#sheet metal enclosure

[steelboxmaker]

Manual Operating Fire Hose Reel Cabinet Bending (Technology PLC2)

[webblogstory]

Sheet Metal Bending Work – Best to Optimize Metal Bending

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Press brake is the ideal thing to attain the radius.

It is the perfect procedure to make diverse vehicle body panels, brackets, electronic casings and fridges.

It is a good asset for a variety of applications like low production volume and products utilizing the thin metal.

Form metal in diverse geometrics:

With the help of sheep metal bending, industries form the metal easily into diverse geometrics and employ force to distort the metal. Metal can bend once or multiple times to generate the final geometry. Thickness may differ in the sheet metal.

Before beginning the process, one must understand the minimum and maximum thickness. Minimum and maximum thickness will consider based on the thickness and material type. According to the rule, the bend radius must be equal to or greater compared to the material thickness.

Sharan Elecmech is the leading provider in the market for the sheet metal bending process. Such a process also regards as folding, flanging, press braking, and forming. Sheet metal bend can attain with a punch and die system.

Excellent for widespread use:

Sheet metal bending is a good choice for industries to form features into the sheet metal. It is a beneficial method for the industry to build reinforcement struts, floor panels, body panels, doors, and brackets.

Metal bending is faster and efficiently generates thin walled parts.

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[bridgeportmagnetics]

Sheet Metal Enclosures

 Sheet metal enclosures provide robust and customizable housing solutions for electrical components.Sheet metal enclosures, made from durable metal sheets, offer excellent protection against environmental factors, mechanical damage, and electromagnetic interference. Commonly used in industrial and commercial settings, they are vital for safeguarding electrical systems, ensuring safety, and maintaining the integrity of electronic devices.

[superdamachine86]

Completed line for fire hose reel cabinet

[draconnico]

worst thing ever... is getting obsessed with an oc... and then u and a friend made them fall in love... and now thats all u can think abt....

[mossymuff]

I'm so grateful for Brittney Broski's alternative to 'chimpin' out'

[unisol-communications123]

96 port wall mount termination box

SPECIFICATIONS:

Material : Mild Steel/Aluminum with 7 Tank Process powder coating.

Dimensions : 350*300*160 mm (H*W*D)

Color : RAL 7035/Black

Weight : 1.8–2 kg

Splice Holder : FR grade ABC.

Splice Holder Dimension : 180*110*15 mm (L*W*H)

Cable Glands : Nylon with nitrile butadiene rubber, cable diameter of 5mm to 14mm max available

Fiber components standard : Telecordia GR 326

Insertion Loss : less <.3dB (Multimode), < .2dB (Singlemode)

Plug/Unplug durability : 1000 times

[sheetmetalwork]

Manufacturing Sheet Metal Enclosures: A Guide to sub-contract manufacturing

Sheet metal enclosures are used in a wide variety of industries, from electronics, lighting, pumping, heating to medical devices. They provide protection for sensitive equipment, as well as a way to mount and secure components. That protection might be from dust, water, chemicals or to incase electrical components.

http://www.vandf.co.uk/blog/manufacturing-sheet-metal-enclosures-in-the-uk-since-the-1980s/

[superdamc]

Sheet Metal Enclosure Manufacture (Roll forming machine instead of cutti...

[yandere-daydreams]

Snow Leopard!Pantalone, who's introduced to you as the hybrid you'll be taking care. When you found the job listed on some shady, bot-infested site, you figured it was just a temporary gig, that you'd be watching a dog or cat for a few weeks while their owner was away, so imagine your surprise when you pulled up to a reputable mansion a good hour or so out of the city, when an eccentric man with blue hair and an off-putting grin brings you to the lavish enclosure of a hybrid nearly a head taller than you, when you're told that you'll be 'petsitting' his kitten for as long as you care to hold the position. It's weird, but the money's good, and room and board are provided. You can't really afford to turn it down.

