing," Ross called down.

"It's the TARDIS! The Nestene's identified its superior technology. It's terrified. It's going to the final phase. It's starting the invasion!" Her stomach dropped. "Get out, Ross! Just leg it now!"

The consciousness started to throw energy bolts around.

"It's the activation signal. It's transmitting!"

The Eye started to light up with energy.

"It's the end of the world." Ross stated.

The plastic in the vat was getting extremely agitated.

"Get out, Ross! Just get out! Run!" The Doctor was starting to get anxious. She just wanted Ross to get out safely.

"The stairs are gone," he yelled.

'Oh great.'

The Autons tried to push the Doctor into the vat. Ross and Mickey ran to the TARDIS hoping for safety.

"I haven't got the key," he yelled.

"We're going to die," Mickey cried.

"No!" The Doctor yelled.

"Time Lord." The Nestene spoke.

The Doctor continued to struggle against the Autons. She ended up tossing one over her shoulder into the vat just as Ross swung by on a chain. He kicked the other Auton into the vat along with the anti-plastic.

"Ross!" She grabbed a hold of him as he shakily landed back on the platform. They both looked down at the consciousness.

"Now we're in trouble," she tells him as she starts to run for the TARDIS.

Explosions start to go off everywhere. She quickly unlocked the TARDIS and hastily brushed past Mickey. As soon as she saw they were both inside, she started running around the console flipping switches and hitting buttons. She internally gave a sigh of relief once they rematerialized at a safer place. Mickey quickly stumbled out followed by Ross. The Doctor just smiled and leaned against the door frame.

"Nestene Consciousness? Easy." The Doctor grinned.

"You were useless in there. You'd be dead if it wasn't for me," Ross pointed out.

The Gallifreyan nodded. "Yes, I would. Thank you." There was a long pause before the Doctor spoke again. "Right then. I'll be off, unless, er… I don't know, you could come with me." She smiled at Ross, hopeful. "This box isn't just a London hopper, you know. It goes anywhere in the universe free of charge."

"Don't! She's an alien. She's a thing!" Mickey warned Ross.

'Rude!'

"She's not invited," the Doctor pointed at Mickey. She looked at Ross, "What do you think? You could stay here, fill your life with work and food and sleep, or you could go anywhere."

"Is it always this dangerous?" Ross asked.

The Doctor smiled and nodded. "Yeah."

The Doctor inwardly glared at Mickey for hugging Ross's waist. "Yeah, I can't. I've, er, I've got to go and find my mum and someone's got to look after this dim lump, so…"

She nodded awkwardly. "Okay, see you around." She quickly retreated into the TARDIS, and took off for the time vortex.

Once in the vortex, she sat down on the jumper seat. She couldn't help but feel disappointed. Ross and she could have gone on so many amazing adventures together. He could have been great to have around even if he did aggravate her at times. He was brilliant! It's also been quite some time since she had a companion with her. She couldn't just give up so easily! Something had to make him want to join her. Just then, an idea hit her.

She re-materialized the TARDIS back in the same spot it was in just seconds before. She sprinted to the door, and poked her head out.

"By the way, did I mention it also travels in time?"

She watched as Ross gave Mickey a peck on the cheek, before quickly running into the TARDIS. And off they went.

***

Thanks for reading! 💙

#romance #adventure #doctor who fanfic #doctor who #the doctor #doctor x rose #doctor who fanfiction #9th doctor x rose #9th doctor #fem!9th doctor #genderbent #doctor who imagine

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humanitys-shortest · 5 years

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How Jack Met Harley ♦️

Eventually, The Joker found himself thrown in Arkham Aslyum.

And of course, The Joker didn’t want any part in that. He couldn’t have his fun here, locked away and forced into a straight-jacket where he couldn’t even more is own limbs! What good was that?!

So he forced control back to Jack Napier.

The Joker had been tied down to his cell bed - kicking, screaming and yelling to be let go, for anyone to let him out; laughing manically all along the way. It was in the middle of all of this that he decided to just give up, and let Jack have the regins once more over his own body. Even if Jack didn’t want them, he was getting them, because The Joker was bored out of his damn mind. Perhaps Jack would have fun with this though; realising how low he had sunk and where he was now - in arguably the most unsafe place in Gotham City.

The laughter stopped. The struggling and squirming halted. And all that was left was a lonely, broken boy... With a soft voice and tears running down his pale, scarred cheeks as tiny whimpers escaped past his dry lips.

The tears hurt as they slid down extremely sensitive skin, running into those scars that were never going to heal properly. Ever. He couldn’t even comprehend how sensitive his skin had become-- everything hurt. Especially given the fact he’s got makeup running down into each and every single one of his pores, which made the pain all the more unbearably agonising.

He was beyond exhausted.

The Joker was assigned to Doctor Harleen Quinzel...

And she helped, so much.

She helped the real Jack. The two of them got close - learning things about eachother and talking like they had known one another all of their lives. They were always so soft voiced with eachother, always looking forward to these meetings, and Jack had started to associate Harley’s office with with a safe place. The only safe place Jack had. Everything was positive when it came to her-- she just seemed to understand, she refused to see Jack and The Joker as the same person, but she also knew she had to try and help Jack deal with The Joker; anyway she could.

She quickly became the only family Jack had. Their closeness was purely platonic and loving, like two siblings who were practically joined at the hip. Again... Harley was the only person who understood Jack’s split personality disorder - that The Joker who plastered the news broadcasts and the newspapers - was not at all the same person who she spoke to every single day.

She couldn’t stand the treatment Jack was going through, however... Electrothrerapy/shocktherapy, hydrotherapy… You name anything unethical, and it was probably what Jack - and the entire rest of Arkham Asylum’s patients - went through. She was trying everything she could to get it removed from Jack’s schedule here, but even though she was his psychatrist...? She had absolutely no control over that.

It wasn’t help.

It was making Jack, and everyone else here in Arkham, worse.

So much worse.

And one day, Harley couldn’t take it anymore.

Fuck Arkham.

She broke them both out - the entire thing was one big explosion of chaos and absolute destruction; a one-track mind to leave. Leave leave leave. With eachother... Because Harley knew the real Jack couldn’t stay here, being tortured, any longer. Hadn’t this boy already been through enough...? His messed up parents, his whole entire life of being on the move and stealing, his brother... And now, the acid vat: The Joker... No more. No more, please. All she wanted was for Jack to have a fucking break. Maybe a good solid twenty-four hour sleep...

Once they were out of that hell hole, the two of them eventually found a safe place for them to stay - a little abandoned building in The Narrows - that they were able to change into a hideout. Their hideout. Making it completely theirs and decorating the entire place to fit their shared, messy style. A thick mattress as their shared bed, full of soft blankets and pillows that were all mismatched, but beautiful. They hung up calming fairylights along and across each and every single wall, giving the place a soft and cosy glow. They painted the walls different colours, all so very vibrant and absolutely them. They drew graffiti all over the walls together afterwards too, to celebrate; writing cute messages and adding more of a personal touch to the entire place...

They stole their own vanity tables, full of stolen makeup and makeup brushes too; their shared loved for makeup - something Jack had had back in the circus, before his entire life went to shit - was something they absolutely loved doing together. Harley was able to teach Jack so much! And Jack taught her how to use glitter, too.

Harley was able to develop her own free style now. She was able to be herself - all because of Jack. Of course, she had her own psychosis - she wasn’t exactly "sane” either. But her and Jack made eachother better. They were the only people eachother had. And they quickly came use to the terms “little sister” and “big brother” for eachother.

Most people believed that The Joker had drived the good doctor Harleen Quinzel to insanity, that he had gotten her to “join his side” and lose her mind - to help him do his bidding - but that wasn’t the case...

It wasn’t long after this, that Harley decided that she really wanted to help boost Jack’s confidence. The scars, the green hair… It wasn’t something that Jack liked right now. It was everything he associated with The Joker - hurt, pain, desruction, chaos… He couldn’t look at himself.

It was a good thing they had been in Arkham for a little while though-- because it had given Jack’s dyed-green hair a chance to grow out. And instead of natural brown hair growing back through, like it had been before? It was white... Jack’s roots were still white. Still how they had been before Joker had dyed his hair green...

White.

Harley could work with that.

With permission, she wanted to give Jack a little bit of a makeover.

She helped to strip Jack’s hair of the green colouring that was left at the ends, making sure to light a ton of candles in their little home; wanting it to be a really safe place for her brother, with a blanket draped across Jack’s legs and the fairylights on… Soft music playing in the background, and trying to distract her best friend with light conversation.

