#calibre furniture

[abodehaven]

Outdoor Seating Solutions from McGuire Furniture Rental & Sales - Abode Haven

Transform your outdoor living area into a stylish and comfortable oasis with McGuire Furniture Rental & Sales' Abode Haven collection. Explore a range of outdoor seating solutions designed to elevate your space, whether it's a cozy balcony, spacious patio, or lush garden. From sleek modern designs to timeless classics, our collection offers durable and stylish options to suit every taste and environment.

[blubushie]

i love your bullet/casing post so much i jumped up and down and squealed upon reading through it do you have any more cool gun facts that people often get wrong

So I wrote a long spiel and accidentally closed my tab so now I'm pissed. Let's do this over lmao

FOR ANIMATORS/AUTHORS/ARTISTS

While the sound of a pump-action shotgun being cycled is really cool and very intimidating, YOU'RE WASTING YOUR AMMO WHEN YOU DO IT. Every time you pump a shotgun, you're ejecting a spent shell. If there's no spent shells, you're ejecting perfectly good ammo.

You rack a slide. You rack a pump-action shotgun. YOU DON'T RACK A BOLT ON A BOLT-ACTION RIFLE. You CYCLE a bolt. If I see one more person say they're racking the bolt of a bolt-action I'm gonna shove my boot so far up their--

Recoil is a bitch. You can always tell who has never fired a firearm in their life because of how they write/animate recoil. Do you know what makes fully automatic weapons dangerous to the user? The bloody recoil. It's hard to control. Your aim will move up, and especially in fully-automatic handguns or SMGs like Tommy guns which are smaller weapons, there's not much gun to brace against your body to steady it. That means it's harder to control. That makes it dangerous and puts you at risk.

THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS A SILENCER. They're called suppressors, and they don't make the gun silent. They only bring the volume down by a few decibels so (usually) you won't have to wear ear protection when firing. This is especially useful in combat scenarios like what military and police experience when you're firing in an enclosed space like a building where sound reverberates, or just firing in an indoor firing range. If you have a larger calibre firearm, bring your suppressor because the bloke in the booth next to you will thank you for it.

Handguns usually aren't very accurate, and perfecting your accuracy with them takes a LOT of time that most people don't have to put in. I guarantee you that unless your character is a notoriously skilled marksman and has trained extensively with handguns, they're not shooting that guy in the forehead on the first try.

THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS BULLETPROOF, ONLY BULLET-RESISTANT. Even the USA's ACH (Advanced Combat Helmet) is NOT DESIGNED to stop bullets. You know what kills people most in war, more than bullets? Shockwaves from blasts. That's what helmets are designed to protect against: shockwaves from explosions (which causes brain trauma) and shrapnel. The ACH can protect against handgun-calibre rounds, but don't rely on it to protect you against rifle-calibre rounds. Bullets will penetrate basically everything and half the time what characters use as shields (couches, tables, furniture, metal plates) are things bullets will penetrate with ease. VESTS WILL NOT PROTECT AGAINST HIGH-CALIBRE ROUNDS. Hell, vests often don't even protect against handgun-calibre rounds. The reasons one of the rules of firearm safety is identifying your target is because bullets will penetrate people and strike whatever is behind them. Sometimes that's another person. Also, bullet-resistant vests don't protect against knives.

People don't shrug off bullet wounds unless it's something like a graze, and even then you have burning to the skin. Rounds are fucking hot when they're fired---both as a result of air friction while travelling through the air, and as a result of being propelled from the barrel by hot gunpowder.

YOU CAN MOST DEFINITELY DIE FROM A BULLET TO THE SHOULDER. In your shoulder is an artery---worst case scenario, if it hits above your collar bone it ruptures the subclavian artery. Second worst case scenario, if it hits where your arm meets your shoulder it ruptures the axillary artery. You're going to lose an extensive amount of blood, probably go into shock, and the wound will be singed from the heat of the bullet. The impact alone can break bones without even touching them. When I hunt deer and I get a neck shot (not what I aim for, but mistakes happen) I don't usually hit the vertebrae. The vertebrae is severed simply by the shockwave of the impact.

Guns don't click when they're empty. That click you hear is the firing pin moving forward to strike the primer of the cartridge. In handguns, the slide will move backwards and lock when the magazine is empty. It will not click. The only firearms that "click" when empty are double-action revolvers, as pulling the trigger of a double-action will pull the hammer back. A complete pull makes the hammer strike the back of the firing pin, which then strikes nothing because there isn't a round in the chamber of the cylinder. Unless you're pulling the hammer of a handgun back yourself and pulling the trigger, you will not hear a click. It just won't fire. This is why you keep track of how much ammo you're using, folks.

Most modern firearms don't have a muzzle flash. It's something you see more in things like a muskets. Handguns, military-style rifles, and machine guns don't usually have muzzle flashes, and military and police specifically use low-flash gunpowder so that their position isn't given away by the muzzle flash. For firearms that do have muzzle flashes (for example, some bolt-action rifles) that's what a flash suppressor is for!

MODERN FIREARMS WILL NOT FIRE WHEN THEY'RE DROPPED. Firearm manufacturers go through EXTENSIVE testing to ensure that this doesn't happen because it's a safety risk. In Ye Olde Days (1800s) companies would go bankrupt for putting firearms on the market that are susceptible to accidental discharges. Nowadays, THEY GET SHUT DOWN. The only firearms that CAN fire when dropped are VERY OLD revolvers without a safety mechanism that modern revolvers have, and even then that's only if they fall at the perfect angle directly onto the hammer. Just to be safe, that's why you keep your revolvers half-cocked! (There's some exceptions to this rule with older firearms but it's a general rule of thumb.)

SNIPERS WORK IN TWO-MAN TEAMS. If you're shooting over a thousand yards, most snipers will have a spotter who does his calculating for him. ALL MILITARY SNIPERS WORK IN TWO-MAN TEAMS REGARDLESS OF RANGE. I can do my own spotting up to 1100yd, but anything beyond that requires the assistance of a spotter. There's a lot of maths that goes into sniping. Wind direction, wind speed (what we call windage), bullet drop, trajectory of the Earth, and the Coriolis effect when shooting due north or due south. If you're in the northern hemisphere, the bullet will shift right. If you're in the southern hemisphere, the bullet will shift left. I have no idea how it works at the equator.

When fired at night (and ESPECIALLY in snow) rifles don't make a "BANG" sound. They crack. Sound carries differently at night, which changes the distinctive "bang" of a rifle to a cracking sound, like what you'd hear when ice is breaking on a lake. The best example of this DONE RIGHT is when Sniper fires his rifle in the SFM Art of Justice. You can hear that sound at 3:05.

If I think of any more later I'll add some.

As always, if you have any questions feel free to send me an ask!

[honeycollectswhump]

prompt:

you think i actually care about you? cute.

with pet whumpee who started to truly love whumper and believed whumper loved them too

Love and Worship

[masterlist]

CW: pet whump, dehumanization, cigarette burns

There is a certain kind of satisfaction linked to spending one’s evening alone in the big hall, surrounded by nothing but gold and jewels, resting on only the softest cushions while occasionally being fed grapes by servants with shaking hands. Others may call it a dream; Mireille calls it a well-deserved daily life.

