#corporate event anchors

[studio1emporio]

Gurgaon's Elite Corporate Event Anchors: Unveiling the Best

With Gurgaon's best anchors, experience the height of elegance and proficiency in corporate event hosting. Selected for their unparalleled proficiency, demeanor, and capacity to enthrall crowds, these anchors embody the height of perfection in Gurgaon's corporate event landscape.

Whether they are directing major product launches, facilitating important conversations, or bringing excitement to team-building exercises, these accomplished hosts leave a lasting impression on every occasion they oversee. Give your event to the greatest in Gurgaon, and see firsthand how having outstanding corporate event anchors in Gurgaon can ensure the success and influence of your business activities.

[anchoransh25]

My experience as a top corporate event anchor in Delhi has led me to host a variety of shows across the country. I've had the honor of hosting for many leading brands because I bring a unique combination of Curated Content and a Distinctive Aura to the stage.

[sa-blogs04]

Anchoring Success : Corporate Event Anchors In Delhi

organizing a business gathering in Delhi? For all of your anchor needs, look no further! Our anchors for corporate events in Delhi are experts at holding people' attention, so your event will be a huge success. They will maintain the excitement level and the attention of the attendees the entire time with their attracting presence and outstanding communication skills. Whether it's a conference, team-building activity, or product launch, our anchors can modify their style to meet your unique needs. Their ability to introduce speakers and lead interactive sessions will allow them to smoothly manage the flow of your event. Count on our anchors to make a memorable impression on your guests and deliver an outstanding corporate event in Delhi. Get in touch with us now to reserve the ideal anchor for your upcoming event!

[pratikkkk003]

 Hoping For A Stellar Event With An Expert Anchor For Corporate Event?

Kunal Buch’s outstanding communication skills and vocabulary makes him the unforgettable top anchor for corporate event. He energizes corporate meetings by fostering interaction and presenting an engaging program. His ability to effortlessly connect various segments of an event and his use of humor to simplify complex topics facilitate learning and networking among attendees. Buch transforms corporate events into platforms for inspiration and professional development, making each gathering a catalyst for growth and connection.

[kunalbuch-07]

The most well-liked wedding ceremony will always be the one with Kunal Bach serving as the anchor. If you want to hire the best anchor in Mumbai, go to Kunal Bach's website and join the most awaited enthusiastic party. Once you start the party night with Kunal Buch, you will be involved in the most fantastic and memorable event.

[shewroteaworld]

PCOS

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader

100 Follower Celebration Request: "🤨 + 'You’re braver than you think and more beautiful than you know.' "

Premise: You've been keeping a secret from your boyfriend. At the most inopportune time, it thrusts itself into the light. He doesn't have the reaction you feared.

Warnings: mentions of Criminal Minds--typical violence, mentions of nausea, discussions of chronic illness, mentions of poor self-esteem

Word count: approx. 3,000

When the unsub impaled you with the knife, you gasped awake.

You blinked open your eyes to pitch black darkness, a pulse of 200 beats per minute, a stomach frothing with queasiness, and cold skin sticky with sweat. 

Something velvety constricted your body like cling wrap. The suffocation was akin to being buried six feet under. Fortunately, the feather pillow cushioning your head and the soft foam squashed beneath your fingertips broke through your sleep-addled mind. 

It was only a nightmare. You were still laying in bed next to Aaron Hotcher.

Your breath caught, and you went rigor mortis still. Once A’s soft snoring reached you, you relaxed.

 Tiredly, you smiled at a ceiling you couldn’t see. You didn’t wake him. The last thing A needed after a horrifying case was to not only be woken before dawn but also be woken by his girlfriend gasping in terror. 

Your boyfriend of six months, Aaron, was an FBI supervisory special agent. As a civilian, there was plenty of work information to which you were not privy, especially if a case went south. Often, Aaron didn’t tell you where he flew for work. All you knew was, he’d be away for days. However, sometimes you’d know where Aaron was flying back from once the case was handled. Either, he could tell you once the target was apprehended or you found out via news report.

Based on the news reports from New Mexico that featured the BAU's media liaison, Jennifer Jareau, a cult leader ended his sadistic campaign with an AR-15 shootout and a murder-suicide that caught the state police completely off guard. The FBI caught the scent of his plan, but by the time they sniffed it out, they were 5 steps too far behind. Thankfully, Aaron nor any of his unit members died. 

Aaron returned to his DC brownstone to ceramic pans full of your best dishes— all piping hot— on his kitchen counter.  You made sure to prepare enough food to last him a couple weeks; emotionally trying work events and tons of paperwork were the perfect recipe for Aaron to not eat enough, and you weren’t going to make it easy for him. The past work weeks had been a whirlwind for you as well; you’d billed 15 plus hours every day for the past week to resuscitate a major merger on its deathbed. You set the last dirtied spoon on A’s drying rack two seconds before he unlocked his front door.   

Aaron left the details of his past case vague. He kept the details of his emotional state even vaguer. But you could tell in the extra tight grip of his hello hug that he was in need of grounding. You anchored him with a constant, comforting grip, on his calloused hands. You fed him your best mac and cheese; you even cut back on your beloved pepperjack for his spice sensitive taste buds. Later that evening, you took a soothing shower together and collapsed into bed. You broke your typical bedtime routine: instead of discussing the latest novel you’ve read or life realizations, you watched a so-bad-it's-good corporate soap and ripped it a part for its inaccuracies.  That’s when Aaron laughed for the first time since he came home. 

You were relieved you didn’t wake him. Even though food comas were “scientifically disproven,” a factoid Aaron passed on to you from his team's young genius, Doctor Spencer Reid, you hoped the welcome home dinner you made him helped sustain his deep sleep.

Your adrenal glands calmed. You closed your eyes, but, not a second later, you were rudely interrupted by a sharp pain three inches below your belly button--- right where the unsub stabbed you.

It was just a dream. With a quiet huff, you rolled onto your side and curled against Aaron’s back. 

That’s when you felt it— a tacky liquid sticking your satin pj pants to your thighs. A swell of nausea overtook you, and you feared it was not a byproduct of anxiety alone. 

Gingerly, you slid out of bed. With the nausea sliding up your esophagus and the sensation of the room spinning, it wouldn’t take Holmes to confirm the cause, but you refused to panic without irrefutable evidence.

Gently, you folded the covers back.  Not daring to turn on your phone flashlight, you tapped your home screen and raised the brightness. 

When you hovered the light over the bed sheet, deep red splotches of smeared period blood screamed against Aaron’s stark white sheets. 

Something deep and cold coiled in the pit of your stomach. You clicked your phone off. Carefully, you took a few steps back from the bed. 

Your stomach whirled. A shiver crawled up your spine. You hurriedly tiptoed across the carpet to Aaron’s ensuite. Even in your haste, you quietly shut the door behind you. As soon as the door was in its oak frame, you turned the lock.

You pulled the roots of your hair with an iron grip. Shit. Shit.