Why…?

Because she knew the smell of chemicals and bleach would be something Jack would be terrified to smell. It would bring back so many nasty, horrific memories. So she tried to make this experience a positive one, to the best of her ability.

Jack stuck through it though, constantly talking to Harley to keep his mind in the present...

Afterwards, she soothed the scars… Making sure to use much softer makeup on Jack - a shocking contrast to the blacks and dark reds that The Joker was use to using. Instead, she’d just chose a nice, pink lip colour and simple, sharp eyeliner. Pink eyeshadow to match...

And God… Jack was so proud of himself for getting through the smell of the chemicals…

It was the first time J was able to look at himself in the mirror again. To actually smile at the reflection of himself. To see the change.

He cried, happy tears, for the first time in a very long time…

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#batjokes #the joker #joker #jack napier #john doe #harley quinn #harleen quinzel #sims #the sims 4 #char's sims

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gigikiwiandco · 4 years

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Soulvengers, Part 1

[It starts at the Monster Alliance’s house. Frisk and Chara are talking with Asriel in Frisk’s room.]

Asriel: So, anyway, I heard the next mission is your guys’ official first one.

Chara: Yeah, I mean, we helped with a few robberies, but those were coincidences.

Frisk: Yeah, I am so ready!

Toriel: [walks in] I’m sorry to interrupt, my children. But I think Mettaton has a mission ready for you.

[Frisk and Chara follow Toriel to the living room where Mettaton is.]

Frisk: [ready for it] Mettaton, Queen Mom said you have a mission for us.

Chara: [ready for it] What’s the situation, bot-man?

Mettaton: Well, there’s been an accident at a local nuclear power plant. Apparently, there was a school field trip there involving four different grades and it seems that some of the students went missing. Considering how dangerous the place could be, I think you two must get there as soon as possible and see if you can locate the six of them. Please do be careful, darlings.

Chara: [worried] Oh, geez. Well, don’t you all worry. We’ll be careful.

Frisk: [worried] Yeah, I’d know what nuclear science does to people.

Toriel: Good luck, and do be safe.

Frisk: [worried] Oh, Chara, that does not sound good. For all we know, they could get split up or stuck in a room with toxic gases.

Chara: [worried] We better hurry before they do. To the bikes!

[After a few minutes, Frisk and Chara arrive at the power plant with their superhero suits on. The head scientist of the place and the four teachers are with the rest of the students through the front door waiting for them. The classes are 2nd graders, 5th graders, 6th graders, and 7th graders.]

Frisk: Well, this looks like the place. [she and Chara walk into the facility] Oh, hello, everyone. I’m Mega Passion and this is Rebellia. [she and Chara turn to the head scientist and teachers] You guys must the teachers and the head scientist.

Chara: We came here as fast as we could when we heard there were kids missing from these classes, so what’s going on?

Head Scientist: Oh, the famous new child heroes! Why, what an honor to meet you, friends. My name is Dr. Maria Heinrich, I am head of this nuclear facility. And today, I’ve granted permission for the students, a bit mischievous I might add, to come and look at my plant, but it appears that three girls and three boys who appear to have similar nicknames have gone missing. Not good at all.

Chara: What do these guys look like?

Female Teacher 1: Well, one of them is a girl from my class. Her name is Gracie Bleu, but the children call her “Blue.” She’s wearing blue pants with a matching jacket, a green-ish shirt, and a pink tutu with ballet shoes.

Male Teacher 1: Two of them are a boy and a girl from my class. The girl’s name is Clara-Lynn Prior and the boy’s name is Leon Bearden, but the children call her “Cyan” and him “Orange.” Clara-Lynn’s wearing pale green-ish shorts with a matching dress, an ocean blue sweater with striped sleeves, and a red ribbon holding up her hair. Leon’s wearing pink gloves, reddish pants, a white tank top, and an orange bandanna around his neck.

Male Teacher 2: Two of them are a couple of boys from my class. One’s name is Wren Ravens and the other’s name is Oliver Galen, but the children call them “Purple” and “Green.” Wren’s wearing beige pants, a pale purple shirt, a violet jacket, and a pair of round glasses. Oliver’s wearing green overalls, a pink shirt, and an apron with a heart on it.

Female Teacher 2: The last one is a girl from my class. Her name is Amanda Lewis, but the children call her “Yellow.” She’s wearing blue pants with a brown jacket that matches her boots, a white shirt, and a cowboy hat. They are some of our school’s best students, I don’t know why they would do this. Please find them.

Dr. Heinrich: [points them to a room] There is a CC-TV in that room, you could use it to try and locate them.

Frisk: Rebellia, you got all that?

Chara: Yep!

Frisk: Good, so do I. Don’t worry, we’re on it! [she and Chara go into the room and check the CC-TV] Okay, now all we have to is watch the footage from a little while ago and...

[They do just that and click through a few rooms of the facility until they check the outside camera and see the six who match the descriptions they were given walking past some weird liquids. They then curiously walked up to a giant silo of nuclear waste and climbed up the ladder to get a closer look, but the platform they were on soon gave out and they all fell into it.]

Frisk: [panicking] *gasp* Oh, no! We need to act fast! [turns to an axe, a shovel, and hazmat suits] Ah, we could probably use those!

Chara: [panicking] Great idea, we might need to drain that vat!

[Frisk and Chara put on the two hazmat suits and grab the shovel and the axe before running to the silo and climbing up the ladder, only to see the Six struggling to get out and sinking back down each time.]

Frisk: Don’t worry, guys! We’ll get you out of there! Rebellia, dig a hole for it to go into! We’re draining this thing!

Chara: I’m on it!

[Chara quickly digs a big hole deep enough for the waste to pour into with the shovel and Frisk cuts a big enough hole in side of the vat to get the stuff out using the axe, causing most of the waste to pour into the hole and only leaving a thin layer of the stuff in the silo. The Six are temporarily unconscious laying down, Frisk opens up the hole more so that she and Chara could easily get in and bring them out. Cyan and Yellow are covered in second degree burns, Orange seems weaker than normal, Purple can only hear ringing in his ears, Blue sees things really blurry, and Green’s throat seems to be really sore.]

Frisk: [panicking] Oh, dear. [the Six slowly wake up] Oh, thank goodness they’re alive! [she and Chara run over to the Six] Um, not to worry, we’re Mega Passion and Rebellia.

Chara: [panicking] We saved you from drowning in the nuclear waste as quick as we could, are you all okay?

Orange: [feeling weak] I think so.

Yellow: But I think y’all better take us to the hospital and fast.

Cyan: Yeah, who knows what this stuff is doing to us?

Green: [trying to speak but is completely silent] *cough* *cough*

Blue: [panicking] Um, guys? I-I can’t see any of you, my vision is really blurry. I’m scared!

Purple: [panicking] Blue, w-were you speaking? I... I can barely even hear anyone! W-What’s going on?!

Chara: [panicking] Oh, no. [whispering to Frisk] Frisk, it’s worse than we thought. Green can’t speak, Blue’s gone blind, and Purple’s gone deaf.

Frisk: [panicking] [whispering to Chara] I know, Chara. And the other three don’t look too well, either. Orange seems to be feeling really weak, and Cyan and Yellow have burns all over them too. [she and Chara stop whispering] Don’t worry, guys! Help is on the way!

Chara: [panicking] [puts some of the toxic waste into a vile] I’m grabbing some of the waste in case we need a sample!

Frisk: [panicking] Good thinking, R! I have a feeling we just might! Let’s do this, Soulvengers!

#tswfby #frisk #chara #cyan #orange #blue #purple #green #yellow #superhero au

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rkindustriesbarodaseostuff-blog · 7 months

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Manufacturer of vat dyes in India | Vietnam | Brazil | RK Dyechem Pvt Ltd

Rk industries is one of the top manufacturers of vat dyes in India, Vietnam, Brazil. We are leading exporter of vat dyes in india, Vietnam, and Brazil. We provide 15 different types of vat dye products. Visit our website.

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kunalp1234 · 2 years

Link

#Vat Pink R Market #Vat Pink R

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ionfyr-newepirion-blog · 5 years

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Puppetry

By Ion Fyr

ISBN: 978-1-7331291-1-4

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real or imagined people or events is purely coincidental.

I wish to thank M, K and R for their support.

Published by Jon Rodebaugh

[email protected]

Londbridge, Terra, the year 247 of the World Commercial Congress.