Snow Leopard!Pantalone, who's undeniably, unabashedly spoiled. His owner claims that he tried to replicate his natural habitat as closely as possible, but you don't think there's another snow leopard on the planet who prefers mink fur to his own. You spend most of your time waiting on him, running between Pantalone and his legion of personal chefs, holding sapphires and rubies up to the light so he can decide which one he'd rather have studded into his next collar, combing through his thick black hair while he purrs and basks in your attention. It's a surprisingly demanding job, but you don't mind. He's smart for a hybrid, and surprisingly conversational. Honestly, if it wasn't for the thrashing tail that curls around your legs whenever he passes you, the pointed fangs you catch a glimpse of from time to time, you could forget he wasn't human.

Snow Leopard!Pantalone, who tells you there's been a change in uniform a month after you start. This variation is definitely less conservative than your old scrubs, more in-line with his own blatant aesthetic values, but you don't complain, even when he starts swapping out his crushed velvet pillows for your lap. He's still a hybrid, no matter how human he might act. You're sure he doesn't see your exposed skin as anything but... something warm and soft to rest his head on, when he's looking for someplace to nap.

Snow Leopard!Pantalone, who grins as he tells you why his owner is always so busy. He's a researcher, he explains, as you file down his claws for the tenth time that week. He studies hybrid mating habits. His tone is enough to make you blush, and he laughs as you stumble over your response. He goes on to talk at length about his owner's particular fascination with snow leopards, how their pickiness when it comes to choosing a partner makes them a point of interest, but you write it off as a lapse in his otherwise perfect etiquette. You manage to do the same when you find out that he's been slipping into your personal room at night, and when he openly sulks in the days leading up to one of your rare vacations. It's not like you have much of a choice, considering none of the other, more legitimate jobs you've applied for have given you so much as a call back. It's not like you have much of a choice, considering how many weeks it's been since you've heard from anyone at all.

Snow Leopard!Pantalone, who's already above you when you woke up strapped to a metal table, your legs spread and your vision dim around the edges.

Snow Leopard!Pantalone, who smiles as he thrusts into you, his favorite fur coat draped over his shoulders and his expression one of idle amusement. There's a mirror built into one wall (an observational window, obviously), and a heap of silk sheets and fleece piled in a corner, but Pantalone's quick to catch your chin, to draw your attention back to him - to your mate.

Snow Leopard!Pantalone, who's always been so, so spoiled.

Snow Leopard!Pantalone, who's always gotten what he wanted - including his brand new human mate.

[designautomations]

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[papasbaseball]

I wrote a small little Raphael x gn!Tav fluff. Kisses, love you, byeeee.

Green as deep as peacock feathers, red flowing like blood, I work the needle and thread in and out of the fabric. My eyes catch between the door and my embroidery, waiting for him. He never asked for this small sample of my devotion, but I hope that he’ll take it from his pocket after breaking a prisoner and smear the white silk with the stranger’s blood from his face. Punch and pull, I will my cruel design into the weave of the fabric.

The doors break open, the smell of sulfur sending me from my seat. His shoulders are thrown back, a tiger broken free from its enclosure. He clenches and unclenches his fists before hurling a bolt of fire at a bronze vase, gilded in a centuries old fashion. It clatters to the floor the hollow metal

“Vile vermin!” he spits. “To disrespect me in my house!”

Setting aside my work, I go after the still rolling vase. It’s warm to the touch as I set it back on the mantle.

“Is everything alright?” I ask.

A curl of hair untucks itself from behind his ear, smoldering with the anger that pinches creases between his brows. He could be irascible like this, sometimes when his food tasted bland or if the sheets to our bed had not been folded in the way he liked them. However, I’d never seen the fire in his eyes quite that white before.

“If I didn’t need that ungrateful drow I would have skinned them last week,” he says. Approaching the chair where I had sat, the heat leaves his face as he picks up my embroidery. His fingers trace along the fine floss, as if memorizing a war map with important battle lines and details.

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” I say, approaching him. “I’m afraid it’s not very good.”

He turns and twist the hoop, squinting at the misaligned threads. “It’s a wonderful… sunset.”

I sigh and turn the hoop back right. “Rose. I told you it wasn’t very good.”

He regards me with those warm brown eyes and I think I spy forgiveness in them. “Of course it is. Maybe a few more details, but you’ll get there.”

