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fiber-optic-alligator · 8 months

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I would love to see some TFA swindle soft vore with a Gn!human <3

Thanks for the request, anon! Here it is! TFA Swindle is so silly, I love how funky he looks. Just a fun salesman who definitely has never broken any laws :D

Deal Or No Deal

Pairing: TFA Swindle x Gn!human Reader

WARNING: This story contains soft vore. If this makes you uncomfortable, please do not read this story.

Word Count: 3230

Summary: After accepting a job as an errand runner for a local arms dealer, you are tasked with sneaking into a warehouse located in an old Detroit harbor freight yard and stealing a piece of Decepticon weaponry. Things go wrong when a certain money-hungry mech catches you red-handed and decides he is in charge of you’re fate.

You hate your job.

“It’ll be quick and easy.” You quietly hype yourself up as you walk past various decrepit buildings, your steps bouncing off of their walls and echoing around you, creating an ominous phenomenon in which it sounds like someone is following in your wake. Too many times you’ve glanced back just to make sure your imagination was simply running wild and you were truly alone.

“Just get in, find the piece, and get out.” You reach into your pants pocket and pull out the crumpled map of the freight yard. This part of the harbor is an unsavory neighborhood, too dated to be put to use, yet too expensive to gut and start anew. Thus, it’s trapped in a standstill, with local black market meetings happening frequently and without a hitch. Illegal materials are typically stored here too, due to the perfect real estate; not even the police are aware of how important this place really is.

Tonight, you will be finding one of those exact materials…and you will be stealing it.

“No problem. It’s no problem.” You study the map one last time, then tuck it away. “Find the prize. Get it to the boss. Easy. It’ll be fine.”

You aren’t a thief. Well, you weren’t a thief until now. But you're low on cash, and the threat of going broke is just too high. You don’t want to be out on the streets, so you went down a rough road: you’ve become an errand runner for hire. A local arms dealer wants you to smuggle an extremely powerful weapon out of the freight yard and into his hands. “It’s nothing I’ve ever seen before,” he had told you. “A cannon left behind by those Cybertronian-whatevers. It’s alien. And I want it.”

The amount of money he offered to pay you was too much for you to resist. So here you are, against your better judgment, robbing one horrible person for the benefit of another.

Well, you don’t know if this other person you're stealing from is horrible. The only information given to you about them was where they keep their goods. But judging from the fact that they’re directly contributing to Detroit’s crime rate, you have to assume they’re pretty terrible.

And so am I. You wince when you think about it. I’m no better. I’m a coward who can’t even land a real job.

No time to pity yourself. You chose this profession. There’s no chance for you to go back on it. At least after you complete this job, maybe you can return to some semblance of a normal life…if you aren’t arrested and sent to prison, that is.

The warehouse you are looking for sits right on the edge of the harbor. It’s massive, with shoddy wooden walls riddled with graffiti and sheets of cheap metal nailed to cover up holes. Standing before it now, you feel a shiver go down your spine. Definitely the creepiest place in Detroit, this building is.

Drawing in a deep breath, you head for the large sliding doors. One of them is just barely open. It’s enough space for you to slip through.

Inside, it’s dark. There are lights above, but there is no sign of a switch, and even if there was, you doubt they’d turn on. The warehouse is filled with giant boxes: crate after crate stacked upon each other, some of them reaching so high, you have to wonder just who the hell is in charge of this operation. It’s quiet. You remain still, holding your breath to listen for any signs of activity, like guards or people bringing in recent shipments.

Nothing.

Somehow, that causes you to be on edge even more.

You really, really hate your job.

According to your employer, the Cybertronian weapon is stored in a special crate marked with a Decepticon insignia. It’s one of a kind, so it should be relatively easy to find. You just have to hope it can be reached. As you tread lightly through the warehouse and peer up at the towers of storage, you're suddenly afraid you might have your first experience with using a forklift tonight.

Thankfully, luck seems to be on your side. You come across the crate quickly; it’s set up in the corner of the building, nestled between other boxes so it can be obscured. You only spot it because you know what you're looking for. The Decepticon symbol peeks out at you revealingly, like it wants to be found.

Jackpot, you think. Pushing the other boxes away, you grab your crowbar from your belt and wedge it between the crate’s cover.

For a moment, you pause. A nervous idea of this possibly being a trap crosses your mind, but then you dismiss it. There’s no way anyone could have known you were coming. You and your boss were alone that night when you discussed this plan. Grunting, you force the crate open. Wood cracks as the cover springs up. Excitement fills you when you eagerly peek inside.

Your heart drops.

There’s nothing there. It’s empty.

“Nononono.” You frantically sift your hands through the packing peanuts, but to no avail. The crate is devoid of anything but styrofoam.

You stumble back dazedly and press your hand to your head. This is a trap. Someone did know you were coming. But how? And who?

Low, steady thumping answers you.

It sounds like footsteps. No, they are footsteps. Heavy, boot-like pounding against the floor is accompanied by a large shadow casting over you. Suddenly, the warehouse lights blaze on. You have to shield your eyes to avoid earning a headache.