You collapsed onto the edge of Aaron’s bathtub. There was blood all over your pj bottoms. You stood in a panic. You looked back and, of course, in a matter of three seconds, you stained the white acrylic.

You went to his faucet and patted ice cold water on your cheeks. Get a grip. Stress would only make the inevitable worse. Why it was possible for your body to malfunction this severely, you’ll never understand. 

If you’d only been blessed with a normal body, one that menstruated on a timely schedule and didn’t come with a laundry list of ugly, graphic symptoms, tonight would be nothing more than a minor embarrassment.

The guilt for waking Aaron on tonight of all nights would be strong, but all you would have to do is tap him awake, apologize, and attack your blood splotches with a hydrogen peroxide–soaked cotton ball and the night would revert back to a typical night with your boyfriend.

You wished you were well enough to clean his sheets. Unfortunately, for you, it wasn't possible. You’d get even more nauseated. Or too lightheaded. You already felt sick when you woke up, which meant you were menstruating for a few hours. 

How did you not catch this? Your body at least has the decency of shooting some warning flares, and the new medication your OB/GYN prescribed three months ago was far from 100 percent effective at calming your PMS symptoms.

You ran a hand over your face and through your hair. You were two weeks early after billing unbelievable hours for that merger dispute. This was stress induced.

You forced a deep breath. You needed to find a way out of this.

Suddenly, your vision swam. With no other option, you sat on the stained portion of Aaron’s bathtub. You gripped your stomach as the pain twisted deeper into your abdomen. You hunched over yourself.

Tonight could not become Aaron’s baptism by fire into your PCOS. He was exhausted physically and emotionally. He shouldn’t have to deal with all the baggage that comes when you experience the most natural thing in the world for a woman. 

The nausea crawled up your throat, and you forcefully swallowed it back with a groan.

You put your head in your hands. You didn’t bring enough pads. Or tampons. You didn’t have any anti-emetics. What if you got a migraine? What if you fainted and A woke to what appeared to be your corpse lying on his bathroom tile? 

Your spiral was interrupted by the man in question. “Honey?” Aaron called, voice strung. 

Before you could respond, he yelled. “Honey?!” 

You stood, and Aaron’s bathroom tilted on an axis. You barely managed to stumble to the doorway.

Fumbling, you unlocked the door just as Aaron reached the it. 

His brown eyes were wide blown and wild. You'd never seen that expression on him before. “Are you okay?” He held your forearms as if he were afraid you’d crumple with too harsh a touch.

“I saw the blood and I…” He swallowed. He scanned you from head to toe repeatedly. “I thought the worst.” He whispered. Your heart fell through the pit of your stomach to the soles of your feet. 

He cupped your cheeks. “Baby, you’re really off color. I need you to talk to me. Where are you hurt?” The blood stains on the back of your pants were out of his view.

“I’m not hurt, A.” You said.

His eyebrows furrowed. “Your side of the bed is blood stained.” He said, his voice taking a sterner edge. 

“I’m on my monthly.” 

“Oh.” He released your arms. His cheeks dusted pink. “Sorry, honey, I…” He ran his hands over his bedhead. “I should’ve…I jumped to conclusions.” He sounded shocked with himself.

“You’ve had a long day.” You whispered. “Give me a minute. I’ll clean.”

Suddenly, everything went blurry. Your muscles slacked, and your forehead dropped onto Aaron’s pectoral. 

A hand was back on your forearm, this time with a tighter grip. A calloused hand tapped your cheek. “Hey. Hey. Baby. Stay with me.”

Carefully, he walked you away from the door. “Sit.” Fully supporting your back, he sat you on the floor and leaned you against the bathtub. 

As soon as your back was fully supported, his ensuite regained color. You could take a deep breath again.

Aaron knelt in front of you. “Honey,” Aaron said, his stare piercing through yours. He stroked your hair out of your face. “I need you to be honest with me. What’s wrong?”

“I told you.” More accurately, you began to tell him. 

You shivered. He pressed the back of his hand to your forehead and stroked down your cheekbone.

“I don’t have a fever.” You insisted. “It’s just my monthly.”

 He pecked your forehead. He didn’t believe you. “Is it always this bad?” He asked with a mix of concern and skepticism. 

“Yes.” You sighed. “I have polycystic ovarian syndrome.” 

“PCOS?” He asked. 

You were shocked. “You know what that is?” 

He nodded. “I’ve heard of it.” 

“It can make my time of the month super severe.” Stubborn tears leaked from your eyes. You wiped your cheeks with the cuff of your pajama shirt. 

You were supposed to be the woman who kicked ass in the boy’s club of corporate law by day and kicked ass as the perfect girlfriend by night.

He was not supposed to see you trembling before him, huddled in pain. He was not supposed to see you on the verge of throwing up from period cramps when he almost died in a hail of bullets less than twelve hours ago. He was never supposed to see how weak you truly were. 

He took over wiping your tears with his thumbs. “Scale of 1 to 10—how bad is the pain?”

“Maybe an 8?” You said. It was a 9. If you could’ve managed without your head aching, you would’ve rolled your eyes at yourself. The one thing about dating a profiler is they always know when you’re fibbing.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked. 

You sniffled. “About my condition or that I’m in pain?”

“I think those are a package deal.” He said gently.

You sighed. Your instinct was to lie, but you stopped yourself. Aaron could see right through you. He was one of the best behavioral analysts in the entire world. For the first leg of your relationship, you’d managed to avoid this confrontation which was a blessing in itself. 

“I didn’t want you to see how sick I get. How sick I am.” You toyed with the ends of your hair. “I didn’t want you to know how weak I am.” You whispered. 

His eyes softened. “Honey, you’re not weak because you have PCOS."

“There are months where I can’t even stand up.” You said, voice taught with tears.

“And that’s why I need to know." He smoothed your hair. "Have you been going through this every month by yourself?”

“Since I moved out of my mother’s place for undergrad, yeah.” You sniffled with a watery smirk. 

He wrapped an arm around your back, then hesitated. “Can I hug you?”

“Please.” You whispered

He pulled you into a hug. His hold was looser than normal, but his embrace still filled you with warmth from head to toe. 

“Darling, I love you so much.” Aaron said.  “I would never look down on you for this.”

“It’s just…I’m not used to….”

“Being this vulnerable.” Aaron finished sympathetically. 

You nod. “It’s just…I get so sick. It makes me so ugly.”

He shook his head. “Hey.” He made sure you were looking him in the eye. “You’re never ugly.”

You chuckled. “You’ll revisit that answer when you see me dry heaving at 3 in the morning.” You said, unpleasant nights resurfacing.

His lips don’t do so much as quirk upwards. Rather, he looked shattered. He squeezed your hands. “I won’t.”

“What can I do to help?” He pivoted.

“You can change the sheets.” You looked to the top corner of the ensuite door frame as more tears welled. “And go back to bed.”