The vast and populous city stretched from the coast inland for a great distance, its boundaries clear along the southern rim, where the depopulated agricultural land was a deep green against the grey of the city. Arcologies reached skyward like geometrically formed mountains. They stretched up through the brownish-orange fog, to the bottoms of intermittent, low hanging clouds. The wind off the sea to the west pushed the ground-hugging smog inland, where it flowed over the plastic and concrete housing blocks of the low-slung slums and wards.

Crude, steel rectangular blocks—massive airships—plied unseen lanes in the air. Some were a kilometer long, many were far less than that. They were cargo ships of the air, haulers of raw materials and finished products and everything in between. There were passenger transports and the occasional Corporate-emblazoned Skyship. Among them was a car shaped like a scarab of ancient Kemet.

The car was a low profile, sleek oblong of metal and synthetics. It’s skin was somewhat dark and greener than iridescent and there were no windscreens visible from the exterior. Unlike many, far less expensive vehicles with protruding nacelles, in this case the gravity-repelling Naskovich drives were enclosed in four slightly visible hips, two on the front sides and two on the back, otherwise it was featureless. It settled into the local traffic lanes at a lower altitude as soon as it crossed the perimeter fence separating urban squalor from automated farmland.

Inside was a man, lit only by the glow of dimmed wraparound screens showing the view outside mingled with telemetric data and a map overlay. He was of Mediterranean complexion, tanned by the sun, having thick black hair reaching his collarbone and a matching beard which he unconsciously stroked. He was bare-chested and muscular, and wore linen pants and sandals. It would seem he was ill prepared for the climate of northwestern Europa throughout most of the year.

Connect-device -car6 | Course-plot -new -1605 Attilastrass/178th Ward/Londbridge District -efficient | Velocity -LocalityLegal

Force-thinking, for those with wireless internal drives, was a simple process once one got used to it. It amounted to running code with one’s brain. Preprogrammed commands and related implanted hardware augmentation allowed wireless interaction with the ubiquitous Network.

Wireless worked effectively to a hundred meters, beyond that without a wired network connection or light-node semaphoric line of sight coms, one was out of luck. The wired part of the network spanned much of Eurasia and the Sint—the subcontinent embedded in the south of Asia, and the northern half of the Farad, the southern continent.

Luc knew he was already connected to the the car, but it didn’t hurt to initiate the connection to “car6” again.

Change-IdentCert -car6 | New-IdentCert “12hA126334w6”

A little sloppy. More important on the way out. He should have changed the vehicle’s identification before coming into range of the city’s cameras. The slop in the air will do something to obscure their visuals, though. He was going to church.

The Attican Universal Church on Attilastrasse was largely a tourist attraction these days. Once it’s gothic architecture drew supplicants and worshipers from all over Europa. Now, hardly anyone believed the the ancient Neoplatonic version of the gods. Not even in backwater Hellas.

He already missed the white and blue visual textures of Hellas.

The car chimed warmly at his arrival. Luc slipped his feet into his sandals. Looked first left, then right, and found his holstered pistol. He clipped it to his belt, in the small of his back. He then looked around. He was not a believer, by any means, but him entering an ancient sacred space without a shirt would have horrified his mother.

Luc didn’t have a shirt.

Instead, he pulled a barely used leather jacket from an under-seat compartment and slipped his arms into the stiff sleeves, the leather rustling like new. He had worn it once before on a trip north in the winter. He dimly remembered he had a shirt back then, too.

It was black, vat-leather and remained unzipped. It was almost too tight to zip anyway. From a different under-seat compartment, he shifted some detritus and pulled out two loaded magazines for his pistol, slipping these into his pocket. He also found a breather, one that would cover his nose and mouth and allow normal breathing under the toxic haze. For good measure he put on his sunglasses, which formed seal around the edges, protecting his eyes against the air as well. The sun was not even visible at the street level here, but that wasn’t the point.

With a fluid motion the car slowed to landing velocity and the four landing legs unfurled themselves just as the car settled to the ground.

Luc opened the gull-wing door and set foot on the damp pavement outside. Despite the smog-cover, the bright lights did their part in illuminating the street. There were other vehicles parked without regard for orientation or pedestrian traffic. Even beyond the 100 meters of practical visibility, one could still make out the multi-hued urban glow.

Surface traffic on the road had ceased a century ago, at least by passenger-carrying surface vehicles. There was a crunch of debris underfoot, forming heaps in some spots.

He could feel cool air on his chest, along with a slight chemical sting. While standing, the jacket just barely covered his pistol.

Luc scanned the street. There was at least one (albeit damaged) camera to the left, two indeterminate ones to the right. Six vehicles sat on the street, perched on their legs like giant plastic beetles, mostly shit economy rides.

The ancient architecture of the temple, or church, had been damaged considerably during the Wars of Consolidation over two hundred fifty years ago. Sometime after the half-destroyed structure was refurbished and stabilized in an unfortunately clashing architectural style. Its collapsing roof was now supported by cylindrical steel columns and a monstrosity of a replacement wall.

He pulled open the right side of a set of double doors and entered the tall building. Luc’s footsteps, the soft flap of his sandals on the cold stone floor, echoed. The building’s shattered acoustics still reflected the sounds from the left side.

The interior was thick with sandalwood incense, even detectable through his breather, and despite the efforts of the building’s atmosphere scrubbers. There were perhaps a dozen ancient, gilded, life-size bronze statues representing the Olympian gods. Each was enclosed in a plasti-glass cube, to prevent unwanted touching (or theft.)

At the fore of the temple was a massive stone sculpture of Zeus. On the floor in front of the king of the gods was a smoking bowl of some intentionally antiquated looking ceramic. There were only two other individuals in the place, a man and a woman. They were not together. The man crouched close to the incense bowl and was old. He looked Hellic. The woman was younger and was sketching with a stylus on an open scroll, its screen unfurled from its cylindrical shaft, it’s bluish glow reflected off her features.

Luc walked down the center of the building, imagining what it would have looked like when it was built hundreds of years ago. He did not like the aesthetics of mingling late Industrial Age girders with ancient wood ceiling beams. He scowled faintly at the the plasti-glass enclosures. They were eyesores and were smudged by hundreds, maybe thousands of tourists pushing their grubby fingers and noses against them, hoping to gain a better view or wondering if the gilded bronze was actually gold.

He walked toward Aphrodite and stood, admiring the beautifully sculpted figure. He waited.

A few minutes later—late—footsteps approached. Commando boots on the worn marble of the floor, echoing more boldly than his sandals, expressing the strength of her approach.

Luc turned slowly, his right hand on his hip, near the butt of his pistol, more out of paranoid habit than anything else. He knew who he was expecting, and could tell by her stride it was her.

“Lucretius, welcome back.” The girl was exuberant. Pretty, Luc thought. Vandalian emigre, north Farad complexion, from the other side of the Mediterranean. Black hair in two braids, one dyed a glowing pink. Leather head to toe, a jacket longer than the one he wore, matching pants with lots of pockets, boots.

“Hey, Nosrit, I haven’t spoken Standard for three years. Forgive me.” The words were spoken slowly, with concentration on the correct pronunciation.

“That’s ok. You look the same. Still no shirt. Aren’t you cold?”

“You look...older.” No longer a child. “So, Muskrat tells me there is a problem with some twat in Tanic Park?”

“Yeah, I’m just supposed to give you the contact data.” She slipped him an external, a little black wafer of data, a few millimeters square. Not wireless.

“I will look into this. Tell Muskrat I will contact him.”

Back in the car, Luc wired into the external. Data cascaded through him through the intermediary encrypted wireless node. There was a mafioso wannabe thug pressing his people.

Tanic Park was a poor community in the shadow of Dogtown Arcology, a mix of peoples from all over, some from outside the WCC. They were too poor to merit protections from MetSec. Londbridge Metropolitan Security was at best a hinderance, if not an outright threat. Only their drones patrolled Tanic, and then only in some areas. Nets strung across streets kept them out of certain others.

In the lawless, refuse-filled streets, an economy developed. In the polished halls of Dogtown Arc people lived in a heaven of sorts. The unaware upper echelons of Londbridge went about their shallow lives oblivious to places like this. Luc was fully aware that arcology life was far from perfect. He just resented their compliant, obedient comfort.

Here it was far from that polished existence, though from most places in the Park residents could see the looming monolith of the Arc. Automation brought riches to some, but there was no work for the majority of the residents of Tanic Park. No work. No money. Amidst the untold wealth, in the shadow of gilded statues, people starved. And starving, they fell prey to petty thugs with balls and uppity ambitions.