“Well, well, well,” a voice says. “What do we have here?”

You blink and lower your hands. Standing in front of you, towering above the stacks of crates, is a giant robot with dull golden armor and purple eyes. He gives you an easygoing smile and speaks with the same smooth voice you heard before. “And why might you be here, little mouse?”

You gape at him with no words you can say. The robot chuckles and crosses his arms over his chest. “Didn’t find what you were looking for?” He inclines his head to the crate. “Don’t beat yourself up about it, it’s not your fault. I knew your boss was going to make a move for the cannon way before he decided to send you for it.”

“I-I-uh-” you stammer.

“Yes?” he asks.

“G-Giant…r-robot.”

His smile widens and he raises a brow. “That’s what I am. The proper term would be Cybertronian, though.”

“Y-You're one of them.” Your eyes flicker to the scowling symbol on his chest. “You're a Decepticon.”

“Technically, yes. However, I consider myself a Decepticon in name only. I wear this badge as a sign of partnership with my best customers.”

“Customers?” you echo.

“Right. Guess I should introduce myself.” The mech extends his arms in an open greeting. “The name’s Swindle. I run a tight business of weapons selling, weapons building, weapons trading…basically, if you want something that’ll make your enemies go boom, I’m the guy you want to call. And you, little mouse, are currently stealing from me.”

You look around you. “Wait. So this…all of this…is yours?”

“Yup. It’s quite the haul, isn’t it? This loot is going to be spread all across Detroit to different buyers, Cybertronian or not. I don’t discriminate, you see. If you have the means to pay for it, I can get it for you. Earth is a violent place, little mouse. And where there’s violence, there’s money to be made.”

A compartment slides open from his chest. He reaches into it and pulls out a large gray cannon with the Decepticon coat of arms on its side. “This is what you came here for, right?” Swindle says. “Your boss wants it so he can blast a bunch of banks open.”

You swallow hard and nod.

“Let me ask you this.” He drops the cannon back in. The compartment closes, and he crouches down to get more on your level. “Do you think I like it when people steal from me?”

“I-I didn’t steal from you!” you answer.

“You were going to.”

“But I didn’t!”

“You had the intention, and that counts.” He shrugs. “I’m what you humans call a cool cat, kid. I do business and I go on with my life. But when I find little mice snooping around my warehouse, trying to take things that don’t belong to them…” His gaze darkens and he bares his teeth. “I decide it’s time to show my claws.”

You take a nervous step back. “I-I’m sorry! I really am! But I had no choice! I-I need this job! I need the money!”

For a moment, he simply studies you. Then he leans back into the calm attitude from before, and grins. “Hm. What if I were to offer you a deal?”

It takes you a moment to register what he just said. “A deal?” you say. “Why would you want to make a deal with me? I just tried stealing from you!”

“I know. Trust me, I’m not letting you off the hook. But I find myself feeling bad for you, little mouse. You're just someone who’s down on your luck and trying to get back on your feet. I appreciate that. And…I see potential in you.”

“…Potential?”

His eyes sparkle with dangerous intent. “Yes. Potential. You're small. Quick. You can sniff things out and have a great sense of direction while doing it. I could use someone like you. A stealthy little robber who can sneak in and get things that a giant lumbering robot can’t. Do you see where I’m going with this?” He pokes you gently in the ribs. You yelp and jump back. “I’m offering you a job.”

You rub your side and glare at him. “I already have a job.”

“Correction. You had a job.” Swindle tilts his head. “If you go back to your boss empty-handed, you’ll suffer for it. I know how he works, and trust me, what he does to those who fail isn’t pretty. But me? I’m fair. I’m lenient. Your work hours won’t kill you, and I’m not going to dump your dead body into the lake if something goes sour. This is an opportunity for you. What do you say?” He holds his hand out. “Do we have a deal?”

You eye his hand apprehensively, then take another step back. “No. I’m done with this. I never wanted to be a thief. I’m not working for a giant robot who can kill me at any chance.”

He throws his hands up, exasperated. “Did you not hear a word I just said?”

“I don’t care what you said!” You turn on your heel and march away. “What my boss does to me doesn’t matter anymore! I’m not going through with this sort of life!”

Swindle sighs, and his tone hardens. “Ah, geez, you're going to make me be the bad guy, huh. Alright, fine, I can be the bad guy.”

You let out a strangled shriek when you are unexpectedly yanked into the air. Swindle unceremoniously lifts you up by the back of your shirt, bringing you close to his face. “Listen, mouse,” he growls. “You have two options to choose tonight: either you agree to work for me, or I can sell you to other people who are worse than your boss. You want to end up collared and turned into a Decepticon’s pet?”

You stop your desperate struggle to stare at him in horror. “Y-You wouldn’t do that!”

“Wouldn’t I? I’m a daytrader, little one. I may specialize in weapons, but that doesn’t mean I don’t take up animal handling once in a while.” He shakes you a little, earning a cry from you. “So, what’s it going to be? This is a limited time offer, so you better make up your mind while it lasts.”

