#fully automatic folding open machine

[atomicjellycat]

I went on a bit of a rant today to my husband about how ai COULD have been used to make a multi-chambered washer/dryer with the washer on top and the dryer on the bottom.

Now these do in fact exist, HOWEVER.

It's a crime that upon the end of the washing cycle, the bottom doesn't just open up, clothes fall into the dryer, and begin the drying cycle immediately.

The ai can be used to measure the humidity levels of the drying clothes to know when everything is fully dry (instead of manually checking and restarting the load)

And THEN. Using that precious ai everyone seems to like so much, analyze each individual article of clothing, pick it up, and fold it by little mechanical hands and store in a separate chamber for picking up.

Now this seems kinda an intense amount of sci-fi tech but y'all ai can produce VIDEOS ok?? Folding a t shirt is seriously at most, lowbar.

Liker seriously just put a couple air pistons on one of these mfs and you'd be done, a billion dollars

The most tedious of chore should be automated, not the most blissful parts of human life like making art.

And while on this rant I wondered outloud, why? WHY in a world where every person who does (and loathes) laundry, would they waste all their time shoveling piles of money into ai art and ai assistant

(my ART TABLET updated against my will and cheerfully touted the fucking Galaxy Ai that is now on it, which started this whole mess of a rant)

And then shove these ais in our faces.... For free. WHY? In a world where all these tech fuckheads only care about money, they're putting in shittons of cash IN and then shoving it onto us FOR FREE. How on EARTH is that generating revenue???

Why shovel money into an unwanted ai and release it for free, instead of making a product (LIKE A FULLY AUTOMATED LAUNDRY MACHINE) that EVERYONE needs/wants and making like, a billion dollars? Remember the Roomba? Yeah, that's a helpful product, automates a very tedious chore, I don't have a lot of free time, I'd love a clean house, it's helpful technology.

Why don't they just use ai to help people, AND actually make money?

This is what I was yapping on and on about to my husband, and he brought up a crushing point.

It's more about stealing jobs from skilled workers so rich people don't need to pay them, than it is furthering the future or bettering the average person's life.

Whether or not I have a Laundry Machine is irrelevant to a rich person, because I'd have to do my own laundry anyway, manual or automatic. It doesn't affect them.

But artists and movie makers and music makers are STILL needed, and they would HAVE to pay us. Unless, an ai could make it for free.

They're wasting billions on the Email Summary Machine all in the name of pushing skilled workers out of an industry, when they could have used ai to make useful inventions AND a crapload of money in the process.

All just to not pay an artist

They're not JUST stupid, they're fucking evil

[crownoflillies1]

For Your Pleasure - Part 2: Hidden

Pairing: unnamed male/female

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary: A stop on a road trip takes a turn.

Tags: 18+, semi-public sex, light dom, praise, car sex

Why did this state have so many potholes? One could hardly go half a mile without bouncing through six of them. Some were so deep her heart clenched with worry the tire might pop. Her lips mushed into a tight line as they bounced through another one. Under her tight pencil skirt her thighs slid together, shimmying her hips back and forth in the seat. She had to go so bad.

“How much longer?” She tilted her head to glance at him, relaxed in the driver seat.

He didn’t answer right away, pondering how long ago he saw the sign. “I’m not really sure, darling. Maybe 5 minutes? It did say it was 10 miles.”

A strained groan fell from her lips. She cursed herself within her head for not accepting the last rest stop they passed. Just a few minutes longer then she can run into the bathroom. Until then, she resigned herself to rubbing her thighs together.

The rest stop exit crept up on them faster than she expected and a silent thank you went up to whoever watched over this earth. He gently pulled the suv into a space on the side of the building. A small enclosed snack bar full of vending machines butted against the restroom building, hiding them from both other vehicles and the highway. Before he had the car fully in park she was out and running inside.

A small smirk pulled at his lips as she walked back to the suv. While she tended to herself he exited the vehicle and leaned against it, bathing him in the red light of the setting sun. The smirk along with his leaning against the vehicle developed a warm spot in her stomach, spreading deliciously down.

When she came within arms reach he reached out and wrapped them around her waist, pulling her close to his body. He pressed gentle kisses to her cheeks before planting one on her lips.

“You have no idea how good you look in the sunlight.” He said, voice low. Hands roamed down her body cupping the supple flesh of her butt. He hummed low in his throat. “And in a skirt, especially a tight one like this. Why wear a such a tight skirt for a road trip?”

A blaze of heat filled her cheeks. Oh, she knew she was redder than the sunset. “It’s new, I just wanted the excuse to wear it. I couldn’t wait until we went to a nice dinner during our vacation to wear it.”

“Is that right?” Fingers continued to massage her buttocks, riding the tight skirt higher on her frame. Goosebumps washed over her thighs and butt when the skirt rose high enough for a breeze of air to hit her bare cheeks.

“Babe!” She hissed, a grin stretching her lips. A battle over her skirt ensued, him winning. She giggled. Another kiss placated her into allowing him to lead her to the back of the suv. One hand released her and pushed the button for the automatic hatch to open.

“Sit.” He commanded.

“Why-“

“Sit. Your. Ass. Down.” The red sunlight covered his face, adding another layer to his fiery look. She sat. “Good girl.” He snickered. He leaned forward to press his hand to the top of the suv frame and balance his weight. Her own weight rested on her hands splayed behind her.

Warm fingers trailed up the inside of her leg, to her thigh, and finally under her skirt. She gazed down, peering at the outline of his hand in her skirt. Her hips rutted up when he ghosted across her thong covered clit. A smirk formed again on his face.

The thong fabric was thin, perfect for hiding panty lines when wearing the skirt, but also to feel each movement he made. First he brushed his knuckles up and down, up then down. Right where her clit sat, nestled under her thong and between her folds . Her lungs filled with air and released it with a quiet moan.

“You like that?” A nod was all she could muster. His fingers stopped their rubbing. She pouted silently. His middle finger hooked onto her thong and pulled it to the side. The same finger dipped down, parting her folds and sliding into her growing slick. The tip of his finger prodded at her entrance, circling it, coating his finger in her wetness. Once satisfied, he dragged it up in between her folds and encased her clit with his finger, slathering it to move unhindered between his fingers.

Rapid breaths filled the space between them. Small moans and whimpers fell from her parted lips. The sun created a blaze of light which blinded her so she closed her eyelids. She could hear his own breaths increasing while his fingers rolled her clit. Each little tug he made sent delicious waves of heat up her stomach, building into that tight coil of ecstasy.

“Such a pretty girl.” He praised. Oh how that added to that coil! A whine of displeasure rolled in her throat when he pulled away. “Lay back, lift your hips.”

Her self dignity went out the window. She laid back against the floor. It was large enough to give ample room for her to maneuver herself down, and her hips up. His hands pushed at the skirt until it gave way and gathered bunched up at the widest part of her hips. She shivered at the touch of the cool breeze on her exposed body.

He shuffled downward and kneeled on the ground with one knee. Her hips rested on his forearms which snaked under them to keep them lifted. His head lowered just above her clit. Slowly his eyes blinked and he looked up at her. A smile spread wide on his lips.

A sharp inhale of breath broke the tension. The flat surface of his tongue swiped hard on her clit, licking up. He then flicked it with the tip of his tongue. Mercilessly he rolled it around slathering it with spit. He closed his lips around it sucking softly.

“Oh, yes, fuck,” she moaned. The soft back of the floor tousled her hair when she laid back fully. While his lips stayed closed around her clit, his tongue continued to assault it in flicks and rolls. His fingers rubbed circles on her skin above her skirt. With a loud pop he broke free of her. Before she could miss his touch he flattened his tongue against it again. He licked at it like a cat drinking milk.

“God darling, I can’t get enough of you. Look how wet you’re getting. You got dribbles all over the place, and your pretty little clit. Fuck baby I could bite it.” His voice dropped low, mumbling against her as he kissed her wet folds. One arm unwrapped her thigh. He stretched his arm and told hold of her breast.

“You can,” a pathetic whimper escaped her.

“Oh can I? Want me to bite your clit then suck the pain away?”

“Yes,” she whimpered. A pleasure jolt of pain raced through her body. His teeth bit gently into the flesh before releasing it and sucking the pain away into ecstasy. Three times he bit and sucked before he returned his tongue to rolling around it. Each bite added one more tighten to the coil deep in her stomach.

He released her breast only to bring that hand to her slick cunt. A finger slid into her. Only to the first knuckle. The intrusion was enough to tighten that coil almost all the way before breaking.

“Oh don’t stop, suck, suck it. I’m gonna cum. Please I’m so close.” Her hands found his hair and gripped handfuls of it hard. The pace of his sucks increased. His tongue drove harder circles and the tip of his finger massaged the area it occupied.

The coil exploded. White hot pleasure rippled through her body. His hips thrust up in his mouth, gyrating against his tongue and lips desperate to elongate her orgasm. She twitched while coming down from her high. Her hands pulled at his hair trying to tear him off her clit. His licks were too much now and overstimulated her. Thankfully he obeyed.

“Roll over, on your knees, ass up.”

“But someone-,”

“Now baby girl. No one can see us. Even if they could I wouldn’t care. I’m gonna fuck you until you see stars baby girl. On. Your. Knees.”

She knew he was right and rolled over. Her chest pressed into the floor of suv and she arched her ass up. Her eyes closed listening to him undo his pants and shimmy them down his thighs. She jumped when his hand smacked her ass and then the other cheek. He leaned over her, lips close to her ear, his hard cock pressed against her ass.

“You’re such a good girl for me. You want this?”

She nodded.

“Use your words.”

“I want you. Please.”

She didn’t need to say it twice. He leaned back and plunged his cock to the hilt into her. Her slick and cum mixture enough for him to glide in effortlessly. A quiet groan fell from his lips.

“Even after I made you cum on my tongue you’re still so tight. I can’t get enough of your pussy.” He drew back slowly having her feel each inch slide back out before slamming forward again. Over and over he kept this snails pace. Her body ached for more.

“Faster.”

“What was that?” He stilled in her, buried again to the hilt.

“Faster. Fuck me. Please fuck me.” She could hear the smirk on his lips.

“Of course baby girl,” a snap of his hips sent his cock drilling in and out of her. Sounds of wet slaps echoed in the suv. She moaned loud. The delicious sting of him bottoming out washed over her with each thrust.

His hand reached forward and wrapped around her neck. He pulled it back, lifting her head off the floor. Small gasps fell from her each time he thrust forward, pushing her throat into his hand. His other had reached down and yanked at the thong. He twisted his fingers in the thin fabric using it as a handle to pull her hips back into him.

The coil began to tighten again in her stomach. The pull of her thong forced the edge of it to rub against her clit. It sawed back and forth with the rocking motion.

“Such a pretty girl. Such a pretty pussy. Fuck darling you’re addictive.” His words didn’t help the ball and instead tightened it harder. Much to her dismay his thrusts slowed to a halt. He released her neck. Her head dropped back down. With his cock still in her, he repositioned so one knee rested on the step plate of the suv.

The new position allowed his cock to drive deeper. She moaned at the feeling of his tip pressed so hard in her. He spurred her on by making shallow thrusts, rutting his tip back and forth in that deep spot. The now free hand kept busy by smacking her ass until it glowed as red as the setting sun. Impatience took hold of him and soon his hips moved again hammering away. While keeping a hold on her thong he leaned down and over her back.

His panting brushed against her ear. Hot and heavy puffs made some strands of hair sway against her neck. In any other circumstance it would’ve tickled.

Desperate to build that coil deep in her, she rocked her hips back and forth in time with his thrusts. Doing so kept the taut fabric sawing against her clit.

A deep rumble way off in the distance brought her head down out of the clouds a bit. It grew closer and she could hear the semi pulling into a truck spot on the other side of the wall they were fucking behind.

“Isn’t the thrill of getting caught part of the fun?” His voice pulled her back into the heat of their rut. She agreed, the thought of it broke the coil prematurely in her stomach. Even faster she rocked her hips forcing a higher orgasm out of her.

“Fuck!” He growled. She knew she clenched down hard during her orgasm causing a tighter hold on him. He didn’t even need to tell her he was cumming. A few more completely erratic thrusts and he stilled. His hips pressed hard into her ass cheeks. His balls slapped one more time before resting against her slit. Oh how she loved feeling his balls on her. His cock pulsed four times inside her signaling his cum emptied in her.

Still panting he pressed a kiss to her neck right below her ear. With a grunt he slid out and let go of her thong. She looked behind her and his cock glistened in the last shreds of sun and the newly light street lights, coated in her slick and both their cum. She stayed in the same spot watching him pull up his pants. A yelp in shock split the silence when he slapped her bare and red ass cheek.

“We should get going, we have two more hours ahead of us.”

Her thong was sticky and wet so she pulled it off and dropped it on the floor. The tight skirt still bunched up made it easy to hop off the back. He shut the hatch door while she pulled her skirt back into place. Once seated in the car he backed them out and put them back on the highway.

“What’s wrong?” He asked when she sighed.

“I’m getting cum all over my skirt.” She puffed, feeling it slid out of her and drop on the inside of her skirt.

“Good thing the hotel has a laundry room.” She smiled. Yes, it was a good thing. Even if it didn’t, she wouldn’t have changed a thing.

[yummy1210]

KN95 Mask Making Machine Wholesale

As the global demand for epidemic prevention materials continues to grow, Gosunm has launched a KN95 fully automatic mask production line direct supply plan! From now on, all corporate customers who order KN95 mask manufacturing machines can enjoy a limited-time factory price discount of 10% + free online technical training double benefits. The stock is tight, first come first served!

ps: Gosunm KN95 fully automatic production line real shot - modular design covers an area of ​​only 25 square meters, suitable for rapid layout of standard factory buildings.

Gosunm provides the following services

1. On-site technical service support: For problems that cannot be solved by remote service or failures that seriously affect the operation of the equipment, we will quickly send personnel to the user's site to solve the problem by the fastest means of transportation while providing remote online support 2. Customer Service Center Hotline: The service has opened a 7x24-hour technical service hotline and set up full-time on-duty personnel to accept and dispatch customer service requests and remote online support to solve various customer problems.

Core advantages:

✅ [Zero waiting for production, sufficient inventory] The fully automated production line has completed debugging and sealing, supports 48-hour nationwide express delivery, and overseas orders arrive at the port in 15 days, completely solving the problem of long equipment delivery cycle.

✅ [Intelligent control, 1 hour to get started] Equipped with a 7-inch industrial-grade touch screen, one-click switching of Chinese/English/Spanish interfaces, built-in AI self-checking system, ordinary workers can operate proficiently after 1 hour of training, and the average daily production capacity exceeds 80,000 pieces (calculated according to KN95 standards).

Exclusive patented technology improves competitiveness

Dual-die ultrasonic welding system: solves the pain point of ear strap falling off of traditional equipment, with a yield rate of up to 99.2% Dynamic tension control algorithm: automatically adjusts the raw material delivery speed and reduces meltblown cloth waste by 15%

Customized solution description

Not just selling equipment, but also being a productivity partner: ▷ Light entrepreneurship model: providing one-stop service of "equipment + raw materials", opening up the export compliance chain in 30 days ▷ Intelligent customized logo (optional): providing logo samples to meet customers' personalized sales requirements

This n95, ffp2, kn95 face mask making machine uses ultrasounic to produce finished N95 masks automatically. Including special optional function (Anti fog film welding and sponge nose wire welding, pringting) nose wire feeding, earloop welding, folding, forming and cutting, waste collected, the mask produce can be finished just in one machine. 

From materials to packed mask, all PLC control. Effectively reduce man-made pollution. It only requires one worker to operate.

Gosunm is able to offer all kinds of mask production line, can be equipped with inspection machine, packaging and boxing machine , and can also provide customization service such as add logo on the mask, install protect panel accordingly to meet the markets needs. 

[chinatradelink]

Model 4040 Carton Erector | Box Opening, Folding & Bottom Sealing Machine #automaticpackaging

Description: The Model 4040 Carton Erector is a fully automatic solution designed to enhance efficiency in box opening, folding, and bottom sealing. With advanced features and high-speed operation, it significantly reduces labor costs while improving productivity.

Overview:

Automatically completes carton opening, forming, and bottom sealing.

Operates at a speed of 8–12 cartons per minute, saving time and labor.

Simply load bundled cartons into the storage rack, and the machine handles suction, forming, flap folding, and bottom sealing automatically.

Key Features:

Production Line Integration: Designed to fit seamlessly into workflows with an attractive appearance and excellent craftsmanship.

Energy Efficiency: Low power and water consumption with easy operation, adjustment, and maintenance.

Safety Features: Includes overload protection and safety doors for secure operation.

Smart Alerts: Notifications for tape or carton shortages ensure uninterrupted operation.

Advanced Controls: PLC control with a touch panel provides precise operations for uniform boxes.

Smooth Handling: Side belt-driven mechanism ensures efficient box movement.

Technical Specifications:

Power Supply: 1 Phase 110V/220V/240V 50/60HZ

Packing Size Range: Max: L450 x W400 x H400 mm | Min: L250 x W180 x H150 mm

Tape Width: 2” or 3” (specified)

Working Table Height: 500 mm

Sealing Capacity: 8–12 cartons per minute

Dimensions: L1900 x W2050 x H1490 mm

Box Magazine Capacity: Holds 90–100 boxes depending on thickness

The Model 4040 is ideal for industries requiring high-speed packaging solutions with minimal manual intervention.

[smith4883]

The Comprehensive Guide to Cartoners: Revolutionizing the Packaging Industry

What Are Cartoners?

Cartoners are automated machines specifically engineered to handle the entire process of preparing cartons for packaging. They perform several critical tasks:

Carton Erection: Automatically forming flat carton blanks into fully structured boxes.

Filling: Precisely placing the product into the newly formed carton.

Sealing: Securing the carton with adhesives, tape, or other closing mechanisms.

The design and functionality of cartoners can vary significantly depending on the requirements of the production line, the type of product being packaged, and the desired speed of operation.

A Brief History and Evolution of Cartoners

Early Beginnings

Before the introduction of cartoners, packaging was predominantly a manual process. Workers would fold and glue cartons by hand—a method that, while effective on a small scale, could not meet the demands of modern mass production. As industries grew and consumer demand increased, the limitations of manual packaging became evident.

The Advent of Automation

The first wave of automation in packaging came in the mid-20th century. Early cartoning machines were developed to reduce the physical strain on workers and to increase throughput. These machines were basic by today’s standards, relying on mechanical parts and simple control systems. However, they laid the groundwork for future innovations in packaging technology.

Modern Cartoners

Today’s cartoners are marvels of engineering, incorporating advanced robotics, computer control systems, and sensor technologies. They are designed not only for speed but also for adaptability, with the ability to handle a wide variety of carton sizes and shapes. Modern cartoners have evolved to include features such as:

High-speed operation: Capable of handling thousands of cartons per hour.

Precision engineering: Ensuring that each carton is perfectly formed and sealed.

Customization: Easily adjusted settings to accommodate different products and packaging requirements.

Types of Cartoners

Cartoners come in various designs, each suited to specific applications. Understanding these differences is essential for selecting the right machine for your production line.

1. Wrap-Around Cartoners

Wrap-around cartoners are designed to wrap a carton around the product. This type is often used for irregularly shaped products where traditional top-load or bottom-load machines may not be efficient. The mechanism involves wrapping a preformed carton around the product and then sealing the seams.

2. Top-Load Cartoners

In top-load cartoners, the product is fed into an open carton from the top, and then the carton is closed and sealed. These machines are highly efficient for products that can be easily loaded from above. Their design typically includes a station for product insertion, followed by a folding and sealing station.

3. Bottom-Load Cartoners

Bottom-load cartoners work on a similar principle to top-load machines but differ in the way the product is loaded into the carton. The product is inserted from the bottom, making these machines ideal for items that are more conveniently or safely loaded from that direction.

4. Horizontal Cartoners

Horizontal cartoners are designed to work with cartons in a horizontal orientation. This type is particularly useful for packaging items such as snacks or small consumer goods that require a stable base for display and shipping.

How Do Cartoners Work?

The operation of a cartoner involves a series of well-orchestrated mechanical and electronic processes. Below is a step-by-step breakdown of how modern cartoners function:

1. Feeding the Carton Blank

The process begins with feeding a flat carton blank into the machine. These blanks are usually pre-cut and pre-glued, which simplifies the erection process.

2. Erecting the Carton

Once the blank is in place, the machine automatically folds and forms the blank into a three-dimensional carton. Sensors and guides ensure that the carton is perfectly aligned for the next stage of the process.

3. Insertion of the Product

After the carton is erected, the product is carefully inserted into it. This step is synchronized with the movement of the carton to ensure precise placement and to avoid damage to the product. In some systems, robotic arms or conveyor belts are used to manage this stage.

4. Sealing the Carton

The final step involves sealing the carton to secure the product inside. This can be done using various methods such as:

Adhesive sealing: Applying glue or another adhesive to the carton flaps.

Tape sealing: Using automated tape dispensers.

Mechanical locking: Some cartons are designed with interlocking flaps that do not require adhesives.

Integration with Other Packaging Equipment

Cartoners are often integrated into larger packaging lines. They work in conjunction with other machines such as labelers, checkweighers, and even palletizers—which handle the stacking of finished cartons—creating a seamless workflow that minimizes downtime and maximizes efficiency.

Benefits of Using Cartoners

Adopting cartoning technology offers numerous advantages for manufacturers and packaging companies. Here are some key benefits:

Increased Efficiency and Throughput

Automated cartoners can operate at high speeds, processing thousands of cartons per hour. This dramatic increase in speed compared to manual packaging leads to higher production rates and reduced bottlenecks.

Enhanced Product Protection

Cartoners ensure that each product is securely enclosed in its carton. This level of protection is particularly important for fragile or perishable items, reducing the risk of damage during transit and storage.

Improved Consistency and Quality Control

Automation eliminates the variability inherent in manual processes. Each carton is formed and sealed with the same level of precision, leading to consistent quality. Integrated sensors and control systems can detect errors in real-time, ensuring that any issues are promptly addressed.

Cost Savings

While the initial investment in cartoning technology can be significant, the long-term cost savings are substantial. Reduced labor costs, lower error rates, and higher throughput all contribute to a better return on investment. Additionally, automated systems reduce waste by minimizing product damage and mispackaging.

Adaptability and Scalability

Modern cartoners are designed to be adaptable to a wide range of product types and carton sizes. As production needs change, these machines can be reconfigured or upgraded without requiring a complete overhaul of the packaging line.

Enhanced Safety

Automation in packaging reduces the need for manual labor in potentially hazardous environments. This not only improves worker safety but also ensures that operations can continue smoothly even during labor shortages or periods of high demand.

Technological Advancements in Cartoning

The evolution of cartoners is closely linked to advancements in technology. Some of the most significant technological trends shaping modern cartoning machines include:

Robotics and Automation

The integration of robotic arms and automated handling systems has greatly improved the precision and speed of cartoners. These robotic systems are capable of handling delicate products with minimal risk of damage, and they can be programmed to adapt to different packaging scenarios.

Sensor Technology

Modern cartoners are equipped with a range of sensors that monitor the packaging process in real-time. These sensors detect misalignments, missing cartons, or improperly sealed packages, allowing for immediate corrective action. This not only improves quality control but also reduces downtime.