Everything is beautiful, just as it is supposed to be. The furniture is spotless, having been meticulously cleaned the second Mireille leaves the room, each gem is polished like the morning sun. The servants –about a dozen– wear only the finest clothes, which are almost as expensive and certainly prettier than anything they deserve. 

But what they deserve doesn’t matter, and who cares about the message trying to be sent, when the domestics look like they were taken from the streets? 

This, the big hall, the rooms, every single floor is art. They are a stage for only the finest performers, and sometimes that means having to clothe simple actors in garments more expensive than their life is worth.

It’s a price Mireille is more than willing to pay. Money is never an issue and of course, they don’t outshine her.

Mireille leans back, letting her long black hair drape over the backrest, and takes a drag from the cigarette held loosely in her hand. She looks like a painting, like the pride and joy of a knowledgeable collector. Every single movement is deliberately elegant in a way that has been taught to her since childhood. A woman like her is worth her weight in gold.

Smoking is just another habit she picked up along the way. It’s part of a perfectly curated image, the mysterious lady, the untouchable femme fatale. A calculated show, one that Mireille cannot go without and the thought of abandoning it makes her hands shake, even though she’d rather die than admit it.

Decidedly, she stops that train of thought before any conclusions could be drawn that would be unbecoming for a lady of her calibre. 

Mireille draws in a deep breath through her cigarette and blows the smoke in the air, watching it drift lazily through the hall. Right next to her, her ashtray kneels on the floor, waiting patiently. 

Out of all of her purchases, he’s her favourite. He is undoubtedly beautiful, about as fine as a diamond, with golden hair and shining blue eyes. But then again, Mireille paid good money for his looks. His beauty is not a compliment, it’s the majority of his worth. She would not be satisfied with anything less than perfection.

Her adoration for her companion-decor goes further than his beauty and the entertainment he brings into her life though. There is something about this particular item that her other servants lack, whose fondness for her doesn’t go beyond an innate, natural sense of loyalty.

Her ashtray worships her. Mireille doesn’t need to hear him say it (and it’s not like he was made to speak in the first place). She can simply tell by the way he looks at her with nothing but pure reverence in his eyes. He offers himself up with eagerness and wears the burns like compliments on his skin. 

It’s intoxicating. 

All of her life, men and women alike have adored her, but this is a different, addicting kind of love. Without a doubt, she is the centre of his universe and Mireille would not have it any other way.

The cigarette is nearly burned to the end. After one last drag, she turns her attention towards her ashtray, pondering how she is going to leave a mark this time. There is so much to choose from, although the little round scars are beginning to pile up. It’s a game for her and a blessing for him. 

“Give me your tongue, won’t you?” Mireille purrs and the ashtray complies immediately, of course. He straightens, eager to have received a command –both mindless puppet and loyal mutt–, and holds out his tongue for her. The thought of disobeying her order would never even cross his mind. 

Something about the way he offers up such a vulnerable part of himself without hesitation gives Mireille a rush every single time. She presses the still-glowing cigarette end into the soft but marred flesh. It should cause a visceral reaction, even after the scar tissue must have numbed the nerve ends.

Her servants would whimper and cry in his place. They wouldn’t know what to do with themselves, shaking in anticipation and fear of the pain. Instead, her ashtray barely shudders and keeps his body rigid and still until she is done.

Only then does he lift his eyes to her face, searching for her satisfaction. Just being allowed to look at her is reward enough for her ashtray, and his eyes shimmer with devotion. When she graces him with a smile, he vibrates with excitement and joy. 

She lifts her hand to his head and pets him and the ashtray all but presses into her touch, content with a job well done. That’s the difference between her servants and her ashtray. He is looking forward to getting burned by her, there is nothing in the whole wide world that he’d rather do.

“You really are enjoying this, huh? Do you actually think I care about you? That’s so cute.” Mireille smiles.

And her stupid little ashtray just melts under a touch he thinks speaks of mutual affection.

taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0 let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

[terrence-silver]

“It’s not a ‘trigger’! I don’t have ‘triggers’! There’s nothing wrong with me! I’m perfectly normal!” sounds to me like something KK3 Terry would say

The Elevator.

---

It was easily considered the biggest architectural eccentricity of the decade.

A fifty two story building looming over the skyline of LA reconstructed in such a way where each of its respective elevators were to be widened --- made bigger --- the shaft dimensions along generously altered from their usual 1850x1500 in diameter to a staggering 2000x1800, which meant of course, that perhaps the entire skeleton of the building itself, from top to bottom, its rebar, its wires, its reinforced concrete blocks, all had to be re-measured and rebuilt, notwithstanding the fact that an entire Skyscraper's worth of furniture and and staff had to be temporarily moved out first before the building could be virtually torn apart right down the middle. Gutted with the precision of a surgical knife. Reconstrued. Re-done. Re-calibrated. Re-fitted into place. The entire infrastructure of Dynatox's HQ remodeled, dissembled and re-assembled, solely to accommodate what they all claimed was a capricious whim --- blowing money for the sake of blowing money; a project that could go into the Millions. Tens of Millions for starters. That would require countless engineers. Man-power. Workers. Coordinators. Equipment. Shiploads of cement. Plans. So many plans. Journalists. News reporters. Pesky protestors outside of his building carrying signs saying how once again, Terry Silver's endeavors have not only polluted the planet but somehow managed to lead to urbanistic chaos amidst renovations, throwing the nearby city neighborhoods into disarray, shutting down entire streets and uglifying the vista for fuck knows how long. Did he at least have a permit for that, they asked? He was first name basis friends with Tom Bradley and they tended to golf together. He didn't need a permit, but if he genuinely wanted it, he could get it. He didn't give a shit either, though. In fact, all of it amused him profoundly. He wanted to ride around in more spaciously comfortable elevators and he would have his desire appeased too. He had the money to fund his own whims, and he would too.

Never thought much of it, until Margaret said what she said.

And then his desires began to itch.

-"Mr. Silver, sir. Forgive me if I inquire, but on the basis of employer-employee confidentiality, taking into consideration the vast sum of investment that'll go into this project ---"-

She adjusted the rim of her glasses perched atop of her nose and he already knew he had to brace himself for what she'd say next and prepare an even wittier comeback; finding his smile prematurely fading from his lips before he could even properly crack a chuckle across the precipice of his tongue. His secretary, like the incarnation of all wisdom and logic itself, looks at him, knowingly, similarly to how someone's grandmother or an aunt would've from across all the stack of building plans sprawled across the empty conference table, save for the two of them. -"But, it's not claustrophobia, is it?"- What? Without breaking a sweat, Margaret Spencer holds his gaze, one of the few people who could, as she clarifies. He knew what the fuck it was, but she chooses to explain anyway, giving him a clear definition with the precision of a Thesaurus, drilling the point home. Something pierces Terry's brain then, like a spiked, hot rod. He knew Margaret didn't do this to pin holes inside of him intentionally, but it happens anyway. He bleeds inwardly. Sees jungle red. -"The irrational fear of confined spaces. It is quite the serious trigger for some."-

On instinct, he finds his tone of voice growing low and dangerously cold.