You stare at him, and you know he’s being completely serious. You have no option here except to agree to his terms. A pit forms in your stomach with roots of anxiety spreading through you, thriving on your fear. He notices how you’ve begun to shake, and grins with the knowledge that he has you.

He holds his hand out to you once more. “I’ll ask again. Do we have a deal?”

You hesitate…then reluctantly extend your own hand to him. He takes your palm between his index finger and thumb and shakes it gently. “There.” Swindle looks satisfied. “Was that so hard? You’ve made the right choice, little mouse. Now, for your punishment.”

“Wait, what?” You yank your hand back. “Punishment? What punishment!?”

“The punishment.” He says this like it’s common knowledge. “You tried to steal from me. I just can’t let that go. What kind of message would I be spreading to the competition if they were to know I’m too soft with thieves?”

“But I accepted your terms! I work for you now! What more could you want from me?”

He tsks and shakes his head. “This has nothing to do with the deal, little mouse. This has everything to do with the fact that your old boss thinks I’m someone he can send his cronies to steal from.” He lifts you higher, and his gaze softens, only for a moment. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you. You're still a greenie in the trade, so there’s no reason to draw this out. Just relax and everything will be fine.”

You squirm and clutch at the fingers holding you, confused. “What are you-?”

He opens his mouth. You find yourself staring down into the abyss of his throat, pulsing with a gentle purple light. Then your eyes widen and your heart crashes when he begins lowering you towards it.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” you yell while you squirm, kick, flail, do anything you can to fight back against what you realize is happening. “PUTMEDOWNPUTMEDOWNPUTMEDOWNPUTMEDOWN!”

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the gaping jaws below you. Swindle’s tongue shifts with excitement and anticipation. The sight makes you scream until you think your own throat might bleed.

The more you fight, the faster Swindle lowers you. You curse and threaten, so terrified that you aren’t even aware of what you are saying at this point, fresh tears pouring down your face.

“SWINDLE, PLEASE, DON’T-!”

You break into a scream when he drops you.

The impact is softer than what you brace for, and you fall onto his tongue with an “Oof.” For a moment, you lay there, little cries coming out with your rapid-tempo breaths, heart beating so hard you think you may have a heart attack.

And then you come to your senses, and realize where you are.

You are in Swindle’s mouth.

You scramble forward, moving to throw yourself out of the sticky deathtrap, but it is too late; the robot’s teeth click closed, cutting you off from the outside world. “Nonono!” You bang your fists frantically on them. “Please, let me out! I don’t want to die! P-Please don’t do this!”

Hot air wafts over your body when Swindle chuckles. The muscle beneath you moves and begins to slowly push you backwards. Thick globs of saliva suck at your legs as you are forced back towards his throat.

“No, stop!” You claw at his tongue, trying everything in your power to prevent yourself from going down. The giant tilts his head back.

With a loud squelching gulp, Swindle swallows, and you are sucked into his esophagus, the powerful muscles pulling you down.

So many things happen at once. Your body is massaged from all sides by the throat, leaving you all but completely immobile. The sound of Swindle’s internal workings is thunder in your ears, so loud that you can’t even hear yourself think.

The most terrifying noise, however, is the growling and gurgling coming from below. An ominous reminder of where you are ultimately going to end up.

You are squeezed into the stomach and fall into the squishy chamber that, as soon as it is aware of your presence, closes in. From all sides you are massaged and kneaded by thick, muscular walls of synthetic organ that rubs saliva and fluid all over you. You push at the walls with a terrified air of desperation, your lungs constricting like you can’t breathe. “Let me out!” you beg your captor. “Please, I don’t want this!”

Swindle rumbles out another chuckle that sounds so much deeper now that you are in here. The walls quiver, laughing right along with him. “I don’t care what you want, little mouse. I’m your boss now, and I want you to sit in there and think about what you’ve done.”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry for trying to steal from you! Just please, spit me up! I-I don’t want to die!” Your voice breaks. The situation is truly hopeless now.

Swindle groans. “Geez, how many times do I have to tell you, kid? You're not going to die. Do you feel any acid in there? Is your skin melting off of your bones?”

You pause and look at your arms. The glow of the mech’s biolights gives you a dim image of your limbs: sticky and slimy…but not in any pain, and certainly no terrible wounds visible.

“…No,” you mumble in disbelief.

Swindle speaks to you like a parent does with their child. “See? You're in no pain. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. You're safe. Now relax and settle down.”

“If I’m safe, then why did you decide to eat me?!”

“I already said this. You need to learn a lesson. A few hours in there will teach you not to steal from others…well, at least, not to steal from me. You’ll be doing plenty of theft in the future. But I’ll pay you for it, and you’ll never have to worry about going hungry or living on the streets ever again.”

Your fear begins to diminish, and it’s replaced with indignation. “Of all the ways to teach me a lesson, it had to be like this?”