“I won't ever leave you on the bathroom floor in pain, alone.”

“But you should.” You said. He cupped your cheeks with his homey hands. He gently pulled your chin back to level your gaze, but you resisted. 

“Why should I?” He asked.

“Because you’re tired. And I’m sick. And I’m broken. And there’s nothing you can do.” You make eye contact and immediately are wracked with full body sobs. 

Suddenly, every second of you’d spent building up your self-esteem went out the window as your deepest insecurities broke through. You were never supposed to be a burden to him. 

He pulled you into chest and wrapped you in his arms..“Helping you when you’re sick is never a burden. I love you so much.”

“What if you get tired of me?” What if this made him stop loving you?

“I won’t.” He promised. 

He pressed another kiss to your forehead. “We’ll return to this conversation when you’re feeling better.” He stroked your cheekbone with his thumb. “What helps? Do you have medication?”

“I have daily medication. I’m still working with my doctor to get a regimine that works.” You wiped your eyes. “Heat helps. I drink this peppermint tea to help my stomach when I’m at home.” You rambled.

“The one by that British brand?” He asked.

“Yeah.”

“When I saw their tea in your apartment, I bought some to keep here. I might have some peppermint. I’ll be back, honey.” He left you with a kiss on the cheek.

The tailoring he did to his world to accommodate you would never cease to flutter your heart.

The pleasant moment was quickly halted by your stomach bubbling. 

As A’s slippers padded down the stairs, you crawled across the tile floor over to the toilet. You forced your head between your knees.

About ten minutes later, you heard the clack of his slippers against the bathroom floor. “Nauseous?” He asked.

You nodded. 

He sat the mug close to you. “Your tea to your left within arm's reach. I’m going to grab some blankets and pillows. I’ll be right back. Shout if you need something.”

You learned by “some blankets and pillows” Aaron meant an entire blanket set. 

As you leaned your head back against the wall, Aaron began prepping your makeshift bed. In your peripheral vision, you laid pillows as floor cushioning.

“I won’t judge you if you go to sleep in bed. This gets ugly.”

“Baby, I’m an FBI agent for the BAU. Even if you threw up on me, it wouldn’t make the list of the top fifty gross things I’ve experienced by miles.” 

You scooched onto a pillow. Aaron slipped the blankets around you.

Your head found the soft crook of his neck. He pressed his head onto yours, and the pressure instantly relaxed you. Unfortunately, your your uterine muscles corkscrewed. You squirmed in pain.

Aaron shushed you. “You need to breathe. This will pass, just breathe.”

You clasped his hand like a lifeline. What feels like hours later, when the pain begins to ebb away, you pant, “It’s alright if you need to go to sleep.” Aaron already relayed his plans to go into the office on Saturday morning to attack some dense paperwork. 

He placed his free hand overtop of yours. “You will always be a priority for me. I hope I’ve shown you by now that I will always take care of you.”

You smiled into his shoulder. 

“Also, the heating pad is charging in the bedroom, and, before you ask about the sheets, they’re already in the wash.”

You sighed in happiness. “I could kiss you right now.” 

“What’s stopping you?” Gently, he pressed his lips to the top of your forehead.

You smiled again. You could count on your hand the number of times you’d smiled when you’re like this: on the bathroom floor, nauseous and dizzy.

You squeezed his knee with your free hand. “You promise you’ll stay with me?”

“Of course I’ll stay with you. I love you. And, just for the record…this may be tough, but you're not ugly and you're not weak. You're braver than you think and more beautiful than you know. I'm grateful to be the one holding you through this."

In the coming days, you’re certain you’ll have a laundry list of next steps from your boyfriend: call your doctor, check in with a dietitian, monitor stress, anything he could think of to lessen these symptoms. He’ll probably want to talk more about why you didn’t tell him sooner.

But, for now, you're both satisfied with sitting on the bathroom floor and riding this out. And in a moment where the pain could split you in pieces, you somehow felt whole. 

Author's Note: I'm happy to say the 100 follower celebration fics are finally going live!

I hope you're having a good day or night! Thanks for taking the time to read my work! And, to anyone struggling with a condition similar to the reader's: you, too, are braver than you think and more beautiful than you know!

xoxo,

shewroteaworld

[transmutationisms]

caden caden caden i am SO EXCITED to hear your thoughts for this episode. consider this ask an open prompt to say literally anything at all about it whatsoever <3

ok here goes. this was the payoff of an idea the show has been exploring for nearly four seasons now: that spectacle and showmanship can become reality, or more to the point, there is no essential difference between the two in the first place. politics is a particularly effective, and off-putting, demonstration of this process: the whole episode is driven by the tension between the created narrative and the material events, and through waystar's machinations, the dichotomy between the two can finally be totally collapsed and the country brought into line with atn's story of a mencken victory.

this is genuine, if genuinely repulsive, performative speech: a discursive practice that enacts or produces what it names. very few people are empowered such that they are capable of performative speech: presidents, lawmakers, judges, &c are the classic examples. and, in a world in which politics is not just a show but a profitable one, a company like atn can also join this list. this is not the first time we've seen atn use language to alter reality (for example, logan ultimately evaded the cruises scandal largely by pressuring the president through the manufacture of bad press) but it's a new height of brazenness for the siblings. what the show suggests is that the electoral process—the voting, the polls, the campaigning—is theatre, and what appears at first to be theatre—the television cameras, the graphics, the anchors touching up their makeup—is the speech that actually makes events happen, functioning of course as a mouthpiece for possibly the most powerful family in america.

succession has always been interested in the power of speech and the significance of language—"words are just complicated airflow" is from the second episode. the way characters talk is frequently bullshit, like tom and greg making up corporate-speak jargon in 'argestes' or kendall promising eternal life in 'living+'. they use profanity and metaphor to talk around their feelings, or as games in which the object is to assert dominance and the specific argument at hand barely matters. so much of the dialogue is 'meaningless' on the lowest level. yet, bolstered by a family dynasty and uttered by an anchor on an atn camera, words become not just meaningful but actually constitutive of reality. what kendall didn't understand in episode 2, and what logan understood instinctually but probably never in so many words, is that what constrains the reality-making capacity of speech is not some impotence inherent to language itself, but the social power structures its speakers exist in. speech in the hands of the powerful is itself also a technology of power.

ultimately this sort of tension between speech and event, or spectacle and reality, is why the show has always depended on the roys being a media family specifically. the commentary here is not just on a vague or generalised definition of capitalism, or on the effect of profit motives on politics. succession is specifically interested in how a corporation like waystar becomes successful by capitalising on the total spectacularisation of life, and how waystar can then use its position to create spectacle that is constitutive of a new reality without needing to be reflective of a preexisting one. it's a kind of frankenstein's monster: a beast raised by electricity whose powers far exceed what it was meant to be endowed with. this is why, as much as logan disdained certain cultural products and media (plays, music), he always valued the atn mouthpiece. what the siblings produced in this episode, and what logan valued atn for being able to produce, was not 'news' in the sense of being a reporting on reality, but 'truth' in the sense that the company simply willed it into reality instead.

