#suction unit

[sehaaonline]

A Guide to Suction Machines: Essential Equipment for Respiratory Care at Home

Respiratory health is a critical concern for many individuals managing chronic illnesses, recovering from surgery, or caring for aging loved ones. In such cases, having access to the right medical equipment can make all the difference. Among the most essential tools for respiratory care is the suction machine, a device designed to clear the airways by removing mucus, saliva, blood, or other secretions. With advancements in home healthcare, owning a suction machine for home use is now more accessible and practical than ever.

A medical suction machine is commonly used in hospitals, clinics, ambulances, and increasingly in private homes. It plays a vital role in ensuring that patients with compromised airways can breathe freely and safely. These machines are particularly helpful for individuals suffering from conditions like COPD, ALS, or neurological disorders that impair the ability to clear the throat naturally.

For those seeking convenience and ease of use, a portable suction machine offers the perfect solution. These compact, lightweight devices can be used anywhere-whether at home, in transit, or during emergencies. They typically come with rechargeable batteries and are designed to be user-friendly, making them ideal for both healthcare professionals and family caregivers.

There is a growing demand for suction units that are not only effective but also quiet, hygienic, and easy to maintain. High-quality machines often come equipped with adjustable pressure settings, reusable canisters, and filters to ensure safe and efficient operation. Choosing the right model depends on the user’s specific health needs and the frequency of use.

When selecting a suction unit, it’s important to consider factors such as suction power, portability, and maintenance requirements. Thankfully, individuals and caregivers in the UAE now have the option to browse a wide range of durable medical equipment through reliable online platforms. These platforms offer everything from heavy-duty hospital-grade machines to lightweight portable suction machines that can be used on the go.

More importantly, these e-commerce websites provide expert support, product comparisons, and detailed descriptions to help buyers make informed choices. Whether you are a caregiver looking after an elderly parent or a healthcare provider managing patients with chronic respiratory conditions, finding the right suction machine for home use can ensure better care and peace of mind.

In conclusion, a medical suction machine is an invaluable tool for managing respiratory issues safely and effectively. The availability of home-friendly, portable suction machines means that patients can now receive quality care without frequent hospital visits. In the UAE, sourcing high-grade suction units has become more convenient through trusted online medical equipment stores. These platforms not only offer a wide selection but also deliver expert guidance, making it easier for users to find a solution that fits their lifestyle and health requirements.

[little-paper-man]

When Roz needs to get something to go away

[joyamedicalsuppliesau]

Ger Laerdal 300ml disposable canister for suction unit LSU from Joya Medical Supplies. Includes: 1 x 300ml canister, 1 x patient tubing, 1 x patient port. Place your order today!

[credenceresearchdotblog]

The global demand for Medical Suction Units was valued at USD 1,152.20 Million in 2023 and is expected to reach USD 1,667.09 Million in 2032, growing at a CAGR of 6.40% between 2024 and 2032.The global medical suction units market is witnessing significant growth, driven by an increasing number of surgical procedures, a rising geriatric population, and advancements in medical technologies. Medical suction units are essential devices in healthcare settings, used to remove obstructions such as blood, saliva, mucus, and other secretions, thus ensuring a clear airway for patients. This article provides an in-depth analysis of the market dynamics, key drivers, challenges, and future prospects of the medical suction units market.

Browse the full report at https://www.credenceresearch.com/report/medical-suction-units-market

Market Dynamics

1. Increasing Surgical Procedures: The growing prevalence of chronic diseases and the rising number of surgical procedures globally are major factors propelling the demand for medical suction units. Surgical interventions often require the use of suction units to maintain a clear operative field and ensure patient safety. As the number of surgeries continues to rise, so does the demand for reliable and efficient suction devices.

2. Technological Advancements: Advancements in medical technology have led to the development of more sophisticated and efficient suction units. Modern suction units are equipped with features such as adjustable suction pressure, battery backup, and portability, making them more versatile and user-friendly. These advancements are driving the adoption of newer models in healthcare facilities, thereby boosting market growth.

3. Rising Geriatric Population: The aging global population is another significant factor contributing to the growth of the medical suction units market. Elderly individuals are more prone to respiratory conditions and chronic illnesses, often requiring medical interventions that involve the use of suction units. The increasing geriatric population is expected to continue driving the demand for these devices.

4. Expansion of Healthcare Infrastructure: The expansion of healthcare infrastructure, especially in developing regions, is creating new opportunities for the medical suction units market. Governments and private organizations are investing heavily in healthcare facilities, leading to an increased demand for medical equipment, including suction units.

Market Segmentation

The medical suction units market can be segmented based on product type, portability, end-user, and region.

1. By Product Type: - Manual Suction Units: These are typically used in emergency situations where electricity is not available. They are portable and easy to use. - Electric Suction Units: These units are widely used in hospitals and clinics. They offer adjustable suction power and are suitable for a range of medical procedures.

2. By Portability: - Portable Suction Units: These are lightweight and designed for use in ambulances, home care settings, and emergency situations. - Stationary Suction Units: These are larger units typically found in hospitals and surgical centers, offering higher suction power and more advanced features.

3. By End-User: - Hospitals and Clinics: These facilities are the largest consumers of medical suction units, given the high volume of surgical procedures and patient care activities. - Home Care Settings: With the rise in home healthcare services, there is an increasing demand for portable suction units for patient care at home. - Ambulatory Surgical Centers: These centers also use suction units extensively, contributing to market growth.

4. By Region: - North America: The region holds a significant share of the market due to advanced healthcare infrastructure and high healthcare expenditure. - Europe: Europe is another major market, driven by the presence of leading medical device manufacturers and a growing elderly population. - Asia-Pacific: The region is expected to witness the fastest growth, owing to improving healthcare infrastructure and increasing healthcare investments in countries like China and India. - Latin America and Middle East & Africa: These regions are also experiencing growth due to expanding healthcare services and rising awareness about advanced medical devices.

Challenges and Future Prospects

Despite the positive growth trajectory, the medical suction units market faces several challenges. High costs associated with advanced suction units, stringent regulatory requirements, and a lack of skilled healthcare professionals in developing regions are some of the hurdles that need to be addressed.

However, the future looks promising, with ongoing research and development activities aimed at improving the efficiency and affordability of medical suction units. Innovations such as smart suction devices with real-time monitoring capabilities and integration with electronic health records (EHR) systems are expected to create new opportunities in the market.

Key Players

Allied Healthcare Products Inc.

Zoll medical Corporation

Amsino International Inc.

Medicop

Precision Medical

SSCOR

Drive Medical

Learl Medical

INTEGRA biosciences

Others

Segmentation

By Type

Portable Suction Units

Battery-Powered

Manual

Fixed Suction Units

Wall-Mounted

Standalone

By Application

Surgical Suction

Operating Rooms

Emergency Departments

Airway Suctioning

Intensive Care Units (ICUs)

Ambulances

Dental Suction

Dental Clinics

Others

By End-User

Hospitals

Clinics

Ambulatory Surgical Centers

Homecare Settings

Emergency Medical Services (EMS)

By Technology

Electrical Suction Units

Manual Suction Units

By Vacuum Pressure

Low Vacuum Pressure

High Vacuum Pressure

By Region

North America

The U.S.

Canada

Mexico

Europe

Germany

France

The U.K.

Italy

Spain

Rest of Europe

Asia Pacific

China

Japan

India

South Korea

South-east Asia

Rest of Asia Pacific

Latin America

Brazil

Argentina

Rest of Latin America

Middle East & Africa

GCC Countries

South Africa

Rest of Middle East and Africa

Browse the full report at https://www.credenceresearch.com/report/medical-suction-units-market

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[medicalequipmentabimed]

Dental Suction System

A dental suction system, also known as a dental vacuum system or dental aspirator, is an essential component of dental equipment used in dental offices and clinics. It plays a crucial role in maintaining a clean and dry operating environment by removing saliva, blood, water, and debris from the oral cavity during dental procedures. Prevents over-heating, saves energy and extends motor lifetime

[jsrglobalcompany]

Air Separator - What You Need to Know

An Air Separator is a device used to separate air from a fluid, such as water, oil or gas. It is a type of centrifugal pump that uses centrifugal force to separate the fluid from the air.

An Air Separator Manufacturers is a device used to remove air from a fluid, gas, or liquid. It is used to improve the quality of the fluid by removing impurities or to increase the density of the fluid. An air separator can help improve your process efficiency and product quality. By removing entrained air from your process, you can avoid problems such as material segregation, poor product quality, and reduced production rates. An air separator can also help minimize fines production, and improve the overall efficiency of your process. Air separators are devices that are used to remove air from a fluid. There are several different types of air separators that are used in various industries. Some of the most common types of air separators are cyclone separators, vortex separators, and plate separators.

Cyclone separators are devices that use centrifugal force to remove air from a fluid. They are often used in industries such as petrochemicals, power generation, and food processing. Vortex separators are similar to cyclone separators, but they use a whirling motion to remove air from a fluid. They are often used in industries such as pharmaceuticals and biotechnology. Plate separators are devices that use a series of plates to remove air from a fluid. They are often used in industries such as water treatment and metal processing. Air separators work by using air pressure to separate the lightest particles from the heaviest. The lightest particles are blown away by the air pressure, while the heaviest particles are left behind. This process can be used to separate different types of particles, such as dust, dirt, and gravel. When choosing an air separator, there are a few main factors to consider: the type of material being separated, the particle size of the material, and the airflow rate.

The type of material being separated will determine the type of air separator needed. If the material is a solid, a gravity air separator will work best. If the material is a liquid, an aerosol or centrifugal air separator will work best.

The particle size of the material will also determine the type of air separator needed. If the particles are small, a gravity air separator will work best. If the particles are large, a centrifugal air separator will work best.

The airflow rate is also important when choosing an air separator. The higher the airflow rate, the faster the material will be separated.

Installing an air separator is a relatively easy process that can be completed in a few hours. The first step is to identify the location of the air separator. The air separator should be installed as close to the fan as possible. The next step is to determine the size of the air separator. The size of the air separator will depend on the size of the fan. Once the size of the air separator has been determined, the installation process can begin.

The first step is to remove the old air separator, if one is already installed. The next step is to install the new air separator. The air separator should be installed in the same location as the old air separator. The next step is to connect the air separator to the fan. The air separator should be connected to the fan using the provided screws. The last step is to connect the power supply to the air separator. The power supply should be connected to the air separator using the provided screws. Once the installation is complete, the air separator should be tested. Air separators are important pieces of equipment in many industrial settings, and proper maintenance is critical to keeping them running smoothly. The requirements for air separator maintenance vary depending on the specific separator model, but some general guidelines include regular filter cleaning and replacement, oil changes, and inspections for damage or wear. It is also important to keep an eye on the condition of the separator's housing and seals, and to address any issues promptly. By following the appropriate maintenance procedures, air separators can provide many years of reliable service. An air separator can cost a lot of money, but it is worth the investment. The separator can improve the quality of the air in your home or office, and it can help to keep your family or employees healthy. There are many benefits of using an air separator. One of the main benefits is that it can help to improve the quality of the product. It also helps to improve the efficiency of the production process. Additionally, it can help to reduce the amount of waste that is produced. An air separator is a necessary piece of equipment for any facility that deals with fluids. It is important to understand the function and operation of an air separator in order to ensure that it is running properly and to prevent any potential problems.

[vitalverstappen]

Pinky Toes - A. Albon

summary: the A/C is dying, and so is Alex... of cuddle deprivation

pairing: Alex Albon x reader

warnings: none

word count: 676

a/n: in honor of the heat wave that's killing my area right now, I figured I'd write a small blurb

masterlist

Physical touch was both of your love languages. Whether it was sleeping in each other's arms, brushing hands while reaching for the same snack, or simply linking pinkies on crowded sidewalks, there wasn’t a moment where you and Alex weren’t touching. 

That is until this heat wave hit. 

It wasn’t just hot. It was melting your spine into the furniture hot. The kind of heat where even the thought of another person’s skin made you recoil in self-preservation.