His praise wraps me in a warmth to match the blazing fire in the hearth and I bite my lip. “I wanted to repay you. You’ve done so much for me.”

“Is owning your soul not enough?” he says. The embroidery is soon set on the side table and I’m pulled into his lap with ease. “Living in this place is part of your agreement. I did not expect for you to take such a liking to it.”

“I wanted to thank you and be of some use to you again. I liked being out there fighting to please you.” I sigh and rest my head against the smooth brocade of his doublet. “It was nice.”

“Little mouse,” he says, taking my hand in his, “It is enough to please me to end every day in your embrace. I am delighted by your devilish smile, even if you do lack the horns.”

He squeezes my mortal hand and I let myself believe that he might still need me for the smallest of seconds.

[qlala]

Long casefic mentioned: screaming crying tearing at the walls of my enclosure

listen I know I've been sooo lock and key about this one for years because I wanted it to be perfect before I posted any WIP snippets, BUT... 2024 we are all learning to say "death to perfectionism," so december 2023, I am also saying "After all, why not? Why shouldn't I share a little snippet?"

setting notes for the below: a CCPD precinct, a few months after Flashpoint. (If you never got there in the show, don't worry about it; Len doesn't know what it means, either.) Barry and Len haven't seen each other since Len tipped him off to the Trickster ambush the previous Christmas, and as far as Barry knows, Len has been off with the Legends ever since. (He hasn't been.)

It was fascinating to watch Snart pull the Captain Cold bravado around his shoulders, even with his hands cuffed to an interrogation room table and no parka in sight. He rolled his shoulders back, slouched down in the chair—as far as the cuffs allowed—and crossed one ankle over his opposite knee. Then he rolled his bored gaze insolently in Barry’s direction and raised an eyebrow. 

“Seems you have me at a disadvantage.” 

Barry realized his mistake, a moment too late; as far as the CCPD was concerned, he and Snart had never met.

“Right,” Barry said. He wasn’t an officer, so protocol was fuzzy on whether he was supposed to introduce himself to an... inmate? Had Snart gotten himself arrested again?

Snart’s smirk deepened at his obvious floundering, so Barry looked to Joe instead.

Joe gave him the same resigned look he’d just received from Singh, but unlike Singh, Joe took pity on him. He flipped shut the file he’d been reading, then slid it across the table toward him.

It came to a stop within inches of Snart’s fingertips, and Barry saw him test the cuffs covertly as if considering intercepting it. Barry picked it up before he could try, throwing him a knowing glare. 

Snart didn’t bother looking chastened. 

The file, Barry noticed, was thicker than most that passed through the CCPD. When he flipped it open and saw the FBI seal emblazoned on the front page, he understood why.

A paper clip held a picture of Snart to the next page: a recent shot, judging from the hints of gray in his hair. Barry started to turn the page, then became aware of the twin looks of apprehension he was receiving from Joe and Snart. When he glanced questioningly at Snart, he looked away, feigning interest in his handcuffs. Barry looked to Joe instead, and felt a prickle of uneasiness when Joe only shook his head, knuckles pale where they were wrapped around the back of the empty metal chair across from Snart.

Barry flipped forward in the file. The next few pages were background on Snart, with no major changes from what Barry had expected. He was familiar with Snart’s rap sheet already, and the psychological profile they’d drawn up on him was about as accurate as a tabloid horoscope. He did feel an old pang of guilt when he passed a memo noting the unexplained disappearance of Snart’s electronic files, but it was getting easier to brush that feeling aside every time.

Unsurprisingly, the medical records from Iron Heights were sparse. Several pages were entirely blank, but there was a scribbled correction stapled to the bottom of one, noting, of all things, a severe food allergy to pineapples. Barry couldn’t help but grin at that; for such a mundane detail, it had apparently only recently been wrested from Snart, and with great effort. 

He skimmed the rest of Snart's section. It was obvious that—tropical fruit allergies aside—the FBI knew less about Snart than he did. He pulled up short, however, when he turned to the next section and found another photograph clipped into the file.

“What is this?” He looked up at the answering silence, but Snart avoided his gaze, and Joe crossed his arms with obvious discomfort. “Joe?”