Computer-Controlled Systems

Advances in computer control systems have allowed for more sophisticated programming and integration of cartoning machines into broader manufacturing systems. Operators can monitor and adjust the process via user-friendly interfaces, and data from the cartoning process can be analyzed to optimize performance.

Industry 4.0 and the Internet of Things (IoT)

The principles of Industry 4.0 are increasingly being applied to cartoning technology. IoT-enabled cartoners can communicate with other machines on the production line, share data, and even predict maintenance needs through machine learning algorithms. This integration leads to smarter, more efficient packaging lines and reduces the risk of unexpected downtime.

Energy Efficiency and Sustainability

In an era where sustainability is a top priority, modern cartoners are designed with energy efficiency in mind. Advances in motor technology and automated controls have reduced the energy consumption of these machines, contributing to greener manufacturing processes. Additionally, precision in packaging reduces waste, both in terms of materials and product loss.

Integration into the Modern Packaging Line

Cartoners are rarely used in isolation. They are an integral part of a larger packaging ecosystem that includes various machines and processes working in harmony. Here’s how they fit into the bigger picture:

Complementary Equipment

Labeling Machines: After a product is cartoned, labeling machines ensure that each carton carries the correct product information, barcodes, and branding.

Checkweighers: These devices verify that the correct amount of product has been packaged, ensuring quality control and consistency.

Automated Sorting and Conveyance: Conveyors and sortation systems are often synchronized with cartoners to ensure that products move efficiently from one stage of the production process to the next.

System Integration and Automation

Modern production lines rely heavily on system integration. Cartoners, as part of these integrated systems, communicate with other machines to optimize the entire packaging process. For example, data from sensors on a cartoner might trigger adjustments in a filling machine, ensuring that each product is packaged correctly. This level of coordination is essential for maintaining high throughput and minimal downtime.

Customization for Diverse Industries

Different industries have varying packaging needs. Whether it’s food and beverage, pharmaceuticals, consumer goods, or electronics, cartoners can be customized to meet specific industry standards. The flexibility of these machines makes them suitable for a wide range of applications, allowing manufacturers to maintain a competitive edge in a global market.

Future Trends and Innovations

As technology continues to evolve, so too will the capabilities of cartoners. Several emerging trends are set to shape the future of this essential packaging technology:

Increased Use of Artificial Intelligence (AI)

AI and machine learning are beginning to play a significant role in optimizing packaging processes. By analyzing data from the production line, AI systems can predict maintenance needs, identify bottlenecks, and even suggest improvements in the cartoning process. This predictive maintenance can minimize downtime and extend the lifespan of the machinery.

Greater Connectivity and Real-Time Monitoring

The future of cartoners lies in enhanced connectivity. With IoT integration, every aspect of the cartoning process can be monitored in real-time. Operators will have access to detailed analytics, allowing them to make informed decisions quickly. This connectivity also paves the way for remote diagnostics and troubleshooting, reducing the need for on-site maintenance.

Enhanced Flexibility and Quick Changeovers

The market demands quick adaptations to new products and packaging formats. Future cartoners are expected to offer even greater flexibility, with faster changeover times and the ability to switch between different packaging formats with minimal downtime. This agility will be essential for companies looking to stay competitive in rapidly evolving markets.

Sustainability and Eco-Friendly Designs

Sustainability is no longer optional in today’s manufacturing environment. Future innovations in cartoning technology will likely focus on reducing energy consumption and minimizing waste. From energy-efficient motors to biodegradable materials for carton blanks, the focus will be on creating environmentally responsible packaging solutions without compromising efficiency.

Challenges and Considerations

While the benefits of cartoners are clear, companies considering the implementation of these machines must also address several challenges:

Initial Investment Costs

The upfront cost of acquiring and integrating a modern cartoning machine can be significant. However, it is important to weigh these costs against the long-term savings in labor, waste reduction, and increased productivity. Many companies find that the return on investment justifies the initial expenditure.

Maintenance and Downtime

Like any sophisticated machinery, cartoners require regular maintenance to operate at peak efficiency. Unplanned downtime can disrupt production schedules, so a robust maintenance plan and access to technical support are crucial. Predictive maintenance, powered by AI and sensor data, is emerging as a key strategy to mitigate this risk.

Customization and Flexibility

Not all cartoners are created equal, and choosing the right model for a specific application is critical. Companies must carefully assess their packaging needs, product types, and production volumes to select a cartoner that offers the necessary flexibility and functionality. Custom-built solutions, while potentially more expensive, may be the best option for highly specialized production lines.

Integration with Existing Systems

Integrating a new cartoner into an existing production line can be complex. It requires careful planning to ensure that all machines operate in synchrony. The success of this integration often depends on the compatibility of new technologies with legacy systems, as well as the training provided to operators and maintenance staff.

Conclusion

 palletizers have undeniably transformed the packaging industry. From their early mechanical designs to today’s sophisticated, AI-driven machines, they have increased efficiency, improved product safety, and contributed significantly to cost savings and quality control. As the market continues to evolve, the integration of advanced technologies such as AI, IoT, and robotics will further enhance the capabilities of cartoners, ensuring that they remain at the forefront of packaging innovation.

[viktorviolettaenterprises]

🇩🇪 German Maschinenpistole 5/ MP5 🇩🇪

Special Thanks To @mimoto-sims For Claire’s Outfit... Such A Magnificent Work :)

@ts4-poses @ts4-poses-masterlist

DOWNLOAD!!!!!

One of the masterpiece in the machine pistol's realm. It's known by it's simplicity, accuracy and relative reasonable price. Designed in H&K as a SMG variant of G3 Rifle and rolled out in 1966. Until today, it's still in the armory of 70 countries around the world, not including the militias which utilises this babies. And now we're gladly bring it tio The Sims 4 format

Variants:

1.Standard Model

H&K MP5A4 & MP5A5 The MP5A4 (fixed stock) and MP5A5 (sliding stock) models, which were introduced in 1974, are available with four-position trigger groups. The pistol grips are straight, lacking the contoured grip and thumb groove of the MP5A1, MP5A2, and MP5A3. The selector lever stops are marked with bullet pictograms rather than letters or numbers (each symbol represents the number of bullets that will be fired when the trigger is pulled and held rearward with a full magazine inserted in the weapon) and are fully ambidextrous (the selector lever is present on each side of the trigger housing). The additional setting of the fire selector, one place before the fully automatic setting, enables a two or three-shot burst firing mode.  the A5 Model Got 2 Stage Of Stock (Retracted and Extended) For Extreme Realism

H&K MP5/10 In 1992, Heckler & Koch introduced the MP5/10 (chambered in 10mm Auto) .which are based on the MP5A4 and MP5A5. These weapons were assembled in fixed and retractable stock configurations (without a separate designation) and are fed from translucent 30-round polymer box magazines. These weapons include a bolt hold-open device, which captures the bolt group in its rear position after expending the last cartridge from the magazine. The bolt is then released by pressing a lever positioned on the left side of the receiver. Both weapons use a barrel with 6 right-hand grooves and a 380 mm (1:15 in) twist rate, and like the MP5-N, both have a 3-lugged muzzle device and a tritium-illuminated front sight aiming dot.

2.Sub Compact Model

H&K MP5K

In 1976, a shortened submachine gun version of the MP5A2 was introduced; the MP5K (K from the German word Kurz = "short") was designed for close quarters battle use by clandestine operations and special services. The MP5K does not have a shoulder stock (the receiver end was covered with a flat end cap, featuring a buffer on the inside and a sling loop on the outside), and the bolt and receiver were shortened at the rear. The resultant lighter bolt led to a higher rate of fire than the standard MP5. The barrel, cocking handle and its cover were shortened and a vertical foregrip was used to replace the standard handguard. The barrel ends at the base of the front sight, which prevents the use of any sort of muzzle device. In 1991, a further variant of the MP5K was developed, designated the MP5K-PDW (PDW—Personal Defense Weapon) that retained the compact dimensions of the MP5K but restored the fire handling characteristics of the full-size MP5A2. The MP5K-PDW uses a side-folding synthetic shoulder stock (made by the U.S. company Choate Machine and Tool), a "Navy" trigger group, a front sight post with a built-in tritium insert and a slightly lengthened threaded, three-lug barrel (analogous to the MP5-N). The stock can be removed and replaced with a receiver endplate; a rotary drum with apertures from the MP5A2 can also be used.

3.Sub Sonic Model

H&K MP5SD5 & H&K MP5SD6

In 1974, H&K initiated design work on a sound-suppressed variant of the MP5, designated the MP5SD (SD—Schalldämpfer, German for "sound suppressor"), which features an integral but detachable aluminium sound suppressor and a lightweight bolt. The weapon's 146 mm (5.7 in) barrel has 30 2.5 mm (0.1 in) ports drilled forward of the chamber through which escaping gases are diverted to the surrounding sealed tubular casing that is screwed onto threading on the barrel's external surface just prior to the ported segment. The suppressor itself is divided into two stages; the initial segment surrounding the ported barrel serves as an expansion chamber for the propellant gases, reducing gas pressure to slow down the acceleration of the projectile. The second, decompression stage occupies the remaining length of the suppressor tube and contains a stamped metal helix separator with several compartments which increase the gas volume and decrease its temperature, deflecting the gases as they exit the muzzle, so muffling the exit report. The bullet leaves the muzzle at subsonic velocity, so it does not generate a sonic shock wave in flight. As a result of reducing the barrel's length and venting propellant gases into the suppressor, the bullet's muzzle velocity was lowered anywhere from 16% to 26% (depending on the ammunition used) while maintaining the weapon's automation and reliability. The weapon was designed to be used with standard supersonic ammunition with the suppressor on at all times. The MP5SD is produced exclusively by H&K in several versions: the MP5SD1 and MP5SD4 (both have a receiver end cap instead of a buttstock), MP5SD2 and MP5SD5 (equipped with a fixed synthetic buttstock) and the MP5SD3 and MP5SD6 (fitted with a collapsible metal stock). The MP5SD1, MP5SD2 and MP5SD3 use a standard 'SEF' trigger group (from the MP5A2 and MP5A3), while the MP5SD4, MP5SD5, and MP5SD6 use the 'Navy' trigger group—a trigger module with a mechanically limited 3-round burst mode and ambidextrous selector controls (from the MP5A4 and MP5A5). A suppressed version was produced for the U.S. Navy—designated the MP5SD-N, which is a version of the MP5SD3 with a retractable metal stock, front sight post with tritium-illuminated dot and a stainless steel suppressor. This model has a modified cocking handle support to account for the slightly larger outside diameter of the suppressor. The design of the suppressor allows the weapon to be fired with water inside, should water enter the device during operation in or near water.

[palaceofpassion]

When the Cows Come Home.

Patreon Reward!  I suppose I should start adding more non ask stuff cause ya know, everything died! 

BRRRR-`

SLAM

Jaune’s hand hit the alarm clock before it even had the chance to really get going, his eyes snapping open and his body jumping straight off the bed.  “Good morning!”  He rose with a mighty shout, causing the empty home around him to tremble with his mighty yell.  A smile slapped across his face as he scurried forward, his body and mind ready for the day to come.  A quick dash to the shower, half an hour later, and he was ready to go and hit the day with all his might.  

“Ah!  Nothing quite like a hot shower in the morning to get ready.”  And, as he headed downstairs, his mind ignoring the empty echo of his footsteps.  “Time to get started.”  Dressed head to toe in denim, boots tightly bound to his feet, and a large hat to block out the sun's rays he knew that today was going to be a good day.  

And like every day, this was how Jaune Arc started his mornings, before the sun began to rise he was out and about.  Now one may wonder, what was the young Arc doing up so early in the day?  Well the answer was simple, he had a responsibility, and he would be darned if he didn’t follow through with it.  Even if he was the last remaining Arc holding down the fort he would continue what his ancestors started.  

With one quick turn back to his home he allowed himself a small frown, he’d be lying to say he didn’t MISS his family… oh wait no!  It wasn't like they were dead or anything.  They’d all just wanted something else in their lives, and well his parents wanted to retire and his sisters just moved on.  But, as he made his way towards the barn… he realized he’d never be able to leave this place.  After all, if he did leave, who would take care of the girls?  THUD  The doors swung open as he took a step into the lovely stable.  “G’morning girls.”   And he smiled, brightly as he was met with the pleasant and waiting smiles of three gorgeous heifers.  

“Morning Jaune!”  

May was just… he shuddered as he eyed the gorgeously tanned heifer, her massive watermelon sized breasts swayed back and forth as she excitedly beckoned him.  She’d been so shy when he’d gotten her, and well look at her now!  He couldn’t help but feel proud.

“Good Morning.”

Ciel was something else indeed, massive swells jiggled freely as she tried to hide her enthusiasm for the coming activities.  Even if her breasts were smaller than May, she made up with the most… delectable ass in existence.  

TAP TAP TAP

“Neo!  Watch your language!”  

The last of his girls, a short heifer, bound with a large chest, wide hips, and large ass.  Neo had lost the ability to speak long before he’d picked her up and saved her from a life as breeding stock.  While she’d softened, she HAD QUITE the mouth on her.  

“Alright then…”  He shook his head as the shorter girl waved him off, her eyes flashing dangerously as she gave a quick snap at her cow printed bikini.  A smile showed that she was ready and waiting for them to get started, though from the very scent wafting off of the three, he could tell they were all ready.  And… as he remembered what his sisters had told him long ago, a well bred cow is a well milked cow.  

So-  “Alright, Neo, you’re up first.”  

TAP TAP!

He chuckled to himself as he unhooked her fenced zone letting the tiny troublemaker out.  She quickly made her way over to the large pumping machine, something that had cost him a PRETTY penny.  But it had made his life so much easier, after all just like his sisters had said again!  Or at least what Saph had said, “Remember, breeding your heifers while they’re being milked is the best way to get the highest quality milk.”  

If he was being honest, he didn’t believe her but… as Neo got herself ready, propping herself onto the specially cow shaped bed, letting her feet rest at the tail ends and splitting her legs apart.  He just couldn’t resist, now could he?  Especially not as his eyes followed the shimmering trail running down her inner thighs, leading to her moist core, the g string of her bikini wedged solidly between her plump vulvas.

“Well then…”  

He hastily prepared the pumping machine, and watched as the suction began to work its magic.  Her thick round nipples began to tense inside and her face contorted into slight pleasure.  “Time to get started.”  Thump.  His pants hit the ground as he positioned himself between her thighs, and as his hands touched down upon her legs he could feel her practically vibrate in anticipation.  

He of course was a gentleman, and knew not to keep a lady waiting.  So without further adieu he pressed the meaty head of his cock against her already slippery slit and slid it straight through.  Her body tensed for a moment as he pushed against her cervix, a bulge forming against her belly as he found himself grinding into her uterus pushing her organs up just a tad bit. 

Her smaller body had always made it easy for him to see his handy work, and as he began to shift his hips, pulling back as the bulge inside of her started to slip away, he found himself simply enticed to do it again.  

Hands firmly grasped onto her once more, his fingers digging into her boney hips as he suddenly slammed back.  Her back arched and her toes curled as he let himself thud inside  of her once more.  

He could see her hands grasp at her hair as she tried to scream out in pleasure.  A smirk crossed his face as he pulled back once more and then let loose another powerful smack.  Fleshy bits meet, and their bodies collide.  SMACK SMACK SMACK 

His body began to move on its own as her lithe form tightened around him.  Her moist cavity grasped upon his cock, each ridgey lump squeezed upon his veiny weighty cock.  And everytime he tried to pull out she would only tighten more, her pussy tugging along with his member as she did so.  

Their bodies continued to meet in pleasure until the pumping finally came to an end.  And, as a reward for her good deeds he let loose a torrent of white inside of her.  Her back arching once more and her nails grasping onto the side of the bed.  Her eyes rolled back as she lost herself to a powerful orgasm, allowing her body to fall into a nice little rest as he did so.  

For what it was worth, “You lasted longer than usual.”  Jaune took note of the time, a clock installed onto the wall above, an hour had passed.  “Okay, good thing I got stamina.”  

Pulling his cock out of her with a POP, what followed was a flooding rush of thick white goo spreading onto the soil beneath them.

Not even wasting time, Ciel came up.  Despite being the most ‘mature’ of the trio, she was always excited, internally, for a good ol fashion milking fuck.  

“Excuse me, I do believe it is my turn.”  

Jaune smiled, she pretended to be calm on the outside, but he could see the way her hips swayed, her big juicy ass wobbling back and forth as she did so.  “Of course.”  

He quickly pulled Neo off the machine, resting her to the side on a nice stack of hay.  

“Well then… get on.”  

Ciel shook her head, “I would rather…”  She turned back to the machine and made her way over.  Finding a medium height branch off the bedding she bent over.  “This will suffice.”  

Once more Jaune simply rolled his eyes, but as her big bare ass swayed back and forth, the sun's light glistening off the juicy posterior, he couldn’t resist.  Wrapping around he set her up, this time a soft moan escaped her lips.  “OooOh~”  

Jaune smiled, the normally stern girl becoming soft as dough under his touch.  “Good girl.”  His hand was already in motion before his mind even formulated his next plan.  SMACK The base of his palm met her massive mounds of soft flesh.  Ciel shivered, her body bucking at the point of impact, her plump posterior rippling outwards.  

“Ahng~”  Her voice echoed as she felt the pressure of his cock squeeze against her soft sex.  A terrible tremble tremored through her form as he pushed inside of her.  Her teeth bit down upon her lip as she squeezed her eyes shut.  His thick cock punching in and out of her tightly wound body always did THINGS to her.  

The orderly woman began to melt, her form finally relaxing as she fell to the rhythmic thrusts of her beloved master.  SMACK SMACk SMACK.

Their bodies pressed together, his hands tightly squeezing upon her soft and supple flesh.  His hips smacked and rolled against her bottom, cock twitching and plucking at her precious core.  

Ciel, for all her bluster, gave in rather quickly.  Her body seizing as small shakes began to spread from her womb.  Her body shivered and jolted, her muscles tightened and her mind ran blank as he began to fill her with his own precious milk.  Her womb began to fill, thick globs of seed poured inside of her ballooning her belly with miraculous speed.  

And just like with Neo, Jaune pulled out, allowing the girl to fall silently into the bedding.  

“Phew~  That’s a good girl.”  His fingers ran through her rump, squeezing and sinking into the soft fleshy folds.  “Now then.”  

Before he even had the chance to fully turn around he was suddenly tackled to the ground.  Straddle upon him now sat the sex crazed May.  Her gaze consumed with lust, her pupils having completely shifted into shaking hearts.  “Well now.”

He wasn’t surprised of course, well not anymore at least.  “Me! Me! Me!”  

May couldn’t help herself, the Barn was practically radiating with thick sexual pheromones and she had waited SO VERY LONG!

“Milk me!  FUCK ME!”  

Jaune smiled, though that smile turned into a contorted screw of pleasure as she propped herself up and down on his cock, taking full control of the situation.  The massively busty cowgirl couldn’t wait any longer, her body already on automatic as she began to bounce herself up and down his massive shaft.  

And in it went, slicked with thick layers of cum and love juices he was able to slide right inside of her without a problem.  His member pushed all the way down her depths punching right against her cervix and pushing her inner wall up and against the other side of her uterus.  

So she screamed with all her might, “YES YES YES!”  She wanted more, her body already acting on its own as she bounced herself up and down, the sound of her wide ass smacking against his hips, the pendulum swing of his big full balls bouncing up to smack her bottom echoing from around them.

She didn’t even care about being milked at this point, her massive tits swayed and flopped up and down as she unrelentingly pushed herself further down upon him.  She loved the way he made her feel, his cock stretching her insides, rupturing against her inner membranes and slamming against her needy cavern.  

The more she pushed off of him, the harder her breasts flung.  Thick droplets of pure white began to seep from her nipples, with every thud against her chest she began to leak more and more of her precious white nectar.  

Jaune wasn’t about to let it go to waste however, thinking quickly he reached out, spearing his hands upwards and folding them into her soft and squishy sacks of fat.  His digits dug into her flesh, squeezing and massaging at the fatty milk jugs.  Pulling his strength he lunged forward, knocking May onto her back as he started to thrust.  “YEEESSSSH!”  She squealed in joy as he bit down upon her plump nubs, his lips tugging and suckling upon the delicious teets.  

He was going to lose a bit of profit today, but getting the chance to drink right from the source was ALWAYS a pleasure.  

His body reacting to the new found flavors began to plunge further into his orgasm.  Heifer milk had a ‘special’ effect to it, it heightened sexual appetite, increased sex drive, and of course.  “YES CUM INSIDE ME!”  

It helped stimulate sexual orgasms!  

And so he did, his cock twitching, pulsing, and finally convulsing inside of her released an unrelenting torrent of semen.  His thick cum began to flush forward, as her hungry ovaries did their best to consume the newly invading substance in hopes of making room for more.

And as he pinned her to the ground, her body unable to push back even if she wanted to, he found himself surrounded by his other precious girls.  A smile crossed his face as he released May’s soaping tit, a rancher’s job was never done.

[oasislake76]

I’m finally getting around to organizing just what the Admin Academy is and what they stand for in like... almost all my Mcyt Au’s.

First we have the ‘home base’ of the four, Admin Academy of Leadership. Almost all A-class, I’ll explain what that means a little later, server Admins and Godlings graduate from here. Almost every big server owner and all the higher Cabinet had graduated from here. It’s the OG school and it’s very old. Old styled castle buildings, gardens that have been thriving for millennia, very Harry Potter themed. Their the strictest with uniforms, all Classes have different colors and embroidered letters on one side of their chest. Their the only school with all student dormitory but instead of separating by class their separated by graduation year not gender mixed. Unlike the classrooms and the exterior of the school the dormitory is kind of like a fancy frat house in a sense. It’s the only spot for kids to drink and smoke weed and King Sparklez, the main dormitory officer and the one that lives with the kids for the most part, doesn’t care as long as it doesn’t stink up the place or cause problems with roommates. He even indulges with the older kids when their legally allowed to drink, which also allows him to keep a close eye to the younger students to make sure they don’t consume to much under his direct care.

The second us Admin Academy of Safety. Their a little less strict on the outfit, no student wears skirts durning school hours as they are practicing Safety, maneuver and demos with big sharp objects. Most B-class students notoriously graduate from here but they have been seeing a surge of C-class students. They have dorm rooms but only for the older classes, year 4 through 8, to easily transitioning into living on their own and not with parents/guardians. Their much more of the calmer Admins and seem even more stricter then the Leadership ones. Always being joked about having a stick up their butts but they all till love them as they play a big role by keeping all severs up to date and helping Players with glitches before the true server Admins can help. Their grounds are very much still Harry Potter themed but they have obvious updates like automatic doors, ramps, and high end security cameras around the stone buildings.

Their sister school, made just a few months apart, Admin Academy of Innovation is much on the looser side of the spectrum of strictness. Allowing students to fully view what their world is and reflect it through outfits and belongings. Most of Innovation Admins tend to flock towards building SMP’s, artistic SMP’s, or fairy tail kind of SMP’s. Letting their creative juices flowing and helping creating ideas for plugin’s and Mods making almost all plugin’s and mods come from this Academy rather then the other three. They offer dormitory for all Year’s and they seem to continue having an influx of younger Admins who seem to not want to go home when summer approaches and the year ends. This Academy is very not traditionalist in its decore. All the walls are painted a different shade so all the details blend together to make this rainbow shade, like a rainbow cloud or something. Lockers are scattered and depending on the size will easily describe what year someone is in. There’s still old buildings like the ‘park’ grounds where all the fruit Notch is testing, before bringing it in as a realm wide update if he likes them enough, is growing.