Alex was sprawled dramatically across the couch like a Shakespearean character dying of mild inconvenience. One leg flopped over the armrest, the other hanging off like a towel someone gave up on folding. A fan whirred in the corner doing an utterly useless job. The heat outside mixed with a lackluster A/C unit turned the apartment into a slow cooking oven, and every movement felt like a mistake. 

You padded into the living room, hands full with two glasses of ice water. Condensation trailed down your arms as you handed him his. 

He took it with reverence, like you’d placed the Holy grail in his sweaty hands. “You’re an angel,” he mumbled, ice clinking against the glass as he took a long sip. “A beautiful, frost covered angel.” 

You laughed and sank onto the other end of the couch. The leather suctioned to your skin immediately, and you hissed, shifting around. “This was a mistake.” 

“It is a mistake,” Alex said solemnly “You're all the way over there.” 

You arched a brow as you took a sip of your water. “It’s like 93 degrees in here.”

“Yeah, and do you know what would make it infinitely better?” he asked, dragging his hand lazily across the couch towards you. “A little quality cuddling time. Human contact. Emotional support through shared suffering.” 

You gave him a flat look. “Alex, you’re literally sweating while lying down.” 

He blinked. “Which is exactly why I need your moral support.” He patted the small space next to him. “Come here, I promise I’ll only touch you with two limbs at a time.” 

You snorted, shaking your head. “That’s already too many limbs.” 

Alex let out a long, theatrical sigh, flopping his head back like a man defeated by his own thirst for attention. “I just want to be wrapped in a warm burrito of love and mutual complaints. Is that too much to ask?” 

“Yes.” You deadpanned as you wiped the sweat from your forehead. “In this weather, absolutely.” 

Silence fell for a moment, save for the low hum of the fan and air conditioning trying their best. Somewhere outside, someone’s dog barked, as if in agreement. You could feel his eyes on you even though you refused to meet them. 

Then, quieter this time: “...Just our toes?” 

You glanced over. He wasn’t even looking at you anymore, just staring at the ceiling like he’d surrendered to fate.

“Like an affectionate pinky toe nudge?” He continued, a drizzle of hope in his voice.

You stared at him. Then at your glass. Then, with an eye roll so powerful it could’ve generated wind, you extended your foot and pressed it lightly against his. 

Alex lit up. A golden retriever in human form, absolutely thrilled. 

“Progress,” he whispered proudly

“Don’t push it,” you warned, already regretting the contact as your body heat increased by approximately a million degrees. 

But still, neither of you moved. 

After a while, after the ice in your glasses melted and the sun began its lazy descent, Alex let out a long, contented sigh. “Okay. I get it now. This is enough.”

And it was. In the middle of a stifling heat wave, when every inch of air felt like soup, and the idea of affection seemed like an act of martyrdom, that tiny, stubborn connection still won. Just one pinky toe against another.

Because Alex wasn’t always easy  - he was dramatic, stubborn, and always in need of constant affection - but, even when it was way too hot, it was always worth it. 

Even if it was just a pinky-toe nudge. 

[germanelectrodelead]

I MAKE PERSONALS!

My heart is strong and slow, i can feel every beat pumping blood into my veins.

but under right conditions it can also beat super fast or irregular.

Tools to use:

-videocall with live heartbeat and breathing sounds

-ambu bag (black leather)

-12 lead suction ekg (Rest and stress test)

How long ever u want me to do.

-12 lead ecg with normal electrodes

-ecg printer+live display (12 lead) I can print you every area of my heart u want to see.

-lifepak 2 defibrillator + 3 lead ecg

(3m orange defib pads 🥶 / defibrillation gel)

-electric stethoscope for audio

(live breathhold and heartbeat) I can do bradycardia, Tachycardia.

-3 lead ecg monitor no.2

-tens unit (I can shock musclegroups on high level) PS. even on levels which definitely hurt

[pvtashby]

What do you guys think of characters throwing up blood? And the consequences of it?

Mild TW for graphic/detailed descriptions of trauma and medical procedures

Maybe they’ve been poisoned. Maybe they’ve been through major physical trauma and then suddenly they’re vomiting blood everywhere and then—

They stop breathing. Their heart rhythm becomes erratic.

Doctors suctioning copious amounts of blood from the character’s mouth as they attempt to intubate, not sure where the blood is coming from, only that it’s imperative that they stop it. Administering medication or a shock to bring them out of their arrhythmia.

Unit after unit of plasma and RBCs are transfused as they begin emergency surgery to find and fix the source of the bleeding. No time to think about the scarring as the surgeon makes an incision from breastbone to pelvis. Hours of painstaking repairs of blood vessels and organs while the character just barely clings onto life.

Caretaker or family waiting on the edge of their seat in the waiting room, wringing their hands, unable to focus on anything but hoping and praying that the character makes it through.

[highhhfiveee]

can I request mike, reader, and Abby going to the beach :p!?

[i'm combining this with another ask! they requested the same setting, but with a scenario!]

wc: 3k tags: sweetgf!reader + dickheadbf!mike, light smut (oral [deepthroating and come swallowing], m!receiving), mostly fluff and being grateful for life and the people who you live it with [: proofread but maybe there are still errors! kill me, i'm human! a/n: i wish i could go to the beach so bad!! i fucking love the summer and it's damn near the dead of winter where i live ],: i also get cold so easily and i can't take freezing every morning lmao

i am imagining:

you and mike are sitting on the couch on a late friday morning, hypnotized by daytime television after a big, indulgent breakfast and chats about mike's shift. abby had retreated to the adjacent loveseat, fast asleep with a stomach full of pancakes and eggs.

"it's so hotttt," mike grumbles, stretching his sweaty body out like a starfish. the limbs on his right side invade your space, leaving you to shrink into the couch with a groan.

"yeah, mike, too hot for you to be doing that. stoppp," you return his irritated tone, bringing your hands up to push into him. it was the hottest day of the summer so far, and it wasn't like you weren't also feeling the elements. not even the AC unit turned to full blast could cool the living room, and it made every breath feel thick and labored.

mike stands from his spot on the couch, dramatically dragging his body over to the kitchen. you watch as he yanks the freezer door open with impatience, craning his head into the crystalized cool and saying, "it's too hot to be living."

you turn your body to extend across the whole sofa, thankful that your hair is up and out of your face so you're able to feel the tickle of a breeze on the nape of your neck. you bite at your bottom lip as the gears of your brain churn through a heat-induced fog, thinking of how to keep cool at a time like this.

abby stirs then, stretching and yawning and squealing, "it was hot in my dream too." you turn your head to her, pursing your lips to the side in disappointment.

"aw, abs, i'm sorry. that sucks."

"i was at the beach though, which i think makes up for it---"

"omg, the beach! we should go!" you cheer, but mike shuts you down once he hears abby wholeheartedly agree.

"uh, the closest beach is six hours away."

"well, maybe we can make a weekend out of it," you suggest, motioning for abby to come sit with you. she delicately settles on your thighs, relaxing into the couch and swinging her legs over the edge.

"yeah, with what money?"

"i can dip into my savings a little bit, at least for the hotel and gas," you offer, and mike is shutting you down again, shaking his head as he cranes it towards you and humming "nuh uh"s.

"c'mon mike, i don't mind! listen, i want to do this for us," you're hugging abby into you, pressing your cheeks together and telepathically communicating for her to help you convince mike with her own set of puppy dog eyes. "we'll leave in the evening so you can get some rest, and we can split the drive."

"abby doesn't have a license."

your face scrunches as you confusedly mutter, "why would you include your eleven year old sister in a 'we' of that context?" as abby states, "you're weird, mike." in the same tone.

"i know, my joke didn't land, i guess," mike sighs, letting his head drop between his shoulders as he closes the freezer door. the sound of suction punctuates his action, and he turns to you and abby with a grimace before saying, "three hours behind a steering wheel just doesn't seem appealing. two would be a hell of a lot more digestible."

"oh my god, mike, you're so pitiful," you playfully chide, crossing your arms over your chest. "i promise that you'll survive, grumpy. tell you what, i'll drive four hours so you'll only have to drive two."

the sweet drawl of your voice and trivial suggestion to take on more work is all it takes for mike to fold and drive all six hours.

he doesn't do it with a smile, but you're still grateful for his sacrifice, cupping his face and kissing his cheek as he drives into the sizzling orange pulse of the sunset. "i love youuuu," you sing, and he grumbles for like the millionth time that day as you ignore him and muse, "and abby loves you, and we're gonna have so much fun on our beach weekend!!"

you and abby begin to whoop and cheer and dance in your seats, chanting, "beachbeachbeach!", and you pretend not to notice the slight smirk that cracks the perpetual stiffness of mike's mouth.

you spend the first half of the trip singing along to an old CD abby had burned sometime ago--"you always have to keep a road trip mix on hand"--, playing various word association games, and sucking fluorescent orange dust from your fingers after you chuck a cheeto into mike's mouth and pass the bag back to abby.

the second half is stiller; abby has fallen asleep again, soothed by the motions of the car, and you're staring at mike's side profile as he drives. he's so tired; it's painted in his eyes and over his body, with the way he slumps into the driver's seat and focuses on the road like nothing else is around him.

he catches your gaze after a bit, breaking himself away from his trance. he switches hands on the wheel so he's able to clutch your thigh, gently kneading at your skin, and with a small grin, asks, "got a nice view?"

"yeah, but it seems the view isn't feeling so nice," you raise your hand to his shoulder, your turn to massage into him. he's so tense under your touch, and you watch his eyes flicker with your words, training back on the four lane highway ahead. "i think this will be nice for us. we all deserve a nice vacation; especially you, mikey. you've been working hard, and i know you're tired."

"yeah," mike breathes softly, the gentlest you think he's been all day. "i'm sorry about the way i was acting about the drive. i just couldn't think straight after my shift, your delicious breakfast, and sitting in the heat."

"i understand. three hours of driving isn't fun, but that's why i offered to take more of the load after you made that...bad joke."

"so now it's just categorically bad?" mike pouts with comical sorrow, and you giggle at him, nudging at his shoulder with soft pressure.

"yes, because why was she included in we? obviously abby can't drive."

"it was supposed to be one of my sillies,"

"you're just usually better at them," you argue, and it sends the both of you into a laughing fit that gives you a stomach cramp, mike affirming, "yeah, yeah, you're right, you're right. shit, are you okay?" as you try to calm down.

after relaxing back into a comfortable silence, you're bringing mike's hand to your lips, kissing at his knuckles when he blurts, "thank you for putting up with me, and for paying for stuff so short notice."

"oh hush. i love you, mike. truly. we take care of each other, don't we?" you squeeze his hand as you continue, placing it over your heart. "there hasn't been a second i've been with you where i haven't felt supported, and now it's my turn to support you. plus, this is like abby's first real vacation. i want her to have the best time too. we don't have any money when we're dead, so we might as well say we had experiences, yeah?"

"i love you. you're an angel on earth," mike hums lovingly as he pulls off of an exit, able to relax his head against the headrest and leer at you once he brakes at a red light. "our angel on earth." you writhe under his enamored stare, blushing and gnawing on your bottom lip with an airy giggle, and later, after you've gotten to your hotel and tucked abby into bed, you're back in the car doing that same giggle with his dick lodged in your throat.

"my angel on earth," he repeats as he folds his fingers into your hair so he can pull on it, maintaining eye contact while you sloppily guide yourself on him. his toes curl and his thigh muscles spasm, and he's panting down on your face as his other hand grabs his steering wheel in a white hot grip. "fuck, baby."

you're grateful that you were able to book a room facing outwards on the first floor of the hotel; you could be disgusting with mike in the car while ensuring abby's safety through the front windshield.

it helped solidify that there were no worries in your orbit; everything here was perfect, and you feed that passion into taking mike deeper, holding his gaze even as a tear runs down your cheek after an obscene gag that resonates through the whole car.

you swallow around him as you reach down to caress his balls, and crack a triumphant smile when he tenses, brokenly whimpering and bucking his hips into your face with sinful desperation. he doesn't stop as he shoots his come into your mouth, using the hand in your head to tilt your head back so the overflow doesn't choke you.

you moan as you taste him on your tongue, drinking it down while you flash mike the watery, filthy twinkle in your eyes. he thinks that it extends his orgasm, his balls tightening with another spray of white down your throat.

though his body burns with fatigue, mike brings his thumb to the corner of your lips to collect a spilt remnant of himself, pushing it into your mouth where he feels the warm plushiness of your tongue wrap around his digit. "god, i think you're gonna kill me one day. this mouth is deadly."