He cocks his head to one side, assessing the word.

Like a dog assesses the bone between his teeth.

-"Trigger?"-

He seethes.

The term is unfamiliar.

Akin to a weird blank. Yet he doesn't like it. He loathes it.

Wants to tear into like, like a punching dummy.

Hit it until it collapses dead underneath his feet.

Was she implying what she was implying? That he was doing renovations, importing material, flying in engineers from as far as Korea, ready to blow the budget of a smaller country and all because he was too chickenshit to get into an elevator that felt slightly too small? Because it reminded him of 'Nam? Of the cage? She was infuriatingly right, of course, like someone who knew him for far too long could only ever be, and he hated it. Felt bared and seen by it. Felt the need to fight. Get defensive. So he does. -"It’s not a ‘trigger’!"- He hisses, getting up from his leather rotating office chair in a haste, sensing his own jaw tightening, finding he was speaking to the older woman through painfully gritted teeth. He relished the pain though, seeking more of it, because a soldier didn't do pain. He didn't do triggers either. Who invented that anyway!? What would John say about that if he knew!? Bullshit! Suddenly, his anger flares up to volcanic degrees. He's there, furiously pointing a ring-bejeweled finger at her, every trace of humor long since gone. -"I don’t have ‘triggers’, Margaret!"- He stands firm in that fact, but she sits there --- not judging --- but seeming stoic. Unconvinced. Folders and files neatly in her lap, the picture of professional poise and experience. Tricking Margaret Spencer was like trying to trick one's own mother; they always seemed to know better. He would've fired anyone else on the spot and issued a lawsuit their way, destroying every prospect of any further career anywhere, but with her? He felt the need to justify himself somehow. Convince her, from a strictly business standpoint, that they weren't sinking Billions into a building solely on the basis of him being afraid. He didn't do afraid either. There was no fear in this dojo. In this unit.

-"There’s nothing wrong with me! I’m perfectly normal!"-

He shouts suddenly, spittle flying from his mouth.

Once he realizes the outburst, he stops just as abruptly.

Straightens himself out. Halts. Re-takes control.

Stops pacing around the office like a feral animal.

It was technically her job to ask these things. Man, he was overreacting.

All of this seems funny out of nowhere, even though he was furious just a second ago.

Terry chuckles. Then, he cackles. His eyelids ache. He forgot to blink.

-"I'm fine. Lighten up, Margaret."-

He brushes it off, going for nonchalance, not feigning a single part of it, though, feeling it, in fact, in every part of his body; this unbearable lightness of being, filling his head with the high of an unexpected euphoria. He was fine. He truly was. By the end of year two since commencing the master plan programme, in a Herculean effort of unprecedented proportions, his vision is complete and his project done. Of course, Forbes writes about it extensively. So does Architectural Digest at a ribbon cutting ceremony. He rides a private elevator out of spite to commemorate the occasion, one of many and newly designed according to his specifications, going to the top floor of his building, right to the spire, where his office was overlooking Los Angeles, deciding to overcome himself once and for all forget what fear ever even meant by definition.

[littlesweetchurro]

Malfunctioned

Chapter Two

Bakugou

Bakugou's fist slammed into the wall. The receptionist squeaked, her eyes wide.

"What the fuck do you mean, 'standard solutions'?" He snarled, looming over the desk. "Did you not hear a goddamn word I said?"

The woman—Bakugou hadn't bothered to learn her name—stammered something unintelligible. Her gaze darted around the room, looking anywhere but at the fuming hero in front of her.

Bakugou's teeth ground together. This was the third fucking support company he'd visited today, and his patience was hanging by a thread.

The first had been a joke. A bunch of starry-eyed idiots more interested in getting his autograph than actually fixing his gear. He'd stormed out after ten minutes, leaving behind a room full of singed eyebrows and bruised egos.

The second... Christ, the second had been even worse. He'd tried to play nice, really he had. But then they'd started talking about "upgrades" and "premium packages." As if he needed their overpriced bullshit. He'd made his opinion on that quite clear. Last he'd seen, they were still trying to put out the fire in their demo room.

And now this place. He'd had high hopes for this one. They came highly recommended, supposedly the best in the business. But so far, all he'd gotten was the same cookie-cutter crap as everywhere else.

"Listen here," Bakugou growled, leaning in close. The receptionist flinched back, the scent of his nitroglycerin sweat filling the air. "I need someone who can fix my gear. Not slap a band-aid on it, not sell me some fancy new toy. Fix. It. Is there anyone in this goddamn building capable of doing that?"

The woman's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Bakugou's lip curled in disgust. Pathetic.

"I-I'll get the manager," she finally squeaked out.

Bakugou straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. "About fucking time."

As the receptionist scurried away, Bakugou paced the lobby like a caged animal. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the sleek furniture and modern art. All style, no substance. Just like everything else in this place.

He caught sight of his reflection in a polished chrome sculpture. His hair was a mess, more wild than usual. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. And there, just visible above his collar, was a thin scar from where a villain had gotten too close during his last patrol.

Bakugou's jaw clenched. He needed his gauntlets.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled him from his thoughts. A man in an expensive suit strode towards him, plastering on a fake smile that made Bakugou's skin crawl.

"Dynamight, sir! It's an honor to have you here. I'm Tanaka, the head of our R&D department. I understand you're having some issues with your support gear?"

Bakugou's eyes narrowed. This fucker better not be another waste of his time.

"Yeah, you could say that," he growled. "My gauntlets aren't firing right. Misfires, weak blasts, the whole nine yards. I need it fixed, and I need it fixed yesterday."

Tanaka nodded, his smile never wavering. "Of course, of course. We'd be happy to take a look. Perhaps you'd like to come back to our lab? We have some exciting new prototypes that might interest you—"

"Did I fucking stutter?" Bakugou cut him off, his voice dangerously low. "I don't want your new shit. I want my gear fixed."

Tanaka's smile faltered for a moment before snapping back into place. "Ah, yes, of course. Well, why don't you show me the problem, and we'll see what we can do?"

Bakugou grunted, reaching into the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He pulled out his gauntlets, slamming them onto a nearby coffee table hard enough to make the magazines scatter.

"There," he said, gesturing to the scorched and dented equipment. "Firing mechanism's fucked. Calibration's off. And the blast radius is all over the place."

Tanaka leaned in, examining the gauntlets with a furrowed brow. "Hmm, I see. These are quite... unique. Custom-made, I assume?"

Bakugou's eye twitched. "No shit. You think I'd wear some off-the-rack crap?"

"Of course not," Tanaka said smoothly. "It's just, well, our technicians might have some difficulty with such a specialized piece of equipment. Perhaps it would be easier if we started from scratch? We have some excellent new designs that—"

"For the last fucking time," Bakugou roared, his patience finally snapping, "I don't want your shitty new designs! I want these fixed!"

Fucks sake!

Was he fucking speaking German?

Tanaka took a step back, his practiced smile finally cracking.