Last but certainly not least is the last, Admin Academy of Coding. Unlike the other three who generally set their skill sets across the board as much as they can, Coding Academy is prepared to ‘keep the code running’ which means keeping all the public and private worlds and Servers safe from corruption and or folding in on itself. They have access to most worlds, some are strictly watched over by the Admin Cabinet only, cods and are constantly keeping eyes out for stuff like Virus demons or any of Herobrine’s losses monsters he’d created while possessed. They don’t keep dormitories because it forces all the students to go home, shower, get some actual fucking sleep, and socialize outside of teachers and other students. Their building is very high tech with multiple elevators instead of stairs, water fountains, vending machines, also a fucking coffee bar.

Now this is how the ranking goes. There’s A-class, B-class, C-class, and D-class. They all mean very different things in all of the Academies.

Usually the difference is between Leadership and Safety against Innovation and Coding. While A-class to the first two school means that their the best Admins. The best grades, attendance, school social life, just the best of the fucking best on the field. A-class is literally just a rank you gain once you hit a certain Year. It doesn’t matter how good you are or if you’re absolutely dog shit, you’ll get the grade.

D-classes are generally just “hey you’re new to all of this. This is your class. It’ll change over time, have fun.”

B-class and C-classes are of course the middle grounds. B-classes for Innovation is basically their A-classes students who work great but still need to be taught on some subjects. While C-class Safety students will most likely be drafted as what older Admins call as ‘helper Admins’. They help keep larger populated Servers safe and keep the code of safety contact always up to date.

So Dream could refer to himself as “I’m Dream Adams. Graduated as an A-class Admin from the Academy of Leadership, my position in my class is A-1, and I’m the main Admin of the DreamSMP.” Or “I’m Philza Craft. I did not graduate from any Admin Academy but, compared to the skill set against the Cabinet and the Emperors, I am D-class with a position of D-15. I am the secondary Admin of the DreamSMP.” Or even “I’m Illumina. Graduated as an B-class Admin from the Academy of Innovation, my position in my class is B-5. I hold no ownership over a server but I do have open worlds.”

This generally lets other Admins your general skill set, how good you are, and where to put you if you offer your help in some case. Also a great conversation starter if you’re meeting a lot of people you don’t know.

The numbers work in Home Room classes, not graduation years like the letters. So there could be multiple A-3’s or D-17’s, it just depends on how many Home Room teachers there were for that year. This is all literally just a four way spectrum that Admins can quickly place each other in. It’s confusing to a lot of players, don’t even try and explain it to a villager, but its a system that works and have been implemented for years.

[rebelwrites]

One More Chance - Part Three

Clay Spenser x Reader

Part One // Part Two

Join The Group Chat Here - If You Want Tagging Manually Let Me Know 🖤

Clay Spenser Masterlist

This Months Writing

Life had changed over the last year, after six months of debating whether you could be around Clay again you bit the bullet and moved back home, you missed your brother and the rest of your family so you moved in with Jase whilst you found yourself another job and got on your feet.

The night you turned up at the bulkhead with your suitcase in tow you got tackled to the ground when everyone realised you were coming home, and just as expected the night ended up with you finishing a bottle of whiskey on your own, and because you ended up so drunk you may have kissed Clay when you went outside for a smoke. That was the kiss that set things in motion and for the last six months you had been sneaking around, not letting anyone know you were seeing him again.

Laying in bed with your head on Clay’s chest, you ram your fingers down his chest, getting lost in the sound of his heart beat.

“I should really be heading back” you whispered looking up at Clay, “As much as I don’t want to, it’s getting late and I know soon Jase will put a ping out on my phone”

“I just wished we didn’t have to sneak around” he whispered “But I understand why, Jase isn’t going to be happy to know we are back together after last time”

“Hey” you said propping yourself up on your elbow. “That’s in the past now baby, we were both young and maybe a bit stupid, we are completely different people to who we were but we talked things through and we are good now, so no more bringing up the past”

“Jase isn’t going to see it that way though” he said softly.

“You leave Jase to me” you laughed, placing a soft kiss on his shoulder “Now I have ten minutes before I need to leave and I don’t know when I will be able to come over again this week so I need more cuddles”

Nothing could wipe the smile off your face as you closed the door as quietly as you could, the last thing you needed was to disturb your brother. But the moment you locked the door, placing your keys on the side and locked your trainers off the living room light turned on making you jump.

“Fuck you gotta stop doing that” you breathed placing your heart over your chest as you spun around to see Jase sitting on the sofa with his arms folded over his chest.

“Where have you been?” He asked standing up.

“Jheeze you sound like dad” you laughed leaning against the door frame “and just out with a friend”

“That’s the third time this week you have come in late” Jase stated.

“Can’t I have friends now big bro” you smirked.

“There’s a guy, isn't there?”

“Definitely sound like dad now Jase” you laughed “And even if there was I wouldn’t be telling you now would I? Now can I go to bed now or you got some more questions you wanna ask me?”

“Just looking out for you sis” Jason said pulling you into a hug. “That’s all”

“I’m a big girl now Jase” you laughed “I will see you in the morning”

Before he could say anything else you ran up to your room, shit was starting to get harder to hide, you didn’t know how everyone would react to finding out you and Clay got back together, especially Jase and Ray, they knew the heartache you went through but this time was different. You both sat down like adults, talked things through and got everything out in the open.

You couldn’t lie, you were the happiest you had been in years, no matter who you dated after Clay you always found yourself comparing them to him no matter how hard you tried not to. Climbing into bed you left Clay’s hoodie on, thank god Jase didn’t click onto who the hoodie belonged to. Letting the smell of his aftershave be what you needed to fall asleep.

The sound of the guys laughing woke you up, it was too damn early for them to be this loud. Rolling out of bed you quickly pulled the hoodie off getting changed into a long sleeve shirt and a pair of pyjama shorts before you headed downstairs.

“Morning assholes” you grumbled as you headed straight for the coffee machine. “It is far too early for you to be this loud”

“Maybe if you didn’t get back home at god knows what time after sneaking around with this friend then you wouldn’t be so tired” Jase smirked.

“Like I said last night you aren’t my dad” you said pulling your phone out to see a text off Clay making you smile at your phone as you quickly texted back.

“Oh there’s definitely a guy” Jase stated “You never smile at your phone”

“Oh shit” Ray laughed “Come on then Baby Hayes, who is the unlucky lad”

“Can’t a girl have a private life?” You sighed running your hand through your hair.

“Nope” Sonny smirked. “So come on it all makes sense now, you are more smiley recently, always texting and always bailing on us”

“Yeah come on Y/N tell us” Clay smirked, leaning his head on his fists. “We are all dying to know”

“Do you know what I’m going back to bed” you laughed grabbing your coffee, “I don’t need interrogating first thing in the morning”

Once you had left the kitchen Sonny turned to Clay.“Right whilst we are on the subject of people being more smiley, what’s new with you brother” Sonny smirked.

“Can’t I just be happy?” Clay asked, feeling all eyes on him. Feeling his phone buzz in his pocket, pulling his phone out he saw a text from you making him automatically smile.

“See there it is again, that smile” Sonny said slamming his hand on the counter.

“And with that I’m out” Clay laughed slipping his phone in his pocket to head out to meet you at the small little coffee shop you had found.

After about 15 minutes you came running down the stairs, running into the kitchen grabbing your car keys off the counter.

“Thought you were going back to bed?” Jase asked, raising his brow with you being fully dressed.

“Change of plans” you laughed “I’m going out and no I don’t know when I will be back” Making your way around the guys giving them a hug “Where did Clay go?” You asked, keeping up appearances.

“Dunno, he got a text and then dipped” Jase shrugged.

“His loss he missed out on my awesome hugs” you laughed “Right losers I will catch you later.”

The moment the door slammed close, Jase ran his hand over his face. Things just completely clicked into place, and everything made sense.

“Wait you don’t think?” Ray asked.

“That they are back together?” Jase sighed “Everything makes sense now, the nights that Y/N gets home late are the same nights Clay bails on us, and even when they are in the same room they are both always on their phones texting”

“Did anyone notice that she was wearing Clay’s hoodie?” Sonny asked.

“I’m going to fucking kill her and him” Jase snapped. “Didn’t she learn from the heartache?”

“What’s the plan?” Ray asked.

“I’m going to get the truth out of her” Jase nodded “And it’s happening tomorrow, I want to make sure that I’m not putting two and two together and getting five, then I am going to have a little talk with Clay”

@chibsytelford @mrsmarvelous1995 @supervalcsi @talicat713 @disasterfandoms @bravo-four-seal-team @jasonbabymama @jayhalsteadfan-2417 @lotsoflovefromlea @seik-o @ohitsnicolexo @velvetcardiganbucky @phoenixhalliwell @pancakeisreading @itsonautopilot @pinkrockstar19

[bellygunnr]

Checksum

[Previously...] [Next]

Chapter 2: Profit Margins

PILOT ORVILLE FREEBORN MCS JAMES MACALLAN // TITAN BAY 4 EN ROUTE PLANET TYPHON, IMC-CONTROLLED SPACE

The simpod's indicator light winks green. Orville watches it, lulled slightly by the deep hum of the egg-shaped machine while his colleagues talked around him. They were clustered together, talking freely about the two men semi-unconscious in front of them, though he had long since lost the thread of conversation. He never paid much attention to gossip and he wasn't about to start now.

Besides, the rifleman wasn't that interesting. He seemed quiet and never looked anyone in the eye. What Lastimosa saw in the man, Orville didn't know. But Lastimosa had only told them what he was doing-- not why he was doing it.

The kid could be his son, for all he knew. At the end of the day, the lone notion of the kid simply became the Marauder Corps's worst-kept secret.

"Say, Freeborn," Shaver says, nudging his shoulder.

Orville starts, dragging his gaze away from the 'pod to focus on his mate, Crane. He raises an eyebrow.

"You think Anderson and Grenier are even alive by now?" Crane asks.

His tone is light and conversational. Orville hums, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"Sure, right? Why would they be dead?" Orville says.

He glances up at the crouched Titan behind them, BT-7274. It's focused intently on Captain Lastimosa, but he hasn't any doubt it's eavesdropping on them. Captain Cole has taken to opening and closing an electric lighter repeatedly, filling the space with anxious clicking.

"Apparently, the SRS outpost we had here went dark," Crane explains.

"So? That's just standard protocol. We've had ops like that more than once, Shaver," Orville says, gaining an edge to his voice.

"But this one just seems weird, y'know? Some backwater IMC planet, a mystery testing facility... Very hush-hush, I've heard."

"El-Tees Shaver and Freeborn," a deep, smooth, but still clearly synthesized voice erupts, "you are in violation of confidentiality codes regarding Oscar-Two-One-Seven."

Crane has the good sense to wince and Orville crosses his arms over his chest, rolling his eyes. For a second, he wanted to retort, but...

BT wasn't wrong. With Cole and the rifleman in the hangar, they really shouldn't be so loose-lipped.

"Sorry, BT," Orville says.

There's a pause as they both wait for a response from the Titan. Predictably, he says nothing, but the shutters in his optic suddenly twist, that blue pinpoint of an eye leveling on the 'pod. Orville, Crane, and Cole all turn their gazes to it, curious.

The green light was now blinking. It turns solid amber.

"They must be finished," Cole says.

BT-7274 draws itself to its full height with an abrupt scrape of metal. At the same time, the lights in the hangar stutter, plunging them in a half-realm darkness. Orville reaches for the pager at his belt, tapping the screen on, his chest already tight with alarm.

There's nothing on the pager. The lights flicker again.

"I thought they fixed this shit back at Harmony," Crane says.

Tai jerks to life with a start, the same instant the simpod beeps and pops its latch open. Orville turns to stare at a dazed Jack Cooper.

Alarms start blaring. Five pagers go off at once, shrill with the sound of a non-standard alert. The intercoms crackle, but it's not the ship's AI that speaks. It's the captain.

"All hands, abandon ship."

"Abandon-- but we haven't--?" Crane stammers, shocked. "What?"

"Get off your ass and go, pilot," Tai snaps. "Prepare for Titanfall, everyone. Rifleman--"

Orville hurries after Crane, where his Titan resides, already crouched and open for embarking. He jams his helmet on and flops into her palm.

He had a bad, bad feeling about this.

BT-7274 MCS JAMES MACALLAN // TITAN BAY 4 IN ORBIT PLANET TYPHON, IMC-CONTROLLED SPACE

The faux field BT-7274 finds itself in is reminiscent of the prairie surrounding much of the Militia's HQ back at Harmony. He takes it in cautiously, scanning the horizon for threats despite being fully cognizant of the simulated war fog obscuring the distance. A considerable distance away, Tai and the rifleman stand, both excited.

"That's my partner, BT. He's a Vanguard-class. Homegrown Militia technology... "

BT-7274 pushes himself upright.

"The first Titan chassis we designed ourselves. One we didn't have to steal from the IMC. Now, go ahead, Cooper. Call in your first Titan."

He flicks his gaze skyward to witness the sky ripple, a pixelated rift bubbling and expanding, spitting the under-rendered silhouette of a Titan-- a mere copy of himself-- to the ground, high-speed.

Before it can land, that rip in virtual reality explodes. The system error that rocks the simpod flashes in the corner of BT's own HUD. Quietly, he detaches  itself from the program.

Titan Bay 4 is in chaos. Pilots and ground crew run between his legs, shouting orders and clambering for their gear. BT-7274 checks his own inventory compulsively.

"They're killing us down there, rifleman. Trying to, anyway," Tai says.

SHIP AI UTAH to ALL UNITS: ABANDON SHIP. REPEAT, ABANDON SHIP.

BT-7274 splays his massive hand out flat for Tai to step onto, cockpit already open, obscuring its vision. It would take them fifteen seconds to return to their ejection stall. In a few ticks, he was pulling sensitive information from the ship's AI and the MacAllan's internal systems reports.

"We're going to see a new planet today, Cooper. Maybe even die on it. I'll see you down there, alright?"

Tai settles down with a grunt that's lost in the din. He shuts the hatch before BT can get to it, but pauses, allowing the neural link to wash through them both.

"Transferring controls to pilot," BT-7274 says. "You know I do not like it when you say that."

Tai chuckles. "But it's the truth, BT."

"Again, I ask-- do you want to die on these planets?"

The conversation keeps its nerves, so to speak, steady, as they move with haste to their stall. The platform dips beneath BT-7274's colossal weight, groaning in protest as it carries them into position.

"The 9th Militia Fleet has encountered a formidable screen of orbital defenses. Apparently, two of our own have already been lost," BT explains, summarizing the data he'd just pulled. "It seems our intel from Anderson was wrong."

The ship shakes violently.

UTAH to BT-7274: GET OUT OF THESE CHANNELS.

BT-7274 to UTAH: I will soon be out of effective range.

Odd, that it's now that Utah chooses to stop BT from looking where he shouldn't. He extracts himself from the MacAllan's diagnostics.

Tai and BT-7274 hunker down and lock their joints for impending Titanfall. The automatic ejection system rotates them outward, even as another hit jostles the mechanism. BT shutters his optic against rapidly strobing lights.

"Please wait," intones a modulated, cheery voice. "Titanfall in 10... 9... 8-- 8--"

The hydraulic frame holding BT-7274 and Tai in place shudders, then appears to fold in on itself, collapsing the floor and pushing its chassis through. Coordinates, speed, and other targeting information flies through BT-Tai's head, coalescing into a single point.

"Well, that wasn't normal," Tai says cheerfully.

"Planetside in 17 seconds," BT states, splashing a timer in a corner of their HUD. "Expect heavy IMC forces."

CLAY NGUYEN CICHLID SQUAD, 34th DIVISION JUNGLE CANYONS TYPHON, IMC-CONTROLLED SPACE

Clay wipes the sweat off his hands and compulsively triple checks his station, useless as it was in the deep, suffocating darkness of the jungle-like canyon. He could see nothing beyond the loose perimeter his team had setup, a consequence of the moonless nights that had been become the new norm, as well as the lightning storms that started around the same time. But who was keeping track, really?

Not him, surely.

"The Militia should just hurry up and get here," his partner grumbles.

"Why? So you can watch the drones do all the work?" Clay shoots at her.

It wasn't like they were going to be doing any fighting-- not against ground forces, anyway. But they'd been here for hours already, since the sun went down, and had nothing to show for it.

That was fine with him. His team? Not so much.

A bright flash illuminates the darkness. Clay looks around for the source before finding the good sense to look up-- where a web-like pattern had flared to life, suspended and writhing miles above their heads.

"The anti-ship cannons," Clay breathes. "Jesus."

"Look alive, Cichlid," crackles their radio. "There's reports of Militia drop pods starting to enter Typhon. Look out for ships, too-- it's quite the fireworks show above our heads."

Clay can sense his partner starting to move, but he's fixated on the sky above. Pinpricks of light were rapidly exploding into white streaks that descended into obscurity.

"Archer's showing potential targets," Suvia announces. "Would you get off your ass already?"

She shoves his shoulder. He pushes her back, momentarily rankled, but hurries to where the second rocket launcher stood. The tiny digital screen offered several potential targets, but no locks.

"I think it's just--" Clay starts to speak, but a colossal, bone-shaking boom drowns him out.

His teeth chatter, then his world turns over, as four distinct booms impact the earth. It's all he can do to keep his grip on the Archer despite the hail of rock and soil raining on his position.

"Suv, you okay?"

"I've got dirt in my mouth!"

When the initial spray clears, Clay sees fire, smoke, and the battered, conical frames of drop pods. He has to remind himself that they're Militia. The IMC war paint was from capture and thievery, but only two had met the ground levelly.

The other two had smashed against the jagged rocks hard enough to ignite something in their internals.

"Some of the pods hit the rocks," Clay says tightly. "Shit,  they're firing."

"They don't know we're here," Suvia says. "Here comes our birds."

He watches the Archer's targeting system instead of the evolving battlefield. He wasn't interested in the slaughter. He wasn't interested in facing a Titan, either, but...

The Archer chirps. Clay adjusts his grip on the launcher as it automatically adjusts itself on the tripod, tracking a blue blip in a sea of red and yellow.

"Titan," Clay calls. "Tone's good."

"Tone's good," Suvi repeats.

Clay searches the sky briefly. It's difficult to make head or tails of what he sees, but the enemy Titanfall attracts his gaze by triggering its Distortion Brakes. IMC technology again, a little voice reminds him.

The enemy Titan unfolds itself and sticks the landing gracefully.

Two Archer rockets zip toward it, trailing smoke.

[jefferoni-quotes]

hotter than this heatwave

Jamilton, 13,045 words

I am begging y'all, don't let this flop it took an ungodly amount of time and I am so proud of it. Full fic under the cut.

Also, leave feedback! I love reading what you guys thought of my writing!

Hamilton is hot.

There’s no other way to say it. He’s hot, miserably so. Even with the air conditioner full blast, and a fan directed straight into his face, he’s simply sweltering in the heat. His childish refusal to remove his shirt (even in the privacy of his own home) isn’t helping the sweat cease in their races down his back, and the base of his ponytail sticks to his neck. He grimaces every time he even tries to move, and thus he’s resided himself to the expanse of couch, positioned himself under an open window. But there’s no breeze, none reaching him anyway. If he lifts himself on his shaking arms, and peers out the window, he can see the trees aren’t swaying. The leaves bustle occasionally, but it’s far from the usual dance they perform. He can hear all too clearly conversations, chatter from those subjecting themselves to the summer heat. Perhaps Alexander is more a winter person, ever since he had moved to America he had been, after all, he saw snow, something he thought only existed in movies, and immediately fell in love with the season. Being able to choose if he was to be pleasantly warm, or surprisingly cold during winter was an experience. To have the option of curling up like a cat by the fire, or lying in snow, making snowmen and such. And Christmas dinners- Alexander could go on and on for hours about the wonders of the coldest time of year, alas Hercules would disagree, argue Summer was so much better. But Hercules is Irish, he has enough of the cold to last him a lifetime. Now Hamilton would bet the man wishes he had just held his tongue, because he must be suffering in the heat too. 

Fuck heatwaves, and fuck New York.

He thinks to himself as he throws a cushion across the room in frustration. It hits his air conditioning unit, and before he knows it the apartment is plunged into a volcano. The unit malfunctions, turns off and doesn’t turn back on, even when Alexander shoots up from his languid position and desperately tries to fix it. He beats his fist off the top with pent up frustration, sincerely hoping that magically it would be fixed. Alas, it was not, it gave one last spluttering attempt to turn on before dying with a not so graceful clank. What sin has he committed to be tortured in such a way? It feels as though Satan himself is clawing his way up from the circles of Hell, and has declared Alexander’s apartment his spawn point, where the Heaven vs Hell war will begin. Whatever war is about to commence, Alex is on Satan’s team, as God must have something against him to send this wave of heat his way.

“Fuck!” He yelled, kicking the machine and cursing even louder at the shock of pain coursing through his toes. He clutches his foot, hopping around his apartment like some hurt rabbit and hisses through clenched teeth. He finally jumps his way ungracefully back to his couch, collapsing onto it in one foul swoop. His legs involuntarily give out under him, and he’s almost thankful for it as he half considers stripping out of his shirt, aching for some kind of relief. He starts tugging on the hem of his shirt, mulling over the idea before pushing his own hands away in disgust. A respectable man always remains fully dressed for any occasion. What if a visitor were to come by? He would likely demand their exit from his home, but he would at least like to do so in style.

The rooms are quick to grow stuffy, uncomfortable and as though the walls are too close and getting closer. Suddenly removing any clothing is a thought long forgotten, quickly replaced by the innate desperation to escape the closed doors of his apartment. He scrambles for purchase on the arm of his couch before forcing his muscles to revive and motor him towards the exit. He passes by his kitchen, opens the fridge for a moment just to feel the coolness on his body. He closes the door before all his food defrosts, albeit reluctantly. He would stand there all day if he could. Leaving the kitchen, he examines how his kettle has evaporated of all remaining water inside. There goes Plan B of making iced coffee, or worse, iced tea. Who could subject themselves to the bath water like clutches of cold tea? Disgusting.

He doesn’t stop to grab sunscreen, doesn’t consider sunburn a thing as he grabs his keys and shoves them in the pocket of his ratty cargo shorts. He pushes his feet into sandals, Birkenstocks, brown ones. He half contemplated putting socks on with his sandals, and automatically laughs at how much that would irritate Jefferson if he just so happened to run into him. The man is obsessed with his looks, conceited and vain in every way. Alexander wouldn’t be surprised if the man carries a pocket mirror on him, just to examine his appearance and remind himself of how goddamn gorgeous he is. Because he is gorgeous. Alexander is stubborn, not blind, and even he can admit the things he would give up for a fling with the man. His pride would never allow him to plead Jefferson for a one night stand however, and he knew Jefferson would never come to him, so that fantasy may as well remain just that. A fantasy. 