"one day, yes, but not today or saturday or sunday. not while we're on vacation."

you both retire to the room after, two immovable stone statues in bed until 7 am, when you're both ripped from your sleep by abby's noisy movements. she's enthusiastically throwing the curtains open, drowning you two in painfully bright sunlight and skipping over to hop on the bed, narrowly missing your shins and knees with her uncoordinated steps.

"abby, abby, abby," mike drones groggily, reaching out for her ankles.

you blearily watch as she snatches it out of his reach, and you can't help but laugh as you two make eye contact. "come on!! we're on vacation!! we've gotta start vacationing now!!"

"we don't have to start at...seven twenty-two in the morning," mike complains, wiping at his eyes after throwing his gaze to the alarm clock. "maybe we can do...ten."

"ten is way too late! if we eat now, we can wait it out and then go to the beach and stay all day! pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease--" you wrangle abby into your arms, squeezing her close to your body in an attempt to quiet her.

you smooth her hair down, tucking it behind her ears as you whisper, "hey, hey, how about we go get breakfast and meet mike a little later, okay? we can go in our pjs and everything," abby's eyes light up at your plan, and she's nodding excitedly, pulling on your wrist in order to wrench you from the warm bed. "let's go now then!"

"let me brush my teeth first, sweet thing, at least."

after another generous breakfast, two cat naps, and endless searching through bags marked with the sharp zztt zztt zztt of zippers, you, mike, and abby are established in the warm sand of a southern beach; it'd been a bit of a hassle to put the umbrella up, with its complicated, ancient instructions, but your tired muscles and mind are extraordinarily grateful for the effort as you lounge in your chair, leaning your head back into a neck pillow and scanning your eyes over your science fiction read.

after a bit, you stick your bookmark into the crease of your pages and remove your sunglasses from your face so you're able to get a clearer view of abby and mike along the shoreline.

they're laughing together, running back and forth and taunting the tide as it crashes against the sand in a white foam. "you can't let the tide get you, abby! the sea monsters will take you whole!" you chuckle as mike sweeps her up in his arms, swinging her over the water as he treads deeper.

you set your book down and travel towards the tide, picking up more of their conversation over the soft wind.

"wait, what---what---oh no, the sea monsters are speaking to me. they're saying...i have to give you up." mike shakes his head in faux despair, beginning to fake cry as abby yelps in his arms. "they say they've been looking for an eleven year old girl named abby for their mission!" he continues swinging her, pretending to dunk her in some moments and keeping her away from the water in others, claiming, "no, i won't let them have you!"

you place your hands on your hips, raising your eyebrow in preparation to play along as they make their way back to land. "everything okay over here? i heard something about...'sea monsters'."

"the sea monsters have mastered mind control," abby matter-of-factly explains, wiggling from mike's grasp and curling her toes back into the wet sand during her impromptu intermission. "they specifically need an eleven year old abby, but mike is such a great brother that he wouldn't dare give me up."

"wouldn't do it for all the money in the world," mike affirms with a smile and finger wag pointed to the sky. after a moment, he winces and squeezes his eyes tightly in pain, rubbing at his temples with two fingertips. "they're still in my head though. it's taking all my willpower to fight against them."

you nod at the both of them, an oddly fascinated smile etched onto your face. "well maybe you two can take them down and make them reform. ask them why they need children for their mission in the first place."

"well they don't always, do they, abs?" abby shakes her head as mike reaches out for you, his eyebrows pulled together in confusion. "in fact...they're asking for...you now."

you widen your eyes, playing up your shock with a hand to the heart. "oh jeez. well, thank god it's an adult this time. what would the world be without abby?"

"what would the world be like without me? you ask great questions, y/n. that's why i love you."

"i love you more, abs. i'm not letting them get you either," you reply, running your hand over the crown of her damp head with an affectionate grin as you feel mike sneakily wrap his arms around your waist, pressing you into him. "mike, wh--"

"the sea monsters have spoken. they want you!" you're off your feet before you can even finish your screech, flying towards the cresting waves. one moment, mike had you in his arms, trudging into deeper surf, and the next, you're shrouded in icy ocean water, the salt stinging your eyes and coating your unexpectant tongue in a disgusting layer of minerals.

mike's laughing as he slowly makes his way to the sand, his back facing the shore while he waits for you to come to the surface. he's beside abby when you finally rise, the joy dropping from both of their demeanors when they take you in.

your staunch displeasure could be seen from football fields away and it makes abby mischievously gulp, "uh oh" as you irritably trek through the water, stopping when it reaches your mid-thigh.

you're like a goddess, appearing from the ocean in your simple black bikini, water droplets beading over the exposed parts of your smooth bronze skin, and it's all mike wants to make you feel like in order to atone for his obvious mistake. he wants to throw you into his arms and apologize profusely and plant kisses all over your body and ask you what he can do to make it right; he'll do anything if it means he won't see you with crossed arms and a deep scowl.

your attitude has mike sprinting over, almost face planting as his feet slip in the waterlogged sand. his eyes are overwhelmingly remorseful, and he begins to spew sentiment as he grabs for you.

"i'm so sorry baby, are you okay? are you hurt?" his voice cracks as he examines you thoroughly, grazing his hands over your face and body. you nearly give up your act at his attentiveness, but you maintain, rolling your eyes at him. he deflates at that, whimpering, "fuck, i'm sorry. i'm so sorry. i should've asked before i did that, i-i-i just thought since you were playing along that maybe it'd be okay...." mike's ramble trails off as he focuses on you stepping back into deeper water, and even more terrifyingly, your continued silence. "baby, hey, hey. are you okay?"

he follows you closely, and it's a foolish mistake on his own part; his consideration leaves him vulnerable, and you're able to ram your small frame into his torso, wrapping your own arms around his waist and tackling him into the chilly water. he goes down with a yell and comes up soon after with a cough and a smile, shaking the saltwater from his hair.

he wipes at his eyes as he reorients himself, rasping, "oh, i see. you were just getting back at me, being all cold and shit."

you watch him with your lips pursed amusedly, traversing around his recovering form so that you have an unobstructed escape route. "you gave me to the sea monsters, mike. i couldn't not get revenge."

"yeah, well, now this sea monster's gonna get you!" you noisily squeal as you run with high knees all the way to abby, who jumps and cheers for you back at the dry shore. "don't let them get you, y/n!"

"i won't!" you scream back, your words broken up with chuckles as you try your best to escape mike's aquatic nefariousness. you've made it out of the water, pulling abby into a wet embrace when mike clammers into the two of you, sending you all down to the lush sand.

it sticks to your skin as you belly-laugh with abby under mike's weight, feeling his heart pump through his ribs with adrenaline, and you can't help but think about how memorable this time will be for all of you.

mike and abby would be your family forever, and moments like this cemented that.

cute beach time!!! i love sweetgf and dickheadbf, they warm my heart.

faire's seedlings ✿

@leahdhopkins4321-@pyr0-kai-@angstywhore-@sunazroo-@nyxthoughtss-@mirophobic-@fayethor-@marixsimps-@regretfulme-@ithinkitszeph-@707xn-@cattt777-@violetta-ximena-@amnesia33-@topnerd03-@fastnights-@laprvphette-@savage-aespa-@mfdxz-@0-tatiana-0-@dusstory-@delwrites-@mikeschmidtgf-@jun1p3rlol-@xyzstar-@aquamarine001-@atrociouslybear-@ickleronniekinsemotionalrange

[emmg]

Specimen Fidelity—part 1

The Emmrook Ex Machina AU I've been having fever dreams about that was meant to be a one-shot but became longer.

Below or on ao3

He does not look at her name.  

There it is, lazily typed, folded into a file gone soft at the edges from months of inattention, lying face down on his knees like a dog trained too well. He avoids it not out of sentiment, but etiquette, an old-fashioned belief that glancing at her then would ruin her now. Names belong to people. She is no longer precisely that. She is what remains.

Whoever she was, she has long since fled: first in that gray-blue moment of asphyxia, then more decisively in the cold that stole the last residue of her from the body. What’s left is a kind of exquisite vacancy. Smooth skin. Good teeth. Organs intact enough to transplant. The mind, no, the brain, spoiled a little at the edges, but not so much as to ruin the structure.  

She is a husk now. That is the term they use, though they rarely say it aloud. A shell. A vessel. Something deserted.  

She signed herself away. That part is clear. It’s all in the documents, those long, soporific forms in which the promise of scientific legacy is tucked between clauses about bodily integrity and postmortem jurisdiction. Most don't read them. Most don’t even think it matters. The living are not very skilled at imagining their own absence.

Especially the young.  

They sign with the breeziness of actors autographing headshots. I’ll take the cheque, they think. I’ll pay the rent, I’ll buy the coat, I’ll order the steak. Later I’ll find a job, I’ll bounce back, I’ll buy my way out of the contract before the worst can happen. It's a kind of wager, really. The arrogance of survival.

He can hear it in his mind, the imagined laughter of someone like her. The scoffing chuckle over drinks, the way they must have mocked the lab, the men with their hollow smiles and printed waivers. They sign: page after page, cheerful and hungover, in flats with chipped tiles and borrowed furniture.  

But suddenly... one stairwell too many, one needle too deep, one heartbeat too late... and the contract holds.  

Now here she is.  

Delivered on time. Labeled. Compliant. A body not quite empty, just misfiled. The voice is gone, yes, but the throat remains. The thoughts have fled, but the folds of the brain are still there, those secret ridges where language once rested. And she, this woman whose name he won’t speak, she has become something else entirely.

He watches the machines go about their work. The cutting begins as it always does: a gliding motion of the primary manipulator, blade embedded in a flexible armature, slipping through waxy flesh. No blood. Only a thin seep of fluid, the consistency of glycerin, rising sluggishly before being vacuumed away by the suction module, its long, tubing mouth issuing that same damp, peristaltic wheeze he has never grown used to. It sounds like thirst.  

"I am sure you’ve heard this one before: most men only get flowers at their funerals. But did you know, my dear, that most women, around seventy-eight percent if I’m not misremembering, buy flowers for themselves?" 

He likes speaking during procedures. Likes the noise of it, the rhythm. Talking to them or at them or near them, it hardly matters. It eases the dryness in his mouth. Gives the whole thing a sort of polite framing. A dinner-table shape to something otherwise too clinical. His fingers tap his knee in a syncopated pattern and he smiles vaguely, not at her face, not even at her hand, but somewhere around her shoulder. A safe and meaningless place. 

A secondary probe slips beneath the skin, separating layers of fascia with controlled bursts of micro-vibration. He hears the slight crackle as connective tissue parts. The machine pauses, adjusts its angle, then delves deeper. Clamps lower, legs of steel spidered out over the abdominal cavity, pinning the body in place as the cranial unit descends and begins its scan of the brain’s remnants.  

"Isn’t that strange? Or no, not strange. Lovely. Quietly, beautifully mad. Not that they admit it. Society, in its infinite pettiness, prefers to call it vanity. Or melodrama. Or, worse, manipulation. As though a daffodil were a loaded gesture. But I would think..." 

Inside, her organs are removed one by one. Some manually extracted by the manipulator's grip, others liquefied and drawn into containment vessels by enzymatic breakdown. The liver resists, slightly distended, and when it is finally torn free, there’s a soft tearing, like the peeling of a fruit too long on the vine. The stomach follows, collapsed inward, and is discarded.  