"Now, now, there's no need for that kind of language," he said, holding up his hands placatingly. "I'm sure we can come to some sort of arrangement. Why don't we discuss this in my office?"

Bakugou's hands sparked, small explosions popping in his palms. "The only thing we're going to discuss is how quickly you can get someone competent to look at my gear."

Tanaka's eyes darted nervously to Bakugou's hands, then to the exit. "I... I'm not sure we have anyone available at the moment who could handle such a complex—"

"Bullshit," Bakugou snarled. He took a step forward, relishing the way Tanaka flinched. "You're supposed to be the best in the business. Are you telling me that was all talk?"

Sweat beaded on Tanaka's forehead. "N-no, of course not. It's just, well, custom work like this requires a certain level of expertise, and—"

"And what?" Bakugou's voice was quiet now, deadly calm. "You don't have that expertise? Is that what you're saying?"

Tanaka's mouth opened and closed, no sound coming out. Bakugou could practically see the wheels turning in his head, trying to find a way out of this situation without admitting defeat.

Bakugou's lip curled in disgust. He'd seen enough.

Without another word, he snatched up his gauntlets and shoved them back into his bag. He turned on his heel, stalking towards the exit.

"Wait!" Tanaka called after him. "Perhaps we could—"

The door slammed shut behind Bakugou, cutting off whatever pathetic offer Tanaka had been about to make.

Outside, Bakugou took a deep breath of the cool evening air. His hands were still smoking, small pops and crackles echoing in the quiet street.

Three companies. Three fucking failures.

You

Monday morning arrived with a vengeance, bringing with it a pounding headache and the harsh reality of your job at Tech Nexus Solutions. You dragged yourself to work, praying for an easy day to nurse your hangover. The universe, however, had other plans.

"Hey!" your coworker Hana called out as soon as you entered the office. "Mr. Morita is on the warpath. He's demanding changes to his support gear... again."

You groaned, rubbing your temples. Mr. Morita, aka Rubber Man was proving to be a notoriously difficult client, a minor pro-hero with an inflated ego and a penchant for nitpicking every detail of his gear. "What is it this time?" you asked, dreading the answer.

"He says the material isn't breathable enough and the color is off by two shades," Hana replied, wincing sympathetically.

"Of course it is," you answered.

Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself for the impending confrontation.

The vane of your existence was calling people, you hated making phone calls. Why couldn't you just send an email? But no, you had to put on your big girl pants and be professional.

You grunted.

You dialed Rubber Man's number, putting on your most professional voice. "Good morning, Mr. Morita. I understand you have some concerns about your gear?"

What followed was a twenty-minute tirade about the supposedly subpar quality of his suit. You listened patiently, jotting down notes and occasionally interjecting with clarifying questions. When he finally paused for breath, you seized your opportunity.

"Mr. Morita," you began, in your most professional voice, "I appreciate your attention to detail. However, I must remind you that the material we used was specifically chosen for its durability and flexibility, which are crucial for your quirk. As for the color, I have the approved shade right here in front of me, and I can assure you it's exactly as specified."

"But it doesn't feel right!" he spluttered, making you wonder who, what single individual had been responsible for his fucking huge ego. His mom probably.

You smirked, thankful he couldn't see your expression over the phone. "Feeling right and being right are two different things, Mr. Morita. Perhaps what you're experiencing is the natural breaking-in period for new gear. I suggest giving it a week of regular use. If you're still unsatisfied, we can schedule a fitting to address any specific areas of discomfort."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. You held your breath, hoping your blend of logic and compromise would appease him.

"Fine. One week. But if I'm not satisfied, I expect immediate action."

"Of course, Mr. Morita. Your satisfaction is our top priority," you replied smoothly, hoping your customer service voice was on point today. "Is there anything else I can help you with today?"

After assuring him once more that his concerns were being taken seriously, you ended the call, exhaling loudly.

"Nicely handled," Hana said, impressed. "I thought he was going to demand a complete redesign."

You grinned, feeling a sense of accomplishment. "Sometimes you just need to speak their language. A little flattery, a dash of logic, and a sprinkle of standing your ground." You stood up and stretched trying to relieve the kink your neck. "You know all standards when dealing with heroes."

As the morning wore on, you found yourself in need of a caffeine boost. You made your way to the break room, hoping a strong cup of coffee would chase away the last vestiges of your hangover.

"Did you hear? Dynamight is looking for a new support company!"

Your ears perked up at the mention of the explosive hero. Dynamight, also known as Katsuki Bakugou, was one of the top heroes in Japan. Working with him would be a massive opportunity for any support company.

"Are you serious?" another voice chimed in. "That would be huge for us if we could land that contract!"

"Yeah, but can you imagine dealing with his temper? I heard he made his last support tech cry."

You freeze, coffee forgotten as you strain to hear more. You really didn't like gossip, not really, well maybe you did like it a bit when it wasn't about you.

"I heard he actually set fire to the last company's prototype room," someone says in a hushed tone.

You rolled your eyes. Typical hero gossip, probably exaggerated. Probably. Though you really couldn't be sure when it came to the explosive hero. Dynamight's temper was legendary, but so is his prowess as a hero. Working with him would be the opportunity of a lifetime.

"Can you imagine trying to work with that? He'd probably blast you across the room if you suggested an improvement."

You snorted quietly.

"His gauntlets are a work of art, though," someone mused. "The way they store his sweat and amplify his explosions is genius."

"True, but they're also incredibly complex. One wrong move and they could malfunction catastrophically."

You found yourself nodding in agreement. Dynamight's gauntlets were indeed impressive, a perfect example of how support gear could enhance a hero's natural abilities. The thought of working on such advanced equipment sent a thrill of excitement through you.

"Who do you think they'll assign to his account if we get it?" one of your coworkers asked.

"It'll have to be someone who can handle the pressure. And his attitude," another replied with a chuckle.

You took that as your cue to enter the break room, pretending and failing like you hadn't heard a thing. "Morning, everyone," you said casually, making a beeline for the coffee machine.

Your colleagues greeted you, their conversation shifting to more mundane topics. As you prepared your coffee, your mind raced with possibilities. Working with Dynamight would be challenging, no doubt, but it could also be the opportunity of a lifetime.

You returned to your desk, sipping your coffee thoughtfully. The idea of designing support gear for one of the top heroes in the country was exhilarating. Sure, Dynamight had a reputation for being difficult, but you'd just proven your ability to handle demanding clients.

You could do, you knew you could.

A small, ambitious, prideful part of you wondered knew you'd be perfect for the challenge. After all, if you could talk down Mr. Morita, how much worse could the explosive hero be?

Little did you know, you were about to find out exactly how much worse it could be.

[iaminsideyourwalls]

Reactor is SO fun and intriguing. Is she full of hatred? Does she have a favorite element/chemical compound? Is she single. Asking for a friend. In all seriousness, though, please tell us more about her! I love women who probably are radioactive.

Aww, thank you, that's so nice that you think she's interesting!

I think they're all filled with a little hatred, so it's only natural. She's used to working with Uranium and Hydrogen but her favorite isotope is Cesium 137. Those little pucks were her best friend when she calibrated her Geiger counters day in and day out. This is followed closely by Cesium 135. She is single, she's had very little contact with people in the past decade while she lives alone in an uninhabitable area until she's discovered and picked up for a job. Spending too much time around her without a lead vest might make you sick, though.