Marcus Dusselberg was a small time gangster with such ambition. Somehow, he had gotten himself a military grade assault bot, one of those things that were like cement blocks propped on two legs, bristling with guns and sensors. His muscle.

Out of retirement, I guess, Luc thought. Dank Londbridge was not where he wanted to be, but his friends were here. Family.II

Muskrat was a skinny man with a badly shaved head and an unflattering mustache. He had jacks—five of them—but the gossip was that only one of them did anything. The rest were cosmetic. He smelled of booze and cheap cologne, which he used to cover the smell of the booze, as if any of that mattered in the Park.

The warehouse where they met—the address coming from the data chip—was spartan and bleak. Muskrat’s battered breather was under his chin. Luc kept his on. The air here was shit.

“Mr. Lucretius, thank you for coming,” he began, sniveling.

“What do you want, Muskrat? You call me back here to deal with some shit who you don’t have the balls to fight back against?” Brethmanic Standard was coming back easily.

“Luc, these are your people. They asked me to send for you.”

I did come all of this way. Luc thought, still not sure what he was doing back. He knew he always would have come back to help his people—that wasn’t the problem. What was the problem? What led to Muskrat being left in charge?

“This man threatens the community with a robot?” Knowing the answer. The 1500 kilometer flight was not spent idle. I did some thinking and some research.

“Military. Bought surplus from some Aquacorp off-load.” Muskrat stuttered.

Who named themselves after extinct animals? Wolf or bear he could see, but Muskrat?

“When I left, Muskrat, I left you in charge. I had faith that you’d look after the community. I know it is hard. I did it myself for years. It’s five fucking blocks, man. What the fuck are you doing? How do you lose that to some petty shit gangster?”

“Mr Lucretius, you didn’t leave us with any weight. We are light. Only boys and girls and old women.” An attempt to swagger. It’s not about being a man or not, not in any literal sense.

Nosrit will be experienced enough in a couple years. She’s got it. But what is it? Enthusiasm. Drive.

“I mean no disrespect,” Muskrat held himself back, stepped back.

“Ok. So the shit has a mech, a mec, a meh?” How do you spell robot warrior from future, from entertainment fiction? Luc laughed out loud at his own joke, disquieting Muskrat who stepped back again another half a meter.

“I need a truck that can fly 300 kg and handle urban-use projectiles thrown at it. I’ll do the ops and code myself.” Luc’s mind was spinning, churning. “Truck needs to be stripped and off-net, Can Nosrit drive?”

She couldn’t. She didn’t have to, though.

The code was not complex. Once the identity of the vehicle was wiped and also, once the net was wiped of any hint of Luc, Muskrat and Nosrit, Luc was somewhat satisfied. The absence of information would eventually appear on the State servers like shadows from unseen objects, but for now they would be invisible.

The truck was a bulbous monstrosity. It sat on its landing legs like an egg with parasite-like nacelles. The ass-end opened with two curved doors. It will do the job.

Nosrit was there. She hadn’t had the three lateral piercings across the bridge of her nose when he had seen her last, years ago, and he hadn’t even noticed them in the church on Attilastrasse. Six steel balls lined up between her eyes that weren’t there three years ago. Community. She was going to drive.

Connect-device -ShittyTransportVehicle | Course-plot “Londbridge Metropolitan Security/Floor 67”

“Remember, girl, ditch this thing after we are done. It will go fast. And by that I mean, our activities will,” he added, “This piece of shit won’t go fast.”

Nosrit giggled a little, then pulled herself back into adulthood and tried to look serious.

The truck dropped up into the local traffic lanes. Nosrit looked nervous. Luc had confidence, both in her and the plan. Even though he hadn’t seen or talked to her in several years, he had kept tabs on his community. He still knew every one of them, remotely pushed them in beneficial ways. I need to be here. Gods, I hate Londbridge.

There was a grating buzz when the truck/car/cargo transport pod—however you render it—arrived at the destination.

The plasti-glass windscreen, through decades of abrasions, showed floor 67 of Londbridge MetSec HQ.

Luc turned it, so that the aft end was facing the building.

“There will be a slight impact. Are you strapped in?”

She was. He accelerated in reverse, crashing the truck through the window panel. Glass rained down into the street below. The bulk of it flew into the 67th floor of the building.

“Open the doors.”

Nosrit unbuckled and moved to the back of the truck. The doors butterflied out and open. The truck was still hovering, the Naskovich drives keeping it aloft, though the ass-end was two meters into the building.

“Stay here...” Luc drew his pistol. He was shirtless, jacket less, and his breather hung around his neck, its rubber pulling at his beard. He cranked up the intensity of his goggles. The ambient light was exaggerated, revealing the contents of the room.

It was storage. Dozens of anthromorphs—humanoid robots—designed to be controlled wirelessly by remote human operators, stood in ranks. Somewhere, outside of this space, this storage place, were the wireless repeaters that allowed humans to control them well outside the range of even most standard military wireless tech.

Don’t have time for that. Put it on the wish list. Luc could probably crowdsource a solution to make up for that anyway. 20 million cred for a mesh-network!? They’re all scamming each other. Focus now, Luc. Small fish to fry this time. Luc dropped out of thoughts and back into the contours of the meat-sac realm.

Luc quickly, and with purpose, walked to the nearest one and abruptly ripped a wire out of the back of its head. Contact point. Wireless connection. Stupid design.

He pushed it and it made a loud crash as it landed on its back. It was armored and harden. It would be unharmed. The dim red glow of its internal mechanisms didn’t even flicker.

They were made of some hardened version of plasti-glass, classified stuff. The material itself was transparent. Anthromorphs, after construction, after the biomechanical servos and structure were in place, were cloaked in counter-projectile armor. The gaps in the armor glowed red, a design feature intended to create an effect—especially since their interiors glowed red all along.

Just gave us something to aim at, idiots.

Luc took it by the feet. Only seconds had passed.

It was heavy, but he was strong. Nosrit added her slight weight to the pulling as he got to the truck, which shifted slightly, either from their movement or from some fluctuation in the Naskovich field, maybe even from the wind.

Glass dropped out of the gape as they accelerated out of the building, dropping with stomach-churning speed, into the lower-city murk. They returned via a circuitous route.

Nosrit was driving, which really only consisted of issuing commands to the vehicle’s otherwise autonomous navigation system. She had no visible wireless nodes, but that didn’t mean anything. Neither did Luc.

III

The truck rested on its reinforced, weight-handling legs in the same warehouse where Luc had recently met Muskrat.

“They didn’t even see you?”

“They probably did. Someone probably did. The truck needs to be destroyed.”

The anthromorph was heavy. It took all three of them to get it upright. Nosrit had enthusiasm and contributed more to the effort than Muskrat.

There would be a brief microsecond, after replugging the coms cable, when the thing could call home, recontact MetSec servers, looking for its proper master.

Luc had the code waiting though. It would reroute the anthromorph’s command and control to him, as well as block out every other user.

“Do it,” he ordered.

Muskrat reconnected the wireless controls with strands of wires looped over his forearms. Luc streamed his override package the same instant.

The thing stood more erect, coming to life. The red glow from its biomech insides increased. Was there a biological component?

Luc could feel it, feel its extremities, feel it like a second body. It was powerful.

It was unarmed.

“I will need a weapon, Muskrat.”

It took a day, but Muskrat found an old energy gun, rifle shaped, glass rods in the place of a barrel. It was sticky and covered in grime, like it had spent decades in a shed or storage locker. They charged it up to around 80%. The battery wouldn’t take more than that. Luc and Nosrit spray-painted the anthromorph a matte black, masking its eyes. Every other part of it was black. Some loose oversized robe was gathered and the sleeves slit from wrist to armpit and this tent was draped over the thing, giving it the appearance of an oversized streetfella, if one didn’t look too closely. The gun would be noticed, especially by other streetfellas.

Luc, in control of the MecSec commando anthromorph, took the weapon into his symbiotic arms. The bio-feedback was precise and intense. This will do, he laughed, high on the feed back with the mech, or was it meh?

Dusselberg was in a low, two story building in Tanic Park, in a very precise location that Luc had scoped out years ago. Five blocks, he thought. Someone—not him—had long ago hollowed out much of the second story and connected a series of flats, which had then been reinforced, fortified and hardened.

Luc being Luc drove there himself in his own car. Nosrit and the anthromorph sat behind him. She looked at the anthromorph like she’d look at a set-up date, some guy her parents wanted her to hook up with. No, she thought, repelled them. I am not that girl.

