#meanwhile just one valve would had to have cracked for it to all be over

[rxttenfish]

this is such a minor gripe but the submersible did NOT experience rapid decompression. it experienced rapid COMPRESSION. at that depth they were under almost 400 atmospheres of pressure. rapid decompression is what makes things explode, rapid compression is what makes them crumple like an empty soda can.

[radabadabing-bing]

Ruling Me

You ever get an idea, and then you realize how good that idea is? I dunno what overcame me, but I remembered an idea I had way back when I started the blog. Didn’t have a single thing written for it, but I sat down and crunched it out in like two or three sessions. However, couldn’t think of a title, so just slapped on a slightly fitting mediocre one haha

Anyways, that particular idea was that Michalis rubbed Niles the wrong way, and honestly you should know what comes next if you are following this blog. It also let me write dialogue for this which I love to do, I’m pretty pleased overrall with how it turned out. Enjoy!

Niles and Michalis were a little less than acquaintances. They were often deployed at the same time, sure, but to imply they were anything more than occasional coworkers was...generous. Neither had a personality that would particularly jell with the other, nor backgrounds that befitted such a thing. It was more or less a strict work relationship. So why Niles felt a need to approach him on that particular day was something of a mystery. Maybe it was just the convenience of the location they had passed by.

Niles had begun with a particularly tame conversation starter, especially by his standards. He had been loitering in a hall as Michalis passed by. “Well well, King Michalis himself. Nice to see you about-”

“Speak when spoken to, cur.” Michalis didn’t even let him finish, before turning to him with a disgusted look. He glared at the archer with a rather unwarranted disdain.

Somewhat flabbergasted, Niles could only say back- “Excuse me?”

“Did I stutter?” Michalis hissed. “I have no need to talk to you. I can barely tolerate your presence on the battlefield. Know your place.” He pointed a gloved finger at Niles, malice exuding from his continued grimace. “I can’t stand the sight of you. Begone.”

When Niles continued to sit where he had been at the first place, surprise still evident on his face, Michalis took his leave first. Storming down the hall, in his dark cloak. Niles was no stranger to such angers, but usually it took him actually doing something first. Sure, there were some haughty nobles in Nohr who would likely see him in the exact same light, but he wasn’t fighting alongside those nobles. Surely he was warranted a chance, a modicum of respect?

And that got under Niles skin. Just a bit. 

Now there were perhaps less extreme methods of annoying Michalis he could’ve gotten to, such as planting himself in hallways that the King of Macedon would certainly pass through. Not to mention, Michalis couldn’t exactly just attack Niles outright- The Summoner would have something to say about that. But just annoying Michalis also seemed a tad...Too gradual. After all, he had delved into verbal assault quite quickly. So maybe Niles could also jump to an extreme as well.

It had been three days since that incident. Michalis was walking alone as always. His face stern, like he had a good reason to be grumpy in an empty hallway. Though he would soon not be so alone, as someone grabbed his long red hair. He whipped around to see who it was, only spotting Niles’s face for a moment- Until an odd scent and sensation overcame him. It all went dark.

He awoke in a much different location. Brief sunlight was all that illuminated the room, as Michalis’s eyes darted around. They quickly settled on a particularly smug man, leaning against the wall. “Good, you're awake. Glad to know I didn’t overdo it.”

Michalis wasn’t even about to waste breath on Niles, until he realized that he was bound to a chair. He grunted as he pulled against the ropes binding his hands together, scuffing the chair across the floor a few inches, trying to free himself. Finally, he snarled. “Scoundrel. Release me at once!”

“Oh? And why should I do that?” Niles said back. “I don’t go out of my way to tie you up just so I can let you go. Besides, it’s not like you had anywhere to be fast, considering you spend most of your time brooding alone. We have time to chat.”

Michalis futilely struggled more. “So what do you want? To kill me?”

“No, not at all. I couldn’t get away with that, trust me. Besides, you are far too entertaining to simply kill.” Niles shook his head. “I just want to...how to put it...Knock you down a peg.”

“Humiliate me? Are you just going to leave me here...to waste away, left with you as my only mercy?” Michalis hated that idea. Left to rot in a shady backroom until this...lowly rogue...came to give him food and water.

“Decent guess, but also no. I’m moreso interested in your words...You couldn’t ‘stand’ to see me, right?” The smug look on his face seemed to grow ever more smug, much to the annoyance of Michalis.

“So what?! Are you going to break my legs? Paralyze me?! Stop toying with me! Get to the point!”

Niles decided to humor Michalis. “Yes, yes, fine. Look up.”

Michalis did, finding that there was some sort of jury rigged contraption above him, and also sitting behind him. Barrels, a tube cascading down...What was it?

“I don’t understand.”

“I figured you wouldn’t. I was inspired by a similar machine, made for filling troughs. A time saving machine for farmers, though I’ve made it a bit more...direct. As funny as the image of you eating out of a trough is, I’m rather impatient.” Niles went over, and grabbed the tube.

“What are you even prattling on about-” Michalis was silenced by the tube being shoved in his mouth. “Mmpf!”

“I told you, it was direct.” The proud King tried spitting out the tube, trying to uselessly speak as he did so. Meanwhile, Niles turned a valve, opening the barrels. A brightly colored liquid descended. “I’ll be honest, this stuff wasn’t cheap to get a hold of. So don’t waste it, okay?”

As the liquid got closer, Michalis tried harder and harder to spit out the tube- He wasn’t sure what the hell that stuff was, but he certainly didn’t want it in his body. Though it was for naught. Soon the substance was filling his mouth. It was sickly sweet in taste, nearly overpowering. He could feel it dribbling down his chin as he tried to keep himself from swallowing it, before giving in. 

He took a deep gulp of the liquid, feeling it sink to his stomach. He looked to Niles again, looking down at him with his sly grin. Michalis grunted in resistance as Niles ruffled his hair. “See? It’s not that bad. Now, I do have other things to do, so I’ll come back soon to make sure you’re doing well.” And like that, Niles slipped out of the room, leaving the feeding King alone.

Michalis grunted more, struggled more, even after Niles left. He wasn’t sure what this substance was, only that it was...honestly really good. The taste was amazing. Still, Michalis’s prideful mind forced him to keep trying to resist. Not to mention, his stomach would fill up and, and he’d vomit at some point...right?

His stomach certainly felt full. It gurgled and grumbled, feeling bloated. He looked down, surprised to see it actually bulging decently outwards. And further outwards. His regal wear and belt felt tight against it. It...was just bloated, right? Michalis’s angered glare soon softened into one of worry.

His stomach gurgled again, louder this time. He could see his belly begin to push over the belt, like it wasn’t stuffed full, but rather filling out with soft fat. As Michalis took another gulp, he swore he could feel his pants and armor filling out. Fabric and metal joints growing taut. Niles words...Couldn’t stand to see him. Things began to click in Michalis’s head.

He struggled against his restraints once more, but it was still pointless. Not to mention, he couldn’t even start trying to spit out the tube. Not because it was difficult, though that was certainly true, no, it was just too good to do so. And with each gulp, his clothes became tighter, straining further to contain his growing form. Uncomfortably tight, actually.

The first victim of his now burgeoning body was the belt. The sound of leather creaking, cracking, snapping apart. The metal buckle shot across the room, clattering on the floor. Michalis’s belly promptly flopped out, pale flesh laying upon his lap. Whatever muscular frame he had before had given away to his currently chubby one. He let out muffled groans as the seams on the sides of his pants split, more pudge spilling out. The chair slightly creaked under him.

His struggling had ended now, as he was starting to willingly drink the substance. His pride was beginning to lose out, as he slowly got lost in the taste. Unconsciously, he began to suckle at the tube- He wanted- No, he needed more. He wasn’t even watching as his clothes began bursting and tearing all over. How his pecs had turned into blubbery tits. His ass spilling over the sides of the chair, his thighs not far behind, as his pants tore further and further. His gurgling gut grew larger by the second, filling with the concoction, immediately turning it into more blubber to pack on.

His shirt was practically tearing down the middle, as his cravat became shreds. His thick neck and second chin wouldn’t fit it. Buttons popping, metal bits and bobs pinging off onto the floor. The chair’s groaning got louder as he surpassed the weight it was meant for. Truthfully, he had likely surpassed that weight far before the chair had begun to give out. 

Before the chair came apart, however, the restraints holding back Michalis’s fatty arms snapped apart. It was only rope, and the growth had managed to pull it far enough. If Michalis was still as bitter as he was the few minutes before, he would’ve certainly pulled the tube out. But that was long gone to this Michalis, who reached for the tube not to pull it out, but to demand even more. Though his arms were a tad too inefficiently large to reach it by now.

A snapping sound briefly brought Michalis back to some of his senses, as he fell to the floor with a slam. He looked down at himself, realizing his freedom- Though ‘freedom’ was a meaningless term when one couldn’t move. An anger welled up in his mind towards Niles- That vicious ne’er do well who was responsible for all this. How dare he do this to the King of Macedon!

But then, another thought- This was incredibly enjoyable. Ugh, how the thought of growing even larger brought him elation. And if he was King, he certainly deserved such a luxury! The thoughts of Niles began to fade once more as he returned to his guzzling, spreading further and further on the floor.

The only clothes that hadn’t ripped completely to shreds was his cloak, which covered very little of his body. The rest was coated in thick fat, spreading further into the room. More and more he encroached upon the room, his frame nearly immobile.

Though soon his growth came to a halt. He suckled the last drops of the potion from the tube. And Michalis definitely tried to get as much as he could out of it, and relaxing his head back. The tube was promptly spat out, a much easier feat now that it wasn’t feeding him the delicious nectar. Another rumble from his stomach, and Michalis let out a belch.

He was likely over six hundred pounds at this point, if not heavier. He sat on his titanic ass, under ripped fabrics and crushed wood. His gut similarly sat flat on the floor, two large rolls encompassing it. His man boobs laid upon it, plump and full. A chunky neck, a few additional chins, an all around chubby face. His long red hair and reforming scowl would be one of the few hints that this man was Michalis. 

The sunlight flitting through the thin cracks had turned to the orange shine of twilight. Michalis felt...dissatisfied. With? He wasn’t absolutely sure. Perhaps dissatisfied he was now immobile. That he was unable to flaunt his new form, away in this dank room. Or was it the fact he couldn’t reach down and pleasure himself? Or maybe it was the lack of that liquid elation, and how his form grew ever more expansive…

He had no time to consider that. There were noises. Footsteps. Michalis stood to attention- Well, his head did at least, focused on the sole entrance and exit. The rest of his body nudged and jiggled slightly.

“Is someone here? I heard a-”

Before the massive king stood Corrin, another not quite acquaintance. In more standard circumstances, Michalis would’ve been more neutral on his presence versus Niles. But now? Michalis face once again grimaced, though made less intimidating by his jowls and pillow like cheeks. Fists clenched as he looked down upon the young prince, who looked upon him, shocked at the transformation his teammate had undergone.

“Bring me Niles,” He huffed out. 

“N-Niles? Why do you-”

“Because,” Michalis didn’t feel like he had time for this. “I need more.”

[dildo-swaggins-t-baggins]

Fun Sized

Note: This is valve plug and I’m really hoping not to be killed! Ya been warned.

I’ve been chatting with @cili-ai about this and uh, yeah, fun sized Thunders, that’s some hot shit. Enjoy!

Give me mini Thunders!

“Furthermore I highly suggest we have groups of 5 in the hangars at all times, due to the fact that the fire suppression system is constantly activated and we can’t track down who is setting it off.” Minimus continued, gesturing to the graph and photos, the hanger was packed with foam. “I would also like the security cameras to be left alone while we place hidden ones to catch the culprits.”

    Megatron nodded. “That’s very thought out, I can look into who would be best to place the cameras and who we should assign to monitoring them.”

    “I’ve always checked with Perceptor and Brainstorm to see if they can make a batch of cameras.” Minimus added.

    Rodimus nodded along and rubbed his helm. “It’s a good idea, I’m down if you’re down.” He grumbled, the past few cycles have been hard for him, and not just him. His well soon to be Conjux had an emergency operation, and he shouldn’t be bothered by it, and for the most part he wasn’t. Rodimus really missed the comfy big frame to curl up by, he missed listening to Thunderclash’s engine’s rumble under him, or his big servos wrapping around his waist.

    He didn’t really mind the change, or well he had yet to see it, Velocity kept giving him updates on Thunderclash’s condition, and what they would be doing next. She explained it to him, and explained it again, and again. So far all Rodimus understood was that Thunderclash’s spark couldn’t support his bigger frame anymore. And the best way to keep Thunderclash online was to transfer his spark and processor to another frame, somehow they could do that? From there Thunderclash’s spark would be nursed back to full health and his true frame would be stored away until he could support it again.

    For the past few cycles Rodimus recharged alone, and he hardly caught any recharge, his berth seemed too big and there wasn’t a massive frame to cuddle him at night. Thus, Rodimus hardly caught any recharge and his frame was in knots worrying about his Thunders.

    “Rodimus?”

    “Hm?” He blinked.

    Megatron glanced at Minimus and the two shared a look, they nodded. “Rodimus you should get some rest, we can handle it from here.”

    He vented and rubbed his optics. “No, no I can get through this.”

    “Rodimus, you’re over exerting yourself, you should go to your hab and rest.” Minimus pressed.

    He didn’t want to be alone, he really didn’t want to be alone in that hab, and getting overcharged at Swerve’s sounded like someone was going to throw a pickaxe through his helm. He just wanted to curl up next to Thunderclash and rest his helm on Thunderclash’s chassis. “I’m fine. I-”

    “Rodimus, why don’t you spend some time with Drift, I’m sure he can get you to relax.” He smiled, optics softening.

    That wasn’t a bad idea, and Drift did help ease his anxiety. “Okay, but don’t set my ship on fire.” he huffed and rose to his peds, sending Drift a quick ping asking to spend a few nights at his hab. Hopefully Ratchet wouldn’t hog the berth like last time. 

    He quickly left the meeting room and made his way to the medbay, spotting Velocity standing out the doors, her back was turned towards him and she held her servos together tightly. “Hey Lotty.”

    She jumped. “Oh Rodimus! Ho- Rodimus you need to rest.” She scolded him.

    “That’s the plan,” He smiled. “I’m gonna grab a few things from my hab and spend the night at Drift’s, just wanted to check on Thunders.” 

    “Oh, he’s alright, still recovering, his processor is still figuring out the size difference, I’m telling him to take it slow for now. I would let you see him but he just fell into recharge.” She smiled warmly.

    “Ah alright, ping me when he’s up, I’d like to see…” He snorted. “My lil man.” He laughed leaving Velocity on her own as he lazily made his way to his shared hab, making a mental list of what he had to pick up from his hab, the plush dragon that was Thunderclash’s, his favorite board, polish, maybe that one data slug that Thunderclash lent to him (the valve plug one). Rodimus shrugged and keyed in the code to his hab.

    He stepped in and froze, the door shut behind him and with a flick of his wrist it locked, his spoiler twitched and Rodimus felt his frame started to wake up.

    There was Thunderclash, a very tiny Thunderclash, Rodimus knew that aft anywhere, someone did their homework. His boyfriend was in a miniframe, a little taller than Minimus, his new frame hadn’t been painted yet, so it was brand new. Thunderclash was brand new. 

    Thunderclash hadn’t noticed him yet, how could he was was currently occupied, his tiny servo clenched down on the tarps, his helm was buried in one of their millions of pillows. His silver aft was hanging up in the air, his legs trembled and his tiny peds curled up. But the best part was that his panels were parted and two digits were buried deep inside of him.

    Rodimus reset his optics, energy that he had no idea he had raced through his frame, a devilish smirk spread across his face plates. 

    Thunderclash moaned, his hips sinking down on his digits. “Roddy.” He whimpered, his swollen valve lips parted as another digit slipped into him. His peds didn’t even make a sound as he knelt down, he felt the heat from Thunderclash’s exposed valve, Rodimus waited and watched as those puffy lips clenched down on Thunderclash’s digits. He licked his lip plates and maneuvered his servo just between Thunderclash’s thighs. Then he softly pressed against the swollen outer node.

    Thunderclash moaned, then he stopped and his helm spun around, confusion melted into bliss as his sweet red optics softened at the sight of Rodimus. “C-Captain.” He whimpered, his hips started to wiggled again as he tried to grid down on that digit. He always had this kink, where he loved to tall Rodimus Captain in berth, especially if Rodimus was spiking him, and admittedly it was a turn on.

    Lazily Rodimus circled that node, pressing against it and then his digits trailed upwards, stroking the valve lips, he pulled Thunderclash’s digits away. He brought one up to his intake, licking off the lube from Thunderclash’s valve. Thunderclash watched with half closed optics as Rodimus sucked everything clean off and set his servo aside. Now that Thunderclash was watching him, Rodimus decided it was a perfect time to gently massage Thunderclash’s valve, just around his outer node. 

    “Captain.” He whined and started to hump Rodimus’ servo.

    Rodimus purred and rested his helm on his servo, watching the lewd display. “So tiny, fun sized Thunders.” He snorted. “Mind if I find out how new this frame of your’s is?”

    Thunderclash moaned and shook his helm. “Please Captain.” 

    His engine roared and Rodimus ran a digit up and down those wet lips, only to slip it in, but only the very tip. Thunderclash shivered and moaned, charge ran up his frame and tiny blue bolts flickered across his plates. Rodimus slowly slipped his digit in, feeling the heat from Thunderclash’s tiny valve, how his lube would sink between Rodimus’ plates. He pushed his digit in, all the way to his knuckle, then spotted, feeling something, it wasn’t Thunderclash’s ceiling node, or his gestation entrance. This was smooth, and flat and when he pressed against it Thunderclash didn’t react.

    Rodimus’ spoiler flapped as he figured it out, Thunderclash’s new frame was still sealed. 

    It would be easy to break it now, he could flick it and shove his digit tight against Thunderclash’s ceiling node. But the idea of breaking his seal, that was something he wanted to do with his spike. Rodimus hummed and pulled his digit out, hearing Thunderclash cry out and clench down on it. He stared down at the thick lube that covered his digit, then back at Thunderclash’s hips, that now ground down at nothing, begging for his touch again.

    Rodimus vented. “Alright, but tell me if it gets to be too much.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Thunderclash’s helm. Thunderclash nodded and his wide optics followed Rodimus’ movements. Two digits pressed into those valve lips, Thunderclash shuttered and moaned. “What do we say?”

    “Captain, please!” He moaned as the digits pressed in further, stretching his tight little valve, lube started to drip from his lips and pool between his peds.

    “What?”

    “Captain, please give me an overload.” He whimpered hips bucked down on those digits.

    Rodimus rumbled and took his other servo and held Thunderclash’s hips still. “Good mech, now just enjoy it.” He smirked, rolling his digit around and around, striking brand new nodes and sending charge through Thunderclash’s tiny frame. He was loose now, or somewhat loose, stretched just enough that Rodimus stuck in a third digit and Thunderclash squealed. Rodimus held his aft still and thrusted his digits in and out, forming a pace, meanwhile Thunderclash could only lay there as his valve was stuffed. “Such a good mini, so tight, so wet. Hmm, I wonder what my spike could do to you?”

    Thunderclash sobbed, optics flickering as his charge started to build to unsafe levels. Rodimus watched his boy friend, watched his digits slip through those stuffy lips, and plumet deep into Thunderclash’s core, Thunderclash’s peds started to curl up and he started gasping. The only warning signs Rodimus had before Thunderclash overloaded. And he did, Thunderclash sobbed out ‘Captain’ and his frame stilled as Rodimus struck as many nodes as he could. Charge raced up and down his frame and Thunderclash collapsed into a pile.