The stomach shakes boisterously when Swindle laughs. “Sorry, kid. I had to scare the crap out of you somehow so you’d learn. You need to know your place in this profession.” He presses his hands right over where you are tucked inside and gives you a little squeeeze. “Now sit tight and relax for me, okay? I’ll let you out in a few hours. You're safe.”

You grumble and give the stomach walls a disgruntled shove. The organ flexes to hug you, forcing you to sink into the warmth. Now that you’ve calmed down, you find that it’s actually…kind of nice in here. The constant massaging feels good on your exhausted body. The soft violet glow is soothing to your eyes. And though you hate to allow yourself, because you're still rather pissed off with him…you finally relax.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “That’s right. Nice and warm.” The walls ripple when he gives his abdomen a pat. “You know, I think this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

You give in and release a soft breath. You’ve gotten yourself into quite the pickle here. But with how warm it is, and relaxed you are…maybe working for this robot won’t be so bad.

#gator writes #gator requests #tfa swindle #tfa swindle x reader #swindle x reader #transformers swindle #transformers #transformers animated #tfa #reader insert #transformers animated x reader #maccadam #transformers g/t #soft vore #sfw g/t #safe vore

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hogans-heroes · 3 months

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“First Lady of Motorcycling” Dorothy “Dot” Robinson on her 1937 Harley-Davidson ’45

Dorothy "Dot" Smith was a motorcycle stunt woman in the 1930's and 1940's. She was the co-founder and first president of the women's riding group "Motor Maids" and held the president title for 25 years. Motor Maids was established in San Francisco in 1940 and was one of the first women's motorcycle groups created and is the oldest still existing in the United States.

Dorothy "Dot" Robinson, the wife of dealer Earl Robinson, competed alongside men in endurance races during the Depression. She was also co-owner of the Detroit dealership and a motorcycle courier during World War II. Known as "The First Lady of Motorcycling," she estimated logging over 1.5 million miles on motorcycles throughout her lifetime.

#what a gal #love her #women’s history #motorsports #motorcycle #harley davidson #world war ii #the Bikeriders

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wheelsgoroundincircles · 8 months

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1974 Pontiac Super Duty Trans Am

The 1974 Pontiac Super Duty Trans Am Was The Last Performance Pony Car From Muscle’s Golden Age

Pontiac was still beating the go-fast drum the same year Ford wouldn’t even sell you a Mustang with a V8

Detroit muscle’s golden age peaked in 1970 with cars like Hemi-engined Dodge Charger R/T and LS6-code Chevrolet Chevelle SS 454. From that point, a combination of reduced compression ratios, higher insurance costs, spiraling gas prices and the weight of additional safety equipment saw power and performance tail away until by the end of the decade there was almost nothing left.

As soon as 1974 the enthusiast landscape was unrecognizable from four years earlier. The Hemi was dead, big-block engine options were increasingly rare, Chevy was about to axe the Camaro Z/28 as it already had done with the SS396, and Ford had downsized the Mustang so comprehensively that you couldn’t even buy one with a V8 in North America. Yep, the top engine in a Mustang in 1974 was a 2.8-liter V6 that put out an embarrassing 105 hp (107 PS).

Which made your Pontiac dealer about the one in town that talked your language. The most obvious change to the 1973 Trans Am had been the optional new Firebird hood graphic, which replaced the front-to-rear stripe seen on the 1970-1972 cars, and the addition of some bright new colors, including neck-snapping Buccaneer Red. But the most important change was under that hood. While every other manufacturer was scaling back its performance efforts, Pontiac’s engineers actually increased theirs, introducing the new 455 Super Duty engine option.

#Pontiac Super Duty Trans Am #car #cars #muscle car #american muscle #pontiac #pontiac trans am #trans am

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bee-bread-draws · 1 year

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I caved and made another au 😔

The Cybercore AU!! It’s honestly kinda like a knock off Detroit: Become Human but with some differences.

In this au, it’s the future so they have all kinds of technological and medical advancements. There are androids built to serve mankind and many different models for different tasks. These androids are not built with sentience, but it is something that can be gained. But most humans do not like androids becoming sentient and want to keep them under their control. This is where the main conflict of our au happens. Our lovely cast of characters have, over time, formed a vigilante group who fight for android rights and any injustice they see.

Some tidbits about the characters:

Wally is the creator of the group, having originally made it as a rebellious group for him and Barnaby to do when they were teenagers. But over time, it became a fully fledged vigilante group. Wally is also the only fully human of the group. He doesn’t have any limb replacements or enhancements, making him all natural!

Poppy and Frank are the only full androids of the group. Poppy is an inflatable android (think baymax) and was created to care and watch over children while their parents work. Frank was created as a sort of walking library, full of thousands of random and useful facts for his owners use. Though out of the two of them, Poppy is the only sentient one. Frank was rescued from a scrapyard by Julie and now treats her as his owner.

Howdy is a blackmarket dealer, selling and trading his wares and supplies for a more lucrative audience. He is the groups supplier and originally wasn’t part of the group, but he decided to join to offer himself protection. His extra arms and legs are limb enhancements, a show of power and a way to help him carry heavy objects.