The car could seat eight comfortably and, honestly, could probably sleep at least six. It was spacious. The anthromorph had the gun across it’s lap as it sat, approximating a human sitting posture. It was a tight fit. The thing was two and a half meters tall, big enough to be imposing, but just small enough to move in normal human environments, hallways of buildings.

Word had it that the mech belonging to Dusselberg was in the cellar beneath the housing block. Luc maneuvered between the gaps in the nets that the locals had put up to impede MetSec security drones. The things weren’t good with nets. Tended to get caught—nacelles tangled. Gutterpunks would then strip them of essentials.

The block, Luc remembered, was in a camera-free dead-zone. That meant no cameras for Dusselberg. No cameras for him either.

Why was he bringing Nosrit? Maybe she could drive if he was injured, though that was unlikely. He liked the company. It also gave her valuable trade experience. Someday she might run her own missions, look out for her community, the community.

He set the car down in the street outside the block. First the anthromorph stepped out. Luc was sure of that as soon as it did. Shit would unleash. He was right.

A trio of hired thuggery stood outside the main entrance to the block—some cross-sections of streets from two hundred years ago—becoming suddenly alert to the MetSec anthromorph stepping out of Luc’s car, despite the streetfella “disguise” they had come up with.

It was never easy to switch back and forth between moving his own body and piloting the anthromorph, but he managed to slide out of the car behind the thing, loosely holding his pistol in his hand.

The anthromorph fired at the men. A pink-blue beam crackled and arced from the thing’s gun at them like a lightning bolt. They fell, smoldering on the way down, bodies filigreed along the path of the current. The door behind them now hung from its hinges. Their bodies were entangled on the stoop.

The speed of the anthromorph was better than a human’s. Luc force-thought its actions, seeing what its eyes saw, superimposed on his own vision. The door was flung aside and the bodies were stepped on, stepped over.

Dusselberg must have been alerted, because a stream of heavy caliber projectiles sliced through the floor of the building’s atrium from below.

The mech was awake.

Ratty carpet fibers drifted in the wake of the bullets strafing up from the basement. The projectiles would land miles away at that angle, probably killing people somewhere else in the city. Luc rolled the anthromorph to the side and leaned against the car. Nosrit was watching the screens inside. Why did I bring her?

The anthromorph fired down, through the floor. This was not going to work. New plan.

He called the anthromorph back to the car. He and it hung out the opened door. Nosrit flew them to the roof of the building, while the surplus mech extricated itself from the cellar, using a freight elevator in the rear of the building, by the loading dock.

The roof of the building had an open-ended car shelter, big enough for two or three cars. Nosrit set Luc’s car down in the open though, near the small shed that contained the building’s roof-access stairs. The second floor had reinforced windows.

The anthromorph, followed by a appreciably clumsy Luc, dropped to the roof’s surface as soon as they were close. Controlling the anthromorph made Luc’s equilibrium sketchy.

The plasti-glass-armored commando android fired at the shed, turning the door and most of the housing into metal and plastic slag.

In the hallway below, down the aging, crumbling stairs, they faced the mech. It had come up—Luc wasn’t sure if it was moving under its own automated volition or if Dusselberg was controlling it. It didn’t matter. Luc swung himself back into the stairwell as the thing sprayed the hallway with high-velocity ammunition, shattering the wall at the far end, over the entrance. It had to hunch down, keeping its girder-like legs bent, with its weapons-bristling, block-like head scrapping the ceiling.

Luc looked at the MetSec anthromorph next to him, shielding it by moving it back from the fire in the doorway of the stairwell. It was dizzying controlling it and his own body at the same time. The android had taken some hits. Luc could feel them. One to the hip. Three to the torso. The armor took most of the impact, however. There was no loss of function.

The anthromorph swung out, just as the mech was reaching their location two meters from the entry to the stairwell. Its lightning beam strafed the hallway, blacking the walls, searing them and the mech’s metal block-head.

Ammunition stored within—its magazine deep within its steel bulk—erupted in a fizzing explosion, held in by its own armor plating. Sensors, cameras were thrown out, burned out by the fire within, ejected violently by the internal pressure. The smell of electricity and smoldering plastic filled the hallway.

It listed to the side, the servos in its right leg cutting out. It broke through the wall while still sparking from an inferno inside. Magnesium-white fire flared from its empty camera sockets, sparks falling into the smoldering carpet.

Luc looked at the doors on the other side of the hallway, the side with the reinforced external windows. Dusselberg was in there.

The doors were more than likely reinforced. Luc force-thought the anthromorph to fire at the wall between them. By this point the hallway was full of smoke. A lick of flame ate at the wall around where the mech fell through.

Lighting ripped through the opposite wall. Luc was glad for his breather, now on his nose and mouth, though he should have worn the goggles also. He squinted against the heat and the searing light of the energy weapon born by the anthromorph.V

The space on the other side of the wall was open and, at some point, had been gutted, opening a large space that had once been five or six flats. Dusselberg hadn’t been here long. He also had little taste in furnishings.

He sat in a swivel desk chair surrounded by monitors, a scrawny little man. He was armed. He had his own energy gun, not as big as the anthromorph’s, but just as effective. That gun’s beam practically cut the anthromorph in half, and would have cut Luc in half had he not rolled to the ground.

Luc fired a half dozen shots at Dusselberg from behind a wheeled tool chest. The anthromorph was dead, its connection to Luc’s mind broken. Its servos still tried to get it upright with a futility that approached that of an animal struggling to live.

Luc fired a few more shots from the pistol. His ears rang now from the cover fire. It was a distraction while he pulled the energy weapon from the anthromorph’s hands. Back behind the tool chest, Luc checked the power level remaining in the energy gun.

It had plenty. The thing was made for combat. He could hear movement. Dusselberg was trying to flee.

“Luc?” said Nosrit, sticking her head in through the hole in the wall.

“Stay down! Out!” He yelled.

She pulled her head out, back into the hallway as Dusselberg’s beam burned an arc across the wall. The distraction served well, however, as Luc took the opportunity to burn a gaping hole in Dusselberg’s chest. The man fell to the bare floor, smoking and oozing. His own smaller weapon sliding from his hands. Some of the wall behind him burned as well. Nosrit peaked in again hesitantly, then smiled when she saw that Luc was intact.

“Welcome back, Lucretius,” laughed Nosrit.

Out of retirement, I guess.

#Puppetry #scifi #cyberpunk science fiction short story

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dangan-ronpa-v3-imagines-blog · 7 years

Text

Yandere V3 Girls With Submissive, Yandere S/O

AKA, the kinky sequel to yandere girls. This was super fun to write, eheheh. Pretty kinky, but not NSFW. The initial ask was... pretty specific, so not all parts of the ask show up for each girl. I wanted to make each of ‘em distinct, so had to be a little flexible. Done by Mod Iruma, of course!

It’s a little violent and pretty disturbing, so if you don’t like violent or just disturbing shit, best to steer clear of this one.

AKAMATSU KAEDE

Akamatsu is a pretty bad yandere. She’s very nervous about killing someone, bad at hiding the body, and is strangely not confident in her own confidence.

“Don’t worry, S/O! You’re never leaving me! ...erm, I think. That’s what the internet is telling me yanderes say!”

You pat her on the back and say it’s okay, you read her internet history every day, so you know what she’s been up to.

Like a rational human being, Akamatsu gives you a hug and thanks you for being so thoughtful about her!

Even if you can’t stay with Akamatsu the whole day, you make sure to keep tabs on where she is at any given moment, just in case she decides to crack someone’s head open.

When she does decide to crack someone’s head open, you’re at her location in five seconds, helping her clean up the body.

She doesn’t seem too worried that you know where she is at any given time.

She’s more worried that she’s not being a good girlfriend, because you’re doing so much for her and she’s only killing people!

So she takes you to various different stores and keeps on buying you tons and tons of different cute stuff that she thinks you’ll like!

A bracelet (that she writes ‘Kaede’s S/O’ on), a collar (that she writes ‘Return to Kaede Akamatsu’ on), a shirt (that she writes ‘I’m with Kaede!’) on...

You get weird stares on days when Akamatsu is using the leash she attached to your collar to drag you to a body she killed (and cannot clean up). But that’s okay! Because who cares if someone’s judging you and your girlfriend...?

The two of you will just kill them if they dare to look at the other the wrong way.

CHABASHIRA TENKO

You two always get weird looks from everyone when they see the collar (”CHOKER, HONEY!”) around your neck.