“Bartholomew," Snart interrupted, before Joe could answer, and Barry looked over at him in surprise. Snart gave him a slow, knowing smirk. “It is Bartholomew, isn’t it?” 

No one had ever said his full name with such obvious relish, and Barry seriously considered throwing back a Lenny just to see how he liked it. But he caught himself in time, and he bit back an exasperated sigh.

“How do you know my name?” he asked. 

It wasn’t very convincing, and a flicker of annoyance crossed Snart’s expression, obviously displeased that he wasn’t playing along with proper enthusiasm. Then the smirk was back, and Snart leaned back in his seat with an air of indifference. 

Barry watched him suspiciously; he looked far too in control of the whole situation despite being the one handcuffed to the table.

“Feds didn’t tell me much,” Snart said. “But this…” He dragged his gaze down and back up Barry’s body in a long, appraising look. “This, I can work with.” 

“Joe,” Barry repeated, pointedly ignoring Snart. There was a slightly hysterical edge to his voice, though, and Joe sighed and unfolded his arms. 

“What do you know about the Morellos?” 

Barry blinked; whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been that. The name was vaguely familiar, and it took him a few moments to put together where he’d heard it before. 

“They’re an East Coast crime family,” he said, slowly. He looked to Joe for confirmation, and Joe nodded. “They practically ran Metropolis during Prohibition. Not much from them, since? I think they’re still active, but… they’ve mostly been pushed out by other Families.”

“Someone’s been listening to his podcasts.”

Joe didn’t so much as glance at Snart for the interruption, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “Until recently, that was the case,” he said. “Members of the other Families have started dropping like flies, and the FBI thinks the Morellos are moving to take back power.”

Barry flipped through the file until he found a brief on the topic, and nodded for Joe to continue. 

“Last year, they worked out some kind of alliance with the Russian mob,” Joe said, “and now they control ninety percent of the heroin passing through Metropolis. The FBI couldn’t figure out what they were trading for that kind of power, until they realized the drug deals were lining up with major art thefts in the city.”

Barry glanced up from the brief, thrown by the apparent non-sequitur. “What would the Russians want with stolen art?”  

Snart snorted, and Barry turned to him with a raised eyebrow. 

“Universal value,” Snart explained. He swept his palms in a broad gesture, though it was restricted by the limited reach of the handcuffs. “Markets crash, currencies fall. A Picasso stays a Picasso. And canvas is easier to smuggle than gold.”

There was a certain logic to it, though Barry suspected it was a lot more complicated than Snart was making it sound.

“And, what, you’re involved with this?” he asked.

Snart actually looked insulted. “Drug trade’s a nasty business,” he said, a curl to his lip despite his light, almost bored tone. “Messy work. Lotta bribes, lotta bodies. Hard to make a profit when the product keeps killing your buyers. Not my scene.”

“What’s this got to do with you, then?” Barry asked. He pulled the second picture out of the folder and held it up. “Or me?”

It was a copy of the photo from his CCPD identification. It was a few years old—his hair was longer on top, his shoulders a little narrower—and Snart’s lips twitched in amusement.

“Cute,” he said. 

Barry rolled his eyes and slid the picture back into the file.  

“Snart’s managed to get it into the FBI’s head that he’d make a good criminal informant. Apparently, he’s an expert in modern abstract expressionism,” Joe said, the last part clearly a quote. When Barry turned to him, surprised, Joe only shrugged. “I know. Surprised me too.”

“Learn all kinds of interesting things in my line of work,” Snart said, picking idly at the edge of his handcuffs. “Ab Ex dominates the market, has for decades. Post-War’s always in style. It's easy. People get it.” 

His fingers didn’t curl around air quotes; they didn’t have to, his voice going vapid in a way that almost, almost pulled a smile out of Barry. Leonard Snart, closet art snob.

 “Unspeakable horrors,” Snart continued, with a lazy, ‘and so on’ twirl of his fingers. “Expressible only through feelings over form…” He circled the gesture back the other way, with momentarily distracting, long-fingered grace. “Yada-yada-yada. Modern art fan, Bartholomew?”