    Rodimus slowly pulled out, hearing a faint pop, and Thunderclash’s whimper. He yanked a rag from his subspace and cleaned up Thunderclash’s oversensitive valve, then his servo. Gently slipping the panel back into place. “Okay?”

    Thunderclash nodded, optics still watering.

    Rodimus stood up, his frame cracked and he scooped up Thunderclash, his boy friend whined in his grasp, charge still running over his frame, it shocked Rodimus every now and then. If he wasn’t so tired he would’ve taken this as a chance to see what that new valve could really do, what he could do to Thunderclash’s new frame. Instead he settled to flopping down, pulling Thunderclash up to the pillows and laying his helm down on Thunderclash’s chassis.

    “Thank you Captain.” Thunderclash mumbled, his optics starting to dim.

    “No problem, my fun sized Thunders.” He smirked and kissed Thunderclash’s intake, just as Drift sent him a ping. He sent one back saying that he was going to recharge in his own hab tonight. 

[siribear]

with the paint job finished and dried, all that’s left is to prepare for the trip. the sun creeps overhead as minutemen continue to bustle about the castle. her people strap the minigun she took from the museum of freedom to the back of her new power armor; others load in enough ammo to take down another deathclaw. 

meanwhile, whisper and deacon sit underneath a canopy, double, triple checking their usual weapons of choice.

‘you’re sure this old thing will protect you out there?’ whisper rolls the fabric of the hazmat suit between her fingers. the material has thinned and worn over the past couple centuries, and even now her hands come away with dust.

‘no rips or tears,’ deacon says confidently. ‘des and carrington looked it over.’

this time, she switches to the helmet. the surface is scuffed and dirty, but intact. ‘the respirator? all the valves work? does it - ‘

‘yes.’ he sets aside his rifle and snatches the helmet from her hands. ‘it’s not as sturdy as your walking death machine over there, but it’ll do.’

whisper frowns. ‘i’m just trying to make sure you’ll be safe, deacon.’

‘then keep you and that minigun between me and any glowing sea creatures.’

another minuteman drops by with a bag of supplies: more stimpaks than she can count, a few bottles of rad-x, a handful of radaway. they’ve already packed away their rations and ammo. now they’re down to basic necessities and however many rolls of duct tape whisper can find. just in case.

the longer they sit, the more anxious she gets. every step brings her closer to shaun, but she has to take those steps. ‘i’m sure no one would notice if we just snuck out now.’

‘with the power armor?’

‘sure. i’ll distract them.’ he stands and points in a random direct. ‘everyone, look over there!’

they share a laugh when a few minutemen do stop and look, only to stare at them when nothing appears. though whisper has to wave them off in apology, she feels her nerves abate, if only a little.

-

an hour later, she’s back in her quarters, slipping into a spare suit of underarmor danse found for her. the muted black bodysuit offers little protection itself, but danse had said it would make walking around in the armor feel a little less awkward. pulling on the gloves, she finds they fit well enough just over her wedding ring. a break between the wrist guards and gloves gives her enough room to reattach her pipboy. the needle stings more than usual going under her skin, thanks to the mottled black and blue bruise around her wrist.

somewhere, back at home, is a picture of nate wearing a similar suit under a set of combat armor. 

all dressed, she returns to the courtyard. there stands deacon, just outside and away from the crowd, ready in his bulky hazmat suit. ‘well,’ he says when he sees her, ‘you look good.’

she adjusts her collar. ‘not as good as you, partner. are we ready?’

deacon nods his head toward the others, gathered around her new navy blue power armor. ‘they’re ready for you. careful you don’t get caught up in a parade.’

preston, sturges, ronnie shaw, and alan, who runs radio freedom, do look like they’re gathered with purpose. organized. preston better not have made this into an old minuteman ceremony she doesn’t know about. when she approaches, she asks preston the same question.

‘would have killed them to give ya a new suit of armor, huh?’ sturges puts a hand on the arm of the suit. ‘but she shouldn’t give you any trouble out there. she’s even an even better model than the one you picked up at the museum, and that survived a deathclaw, too.’

‘she gets the sturges seal of approval?’ she says with a hint of a grin. ‘maybe the brotherhood doesn’t hate me so much.’

‘but don’t take any unnecessary risks,’ preston argues.

‘can’t have the minutemen fall apart again so soon,’ ronnie chimes in. ‘not when you’re doing some actual good, here.’

whisper shakes her head. ‘if anything happens to me, preston becomes - ’

‘nothing’s going to happen,’ her second-in-command interrupts, shaken. ‘you,’ he says to deacon, approaching, ‘you’ll keep her safe.’ his tone brooks no argument.

‘of course,’ deacon replies easily, too easily, in preston’s opinion, because he frowns.

‘well then!’ sturges claps his hands. ‘let’s get you in this thing, boss.’

at the press of a switch, the back of the armor opens. arm and leg plates unfold, and she steps into it, fitting herself once more into the frame. the thin material does help, as danse noted, and the metal joints barely dig in with the protective padding the underarmor provides. sturges hands her the helmet and, because she has to try it once, she tosses it in the air and flips it like she’s seen danse do before. she catches it and clicks it into place, hiding the giddy grin she’s now sporting.

the heads up display boots up immediately, picking up information from her pipboy and feeding it into the edges of her vision momentarily. she checks the fuel levels, and it’s at - ‘uh, sturges? this is reading me at half fuel right now.’

‘ah, right. we took your old fusion core from the other set of armor. figured it’d give you a little more oomf to get you out there.’

‘everything else good in there, partner?’

‘one thing,’ she says, almost to herself. there was one modification she specifically asked sturges to handle, other than the new paint job. she flips on her headlamp and aims at the ground.

‘little early for the floodlights, isn’t it?’ deacon asks, looking at her. but when she directs him to look down, at the picture that will be lost when the light is cast into the distance, he smiles. in the center of the light, in a shadowed grey, is the silhouette of the railroad lantern. she turns off the headlamp, pleased.

‘everything looks good in here, then. time to head out.’

their escort takes them to the edge of the castle’s new neighborhood. minutemen fall in line behind preston and the others walking behind her and deacon. it is a parade, in its own right, but the entourage breaks off before travis can start a rumor about the minutemen marching through the commonwealth.

and then it’s just her, deacon, and the sound of metal footsteps on broken pavement.

-

whisper leads the way west across south boston, sticking to the flat roads. anything to conserve fuel. december hits the commonwealth differently than she’s used to. by her birthday she’d normally be bundled thicker clothes. long sleeves, jackets. but now that it’s passed, she’s content in the underarmor, and deacon hardly looks cold in his suit.

beside her, he stretches his hands upward. ‘you’re carrying me there if i get tired, right?’

she holds her arms out in front of her. ‘feel free to hop on whenever, as long as you return the favor.’

‘sure thing, partner. as long as i get to take that armor for a test drive.’

��what? no. after all i went through for this, you’re carrying me and the armor.’

he takes a deep breath. ‘did i ever tell you about the time i carried a whole suit of power armor on my back?’

deacon proceeds to tell her a story of how he once saved a brotherhood soldier in the capital wasteland. ‘couldn’t get that hatch to open,’ he says, pointing toward the back of her armor. ‘so i had to carry him all the way back to the doctor in rivet city. mind you, that took hours.’

she doesn’t try to keep her indulgent hum even remotely convinced. he continues anyway.

‘dropped him off at the entrance to the city, where he finally woke up. didn’t know where he was, just remembered almost getting gunned down by super mutants. so, i told him that i,’ and he flexes, ‘brought him all the way to the city.’

‘let me guess, the city threw you a party for being a hero?’

he shrugs. ‘nah. he accused me of being a synth and held me at gunpoint until the guards stepped in.’

‘i see. there’s a lesson in there somewhere, isn’t there?’

his gaze catches somewhere to their left. the landscape is different. even from the road, she can see the metal fences and structures obviously erected long after the war. even the coast looks too close, with buildings half swallowed by the sea. massachusetts bay university. whisper remembers a few friends that went there. along with the poisoning incident that appeared in the news.

‘what’s over there?’ she asks when deacon steers them further away.

‘institute took over university point a few years ago,’ he says, gravely. ‘get too close, we might run into the stragglers.’

there’s something more to it, she figures. he’s too tense for fear. but she doesn’t fight him, instead finding a road outside jamaica plain to travel further west.

-

just outside milton general hospital, whisper picks up a faint distress signal. deacon stops his patrol of the area as she plays it through her speakers.

‘if anyone is out there, please... help.’ deacon sits next to her, face illuminated by her pipboy light. ‘what’s going on out there? i felt the ground shake, and nothing since. it’s been... four days, i think?’

‘this is... pre-war,’ she says. felt the ground shake. they’re still a few days away from the impact sight, but even from sanctuary hills, she remembers the sound of it. loud above even the grind of the elevator. a crack of thunder, then the shockwave coming over them like a wave only seconds later.

‘i’m so thirsty. please... somebody, hurry.’ the message ends with the woman crying, and the jarring monotone voice notifying them that the message will repeat. and it does. trapped in the jewelry safe - please help.

‘hey, shut it off.’ deacon reaches for the dial himself when she doesn’t move. ‘it’s been hundreds of years. you can’t do anything for her now.’

she snaps out of it. ‘i know. i know, but - ‘ four days. longer? no water, no one to save her. trapped in that small hole in the wall, like - like her neighbors in the vault. suffocating in their pods. and she just - slept. ‘i know.’ travis comes over the radio and flips to a new song. she lets it play through the night.

-

days later, they finally approach the edge of the glowing sea. blown apart trees and scattered car frames cover the area. the air grows thick with yellow-tinged fog. her geiger counter clicks slowly in her ears.

deacon snaps his helmet into place, the respirator hissing as it begins to recycle the irradiated air. ‘shit. never really thought i’d have to come out here.’

‘you can still turn back.’

he rolls his shoulders. ‘the walk back to hq would be boring without you. come on. sooner we get in, sooner we get out. maybe des will finally approve my vacation request after this one.’

stepping into the glowing sea is like diving head first underwater. whisper leads the way, branches crunching underfoot. with every step, the ground looks more cracked. ‘if not, you could always be a full-time minuteman.’ she pushes aside the shell of a car so they can pass. ‘i’ll approve your vacation myself.’

‘well, then.’ he gives her a salute. ‘yeehaw, sugar.’

through the fog, the entire landscape looks the same: stretches of fallen highway, buried underneath irradiated dirt; pools of orange water, feral ghouls wading through the sludge. one group notices them, and though whisper tears through them with the minigun, her geiger counter becomes a stream of noise instead of a steady click. deacon raises a hand in a thumbs up, unscathed.

they hardly speak, for fear of attracting unwanted attention. neither of them can tell what’s over the next hill, or the next. is that the sound of her steps or something else? did she breathe too loudly in her helmet? even though there’s nothing around them, whisper feels surrounded. even deacon is silent as he scouts ahead. quieter than her, he presses forward, keeping them away from roaming deathclaws.

though he can scout over hills, she has the advantage when the land becomes flat. a scanner built into her power armor picks out enemies in the distance, too far for him to see without a scope. when the yellow fog camouflages another pool of feral ghouls, she leads them out of the way.

as night descends upon the sea, it becomes almost untraversable. whisper keeps them at a slow pace with her night vision, but deacon is forced to stick close. a church steeple becomes her beacon in the night as she aims for a place for them to stay. though it’s half-buried, when she looks through the hole in the roof, she can see the sanctuary is still safe. mostly. she picks off the few feral ghouls she can see through the holes.

‘we can climb in through the steeple,’ she tells deacon, crouched at her hip. ‘clear out the last ghouls and we’ll be safe for the night.’

‘and how are you getting in there? you step out of that suit, you’ll die.’

he’s right. though the power armor has kept her safe from most of the radiation, her rads are still ticking upward every second. she won’t last an hour without it.

‘i jump through the roof, obviously.’ she turns on her headlamp, illuminating the broken roof for deacon to see. it’s definitely large enough for her to fit through, and with the armor she won’t even feel the impact. ‘the steeple is big enough for me to climb back out in the morning. it’ll be fine.’

they aren’t left with very many options. the area is dangerous enough during the day, but at night? and with deacon unable to see, they have to stay somewhere. there’s nowhere else nearby that she can see, either.

deacon laughs, shakily. ‘you first.’

-

they find a room underneath the stairs for shelter. a priest’s room, it looks like, with a now-broken desk and filing cabinets full of faded sheet music and sermons. a wooden cross still hangs stubbornly above the desk.

‘feel at home?’ whisper asks, taking up the space near the door. if anything gets curious about the gunshots, they’ll have to go through her solid power armor first.

‘ha-ha,’ he intones. ‘haven’t heard that one before. you’re as bad as glory.’

‘don’t compare me to her. you’ll hurt her feelings.’

deacon settles himself in a corner, helmet hitting the back wall with a dull thunk. whisper remains standing, fearing if she sits she’ll never get back up. ‘we’re in a church, sugar. i’m a deacon. anything you want to confess?’

‘bless me, father, for i have sinned,’ she begins, and deacon leans forward to listen. ‘i made fun of a brotherhood paladin, once, for sleeping in his power armor. and now i find myself in such a situation.’

‘i see.’ deacon sighs heavily, playing the part. ‘your penance will be to step in his shoes. rest in your armor for the night and pray we don’t have to do this again,’ he finishes, breaking character near the end. she laughs.

‘amen.’

-

her alarm wakes them just before dawn. deacon climbs the steeple first, stairs creaking beneath his feet. he calls to her when he’s outside, and then it’s her turn to mount the stairs. she climbs quickly, each one threatening to give with every step. but it’s only when she ducks under the steeple roof to jump to the ground that it gives. the tower leans, wood cracking beneath the power armor’s weight. she jumps, landing hard on her knees. the wood snaps, tower crashing to the ground.

‘uh,’ she says, getting to her feet. ‘that’s not blasphemous, is it?’

deacon raises a hand, makes the sign of the cross. ‘you’re forgiven. but let’s get out of here before something comes and smites us.’

they head west, toward a building barely visible on the satellite view of her pipboy. given that they have little information to go on, checking any potentially sealed building sounds like their best bet. there’s nowhere for him to survive anywhere else out here.

keeping up their previous strategy, they make quick work across the sea. any heavy footfalls that don’t belong to her drive them slightly off course but they continue to follow her map west. they’re almost upon it when deacon holds out his hand to stop her.

‘do you hear that?’

whisper holds her breath. her scanner doesn’t pick anything up on the horizon, but she does hear... something. a slight rumble, then - rain. light patters turns to a downpour in moments. she relaxes, thinking it’s just the storm, until something shifts in her peripheral. she only has time to turn before a giant creature bursts out of the ground.

she sidesteps an oversized stinger before drawing her minigun. the thing steps back, large, black claws held high and threatening. it looks like a scorpion, but its size easily dwarfs a car. its body is covered in a hard, black carapace, broken up only by its exposed joints, glowing a faint green. the thing screeches, high and piercing, and whisper brings the minigun to life, firing directly into its face. green blood splatters across the ground, but it doesn’t stop the thing from charging.

deacon fires, hitting the stinger hard enough to send it plunging into the ground instead of her face. whisper continues to spray into its head, bullets flying wildly. the scorpion squeals again, and a roar answers to her right.

a deathclaw stares the trio down with pale red eyes.

‘the building!’ deacon yells, and she spins without a second thought. stinger still stuck fast in the ground, the scorpion doesn’t follow immediately, but the thundering footsteps that follow tells her they aren’t the only ones running.

she looks behind her to see the deathclaw tear into the scorpion. its massive jaw closes around the tail, snapping it off with ease. though it tries to fight back, the damage it sustained from the minigun keeps it from lasting very long. another roar, victorious, the albino deathclaw turns its attention toward the fleeing humans.

deacon turns the corner on the building’s second floor, easily accessed from a nearby hill and a hole in the wall. she hears two gunshots before she’s upon him, two feral ghouls dead on the ground. the footsteps grow closer. he runs toward an elevator at the end of the hall, and she pries open the doors to - an empty shaft.

rifle held ready, he turns back toward the hall and the albino deathclaw, slowly turning the corner. no need to chase prey it knows is cornered, apparently. but whisper has other thoughts. she grabs deacon without warning, scooping him into her arms, and jumps. they land on top of the elevator cart, the crash echoing through the shaft. above them, the deathclaw roars, thundering down the hall. it tries to fit through the elevator door. head first, then shoulders, then -

‘down!’ deacon yells, lifting the elevator hatch at her feet. this time he jumps and she follows, down into the basement. the deathclaw roars long and low, but never follows.

-

they head deeper into the building’s basement, clearing any feral ghouls in their way. ground zero, she thinks with each one they kill. each feral wears the tatters of office suits and dresses, likely still working before the bombs fell. too late, before anyone saw it coming.

she doesn’t know when, but her geiger counter stops clicking at the constant presence of radiation. she double checks it, just to make sure it’s working, but her screen still shows her status. and if those numbers are correct, then likely she and deacon need to stop regardless - their rads are at the edge of ‘healthy’ levels.

stepping out of her power armor in a back room, she breathes a sigh of relief. she unzips the top of her underarmor and peels herself out of the sleeves. the cooler air of the basement chills the sweat on her skin. after a moment, she returns to the main room they’ve made their shelter with a bundle of food and radaway. deacon sits, legs outstretched, in front of a fire he’s built out of old papers. whisper rests her legs atop his as she prepares to hook up their bags of radaway.

deacon flinches when she pulls away from inserting his IV. ‘what happened to you, hero?’ he reaches out toward her neck, fingers brushing against her throat, down her arm, to her wrist. she follows the trail he leaves, and sees what he means. illuminated by the firelight, her bruises stand in stark contrast to the orange glow against her skin. ‘maybe i should have gone with you, if this is what going with the brotherhood gets you.’

‘danse stopped it from being worse,’ she says, leaning back to set up her own radaway.

‘is this the lead up to, you should have seen the other guy?’

her stomach churns from the radaway. ‘considering the supermutants are dead now?’

‘i should have gone with you. the brotherhood - ‘

‘i know! look, i don’t like the brotherhood either, but danse and his team - ‘ well, haylen, if anyone. ‘ - they’re not bad people. if i hadn’t found preston first, i could have been in the brotherhood.’

‘you wouldn’t have lasted.’

‘how do you know?’

when he shifts, his knees brush against hers. she refuses to move.��‘i know what kind of person it takes to be in the brotherhood,’ he says as she stares him down.

‘deacon - ‘

he sighs, and turns the basement of the abandoned offices into his confessional. ‘you’ve put up with enough of my bullshit. if there’s one person i should come clean to, it’s my friend, right?’

whisper swallows, throat as dry as her bag of radaway. she removes her needle as he does the same. ‘i’m a liar. everyone knows it. i don’t try to hide it, because the truth is: i’m a fraud. to my core.

‘when i was young,’ he tilts his head. his eyebrows rise just above his sunglasses. ‘a hell of a long time ago, i was... scum.’ his voice cracks on the word, voice rough. she wants to tell him to stop. it’s okay if she doesn’t know if it hurts him too much, but she finds that she can’t.

she wants to know.

‘i was a bigot, like the ones in the brotherhood.’ he tosses his empty bag into the darkness. ‘a very violent bigot.’

‘like the brotherhood?’

‘worse. i ran with a gang in university point.’ he pauses, lets the pieces fall into place. that’s why he was looking at the old university. running away from his past, not the synths. ‘we called ourselves the UP deathclaws. for kicks, we’d terrorize anyone that we thought was a synth.