[idontknowreallywhy]

Commute day again! Today’s unedited train snippet is based on horrifying recent events in my own life.

I think it falls roughly within the fluffwhump category.

This was going to be a Gordon-centric fic but he didn’t quite experience the level of indignation I felt was merited, so big brother had to step up.

Hereby claiming “smirk” for Fluffember

Stress Relief

✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️

Scott stood frozen in the middle of the room and felt the last shreds of sanity slip from his fingertips.

How could this have happened?

It had disrupted his understanding of the universe, as if reality itself had finally betrayed him.

The only anchor to his old life, the innocent, trusting life he had lived up until this juncture, was Gordon. His beloved little brother who was writhing on the floor at his feet, shaking and crying…

And howling with laughter.

At him.

Scott opened his mouth to raise an objection to his brother’s frivolous attitude to this disaster but no words came out. Instead, he coughed and spat foul tasting green slime on to the carpet.

It glittered offensively at him.

“H….hooooow?” He croaked desperately.

No explanation was forthcoming - the slippery little fish had rolled on to his stomach and was beating the floor with his fist. Scott spat more slime at him. He probably deserved it.

Wait, did he? Had this been a prank?

Bewilderment was shunted aside by anger.

“GORDON!! WHAT DID YOU DO?”

His brother looked up at him, eyes streaming:

“It wasn’t me, bro” Gordon gasped then bit on his own fist in an apparent attempt to regain some semblance of control “you’re not supposed to squeeze them that hard”.

A tiny seahorse figure fell from the end of Scott’s nose and Gordon dissolved into another fit of giggles.

Scott looked down at the slimy rubbery mess in his clenched fist and frowned, the confusion returning with backup.

“But isn’t… isn’t that… the… ENTIRE POINT?”

He waved the remains of Gordon’s puffer fish toy to emphasis his point and gloop splattered on to the ceiling. To join the rest of the gloop on the ceiling.

“It’s a stress ball! You squeeze the indestructible ball, it remains indestructible and you feel less stressed afterwards! THAT’S WHAT IT’S FOR!!”

Scott’s voice teetered on the edge of a whine.

“Yeah but none of them are really that robust big bro, particularly not in the face of Mr Big Cheese Businessman levels of stress.”

Uhoh. Scott looked down at the brand new, ridiculously expensive designer suit his PA had quietly handed him when he’d turned up ten minutes before the board meeting fresh off the back of a muddy rescue.

The suit oozed at him.

It was apt really. Some of the board members had oozed too. He’d just been sharing some of the ludicrous highlights with his little brother (who was always pleasingly sympathetic on the topic of corporate hogwash) and had absent-mindedly picked the actionably-falsely-advertised item off his brother’s bedside table to toss from hand to hand as he ranted.

He blinked rapidly as something slid into his field of vision. Gordon stood and gently plucked a tiny glittery shark from his commander’s eyebrow.

“Let’s get you cleaned up shall we?” Sympathetic tone and matching facial expression were being masterfully deployed.

“NOT my room. This stuff will ruin my nice carpet.” He sagged. “Honestly Gordo, it was such a tiny thing… how is there so much of this… ick?”

Brown eyes twinkled as Gordon smirked knowingly. “One of the mysteries of the cosmos, big brother.”

🦑🦑🦑🦑🦑🦑🦑🦑🦑🦑🦑🦑🦑🦑🦑🦑

Gordon steered his slimy brother into his own en-suite and closed the door behind him, turning away to survey the sparkling chaos his brother had created.

There was a pause. Gordon could hear the shower switch on and some indistinct muttering from the other side of the door. Then a cough, followed by a snort, followed by a bark of laughter.

Gordon smiled to himself. Maybe not quite what the designer had planned, but the little toy might have had its intended effect after all.

[studio1emporio]

Expert Corporate Event Anchors: Gurgaon's Finest

With the skill and grace of seasoned anchors who specialize in precisely leading and captivating audiences, you may elevate your business event in Gurgaon.

Our carefully chosen list features the best corporate event anchors in Gurgaon, all of whom are renowned for their outstanding communication abilities, stage presence, and flexibility in adapting their style to meet the needs of various audiences and event goals.

These professionals are adept at crafting unforgettable and significant experiences, whether you're looking for a skilled moderator to lead panel discussions or a captivating emcee to fuel a product launch. The greatest corporate event anchors in Gurgaon can take your event to new heights of success; just put your trust in their skill and knowledge.

[reallygroovyninja]

Lexa's eyes followed the streaks of light as they zipped past the limousine window. Tonight, she was on her way to a company dinner, an event meant to forge and strengthen alliances in the corporate world. Yet, the leather seat beside her felt glaringly empty without Clarke, who was currently presenting at a medical conference across the country.

The first time they had attended an event together, Clarke was there as her escort—an arrangement born out of necessity rather than choice. Lexa had needed an alpha to accompany her, someone who could play the part convincingly in a world where appearances were paramount. Clarke had been poised and perfect, her professionalism indistinguishable from genuine affection, making everyone believe they were indeed a couple.

But what had started as a mere facade had blossomed into something incredibly real and deep. Over time, their initial arrangement gave way to a genuine connection, to laughter shared and nights spent talking about hopes and fears. They had grown from strangers playing a role to partners bound by love, leading to marriage and the joyous chaos of raising children together.

Sitting in the limo, Lexa let her mind drift to those early days—the ease of their first genuine conversation, the way Clarke's smile had slowly stopped being just part of the act, and how naturally her hand had found Lexa's during those events, a comforting anchor amidst the social whirlpool.

Pulling out her phone, Lexa sent a quick message to Clarke, a simple heart and a picture of the seat beside her. She smiled softly as her phone buzzed with Clarke's immediate response, a string of emojis that spoke of love and mutual longing.

As the car pulled up to the venue, Lexa gathered herself, smoothing her dress and checking her reflection one last time. She might have entered their first event on Clarke's arm as part of an arrangement, but tonight, as every night since they truly found each other, she carried Clarke's love and support with her. Even in absence, Clarke was her strength, and with that, Lexa was ready to face the evening ahead.

[anchoransh25]

[sa-blogs04]

Navigating Events: The Essential Role of Anchors

Are you preparing for an approaching Delhi event and want to make sure it's absolutely amazing? I'll tell you a little secret, though: the anchor you select can really make a big difference! Imagine yourself in the midst of a full wedding or corporate gala, with all eyes fixed on the stage and the guests around you. All of a sudden, someone has an enticing aura that commands attention, gets stories, and maintains a high level of energy throughout the event. That is the great anchor's magic

What makes them unique, you wonder? It's not just about reading from a script and holding a microphone; it's also about bringing life to each moment, establishing a personal connection with the audience, and making sure that every second of your event is nothing short of outstanding. A corporate conference, a cultural extravaganza, or a once-in-a-lifetime wedding celebration can all benefit from the professionalism, passion, and unmatched charisma that the Best Anchor in Delhi offers to the stage. When the correct anchor can take an event from average to extraordinary heights, why settle for anything less? Believe me, people—the contrast is unbelievable!