Let's see, what are some more fun facts... She's been listening to music on a hand-crank radio for years, since the area where her plant melted down got cut off from the power grid. Eventually she started broadcasting on her own, just rambling nonsense theories and playing the same songs over and over hauntingly. Really freaked people out not knowing where this voice was broadcasting from. She talks to herself almost constantly, makes puppets out of her friends' belongings, rearranges the furniture without asking people, collects scrap metal, and when she finds something to kill time she latches on to it. All sorts of behaviors you might see in someone who had an entire ghost town to roam around in alone for years.

I'd love to hear other people's takes on her, I don't have a whole lot established for her yet!

[howlingday]

5 Minutes in the Life of Headmaster Arc

Jaune: (Into one scroll) Ren, you can make whatever you want! I'll still eat it!

Jaune: (Into another) Huh? I know you didn't invite me to dinner, Headmaster Schnee I wasn't talking to you! (Groans) I'll call you back.

Emerald: Headmaster, General Bree is here to discuss security.

Harriet: (Nods) Headmaster.

Jaune: Good after-

Student: Hey, Headmaster! (Shoves Harriet)

Student: (Shoves Emerald) What's the big idea changing class lengths?!

Jaune: Well, you see-

Junior: (Through the window) Pardon me, but my boys and I need to work on the fountain.

Jaune: The fountain? Why do you need to-?

Shay: (Smashes through the wall) 'Scuse me, Mr. Headmaster, but I'm with Branwen Electrical. We need to change the wiring in Wing B, so I need you to sign this 428 form.

Jaune: Uh, was there a memo on-? WHOA!

Miltia: Like, sorry! Our boss told us that we had to move furniture.

Melanie: Something stupid about taking old ones and replacing them with new ones. We'll just-

Harriet: Hey, I was here first!

Student: We're more important!

Junior: Hold on-!

Shay: Just a minute-!

Emerald: Headmaster-

ENOUGH!

Jaune: All of you, against the wall, in order of arrival! (Huffs) Yes, Specialist Bree, I would love to discuss the important security details for the upcoming festival. Give me ten minutes, and I should be ready.

Jaune: Both of you, you are students at the one and only New Beacon Academy to become Huntresses of the highest calibre. A change in scheduling should be nothing compared to what you'll experience in the real world. If you would like, Deputy Headmistress Sustrai can explain how the recent low testing scores and increased delinquent activities among your peers are related to the change in class attendance. My apologies if the change has caused any discomfort for you.

Jaune: Sir, once you have explained the purpose of your repairs on the fountain, you may have my permission to work on it, but only after you have explained and if you agree to do it AFTER the last class ends at 4PM.

Jaune: Mr. Shay, give me the form, and I will sign it AFTER I have fully read both it AND any pertinent memo regarding this.

Jaune: AND FINALLY, I appreciate the initiative of your company, but furniture is to be moved around ONLY between graduation and initiation. Please inform your employer of these terms, and to look at New Beacon ordinance 2-79G.

Jaune: NOW ALL OF YOU GET OUT! (They leave, Sighs) Oh... Is it lunchtime yet?

Emerald: (Giggles) No, breakfast was only an hour ago, sir.

[maximumwobblerbanditdonut]

Do you remember when SH mentioned buying a pair of Scottish 22-bore flintlock all-metal belt pistols from the mid-18th century?

The pistol SH used yesterday while filming Outlander season 8 at Eglinton Country Park is not the same style that SH bought in London, but it is from the same period in the mid-18th century. As a historical fiction series (actually, it’s more of an alternate history) I don't think he owns the pistol.

The image is not sharp and details are not clear but the pistol looks like a replica of the 1759 Light Dragoon Flintlock Pistol, often called the "Eliott Dragoon Pistol”. These are named after General George Augustus Eliott, an officer of the British Army, the man who made this design. Born in Scotland he rose through the ranks to become Aide-de-Camp to King George II by 1756.

In 1759, he raised and commanded "The Kings's Own Royal Light Dragoons", the 1st Light Horse and thus began the concept of Light Dragoons in the British Army. He was responsible for raising and training the regiment, as well as procuring their armaments. At the time, commanders of irregular forces could outfit the men as they chose, and Elliot went about designing improved weapons and gear for his Troop of Horse.

This marked one of the first times that the British Board of Ordnance worked with leaders of men in the field to design new weapons, which would be better suited to their needs. The flintlock pistol was introduced into the service of the British Light Cavalry in 1760 to correct perceived defects in the models.

His legacy is the Elliot Light Dragoon Pistol, the Elliot Light Dragoon Carbine, and the Elliot Light Dragoon Saddle.

Pattern 1759 Elliot's Light Dragoon pistol with walnut stock, round barrel, rounded brass mounts and straight-bottomed regulation lock for the pattern. Regulation cast brass mounts and reproduction brass tipped wood ramrod. This is a light, handy pistol with a good feel to it when aiming. The barrel is 9" long and usually 62” calibre. They vary in bore diameter at times. The overall length is 16 1/2". The furniture is all brass and very similar to the civilian pistols of the era.

During the Jacobite Rebellions, and after the Battles of Prestonpans and Falkirk, Dragoons played a significant role at the Battle of Culloden by charging both flanks of the Highland army.

Inspired by Prussian designs of the time, this model of Dragoon pistol was common amongst Britain's mounted troops throughout the 18th Century, the pistol was used by British officers during the American Revolution, and it likely would have been seen used on both sides during the conflict.

These pistols represent an important step in the way that firearms were designed and procured in the British armed forces.

General George Augustus Eliott, 1st Baron Heathfield, was mentioned in Robert Burns's cantata “The Jolly Beggars” as an inspiring figure. The old soldier singing the air "I Am a Son of Mars" says: "Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, / I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum."

By Robert Burns

#Outlanderseason8 #EglintonCountryPark #Scotland #Elliot'sLightDragoonpistol #pistol #BritishArmy #BritishLightCavalry #18thcentury #1stBaronHeathfield #TheJollyBeggars #GeneralGeorgeAugustusEliott #RobertBurns #LightDragoonFlintlockPistol #cantata

Posted 20th August 2024

[techs-feral-wife]

mirshebs-meshla presents:

Scenes From The Havoc Marauder 1

The Bad Batch Plays Resident Evil 4

Summary: Everyone's favorite defective clones get their hands on a new game. Chaos ensues. [Canon Divergent (obviously)]

Content Warning: Mild descriptions of violence/gore(?). Mention of weapons (?). Brotherly bickering and light bullying.