Multiple people walk up to you when you’re volunteering at Chabashira’s dojo and hurridely inquire about the bruises marking your neck

Usually, before you answer, Chabashira shoos the judgmental male degenerate (or “mistaken child”, as she’s taken to calling the ladies) away and puffs her cheeks at you.

“Goood, why are you making them walk all over you?! We gotta keep out private life private, unless it calls for some blood! Here, let me adjust your choker - YES, IT’S A CHOKER! - so they don’t-”

Being a volunteer at Chabashira’s dojo is hard, though. She uses you as her punching bag a lot, and whenever you complain, she uses you as a punching bag harder that night

(but you love her and she loves you so everything’s okay, everything’s fine)

It’s heartwarming when you clean up Chabashira’s latest mankilling-run (in which she killed some particularly nasty male degenerates who were looking at you the wrong way)

She always smiles at you, too, when you walk in with the body of a pervert looking at Chabashira for a second too long

Even if Chabashira is still a little rough around the edges... and super possessive... and finds some sort of morbid pleasure in beating you and others up... you love her more than anyone in the world, and you’re sure she agrees.

The col- C H O K E R is proof of that.

YUMENO HIMIKO

The second that Yumeno figured out you were a yandere as well, she gave up on being one.

...Sorta?

It’s more like, Yumeno makes you do ALL of the work.

In public, while she’s slurping her smoothie that she made you buy up, she’ll point at some random mofo.

“I don’t like... their hair. Kill ‘em.”

You’ll sigh, lovingly hug your girlfriend, take the poor victim and murder them brutally in the next ally you find.

Yumeno will be there, judging you on your style and effectiveness (and not doing any work. she’s too lazy.)

You’re pretty certain that when she’s not making you kill, she has a furry fetish. She bought you a pink collar with a nametag that says “ƪ(˘⌣˘)┐ This belongs to Yumeno Himiko ┌(˘⌣˘)ʃ”, got you wolf ears, and also tagged a wolf tail to your pants.

She also makes you howl your love for her at night. It’s like one of Angie’s rituals but more... wolf. And fetishy.

It’s weird as shit, but hey. Anything for your cute, lazy, crazy but too tired to do anything about it wife.

YONAGA ANGIE

Angie loves it when you help her with her blood sacrifices! It gives her the time to draw her name all over your body!

She’s been thinking about using a knife to carve it into you, but she’s worried that she’ll permanently hurt you. You’ve been coming up with plans to make a good, permanent scar!

When the two of you were drowning that flirty girl that looked at Angie the jealous way in the poison vat last night, you considered branding, but nada.

Angie’s been just making you tie-dye shirts for the time being. They’re cute, hip, fashionable, and also hide the blood well!

Angie picks all the colors though. Whenever you tell her that orange is a little not your style, a glare immediately shuts you down and Angie goes back to dying.

It’s nice, having someone make all the hard decisions (like your t-shirt color) for you.

After a long day of drowning and blood sacrificing and chanting and cop getaways and bribing and loving, relieved sex, Angie suddenly comes to the decision that she’ll brand her name into you, not cut you! Nono, using the fiery pits of hell to embellish it on your skin is far better!

You would’ve preferred cutting. But you don’t complain. You love your precious Yonaga Angie.

HARUKAWA MAKI

Harukawa’s into some... some pretty fucked up shit.

First of all, after you confronted her about being a yandere (in which you confessed to her that it’s okay, we all get violent killing urges every now and again, you had one just yesterday and you need help hiding the body), she chloroform ragged you until you were sufficiently knocked out.

When you woke up, she glared at you and very slowly, very threateningly, began to set the rules down in her (she said her, even though it’s technically yours, she’s just rooming) house.

You will not leave the house without her. You only kill when she tells you to. You’ll let her make all of the important decisions from now on - for both of you. If she doesn’t like one of her friends, it is perfectly within her rights to kill them. You’ll wear this tracking collar at all times.

You agree to those terms... as long as she wears this tracking bracelet! S-So you know where she is, too.

She gives you a sigh (but it feels almost endearing) as she sllips it on. It’s blinking red.

From that day onward, life with Harukawa is good. She treats you almost as if you’re a child at time, constantly acting condescending, sneering at you if you forget or are too lazy to sweep up the blood from the body she told you to clean up.

She’ll even pick up some awful, sleazy loser at a bar and throw him into the living room to sate you when you ask when you’ll be able to kill the next one, and you SEE that she’s at the bar, please please bring someone home!!

The only part you don’t like is when Harukawa... punishes you, when you leave the house because you just need a breath of fresh air.

It’s okay, because you know, you know that she loves you. Especially after a long day when she gives you a rare smile and snuggles right up into you.

You love your adorable, tsundere Harumaki.

TOUJOU KIRUMI

Toujou has always had an inane obsession with you being entirely dependent on her. It’s always been a fantasy of hers, and now she’s finally found the person to make it reality.

Her breaking your legs and confining you to a wheelchair, then literally chaining you to it, is not quite what you’ve expected.

Strangely, it feels nice, having such a motherly figure like Toujou to depend on. She may control almost everything you do now - your legs are useless and your arms are chained - but, it’s pretty nice, belonging to someone in literally every way.

She uses her income as an exceptional maid to buy a deluxe, gorgeous house overlooking the ocean. It’s beautiful.

You know that you’re never, ever leaving the house (Toujou would never; she’s too jealous that you might fight another person) so you learn to enjoy the view like it’s your last.

Of course, it just being you and Toujou, it gets kinda lonely.

...even though Toujou constantly shadows you, because with your limbs not working, you pretty much need someone to do absolutely everything for you. Even things such as eating, drinking, reading a book on your own, etc is unthinkable for you.

So, to make you less lonely, Toujou likes to hire some employers.

She keeps them around until she doesn’t like them any more, or they get a little too touchy-feely. When they do, she unlatches your arms, and gives you a gun.

You love to hear their screams as you pull the trigger.

IRUMA MIU

The glorious, genius inventor Iruma Miu is sensitive. And really possessive.

She made you your own iron man-like mecha suit and gets REALLY offended if you don’t wear it wherever you go!

She stamped her name alllll over the robotic body and even made it so there’s a slit and attachments if she ever wants to... you know.

Iruma’s pretty much made it permanently attachable. Months pass, and soon, you don’t know what life is like outside of your robotic body.

Oh, you know Iruma’s watching your every move. You know there are cameras all over. You know that she has little machines in the suit to make it somehow grope you at any given moment. Your body is barely yours.

But that’s fine.

You love Iruma, and if this is how she shows her love, that’s fine. Even if it means she’ll suddenly jerk control of your body and force you (well, not even force, you’d do it in a second if she asked) to murder a girl that was looking at you funny. Or that one guy that flirted with you at the bar.

Possibly the best day of your life was when Iruma forced you into her workship in the dead of night, powered up a few machines, clanging and clanking, and happily told you that she was finally making the robot body 100%, purely attached. Absolutely nothing could get the body off without it killing you.

She’d always know where you are. She could control you completely. You’d completely belong to the gorgeously beautiful inventor for the rest of time.

It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

SHIROGANE TSUMUGI

When Shirogane first became your girlfriend, she slapped a collar around your neck and tossed you into her basement. You were mostly concerned that you were getting kidnapped.

But when you woke up the next day to Shirogane happily making you some breakfast ramen, you were pretty much totally relieved.

Shirogane cheerily informs you that she’s not gonna let you out of the basement and - if you’re good - the house. She explains it in... cosplayer terms, though.

Like, you’re her favorite t-shirt, such a good t-shirt that she never wants anyone other than her to see! So she’s keeping you locked in her house!

And you’re attached to a pole with a chain, wearing absolutely no clothing, just like in her kinky Japanese animes she watches late at night!

Before you bring up the fact that she’s Japanese, so she shouldn’t call anime ‘Japanese’ like it’s foreign or something, she’s off.

You slowly grow to like being confined to her house, adoring all of the attention she gives you and you only!

So that’s why, to keep you busy, she starts hiring robbers to go and rob “her neighbor” (coughherscough) house.

After all, when she comes home to the robber’s corpses and you happily stabbing their dead bodies for the 100th time out of boredom, she’s just helping you get rid of the scum of society!

It’s a win-win for everyone. Especially whenever Shirogane comes home, and you can curl up into her lap as she holds your chain-leash long into the night.