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

New SpaceTime out Wednesday....

SpaceTime 20240417 Series 27 Episode 47

Brown dwarfs are more star like than thought

A new study suggests that brown dwarfs are created through the same processes as stars and not like planets.

Astronomers expecting a nova event before the end of the year

Astronomers are expecting a distant star to explode in a spectacular event called a nova sometime between now and September.

The extreme starburst in galaxy M82

Astronomers have discovered that the starburst galaxy Messier 82 is manufacturing new stars some ten times faster than the Milky Way.

The Science Report

Study says Homosexual behaviour may have evolved because it plays a role in social bonding.

40% of the world's coastlines saw significant increase in heatwaves and extreme sea level rise.

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SpaceTime covers the latest news in astronomy & space sciences.

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SpaceTime -- A brief history

SpaceTime is Australia’s most popular and respected astronomy and space science news program – averaging over two million downloads every year. We’re also number five in the United States.  The show reports on the latest stories and discoveries making news in astronomy, space flight, and science.  SpaceTime features weekly interviews with leading Australian scientists about their research.  The show began life in 1995 as ‘StarStuff’ on the Australian Broadcasting Corporation’s (ABC) NewsRadio network.  Award winning investigative reporter Stuart Gary created the program during more than fifteen years as NewsRadio’s evening anchor and Science Editor.  Gary’s always loved science. He studied astronomy at university and was invited to undertake a PHD in astrophysics, but instead focused on his career in journalism and radio broadcasting. He worked as an announcer and music DJ in commercial radio, before becoming a journalist and eventually joining ABC News and Current Affairs. Later, Gary became part of the team that set up ABC NewsRadio and was one of its first presenters. When asked to put his science background to use, Gary developed StarStuff which he wrote, produced and hosted, consistently achieving 9 per cent of the national Australian radio audience based on the ABC’s Nielsen ratings survey figures for the five major Australian metro markets: Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane, Adelaide, and Perth.  The StarStuff podcast was published on line by ABC Science -- achieving over 1.3 million downloads annually.  However, after some 20 years, the show finally wrapped up in December 2015 following ABC funding cuts, and a redirection of available finances to increase sports and horse racing coverage.  Rather than continue with the ABC, Gary resigned so that he could keep the show going independently.  StarStuff was rebranded as “SpaceTime”, with the first episode being broadcast in February 2016.  Over the years, SpaceTime has grown, more than doubling its former ABC audience numbers and expanding to include new segments such as the Science Report -- which provides a wrap of general science news, weekly skeptical science features, special reports looking at the latest computer and technology news, and Skywatch – which provides a monthly guide to the night skies. The show is published three times weekly (every Monday, Wednesday and Friday) and available from the United States National Science Foundation on Science Zone Radio, and through both i-heart Radio and Tune-In Radio.

[clonerightsagenda]

i would love to hear anything more about communications director minkowski that you would care to share, it sounds like a very fun route for postcanon! 👀

It IS very fun. In lieu of writing a coherent post I just spent quite a bit of time scrolling through 3 years of discord messages for good tidbits:

Gill spent part of my day wondering “you know you’d expect Lovelace to have some Loud And Pointed Opinions about Minkowski being offered the post of Communications Director but maybe instead she’d be the first to figure out there’s no better way to dismantle the company than from the inside out” Kat If you want a job done wrong you gotta do it yourself Gill Minkowski: They… want me to be the next director… and I think I’m going to take the job. Lovelace: …actually. That sounds like an amazing idea. Minkowski: Minkowski: who are you and what have you done with Captain Lovelace Kat Careful Renee. That joke has a bit of an edge to it Gill Nobody’s getting out of post-flight quarantine without an identity crisis of some kind it seems Kate I bet Lovelace would jump at the chance to have a woman on the inside… who has a lot of practice ruining Goddard's plans. Gill Lovelace, probably: You’re gonna need your own version of Cutter’s hypercompetent Right Hand Minion, and it seems to me that the person who kept him distracted while you put a harpoon through his torso would be the ideal candidate. Lovelace: Also, it’d be fun to deface Kepler’s old office.

*

Kat was thinking about Minkowski marriage drama in the context of her voluntarily signing on to be comms director under the same contract as the last one fully aware this means everyone will try to kill her just in case she can keep everyone else safe and then having to explain that to her husband tfw your wife never prioritizes you bc she's too busy prioritizing a) dying in space b) dying on land now Gill Dominik Koudelka, maybe: it just feels like I have to get myself kidnapped by shadowy corporate goons if I want to spend time with you!

*

Kate Communications Director Minkowski 1) definitely publishes her own adapted fifth edition of the Survival Manual that’s not a joke and full of useful things and 2) mostly inspired by things Eiffel did that his justification was “well no one ever TOLD me this would happen in space!” Gill “Leprechauns are not real. Ghosts, however, are.” “In the unlikely but theoretically possible event that leprechauns are discovered at some point in the near future, disregard previous. It’s important to keep an open mind.” Kate Adaptability! Flexibility! Priorities! Acknowledgement that space is full of unpredictable and incomprehensible bullshit! The spirit of the new space age Gill Tip #1002: You may say “fuck”. Once.

*

Kat thought: re Goddard possibly having prison labor going on, maybe when they got Eiffel out of jail they just transferred his sentence to them, and Comms Director Minkowski finds out she technically owns two of her crewmates now and isn't super happy about it Eiffel: so for the next 23 years my ass is yours I guess Minkowski: I don't want it Minkowski, sifting through paperwork: why… why do I own prison laborers now? Can I pardon them? What is this news anchor voice: Goddard Futuristics stocks dipped today as new director Renee Minkowski gave the entirety of their asteroid mining staff early release, quoted as saying "Go home. The fuck." Gill Comms Director Minkowski like ok first off we’re actually giving our workers benefits Kat we'll reroute some of the money headed toward all the R&D for evil shit Gill we’re also defunding our paramilitary branches. Why do we even have those?? Kat Jacobi, raising hand: To do stuff like break into Elon Musk's Mars colony and take him out with extreme prejudice Lovelace: ok that one sounds justified actually Gill Lovelace: Can I go fuck up Elon Musk’s stupid libertarian summer camp? Minkowski: Later, I need you here right now. Lovelace: Aw, ok. ): Kate Okay project Fuck Up Elon Musk can stay

*

Kat underappreciated aspect of the comms director Minkowski concept: DC girl Minkowski finds out she now owns like 75% of the politicians on Capitol Hill. Is not sure how to stop owning them It's like feeding wild animals, they keep coming back for your money even when you try to cut off the lobbying Gill Minkowski: next time a senator shows up at my house I’m siccing Lovelace on them Kat Minkowski: Cutter had an entire budget line for funding ballot initiatives and…. wow, that's a lot. Hey Doug, what are your thoughts on felons being able to vote? Eiffel: Felons can't vote? Minkowski: …. yes?? Eiffel: Oh. Huh. I don't ever vote so I didn't notice. And I see from your expression that you don't approve of this.