A/N: This is just a funky lil idea I had while playing Resident Evil 4 and I thought we could all use some lighthearted fun. Pretty much spoiler free for those of you who have not played the game. Is it crack? maybe a little bit, but this idea has been haunting me for days. I'm not sure how I feel about it, but I hope it makes y'all smile. Tags: @techtalksfics

The Havoc Marauder was docked in a sleepy spaceport on an equally sleepy outer rim planet. The sun shone brightly overhead. All was quiet and peaceful. Well, outside of the Marauder at least…

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“C’mon Tech!” A voice boomed from within the ship’s hold. Wrecker sat square in the middle of a grubby old couch, watching impatiently as Tech fiddled with the device in his hands. “Hurry up will ya? You’ve been at this forever”

“That statement is factually incorrect,” Tech said flatly. “Now, if you would stop complaining and allow me to work I would finish much faster.” Tech moved the analog sticks this way and that, adjusting sliders and calibrating settings until they were what he deemed ‘optimal’. 

“Is he still fiddling?” Echo entered the makeshift living room clutching a bowl of what looked to be homemade Mantell Mix if you squint hard enough. He made his way over to the couch, stepping over the rat’s nest of cables that covered the floor of the hold. Their gaming setup was rigged quite precariously. One misstep, one snagged wire, and it would all come crumbling down.

“Optimizing,” Tech said, the slightest hint of annoyance coloring his tone. “and I am almost finished.”

“You said that ten minutes ago,” Wrecker groaned through a mouthful of “Mantell Mix”. He’d shoved his hand into the bowl the second Echo sat down, spilling a considerable amount into his brother’s lap. Wrecker coughed and sputtered, grimacing at the flavors that assaulted his tongue. “Tha’ tastes terrible,”

The glare Echo shot his brother could’ve cut glass.

“Don’t talk with your mouthful,” Was all he said, brows furrowed and arms wrapped protectively around the bowl. This was the last time he’d try doing something nice for Wrecker. He leaned his body hard into the couch’s heavily stained arm when the large clone inevitably went for another handful. “Get your own! And scoot over, will ya? Other people have to sit here too.”

“Careful Wrecker,” A smug voice called from the shadows. “You’ve activated mom mode.” 

Crosshair draped himself over the back of the couch, meeting Echo’s glare with a satisfied smirk. The ex-ARC trooper huffed.

“You’re lucky I’m not your mother, you’d all be grounded indefinitely.” Wrecker clapped Echo on the back, spilling even more of the mix onto the floor.

“HA! I’d like to see you try,” Wrecker laughed. Echo’s glare turned into a pout as he hugged the bowl closer to his chest. He opened his mouth to scold Wrecker, but was cut off when Tech cleared his throat.

“If you are quite finished, we are ready to begin.”

“FINALLY”

Tech managed to squeeze in beside Wrecker on the small couch. He was still amazed that they had actually managed to fit this particular piece of furniture in here, though Wrecker always had a knack for cramming useless items into the Marauder. Tech pressed the ‘x’ button on the controller to confirm his newly optimized settings and the game’s title flashed across the holoscreen before them. 

Resident Evil 4

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“Get in here, Hunter! You’re missin’ all the action!” Wrecker called, bouncing with excitement as Tech maneuvered the player character through the twisted ruins of a dilapidated farmhouse.

“I do not believe that this domicile can be deemed liveable,” Tech remarked as he examined what looked to be a simmering pot of rotted offal. Echo scoffed, eyes scanning over the wires, junk, and literally garbage littered about the ship. Don’t even get him started on the smell.

Hunter made his way out from the cockpit just in time to hear Wrecker scream as a hostile took hold of Leon. Unfazed, Tech began rapidly pressing buttons in a sequence that ended with a hunting knife lodged in his assailant’s neck. 

Hunter swiped a hand over his face and sighed. He could feel the beginnings of a headache pressing against his skull, but he was determined to spend some quality time with his brothers. This was going to be a long day.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“We should probably get the scope.” Echo suggests as the brothers bickered over the merchant's wares.

“Don’t waste your money,” Crosshair said through his toothpick. As if to prove a point, he plucked the small sliver of wood and flicked it away. It bounced off two walls and Wreckers forehead before landing in the garbage bin that Echo didn’t even know they had.

“More storage space would be quite useful given that Wrecker insists on picking up every explosive he comes across,” Tech stated, casting a pointed side eye at his largest brother.

“Hey! We need the ammo!” Wrecker defended, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Maybe if you were a better shot,” Crosshair snarked from his perch at the back of the couch.

“I’d like to see you do better” Wrecker was pouting now, craning his neck to glare at Crosshair.

“Hand over the controller then, di’kut,”

“Play nice you two,” Echo warned from beside Wrecker. His bowl of mix had long since been emptied, but he still held it tightly in his lap.

“Yes mom,” Wrecker and Crosshair sang in unison, causing Echo to scowl. 

“OOO! We should get the treasure map!” Omega called out excitedly, emerging from her hiding spot beside the couch to try and wrench the controller from Tech’s hands. The goggled clone lifted the controller out of her reach with ease, looking mildly offended at the attempt. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Hunter called out, placing a hand on her shoulder to still her. “You shouldn’t be here. This game is too scary for you.” Dad mode: Activated.

“Aw, but Wrecker said I could,” Omega whined.

“Yeah! S’not tha’ scary.”

“Says the one who's been cowering behind Lula the whole time.”

“You leave Lula outta this!” Wrecker cradled his beloved tooka plushie close to his chest.

“I thought I told you two to play nice.”

“Sorry mom”

“S T O P calling me that!” Echo gave yet another exasperated huff and went back to watching the screen. Tech was silently examining the weapon upgrades, trying to determine which to expend their very limited funds on. “Besides, Hunter’s right, Omega. This game is rated M for Mature.”

“Wrecker should definitely not be here then” Tech remarked, eyes still glued to the screen.

“HEY”

“Please Hunter,” Omega begged, drawing out her vowels as she looked at the ex-sergeant with the biggest puppy dog eyes he’d ever seen. He didn’t stand a chance.

“Fine,” Hunter sighed. Echo rolled his eyes and shook his head. His brother never could say no to Omega.

“Pushover”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“Wait, go back!” 

“No, not that way!”

“You missed a crate back there!”

“I think I see something on the ceiling!”

“WATCH OUT FOR THAT GUY ON YOUR LEFT!”

The gaming controller was not exactly scomp friendly, so Echo had been forced to take a back seat on this activity. 

“It's for the best, '' Crosshair had joked. “I always heard the Regs were terrible shots.”

“You want to test that theory out for yourself” Echo had challenged, chest puffed with pride and shoulders squared. Crosshairs smirk widened, eyebrows quirked with intrigue. 

“I’d love to-”

“No!” Hunter barked, and that had been the end of it.

Echo had resolved to make the best of a bad situation. Just because he was in the backseat didn’t mean he couldn’t be useful, right? It had begun innocently enough. He would occasionally call out something his brothers had missed or warn them of a hidden enemy. But as the session dragged on, Echo’s “help” had become marginally less helpful.

“You’re supposed to shoot those ones in the head,” Echo remarked as the ‘You Are Dead’ screen flashed up for what felt like the hundredth time this session. That simple phrase had seemingly been the last straw for Tech.

“Echo, if you do not cease your backseat gaming, I will stun you.” Tech threatened, pressing the continue button with more force than was necessary. 

“Just tryna be helpful,” Echo grumbled, slumping back against the couch.