So he leaves the socks behind, but not because he cares what others think. Of course he doesn’t… simply because socks would just be extra layers. He doesn’t care if people think his hair is a mess, which it is, so he drags his hand through it. The hand comes back damp, and he grimaces, wiping it on the tan material of his shorts. And he certainly doesn’t care that one of the buckles on his sandals is about to break. He glares at it, willing it to sew itself back together. It does not. Hamilton sighs and folds, giving up on attempting to appear presentable. It’s not like anyone else outside looks much better, save for the few teenagers posing on the streets in incredibly short shorts with a Starbucks they probably waited an hour for. 

Alexander practically throws his door open and is met with a pleasurable breeze as it swings, which quickly dissipates into a blast of scorching air, as though opening an oven too quickly. You would think after being born in such a humid climate he would’ve grown used to the hot weather. Apparently, this was a false assumption. He fishes his keys back out of his shorts and locks the door, standing out in the lobby of his apartment complex. 

Now that he’s escaped the confinement of his home, Hamilton doesn’t know what to do. He could run down to Starbucks, take his mind off the heat with an ice cold Frappuccino. However, that would only distract him for a moment, perhaps an hour, until every drop of coffee has been drunk, and he’s left with an empty cup and a smoldering heat once more. And besides, if he's so desperate for an iced coffee then he could just make his own. That idea drains down the gutter, because he doesn't have any ice and there's no way water would freeze very fast in this temperament. He can briskly walk to work if he so pleases, despite being ordered to stay off, but that would require changing into a suit and now that he thinks about it… does his office even have air conditioning? 

A long, broken sigh escapes his lips and he drags a hand through his hair, which has grown ever so slightly damp with sweat. Maybe a walk to clear his head, and if he strolls in the right direction, the wind will hit him perfectly and he should cool down. 

He accepts this as the perfect idea and walks his way out onto the street, practically able to feel the burning tarmac through the soles of his sandals. He hopes there are no poor dogs or felines roaming the streets, or on daily walks on this day. The pavement would be far too much for their paws. Alexander feels which way the warm breeze is flowing and begins to trek directly into it, finding a sense of overwhelming relief at the sensation. (Even if it is relatively brief.)

Alexander’s feet carry him wherever they please, walking him down long streets, past empty stores. He stops to glance into a bustling Starbucks, hears through the glass a man screeching at a barista who is refusing to take his order because, “no shirt, no service.” He continues past, rather glad he had decided not to go inside, as it looks far too crowded, even for a small man such as himself.

His strides are short but swift, floating him along the streets with an air of confidence that he is known to possess. It is undeniably cooler outside, a welcome surprise as a gust of wind blows his hair from his face. He hears the simultaneous sighs of alleviation from the few on the streets, clearly walking around for the same reason as Hamilton. 

Time ticks by and Alexander allows his mind to wander, as it all too often does when he gives it the chance. His thoughts speed past a mile a minute, tempting his brain to consider them longer, grabbing them like falling petals before letting them drift to the ground and blow away once more. 

He passes through Time Square, finding it bustling, more so than he had imagined. However, it’s not ‘Christmas Crowded’, the eloquent name given to Time Square by Lafayette for when the area becomes full at the most amazing time of year. He makes his way past people, brushing shoulders and probably contracting some undiscovered disease off of some of them. It’s New York, he wouldn’t be surprised. He jumps out of his skin when some man behind him traces their fingers up his spine, but when he turns around the person is gone, laughing to their friends. He scowls, half considers shaking his fist and exclaiming about “kids these days!” But he doesn’t, he just shivers despite being roasted alive and continues on his way. 

He spaces out again, wondering about work and then he doesn't know what he starts thinking about. But in his head he can picture a man. A man with a jawline that could cut glass, eyes blacker than the depths of the sea, yet shining as though filled with fire. He can see springy curls, imagines himself running his fingers through the mystery man's hair and cooing as he mumbles his disagreements. He sees a dark complexion, sharp cheekbones, with soft edges. The colour purple is prominent in his clothing, and it takes a moment further for Alexander to identify the male in his mind.

He zones back in as soon as he realises he's thinking about Jefferson. Again. He's thinking about Jefferson in a good way, thinking about doing couple things, about dates. And he grimaces. He convinces himself it's just a fluke, only because he sees Jefferson every day at work. 

He starts checking the watch on his wrist, which is starting to heat up in the sunlight. It’s been almost an hour and forty five minutes since he began walking, and he checks the number on the street. It’s all okay. He can always catch a cab. He looks around and finds himself no longer in the bustling parts of New York, but instead part of a classy suburban area. Rows of white picket fencing and neat little gardens, full of wilting flowers meet his eyes. In the lawns of a few are men and women of all ages tending to the plants, feeding them with water to try and keep them going through the unbearable summer heat. 

All the homes are different colours, some a perfectly average, cream white, others slightly more lavish baby blues. There’s one where the exterior walls are a glowing lemon colour, and it fills Alexander with an unexplained wave of joy. Then again, the colour yellow always has. It feels warm, welcoming, like a friendship long awaited. Something that has awakened the craving in him that demands the enveloping arms of a smothering hug.

A child - probably around eight - runs down the street, being chased by who looks like his friend. The girl racing after him knocks him to the side and he goes down on a patch of grass, flat on his back while his friend stands over him with a look of pure pride. Her curls bob as she jumps up and down beside him with glee, and Alexander observes as the boy stands. They lean against the tree beside them for a moment, before he mutters something and this time the girl takes off sprinting, the boy following five seconds later. He chuckles at the purity of the situation and takes it upon himself to continue his walk. It’s warmer than ever, but he doesn’t care as much anymore. 

The kids race ahead, the girl much further ahead until she stops. Alexander observes from the sidelines as he walks, and the boy taps her on the shoulder. They stand there, childlike joy radiating from their area. 

Alexander breezes past them, halfway down the stretch of street. The houses grow larger than the previous as he continues to walk, yet still feel as homely. An amazing feat really. He can hear the soft patting of his Birkenstocks as they tap off the pavement each time his feet hit the floor. A car trundles past, down the street, at what must be 10 miles an hour, giving kids on the road time to move out the way. He doesn't catch a glimpse of the driver, but he has respect for them nonetheless. 

As he passes a large, pastel green house, a tall woman exits her garden. She’s old, that much is obvious, but she doesn’t live up to the ‘little old lady’ aesthetic. She’s tall, she’s not hunched and the only part that gives away her age is the wrinkles lining her face. She brushes a grey curl from her face, tying back her hair afterwards. She’s mumbling under her breath, something that sounds like, “it starts soon! The concert!” And for a moment he feels awfully bad for her, thinking she has Alzheimer’s or something similar.

She has a thick Southern accent, and reminds him of Jefferson in a way. Her curls are similar, perhaps not as bouncy or as soft looking (in fact the only similar thing is that they’re curls,) but it has the same obvious care put into maintaining their pristine appearance. Her skin tone isn’t at all similar to his however, she’s pale while Jefferson’s complexion is almost tawny in a way. He can’t see her eyes from where he stands, but if they’re anything like Jefferson’s, then they must be dark, and perhaps they sparkle like his does when he gets passionate about what he’s speaking of… And when did he start thinking about Jefferson so much? Why does he know Jefferson’s eyes glimmer in certain lighting, or burn with a fire when they argue? Why is he paying so much attention to the man's pupils, and how they fail to hide the emotions his stone-cold face manages to maintain? When did he begin to study his rival so closely that he noticed all these oddities? Little details; like the way his lips twitch into a soft smile when talking to Madison, or recalling fondly his time in Monticello. Or now his eyebrows quirk upwards whenever Alexander opens his mouth to speak during meetings, conveying his irritation, yet innate fascination with the words flooding the room. How does he know that Jefferson’s curls would be soft to touch, without ever being close enough to feel them between his fingertips. Why does he feel that the man could go pliant with a scratch to the right place of his scalp? Where did all this knowledge come from? The depths of his bustling mind-palace? Or is it some fountain of information that Alexander and few others have access to? Is there some key to access the quirks about Jefferson, a key that he has? Or does he simply have the mould, a fragmented ideology of a key? Has Jefferson personally handed him this key, trusted him with it? Or has Hamilton snatched it from his clutches like a criminal from an off-guard prison warden? To think of it, why does Jefferson - the ever flowing river of confidence - stash his emotions away, hiding them like a gold hoarding dragon in a cave. He sits on them as though a mother bird would protect her eggs. He keeps them unseen to the passing onlooker. Is he scared? The idea is ridiculous. Thomas Jefferson? Scared? Hell would freeze over before the moment Jefferson is frightened. Or is anxious a better word? Why does he covet to know what it’s like to wake up secured in those arms? (God those arms.) Why does his head claw for the intelligence to feel Jefferson? (Whether that be a warm hug or a simple swing of their hands, linked together?) Why is Alexander asking himself all these questions? Why is his brain grasping and reaching for the answers, as though the forbidden apple that he craves a bite of.

Why does he care?

It’s a recurring thought, one that his mind cannot seem to formulate a complete answer to. Perhaps because it’s the nice thing to do? But no, fantasizing about someone’s eyes like some schoolgirl is not a “nice thing to do.” It’s a crush, is what it is. Wanting to know more about Jefferson, seeking the answers to his many personal questions is not simply because it’s a nice thing to do. It’s because he needs the answers. His mind demands he become closer with the man, the vain, uncaring man. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Out of all the people his heart could sing a yearning song for, it chose Thomas fucking Jefferson.

Why has his attention been undeniably captured, held hostage, by the Southern fuck?

This one, he can justify. It’s a simple answer really, one that is half the solution to his hundreds of other questions, the ones that buzz in his ears like insistent flies. And it’s two words, one word if you so wish to keep it incredibly succinct. 

His wit.

His brain, his intelligence only matched and rivalled by Hamilton’s own. The way his fingers tap out word after word on keyboards, or scratch out essays upon essays onto paper with pens, pencils, whatever he can get his hands on. His intense expanse of knowledge that spans from American finance, to Shakespearean literature. His ability to argue and debate and speak for hours and hours with Alexander without losing his pace. The way his mind formulates sentence after sentence where he debates and there’s a fiery, yet somehow icy cold, passion in his tone. The fact that Hamilton finally has an equal. Where it’s unlike arguing against Burr, a stone wall of indifference. Jefferson is a stone wall that Alexander knows exactly how to make crumble. And he does. Over and over, yet Jefferson keeps rebuilding, stronger than before. He makes Alexander fight for his right to get his ideas across and as much as if pisses him off… he can’t deny that he loves it. He adores having to work his way up, enjoys knocking away obstacles that continue to respawn. What’s life without a little competition after all? Alexander enjoys hiking, and Jefferson is the ultimate mountain to climb. 

But he wants more. He needs to know more about this mysterious man. He wants to know what it’s like to share sweet moments with him, wishes to be granted passage to his heart. He wants the key to be given to him, not stolen away. He wants Jefferson to trust him. He wants to know his talents, his skills, his hopes, his dreams. He wants to know about his past, his present and his future. Wants to know his real personality, the one he has secured in a vault. Because Alexander is stubborn, this much as already been said, but he’s not stupid. He can see the twitch in his fingers, the brief panic that flashes through the man's dark eyes whenever he has to present in Congress. He can hear the way he stumbles and stammers his way through speeches, as though he’s ready off a particularly shitty script. It’s only when they debate, when they argue with that familiar intensity, that the inferno is let loose.  And Alexander is happy to be consumed in its flames. 

The thoughts are almost enough to frighten him. The way they consume his constantly changing mind until he can think of nothing else. The burning heat in the air has been forgotten, replaced with a searing, white-hot pain through his chest. A heart attack maybe? More likely a soul attack. Hamilton uses his clairvoyance, he isn’t stupid. He knows this crush has been around since the day they had met. Since the first inklings of their argumentative ways. The kindling that sparked a fiery rivalry. One sure to last a lifetime. Well, maybe on Jefferson’s end. Alexander has felt this way, this white hot pain for a while, but now his body registers it and it hits all at once. Like a slap to the face, a punch to the stomach and a kick in the balls. It’s never hurt this much. Not with Aaron, not with John, not even with Eliza. The three most important relationships of his life had never been this intense, and he and Jefferson aren’t even together. Perhaps that’s what caused the pain to harm him so much. The craving of a thing he can’t have.

He gets the same feeling, the same way he felt around his other relationships. With Aaron, it was calm, predictable. It was boring. He needed more, he needed a spark, something he could bounce off of and then melt together. Aaron was grey. Monotone, and straight lined. He was a man who needed something still. He required security and promises to stay the way they were. But Alexander was a storm, unpredictable and wild and fully intent on ravaging the waters, while what Burr really needed was a lighthouse. Someone who was a beacon of light to shine him to the right place. Hamilton could never provide that.

John had been close. He had been orange. Intense, swirling like a fire, like a burning heat. But not enough. He was too quick to back down, to agree and leave arguments unsettled. He didn’t put up enough of a fight, backed down from debates and left Alexander with many more points to push across. They had the same opinions, there was no need for a friendly debate. It just wasn’t enough for him. There was passion, but not in the way Alexander’s heart craved. John needed something grounding, someone to match his intensity with a cute yellow or a fellow orange. And he found that, he found that in Peggy and Alexander was happy to watch him go. He wanted his orange to be happy.

The third person had been blue. Eliza was the sea and the sky. She was beautiful and calm and swaying. She was helpful and loving, quick to input her opinion only to retract it later on. Alexander had thought she was perfect. She was, Eliza was perfect. But Alexander was not. Blue didn’t mix right with whatever colour Alexander was. Blue turned dark and foreboding, into something he didn’t want to experience. Their fire had been wrong, and if Eliza was the ocean, then Hamilton was the smoke on the water clouding her. She needed a similar colour, a green like the Earth whom she could surround and heal. Or another blue to swim with. It appeared Alexander was neither of those.

But Jefferson. Jefferson was different. He was intense and angry and punched out. He was red. A dark crimson that demanded attention at all times. A matching light to Alex’s own. They bounced off each other, before they crashed together in a mess of colours, an abstract painting of similarities. Jefferson was passionate, he had an intensity that matched Alexander’s previously unrivalled one, and he loved it. He loved red. Red was the colour he needed, the colour that felt best in his heart of hearts. And that’s when he knew that he was red too, that he was a candy red. He was bright and flashing and Jefferson was dark and mysterious and together they were perfect. Together they formed a shade of undiscovered colour. 

That’s what Alexander needed. He needed his red. Everyone else had theirs! It was his turn! It was finally his shot to find love, and he had no intentions of throwing it away.

In his time thinking, he’s almost completely forgotten the putrid heat, and the fact that the woman from before is walking down the street just a foot or two away from him. She’s brisk, in a hurry clearly, occasionally checking the time on her surprisingly high class smart-phone. In fact, another person joins him on his venture down the street, the little girl from before, but without her friend. And if he thought the woman reminded him of Jefferson, then this girl is the spitting image of him. Same hair, but longer and tied into puffy pigtails, the same wide and toothy smile as she taps Alexander on the side.

“Hey there, Mr!” She waves, and the first thing he can think is Stranger Danger. Did this girl's parents never teach her the importance of not talking to random people on the streets? “I’ve never seen you round here before, are you lost?” He supposes that he sort of is. He doesn’t know his way home, but somehow he’s not concerned. He can call a cab, or an Uber or Lyft. There are plenty of ways for him to arrive back home. But the fact that she asks him this is evident that this is one of those neighbourhoods. One where “everyone knows everyone.” Which is sweet, but annoying, because now he stands out. He wants to blend in with the crowd for once, but as he looks around, that’s been impossible for a while. He notices everyone out in their gardens or on the streets are white, which is expected at this point. It’s a flaw in the American housing system, one that he should bring up in Congress. Perhaps he could get Jefferson to support him for once, team up even. That’s the dream. 

He hasn’t said much for a few seconds, and the kid looks up at him with large, expectant eyes. “Oh, I’m not lost, no. Just going for a walk,” he nods gently and she seems to understand. He thinks she’s just going to run off after receiving an answer, but she seems insistent to interrogate Alexander a little more. 

She hums to herself, “what’s your name?” She asks ever so superficially, like an employer ready to write someone up for bad behaviour or poor customer service. Alexander knows those write ups all too well, it’s the reason he’s been forced off work today, something he was happy to let happen as soon as the heatwave hit. Work doesn’t have good air conditioning, if it has air conditioning at all. 

“Alexander,” he answers with a flick of his head, casting his glance to the sky. They’re still walking, nearing the end of the street. The old lady has stopped, and the little girl has too, which subsequently has Hamilton stopping. He looks down at her, chin tilted down as she glares up. She seems livid at his name, and he wonders what he’s done wrong until he realises she’s staring directly into the sun as she tries to suss him out. Her gaze is warm and welcoming however, childlike and pure and it’s a nice break from the cool stares he’s used to.

She nods happily, “my name's Patsy, I’m eight,” she grins and turns on her heel, casting one final look over her shoulder. “I’m going to play, if my Pops leaves the house tell him that’s what I’m doing!” She runs off, leaving Alexander wondering who her father is. The old lady is leaning on the fence of the house in front of him, glancing up to an open window. She looks like an NPC in a video game, purposefully placed in a specific spot just for unimportant exposition. Alexander is an expert in certain video games, and if her position isn’t just begging for him to go interact with her. She seems as though she may have some enchanted knowledge to pass down onto him, maybe even a cherry pie recipe if he’s lucky.

He walks over to her side, resting his forearms on the flat tops of the white fence. The house in front of him is painted a soft violet, it’s pretty. There’s neat rows of tulips and petunias in the lawn, which is freshly trimmed so it seems. There are bushes in the middle of the grass, cut into a point. Everything is seamless, blending together. It’s homely and calm, and Alexander smiles. The woman is smiling too. He glances at other things in the garden. Tucked away into the left corner by the porch is a barbecue, and not too far from that a wooden bench. There are thin cushions resting on it, but no one sits there. The lights in the house are off, the windows open along with the curtains. But when he looks in, he sees no one. Then again, he can only see directly into the window and up, so anything at the other end of the room is out of sight. Perhaps he should’ve worn his glasses today, unable to see very far in front of his face. In the driveway is a family car, a blue Chevrolet still spongy with a few soap studs. Newly washed, he notes. 

“It starts soon,” the elder comments, gesturing vaguely to the home before them. So she’s not an NPC. Alexander can’t put his finger on if that’s annoying or perfect, because he doesn’t have to start the conversation.

Yet his interest has been piqued, he was always a curious soul. It gets him into fits of trouble occasionally, but for now it seems as though the only thing he can get out of it is an intriguing talk. “What’s starting?” He asks quietly, tone low. His lips are dry, and he smacks them together to coat them with saliva to hopefully stop them cracking.

“The concert,” she answers, as though it’s the most typical thing in the world. Alexander is about to open his mouth to argue against that fact, to insinuate that a concert happening in someone’s home is ridiculous - (Even if all the Disney Channel movies taught him otherwise.) - but the woman is talking again. “Tommy always plays at three in the afternoon on a Sunday.” She seems transfixed, and every time Alexander tries to speak she hushes him. She holds up her hand to silence him, and it gives him the same feeling George Washington gives him, authority radiates from her and Alex finds himself actually shutting up. It’s two fifty-nine now, and he’s waiting for the music to start from this mysterious “Tommy.” 

He’s impatient, and authority only hushes him for so long. He fidgets, picks paint off the fence and then speaks. “When does it start?” He hisses, bored. Come on, it’s three! Almost at least. 

“I told you, he plays at three.”

“It is three!” Alexander whines pathetically, crossing his arms over. He’s stood still in wait for long enough, and if music doesn’t start in the next thirty seconds he’s going to walk away and never look back. He’s all set to move when the lady grabs him by the shoulder.

She hisses, “it’s starting!” 

And indeed it is. Through the open windows, pouring out the house are the sweet chords of an expert violinist. It’s a harmony, seems sad, longing almost. The melody starts slow, and carefully picks up pace as it goes. He can only imagine who the player is, male or female it doesn’t matter. His mind whirs with ideas, forming the musician in his mind.

Their hands would grip the bow with precision, glide across the strings with a focussed expression. He can see their- no, his, eyes turned down to the instrument, pupils darkening as they get lost in the notes. The violin is balanced on his shoulder, tucked under his chin and his hair falls into his view but he keeps playing. The straight, actually, it’s curly. The ringlets of curls are brushed away quickly, in one movement as he continues to play. 

Alexander spaces out, losing himself to the music. It appears the lady beside him does the same, but he can’t be sure. He tries to put a colour on the tone of it, tries to decipher the meaning behind the song. The violin fades into an instrumental where it’s clear the player should be singing, but they don’t. He tries to picture a face, going as far as to close his eyes and block out everything but his own imagination and the melody flowing to him. It’s like a siren call, coaxing him towards sudden death. And Alexander is all too happy to submit to the urges. 

He finds a face, dark eyes, curls, complexion. Once again he’s picturing Jefferson. Over and over the man comes to mind. He tries to push him away, attempts to imagine someone else standing in the home and playing just for him. But it’s futile. And the song does feel like it’s for him. It feels like it matches the music his heart sings, the yearning harmony that lathers his soul is rivalled by this player. By Jefferson. It’s not like he’s ever going to meet the violinist, so he’s free to picture whoever he pleases. 

He’s sweating, it’s the heat, it must be. His palms that are clenched into fists by his sides are coated in a thin sheen of sweat, his forehead growing damp again. He makes no effort to wipe it away, he lets the heat sweep over him. He allows the flames to engulf him, the chords of the song floating to him still. 

But as soon as it’s begun, it ends. The violin fades out, leaving the music buzzing pleasantly in his veins. The lady smiles, nods and starts to walk off, back to her house. The concert comes to a close, curtains shut and shun all backstage visitors away. But when has Alexander ever abided by the rules? 

His feet march him into the garden, down the lawn and up to the porch. He steps up the stairs, both of them at once. He’s having trouble summoning courage, something that’s rare for him. Typically he isn’t walking up to a strangers home just to congratulate them on their musical talent… that he probably isn’t even supposed to hear. 

It takes Alexander a long minute of just standing there before he swallows his pride and taps his knuckles off the door. There are footsteps, coming closer and as they do he rids himself of the urge to run away. 

He’s almost expecting Jefferson, he’s built him up in his mind and placed him on a pedestal. Or maybe it’s better to say that he’s trying to force the man into a treasure box, as he does with all the things he loves. His mother’s memory goes in there, his pens and his laptop and the pendant necklace from his mother. He’s trying to push Jefferson into the box too, to keep him by his side but he won’t stay. Perhaps it’s impossible to keep a person preserved in a treasure chest, or maybe it’s just Jefferson. He needs room, he needs space to evolve and change and grow and Alexander’s treasure chest can’t provide that. Alexander can though. He just has to let Jefferson stay out of the box. 

Like he said, he’s almost expecting Jefferson to be at the door. But he still gets shocked when it actually is. It actually is Thomas fucking Jefferson standing in the doorway and Jesus he’s wearing shorts and a t-shirt so tight it should be illegal. It’s difficult enough for Alexander to handle when he can practically see Jefferson’s chest through his sheen white dress shirt at work, but this is too much. This man is an Adonis. He’s the sun, Alexander is an icarus and he feels as though he simply has to fly closer. 

“Hamilton!”

Shit, has he been speaking this whole time? Alexander flicks his gaze to Jefferson’s face, and fuck him he’s wearing glasses. Chunky black hipster frames that balance on the bridge of his nose. Christ, he’s in deep isn’t he? 