*

Gill Comms Director!Minkowski: If you need me, I’ll be in a meeting. /crawls into the vents Kat Local unions still talk about the super weird HVAC remodeling the new director insisted on

*

Gill You are an astronautical engineer at Goddard Futuristics’ special projects division. You were handpicked by the special projects manager herself to work on this new prototype. The craft you and your colleagues poured untold hours of work into is commandeered by Warren Kepler, Legendary Local Douchebag, and two of his minions (an entire ship! For three people!!) to go off and babysit one of your boss’s boss’s ultra-secret pet projects, which you quietly believe is actually an elaborate fraud scheme of some kind. You rage at this. Then, you mourn. Perhaps you drink heavily. Either way, you move on, setting aside your quiet hope that the Urania one day re-enters terrestrial skies, but gradually making peace with the idea you may never see this particular fruit of your labor again. And then a year and a half later you get it back and the interior is just plastered in printer paper that looks like a brigade of toddlers just went nuts on it with their crayons. And also your boss is dead and the apparent leader of said toddlers is the new communications director. Kat Hey at least the astronautical engineering division can feel vindicated that that shuttle a few years back didn't malfunction Gill Engineer: So that shuttle didn’t malfunction and Cutter was actively orchestrating a fake explosion and cover-up. Then he sent Warren “Oh just let me fire off this prototype in a civilian area” Kepler and his goon squad up in our prototype to go fuck around with you guys some more. Minkowski: Yup. Engineer: And you killed him. Minkowski: …yes. Engineer: …did you kill him painfully? Tell me it was painfully. (Minkowski is mildly worried about how she acquires some of her new supporters) Kat Lots of long simmering resentment Kate I imagine she gets a lot of goodwill points for taking out Cutter and Kepler… imagine

*

Kat comms director Minkowski having to do tax fraud to protect her team somehow Gill Jacobi, having just another day in the office, doing taxes: god this is so dull, I hate tax season. I wonder if Minkowski’s gone and holed up in the accounting department, she probably lives for this kind of thing. /smash cut to Minkowski threatening an IRS agent at harpoon-point Kat Minkowski making Hera her own LLC so she has rights now: This is legal according to Citizens United as long as no one looks at it too closely (my dad became an LLC today so he can contract with his work after he retires. I joked he will be the last person able to vote in the household once they take everyone else's rights away but corporations are people) Gill “Minkowski Commits Tax Fraud” would be an amazing chapter title for a fic at some point though Kat Minkowski early in the mission diligently doing her taxes in space because she's a good American citizen Minkowski like 5 years later: fuck capitalism Gill That one meme image but it’s, Minkowski: You mean the game was rigged all along? Minkowski @ herself: always has been. Kate This is my strongest Minkowski belief Gill Minkowski: wow, capitalism sucks, and growing up in a Soviet satellite state was also awful. Perhaps… the true problem… is giving people the power to wholly dictate other people’s lives…

*

Kat after the story of the Hephaestus crew breaks and they're famous Eiffel gets Minkowski a funko pop of herself it has a little harpoon Kinsey i support this wholeheartedly Gill It is both unsettling and adorable. She sets it proudly on her desk at work Kat someone coming into Comms Director Minkowski's office: uhhhhh Minkowski sitting next to her funko pop: what it's got the same psychic damage potential as Cutter having a #1 dad mug on his desk and everyone's too scared to ask about it Gill Concept: Minkowski eventually being gifted the Funko Pop versions of her entire crew They’re referred to affectionately(?) as her minions Kate If you’ve been called to her office because you’ve done something Sketchy and Capitalistic, you might even prefer looking into the creepy flat soulless eyes of the funko pop rather than Minkowski’s very, very sharp and angry human ones Gill Another mental image. Lovelace, beholding her funko pop: I mean, I don’t think my eyes are that terrifying even when I’m possessed by unknown cosmic entities, but other than that, it’s a perfect likeness. Lovelace: Look, she even has her arms folded because she’s mad at the other little plastic crewmates for being idiots. I love her.

[spidermilkshake]

Wading Through Disaster

More RE fanfics--more mutants, more corporate shenanigans. Finally, we have arrived on the day of RE2's events.

Rating: Teen (TW for suggestive language, human experimentation, dehumanization, medical/lab settings and stuff, described injuries and gore, plus also human adults cuss like human adults)

Due to the nature of how RE2 is structured, I'm taking some liberties with the encounters that happen in the game-things should be familiar for any who's played the original, and especially the Remake, but since it's literally impossible to have a story where both Claire and Leon experience all the same stuff, I'm picking and choosing who meets Mr. X when-and adding in some more encounters with people who are not newbie officer Hat-Defiler and badass Ms. Redfield.

Obviously, Leon is the one who gets to meet Big Big Fella across the wreck of a helicopter! And makes a biiiiiiiiig mistake.

8: Wading Through Disaster

            Though it hadn’t been unconscious for more than thirty seconds after the impact, another minute or two was required for the Tyrant to recover fully from the experience—at least from the lingering motion-sickness and blatant awareness that Umbrella Corp. was not particularly keen on comfort, or lack of concussive force, in its transportation methods. Its low growl of displeasure echoed in the increasingly unwelcome confines of the pod. Something in the bioweapon’s genome was so incredibly averse to enclosed spaces—and once Mr. X’s senses were back up to snuff this inbuilt claustrophobia reared and inspired a savage burst of strength unlike any it had used before. The Kevlar straps, despite each being an inch thick and anchored deep in the steel of the pod walls, snapped apart.

            From outside the crashed drop-pod a huge hand thrust out through the weak spot of the door’s hinges, rending through the layered metal and support circuits and ripping it almost in half before the structure gave way and tumbled down in a twisted heap. The Tyrant’s other hand grabbed desperately at the opening, heaving its form up and gasping into the fresh air.

            …Well, “fresh”. Open, at least. As the creature swung its legs out of the totaled device and thudded to a standing posture its eyes watered and narrowed. Something nearby was on fire. It studied the wreckage of the building that its deployment had dropped it through; smoke was billowing through the jammed-open automatic doors, wreathing a collection of narrow aisles. The lights were off. Another odor reached Mr. X’s flaring nostrils, almost familiar. Metallic, alarming—blood. But not just blood… something was not quite right about it. It made the Tyrant’s eyes water further, crinkling its nose and snorting to try its best to adjust. It was… sickly, old, fouled blood. Blood with something wrong with it. Aged but still sticky and flowing. Not right.