‘we kept egging each other on. started with some property damage. broken windows, broken fences. graduated to some beat downs in back alleys. then, inevitably,’ he swallows, ‘a lynching. the claw’s leader was convinced we’d finally found and killed a synth. looking back, i’m not so sure.’

she blinks. doesn’t say a word. nods when he continues to stare. she isn’t running away, not from him.

he hangs his head and continues. ‘i broke all contact with my brothers, after that. time passed, i became a farmer, if you can believe that.’ he laughs, smiles, wistful. then, ‘one day, i found someone.’ he removes his sunglasses and looks to the dark ceiling, blue eyes bright. watery. ‘she saw something in me i didn’t know - didn’t think - was there.’

‘what was she like?’ she asks, curling her legs against her chest, resting her head on her knees.

‘barbara,’ he sighs her name, ‘she was... she just was.’ he looks to her. ‘when she smiled, it was like those old magazine covers. her eyes - ‘ with a hand on his face, palm pressed against the bridge of his nose, he laughs softly. ‘ - we were trying for kids.’

she sits up straight, at that. a family. he wanted -

‘then one day, it turns out, my barbara? she was a synth. she didn’t know that. i certainly didn’t. i don’t know how the deathclaws found out, but... there was blood.

‘they killed her,’ she says, knowing. blood - nate’s vault jumpsuit turning red with it.

when he croaks out a, ‘yes,’ she slides in next to him. barely touching. ‘i don’t remember much clearly after that. i know i killed most of the claws.’ he laughs again, this one broken. ‘i must have made a big impression because the railroad contacted me. figured i’d be sympathetic, seeing that i lost my wife. and, well, what i did afterwards.’

‘you know i know what that’s like.’

‘yeah. you against kellogg? that was - i should have said something sooner. i’m sorry. i don’t even know why i lie anymore, but i can’t tell the truth. everyone - tom, des, you, even carrington - they deserve to be in the railroad.

‘i don’t. i’m everything wrong with this whole fucking commonwealth. but you’re the only friend i got. i don’t deserve you being okay with this, and i’m not asking for forgiveness. i just... figured you should know who you’ve been traveling with.’

‘i know who i’ve been traveling with,’ she says quickly. takes her own sunglasses off, just to prove it. ‘you’re deacon. the one friend i’ve got in this place. all that you’re doing with the railroad, everything you’ve been helping me with - you’re trying to make up for your past. that’s admirable. i’m on your side, you know?’

deacon shifts back against the wall. ‘well, i’m not really the hugging type so. good talk, partner.’

and yet, he doesn’t move away when she shifts that extra inch closer to lean her head against his shoulder. nor does he move to put his sunglasses back on. instead, he rests his head against hers. ‘john,’ he mumbles, eventually. ‘my name’s john. feel free to forget that in the morning.’

together, they watch the fire burn down to embers before bedding down, back to back in the shadowed corner of the basement.

[themanofgloom]

How it started!

Our First RP vs. Recent

// Heya Loc!! You were one of my very first RP partners on this site. Here’s our replies from our very first thread over on @kyaaanite and @thedemiurgickids. They aren’t the first replies, but the second! Since I can’t find the originals.

kyaaanite:

As he looked up the stairwell leading to the top of the church tower, he could see a cold light illuminating the room above. Sounds of glass and metal could be heard, as well as what must have been boiling water.

Footsteps caused the wooden flooring to creak before a shadow fell over the stairway hole. Instead of an answer to Brody’s call, a heavy-looking trap door was shut over the opening – a clear sign they were not welcome.

The person(?) above then made their way back to the other side of the room, by the sound of it, and the metal sounds resumed.

Seconds later, the church reverberated with a loud hiss like steam escaping through a valve, which ended as quickly as it had started.

thedemiurgickids:

The two flinched a bit at the loud sound that vibrated throughout the building. Brody turned around, sucking air through his teeth. “Yeah. They don’t want us.”

Rudy scoffed. “So?” she said. “You heard the footsteps! And that shadow. It’s obvious that what they’re doing is something important. And maybe even dangerous. And illegal.”

Brody glanced to the side, and uncomfortably shuffled in his jacket. “Do ya think I can break it with my bat?” He tapped the heavy metal weapon that was buckled to the side of his belt. The bat hung over the back of his braced leg, and it almost seemed as heavy as the trapdoor itself.

His friend looked doubtful, but she said, “I guess you could try. Doesn’t hurt to. I’ll try and look into some stuff while you’re doing that. Tell me if you need any help.” When she meant “looking into stuff,” every one of her friends knew what she meant. Before Brody could ask another question, the girl stared in nothingness, brown eyes almost sparkling a tickled pink.

The boy sighed. “If only you could talk to me while you’re doing that,” he muttered underneath his breath. She didn’t hear it.

Brody marched up the wooden steps, creaking under the weight of his body, until his head almost bumped into trapdoor. He took a few steps back, incase that person would burst out with some special surprise. Then, he unlatched the bat and held it firmly in his hands. With lots of effort, he began to butt the top of the heavy bat into the wooden border, loud thumping to be heard. He had no idea how the person had gotten a door as rough as this. But it wasn’t cracking.

Meanwhile, Rudy was getting some visions. Unfortunately, it didn’t show anything too exciting. Just Brody thrusting the bat against the trapdoor, and a blur of a figure over a section of heated water inside a room. She assumed that this was the person they were aiming for. However, she couldn’t see what he was doing, and that made her rather annoyed. “Come on...”

-- 

// And here’s our most recent replies on @lonely-lycan and this blog:

themanofgloom:

He noticed her closeness, and he would’ve allowed her to cling to his leg or hold his hand if she actually did those things. But then, he gave her a gentle, reassuring look before holding his hand out to her as an offer. Whether or not she’d take the hand didn’t matter with him; as long as he could keep an eye at her at all times.

Oscar wondered briefly what the actual Sylvia was thinking. The dreams that he interfered with always played out in real-time, unlike normal dreams that flashed by in mere seconds and remained as only a figment in the dreamer’s mind upon awakening. Sylvia would remember every detail of this moment when she woke up, and whether that was good or bad depended on how the dream would end.

Surely, this wasn’t a nightmare… was it?

Whatever waited for them on the other side of the door, Oscar was ready to defend Sliver from it. Not that it would technically matter, considering this was a dream, but he’d hate to see anyone in pain, anyway. Especially a child.

lonely-lycan:

Sliver decided not to hinder Oscar’s movements by holding his leg, and just padded along next to him until he suddenly held out his hand. She looked up into his eyes for a minute, once again showing that strange resemblance to the Sylvia he knew, before slowly reaching out and taking hold of his palm.

She had never seen other children holding their parents’ hands, but somehow she knew it would be comforting. And she was right. The moment she felt Oscar’s hand around her own, some of her fear just melted away.

Even out in the real world, Sylvia let out a comfortable sigh. This dream always made her nervous somehow, even after having it so many times.

What kind of dream this would end up being, was still up for the future to decide. Oscar definitely had some influence on it... especially in how he treated Sliver and whether or not he helped her. Needless to say, he was on the right track thus far.

“Shh,” Sliver whispered. “Have to be quiet.” She looked around. “Where are they...?”

[letsbenditlikebennett]

Oh Deer || Ariana & Deirdre

 Ariana goes over to Deidre’s to repair a leaky faucet.  @deathduty

Ariana had been pleasantly surprised that the woman she spoke with online, wanted to pay her so generously for her work despite her lack of professional training. Deirdre had all but insisted she demand more for her services. So even if this woman loved math, she could look past that and happily do the job. With Grad Night and Prom around the corner, she could totally use the extra cash. She knew Celeste had been picking up extra shifts at the diner so that Ariana could have these experiences, but it’d be nice if she could cover the cost for herself. Celeste had worked hard enough to give them a comfortable life, she hated the idea of her working even harder. Fixing a leaky faucet was simple enough, so she headed to Deirdre’s with her tools in hand. When she arrived, she knocked on the door to indicate she arrived and waited for an answer. 

Deirdre had lived with that forsakes leaky faucet for too long. Yes, it was a funny joke to try and invite people over to fix it. But with Morgan staying with her now, and an incessant dropping noise she had to live with, enough was enough. She opened the door gleefully to find the young Ariana. Good kid, she surmised. Even if she didn't like math. "Come in! Come in!" She threw the door open to her lavish home, spacious and filled with expensive furniture and delicate decorations, and ushered her in. "It's the faucet in the kitchen there," Deirdre pointed. The foyer of her house lead into the large, two-story grand room, which was then connected to her immaculate kitchen with the exorbitant looking marble counter tops and built in double oven. It was like a feature out of a magazine, and for all Deirdre knew, it probably was. "Would you like something to drink first? Water? Juice? Wine?" She paused with a smile, "that last one is a joke, obviously. Just testing you." 

When the door opened, Ariana was a bit shocked to see the nicest home she’d ever seen in her life. Everything was immaculate. She didn’t realize people actually lived like this. She’d been sure homes that were this perfect only existed in display rooms or home magazines. Even with a google search, she was a little foggy on what all a life actuary did, but she concluded they must make a shit ton of money. Following Deirdre in, she said, “Wow, this place is beautiful.” It was no wonder the woman all but demanded she charged more for her time. Maybe if she followed that bit of advice, she’d have a house this nice one day. Well, maybe not this nice, she preferred things to have a little bit more of a natural element, but space would be nice. Her and Celeste had always had to live in somewhat small spaces. Her eyes immediately fell on the double stove, was that a range stove? She dreamed for that kind of temperature control while cooking. Shifting her focus back to Deirdre, she responded, “Water would be great. I’ve never actually had wine before. On the job and taking my sister’s car home is probably not the best time to give it a try.” She could hear the leaky faucet long before she saw it. “I’ll need to turn the main water line off so I don’t flood your whole kitchen. Did you have laundry or anything going you needed to turn off before I do that?” 

Deirdre shrugged, she was aware her house looked nice but she'd never cared much for the fact. She had money, she might as well spend it. And luxury was the best way to. She turned and poured Ariana water in a delicate wine glass—for the joke. "There you go, now just pretend that tastes like funky grape juice." Deirdre poured herself a glass of red and sipped it slowly. "Oh," she laughed, "do I look like the kind of person that does her own laundry?" Amused, she dipped her head back and laughed louder. She did do her own laundry though, unfortunately. Since Morgan had started staying with her, it didn't make sense to bind humans into doing her chores anymore. She would miss those incompetent, yet beautiful, humans dancing around for her, but it was much better this way. Deirdre sipped her wine again, "yes, of course. You can shut it off. She gestured to her large glass windows and the door leading out to her deck and the equally immaculate backyard. "The valve is just outside, I think. Admittedly, I've never had to shut it off before. But it shouldn't be too hard to find, right?" Deirdre glanced outside, there was so much space. And a pool. And Ariana was so tiny. She might get lost out there, but Deirdre lifted no fingers to help.

Ariana couldn’t help but laugh as Deirdre gave her a wine glass filled with water. After taking a sip, she said, “So that’s what all the fuss is about.” She did a little air cheers before setting the glass back down. She’d been a little thrown off about the laundry comment. Did people really pay other people to do their laundry for them? She’d never heard of that, but she shrugged. “You really know how to live. Folding clothes definitely isn’t my favorite weekend activity.” When she was given the direction of the backyard, she made her way out to find the main water line. The yard was just as luxurious as the rest of the house. That pool looked super inviting, too. Everything was perfectly kept as well. She was sure if she had a ruler, every blade of grass would be exactly the same height. Without too much searching, she was able to find the main line on the side of the house and switched the valve to off. She’d been just about ready to head back in when her senses went haywire. She could practically feel the hairs on the back of her neck raising and heard the rustle in the trees behind her. Sniffing the air around her, it almost smelled like a deer. When she finally spotted it in the trees, something looked entirely off about it. It’s head seemed to be a different tone that wasn’t quite brown, but she couldn’t make it out. As the deer began to charge toward her, she remembered a common beast Celeste spoke about. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She took off sprinting toward the house hoping that would be enough to evade it. This thing wouldn’t follow her in would it. Quickly closing and locking the door behind her, she called, “Uh, Deirdre, we might have a problem. You seem to have a friend out back.”

Ariana was a good kid, Deirdre decided. Most kids were good, usually. But that was beside the point. She sipped her wine, waiting for Ariana to return. When she did, frantic, Deirdre took another slow sip. “A friend?” She raised a perfectly manicured brow. “Hm, is it a bunch of dogs again? Leprechauns?” She shook her head with a laugh, gesturing for Ariana to come closer and ignore it. “I’m sure it’s fine. It’s not like---” But she’d spoken too soon, and behind them the deer charged into the house, shattering the glass. Its antler caught in a sofa, stuck there just long enough for Deirdre to take in its appearance: bright red head, large body. “Oh,” she blinked, taking another slow sip of her wine, “this is one of those ‘spinach’ things.” Deirdre turned to Ariana. “We probably shouldn’t let that touch us.” Her eyes trailed over the plethora of knives and swords she had on display (really, she’d just left them lying around but she called that display). The sianach reared back, head out of the sofa. It turned to Ariana. Deirdre took another sip. “I’d run if I was you.” And then it charged, trampling furniture in its wake.

With the door shut behind her, Ariana thought she was in the clear. When she heard the glass shattering, it became evident that would’ve been way too easy. She listed off other supernatural creatures before saying something about spinach. What the actual fuck was going on? Why was she so calm when a giant deer had just decided to rampage through her door? “A spinach thing? Sure doesn’t look like a freakin’ salad to me.” She ducked behind a table and out of its sight momentarily. This was supposed to be an easy faucet repair. Not a wild deer chase, or rather a wild wolf chase since she was the one being chased here. She grabbed one of the knives laying on the table she was currently hiding behind. It was weighted nicely, it could work. Inching away from behind the table, she had the deer thing in her sights and threw the knife at it. Grazing the left shoulder of the weird spinach deer, it made a shallow slice before it flew past and fell to the ground. Spinach deer definitely did not like that and began charging her way again. She bolted from where she was standing to the other side of the room. Wait, was Deirdre still drinking wine? Was she not freaked out by the actual wild animal in her living room? “Do these spinach things have any weaknesses I can exploit?” She threw a vase at it for good measure before darting to another side of the room.

“Well, it’s not exactly spinach. It’s close. I can never remember the names of these sorts of things…” Deirdre trailed off, following her sentence with another sip of wine. The deer, meanwhile, was having a real go at destroying her house. Furniture was getting knocked over or outright trampled, her nice wooden table sat in pieces in the middle of the room. And, of course, her beautiful window had been shattered in when it charged indoors. “Nope,” she said casually. Her wine was done. She moved to pour more. The clinking of glass alerted the creature and it pulled its head up, vision squared on Deirdre. The one person decidedly not throwing vases and knives at it. Angry as it was, it turned to what it assumed to be the easier target. And then it charged. “Hey!” Deirdre rolled out of the way, watching as the creature ran through her kitchen island--all that precious marble cracked around it. Then it charged again, through the other side and into her beautiful double ovens. “Hey, my girlfriend uses those!” She threw the bottle of wine at it, shattering red liquid across its already red fur. “They die like any other animal!” She called out, rolling and diving out of the way. Shades of glass caught in her palms and knees as she moved around, avoiding the creature’s insistent charging. Deirdre eventually made her way to Ariana’s side, panting and bleeding. “You should sacrifice yourself for me,” she joked. She could scream, but with all the charging and Ariana running around, it was hard to aim. And she didn’t want to hurt the kid, she never liked doing that. “Don’t touch it!” She urged again.

This thing was really beginning to piss Ariana off. She let out a low growl to try and intimidate it though it didn’t seem very frightened. If this was what was lurking around in people’s backyards, she was really going to need to work on trying to transform at will. She knew standing at 5’1” she wasn’t exactly the most intimidating in human form. Apparently it was ruining the stove that was cause for alarm and had Deirdre throwing a bottle of wine. “Your whole living room is destroyed but it’s the stove that gets your attention?” It made her laugh even though they clearly weren’t in the clear yet. There was shattered glass everywhere and this thing was definitely not relenting. The red wine only seemed to make it angrier. “Alright, so kill it without letting it get close enough to touch me? Need something with range.” She grabbed what looked like some sort of ancient axe and watched the deer carefully. This was a lot easier when the target wasn’t moving. She threw it across the room, but the thing was too quick, and it only hit the deer’s buttocks of all things. “Ugh,” she grumbled tugging at Deirdre as she rolled out of the way of another charge, this one taking down her dining room table. Hopefully she hadn’t been planning any lavish dinner parties. It looked like the now detached faucet was going to be the last of their concerns.

Did Ariana just....growl? Did she hear that? Deirdre squinted at the kid, rubbing her bleeding palms against her pants as it started to irritate her. “Because without an oven, I can’t get pie! I have priorities, Ari!” Deirdre rolled out of the way of another charge. She watched Ariana pick up the axe, eager to see that thing cleaved and then...watched it bounce harmlessly off its backside. “Great, if anything. Hopefully they’ll talk of the deer with the shapely ass at our funerals.” Not that they were going to die, Deirdre knew that. But jokes were funnier if you pretended someone was going to die. “Oh for fuck’s--” Deirdre pulled a knife out from one of several spots she had them concealed on her person. She wound her hand back and threw it, watching as it sunk easily into the deer’s ass---what should have happened with the axe. “See?” She turned to Ariana, “that is how you--” Her sentence was cut off by another charge, this one desperate. Maybe it was trying to escape? Deirdre didn’t know. All she knew was her TV was no on the floor, knocked down by the force. “Wait, I have an idea,” she panted, “why don’t I distract it?” It might have made more sense to have Deirdre, the one who spent most of her life learning how to kill, try to kill the demon-deer. But she worried, against her own judgement, about Ariana’s wellbeing. One role was certainly safer than the other. “And then you--maybe--throw something properly!” The knife jutting out of its backside made its movement sluggish enough for Deirdre to evade with more ease. It limped around, trying to get close enough to either of them, whistling out its pain and desperation.

If she weren’t currently trying to out maneuver a creepy ass deer, Ariana would have found Deirdre’s priorities to be funny. She could have a laugh about it later. Right now staying alive was the primary objective. She’d be damned if a deer was taking her down of all things. She hunted deer not the other way around. This was not how the food chain was supposed to work. “Don’t start planning our funerals just yet.” There was no way in hell a wolf was about to get taken out by a deer. Not on her watch. She watched as Deirdre’s knife stuck in the deer’s ass. Well, she definitely had good aim. Ariana much preferred fighting in close range which was way harder when you weren’t supposed to let something touch you. They could hardly get a word out before the next charge. This thing was relentless, then again, it did have a knife in its ass. Ariana would be pretty pissed too. Deirdre seemed to have a plan, though it seemed dangerous. At least this thing was moving slower now. “Okay, got it,” she said while grabbing several knives. Deirdre seemed to have the thing’s full attention so she began throwing blades at it before it reached her. The slowed movement made it easier to aim, the first knife landing in the side of its neck, at least bringing it down to its knees. Not quite dead yet. She threw another knife that landed just a few inches behind the first one. She looked to Deirdre, “Did that do it?” For good measure, she still threw another knife toward its stomach.