Jefferson waves his hand in front of Alexander’s face, grabbing his attention. “Hu-uh?” Alexander stumbles out his words pathetically, lighting up red soon after. He goes the same crimson as Jefferson’s shirt, the colour he identifies the man with. He looks like he’s about to slap Alexander across the face if he doesn’t start properly talking soon.

“Are you even listening to me?” Jefferson hisses, venom laced in his tone. He’s like a snake, coiled up into a spring, ready to attack and bite at the next to approach. In his hands (lord, those hands!) he holds a clear water bottle, knuckles white with the ferocious way he grips it. He brings it up to his lips and takes a careful sip, eyes trained like a sniper on Alexander.

Hamilton collects himself, gathering his thoughts, which shouldn’t be as difficult to do as it is. He coughs into his fist, realising how dry his throat is. The aspect of water is welcoming, and he wants to reach out just to snatch the plastic (reusable, how environmental) bottle off of Jefferson to guzzle down the remaining liquid. Alas, he does not. Because that would be weird. 

He still hasn’t answered, thus Jefferson continues with a hiss. “What are you doing here?!” He’s not angry, Alexander knows this. He has seen the man angry. 

One time, he had seen the man in his furious element. The cabinet meeting had just ended, and Jefferson had stormed out after Washington had taken Alexander’s side once again. It wasn’t Hamilton’s fault he was better! Jefferson had stalked towards his office, and Hamilton had followed after him, the cheap fake leather of his shoes squeaking on the polished linoleum. Alexander had continued his argument, much to the dismay of the taller man. Jefferson had tried his very best to slam the door on Hamilton’s face, using all his force (which was a lot) to close it behind him, but Alex managed to stick his foot in the gap and wretch it open, still blabbering away. Jefferson had collapsed into his office chair, held his head in his hands and muttered to himself as Alexander got closer. His voice had stayed a constant, boisterous and accompanied with gesticulating gestures until he lost his cool and whipped Jefferson’s seat around himself. 

“Answer me already! You spit and stumble your way through speeches, I bring out the real you! I bring out the fires! Show me him and argue back!” The animosity had been high in Alexander’s tone, he liked the unabashed Jefferson who fought with him. The man who poured wisdom from his tongue like his mother language. Why he held it back when talking to anyone else baffled him beyond belief. But this meeting he had barely spoken, just shared his points with a quiet voice and sat back down, not bothering to debate Alexander. He was furious, made sure to target Jefferson in some of his words just to try and get a rise, a reaction, anything! But it had not worked, so he resorted to his last lifeline, and followed the man to his office. 

Jefferson snapped his gaze up, and there it was, the fire he so dearly wanted. The red-hot passion that licked at his pupils, threatened to burn Alexander. “You bring out the real me?! No, Hamilton,” he had spat his name like it was some dirt on the bottom of his polished shoes, “you bring out the worst in me! You bring out the angry, tired part of me that doesn’t want to deal with your bullshit!” 

“My bullshit?” Alexander had smirked as though he had won, and in his sense he had. For a moment at least. Because he had gotten a reaction, the thing he craved as much as air. He had gotten his red to reply and that’s all he really needed. He was happy from here on out. But, he could always push it further. So he had. “Care to explain to me what my bullshit is? Is it my financial plan? Is that what it is, Jefferson?” He had remained sickeningly-sweet, words sugary like honey, dripping in the same way. 

Jefferson had laughed, hysterical really. A break from his usual smug laughter. A break Alexander didn’t enjoy very much. He was never one to like breaks, preferred to continue in a way he always had. And he and Jefferson had a dance, a specific way they did things that they had yet to break. A routine that Jefferson was so arbitrarily destroying just with a fit of chuckles. “Your financial plan is a piece of insulting garbage, but that is not what I mean-“ he had scoffed, and rose from his seat, towering over Alexander with a menacing glint. “-You are a parasite to me, you trail around like some sad puppy, desperate for attention! But why me? I stammer through speeches, but alas it’s better than talking a million miles a minute where no one can understand you! You bring out the fire, the hellfire! You make me want to snap you into pieces and scatter you on my lawn like fertiliser. Do us all a favour and get out!”

A little shocked by the imaginative insult, Alexander resisted. “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

Jefferson had him by the collar next, shoving him up against a wall, face so close he could feel the hot breath of his rival on his face. “You talk a big game, Hamilton, yet you forget to follow through. The fire you bring out in me is the worst part about myself and I’d prefer to hide it away,” he had growled, low and rumbling in his chest, “you’re not good enough to lick the dirt off my shoes. You must think you’re so special, yet all you do is hump the President’s leg until you get what you desire. God knows why he takes your side on every political matter.” He had dropped Alexander after that, left him scrambling to his feet. “Get out of my office.”

Scared, but stubborn, Alexander had supplied a retort. “Or what, old man? Gonna make me?” 

Jefferson had grit his teeth together, grinding them so hard Hamilton was surprised they hadn’t faded away. “Or else.”

“All bark and no bite.” Alexander scoffed in return, making his way slowly to the door. He cast a look over his shoulder in time to see Jefferson physically slump back into his chair, looking tense and stressed and he couldn’t help but feel bad. He had felt Jefferson’s eyes on his back the whole time he had left, felt them searing holes through his jacket and burning into his skin. Not that he was complaining though. 

And once again, Alexander peers up at him with wide eyes. “Oh, well um-“ he directs his gaze over Jefferson’s shoulder, “it’s kind of a long story.” He’s hinting quite obviously at his pleas to come inside, and Jefferson must catch on because a hint of realisation casts over his dark eyes, the eyes Alexander spends so much of his time thinking about. 

“I have time,” came Jefferson’s grimy reply. One long finger came up to push his glasses up by the rim, unlike anyone else who would push them up by the bridge. Alexander inadvertently stashed this information away in his treasure chest. He taps his foot in a way that almost feels surreptitious. Or perhaps that’s the incorrect word. Jefferson keeps looking over Alexander’s head, then glancing behind him, eyes darting in all directions. 

Alexander has the sun beating down on his back, and he can see Jefferson squinting in the light. It’s hot again, too hot in all the wrong ways, and Alexander only feels hotter with Jefferson’s eyes on him. “Well- uh- it started because my AC unit broke and-“

“Hamilton, I didn’t ask for a life story,” Jefferson fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt, looking almost nervous. Which was ludicrous! Jefferson? Nervous? That… made a lot of sense actually. His stammering through meetings, his constantly tensed shoulders, the time he had overheard Madison and Adams talking about him a few years back, saying “He was born stressed out about something.” It makes the shuffling around start to add up, how he loses his cool around Alexander and loosens up because he stops thinking. He stops worrying and starts concentrating solely on deconstructing Hamilton’s argument. He feels a little rush of pride at that, that he can get Jefferson to let go. Yet at the same time, it feels like it’s perverse knowledge he isn’t supposed to have access too, which brings him right back around to the key metaphor. A metaphor he’s using so often it’s beginning to lose meaning, and he’s beginning to imagine an actual key, which confuses his head even more than it already is. 

He’s broken from his thoughts by Jefferson speaking once more, “would you like to come inside?” He asks quietly, shifting foot to foot. Alexander steals his gaze downwards, unable to look Jefferson in the face as he processes that question. His rival (whom he’s established as the man he wants to date, and god it feels so much more real when he thinks of it like that), has just invited him into his home. His home that Alexander always imagined to be bigger, more spectacular and less… welcoming. “You could inform me of why you’re standing on my doorstep in broken sandals over a glass of Chardonnay?”

“How am I supposed to say no to that?” Alexander responds almost mockingly, stepping into the home as Jefferson moves aside. He shuffles and a hand goes up to card through his curls, and Alexander wonders if they’re as soft as they appear. He resists the urge to stride over and find out for himself as he steps inside. “I would take my shoes off, but I feel as though barefoot is even more disrespectful.” He hums absent-mindedly.

Jefferson seems to tune back in at that as he flicks his gaze to follow Alexander. “And since when have you cared about being respectful towards me?” His words are sharp, upset almost. It’s strange, but Alexander kind of likes the vulnerability, it feels special. As though Jefferson is trusting him with the real real him. “Just leave your shoes on,” he adds carefully onto the end with a flippant wave and a frown. 

Alexander does just that, but wipes his feet on the welcoming mat Jefferson has placed in his hallway. “What’s your liquor of choice?” Jefferson asks, sauntering off towards his kitchen, voice growing quieter as he walks off. Alexander finds his eyes following his back, watching the way his red shirt clings to the muscles of his back, and he swallows slowly, with intent. 

“I believe I was promised Chardonnay, Mr Jefferson!” Alexander calls after him, taking it upon himself to look around the hallway. It’s cooler inside, thank god, but it’s not chilly. Jefferson knows how to set his AC without breaking it, Hamilton could never relate. The walls are painted a warm brown, framed family photos lining the hall. There is one, where Alexander counts twelve people in the image. The camera quality isn’t great, but all the people in the photo are similar in appearance, the only two who stand out are the ones who look like parents, as their hair is turning grey and there are wrinkles along their foreheads. He spots Jefferson - well, Thomas because he’s managed to figure out everyone in the photo is a Jefferson - rather quickly, he’s the second tallest in the picture, just after the one who looks like his father, but he looks younger, smiling wide at the camera and holding a baby boy on his hip. He looks much too young to have a son, so he must be Jefferson’s brother. 

There's another photo of him cradling a small child in his arms, a newborn, little girl based on the pink wool hat on her head. He looks older than the previous photo, so Alexander deciphers that this is his child. He looks around. There are no children about. He’s smiling wider than he’s ever seen before, down at the baby whose eyes are tightly shut. Alexander grins to himself and ghosts a finger over Jefferson’s face, or at least over the glass. There’s a corner of a woman’s face in the top left, she looks tired. Jefferson does too, bags under his eyes and smile creases by his lips. But he still looks… god, what word can he use?

The next photo makes his fond smile fall faster than a rock from the top of a cliff. A wedding photo, Jefferson in his mid-twenties, dressed in a suit (that hugs him in all the right places, damn) and kissing a short woman in a flowing white wedding dress. He looks so happy, beaming as his hands rest on her hips. A wave of jealousy crashes over him as he studies the image closer. It’s outdoors, must be in Virginia, and the two newlyweds are standing under an arch laced with pink roses and light pink tulips. He frowns, there goes his chance. But it won’t hit him yet, it only will at around midnight, when he’s emailing Washington where he will pause and scream for a minute as it sets in.

He’s so focused on the wedding pictures that he doesn’t even notice Jefferson coming up behind him. “That’s Martha,” the low voice by his ear makes Alexander jump out of his skin, clasping a hand over his mouth to stop himself from crying out. “Sorry, did I scare you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer and continues to talk, “I thought you would’ve been in the living room, but I suppose I never told you to make yourself at home.” Alexander turns around and chokes on a breath. Because fuck, Jefferson is right there, glasses slipping down his nose, cheeks dusted red and lips inches away from his own. He swallows again, takes a step backwards and hits the wall with his back. 

Jefferson hands him a champagne flute with a bubbling glass of white wine, and Alexander nods in return. "Thank you," he studies Jefferson carefully as he flicks his chin up quickly and takes a step away, giving Alexander room to finally breathe. He quickly glances back at the few photos on the wall, catching a glimpse from his peripheral vision as Jefferson sips from his glass. "Martha was…?" He waits for the other to finish his sentence impatiently. 

"My wife," Jefferson answers with ease, gulping back a small drink. "A million years ago at least." He chuckles. And Alexander doesn't quite understand. Typically, divorcees don't keep photos of their marriage hanging in the entrance way to their home. Apparently the confusion is evident in his expression, because his host keeps talking. "She passed away eight years ago, just after giving birth." 

Alexander bites down on his bottom lip, regretful. He was just thinking about how jealous he was, thinking about going home, calling Laurens or Lafayette and talking shit about Jefferson and his supposed wife. Well he certainly wouldn’t be doing that anymore. “Oh,” he says, rather ineloquently, “I’m sorry.”

Jefferson shrugs, takes another long drink from his glass, like the conversation pains him. It probably does, Alexander realises. “It’s alright, it was a long time ago,” he drawls, making sure to not finish his glass. It’s half full now, and Alexander sips the sparkling liquid. Jefferson clears his throat, looking much like he does during meetings. Uncomfortable, small almost. “Well, can I tempt you to sit in the parlour with me?” He raises an eyebrow, leads them through to a room with windows that are almost floor to ceiling, spar for the comfy looking window seat (covered in a knitted quilt and tartan pillows) that Alexander plops himself down on. The other man seats himself by a small round table, mahogany for the looks of it. 

Alexander wants to speak, as always. His tongue flicks in his mouth, forming words but Jefferson cuts him off. “So, Alexander, tell me, what brought you to my doorstep on this… boiling afternoon?” It doesn’t slip past him that Jefferson uses his first name. The way it rolls with his accent, drawling slow as always until Alexander is hanging onto every syllable. 

His brain catches up with the question after being so hung up on the way his given name sounds on Jefferson’s lips, and the fact that he would love to hear it in other contexts- God, he needs to stop. But the man is right there and- No. “I broke my air conditioning unit, and needed to get out.” He shrugs and takes a slurping drink of Chardonnay, perhaps if he irritates Jefferson enough, he’ll see the fire he wants.

“That doesn’t explain why you knocked on my door,” Jefferson flicks his wrist and places his glass down. Alexander can practically hear the cogs in his brain (that wonderful mind) whirring as he thinks. He can see the intelligent man putting the puzzles pieces together, in order to view the whole picture. He stops to admire his fellow Secretary’s brilliance far too often, and he always has. It’s a constant, a comma in his life where he pauses and admits to himself that Jefferson is smart. And sometimes he hates it. He hates that Jefferson is so so bright, but is full of only stupid things to say. Like he doesn’t learn both sides of the argument before presenting. Or perhaps that’s just how humans work, they’re always going to be biased. 

Alexander coughs into his fist again, seeing Jefferson grit his teeth that he had the audacity to slurp his expensive (probably French, pretentious bastard) wine. “I decided to go for a walk,” he began to explain, as confident as always. “And then I ended up here,” he chewed on the inside of his cheek, “because I heard you playing violin and wanted to come speak to whoever the player was. Didn’t know it was going to be you.” 

Jefferson appears uncomfortable. He finishes his glass in one large gulp and places his now empty glass on the table. He pushes his glasses up his nose by the rim once more, sighing softly. “You say that like it was bad playing.” He said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. He glances at his empty glass, refilling it with only his eyes and exhaling as it refuses to fill. How disappointing.

“No, no!” Alexander waves his hands in a flurry, almost spilling his Chardonnay on the laminate flooring. Jefferson’s eyes catch the droplet that flies from the glass and lands on one of his quilted cushions. Hamilton is too busy explaining himself to realise. Why is he being so considerate of Jefferson’s feelings? (He has a crush on him, he knows this. He knows it’s because the man looks so much more vulnerable in his own home, in shorts and t-shirt and glasses. And oh fuck he’s staring again.) “I wanted to come tell the violinist how incredible their playing was!” He watches the man who is supposed to be his rival smile, genuine and pure, and his heart soars. Butterflies swarm in his stomach, flapping their wings at a hundred miles an hour. It’s like he can take flight, all because of Jefferson’s shy little grin, watching the way his lips twitch upwards. It’s so different from his other sly, wicked smirks, all teeth and hatred. Is it hatred really though? Alexander doesn’t have the time to ask himself all of these questions again, he’s never going to find an answer. 

"I've played ever since I was a child," Jefferson replies, tapping his fingers off his thighs. As Alexander has established, everything about this man seems to be carved by the gods out of stone and his legs are no exception. 

"Impressive." He isn't lying. Alexander finds it wildly impressive, violin is a difficult instrument to master. He believes Jefferson mutters something along the lines of 'thank you', but he isn't particularly paying attention. He needs more to drink. He doesn't want to have to think anymore, so he doesn't. Instead, he downs his glass. 

“Want a refill?” Jefferson drawls, rising to his feet and taking both empty glasses. All Alexander can do is nod and watch as the man walks off, eyes concentrated on his back and definitely not other places because that would be crude. 

Alexander crosses his legs (sits criss-cross applesauce) on the windowsill seat, fluffing a pillow behind his back and cautiously leaning back to rest against the window panes. He’s almost scared of breaking them, or of the glass popping out. So instead he turns and tucks his knees in slightly, sitting along it sideways to lean on the wall that slightly juts out. He must appear comfortable, because when Jefferson comes back in he laughs carefully. “Made yourself at home I see?” He hands Alexander the glass of Chardonnay, and he notes that in his other hand is the bottle. 

“Yeah, got a problem with that?” Alexander responds sarcastically. Jefferson plops himself down - surprisingly - beside Alexander, in the small space between his feet and the other wall. He hadn’t expected the sudden closeness, and all cognitive thought grinds to a stop when he realises he can smell Jefferson’s overpriced cologne. It’s probably perfume, when he thinks about it. Flowery and reeking of money. But Alexander thinks (after smelling it before, and now smelling it here) that he’ll kill Jefferson if he ever wears anything else. 

Jefferson sips from his glass. “Not at all.” Alexander wants to stretch his legs out, but felt as though he couldn’t do that. Jefferson was right there! What can he do? Put his feet on the man’s lap? … he could do that. He could actually do that. “Whatcha thinkin’ about, Hammy?” He purrs teasingly, raising a curious eyebrow and chuckling to himself. Alexander can’t help but notice the slight flush of his cheeks, the dusty pink across his skin. He eyes him suspiciously, before he finally realises that the man must be a lightweight. Now there’s something he didn’t expect.

“Hammy?” Alexander quirks an eyebrow, suspect. It’s amusing how Jefferson seems to relax that slight bit as he sips his Chardonnay. The slightly older man just nods in return, bringing his glass to his lips and taking another drink. Alexander does the same, swirling the wine in his champagne flute with a chuckle. “Just that I wanna stretch out.” He shrugs and continues to drink, observing as Jefferson’s face scrunches up unattractively. Somehow, Hamilton still finds it adorable. Who would’ve thought he would find Jefferson cute? How strange.

“Then just do it,” Jefferson suggests with a smile, shrugs his shoulders and sips his drink. Alexander is surprised, never would’ve thought Jefferson would allow him to kick his feet up. It feels intimate, like a cute-couple thing to do. He hesitantly stretches his legs out, untucking his knees and placing his feet up on Jefferson’s lap, who hums his approval. 

Alexander sips his Chardonnay, starting to speak. And Jefferson? Jefferson starts to listen. 

Half an hour, and the rest of the bottle of Chardonnay later, the two are on the right side of tipsy. They’re just drunk enough to feel comfortable enough to sit shoulder to shoulder, resting against each other without looking like they’re being forced into the close proximity. Except they are no longer shoulder to shoulder, in fact, they’re closer than that. Alexander has his head on Jefferson’s lap, his glass long forgotten on the table, along with Jefferson’s champagne flute too and the empty wine bottle. Alexander is continuously muttering about the current political climate, ranting quietly while Jefferson listens, occasionally inputting his opinion.

“Are you not gonna argue with me?” Alexander raises an eyebrow. He’s trying to irritate Jefferson, and pokes his cheek to try and agitate him more. But Jefferson doesn’t react, other than blushing an even darker crimson. The colour he is. He’s crimson, but now he’s dull and Alexander misses his booming red. 

Jefferson hums to himself, eyes fluttering shut. Alexander reaches up and pushes the other man’s glasses up his nose by the bridge. Jefferson flicks his eyes open suddenly and stares down at him, catching his wrist in his hand. Alexander feels paralysed, feeling his large palms around his own bony wrist and holding it in a loose grip. He doesn’t answer the question, “it’s so nice outside. Why are we still sitting here?”

“Why indeed?” There’s a ever so slight slur to his words, drawn out a little more than usual. Alexander kicks his feet to the ground, standing so casually it’s like he stays and hangs with Jefferson all the time and not never at all. He turns to face Jefferson, overlooking his features. He’s never had a chance to look at him so relaxed, and he notices how tense Jefferson typically is compared to now. At work, his shoulders are straight, hunched up to his ears and his posture is a horizontal line. Whereas now, he’s a little more slumped, tension gone from his body. It’s a breath of fresh air, one he never thought he would experience and accept so easily.

Jefferson rises to his feet, and typically he would be towering over Hamilton yet now, he doesn’t feel as dominating. Instead, he’s softer, edges aren’t as sharp or predatory. The mirthful glint in his pupils has faded, but the fire still licks at his eyes. It’s a welcoming heat, like the fireplace on a freezing day. And despite the current heatwave, Alexander finds himself wishing to curl up by the fire like a purring cat. “Come on, let’s go sit in my backyard.” 

Alexander expects to trail after him, certainly not for the man to offer his hand to Hamilton. But he takes it, ignoring the way his heart pounds in his chest and the way his head is screaming at him. “You’re holding his hand! You’re holding Thomas Jefferson’s hand! He offered it to you! You didn’t even have to ask!” His pulse races in his ears, as he leads the two of them into his back garden. It’s beautiful, a large monkey puzzle tree in the far right corner, casting a lovely shadow over a section of the yard. Jefferson guides Alexander over to the tree and sits down under it, gesturing next to him. “C’mon, Hammy, I don’t have all day.” Alexander feels his heart flutter again, starting to race at the ridiculous nickname. If anyone else used it, he would be quickly driven mad. It’s all because of this damn Secretary. 

Alexander takes a seat by him, leaning against the bark of the tree and exhaling. It’s warm, but at least vaguely cooler under the tree. Jefferson certainly seems to appreciate it, as the slightly intoxicated man removes his glasses and places them on the trimmed glass next to him, tips his head back until it hits the tree truck and breathes out happily. Alexander eyes the expanse of skin by his neck, and starts to feel like a particularly famished vampire, gazing at the muscles of someone’s neck of all places. But there’s a familiar itch in his fingertips, the urge to have his face tucked into the crook of his neck and just breathe. The thought would be scarier if it wasn’t for the alcohol in his blood. He feels confident, confident enough to lean against Jefferson and carefully hide his face in his shoulder. Not his neck, sure, but it’s close. 

Alexander can feel his counterparts breathing stutter and he gently nuzzles against him, appreciating the muscle under him. “Hamilton, are you alright?” He’s sobered up, the shock of Alexander curling around him like ivy clings to a house seemingly having knocked the wine out of his system. He allows Alexander to wind himself tighter around his body, like it's cold out and he’s the only viable source of heat. It’s not. It’s still absolutely sweltering, evident in the way sweat beads at Jefferson’s brow and Alexander longs to reach over and smooth out the developing stress lines. 

“Mhm…” Alexander hums his answer and buries his head into Jefferson’s neck, finally finally being close enough to him.  Yet… somehow he’s dying to be closer. “I’m great, perfect! Even,” he giggles, the alcohol definitely making him a fun drunk. He’s a lightweight, that’s for sure, but when it hits him, it hits all at once. He’s got a rush of flirtatious courage surging through his veins, hot in his blood. 

Jefferson moves his hand across and gently caresses Alexander’s pink cheeks, observing how he keens into it like a cat. That’s exactly what Alexander reminds him of, a cat. Hissing and violent in his worst moments, yet clingy and desperate for attention in his best. It’s a good thing Jefferson likes cats then. He drags an arm around Alexander’s shoulder, taking in his appearance. Small and (gross, his back is damp) hunched over, tucking into him and smiling, pink lips twitching into a happy grin. He’s so soft like this, vulnerable in a way Jefferson’s never seen him before. He’s intensity is being channeled into a new emotion, and Jefferson knows he’s still red. Still a fiery red, but it’s dragged in a different direction. It’s pulling him into love, and it makes his stomach do flips. Because if he has to be honest to himself, he’s had a crush on this ridiculous gremlin (excuse of a man) politician since the day of their first Cabinet meeting. Alexander could keep up with his thunderous talking pace, and he loves it. He loves it so much. “You’re sure?”