He was having too much fun with the name, and Barry gave him a flat look for it. 

“Barry.”

Snart’s lashes dipped on another once-over before he met his gaze again, eyes sharp and amused. “Pleasure.” 

Barry didn’t need the way Snart leaned hard on the word, drawing it out even as his lips curled up at one corner, to tell him he’d walked right into that trap.

Snart lifted one hand and twisted the cuffs to extend the other out toward him, as close to offering a handshake as he could manage. “Leonard Snart. At your service.”

Doubt it, Barry thought. But he bit back the comment and crossed his arms instead, folding his hands pointedly against his sides, then said, “Yeah. I know.”

Snart’s eyebrows lifted at the slight, and he lifted both hands in surrender. “Ouch.” He dropped his lashes on a private smirk just to flick his gaze back up again, not finished with the taunt yet. “Thought we might have something in common. Civilian to civilian.” 

Even the decades-old camera in the corner could probably pick up the amount of irony dripping from Snart’s voice, but Barry’s warning glance didn’t deter him in the least. 

“What with you being an employee of the CCPD,” Snart said, tilting one hand in Barry’s direction before curling his fingers back to indicate himself, “and me being an employee of the FBI…”  

“Criminal informant's not an employee.”

Barry didn’t jump at Joe’s correction, but it was a near thing. What was it about Snart that made it so easy to forget that there were other people in a room? 

“Tomato, tomato,” Snart drawled. He didn’t so much as glance in Joe’s direction, attention still trained on Barry. “Feds want me to infiltrate the local underground in Metropolis, see if I can't rustle up a few Morello 'associates.’” That time, he did curl his fingers in quotation marks around the word. “I pass along the names, the feds arrest them. Everybody goes home happy.” He paused, then added, “Morellos excluded.”

Barry was tempted to ask Snart how long he’d been waiting for him to ask, but he had more pressing questions. “And you agreed to help, what, out of the goodness of your heart?” 

Snart leaned across the table towards him with a dangerous smile, handcuffs scraping pointedly over the metal surface. 

“Let’s agree to disagree about the goodness of my heart,” he said, and any lingering concerns that Barry might've had about Snart might not know exactly who he was disappeared at the private gleam in his eyes over those words. “But no. Feds had a little chat with the District Attorney here in Central City. Detective West knows the details, but—“ He drummed his fingers on the table, then ticked his head toward one shoulder in a shrug. “Like I said. Everybody goes home happy.”

When Barry looked at Joe for clarification, Joe shifted his hands to his hips before pulling his glare away from Snart, one hand settling pointedly beside his gun.

“The Mayor of Metropolis reached out to our governor," Joe said. "They’re talking pardons.”  

“Yahtzee.”

There were a hundred follow-up questions Barry could’ve asked. But Snart was clearly still enjoying himself too, and Barry wasn't in the mood for more roundabout non-answers. So Barry turned his back on Snart and faced Joe head-on. 

“I still don’t understand,” he said. “What's my role here?” 

“For the record," Joe said, slowly, almost placatingly, "I told Singh this was a terrible idea.”

Joe hedging was never a good sign, and for the first time, Barry felt the stirrings of real apprehension in his chest.

“You told Singh what was a terrible idea?” 

[speaker-of-the-void-cats]

Seeing the murals above the Veil enclosure

These murals are loaded with meaning. My feeling's been that they represent the Veil in many ways. For one, we have the duality of Light and Dark, not opposites, not the same, but a dyad, essential to each other, joined by the thinnest of lines. We see this in the middle mural where people hold the pillars up, separating above from below, Heaven from Hell.

Cousin Asher, you would find the concept of vacuum welding upsetting—press two sheets of metal together in void, and their atoms cannot tell which sheet they belong to. They cross freely. The two become one.

We see this again in Avalon, a side that looks like Egregore and a side that looks like the Tree of Silver Wings. A pillar sits behind. A sun hangs above. It is impossibly white.

It makes me think of the blight in the Nokris fight in Arrivals and in the battleground this season. It looks like a sun. It looks like it's been Taken.

Turn the Veil vertically like in the Ishtar Facility and what do you get?