“And while the occasional assistance is appreciated, you do not need to tell me how to play the game. I am well aware,”

“Well maybe if you played better-”

“Do not start with me, Wrecker,”

They carried on in silence for several minutes until the death screen inevitably reappeared before them.

“You didn’t shoot him in the head,”

Hunter wordlessly gripped Tech by the shoulder and shoved him firmly back down on the couch before he could reach for his blaster.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“I told you we should’ve bought the scope,” Echo tutted as both Tech and Wrecker struggled to take down an enemy manning a turret. 

“No need,” Crosshair scoffed as a pair of long spindly legs crested over the back of the couch and shimmied between Wrecker and Tech. “Move over losers, it’s Crosshair’s time to shine,”

Cross took the controller from his brother’s hand. The room went silent as he lined up the shot…

And it erupted in raucous laughter when he promptly missed.

“Nice shot, Cross,” Wrecker cackled, wiping a tear from his eye. Crosshair scowled and Hunter quickly ripped the controller from Crosshair’s hands before he could bludgeon Wrecker with it. The sniper was fuming and resigned himself to sulking in the background for the rest of the evening, all the while muttering about poorly designed game mechanics. 

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“Hello, Beautiful,” Wrecker leaned forward towards the holoscreen. A goofy grin spread across his face and his eyes sparkled at the sight before him. Wrecker was so excited that he was practically drooling over the latest addition to the merchant’s stock: a kriffin’ rocket launcher! In Wrecker’s mind, this game just got a thousand times better. “Oh yeah! Now tha’s what I’m talkin’ about!”

“There is no room for that in our inventory,” Tech announced, quickly quelling his brother’s excitement as he resumed scrolling through the merchant’s wares for a more pragmatic purchase. 

“I’ll make room,” Wrecker moved to snatch the controller from Tech. The attempt was easily avoided; it had become such a regular occurrence during this session of gaming that Tech had begun to do it on instinct and it was beginning to get on his nerves if he was being completely honest. 

“We do not need a rocket launcher. And besides, we can’t afford it.” At 30,000 pesetas, the rocket launcher sat well out of their limited budget, and that was before the upgrades and repairs that needed to be made to their arsenal. 

“Sell some of those health sprays then,” Wrecker grumbled, still determined to get that rocket launcher. His habit for making impulse purchases was exactly why he was no longer allowed to hold the controller when they approached the merchant. “Who needs five health sprays anyway?”

“You do,” Tech stated matter-of-factly, adjusting his goggles so that he could better read the item descriptions before continuing. “Seeing as you refuse to take anything less than significant damage whenever you are in control. However I do not understand the logic behind the first aid sprays. Given the type of injuries we sustain simply spraying-”

“I do not!” Wrecker spat, ignoring Tech’s ramblings and cutting him off before he could delve any further into the medical inaccuracies of a fictional world.

“You walked into three consecutive bear traps and a tripwire on your last turn, vod,” Echo recounted. With nothing to do other than spectate, Echo began keeping track of his brothers’ fumblings, but kept them mostly to himself to avoid being stunned. 

“���S’not my fault I couldn't see ‘em’” Wrecker grumbled. “We had to adjust the brightness so someone could see the screen.” 

“My eyesight is not to blame for your lack of skill.”

“Why you-”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The sun had long since slipped below the horizon, and the night carries on in much the same fashion as the day, both within the Marauder as well as without. The stars shone brilliantly overhead. The night was still, the quiet punctuated only by the bickering and booming laughter that echoed against the durasteel walls from within the modified attack shuttle. 

Whenever the boys inevitably ran out of ammunition, they passed the controller to Hunter to melee’d his way through wave after wave of infected hostiles almost entirely unscathed. He managed to defeat one of the bosses armed with nothing but a hunting knife and a single green herb (Wrecker had depleted their stock of health items in record time).

“You brought a gun to a knife fight, osi’kovid,” Hunter muttered as he slashed wildly at a rather large man with a gatling gun. “Ne shab’rud’ni!”

Echo tried to cover Omega’s ears, silently cursing the fact that he only had one good hand. His Mom Mode had been thrown into overdrive.

“LANGUAGE!”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The crew of the havoc marauder had no idea how much time had passed since they’d begun, too engrossed in the game to get up for anything more than a quick trip to the ‘fresher. 

The session however came to a very abrupt end when Hunter had finally grown so fed up with all his brothers’ bickering and threatened to fully unplug the console from the power source. Gonky honked nervously at the threat and the group sat in dead silence as Tech quickly made his way to a save point.

[abodehaven]

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[jaspavca]

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[strikeslip]

Anyway, Intercon Achievements for me this year:

This is Why We Calibrate - Accidentally scare someone in a workshop.

It's My Personal Space Now - They step back. You step forward. They step back? You step forward again. Safety hand signal included!

Generation Gap - Meet a larper 15 years younger than you. Have an emotion about it.

Playground of the Mind - This is not what that piece of furniture was intended for.

Type 1 Sobbing - Cry in character.

Hotel Security Says Hello (x3) - Nobody has yet invented a quiet room party.

[servusendura]

"There is nothing wrong with leaving the overhead lights off. My optics are calibrated to work in low to no lighting, generally speaking. If Tailgate is not in the room there is no need for it.

...She will trip and bump into furniture if she can't see, though."

[goblin-writer]

A New Purpose

CW: Death (first time I’ve used one of these but it’s appropriate this time I guess?)

Death stood before their shelves. Bottles filled with various swirling colours stared balefully down at them. Their work was lonely, and yet through everything they were never alone. The souls they gathered were often spoken to by one of the various afterlives. It was the others that kept them company even now.

Death pulled off their cloak revealing large white wings and a pure red tunic with white collar and epaulettes. They had favoured it since they first came into style and since they left. It was a striking uniform that had represented death for so many, albeit with gold instead of white. Death’s hair was black as jet tied back into a ponytail, leaving their sharp cheekbones and blazing eyes free to those that would look at them after their final moments.

With a thought a new shelf appeared below the current one and death placed their most recent bottle onto it. Even they didn’t know why some souls weren’t spoken for, there was no rhyme or reason. And they did so rarely leave their possession. Still, there was always a purpose in death and they were determined to discover what it was.

With a single push from their wings Death shot upwards to an office that floated disjointedly in the air amidst the shelves and furniture that they kept. Death sat at their desk and looked at the mirror on their desk. Its silver edges radiated a purple glow. Someone was trying to contact them. With a wave of their hand they saw the face of a small cat with dun fur and bright eyes.

“It worked?”

���Did you think I would not answer?”

“No, never, Great Dowager.” It was a title given to Death by many, not one they liked but they couldn’t fault them. Staring Death in the face was difficult, let alone naming them.

“What then is the purpose for our interaction?”

“I have a request,” That was unusual, but cats so often were, they had some kinship with ravens in that regard, “A human that cared for me is doing poorly. Could you help them.”

“Curing the ill is not my remit. You should ask my twin.”

“I know, I know. But – they said they could do nothing.” While cats had exceptional intelligence, they did not believe that humans could die so easily. Nor were they usually so attached. Maybe it was time for an exception.