Deirdre suddenly realized that this was a bad idea. Not only was she ducking and rolling and sprinting out of the way of an enraged supernatural deer, but now she had to make sure none of Ariana's knives hit her too. Thankfully, the girl had better aim with them than she did with the axe. Deirdre huffed, jumping out of the way as the deer toppled over, bringing down more furniture and crushing a table under it. It whined, its voice thick and pained. Seeing a creature die never was much fun. She drew another knife and sunk it effortlessly into its skull. Deirdre could feel a light diminish in her. The creature went still. It was dead. "Good work," she looked up, smiling. Then turned her head down to survey the creature. Ariana landed three knives, all vital to bringing the creature down. It was, without a doubt, actually good work. "Don't touch the carcass," she held a hand out, "still can't touch the thing." She looked around to her house, damaged beyond simple repair and left in tatters and pieces; ruins. And her faucet, the leaky one, had been destroyed in all the chaos. "It's a good thing you turned the water off. We might have had to deal with flooding too," she stepped over broken glass and bits of sharp wood, dug out another bottle of wine, popped it open, and took a long sip. "There's no leaky faucet left now so I guess you did your job. Do you want cash or should I wire the money?" She eyed one of her vases, the one Ariana had thrown earlier. Wasn't that thing worth over a thousand dollars itself? Oh well.

Ariana felt relieved as Deirdre stuck a knife in the deer’s skull. She looked over her living area and it was effectively destroyed. Even going down, another table went with the damn thing. She felt bad the deer followed her back into the home. She’d have to help her with getting this all back in order. It then dawned on her that Deirdre knew what it was. “Got it, don’t touch it. So, if you don’t mind me asking, how do you know about this kind of stuff?” She watched and was a bit amused to see her going for another bottle of wine. “Oh, yeah, water would have not been a fun addition to this mess. Sorry it chased me in here. Need a hand getting it cleaned up?” She kept finding that Deirdre was full of surprises. Avoiding the broken glass on the floor, she walked over to check the sink. The pipes were not even remotely reparable in this state. “I’d say I’d turn the water back on, but I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Cash or Venmo is fine. Whichever is easier for you.” She picked up some broken wood from the floor and placed it in the bin, “Would you like me to come back tomorrow and help get everything cleaned up?”

"I'm Irish. I think you can figure out why I know so much, Ariana." Deirdre smiled. Yes, it was a stereotype to think of anyone Irish as being Fae but...well, it was true. She dipped the wine bottle back again and took another sip. "I don't need help," she sighed, "I'll just pay someone to come in and fix everything. I'll get some of my men to come pick up the body on gurney." Her men being the strange group she'd somehow roped into doing her deliveries for her. It was like having a group of servants on call for her. "Thank you, Ariana. When everything is fixed, can I have you back over? I'll loosen a pipe so you have to fix it and you can get a proper pay for proper work but for now…" she trailed off. Her phone was somewhere, she didn't know. She turned to the dented drawers and cabinets instead, trying to find any one of the wads of cash she had laying around for….who knows what reason. That was a mystery to her too. "Oh, here," she slapped a wad down on the broken remains of her kitchen island. The bundled cash was well over a hundred dollars, Deirdre didn't bother to count. It could be a thousand, it could be two hundred—it didn't matter to her. "Take that as payment and an apology. That poor deer thing ruined your fun plumbing experience."

Ariana’s eyes were wide and her face lit up at the realization that she must have been fae. Celeste had told her about fae before. They’d been prevalent in a lot of the audiobooks Celeste listened to on their drives, too. She’d always imagined wings, but maybe there was a way of hiding those. She subconsciously sniffed the air a bit. There wasn’t anything animal-like in the air besides the monster deer. “So, fae then? That’s super cool. On that note, I’m definitely not that kind of hunter. I just enjoy catching a deer during the full moon. I think you can figure out the rest.” She had circled back a bit to their online conversation. Meeting someone else supernatural was always exciting and Deidre definitely seemed like a good person to be friendly with. When Deirdre mentioned loosening a pipe again so she could do proper work, she let out a laugh, “You got it. Just let me know when. I’ll keep a better eye out for potentially dangerous friends next time.” When she took the cash, she could easily tell it was definitely way more than they agreed, too. She thought about saying as much, but quickly realized Deirdre would reject that. She did keep telling her to ask for more. “Thanks, Deidre. This was very generous of you. It was good actually meeting you, too. I look forward to having my proper plumbing experience.”

[irwintry]

The Many Pages of Ashton Irwin

Warnings: swearing, marijuana

Author’s Note: hey this is bad but hiatus ... over? 

Word Count: 3.6k

He wondered how many specs fit in the ceiling tiles above him. The hazy fluorescent lights no longer caused a perpetual ache behind his eyes–– he had rigged his brain to no longer feel unnecessary pains such as bright lights or loud, spine-tingling scrapes. Ashton thoroughly hated the sickly white interior of the doctor’s office. He had memorized every square inch of the niche business space, and he even knew the name of the fake plant situated by the magazines.

His head rolled forward and backward again. Meanwhile, his fingers tapped along with the soft tick, tick, tick–ing of the clock. Ashton’s heart didn’t tick like that. The red hand of the clock stopped, and a few moments later, it caught itself back up again. Ashton’s heart ticked like that. This was his train of thought every time. And two minutes later, it was always interrupted with, “Ashton, Dr. Heim is ready for you.”

“Nothing new, nothing worse,” Ashton said to his doctor at the beginning of every appointment. It felt like a ritual. If he chose not to say those words, then there would be something new–– something worse.

So, he said the truth. Nothing new, nothing worse, but in two weeks, it would always be a different story.

His appointments, like many routine checkups, were consistently regular, except they were not a healthy human’s typical “routine” checkup. Sometimes the valves in Ashton’s heart didn’t work as properly as they were supposed to. It also didn’t help that he had anemia. Most of his appointments were follow-ups from impromptu hospital visits. But his life hadn’t been terribly complicated in quite some time. His flare-ups were minor bumps in the road, but the thing that made it all worse was the fact that he was completely alone.

“Have a wonderful weekend, Janice,” said Ashton to the receptionist while on his way out. He twirled his car keys in his hand as he waved goodbye with the other.

The hot air from outside felt like a slap in the face. He knew it would take quite a while for the A.C. in his car to start working, so after sitting down and starting up the car, he left the door open. Meanwhile, he began to think about the cyclical nature of his life in this moment. It was as if his body worked on a schedule now: flare-up, hospital visit, doctor follow-up, and then fine and healthy for a few weeks before starting all over again. Hell, he even parked in the same spot every time.

Ashton hadn’t noticed the blast of cool air until goosebumps popped up on his skin. He shut his door and pulled out of the parking lot, hoping that he wouldn’t have to see this place ever again.

He had a flare-up the following week.

-

Health issues and lack-of-romantic-life aside, Ashton loved living. He loved going to new coffee shops, and he loved being a father to a lovely three-month-old fish named Gold-a Radner. He loved going to pet stores and admiring all of the fish tank décor he could buy. And then after realizing he couldn’t afford everything he wanted, he’d stop by the lake and pick up a few colorful stones. He’d then stroll back to his studio apartment with two fingers on his wrist so he could make sure he wasn’t overexerting himself.

But as much as he loved his life––to an extent, he wanted more. He wanted to live without worrying when his heart was going to freak out on him. All-in-all, he wanted to change everything about his life but somehow keep it the same. Ashton had a feeling that, if he chose to pack up his things and travel across an ocean, his heart would give out altogether.

“Well, well, well, long time no see. Come to browse and not buy again?”

So, Ashton didn’t just go to the pet store to look at tank decorations.

He cracked a smile, a rush of nerves falling over him while he mentally scolded himself for blushing so hard. “Maybe I’ll buy something today,” he replied as he strolled over in your direction.

You were cute, almost too cute. Every time he walked in, you were there behind the counter, spinning on your stool as a bright grin greeted him before he could say hello. On warmer days, you wore skirts and dresses, and he’d have to take a deep breath before speaking to you.

“Yeah?” you wondered, leaning forward against the glass counter. “You’re messin’ with our foot traffic. We didn’t make enough last quarter, so you bet ‘m gonna prod you about buyin’ stuff now.”

Ashton’s cheeks relaxed while his lips fell down into a frown. “Shit, I’m so sorry,” he said, but you were just laughing at him.

“Ash, it’s fine. I don’t care.”

“How’s your book goin’?”

You shrugged. “It’s–– well, it’s going.”

“You haven’t written anything new.”

“You got me.” You winked at him.

Ashton’s gaze fell to the rodent bedding on the shelf beside him, and he couldn’t help but fidget with the packaging. “When ya gonna tell me what this story’s about?”

You shrugged once again. “Once I feel confident that it’s actually good,” you replied. The light in your eyes hadn’t faded once throughout the conversation. It almost had him convinced that you liked him too.

“Nah, I bet it’s good. Anything you touch turns to gold,” he said, still semi-focused on the plastic edges of the bag–– too focused to realize he had just flirted with you. So, when he looked over, you were beet red, and he was relieved to now not be the only one blushing.

“W-Well, when it’s done,” you mumbled with a bashful grin, “you can be the first to read. And I’ll dedicate it to you, It’s a Pets World’s least favorite customer, Ash.”

Ashton couldn’t stop smiling. He stepped forward to lean against the counter so he could be closer to you. “Can’t wait.”

“Hopefully you don’t have to wait long,” you continued. “I just have a few more chapters in mind, and then I just have to look it over like, a bazillion times to make sure it’s good.”

“How does one write a book?”

You huffed. “Boy, I wish I knew.

The two of you laughed, and soon, Ashton had managed to pick out a small fake plant for Gold-a. And when he set down his cash on the counter between you and him, you took half of the amount and told him to have a beautiful day.

Because of you, he was certain he would.

His heart stayed healthy for the rest of the night.

-

“You think I should kill him?”

“I don’t care.”

“Like, would the readers hate me for that? Or would it be interesting? Like, would it spice things up?”

Ed sighed. “I don’t care.”

“No, I shouldn’t kill him,” you said. “I’ll convince the readers I did kill him. Ashton Irwin can’t die. I would hate myself too if I killed him.”

“I work with someone named Ashton.”

“Eddie, this feels pointless,” you mumbled. A groan followed, and you slapped down the screen of your laptop. “My book fuckin’ sucks.”

You roommate chuckled. “Cut yourself some slack, okay? It’s just a draft. If ya wanna kill him, kill him.”

“I don’t want to kill him,” you said, tossing your arms up. “I’m too attached to him. But I need tension.”

“So, give him a near-death experience.”

You gasped. “Yes. Genius. Thank you, Ed. His poor heart won’t be able to take it.”

-

It probably wasn’t a good idea to hang out with a few coworkers on a Friday night, and it definitely wasn’t a good idea to have an edible before asking, “is this an edible?”. And it certainly wasn’t a good idea to eat another, and then another, and possibly another. Before Ashton knew it, he was pacing in the bathroom, grasping the sink and the bar above the shower to keep himself steady. Falling, however, was the least of his concerns.

His heart had never raced like this, and he couldn’t quite focus hard enough to tell if it was an arrhythmic beat. Truly, he still had no clue what had caused this (he would only later realize those fantastic cookies were not as innocent as he thought). The world hadn’t moved like this before. He stormed out of the bathroom and back to the living room of his coworker’s apartment to ask someone to take him to the hospital.

But somehow, you were there, and the world froze. He was going to die, he was going to die.

“Ash, hey!” you exclaimed, rushing over to fling your arms around his shaking body. Immediately, you pulled away and knotted your brows in concern. “You good?”

He didn’t answer–– he couldn’t answer. Too much was happening in his brain to comprehend what was going on. Why were you there? Why did he feel this way? Why were his armpits so sweaty? Had you always been this cute? Why were you so close to him? Did you just hug him? How come––

“Ash?” you asked again. Your eyes widened as your hands gripped his arms a little tighter. You were touching him? His heart couldn’t take this.

Ashton blinked.

“Hey, Ed,” you said, looking over your shoulder to the few men situated on the couch. “Did he have those cookies?”

“Yeah?”

“How many?”

Ed chuckled. “Four. Devoured ‘em.”

You rolled your eyes, taking Ashton by the hand and leading him towards the door. “Ed, you’re a fucking idiot. Look at him. He’s glossed.”

Glossed? Ashton chuckled. He pictured himself head-to-toe in lip gloss.

“We’re with him,” replied Ed, “it’s fine.”

You struggled to put on your shoes, yet you didn’t let go of Ashton’s hands. “I’m taking him home.”

He liked the feeling of your skin against him–– it reminded him of raspberry lemonade on a breezy summer day. Surely, it wouldn’t be harmful if he slipped his fingers between yours. You didn’t even comment when he did.

“Whatever,” Ed said. “If you stay over with your new boyfriend, lemme know in case Greg wants to stay the night.”

“Do not let him into my room, Edward Mason,” you scolded and pointed a finger in his direction.

Ashton couldn’t quite make out what was happening, but it relieved him to know that you were simply Ed’s roommate. Ashton was halfway out of the door when he realized you weren’t denying the whole boyfriend thing, but he managed to forget about it within the next few seconds. He was too focused on the softness of your touch and the warmth of your presence, even if you were in somewhat of a rush. Meanwhile, he hadn’t thought about the rapid stuttering of his heart since first noticing you.

What he needed was a hospital, but that had left his mind.

Suddenly, he was in the passenger seat of your car, shoulders heavy while he watched his own car get smaller and smaller in the mirror as you drove away from the parking lot.

Ashton groaned before saying “oh, I do not feel good.” He set his damp forehead in his hands and let out another distressed sound.

“Yeah, cos’ my dumb fuckin’ roommate let you eat four edibles,” you responded. “Where do you live?”

“In an apartment.”

“Helpful,” you retorted. “Like, what’s your address?”

He sighed. The movement of the car convinced his brain that he was rocking on a ship in the middle of the ocean–– he assumed he would hurl at some point during this car ride. “’s on Prospect. Big factory-kind of buildin’.”

“You live in a factory?”

“Think it used t’be a mill or sumthin’,” he said, and soon groaned again due to your recent sharp turn. Ashton had never been this high before, in fact, he hadn’t done anything of the sorts since early college. After that, his heart condition had worsened, and everything he once knew, he couldn’t even touch.

He didn’t feel as ill when he spoke, as strange as it sounded. And he had a lot to say. Like, a lot.

“’m gonna need a fuckin’ burger soon,” said Ashton, his train of thought suddenly coming to a screeching halt the moment his stomach let out a rumble. “Or something. Thinkin’ ‘bout that melted cheese jus’ running down the sides–– fuck.” He nearly moaned at the idea. “Can’t eat shit at home though... there’s nothin’ there. Like, even Gold-a Radner is runnin’ outta food.”

“Gold-a Radner?”

“My goldfish,” he replied. “Ev’ry time I go to Pet’s World, I mean t’buy more. But you’re so fuckin’ pretty. Like, it’s distracting. I can never ‘member my middle name when I talk to ya. M’heart’s already busted but ya kill it again every time you smile at me. My damn fish is starvin’ because I can’t keep my tongue from draggin’ ‘cross the damn floor. Gold-a doesn’t deserve that. She won’t care that I have a petty crush on the girl at the pet store. She just wants her lil flakes.

“And it kinda fuckin’ kills me,” continued Ashton with a sigh, his speech now running slow, “that I dunno a thing about your book. I wanna know ya. Like, you don’t owe me anything, b-but–– I wanna know ya! You makin’ me––“ Ashton chuckled. “You makin’. I mean, you make me nervous. Dunno.”

All information coming from his brain to his lips had cut off, and the space between the two of you grew eerily silent. He nearly reached to turn on the radio. The only sounds penetrating the thick air were the soft, rhythmic clicks of the blinker, and Ashton found himself trying to count each one as the minutes passed. Time seemed to avail him, however, despite the silence. Before he could speak another word, you were turning onto Prospect Avenue.

“This building,” he said, and you abruptly hit the brakes. “Thank you, I’ll–– “

“Are you feeling better?” you asked him, eyes soft as he stared back at you (he assumed his eyes were not as kind).

He nodded.

“Good,” you said.

“Jus’ hungry.”

You nodded, too.

“See ya,” he said.

“Bye.”

Ashton took a deep breath as he watched you drive away. The situation had finally started to dawn on him. Your mood shifted after he rambled his confession, and truth be told, he hardly remembered what he said. His brain worked too fast, and now it was working too slow. Ashton didn’t know if he could show his face in It’s a Pet’s World again–– he’d have to find a new place in town... he’d have to go to Petco, but he didn’t want to go to Petco. He wanted to see you.

As he unlocked the door to his building, his heart skipped a beat.

-

“Your co-worker likes me.”

“What?”

“Ash,” you said. “He likes me.”

Ed quirked an eyebrow. “The dude you named your character after?”

“What?”

“Ashton.”

“That’s his name?”

“Do you like him?” asked Ed.

You thought for a moment. “I–– “

“You do?”

“Well–– “

“You’re taking too long to think,” he observed.

You rolled your eyes. “Ed. That’s the thing. I’m thinking. I... like his company. I like it when he comes into Pet’s World. I like it when he laughs at my jokes. I like his laugh. I like his smile. I like it when he talks to me about his favorite juice. I like when he asks me about my book. I–– “ You sighed, still thinking. “I like how tall he is, how kind he is, how smart he is. I like when he acts all bashful and warms up to his confidence. I like how warm he is. I–– “

“Sounds like you like him.”

You frowned. “Yeah.”

-

Ashton managed to put off going to the pet store for about a week, but Gold-a’s food had run out completely by Friday morning. Maybe, just maybe, someone else would be on shift. Maybe he would be lucky, and maybe he could continue to avoid his problems instead of facing them.

He knew you were in because of the music you played–– Gloria Estefan brightened your mood and made you want to dance. He wondered if you had been waiting for him, if you had been dreading his arrival. By this point, you most likely could have guessed his frequent appearance was only because of you, so it was possible you weren’t expecting him at all. And lucky for him, you were helping out a customer at the counter when he walked in. He quickly made his way to the aisle with the fish food.

“Ash– Ash!” you called after him, now hot on his tail as the customer you had been helping made their way out of the store. “Hey.”

He didn’t want to stop out of partial embarrassment from the other not. He also didn’t want to stop because he knew he would have to turn around. If he turned around, he would fall into a puddle just from looking at you. But then you placed your hand on his shoulder, and he felt his entire body erupt in flames. How could he avoid someone like you? It was such a gentle touch–– Ashton turned around without thinking twice.

All he saw was the soft smile he had grown to love, and he didn’t have to think again after that. Your hands grasped his cheeks as you lifted yourself up to capture his lips in yours. It was hard and soft all at once. Ashton’s hands flew to your waist to steady you, but he also needed to feel you. He needed to memorize himself with every line, every curve. And right now, with your lips moving against his in a slow yet passionate motion, he hardly had a chance to register a single thing.

He especially couldn’t register the perpetual ache growing in his chest, and the dizziness that followed wasn’t caused by you. This made him believe he was running out of air, so he pulled away, skin flushed for many reasons.

“I’m– I’m sorry for the other night,” you said, and meanwhile, he was leaning into your touch. He needed to lay down. “I didn’t really know what to say, and that– that was dumb of me. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. Like, you’re on my mind literally every second now. I finally finished my book but it was hard because–– “

Ashton held up his hand, his fingers trembling as he attempted to stumble out of your grasp. His chest felt heavy, almost like it was sinking into him. And he couldn’t focus on your face–– there were too many bright spots flickering in and out.

“Ash–– “

“M-my God, what’s– wha’s happening?” He gripped your forearms, nearly taking you down with his weight as his body swayed.

“Ash–– Ash! What’s going on?” you asked, worry lacing your tone. “Ya gotta tell me what’s going on. Please.”

“Heart,” he breathed out. “My heart.”

“’m calling 911, okay? I’m calling–– “

His hearing failed him, and the bright spots turned dark.

-

When Ashton awoke, his body ached, and it seemed as though there were small weights holding down his eyelids. He felt stuck between a physical plane, yet he could feel the sensation of fingernails against his scalp, and he could feel the warm skin of a hand on his. He could also feel the gentle flow of oxygen through his nostrils, and he knew that feeling all too well.