“Well,” Alexander decides it’s now or never, “I suppose there’s a way it could get…” he darts his tongue out and licks his lips, “even better.” He moves an inch away from Jefferson, eyes flickering between his eyes (no longer covered by lenses) and his lips, which look all too kissable. Jefferson doesn’t seem to catch on, just catches Alexander’s gaze with his own intense one. 

“How so?” He raises an eyebrow, arched brow almost judging him. 

“Kiss me,” Alexander breathes, tilting his chin upwards and leaning forward, hoping Jefferson will close the gap. And he does. God he does. He leans down and in, dipping his head and pressing his lips softly to Alexander’s own. They’re soft and insistent and gentle against his own chapped ones. And Alexander finds himself sober, before getting drunk on the feeling of Jefferson kissing him and ha! He’ll be able to rub this in Lafayette’s face later! Suck it, Frenchie! 

Alexander cards his hand into Jefferson’s curls, because he’s scared he’ll never get the chance to feel them again. They’re as soft as they look, springy between his fingers and wonderful to the touch. It’s such a wonderful kiss, their first kiss, and Alexander wants to keep on kissing him forever. Jefferson makes a quiet whimpering noise and Alexander forces himself to pull away before he melts and never does. “Jefferson,” he breathes across his lips.

“Thomas,” the other corrects delicately, a meer whisper before he’s tangling his hand in Alexander’s hair and tugging Alexander back to meet his lips. It’s feverish this time, desperate and needy. The roasting heat must be getting to them, because they’re rivals, are they not? Well, not anymore. Because he’s pretty sure enemies don’t kiss in summer heatwaves, under monkey puzzle trees in their rivals back garden. But they do now, because Alexander isn’t giving this up for the world. Not now. He has his red. 

“Thomas,” Alexander repeats Jeffer- Thomas’s words as they break away again. The name feels heavy on his tongue with the taste of its owner on his lips. Like it should be a sin, a sin to have enjoyed that so much. But he will gladly go to hell if it means getting to experience that intimacy again. The base of his ponytail has started to be tugged out, knotting where his fingers have tangled in the locks. He lays his head on the man’s shoulder, starting to slide half in and half out of his lap. It’s insane, the burning feeling in his chest as he locks this memory away in his treasure box, saving it for a rainy day, just in case this was a one time thing.

Thomas cradles Alexander’s chin in one hand, thumb hooking under his jaw and tilting his head up so that he can look into his eyes. Hamilton could get lost in those eyes, as he has many times. So many times during cabinet meetings he has stared at Jefferson, at those dark eyes and simply dove in, gleeful at the aspect of drowning in them. Only for the man to spout some ridiculous shit and drag Alexander out of the waters, slap him around and take him to his senses. “Yes, dear?”

That voice was going to be the death of him.

“I-“ He lost all forms of cognitive thought, the train must’ve derailed when Thomas pressed their lips together. Because fuck, he can even feel the violin chords buzzing in his veins again and it’s all so much and he loves it. Alexander flicks his gaze around Thomas's face, (he really has to get used to calling him that) kiss-swollen lips, the deep blush across his cheeks. He must look like an awestruck child from Thomas's perspective, because the man chuckles and takes his free hand through Alex's hair, taking it out of the pony tail in one movement. "Red." Alex mutters finally.

"Red?" Thomas repeats with a cocked eyebrow, hands Alexander his hair tie and brings both hands back to his lap. He really isn't sure what Hamilton means. What does red have to do with anything? If he had to put a colour to this moment, he would call it tickled pink. Intense and warm, but full to the brim of love and devotion. Pink.

Alexander nods, presses a finger to Thomas's chest, and another to his own. "Red," he nods, taking his fingers away, instead splaying his palm across Jefferson's chest absent-mindedly. "That's our colours. We're red."

Thomas never imagined he would be agreeing with Alexander so easily. With Martha, their relationship had been a soft pink. The fire was there, buried beneath the surface of dedication and loyalty. It was comfortable, it was perfect. He never needed anything else, because everything he needed was in Martha. But was he pink? Certainly not. She was his high-school sweetheart, the only real relationship he had ever had. He didn't count the many women (and men) in France, they never lasted longer than a night of sub-par activities and a morning of awkward goodbyes. 

"We are, aren't we?" Thomas hummed, eventually pulling himself from his thoughts before he sunk too far. Thinking was a dangerous activity, one he didn't take time to do in fear of never emerging again. 

"But," Alexander continues, and Jefferson's heart sinks. There's always a catch, isn't there? "We're the opposite reds. You're the darker red, most definitely. You're secrets and feelings are locked away, while I display mine like the lights on Broadway." 

Thomas gulps. Never before has he been called out so boldly, or in such a forward manner. Yet Alexander has hit the nail on the head, first try and won the prize so it seems. He softens a little further, slumping against the tree. A low hanging stick swats at his head, and he bats it away with one hand.

"You keep everything behind lock and key… no one else has the key, I don't think," Alexander draws little swirls and patterns with his fingertip on Thomas's chest, the art fading as fast as it appears. He feels the man quiver, trying to hold himself together, and he knows that stone wall he hides behind is breaking. 

He shakes his head in a curt motion. "Ja- Madison has a key," he corrects, inadvertently agreeing with Alexander, "Martha… Martha had a key." He finishes there, hands folding into each other, fingers fidgeting with discomfort. His face contorts as he screws it up, not allowing his mind to drift, forcing himself to stay in the moment. Stay in the tickled pink time. But how do you make pink from two reds?

"I'd like a key," Alexander adds, "if you'd be willing to lend me a spare." He glances up at Jefferson through his eyelashes, shall he offer something in return? The key to his treasure chest perhaps? The place he stores his most prized memories? 

Jefferson chews on his lip. "I think you already have one. Whether we realised it or not… you've always had one." The metaphor is starting to confuse him, muddling with his mind. So many keys, and so many possible doors they could unlock and it's all a bit much. What door should he go through first? None of them have labels, none of them have a clear cut future secured behind them. How does he choose? Maybe he should let Alexander choose for him, go along for the ride.

Alexander smiles. He drapes himself further across Jefferson, kicking one of his legs over both of the man's and leaning into his shoulder, tucking himself there. The hot air, accompanied by the events that just occurred have sobered him almost entirely, but it feels so much better to experience this without the alcohol tainting his memory. "Thank you."

"For what?" Thomas raises an eyebrow, because as far as he's certain, he should be thanking Hamilton. Or cursing him. Cursing him and whatever magical force drew them together. This may just make him believe in fate, in destiny. He wasn’t a Christian, not anymore anyway, but this had him thanking god. Thanking every god for bringing them together. This was good, he could sit under this monkey puzzle tree, feeling the way he is now for the rest of eternity. Not good, no, that didn’t do this justice. Amazing? Fabulous? Stupendous?

"It's a preemptive thank you, since you'll be paying for tonight's date. Say seven o'clock." Alexander smirks up at Thomas, watches as the man chuckles. That laugh, there's a sound he could get used to. And to know he caused it? Fills him with joy. The laugh is like yellow. He doesn't know why, it just is. Colours fit everything, his mother was a deep navy blue, his father a cold icy white. Lafayette is purple, a mix of strength and flowing like the sea, but passionate like red. Hercules is green like juniper, he’s a grounding presence, one that Alexander can rely on to stay strong for them all. Angelica is pink, full of passion, but for some reason she just doesn’t hit that red mark. Washington stands bold in yellow, along with Peggy, but much like Thomas and Alexander, opposite ends of the spectrum. He can’t say why these colours fit, where he got them from or why they are this way, but it just does. It all slots together, everyone in his life has an assigned colour. And he thinks they always will.

Thomas raises an eyebrow. "Alright, I'm sure the neighbour will be fine taking care of Patsy for a bit," he hums. It's nerve wracking, because Jefferson doesn't have a clue if Alexander is alright with kids or not. His brain is screaming at him that Alexander is going to see sense and run, hear the talk of kids and sprint. After all, they're both in their mid thirties, so it's normal for someone their age to have a child. What if Alexander doesn't like kids? God, was this a mistake?

“Patsy? The little girl playing out in the street?” Alexander asks, laying himself across Thomas. He feels comfortable, like himself already, and he feels like this could go places. Because reds match, and opposites attract. They’re just lucky they’re opposite reds. 

“Yeah, yeah, she’s playing with John,” Thomas sighs out his nose, grabbing his glasses and pushing them up his nose. He smiles at Alexander and giggles, actually giggles, a sound that makes Alexander’s heart fly like doves around his chest. “Dress comfy, I hope you like picnics.”

“Picnics?” Alexander raises an eyebrow. “I love picnics.” It’s true. Hell, if they picnic in the back of Thomas’s garden, criss-cross on a blanket under this tree, that could be one of the best dates of his life. 

“I’m glad, it’s my dream date,” Thomas admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, “look at us, getting to know each other already!” He chuckles again, noticing the flush it causes to Alex’s cheeks. Gorgeous. He cups his jaw, watches as the smaller man leans into the touch with a soft purr. 

“You know what’ll make it even better?”

“What, if I bring more Chardonnay?” 

“No!” Alexander bats at his arm playfully.

“Then what?” Thomas asks through laughs.

“If you kiss me again.”

And he does. God, he does.

-

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please this is 13,045 words I spent to much time on this I'm begging yall, if you liked it please reblog it, I dont want this to go unnoticed.

Tag list: (just ask to be added!)

@a-nice-tea-time @skyluni @khiara1776 @beetlejuicebeetlejuicebeeeecause @slushy-sloosh-musical-person @i-can-get-extra-with-my-ships @iss-yaboi @patt0n-sanders @karixx-png @tryingtohealandgrow @justthehopeleft @pufflypuffle @swagdiplomatlightkid

[mystical-salamander]

Rating: General Audiences

Summary:

Getting stranded on a desert planet isn’t ideal when your partner has fur.

... 

It was kriffing hot.

The thought repeated itself in Kallus' head for the millionth time. The former agent growled to himself as he stared into the endless golden landscape.

He sighed and looked over at the unconscious Lasat next to him. The rapid and shallow breathing Zeb produced made Kallus' insides twist horribly. The former agent leaned over to grab his jacket and fanned at the Lasat's sweltering body.

Still no change, Kallus frowned. It's still so kriffing hot. He groaned as he removed his shirt and thought back to the day's events.

…

Crashing onto the desert planet was part of an unfortunate and unforeseen plan that neither Zeb or he had. It just so happened that the escape pod they took had lost control after a TIE-fighter got a lucky shot in. The pod had spun into the range of the nearby planet and was forcibly dragged into its gravity.

Thankfully neither of them had gotten heavily injured in the crash, escaping with only minor scrapes and bruises. The pod was unsalvageable, however, exploding seconds after the pair managed to get out of the craft.

After gathering their bearings, the first thing they immediately noticed was how uninhabitable the place was. Sand covered the land as far as their eyes could see and no other lifeforms were visible.

The next thing they noticed was the high temperature. They both groaned as they began to remove the unneeded layers of clothing to fend off the heat. 

Kallus removed his jacket, tying it around his waist to keep his hands free to adjust the frequency on their transponder. "Must we always get stranded together somewhere?"

Zeb zipped opened his jumpsuit and rolled it down to his waist. The Lasat grinned, "Kal, if this keeps up," a sparkle in his eyes illuminated his excitement despite their predicament, "maybe we'll get a beach planet next time!"

The ex-agent rolled his eyes, "I don't want to get stuck anywhere, Zeb." 

He covered his face with one hand as he tried to stop a smile, "But… I wouldn't mind a beach planet."

Zeb hugged Kallus, "Aw, ya love me." 

The ex-agent almost let out an undignified yelp as he felt warm and damp fur press against him. "Zeb! Let go of me!"

Lasats ran warmer than humans– that was a fact that Kallus quickly learned during his experience on Bahryn. Zeb's fur had kept the Lasat relatively warm on the ice moon. And while Yavin IV was a sweltering jungle planet, there was at least water and the air conditioning to ease off the heat.

Unfortunately this small planet had neither of those and Kallus wasn't planning on testing Zeb's limits.

Once the Lasat reluctantly released the former agent, they searched around for any cover from the sun. Kallus pointed off into the distance, "Those large rocks should provide shade." They were too far in the ex-agent's opinion, but it was the only choice they had.

Zeb squinted and faintly nodded, "Y-yeah. Okay." He gave a wavering smile, "Let's go."

They trekked through the sand, stumbling through giant sand dunes under the merciless sun. Kallus worriedly glanced over to his partner periodically as he worked on the transponder. 

Sweat glistened from Zeb's body and harsh heavy pants filled the ex-agent's ears. He paused his work and untied the jacket from his waist, offering it to his partner. Zeb automatically took the material in his hands. He stared at the jacket for a few seconds before he gave Kallus a confused look.

The former agent stifled a laugh, "Hold it over your head, so you're covering yourself from the sun."

"Oh." 

An ear twitched, "What about you?"

"I'll be fine, Zeb. We shouldn't be long before we make it to the large rocks," Kallus then shifted, somehow turning redder despite his already flushed skin. He avoided Zeb's gaze, "And I'm worried about you since you're one with a body full of fur."

Said fur ruffled as Kallus' concern made Zeb's heart fluttered. He tried to hide it with a good-natured grumble as he lifted the jacket over his head, "If you say so, ya sap."

They fell in comfortable silence; as comfortable they could get with the horrid heat.

The sun was at its highest peak when Kallus heard a soft thump behind him. The former agent whipped around, and nearly threw their only connection to the Ghost into the endless desert.

"Zeb!" 

Kallus quickly ran up and removed the jacket that obscured part of the Lasat's face. He shook his partner and felt the searing heat coming off the Lasat in waves.

"Zeb!"

The Lasat didn't respond. 

No! Nonono. They were so close!

"Zeb! Zeb! Wake up!"

Kallus tucked the transponder into his jacket pocket and once again tied the material around his waist. He grabbed a hold on Zeb and began to drag the Lasat the rest of the way.

The blazing heat that emanated from Zeb almost made the ex-agent release the Lasat a few times, but he grit his teeth and continued to push on. Sweat dripped steadily off Kallus' face, the liquid making his clothes uncomfortably stick to his body. 

His vision swam from the scorching heat that bore down on the barren land. He gasped for air, the warmth of it nearly made Kallus vomit.

Suddenly he felt the air moderately cool, Kallus glanced around and let out a relieved sigh. He made it to the rocks– the shade. Without a moment to lose, he pulled Zeb fully into the fresh shadows laying him down carefully, "Zeb! Dear!" 

Kallus cupped the Lasat's face, "We made it! Wake up." 

His heart began to sink the longer he went without a response. Kallus frantically searched for Zeb's pulse, he let out a shaky exhale when he felt the faint heartbeat thumping against his fingers.

Kallus hastily untied his jacket, threw the transponder off to the side, and messily folded the clothing to fan the Lasat to try to cool him down. "Please! Zeb, wake up!" 

He shouldn't be wasting his energy on crying, but Kallus couldn't stop his tears from running down his face. He buried his face into Zeb's soft fur, hissing as the heat the unconscious body exuded was unbearable to the human, How bad was it for Zeb?

After what felt like hours, Kallus forced himself to release his grasp on Zeb. He looked down in the sand to see the transponder laying forgotten. The ex-agent sighed and dragged himself to the machine to correct its frequency. 

It was kriffing hot.

… 

The sun was setting when the human was woken up by the sound of a ship. Kallus shot up, ran out of the shade, and saw the welcoming sight of the Ghost.  Kallus let out a hysterical laugh as he waved his arms to alert the Spectres of their location.

He clumsily ran up to Hera and Kanan, the Jedi caught him before his knees collapsed from under him. His sunburnt skin screamed with the touch, but Kallus ignored the pain.

The ex-agent's fingers gripped onto the blind Jedi's arm, "Zeb– He needs help!"

The fear in the Spectres' eyes made Kallus shiver, Kanan passed the former agent over to Hera before he ran towards the rocks where Zeb lay.

Hera led Kallus to the Ghost, "N-no. I need to help Kanan– help Zeb!"

The Twi'lek kept her tight hold on the thrashing human, "Kallus you're not doing any better yourself. You're not going to be much help." 

He knew that but… but… 

Hera cut through his unfinished thoughts, "Don't worry, you've done the best you can. We'll do the rest of the hard work, you just focus on getting better."

When they entered the ship, Hera's commanding voice echoed throughout the durasteel walls. 

"Rex! We need you outside!"

Hera led Kallus to the medbay, "Ezra! Sabine! I'm going to need ice packs– or anything that'll cool down a body!"

She sat down Kallus on the cot before turning to the orange droid who had followed the Twi'lek once she had entered the Ghost. "Chop, keep an eye on Kallus. Don't let him leave medical. I'm going to help Kanan and Rex with Zeb."

Chopper saluted, before turning to the ex-agent and producing his electro-shock prod. He tried to goad Kallus into leaving the room, promising not to shock the human if he got up from the bed.

Kallus might have been exhausted, but he wasn't stupid, after all it only took two shocks before he realized that the droid was messing with him.

"Traitor."

 …

 After hours of laying in the Ghost covered head-to-toe in ice packs and wet towels, Kallus could finally say with finality that he was currently freezing.

He still wasn't allowed to leave the room– or get up for that matter– not until Hera gave the okay. Which was why Chopper was put in charge of guarding the medbay; his threatening whirring and chatter kept Kallus from getting out of the cot.

He sighed, his eyes growing heavy for a second before a groan from beside him made Kallus shoot up. The materials on him crashing onto the floor as he got onto his feet.

Angry beeping filled the room as Chopper chastised Kallus for getting up. The ex-agent ignored the racket, "Chopper! Go get Hera! Zeb's waking up!'

The grumpy droid beeped in confirmation before speeding away. Kallus turned to the Lasat in the cot next to him, watching as Zeb's emerald green eyes slowly fluttered open. The sight made Kallus cup his love's face and begin to pepper small kisses all over. 

A purr rumbled throughout Zeb's chest, "Kal?"

"Thank the Stars you're okay! My Zeb, I was so worried."

Zeb cupped the human's face with one hand and wiped away any stray tears. He gave his love a weak smile, "I'm fine, Kal. Sorry for scaring ya."

"No, no. It's not your fault," the ex-agent lay his hand on Zeb's, caressing the soft fur there. He moved the hand to his lips, giving the palm a tender kiss.

"You know," Zeb dryly swallowed at the sight, his ears twitched as he tried to compose himself. "I'm still holding out hope for that beach planet, Kal."

Kallus gave a breathless laugh, "Maybe once you've recovered, we'll go on our own terms."

The Lasat's eyes lit up, "Really?"

"Anything for you, my dear." Kallus pressed one last kiss to Zeb's hand before the eleated voices of the Spectres rushing over the medbay reached his ears. Kallus tightened his hold on Zeb's hand; the Lasat returned the gesture, a smile gracing his features, "I can't wait."

[winterhawkkisses]

13 "sleeping with you was the best sleep I've gotten in years" please

960.

“Obviously I slept with him,” Clint said, tucking the phone into the crook of his neck so he could refill the coffee machine. He shrugged when she sighed at him, knowing she’d be able to translate the hiss of his shirt right. “I don’t know what else you expected me to do.” 

“Can you blame me for worrying?” 

He couldn’t, that was the thing. He was fully and precisely aware of how much he had fucked up, last night. It was hard to regret, what with the easy warm lassitude that always came after really fucking good sex, but he knew - from plenty of past experience - exactly what was gonna come later. He’d considered getting one of those wall signs - it has been 398 days since Clint last broke his own heart - but Steve hung out at his every now and again and Clint knew he’d take it as a personal affront. As far as he was concerned, Bucky could do no wrong, and Clint was kinda in the same boat; that was most of the problem. 

Clint let out a long breath. 

“I’m sorry, Tasha,” he said. 

“I’m not the one you should be apologising to,” she said, and he huffed out a laugh. 

“Yeah, well, the bed was still warm when I woke up, he’s not been gone that long so I’m not sorry for myself just yet. Gimme twenty four hours and I’ll come cry on your couch, okay?” 

“Bring pizza,” she said, and hung up. 

Clint tossed his phone onto the counter and then leaned back against it, folding his arms across his chest. There were a couple mouth-bitten bruises - on the small of his back, on his left pec - that sparked some pain with the movement, and they’d still be a good reminder for a couple hours yet. 

He was gonna enjoy it while he could. He’d done this enough to be able to tell almost down to the minute when the ache was gonna turn hollow. But he didn’t bother telling himself it was the last time, this time, ‘cos his therapist thought lying to himself was unproductive, and Clint had fallen in love with Bucky Barnes thirteen years ago and hadn’t been able to stay away from him since. 

Bucky wasn’t a settling down type, and Clint had known that as soon as he’d met him, maybe even before. Steve told them all stories about his buddy the war photographer, although an IED and a pretty severe case of PTSD had turned war to wildlife not far in. He flew around the world for his job, just dropping back to New York every now and again to hang out with Steve and turn Clint’s world upside down. 

When Clint wanted to wallow he checked out Bucky’s Instagram, the parade of gorgeous men and women, the beautiful places and the beautiful sights and Bucky out there in the middle of it, grinning like there was nowhere else he’d rather be. 

Good to be home, it’d said two days ago, a selfie of grey streets and greasy New York pizza, and Clint had braced himself for the way Bucky would smile at him across the booth in their local bar. 

There was the scrabble of claws and Lucky let out a bark, racing to the door. Clint followed him over, tugging his sweatpants a little way up ‘cos his tenants had seen to much of him already, and opened the door. 

His mouth dropped open. 

He wasn’t used to Bucky in person, in daylight, and it was devastating in a whole new way. 

Bucky’s hair was a little mussed, and his grin was a little crooked, and he had a bakery bag squashed under his arm and a coffee takeout tray balanced carefully on his prosthetic. 

“You gonna let me in?” he said, and Clint stepped back automatically, off-balance and entirely off his guard. 

Bucky crossed to the counter and carefully set down the breakfast he’d brought, Clint watching him like he was some kinda dream. He still leaned down into it, though, when Bucky crossed back over to kiss him, softer and slower than they usually managed, lighting up everything inside Clint’s chest. 

“I don’t think I understand,” he said, and Bucky bit his lip and ducked his head, and Clint reached out to tuck his hair behind his ear so he could have some hope of understanding the look on his face. 

“Sleeping with you was the best sleep I’ve gotten in years,” he said, “except for the last times I was here.” He looked up to meet Clint’s eyes, and his looked different in the daylight. Paler and more vulnerable maybe, less deliberate and less planned. “I’m gonna be around a little while,” he said, and offered a little smile that was tied directly to something in Clint’s gut. “I was hoping maybe I could stay.”

[caltropspress]

FEEDBACK LOOP #7: Curly Castro’s “Weapon 13X” featuring Breeze Brewin

There was a very old man, an old white man out in the crowd, and he started screaming and crying like a baby and he kept crying and he said, “God damn, God damn, what is this God damn country coming to that the niggers have got guns, the niggers are armed and the police can’t even arrest them!” He kept crying and somebody led him away through the crowd.