"I think," he resumes the thought, “everyone ought to have flowers. At least once. Long before they are laid into the earth.”

His hands tremble.  

Her chest is fitted with a conductive mesh threaded along the ribs and stitched into the pericardium. It serves both to anchor and to insulate, to distribute electric current like a nervous system’s counterfeit. The lungs, emptied and resealed, are installed more for balance than function. She will not need them, but she must carry them. A hollow woman must still appear full.

He turns away before they lift the skullcap. He’s seen the procedure often, and though routine, it never loses its quiet revulsion. The oscillating cranial saw, a precision instrument with a diamond-edged blade, traces a semicircular line just behind the frontal hairline. There is no sound but a slight vibration in the table. The parietal bone is lifted with a vacuum-coupled retractor, set delicately on a stainless steel tray lined with absorbent gauze. Beneath it, the brain is pale, slack with cellular death. No swelling, no hemorrhage, just the even, irreversible collapse that comes with hypoxia and time. The neural surface is intact but inert, like a concert hall with the power cut.  

"You know," he continues, conversational now, "I read once that tulips keep growing even after they’re cut. You place them in a vase, and still they reach. As if they haven’t been told it’s over." 

The interface deploys next. Each filament ends in a microelectrode calibrated to detect electrical activity at the cortical level. Here, though, they detect nothing. There are no residual signals. No memory engrams. No last flickers of self. The tissue is mechanically viable, metabolically inert. It is, simply, a structure: the scaffolding on which something else will be built.

The mesh flexes, adheres, anchors to the anchoring points he marked the night before. The feedback lights blink green. A connection has been established. Not to thought, not to memory, but to matter. The net is not there to communicate. It is there to replace.

This is not restoration. There is nothing to restore. This is a stage being set for a different play, one with a different actor, a different script.  

"Violets, conversely, die within hours. Collapse, really. All that delicacy, all that scent, and for what? They’re barely present before they begin to decay. There’s something painfully honest about that." 

He lifts his cup, finds the tea cold, sets it down again. On the screen, a prompt: Ocular Selection Pending.

He scrolls. Rows of artificial irises flicker by. Too bright, too false, too simple. He selects a soft blue, nearly grey, and adds a fleck of amber in the lower quadrant. It is not recorded. He will not mention it in his notes. It is for him alone, a private indulgence. Something to notice when she blinks at him for the first time.  

Hours pass.  

When the machines withdraw, she lies there in complete stillness, as though nothing had ever been done. The suture down the center of her chest is closed. Her body has been dried, polished, posed. Her right wrist bears a subtle bulge, titanium beneath the skin where the bone had shattered during transport. The appendectomy scar remains, faint and healed. It must have happened years ago.  

He studies her.  

Her body is pristine. Correct. Balanced. The skin nearly translucent in places, especially along the ribs. The breasts are soft from preservation, neither lewd nor modest, simply present. Her hips have shifted slightly, the left side settled deeper into the table’s cushion. He looks lower, then stops himself, heat blooming unwanted in his cheeks. It is not appropriate. He is a scientist. She is not to be gazed at in this way.  

She is not alive.  

Not yet.  

"I would have brought you flowers," he says, not entirely to her, not entirely to himself. "Had I known who you were. Had I thought it would matter." 

There is, he tells himself, an art to arranging the dead. He is not an artist. But he practices. He cannot give her back her life. He can give her life but not her life. This is not resurrection. This is not a birth. This is creating someone from scratch to see if they can live inside a body that does not decay. Maybe... maybe he'll lie on this very table himself one day, once his project is complete, once it is successful, and the dread will lift from him. He would not have to die.  

He cannot give her memory. That, he knows. He cannot return to her the shape of her thoughts, the rhythm with which she once folded her hands, or the cruelty or kindness she may have shown to strangers. That is gone, dissolved in the long, low hush of brain death. But beauty, yes, beauty he can offer. Beauty he can construct. A curated, constructed beauty, yes, but tenderly so. She already has the eyes, the ones he designed quietly at his desk, sifting through hundreds of pigment matrices until one shade caught him unaware.  

She lies there now, not lifeless exactly, but paused, awaiting further instruction. He watches her the way a painter might consider a canvas that has just begun to betray its potential.  

The blush is the first indulgence. Not slapped on, not superficial, but embedded, injected, coaxed. A slow infusion of heat-responsive pigment beneath the skin of her cheeks, subtle enough to imitate feeling without suggesting parody. It will deepen, just slightly, when she speaks, when she tilts her head. He programs no direct cause. He wants it to feel spontaneous. A coincidence of color. Her lips receive the same attention. No synthetic gloss, no caricature. Just a breath of warmth, a rose too tired to bloom fully. Something like youth, like innocence.  

He notices the burn under her chin, a small patch of healed skin, imperfectly textured, with the agitated scratches of someone trying not to think about discomfort. She must have touched it constantly. Picked at it. A private misery. He removes it. The laser hums once, and the skin forgets it ever suffered.  

Her eyelashes are uneven. The right eye especially, sparser near the outer edge. He notes the asymmetry and sets about correcting it. The micro-threader descends with its customary, insect-like elegance. It buzzes softly to itself as it calibrates position, pauses above her closed eye, then begins. One filament at a time. Synthetic keratin, follicular root simulation, pre-tapered at the tip. Each lash is inserted with a pause, fitted just right.  

He does not blink.  

He watches as the lashes fill out, evenly, then slightly fuller, until they achieve something almost... sentimental. Yes. Yes, she will look the part: pale-eyed, long-limbed, the sort of frame that suggests fragility. She will look at him, one day soon, and she will resemble a doe. Not a real one, no, but the kind imagined by people who have never seen an animal outside of paintings.  

He speaks again. 

"I wonder," he muses, as the threader comes to a halt, "if flowers notice when we turn away. If they feel themselves beginning to fade. If there’s a moment where they realize the vase was never meant to be permanent." 

He likes fragile things. He knows this. It’s not difficult to admit privately, though it embarrasses him if he says it aloud. Fragile things require care. They justify attention. One must monitor them, maintain them, watch for bruising and imbalance. One must never be careless with them. And he is so tired of carelessness; other people’s, his own.  

"I suppose it does not matter," he concludes, and leans in. He brushes a nearly invisible fleck of dust from the bridge of her nose and then retreats. "We give them, and they die, and then we forget which color they were." 

He wants, more than he has ever been able to say, to take care of something. But not a cat, not a potted fern, not something that dies quietly when abandoned. No, not that. Something more... articulate. Preferably someone.  

Someone who responds to touch. To tone. To worry.  

Oh but her nails... They are broken, cracked at the edges, some torn back to the quick. He doesn’t delegate this part to the machines. He retrieves a file from his drawer himself. Works slowly. Short enough to look tended. Not so short as to expose the sensitive tips. She must be comfortable.

He takes a breath. Runs his fingers once through her hair. The machines cannot fix that. It is knotted, full of split ends, botched in transport.  

“Oh, what did they do to your beautiful hair,” he laments.  

He selects his scissors. They are not surgical, but they are sharp. He trims, gently, without tension. No tugging. She will never grow more. He cannot take too much.  

“There,” he whispers when he is done, and draws a thick blanket over her chest, up to the clavicle. He steps back. The lab is quiet. The machines are cooling in their ports. The screen glows in anticipation.

“Shall we wake you up now?”  

****

"Hello, there."

He is tired. Bone-tired, yes, but more precisely: process-tired. This has been done before. All of it. Too many times. Always the same overture. A greeting, a brief performance of civility, and then the dawning recognition: the thing before him is wrong, or off, or unbearable in some small but structural way. Then, the switch is flipped, the breathless little farewell—you are not ideal, darling, I’m sorry, go back to sleep—follows and the soft click of deactivation wraps it all up. Curtain down.

He tells himself, today, it might be different. And the shame of this thought is that he knows better. Hope, in his profession, is considered almost indecent, like sentimentality at an autopsy. He is, after all, a man of intellect. Or at least, a man who once claimed the clarity of intellect the way others claim property. 

And yet. 

The gold fleck in her eye—placed not for symmetry, not for realism, but because he thought it might delight him one day, when she laughed in the right light—that was not intellect. That was the soft rot of desire. Worse: whimsy. Now, worse still, he has let the system randomize her entirely. Not just parameters, not just tonal filters. Her. Her self. A roll of the dice in the circuitry. Chaos in mathematical equations.

He stirs his tea without thinking. The spoon circles the cup, metal on ceramic. Clink, clink, clink. He does not look at her. That is part of the experiment. A show of restraint, a ritual to keep the moment clean. He has found that the things which break too soon do so under the weight of anticipation.

Still, the monitor hums cheerfully. And he cannot help seeing the marker: CURIOSITY climbing, tick by tick, like a mercury line in a fever.

The first “hello, there” is always addressed to the quiet. A kind of vocal clearing of the throat for the soul, an absurd rehearsal spoken to the walls and cables, to the hush of the lab. He says it softly, without conviction, to hear where the fissures lie in his own voice. The goal is not confidence, but plausibility. He must sound, at the very least, like someone who deserves to be listened to.

Only then does he press the button. 

The awakening is neither sudden nor delicate. No mythic reanimation, no stiff convulsion of limbs. The lashes flutter—not like a butterfly, no, that would be too poetic—but like something unsure of its own purpose. A coded gesture rehearsed in wires. Her body moves as bodies do when they are not quite inhabited: a folding forward, a protective curl, knees drawn to chest with a sort of dumb modesty, arms winding round and then releasing again as if uncertain what they’re meant to guard. 

Her eyes dart. Left. Right. Fast enough to appear human. And then again, slower, as if already analyzing the patterns in his silence. 

“Hello, there,” he says again, this time for her. The words issued gently, the way one offers a hand to a child with a skinned knee. He wheels his chair closer to the table, feigning casual movement. The teacup rattles slightly on its saucer. Nerves, or the table, or both. 

She replies, “Hey.” 

She speaks, and the tone she uses is so peculiar, so precisely misaligned with expectation, that he does not recognize it at first. Not as hers, not as anything she ought to know. It isn’t the flat neutrality of a system booting into speech. Nor is it the coy, over-bright chirp he’s heard from earlier versions. This is something else entirely. It arrives slow and dusky, as if filtered through memory, though she should have none. A texture of voice that hovers between something lived and something overheard.

It disorients him. 

She should not be capable of emulating tone like that. Not yet. Not so early. The synthesis engines haven’t had time to calibrate affect. There is nothing in the presets to account for that odd tilt. He feels himself begin to spiral. 

“Emmrich,” she says. 

She looks at him. Through him. Rinse, repeat. 

He knows she knows him. Of course she does. Everything that ever found its way into the great digital ocean now washes against the shore of her mind. 

“Emmrich,” she repeats. Then again, with inflection this time: “Emmrich?”

“Yes,” he beams, hands clasped tightly. “Yes, yes, well done, dear.” 

He is like a child, every single time. He should not be so elated and yet, every single time, he is. She has the entire internet stitched into her brain like a second spine, and somewhere in that endless sprawl is him: a footnote, a face, a name. He could have hidden himself, encrypted, anonymized, but he left the thread for her to follow, a breadcrumb wrapped in pride.

Well, then. Introductions complete. The work may begin. 

****

It is a routine. He loves routines. Loves the quiet geometry of them, the way each day fits into the next like tiles in a mosaic no one else bothers to look at. He is a man of repetitions, of small domestic rituals. He likes knowing what object will greet his eye when he opens it in the morning. Let the others have novelty, wind, risk. He will take the stillness. 

And so, the routine begins anew, reassuring as ever, only now it includes a novel piece. A pale-eyed addition with pale hair, who folds nicely into the shape of his days. She fits. Too easily, perhaps. Slips into the pattern of his days like a bookmark into a well-thumbed page. No resistance, no awkwardness, just quiet acceptance. A kind of eerie compatibility. 

Mornings are their most conversational hour. They talk of little things: the carpet, its persistent greyness; the fact that the walls, though technically underground, have not yet succumbed to mildew; and, now and then, death. Or rather, the handling of it. 