            T-00 decided it needed to move faster. Fragments of the broken store windows crunched underfoot as it found the street outside. Here was the source of the smoke—a large truck was turned onto its side, piled and smashed amongst at least ten other vehicles, engine still guttering as the fuel and oil remaining were eaten up. But there was yet more smoke; looking down the length of the street it spotted even more smoldering wrecks, as well as a tall brick structure that had half-crumbled into itself from the flames that had consumed it some time ago. It must find the R.P.D. building. Scanning what it could find of the skyline, the Tyrant made a few assumptions of what might have been before most of the damage and picked a direction around the block.

            This was where it also discovered what the source of the disgusting, blood-like odor that still hadn’t faded away.

            A group of figures were standing together, half-in and half-out of the street at the intersection ahead of the Tyrant, who slowed to wonder why these humans(?) were neither turning to look at the heavy footsteps, seeking shelter amid the destruction, or taking a single action to douse the fires dotting the city. The closest of them let out a groan, or a gurgle, which Mr. X could only recognize as a wounded noise from a non-specific creature. It then turned its neck at an abnormal angle. The eyes had once been brown but were now glassed-over, crazed—but more odd was that the man’s jaw was completely gone, as if ripped clean off.

            This did not appear to bother the thing. The human-like form gave a more aggressive snarl, its hands raising up and reaching towards the Tyrant as it stumbled towards it like a sick animal. Mr. X took a precautionary step back and stood puffed up even larger, as if this deluded man simply hadn’t noticed the sheer size of the bioweapon he was charging and needed a reminder. The thing still didn’t stop, baring the teeth in the remains of its upper mouth as it tripped closer.

            It did not take much to put a stop to this; when it lunged, the Tyrant slammed the side of its half-face with a backhand that left it collapsed in the road like a wet noodle. The rest of the gang of strange humans, five in all, turned at the commotion and began shuffling over making more guttural noises. T-00 concluded that these… were probably not humans anymore, not officially. They, and any others that behaved like them, likely did not count as “survivors”.

            Their presence also either explained the chaos of these surroundings or was a very prominent symptom of it. Some sort of rogue infection. It was vaguely aware of T and G—though its knowledge didn’t go beyond knowing these shortened names, and that most humans succumbed to their effects. A Tyrant simply didn’t need to know about viruses that had no effect on B.O.W.s. As a second infected shambled up to the Tyrant it gave a hard shove and threw its body backwards into two of the others. It was many times quicker and more agile than these semi-rabid people, and so took the opportunity to stride past and continue to where it hoped its destination was. On the way, more fires. More blown-out windows and disemboweled businesses, hints at struggles and a whiff or two of actual fresh blood with no trace of the foulness. More infected humans—and these did not even react to the Tyrant’s passage, occupied entirely with the carcass of something which they were gathered around and tearing at with bloody and inflamed mouths. Several buildings it passed now were either undamaged, or had the busted windows boarded over or barricaded with large pieces of furniture. T-00 studied the glass of an intact storefront, gaze hovering over the vinyl lettering for some idea of how close it was to the station. Its eyes wandered down the names, hooking onto the “R”s but finding no connections—

            —then its eyes lowered to the clear glint on the glass just below the words, and it gave a reflexive jerk into combat readiness.

            There was a big, big figure just on the other side. Maybe its own size. The stranger was in a stance, about to throw a punch, and their icy-white, unnaturally sharp eyes glared back at the Tyrant in a confrontational expression.

            CRSH—!

            Mr. X’s defensive swing obliterated the window glass, and to its bewilderment and shock the huge attacker had vanished from the other side of the partition.

            Wait.

            Wait..?

            …Wait!

            T-00 slowly stood back up into passive posture, though his shoulders were still bunched in lingering suspicion; one of its hands traced up and grazed across its own chin, sheepishly realizing what exactly the “stranger” was. Of course it knew what reflections were in theory, but there was never any need for a Tyrant to be shown a mirror, or to know what it looked like. Dr. Ramirez had only had one in the house’s bathroom, but it was neither necessary or particularly possible for it to fit into the tiny room.

            So… this was what it looked like? Leaning over, Mr. X huffed in frustration as it tried to find a broken fragment still attached to the windowframe that had enough size and the correct angle to show it another glimpse of its frightening face.

            Around the corner there was a sudden sharp report, followed by a rush of air overhead and the whining of a rotor straining against wind resistance. The sidewalk shuddered as a loud BOOM echoed from not very far away, and the Tyrant went instantly alert to its surroundings once more. Cutting around the corner, Mr. X was met with the sight of the R.P.D., though from the side; the clock tower was unmistakable.

            The gout of flame and thick, oily smoke issuing from a hole in the uppermost story’s outer wall was also unmistakable. The bioweapon sped up as it got closer to the sheer wall, just able to make out the tail rotor of a small kind of commercial helicopter sticking out between the charred bricks and fizzling heat. It batted aside another infected, barely even noticing it as he gripped his gigantic fingers into the chipping brick and excitedly pulled itself hand over hand up to this higher level. Many of the windows on this building were much larger than the ones T-00 had been seeing on the way here—and one in particular appeared to have had most of the glass and frames blown out by the force of the aircraft plowing through the hallway. That one would do.

            As it swung its way into the R.P.D.’s upper roof-access passages one leg at a time, it was forced to balk for a moment at the hotter, more acrid smoke flooding down the hall from the flaming engine. It tucked one arm protectively over its stinging eyes and nose, feeling an automatic spasm under its lungs that it had never experienced. With a grumble, it fought through several more of these spasms and turned away; with the fire so recently blazing through the chopper’s burst fuel tank, there was no way for it to safely investigate the area beyond the wreck. Not without more of these—were they sneezes? No, it had observed human sneezes before, it knew what that was. This was… like retching. Its lungs were retching? What was that called?

            The refuge of an adjoining hallway saw the smoke lessen enough that the Tyrant could lower its arm and blink away the irritation. It stepped more slowly down the length of the hall, feeling the vibration and ominous creaking of the flooring and trying to tread more carefully. The place had just been crashed into by a helicopter, and judging by the odd strings of bullet holes decorating the drywall like open sores, there had been fighting on the ground in here as well. Its memory paged over all of the names and faces it had on its hit-list: Chief Brian Irons, Lieutenant Marvin Branagh, Deputy Elliot—

            —something shifted right at his eye level while approaching a doorway interrupted that line of thought. A small security camera; Mr. X thought he had picked up the swivel neck of the device moving slightly, and stopped to watch. If it had moved, someone was controlling it, and currently looking at the bioweapon. Possibly a target.

            A small red light inside the lens flashed on and off. Someone was looking at it. It was not advantageous for a target to know it was here—much less to know where it was; with a hook that was relatively gentle, the Tyrant popped the monitoring device from its anchor and into the nearby wall. Cheap plastic and aluminum components broke up like confetti.