—Robert F. Williams, Negroes with Guns (1962)

Gun flash beats the child’s head in, maniac teeth dance in a bloody grin blue lies, badge confessions, yng dude dead just beyond his mama’s arms

—Amiri Baraka, “Stop Killer Cops”

Police said Cleaver and Hutton were holed up at 1218 28th Street with two 9 mm automatic pistols, two AR-15 and one military-type M-14 automatic rifle, and a large supply of ammunition, some armor-piercing.

—Berkeley Barb, Volume 6, Number 15, Issue 139

1.

“Weapon 13X” is a diptych. Two verses; one pivot—or volta, for you bookworms. Curly Castro is first with a séance that summons the mysteries of Clarence 13X and Weapon X. These nullified variables and Roman numerals come together in an elixir mix so potent that it would make Aes Rock choke on the amalgam. Castro opens the fission gate and discharges two-hundred forty thousand mega-therms on the city of brotherly love, the city of bombs from above onto a 6221 Osage Avenue row house. Shameek just got bust in his arm, leg, leg, arm, head. The Black man is God personified, and Logan is regenerative. Adamantium claws. Mathematical jaws. Science dropped and experiments performed. Spark this like metal does when dragged across concrete.

2.  “Harriet would grab her balls, / This my gun, and this my rifle.”

Harriet Tubman gets cast by Kubrick for Full Metal Jacket, recites the Rifleman’s Creed, but it was actually a pistol she kept buried within the folds of her calico. She sallied forth seeing visions from the overseer’s heave of a weight—made her skull snap. Don’t sleep. “When the caliber’s inside you,” you can’t necessarily count on “the muzzle smoke revival.”

3.

Quelle Chris provides production, lest we forget his 2019 Guns album with its Dada-bullet, double-barreled barrage album art. The title track armed to the teeth: “Ain’t no cracking that code, / Ain’t no safety on locks, / Might as well get you one, / Procrastinating will get you popped.” The machine gun funk outs finks and COINTELPRO cooperators, conspirators, dispiriters. Here, Castro’s got those same turncoats and sucker MCs in his sights, so to speak.

4.  [The oppressor] teaches the Negro that he has no worth-while past, that his race has done nothing significant since the beginning of time, and that there is no evidence that he will ever achieve anything great. (Carter Godwin Woodson, The Mis-Education of the Negro, 1933)

Castro makes a promise, provoked by those who came before him, those who brandished firearms in the faces of their enemies:

We never will disarm: these are the lies that you were sold, When your glory tripped up, you trade your weapons in for gold. With Yakub in the schools, trade your dreams, knowledge folds. Found the tome, Mis-Education Negroes…

Dr. Yakub sloshing liquids in the lab—Bunsen burners explode and the lab leak is viral whiteness. Tricknology replaces Biology. Castro is looking back while moving forward. “Doomed to repeat it”-type forewarnings. He knows the ledge and also wants his people to.

5.

aim     get your sights & its sound in abstract or journal movements to a peace settlement

dude shot my man

dead,          precious lord blow off theres no willy in th blues theres no you.

—from Tom Weatherly’s Maumau American Cantos (1970)

Castro is a “gunhand, cybernetic with spray cans, / Basquiat, baklava, Mau Mau.” That’s likely an intentional malaprop—surely his militant stance calls for a balaclava. Even still, Castro doesn’t stutter. He will still sh-sh-shift his voice on you—the dynamics of his delivery raise stakes and get guttural, scraping against sewer plates. He’s potent, even if Basquiat’s pistol appears flaccid with its hand-scrawled linework. In another piece, Basquiat starts the decolonization process at the point of a safari helmet. The image detonates.  

6.  Free country? Man, I should fuck you up for sayin’ that stupid shit alone.

“This film is a call to racial violence!” a film critic shouted at Roger Ebert after a screening of Do the Right Thing. She worried Bed-Stuy would set fire to theaters, but Lee’s 1989 film wasn’t The Rite of Spring in Paris in 1913. An amerikan psychotic turn to theater violence would be postponed until Aurora in 2012, and it would be white violence, which would come as a shock to none who have tracked the trajectory of white violence. Displacement is white violence, too. White violence is a sine qua non for gentrification. And so Castro allies himself with “Buggin’ Out battle brownstone houses, some Bird fans, / While Mookie turns the radio up and launched the trashcan.”

7.  “We are the weapons.”

Of late, Castro has consistently been proving you’re out your depth, with verses so allusive they suggest a strong “Erick Sermon and Parrish Smith, nobody blink. / They don’t now who the fuck that is” vibe. So what, though? At this point, Castro’s a vet, an elder. The youngins need to catch up or cash out. Get KRS-One bookish, kiddies, or be left behind. Be the weapon or never prosper. Create your own mythos: “Omega built a mother by the sun and Cyclops sent / a blurred Baraka poem capable to raise the dead. / Yet instead I use the sword...”—with Wu-Tang pronunciation of the w in “sword,” of course. History moves backwards and forwards at the same time. Language is lost and recovered. The poem is “blurred” because it’s been duplicated on a mimeograph—a machine that involves a “drum.” The words are ink-smudged. Baraka’s former partner, Diane di Prima, shouted, “"Power to the people's mimeo machines!” Accuse and attack, Baraka sloganeered. We’re talking about agency—by hand-crank, handgun, or mic check.

8.

Castro creates imagery like Emory Douglas did with paint: painfully bold and saturated with color like blood soaks clothes. Baraka called Douglas’s art a combo of “expressionist agitprop and homeboy familiarity,” which applies to what Castro does on the track. I quote Mao who called literature and art “part of the whole proletarian revolutionary cause,” and Mao quotes Lenin who called lit and art the “cogs and wheels in the whole revolutionary machine.” And Baraka also said Douglas’s work:

functioned as if you were in the middle of a rumble and somebody tossed you a machine pistol. It armed your mind and demeanor. Ruthlessly funny, but at the same time functional as the .45 slugs pouring out of that weapon.

The Panthers were trapped and tear-gassed in a West Oakland basement. Eldridge Cleaver told Bobby to go out naked—unarmed as the day he was born not quite eighteen years earlier—but he emerged from the burning house fully dressed, with dignity, and he was searchlighted and shotshotshotshotshotshotshot dead.

Castro needs Brewin to make the cypher complete—a two-man killarmy using loud words in quiet wars, no silencer.

9.  “Before blurting out, try analysis, brother.”

Breeze’s Yo, listen… at the start of his verse is comparable to Sir Thomas Wyatt intoning Whoso list to hunt… to begin his 16th-century sonnet. The amalgam here is less Five Percenter plus clandestine government experimentation and more a deconstruction of the both violent and sexualized language of braggadocio. “Anything you say isn’t played like Miranda Rights,” and so we’re already with our hands behind our backs, silenced by an pig officer’s gag order. The competition doesn’t get played; they play themselves.

Sir Thomas Wyatt sets it off like so:

Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind, But as for me, hélas, I may no more. The vain travail hath wearied me so sore, I am of them that farthest cometh behind. Yet may I by no means my wearied mind Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore Fainting I follow.

Breeze has wanted to stay pleasant to the ears—you know, like Lauryn Hill phone sexing—so this isn’t new territory but rather a well-worn path. Wyatt’s wearied and “so sore” by “the hunt,” the pursuit of his love interest, even though he knows “where is an hind.” Still, “as she fleeth afore / Fainting [he] follows.” He can’t help himself.

Love is lost within violent pursuit. Breeze speaks of a “plan to strike” and “zero in” on a “target,” his quarry. He and Castro are “talking about broads often, no doubt, / We broad and burly as hell, / Brag about the hunt, you was jukin’ a girly gazelle.” Breeze’s assault is dizzying, a salvo from all angles: “Hit ’em with some counter clay rebuttals that’s subtle but still befuddle if dude slow.”

10.  “It’s nothin’, I gotcha, and that’s word to Super Lover Cee.”

Super Lover Cee and Casanova Rud’s 1988 single “Girls I Got ’Em Locked” articulates the carceral embrace of “locking” a girl down, which—consequently—requires violence to enforce: “Don’t ever touch a girl owned by me or I’ll ruin ya’, / Slap you with my mic simultaneously as I’m doin’ ya.” The girl is commodified, and Super Lover Cee takes a proprietary attitude toward the relationship. If you overstep, you’ll be ruined, that is, you’ll fall. And while you’re prostrate, you’ll be slapped with the phallic mic simultaneously. Is the Super Lover doin’ her or you, though? What’s truly getting him off? That hypermasculine posturing skews homoerotic. Breeze Brewin laughs at you for subscribing to the nonsense: “Dag, if that was what you believe then your world be a hell.”

11.

Liberal discourse suggests policing your impulses. Put down the gun—don’t touch it. “Touchy subjects,” like racism (apparently), get the “We need to have a conversation” treatment. Look, don’t touch. Don’t touch the exhibit of stolen artifacts—those Benin bronzes in the British Museum. Beneath the topic of orignoo gunn clapping, Curly Castro’s track is about the x’s and o’s of eros as well. Many gestures meant to protect women are merely some other man staking his claim, adorning her with “diamonds in letters plain,” as Wyatt writes of the collar around the deer’s “fair neck.” Wyatt’s sonnet warns against overstepping (or even half-stepping). The collar reads Noli me tangere (touch me not)—she belongs to someone else. It’s a bad touch example. Like his fellow Indelible J-Treds, Breeze Brewin is the living circle-circle-dot-dot: nobody can touch him.

12.

Let’s bring it back to Little Bobby Hutton. When Eldridge Cleaver told him to leave the ambushed basement naked, he was thinking of Bobby’s safety. He thought the extreme measure of appearing on the street without clothes would be enough to convince the pigs he wasn’t armed. Cleaver was naïve to think so. Bobby Hutton was right to emerge clothed. In doing so, he rejected the indignity of the auction block, the lynching, the mutilation and spreading of souvenir flesh. The searchlight made Bobby Hutton the subject of a spectacle, yes, but he refused to consent to the psychosexual desires of white supremacy. He refused the castration ritual. Little Bobby Hutton, in effect, threw down a challenge to the cops: Use your imagination once again. Try to think of a few situations where your own weapon might be used against you…used against you…used against you.

Images:

Emory Douglas, The Black Panther, Vol. IV, No. 78, 1971 (detail) | Weapon X (detail, issue unknown) | Emory Douglas, Rat Subterranean News (1970) | Harriet Tubman with gun sketch | Anti-Mau Mau British propaganda poster | Newspaper headline from Negroes with Guns | Jean-Michel Basquiat, Untitled (date unknown) | Jean-Michel Basquiat, Native Carrying Some Guns, Bibles, and Amorites on Safari (1982) | Screenshot from Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing (1989) | Two images from the Berkeley Barb, Volume 6, Number 15, Issue 139 (1968) | Emory Douglas, The Black Panther (miscellaneous poster) | Medieval depiction of the hunt (unknown) | Image detail from the Berkeley Barb, Volume 6, Number 15, Issue 139 (1968)

[hypnoticwinter]

Down the Rabbit Hole part 10

The door opens and the bell rings and Peter and I both look up; the lady I’d ran into earlier on my first day in Gumption walks in and nods to Peter. Through the course of the story we’d finished breakfast and then I’d walked with Peter down to the 7-11 and he’d clocked in and started his shift while I sat on a stack of beer cases and listened, turning the voice recorder to its highest sensitivity to capture everything he was saying. I could always go back and take a transcript later if I had to, if the audio was too loud or too distorted.

Her eyes stray over me but whatever she thinks she doesn’t betray anything with her expression. I’ve reached out automatically and covered the voice recorder with my hand as soon as I heard the door open; it was an automatic action, quick as a whip, no conscious thought required, and I slide my thumb down its ridged side, click it off.

“Hey, Michelle,” Peter says.

“Hey, Peter,” she says.

He glances at his watch and whistles. “I didn’t realize it was four already.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” she says, a slight layer of sarcasm flavoring her words. I can feel my hackles rising but I ease myself down. Peter’s eyes flick over to me.

“Well,” he says, and I feel my mouth drop open.

“No way. You can’t be serious.”

“What?”

“You aren’t going to finish the story?”

Peter grins at me. “I have to go get ready,” he says in a soft voice. “I’ll finish telling you later.”

“Oh my god.”

“What?” he repeats.

“What the hell happens to Makado?”

“She…” he starts, and then stops. I can see a flicker of pain cross his face like the dappled back of a fish beneath a sunstruck river. My heart falls within my chest and I realize that I’m becoming far too invested to be objective, I need to take a step back. “She made it out fine,” he tells me. I don’t believe him.

Despite all of my efforts to cajole him he won’t tell me any more. He assures me that we’ll have enough time tonight, that it’s going to be a lot of sitting around and waiting while I film far-off dots moving around under the cover of darkness and that he’ll tell me then. It smells like a cop-out to me, like he just doesn’t want to get into what happened to Makado.

It’s unbelievable enough already, though, isn’t it? Amalgams and copepods and all of that stuff. I hear it and I think, oh, this is the plot to a movie. This isn’t real, it can’t be. Even though I’m only a few miles from it, even though I’m going to be going there tonight, it doesn’t feel like the Pit is a place that actually exists. It feels like somebody is pulling my leg.

Or it would, if it weren’t for the look on Peter’s face when he talks about Makado. That at least is real. Whether everything else around it is fake, I guess there’s a little kernel of doubt still sprouting in my head somewhere, the tiny eternal skeptic inside of me that isn’t willing to believe anything it can’t touch or feel or see itself.

We walk out of the 7-11 together and look at each other. Peter nods. “Same place as where you followed before. You know how to get there?”

I nod as well. “Line up the two rocks and the cactus with the setting sun and walk straight until I hit the three boulders in the dip of the hill.”

“Good memory. If you mess up you’ll be able to see us probably anyway, I’ll have my flashlight.”

“How many people are coming?”

“Besides you there’s three others, one guy from the cult for his initiation and two others who…well, you know.”

“Yeah. Was that what Erica was talking to you about the other day?”

“When she pulled up at midnight or whenever? Yeah, she was just telling me who to look out for. Because those guys want to be able to get back out again I have to give them different instructions, that kind of thing.”

I shudder in spite of myself. “Well, see you tonight.”

“See you,” he says. He turns and walks quickly away and then past the corner of the building and I am alone. I stand there for a moment and then lean up against the side of the building. The sun is hot but not terribly so and here in the shade it’s really quite a nice afternoon.

A car pulls up and turns into one of the pumps. It’s the second customer I’ve seen all day. The guy looks over at me but it isn’t anyone I know or have seen before, and after a moment he puts his card in and fills up the tank, then drives off.

I look round and, after a moment, let myself slide down the faux-brick façade of the 7-11 and stretch my legs out in front of me. My knee cracks like a gunshot as I do and I wince. I take my phone out of my pocket and dial a number and listen as the harsh buzzing tone drills one, two, three, four, five times into my ear, and then there’s a click and the answering machine picks up.

“Hi, you’ve reached Mark Dzilenski. I’m not able to take your call right now but if you leave me your name and number, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks, bye.”

“Hi, dad,” I say, and I feel a wave of emotion pressing at me that I refuse to confront. I swallow. “I’m sorry our call got disconnected the other night, I think there’s something wrong with my phone. It was good hearing your voice, I’m glad you and mom are doing okay.”

I lick my lips. Alright, Roan, you’ve been very glib so far. Spit it out.

“I, uh,” I start. Come on. “I got some news the other day that I wanted to tell you, I…”

“If you are satisfied with your call, you can hang up, or press 1 for delivery options. To re-record –“

I hang up the call, and then I stand up. I rummage in my bag for a cigarette and light it, and then walk slowly back to the hotel, taking my time. I’m meeting Peter at one in the morning but my nerves are already balling around themselves in a panic. I feel like I’m going to be sick.

“So what?” I ask out loud. I look over and see my distorted reflection looking back at me in the thick glass window of a closed barbershop. I look tired. “So what?” I mutter again. I look at the me in the window a little longer but I don’t like the way she looks at me so I toss my cigarette on the ground and crush it out and hurry a little more. It feels like there is a cloud looming behind me but it’s just in the sky, promising rain.

When I get back to the hotel room I unfold my laptop, dump the audio files from the voice recorder back onto it, and then I connect to the extremely rickety wi-fi network the motel offers and I look up what exactly the penalty is for trespassing on federal property. It’s not that bad, actually; a misdemeanor in all cases, at least under federal law. I don’t know if the site around the Pit is solely administered federally or if state law would also apply, though. Or would it count as trespassing on a military base? Apparently that can be a felony, if it’s important enough or if you’re being malicious about it. I do more googling around but the information I turn up is cryptic and limited. I wonder, not for the first time, if I’m putting myself on some kind of list doing this sort of research, then shake my head. Whatever.

The evening passes slowly and my nervousness doesn’t fade no matter how many cigarettes I smoke, leaned over on the wiry metal bannister, staring off into the flat, unexciting horizon. I watch television just to pass time, let Baggage and The Price is Right and Family Feud wash over me like an ocean, like waves, like I’m drowning. Am I drowning? If I were sane I think I’d feel like I were drowning.

When the time comes I put some pants on, long ones this time, shrug into my jacket, make sure I have my voice recorder and my camcorder and my slim little folding knife, more of a letter opener than anything else. I laugh at myself when I tuck it into my pocket but I still do it.

“Alright Roan,” I say to myself, staring in the mirror, sounding braver than I really feel, tucking my hair back in a ponytail. “Let’s go commit a felony.”

 * * *

 Peter raises his hand in greeting as I crest the hill and I wave back at him, click the light on my phone off and move down, join the little circle. He’d said there would be three others; two are here so far. One is a small Asian girl, so skinny it looks like she’d burst into flame if she crossed her legs too fast, and the other is a tall, heavy guy, looking like he’s in his late forties, balding hard. He has bags under his eyes and he keeps reflexively running his hands together. “Hi Lily,” Peter says to me and I blink and almost look behind myself to see if there’s someone back there, but he winks at me and I realize I’m supposed to be Lily. I wonder if there’s anything else important he’s left out.

“Hey,” I say. The Asian girl glances at me and then looks away again. Her eyes are very dark and it looks as though she’s chewing lightly on the inside of her cheek, sucking it inwards and holding it between her teeth and then letting it go again.

“This is Bao and Rey,” he tells me, indicating each of them. I nod at them.

“Hey,” I say again. “You guys, uh…excited?”

Peter shakes his head minutely and I feel faintly embarrassed, like I’ve said something I clearly shouldn’t have without realizing the taboo.

To their credit, they definitely do not look excited; nervous is more accurate. Perhaps haunted would be appropriate as well. Rey keeps glancing out into the darkness as though he can see something moving around out there; I can see his eyes focus on something and track it for a while before slipping off like a thrown egg slipping slowly down a window. I look out into the darkness as well but even though my eyes aren’t as adapted now thanks to Peter’s big utility flashlight throwing enough light to make me squint, it is very clear that there is nothing out there, nothing large enough that he’d be able to see it and track it like that.

I want to talk to him, I want to take out my recorder, I want to pry my way into his head, but I restrain myself. This is clearly not the time. The camcorder is still in my jacket pocket, the bulky night-vision attachment screwed onto its snouty muzzle already, fully charged and ready to go, but clearly I am supposed to be pretending to be one of these people. While we lapse into another uneasy silence and Peter checks his watch, I consider my new existence as Lily.

These two people are clearly so far gone that they barely recognize me as a person, let alone the deeper distinction between Roan and Lily. The way Rey keeps seeing ghosts and watching them like he’s ready to bolt or to fight, the way Bao keeps jumping at sounds none of the rest of us can hear, clearly they’re the two who are – what even is the right word? Afflicted? Who are, at least in Peter’s estimation, beyond retrieval?

I look at Bao. She’s young, maybe about my age, maybe a little younger. Twenty-two or twenty-three? Very possibly. Bao…the name sounds more Chinese than Japanese or Korean but I don’t know enough about Eastern culture to positively identify her, plus obviously there are more Asian countries than just China, Japan, and Korea. And if I’m supposed to be one of these people then should I care? Should I be getting into character?

I look again at Peter and feel a faint spark of anger at the fact that he didn’t let me know, didn’t warn me, but then I realize he didn’t really have a way to – he doesn’t have my number, and maybe this was something that resolved itself later in the afternoon after we’d parted, this need for secrecy.

I’ll draw the line at aping those nervous tics. Just watching these two is making me sad, giving me a feeling like someone’s taking hold of my heart and squeezing. It feels cruel, knowing I can do nothing.

Clearly the reason I’m Lily is because the third person, the guy from the cult, will know I’m coming, or at least will recognize my name. I think back and wonder if anybody had had a chance to take a photo of me while I was out walking around the town, but I’d have given people so many opportunities to take one without me noticing that it’s pointless to dwell on.

Surely if there was some sort of danger, if the cult knew for sure I would be here and they were perhaps willing to prevent me from coming somehow, Peter would have contacted me. He knows the motel I’m at, he might not know the room but if Erica Walken could get the phone number to it, surely Peter could have as well…right?

I toss my head, work my jaw sideways. It feels like it wants to crack but it doesn’t; I can feel the tension in the bulgy little knot of muscles down the side of my cheek. It doesn’t matter. I’m here, and I’m going in with them, cult or no cult.

There’s a crunching of feet on the dry hard earth behind us and Rey and I both turn to watch the third guy, tall and dark, making his way down the hill to us. He’s young, with a trimmed beard, and close-cropped hair. His eyes are very small; they linger on me for a moment and then flick to Rey and Bao.

“Alright,” Peter says, “everybody’s here. We’re going to be going under the fence through a hidden tunnel. It’s going to be tight so you guys are going to have to drop to your stomachs and crawl. It was going to be a waste-drainage pipe but they didn’t give the contractors they hired to do it the right plans and so it turned out that they were digging right on top of one of the power lines for the electric fence. They just left the pipe in there and put a fake rock over the entrance.”

I almost laugh when I hear that. It’s too easy. There must be a catch, mustn’t there?

“The pipe is going to let you out on the side of the patrol road inside the fence,” Peter says, looking between us. He weights his words carefully. “There should not be a patrol moving at the time that we go through,” he says, “but on the off chance that there is, whoever is in front needs to just freeze and wait, you understand?”

He looks around at us until we each nod. It takes Bao the longest but she does acknowledge, at least, that he’s speaking. “You,” he says, pointing to the guy from the cult, “your name is Marcus, right?”

“That’s right,” he says. He has a slow, deep, purposeful voice.

“You’re going to be in front. I don’t normally come in but I will be this time, I have some business to take care of inside. Me and Lily here,” he says, pointing to me, “will be in the rear. You two will be in the middle,” he says, and Rey and Bao nod, a little quicker this time.

“Once we’re inside, you’re going to be going in through a disused emergency exit that they haven’t sealed up because the Pit uses it to breathe. I’m not going to lie to you, it won’t be pleasant. It’s going to be tight, hot, smell horrendous, and it’ll be pitch-black, but it’s a one-way trip without any side branches, so just push through it and you will get through and out into the old Bronchial section. It’s been a long time since I’ve been there but all of my information says that any damage is fairly minimal and you should still be able to get through. Once you’re in, you’re on your own. If you want to come back out, take the same drainage pipe that we go in through and be careful not to cross the road right in front of a patrol. This area that we’re in, there aren’t any cameras, there’s no other detection, so as long as you look out for patrols, you’re fine. If you get caught, I don’t know you and you don’t know me. If you don’t tell them anything, the worst they can do is felony trespassing and a $500 fine. It isn’t great but it also isn’t the worst thing in the world. Understood so far?”