A chalice holding the souls of all who have gone before. It rests in an unfamiliar place, a place it does not call home.

An hourglass of Light|Dark, ticking away time, life, death, until nothing.

Only two others have transcended their design. The first, an hourglass counting down with infinite patience. The second, a forgotten blade sharpened anew. And now, the Dredgen. Visit us again. We wish for you to understand what we understand. For now, it is my purpose to speak to you and you alone… but only if you remain worthy.

A pillar holding all the universe within itself, but also keeping it woven together, held aloft by those who struggle in the realm between life and death, god and man, here and beyond.

What happens if that pillar crumbles?

There's been a lot of invocation of Unveiling, the Garden, and implications that there's a bigger picture we're missing lately. We heard from the Veil's artist that it is represents "the mind and memory of the universe."

Truth to Power talks of black hole super computers and the idea of the data of all life being archived, of how

YOU MUST CAST ALL THE LIFE YOU CHERISH INTO A BLACK HOLE.

We've seen "black box" archives for destroyed civilizations discussed all over.

WHO|WHAT|WHERE IS OXA|TAOX

U. "Black holes are the densest possible computers in the physical universe. They are also the most secure, since they can be made to retain their information until they evaporate in the deep cosmic future. The Hive operate small singularity computers, such as the World's Grave, and the Vex sometimes pack enough energy and information into a small area of spacetime to collapse it into kugelblitz black hole like the one you can see outside. But a true stellar-mass or galactic-mass black hole computer is inconceivably more powerful.

"If Savathûn plans to predicate her existence on the concealment of her secrets, as Oryx predicated his upon the sword logic, it would be logical for her to safeguard her deepest secrets and her throne world in a supermassive black hole computer. To defeat her would require a journey below the event horizon and the exposure of her most jealously guarded truths." GOTO R.

Z. You leap from the Tower and escape Quria's simulation.

What is that purple and pink kaleidescopic energy in the dark, egregore goblet of the Veil? When Ghost links to the Veil, that energy seems to be what rockets to the Traveler and pierces it, allowing the Witness to part the curtains of reality and enter somewhere above and beyond us.

And then Nezarec, Master of the Void is freed. Wardcliffe Coil's lore refers to the Void as the basement of the universe. Inanna/Ishtar is thought of by Savathun in reference to the Veil and Neomuna, which Osiris hears as well. He then speaks of myths of the underworld. Katabasis. Hades. Hell. Perdition. The inferno. The Abyss.

O: [sips tea] Though my senses were darkened, that much was clear through the murk of her throne world. There was a secret she kept veiled, even to the last.

O: [sighs] I do not fully understand what I saw, and for a Human to understand a Hive mind... How many legends of katabasis do we have, Ikora?

I: We currently have dozens of stories about descending to the realms of the dead, though research has indicated many more must have existed, lost in the layers of Human history we will never lay eyes on. Mathematically, there were likely hundreds.

I: [pauses] Inanna and Dumuzid and Geshtinanna, Orpheus and Eurydice, Izanagi and Izanami, to name a few. Gods and goddesses, mortal and immortal lovers, always seeking to descend and return with the lost.

O: And neither the lost nor those who searched for them were ever returned the same.

I:...Is that how you think of yourself?

O: [scoffs] Do I sound that dire? All Guardians, all Lightbearers have done as much. But others, well... I wonder, do our former enemies have similar stories...

I: What exactly are you getting at?

O: Frequently, the underworld—or those realms beyond mortal existence—possess wisdom the living do not. What then, is knowledge from a dead Hive god vested in deception.... [long pause]

I: So. Neptune, and secrets.

O:...Inanna...

I: What is it?

O:...A thought. An echo of one. The return from the underworld, and Inanna cast off her veil... It makes sense. I did not understand, when I first felt clutching whispers. Carrying wisdom away from Kur when she strode into the sunlight again.

Ishtar entered the underworld and faced seven gates. At each gate she was stripped of clothing until she entered into that place naked and alone.

If you do not open the gate for me to come in, I shall smash the door and shatter the bolt, I shall smash the doorpost and overturn the doors, I shall raise up the dead and they shall eat the living: And the dead shall outnumber the living!