#danganronpa #danganronpa v3 #ndrv3 #drv3 #ndrv3 imagines #ndrv3 girls #maki harukawa #himiko yumeno #kirumi tojo #kaede akamatsu #tsumugi shirogane #miu iruma #angie yonaga #tenko chabashira #mod iruma

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taesstory · 7 years

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Tagstagstags

Tags! <3

Tagged by @uruha-lips and @aoshilove thanks babies!!

A age - 23!

B birthplace - I was born in Washington DC

C current Time - 12:00am AY

D Last thing I Drank - Water

E easiest person to talk to - -pulls list out- @nihiluru(my birthday buddy <3) @infernalentity @rosybluesybonesy @nica-sun @uruha-lips and @ribica-mb. Honestly i would talk more but I'm really shy to be honest

F favorite song - -grabs other list- AT THIS VERY MOMENT! Ominous by the Gazette, KKPP by Miso of Girlsgirlsgirls, Heart Break hotel by Tiffany AND Tick or Treat by Grace

G grossest memory - I cant remember

H horror, yes or no? - Yes if done right! (this is the film lover in me speaking)

I in love? - At the moment..I am..I really am.

J jealous of People? - Rarely it takes a lot

K killed someone - Vat

L love at First Sight? Or look Past again? - eh not first sight more like jog around

M middle name - Maxine

N number of Siblings - Just me!

O one Wish - To make it

P person you last called - Le girlfriend

Q question you’re always asked - "Are you a lesbian?” “The fuck is Pan?” “Are you really a F36?”

R reason to smile - Ah it has to be really a shit ton of things but i guess i smile because for me?? to really show I'm strong.

S song you last sang - ITS RAINING BY SNUPER FUCK ME UP I LOVE THAT SONG

T time you woke up - ehhh 8:45ish

U underwear color - Well it was pink

V vacation - Hopefully Chicago to see Seventeen since I'm not doing Kcon this year

W worst Habit - cracking my knuckles

X x-Rays - Nooo but i got a cat scan. Wait does x rays for wisdom teeth count?

Y your Favorite Food - F U C K I N G C H O C O L A T E

Z zodiac Sign - Im very Taurus

tagging ~~~~

@rosybluesybonesy @nica-sun @cancerianwastelandcat @watashi-no-namae-wo-yonde @infernalentity @jigoku-nozomi @ribica-mb @nihiluru

#tags #:D #so many

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watchilove · 5 years

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With great joy, I present you the latest press release from MB&F. What is with this enthusiasm? Well, it’s about the last “aerodynamic horology” piece that independent brand launches today, the MB&F Horological Machine No.9 ‘Flow’ in red gold. A piece that I loved in titanium, read my review of it here, is now available in gold. Check below the integral press release of the HM9 ‘Flow’ red gold.

MB&F HM9 ‘Flow’ Air red gold

In the post-war years of the late 1940s and 1950s, aerodynamic principles were just beginning to take root in the field of automotive design. The boxy, carriage-like shapes of previous decades were melting into something more streamlined. At the same time, curvilinear forms became more prominent, carrying the immediate promise of power and speed. The sophisticated computer modelling and wind-tunnel technology we have today were far-off dreams at that time – designers were guided more by their aesthetic sense than by any scientific precepts.

The result was some of the most beautiful man-made objects ever created, epitomised by automobiles like the Mercedes-Benz W196 and 1948 Buick Streamliner. Other industries followed, notably that of aviation, producing aircraft such as the sleek-bodied, snub-nosed De Havilland Venom that patrolled Swiss airspace for 30 years.

Presenting Horological Machine N°9 ‘Flow’, inspired by the dynamic profiles of automotive and aviation mid-century design.

Reminiscent of a jet engine, a highly complex case in alternating polished and satin finishes encloses an equally complex manual winding movement, developed fully in house. Independent twin balance wheels beat at a leisurely 2.5Hz (18,000bph) on each flank of Horological Machine N°9, visible under elongated domes of sapphire crystal. A third pane of sapphire crystal on the central body reveals the gearbox of the HM9 engine: a planetary differential that averages the output of both balance wheels to provide one stable reading of the time.

Sitting perpendicular to the rest of the HM9 engine is the dial indicating hours and minutes, driven by conical gears that ensure precise engagement even when motion is put through a 90° planar translation. The winding and setting crown is located on the rear of the central body, its deep fluting providing ergonomic grip as well as aesthetic coherence with the overall design.

Two satin-finished air scoops are mounted alongside the pods containing the oscillating balance wheels, evoking the raised vents that allow continuous airflow to high-performance motor engines.

HM9 Flow treads the path first opened by the HM4 Thunderbolt and subsequently by the HM6 Space Pirate, utilising a geometrically complex combination of milled case elements in both sapphire crystal and metal (grade 5 titanium and 18k red gold). However, HM9 goes beyond its predecessors, redefining what was thought to be possible in case design – illustrated for example by a patented three-dimensional gasket ensuring water resistance.

Quite naturally, HM9 Flow was, therefore, declined in two versions, drawing their inspiration from the two main sources: A “Road” version with a speedometer-style dial; an “Air” version with an aviator-style dial.

The Horological Machine N°9’Flow’ was launched in 2018 in two limited titanium editions of 33 pieces each: the “Air” version with darkened movement; the “Road” version with pink gold treated movement.

In 2019, MB&F presents two new limited editions in 5N+ red gold with 18 pieces each: the “Air” version with blackened movement and rhodium-plated balance wheels; the “Road” version with rhodium-plated movement and red gold balance wheels.

MB&F HM9 ‘Flow’ red gold in detail

At the outer limits of design

A lifetime car aficionado, MB&F founder Maximilian Büsser first channelled the visual cues of the mid 20th century in the 2014 HM6 Space Pirate, particularly in its “Streamliner” SV editions. Now in 2018, MB&F goes even further and presents one of its most ambitious designs yet.

Horological Machine N°9 ‘Flow’ is audacious in its design, not simply because of its unconventional form, but because of the extremes to which it takes this form. Mould-breaking, transgressive case shapes are nothing new to the MB&F Horological Machine collection, but HM9 has rejected all limits. Its extreme curves and acute angles required new manufacturing standards and techniques to obtain a complete milled and finished case.

Horological Machine N°9 ‘Flow’ was not designed with current manufacturing techniques in mind. Its curves are too pronounced and its finishing requirements too strict.

When the MB&F team first brought the HM9 designs to their manufacturing partners, the response was quick and unambiguous: these designs could not be realised. Other cases, such as the undulating shell of the HM6 Space Pirate, were geometrically complex, but their maximum height differential (the vertical distance between contiguous points) remained within 5mm. With HM9, that differential doubled, creating radical curves that give the case its highly tactile presence.

These steep curves are paired with slim bands of mirror polish and wider swaths of satin finish, raising issues when finishing tools of fixed diameter (say 10mm or more) had to somehow navigate the narrow channels of the case exterior. Adjusting the placement of different finishes in order to accommodate the finishing tools was not an option, as this would have diminished the full-volumed aesthetic of HM9.

The dramatic geometry of Horological Machine N°9 ‘Flow’ could only be supported by equally dramatic contrasts of finished surface, so manufacturing conventions evolved to meet the demands of HM9.

Because of the proportions of the curves on the HM9 case, it was essential to control the overall size. Horological Machine N°9 ‘Flow’ measures 57mm at its widest point and requires a highly compact yet robust engine. Perhaps the most interesting aspect of HM9 is how its exuberant, expressive design is possible only because of the restraint and spatial efficiency of its engine.

The wide-to-narrow alternating arrangement of the three primary volumes of the HM9 case made it impossible to install the movement by conventional means, within a case with limited transverse symmetry. It was necessary to divide the case along two axes and devise an unprecedented three-dimensional gasket for water resistance. This patented innovation is completely novel in its execution throughout the watchmaking industry.

About the HM9 engine

The result of three years of development, the HM9 engine was created entirely in-house, with the accumulated experience that came with MB&F’s 13 years in existence (in 2018) and previous 14 different movements.

Long-time MB&F collectors and fans will recognise the mechanical pedigree of the HM9 engine. Its double-balance with differential is descended from the similar system in Legacy Machine N°2, albeit in vastly different aesthetic form. Whereas LM2 emphasised design purity and the hallucinatory effect of its suspended oscillators, HM9 is exultant in its celebration of expressive design.

The twin balance wheels of the HM9 engine feed two sets of chronometric data to a central differential for an averaged reading. The balances are individually impulsed and spatially separated to ensure that they beat at their own independent cadences of 2.5Hz (18,000bph) each. This is important to ensure a meaningful average, just as how a statistically robust mathematical average should be derived from discrete points of information.