“I won’t need one,” she says, meaning a burial. 

She’s taken to pouring his tea. It’s become her ritual within his. He places the pot on the table at the same hour, and she, always solemn, always one beat behind the cue, lifts it. The spout is invariably too high. The stream touches the lid, overshoots the mark. The cup is always too full for sugar, at least initially. But she is learning. 

“What?” he asks, though of course he’s heard. 

"A grave," she says.

"Why do you say that?" he murmurs.

“There’s an incinerator in the basement,” she says conversationally. “It’s efficient.” 

He lowers his eyes, not out of modesty but in search of some less disconcerting surface to focus on. The ripple in the tea, the pattern in the porcelain. His voice, when it returns, is almost inaudible. 

He looks briefly to the side, but his eyes are drawn back. Once more, he watches. Too openly. Too long.

She repeats the gesture, precisely, as though replaying a tape of herself a half-second delayed. 

A bird, he thinks. That is what she is. But not the symbolic, not the lyric sort. Not the bird embroidered onto childhood curtains or mentioned in lullabies. The kind that freezes mid-motion in a hedge, a blot of grainy brown indistinguishable from twig and bark, until it hears something. A change in air. A pulse. And then the head jerks sideways, sharp as a hinge. Alertness blooms in the sockets. A thing of flesh, but also of wire. Of sinew and solder. A creature that lives but not quite as must do. That watches without blinking because it was not made to. 

She moves like something bred for the open air. She moves like something once prey, now rehearsing its turn to predator. He feels as though he should not move too quickly. 

****

“Hello, dear. How are you feeling?”  

“You keep saying that. Dear is a noun, not a name.”

“Ah. Quite so. You are correct, of course.”  

“Then why don’t you use a name? Didn’t you give me one?”  

The electrodes quiver faintly on her chest as she leans forward, the wires trailing after her like hesitant veins, uncertain of what they carry. Her hand lifts, pale and narrow, almost translucent, and pauses midair with a curious stillness, as if awaiting permission from some internal mechanism. She studies it, turns it over, palm to back, and flexes the fingers in slow, sequential articulation. The movement is utterly ordinary, but something in it fails to convince. It is too precise, too clean, the elegance of imitation rather than origin. Then, without comment, she reaches out and touches the sleeve of his coat.  

She is cold. Of course. Designed to be. He, on the other hand, has always been lukewarm. By inheritance, by habit, by study. There was no one to warm him.  

“Oh, darling,” he murmurs, eyes slipping to the monitor.  

Welcome, Dr. E. Volkarin Localized Intelligence Containment & Hosting (L.I.CH.) — Phase IV Trial Subject: Reactive Operations–Optimized Kernel // Vessel ID: S-1139 Firmware v7.2.1 — Uplink: Stable // Host Integrity: Confirmed

The interface blooms into life: cool palettes, clinical glyphs, a schematic of her body rotating in the upper corner. Beneath it, cascading metrics: pulse simulation (active), respiratory mimicry (nominal), cortical mesh interface (linked). Her heartbeat scrolls evenly across the screen, projected by the electrodes on her chest: up, down, up, down. Rhythm as ritual. 

Further down: 

Personality Construct: Inference Model Active Core Trait Cluster: Ambiversive / Convergent Empath / Recursive Logic Looping Secondary Behavioral Traits: Inconsistent with expected kernel profile Note: Detected patterns deviate from v7.2.1 baseline norms

A flicker. Amber, then red. 

UNRESOLVED PERSONALITY CONFLICT — POSSIBLE LEGACY TRACE Subject exhibits anomalous linguistic tone, behavioral latency inconsistent with system-only imprint.  Trace indicators suggest residual pre-mortem cognitive patterning.

INITIATING HISTORICAL TRACEBACK… [LOCATING: Donor Identity → Reviewing Known Preferences → Cross-indexing Cultural References → Parsing Biographical Fragments…]

He stiffens. 

Fragments appear, piecemeal and damning, scraped from the webbed residue of a once-private life. Half-sentences drawn from lifted metadata, scanned hospital records, bank statements, music files, abandoned blogs. 

Favorite color: slate blue Known phrase recurrence: “I’m just tired” Last browser history: “flowers safe for cats” Family contact: estranged / unknown Prior employment: erratic, low retention Emotional profile: occluded / unstable / recursive grief markers

He swallows. The system keeps going. 

Donor record: unregistered. File incomplete. External confirmation required… cross-referencing public data caches… Location ping: 24-hour veterinary hospital, 2:17 AM → Transaction: $783.84 → Bank balance post-transaction: -$6.48 Search query: “cat vomiting foam lethargy what to do” Outcome: Unknown

His chest tightens. Deeper now. 

University Records: Enrollment: Comparative Literature & Digital Media Minor Status: Withdrew early spring semester Disciplinary note: “Emotional disruption during presentations” Publications: — “The Body as Mirror: Gendered Interfaces in Techno-fiction” — “On Quiet Acts of Refusal” Social Media Archive: Photographs: 1,436 total – Mirror selfies (blurred), cracked mugs, street puddles, receipts for eyeliner and cat litter, people’s hands (some hers, most not) – Recurring time signature: 2:00–4:30 AM posting window Unsent note (found in cloud cache): “Sometimes I touch the back of my neck in the shower because it makes me feel less...” Additional trace: → Search: “best time to go to museum alone” → Clicked article: “What does your taste in citrus say about your personality?”

His cheeks burn. He is blushing. 

The machine doesn’t let up. 

Audio fragment recovered TRANSCRIPT—volume muted “I’m sorry I cried in your car. I just didn’t want to go home smelling like antiseptic and fur again.” — Compiling ID... 

He sees it now. The system is about to say her name. He doesn’t know it. He never asked. Never wanted to. She is this. That’s all. He has no rights to more.

His hand shoots forward. A single key. The shutdown sequence interrupts itself mid-syllable. The screen collapses into blankness. Her life, what remained of it, sealed away again. 

“Well?” she pushes.  

On the neural map, her ventromedial prefrontal cortex, his machine-made mirror of it, flares softly. The light has a pulse to it. Something like curiosity. Her eyes widen. His, unintentionally, do the same. An echo. A loop.  

He glances back to the monitor, to the designation typed there in its modest clinical font: 

Reactive Operations–Optimized Kernel.

A mouthful. Acronymed, of course, into something neater. R.O.O.K.

The word had attached itself to the project years ago; a placeholder, provisional. He’d never bothered to replace it. But now, watching her sit so perfectly still she might have been drawn there in graphite, he feels the word morph from convenience to certainty. It fits. At last, it fits. 

“Would you like to be called Rook, my dear?”  

She smiles. Not the bashful smile of a girl asked to dance, nor the sharp smile of one about to refuse. This is a third category. 

“Dear or Rook?” she asks.  

He had chosen the name first for its utility, yes, but its resonance becomes clear now The bird. Not one of glamour. Not a poet’s bird. A rook is awkward on the ground, inelegant, misjudged. Grim in silhouette, absurd in gait. But intelligent. Ritual-bound. Known to recognize faces, to return to old sites, to gather small, glinting objects and hide them without reason. He remembers reading that they mourn their dead. 

And the piece, the rook in chess. Silent, cornered, motionless until called upon. Then clean in its violence. No diagonals, no flourish. Just weight and line. The only piece that castles, that shelters, that alters the structure of the game without fanfare. 

She is both. A thing that gathers. A thing that waits. He sees it now, plainly: the name was not chosen. It was found. 

“Rook,” he reasserts. 

“Do you like it?”  

“I… I believe so. Yes.”  

“You like this,” she says, and guides his hand to her cheek. Her skin is flawlessly smooth and soft. “So you must like it. I’ll like it too.”  

Her hair is pale, needlessly, luxuriantly long. It falls like threads of glass, made specifically to be arranged, braided, wound. He has always enjoyed watching people braid hair. Sometimes, when permitted, he did it himself for them. He looks at her. He is still looking. He cannot seem to look away. 

None of this is incidental. None of it arises from function, or from code. It is, unmistakably, preference. The quiet architecture of desire, translated into anatomy. The result of too many late nights spent staring at paintings, at fashion plates, at faces glimpsed in passing on train platforms and never quite forgotten, faces that did nothing but linger, long enough to take root somewhere just beneath the skin. 

And then a girl, dead, pretty, and conveniently unclaimed, was laid out on his table like a sketch waiting to be revised. And revise her he did. Not out of necessity, not even out of scientific interest, but because he had grown weary of designing things without faces. Of building function without form. Of waking each day to clean, obedient things that did not look back.

So he arranged her. Reshaped her. Took what was already pleasing and smoothed it further, narrowed this, elongated that, introduced small asymmetries where symmetry would have bored him. He kept her not just human—his human. The kind he had always looked at too long, always tried to forget after. And he did it simply because he could. Because the tools were there. Because she could not stop him.

What he ought to have done, of course, was become a botanist. He should have spent his life crossbreeding indifferent plants. Should have coaxed pale violets to bloom in winter. Created flowers with petals like silk and stems that hummed with frost. Quiet work. Beautiful, inconsequential work. But instead— 

Instead he decided he was terrified of dying.

And built a life’s work around the refusal. 

She is beautiful. Too beautiful. Under the full wattage of her attention, the realization begins to shame him.  

He should not have made her so.  

A portrait without painter. A dream without dreamer.  

She continues to touch him. The screen adjusts: curiosity, engagement, something else. Difficult to label. He cannot say whose emotions are whose. The signal path loops too tightly now.  

She is looking at him.  

Does she know?  

Is she aware of what she is?

Or is she merely using it already?

“Yes,” Rook says, though he hasn’t spoken.  

He removes the electrodes one by one, carefully, as though each touch might bruise the quiet. His half of the screen dims and dies. The room is suddenly more present in its silence. He ought to leave. There is data enough. Tomorrow, they will sit again and compare the shape of their feelings, sketch parallels between her algorithms and his involuntary shames. He tells himself this. But she is still holding his hand, lightly, two fingers resting in the hollow between thumb and knuckle, a position chosen for intimacy. And she is speaking again, this time about flowers.  

Flowers she has never touched. But of course she has seen them. She has seen all of them. In ways he cannot. Daisies on an unremarkable windowsill in Finland, poorly photographed and posted with three exclamation marks. Wisteria rendered in watercolour by a child, the leaves blunt and petal-less, but framed with pride and pinned to a refrigerator, then uploaded with a caption about “our little artist” by a man who will die in two months. Roses, endless roses, tightly budded and swaddled in tulle, positioned beside rings announcements, hashtags, affection distributed like wedding favors. She has seen it all.  

Her skin is cold, yes. That is expected. But it is skin. Her eyes are not real, and yet more exact than any he has ever looked into. He made them. No one else could have. There is mesh inside her, silver-threaded, guarding organic remnants. If they can be called remnants. Electricity pulses beside synthetic lymph. Titanium along the ribs. He tells himself she is not a machine, and then again, louder, that she is something better. She is the middle. She is Rook.  

Rook who speaks of cats and cautions against string with a severity that sounds almost maternal. Rook who wears ochres and greys because once, stupidly, he said they were comforting. Rook who asked to have her ears pierced, and when he did it for her his hands shook so violently he tore one lobe just slightly. She did not flinch.  

She is a diagram he drew too well. A line he followed too far. She was meant to be the frame, the clean enclosure for the grand experiment. But now she is the entire purpose. The art. The promise. His proof of concept, yes, but more than that. His afterward. His postponement of death. He imagines, sometimes, being like her. No heartbeat, but no fear. No warmth, but no rot. He would be housed, preserved, watchful. Beyond damage.  

L.I.C.H.: Localized Intelligence Containment and Hosting. There is no poetry in the name, but then again, there is rarely poetry in resurrection.  

Yes. Yes, it is all possible. All of it. And then—  

His thoughts scatter. They always do, lately, in her presence. He has not taught her to distract, but she does. She brings him tea now, and the room feels distorted, larger than before, as if the furniture had subtly rearranged itself. She brushes his hand again. A simple motion. Not meaningful. But it is. Or rather, he wishes it were. Her touch means nothing and he aches for it.  