“Very well. I shall be there shortly.” The connection cut off. If their twin could not help then life was no longer extant. Death did not like being without options. They gathered their bag of tools and, on impulse grabbed a coruscating soul from near the door.

They stepped out and appeared in a living room. A couch and a chair, a coffee table, and a television. The entire house smelled slightly of fragrant teas. It was a drink they enjoyed, herbal and invigorating.

The cat from before sat at their feet and nodded once before walking to and hopping onto the coffee table. As Death expected; the person was dead. Still, they had not taken them and they could not see who had. So, Death took out various devices and turned them on. It took a while to calibrate but eventually they found a trace of one of the Houses of the Dead. Thanatos had claimed this one. They were in for a good afterlife all things considered.

It was one thing Death could not do, and that was bring a body back to life. They had tried with the magic and technology of all ages, and had failed. Still, they dutifully tried.

They might be akin to a deity to some animals and they refused to let them down without honest attempts. Despite all their alchemical knowledge life did not return, nor did Life come to interfere. After an hour they sat back with a sigh.

“You have my condolences. I cannot do more.”

“I was afraid you would say that, but had wanted to believe.”

“The end of life is natural; we cannot turn back the clock.” And as Death spoke the cat walked up to their bag and grabbed the bottle between their teeth, padding over to them and setting it down.

“You haven’t tried this.” The cat murmured.

“It’s a soul, there is nothing that can be done.”

“You haven’t tried this.” The cat said again quietly.

“How would you imagine this would work?”

“You haven’t tried this.” The cat was firmer. Death wasn’t used to being contradicted by cats.

“If this soul is let out and doesn’t do anything then what? Will you be happy?”

“You haven’t tried.” That was too much. Death stood And stalked to the window, looking out, down a long hill along which grew flowers and ancient trees. Birds danced in the air and far in the distance, really specks for human eyes, death saw a family approaching the house. They looked similar to the deceased.

But Death couldn’t put souls into bodies on a whim. They also didn’t like hurting people. Or for that fact breaking the trust that the animals had with them. They had tried, the cat’s accusation was unfair. But had they tried everything?

Death’s wings unfolded as they took off their cloak. Rolled back their sleeves and opened the bottle. Leaning over the person they poured the soul into their eyes. Seeing them shimmer for a moment with that glow that had been in the bottle a moment before. Death watched, in something like a trance as the now second-hand soul made its way through the eyes and into the body. It was difficult to know where a soul resided but this one found its way.

As it took hold Death saw signs of life returning and straightened up, looking at the cat. It bowed its head in thanks. At least they were thanked, that was another achievement for the day. With a pat on the cats head, Death gathered their belongings and headed out the door they entered from.

Floating above them on silver wings was another figure. The spitting image of Death. With a sigh Death launched themselves upwards.

“Hello Life.”

“What do you think you’ve done?”

--

Thank you to @flashfictionfridayofficial​ for  a lovely prompt that had me going one of two ways. Really enjoyed this and hope everyone does too :>

[aartexfurnishingsindia]

Buy Upholstery Fabric & Sofa Fabric Online in India

Are you currently seated? If the answer is a YES, there are great chances that it is on some upholstered furniture. Most of our hours while working as well as sleeping are spent on these comfortable furnishings, which range from dining chairs to sofas. 

More goes into upholstery than just picking the proper cloth. From working artistically to produce and design luxury sofa fabric and furniture of the highest calibre, to cutting expenses and enhancing our services is our main objective here at AARTEX. The process of making furniture by physically packing seats and other items into frames with padding, cushions, foam, or webbing and then covering it along with upholstery fabric is known as upholstery. This kind of work is quite specialised and requires an expert.

Although it's simple to get upholstery fabric, choosing the best fabric for particular furniture can sometimes be a matter of guesswork. Upholstery fabric can indeed be made of a single fibre or a combination of many. Everything relies on the style and design you choose for your upholstery. Many upholstery stores sell their own fabric while others need you to bring your own fabrics. One can easily buy yardage fabric at a neighbourhood fabric shop or even online at Etsy. Depending on the sort of piece and its location, upholstered furniture is used to varied degrees. No matter where upholstery is utilised in any home, it's critical that the fabric withstands normal wear and tear. For instance, sofas, recliners, and ottomans in guestrooms or more formal settings that only see modest use will be good with less robust upholstery fabric.

Some pinpoints to keep in mind while purchasing the Upholstery Fabric!

While purchasing upholstery fabric one should always remember to buy natural fibres, and ensure that neither chemicals nor fire retardants were used during its production. Also it's important to inquire about the fabric that wherever it has been made fairly tight chemical regulations have been followed. Also the person can easily approach to their upholsterer to let you know whether a particular fabric is appropriate for a particular use, such as whether a fabric one adores might not work for a chair.

AARTEX FURNISHINGS

Aartex’s ulterior motive is to beautify each and every home. Aartex are among the top producers of furniture in India, and they have their own weaving, knitting, embroidery, sofa fabric and digital printing facilities to produce unique and contemporary designs for all of our esteemed customers. Aartex understands and meets all of their prestigious clients' home furnishings-related requirements because of their more than 30 years of business experience, down to the smallest details which may only be visible to the keen eyes. We have something for everyone. From the extravagant people to the old school romantics to the pure classics, a range of fabrics that have a resistance to wrinkling, fading and piling. 

Aartex furnishings is the most sought-after brand for upholstery because of its vast online collection of upholstery fabric that comes in a variety of features, styles, and colours. Aartex has everything you need to satisfy your search for the best sofa fabric covers online, including timeless solids, luxurious textures, cutting-edge digital designs, energising florals, traditional damask, modern geometrics, and many more designer upholstery fabric. Aartex offers countless variations of plains in any tints and colours you can think of.

WHY AARTEX FURNISHINGS?

We at Aartex have in store for you some of the latest and the most beautiful collections of designer upholstery fabric. AURUS, BEATLES, CABANA, BIBER, CARNATIC, TESLA, SATYA, TAKEDA, TOREX, META, JUNGLE CRUISE, etc. are some of our most famous and unique luxury sofa fabric collection designs. From an aesthetic perspective, the right upholstery add an extra charm, elegance and approachability to a particular space and that is something what we here at Aartex love doing for you. We bring together pieces that are chemical free, with proper joinery, can withstand a little wear and tear and most importantly are antiques at your HOME.

Aartex are differentiating themselves from the competition so that no one will mistake them for uncompetitive nerds in the furniture industry by using artistic talent to develop and create furniture of the highest calibre to cutting expenses and enhancing our offerings and an option to make your furniture more attractive and unique by adding your own touches to ensure that every time you touch or feel it, you'll fall in love.To simplify things , if you want it, we can provide it. Time and time again, these collections have already been establishing industry best practices. You must see them to appreciate them. Therefore, don't merely envision designer upholstery fabrics but bring it to life only with Aartex furnishings. 

[ristallaminates]

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Searching for top-quality plywood manufacturers? Ristal Laminates offers a wide range of durable and affordable plywood for furniture, construction, and interior design needs. Our products are crafted using advanced techniques, ensuring strength and longevity. Whether for residential or commercial use, trust us for reliable plywood solutions. Contact us today!