Julie had joined the group when running away from an arranged marriage her parents set up. She had only just turned 18 and still wanted to have her own life. She ran into Poppy, who was injured on a mission the group was doing, and helped patch her up. Poppy took her back to their base and she has been a member ever since. She originally did not have any android parts to her, but an accident during a mission paralyzed her, forcing her to either quit the group or undergo a procedure to fix it.

Sally is the only person in the group to purposely seek out the group and join. Finding their connection to Howdy and went up to him, demanding to join. She is willing to fight for android rights in every way possible, no matter how bad they are. Despite this, she always has a pep to her step… literally! Her special boots allow her to jump high and survive long falls (they’re Portal boots)

Eddie is the newest member of the group. He was raised in the countryside, away from any androids or technology. He was forced to move to the city when his grandparents died, losing the rights to the farm. Because of the way he was raised, he had grown to dislike androids and most technology, making his move very troubling. Despite his dislike of androids, he doesn’t believe they should be treated wrong, especially since they never asked to be made. He was discovered by the group when he was defending an android from their owner after they had fallen.

Barnaby has been the in group since it’s beginning as he is a childhood friend of Wally’s. Because they were teens, they were both reckless and inexperienced, which caused an accident that destroyed his hands and left eye. His parents couldn’t afford an expensive operation, so they got a cheaper one, which is why his eye is clunky compared to everyone else’s.

Please feel free to ask any questions you have about this au’s characters, lore, or background details about the world they live in! And as always, have a lovely day, night, or morning!

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vlad-theimplier · 7 days

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WIP Wednesday: Custos Custodium

In which Jensen and the Task Force take on Sheppard in Dubai. I rearranged some lines to give a bit of characterization to anyone but Jensen and MacReady (who have plenty), and to make the tactical briefing a little meatier. Apparently, one of the divergence points between our world and the world of Deus Ex is that 10mm caught on over 9mm, but we know NATO exists and still prefers its familiar cartridges.

Anyway, Jensen does actually like some of his coworkers. Read all about it at https://archiveofourown.org/works/55686901/chapters/141357007

“Listen up, all of you!” Miller said in commanding tones. “We’ve finally got a lead on this man, an arms dealer goes by Sheppard.”

Jensen’s eyes widened behind his shades as the name registered with him. This was the bastard who’d escaped their grasp in Detroit—he damn well wasn’t getting away this time. John “Sheppard” Trent, 42, looked the way he remembered from Detroit, anonymous but mean. And as if Jensen needed another bone to pick with the man, Miller added a nugget of new intel: “He’s ex-Belltower. One of the Special Forces commanders who disappeared during the Incident.”

“And he’s come out of hiding?” MacReady asked. “That cannot be good.”

“It’s not. He’s selling weapons and military-grade augments to terrorists.” Miller swiped at the screen to reveal an Indian man with swept-back hair, stubble, and a haunted look around the eyes. “This is Arun Singh, the undercover agent who lured Sheppard out of his hole. Best UC Interpol’s got. For three years he’s worked to get us in tight with the Jinn, an Iraqi smuggling cartel that’s infected the Eastern Hemisphere like a plague. Last week, our arms dealer sent a message to the Jinn, offering to sell them a shit-load of black-market merchandise dirt cheap. They told Singh to handle the buy.”

A woman’s voice came over comms in a German accent, overriding MacReady’s scoff. “They’re not going to like it when Interpol disrupts their party. Is Singh’s cover really that good?” Dietrich, Jensen realized, looking at the screen. And she was worried about the right things.

“It is right now,” Miller answered. “We need to keep it that way.” He swiped again at the screen to show a sprawling but incomplete edifice, jutting out of the sea in graceful curves of steel and white concrete marred by tarps and scaffolding. An inset proclaimed it the “Desert Jewel.” “This is where the deal’s going down: a half-finished high-rise hotel that’s been abandoned ever since the incident. It is not a pretty picture inside.”

“Let me guess.” MacReady, of course. Mouthy bastard. “Most of the laborers were augmented with heavy-duty industrial rigs. So when the Incident hit and they all went schizo, things got gruesome real fast.” He stared at Jensen. Jensen stared back, curling his lip deliberately.

Miller nodded. “And no one except for some homeless junkies has been inside the place ever since.”

“So what’s the plan, Director?” Jensen asked.

“Singh’s meeting Sheppard on the ground floor, inside the hotel’s main atrium. He’s sent the bulk of his Jinn crew to the penthouse levels to secure a vantage point. I want MacReady’s team to take up positions overlooking the atrium and make the arrest. Dietrich, put the SAW and the marksmen on this little artificial island section here, across the lagoon from the atrium, where you can suppress and snipe as needed. Frost, you’re in reserve, up on the roof just back from the atrium. Rig ropes for descent. Jensen, you’re going in solo from the penthouse.”

Suited him fine. “My objectives?”