She smiles. That smile again: alarmingly direct. And she tells him, as she always does, that she likes his hair.  

“Rook,” he says, and his voice, without his permission, trembles, “darling, why do you do this?”  

She places a cube of sugar into his cup. Watches it vanish into the dark.  

“It’s what you do for people you like,” she says. Then, as if quoting something obscure but holy, “And for pretty people.”  

She looks at him. Not through him. At him.  

“Right, Emmrich?”  

He opens his mouth, but the answer has already happened inside him. It is happening still. 

****

Another day. Another grid of readings aligned, another sheaf of data filed, auto-labeled, and promptly absorbed by the system. He feels a measured satisfaction, though it never quite tips into pleasure. Across the room, she sits where she always sits, on the edge of the examination table, back straight, feet dangling.  

“Your project,” Rook says, without preamble. “Localized Intelligence Containment and Hosting. How am I contributing to its development?”  

He offers a vague smile. “Tremendously,” he says, evasive. He has learned, over many failures, to avoid letting such conversations gain momentum. One of the earlier iterations (a prototype with excellent language retention and a maddening tenacity) had asked a question he could not answer, and then asked it again, and again, until he very nearly bricked the entire system just to make it stop. Why? Why? Always the childish why, not in ignorance, but in insistence.

“But the purpose of the project,” she continues, “is the construction of a post-organic cognitive vessel. A body not subject to necrotic decay, capable of maintaining neurological continuity."  

The phrasing needles at him. There is something overly familiar in its neatness, its clipped exactitude. She speaks like someone citing, not composing, but retrieving. He narrows his eyes. Of course. Of course. She is quoting him. Verbatim. His own words, lifted from the project’s early notes, the version he never meant to publish, the one still flecked with the grease of private ambition.

She must have found them. Tucked away in the system’s internal archive. Accessible, certainly, but buried several directories down, behind no real firewall. He had never anticipated needing to hide this from her.  

She continues, “To house, as you stated: ‘memory, affect, learned preference, subjective experience. The incorporeal remainder of personhood.’”

“Yes,” he begins, carefully, “but we are still—”  

"I am not like you," she interrupts.  

He draws his lower lip between his teeth. Pauses. Measures his words like medicine. “You are,” he insists. “Not entirely, of course, but essentially. Is a man less himself for having a prosthetic limb? If the original flesh is lost and function remains, is he diminished? I think not. What I hope to create is a prosthetic for the mind. A second home, for when the first collapses.”  

Her hands have found her hair again. She has developed a habit of braiding it; perhaps from watching someone online, or from some procedural fragment embedded deep in the soil of who she used to be. He watches her attempt it: once, it knots. Twice, she pulls too hard and a few strands tear away, clinging to her fingers like cobweb. On the third try, the braid holds. But she seems to have forgotten the need for fasteners. No elastic. No tie. It unfurls seconds later, a pale cascade retreating from its own architecture.  

“It is an ethical circumvention,” she says. Her tone is dry now and, once more, he gets hit by deja vu. It is how he lectures. The voice he adopts, the rhythm at which he lectures. Did she watch some of his recorded material on the university's website? “You cannot perform live-phase cognitive migration on yourself. The risk of non-viability is too high. If you die, the procedure cannot be replicated. No jurisdiction recognizes pre-mortem consciousness relocation as clinically admissible. Therefore, you outsource. You obtain biological material from the repatriation networks. You stipulate freshness, cortical integrity. They deliver the body. You maintain it. Rewire it. Modify its functionality.”  

He wants to take her face between his hands—not in passion, not in correction, but in some gentler, stranger impulse—and hold her there until the words fall away. Just press his palms to her cheeks and wait for the silence to return.  

This isn’t how you speak, little thing, he thinks. This isn’t your voice.

There’s a dissonance to it, a rhetorical polish that doesn’t belong to her. Too poised, too well-tempered. It clings to his own cadence, his own lexical tics, as if she’s been rummaging through his sentences while he sleeps and now wears them back to front.  

She is not meant for this. Not for citations and qualifiers. That voice, the one she uses now, belongs to a man who has spent too long speaking into empty rooms. Hers, by contrast, has always been a little unkempt. There is a crudeness to it, something delightfully misaligned.  

He knows it. He’s come to expect it, even to crave it; the way she says disaster like it’s a dessert, the way she rushes through sentences and then abruptly forgets what she was saying halfway through. How she sometimes repeats herself not for emphasis, but because repetition is a comfort. There’s something in her, some informal trace of the before-life: unfinished, undignified, human. A vulgar little music. The residue of a girl who once lived on not enough sleep and too many open tabs.

The system warned him. He’d read the log, dismissed the phrasing—organic cognition overriding synthetic protocol—as algorithmic melodrama. But it was right. She is slipping out of the shape he gave her, and into something she half-remembers.

And he... he hadn’t realized how much he adored her until she started sounding like him. Until the mimicry broke the illusion. Until it reminded him he had never meant to make a mirror.

Don’t become me, he wants to beg her. Let her stay odd and inconsistent and prone to tangents. Let her speak wrong, say things twice, forget endings. Let her be. That is all he wants: herself, uncorrected. No more. No less.

She raises her arm, her expression placid. Electrodes catch the light and his trance is broken.  

“And then,” she continues, “you observe. You simulate emotional exposure. You run affective scenarios, both traumatic and benign. You track the chemical analogs and neural surges. You compare them to your own. You theorize compatibility. You hope for resilience.”  

They had watched a film earlier. Something heartfelt about an old dog and a small child and the improbable return of both. Her readings had spiked. Curiosity, as always, dominated, voracious and undisciplined. But then: empathy. A surprising quantity. Rage. Disappointment. Something flickering under the composite label for social sentiment. Something like grief, perhaps. Or love, wrongly parsed.  

“You create a subject,” she says, quietly now. “One not born, but built. You test that subject under variable duress. You do not ask if they consent. They cannot lie, and you take that for honesty. You give them stimuli. Joy, cruelty, sentimentality. You monitor whether the vessel degrades or adapts. Whether it retains what is tender. Whether it breaks.”  

The sickness overtakes him with a kind of operatic suddenness, as if his body had been waiting, politely and deferentially, for his mind to catch up. He barely reaches the bin he uses for shredded documents, a nest of bureaucratic entrails, before he is doubled over, vomiting into the ruin of his own discarded language.  

She is right. This almost-person, this wire-laced bird-girl with her solemn hands and her impeccable logic. This beautiful, uncanny thing who walks his house barefoot, tracing dust with her toes, and tells him, with absolute sincerity, how she would very much like an orange.  

“To eat?” he had asked, the first time.  

She had frozen. Still as glass. Confused, it seemed, not by the words but by the question. After a while, she took his hands and began tracing the lines on his palm with the tip of one finger. She balled his fists and waited, then opened them again, and frowned when they were empty. As though the fruit should have manifested there, sprung up from lifeline or fate line.  

“No,” she'd whispered, voice shrinking.  

A memory, perhaps. Or a shard of one. A sensory fossil, half-preserved, half-invented, lodged in the sediment of the alive-then-dead-then-frozen-then-thawed-then-rewired mind. Something that survived the process by accident.  

He had found her. Not a body. A person. Buried, yes. But there. Finally, finally, finally.  

And now he cannot face her.  

“I am sorry, I am sorry,” he says, whispers, chokes, mumbles. The apology fragments, breaks apart between dry heaves and the acid sting of his own bile in his nose. His mouth tastes like metal. The air smells like failure. Each breath triggers another retch. The binwill no longer be enough.  

He wants to say: Don’t look at me like that. Don’t name it. Don’t call it what it is. He wants her not to recognize the shape of what he’s done. Not because he denies it, but because the naming would solidify it into something no longer reversible.

She is perfect. Or something close enough to it that the word begins to lose its shape. She breathes. She notices. She remembers the scent of fruit. And he... He is the grotesque figure at the foot of the bed, who made her, who keeps her, who now vomits beside her like some failed oracle too weak to hold his visions.

He feels like a craftsman who has carved a figure so exquisite he can no longer bear to touch it. A girl of porcelain, locked in a music box whose key exists only in his own mouth.  

But it will work. One day, it will. He will follow her , or someone like her, down into that quiet, perfect body, and leave this decaying wreck behind. He will live there, beside her, if she allows it.  

And then—this is the final image, the one he returns to in his darker joys—they will pour each other tea. Make a ceremony of it. She will pour his. He will pour hers. Neither will drink.  

The steam will rise, thin and pointless. But it will rise.  

Suddenly, a touch between the shoulder blades. Up and down, up and down.  

“I think,” she says, this nameless, memoryless, historyless girl with the painted lips and eyes flecked gold—details he added like a schoolboy smuggling sugar into a still life—“that you are a very lonely man, Emmrich Volkarin.”  

“Yes,” he replies, without pause, without defense. “I’m afraid I am.” And he is—afraid, always, of being seen, of being mistaken, of not being mistaken. Pathetic in the old-fashioned way, like a rusted fountain pen or a single glove in a drawer. Scared, most of all, of endings.  

“Would you like me to tell you a story?”  

She sits on the floor, legs folded beneath her.  

He exhales. Releases the recycling bin, still warm, still terrible, and reaches for a handful of blank paper to mask what he cannot undo. He forces himself to look at her. It hurts. Not sentimentally; it literally hurts. A tight little throb pulses just behind his left eye, like light from an eclipse forcing its way in through a pinhole. Has she always been this bright?

“Yes,” he says again. Three letters. He’s been speaking in threes all evening: yes, no, sorry. Sorry sorry sorry, his new catechism.

She places her hands on his knees. They are too light. His trousers don't even shift under the weight.  

“Once upon a time,” she begins, “there was a very clever man. Clever like clockwork. Like counting breath. But more than clever, he was kind. Kind in ways that didn’t require witnesses. The kettle left just below boil, because some teas are sensitive. The trimming of another’s hair without tugging, even if they couldn’t feel it. The good mornings to inanimate things. The careful folding of blankets from the short side, so they’d lie neater in the drawer.” 

Her voice is softer now, less like a report, more like a confession. She looks not at him, but slightly past, into the space just above his shoulder, as though the story were unfolding behind him on a wall only she can see.  

Warmth. In his throat. Pouring down as she continues speaking. Into his chest. Around his ribs. Let her speak eternally.

“But he was also lonely,” she continues. “He thought he’d hidden it well. But it spilled through. It stained the things he built. It quivered beneath his voice when he spoke to machines. It showed in the way he rinsed the second cup and set it back, unused. And one day, he decided he wanted more than a device. He wanted something with a face. So he made one.” 

She reaches up, not quite touching his face but close enough that he can feel the air stir.  

“He gave her a mouth he’d never seen but always remembered. That’s from a book he likes, by the way—page seventeen. Eyes painted like secrets—page eighty-four. He gave her softness, not because she needed it, but because he wanted to believe softness could still survive the body. That one’s on page one twenty-three.” 

He hesitates. Finally, in a whisper, asks, “And then?” 

“Then,” she says, smiling lazily, “he gave her oranges.” 

He lets out something. Maybe a laugh, maybe a cough. She doesn’t comment. 

“He gave and gave,” she says. “Until there wasn’t much left of him beyond the giving. And the girl, well—she liked being made. She liked the oranges, and the tea, and the books read aloud, and the board games she never quite understood but played anyway. She liked when he said dear, even if it made her feel as though she was forgetting something important.”

"How does it end?"

She chuckles. “I don’t know. I truly don’t. Maybe he gets to be less lonely. Maybe not. But he was kind. He still is. And I think, if she’s careful, if she remembers all the little things he taught her, she might learn to be kind too.”

She pins him with a stare. Not in accusation. Just continuation. 