Two balances beating within the same movement will inevitably bring up discussions of resonance, the mechanical phenomenon that describes linked oscillators in a state of mutual harmonic excitation. As with the LM2 engine, HM9 deliberately avoids inducing the resonance effect. Its purpose in including two balance wheels is to obtain discrete sets of chronometric data that can be translated by a differential to produce one stable averaged reading. This purpose would be defeated by two balances oscillating perfectly in phase, giving the same chronometric data at every point.

HM9 further calls out the MB&F Legacy Machine collection with the curved arms anchoring its balances. The polished appearance finish contrast vividly with the movement bridges.

MB&F HM9 ‘Flow’ red gold – Technical specifications 7 Price

Horological Machine n°9 ‘Flow’ is available in two versions:

‘Road’ version with a speedometer-style dial;

‘Air’ version with an aviation-style dial.

Each version is available in titanium (two editions of 33 pieces each) or in red gold (two editions of 18 pieces each). The retail price of the HM9 Red Gold is CHF 188,000 + VAT (USD 198,000 / EUR 174,000 before taxes).

Engine

Manual-winding in-house movement

Two fully independent balance wheels with planetary differential

Frequency: 2.5Hz (18,000bph)

Single barrel with 45-hour power reserve

301 components, 52 jewels

Hours and minutes on vertical dial display

Case

2 launch editions in titanium grade 5, limited to 33 pieces each, with a NAC movement (“Air” version) or red gold (“Road” version); and limited editions in red gold 5N+ of 18 pieces each, with a NAC movement and rhodium-plated balance wheels (“Air” version) or rhodium-plated movement with red gold balance wheels (“Road” version)

Dimensions: 57mm x 47mm x 23mm

Titanium editions: 43 components, red gold editions: 49 components

Water-resistant to 3ATM (30m); assembled in three segments with patented three-dimensional gasket

Sapphire crystals

Five sapphire crystals treated with anti-reflective coating

Strap and buckle

Hand-stitched brown calf-leather strap with custom-designed titanium or red gold 5N+ folding buckle

Friends responsible for HM9 Flow red gold

Concept: Maximilian Büsser / MB&F

Design: Eric Giroud / Through the Looking Glass

Technical and production management: Serge Kriknoff / MB&F

R&D: Guillaume Thévenin, Ruben Martinez, Simon Brette and Thomas Lorenzato / MB&F

Movement development: Guillaume Thévenin / MB&F

Case: Aurélien Bouchet / AB Product

Sapphire crystals: Sylvain Stoller / Novo Crystal

Anti-refection treatment for sapphire crystals: Anthony Schwab / Econorm

Precision turning of wheels, pinions and axes: Rodrigue Baume / HorloFab, Paul André Tendon / Bandi, Jean-François Mojon / Chronode, Sébastien Jeanneret / Atokalpa, Decobar Swiss, Le Temps Retrouvé

Springs: Alain Pellet / Elefil Swiss

Balance wheels: Sébastien Jeanneret / Atokalpa

Balance spring: Stefan Schwab / Schwab-Feller

Plates and bridges: Benjamin Signoud / Amecap

Hand-finishing of movement components: Jacques-Adrien Rochat and Denis Garcia / C.-L. Rochat

Hands: Pierre Chillier and Isabelle Chillier / Fiedler

Three-dimensional gasket : A. Aubry

Buckle: Dominique Mainier / G&F Châtelain

Crowns: Aurélien Bouchet / AB Product

Dials (discs for hours – minutes): Hassan Chaïba and Virginie Duval / Les Ateliers d’Hermès Horlogers,

Movement assembly: Didier Dumas, Georges Veisy, Anne Guiter, Emmanuel Maitre and Henri Porteboeuf / MB&F

In-house machining: Alain Lemarchand and Jean-Baptiste Prétot / MB&F

Quality control: Cyril Fallet / MB&F

After-Sales Service: Thomas Imberti / MB&F

Strap: Multicuirs

Presentation box: Julien Berthon / ATS Atelier Luxe

Logistics and production: David Lamy, Isabel Ortega and Francine Gyger / MB&F

Marketing & Communication: Charris Yadigaroglou, Virginie Toral, Juliette Duru and Arnaud Légeret / MB&F

M.A.D.Gallery: Hervé Estienne / MB&F

Sales: Thibault Verdonckt, Anna Rouveure and Jean-Marc Bories / MB&F

Graphic design: Samuel Pasquier / MB&F, Adrien Schulz and Gilles Bondallaz / Z+Z

Watch photography: Maarten van der Ende and Alex Teuscher

Portrait photography: Régis Golay / Federal

Webmasters: Stéphane Balet / Nord Magnétique, Victor Rodriguez and Mathias Muntz / Nimeo

Film: Marc-André Deschoux / MAD LUX

Texts: Suzanne Wong / Worldtempus

MB&F – Genesis of a Concept Laboratory

2019 marked the 14th year of hyper-creativity for MB&F, the world’s first-ever horological concept laboratory. With 15 remarkable calibres forming the base of the critically acclaimed Horological and Legacy Machines, MB&F is continuing to follow Founder and Creative Director Maximilan Büsser’s vision of creating 3-D kinetic art by deconstructing traditional watchmaking.

After 15 years managing prestigious watch brands, Maximilian Büsser resigned from his Managing Director position at Harry Winston in 2005 to create MB&F – Maximilian Büsser & Friends. MB&F is an artistic and micro-engineering laboratory dedicated to designing and crafting small series of radical concept watches by bringing together talented horological professionals that Büsser both respects and enjoys working with.

In 2007, MB&F unveiled its first Horological Machine, HM1. HM1’s sculptured, three-dimensional case and beautifully finished engine (movement) set the standard for the idiosyncratic Horological Machines that have followed – all Machines that tell the time, rather than Machines to tell the time. The Horological Machines have explored space (HM2, HM3, HM6), the sky (HM4, HM9), the road (HM5, HMX, HM8) and water (HM7).

In 2011, MB&F launched its round-cased Legacy Machine collection. These more classical pieces – classical for MB&F, that is – pay tribute to nineteenth-century watchmaking excellence by reinterpreting complications from the great horological innovators of yesteryear to create contemporary objets d’art. LM1 and LM2 were followed by LM101, the first MB&F Machine to feature a movement developed entirely in-house. LM Perpetual and LM Split Escapement broadened the collection further. 2019 marks a turning point with the creation of the first MB&F Machine dedicated to women: LM FlyingT. MB&F generally alternates between launching contemporary, resolutely unconventional Horological Machines and historically inspired Legacy Machines.

As the F stands for Friends, it was only natural for MB&F to develop collaborations with artists, watchmakers, designers and manufacturers they admire.

This brought about two new categories: Performance Art and Co-creations. While Performance Art pieces are MB&F machines revisited by external creative talent, Co-creations are not wristwatches but other types of machines, engineered and crafted by unique Swiss Manufactures from MB&F ideas and designs. Many of these Co-creations, such as the clocks created with L’Epée 1839, tell the time while collaborations with Reuge and Caran d’Ache generated other forms of mechanical art.

To give all these machines an appropriate platform, Büsser had the idea of placing them in an art gallery alongside various forms of mechanical art created by other artists, rather than in a traditional storefront. This brought about the creation of the first MB&F M.A.D.Gallery (M.A.D. stands for Mechanical Art Devices) in Geneva, which would later be followed by M.A.D.Galleries in Taipei, Dubai and Hong Kong.

There have been distinguished accolades reminding us of the innovative nature of MB&F’s journey so far. To name a few, there have been no less than 4 Grand Prix awards from the famous Grand Prix d’Horlogerie de Genève: in 2016, LM Perpetual won the Grand Prix for Best Calendar Watch; in 2012, Legacy Machine No.1 was awarded both the Public Prize (voted for by horology fans) and the Best Men’s Watch Prize (voted for by the professional jury). In 2010, MB&F won Best Concept and Design Watch for the HM4 Thunderbolt. In 2015 MB&F received a Red Dot: Best of the Best award – the top prize at the international Red Dot Awards – for the HM6 Space Pirate

MB&F HM9 ‘Flow’ red gold – Gallery

MB&F HM9 ‘Flow’ Air red gold

MB&F HM9 ‘Flow’ now in red gold – Aerodynamic horology With great joy, I present you the latest press release from MB&F. What is with this enthusiasm?

#Horological Machine #Horological Machine N°9 ‘Flow’#MB&F #MB&F HM9 &039;Flow&039; red gold #news #Press release

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