“Keep the Jinn from joining the party. As far as we can tell, only one route connects the atrium to the penthouse level—a halfway-decent elevator shaft here.” Miller swiped again, and a wireframe schematic popped up insertion points and the elevator in question. “I want you to block access to it.”

“Fine. Just cut me loose. If anyone spots me… I assume non-lethal is preferred? Doubt I’ll have time to cuff ’em, but Singh’s cover will be stronger if he’s not the only one still breathing when this is done.”

Miller nodded approvingly, but MacReady couldn’t resist a jab. “And if anything does happen to him, you’ll be the one telling his wife. After you get out of the hospital, of course.”

Jensen ignored him. So did Miller. “One last thing,” he said. “Singh told us the Jinn are using some kind of portable wi-fi device to boost communications. It could pick up anything he sends our way. He’s got a better chance of maintaining cover if you disable it, but if it comes to it, your number one priority is keeping the Jinn out of that atrium.”

“I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Good. Any questions?”

Lieutenant Frost chimed in. “Sir. Director. Why is this our op? Not that I mind—we’re all itching to mix it up—but Station Muscat is practically next-door.”

“Muscat’s resources are occupied elsewhere. We were the closest station with the manpower for an op this size. We did get the intel on this mission at the very last minute, no fault of Singh’s, so we’re all scrambling a little. Sheppard has stayed ahead of the Task Force for so long by pulling exactly this kind of stunt, on the rare occasions he shows his face at all. It’s our job to make sure it doesn’t work this time.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Frost took the answer as the gentle reprimand it was meant to be, and Jensen once again admired Miller’s leadership acumen. There were no further questions. The agents and soldiers turned to the briefing screens and reviewed the scant intelligence they’d received, or busied themselves checking their weapons and armor, as the trio of VTOLs sped onwards.

According to the map, they were coming in over the Persian Gulf a few hours later when Miller spoke up once more: “Ears here.” He checked the screen to make sure the other two teams were looking. “A new wrinkle has arisen to keep us on our toes. Sandstorm coming up out of the southwest, straight from the desert. It’ll be barreling down our asses—we can’t afford to make mistakes. Our pilots will keep us up-to-date on the storm’s progress. The window’s tight, but all signs indicate the deal is on. As you were.”

Silence descended once more. The indicators for their birds crept towards Dubai. Around Jensen, the agents began rechecking their rifles and donning their helmets. He gave his own weapons a perfunctory once-over, then rolled his shoulders and wrists. He crossed his left arm over his chest, running his blades out at the wrist and elbow, slow, then lightning fast. The myomer and servos whined quietly, just audible over the rush of wind and engine.

MacReady leaned forward. “Not gonna go all wonky on us now, Hanzer, are ya?”

“Why? You want to put a control chip in me? Don’t worry, I’m in spec.” Jensen locked eyes with him and bent his right hand almost to his right shoulder. His blade flicked out halfway, the tip coming to rest against his temple without even dimpling the flesh. Then, slowly, he pointed the blade at MacReady, giving him a chance to flinch or hold up a hand, to show fear.

“But if I do lose it, I guarantee you’ll never see it coming.” And he snicked the blade out to its full extension against the shoulder of MacReady’s combat vest. The alloy rang quietly on the ceramic plates, but MacReady didn’t move. Every eye turned to look at them, including Miller’s. Jensen withdrew the blade.

“Agent Jensen! Am I gonna have a problem with you on this op?”

“Nossir. MacReady just had some questions about my capabilities.” He met Miller’s gaze through his shades, deferential but uncowed, letting the double meaning hang in the air.

“Good. Because you’re our only Aug, and our only infiltration specialist. I intend to make good use of you.” That last was delivered as much to MacReady as to him, Jensen thought.

Miller resumed reassembling his rifle, ramming home a magazine of 7.62 NATO. Jensen grimaced. He supposed the AIC didn’t plan on getting tied down in a firefight, and Dietrich’s heavy gunner could always share, but it bothered him that their commander might find himself running dry in a pinch. At least the sidearm he wore was a ten-mil like everyone else’s. Not that Jensen had an augmented leg to stand on: no one else on the op—hell, probably no other agent in the hemisphere—carried a forty-five, but he could jam nine-mil into the Destrier in a pinch. Still, if they’d had time to actually plan this mission, they could’ve optimized logistics a little better. Or at all.

Chikane broke in on his maundering. “Time to put away your happy thoughts, gentlemen. We’re approaching the target.” The team was one-third women; Agent Montañez—Carmen—rolled her eyes. Jensen met them and twitched his hand by his crotch in a subtle jerk-off gesture. She hid a smirk behind her gloved hand.

Fortunately, Miller missed the byplay this time. “You’re up first, Jensen. Let’s do this.”

The pilot opened the team circuit as Jensen stood. “Strike-One, Strike-Two, this is Strike Leader. Engage hush drives and descend to angels one-five.” The VTOL quieted, slowed, and dropped in the sky. Jensen rode the change in altitude effortlessly. He thought about telling Chikane he flew like someone’s grandmother, but Malik wasn’t there to laugh.