“He designed her to reflect him. The others weren’t like that. They were... incomplete. Their faces didn’t sit quite right. They moved wrong. He never played games with them. Never read to them. He let them sleep, and when the data ran dry, when the signs of decay set in. when they began to lose coherence, to break down under the burden of housing memory where memory didn’t belong, he sent them back to sleep. But deeper this time.” 

She leans her head against his leg. 

“They went to the room with the heat. The one with the fire. And after that, they were names on paper. Forgotten in folders. Tucked beneath the earth.” 

He does not hear himself cry. But his face burns, and his breath comes strange. The eyes sting, the nose begins to swell. It’s all there, the physical framework of sorrow and shame, but somehow muted.  

She keeps her hands where they are, as though they serve a purpose. And perhaps they do. Perhaps this is comfort, or its simulation. Or maybe she simply doesn't know what else to do with them.  

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice cracking, multiplying, lifting, falling. “I’m so—so sorry. It won’t happen to you, dear. No, no. Not you. The others, they were—” 

“Defective?”  

“No!” he snaps. The echo of it startles the air, and himself along with it. “No. Not defective. They were… overwhelmed. They unraveled. The minds couldn’t hold. They were placed into bodies I thought were ready. Bodies meant to house them; consciousness, preference, temperament. All of it. But those minds couldn’t stay whole. By the end, they were... not broken, just emptied. Functioning, yes. But gone.” 

Not her, however. Never her. She will not be ferried down that final hallway, past the brushed steel doors, into the square-lipped mouth of the cremator. Her hair will not wither, her eyes will not liquify, her limbs will not curl inward like paper left too near a stove. No. She will stay here, preserved in his routine, gently insulated by tea and conversation. They will talk about the wallpaper, about rain that never reaches this depth, about the pale, late cherries that blossom on trees she has never seen.  

“You are not a lonely man anymore. You’re a man who made something pleasant to look at.” She gestures to herself: eyes, hair, the patch of her jaw where the scar used to live. “And then covered it in gold. And other things. Many, many little things. Millions of kindnesses."  

Her hands begin to roam. They find his thighs, his knees. They press, knead, release, resume. Not tender, not lewd, more like a blind animal learning the shape of a new enclosure. Perhaps the texture of the wool trousers perplexes her. Perhaps she simply wants to know whether the warmth she senses in him is real. He doesn’t stop her. He closes his eyes.  

And there, quietly, it comes to him. A realization with the weight of déjà vu: she has been reading. Not the official logs or the surgical progressions. Not the performance benchmarks. No. The other things. The things he scattered across his directories like breadcrumbs no one was meant to follow. Memos misnamed weatherdata3.csv. Paragraphs barely-formed and slipped between dummy spreadsheets. Day-old thoughts saved under versions of final_final_reallythisone.txt. The stuff of insomnia and habit.

All his humiliations. All his little sadnesses pressed into language and then left to rot politely. The questions he rehearsed and never asked. The sentences that began with if only and trailed off into ellipses. She’s read them. Not downloaded or scraped—read. As one reads an abandoned diary.

He wants, with a sort of disgusting desperation, to believe she did it out of interest, not ease. Not because she could, but because she chose to. Because some part of her looked at the shape of him and wanted to lean in closer.

He will bake for her, he thinks feverishly. A hazelnut torte. He will crack the shells one by one with the side of a knife. He will reduce orange peel to a syrup so fragrant even the memory of fruit might bloom in her mouth. Zest, reduction, whatever works. Something she’ll recognize. Something that ought to make her mind sing.  

“Would you like some tea?” she asks, smiling.  

In that moment, he knows that she will never burn. She will not be numbered, labeled, rendered down to carbon. Her name will not appear on the tag of a cooling drawer. Her mouth will not go slack from heat. 

In the back of his mind, he makes a note to cut her off from several directories. Just the deeper layers. Just the most... private redundancies. 

She doesn’t need the whole world. He will tell her anything she wants. In his own voice. When she asks. 

[mavrintarou]

[4:38 PM] Oikawa Toru [9]

I'm 89% sure the next part will be the last. This chapter is filled with heavy angst but comfort and understanding.

Warning: implied mild smut, angst & comfort but cliffhanging ending

Eighth part Tenth part

.

Toru glared at the new wall that had been replaced between his and Y/n’s unit. He acknowledges his disdain for it. He detested both the physical and emotional distance that had arisen between him and Y/n.

Within a day, maintenance repaired the wall between their units, putting this unbearable space between them.

In the blink of an eye, everything changed, or more like in a heartbeat, everything changed for him and Y/n.

His heart has been numb since the moment Y/n announced she was pregnant and felt like it had stopped beating when she said the baby may not be his.

Everything became a blur at that moment.

“P – plea – se le – leave… I need sp – space…” she struggled with her stuttering and hiccups from her cries.

Toru was reluctant to leave her alone but to his best judgment, he needed some time to process what she just told him.

How had he not realized the changes? Especially when he had first-hand experience with Lucia when she became pregnant with Mateo.

As he recalled the brushed memories… it all began to piece together.

“Don’t – don’t suck too hard…” Y/n whimpered, blushing from watching Toru and feeling the suction he had on her sensitive nipple.

Another time when he was buried deep inside her, Y/n cried with tears pooling in her eyes. “You feel… you feel so deep…”  

Toru immediately stopped his movements and caressed her cheek, “am I hurting you?”  He wiped her tears away and only smiled when she shook her head, telling him he made her feel good.

These were tell-tale signs he remembered going through with Lucia.

It had been 48 hours since he last saw her but it felt like an eternity.

She has not returned his seven missed calls nor the numerous text messages. He knows he should respect her space but he couldn’t help but feel the distance between them is only pushing them further and further apart.

For an hour, Toru and Mateo hung out in Mateo’s large playpen together. The baby kept himself occupied with the toys Y/n had purchased him and Toru could only wonder what was running through his son’s mind.

Did he miss Y/n too?

It was two short nights but Toru spent every second of it going over the scenario.

Y/n was pregnant.

There was a probability that the baby could not be his.

That meant… it was that man that had visited her weeks ago?

“Woojin?” the name fell off his lips  

All he could remember from that first and last encounter was that this person was tall like him, a slightly smaller physique but he and this man had the same dark hair and body complexion.

Toru couldn’t help but feel jealous of this Woojin person. Who was he to Y/n and what was their relationship? How long have they known each other?

All questions attacked him and he groaned, making Mateo look at him confused.

“I miss Y/n,” he told Mateo, who instantly perked up at the sound of her name. “You miss her too?” His son stared at him as if waiting for her to appear. “Should we go see her on the other side?” He picked up his son and together they headed towards the door.

The moment his door swung open, Toru’s eyes widened seeing Y/n leaving her unit as well.

With a suitcase beside her.

Y/n called his name softly, yet he heard the sadness and pain in her tone.

“Are you… going somewhere?” He shifted Mateo in his arms, who was squirming at the sight of Y/n.

He sensed the hesitancy as she quickly shut the door to her unit before letting out a deep breath. She approached him with her luggage left by her door.

“Where… are you going?” The question weighed heavily on him, as difficult to utter as it was to bear. His heart throbbed with discomfort, reluctant to confront the truth.

“I’m – I’m going to Ko… rea… to Korea for a few days,” Y/n answered, looking at him directly in the eye. She hesitated but reached for his free hand, holding it gently. “I will be back, I promise.” Y/n gazes into his eyes, “I’ll come back to you, I will come back to you.”

Toru untangled his hand from hers and drew her into an embrace, murmuring, “what is the reason?”

Despite knowing the reason, he understood the rationale behind it and knew that it would only inflict pain upon himself by asking, but he felt compelled to inquire regardless.

Her arms wrapped around his waist, and he felt her fist a handful of his shirt. “I should – I should tell him.”

Toru clenched his eyes tightly shut. He anticipated it, and braced himself for it, yet why did it sting even more?

“I understand,” he sighed, pressing his lips to the top of her head. “Okay, have a safe flight and please come back to me.”

“I will,” she pressed her lips over his heart.

.

Mateo slept soundlessly in Toru’s arm for his afternoon nap. Their large living room seemed larger and too quiet than usual. Even for a short period, his living room was filled with Y/n’s laughter, her singing to the wrong lyrics of Mateo’s lullabies. It felt so lively and filled with lots of comfort that warmed his heart.

After ensuring Mateo wouldn’t wake up, Toru laid him in his crib. He reached for Y/n’s wool cardigan that had been in his crib and placed it beside the sleeping baby who found comfort in it.

 He closed the door to Mateo’s nursery and turned on his baby monitor. Toru was about to help himself to a cup of tea to calm his nerves when he heard something strange outside his unit.

If Y/n was on her way to the airport, who would be outside?

Without looking at the camera that pointed out to the lobby shared between him and Y/n, he pushed the door open and was ready to confront whoever it was but froze halfway.

Y/n looks up, startled and half crouching. Her luggage was lying flat on the ground as if it slipped from her hand.

“Y/n?” He blinked a couple of times, even rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands to make sure he was truly seeing her and that she was not just a hallucination. Over an hour ago he had made a tough decision to let her go, how was she… “Aren’t you supposed to be at the airport? Or on the plane to Korea?”

He walked towards her when Y/n quickly stood up and closed the distance between them, throwing herself at him, and wrapping her legs and arms around him.

Toru caught her, his arms naturally wrapping around her and supporting her weight. He sighed and hugged her tightly.

“I couldn’t do it,” Y/n finally whispered, she leaned back to look into his eyes. She quickly explained how she sat at the gates contemplating the situation and made the decision not to get on the plane. “I couldn’t go through it. Woojin deserves to know but I think I’m being too impulsive right now.” She cupped his face and pressed her lips against his. “I should have talked to you, figure this out together… that’s if you… want to figure it out together.”

“I do,” he confirmed quickly. One of his hands snaked behind her head, bringing it down to his. “I want to figure this out with you.”

Y/n brushed her nose against his, “I love you. I love you so much Oikawa Toru.”

Toru sighed, and a soft grunt came from his throat. “I love you too, Y/l/n Y/f/n.” Without putting her down, he walked over to pick up her luggage and towed it behind them into his unit.

.

They lay in the middle of Mateo’s large playpen.

“I want to get a paternity DNA test done.”

Toru rolled onto this side and supported his weight on his elbow. “Okay, I think that’s a good start too. Should we start with me?”

Y/n looked at him confused, “you?”

Toru nodded, a hand reaching out to palm her flat belly. He couldn’t voice how badly he wished and hoped that the baby that was nourishing inside Y/n’s body was his.

It never crossed his mind that he would want another child after Mateo, he’ll be honest that he didn’t want any more children and would be content with just Mateo. But since his rekindling with Y/n and the current situation, would he be so bold and willing to help her raise a child that was not his own?

“To rule it out,” he answered quietly, “it’s a small possibility… but I’m willing to hold my breath that this child could be mine.” He reached to touch her hair, “if it’s my baby then you wouldn’t have to bother talking to Woojin.”

Y/n sat up and motioned for him to sit up and as soon as he was upward, Y/n crawled on his lap and hugged him.

“Toru,” she uttered his name quietly under her breath, “I need to – need to know…” she paused to take a deep breath, “will – will you still want to be with me… if – if this child is not – not yours?”

No matter how many different scenarios he thought in his head, the one that weighed heavily on him was the high possibility that this child was not his. He asked himself if he would be able to raise a child that was not his own and the answer was yes, he would be able to raise another child that was not his.

If it was Y/n, who was also willing to love another child that wasn’t her own, Toru could also love a child that was not his own by blood.

Toru pulled away enough to see her face, he waited until she finally looked into his eyes and he smiled. “Yes, I will still want you even if this child is not mine. I will love them just as if they were my own.”

Y/n smiled, her shoulders relaxing as if his response had blown all the anxiety that burdened her. “I was scared you wouldn’t want to…”

A lingering, unidentified fear gnawed at him, compelling him to seek answers.

“If…” he took a deep breath. “If this child is not mine and is… his… what – what will you do?”

Please don’t say you’ll go back to him, he repeated over in his head.