She is killed. After three days in death, she is rescued by two beings sent by one of the gods

From Wikipedia:

After Ishtar descends to the underworld, all sexual activity ceases on earth. The god Papsukkal, the Akkadian counterpart to Ninshubur, reports the situation to Ea, the god of wisdom and culture. Ea creates an androgynous being called Asu-shu-namir and sends them to Ereshkigal, telling them to invoke "the name of the great gods" against her and to ask for the bag containing the waters of life. Ereshkigal becomes enraged when she hears Asu-shu-namir's demand, but she is forced to give them the water of life. Asu-shu-namir sprinkles Ishtar with this water, reviving her. Then, Ishtar passes back through the seven gates, receiving one article of clothing back at each gate, and exiting the final gate fully clothed.

Eliksni servitors contain a record of their people, archives of those who have entered into death before the living. They are built in the image of the Traveler, a great machine with an unknown purpose, but which has exhibited a drive to protect and preserve life, all life, whether we understand its actions as such or not. It has shown, time and time again, a willingness to throw itself in front of the blade, for us. Its neutronium shell is heavy, dense beyond imagining. It's movements do not come without great effort and intent.

I believe the Witness has, in linking Ghost to the Veil, created a union of two types of records of civilization. One, the record of death, the other, the record of life. The Witness has entered into the Void, the afterlife, underworld, basement, and end of the universe, in order to face the greater gods. Or maybe, to unleash them...

Things I saw inside A wild river and a broken dam (or maybe it's just the sea crashing through a narrow gap I can't be sure). Waves slam through the gap and where they hit the stone they throw up pillars of spray that pierce the mist and crash down in thunder. There's a giant in the cataract, trying to wade against the current, and I can tell it wants to reach the lever and pull the lever which will seal off the flow or maybe give it the sword, but the torrent throws it back so it just keeps its head down and tries to push on. I can't see the face but it breathes out white smoke. I feel for it hard. A world painted around the interior like a stranger Earth everted and glued inside itself but I don't believe this one it's too much like a metaphor. A switchboard or a train station, empty, dead (waiting). The tunnels branch off into infinity. I stare down one for a long time and see a pale worm move in hungry coils around itself. I think this one is the most likely although I might have brought the worm. An egg but I'm not sure if the broth inside is warm still, or if it's gone to rot, or if the warmth comes from the struggles of the tiny winged zygote or the bleed from the wound or the thoughts of something thinking very hard. A star I think. We count on stars as steady friends because they always rise and always shine but a star's a delicate truce: an explosion caught by its own mass so that it can't erupt and can't collapse. Thus I imagine the state of the machine might be. But one force or another has gone awry and now it rests here, snuffed and broken, waiting for the two rival forms of ruin to be set in balance again.

Ghost Fragment: Mysteries 2 — Ingress via dreams alone

[deviant-doughnut]

Augusnippets Day 8

Chosen Prompt: Found Family

CW: description of past non-con; non-con aftermath; non-con recovery; past torture; torture recovery.

And in that time, his mind and body were ravaged. Threats whispered into the mess of his hair; the crack of a whip echoing loudly as the pain roared through his body. The shock of dread at being pressed into soft mattresses; the bite of his cage’s bars against his body afterwards. Sometimes his captors spent all night kicking at his cramped enclosure, spitting on him through the bars, kneeling before him just to slip themselves between the metal, reaching in for his hair to pull his mouth onto their cocks. He was their rag doll, their plaything, their pliant little bargaining chip — his safe return in exchange for everything his captors demanded.

He scoffs now at the notion of ‘safe.’ He hasn’t slept with his legs stretched out in weeks.

“Come here,” urges Adam. His voice is as soft as the sheets on their bed, the comforter thick and fluffy atop the mattress, the pillows plump and inviting. He stares. The two figures on either side of the bed share a glance. Gabriel sees it, swallows hard at the unease creeping into his chest — unwanted muscle memory; phantom panic whispering through his fault lines. There’s a disconnect here. This is not one of the beds he was harmed in. This is the place where his partners have lain every night while Gabriel trembled and prayed to them. This is the place he had dreamed of the most. Under the weight of strangers who learned his weaknesses fast, who broke him down until he begged and obeyed. Twisted aftercare he imagined coming from Danika. Meagre scraps he imagined as grand meals prepared by Adam. He stands at the foot of their bed and he stares.