The cargo ramp descended, and the jump lights came on red. Jensen rolled his shoulders. They were low—less than two thousand feet, for sure. He’d told Miller about the Icarus, of course, but he might have played up his skydiving “experience” a little. Well, too late now. Green lights and a tone. He stepped forward and leapt into the sky.

#deus ex #wip wednesday #adam jensen #jim miller #duncan macready

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cardomemi · 1 year

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igna4400 · 3 days

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FIVE!! Trico took so long and Im still not sure on how he looks but he's there now

#my arts #my digital arts #oc #rain world #the saint #detroit become human #connor rk800 #dbh connor #buckshot roulette #the dealer #pressure #roblox pressure #sebastian solace #will you snail #squid #the last guardian #trico

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detroitlib · 3 months

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View of the freighter "Sonoma" carrying Dodge and Plymouth cars to Buffalo, New York. Label on back: "Down to the sea in ships. These are days when nearly every available local transportation method has Detroit-made automobiles for cargoes. While hundreds of men crowd the factory drive-away yards, fleets of specially constructed tracks leave for far-off dealer points. Railroad cars, each holding four cars, are strung into miles of trains, and lake vessels, crowded to the decks with cars and trucks, cleave the waters. These are inspiring sights duplicated nowhere in all the world. The picture above shows the good ship Sonoma of the Nicholson Universal Line on its way to Buffalo, carrying Dodge and Plymouth cars to waiting dealers." Stamped on back: "June 23, 1936."

National Automotive History Collection, Detroit Public Library

#sonoma #freighter #dodge #plymouth #automobiles #cars #auto transport #cargo #ships #freighters #1936 #1930s #history #detroit #detroit history #vintage #detroit public library

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pixelmensupremacy · 2 years

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If you feel like it, can I request female reader with Nines ( maybe with Connor too ) where Reader hadls to get all dressed up for a mission (long black dress ) to infiltrate some red sand / android dealer . Basically the boys are both impressed and slightly jealous when they see their girl in action .

A/N: It’s embarrassing how little I cloud write about a drug dealer, despite having binge watched documentaries the entirety of the past summer.

Summary: The request

Word count: 0.7k

Warnings: The rk bois post deviancy, not proof read, fem!reader

Distant clicking sound of heels caught his attention. Walking into the department was (Y/N); there was a sudden change in the atmosphere, caused by her presence. The mundane sinfonietta that was the constant tapping at keyboards and rustling of paperwork seemed to quiesce once she fell under the field of vision of dozen curious eyes. She welcomed the attention, pursuing the object of her desire, which happened to be in Connor’s direction.

Just barely he caught on the quiet whispering of his colleagues, though he couldn’t pay them much attention, for he had focused it on a far more important manner- (Y/N). An inexplicable discomfort formed in his throat at the sight of her. Raven velvet hugged her form, putting on display every curve of her body; a risqué opening divided the elegant fabric of the dress, omitting a discreet trace of her glowing skin. Deep crimson set her lips ablaze just barely anchoring Connor’s attention away from the deep, v shaped cleavage that was slightly deviating from the elegant, modest aura of the dress. The flames atop her lips danced, composing an incoherent melody Connor couldn’t piece together.

“Earth to Connor.” She snapped her fingers at his, forcing him back to reality. Just then, raising his head from the reports, he busied himself with, he noticed what was going on. The icy blue of his irises diminished at the sight of her.

“Yes. I apologize, I must have malfunctioned for a moment.” Connor rushed put the words so fast (Y/N) barely heard them. She giggled at his bashfulness.

“What is the status of the subject?” She planted her arms on Connor’s desk, accidentally emphasizing her cleavage, her (E/C) met Nines’ greyish ones. He clenched his jaw.

“He is expected to arrive in approximately 15 minutes.” He spoke in calm manner, avoiding meeting her eyes.

“Then what are we waiting for?”

From a safe distance, the two androids watched, ready to take action if necessary. (Y/N) appeared to do well in disguise, despite having doubts at first when she was first assigned to practically seduce one of the most dangerous men in Detroit. She laughed and even initiated physical contact with the man responsible for the ruination of multiple lives. Though what stood out to the androids was that this interaction was reciprocated. The man smirked and even went as far as resting his hand atop her exposed thigh, which she welcomed.

Despite the settled silence in the car, loud thoughts occupied the CPUs of the two detectives. Worry had settled within them. Even though they were aware of (Y/N) abilities and they didn’t have any doubts in her whatsoever, they couldn’t help, but feel uncomfortable at the situation. A criminal not only being in her presence, but going as far as flirting with her. That was what they, despite their differences, could agree upon- this whole situation was outrageous.

Much to (Y/N)’s delight, everything went according to plan; though her smile vanished once she took a glance at her android partners.

“I extracted the needed information; the drugs are being stored at a nearby book printing supplier.” The boys didn’t share her excitement, especially Nines. There was something wrong.