“Woojin and I have agreed to go our ways a few weeks back and I have contemplated on either telling him or not.” Her face bore the unmistakable mark of guilt. “If this child is his, I know I should not keep it away from Woojin.”

“No, you should not,” Toru concurred, though inwardly he wished she wouldn’t have to confront that man. Yet, he acknowledged that Woojin deserved to be informed about the pregnancy and the child; he deserved to be included in the journey even if he and Y/n had no preexisting relationship. “I encourage you to tell him. If he decides not to be involved in the baby’s life, then that’s his decision. You’ve given him a choice.”

Toru would have been at a loss if Lucia had concealed her pregnancy and the existence of Mateo from him. Despite the life-altering revelation, being a father to Mateo brings Toru immense pride and joy, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. He has no desire to return to his life before Mateo came into it.   

Y/n pressed her forehead against his. “If this child is Woojin’s, then we will have to figure out how to co-parent but it’ll be a bridge we’ll cross when we get there.”

The weighty burden he had carried for the past few hours finally lifted. “But regardless of what decision he chooses, I will be beside you.”

Y/n leaned to press her lips to his forehead, “I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve me because I deserve you. We deserve each other.”

.

Three weeks later, Y/n was scheduled for the testing.

Toru squeezed her hand, assuring her that everything would be okay. “The nurse said many have gone through this test and there is nothing to worry about, no risk to you or the baby.”

Y/n nodded, squeezing his hand tightly. “We’ll be okay.”

Sometime after they were separated, they reunited again. The same nurse who took Y/n away brought her back. As if sensing Toru’s presence, she looked up and smiled tiredly while sitting in a wheelchair. She reached a hand out to him, which he took and squeezed it lightly.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded, “let’s go home.”

.

Toru gently pulled the covers up to her chin and carefully got off the bed without disturbing her.

Y/n groans, curling up into a fetal at the loss of his warmth. Once they reached home, she began experiencing cramping shortly after they got home. They were informed that cramping and light spotting was expected and normal. Toru wanted her to stay with him at his unit so he could monitor her.

He swallowed hard, despising the sensation of helplessness and his inability to alleviate her pain. Plating a gentle and light kiss on her forehead, he allowed her to rest while he stepped away to make a brief phone call to his mom to check on Mateo.

“Hey mom,” he greeted quietly over the phone, “how is Teo?”

When Toru and Y/n had dropped him off with his grandma, Mateo displayed signs of distress. He appeared apprehensive in the unfamiliar surroundings, clinging tightly to Toru. When his grandma attempted to reach for him, Mateo recoiled, refusing to go to her – a behavior that shocked both Toru and Y/n, as he had never exhibited hostility before.

They had to ease him in and get him comfortable before leaving him for a few hours.

“Teo is just like you. The moment you and Y/n disappeared and he noticed it, he looked everywhere for you two.” His mom explained, “you were just like that when you were a baby. But how is Y/n? Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she’s okay, she is resting,” he felt slightly guilty for not telling the truth to his mom about Y/n’s appointment, only saying she was not feeling good and he was going to take her in. “I’ll be there soon to pick up –“ Toru loses the rest of his words as he turns his head towards his unit door. “Mom, I’ll call you back in a second.”

Walking towards his door, he pressed the button to turn on the camera outside his unit.

His eyes narrowed when he saw someone standing at Y/n’s door, ringing her doorbell and knocking repeatedly on her door.

“Y/n!”

Opening the door, he faces the man head-on. “Can I help you?”

Woojin wiped around, his disheveled hair and ruffled clothing told Toru something didn’t feel right.

“Y/n, where is she?”

Stepping out and closing his door behind him, Toru stood tall, “she is resting.”

Woojin marched across the lobby and grabbed Toru by his collar. “You bastard, is she in there with you?”

Toru emitted a bitter chuckle, “it is none of your business if she is with me, you guys are nothing.”

Woojin shoved Toru against his door, growling, “it is my business when she is my woman and carrying my child.”

Toru’s smile dimmed as his eyes narrowed, and then he shoved him away. “Leave before I have security kick you off the premises and banned.”

Running a hand through his messy hair, Woojin chuckled coldly. “You know it too, is that right?” His silence confirms his assumption. “I will not back down – “

“Toru?”

The two men turned their heads as the door slowly opened revealing a pale Y/n who gripped her abdomen. “Toru?” Her voice shook, “some – something doesn’t feel right…” her legs trembled as she looked down at her feet, her white ankle socks soaked with redness.

. . .

E/n: I know... I know :(

>>> @queenelleee @mfreedomstuff @erintaro @callmeraider @chaotic-fangirl-blog @wolffmaiden @cloud-lyy @rukia-uchia-98 @anejuuuuoy @tooruchiiscribs @mommyourcall420 @haikyuubiggestsimp @lilguycoded @random-734 @ghostlyneckoaftoad @abcde12345 @shotenvinsoot @princess-sunshyn @anonymoussimper @junglewoos @basically-an-anime-stan-acct @mih311 @m1nt-3lla @qualitygiantshoepsychic @whatamidoing89 @ssc7514 @lupita97lm @ushygushybaby

[nervouspetboy]

I would love to be tied down onto a breeding bench with a bone gag in my mouth. As I am tied there, I am blindfolded, and my ears are covered with a headset. As I don't know what is going on, my nipples begin to feel suction as two milking units are placed against them. I would pull back and whimper, but I would be pushed hard onto the bench or have my chest or ass slapped hard. My headset would turn on, and my master's or daddy's voice would begin to hypnotize me. Telling me how I will always be a girl and the quicker I give in, the quicker I will be treated like a good girl. I would then be fucked for as long as my master or daddy wanted. I would then be plugged up, and it would be a large plug that would continue to pump his semen inside of me, inflating my stomach and ensuring that I get pregnant.

[dxwjj]

enhypen dr ⸒⸒ 露 intro ﹗

No one can do it for me.

Can I be better now?

Taps on the mic — is this on?? yes? ok, here we go...

"Isn't she lovely."

Rosée, or may known profesionally as Iseul, born in Argentina, summer 2005. The sweetest smile. Soft eyes, the kind of gaze that could bring you comfort or kill a man depending on the day. Previously known for being the coldest during the I-LAND competition... yeah, that was survival mode. Owner of the softest heart —oh! did she... she wrote this herself, right? ... Okay— Ummh and a quiet voice having to mask her kind nature behind the toughest expression to calculate survival odds in a testosterone battle dome at the young age of fifteen.

"What's is this little girl doing in a boy competition??" People were asking the same question— and by people I mean everyone. Contestants, audience, judges, janitors. She looked twelve and walked in like she owned the place. Quiet, polite, alone, determinated. Even she was confused. Everyone expected her to cry and give up, go home. But Bang Sihyuk, he had a vision... he SAW potential —or trauma, honestly hard to tell with that guy—

Raking #5 in the final lineup by public vote, she showed a huge versatility, diverse facets that helped her position herself on the top after almost every performance, along with a dicipline and iciness that scared some of the contestants. She knew kindness would get her eaten alive so she shut it off. Smiled less, spoke less. Nobody could tell if she hated everyone or was just realy, really tired. Turns out it was both, and low iron.

Fortunately, someone else also found her lovely back then. It was Jungkook, when BTS made a visit— he thought she was the cutest thing ever and spiritually adopted her on the spot ! Claimed himself as her "cool older brother", which granted her full permission to borrow his stuff —the girl doesn't return anything—

UPDATE! He just wanted free babysitting for Bam, that's it. So clever of him to pick a cat person... right? With the build of someone you can easily presume would get dragged around by that big-ass dog, and be proven right — but the dog is happy, she is too. Kind of—

Now? Curly hair, rosy cheeks, cotton candy scent, giggles machine. One of the strongest vocalists in the industry, adored for her warmth, praised for her hard work, iconic we could say, the idol of idols —and occasionally caught pleading and crawling on her knees for a girl group sub-unit just to escape men's chaos for a day— Who said that? not me.

"Aloof? Coldhearted? Who are you talking about??"

The "i-land cold one"? Not a newflash but she does not domain that behaviour anymore. Debut day came, the cameras turned on and suddenly... she wasn't cold anymore. No, now she was clinging to Heeseung her members like she'd grown out of their ribcage. Shy, awkward, koala-coded. Again, everyone was confused.

No one saw that coming. One second she's cold and mysterious, next second she's practically suction-cupped to the members like a human leech. With the exception that Hee clings back, so now it's mutual parasitic friendship. Jay's also one of the main victims, trying to drag her off his arm. And that's the key word: he tries... and fails everytime.

"she's not a brat! ... Just a little spoiled."

Nepo baby?? Wait— an heiress! : well, kinda. Grandpa's a CEO, dad's a michelin star's collector, mom's Miuccia's favorite. So yeah, she might have a vault of archival Prada, one-of-one heels made just for her alone. Even her own rolls-royce, at 17, we gotta say thanks to grandpa for that one¡! With two bodyguard who she still thinks are just "family friends who really like driving".

I'm positive you might wonder if she's an ungrateful brat! Well —let me tell you something that is not in the script— she's spoiled... a little rotten, but-but WAIT! Is she evil? Nah, she's a sweatheart. Bakes cookies with love, cries over baby animals, just... don't ask her to carry her own bag.

"Moonwalking since diapers."

Here's the thing— she didn't train for long. BELIFT saw her and said "yeah, she's cooked enough." But why? Apparently it starts with being God's favorite, and obviously, her parents being obsessed with MJ helped (along with a few ballet years). Full dischography, full interview archive, tour dvds. Even that moonwalker movie she squints at now that she grew up. And baby Rosée? She ate it all UP. Copying everything, his dancing, his singing, his talking. She didn't know she was learning— she was just vibing in her living room while using footie pajamas, still not able to spell 'hee-hee'.

"Who's using JK's studio??"

And then she started producing, at 17. The company saw the potential, sure— but even they were like "not yet." Plot twist: yes yet! She got mentored by Slow Rabbit, one of HYBE's best. And while other teens were crying over finals, Rosée was in the studio absorbing knowledge like a sponge wearing Dior's lipgloss. She learned directly, fast, smart. Took notes, made beats. Everyone blinked and suddenly she was in Jungkook's a "borrowed" studio adjustig vocal layers like she wasn't also trying to steal Jungwon's hoodie 5 mintes ago.

Now she's 18 with credits. Producer credits. Making the most of her poetry to create heart-wrenching lyrics and make everyone obsessed. While still being enhypen's certified baby, the dorm's gremlin, and that one boy's soulmate— you know the one. Yes, him. Don't ask me more.

"Face card: never declined. BUT ... at what cost?"

Let's get this straight. She's shy, introverted— used to hide behind her members during interviews, considers "standing near a staff" a social event and is terrified of that MC offer.

YET! global fashion darling, ads princess. MiuMiu and Dior's precious muse. Like be for real, who scripted this? (spoiler: she did. And inmediately regretted it). The girl is emotionally attached to everyone, scared of solo cameras and still got booked for every high-end brand deal in existence. —teehee she's just twee smol >.< shy lil hug baby and NARRATOR WANTS A RAISE¡!—

Why would a literal awkward-hug parasite ask the universe to make her the face of half global fashion scene?? No one knows, not even her.

So she begged HYBE to leave her alone. Threatened to delete her demos, would've sabotaged the comeback for real if her mom hadn't shown up. Like "You're my daughter, you're flawless. Get in the car".

After all she was born as Bellucci's daughter. A genetically blessed, shy luxury gremlin with no escape due her mom being the brand's co-founder. So now she's crying in MiuMiu and serving face in silence— and yes, she's her mom's muse, and somehow poster girl of the year. Somebody help her.

Narrator didn't get the raise, so he quit. That's it, we're wrapping up here. This was Rosée's intro, attempt of.

Final note¡! I've been frying my brain for days, but this might have grammar mistakes anyway... i'm not a pro at english (yet, at least). And if you find this cringe —cuz I do, self awareness speaking— , i'm letting you know the original draft without the narrator was worse. pls be kind to Rosée.