            It brushed a loose bit of the camera casing from its glove and was reaching for the doorknob when a jarring hiss sounded from behind him, followed by a wave of hot air that was scented like the contaminated cousin of normal petrichor. Curious, Mr. X turned and made his way back to the helicopter husk with much stealthier steps. There was no surveillance room past this point, only a fire escape and a roof access for the boiler room; at least two humans were still alive and unchanged in this complex. Whether they were its targets it could not say. Not until it got a good look for itself.

            The scorched, dented metal was still somewhat hot to the touch, but not enough to be a bother through the Limiter’s gloves. Bending a knee down, T-00 braced one hand against the tipping point of the steaming tail section and pressed up and inwards with a mighty push. The helicopter’s landing struts came unstuck from the floor and the weight of it slid forward into the gap it had broken in the inner wall, finally out of the way.

            “Jesus Christ!”

            Its attention flicked up to the source of the surprisingly close voice. There was, not ten feet further down the hall, a young man standing rooted in place. The Tyrant stared down at him, craning its neck at a steep angle despite this human not being at all short for his species. Its gaze hooked first on the drawn pistol that was being pointed at its chest, and its back twitched in defensive instinct. Next it stopped on the acronym that the man was wearing on a body armor vest—“R.P.D.” A target. A target?

            But… who was this?

            T-00 let its arm fall back to its side, examining for longer, as if just pinpointing the features harder might click together with the memorized faces of those it was sent to hunt. At the same time the creature leaned forward, giving a few exploratory sniffs to try and learn this unexpected individual over the pervading stench of hot metal and burnt plaster. This human matched… none of the targets it had been shown. While he wore the police department’s gear, there was no match at all to any of the faces it had learned, target or not. Nothing about the human’s scent told it much either—except that his cortisol levels were far higher than any other it had met, making him particularly odiferous. Did Umbrella miss someone? Or was this a survivor who had managed to break in and scavenge the weapons and supplies here—completely unrelated to T-00’s mission?

            T-00 shifted in place, prepared to either step forward if beckoned or provoked by this new, perplexing human, or to step backward if the man did not factor into its next goal. What exactly was a Tyrant supposed to do, if met with someone it was not meant to attack, and also not meant to protect?

            And a pulse began to run down Mr. X’s spine before it could wonder much further. In a horrible recollection all of his plentiful back muscles seized.

            No... No... NO..! It was useless of course, and though stiff at first the Tyrant’s legs began to drag it mechanically forward. NO—let me—Must confirm! The Tyrant willed these thoughts to be sent back along the command servers’ connection… though it was doubtful such a capacity existed, or was even thought of by Umbrella.

            Stupid! Stupid! The only thing these forced movements were allowing it was the low, bass growl of aggravation with being forced about like a rodeo bull on a nose-ring. The young man, understandably, hustled back a few steps in the face of the 700-pound living weapon stomping closer. But whoever this was, he held his ground fairly well, still brandishing the pistol. His aim had canted upwards, as if knowing in a split second that the brute’s torso was so thick and covered up in protective layers that any shot there would have no stopping power whatsoever.

            T-00 was so busy inside its own head, cursing and flailing at the mind-burning nonsense of it, the idiocy, of whatever handler was pushing it towards killing this survivor while still name unknown that it barely registered when the pistol flashed twice—small bullets splattering across the spot right between its eyes and very temporarily sending a mist of Tyrant blood from its leathery brows. Something about the faint sting jarred Mr. X enough to pause mid-step.

            …Something missing.

            Its fingers explored up to the regenerating scrapes. No, not that. Up higher. It gave a sharp twitch as it missed the snug fit of the felted brim over its head that by now it was so used to.

            Hat.

            Mine. Gone.

            A hot coal of rage flared up from deep in its guts, inflaming far more strongly than any other slight it had experienced before. Suddenly it found no issue at all with the command server’s insistence that it chase this… this… flimsy little thing. He was going to hurt the small human. It was going to catch him. And it would not. Let. Him. Shoot. My Hat.

            Three more rounds peppered against Mr.X’s face, none of them giving it the pause like those first ones had, and with his face betraying a flash of terror the human turned and sprinted back for the roof access.

            There was nowhere to go that way, and the Tyrant knew it. Its eyes widened in smug satisfaction. It slammed the door to the roof open almost as soon as it had swung shut behind its prey. The steady pattering of rain on the rooftop area—or arena—was drowned out as Mr. X lunged out after its enemy and swung wide.

            “Shi—tahh..!” The human had tried to tuck and roll, but half-slipped on the slick surface. Still, it had brought him low enough that the sledgehammer-like swipe had breezed narrowly overhead. Disregarding pain almost as well as a bioweapon, the man scrambled on his bruised limbs to get out of the way of the crushing force of the Tyrant’s boot as it came down, trying to catch and disable one of his arms.

            T-00 let the man drag himself upright for a second, leveling a glare at him that perhaps could have outright killed lesser humans as he backed his enemy towards the staircase down to the boiler room. It waited, fingers tightening in their fists and the joints crackling, and it let the man come to the realization that there was no escape route here. Only behind the Tyrant.

            “What th—?” The human grabbed the railing as one foot slipped down a step, “What the fuck are you?”

            Mr. X did not appreciate the man’s tone here; with a huff it came at him at a determined power-walk. The human stifled another curse and fought to not fall feet-over-face down the stairs to keep up the distance between them. There was a hideous burbling as he hopped down the last stair—an infected form rose back up to its feet, face all but destroyed by bullets but its brainstem still intact enough to move and bite. The man whipped around and pumped another two shots into the shambling thing as it made to grab at him, and it snarled as it folded down again—likely still not dead.

            From behind, a rasp of furious breath blasting over the man was his only warning of what was coming—and this was not even remotely enough to avoid the Tyrant’s palm closing over the back of his skull.

            “Ack—urgh!”

            Mr. X felt its lip curl up slightly, unbidden, and let a sliver of its upper row of teeth bare. Rather than instantly crush the man’s skull or sling him in a sharp motion to snap his neck, the Tyrant lifted him up in triumph, hoping in the time that the frail being wriggled in his grip he understood what he had taken from the angry bioweapon.

            The human still had a lot of nerve, which was admirable in a way—still struggling, his free hand had pawed over one of the pouches at his hip and grabbed something small and cylindrical in size. The Tyrant’s brows cinched and ears had pricked up, but relaxed slightly as its prey fumbled the small canister. It clinked harmlessly against the patio tiles, rolling up against one of T-00’s boots.

            And then fucking chaos aagh—

            Light! Sound! More than it had ever known at once—stabbed it in the hyper-strong senses. Its hand loosened automatically, and a faint wet scuffling was the last sign it had of its enemy fleeing at top speed.

            At that moment, it was more worried about the splashes of phantom light in its retinas, even with its eyes closed and a large arm shielding its face… Its ears were ringing, and it felt itself growl without fully hearing the rumbling noise produced.

It was going to throw this human. Off this roof. Or off a roof at least. Or into a wall. Any wall would do. If only the painful stars would get out of its eyes…