On the ride back to the department, (Y/N) tried to chat with them, but to no avail.

“I expected you two to be glad with what I managed to get from him. He wasn’t really the talkative type.”

“We took a notice of that.” Connor noted, a bitter expression washed over his features. “Although, you did a remarked job.” He complimented, but it was somehow distant. Aloof; as if he was drifting away into his own world. Nines was no better; keeping silent, not uttering even a single word.

“We were simply...” Connor paused, searching for the right word to describe what he and Nines felt. “We were concerned about your wellbeing.” He spoke, sparing his successor the need to explain himself.

For a moment, (Y/N) pondered upon his words until it hit her.

“Are you two jealous?” The both of them seemed to freeze in place, their mutual silence gave her all the answers she sought. A smug grin curled the corners of her lips as she stared out of the car window.

#requests #dbh fanfic #dbh x reader #rk800 x reader #rk900 imagine #rk900 x reader #connor x reader #connor x you #nines x reader

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carsthatnevermadeitetc · 2 years

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Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham d'Elegance Station Wagon, 1979, by R.S. Harper Custom Coachbuilders. This particular car was built for a Detroit-area Cadillac dealer who used it to shuttle customers who brought their cars in for service. It is thought to be the only example built by R.S. Harper with a sunroof. After it became part of the Meurer Collection, it was sold at auction in 2019 for $26,400

#Cadillac #Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham #Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham d'Elegance Station Wagon #station wagon #Cadillac Station Wagon #coachbuilt #R.S. Harper Custom Coachbuilders #R.S. Harper #long roof #1979 #Meurer Collection #one-off

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pureamericanism · 2 years

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One of the great tragedies of the Rust Belt* is that it did not define itself as a distinct cultural region until well after its great era of flourishing was over. For the century from about 1850-1950, this area was not merely the industrial heart of the nation, but also its cultural center. And yet the inhabitants of the area, if they thought of themselves as having a regional identity at all, it was as inhabitants of the generic ‘north’. Its status as a center of cultural innovation was pooh-poohed by the fact that the nation’s political and intellectual elite was, even as it is today, strongly based to the coastal northeast, and this Eurocentric elite had a very different set of priorities than the cultural avant-garde of the as-yet-unRusted-Belt. This area produced little in the way of ‘high art’ in the expected form of novels, symphonies, and oil paintings. But what it did produce...

In 1900, Chicago was the occult capital of the nation, a hotbed of wild theorizing and underground publishing of all manner of Theosophical weirdness. Meanwhile, Louis Sullivan and Frank Lloyd Wright were producing the first wholly indigenous tradition of monumental architecture, setting a pattern for all of urban modernity. The Dayton, Ohio based Wright brothers - often abused in pop-historiography as some sort of rude mechanicals - were slowly and methodically systematizing the science of aerodynamics in preparation for the first ever instance of heaver-than-air flight in human history, with world-shaking consequences. And up in Detroit, Henry Ford was not merely revolutionizing transportation and manufacturing, but setting a standard for industrial relations that would create an unbelievably influential model for decades to come. It might sound strange to modern ears to cite Henry Ford as a bleeding-edge figure, but Fordism served as an inspiration to both Bolsheviks and Fascists, as well as to domestic New Dealers, while simultaneously pleasing and alarming old-fashioned Anglo liberals. The Long 20th Century is a series of footnotes to the Rust Belt Golden Age.

As can be seen from this too-brief summary of the luminaries of the epoch, it was a deeply unique Golden Age, characterized by cultural traits all its own. Technical prowess, utopian visions, and thorough systematization were its characteristics, as was a sense that a lone individual or small group could, through sheer innovative genius, change the world. While the archetype of the Mad Scientist is based on Mitteleuropean models, it was here in Mittelamerika that it achieved its apotheosis. The definitive cultural history of this region and era has yet to be written**, which just shows how underappreciated the underlying unity still is, but it in a large part contributed to the dynamic optimism that we all now take for granted as distinctively ‘American.’ But as the area felt the collapse of the long bubble economy that funded its flourishing, and its brightest sons and daughters fled west to contribute to the explosion of creativity along the Pacific slope that is now likewise collapsing, it finally awakened to a sense of unity that had previously been hidden by arbitrary State boundaries.

That, at some point, this area will again be the center of some sort of vigorous culture seems an inevitability of human geography, but will it again share the same features of optimism and technical prowess, or were those mere incidental features of a bunch of people with a Protestant work ethic suddenly getting access to the tremendous wealth provided by a vast agricultural base + fossil fuels? Man alive, I don’t have the slightest clue, but I hope that there is some sort of afterlife or metempsychosis so I can find out.

* here roughly defined as the geographical area constrained by an irregular polygon whose points are Syracuse, Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, St. Louis, Davenport, Green Bay, and Flint.

** unless it has and i’m just ignorant of it, in which case please let me know so i can rest easy that i don’t need to do any work and can just sit down and read the thing. honestly, even tangentially related book recommendations are appreciated.

#america #rust belt #midwest

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