Right away, he knew the presence beside him was you. He could remember his hands on your waist, your lips slotting against his while the fish in the tanks across the room watched in confusion. He could remember your hands roaming his chest and neck to make sure his heart was still beating.

“’ows your book comin’?” he mumbled, lips hardly moving as his eyelids lift ever so slightly.

Your face lit up, great big smile and all as you pushed yourself forehead to press small kisses all over his face. “Don’t you fuckin’ do that to me again, ‘kay? You shit.”

He managed out a small laugh. “Sorry.”

You sighed, letting a small moment of silence creep in before you opened your mouth to say, “I never knew.”

“Wha’?”

“I–– “ You glanced around, unsure. “I don’t know how I did it. I mean, I don’t really know you, yet–– “

“What?”

You frowned. “I wrote a story about you.”

His lips pulled into a small smile, and his eyebrow lifted slightly.

“But not like, about you,” you continued. “Like, it has to be a coincidence, right? I didn’t know your full name, but I wrote a story about you, Ashton Irwin. But I didn’t know it was you! I wrote about you and your heart condition, and I was going to kill you! In the story, that is. I was going to make you almost die, and then you almost fucking died. I’m just–– “ You sighed again. “I never knew anything about you. How did I do that?”

Ashton was kind of confused, but he didn’t care all that much. No matter the severity of his flare-up, he was always happy to be alive, and now he was happy to be alive with you.

“Jus’ a coincidence,” he said, turning your wrist around so he could trace shapes onto your palm. Your fingers were still playing with stray locks of his hair. “’s’all. Thanks fo’ not killin’ me though.”

You nodded. “Well, there’s one thing I didn’t write.”

“Wha’s that?”

“I didn’t write myself into the story,” you said, “so that’s what makes it all different. Just a coincidence.”

Ashton grinned, leaning forward so he could press a kiss to your lips. “Will ya still add me to the dedications?”

“Ya got a whole book apparently,” you replied as you gave a few strands of his hair a playful tug. Your other hand came to rest on his chest, right above his heart. “But of course. To It’s a Pets World’s least favorite customer, Ashton Irwin.”

[thegremlinofransei]

Welcome to the Family | Ch. 5

Resident Evil 7 AU

Fandom: Split, Glass

Rating: M (strong language, intense violence ⚠️THIS ONE’S A DOOZY)

Word Count: ~2.9K

Summary: Casey is left to work on an escape plan. However, Dennis will do anything to make sure she never leaves.

———————

The dark hallway was clear, but that didn’t stop Casey from slowly guiding the iron door closed in case any of her dinner partners were lying in wait. This mysterious Jade girl, whom she had an inkling might have been a member of this twisted family once upon a time, had told her to exit through the main hall. She consulted the map she had picked up in the laundry room. Just at the other end of the hall, she observed. Simple enough.

Neatly folding the worn paper, she shoved it back into her pocket and tiptoed forth. The only new development in her setting was a gaping hole in the wall that led into the closet where Dennis had nearly cornered her. She concluded that he had beat through it with his shovel in a fit of rage while she was climbing to the safety of the laundry room. Thankfully, her pursuer had retreated elsewhere, but she kept her guard up in case he was watching from some dark corner.

Her path led into one final corridor, punctuated at its opposite end by a barbed window similar to the one by the kitchen, on the left side with a set of double doors, and on the right with an oak chest of drawers lined with picture frames. Out of curiosity, Casey approached the photographs, hoping to find a few clues as to whom she was up against.

The first frame she noticed was flipped down, and she lifted it to inspect the image. A young woman, seemingly not much older than Casey, sat sternly in a white cardigan and black dress in front of a garden. All she could make out of the woman’s face was a gaunt jawline and tousled raven bob of hair, as the eyes had been scratched away.

Jade, Casey deduced before chuckling dryly. Is she a traitor to their cannibal cult or something?

The next was a simple headshot of the son from earlier. Luke, she recalled, unsettled by the douchey smirk disgracing his face. Apart from a greasy pallor in his more recent complexion, he hardly looked different between the photograph and the wretched meal.

The true nature of the drastic change of this family was reflected in the next frame. Dennis and Patricia stood beside each other, smiling and glowing and exuding nothing but familial warmth. Dennis’s shirt was tightly fit without a wrinkle to be seen, and the light from the flash photography gleamed off his shaved head and square-rimmed glasses as he gave a grin to the camera. Meanwhile, Patricia stood next to him in a pressed burgundy blouse and black skirt, her pitch hair tied back in a small twist as she gave a matching smile and gripped her husband’s hand.

Finally, Casey turned to the double doors. While built of heavy iron, these were much newer and hardly fit in with the dilapidated house. The most out-of-place part of the sight was an incomplete crest adorning it to the left of center with a set of enormous slide bolts barring it to a valve crank on the other side. It was intended to depict a centaur, but while the torso was raised, the horse body was missing. Upon peering closer, she found a few small trigger releases embedded in the indentation, exactly deep enough that she couldn’t press any of them.

“Just where the hell am I supposed to find half of a fucking crest?” Casey hissed as she whipped around and chucked the picture of Luke at the barricaded window. The longer she spent in this sinister estate, the more difficult it was to keep her emotions in check. All she could feel was rage and fear boiling in her veins.

No, she told herself, reining in her frustration. Keep looking. It has to be around here somewhere. If you throw a tantrum now, you’re only proving yourself to be truly desperate. They can sense your fear.

It suddenly dawned on her. The cooler in the laundry room. It had to be holding something valuable. If not the crest, then at least something she can use to force the door open.

She hurried back down the hall, praying that the cooler was so clean because Jade used it to hold a stash of supplies, seeing as it was only accessible via the hatch when the laundry room door was locked. As she neared the door, though, she heard a firm knocking from the window by the garage. A flashlight shone in through the barbed wire, and she could hear a gruff voice commanding her to open up.

Casey sprinted to the window, ecstatic and tearful to see a human face speaking with a human voice, desperate for a reminder that there was a normal world outside of this circle of hell despite having been a part of it only a few hours ago. She collided with the window, finding a buff police officer standing outside. As he staggered back, she pleaded, “Please, sir, you have to help me.”

“Hold on, back up,” the officer ordered gently, looking her stoically in the eyes. “Now, miss, do you live here? I mean, is this your family’s property?”

She was taken aback by his slightly accusatory tone, but shook her head after a split second  as she played up her hysterical tears.

The officer sighed heavily. “Alright. Now, we got several calls about missing persons lately.”

Casey, once grateful for the calm demeanor of a friendly face, was now pissed off at how he seemed to insinuate that she was involved with the disappearances. “You don’t understand, I gotta get out of here!” she responded frantically, clapping her hand against the trim around the window.

“Now, hold on,” he commanded sharply, his expression changing to that of full suspicion.

“Officer, please, listen to me. There are crazy people in this house trying to fucking kill me!”

He chuckled sardonically at her aggression, showing little mercy for the apparent outsider. “Alright, well let me tell you something, kid. You don’t look like you’re playing with a full deck yourself.”

Casey’s eyes flared open, and her anger did little to help her case. “Are you kidding me?” she spat with the venom of a black mamba. 

Resuming his seriousness, he calmed his tone to explain again. “Look, like I said, we’ve had several missing persons calls, and I can’t rule out that an outsider like yourself may be involved.”

She took a deep breath, exasperated by this new example on her long list of times the justice system had blamed her as a victim. In a calmed tone, she responded, “Alright, I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

“Alright, now that’s more like it. Meet me in the garage. We’ll talk there.”

“Wait!” she called after him. He turned around and allowed her to speak. “There’s tape over the button for the door. I don’t have anything sharp enough to cut through it. Please, I don’t know if these bastards are coming back for me, I can’t fight them off on my own…”

As her voice and mind trailed off into madness, it finally sunk in how many alarms she must be setting off in the officer’s mind. However, the most she could do to appear worthy of his calculating sympathy was plead through her glazed eyes.

After about a minute of staring down this frazzled girl, the officer rolled his eyes and slowly pulled his pocket knife out of his belt and handed it through the window. “I’ll be wanting this back. Now get your ass down to the garage.”

With that, he turned away, and Casey gave a deep sigh of relief. Freedom was finally within her grasp, and even if the cops decided to arrest her, she’d still be in a clean safe cell instead of this festering cesspool, and she could finally go home to Marcia and sob the physical and emotional pain away into a friendly embrace.

Casey opened the pocket knife and started for the descending stairs. A small crate sat by the door, and she cut it open. Bullets. Wish I had a gun to use them with, she grumbled as she slipped the magazine into her pocket. She moved over to the rusty control box and slipped the knife into the crack of the door. It slid through the tape with little issue, and she pulled it open. A giant red button sat in the middle of the box, and she held it down as the shutter door creaked open.

A police car flashed its red and blue beacons just outside the larger door on the opposite end, and the officer was kneeled on the concrete floor, investigating a dark puddle. She slid the knife closed and put it in the pocket with the map.

She began to speak, tears of joy choking her voice. “Thank you…we have to get the hell out of-”

The officer spun to his feet and approached her in a fury. “Now first you need to tell me what you’re doing out here alone in the middle of the night, kid!”

“Wha…what about you?”

“It’s my damn job! Now do yours and answer me!”

Her chest heaved with sobs at the stress of being yelled at. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.“ 

However, when she heard the scraping groan, she wished the officer would have just cuffed her and taken her to the car right then. Her eyes widened with fear and the color drained from her face as her suspicions were confirmed by the damning sight across the room.

The garage door was lowering. And she could hear it happening behind her, too.

The officer turned around and, realizing what was happening, turned back to her and yelled at her to put the door back up. Despite his desperate commands, she staggered back as she saw the imposing figure strut up behind him with his shovel raised.

When she hit the wall behind her, the impact was punctuated by Dennis thrusting his weapon through the officer’s scalp.

His body went slack, and Casey watched in horror as it fell to the ground, spurting blood and gray matter. Dennis pulled the shovel back, eyeing up his next prey with a maniacal grimace. Before taking a step closer, he beat the shovel against the ground, trying to get the sticky scalp off so he would have a relatively clean shovel to do his work with. This was when she saw her chance for a last stand.

The officer’s gun was lying on the floor.

She dove for it and scrambled out of the way as quickly as possible, checking it for ammunition. Fully loaded. With the magazine she picked up, she could take him with a few decent shots. That is, assuming he can only take as many shots to the face as Kevin could.

Once behind a row of shelves, she heard the scalp finally shake free with a disgustingly slick noise. By her left thigh, a car key sat gleaming in the fluorescent lights. She picked it up, darted her gaze to a battered white car by the outside door, and bolted. 

“Fuck it! I’m killing every one of you!” Dennis shouted from across the garage as Casey threw the driver’s door open. Slamming it shut behind her, she saw that he had raised the shovel, aiming at the front hood. She hastily jammed the key into the ignition as he continued to beat the engine with the shovel. Once she finally threw it into gear, he had moved in front of her, standing tall and glowering at her, issuing a single taunt.

“Come on.”

Casey gassed it, slamming Dennis into the opposite wall with her front bumper and thanking God for the lack of airbags despite the initial shock. This motherfucker isn’t going down with one hit, she reminded herself, and she reversed to line up another slam. Almost as if on cue, he stood up, a menacing smirk on his face as he ripped the remnants of his shredded shirt off and raised his shovel.

The next impact was so intense it shattered the windows and crumpled the bumper, barely missing what could have been a fatal blow to the engine. As Casey backed up again to deal another blow, Dennis darted behind a rack of tool shelves, and she swerved around to square up. Accelerating again, she braced herself for the force of colliding with the rack, but realized too late that she had barely even grazed him.

Dennis leapt on top of the car and ripped the roof off, climbing into the driver’s seat with Casey and laughing hysterically in her face.

Asserting himself over every control, he started by kicking the car into reverse and slamming them into the wall. Casey coughed out a small “shit!” as the rear impact knocked the air from her lungs. Dennis continued by crossing the room and swinging the rear of the car into the last rig of shelves. With his free hand, he assisted the force of the vehicle in thrusting the steel beams constructing the shelves into the cheap wood wall, then drove back to the other side of the garage.

“Where’d you learn to drive?” he retorted, straightening the tires and putting their vehicle on a collision course with the steel beams.

Casey tried to wrestle Dennis’s grip away from the steering wheel, but he simultaneously pinned her arms and legs with his left arm and leaned over to steer with his right. Lining up with the girders protruding from the opposite wall he looked down to her, his eyes as cold and vicious as the torment that followed.

“Let’s finish this, you and I.”

He slammed on the accelerator, cackling as the girl in his grip screamed at the girder coming exponentially closer to her skull. She hunkered down as far in her seat as she could, and when the collision finally occurred, her ears were ringing.

Everything hurts…am I…alive…

Casey let her eyes drift open, and the first thing she saw was blood smeared over her white knuckles, now returned to the steering wheel. She lifted her head just half an inch before hitting the beam above her, and grunted at the dull roar that caused her body to ache as she looked to her right.

Dennis’s corpse was a gore-smeared disaster. The beam had partially crushed him, and blood was splattered everywhere Casey could see as his frontal lobe protruded through his eye socket, vacated by the sensory organ that now laid in her lap. His glasses had shattered into his other eye, and his neck was snapped to an odd angle that let the blood from his crushed internal organs spill from his mouth.

Casey gingerly stumbled out through the barely-hinged door on her side, taking shallow breaths as it sunk in how lucky she was to even be walking. She smelled gas leaking, and she knew what came next. Scrambling to the other side of the room, she pulled her gun and turned to watch the car go up in flames. 

A charred arm extended from the passenger side, and Dennis stepped out in a ball of fire like a zombified phoenix. Without hesitation, Casey aimed directly for his throat and fired, causing him to falter. He continued toward her, and she shot him several more times in the face.

FWOOM!

The gas tank combusted, and Casey was thrown back against the wall as Dennis fell onto his face. The gasoline puddle only extended halfway over to her, so she was out of the fire’s range. He wasn’t so lucky.

With one final explosion, Dennis’s incinerated corpse flew to her feet, and in a few pained motions, she stood on wobbly legs. Before moving, she took aim at his bared ribcage, but there was no sign of him attempting to stand again. She crept cautiously over to a ladder that led to a loft, where something shiny had caught her eye. 

Her hand landed firmly on the first rung, and was forcibly accompanied by Dennis’s.

She whipped around in fright to find herself staring into two functioning eyes, seemingly untouched. They… they’ve regenerated…

He grabbed the gun in her hand and aimed it at his chin, growling low. “Do I have your attention, bitch?” he asked menacingly. “You are about to see something wonderful.”

Dennis put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger. 

“Fuck!” Casey screamed in shock as his face exploded onto her and he stumbled back, letting her hand with the gun fall back to her side. He collapsed in a bloody, burnt mess on the floor. After watching for a minute to make sure he was actually dead, she turned back to the ladder, shaking as she ascended.

A frame sat on a small workbench, surrounding a large golden insignia of a horse’s body. Relieved to finally see something helpful, she lifted it and turned it over. After undoing the screw on the back, the missing crest came off, and she gripped the cold metal tightly. 

Casey rummaged for some more supplies. Bullets here, antibiotics there…she had to get moving. There was a small alcove behind the workbench, and she mustered her strength to shove it aside.

After a small jump down from the loft, she landed back at the staircase that originally led her into this unlikely arena, and she hustled back inside to the newfound warmth of the destroyed house.

———————

A/N: I’m sorry this came at like 1AM Sunday, guys! College apps went live this week and I have to read the thickest book ever written 😅 At least I got it done, and BOY WAS THIS ONE FUN! Make sure to like, comment, reblog, and ask to be tagged!

Tag List:

@lady-serenitty

@martina-leanza

[blogtrax905]

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The Player is the character the user controls in Unturned 3.

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Appearance

The Player has a randomized starting look, which can be customized. Purchasing the Permanent Gold Upgrade DLC will allow for more customization options.

Actions

There is a multitude of actions The Player may perform, usable depending on your set Controls. They include several Stances, Leaning, Interacting, and more.

Statuses

The Player is affected by multiple Statuses. These generally include Health, Food, Water, Immunity (Status), Stamina, and Oxygen; meanwhile, they can sometimes also be affected by Temperature, Broken Leg, and Bleeding.

User Interface

The Player has multiple user interfaces available to them. This includes the Inventory, Crafting, Skills, and Map menus.

Aesthetics

Cosmetics and Skins may be equipped on The Player, and only have aesthetic values.

Cosmetics appear over any ClothingThe Player has equipped unless toggled off. Skins will replace the default texture of an item, if it is in your Inventory, or you place it on any Storage Containers that display the contents of what is inside.

Trivia

In Antique, The Player had no face, no punching ability and spawns with a Torch.

One of the Player character's arms seems bigger than the other, depending on the user's chosen dominant hand. Oddly enough, the larger arm is not the one that the Player chooses.

Retrieved from 'https://unturned.gamepedia.com/The_Player?oldid=3585'

[jakefletcher]

Fumigation day.

   “What in the world is it this time...” - Ela thought to herself as she came near the Inn and saw nearly everything that was at one point inside now piled on the grass just outside the entrance. Dishes, crates, boxes, kegs and barrels, and even furniture, except for beds and bookshelves. Sherman, Daniels and Wental were busy carrying more and more stuff outside, scurrying back and forth. By now Ela was not even surprised anymore by anything that was going on where Jake was concerned and just stepped inside the Inn. Nearly right from the start she was hit with a wall of sickly-sweet stench. Overall it could only be described as a mix of rotten fruit, dead fish, Jake’s dirty socks and vanilla. With a hint of pig’s rump.

  Pinching her nose, the woman made her way through the Inn, looking for Jake, sure from the very beginning that all of this naturally had something to do with him.

  “Jake? Are you in here?!” - she called out, looking around the Inn and hearing some strange hissing as she came closer to the stairs that lead above to where the rental rooms were.

  “Phub ebe, dabe. 'Obkin'! Bob'd bpheaphe in!" - came a muffled responce, followed by more hissing which sounded like there perhaps was a giant and very pissed off reptile somewhere in the building.

  Ela searched through the rooms, unable to find him. "What the..?!?!?!" - she muttered, coming in to the far bedroom in the back of the upper floor and stopping dead in her tracks as she finally saw Jake who stood on top of one of the wardrobes in the corner, spraying some vile green fumes into every corner he could get to with a long nozzle that was attached by a flexible hose to some manner of a contraption strapped to his back that consisted of two large canisters filled with greenish thick liquid, a humming metallic box with a multitude of blinking lights and adorned for some reason with a replica of a human skull, valves and switches. In short - nothing that looked safe. When Ela came in, he was spraying the stuffed deer head that hung above the door-way. That done, he shrugged and just stuck the spray-nozzle into the head's ear, pressing the button on the handle of the nozzle. Hissing resumed, greenish mist coming out of the head's other ear, as well as nostrils, mouth and what other holes were in it. Muffled laughter followed.

  “Ohhh!! Argh! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?!” - Ela choked out, covering her nose and mouth with one hand and stepping farther into the room. Namely as far as she could from Jake and the fumes he was spraying all over.

  “Wphab ib 'ook 'ike?” - Jake finally turned around. His face was covered by a sinister-looking mask with thick green lenses and two large filters attached on either side to it - “Phubi'abib', opf phouphe. Abd bob'd bpheaphe ib, i 'eeb 'e'ib' ya!”

  “Take that thing off, i can't understand a single thing you’re saying!” - Ela was beginning to lose her patience. To be fair - she was a saint to have been patient so far as is.