This is the place he was sure he had lost — with the people whose embraces he sobbed for each night when his captors were finally done.

Gabriel makes it to the edge of the bed, and crumples down onto its surface.

He wails.

He doesn’t mean to. He just opens his mouth and it happens. The sound is a tangled mess in his throat, the unfamiliar freedom of grieving aloud, of processing what he went through — what he endured — without fear of ridicule or rebuke.

They’re with him in an instant. The mattress dips on either side of him, their bodies warm and their hands gentle. Adam eases his shoes off, Danika kisses his hair. Somehow they manage it, coaxing him softly towards the headboard, wrestling the comforter out from under him so they can climb in beside him and draw it over them. He faces Danika, eyes squeezed shut, head tucked under her chin. She shushes him softly, warm fingers sliding from his shoulder to his elbow and back again as he shakes. Adam tucks in close at his back, warm breath stuttering against Gabriel’s skin. He cries quietly at the back of his neck, the bed frame disturbed by his shudders.

“You’re safe now,” he chokes, voice watery, an ache in its timbre that flays Gabriel to the bone. He sobs in response, a pitiful sound that fills him with dread but doesn’t earn him forty lashes here, or a beating, or kicks to his anxious stomach. Danika kisses the top of his head, breathes deeply into his hair. Adam is careful of the wounds on his back, but his body heat is a tonic to Gabriel, a reprieve for his sun-starved skin.

“We’ve got you, sweetheart,” whispers Danika. His heart swells for her. Fresh tears press out from closed eyes.

“We love you,” Adam tells him, his voice cracking badly.

They mourn together. He hasn’t given them all the details yet, but they know. They’ve seen the wounds and the bruises that mar him. They see the way his body moves differently. They each mourn what was taken, yet hold each other close in celebration of what has survived. His captors tore so much of him away, but they did not get all he’d believed they would. They made him recite that they’d kill him one day, when all of his bones were irreparably broken, when he was fucked out and not worth the floor space. But they didn’t. They stripped him of almost everything vital — his freedom, his home, his autonomy — but lying here in the deep of the night, his partners surrounding him in their safe space, a sliver of light spills in through the dark. There was one thing they could not take after all, one thing he clawed back for himself.

His life.

The rest of it stretches out before him, as fragile and uncertain as something brand new; unsteady on trembling legs. It’s raw and it’s sore and it frightens him some, but it’s his — and it’s theirs. He can do what he wants with it again. He’s free. The warmth of his partners lulls him closer to sleep.

“They can’t hurt you now, baby,” Adam whispers, touches a kiss to the nape of his neck.

“No one’s ever going to hurt you again,” says Danika. She weaves her fingers between Gabriel’s under the covers.

And in that moment, among the heat of their bodies and the weight of their love, he desperately wants to believe them. Through the phantom pains and blinding flashes of memory, he wants the voices of his partners as his truth.

They promise him something that feels cruelly untrue, but Gabriel falls asleep slowly and then all at once. The warmth of his soulmates envelopes him fully. He fights to imagine, with his last waking breaths, a world in which it is possible.

He believes them. He believes them. He—

-

Thanks to @augusnippets for this event.

[unisol-communications123]

48 port wall mount termination box

SPECIFICATIONS:

Material : Mild Steel/Aluminum with 7 Tank Process powder coating.

Dimensions : 350*300*110 mm (H*W*D)

Color : RAL 7035/Black

Weight : 1.8–2 kg

Splice Holder : FR grade ABC.

Splice Holder Dimension : 180*110*15 mm (L*W*H)

Cable Glands : Nylon with nitrile butadiene rubber, cable diameter of 5mm to 14mm max available

Fiber components standard : Telecordia GR 326

Insertion Loss : less <.3dB (Multimode), < .2dB (Singlemode)

Plug/Unplug durability : 1000 times