We all nod. My heart is beating quickly; I can hear it in my ears, a little thump reminding me that I’m really doing this, I’m really going to do it.

“Great,” Peter says. “Once you’re inside, the deeper you go the less likely it is that someone will catch you. Flip side is, the deeper you go, the more likely it is something will catch you. Anything with a sign that says ‘LVC’ or ‘Main Gullet,’ don’t go that way, you will get caught. I don’t know what you want to do down there or how long you want to do it for, doesn’t matter to me, but try not to get caught. And one more thing,” he says, looking very seriously at all of us. “Do not, under any circumstances, try to go in or out any other way than the one we’re going to take. That means do not go down to the main orifice. That is the most watched area in the entire facility and it is completely open. I know that this way isn’t great but it’s safe, easy, and it is unobserved. Everybody good?”

Once again we all nod, but I wonder whether or not Rey and Bao have really absorbed the information. Rey keeps watching things moving around in the shadows and Bao’s eyes are unfocused and glassy, and her head rocks lightly to the beat of something none of the rest of us can hear.

Peter gives instructions on how to get to the entrance, which I can now identify as being the same way as he and Makado got out during the disaster, the same breathing orifice that they’d pushed their way through four years ago.

Something about the…the enormity of it, of the thing beneath us and ahead of us and surrounding us, is getting to me. I can feel my skin prickling and a flash of heat passes over me suddenly and I nearly gasp but I contain myself. It wouldn’t do to have a panic attack right now, I tell myself, and I slowly, gradually, get myself back under control. I can feel my hands shaking at my sides and I shove them deep into my pockets. I want a cigarette.

There is finally, it seems, nothing left to talk about, no more instructions or warnings Peter can give us. He nods to himself, going over some kind of mental checklist, and then shrugs. “Alright,” he says. “Let’s go.”

 * * *

 Fifteen minutes later I’m already laughing at myself for getting so worked up over something so banal. Yeah, the other day when I followed Peter it had seemed like very serious business but here, actually making the trip myself, I can’t help but feel like it’s very small potatoes. It’s just a fence, I say to myself as we walk up to it, and then that turns into it’s just a waste drainage pipe, one that I have to shimmy through on my belly, grimacing as dust and grime gets on my nice coat, but it can’t be helped.

Peter’s behind me and Bao is ahead of me; Peter is staring at my ass, I’m sure, but then I realize that it’s pitch black in here so maybe I can give my ego a break and not assume it’s all about me. I keep having to prop myself up on my hands and knees to readjust the camcorder and make sure I’m not smashing it to bits on the hard floor of the pipe, but eventually we make it through and then we’re standing on an identical bit of hard, scrubby earth, except now we’re on the other side of the fence. As I watch, Bao, Rey, and Marcus all take off along the path, crossing it quickly and dropping down into the ditch below, and then they are just dark silhouettes making their way beneath the sharp half-moon. I get out my camcorder and flip it on and start filming them; the night-vision is really not that effective but it’s way better than just filming in the dark.

Peter clambers to his feet next to me and dusts himself off. “Well,” he says after a moment, “there they go.”

“They really don’t get caught?”

“Not usually. The ones who’re there to, you know, die to it, they go as deep as they can as quick as they can, far as I understand it, and the people with the cult tend to stay in the upper areas. There’s not very many personnel in the Pit right now so the odds of running into somebody is slim.”

I point ahead of us. “Can we go sit on that ridge? I want to get some shots of the Pit itself.”

“Sure. If a patrol comes we’ll have to duck down but it should be alright.”

We make our way across the road and down onto the ridge. I find a little flat section for us to sit on and then I pick out the three dark blobs making their way carefully up the hill. I whistle softly. “That’s the easiest way up there?”

“It is,” he says. “It doesn’t look like it but there’s a clear path, you just have to be careful of your footing.”

The figure in front stops for a moment. I can’t tell from this distance but I think it might be Bao. She stops and turns and looks across the great downward sloping crater of the Pit, and I pan the camcorder around and take a shot of it as well. I frown at the image. “That isn’t flesh down there, is it?”

“No,” Peter says. “They filled it all in with concrete. Do you see that little dark spot over there?”

I look where he’s pointing. “Yes.”

“That’s the orifice. They don’t keep it dilated as wide as they did during the park days, and the elevator is way smaller, too. There’s a little command center down in the gullet but it’s like, maybe a quarter of the size of the LVC. They’re all about minimizing impact now.”

Bao seems to be rocking unsteadily back and forth there on the trail and I turn the camera to record her. “So what happened to Makado?” I ask.

“I told you, she got out fine.”

“You know I don’t believe that.”

“It doesn’t matter if you believe it, it’s the truth.”

“Alright, can you introduce me to her, then? I’d like to meet her, or at least have a phone call.”

Peter laughs. “I really don’t think you’d want that.”

“Why not?”

He makes a little grunting noise. “I think you’d find that she –“

“Holy shit!” I blurt. Peter jumps next to me, looks around wildly.

“What is it?”

I’ve already gotten to my feet. “Bao just fucking ran back down the trail and someone else lost their balance and fell off,” I tell him, pointing at the dark object bouncing down the cliff face towards the white concrete below. Whoever it is they’re flopping like a rag doll, and I wince with each impact. “Jesus Christ,” I say, pointlessly. Next to me, Peter curses.

“Stay here,” he tells me before hustling off into the darkness. It looks as though he’s heading for Bao; I can barely see her but it looks as though she’s collapsed against a large boulder maybe a hundred yards away at the base of the hill, her shoulders shaking.

Well, Bao’s fine. I guess. She must have lost her nerve. I turn around, peer through the screen of the camcorder. Whoever she pushed, either Marcus or Rey, he’s reached the bottom by now and slumped into a huddled pile at the bottom of the crater. I can see one limb extended out limply like an exclamation point. I look back at Bao; Peter’s reached her and is hunched down next to her, trying to get her to move. She’s hugging her legs to her chest and I can see her shaking her head frantically. Did she do it on purpose? I didn’t see the whole thing but it looked like she just panicked.

When I turn back to Rey I can see him moving, trying to get up. “Oh fuck,” I say. He pushes himself up on his hands and then his arm gives out and he falls and lays there. I can just barely see, through the camcorder, his chest rising and falling. “Goddam it,” I say to myself, and then I fold up the camcorder and stuff it back into my jacket pocket, and then I get up and start to carefully pick my way down the heavy rocky incline of the crater lip.

 * * *

 I’m scared. I’m not ashamed to admit it, I’m terrified. I’m scared that someone is going to see me, is going to see whoever it is at the bottom, Rey or Marcus, and roll up with the black helicopters and take me wherever the Men in Black take you. It’s an insane, worthless fear but I still feel it. About half of me wants to bolt and run, scurry my way back into that drainage pipe and out and never look back, but I look at the lump ahead of me, hardly even seeming to be a person, no matter how beat up, and I see him again trying to rise and again falling and then I’m down there with him, my ankle aching from where I stepped wrong and very slightly rolled it, and I get down on my knees next to him. “Hey,” I say, “I’m here, it’s okay.”

He’s muttering in anguished Spanish to himself and I have to repeat myself a few times before he cracks his eyes open, his face dirty, blood from a cut above his eyebrow seeping down and stinging at his eye. He says something to me in Spanish and I trot out the little I know. “No entiendo,” I say, “Uh. Habla ingles?”

“Yeah,” he coughs. “You’re – Lily?”

“My name is Roan actually. Are you okay? Can you stand?”

“Rowan?”

“Roan. Like the horse. My parents were hippies.”

He looks at me like I’m speaking Greek and I might as well be. I put my hand out. “Can you stand?” I ask again, and he takes it. I help him pull himself up but his leg buckles beneath him and he lets out a cry of pain that echoes in the deserted Pit, bouncing off the soft white concrete expanse.

“I think I broke it,” he says. “Oh god.”

He’s staring around again, wilder than before. I look around in spite of myself but as I knew there would be there’s nothing there. I reach into my pocket and click the voice recorder on.

“What do you see?” I ask him.

“You don’t see them?”

“No, I can’t,” I shake my head. “What are they?”

That gets his attention and he tears his eyes from whatever vision he can see cavorting around us. He looks at me closely. “You don’t…you don’t see them?”

“No.”

“Oh,” he says, sounding disappointed. He tries to rise again but I put my hand on his shoulder.

“Wait,” I tell him. “Your leg must be broken, we can’t –“

“I’m so close,” he says. His eyes are wild now, and fixed on me. Before I can take a step back he’s thrown his weight towards me awkwardly and grabbed my arm. His hands are sweaty. “You have to help me.”

“Put your arm around me,” I tell him, crouching down. He’s heavy enough that I don’t know whether I’ll really be able to help much, but if I get on the same side as his hurt leg I can at least make sure he doesn’t have to put weight on it. The hard part will be getting up again –

Rey cries out again and I wince. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “This is going to be rough but we have to get you up.”

“No,” he says, leaning on me. His face is pale now, his mouth tight and drawn with the effort.

“No?” I ask. “Come on, we need to leave like right now –“

“No,” he repeats, one shaking finger extended out ahead of us. He’s pointing to the tall gantry of the elevator down into the Pit. “We have to go there,” he says. “I have to –“

“Absolutely not,” I tell him. “We have to go –“

But he is starting forward towards the gantry and I curse and walk with him, because if I don’t he’ll fall, he’ll cry out again, he’ll fucking crawl on his hands and knees over to the goddam gantry, I can see it in his eyes, I know he will without even wondering how I know, and even though the lurching pace we set is clearly causing him pain, he urges me forward without any regard for his leg, hanging uselessly at his side, the foot jostling along the concrete every now and then and making him groan, a low deep animal noise that makes me feel as though I’m going to be sick.

We make it about halfway before a deep, rumbling alarm starts somewhere and ratchets up to a screech and all the lights click on and turn the night to day. All the strength seems to leave my body; I almost collapse. “Oh fuck,” I say.

“Come on,” he says. I glare at him; I’m sweating, the tight grip he has around my shoulders is starting to hurt, and he isn’t exactly slim. It’s taking all of my effort to keep him upright and walking and I am so close to just dropping him. I give him a dirty look and try to summon up my willpower, every single ounce of meanness and cruelty in my body and just twist out of his grasp and let him fall, but I can’t do it.

“Goddam it, Rey,” I tell him. “It’s a fucking elevator, they won’t let you on, there aren’t going to be stairs you can go down.”

“Come on,” he says again. The closer we get to the orifice the deader his voice gets. He keeps looking over his shoulder but there isn’t anything there, at least not yet; a pair of headlights are cresting the ridge and I can see people piling out of what looks like a Humvee but they aren’t anywhere close to us yet.

I reflect, briefly, on how useless this venture is; we probably could have gotten away if Rey hadn’t insisted on coming down here to peer down an empty elevator shaft. And if I hadn’t had such a damn big heart I could have gotten away, at least. Felony trespassing; well, I have the money for the fine, at least, but that’s got to be at least a year in federal prison, nothing to sneeze at. Maybe they have special accommodations for sick people? At the very least once I tell all of the prison lesbians what’s wrong with me they’ll –

“YOU TWO DOWN ON THE EXCLUSION PLATE!” a tremendous voice yells down at us through a megaphone. I nearly jump out of my skin but somehow manage to keep ahold of Rey. “STOP WHERE YOU ARE OR WE WILL SHOOT!”

I stop but Rey keeps going. “Rey, stop,” I tell him, but he doesn’t pay any attention to me. We’ve gotten far enough now that the end is in sight, the gantry is maybe twenty or thirty feet ahead of us and the yawning hole in the concrete is visible, but I can’t see inside it, not from this angle. “Rey!” I yell, but he pushes me back and I stumble to my knees. Rey breaks into a shambling run, or tries to anyway, but his leg simply is too hurt for him to put any weight on it. He nearly falls but he catches himself and bounces back up.

The first gunshot is unbelievably loud, even though it seems to come from a mile away. I hear it crack and I scream and fall down to my knees, my shoulders cringing together without any conscious effort on my part. I can see a spray of concrete splinters rising at Rey’s feet like shrapnel, and I realize the shot missed. He’s nearly there. I don’t know what he wants to achieve. I throw my jacket off and wrestle with the pocket, pull out the camcorder as quickly as I can force my shaking hands to operate, and snap it open so quickly I nearly break it. I start filming just in time to see the third, fourth, and fifth bullets bury themselves in him, two in his shoulder and one in his thigh. I cry out again but Rey is utterly silent. He’s down on his hands and knees but he tries to rise, and then another bullet catches him, this time in the back of the head, and he is down for good, and I realize that I’m crying, even while I’m trying very hard to keep the camcorder steady to get the shot of Rey’s supine body, one hand extending forward, reaching for the edge of the orifice, just ten feet away from him, a shocking red spray of arterial blood staining the concrete ahead of him like a punctuation.

Then two pairs of hands catch me under the shoulders and haul me to my feet and someone takes away my camcorder and they shove my head into a hood and then I can’t see. They force my hands together behind my back and handcuff me and I want to say something witty, quip something vaguely salacious like ‘easy boys, get to know me first before you get out the handcuffs’ but I can’t make my voice work the way it ought to and I’m still crying and shaking and I realize as they half carry half drag me to some kind of vehicle and fold me into it that I’ve wet myself, and any sort of bravery I might have been able to muster disintegrates into a painful, sharp-edged mass of shame and fear and embarrassment and a feeling not unlike I’m falling, like what I thought was just a rabbit hole has turned into a bottomless pit.

Continue with Part 11

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[authorjulianneday]

TRIAL TUESDAY | October 20, 2020

Challenge: Combine Cyberpunk + Mythology

Word Count: 1946

This is a bit of a throwback. I wrote it back in 2018 for a contest challenge and have edited it off and on since. It combines the myth of the sirens and the cyberpunk/sci fi genre.

CYBER SONG

Siren.

Like some sort of whispered threat, it always loomed over the inhabitants of Tech City Newport. Only natural, she supposed. They lived so near the James River. Ghost stories and tales of terrifying merpeople eked into every form of media the humans had. Pathetic, really.

Symphonia reached the sewer exit her contact had mentioned. Heaving herself out of the water, she grimaced. Waiting for her tail to fully molt and leave legs beneath, she began reconnaissance. Even down in this water runoff zone, lines of electricity fed the ravenous city above.

Scales and fibers lay about her, and what remained, she peeled off with her clawed fingers. She hissed in pain. The molting left behind two skinny limbs, translucent in the low light of the tunnel. Legs. So ugly. And so primitive.

Her legs gained more pigment the longer she waited. Gaining her balance, she rummaged through the chest of clothes in the stash used by Sirens. The fabric scratched at her new skin. It felt so fake, so synthetic.

Synthetic described everything the humans touched.

As much as she despised the buzzing hum of electricity it certainly sounded better than what she would deal with above ground. The constant chatter of voices in the megacity made her ill. Why couldn’t humans be content with silence?

A rusted metal ladder led up into the streets. When the Sirens had first investigated the city fifty years ago, they’d made sure to locate a spot in seclusion. Or, as close to seclusion as one could get.

She closed her eyes. Symphonia listened intently for the distinct tone that each auditory implant gave off. She heard only one nearby. It would be all too easy. Symphonia began to hum, matching the auditory implant’s tone, until she had gotten control of it. She held the tone with her honeyed voice, moving from a hum to a song. In the song she wove words of exhaustion and sleep. A few moments later something heavy dropped against the ground nearby.

Symphonia used her claws to force open the sewer cover, a smile on her pale lips. She heaved herself up into the street and instantly became bombarded by neon lights, the stench of dozens of food stalls, and raucous noise. Her nose crinkled in disgust. Synthetic.

She glanced around. Every time she came to the surface, something changed, and this was no different. Symphonia saw a new sign for some kind of body mod. If only humans realized the modifications led to increasing ease for the Sirens to take them down. She couldn’t see the sky, but that didn’t surprise her. Only the greys and blacks of concrete and rubber loomed overhead. Tech City Newport knew only artificial light, no sun; it had too many buildings and overpasses and walkways.

Her last contact had told her to head to the subcity New Wave. Leaving the small alley and going out into the bustling metropolis of the world the humans had created, Symphonia grimaced. Smoke wafted through the air and obscured the corners of the covered walkway.

The sound of bullets rang through the air in the distance. Symphonia studied the nearby humans immediately, and seeing they felt no danger, continued on her way. It seemed like every time she stalked Tech City Newport, gunshots peppered the air like rain on the waves at home. Another synthetic version of beauty, perverted by the filth of the humans.

She passed a massive food court and again became assaulted by the stench of humans. The sound of the grills and sloshing drinks caused her to cringe. She felt it. So she began to hum to herself, using a calming tone to resist the cacophony around her. Passing a condiment bar, she grabbed a handful of salt packets and stuck them in her pockets for later.

Heading into the elevator, she selected “New Wave” on the touch panel.

Symphonia chuckled out loud. New Wave sounded attractive; too bad it was filled with Modders and their filth and no water at all. Modders could only make trash. Not only did it end up down in her home, but it spilled out everywhere in Tech City Newport.

As the elevator moved upwards, she watched out the sides. From there she could see down into the megacity. Humans waddled about on land on their funny legs or sped by in their cars.

“New Wave.”

As the doors rolled open and she stepped out, Symphonia looked around carefully. New Wave always attracted a bad crowd, and it made perfect sense that her target had holed herself up there. Dr. Josey McMillian, PhDs in biochem, biotech, and engineering. Brilliant woman, according to the sirens’ sources. Brilliant enough to never install an auditory implant.

Symphonia shied away from a screaming machine to her right as she rounded a corner. Sparks flew from a welder repairing a pipe. The slight hum of various auditory implants sounded around her. Pinpointing the exact frequency she needed took concentration. At first she heard mostly nonsense, frequencies from random Modders loitering around on the New Wave level. Most gambled, some waited for black market deals. But eventually she caught the note of a man she’d been tipped off to.

A drink sat unattended on a food cart. Symphonia swiped it. Lifting the lid, She casually leaned against a wall, acting as one of the passersby with nowhere to go, and discreetly dumped three packets of salt into the drink. She could feel the sweats starting, and her arms hurt a bit. Muscle cramps.

She took a drink and nearly vomited. It tasted terribly of sugar, but she downed it. She needed the salt. It wouldn’t take long for the salt to act. Until then, she relaxed. When her arms stopped hurting and her tongue didn’t feel as dry, Symphonia listened in to the implant frequency. It sounded close by.

With a nod to herself, she went around the corner, still sipping on the straw casually. A door stood not far away in a darkened corner. Not suspicious at all. A man stood guard with a large rifle in his hands. His obvious synthetic eye would pinpoint her as having no body mods momentarily. Time to go to work.

“Hello sailor…don’t be afraid…” She continued on quietly, making sure only he could hear the song. It wouldn’t affect anyone else and they would instantly make her out as a Siren. “Keep quiet…good man…yes…stay quiet…”

She took out a folded piece of paper. Symphonia moved up to the man and, seeing him hopelessly under her control, she offered him the fake note. She knew they could see her on camera. “Let me in…and smile…”

He did as instructed, letting the computer read his ocular implant. The sterile grey door slid open without a sound. Her new warrior followed without hesitation. She just had to maintain her song. As a second door opened, they walked into a well lit laboratory. Tanks of various solutions stood around the room and in one was suspended a blue haired, blue skinned mermaid. Her eyes were open, but unseeing.

Rage filled Symphonia. She’d known Fortisima had been captured, but seeing her there, held like a slave by those she should’ve been devouring… Her song halted.

A groan from behind made her turn. The man she’d been controlling looked at her. She drew out the gun she’d swiped and shot the Modder through the skull. His scarlet blood splattered all over the door. Not the plan, but she’d make it work.

Two adjoining doors flew open. Symphonia ducked behind a counter. She reached out and tore the dead man’s automatic rifle out of his clammy hands and loaded it. Though certainly not as practiced as the humans, she knew her way around a firearm. Practice made perfect. As she heard them shouting for reinforcements, she popped up and shot them both. One died, the other did not, his skin made of metal of some sort. She grunted in anger. Synthetics.

Whipping around and leaping over the counter, Symphonia let her claws come out. One slash, and the wires in his neck broke. Of all the mods, cyber skulls were the most disgusting. Blood and oil dripped down her hands. She could taste the iron in the air.

A bullet grazed her arm and she cried out. Using the man’s dagger, she threw it straight into the ocular implant of the aggressor. Then, she found his frequency and sang. The gun entered his mouth. Symphonia narrowed her eyes. He dropped to the ground, a hole in his head.

Another appeared behind. Trying to fire again, the gun clicked. Symphonia grabbed a new one. But as she went to test it, it wouldn’t fire. She grimaced. A coded gun. She sent it sliding down the corridor in anger and slashed his throat. Grabbing an explosive from the closest dead Modder, she threw it down the hall after the gun. It went off with a bang.

She reached down and picked up two modded magnums. The handles molded to her grip instantly. Broken bodies lay strewn about the corridor. A man who had lost his leg screamed, writhing on the ground. He clawed at his burnt face. Symphonia paused. With a sigh, she put him out of his misery.

Symphonia split the air with a shriek. It rocked the building, and several vials shattered on the ground. The men on the other side of the door cried out. Their auditory implants broke apart on the inside. Rendered deaf, they staggered about disoriented.

A woman shook her head. Black haired, blue eyed, no body mods to speak of, and only momentarily dazed. She screamed at the disoriented soldiers and kicked one. Her lab coat had been stained with blood. “I paid you louses for protection!” 

“Poor protection.” Symphonia’s voice lilted across the room as she stood in the doorway. Before anyone else could react, she’d taken out half the men, leaving four groping for their weapons. Symphonia leapt forward, dodging the doctor’s bullets, and used one of them as a human shield. His body filled with bullets. She threw him at the woman. In her effort to sidestep, she hit her head on a table.

Symphonia turned on the remaining three.  One she sang to, and a second became another shield. Riddled with bullet wounds, Symphonia slit his throat. The last two died screaming.

Pain shot through her arm. The small bullet wound from earlier bled down her pale skin. Symphonia tasted it. She needed more salt, more ocean water. As the doctor reached her weapon, Symphonia kicked over a metal table. It crashed into the woman.

With the doctor pinned, Symphonia stood over her. She disposed of her weapons. It would only take a swipe of her claws to end the woman’s life. “Any last words?”

Through heaving breaths, the woman laughed. Blood clogged her mouth. With a last spit, she just shook her head. “Whatever your mission is? It’s a failure. Your friend is dead.”

“You were my mission.”

Her target died without a scream.

One last duty remained. No human could be allowed to retain the body of a mer. The woman’s blue tail had already molted away from the lack of liquid, but her naked body still had a tint of blue. In the back of the laboratory, tubs of gasoline for the Modders sat unbroken. She grabbed two and soaked the entire place, pouring the last bit over Fortisima.

Symphonia lit the trail of gasoline from the entrance and watched as it engulfed the lab. Her only safety lay in the water. Away from the Mods, away from the synthetics.