  Jake sighed and pulled the mask up to uncover his mouth - “I said i'm fumigatin' the place. And don't breathe in too deep. Put a towel over your face or somethin', would ya?“

  “I'm getting out of here. Why did you pick TODAY? To do this? I think I heard a snake too. I can't stand snakes. Mice, spiders, frogs, I don't blink, but snakes. Nope. I'm going back outside...where all our stuff is!! Looks like a yard sale or something!” - Ela threw her hands up and started walking to the door.

  Jake shrugged, for once deciding not to argue, as time was pressing and he still had to spray the rest of the upstairs. Instead he just pulled the mask back on and sprayed the deer head one last time for a good measure. Having gotten to every spot he could from where he was, he took a small step back, clearly planning to get down. The old wardrobe however seemed to have a different plan for Jake regarding how he was going to get off. There was a loud crack as one of the legs snapped in two, which naturally resulted in Jake making his way down much quicker than he had planned, as he landed heavily on the floor with a loud crash, the canisters hitting the floor-boards. Thankfully the wardrobe at least hit the supporting beam on the wall with one corner, sparing Jake further injury by landing on top of him.

  “Jake!” - Ela shouted, rushing towards him and kneeling at his side, looking over him with worried eyes as she tugged on the mask covering his face. Jake mumbled something, though exactly what was hard to understand. Not only his voice was muffled by the mask - suddenly the hissing from somewhere under him intensified. The buckles on the contraption did not make anything easy, the whole thing being of goblin make, which naturally meant literally EVERYTHING about it had to be extra-complicated, including even a simple buckle. Hissing meanwhile became louder and was now accompanied by a loud alarm-like beeping. Ela was now getting rightfully scared as hissing and loud beeping could not possibly mean anything good, while Jake jumped to his feet, frantically tugging at the straps in vain - “Phip, phip, phip!!!”

  What happened next ... well, let's just say Ela should have known better than to stand so close to Jake. The canisters suddenly exploded, pushing the woman back, though thankfully there was a mattress in the hallway which Jake took off the bed to spray later. For Jake however it was a whole different story as he was now being thrown all around the room, highly-pressurized liquid escaping the ruptured canisters, making the whole thing into a rocket. Which meant not only being tossed around like a rag-doll - it even knocked Jake into the ceiling as well with loud thuds. The mist now was like a heavy cloud that filled the entire upper floor. Well, at least it would get everything fumigated in one shot this way? Jake laid on the floor, knocked out (hopefully JUST knocked out and not dead), as hissing quieted down. Beeping stopped as well. Either the contraption did not survive another fall or there was simply no longer a need for the alarm to sound.

  Ela flew backwards, slamming into the mattress all the while hearing the thuds from the room caused by Jake connecting with the walls and ceiling. She recovered quickly and rushed into the room through the heavy cloud of stench towards Jake who was sprawled on the floor without showing any signs of life. “Jake!” - she shook him by the shoulders, not daring to think the worst, pulling her vest off to put it over her face with one hand at the same time. After few moments Jake apparently decided it was a good time to prove he was, indeed, alive, which he did by letting out a squeaky, somehow sad-sounding fart and which at least would not make matters worse with the fumes that filled the upper floor anyhow. The woman sighed a breath of relief and ran downstairs, grabbing a comm from under the bar, dialing the Emergency Response Unit and speaking into it quickly once someone answered the call, asking the medics to hurry after explaining the situation to the dispatcher.

   To their credit, ERU workers who turned out to be none other than a couple whose wedding Jake catered, namely Leah and James Theran, were quick to make their way to Lakeshire, soon coming up the stairs, and covering their faces as well as they walked into the fume cloud, scanning the room quickly and finding Ela crouched over Jake. Working quickly, they unfolded a stretcher, asking Ela to step aside as they worked, putting Jake on it and carrying him out of the Inn with the worried woman following them closely, not taking her eyes off Jake. Once outside, the medics set the stretcher down, looking Jake over and poking his unconscious body to determine the damages. So far there were only a few bruises Leah found, while James was struggling to understand how to take the mask off, finally just taking out a pair of heavy-duty scissors to cut through the straps, then tossing the mask aside. Under the mask Jake was practically blue, his breathing shallow, eyes closed. Clearly the filters were also damaged in all the "being thrown around", and the mask was removed just in time, as he obviously was not getting enough air until now. James put an oxygen mask over Jake’s nose and mouth, as he took a gulping deep breath, though did not regain consciousness yet. Although either having gotten some air in him now or maybe the air just ... flowed through him - whatever the case was, Jake let out another fart. This one just as sad-sounding as the previous one. Once the mask was off, James stifling a chuckle at Jake’s “indication of being alive”, they would also see a shallow but rather nasty-looking gash on the side of Jake’s head which, after a quick inspection, turned out to need stitches, and which Leah set to working on, first of all injecting a numbing agent around the wound. Ela, who was sitting there helplessly this entire time, knowing she wouldn’t be of much help anyway and just clutching her hands to her chest shook her head and whispered to Jake, her voice filled with utmost love - “Jake, if you survive this - i am going to kill you myself.”

  Jake let out a weak groan, his eyelids flattering a bit, still knocked out. But at least he was showing further signs of life, other than a fart, so that would be a good sign. Right? Hopefully.

  “Do you think he heard me?” - Ela asked, looking at the couple working on fixing Jake up.

  Leah nodded as she began stitching up the wound. The numbing agent would have quickly taken affect and he wouldn't feel a thing. "It's possible, it looks like he might be waking up. He's going to have one hell of a headache." - she replied without looking up.

  Ela took Jake’s hand in hers and was happy when he gently squeezed her hand in return, his eyelids flattering again, and finally opened one eye. Which was turned towards Dockmaster Baren for some reason at an unnatural angle. "If i don't make it through this... Come up with somethin'... heroic, please."

  James watched Leah perform the injection and leaned back slightly to reach into his own medical bag. He pulled out a wide rolled up strip of leather and set it on the ground to unroll it. Within was a collection of vials, needles and syringes. He'd look up to Ela and offer a warm smile. "Looks like he did. He'll have that headache, and he'll likely be quite nauseous. He might have a serious cough and be itchy, but I don't believe his life is in any danger. I'm going to take a blood sample though, just to look and see what was in the poison he was using."

  “But ... if i don't... think y' can flash me? One last time...” - Jake mumbled to Ela, either still woozy from all that happened, or actually beginning to come about.

  “Oh, yeah, he’ll be fine.” -Ela laughed, hearing what he just said.

  James meanwhile got the required materials and took a blood sample. He performed some cursory tests and nodded slightly. "Yeah, nothing that I normally look out for as far as lethal gaseous poisons go. But there are a few side effects you might want to keep an eye on him for." - he nodded, reaching into his medical bag and pulling out a rather heavy looking book, flipping it open and searching through its pages - "Just a moment."

  Jake quickly opened his other eye, this one actually looking up at James - “Wait, side effects ...?!”

  Flipping through the book, James finally found the page, beginning to read  from the long list. "Mild retardation, diarrhea, impotence, random anal leakage, nausea, coughing, bleeding eyes, itchy ears, limp-wrist, alcohol intolerance, projectile vomiting, and possible development of fondness for bad showtunes." - he recited, shutting the book.

  “Anal leakage?!” - Jake sat up quickly, though immediately regretting it as everything went black before his eyes for a few moments - “I can’t have anal leakage! I have a business to run!” His eyes blinked rapidly, at least now working in unison as opposed to staring in opposite directions.

  “Just take it easy, and drink milk frequently. The side effects I listed shouldn't last for long, if they develop at all.“ - James calmed the man, though whether he was telling how it was or just wanted to reassure Jake, was unclear.

  “Oh, and one more thing.” - Leah spoke up, having just finished stitching the wound on Jake’s head up and now bandaging it - “Air out the Inn well.”

  “Well, that was the plan...” - Jake nodded, mumbling - “Bad for business if my customers start gettin' anal leakage.” Why he decided anyone but him was going to get that was anyone's guess. Maybe he was still somewhat woozy after all.

  Ela looked up at the couple with endless gratitude, thanking them both profusely, to which they both smiled warmly, assuring the woman they were simply doing their job and leaving few last suggestions with her. James, who put his book and kit back in his bag, looked over to Ela. - "Of course, we're just glad that we could help. The rest is up to you, though. Make sure he gets rest and drinks milk when possible. It'll act as a natural cure for the toxins in his system."

  Jake mumbled thanks as well, grabbing Ela’s hand to get to his feet and added - “Iffen i shit m’ pants - it ain’t mah fault...” - Now that he was standing up, everyone could see that the back of his shirt and pants were simply blasted off by the exploding canisters, though no actual damage was apparent to Jake himself, his skin just being red as he proudly displayed his bare ass and back to everyone around, blissfully unaware of the fact.

  “Come on, let’s get you home.” - Ela smirked, waving goodbye to the medics again and leading Jake towards their home.

@leah-theran @james-theran

[countessofsnark]

Snarky Recap - Thunderbirds Are Go: ‘Power Play’

The One Where The Mechanic Would Have Succeeded If It Hadn’t Been For Those Meddling Tracy Kids - The Umpteenth Chapter.

The episode opens on dam pretty note. *pause* Yes that was a terrible pun and no I regret nothing.

This being TAG, the peace and quiet are not going to last long, though.

Aaaand some 0.5 seconds later...

The Thunderbirds Are Go universe: where machinery goes from perfectly fine to completely bonkers in milliseconds thus giving rise to potential catastrophe that will most certainly require our herioc boys and their fancy Birds to show up and save the day. 

Fast forward to the obligatory Brains Exposition Hour. Basically the dam is screwed. Also, it’s interesting to see where the boys’ interests come into play. Virgil is all about the structural state of the dam (the cracks) while Scott is thinking of the workers who are trapped inside. 

And just like that, this rescue is the Tracy equivalent of a family trip. Precious.

‘See you in the sky’. Something tells me that Scott’s favourite Halloween outfit is a cross between Superman and Batman.

John: *guides Scott to the auxiliary entrance to the leaky tubes below*

Scott: ‘I wasn’t planning on going for a swim, John.’ 

WHOA WE HAVE A SARCASTIC BADASS OVER HERE.

Is it a bird? Is it a plane? It’s Jetpack Scott. Seriously, give the guy a cape already.

Enter Thunderbird 2 doing a last episode Thunderbird 1 with Thunderbird 4. (Yes that sentence makes perfect sense in my head, hush).

Thunderbird 4 bouncing across the water before diving in is pretty much the best thing since putt-putt-putt. Seriously.

‘It was Alan’s idea.’ Looks like Gordon taught him well. They are the Terrible Two after all.

The pods are back, baby! That new pod looks like something Peter Parker would approve of. Virgil is heading up to have a closer look at the crack. *insert the twang of latex being donned* Meanwhile, I’m doing my utter best not to crack up. SORRY NOT SORRY.

No Scorpion or Ray mech can stop our boys. Seeing Alan piloting TB2 solo is a first and also, Virgil supporting his smol bro just fills my heart with fuzzy feels asdfghjkl.

This episode is definitely not Scott eye candy. Nope. Not like they’re consistently picking the right angles to show off his ass-ets. *fans self*

Scott climbing out of the tube. YOUR MECHANIC IS IN ANOTHER DAM, SCOTT. (Sorry actually sorry)

Captain Foster is a legit badass. Pass it on.

Why are these employees always so devoted to their work? Oh hey, thanks for offering to save our asses but why don’t you shut down that valve over yonder which might potentially harm you, thanks mate.

Squid vs Ray: 0 - 1.

Looks like Alan’s first day on the construction summer job isn’t going according to plan.

And this, children, is what we call a Tangle of Tracy’s.

Just when the pods look like they’re out of action, Kayo flies in with supplies. Because I’m sure we had all been waiting for Kayo to step in and get some action at some point. *excited clapping*

Meanwhile, inside the dam, turbines are being shut off and the workers can finally evacuate. But just when you think you know what will happen next...

Well. The Hood helping IR? To get his revenge? I’M SHOOK.

‘This stuff washes off right?’

LOLing at Gordon having managed to get some of that crack-fixing stuff onto TB4. Head canon that Gordon is the messiest eater of the Tracy family.

Using the Mechanic’s tools against him. You can tell where Kayo got the inventiveness and cunningness from. That’s actually a compliment, y’know.

That’s gonna require some high tech car wash. Oh Gordon.

Alan getting saved by Kayo. I bet Gordon is not going let him live that one down anytime soon. 

When Brains looks that worried, it can mean only one thing: this season finale is going to have more action in it than all of Michael Bay’s Transformer movies put together.

Have fun, Squid Boy! *cackles*

This episode seemed far less tense than the previous one, for some reason. (But seeing all of the boys work together was such a blast though) The best thing about it was to re-introduce the previous season’s baddies. They’ve set off the fuse. Wondering what exactly it will detonate. Hmm.

[lauramalchowblog]

Presenting Complaint: Social Injustice

By ANISH KOKA, MD

Bobby

It took some doing, but I had finally made it to Bobby’s home.

It was a rowhome tucked into one of those little side streets in the city that non-city folks wouldn’t dream of driving down. As I step in, I’m met by the usual set up – wooden steps that hug the right side of the wall leading up to the second floor.  Bobby certainly hasn’t made it up to the second floor in some time. At the moment she is sitting in her hospital bed in the living room. The bed is the focal point to a room stuffed to the gills with all manners of stuff. At least three quarters of the stuff seems to be food. Cinnamon buns, Doritos, donut holes, chocolate frosted Donuts, crackers, Twinkies. The junk food aisle at Wawa would be embarrassed by the riches on display here.

Bobby weighs in at four hundred pounds, 5 foot 5 inches. She has a tracheostomy from multiple prior episodes of respiratory failure that have required ventilatory support. I’m here at the request of a devoted primary care physician that still makes home calls. I’ve looked through the last number of hospital stays. The last few discharge summaries are carbon copies of each other. Hypoxemic respiratory failure related to pulmonary edema complicated further by morbid obesity. Time on the vent. Antibiotics. Diuretics. Home. Return to the hospital 2 weeks later. The last echocardiogram done was 3 admissions ago. A poor study. Not much could be seen due to ‘body habitus’.

I sit on the side of the bed trying to acquire my own images of her heart. I talk to her as I struggle. Bobby is 58, the youngest of three sisters, and the only surviving member of the family. Her elder sisters died of respiratory complications as well. They both died with tracheostomies. The conversation is circular. The problem according to Bobby is the tracheostomy. Everything was fine before that. I explain that a prolonged period of time on the ventilator on a prior admission prompted the tracheostomy, and that the multiple recent admissions to the hospital that required a ventilator seemed to validate that decision. She doesn’t waver. Both her sisters died shortly after they got tracheostomies. Bobby thinks the physicians taking care of her sisters had a hand in their demise. “They didn’t care”. “We told them they were sick.”

Perhaps.

The picture on the nightstand suggests Bobby was the smallest of the three sisters.

It doesn’t take much to get Bobby talking. Her favorite holiday is July 4th because she makes the family favorite tuna casserole, and her favorite niece, April, helps her with the casserole every year.

Meanwhile, the echocardiogram shows a large right side of the heart. Her pulmonary pressures are elevated, and she seems to be fluid overloaded. Review of her bloodwork from the hospital also strongly suggests her weight may be hampering her ability to expel carbon dioxide. She really needs to be on a ventilator nightly. In other more normal contexts there are additional diagnostic steps to take, but trust won’t be built in a day. She’s heard variations of these recommendations before. She is adamantly opposed to any other invasive tests.

But a small victory. She agrees on the higher diuretic dose.

Bobby is black. I’m brown. We hail from very different zipcodes.  She clearly harbors a deep mistrust of the medical system. But I’m hopeful to make some inroads. It doesn’t seem to  matter to Bobby that I’m brown, or that I was born in Delhi, or that I reside in a much different zipcode than her.  At the moment, I’m just another caregiver in her living room.

I sense a thaw.  As I pack up, she asks me when I’ll see her again.

Hopefully soon, Bobby.

Mr. Chalhoubi

Hussain Chalhoubi is in the office with one of his three devoted daughters. It’s a different daughter every week and I can never keep their names straight. I met him after he had suffered a stroke that leaves him frustratingly aphasic. He enjoys food and drink, and like clockwork would appear in my office in the early years frequently with swollen hands and feet days after a dietary indiscretion. He always had a sheepish look on his face as his exasperated daughters would tattle on him.

At some point I learned there was little point to piling on. Scolding only gets you so far. Instead, I asked him about Syria. Boy do those eyes light up. His family had fled shortly after Syria had been plunged into civil war.

I’m curious who he blames for the mess. Assad, the dictator who the US has held responsible? He vigorously shakes his head. His daughter chimes in.

“We are Christians.”

Not much more needs to be said. Assad may be the boogie-man to many, but he is an Alawite, a minority sect of Islam in a sea of Sunni Muslims that makes up the Levant in the Middle East. The rebellion against the Alawite Assad is of the  behead-first-ask-questions-later extremist Sunni kind that scares the Syrian Christian minority much more than the ruling dictator accused of his own share of atrocities.

As the conversation comes back to the medical, he forwards through his daughter that he has been trying to flush out his kidneys by drinking copious amounts of water.  I try to explain to him that his kidneys and his heart don’t function normally, so they can get overwhelmed. 

No flushing.

Over time, he’s started to listen more.  He doesn’t skip his medications, avoids drinking too much.  He used to be in the office monthly, but now every 3-4 months for routine visits. 

Serving patients, or populations ?

It is now a rather quaint idea that outcomes for patients are best improved one doctor-patient relationship at a time.  I understand the sentiment.  For most patients the outcome is decided well before their encounter with me.  Your zipcode seems to be a lot more important to your outcome than your doctor, and unsurprisingly a movement to address matters that have traditionally lived outside of the health care system has gained steam

In an earlier era the doctor’s mission was to recognize and manage diseases.   Medical students were taught to hear the severe aortic regurgitation that was causing the progressive shortness of breath.  The advances in the management of disease over the last half century have been nothing short of magical.  Crack open a chest, arrest the heart, replace an aortic valve, bring the heart back to life.  The power of medicine realized was to change the natural history of disease for the ill patient that arrived in distress seeking help.

And here the very reasonable human desire to address systemic inequities in society found synergy with a darker current of thought within medicine that felt the resources expended to care for the very ill are resources poorly spent.  The focus, the theory goes, should be on preventing illness in the much larger healthy population.  The scope of keeping the healthy well, of course, extends well beyond the medical, and puts everything in play.  Sanitation, transportation, air quality, climate change, access to the means to pay for healthcare are just the start of a long list of priorities for those in charge.  These programs need scarce budgetary dollars, and so it was only a matter of time after the government started paying for healthcare that politicians and the public health gurus they empowered to manage the health of the population began to voice their disdain for the care of those deemed “too ill”.

The tension here is that medicine’s greatest strides in the last half century have come in those with afflictions that brought them to death’s door.   The inroads in this group of unfortunates have come by way of super-specialists far removed from the concerns of the worried well.  Richard Lamm, the former governor of Colorado famously derided the work of Thomas Starzl, the father of organ transplantation, questioning the great surgeons use of public health resources to attempt to save individual patients at death’s door.  These were the early days of transplantation, when successes were a far cry from the results enjoyed today.  As the passage of time made transplantation success rates north of 90% and the public watched children destined for death skipping down hallways, Lamm’s cold calculus came to easily be rejected. 

Yet in 2000, writing for Health Affairs, Lamm doubled down.

“Colorado’s doctors were constantly reminding me that in medicine, ‘cost was never a consideration.’ But health care was the fastest-growing segment of my budget, demanding increasing amounts of public funds for the medical school, for new equipment at the hospital, and for Medicaid. Daily, if not hourly, hospitals in my state would effectively appropriate state funds for a high-risk, low-benefit procedure, while I knew that those funds could easily save more lives elsewhere in the health care system or outside of it, say, by buying three new teachers, fixing a broken sewer main, or adding two police officers to a high-crime area for a year. How could cost not be a consideration in making a public budget?”

“How can patient advocates feel so good about the system they work in when I, as public advocate, feel so guilty for having so many people without even basic health care?”

It never strikes Lamm that the citizens he is so desperate to ‘cover’ with health insurance may want to choose not to die and opt to receive an organ transplant.  What good is a health insurance plan that doesn’t pay for life saving therapy when you actually need it?  This would be akin to paying for a fire suppressing sprinkler system, but not paying to have firefighters come to battle a structure threatening blaze. 

The kinder, gentler, smarter society the ideology Lamm represents is a society that turns its back on the tangible, acute needs of the sick for hypothetical needs of the well.  In a perfect world, perhaps one could do both.  Unfortunately, when it comes to interventions for the worried well, controversy abounds for how exactly one accomplishes this.  Does one advocate for zoning and tax policy to allow fresh produce and groceries to be sold in poor zip codes to address ‘food deserts’ so Bobby has more healthy options?  Should we advocate for sin taxes on alcohol, tobacco and sugar containing products that by their very nature are meant to be regressive taxes that affect the behavior of patients like Bobby?  Does caring for Mr. Chahloubi mean taking a position on US foreign policy interventions in that country, or perhaps advocacy for immigration for asylum seekers?

In an age not so long ago, it was easily recognized that the answers to these questions were to be wrestled with well outside the purview of the medical field.  That a growing number in the medical community think medical training gives us special expertise to solve these problems speaks to a self-important medical echo chamber that believes society’s values should mirror its values.

We would be wise to heed the words of C.S. Lewis – “Of all tyrannies, a tyranny sincerely exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive.  It would be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies… those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end for they do so with the approval of their own conscience.. This very kindness stings with intolerable insult.  To be “cured” against one’s will and cured of states which we may not regard a disease is to be put on a level of those who have not yet reached the age of reason or those who never will; to be classed with infants, imbeciles, and domestic animals.”

Bobby and Mr. Chalhoubi aren’t particularly interested in my views on sugar taxes or my feelings about Bashar al-Assad.   They want someone invested in them, not in some abstract population.  Advocacy by physicians has its place.  Its just not in the exam room.

Anish Koka is a physician in private practice in Philadelphia.

The post Presenting Complaint: Social Injustice appeared first on The Health Care Blog.

Presenting Complaint: Social Injustice published first on https://venabeahan.tumblr.com

[kristinsimmons]

Presenting Complaint: Social Injustice

By ANISH KOKA, MD

Bobby

It took some doing, but I had finally made it to Bobby’s home.

It was a rowhome tucked into one of those little side streets in the city that non-city folks wouldn’t dream of driving down. As I step in, I’m met by the usual set up – wooden steps that hug the right side of the wall leading up to the second floor.  Bobby certainly hasn’t made it up to the second floor in some time. At the moment she is sitting in her hospital bed in the living room. The bed is the focal point to a room stuffed to the gills with all manners of stuff. At least three quarters of the stuff seems to be food. Cinnamon buns, Doritos, donut holes, chocolate frosted Donuts, crackers, Twinkies. The junk food aisle at Wawa would be embarrassed by the riches on display here.

Bobby weighs in at four hundred pounds, 5 foot 5 inches. She has a tracheostomy from multiple prior episodes of respiratory failure that have required ventilatory support. I’m here at the request of a devoted primary care physician that still makes home calls. I’ve looked through the last number of hospital stays. The last few discharge summaries are carbon copies of each other. Hypoxemic respiratory failure related to pulmonary edema complicated further by morbid obesity. Time on the vent. Antibiotics. Diuretics. Home. Return to the hospital 2 weeks later. The last echocardiogram done was 3 admissions ago. A poor study. Not much could be seen due to ‘body habitus’.

I sit on the side of the bed trying to acquire my own images of her heart. I talk to her as I struggle. Bobby is 58, the youngest of three sisters, and the only surviving member of the family. Her elder sisters died of respiratory complications as well. They both died with tracheostomies. The conversation is circular. The problem according to Bobby is the tracheostomy. Everything was fine before that. I explain that a prolonged period of time on the ventilator on a prior admission prompted the tracheostomy, and that the multiple recent admissions to the hospital that required a ventilator seemed to validate that decision. She doesn’t waver. Both her sisters died shortly after they got tracheostomies. Bobby thinks the physicians taking care of her sisters had a hand in their demise. “They didn’t care”. “We told them they were sick.”

Perhaps.

The picture on the nightstand suggests Bobby was the smallest of the three sisters.

It doesn’t take much to get Bobby talking. Her favorite holiday is July 4th because she makes the family favorite tuna casserole, and her favorite niece, April, helps her with the casserole every year.

Meanwhile, the echocardiogram shows a large right side of the heart. Her pulmonary pressures are elevated, and she seems to be fluid overloaded. Review of her bloodwork from the hospital also strongly suggests her weight may be hampering her ability to expel carbon dioxide. She really needs to be on a ventilator nightly. In other more normal contexts there are additional diagnostic steps to take, but trust won’t be built in a day. She’s heard variations of these recommendations before. She is adamantly opposed to any other invasive tests.

But a small victory. She agrees on the higher diuretic dose.

Bobby is black. I’m brown. We hail from very different zipcodes.  She clearly harbors a deep mistrust of the medical system. But I’m hopeful to make some inroads. It doesn’t seem to  matter to Bobby that I’m brown, or that I was born in Delhi, or that I reside in a much different zipcode than her.  At the moment, I’m just another caregiver in her living room.

I sense a thaw.  As I pack up, she asks me when I’ll see her again.

Hopefully soon, Bobby.

Mr. Chalhoubi

Hussain Chalhoubi is in the office with one of his three devoted daughters. It’s a different daughter every week and I can never keep their names straight. I met him after he had suffered a stroke that leaves him frustratingly aphasic. He enjoys food and drink, and like clockwork would appear in my office in the early years frequently with swollen hands and feet days after a dietary indiscretion. He always had a sheepish look on his face as his exasperated daughters would tattle on him.

At some point I learned there was little point to piling on. Scolding only gets you so far. Instead, I asked him about Syria. Boy do those eyes light up. His family had fled shortly after Syria had been plunged into civil war.

I’m curious who he blames for the mess. Assad, the dictator who the US has held responsible? He vigorously shakes his head. His daughter chimes in.

“We are Christians.”

Not much more needs to be said. Assad may be the boogie-man to many, but he is an Alawite, a minority sect of Islam in a sea of Sunni Muslims that makes up the Levant in the Middle East. The rebellion against the Alawite Assad is of the  behead-first-ask-questions-later extremist Sunni kind that scares the Syrian Christian minority much more than the ruling dictator accused of his own share of atrocities.

As the conversation comes back to the medical, he forwards through his daughter that he has been trying to flush out his kidneys by drinking copious amounts of water.  I try to explain to him that his kidneys and his heart don’t function normally, so they can get overwhelmed. 

No flushing.

Over time, he’s started to listen more.  He doesn’t skip his medications, avoids drinking too much.  He used to be in the office monthly, but now every 3-4 months for routine visits. 

Serving patients, or populations ?

It is now a rather quaint idea that outcomes for patients are best improved one doctor-patient relationship at a time.  I understand the sentiment.  For most patients the outcome is decided well before their encounter with me.  Your zipcode seems to be a lot more important to your outcome than your doctor, and unsurprisingly a movement to address matters that have traditionally lived outside of the health care system has gained steam

In an earlier era the doctor’s mission was to recognize and manage diseases.   Medical students were taught to hear the severe aortic regurgitation that was causing the progressive shortness of breath.  The advances in the management of disease over the last half century have been nothing short of magical.  Crack open a chest, arrest the heart, replace an aortic valve, bring the heart back to life.  The power of medicine realized was to change the natural history of disease for the ill patient that arrived in distress seeking help.

And here the very reasonable human desire to address systemic inequities in society found synergy with a darker current of thought within medicine that felt the resources expended to care for the very ill are resources poorly spent.  The focus, the theory goes, should be on preventing illness in the much larger healthy population.  The scope of keeping the healthy well, of course, extends well beyond the medical, and puts everything in play.  Sanitation, transportation, air quality, climate change, access to the means to pay for healthcare are just the start of a long list of priorities for those in charge.  These programs need scarce budgetary dollars, and so it was only a matter of time after the government started paying for healthcare that politicians and the public health gurus they empowered to manage the health of the population began to voice their disdain for the care of those deemed “too ill”.

The tension here is that medicine’s greatest strides in the last half century have come in those with afflictions that brought them to death’s door.   The inroads in this group of unfortunates have come by way of super-specialists far removed from the concerns of the worried well.  Richard Lamm, the former governor of Colorado famously derided the work of Thomas Starzl, the father of organ transplantation, questioning the great surgeons use of public health resources to attempt to save individual patients at death’s door.  These were the early days of transplantation, when successes were a far cry from the results enjoyed today.  As the passage of time made transplantation success rates north of 90% and the public watched children destined for death skipping down hallways, Lamm’s cold calculus came to easily be rejected. 

Yet in 2000, writing for Health Affairs, Lamm doubled down.

“Colorado’s doctors were constantly reminding me that in medicine, ‘cost was never a consideration.’ But health care was the fastest-growing segment of my budget, demanding increasing amounts of public funds for the medical school, for new equipment at the hospital, and for Medicaid. Daily, if not hourly, hospitals in my state would effectively appropriate state funds for a high-risk, low-benefit procedure, while I knew that those funds could easily save more lives elsewhere in the health care system or outside of it, say, by buying three new teachers, fixing a broken sewer main, or adding two police officers to a high-crime area for a year. How could cost not be a consideration in making a public budget?”

“How can patient advocates feel so good about the system they work in when I, as public advocate, feel so guilty for having so many people without even basic health care?”

It never strikes Lamm that the citizens he is so desperate to ‘cover’ with health insurance may want to choose not to die and opt to receive an organ transplant.  What good is a health insurance plan that doesn’t pay for life saving therapy when you actually need it?  This would be akin to paying for a fire suppressing sprinkler system, but not paying to have firefighters come to battle a structure threatening blaze. 

The kinder, gentler, smarter society the ideology Lamm represents is a society that turns its back on the tangible, acute needs of the sick for hypothetical needs of the well.  In a perfect world, perhaps one could do both.  Unfortunately, when it comes to interventions for the worried well, controversy abounds for how exactly one accomplishes this.  Does one advocate for zoning and tax policy to allow fresh produce and groceries to be sold in poor zip codes to address ‘food deserts’ so Bobby has more healthy options?  Should we advocate for sin taxes on alcohol, tobacco and sugar containing products that by their very nature are meant to be regressive taxes that affect the behavior of patients like Bobby?  Does caring for Mr. Chahloubi mean taking a position on US foreign policy interventions in that country, or perhaps advocacy for immigration for asylum seekers?

In an age not so long ago, it was easily recognized that the answers to these questions were to be wrestled with well outside the purview of the medical field.  That a growing number in the medical community think medical training gives us special expertise to solve these problems speaks to a self-important medical echo chamber that believes society’s values should mirror its values.

We would be wise to heed the words of C.S. Lewis – “Of all tyrannies, a tyranny sincerely exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive.  It would be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies… those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end for they do so with the approval of their own conscience.. This very kindness stings with intolerable insult.  To be “cured” against one’s will and cured of states which we may not regard a disease is to be put on a level of those who have not yet reached the age of reason or those who never will; to be classed with infants, imbeciles, and domestic animals.”

Bobby and Mr. Chalhoubi aren’t particularly interested in my views on sugar taxes or my feelings about Bashar al-Assad.   They want someone invested in them, not in some abstract population.  Advocacy by physicians has its place.  Its just not in the exam room.

Anish Koka is a physician in private practice in Philadelphia.

The post Presenting Complaint: Social Injustice appeared first on The Health Care Blog.

Presenting Complaint: Social Injustice published first on https://wittooth.tumblr.com/

[the-pontiac-bandit]

making my heart beat again

so, thanks to @startofamoment for the absolutely amazing prompt (this and all the others, which you should check out here!) and to @elsaclack for all her help - hope y’all like it!! (title from stuck like glue, by sugarland)

He’s still chuckling at her screaming sheep prank as he walks out of the break room. He’s ten paces away when he turns back, ready to stick his tongue out at her and yell one last comeback. Except that’s when he sees it: the Double Tuck.

His first thought is of Rosa and her scarily accurate Amy impression and then all of a sudden that won’t leave his head. Amy’s put her phone away, is pouring a packet of sugar into her coffee, and he’s standing completely still with the image of Rosa smiling and tucking her hair behind both ears overlaid on images of Amy doing the same thing. It replays for maybe a second or maybe an hour or maybe a month – he can’t really be sure because his stomach is bottoming out and his foot is tapping uncontrollably and every rational thought in his mind is on hiatus. Then, finally, the buzzing in his brain stops and he hears Rosa talking about how, “When Amy really likes someone…”

And his feet are moving.

He’s not sure what he’ll do when he gets to the break room. He has no plan, no inkling of what he wants to say to her. But she likes him and he keeps repeating it to himself in his head so that the words take on rhythm as he walks – shelikesmeshelikesmeshelikesme – and then he’s at the door of the break room, putting his hand on the handle.

She looks so beautiful that it takes whatever breath he still had away for a moment – her forehead is a bit scrunched in the way it is when she’s focused on a difficult problem as she pours milk into her mug with the precision of a scientist. Her hair is falling like curtains around her face, largely obstructing his view, and he takes a moment, as he always does, to wonder what it would be like to touch it.

And then he remembers: she maybe likes him so he’ll maybe get to find out.

That sobering thought brings him crashing back to reality. His stomach, which had been swooshing back and forth, settles. His mouth closes, his teeth clacking together with the speed of the movement. His hand falls limply off the doorknob. Because he has no idea what comes next.

He can see it all clearly in his head: a thousand different scenarios play out in front of him. He tells her how he feels, possibly with a fantastic accent he’ll totally nail because everyone knows British dudes are, like, a billion times hotter (then he remembers she knows his normal voice and she knows everything about him and that plan goes out the window and also there’s no way Amy Santiago likes non-British Human Disaster Jake Peralta. But she did the Double Tuck).

Next on the list is just walking in and kissing her. But boundaries, and respect, and standing with Wendy, and she Double Tucked for Dave Majors and he definitely didn’t get to kiss her and it’s not fair to her. (Plus it’s a workplace and Amy Santiago does not kiss in the workplace. She definitely doesn’t kiss her partner of eight years in the workplace. No way. Never. But maybe she kisses him somewhere else?)

And then he’s imagining kissing her, and her kissing him back, and every sane idea in his head is suddenly with Doug Judy on a beach in the Caribbean or maybe taking a nap in one of his massage chairs at home but they definitely aren’t here to tell him what to do when the girl with the shiny hair and sparkling eyes and perfect laugh and adorably awkward antics that keep him up at night maybe possibly likes him back.

He’s not sure how no one noticed him standing there, in hindsight, but no one stopped him or called his name or moved him aside so they could get to the vending machines. In fairness, he has no idea how long he stands there thinking about what Amy Santiago’s lips might feel like against his – somehow both an eternity and a millisecond.

And then Amy is walking towards the door and he manages to stop looking like a fish gasping for water but he can’t seem to remember how to move quickly enough to get out of her way, to get back to his desk before she starts asking questions he doesn’t know how to answer. So instead, she opens the door into his face and he stumbles back, forcing her to catch him by one arm that he’s flung into the air in a desperate attempt to stay on his feet.

He keeps going down (his knees wouldn’t be so shaky if her pantsuit wasn’t so damn sexy), now dragging her with him. They land in a heap on the tile, their legs tangling as one of her hands holds his wrist in a death grip, her other elbow holding her weight just over him. Her to-go mug full of fresh coffee clatters away, the top staying shut and protecting her morning dose of caffeine because of course she spent weeks researching to find the most insulated, spill-proof mug in the entire city.

For a beat, they’re staring at each other. And his heart rate is increasing like he slammed his foot on the gas in his car (he amends that thought because his car would have started smoking and possibly exploded long before it hit this speed. Then he has to amend his amendment because he isn’t entirely sure that his heart isn’t emitting white clouds of smoke inside his chest. Maybe that’s why he feels like he’s full to bursting).

And then Amy is disentangling herself, standing up, brushing off her pants and straightening her jacket, laughing uproariously.

“Are you still that freaked out by the screaming sheep, Pineapples? See – it’s not fun when the tables are turned!”

She pulls him up, and as she turns to pick up her mug, he sees her elbows move, and then both her hands are behind her ears, moving her hair out of her eyes, and he can’t be imagining it this time, right?

And then he knows he isn’t because over her shoulder as she walks back to their shared desk island, he sees Rosa cock one eyebrow at him – See? I told you so. – it seems to say. And he’s nodding back at her – he saw it and it was real and Amy Santiago definitely just did a Double Tuck about plaid-wearing, orange-soda-drinking Jake Peralta.  

Jake spends the rest of the day glued to his desk like Scully and Hitchcock, praying nobody notices how little work he gets done. For the next 117 minutes (according to the clock in the corner of his computer), his mind drifts aimlessly through the single repeating thought that Amy Santiago Double Tucked for Jake Peralta. With a short break for lunch, of course.

Amy Santiago, meanwhile, is sitting across from him, seemingly entirely unaware of the nebulous plans slowly converging in the back of his brain.

Minutes 118 to 356 are spent turning those nebulous plans into something more concrete, while taking breaks to alter the code he’s running to catch instances of insurance fraud. She said she didn’t want to date cops, and he wants to respect that. But Rosa’s words keep ringing around in his head - “She has to know you’re an option” - and all he’s wanted for this entire week (and maybe for a hundred weeks like this one) is to be able to ask her out for realz. Courage builds up like pressure in Charles’ rice cooker (Charles tried to teach him to use it last month, but all Jake really learned is that there’s a lot of very hot steam that releases onto your hand very painfully if you open the valve wrong).

Minutes 357 to 369 are spent finding the perfect video of a dog howling along to the recorder cover of “My Heart Will Go On” to send to Amy, because honestly, if he doesn’t bother her at least twice a day, she might send him to the doctor (or worse, the dentist. He’s not sure entirely how a weird mood would be connected to poor oral hygiene, but he’s sure it is somehow, and the dentist cried last time she saw his mouth.)

Finally, at minute 375 post-Double Tuck, he’s made a plan. It’s not really a plan in the way Amy makes plans - there’s no speech in a Word document on his computer, no carefully color-coded binder of every possible scenario, no strategic approach. It’s a Jake Peralta plan - go with his gut, lay it all on the line, and trust that his brilliant partner will have his back.

Jake’s fingers drum on the steering wheel as he drives - his Taylor Swift pump-up playlist is on shuffle, and the universe (or whatever little robot chip controls his cracked iPhone) must be rooting for him because he’s only had to skip one sad ballad and he’s had four celebratory love songs in a row.

He doesn’t even have to think about the route to Amy’s apartment - it’s burned into his memory from late night hangouts and cab rides home from Shaw’s and a million other small moments that built up to this, even if he isn’t sure what this is, yet.

When he pulls up, he sits in the car for a few more seconds, building up his confidence by scream-singing the bridge to “Ours” - it feels good and hopeful and for a few seconds, he gets lost in it until he remembers the enormity of what comes next and then his breath is quickening and his heart is racing but then he takes a deep breath and pictures the Double Tuck, just one more time. And Amy’s smiling at him in his memory and at the backs of his eyelids and maybe in a few minutes in real life, too.

He doesn’t let himself hesitate on her doorstep. He knows if he stops to think about what comes next, he’ll lose his nerve, and next thing he knows, he’ll be at home on his favorite massage chair replaying a dumb video of sheep screaming and thinking about maybe someday. 

Well, eyes closed, head first, can’t lose.

So he knocks.

Amy answers almost immediately, wearing her favorite sweat pants and - improbably - the NYPD sweatshirt he’s been looking for for two years.

“Jake?” She looks a little confused, but not too surprised. It’s not unheard of for him to come over for a movie marathon or a shared dinner - although never unannounced. 

“My sweatshirt!” The sight of his sweatshirt, which he had left on the back of his chair in mid-January of 2014 and never saw again, has driven everything else from his brain. For a few amazing seconds, the elephants in his stomach have stopped stampeding and his toes have unclenched in his sneakers. “Thief!” 

She laughs and pulls her hands up into the sleeves. “Yeah? So what? I was cold!”

“So you took my sweatshirt? Amy Santiago, a dirty cop! I never would have guessed! Of course, I could be persuaded to not turn you in if you...returned it?”

She punches him in the arm. “Never - finders’ keepers! Anyway, come in, nerd, and you can have a blanket, if you’re really so desperately cold.”

He follows her through her doorway, protesting that it’s early May and it’s more than 60 degrees outside and no one needs a wool blanket at this time of year, Amy, and then they’re in her kitchen, where the greasy smell of pierogies and potato pancakes wafts out of a white styrofoam box on the kitchen table.

She turns and leans on the counter, arms crossed. “So, what’s up?”

And then he remembers.

His mind turns into a blank slate, everything he’s ever learned (including the dialogue to Die Hard) somehow having run for the hills. His jaw drops open as he tries to find the words, and whatever elephants had mercifully abandoned their tap dancing routine in his stomach have returned with friends. 

Amy ‘s face is growing increasingly concerned by the second. Finally, after a silence so long that even he knows it’s weird, “Jake?” 

And she’s looking at him and her hair is in a ponytail but he sees the same look in her eyes that he caught that morning when everything changed, so he takes one more deep breath and dives in.

“Hey, so I know we said that from now on we were both only dating criminals,” he manages to spit out. (A smoother version of himself - a Dave Majors, a Blotter Dynamite - would add, “And you’ve stolen my heart - and my sweatshirt - so you definitely count.” But he’s just Jake Peralta, and he’s far too earnest and far, far too nervous for that.)

“But I like you. Like, romantic-stylez. With a z. But you knew that.” His words are growing faster and he’s rubbing his hands together, to keep them occupied and fend off the restlessness that’s telling him to either reach out and kiss her or to run in the opposite direction. “Point is, I think you might maybe, possibly, like me back? You did the Double Tuck and I saw it and I just wanted to say that--”

“I did the what?” Amy cuts him off. Her face is entirely inscrutable - he would give anything for her normally expressive face to crack and give him an inkling of what she was thinking, but it’s like a closed book for maybe the first time in the almost ten years he’s known her (if he were judging books by their covers, he’d really like this one, but in all honesty, he’d much rather be able to read what’s going on inside).

“You know...the Double Tuck?”

She stares at him blankly, waiting for further explanation. 

He sighs, realizing she maybe actually doesn’t know what he’s talking about, then takes a deep breath. He lets his face break into a wide grin and forces an Amy-esque giggle, soft and understated, reaching all the way to his eyes. Then, he brings up his hands and dramatically pushes non-existent locks of hair behind his ears.

Amy can’t help it - she bursts out laughing at the sight. It’s a little confusing and very terrifying, and the way his shoulders move as he does it is vaguely reminiscent of Rosa teasing her on a stakeout once a million years ago when there was a cute barista at the coffee shop they stopped in and suddenly she knows exactly what the Double Tuck is - if only she could stop laughing long enough to tell him.

He’s joined her now, the tension easing out of his body as laughs rise deep from his belly to mingle with hers against the background noise of cars driving by on the street outside. It’s a relief to see him so relaxed again, more like the Jake she knows than the nervous ball of energy that had arrived on her doorstep.

More like the Jake who makes her Double Tuck.

So she takes a step closer, and all of a sudden, the breath leaves his body and he remembers what he was saying but she’s looking at him and he doesn’t know what comes next and for the first time ever he’s maybe wishing he made Santiago-style plans because she definitely would have a contingency on page 57 of the binder and--

“So, you saw me Double Tuck.”

It’s a statement, but it seems to invite something more. So he takes a step closer.

 “Which means romantic-stylez is maybe on the table?”

 He sounds painfully hopeful, and he has that soft smile he saves just for her. So she bites her lip for a second, debating, and then nods to herself, as though she’s made her decision.

A hand on his hip.

“Which means romantic-stylez is definitely on the table.”

 Her eyes are dark, looking up at him, and he doesn’t know when they got this close to each other or whether it’s her proximity or her words that’s making his brain short circuit but he’s in more than a bit of shock and thisisrealthisisrealthisisreal and then his hand is on her face, his thumb stroking her cheek as his fingertips brush the hair pulled back behind her ear.

“Amy? Can I--”

And then she’s on her tiptoes and her lips meet his and her fingers are running through his hair as she pulls him closer and one of his hands finds the small of her back as his other reaches for the back of her head, where he runs into a scrunchie.

He’s fumbling to untie it when she laughs, briefly letting go to pull it out herself, and then his hands are running through her hair (and it’s just as soft as he imagined) and she can’t stop smiling against his lips and he’s sure he’s grinning just as broadly. The counter is digging into his back and he’s not sure when he got turned around but it doesn’t matter because Amy Santiago is kissing him.

Finally, after what feels like eternity but is probably much shorter, she pulls back, turning to lean against the counter with him and bumping his shoulder as she grabs his hand in hers.

“So, that happened.”

He turns to laugh at her, and he catches her, for the third time that day, with both hands behind her ears, trying to fix the hair he’d managed to displace.

Amy Santiago is Double Tuck-ing Jake Peralta and then he leans back in to kiss her again, thinking that Amy Santiago doing the Double Tuck might be his new favorite cop movie.

[olivereliott]

Hip To Be Square: Walt Siegl tackles the bevel Ducati

The bevel era is part of Ducati folklore. The engineering prowess of Fabio Taglioni made the British bikes of the 1970s look prehistoric, and bestowed a rosy glow over the Italian motorcycle industry—just before the Big Four Japanese makers turned the superbike world on its head.

The ‘round case’ bevels are fondly remembered and sold well, but the later ‘square case’ bikes weren’t quite so popular. Designer Giorgetto Giugiaro restyled the engine covers, but most folks regarded the new look as a retrograde step.

Walt Siegl is well known for his expertise with Ducatis, and for his latest build, he’s had a crack at the square case. It’s called ‘Bedeveled’ and it was a commission from Bobby Haas, the man behind the incredible Haas Moto Museum in Dallas.

“Mr. Haas let me pick the concept,” says Walt. “I chose an 80s style Ducati: I wanted to use one of the last of the glorious big Bevels, and build a racer around the square case engine.”

It would be a pure race bike, with no concessions to comfort. And although most builders would probably pick the ‘round case’ Desmo engine, Walt wanted the challenge of using the later style Bevel—“to prove that one can still build a sexy machine around that engine design.”

Haas loved the idea.

Bobby and his museum director traveled from Dallas to the small town of Harrisville, New Hampshire, to visit Walt in his workshop. Heads were knocked together and design ideas tossed around.

As always, Walt wanted to build a sporting machine that performs well. Although it would be part of a museum collection, the Ducati still needed the potential to win on the track.

Walt’s engine man is Bruce Meyers, and he worked his magic on the 864 cc 1980 SuperSport. The cylinder heads were ported and flowed, and oversized valves and race cams were installed. The lower end was meticulously balanced and blueprinted, and there’s now an electronic ignition for easy starting.

Walt’s also upgraded the carbs to 40mm Dell’Ortos, and built a free flowing stainless exhaust system, finished in a black Jet Hot coating. Output is now between 85 and 90 hp.

Meanwhile Aran, Walt’s lead technician, helped design and build a lightweight chrome-moly trellis frame. Finished in a deep red, it’s a masterpiece of minimalist engineering.

“It’s a combination of the Ducati original and my own frame design,” Walt says. “The steering neck degree is now 24, and the swingarm is 10mm shorter than stock and set at 11 degrees to make the bike more agile.” The frame is also light compared to the original, weighing only 16 pounds (7.25 kg).

The bodywork was sketched out on paper, and it’s designed to be cohesive with the squareness of the Bevel engine. “We machined the principal shape for the bodywork out of blocks of urethane,” Walt says.

“Once the machining was completed, I finished all the details by hand. Molds were made out of composite, and the bodywork was laid up in carbon fiber.”

Hidden behind the fairing is an aluminum stay that also holds the battery, and a simple, mechanical-driven Veglia tachometer.

To reflect the late 70s/early 80s design, Walt has chosen lightweight MV Agusta Brutale aluminum wheels to fit that style. “Careful machining was required to get the correct offset for the driveline,” he remarks. “This period also marked the end of twisty round-tube swing arms, so we built a lightweight unit out of square tubing.”

Weight reduction is always a focus for Walt, as well aesthetics. So he’s opted for mono shock rear suspension (adapted from the Ducati Scrambler), an innovation that Ducati first used on the 750 F1.

For performance reasons, there’s a USD fork up front. It’s a hybrid, with Ducati Scrambler fork legs, and lowered and revalved internals. The lower tree is from a modern Ducati, but the upper tree is a custom WSM unit.

The brakes are relatively simple. “Any vintage engine, no matter how many performance parts it’s stuffed with, doesn’t have the horsepower to really require dual radial calipers,” Walt points out. “So I opted for an oversized single disc with a late model Brembo caliper to slow things down.”

The paint is another visual connection to classic Ducatis: Walt’s picked the famous large metal flake that was used on Paul Smart’s original racer. Allied to the red frame and classic decals, it gives this bevel beauty even more ‘pop.’

The Haas Moto Museum contains some truly extraordinary machinery, but Walt’s Ducati will easily hold its own. And maybe the oft-maligned ‘square case’ bevel will gain a few new admirers, too.

Walt Siegl | Facebook | Instagram | Images by Gregory George Moore

[itsworn]

Vincent Troncoso’s 1966 Chevy C10

I love writing about old cars and trucks, especially when there’s an interesting story about the owner and/or the vehicle itself attached. It’s the life stories that truly make it all the more worthwhile sitting behind the computer punching keys rather than throttle pedals. But occasionally, getting those stories out of people is like pulling teeth—and even when the old chunk of enamel’s been successfully pulled, so to speak, the information provided is less than helpful. Or, it’s the exact opposite and I get a novel’s worth of info, which I can deal with. This time, well, let’s just say I got more than I bargained for … and not from the owner, Vincent Troncoso.

About a year ago, Jimmy Ruiz had just finished up this cleaner-than-most daily hauler for his customer, Vincent Troncoso. After arranging to have it shot in the studio for a feature, Ruiz supplied the requisite tech sheet … which I inadvertently threw away at some point. When asked to fill out another, he un-begrudgingly obliged—but instead, Ruiz sat down one evening and wrote a feature! While I’d normally transpose something as such into my own verbiage, the story wasn’t half bad, so minus a few grammatical edits, here you go!

“Vincent grew up around his uncle who was a collector and early American automotive enthusiast. He spent a lot of time with his uncle going to car shows and events, all the while soaking in the different and unique styles of yesteryear—both stock and custom. But one vehicle in particular always stuck in his mind, a first-generation C10 shortbed pickup truck.

“Fast-forward a couple decades and Vincent was now at a place and time in his life where he wanted to get an early American truck, a 1966 Chevrolet shortbed big-window to be exact. He initially just wanted a truck to be used as intended—able to haul house project supplies and such in the back—but still wanted that vintage feel and smell that us early iron junkies chase! So after months of searching the Internet, he finally found his project to be: a small-window cab, and not the big-window shorty he wanted, but it was close enough to satisfy his hunger at the time.

“Vincent took his uncle in-law ‘Tio Steve’ along with him to co-ride in the truck’s journey back to its new house. Well, as it would end up turning out, the ride home was a little more exciting than they expected. Once they made the deal, signed the pink slip, and took off down the road, things got flavorful! The two jumped on the freeway and headed back home to Riverside, shortly thereafter realizing that when the truck needed to stop, it didn’t! So began the panic of pumping the brakes while nervously driving down the road. At this point, the exhaust is getting louder, as pipes are cracked and broken, lights aren’t working, and the ‘dream’ 1966 shorty is now starting to look like it might have been a real bad and potentially dangerous acquisition.

“Nevertheless, Vincent tried to attack the items that he could fix, then took the truck to a local muffler shop—you know the old type with the car rack outside right on the corner, with a couple of Tin Man looking statues out front made of old mufflers, exhaust pipes, and catalytic converters, with the old guy still welding exhaust with a gas torch? So the 1966 shorty gets some new twin pipes and mufflers, and they got it to stop without having to panic pump! Most might be satisfied with that alone, but not Vincent. He is now stepping back and looking at his dream truck saying, “What if I did this or that … what if it was lowered … what if it had new rims … what color would look cool?” Without realizing, he’s now crossing over and getting ready to join the club of the Unchosen Many, and all old-iron junkies know exactly what this is! It’s an incurable disease that we car guys get, to where there is a point of no return once you lay your sights on an idea of ‘what it could be.’ So, this where my shop, Sledsville Hot Rod & Kustom Co., comes into this story.

“I recall a text message I received one day from an unknown phone number, the sender saying he’d been recommended by his brother in-law, who grew up and went to school with my son, Jesse. Putting two and two together, when it came time for Vincent to pursue getting the custom makeover started, his brother-in-law said, ‘I know just the guy for the job!’ I reached out and contacted Vincent to see just what he was after. The conversation initially started out with the usual type suspension and brake upgrades, but before we hung up, Sledsville would be building him a full frame-off, high-performance, custom 1966 shorty!

“Once we had the truck torn completely apart, all the sheetmetal was sent out to R&R Coatings for media blasting to see just what was underneath the suspect paint on the old Chevy. To no surprise, when all the dust settled, the truck was covered in an inch of old bondo, mostly hiding the huge dents in the bed that, sadly, were beyond repairing. The rest of the cab, doors, and fenders were in desperate need of some metal magic, and so my Sledsville team began to resurrect the old, decrepit steel.

“At the time, 1964-1966 shortbed replacement sides were not being reproduced yet, and it was near impossible to find a good, straight, rust-free shortbed for sale for a reasonable price, if at all. So, I contacted a friend who just might have what I needed—but a set of perfectly straight and rust-free ‘long’ bed sides were not exactly it. Since we’re a fabrication shop, however, we made them work. As the amount of hours in metalwork stacked up, Vincent asked if we could make the small-window cab into a big-window cab—so yet another not-so minor job was added to the build list. While the huge undertaking of doing bodywork on a long, flat-paneled vehicle was being executed by Sledsville’s very own understudy and bodywork-oligist, J-Mo Reveles, the rest of the boys went to town on the chassis, suspension, and powerplant.

“After blowing the entire rolling chassis apart and fixing some cancer and cracks in the frame that are inherit with these years of trucks, the rear section got a C-notch for better axle clearance at a lowered stance. The frame was then sent out to R&R for some gloss black powdercoat. Meanwhile, the Shortys 12-bolt GM rearend was sent to DiffWorks to have new billet axles and posi gearset installed. Once those were done, the suspensions were set up with CPP’s tubular arms front and rear—and with the ultra-low stance Vincent desired, the only way to achieve that was by adding airbags on all four corners. He also wanted something traditional looking when it came to the wheels and tires, yet in a larger and more performance-type package. Ultimately, the truck ended up getting a set of custom-offset 20-inch American Racing aluminum Rallyes wrapped with Pirelli rubber. Now with the new wheels and tires, this new girl needed some braking components to help stop this truck on a dime—before, it couldn’t stop on a dollar. Now, behind the new rollers is a full set of Baer brakes with a matched ReMaster-machined aluminum master cylinder.

“When the time came to choose the heartbeat of the matter—well, Vincent likes high performance, likes power, and wanted the truck to make a statement not only when being driven but more so when the hood’s open. So the choice clearly seemed to a be simple one, and that’s why the truck got a 383 stroker with aluminum heads, Lunati crank and rods, 9:1 compression pistons, all matched to handle a Weiand 144 supercharger topped with a performance worked Holley 750 double-pumper. The engine was all dressed up with some nostalgic finned aluminum valve covers and air cleaner. The transmission that was chosen was a GM 700-R4 built by ‘Tranny John’ Salsman to match and handle that supercharged heartbeat.

“With any and all customs—and even not-so-custom builds—choosing the color is important, as that’s the first thing anyone sees. Vincent had his eye on a dark Brandywine paintjob I’d done on a chopped 1949 Mercury (something of which I’m more accustomed to building). The tasteful warmth of that Brandywine spoke to him and he had to have it on his Fleetside! I mixed up a couple gallons of House of Kolor’s Brandywine Kandy Koncentrate and sprayed it over the top of a PPG Mercedes red metallic basecoat, followed by many coats of PPG’s Glamour clear.

“The inside of the cab got a split bench seat from Glide engineering, while Craig Hopkins of Kiwi Kustom Interiors topped it, the door panels, and the rest of the interior in black diamond-stitched leather. A set of black Classic Instruments gauges dressed the dash, and a Vintage Air SureFit system kept the shorty’s cab cool, while an ididit steering column and restored Impala steering wheel gave Vincent what he needed to steer the old gal straight. Sledsville’s Kenny Hollenbeck installed an American Autowire harness, as well as all the Alpine Audio components. With the final touches being completed, Vincent wanted a little more flare out of the truck’s bed floor. So a custom bird’s eye maple was chosen for the 1966, stained in a smooth honey tone and joined with boltless stainless bed strips.

“And that, in no short order, is Shorty’s ‘new’ life story!”

Facts & Figures Vincent Troncoso 1966 Chevy C10

CHASSIS Frame: Modified-stock by Sledsville, Riverside, CA Rearend: GM 12-bolt by DiffWorks, Mira Loma, CA Rear Suspension: CPP Totally Tubular with airbags Rear Brakes: Baer 13-inch rotors with four-piston calipers Front Suspension: CPP Totally Tubular with airbags Front Brakes: Baer 14-inch rotors with six-piston calipers Steering Box: CPP Wheels: 20-inch American Racing Rallyes Tires: Pirellis Gas Tank: CPP aluminum

DRIVETRAIN Engine: GM 383 Heads: Edelbrock Valve Covers: Cal Custom Manifold / Induction: Weiand / 144 Pro-Street supercharger Ignition: MSD Headers: Doug’s Headers ceramic-coated Exhaust / Mufflers: Custom / Porter Transmission: 700-R4 by John Salsman Shifter: ididit

BODY Style: Custom Cab Fleetside Hood: Stock Grille: Stock Bodywork and Paint by: Sledsville Paint type / Color: House of Kolor, PPG base / Kandy Brandywine, Mercedes Red Headlights / Taillights: Stock Bumpers: Stock

INTERIOR Dashboard: Modified-stock Gauges: Classic Instruments Air Conditioning: Vintage Air SureFit Stereo: Alpine Steering Wheel: Retro 1959 Impala Steering Column: ididit Seat: Glide Engineering split bench Upholstery by: Kiwi Kustom Interiors, Mead Valley, CA Material / Color: Black / Leather Carpet: Wool

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